I didn't delay my post on purpose, people. I love to spend my time ranting about my experiences to complete strangers, it's what keeps me sane. If I could, I would do it every day. When my posts become erratic, it doesn't mean I no longer give a granny's nipple about my readers. Well, I don't, really. Particularly now - I'm fresh out of granny's nipples. Erratic updates to my blog mean there's something more awesome happening in my life at that particular time. Like the past two weeks, during which I have had the swine flu. It was terrible. Swine flu is the cold you get in Hell. One minute I would be shivering like an MDC minister at a State House function, and the next I would be sweating like a ZANU-PF militia at the inclusive government signing ceremony. Then my joints began to ache agonizingly, sort of like Britney Spears during her comeback concert. Of course, my doctor is not convinced it was swine flu, but whatever. Like I'm really going to trust a University of Zimbabwe class of 2002 graduate. The only opinion of his that is really of any value is how to choose a rock to hurl into a swarm of riot police while teargas-induced rivers of tears gush out of your eyes.
Believe me, I was really sick, and pharmacies these days stock a healthy range of nothing. They're the only businesses in this country that still have bare shelves. It's inexplicable, if you ask me. It's like...can someone explain to me why every new iPod doesn't come pre-packed with an iTunes CD? Am I supposed to recite some secret Silicon Valley incantation for the software that runs the damn thing to magically appear on my computer? Yes, I know it’s available for free online, but I’m on Zimbabwean dial-up, which is slower than a Botswana tortoise on sleeping pills. The file is 65MB, for Pete’s sake. That will take me about 9 days, 13 hours, and 47 minutes to download, at an estimated telephone cost of US$1,324,599.72 at current TelOne tariffs.
Man, I have mastered the art of digression. There should be awards for this.
Back to the lecture at hand - here's the rest of my story:
So upon waking up after an hour of dozing on a linen-less mattress, we thought we would phone the reception and find out how much extra we would have to pay for linen – it was, after all, sold as a bed and breakfast package. No mention of linen. Well, the wife thought she would phone, because complaining is every breathing woman's God-given talent and they instinctively know from 2 years of age that if they don't exercise their Complaint muscle several times daily it will eventually seize up and cut the oxygen supply to their brain, killing them instantly.
As soon as she picked up the phone, she realized that there was no sticker on the phone indicating how to contact reception. Isn't an extension list a basic requirement of every hotel room? We searched high and low for any piece of paper that would educate us – none was to be found. So now, what number to dial? 0? 9? 911? None of these worked, so we had to schlep it all the way down two flights of stairs and, because of the retarded layout of the hotel, what seemed like two kilometres to get to the reception to report that someone had kidnapped our housekeeper.
Rather than call the police and request a helicopter and a team of armed detectives, the front desk girl seemed quite relaxed about the situation. In fact, she came off as distinctly unconcerned, as if this is a regular occurrence. Our housekeeper, as it turned out, hadn't been kidnapped or fallen down a disused well. We were never told where he had got off to. Maybe they could have told us, but then they would have had to kill us. Anyhow, we didn't press the issue, and upon returning to our room, voila! the housekeeper was there. Real world-class hospitality, this.
The following morning, I donned two pairs of socks and a pair of sneakers to shower. I lathered up the soap in my hair and on my face and just as I began to rinse it out, the stream of water from the shower sputtered, spat, then promptly died. I waited a few seconds, eyes tightly shut, hoping the water would return soon. After a full minute, a few enterprising drops of soapy water managed to squeeze their way through my tortured eyelids. Enraged and in pain, I roared like Wolverine for the wife to come hand me a towel, which she promptly did because whenever I roar like Wolverine grown men duck under parked cars and all babies within a mile radius drop dead.
The wife immediately called the reception (we had had to do some serious detective work the previous day to get this number - apparently the front desk girl is hot stuff in the Kariba District Council area because when I asked for her name and the number for the reception she automatically assumed I was hitting on her, notwithstanding that my wife was standing next to me. Or that she looked as if an evil hair stylist had played a practical joke on her. It was almost as if I had asked her for cell phone number and bra size, the way she gave me attitude.)
My wife demanded to know what was going on. By now my eyes were on fire, because I couldn't get a drop of water anywhere to rinse the soap out of them. The best she could get out of the guy at reception was: "Sorry medhem. I'm sending mendainance there now." Thirty minutes later, lying on the bed in my towel, the tears having finally managed to wash out the soap from my eyes, the "mendainance" team arrived. These guys were exceptionally talented, because the minute they knocked on the door, water began to gush out of the the shower. Problem solved without a word. We never did get an explanation for why our room in particular had a water cut.
That evening, our friends convinced us to go on the heavily-touted sunset cruise. Personally, I didn't see the need to pay $25 to see the sun, when I see the sun every day of my life for free. The sales agent then told us that drinks and snacks would be served on board. Quick as a flash, I did a few calculations in my head and concluded that, even if they only had some donkey-piss whiskey like Johnny Walker Red available, and I drank at least 6 shots, which I could easily do in an hour, then I would come out $2 ahead, even if I didn't look at the bloody sun setting. As it turned out, the bitch lied. There were no free (in my mind, prepaid) drinks on board! You had to buy your own drinks. This had us fuming, once more, because we had left our whiskies and Hunters Golds and Savannahs in our rooms, fully expecting to be served like kings and queens on board.
When I had calmed down, I asked the waiter what they had, and he offered me Fanta or Stoney Ginger Beer. I told him not to worry, I wasn't pregnant and would not be operating heavy machinery soon after the cruise - he could tell me what they had. That little bit of wit went over his head like a barber's clippers; only after my friend translated did he offer me Castle Lager.
Castle Lager?
I don't drink bloody Castle Lager! I've got nothing against those who do, I just personally can't stand the taste or smell of beer, nor do I want to trade in my natural six-pack for a beer-belly anytime soon. If I had had any hope that something might crop up to make that otherwise dull cruise enjoyable, that hope was extinguished there and then. Nothing is enjoyable without a good single-malt by your side.
So, apart from almost throwing the waiter overboard, the cruise was an expensive non-event. The sun did indeed set, but one would have thought with 50 or so people actually paying to look at it, it would have done something even mildly spectacular. It didn't even have the courtesy to hide itself from passers-by standing on the shore who hadn't paid a cent. It didn't flash its boobs or turn blue for a nanosecond. Instead, it simply slid silently over the horizon just as it has done over the last three thousand years. Snore. I want my money back.
That cruise is the biggest robbery ever. It's operated by a third party, and it appears African Sun Hotels took great care to choose a cruise company with a similar attitude when it comes to attention to detail. Here are the other little details that cost so little but that annoyed the hell out of me because no one bothered to attend to them before or while I was at Caribbea Bay:
One of their two pools was green. Advice: Don't bother running a resort hotel if you can't ensure your pools stay sparkling blue, because that's the one place people at a resort hotel want to spend most of their time. It doesn't cost much to buy a few kgs of chlorine and pool acid - surely if I can afford it at my home a Zimbabwe Stock Exchange-listed company can afford it too.
Their dinner plates were too small for a buffet. I put a bream and some butternut on my plate and had no space for anything else. We each had to make two trips to the buffet and get three plates, so that our table had twelve plates, yet we were eating regular portions.
Half the tables in the main restaurant were wobbly. We resorted to stuffing napkins under the table legs just to enjoy our meals without distraction.
The phones in the rooms only work when you don't want to use them. 80% of the time we needed to make a call, the line would be dead. All we could do was wait until the phone decided to work again.
Th only thing that is still good about Caribbea Bay is the dancing guard who welcomes you at the gate. That is still a sight to behold, except I thought we agreed in 2003 that our niggaz don't dance they just pull up their pants and, do the rock-away... Maybe he didn't get the memo.
Anyway, my point is, I'm disappointed in us. We need to get our own basics right and stop yelling at the top of our voices about foreign investment. You don't need US$20 million to fix a wobbly table or properly supervise a housekeeper. If I owned a hotel in Guinea or anywhere else, I would not award a management contract to a company that can't get simple things like that right.
And if it were up to me, I would not award any of these arrogant CEOs any business award. The Dairibord CEO Anthony Mandiwanza is decorated, yet we can't get fresh milk or cream in our supermarkets for love of money or tits. The Air Zimbabwe CEO Peter Chikumba received numerous awards last year, during a time when flying Air Zim meant you had a very flexible itinerary. His planes never arrived on time, and never left on time when they left at all. I could go on and on.
If you ask me, it's better not to give an award when a deserving person cannot be found.
