When Things Fall Apart

When Things Fall Apart

October 27, 2009

My travel home began from New Delhi, India at 12:50 am on Sunday, October 25^th and was to end the same day in Minneapolis at about 6:30 pm with a 90 minute flight from Chicago to Minneapolis on a Northwest Airlink flight operated by Mesaba Airlines. I had already received notification of a free upgrade to First Class so anticipated this final flight in style and maybe…a meal!

The eight hour flight from Delhi to Amsterdam was full but went to plan. In fact I was surprised to have about three inches of space between my knees and the seat in front of me – usually there is none. I had a 7 hour layover then followed by another 8-hour flight to Chicago which was also full but smooth. We landed on time and arrived at the International terminal. Formalities were quick but on leaving Customs I was surprised to find that Delta/Northwest does not have an agent to recheck bags on to connecting flights as in other gateway cities. So, informed by an American Airlines employee, I had to lug my suitcase on the monorail to Terminal 2 to give it to Northwest for the Minneapolis flight.

On arrival at the Northwest check in counter I was informed that my flight to Minneapolis had been canceled (no reason given) but that I had been rebooked on Delta via their Atlanta hub. Atlanta is a 90-minute flight in directly the opposite direction to Minneapolis - southeast instead of northwest. Despite the merger of the two airlines, Delta is still in a different terminal from Northwest in Chicago and since my flight was leaving in an hour the agent told me "you need to hustle over to Terminal 3 to check in".

So back to the monorail with my luggage which requires two escalator rides. At the top of the second escalator leading down to the platform I dropped my carryon bags. They got stuck at the top while I went down to the platform with my suitcase. I left my suitcase on the platform and hurried back the up escalator to find a group of people huddled at the top of the down escalator looking at the escalator moving under my carryon and computer bags sprawled across it. I apologized and struggled to get everything under control and headed on down to reconnect with my suitcase. I took the monorail to Terminal 3, negotiated the escalators without mishap, and hustled to the Delta check in where I was welcomed by an agent who looked every bit 75 years old (no offense but she was about the oldest agent I have met).

Bev found my new Delta reservation but the new ticket had not been issued so she spent several minutes doing same. She got to the end and the computer did not take the entry so she started again. It worked! But then she had to issue me a paper ticket (remember this is between two airlines who are merging) to attach to the boarding pass to validate it. While she seemed to know what she was doing she was not in any hurry to do it. After more precious minutes than I wanted to see fly by I finally got my ticket and boarding pass and then joined the slowest security line of the century. When I finally got to him the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) agent barked at me for not having my passport opened at the details page. I tried to explain my lack of preparedness but realized he didn't care about my problems and I would probably feel that way too if all I did all day long was to check boarding passes against ID's!

Fearing that I was cutting it close as the minutes ticked away I nevertheless quickly popped into a rest room for a much needed pause and stopped to buy a much needed bottle of water! It took the lady way too long to make change for my $20 but I finally reached the gate only to find that the incoming aircraft was just arriving. So I actually got to sit down for a few minutes. Turnaround was quick and the Atlanta flight was soon boarding. Much to my delight I had made it to the first class cabin. So I enjoyed seat 4A in a CRJ-900 (my first, I believe) on a clear day to Atlanta - a 90 minute flight. We actually landed in Atlanta about 25 minutes early so with a 35 minute connection I had nearly an hour. Not so fast, jet fuel breath!

After a long taxi around the end of the runways we arrived in the vicinity of our gate to find it still occupied with the previous flight. Not only that, the plane had "several problems" and apparently was going nowhere soon. Atlanta is an extremely busy airport and this was a busy time of day. We sat out on the apron as the "company" looked for another gate. Bingo – after ten minutes or so one was found but required another period of taxiing. Things were looking up. Eventually we got to the gate which was now on the same concourse as my departing flight and my Minneapolis flight was due out in 30 minutes. Still time. Not so fast, pretzel breath!

The jet way at that gate turned out not have power so could not be moved to the plane. Maybe that's why it was available! After another ten minutes they finally figured it out. I had yet to pick up my carryon bag as it was a small plane and it had to be tagged as I boarded and put below. I emerged from the jet way with 5 minutes until my Minneapolis flight departed. We had parked at gate A31 and I had to get to A6, almost to the other end. I arrived at the gate just as the flight had closed. The agent rebooked me on the last Minneapolis flight of the day in 90 minutes at the next concourse over but I was on standby as the flight was oversold as it was.

I headed over there and waited. Your place on the standby list is determined by the class of your ticket (cheap), your status with the airline (gold) and the details of your situation (pretty strong case!). I was number 2 out of 28 on the standby list. However, close was not enough and the flight left without me. I was rebooked on to the first flight on Monday at 6:15 am. The gate agent told us to see the agent at the end of the concourse. There was only one at that station and she was soon overwhelmed. She told us to go out to the agents in the check-in area. I showed up at the first class section (to which I am entitled by virtue of my gold status) and asked for a hotel for the night. The best they could offer me was $50 off a Ramada room. I wasn’t going to argue ( I was being served by a trainee under the watchful eye of a trainer) but anticipated I would write to Delta about the whole episode and kindly ask for a full refund of my Atlanta costs. As it turned out Ramada only charges Delta $40 for a room so I had nothing to pay.

I caught the Ramada bus, was given a room, and got to bed around 11:30pm. got about 4 hours sleep and caught the first bus back to the airport just after 4 am. Robert took care of me very efficiently and I am writing this as we fly bumpily over Chicago en route to Minneapolis, due to land in about an hour. However I missed a first class seat by one - I was the next in line when the seats were all taken. So I am sitting in 29B, a middle seat, my first in many, many years. I should be home about 14 hours later than planned but with another story to tell!
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Epilogue: We arrived in Minneapolis on time! And my suitcase was waiting for me here. I believe that it made the transfer in Atlanta when I did not because the luggage was offloaded from our flight while they were trying to fix the jet way. So much for not allowing luggage to fly without its owner – not sure if that remains a rule or not.

Observations:
1. Why, you may ask, didn't you take one of the three Northwest non-stop flights from Amsterdam to Minneapolis instead of connecting through Chicago? This is a good question. When my ticket was booked, quite late in the process, our travel department discovered that we could save about $2,000 by making the connections instead of using the high-demand non-stops. This seemed to be an amount worth saving while for $200 I probably would not have risked the potential hazards of adding connections. Before we criticize ministries or non-profit agencies for not always buying the very cheapest ticket between point A and B let us remember that money is not the only factor involved. Had my flight from Minneapolis to Newark at the beginning of my trip been canceled we would have lost a lot more than the money saved with missed connections and missed appointments. Fortunately the canceled flight came at the end of my trip.

2. It seems that travelers and those who serve travelers are tense. Everyone is tense – it’s a tough environment. Travel is a hassle. Flights are almost always full, overhead bins are crammed, gate agents are pressed to make on-time departures, and travelers are generally only concerned about their situation and not the bigger picture. I watched a young lady cuss and swear at a young Ramada Hotel receptionist because Delta had not, as required, entered her name on the voucher for a room, thus not making it valid. She took all her frustration with Delta out on the hotel employee who had absolutely nothing to do with the error. Generally the mistake is not the fault of the person who is serving us directly. Screaming at them, and I have been known to get upset at agents, is counterproductive.

3. The airlines are losing money. But every flight I take is full to the last seat. The KLM jumbo which I flew from Amsterdam to Chicago had as little leg room as I have experienced on a major airline. There’s something wrong with this picture. In Amsterdam commented to an agent helping is make sure we had our papers in order as we stood in the security line that I could not understand how flights could all be so full and yet the airlines are not making profits. He responded that fares are too low so that the ticket income from a full flight may still not cover the costs of that flight. I think this is the result of two things – travelers expect more for less and employees (the largest cost of most companies) expect more than the company can afford. As long as we as a population refuse to see the big picture and all be willing to make some sacrifice we will continue to see things get worse. This applies to so much in our society. We cannot afford as a nation and a developed world to continue to live at the levels of luxury we enjoy without facing consequences. If we don’t get together and agree to common sacrifice it will eventually be forced on us or our children and grandchildren. We must use our heads more than our hearts in evaluating the world we live in and the lifestyles we enjoy.

‘Nuff said for now!

Real Football

The Football season has started again. Real football, I mean! This weekend the English Premier League (EPL) held its first matches of the 2008-9 season and I entered my first season of Fantasy Football.

My “football career” spanned thirty years. Never a star, I certainly enjoyed the sport. I inherited the joy of football from my father who had played for his school in England and had medals to prove it. I have them somewhere.

Football is Africa’s sport so I was never at a loss for teammates. At Kawama Mission we had a huge front “lawn” made of wiry and tough lunkoto grass that could take a beating. Every afternoon at about four o’clock when the sun’s strength was starting to fade my African friends from the mission and nearby villages would show up for the match of the day. There was Johnny Wangobele, Bedford Kashiya, Kosam Mulenga, Katebe Kafwanka, and others. I had the ball – a stitched leather sphere into which a rubber bladder (like a strong balloon) was inserted and pumped up with a bicycle pump. When it was inflated the opening was laced shut and we were ready to go. We played our hearts out until dusk.

Occasionally Dad would join us and that was a treat. He would dazzle us with his skills and over power us with his shots from either foot. On one memorable day we had moved the pitch to the wide driveway in front of the house. Usually Dad would play with some restraint but on this day he decided to take a real shot. The ball sailed over the goalie and towards the house, coming to a sudden stop amid the shattering of glass in the living room window. My mother was preparing dinner in the house and came rushing to the broken window demanding an explanation for this destruction. All I could think was, “Glad it wasn’t me!”

In high school I played full back in the old 5-3-2 format. I did not have finesse nor was I quick but I did have strong legs. The sweeper concept was yet in the future so my job was simply to keep the ball away from the goal and get it up field. That involved intimidating the opposing forward to give up the ball and clearing it as far down the field as I could. In one memorable moment I was all that was left between the ball and the goal and I managed to kick it out before the ball went in. Afterwards the coach came up and said, “Where is my friend Kruse?”

At Carleton College I offered my skills to the coach, Mr. Dyer-Bennett whose name, I discovered, you did not shorten! I fancied that I would like to play forward although I was not quick. However it proved to work out. I had a good cross kick from the right wing and my center forward, Bill Lovell from Massachussetts, was very good at putting them in the goal. I had to give up football after my sophomore year. I had never had to train so much for a sport – three hours training and practice every day and matches twice a week, some far away, meaning that I had to skip classes. It affected my academics and I had to make a choice. It was not a hard choice but I did miss playing real football.

In those years the Carleton soccer team drew more fans that the Carleton football team. The soccer Knights made the college proud with winning season after winning season in the MIAC conference. The Football Knights usually struggled to win more than two games a season. We relished our superior record!

My final attempt to play competitively was in my thirtieth year. I saw a small article in the local community paper about a men’s league. It provided a phone number for me to call. The guy on the other end was twenty four and obviously had doubts about my abilities as an “old guy”. However he told me where and when to show up. I did and he was right. I was beyond competitive football. I would have to satisfy myself by kicking around with my children in the years to come (not all bad, by any means) and eventually being drawn into a Fantasy Football league.

© 2008 Roy Kruse

The Olympics Swimming Events

I have been mesmerized by the performance of Michael Phelps in this year’s Olympics. How could anyone be that good? I have enjoyed watching Kirsty Coventry of Zimbabwe win a gold medal for that embattled country. And to see Rebecca Adlington of Great Britain outpace her competitors by several seconds in the longest swimming race of the games.

I learned to swim early in my time at Sakeji School. The principal, Mr. Hess, took personal responsibility to teach every child how to swim. Lessons were held every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon in The Mud Pool (see picture), a widening and deepening of the Sakeji River after which the school is named. The incentive to learn was that once we had passed “The Test” of swimming across the river and back with Mr. Hess at our side we were free to swim anywhere in The Mud Pool and enjoy the time in the river jumping off trees and floating downstream on inner tubes.

I failed “The Test” on my first attempt. I swam all the way across in the dog paddle that Mr. Hess taught and swam all the way back. When my knees hit the ground I stood up. However Mr. Hess was not aware that I had hit bottom and had expected me to swim further – so he failed me. I passed on the second try.

During the rainy season the Sakeji River would swell and the current would pick up considerably. Only the strongest swimmers could make it across the Mud Pool but occasionally one of the weaker swimmers would lose their footing and be drawn in by the current. Drama ensued as Mr. Hess went out after them, fighting the current to save them from being washed away. Following what always seemed to be a dramatic rescue Mr. Hess would punish the child for being careless, as though the gulps of river water and almost drowning were not punishment enough. Some punishments were quite severe.

During my tenure at Sakeji Mr. Hess had a proper swimming pool built – I think his son Jim, in his late twenties and also on staff at the time, was the project director. The canal that turned the water wheel to generate electricity also fed the new pool. While it was a great addition to the school we did miss the Mud Pool and occasionally were able to go back and enjoy its natural atmosphere.

My school in England, Royal Liberty Grammar School, had its own outdoor swimming pool. A Swimming Gala (competition) was held in May and I was entered in one of the races for my age level. I finished third out of four in my race because the fourth competitor was home sick that day! I did, however, receive a certificate for third place. My stomach was very sore that spring and I attributed it to the cold water in the swimming pool – how that worked I couldn’t figure out. Later I realized it was caused by the use of muscles that had been unused for some month!


In my high school years at Luanshya our family had access to the Olympic Pool (see picture) which was part of the recreation facilities for the Roan Antelope Copper Mine employees. Many hours were spent there. The pool also sported a set of diving boards – one, three, and ten meters, the first two being springboards and the latter a platform. Some of the more daring (and stupid?) high school boys enjoyed jumping off the ten meter on to the three meter whose spring action would flip them about half way acoss the pool. Lawsuits were obviously not an issue in that place and time.

I have always taken the ability to swim for granted but when my own children came along I realized that it takes time and effort to equip them with that important ability. My wife had to sign them up for lessons and sit for hours watching them progress until they were competent. I am grateful for that Sakeji experience.

© 2008 Roy Kruse

Zimbabwe "votes" (2)

RHODESIA IN 1965 WOULD PROBABLY HAVE NOT SURVIVED THE INTERNATONAL SANCTIONS brought on by UDI had it not been for the help of South Africa, also ruled by a white minority government. Nevertheless the Rhodesians proved resourceful and seemed to be able to thumb their noses at the world while they got on with life. In Zambia we felt the effect of sanctions very quickly since no other routes to the coast had been sufficiently developed. Gas was rationed severely through the allocation of coupons. My father received the initial standard allocation of four gallons for six weeks for his Ford Consul. However he was soon able to qualify for essential services as a pastor and received an additional allocation to enable him to carry out his service to the community.

With imports from the south having been halted frantic efforts were made to find alternative routes. For the immediate needs the British funded a fleet of aircraft to fly gasoline in and fly copper wire bars out, a hugely uneconomical method for these commodities. Additionally the
1,000 mile Great North Road to the Tanzanian port of Dar Es Salaam was put to the test as the government hired anyone with a truck to ferry imported goods from the coast. The road was not tarred and soon developed huge ruts and holes. The rains did not help matters and soon the route became known as the Hell Run. Trucks over turned and mired in the mud with alarming frequency and the attractive price offered by the government soon lost its appeal.

Eventually the government formed Zambia Tanzania Road Services (ZTRS) with a fleet of large green Fiat trucks and trailers, which took over from multitude of small entrepreneurs who made the hell run. The Great North Road was also eventually tarred and in the early ‘70’s the Chinese would construct the Tazara railway line from the existing railway at Kapiri Mposhi to Dar Es Salaam.

In 1972 my wife and I took a vacation to Rhodesia, entering at Kariba Dam on the Zambezi River where a friend had arranged for us to meet a friend of his working on the new hydro-electric power plant. When construction was completed in 1959 it created the largest made lake in
the world. Initially a power station was constructed only on the Rhodesian side to supply electricity to both sides of the border.

During our visit the second stage was under construction to build a power plant on the northern side and we were able to go underground to visit the construction site for the turbines and other machinery. We spent a couple of days in Kariba town at a small hotel. We took a ride on a boat, which had been used in the early ‘60’s in Operation Noah, a massive rescue effort of the animals trapped by rising waters. It had been a big news item in school and also the subject of a documentary film.

The next stop on our visit took us to Salisbury (now Harare), and then on to Fort Victoria (now Masvingo) where we stayed in a Lake Kyle National Park lodge for a couple of days. Among the many animals we saw was a male nyala, a rarely seen large antelope. As we left Fort Victoria we visited the Zimbabwe Ruins (see picture), the remnants of an ancient African empire, which gave Rhodesia its new name in 1980. Then on to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city whose streets were built to be wide enough for a team of sixteen oxen to make a u-turn. From Bulawayo we drove north to Wankie (now Hwange) National Park, which was known as one of the best in southern Africa for viewing animals. From a platform we were able to view animals coming to drink at a waterhole – giraffe, sable, roan antelope, etc. From Wankie we moved on to Victoria Falls which was not as spectacular as I had promised because we were at the end of the dry season and the Zambezi was at its lowest. (We visited again in May, at the end of the
wet season, when we had to use umbrellas in the mist)

The most harrowing part of the trip was our entry back into Zambia. We crossed the Victoria Falls Bridge and were stopped at a military checkpoint. Anyone arriving from Rhodesia was met with utmost suspicion because of the political tensions between the two countries. For an hour our car was turned inside out, as the soldiers looked for contraband. Finally we were cleared, repacked and on our way. A quarter of a mile further we reached the official customs post where the customs officers acted as though the military checkpoint did not exist and repeated the process we had completed with the military ten minutes earlier! To complain only makes matters worse so we quietly stood by as they did their thing. Our car was pretty well loaded with items we could not get in Zambia but which were available in Rhodesia despite the international economic sanctions. We did not have to give anything up nor pay duty so the cost in time was worth it.

© 2008 Roy Kruse

Zimbabwe "votes"

MORE THAN ONE BILLION DOLLARS FOR A SANDWICH reported the BBC in its recent coverage leading up to the recent Zimbabwe elections. My first visit to Zimbabwe following its independence from Britain in 1980 was in 1989 and I received just over two Zim dollars for my one US dollar. Thirteen years later as the situation in Zim started on its downward spiral I received sixty six Zim dollars for each US dollar. The current exchange rate in the hundreds of millions of Zim dollars to a US dollar tells the story of how far the country’s economy has tanked. The BBC also called Zimbabwe a country of “destitute billionaires”.

The recent sham election for president has caused me to reflect on the good old days in Zimbabwe when we, in Zambia, looked south with envy at how good they had it in Zim. It is unfortunate to see how the oppressed has again become the oppressor. From the safe haven provided by Zambia in the ‘70’s Robert Mugabe led the freedom fighters or terrorists, depending on which side you were on, to independence in April 1980. He represented those “oppressed” by white rule under Ian Smith. Now for years he has oppressing his own people with far greater tyranny than the Smith regime ever dreamed about.

In November 1965 I was a boarding student at Kabulonga School for Boys in Lusaka, one of about 50 students housed in the hostel known as Williams House. We were in the early days of integration in the schools after the segregation of British colonial days. I remember that in Williams we had Hamir, the Madagascan, and Biggie Nkumbula, the son of Harry Nkumbula, the leader of the African National Congress in Zambia, before President Kaunda banned it. We also had Indian students, like Chugani, who insisted in tuning his short-wave radio into Bombay for Hindi music every afternoon which only he appreciated.

I was not much attune to the politics of the day so really had no clue as to what was going on around us. However on the afternoon of November 11th one of the white boys in the senior room suddenly started run through the hostel yelling “UDI, UDI!” It took me a while to figure out what was going on but then I was told that Ian Smith, the white leader of Rhodesia, had signed a Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) from Britain (see picture above) after all efforts had failed by Britain to convince the white minority government to move to majority rule before Britain would grant independence to the country as it had to Malawi and Zambia in 1964. As you might gather from he story above, there was a considerable amount of sympathy for the white minority regime under Ian Smith by other white people, and some were happy to shout their sympathies from the roof tops.

Following UDI the United Nations declared economic sanctions against Rhodesia which tended to hurt Zambia more than Rhodesia since, as a landlocked country, Zambia imported almost all its goods through the Indian Ocean port of Beira, Mozambique and through Rhodesia by rail and exported its copper by the same route.

(to be continued)

A Visit to the Minnesota Zoo

A Year in England - School Days (2)

SPORTS AND ATHLETICS WERE A BIG PART of my childhood and while I was never a star I enjoyed participating. I played football (soccer) for Royal Liberty, probably on a junior team. Because I was big, the second tallest in my class, had a big kick and was quite slow, I played full back and just kept hoofing the ball to the forwards. Our colors were blue and gold.

I also went out for competitive swimming in the spring. The school had an outdoor swimming pool and the day after the first practice my stomach was very sore. The water had been very cold, lower than 60 degrees (15C), so I blamed my soreness on the cold water. Later I realized that the soreness was actually from the lack of use of those muscles as it had been months since I had last been swimming in the Sakeji pool, a semi-weekly event. The end of the competitive swimming season was marked with a swimming gala (competition) where races were held within the age groups. I swam freestyle for Form 1 and came in third out of four. The fourth place student was home sick. I received a certificate to record my excellent placement.

I did not play cricket at Royal Liberty although I did participate in the informal matches on the playground during breaks and at lunch. The wickets were drawn with chalk on the school wall and we used a tennis ball. Towards the end of my time at Royal Liberty during one of these cricket matches I got into a dispute with one of the others I was playing with. Perhaps it was over whether I was bowled out or not or maybe he was making fun of my short trousers (long pants) and suggested I put jam on my shoes and invite my trousers down to tea. (I was growing and my mother was trying not to have to buy me new “longs” which I would not need back in Africa.) Anyway he got the better of me and instead of using my weaker cricket skills I engaged my stronger football (soccer) skills and kicked him as hard as I could in his backside. This was so unlike me that I think he was caught off guard but soon recovered and taunted me with, “And you are the son of a missionary!” Ooooooh, I was struck to the core!!

I remember little of the classes I went to school to study. I really enjoyed History because of the teacher and didn’t enjoy Science for the same reason, which was to influence my decisions about classes back in Africa the next year. I did enjoy break and spending all my pocket money (two shillings and sixpence a week) on sweets (candy) at the school tuck shop until Dad found out and tried to instill some lessons about saving.

I nearly met my Maker at the end of school one day when I was heading home on my bike. Just outside the school grounds I was crossing traffic on the busy Upper Brentwood Road when the back bumper of a white Ford Thames van driving by caught my front wheel and took my bike from under me. I landed on the road and my bike was dragged for several yards under the van. The driver stopped quickly and people gathered around. I was shook up but not hurt; however my bike’s front wheel was badly bent. There was nothing I could do except walk home carrying my bike on my shoulder. One of my classmates, it may have been Copsey, kindly walked home with me and helped carry the bike. For several days, or even longer, I got to take the bus but eventually the bike was repaired and I resumed riding.

In December 1962 we were preparing to return to Northern Rhodesia. My classmates in Form 2L were very kind and wished me well. They pooled their pocket money and gave me a very nice pen and pencil set with which to remember them.