Hi all,
The stats on the reverse psychology bit I mentioned earlier proves it does not work on this blog. Reason? To paraphrase from the movie '300':
THIIIIIS IIIIIS AAAAAFRICA!!! #Sparta bedamned ;-)
We all know by now that my first local flight was between Cape Town and Durban. We also know that I did not partake actively enough in politics to be given a free ticket to Robben Island or Lusaka or Gaberone or Maputo.
So my first international flight was in 2004 to Kenya to attend a week-long conference but it was uneventful.
My most eventful flight was between #London, #Gatwick and Algiers on British Airways.
Before I get to telling about the incident that caused me some jitters, let me just say it was not my first time visiting Algeria. Previously I had gone there via London, other times via #Paris, France and even via Cairo, Doha and Frankfurt.
On previous visits it was imprinted on me in Algeria that I look like an Algerian. I personally testify that my physical similarity to 'normal' Algerians ended up with me embarrassed at least once. On that occasion, I was walking in the Old Port sector of Algiers near the statue of Abdel Kader. I greeted a gentleman with an "algair" (having learnt in hotels and elsewhere that the prefix masa'a or saba'a tended to be omitted by the locals) out of pure courtesy.
I was caught unprepared when this gentleman launched into a stream of Arabic which immediately enervated my sign language skills. Somehow, it got through to my surprised acquaintance that I cannot or do not wish to speak Arabic. Now my signing skills may on this occasion have been more accurate than the South African gentleman who signed for Barack Obama at former president #Mandela's commemorative service. It clearly indicated that I was not a speaker of Arabic.
But, this did not rescue moi, as my new-found acquaintance immediately showered me with cascades of the language of #Robespierre. Before he got to the "Off with his head" part or something similar! I let rip with a well-practised phrase: "Je nais parlez pas Francais. Parlez vous Anglais, si'l vous plait".
That was the full and fluent extent of my French at the time and it normally convinced French speakers that they are dealing with an idiot and things would proceed in English from that point onwards.
It soon occurred to me that my standard plea was not heard through the showers of the language of love. My dilemma was that my earlier adrenaline-induced signs were forgotten in the bare post-adrenaline landscape of my memory. I could not think of anything else but a sheepish shake of my head while casting my eyes to the pavement in pretence of shame (more real than I cared to admit!). It had the desired effect!!
My acquaintance stopped talking and looked at me with a mixture of pity and admiration, the ratio of which I was unable to ascertain. The admiration part I found strange though and I dismissed it as my overworked imagination.
As I was readying myself to let out a sigh of relief, I was surprised by another stream of beautifully sounding words. They sounded Arabic'ish but I knew enough to recognise these sounds as different. It left me without any further recourse but to stare intently at my acquaintance.
Many months later I heard one of my Algerian friends talking in a tongue similar to my erstwhile talkative acquaintance and was told it was Berber. It was also told to me that certain sections of the community used Berber to show their dislike for the other two languages as a means of indicating their pride of first nation status - and I started to understand the fleeting look of admiration, a look I had earlier dismissed as imagination on my part.
So there I was, having been politely addressed in three beautiful languages and all I could pull was a "Je nais comprend pas" expression. Let it be said that my erstwhile talkative acquaintance was understandably disgusted at what appeared to him as my lack of good manners, that he stomped off without further ado.
Back to my flight!
As unsavoury as it was, I abused the mute act on the BA flight to Algiers as a matter of necessity and this was the eventful portion.
Having noticed how many people habitually get into the wrong seat on commercial aircraft, I developed a habit of raising my scanning frequency to compulsive levels for my seat side, row number and position as I enter the aisle.
On this specific flight, I noticed from about 6 rows away that there were people sitting in seat allocated to me by the British Airways check-in desk.
The question in my mind was: Do I take on a #Rambo or a #MrBean persona?
On closer inspection, I noticed a mother and her two offspring had spread themselves comfortably over one of the seats apportioned to me, so Mr Bean it was! There is nothing worse than taking on a threatening pose with a mother and her young. I therefore enthusiastically stumbled to where I was supposed to sit and ... holding my boarding slip in a position where the mother could also read the assigned seat number, I peered closely at the seat numbering on the overhead lockers, adjusting my spectacles a few times in the process.
I was keenly aware of the discomfort my display was causing the lady and, when she could not stand my fantastic Mr Bean impersonation any longer, she started speaking animatedly in Arabic to a gentleman seated across the aisle. She furiously addressed him in a way that proved they were related, possibly married. You know, your wife will speak to you in a tone she would not use to address another male, irrespective of language spoken. It started to look like he was the cause her discomfort and, with hindsight, he probably was!
The cabin staff were elsewhere engaged while this situation played itself out, so I could not count on their immediate intervention. I was left to my own devices.
I normally choose my seats with care and have particular preferences as to which seat I imagined would be just right for my derriere and circumstances. If I want to rest, I take a window seat; If I want to work or I had a lot of liquids, aisle seat it would be.
While husband and wife were having a go at each other, I was left considering my further approach to the couple - Mr Bean seemed to be at the end of his usefulness.
What I could make out was that at check-in the husband was supposed to ensure that mom's two kids sat next to her. She clearly indicated to him that she was not moving any of her kids to make space for a stranger and that HE had to sort this mess out! All the discussions between husband wife took place in Arabic with me being reduced to looking quizzically from one to the other for some interpretations of their ample gestures.
It is normally easier to discuss these issues with males and it appeared to me that the husband was losing the fight and was about to fall on his sword, so to speak. This meant that, having defaulted, he would now have to right the situation by asserting his manhood as a matter of maintaining his pride in front of his wife and kids.
Mr Bean would simply not not help me in this situation and I decided on a Rambo transition :-).
At that moment, the gentleman raised himself out of his seat to address me and I noticed that he was much larger than me and well-muscled. Having just lost the argument with his wife - which man ever wins these? - he seemed rather on the edge. He proceeded to explain to me animatedly and in Arabic, that I will have to find another seat.
Given that they had boarded in London, I suppose it was normal to assume that they were at least conversant in the Queen's tongue. But to suddenly address a large male in English in a situation where they clearly assumed I could speak Arabic, were going to introduce too many unknowns into a domestically sensitive situation. He had no choice but to defend his pride in front of his family and me, insisting on sitting on my allocated seat, would possibly have been a double humiliation.
I therefore quietly dumped Rambo!
I looked at him as kindly as possible nodded understandingly and placed my hands in the namaste position. This hands position normally works in the Far East but I had little else to offer Raging Bull! Having spotted an empty seat at the back of the plane, I then proceeded to that seat while smiling and nodding my head continuously. Throughout this eventful episode I had unknowingly taken on the persona of a priest that was under a vow of silence, hence my lack of actual words. The only problem was that for the rest of the two hours plus flight duration, I had to keep up this pretense with the English-speaking gentleman next to me.
The loss would have been infinitely greater however, had the person next to me been a young, blond English-speaking female!! The good wife does not like this reference
When we alighted from the aircraft at Houari Boumediene International in Algiers, #RagingBull had relaxed considerably and, being in good standing again with his family, he profusely thanked me for my tact and and understanding. Obviously this was done with another stream of this time goodly sounding Arabic :-).
Believe it or not, that was my most eventful international flight! I personally believe that, as far as flying is concerned, boring is better!
Oh! and thanks to my present Belgium postgraduate boarder, I notice I've picked up Belgium readership of my blog as well. May it grow well in the land of Good Beer :-)
Until we meet again, this time for a bus trips in Cape Town, Durban and South Korea :-)
Hang loose!
The stats on the reverse psychology bit I mentioned earlier proves it does not work on this blog. Reason? To paraphrase from the movie '300':
THIIIIIS IIIIIS AAAAAFRICA!!! #Sparta bedamned ;-)
We all know by now that my first local flight was between Cape Town and Durban. We also know that I did not partake actively enough in politics to be given a free ticket to Robben Island or Lusaka or Gaberone or Maputo.
So my first international flight was in 2004 to Kenya to attend a week-long conference but it was uneventful.
My most eventful flight was between #London, #Gatwick and Algiers on British Airways.
 |
| Garden D'Essai - a large public park in Algiers |
Before I get to telling about the incident that caused me some jitters, let me just say it was not my first time visiting Algeria. Previously I had gone there via London, other times via #Paris, France and even via Cairo, Doha and Frankfurt.
On previous visits it was imprinted on me in Algeria that I look like an Algerian. I personally testify that my physical similarity to 'normal' Algerians ended up with me embarrassed at least once. On that occasion, I was walking in the Old Port sector of Algiers near the statue of Abdel Kader. I greeted a gentleman with an "algair" (having learnt in hotels and elsewhere that the prefix masa'a or saba'a tended to be omitted by the locals) out of pure courtesy.
I was caught unprepared when this gentleman launched into a stream of Arabic which immediately enervated my sign language skills. Somehow, it got through to my surprised acquaintance that I cannot or do not wish to speak Arabic. Now my signing skills may on this occasion have been more accurate than the South African gentleman who signed for Barack Obama at former president #Mandela's commemorative service. It clearly indicated that I was not a speaker of Arabic.
But, this did not rescue moi, as my new-found acquaintance immediately showered me with cascades of the language of #Robespierre. Before he got to the "Off with his head" part or something similar! I let rip with a well-practised phrase: "Je nais parlez pas Francais. Parlez vous Anglais, si'l vous plait".
That was the full and fluent extent of my French at the time and it normally convinced French speakers that they are dealing with an idiot and things would proceed in English from that point onwards.
It soon occurred to me that my standard plea was not heard through the showers of the language of love. My dilemma was that my earlier adrenaline-induced signs were forgotten in the bare post-adrenaline landscape of my memory. I could not think of anything else but a sheepish shake of my head while casting my eyes to the pavement in pretence of shame (more real than I cared to admit!). It had the desired effect!!
My acquaintance stopped talking and looked at me with a mixture of pity and admiration, the ratio of which I was unable to ascertain. The admiration part I found strange though and I dismissed it as my overworked imagination.
As I was readying myself to let out a sigh of relief, I was surprised by another stream of beautifully sounding words. They sounded Arabic'ish but I knew enough to recognise these sounds as different. It left me without any further recourse but to stare intently at my acquaintance.
Many months later I heard one of my Algerian friends talking in a tongue similar to my erstwhile talkative acquaintance and was told it was Berber. It was also told to me that certain sections of the community used Berber to show their dislike for the other two languages as a means of indicating their pride of first nation status - and I started to understand the fleeting look of admiration, a look I had earlier dismissed as imagination on my part.
So there I was, having been politely addressed in three beautiful languages and all I could pull was a "Je nais comprend pas" expression. Let it be said that my erstwhile talkative acquaintance was understandably disgusted at what appeared to him as my lack of good manners, that he stomped off without further ado.
Back to my flight!
As unsavoury as it was, I abused the mute act on the BA flight to Algiers as a matter of necessity and this was the eventful portion.
Having noticed how many people habitually get into the wrong seat on commercial aircraft, I developed a habit of raising my scanning frequency to compulsive levels for my seat side, row number and position as I enter the aisle.
On this specific flight, I noticed from about 6 rows away that there were people sitting in seat allocated to me by the British Airways check-in desk.
The question in my mind was: Do I take on a #Rambo or a #MrBean persona?
On closer inspection, I noticed a mother and her two offspring had spread themselves comfortably over one of the seats apportioned to me, so Mr Bean it was! There is nothing worse than taking on a threatening pose with a mother and her young. I therefore enthusiastically stumbled to where I was supposed to sit and ... holding my boarding slip in a position where the mother could also read the assigned seat number, I peered closely at the seat numbering on the overhead lockers, adjusting my spectacles a few times in the process.
I was keenly aware of the discomfort my display was causing the lady and, when she could not stand my fantastic Mr Bean impersonation any longer, she started speaking animatedly in Arabic to a gentleman seated across the aisle. She furiously addressed him in a way that proved they were related, possibly married. You know, your wife will speak to you in a tone she would not use to address another male, irrespective of language spoken. It started to look like he was the cause her discomfort and, with hindsight, he probably was!
The cabin staff were elsewhere engaged while this situation played itself out, so I could not count on their immediate intervention. I was left to my own devices.
I normally choose my seats with care and have particular preferences as to which seat I imagined would be just right for my derriere and circumstances. If I want to rest, I take a window seat; If I want to work or I had a lot of liquids, aisle seat it would be.
While husband and wife were having a go at each other, I was left considering my further approach to the couple - Mr Bean seemed to be at the end of his usefulness.
What I could make out was that at check-in the husband was supposed to ensure that mom's two kids sat next to her. She clearly indicated to him that she was not moving any of her kids to make space for a stranger and that HE had to sort this mess out! All the discussions between husband wife took place in Arabic with me being reduced to looking quizzically from one to the other for some interpretations of their ample gestures.
It is normally easier to discuss these issues with males and it appeared to me that the husband was losing the fight and was about to fall on his sword, so to speak. This meant that, having defaulted, he would now have to right the situation by asserting his manhood as a matter of maintaining his pride in front of his wife and kids.
Mr Bean would simply not not help me in this situation and I decided on a Rambo transition :-).
At that moment, the gentleman raised himself out of his seat to address me and I noticed that he was much larger than me and well-muscled. Having just lost the argument with his wife - which man ever wins these? - he seemed rather on the edge. He proceeded to explain to me animatedly and in Arabic, that I will have to find another seat.
Given that they had boarded in London, I suppose it was normal to assume that they were at least conversant in the Queen's tongue. But to suddenly address a large male in English in a situation where they clearly assumed I could speak Arabic, were going to introduce too many unknowns into a domestically sensitive situation. He had no choice but to defend his pride in front of his family and me, insisting on sitting on my allocated seat, would possibly have been a double humiliation.
I therefore quietly dumped Rambo!
I looked at him as kindly as possible nodded understandingly and placed my hands in the namaste position. This hands position normally works in the Far East but I had little else to offer Raging Bull! Having spotted an empty seat at the back of the plane, I then proceeded to that seat while smiling and nodding my head continuously. Throughout this eventful episode I had unknowingly taken on the persona of a priest that was under a vow of silence, hence my lack of actual words. The only problem was that for the rest of the two hours plus flight duration, I had to keep up this pretense with the English-speaking gentleman next to me.
 |
| The 'priest' at the Basilica of Notre Dame of Africa in Algiers - a functioning state-supported Catholic Church |
The loss would have been infinitely greater however, had the person next to me been a young, blond English-speaking female!! The good wife does not like this reference
When we alighted from the aircraft at Houari Boumediene International in Algiers, #RagingBull had relaxed considerably and, being in good standing again with his family, he profusely thanked me for my tact and and understanding. Obviously this was done with another stream of this time goodly sounding Arabic :-).
Believe it or not, that was my most eventful international flight! I personally believe that, as far as flying is concerned, boring is better!
Oh! and thanks to my present Belgium postgraduate boarder, I notice I've picked up Belgium readership of my blog as well. May it grow well in the land of Good Beer :-)
Until we meet again, this time for a bus trips in Cape Town, Durban and South Korea :-)
Hang loose!
Jy sal moet leer Arabies praat...Hier is baie Ron Olovier Look alikes!
ReplyDeleteJa, ek moet. I can speak some now but haltingly, not in torrents :-)
ReplyDelete