Ah, the wonderful world of the travel show. Having fought valiantly and, eventually, successfully with the four foot by eight foot bendy bits of our stand, and finally been able to make them stand to attention (with the use of copious amounts of electrical tape, superglue and sticky-back plastic), we were all ready to go. Every year, my company has a stand at a particular travel show which is held at a particular venue in central London. It's actually a really good fun event, and gives us a chance to boast enormously and shamelessly about our products, what we do, how we do it and how utterly brilliant we are. We are also lucky enough to have previous and current clients visit us on the stand and tell us that we're brilliant. Altogether, a rather ego-boosting experience.
But, like any event such as this, you do get the odd weirdo plodding around. The ones who parade around the show in full safari gear, as if they'd just got off the plane in deepest Africa, complete with hiking sticks and mosquito proof hats. The brochure collectors, dragging round old-lady wheeled shopping baskets with them, collecting brochures by the ton. The job seekers. And finally, that almost dying breed (she says hopefully), the memory laners. Now, some of these can be really interesting to listen to. But some aren't. "Ooh, yes, we went to South Africa, about seven years ago, wasn't it seven years ago, dear, yes, it was, and we did the wine bits and then we visited Cape Town and we went to that lovely little restaurant, and I had the mussels and you had the salmon, or did you have the mussels, and I had the salmon, anyway it was lovely and then we walked down this little street and then we visited this vineyard and I tried the white and you tried the red, didn't you dear, or was it that you tried the white and I tried the red, anyway, it was lovely and we bought a case of the white which was lovely and then we went along the coast a bit and we sat overlooking the ocean, and then you had a glass of the white and I didn't because I was driving and then we went a bit further and we visited that place with all the thingies in it, and then we stayed at this little guest farm which was lovely, and then we......" by which time your eyes have glazed over and you're staring into the middle distance with an expression not unlike the man begging the firing squad to just pull the bloody trigger.
Now, I'm not saying that it's all like this. In fact, today was probably one of the best days I've had in my history of travel shows. Not only was I lucky enough to have not one, not two, but three of my best friends turn up on the stand to say hello, but I also had two of my dearest clients turn up for a chat (greeting me with the words "how many orangutans will I see in Africa?" - oh BLESS YOUR HEARTS for reading and appreciating my blog - it gave me the thrill of a lifetime to have it quoted to me!). I also saw, for the first time in years, two of my oldest clients and friends from when I used to live in Zambia and run a bushcamp. They reminded me of a brilliant story from when I first met them.
I ran a bushcamp in deepest, darkest Zambia. (No, I am not attempting to emulate Baroness Blixen's eponymous speech "I had a farm in Africa...."). Anyway. I had a bushcamp in Africa, under the Mchinga escarpment....
In my bushcamp, we had plenty of very large, very tall, very bushy trees. Which grew in all directions. We were lucky enough to have one tree which grew, parallel to the ground, and in a perfect position to hang a hammock off it. The reason I'm explaining this in minute, mathematician detail will become clear. We'd been out with these clients on a late night game drive, trying to find a hyena den which we suspected had cubs. On the way back to camp, I'd been regaling them with my stories of being an excellent barmaid, so they challenged me to make a superb cocktail. On arriving back in camp, I leapt out of the vehicle, flashlight in one hand, coolbox in the other, and dashed towards the bar. Can you see where this is going?
Yup. I ran straight into the hammock tree, the trunk of which was cunningly positioned right on a level with my forehead. Isaac, my scout, told me later that my body had kept going and my head stayed still, after its thwacking impact with the trunk. I'd knocked myself out cold. A couple of minutes later, surrounded by concerned guests and giggling staff, I'd groggily come to, struggled to my feet, and manfully (or womanfully) made it to the bar. Where I proceeded to pour everyone drinks. Much to their consternation. Baileys and Campari, anyone? Gin and milk? Or how about a lovely white wine and custard? It was fairly obvious that I'd sustained a rather major concussion. My attempts at conversation were verging on the "parsnips on the internet" genre, and so one of the guests, an ex-army nurse, very gently but firmly led me to my room and dressed my wounds. I had the imprint of a tree on my forehead and a very large and obvious gash across my nose. I have no idea what I said to her but, bless her heart, she never let on. I seem to remember telling her I loved her more than baked beans. But maybe that's a figment of my imagination.
The next day, at early breakfast, with a bump the size of a goose egg on my forehead, I again attempted to make tea for everyone. Until my lovely guests (realising I was still, to put it mildly, three sheets to the wind) very gently sat me down on one of the camp chairs, where I promptly fell asleep. Until four o'clock in the afternoon. Apparently I didn't move at all, while camp kept going around me. I then very groggily came to (does this story have shades of the Drunken Honey Badger?) and meandered back to my tent, where I promptly fell asleep again. And didn't wake up until morning. I'm told that my lovely barman came into my tent every hour or so to check that I was still breathing. It really wouldn't do to have to write an awkward letter to my father.
"Dear Sir, We regret to inform you that your daughter has popped her clogs due to an argument with a Breonadia microcephela..."
