Has Part of Me Gone Already?

Africans prefer cash and in many ways so do I.

I have little understanding of the ‘made up world’ of money. I find it difficult to comprehend that people can use money that doesn’t really exist to invest, accumulate, and then lose it all. How can you lose something that never really existed in the first place?

It’s like an adult fairytale land, where - with a bit of credit - you can live whatever dream you like. As long as everyone is doing it then everything will be okay. As long as the pretend money is exchanging hands quickly enough, then no one will have time to realise that they never really had it in the first place.

I have no confidence in this system at all. I don’t like the idea of the stock exchange; it frightens me. When I was nine or ten, I recall asking why inflation exists. I was confounded by the ever increasing price of Walkers crisps. All these years on, I still don’t feel like I have a satisfactory answer to that question. A house is a house and a beer is a beer. Houses and beers haven’t changed that much in my lifetime, and yet they cost so much more now than they did when I was born. In 1972 - the year of the Fabpants - a beer cost about 15p. A one pound note equalled an ample supply of beer, a multitude of peanuts and a fine night out. Okay, people didn’t get paid as much, and none of us had heard of hummus, but at least it was more affordable to have a roof over your head that you could call your own. Back then a pension seemed like a real entity to look forward to in old age and not just a maybe for the future. I sound like an old woman already!

I am a monetary Luddite and I admit it. It is an area of stupidity for me. I don’t have a credit card and, more fool me, I have yet to gain a mortgage. Beyond, my recently acquired cash mini-ISA, I don’t have any investments. In my possession I have two heavy bicycles, a beginner’s canoe, a tasty pile of CDs, a plethora of cheap-end computer and electronic paraphernalia, my clothes, and a few bits of inexpensive furniture. I can’t really say that I have anything worth leaving anyone if my life unexpectedly got stopped short. I mainly ponder about where my teddy bears will land, and leaving a penny or two matters little when there are well-worn bears to consider. I am more sentimental than practical, despite any character traits that suggest otherwise. I have little regard for money beyond being well-housed and fed, being able to visit my friends, seeing the odd live band and, of course, having a little adventure or two when possible. I consider these to be luxuries and accomplishments within themselves, but I doubt whether a financial advisor would agree.

I have a reluctance to learn about the stock exchange because, as well as being frightened by its form and not having the funds (or pretend funds) to buy shares; I also see it as an unnecessary evil. People invest in terrible practices with their pretend money. Because nobody ever directly hands over their hard earned cash to fund immoral abhorrent activities, no one really cares. Out of sight is out of mind; the stock market and shares system legitimises inexcusable human endeavour. People recycle their cardboard, paper and tins, join 'walk to school' schemes, donate to Oxfam and Children in Need, and then watch their bank balance grow on the back of child labour, pollution and corruption. It certainly is a mad world.

My one venture into the world of imaginary money is my 15-17 year old student loan, gained in the giddy days where student loans were like Christmas presents. I like to pretend that my student loan doesn’t exist and it probably doesn’t. But, of course, on a database, held somewhere in Scotland, it does. Part of me is proud that I’ve never earned enough to pay it back. Yes, I am a complete idiot, but I feel like I’ve spent many years giving the Student Loans system the middle finger. It’s an enjoyable form of recompense for working in the charity sector for marbles for all these years; it’s nearly as good a helping people.

When I said “Africans prefer cash and in many ways so do I”, it was a lie. I just prefer the idea of it. I like the idea that my money is sat in its own little box at the bank. Oh yes, I can wax lyrical about ‘pretend money’, but I live in the same world as most westerners; and in that world money lives on computers and is distributed by machines. The events over the last two days prove that. I certainly prefer the idea of real money, but an African would rather keep their money under the mattress than in the bank. I don’t subscribe to that notion at all; I would lose everything that I'd ever saved for sure. I’m on my fifth bank card in two years; I am not to be trusted, especially with cash. African’s have a different balancing act to consider. They live in countries with far too much corruption and volatility to trust the world of imaginary money and banks. Stable countries, like Kenya, can become embroiled in political, ethnic and domestic wars in just a matter of days.

They understand - far better than I – that the money that we paid into the bank doesn’t just sit there in our own designated box, just waiting for when we need it again. They know that money held by banks will disappear into the vast world of global economics, where it will mix with imaginary money, investment opportunities, the stock exchange, and, invariably, where it will involve itself in corrupt, seedy and capricious practices. In volatile situations, the real money - that you deposit as cash - can disappear completely, forever and ever. The Pension Crisis is just the tip of the iceberg and global warming may very well be just around the corner. Computer models tend to agree that we’re all going to sink, and African’s probably think that they’ll be the first to go; at least financially.

I'm a direct debit darling and the standing order queen. Cash gets spent on nothing; it burns a whole in your pocket and scurries away. You get home and wonder where your money went. I like using my bank card; chip and pin, CVN, online banking, online shopping and getting an email confirmation of how much I spent where. I sit in my chair and type my money away. I get the internet glaze, and with it comes a strange belief that expenditure is justified when you’ve filled in countless online forms.

Last night, I walked into the mindset of Africa; I went cash. My Geek and I went to the bank and using three different bank cards extracted £530 from our three accounts. We have one account each and one that we share, each with a £250 cash limit. Money that has taken months to save became real.

I don’t have it anymore. I have used it to buy a direct flight from London Gatwick to Lilongwe Malawi; a flight doesn’t really exist. You can check for yourself on the Air Malawi website.

If you look at the schedule then you won’t see my flight or any direct flight following that path. Like the train to Hogwarts, it only exists if you know the where, the when’s and the how do you do’s. It’s a bit like the Stock Exchange in African form. If you believe that you can fly then you will fly. With enough confidence, you will fly so very high and so very far that you might even land in Lilongwe Airport, Africa, and be met by someone that you love. If you lose confidence mid-air; then get your parachute on fast. It’s a long way down. Or Lilongwe down, as My Geek would say on a silly day. I have thrown my cash into no man’s land and I’m hoping that it’ll take me to the other side.

If you want to fly on a flight that doesn’t exist, then you need to follow the trail. Somewhere on the way you may encounter witches and wizards, with weak personalities stolen from other books, and a propensity towards gayness when media interest starts to fall.

The trail for me went like this. After a little searching on Ask, in a strange attempt to resist being monitored by Google (who very kindly own and advertise this very Blog), I discovered that a direct flight to Malawi might exist. On various news based websites it said: ‘Air Malawi resumes direct London air link’. The news was all dated May, 2007, and despite the fact that they'd all just copied and pasted the same press release, it was promising scent. So, with the determination of a person committed to flying direct, and not sitting - all alone - in Nairobi for several hours, in fear of her life, I searched and searched. I even resorted to being tracked and went all Google on myself. Well, the flight wasn't on all the usual online booking websites. It also wasn't on a variety of lesser known websites that trade in flights, holidays and car hire. Finally, it wasn't even on the Air Malawi website itself. I gave up. This was a poor show on my part. I hadn’t got into the African way of doing things.

Then, I evolved, devolved or side stepped. I’m not quite sure which, but there was a catalyst; of that I am sure. Second hand information is a dangerous entity, but when it comes from a reliable source it can make us believe that anything is possible. Now, there is someone that I know and they know someone else. That someone else, that my someone knows, flew home to London Gatwick on a direct flight from Lilongwe, Malawi, last Wednesday. Yes, they flew on the flight that doesn’t exist and we do all live in magic land after all. My internet fingers fired into action once more: Air Malawi here I come. Back on the Air Malawi website, the matter of a non-existence flight wasn’t going to stop me; I knew stuff, stuff about parallel universes, alternative realities or some such bollocks. On the crappy website that heads the internet presence of a whole airline, there was a contact number for their UK agent.

High Class Travel and Tours are based at 246 High Street, Harlesden. They are exactly what one might expect from their seemingly illustrious title. I rang their number and after many, many rings, the phone was eventually answered in a series of garbled mumbles. ‘You wanna fly to Malawi; I can do you flight’ a man with a thick accent slowly slurred. With the phone held to my ear, I could picture him. The image in my mind showed a dark hulk of a man. He was lying on a sofa, in his flat above a take away shop in Harlesden, stoned out of his beautiful mind. This was a man thoroughly enjoying his life as an ‘agent’; Air Malawi’s man in the UK. The sense of there being an office was not projecting itself through the technology that connects our phones. I envisaged a pretend plane, comprised of a mismatch of chairs haphazardly lined up in the aforementioned flat, and on-flight reefers instead of courtesy beverages and films.

A little bit of me felt like I was already breathing the African air or Malawi Gold. The world felt fuddled. My brain took a moment to adjust to a reality where people sell international flights like knock off jewellery. I held my bank card in my hand. Too much of me was thinking like a westerner. As I looked at the numbers on my debit card, the conversation continued to follow its own elaborate circle. Before long the digits blurred and made me feel like I’d been living in a false computerised dimension for too long. "African’s don't do cards", as the South African in Barclays said to me this morning. High Class Travel and Tours are a cash only operation; that's how classy they are. If you’re not in Harlesden itself, then cash and cash only, must be paid direct into their bank account and the money must appear instantly on their statement. A faxed copy of the deposit stub must also be sent to them as additional proof. Statements are not to be trusted either.

This morning, I went into town with a big pile of cash neatly tucked away in my shoulder holster. This morning, I entered into a world that made me feel slightly uncomfortable and a little excited. I paid £535 into a bank account of someone that I'd only spoken with on the phone, and barely coherently at that. I had nothing to assure me that I would get to fly on the non-existent flight that I was paying for.

This is the African way.

Now I may seem like a complete idiot, but we’ll see. My Geek and I investigated ‘High Class Travel and Tours’ last night just to see how much of a gamble we were taking with our hard earned ‘cash’. Most surprisingly, they have a website. It belies their telephone manner and looks remarkably professional. Air Malawi should have a chat with their designer. Honestly, Air Malawi should do something. High Class Travel and Tours also has a fully fledged Air Travel Organisers Licence. They even have an online booking system, albeit with an out of date security certificate. Potentially, I could book with them online. Once you know exactly what you’re looking for, Alternative Airlines also offer bookings for the very same flight. It almosts feels real enough to touch.

So why didn’t I book my tickets via one of the two online options? Well, African’s prefer cash and, as I’m going to spend almost a month there, it’s about time that I got into the swing of it all. Why not get conned now; it’s a good a time as any. The real reason is that, if you book online, they add £200 onto the cost of the flight. That is the wonderful African joke. I’m not a usually gambling gal, but it’s all quite thrilling. We’re throwing our money into a strange mystery box and only time will tell what will come out, if anything. I praying for a flight, or perhaps my very own personalised pilot and plane.

A lady at High Class Travel and Tours just called. They can see my money in their account and she is waiting for my fax. She actually sounds 'sort of' on the ball, bar occasionally shouting random questions across the room.

I have negotiated emailing a scanned image of my ticket stub. With it, I will email my address and my flight dates. They have no record of my address yet; the address that I hope that my tickets to be sent to.

I better get the scanner working...

INTERMISSION

My scanner, which is as old as my student loans, now works with Windows Vista. I have just called ‘High Class Travel and Tours’; they have received my email and I should receive my tickets tomorrow. Crossed fingers everybody!

By the way, as a little, or big, postscript to all of this, the sound track of this mini adventure into Africa, has been reminiscence of the fine English music festivals of last year. These three albums have set my mood. They have made my heart bounce, bleed and sing. They filled me with emotional delight in exactly the way that good music should:

Darren Hayman – Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern
Hello Saferide – Introducing
Herman Dune – Giant

On the day that I may, or may not, have successfully bought flights to temporarily go awol, these songs have made me think about my departure. But most of all they have made me think about My Geek:

Herman Düne - I Wish That I Could See You Soon
Lyrics

I had to leave you and go away
But I think about you every day
In the morning and in the afternoon
I wish that I could see you soon
And when I held you I felt so fine
It was like there was
Nothing left on my mind
It was like Rockaway Beach in the month of June
I wish that I could see you soon

I had no plans to meet you baby,
I had a million things to do baby,
But you hit my heart with a harpoon,
I wish that I could see you soon
-- The angels go
How long 'til you can see her?
And I'm like - the sooner the better
Do you really think she will wait for you?
Well I have no way to say and there's nothing I can do
Well I have no way to say and there's nothing I can do

-- go!

Now listen
Now that I am across the sea I wonder if
You’re gonna wait for me
Or if you're gonna find
A new boy to spoon
I wish that I could see you soon

And if you
Wait a little my pretty friend
Until I come back to hold your hand
We'll be like bugs when they break through cocoon
You know
I wish that I could see you soon

It’s been a while
Since I felt like this
And now I’ve found someone I really miss
Under the sun
Under the moon
I wish that I could see you soon
-- Angels!
How long 'til you can see her?
And I’m like - the sooner the better
Do you really think she will wait for you?
And I’m like
There’s no way to say and there's nothing I can do
And there's no way to say and there's nothing I can do
-- go!

How long 'til you can see her?
And I’m like, well, the sooner the better
Do you really think she will wait for you?
And I’m like
There’s no way to say and there's nothing I can do
And there's no way to say and there's nothing I can do
And there's no way to say and there's nothing I can do
No way to say and there's nothing I can do


Herman Düne - 1 2 3 Apple Tree
Lyrics

do do do, do, do, do do do, do
do, do, do do do, do
do, do do do do do

Oh, when you call me weird names and make all kinds of weird faces
When you drive me along to all the stupidest places
You know it's not fair, but you know what you do
Because you know how bad I like to be with you

...And then you're like, "David, it's like one, two, three"
As you're climbing barefoot on the apple tree
It is as sweet as me, and as good as new
And you know how bad I like to be with you

You should try to go to some place, honey,
Where the weather is hot, and the music is funny
You should try down south, by the magic Bayou
And you will know how bad I like to be with you

It's like the better path, and it's a better way
If we never part, and if we never stray
If we know we have each other to hang on to
And if you know how bad I like to be with you

When I'm home alone, and when I'm travelling far,
When I'm riding my bike and when I'm driving in my car,
It could be England or it could be Peru
And you would know how bad I like to be with you

Well you know better than me on all kinds of topics
Like what fruit is native, what fruit is exotic,
You know the right names for flowers and for animals, too
I hope you know how bad I like to be with you

Well, you play the trumpet and I play drums
You smoke cigarettes and I chew gum,
You say we're different and I believe it's true
Because you know how bad I like to be with you

It's not even an option,
It’s not a matter of choice
I could say it with words
And I could say it with my voice
I could sing it in a song or play it on a kazoo
And you would know how bad I like to be with you

You say you dye your hair black since you were seventeen
And you say it goes well with your eyes so green
Well, I'm losing my hair and my eyes are blue,
You know how bad I like to be with you

...And now you think you're puzzled,
And you don't understand me
Well you can play me as easy as a DVD,
It’s like solving a case with a single clue
To know how bad I like to be with you

You know I'll always like you no matter what
And if you get a little chubby,
And if you're a little too fat
If you worship Jesus when I am a Jew
Then you will know how bad I like to be with you

...And you know how people shorten other people's names
To show their affection
Like if you called me Ray, if my name was Raymond
Well your name ain't Susan but I would call you Sue
To show you how bad I like to be with you

do do do, do, do, do do do, do
do, do, do do do, do
do, do, do do do, do
do, do do do

On a side note, I also suggest listening to Darren Hayman’s 'Elizabeth Duke'. It is very, very British in the very best kind of way. I do like a bit of Argos Gold.