In my mother tongue, there’s a saying that translates into “travelling makes one a chief” in English. If that were the case, I would be Chief So-and-So.
By some African standards my height and frame would not qualify me to be named chief anywhere. On the other hand, as a small man I could be said to have “presidential” stature. Remember Frederick Chiluba? Treat me well. I could be your next president.
I make it a rule to tell my audiences that I am standing each time I’m asked to speak so they don’t think I’m being rude and addressing them sitting down.
I made up this rule after I had to propose a toast during a dinner at a hotel in Harare. Just as I was about to raise my glass, a hand went up at the back of the room and a voice shouted: “We cannot see you!” I pulled up a dinner chair, stood on it and made the toast.
It takes more than a chair and a glass of champagne to calm my nerves on planes. Bumping over the Indian Ocean on my first visit to Thailand, I got to grips with rules of international travel, safety precautions and other on-board rites sooner than I thought.
I was on a Cathay Pacific Airbus 340 cruising at — don’t ask me what speed or height because the turbulence completely erased the details from my mind. Do you ever wonder why long-haul travellers down a lot of wine and whisky?
I call it flight fright. I was scared about what would happen if the aircraft suddenly lost cabin pressure and went down into the Indian Ocean. As an African I was worried about what would happen to my body — or rather the bits of it left after a Great White feast.
I had not finished writing my will yet and I saw the faces of those who would mourn me doing so vividly after reading about the debts I’d bequeathed to them.
I was also worried that there would be no fancy funeral for me where my family and friends could lie about what a good man I’d been. My heart leaps each time I overfly the African continent; there’s always a chance of a fancy funeral in Africa.
Surviving the journey is just the first part. Surviving the local cuisine follows, as I found out on a summer trip to the United States.
I love food. I am on what you would call a “see food” diet. Sadly, I do not have the pot belly to prove my gastronomic conquests. I have been trying to get fat for 20 years and have given up in frustration. I have tried junk food and every sweet thing condemned by slimming gurus on the Biggest Loser.
On this particular visit to St Louis, Missouri, my kind hosts — bless their hearts — took a number of us out for dinner at a small but well-known restaurant next to the famous Mississippi River.
Menus were passed round and I took a gamble on a dish that had an African ring to it: jambalaya. It arrived on a vast platter under a silver dome. My, my — there on a bed of rice slept peacefully and very dead, something that looked like a giant cockroach. It was a shrimp. I had seen such creatures only on television.
The thought of embarrassing my hosts was the only thing that stopped me from leaping off my chair and heading for the door. But everyone noticed I was in shock. I told them I was not aware jambalaya had this creature in it.
They pacified me and explained that the sea creature could be shelled and eaten and tastes like chicken. Actually, it tasted like dry newspapers. But that experience made me a food connoisseur.
Months later I was a guest in Fontainebleau, France, where I attended a scrumptious luncheon in honour of environmental journalism. I ate the prawn starter like an expert.
Foreign toilets are another eye-opener. A few months ago I went into one of those fancy toilets, or as they are called, restrooms, before I boarded a home-bound plane from Austria after a seminar.
I dutifully headed for the water basin to wash my hands. I looked for the knobs, taps and any other gadget that would squirt water but could not find any.
As I waved my hands about in exasperation, water gushed out of the spout. Eureka! I later learned this was one smart tap using motion sensors. No hands required. This would work well in Africa.
On a flight to Europe in 2004, it was time for breakfast. The flight attendant went round asking: “English or continental, sir?” As a beneficiary of an English education, some mannerisms and now breakfast, I opted for the other one — it made me think of the African continent.
I looked down to see a rock solid bun and black coffee on my little tray. I wish some of these items had African names.
Busani Bafana is a freelance journalist. He lives in Bulawayo and enjoys photography, philately and travelling