A letter from London
Thalefang Charles | Friday April 24, 2015 15:24
I am travelling alone armed with a map and camera. I have just over four hours of free time to be a tourist before a work rendezvous at 2pm – Huawei Press Event at the Old Billingsgate Hall.
Let me first take you back to how I got here.
It was on Tuesday at 1.30pm. The Emirates Airbus 380 landed at Gatwick International Airport, just shy of an hour to make my travelling time from Gaborone via Johannesburg and Dubai to be 24 hours.
Although it was my first time in the English country and having read all about the tough interrogations of these first world immigration officials, I was pretty confident that I would be allowed in without incident.
I was maybe a little overconfident since I only learnt through the Internet that I do not need a visa to enter the UK. I never cared to crosscheck. I guess the Emirates complimentary whiskey also boosted the confidence.
The non-EU passport holders’ queue was short and before long I was speaking to Annette, who was about to give me my first British stamp.
Annette is a black dreadlocked woman. A sister – “this should be easy”, I said to myself. She asked for the necessary papers, which I have been flashing while connecting flights in Johannesburg and Dubai.
After she satisfied herself with the paperwork, I innocently asked her whether she is really an ‘English woman’. The question just blurted out and I immediately felt it was awkward (I thought about the Setswana version of it) and rephrased myself adding a little more smile, “I mean British?”
Annette smiled back and said, “Yes”. Probably expecting the usual African courtesy of asking about the children’s health and rain she politely signalled to me that there is a growing queue behind me. More like, “you got your visa, welcome to the UK, we are efficient here, we do not have time for small talk”.
As a guest of Huawei, an airport pick-up was arranged. It is always refreshing to find a stranger holding a placard with your name welcoming you into foreign territory. The woman holding the placard wth my name on it warmly greeted me after I made the, “That’s me” signal and she asked the chauffer to lead me to the car.
Ten minutes later, I was smiling like a little kid in the front passenger seat of the latest Mercedes Benz S400 being chauffeured to the hotel. My chauffer, Lenny Blackman (he is actually a white man from West Ham), offered me the backseat to be there alone like a real VIP, but I gave my thanks and told him that I am riding it like our President. “Frontseat sir, thank you”.
After checking in at the Double Tree By The Hilton in central London, I immediately hit the streets. No refreshing or admiring the hotel furniture.
River Thames next to the Tower of London and the iconic Tower Bridge were just a walking distance away. There were hordes of tourists, mostly white people. I concluded that they were tourists because most of them did not speak English and were shooting selfies on the bridge.
I was in awe about the Victorian architecture as I kept walking past London buildings. The streets were punctuated with red buses, black taxis and many cyclists – they just cycled in front of big buses and it was then I realised why Zebras coach Peter Butler was nearly killed while cycling in Gaborone. I think for a moment, he might have thought he was cycling in London.
There were men in executive suits holding big beer glasses, and drinking in front of pubs. I walked in one of the pubs and ordered one drink - Foster. I wanted to find one Londoner who could tell me about the city. I know these big glasses are good at bringing strangers into conversations. But these people looked like they were in a coffee shop, drinking some hot beverage with no excitement whatsoever. Wrong pub, it was expensive anyway. Gulped down my drink, got off the stool and walked back to the hotel. Later that night I found myself in another expensive pub fielding embarrassing questions about xenophobic attacks in South Africa. South Africans, you are embarrassing us in front of white people, please stop those shameful attacks.
So here I am in a metro train heading to Westminster. The train is full of people, but it is quiet. Almost everyone has plugged their ears with headphones. A dozen are reading - books, newspapers, and magazines - but mostly are stuck to their phone. No one is talking out loud. It is like we are at some funeral- a big, tragic funeral of some royal. Old couples are in hushed conversations. I catch the corner of one woman’s eye. She moves her lips in a gesture that is similar to smiling before she quickly looks the other way. I just kept a straight face and returned my my focus to the train station stops, lest the fake smiles get me lost. I get off at the Victoria Station and search for a way to Buckingham Palace - the Queen’s official residence in London. Kwa ga MmaMosadinyana.
In the streets, everyone is in a rush - quietly. No music in the streets, no hooters, no shouting, no happy loud laughter, but just a humming sound of traffic. I want to scream. There are maps on the streets for the lost ones. I guess you do not ask strangers for directions in London. I keep studying the maps on my way to the Queen’s Palace. I am good with maps.
There are hordes of tourists here. After taking pictures, I stand by the Palace gates and wonder if our Three Great Chiefs that sought protection from the woman living here ever stood by these gates too.
Reports say they never got to meet the Queen, but they do not say whether they came to see the Palace at least.
Before wasting time, wondering about grown men seeking protection from a woman, I proceed to Downing Street. Unfortunately there is no access to 10 Downing Street – the UK Prime Minister’s Office, a heavily armed guard cordons it off. They do not mind pictures.
Still on foot, I proceed to Trafalgar Square. A memory of Nelson Mandela crosses my mind. This was the centre of anti-apartheid protests in London because the South African High Commission House is located here. From Trafalgar, it is on to Piccadilly Square, then a long walk back to Westminster. My four-hour free time as a tourist is ending here on the Westminster Bridge, over River Thames. I admire my environs on my left, the Victorian architecture of the Palace of Westminster with Elizabeth Tower and the iconic London Eye on my right. It is time to head back to the city centre at Old Billingsgate Hall for the global launch of Huawei P8 smartphone.