Life. Seasoned with perspective.
A last-minute visa scare, unexpected airport drama, and a whirlwind of cultural contrasts shaped the journey that eventually led me to Xi’an, China. This first chapter offers a light, reflective look at the chaos, surprises, and lessons learned along the way.”
I have just landed from the cultural city of Xi’an in China, where I spent the past week living what felt like a documentary unfolding in real time.
Xi’an, the seat of China’s first emperor, is a city that blends history with modern ambition. It was once the eastern end of the Silk Road and the capital of thirteen dynasties. Today, it is famous for the Terracotta Army, a breathtaking archaeological wonder often described as the eighth wonder of the world. My time there was short but unforgettable.
I travelled to Xi’an for the Inauguration of the Global South Media Partners Mechanism and the 13th Global Video Media Forum. Media practitioners from across the Global South gathered with one goal: to rethink how our stories travel, how our voices are represented, and how we can take charge of our own narratives in a world where visibility matters.
I will dive deeper into the forum and the beauty of Xi’an in the next chapters. This first part is dedicated to the sideshows — because the journey itself was a movie.
Picture this. Early September. My host texts me to ask whether I would attend the conference in person. I didn’t even think twice. First trip to China? Absolutely yes. She started working on the paperwork, and by late October, I had everything I needed to apply for the visa. Then came travel day. Still no visa.
I called my host for advice. She rescheduled my flight by twenty-four hours. On the new travel day, my flight was set for five in the evening, East African Time. At eight in the morning — no visa. They told me to check at midday. So I packed my bags anyway and went straight to the embassy, half hopeful, half resigned.
At midday, nothing. They asked me to check again at one in the afternoon. I called my host and told her, “Let’s accept it, the trip is over.” I promised to check just one last time before announcing the funeral of my travel plans. Honestly, in my mind, I had already buried the trip.
At one in the afternoon, I made the call without emotion. “Visa ready,” they said. Just like that, my system rebooted. I rushed to work, parked my car, requested an Uber, and told the driver, “Listen, today ignore every speed limit sign you see. Just get me there before the plane leaves.” He executed perfectly. I tipped him heavily as I ran into the terminal, joining the last group of passengers in the queue. And just like that, China became real.
A question that often comes up is why African media professionals should fly to another continent to talk about African media. It’s the same question journalists ask leaders when they hop from one foreign summit to another. But that whole topic deserves its own episode. For now, let’s stick to the story.
I boarded the Qatar Airways flight at five in the evening. First stop: Hamad International Airport in Doha — easily one of the most beautiful airports in the world. Skytrax ranked it the best in 2024 and second only to Singapore Changi in 2025. The plane was full of Kenyan students heading for competitions around the world. Being a journalist, I naturally tuned in and listened.
A group of girls from Pangani Girls’ High School were travelling to the United States for the World Scholars Tournament at Yale University. My daughter had mentioned the same event. Even before we took off, the drama had begun. These students were taking selfies at a rate I couldn’t keep up with. I dodged cameras like a fugitive. If you spot me in their photos, just know it wasn’t by choice.
Then came the conversations; some of them made me pause. One student was carrying a thousand dollars in pocket money. A thousand, for a six-day trip. I’ll spare the details, but as a father to girls, those conversations had me reflecting for hours. Times have changed. The world our children navigate is not the one we grew up in.
Eventually, we landed in Doha. If you’ve never spent time at Hamad International Airport, just know there’s no dull moment. I once had a nine-hour layover there, and time flew. On the next flight, I immersed myself in my friend Dr. Green’s book titled Green for Life. Seven hours and forty minutes later, we touched down at Beijing Daxing International Airport.
The starfish-shaped terminal was opened in 2019 to ease pressure on Beijing Capital Airport. And this is where reality hit, the language barrier. Thank God for mobile translation apps; they saved me. But another challenge awaited: without a VPN, most apps, including WhatsApp, were completely unusable. You must use WeChat.
After a few hours of waiting, we boarded a domestic flight to Xi’an. Two and a half hours later, the wheels touched down at Xi’an Xianyang International Airport, in the city where history began.
The journey has officially begun. The real story continues next week. Stay locked in.
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years of experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth-focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication (KIMC). A Certified SIYB Trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact.
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