I am a youth worker in my day job. Nowadays, I am more of a consultant, but I used to work for a church. I had the wonderful privilege of working with young people.
In 2013 I decided I would take some young people to South Africa in 2015. If you’re not careful, it can be a dangerous place to go, so I thought there was a good chance of having at least one less annoying young person to bring back. Turns out I am too good at making sure people stay safe, and everyone returned to the UK safe and sound (that’s one less cliffhanger for you to worry about — no one died).
Nine young people decided to go on the trip. We had an amazing time full of learning and transformation. It was also full of stories.
The first of which was the journey there.
Apparently unfortunate events happen in threes. What superstitious nonsense! Well, in this case, maybe not.
It began with me forgetting my passport. Not clever as one of two ‘responsible’ adults taking the group. But, having left plenty of time before check in I was able to have my passport delivered (thanks go to my Uncle) well before we could even check in our bags. One problem created and one problem solved. So far only mild stress caused by my own absent mindedness.
Next was the second problem.
To take young people to South Africa who are not your children you have to have a signed birth certificate, signed copies of parental passports and an affidavit confirming you have permission to take them. This all has to be countersigned by a solicitor to verify the authenticity of what you are taking. Basically, it is a massive amount of paper work. But it is to help stop human trafficking, so I am morally obliged to say it is necessary. I spent an awful lot of time making sure we had everything done correctly. I even asked a solicitor from my church to sign most of the documents to make sure I knew it was correct. At the moment he doesn’t work for a solicitors office, but he is still able to offer this kind of service under UK law. It turns out British Airways are unaware of this.
When we got to the check in desk there were cries of ‘Jonny! Jonny!’ within seconds of each young person going to check in. They had been told, flatly and outright, ‘You are not going to South Africa today.’ Obviously the check in staff were mistaken. They seemed to think that without a stamp from a solicitors’ office the affidavits were worthless. I had a moment of panic with young people in tears. I called my solicitor friend. He assured me everything was in order. I trust him absolutely, so I became resolute in the face of opposition (a difficult thing to do for a people pleaser). It took about half an hour of refusing to move before we finally established that the solicitor I had consulted was, unsurprisingly considering his profession, correct about the law. So, with young people wiping away their tears, we had met another problem and solved it.
‘These things come in threes!’ said the young people.
I scoffed at the idea. I look down loftily on superstitious nonsense.
Then the third thing happened.
This is a story all on its own, a little gem of embarrassment and misfortune to worry about next time you get on a plane.
As we boarded the plane and found our seats (a very comfortable Airbus 380 I think) there was a woman complaining to the air stewards that they had directed her down the wrong aisle to her seat.
When she did find her seat it was next to the window, about two rows forwards, three seats and one aisle across from where I was sat. Her seat was on the right side of the place. Sitting next to her were two of the young people from my group. Oh, those poor young people! That woman would not stop talking. The flight was a night flight, and the young people would shut their eyes to sleep, and this woman would tap them on the shoulder to wake them up to tell them about her two step fathers, or how she was actually whiter than they are (although she was a black Ugandan woman), or how she needed to go to the toilet, so please excuse me.
The flight was scheduled to be ten and a half hours long.
That pity you feel? I felt it for those young people. After an hour of this, being kind and responsible adults (I was prompted by the kinder and more responsible adult with me) we decided to swap with the young people so that they could actually attempt to rest without interruption.
They gladly accepted the swap.
I sat in the middle seat, next to the woman, and my colleague sat next to me, in the aisle seat.
As I sat I noticed a stench in the air, the unmistakable smell of alcohol reached my nose.
“That explains a lot,” I thought to myself.
The woman started talking to me. It was then I made my mistake. A glaring and hideous error.
I tried to be a nice person.
I tried to live up to Christ’s call to love one another and I responded and spoke with this woman. I learnt her name is Kimoli, that her Aunt died in a plane crash (good enough reason to get hopelessly drunk on a plane). I learnt that she liked to say ‘What the f***?’ repeatedly and that her home was in Uganda. So far, not too terrible, except for the swearing. “Why was this a mistake?” I hear you ask, “she’s only talking.”.
She offered to satisfy my addictions.
She offered me marijuana, alcohol, anything I could want, if I would visit her in Uganda. Oh. Great.
Being in the drunk state that she was I figured she was malleable (not malleable enough to stop swearing when I asked her to later) so I suggested she should sleep.
She kindly listened, and slept. With her head resting on my shoulder. Yes, on my shoulder.
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to shrug her off. Unsuccessfully.
I move into present tense because to think about it is to relive it.
Another deep breath. Acceptance of the way it is going to be. A sacrifice worth making for relative silence.
She strokes my shoulder.
Shock and horror run across my face, as the watching young people giggle at my predicament.
She strokes my shoulder again. And again, her hand is resting there now.
I ask my colleague if she would mind moving to the one spare seat we have seen on the plane. She goes and asks the stewards and they allow her to move. There are no other spare seats on the whole flight. I move up one so there is a whole chair between Kimoli and I. What blessed relief! I turn on the screen and try to watch Kingsman. The headphones don’t work. Fine. I will just sit and ponder life.
Oh look, Kimoli is leaning over across both chairs. Oh look, Kimoli is resting her head… against my leg!
Utter terror sweeps across my face, beyond uncomfortable and beyond speech. No words can describe my feelings during what happened next.
Her head still resting against my leg whilst I am frozen in shock, her hand moves in an uncannily sober way towards her head, beyond her head, and to my leg.
<gulp>
Then she starts stroking.
My eyes open wider than ever before and I decide I must move. I must get away from these sleepy and creepy advances. I ask the stewards if there is anywhere I can go. They point to one of the seats at the rear they use for landing, which has a curtain that can be pulled around it. I retreat to the back of the plane, pull the curtain, and relax.
I move back into past tense as it becomes memory again rather than reliving.
I enjoyed my time at the back of the plane, in the seat the air stewards have for take off and landing. It was a little cold, and right next to the toilet, but I went seven times during that flight (stress makes me go) and I had a little curtain to hide behind. I relaxed and managed to enjoy breakfast sitting in that seat which was free of anyone stroking me on shoulders or legs! At various times I heard Kimoli calling me, “Jon-a -than, where are you? Where are you, Jon-a-than?” Kimol’s accent stretched out my name. I regretted introducing myself.
Twenty minutes before landing the air steward asked me to return to my seat for landing. At least she apologised, having had to deal with Kimoli herself during this flight.
Returning to that seat was like being forced to pick up a burning coal for a second time, when the first time you did it was just an accident!
Still, Kimoli was very happy to see me. She made me take her number, she ignored my pleas for clean language and then she asked me if I liked white chicks. She had seen some of the girls in our group and had realised they were with me. She even asked me if one of them was my girlfriend. I pointed out that they were too young for this to be the case and that this was an inappropriate thing to talk about.
The plane landed. I retreated, rapidly, to where I had stowed my bag overhead. Then she called, across the plane in a loud voice with a drunken Ugandan accent,
‘Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Jonathaan!! Are you a peemp!?!?’
Thanks Kimoli. For the next three weeks that was the catchphrase of the young people.
“Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Ha ha ha!”
Then she followed us through the airport, somehow despite her drunkenness keeping up with our speed walking, our escalator dodging and our asking her to leave us alone. Finally, we reached security, and we asked them to save us. Save us they did. We left Kimoli behind.
Then the three weeks of real adventure began.