Down the Amstel River

Down the Amstel River

Friday 

1400hrs

My place

Just so you know…we are supposed to be on a boat.

On this day, a good friend invites me for a boat ride. 

Friday at 2.30 pm. We leave the rendezvous point on the West side of the city of Amsterdam. Two black men stride through the streets with urgency, the taller man a step ahead. It is a 15-minute walk to the point where we are to board the boat. I struggle to keep up with the pace but we cannot afford to be the guests that don’t keep time. 

There are five of us – the Moroccans, two brothers, one from Casablanca, the tourist, visiting his brother who is a long-time resident in Amsterdam. There is the friend, a proud black man, a poet and an author from Charleston, South Carolina who lived in Amsterdam since the days of the Warsaw Pact. The skipper, a Dutch man, who I shall tell you about later and myself. 

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The African Tourist

The African Tourist

It was the time before corona. 

Jamaa, a regional technology sales leader, travelled to Europe from Nairobi to report to the head office in Stockholm. While on these annual trips, he never ventured on his own beyond the confines of the head offices or hotel. His spirit of adventure was limited to packaged city tours buses. He concluded that he could only handle Europe in small doses and usually after a week, he would be eager to return to the familiarity of Nairobi. 

But after a generous company bonus, he decided to do something selfish, urged on by a senior executive who subtly reminded him to prioritise his mental health. 

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