Anusha's Gathering

By Roli Degazon-Johnson

In a land of conundrums, on a weekend of revelry and exploration, seven people fly in to celebrate a special moment with a friend. Onlookers would think their jobs cushy and glamorous, but nothing is further from the truth as they struggle to regain inner peace. Different colours and creeds, yet they are bound by a painful thread of experience that connects them profoundly to Anusha. They bond in an unexpected way, which will resonate with thousands who have worked in international organizations across the globe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504991285

Roli Degazon-Johnson

Roli Degazon-Johnson Ph.D. LL.M is an organization consultant who coaches executives in international, public and private sector organizations. She has facilitated training programmes and conducted research in the field of organization psychology and human capital development for over 20 years. Through her experience, she is cognisant of the issues of power, geo-politics and culture which arise within international organizations and for years has guided and supported their staff in resolving grievances, conflicts and disputes. Her clients span North America, the Caribbean, the European Union, Africa, the Middle East and the Pacific.

Book preview

Anusha’s Gathering

Roli Degazon-Johnson

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© 2015 Roli Degazon-Johnson. All rights reserved.

The author asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/04/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9127-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9128-5 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Colombo Arrival

Chapter 2: Highway to Galle

Chapter 3: Just Who Do You Think You Are?

Chapter 4: ‘… and the world turned its back …’

Chapter 5: The Exercise of Criminal Virtue

Chapter 6: ‘Equality, Justice and Human Rights for All’

Chapter 7: Combatting Our Demons …and Snakes

Chapter 8: A Law unto Themselves

Chapter 9: ‘Deadlier than the Male’

Chapter 10: ‘We want you out of here!’

Chapter 11: ‘Good Diplomatic Relations’

Chapter 12: Regeneration

Author’s Notes

Reader’s Guide

Endnotes

Bullying is not always loud and vulgar: its toxicity can be slow, imperceptible and subtle, as highlighted in ‘Anusha’s Gathering’………a must read for all leaders, conflict resolution experts and human rights activists around the world.

Dr. Angela Ramsay, Ph.D,

Author of Stop Bullying: A Guide to Parents, Educators, Students et al, Kingston, Jamaica.

….no fifty shades of grey to lure the reader into fantasy…..it’s all black and white….. destructive workplace cultures for highly professional women and men……harnessing global experiences of bullying across country contexts in international high profile organisations.

Dr. Sadhana Manik Ph.D,

Lecturer, University of Kwa-Zulu-Natal Province, South Africa

Fictitious….. but this type of behaviour exists and often goes unpunished. How could institutions that preach good governance and respect for justice tolerate such vile abuses in their own ranks? It is left to the outraged reader to demand that top managers fulfill their duty of care…… if they won’t, that member governments hold them properly to account.

Ambassador Edwin Laurent, SLC, OBE, CMG,

Director, the Ramphal Institute, London, U.K.

The author does not engage in social media but will respond if readers send comments, observations and reactions directly to [e-mail].

Dedicated to all victims of intimidation, harassment and discrimination, whoever you are and wherever you may be.

CHAPTER 1

Colombo Arrival

Sri Lanka, late January 2014

A s Emirates Flight 016 broke through the clouds heading towards Colombo airport like a stylish white peacock, Rosamund felt the ache that she always experienced in her ears in a rapidly descending aircraft. She recalled that her cousin, an experienced pilot who had flown aircraft both in the Caribbean and in the Gulf States, had told her that this often occurred when the pilots needed to adjust the cabin pressure. A passionate pilot, he had also told her that bringing a plane in to land safely and smoothly was, for him, similar to satisfying sexual intercourse.

She had once flown with Leeward Islands Air Transport on a Twin Otter aircraft that he had captained. Both the take-off from Vigie in St. Lucia and the landing at Coolidge airport¹, Antigua, had been very smooth and painless for her ears. But not so on this aircraft; here she suffered in silence.

‘Suffering in silence’ was a state with which Rosamund had had long and close acquaintance. A few years before, while assigned to an international organisation, she had been subjected to a subtle yet pernicious form of harassment and intimidation by a senior official, who wished her out of the organisation. Forced to bear, in silence, the pain of the unfair and discriminatory treatment meted out to her, she had held her head high, kept on working hard—borne her anguish. When she could bear it no longer, she had broken her silence and spoken out, making a formal complaint against her tormentor. Speaking out had brought with it a new kind of anguish, as it had taken an interminable amount of time for the complaint to be addressed.

The impact of the tyres of the massive aircraft hitting the ground broke into Rosamund’s thoughts. She had braced herself for it and now breathed a deep sigh. How she wished that getting over the pain of being bullied was as easy and as swift as the diminishing of the pain in her ears as the aircraft—cabin pressure adjusted—slowed on the runway and its huge body meandered towards the arrival terminal at Bandaranaike International Airport.

Disembarking, she entered the large, well-organised terminal building, joining the queue for non-nationals. The newly refurbished airport in Colombo, Sri Lanka’s capital, had been rebuilt at the end of the twenty-year war between the Sinhalese and Tamils in Sri Lanka—a war which had a conclusion but had ushered in an uncertain peace.

Rosamund hoped that her initiative in buying a visa online would prove a timesaver, as she was feeling very much in need of a bath and bed. The trip from London Gatwick, whilst comfortable, had been long, and the stopover in Dubai in the middle of the night, tiring. She noticed that there was a military presence apparent among the uniformed officers attending to immigration and customs. Their behaviour, whilst somewhat officious, was not overbearing, in contrast to how she had found their counterparts in Sierra Leone at the end of their civil war. Remembering the number of times she had been asked to show her passport to an official at that airport when leaving, she had joked to one colleague that it had felt like going through 18 Stations of the Cross, even though she was certainly no Jesus Christ.

Clearing immigration armed with an exotic new stamp in her passport, she exited the baggage hall with her one large trolley case and without interference from the customs officers, who did not even give her a glance.

After what seemed a very long walk through a throng of smiling Sri Lankan drivers, she was pleased to see one of them holding a sign with her name on it. As so often happened, the tour company had assumed that if she was Dr Delisser then she must be male, so her sign read ‘‘Mr Delisser." The smiling, pleasant-faced driver swiftly recovered from his surprise and presented her with a garland of sweet-smelling flowers which he placed around her neck:

‘I am Haresh. Solly, vas looking for a man. Regret must ask you to vait little bit.’ As he spoke Haresh moved his head from side to side in the half-apologetic yet kindly manner which denoted respect, just as Rosamund had noted previously when in India and some other Asian cultures.

‘Vere is one passenger on your flight still to come out,’ he added. His speech was clipped yet gentle, with the melodious tones that she associated with the Asian-accented English that could be heard even among fifth-generation Guyanese and Trinidadian Indians of her own region in the Caribbean. Haresh explained that he was also collecting two other guests on the Air Arabia flight which was arriving shortly.

Assuming that ‘vait little bit’ might mean one or two hours, Rosamund found a seat among those waiting for other arriving passengers and started fanning herself with the newspaper she had taken off her plane. Having left rainy London in single-digit weather, she counselled herself to be grateful for the heat and humidity of Colombo.

She looked out at the lush, green vegetation surrounding the airport at Colombo and was reminded of Portland, her favourite parish in her country, Jamaica. Other places like Montego Bay, Ocho Rios and Negril with their miles of sandy white beaches were promoted in the tourist brochures. She loved secluded, lush, laid-back Portland where the actor Errol Flynn had built his home. Whilst too rainy at some times of the year, it was enchanting—a Garden of Eden.

‘Rosie! Rosie!’

Rosamund broke from her reflections as she heard a familiar voice calling her pet name as if the whole world needed to hear it. She spun around to see Monica, a former UN official, close colleague and friend heading towards her, with Haresh bringing up the rear, carrying her bags.

‘Great to see you again!’ Rosamund responded in a voice some decibels lower.

As they hugged each other, Monica shouted in her customary high-volume Nigerian style, ‘You wicked woman! I saw your fat backside in the distance leaving customs. I had to stay and get myself an on-the-spot visa, which just took forever!’

‘So, you were on the Emirates flight? But I did not see you!’

‘I was the last passenger to board in Dubai, my deah. You know me, I had to check out the gold jewellery in the airport shops, but bought nothing this time’; she was notorious for her shopaholic tendencies.

‘The airline had to make a special call for me. The usual thing, you know.’ She gave her impish grin. Rosamund had been on enough international missions with Monica for her dramatic last minute arrivals at airports to have become par for the course.

Rosamund persisted: ‘But even then, I did not see you come down the aisle once. Were you in economy?’

‘Ah, my deah, I used those air miles that I had accumulated on my recent trips to treat myself by upgrading to business travel.’

‘You lucky devil!’ Rosamund responded. ‘Economy on Emirates, I find is as good as premium economy on European airlines.’

‘Which makes their business travel the equivalent of first class—of which I am worthy, thank you!’ Monica completed that round with the flourish and ebullience of some victorious, feisty warrior queen somewhere in her ancestry, no doubt. But Rosamund knew that, for all her bombast and flourish, Monica had a heart of gold and was the most unselfish, warm, generous soul you could want.

Haresh had been standing by with a bemused expression on his face as he watched this very extroverted, un-Sri Lankan behaviour taking place. The enthusiasm and delight of these two women of African descent—Jamaican and Nigerian Ibo—at seeing each other again was palpable. He patiently waited for their excitement to subside and then interrupted to say that he would return to look out for the two Air Arabia passengers as that flight had also arrived. He left Monica’s two bags at her side.

‘Hah’, she announced as Haresh disappeared into the distance, ‘I hope he knows that he is not through with those two. My bags are so heavy; I have no intention of carrying them again.’

‘You wicked woman’, Rosamund announced. ‘You travel with too many outfits and then you expect the poor driver to carry them for you!’

‘Oh, by the time I finish exercising my charms on him, he will be begging me to let him carry them!’ she explained.

Then, swiftly changing the topic, Monica inquired, ‘So who else is coming from overseas for this event, any idea?’

Monica’s curiosity knew no bounds. Ever since their days at Headquarters, Rosamund had known her for jumping the gun, asking questions that no one else dared to, while affecting an air of innocence and naivety. This belied her sharp intellect, extensive work experience and vast international exposure. Rosamund opted to rein in her curiosity by saying:

‘Well, we won’t have long to wait. I think there are about seven of us altogether from overseas and with Anusha, that will make eight. Haresh is looking out for two more off the Air Arabia flight, which will bring it to nearly fifty per cent of the outsiders.’

‘Can I buy some bottled water anywhere?’ Monica asked. ‘I had a small bottle in my bag when I was leaving Abuja, but you know how they make you give up all your liquids at security. I did not feel the need for water in Dubai.’

‘Monica, why don’t we get a water coconut from that guy selling them over at the exit?’ Rosamund proposed. ‘We can ask Haresh to keep your bags until we come back. He already has mine.’

‘Rosie, only a fool would try to run away with my two valises. They would not get far … they weigh a ton … So I will just leave them here.’ She then turned to a nearby Sri Lankan gentleman and swiftly negotiated with him to watch her bags until her return. He indicated his willingness by giving her that delightful turn of the head from side to side, which was neither a no or a yes, but was politely positive.

Bargaining very badly both women ended up with two small golden coconuts for fifty US cents, each. They sucked the delicious water through straws that the vendor provided, and then asked him to cut spoons from the husk, so that they could enjoy the jelly-like flesh inside the coconut.

‘This stuff; mmm … the nectar of Gods’, Monica said enjoying the pure, sweet liquid. Rosamund responded with a sound signifying her own enjoyment: ‘Mmmmmm.’

‘But that vendor got away with murder, Rosie’, trumpeted Monica in her ebullient style, thirst partly quenched. ‘If his English and my Sinhalese were better, I would have worked him down to ten cents each!’

‘Yes, Monica, and I would have died of thirst in the process!’ They both laughed, recalling the many occasions when Monica had turned on the drama and upped the volume to get a bargain.

Rosamund reminded Monica of when they had been shopping in a very fancy Bond Street shoe store in London. Monica had requested a discount on a pair of shoes. After consultation the sales assistant had offered her a 5% discount on the spot, which was unheard of in that sort of shop, unless there was a sale.

‘She thought I would come back soon again, that’s all’, a gleeful Monica announced.

In another instance on a mission to Abuja, Nigeria, where Monica now operated her own family real estate business, she had announced to a local Hausa vendor:

‘Allah will look down upon you and frown when you give me such high price.’ At this the vendor had bared his single tooth and smilingly responded that it was she, and not he, on whom Allah would frown, if she stole from a poor struggling vendor.

As they finished quenching their thirst with the pure ambrosia of the coconut water, Rosamund saw Haresh approaching with two strangers, a man and a woman.

‘Here, two more of Miss Anusha’s guests’, he announced proudly with a broad smile, clearly relieved that he had identified all of his passengers, or that they had found him. ‘Now, ve go Galle.’ With that, the good man hefted Monica’s bags up and headed out of the arrivals area. Rosamund collected her bags and followed.

Placing the empty coconut husks in a plastic container outside the airport building, Monica and Rosamund followed Haresh and the two new arrivals to the car park. Introducing themselves, they made small talk about their trip whilst helping Haresh to pack their bags in the back of an ageing mini-van. At last with all of them bundled into the hot little van and heading out of the airport, Haresh announced:

‘Miss Anusha say I vill take the new southern highvay, please. This new highway to Galle make travelling qvicker.’

CHAPTER 2

Highway to Galle

N oisy tuk-tuks, cars, buses and bicycles created major traffic congestion on the road from the airport. The tuk-tuks, or motorised rickshaws, a staple feature of passenger transport in many Asian countries, added greatly to the pandemonium. Haresh was doing his best to get out