Now I don’t actually believe in culture shock, I think it’s a bit of a crock and I’m not a huge fan of crocks (unless they’re the ‘pot’ variety).

Anyhow, while I don’t believe in culture shock I certainly had a rather hard time adjusting to buffet culture in Kenya.

 In Canada when there’s a buffet on offer it is considered polite to pick and choose in small quantities. If you want more, you go back for more.

In Kenya people absolutely piled the food on their plates. And I mean piled…it was actually an incredible feat of instant engineering. In fact, I would say that Kenyans are almost as adept with a plate and buffet ladle as the Russians are with duct tape.

Anyhow, I’m half way to Antigua now where I think that dinner every night will be a buffet. I don’t think I’ll be getting many opportunities to observe Antiguan buffet culture in my all-inclusive resort though.

Actually two of them.

They were bearing down on me fast, and then the taxi driver accelerated. Of course he accelerated, what else would one do when faced with an oncoming van.

‘I had to teach him a lesson’ the taxi driver said as the oncoming van swerved into the ditch.

Now arguably the oncoming van was driving the wrong way in our lane. And arguably he was probably just as aware of our oncoming beams of death as I was of his. But arguably ‘chicken’ is in the movies for a good reason…BECAUSE IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE

Anyway I made it to the airport safely and I have been assured that Kenya Airways is the best African airline, ‘It’s won awards’ the check-in lady told me. I don’t know what awards but I’m hoping to high holy heaven that it’s not a ‘chicken champion of the skies’ award.

But you never know.

So everyone (and by everyone I mean everyone who thinks they’re in the know) talks about ‘Africa time’ where everything is slower and more relaxed. Well that may be true during normal circumstances but, holy underarm sweat patches, my trip has not been slow or relaxed.

My taxi arrives at the hotel right on time at 7:15 am. At 7:30 pm I battle with the masses of other people trying to find a taxi to take me back to my bed again.

And in between I: drag boxes practically a kilometer through a sea of business suited legs, I run from the plenary site to the contact group, to the offices, to the kiosk – and back again, I stand in line to pay for lunch right next to an open pit BBQ – along with 300 other people, I try to keep from screaming as my boss completely blows a presentation I worked really hard on.

I wanna go home. Thank goodness I have Sunday in Antigua.

Can I just say that when you have a four car minor car accident (ie. there is damage if you look with a microscope) then you should move the cars to the side of the road rather than forcing everyone behind you to drive, single file, through the ditch to get past the accident while you wait an hour and a half for the police to arrive.

No, seriously.

Can I also add that agressive driving is one thing but refusing to allow a car to merge into your lane when that car is already half in your lane is going to lead to an accident. Cars won’t magically teleport out of your way just because you flatly refuse to use the brake.

Still, seriously.

Can I conclude with the observation that when you live in a city with a rainy season you really should install some sort of drainage system along the main artery entering and leaving the city. 1978 Nissan sentras are not amphibious vehicles.
And that’s all I have to say on that.

I don’t know why I thought that this trip was going to be different. Maybe because the destinations are exotic or the fact that I only have to go to two places this time instead of the usual six or seven. Either way the dread that usually sets in a couple of days before departure was missing this time.

Until the gate came into view.

It happens everytime, I start the trek towards the gate, dodging people sitting in the middle of the hall surrounded by sixteen bags and then wham, all of my movements slow down and this strange emotion descends.

If I was six, with the freedom of expression that goes with youth, at this point I would throw my bags down, ball up my fists and wail, ‘I don’t wanna go! You can’t make me!’ This earnest declaration would be punctuated with overly dramatic sobs as befitting a good old fashioned temper tantrum.

Except I’m not six.

So I will action back into my limbs and shift the emtional part of my mind into some sort of stasis where it remains until I finally walk through immigration in Montreal again.

Unless after travelling for 24 hours my luggage takes an hour to appear, there are no taxis at the airport and the hotel gives me the crappy room overlooking the 5 am garbage pick-up. Then I cry.

But I’m sure that won’t happen this time.