Ma-ma-malaria

Nothing feels better than finding out SOMEONE reads your gibberish. It is for that same reason that I am back today. Woohoo! I know you missed me, but I’ll skip the pleasantries and get right down to business.

Let’s start with the basics – I’m in Zambia! I survived my flight (didn’t get to sit next to anyone hot), survived my initial Canadian withdrawal symptoms, and survived a little get-together my parents threw for me. I’m a survivor. Unfortunately, I have another item on my list that I need to survive: malaria.

If you’re not from sub-Saharan Africa, you probably think malaria is BAD. Like “OMFG I THINK I’M GONNA DIE!” bad. Hate to break it to you, but it’s really not. Well, it is deadly but then again so is the common cold in rare situations. With the right treatment, I expect to be up and running in no time.

Now that you know I’m not gonna die (even though that might be a little disappointing for some), let’s move on. There are bigger problems here than malaria.

First? Zambian internet. I know it’s not terrible EVERYWHERE, but I am yet to see an internet connection functioning normally. It’s like ghosts – they probably exist but very few people have seen them, and those that have aren’t usually taken too seriously.

Two ISPs came down to “assess” how well an internet connection would work at my house, and the results were abysmal. And before you ask, no, we don’t live in the middle of nowhere. Just a regular old residential area in a regular old town. But apparently, their base stations are either too far, blocked by too many objects, or facing the opposite direction. Once again before you ask, no, apparently we don’t have cable here.

Secondly? Zambian air. Or rather, the air at my house. I don’t know what’s in it besides the usual oxygen, carbon dioxide and other gases, but it’s giving me allergies. Every night before bed, my nose runs like a leaky faucet, and no matter how soft the Kleenex claims to be, my nose still gets irritated from the constant wiping and blowing. It’s not pleasant. Not at all. Maybe it's the cat...

But besides everything that’s so obviously going wrong, I’m glad to be home. I’m more than happy to see my parents, my friends, and even my dad’s annoying secretary… Ok, I lied. I’m not happy to see her. But you get my point.

By the way, a little piece of advice: don’t fly Ethiopian. They may be cheap, but you find out why as soon as you get on the plane. Honestly, Air Canada wasn’t that great either, and they’re not even cheap. It’s a lose-lose situation.

Ok, think I’m done ranting. I shall now retire to my comfortable bed and medicate my ailing body while sipping on a nice cup of tea. Yes, I think that sounds about right…

Check on it

So I walk up to the check-in desk and there sits this haggard-looking woman who appears to be in the middle of what could only be the worst period of her life. I can tell by the I-hate-my-job expression on her face. Or maybe she just actually hates her job. Who knows? Either way, she doesn’t appear to be having a good day.

“Good evening,” I say politely with a smile on my face.

She eyes me for a split second before responding. “Good evening, sir. And how many bags will you be checking today?”

I look down at my solitary piece of baggage then back up at her.

“Just the one,” I reply, trying to hide the frustration in my voice as I point to the bag besides me. As if she can’t see.

I place the bag on the weighing platform or whatever it’s called, and the scale reads 53 pounds. I bite my lip, knowing the limit is 50.

“Oh dear, looks like you’re slightly overweight here,” she says with an attempt at a concerned facial expression. “You’re going to have to pay for the excess weight.”

Stupidly, I stare at the scales. I knew this was going to happen but I decide to act surprised.

“So how much is that going to be?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “One hundred dollars.”

I blink once, then a second time.

“Ok, so you’re telling me I have to pay one hundred dollars because my bag is three pounds over the limit?”

She replies that I do.

“Are my three extra pounds going to prevent the us from taking off? Or are they going to bring that plane plummeting out of the sky?”

She replies that they won’t – the plane can handle it.

I take a deep breath. “Well then why the fuck do I have to pay one hundred dollars?”

She says it’s the company’s policy.

“Oh well that explains everything then! It’s company policy. I’m flying half way across the world for three months and I’m only allowed 50 pounds? And now that I’m just three pounds overweight you’re going to make me pay $100? You know what? Fuck you.”

Her eyes widen as she exclaims there is no need for such language; she doesn’t write the policy.

Slamming my palm on her desk, I say, “Well thank God, otherwise it’d be even more fucked up than it already is!”

By now she’s too shocked to say anything so she just stares at me.

“Now listen here, bitch,” I say, leaning in closer, “this is what’s gonna happen. You’re going to check my bag like an obedient worker. After you’re done with that, you’re going to have a good talk with whoever writes the policy around here because it fucking stinks. And by the way, I’ll pay you that $100 when you see three pigs flying in formation around your house. That’s not gonna happen any time soon, so until then why don’t you just shut your mouth and CHECK MY FUCKING BAG!”

…

That’s what I should have said.

But instead I just nodded and asked, “Do you take Visa?”