Living in a hot and humid environment has made me realize just how rubbish I am at drinking water. In this heat I need to be drinking at least 4 pints a day, some days I don’t manage even half of this. 
I have a little device which attaches to a drink bottle and it flashes annoyingly when the drink bottle has not been tipped up. It didn’t last as the rubber quickly eroded in this humidity and now it’s forlornly flashing on its ownsome in my bedside drawer.
In my previous corporate life, I never made time to go to the bathroom so unless I was in a long boring meeting when the only way to stay awake was to drink copious amounts of caffeine laden coffee while stabbing myself regularly with a pen lid, I would go the entire 12 hour day perhaps only visiting the bathroom once. It didn’t occur to me that this was not normal and not good for my body.
Ironically, this poor behavior started in Uganda and I can trace it back to dealing with and managing the relationship with President Museveni. When we first start working together I’m summoned to State House whenever he has a question or just wants to chew the fat about our project, or other matters. Very quickly I learn this means to cancel all plans, bring a book and 200litres of patience. The security guards confiscate all mobile devices, pagers or laptops (unless previously agreed) at the gate. Frustratingly this means I cannot do any meaningful work, the wait is often 4-6 hours, the ladies bathroom is a walk away and I always worry I’m going to miss the meeting window. So I learn to ‘go’ before heading to State House and then I drink nothing until after I’ve seen him.
As time goes on, I start to earn his trust and I’m invited to his Rawakitura farm in the Kiruhura District of Uganda- a 5 hour drive from Kampala, 3 hours of which are on bumpy, dusty, murrain track. Once there and the charade of checking for bombs and explosives has been conducted, we sit on white plastic garden chairs under a large open 2 sided marquee and wait to be summoned to the front to talk to the President. I’ve already been warned to bring a toothbrush and change of clothes and to be prepared to sleep “up-country” as there are many more distractions for him at the Farm. But on my visits there I was always able to get back to Kampala, sometimes with my life in my steering wheeled hands, particularly as driving in the dark outside of the city is not advised. On my visits I see no conveniences but as I’m now well practiced in not drinking any fluids there is no need for me to enquire where they might be.
Eventually, I’m bestowed the honor of going to the boma. This is where the prized Ankole cattle are kept, where the President is most relaxed, where real business gets done. On the day in question there are a small handful of us and I’m the only woman in the group. We sit on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chairs close to two 10 ft circular brick watering holes. Museveni is in his herd boy dress and his avuncular mood is infectious. Drinks are passed around, I take a bottled water but do not open it. He gestures and the ballet begins. From the left side come approximately 20 of the most beautiful bovine beasts I have ever seen, they amble to the watering hole, guided by their herdsman; with their gleaming skin and muscled flanks, they revel in their power and grace. It seems that they know they are pristine, much-loved Ankole cattle owned by the most powerful figure in the land. Museveni asks questions about each animal, the herdboy answers, then the next 20 of the herd are ushered in from the right hand side and so it’s goes on, left to right back to left, interminably. 
Part way through a frisky bull decides to mate with a willing cow, directly in my line of vision. The President delights in this show of virility and there is much innuendo and laughter, a lot of which seems to be pointed in my direction. It feels like it’s some sort of test and I try to not rise to the bait however I’m marginally uncomfortable given my singular female status. By now the President is seated to my left and shortly after the bull has dismounted and been led away, he stands up and walks about 10 paces away. With his back to me he casually pees into the bush while still talking to the group. What to do? Where is the protocol on where to put ones gaze as the Head of State unzips his breeks and relieves himself in your line of sight? I stare straight ahead and try to appear nonchalant.
Later on I’m thrown out of my inner turmoil as he directly asks why I’m not drinking. I explain that the female anatomy means it’s more difficult to relieve oneself in the bush and I receive a long and, I think, well-meaning lecture on the perils of not staying hydrated. He’s amused as my response includes a joke regarding him not having this issue. 
Suitably chastened I drink the bottled water and later I’m pressed into having a two cups of tea. Like all leaders he misses very little and I know to refuse would offend his hospitality.
The consequence is a long and most uncomfortable drive back to Kampala. My battered Toyota LandCruiser is not known for its comfortable suspension and each lurch and bump is a test of my pelvic floor.
Made worse by the fact I know he knows that I know that his power reaches beyond the normal transactional business of a tamper-proof automated electoral voting system.
Yes, doing business in Africa requires tolerance, perseverance, patience and heaps of flexibility, as well as the ability to adopt all the characteristics of a camel.
This was the time when as a young girl, I could open the cupboard and be greeted by the images of semi-naked/bikini clad girls on my Dads beer cans. Where I would beg the babysitter to let me stay up to watch Miss World, broadcast on the BBC. This was the time when a grope was a way of saying “I fancy you” and standing on a crowded underground tube train could engender the indelible feeling of hand on thigh, bum or even boob with no chance of reprisal. My first ever communications role was for an automotive company which produced ‘tasteful’ naked girly calendars to rival Pirelli and they expected us to distribute these without a bat of an eye or blush of cheek.
So I’m emboldened and heartened by the ‘Me too’ movement. With clearer sight of right and wrong both men and women have more visible guidelines for what is appropriate and inappropriate in today’s workplace. Flirting is fine as long as both parties are mutually interested, both now know where the line is and the potential consequences of crossing it. However, I fear that old habits can be hard to break and the male power and ego dynamic which lurks in so many large corporations means it is likely to take a generation and several prosecutions until the message is rammed home. In no circumstances should a lewd suggestion or hand be placed on an unwilling subordinate. In no circumstances should any woman be made to feel lesser, inferior, because of a mistaken misogynistic, outdated male view-point.
The people of the world, no matter where they’re located, are beginning to hear and see that society is changing and its possible to take a stand. And the brave women who speak their truths need to be supported and listened to for they are today’s pioneers and change catalysts, shining beacons of worth and courage.
I’ve been stuck in my bubble, wallowing in its silence and peace. A less stressful, slower life beat. An opportunity to pause, to breathe, to observe. I focus on family, I make good on my promises. I am grateful and fortunate yet at the same time still unfulfilled.
He knows these words are not to be used in everyday conversation but it seems to be a right of passage of teenagedom to ‘talk dirty’ in front of your friends. I stand on the cliff top this evening watching him learn to surf with a bunch of school friends and the winds carry a clear bell tone of colour which causes an inward wince. Occasionally, he will use a colloquialism for a body part or sexual act and always I try to ignore it, so the word loses its power.
All good communicators know it’s harder to write headlines for the Redtops than the Broadsheets, to appeal to the working man as well as his middle manager. But it’s a lazy communicator who chooses to appeal just to the masses, as the herd mentality will never create a long-term sustainable solution; they become too preoccupied with belonging. Great ideas and solutions come from thinking differently and speaking out; even if people disagree with a decision or view, if it’s explained well and understood, there is a better chance of bringing people together and of their working for the greater good. Understanding your audience and communicating thoughts and ideas to those who may not be of your political persuasion, education or social class is a real skill. Done well, it can shift thinking and perception.
Always I am reminded that these are the experiences which will make my boy an empathetic, loving man. I know that these challenging times are what shapes him – not the surf lessons , the football or golf, the paddle boarding or sunset dog walking. It’s the tough stuff; finding your place and way at the new school; being open with your emotions and asking for help; dealing with name calling from insecure older boys; knowing who to trust and who to avoid; managing tricky situations. And through all of this, I see glimpses of the man he’s going to become and I am heartened. This boy-child is already dealing with transitions that many adults would struggle with and he’s doing so with openness and grace, with humility and patience, through tears and laughter. I know, even if he doesn’t yet, that he will be a well-balanced, fabulous human being. That each tricky situation builds his character and generates more inner resilience. These life skills cannot be taught in a classroom, they must be lived.
As mentors, parents, life coaches or guides, we best serve by acknowledging difficult experiences and talking about what can be learned for next time; by listening – not judging, shouting nor fixing. By standing by with the belay, ready to break the fall, not stop it from happening.
A deception sustained for short bursts of time – enough time for visitors to get off and back on the plane. Real Barbados is much more complex and far more interesting. An island currently experiencing a seismic shift in its culture and attitudes, where hard decisions need to be made to create sustainable changes so as to reinvigorate a flagging economy and shift antiquated working practices.
We drank rum punch on the Jolly Roger even though I was teetotal and could barely stand at the end of the day. It was here I had my first encounter with flying cockroaches who seemed to wait until I was in the shower before they would helicopter in and attempt to land in my hair ( I still go weak kneed when I see one). And it was here I was first bitten by mosquitos and directly applied the juice from the aloe plant to the bite. Flying to Barbados was the first time I had been on a plane, the first time I had been out of the UK.
It was at the beach by the Hilton Barbados that he first stuck his toes into soft warm sand and paddled waist deep in the warm salty sea water. It was Barbados that helped the sea seduce my child, where he first awkwardly jiggled his hips to soca music and where he first felt sun so hot that his skin now goes berry brown instead of Scottish raspberry red.
A title is everything and nothing. What counts and demonstrates the mark of the wo/man are their behaviours and actions. Words come easy but it’s their meaning and associated results which make the difference.
The people in Manchester and London who turn out in their thousands, stand in brave defiance of any act of terrorism. They choose to not be cowed in the face of mad extremism. They turn up, young and old, girls and boys, men, women and gender neutral, gay, straight. Christian’s, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus. Atheists – no matter how they define themselves – they stand together across our country. Remarkably so many enjoying the concert in Manchester tonight are the ones who got away two weeks ago.
In fact on our wedding day, the only words she uttered in my direction were to tell me to get the band to turn the sound down as she couldn’t hear herself speak to her friends! But saying nothing is almost easier than stepping up to the plate. So I admire May Fulton’s honesty although it’s obvious to me now that it wasn’t personal; no woman would ever have been good enough for her wee boy.
The temple itself is a nine sided building designed to represent unity of all faiths. Its golden brick gleams in the sunlight and the green 44ft diameter dome stretches 130ft into the blue cloudless sky. After a leisurely wander around the temple, we sit in the well manicured garden, shaded by a large tree. I fuss around with eats and drinks all the while thinking Craig is quietly subsumed by the serenity and peace of the place. Below us a group of school children are listening intently to their lessons, the sound of the African lilt coming from the teaching nuns is being carried upwards in the light breeze. Craig jolts me out of my revere with a meaningful speech about there only being seven Baha’i temples in the world. That’s one for every continent so we’re sitting in a most special place in Africa, a place where all faiths and beliefs come together under the larger concept of humanity. He says some other lovely things and by the end of his discourse I’ve agreed to make a lifetime commitment and I’m wearing a stunning diamond on the 3rd finger of my left hand. Of course we hug and kiss and then look up to face an irate nun, angrily admonishing us for such a public display of affection in a holy place. We apologise and listen to a long lecture about the sanctity of innocence and the need to avoid encouraging the virginal young minds down the hill into wanton ‘harlotedness’