African time

Since December 2007, I have been working for First PMT in Stoke- On-Trent. It is probably the largest bus operating company in the region. Like all other transport companies in the country, safety the number one priority.

Transport companies also operate tight time schedules to try and give their passengers reliable services. Before I moved to the Potteries, I also worked on the railways in Bristol.

The time factor is very important on the railways as they are charged phenomenal amounts of money for minutes delayed. On Sunday 23rd April 1995, my Gulf Air Boeing 767 flight touched down at London's Heathrow airport on time.

I thought that the pilot had suspended the landing gear over the runway for a moment with his eye on the clock. I was impressed. Where I come from, the time concept is sometimes either not understood or adhered to.

We have what is called "African Time". African time means being chronically late! For example, if two people were to arrange for a drinks meeting at 1400 hours at the local pub, the two would agree to meet " in the afternoon". If they were then to eventually meet up finally at 1600 hours (and please mark my usage of the word "if") that meeting would be on time.

This attitude to the passing of time was with me as I headed towards London. My expectation then at the time was that this Gulf Air flight would make London Heathrow sometime that day, the pilot radioing in for permission to land.

Then someone in the control tower would thoughtfully, over a cup of tea wave us in. The flight was itself to me an introduction to another world other than Uganda. My heart raced when we were called to start boarding the aircraft about thirty minutes late. This of course was not of any inconvenience to me.I had been put in the care of another lady who was traveling ostensibly to look after me. At the time I felt that this was embarrassing.I wanted to look after myself!

Later she was to come to my aid on two occasions. I failed to work the seat belt buckle the first time, desperate to go to the toilet and a minute late and all my respect amongst the other passengers would have evaporated. The second one was at Muscat airport when I saw an escalator for the first time. What a fuss!! I am in Uganda as I write this piece.

The country has just been introduced to the delights of escalators within the last decade and the excitement about them has only just about started dying down. The first time one was introduced in The Garden City shopping mall it had to be switched off every now and then because of the human foot fall on it. With me at Muscat airport, I was like a rabbit caught in car headlights.

That lady whose help I had felt so embarrassed to accept now was gently coaxing me to "step on and step off". With an impatient line forming behind me, threatening to snowball into passengers being held on waiting airliners, and others in holding stacks over the Persian Gulf, all on account of me failing to get onto these moving stairs, I stepped on to the escalator! One tiny step for me.

Looking back now, I laugh at that episode. How ridiculous I must have looked. Recently I was using one of the escalators at Seven Sisters underground and I hardly noticed it was there despite its length and height. And when my poor mother comes to visit me she finds me a tedious timekeeper as I narrow down to the last minutes about our intended itinerary for a given day.