Tuesday at the summit

Your average AU conference, as a rule, is chaos. AU heads of state meetings, meanshile, are like Chaos's teenage son... Where to start? I'll just take up where I left off. I went to the Ghion hotel for my accrediation on Sunday evening. They hadn't got it. Was it in the pile of soon-to-be-made ones? They didn't want to say. All of a sudden all the tricks I've picked up trying to get into cool clubs are useful in a new setting. Never give up. Smile like you've been lobotomised. Never, ever, antagonise the gatekeeper. It was looking bleak, however when up turns my guardian angel - Profesor Murenzi, science minister of Rwanda. He puts in a good word for me and hey presto, my registration is at the top of the pile. It's good to know ministers.

The dinner on Sunday was, I found out when I met Calestous at the improbably luxurious Sheraton hotel, not a tete-a-tete. Instead he'd roped me along to this thing organised by the New Partnerhip for Africa's Development (NEPAD) where 30-odd people from the science community in Africa had been hand-picked to chat about important stuff. Calestous charmed them into adding a chair at the top end of the table for me to perch next to him and we did the interview for the Guardian there - to the great chagrin I'm sure of people like the head of science at Nepad who might have wanted to have him to themselves.

Satisfied I'd got the interview in the bag, the following day I planned to focus on the summit. I got up at 6.30 and made my way to the conference venue at 7. I'd been told to expect big queues, but there wasn't one. Although people who arrived after me said they were held up at security so I guess I was just the early bird who got the proverbial worm.

As a result I was wandering around fairly aimlessly in the summit building until I found a sign with the promising words 'PRESS BAR' written on it. That's where I'm hanging out now. Say what you want about this conference, but they've got good coffee and croissants.

It was quite a rush to see the leaders file in all bonhomie and backslapping. Mbeki was there, as was Gadafi. Allegedly he'd brought two bags of gold as "gifts" to his peers, but they were confiscated in customs while the offiicals tried to work out whether it was legal to bring bullion into the country as hand luggage. I've taken pics (Linda got a bit star struck) and I'll post them when I get home and dig out the right kind of cable.

The press pack was here in full yesterday morning. They've all ebbed off now as the big story - who would be the next chair of the AU (Sudan was up for it but due to their penchant for genocide they've had the honour taken away from them in favour of goody-goody Ghana) - was over at about 4.30 pm yesterday.

I don't like the press pack, but it fascinates me. The groomed but very single-minded TV anchors, the huge turnout of local African press thirsting for an exclusive word from their leader, the Reuters and CNN people expert in soundbite journalism. They work on some sort of hive mind, adding only bits themselves to the whole that is the story as you guys read it. Although there are some fascinating characters. I was quite chuffed to see Jon Snow from Channel 4 walk past, crew in tow. They're sending live from here apparently.

I also had the privilege to sit next to this AFP hack in the press gallery. French to the teeth he seemed to be able to saunter in and out of the actual plenary hall (which was pretty harsh on journos entering), chatting to leaders and bigshots, returning to his seat only to break exclusive stories in between drags on his Gauloises. My deadlines must seem like lifetimes to these mayflies.

Most of the science stuff happened last night. Today I need to sort my stuff out for tomorrow. I need to gather proof that I've been actually attending the conference in case they decide to stop me on the way out due to my lack of visa. There will be an exodus of biblical proportions at the airport tomorrow and I know for a fact I wasn't the only one waves past immigration so hopefully they won't be too surprised. Anyway, paperwork helps. Or maybe I can get hold of my minister to vouch for me. Yes, that might be an idea...

Not in my wildest dreams

Okay, so I'm in Addis safely. There's a million soldiers on the streets, for security or to show off to the other African heads of states - I dunno. I arrived yesterday after being lucky with all my flights. Upon arrival the people going to the AU summit (like me) were shooed into a special bus and sent to the VIP arrivals hall. There, I was waved past immigration and security with not so much as a visa to my name. I had been told I could get one on arrival, but they weren't interested in giving me one. Now, I really hope they'll let me out!!!

Nice of them to fix up a fast lane for us. But not so clever to not tell us where our checked-in baggage had gone to. So I took the help of a local taxi driver and went to the arrivals hall where they guards told us we had to stand in a security line to get INTO the airport. It took time. Finally, I got my box of Research Africas and even managed to find the guy who was picking me up. Good since I didn't have any Ethiopian Birr to pay a taxi driver. it would have cost me 20 USD, which is the smallest note I have. Poor taxi driver, though.

I'm staying in the International Livestock Research Institute (ILRI) in Addis. Or just outside. It's nice and leafy as opposed to town, although what I save in rent I pay in taxi costs to take me the 20 minutes to the city centre. And that's on a sunday. God knows how long it will take tomorrow. I'll allow an hour.

This morning, I was at a complete loss. I managed to find this internet cafe, which is free of charge which makes it superior to the Sheratons and Holiday Inns. Then I managed to find some breakfast on credit, as I don't have any good money yet. Then I managed to find a phone I could borrow as the person selling credits for the hostel phones is not here for the weekend, and phoned the media contact at the AU. It was 10 am. "There's a media meeting today at 11," she says. Although, I need to at least get my security badge to access the place it's being held.

So off to the Ghion hotel for my security badge, for which I submitted my application on time on 17 January. By email. No sign of it in the pile of ready-made ones. So after a lot of asking around I'm told to go upstairs to the room where the photographer is. Eh? So it turns out you need to register for the badge, and that making it will take until evening. Are they hiring Japanese calligraphists to paint them or what? Until evening, that is, if your name is on their list. Mine isn't.

"Try the Ministry of Information," the info lady says in broken English. Ministry? On a Sunday? I ask, but am being whisked off by some chap with no badge saying that he's "Protocol" and he'll help me out. After fearing for my life at first I eventually realise that he's kosher, and then I spend a gruellingly hot 30 minutes in the courtyard of a very desolate ministry trying to explain to the guard and a rabble of people who may or may not work there what I need. Except I don't know what I need.

So I'm finally whisked into another car with this nice lady, who takes me - lo and behold - to this guy I need to see! I spend a good hour there, explaining my story and waiting for the four secretaries to, having taken charge of one quarter of the computer's keyboard each, are filling in some excel spreadsheet. I meet a couple of guys from Swedish television whose camera is still in customs at the airport. So it seems others are worse off than I.

Eventually we get our paperwork and off we go to the registration place. I'm picking it up later on today, before I go for dinner with Calestous Juma at the Sheraton. He's headlining tomorrow's lineup of speakers, and apparently he's had similar problems as me to the extent that he's been stuck in his hotel all today.

It seems touch and go as to whether you meet people good for your stories or find out when the press conferences are held. At least I'll have all my documents in order by tomorrow for the bigwig talks. Apparently Gadafi is speaking on the United States of Africa to the great chagrin of other leaders. Nah, now I'm going to try to get hold of the photographer who's snapping Calestous for my Guardian profile (out Tuesday week probably) and then I'm gonna stalk this Kenyan, Kiamba, who I want to talk to. I know which hotel he's at...

Anxiety attack

Weird. I was driving to work this morning (well, loosely morning I guess - went to a gig last night and got a bit sloshed) and there was a film shoot in the street. And there was a london bus stop there, the sight of which briefly shorted out my hung over brain. Lucky for them the heatwave has ended and today looks like a typical London smoggy glum afternoon. Speaking of which...

THE HEATWAVE! Oh. My. God. The last two days have been insupportable. The temperature climbed towards 40 C in selected parts of downtown. Last night sister and I had to chill out on the balcony after sunset as the inside of the flat was just to hot to exist in. Today it's 'only' 26 but the heat still lingers in certain sheltered spots such as, for instance, my bedroom.

Tomorrow I'm flying to Addis for the annual cuckoo's nest that is the African Union heads of state summit. I've collected all the information I could from the organisers but nowhere on the agendas does it actually say WHERE the summit is in the city or, for instance, where to pick up the press accreditation badge that I may or may not have succeeded in securing.

I always get like this before I travel. This is what we do in my family. We worry. About everything that might go wrong, and things that won't but are worrisome anyway, and things we can do nothing about, and my sister is the worst because she even worries about not being worried.

I worry about, in no particular order:
- Will I have time to change money before I arrive in Addis (maybe the ABSA at the airport will have computer problems, or a lack of currency. And somebody told me last night there are no ATMs in Addis)
- Will I get a visa to go into the country (I am attempting to get one at the airport, which should be ok in theory but oh my so many things could go wrong, better bring an extra 100 bucks in case I need to bribe somebody. And will the visa window be open at 10 pm when I land? Oy vey!)
- Will Somali terrorists bomb the Livestock Research Station where I will be staying? Maybe they're over the Sheratons...
- Will I end up getting ANY material or run round like a headless chicken like that time in Brussels when I was there to cover a competitiveness council and returned with jack?
- Will the face page on my passport break off (the Swedish ones do. It's a problem)
- Did my flight, in fact, leave today? (You'd be surprised...)


You'd expect me to be able to resolve most of these with a simple phone call but to that I say: Come try live in Africa!!!

Hopefull, though, it will be fun. I'm meant to be meeting Calestous Juma, Harvard professor extraordinaire, in Addis to do a profile for The Guardian. He's there to deliver the keynote speech. He's a great supporter so it will be good to see him and get the gossip from the closed sessions over whatever drinks they serve in Ethiopia.

I'm also feeling pretty accomplished because I did three movie reviews for my friend Tracey's lifestyle magazine. They'r only 100 words, which is a real challenge. Try summing up Truffaut's Les 400 coups in 100 words!

Who killed Kenni?

So, we found the sales manager. Or he found me this morning at 8.15. I was (ahem) still sleeping when he called, from the Cape Town office, telling me they had arrested him at the airport, thinking he was another man, with the same name, who is a Fraudster in Joburg. SERIOUSLY!?!

They had not given him a phone call, and taken his cell phone to find his 'accomplices'. Now he has to go to Joburg next month to clear his name. Or, he can't, as it's not just his name, but he has to clear himself from any association with this other anti-Kenni.

What an absolute nightmare. And how embarrassing to be offloaded from a full BA plane in front of everybody and escorted out by the police. And then he had to spend hours on end in this 2mx2m South African police cell. And subjected to rude questioning and so forth. Poor Kenni.

So - it's official. The position of sales manager is cursed. Anyone looking for a job?

AWOL

Something weird is going on. Our second sales manager in nine months, Kenny, has disappeared into thin air. He was meant to fly over to London last night, and hasn't appeared. BA say he was taken off the plane in Cape Town. And he is not answering his mobile or home phone. How weird is that? Especially after what happened to the last one - son hit by car and ended up moving out of the country.

The director in London thinks Kenny might have tried to travel on a Zimbabwean passport, and is now in the deportation cell... But that's a worst case scenario. Hopefully he just remembered he left the gas on. He's not the first one to miss flights. Yours truly did so spectactularly in September, remember?

Yesterday was press day and it was hectic. A lot of copy fell through and there were hiccups with software and intenet connections. Left here at 11.30 knackered beyond belief. Still, another month now before the next time.

Hey, there's a Nordling in Hollywood. Jeffrey Nordling plays one of the main characters in United 93, that wonderful and horrible film about the plane that never crashed into the Capitol on 9/11. Wonder if we're related. Maybe Onkel Olle can help?

January is still the longest month

The fact that January always feels like the longest month does not matter as much when it's in the middle of summer as when the rain is horizontal and freezing on Hackney Road. Heck, if they could add an extra week or so right about now so it magically became last week, that would be good for me at this very moment in time.

I'm day before press day. It's a tricky one, the first one with my new reporter and with only a week and a half run-up after my break. What is more, all news seem to be taking a big break before the end of the month, when African leaders are gathering in Addis Ababa to talk about science. I'll be there, from the 27th to the 31st. If I can get the media accreditation, which is not at all certain at the moment. Hint to organisers of such events: If you put media contacts at the bottom of the invite, please make sure the email addresses actually work and the phone numbers are accurate...

It's also the first issue I'm putting together with Deborah, the new reporter, on board. It's wonderful to finally be able to scan the newslist, identify the boring-but-necessary stories, and go "Hey, can you write this, this and this" and then just press 'send' and they become somebody elses problem... But there are hiccups, mainly to do with distance. On account of the South African authorities being anal beyond belief, it's taking a few months to process her visa. So she's working remotely from Zimbabwe for now, and the fact that this is not causing HUGE problems is testament to her skill as a journo...

Thirdly, I'm reaching that stage you always reach after taking on a new journalistic 'beat'. The stage where everything feels, well... old. It's like, when you first pick up a beat you find news under each stone you turn. Even if it isn't news, you'll write it in such a way that it becomes news. Now everywhere I look I only see things I expect to see, which is probably the most depressing thing for a journalist. It sometimes even makes you blind to real news. Hopefully my trek to Addis this month will re-ignite my imagination.

Sister's boyfriend Ricky is down, a welcome addition to my little household on the mountain. They have been trekking around, leaving me to get on with my stuff and feeding me Swedish sweets that taste of nostalgia. My older sister sent me a photo of her pregnant belly - over halfway done now I think - and it all feels a bit freaky and surreal. Little sister thinks it looks fake. But then again, it will be real enough for her before long as she'll be home again by the time Little X pops out. I am hoping that I can make it too, but time passes so quickly these days.

Time passes. Sisters become mothers, cousins become wives (Cape Town Cousin is getting married here at about the same time as Little X is expected to arrive on this good Earth), friends become lovers and teachers turn friends, and everything... changes.

Yesterday, I came across something I wrote the moment I first decided to leave London. It made me recall how I felt back then. How big a deal, how painful, the thought of leaving London was - like breaking up a long relationship after nearly 8 years of good times, and bad.

7 October 2005: After nearly a decade in this city of lost souls and causeless rebels I've got a one-way ticket out. A ticket to ride, McCartney would have said. Or maybe Lennon. Where I'm going, and why, is for another day. Another song. This month, I'll be walking these dirty, grimy, beloved streets. I'll say goodbye to the doorman at the strip joint next to my house, the junkies that work the bars around Hoxton square, the city and its lights, the river at night. God, it's so beautiful. Round every corner, a different memory. Can I really leave it all behind?

Yes I could, and I did, and now, over nine months after I left, the sadness at losing something loved is gone. Funny, how nothing lasts. But then learning that no time, no place, will ever own you completely feels like a valuable lesson.

Holiday! Celebrate!

Ok... Let's see if I can remember how to do this... Right index on J... Left index on F... tap... tap *damn* tap... tap tap taptaptaptaptaptaptap... (right, it seems I'm back).

Dearie me I've had some tellings off for not updating this but I've been on holiday so while there has been a lot to say, I have had no inclination to sit in front of a computer indoors and say it. I can't tell all that's happened in the last 3 weeks but I can say a little, and I'll say it mostly with pictures since they, as we know, say more than a thousand words. (By which logic the Guardian should have paid me 300 quid for my photo contribution... how about that, guys?)

Holiday times looked a lot like this!

So... before the holiday took off in earnest a group of us went Caving. Which basically means that you find a cave, crawl in and, hopefully, out. Sister and I were worried about this. I was worried I might panic like I did the last time I attempted something similar. That was in 1994 in the south of France. And the tunnels were narrow. And the gas lights kept going out. And our intended exit had caved in.

Sister, meanwhile, was worried there might be monsters. She freaked out when a much bewildered fly appeared, thinking it one of those nightly creatures in that horrible film The Descent. In the end, we were not eaten and I did much better controlling my various phobias than at the infamous Lion's Head climb (see post in August or September). It was fun! And the boys had brought candles and then took AGES nerding around taking no-flash photos of the main cavern as seen below, before we went to Fish Hoek beach to swim in the now 21 degree water and try not to get eaten by the sharks...


Christmas was a hot affair, spent lazing around the pool at these Swedish windsurfers' place in Table View. But first we had Swedish xmas lunch at the flat of the Swedish travel agency girls (who may not have appeared here previously), seen below.

A random shot of dog, sister and Maja in the lounge of the Swedes

Traditional Swedish fare... Sister and I made the meatballs

The Christmas party proper started with a South African braai with Swedish touches and lasted into the night. I'm afraid most people were not too impressed with my DJ-ing. But that's ok because I didn't rate theirs either... Also, I didn't fancy spending Christmas eve in jail (we celebrate on the 24th) so on account of being Ms Sober Pants I did nothing at all embarrassing (so I'm not censuring anything here).

Lounging by the pool, as you do on xmas

Elin in the traditionally male role of braaimeister

Sara playing pool. We lost..

Surfer soup, or the Real Nightmare before Christmas

Then Sister and I wasted a whole day driving 3.5 hours up to Lambert's Bay on the North Coast. Its only attractions are Bird Island, where we learnt a lot about guano (mainly that it stinks) and Potato World - the alpha and omega of the perfect chip (NO I am NOT kidding).

The straightest road ever leads north, it's VERY easy to fall asleep as the crosses by the road attest

Thousands and thousands of Birds. They smell

Then, luckily, my old friend (as in longtime, not ancient) Kerry popped down for just over a week in time for New Years Eve which was spent at a rather cool (both cool-trendy and cool-cold) electronic music festival 40 minutes' drive out of town. The scenery was spectacular, but our focus was much more fixed on the glasses in our hands. It was a drunken affair.

Kerry was cold, she didn't think New Years in Cape Town would entail Arctic breezes so she hadn't packed a windbreaker. Luckily, there was a large alternative.

In terms of partying, Sister gave up first, she was back in the tent by half past midnight. Kerry lasted longer, probably until 1.30 am. I discovered a really clever way of keeping warm so I was last to bed at about 3.

Kerrry, Rebekah and the Author, being very rude to the photographer

During the night, the wind picked up so the tent of Jimi and Steve who were sleeping next door to us three gals had fallen down on top of them. Embarrrassingly, I had helped Rebekah put that tent up earlier. Oops...


Our tent, lent to us by my pregnant friend Camilla who won't be using it any time soon, held up. Just. Not that it falling down on us would have woken us up...


The rest of Kerry's time here (until day before yesterday in fact) was spent doing what you normally do here at around this time with a guest. We went to the beach, saw not one but two great whites off Cape Point, drove a bit north, drove a bit south, did some karaoke (Kerry did the sit-down, silent kind), hung out with the Evol crowd, the Armchair crowd and above all the Fiction crowd (eh, Kerry?) and also had time to visit a luxury spa for a divine massage.

There is no interesting photo evidence from all these times, on account of Kerry being shy and me taking the pictures, so I leave you with this delightful rendition of how I would look were I a character in South Park. The headset, in particular, is spot on.