1st day cont...

We have two hours to go when I begin to feel the turbulence. I didn't notice it at first, but it was met with the sort of insidious and spiteful travel-sickness I haven't experienced since I was about 8, and sick bags were a travel necessity. I felt awful, but the waves of sickness seemed manageable, at least while we were landing. On disembarking the plane however, a degree of urgency presented itself. I wanted to wait for the others to land, it was about time I made myself known (I'd felt bad about my cowardice the whole plane journey, and anxious that everyone was bonding without me), I had no choice in the matter. I found a bathroom quick-sharp and was violently sick. I was sure I was running behind again. I rushed myself through the visa check, anxious that I'd be holding up everyone I hadn't even met yet. The queues were very confusing. I picked one and stuck with it, which I think is generally a good approach to a few things in life, like football teams, and the one hair-style that actually suits your face (although according to what I am learning on this program, exactly the opposite of what one should do when setting up a business!).

I whizz through semi-aware of having flamboyantly skipped the queue, but with the kind of accidental innocence which requires a certain amount of self-delusion at the same time. No one was at baggage reclaim. I called Doug but it didn't connect, bad sign. I had committed at least half and hour to waiting for my bag before there was a resurgence of heaving nausea, and I bowed out to the loo again. It was only when I couldn't physically be sick anymore that I feel ok enough to trust abandoning my cubicle. The Kenyan lady who looks after the toilet and had nothing to do but stand there listening the whole time, looks at me like I am a vaguely disgusting, and alarmingly alien apparition, pretty spot on.

Less people rather than more around the baggage reclaim. They were petering off! Where on earth was everyone?! It had been over an hour!

My bag arrived, but no people. The number of the phone I have for Doug doesn't appear to work in Kenya. Text Text Text, No luck. Fuck.

My phone is almost out of charge. Is now the time to cry?

Our baggage belt sign had been turned off. The whole plane has got their bags and gone off their respective destinations. I call upon a dejected sort of resourcefulness and sniff out a power point. Kenya uses English outlets, which was just as well as I typically had not thought to bring an adapter. I feel a tear-welling swell of gratitude to the same God I'd only just felt utterly abandoned by. I charged my phone surreptitiously, unsure as to whether it was allowed, hiding my illicit power hijacking by sitting cross-legged on top of my suitcase, a bemused and dejected Buddah the fuse of whose enlightenment has blown.

I desperately needed water, I left reclaim to search arrivals for some sort of vending machine. Immediately regretted this as I wasn't allowed back in. I felt my eyes prick in panic as I was unsympathetically, incomprehensibly but unequivocally told 'no' by a gun-wielding Kenyan security guard. I knew all I could do was wait and there was no point in crying about it. Controlling my emotions involved probably less self-control and more embarrassment avoidance at the beginning, and resigned depression towards the end, I was utterly dehydrated, dejected and at a loss, there was nothing to do but wait a little longer. Then I just got bored. It was two hours and 15 mins before I was found.