Ali the Somali

The usual anxiety...
Why is it that on intercontinental flights I almost always get put beside fat, boorish, sweating man instead of next to an attractive woman? Well, at least now, the conversation seemed worthwhile. His name was Ali.

I am Ali from Somalia, says my travel companion shaking his head in hopeless disapproval. Left Mogadishu in 1987 and been living in London ever since. On my way to visit my family in Nairobi. Meet my five year old niece. She's a cutie.

I'm on a tripple 7 from Heathrow to Nairobi. Sipping my G&T with some Amarulas in between, out of the corner of my left eye I see my three compatriots from Warsaw pressed hard into the middle row. It is June 29th '08 and I love it!

Especially now, as business is good, you can trade even the smallest of things. Take diary products, which Poland is (supposedly) famous for in Europe. But you need them..you know, contacts. Someone who knows the local realities and customs..and the language of course.

As we dive deeper in to the southern hemisphere, the conversation unfolds and I soon find myself having to switch over to my travel companion's mindset. The African mindset. We exchange contacts - figure might just as well call upon him in the near future, be it in London (where he resides) or Nairobi (where his wive and a number of relatives "nomadize").

Nairobi comes in a flash. From one end to another I speed through to a wrongly announced terminal. No doubts, TIA! (This is Africa!). For the first time since 2004 am "back in the saddle".

As we lift off to Entebbe, it is already dark. The usual baggage tie up and shuffle in seats, and I find myself drawn into a lively conversation with a stranger (as it soon turns out, also a compatriot), bouncing around the continent for the past 3 years. Nice gal. Chat about common friends (!) and end up exchanging contacts, promising to meet soon for coffee in Kampala.

The night is humid and warm, reminding me of my first ever landfall in North Africa. The year was 1983 and all I remember is the trip from the airport in Tripoli to Misratah where my Mom was to take on her job as one of the official Polish-Arabic-English interpreters. This single Africa experience, with it's opulant nature and warmth of its people, was to shape my life and love for the continent since. Today, I often go back on those days with an ample dose of nostalgia. Somehow life seemed simpler, less buoyant - though in truth, it wasn't so.

A few quick shots fronting our Uganda Air, and we're off in a Toyota pickup, bump-racing to Namu (-gongo). It's way past midnight when our somewhat worn down pickup comes to a halt. Nous sommes arrive.