Manners Cost Nothing

A fond farewell. A wonderful set of people so willing to give. I was inspired by the generosity of my friends, family and colleagues. Thank you all.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been, wondering that is, but one can't help but reflect at times like this. Human nature, so self-destructive, jealous and obsessed. Selfish? Maybe, sometimes, aren't we all? Yet a worthy cause ignites passion and kindness. Conflicting, contradictory but human. I saw on the news that the UK has given thirty million pounds to help the sufferers in Pakistan. Like them, I too am deeply appreciative of the kindness towards my cause. I can't tell you what a lift and a push I have felt since I started taking donations, it's magnificent. You may be lucky enough to never need the support of Macmillan Cancer Support, a blessing indeed. You may never get offered it, you might not even have heard of it but all that really matters is that they are there for an awful lot of people that need it. My father was one, not that I really realised it at the time.

Let's not look back though.

The day started fairly early, 0515 or so, the new sparkly British Airways Terminal 5 awaited. No time to waste. A small glass of orange juice, a quick shower and a pain au chocolat later - Amelia and I were in the car and heading for Heathrow before my eyes were fully open. On arrival, the modest (as airports go) glass box with a gently curved roof was greeting us with its still new and shiny facade. An efficient multi-storey car park system with sections that could have been taken from Alton Towers had us in a bay within minutes. Inside the ambience was calm and clean with staff lingering and eager to please. I was impressed. It shared a similar feeling to Singapore Airport but with the newness of Dubai, thankfully though without the gaudy parade of perceived wealth. It was far to British for that. After drinking what was, in my case, essentially a mug of chocolate and double cream with a separate shot of espresso, though it was supposed to be an elaborate mocha, with Amelia, I headed for security. The staff were friendly, pleasantly so in fact, unlike Terminal 3 arrivals where all you seem to get is an oh-so-welcoming grunt if you're lucky but I was through to gate A10 within no time. I couldn't help but think that having a British Airways only terminal was a good thing, as long as the selfish strikes are held at bay.

Having travelled with several other airlines, flying with BA remained but a dream until now so I was highly looking forward to the experience. We unfortunately had to board a bus to reach the plane but as it trundled passed the gates I stared at the BA planes, with their patriotic tails, perfectly parked in rows. Boarding the plane the high level of customer service continued inside the fuselage. I was impressed but unfortunately not with the aircraft itself. I was forced into the realistic fact that BA was not all I had envisaged. It was up there, certainly, but the interior, entertainment system and meals unfortunately fell behind the likes of Emirates and Singapore Airlines though customer service remained top of all, in my opinion. I was 'lucky' in that I was given a feedback form to fill out on my experience with BA and feedback I did!

I watched the fields of middle Europe, like large-scale tartan patches, pass by. As darkness drew in, an orange glow crept up from the visible curvature of the Earth. The flight wasn't nearly long enough for me though as I'd watched two films and only just settle down to write. I was asked to put my laptop away as the staff readied for our approach. The captain warned of thunder as the ground started coming up towards us. We reached 20,000 feet, the approximate height that I was due to be climbing to in Nepal, so I looked down. It was a long way but I wasn't worried about that, it was more impressive than anything. It seemed almost nonsensical that I should be walking that high under my own steam. In no time at all we had landed, the windows were cloudy from the hot and humid climate.

I collected my bag and walked through arrivals to find a cash machine. There was only one and it wouldn't give me cash so I had to change $50 and hope it would last, wishful thinking on my part. I was torn between purchasing a prepaid taxi voucher, often the better choice, or so I read, or just jumping in the glistening white taxis that lined the arrivals' hall exterior and hope that the meter didn't creep up to high. I opted for the voucher, after seeing other westerners do the same, but I soon after wished I hadn't. Naively, I thought that the voucher would be for the same white taxis but I was very wrong. The taxis available for use with the vouchers were older than me, battered into some interesting shapes and looked like they were long overdue a visit to the scrap yard. I shuffled to the front of the queue and handed the driver my slip, he couldn't speak English and nor did he want to try. No matter, I gave him the address from my itinerary and, without any confirmatory nod to reassure me he knew where I wanted to go to, we were off. The journey was unpleasant for several reasons. Within minutes of setting off the driver pulled over to pick up a man, in uniform, with what looked like an AK47, or something similar, pointing backwards in the direction of my face. I wasn't sure whether to feel worried or secure, I opted for the former. It wasn't too long before the driver was evasively dodging cows, dogs, people, chickens and other vehicles. It seemed the rats were merely a target. He used the horn far more than he did the clutch as we hurtled down the road with my pack on my knee since the car had no discernable boot. The rain came down heavily which was unpleasant for me due to the leaking roof and it also made reading roads signs more difficult. I was trying to catch a glimpse to confirm we were going in the right direction. It was midnight but the roads were still packed which made progress slow but when I eventually saw a sign for the railway station my spirits were lifted. Unfortunately the feeling didn't last.

I negotiated my way out of the vehicle, thanked the driver and asked a few people how to get to the hotel - it was nowhere to be seen but at least I knew what it looked like. I eventually deciphered that I needed to cross the footbridge over the railway where I would find it on the other side, a task easier said than done. My bag was heavy and awkward to carry in its outer shell but I soldiered on. I got up the stairs to find a man asking for a ticket. From what I could deduce he wanted some kind of platform ticket that allowed me to cross the bridge. I was tired and not very happy, desperate to get to the hotel so my guard was down. He ushered me back down the stairs, through the forecourt and across the busy road to a string of unsightly shops. I apparently needed to see a man up some very steep stairs. The beads of sweat were now rolling down my face. I wasn't at all convinced by the situation but wanted him out of my hair so I obliged. He disappeared just as I struggled to the top to find a man shouting "Hello" so I dumped my goods to greet him. I told him that I had a reservation at Ginger (the hotel) and he wanted to see the booking number so I showed him my itinerary. Rather than help me find the hotel he proceeded to read through my itinerary.

"Ahh, I see you're going to the Taj Mahal, very good" he said. That was it; I closed the folder and collected my things. He got angry and started shouting, telling me that I wasn't allowing him to help. I didn't want to listen to his ranting or his so-called help and I left what was clearly a set up. I reached the bridge once more to find no 'ticket inspector' so, as fast as was possible, I headed over towards the glowing Ginger sign that I could now just see through a gap in the rusty old corrugated iron sheets that lined the elevated walkway. It wasn't nearly close enough though and I had to wade through muddy water, ankle high rubbish, presumably rabid dogs and scattered people sleeping on the streets. It wasn't a pleasant experience by any means and not the best start to my trip. Quite literally dripping with sweat, I reached the entrance and checked-in, already fed up with the lack of manners shown by the locals I'd met and Ginger was just the same. After extensive questioning I established that the free Wi-Fi advertised on their website did not exist, to my disappointment, but there was an internet café down the road which wasn't useful for me. I got the lift to the top floor, somewhat disheartened, and laid on my bed, tired but unable to sleep.