It just didn't seem right to use the same webpage for our new adventures in China, so as of today, we created a new blogspot page. To access this one, simply go to:
http://www.archiedoesasia.blogspot.com
Any day now I'll get motivated enough to actually post a few...anyday.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
TESTING 1, 2, 3...
If this works I will be absolutely amazed. If this short, completely useless blog is published it means that I have found a way to skirt the Chinese Information controllers! I'm a genius!
Or not.
Anyway, I apologize that it has been quite some time since I've sent any updates from our new locale. It seems that all blog websites are forbidden by the People's Republic of China Communist Party. I could not read anyone else's nor write any of my own for the past 2 months.
We are doing very well here in China, and have accrued some silly and not so silly stories already. We arrived November 2nd, and as of January 11th, I have yet to do a single, productive thing. I've grown a beard rivalling Rip Van Winkle's, haven't cut my toe nails in ages, and have begun studying Taoism. Well, they're not all lies.
I hope everyone is doing well out there, and I hope to update this regularly, or start a new one. Keep in touch!
Jesse
Or not.
Anyway, I apologize that it has been quite some time since I've sent any updates from our new locale. It seems that all blog websites are forbidden by the People's Republic of China Communist Party. I could not read anyone else's nor write any of my own for the past 2 months.
We are doing very well here in China, and have accrued some silly and not so silly stories already. We arrived November 2nd, and as of January 11th, I have yet to do a single, productive thing. I've grown a beard rivalling Rip Van Winkle's, haven't cut my toe nails in ages, and have begun studying Taoism. Well, they're not all lies.
I hope everyone is doing well out there, and I hope to update this regularly, or start a new one. Keep in touch!
Jesse
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Long overdue
I awake at some point in the night to the eerie sound of howling wind whistling thru the window frame and door jam opposite my bed. I lay in my boxer shorts on top the tobacco colored (supposed to be white) sheet and listen to the insistent sound. With my eyes closed I can imagine, in my half asleep and imaginative state, that I’m somewhere in the arctic, on the tundra. I lie inside my tiny wooden shack as an angry blizzard attacks its exterior, yet I remain cozily warm due to my trusty woodstove that cranks out the heat. I mean really cranks it out. Damn that thing is warm, maybe I should crack a window.
I open my eyes again and the obvious greets me: I am not in the arctic, and could not be farther from it in any sense. My trusty woodstove that is causing me to sweat is none other than the balmy 90 degree nighttime temperatures. At least there are no mosquito nets I reassure myself. I roll off the bed and proceed to the window to allow some breeze, and consequently blowing sand, in to stir up the stagnant air. Dropping down onto the hard mattress again I curse whichever housekeeper it was who removed the air conditioning remote from my room. I had done well to keep a hold of it this long, as the disappearance of these useful little buggers has been a recurring phenomenon as of late. Seems they must be fetching quite a price on the Hassi Messaoud black market these days.
The breeze cools it down a bit and my eyes begin their roll back as I drift off again trying to picture myself in that Canadian Arctic cabin with nothing but Douglas Firs, caribou and fluffy white snow outside. Oh, and maybe an elf too. One who is wearing a little red hat and grants me wishes as often as I like. Yet even with this generous offer I make him sleep outside, because just like wild animals, elves do not belong inside. He takes it well though, though sometimes he cries, or makes dreadful sobbing noises like the one he is making right now. Damn elves, I wish he would just stop….
I open my eyes again and find myself being serenaded not by an elf but by a donkey who sounds to be just outside my window. A quick examination reveals this to be the case. Recently a female French pilot has tasked herself into making the AirExpress Algeria base camp a veritable zoo. A dog. A small bird. A kitten. And as of yesterday, a donkey.
“Aww, but he was just wandering around lost outside you zee, I zink he willz be much happiar en ear!” was the explanation offered that afternoon when we all stopped our dirt lot cricket game, (yes, I said cricket, and I was playing it.) and stared open jawed as she led the new found pet towards the only patch of weeds we have in the camp.
And now this new found friendly ass is standing outside my window singing the blues in a way only a donkey could. It is slightly less than wonderful.
For all of you who missed it, Elizabeth and I’s wedding this summer was fantastic. My mouth still contorts into a smile whenever I think of that evening. On August 19th, at around 7:00 PM, with a beautiful setting sun, my Grandfather, who was the Minister, told me “You may now kiss the bride”. It was an incredible night that I will never forget. We had friends and family in from all around the 50 states and the globe. A perfect celebration to make the weekend affair end on a higher note than two nights before when Elizabeth had not taken lightly the fact I thought it a great idea to sleep in the bushes outside in the mist after drinking too much at my bachelor’s party. My affinity for sleeping in bushes when drunk seems to continue to this day.
After the wedding, Elizabeth, or Betsey as most everyone else knows her, and I headed to Nassau for a honeymoon. It was initially scheduled for Mexico, but the first hurricane of the season did it’s best to cancel that one for us, so we rescheduled for the Bahamas at the last minute. Either way it was a lovely vacation filled with nothing but the two of us, swim up bars, lots of sun, good food and drinks. Oh, and a great bed. For napping that is.
And now I sit, without my new, beautiful wife, in Algeria again. Yet the donkey serenaded evenings are counting down, and I have only 11 days remaining until I leave Algeria for the final time. I have taken a job in China, more specifically Beijing, and Elizabeth and I are moving there around November 1st. We are both excited for the opportunity to live together in a house that is not one of our mothers’ (no offense to either of you) and to just be together again on another adventure. It will be great, I’m sure of it.
I open my eyes again and the obvious greets me: I am not in the arctic, and could not be farther from it in any sense. My trusty woodstove that is causing me to sweat is none other than the balmy 90 degree nighttime temperatures. At least there are no mosquito nets I reassure myself. I roll off the bed and proceed to the window to allow some breeze, and consequently blowing sand, in to stir up the stagnant air. Dropping down onto the hard mattress again I curse whichever housekeeper it was who removed the air conditioning remote from my room. I had done well to keep a hold of it this long, as the disappearance of these useful little buggers has been a recurring phenomenon as of late. Seems they must be fetching quite a price on the Hassi Messaoud black market these days.
The breeze cools it down a bit and my eyes begin their roll back as I drift off again trying to picture myself in that Canadian Arctic cabin with nothing but Douglas Firs, caribou and fluffy white snow outside. Oh, and maybe an elf too. One who is wearing a little red hat and grants me wishes as often as I like. Yet even with this generous offer I make him sleep outside, because just like wild animals, elves do not belong inside. He takes it well though, though sometimes he cries, or makes dreadful sobbing noises like the one he is making right now. Damn elves, I wish he would just stop….
I open my eyes again and find myself being serenaded not by an elf but by a donkey who sounds to be just outside my window. A quick examination reveals this to be the case. Recently a female French pilot has tasked herself into making the AirExpress Algeria base camp a veritable zoo. A dog. A small bird. A kitten. And as of yesterday, a donkey.
“Aww, but he was just wandering around lost outside you zee, I zink he willz be much happiar en ear!” was the explanation offered that afternoon when we all stopped our dirt lot cricket game, (yes, I said cricket, and I was playing it.) and stared open jawed as she led the new found pet towards the only patch of weeds we have in the camp.
And now this new found friendly ass is standing outside my window singing the blues in a way only a donkey could. It is slightly less than wonderful.
For all of you who missed it, Elizabeth and I’s wedding this summer was fantastic. My mouth still contorts into a smile whenever I think of that evening. On August 19th, at around 7:00 PM, with a beautiful setting sun, my Grandfather, who was the Minister, told me “You may now kiss the bride”. It was an incredible night that I will never forget. We had friends and family in from all around the 50 states and the globe. A perfect celebration to make the weekend affair end on a higher note than two nights before when Elizabeth had not taken lightly the fact I thought it a great idea to sleep in the bushes outside in the mist after drinking too much at my bachelor’s party. My affinity for sleeping in bushes when drunk seems to continue to this day.
After the wedding, Elizabeth, or Betsey as most everyone else knows her, and I headed to Nassau for a honeymoon. It was initially scheduled for Mexico, but the first hurricane of the season did it’s best to cancel that one for us, so we rescheduled for the Bahamas at the last minute. Either way it was a lovely vacation filled with nothing but the two of us, swim up bars, lots of sun, good food and drinks. Oh, and a great bed. For napping that is.
And now I sit, without my new, beautiful wife, in Algeria again. Yet the donkey serenaded evenings are counting down, and I have only 11 days remaining until I leave Algeria for the final time. I have taken a job in China, more specifically Beijing, and Elizabeth and I are moving there around November 1st. We are both excited for the opportunity to live together in a house that is not one of our mothers’ (no offense to either of you) and to just be together again on another adventure. It will be great, I’m sure of it.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
For Your Information...
When it is 125 degrees every day, sometimes it IS necessary to post such signs. One never can be too cautious against the threat of spontaneous combustion in the desert. I was relieved to see that Algerian authorities have taken such a proactive stance on the matter, as I’ve always wondered whether it's better to stop, drop and roll, or just break for the nearest shower for a refreshing extinguishing. Now I know.
Heat Induced Procastinoia
The illustrious Mr. Murphy was laughing from high above today.
It is known by most who know me even half well that I am one of the world’s finest procrastinators. I can procrastinate like no other, when faced with a decent enough challenge. As of recently, I have been taking online courses to finish a degree I began millennia ago in a galaxy far away. This time I aim to finish, though not today, probably sometime tomorrow…don’t worry, I’ll get to it.
Faced with mounting assignments this week, including a research paper, I did what came most natural: I found every conceivable excuse to not do it until the last day…today. I must admit I tried last night, honestly, but it just didn’t seem right. I, therefore awoke early this morning with the ready to release energy necessary to finish my momentous assignments. But first one must have breakfast, followed by another cup of coffee while talking with another pilot, which is of course followed by the best pre paper mental warm up known to modern man…ping pong. Just one game. Ok, two. Better make it best out of five. Post ping pong exhaustion is best remedied by another cup of coffee while watching a fishing show beamed in over the satellite television, and exchanging trout fishing stories with the Operations manager who has never been trout fishing but can imagine what it’d be like. And then it’s finally time for…oh shit…PANIC.
I made it back to my room and began typing as fast as the words came to my mind. Sometimes this doesn’t work though though because mistakes often I make dog and thoughts sometimes are aardvark random pencil. Yet I had determination on my side this time, and perseverance is a trait I possess when I want to possess it. I was somewhere into my second paragraph when the door rattled with a knock. Thinking it was the local, thieving house cleaning staff (no really, I am down to ½ the clothes I came here with) I shouted over the air conditioner in French that I needed nothing and they could skip the room. A moment passed and then there was another knock. I opened the door and found Mehdi, one of our local staff standing aback from the door in the shade of an overhang smoking a cigarette with a mischievous air about him. He stood staring my way for a moment before quietly, as if on a soft sigh, saying “you must come with me. You must come with me now. We have a…..meeting”. As he finished his last word he began walking off towards an idling car I had never seen in our compound before.
“Hey wait…hold on a second! What is this all about? How long will we be gone?” I shouted after him in stark contrast to the mysterious, sigh like address he had seconds earlier delivered upon me.
“Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes…BP…come, come now” he sighed again, turning slightly.
Annoyed that Mehdi and Mr. Murphy were now ganging up on me, I threw on my sandals, a ball cap and a shirt that did not have salt stains from excessive sweating. Sexy huh? I hopped in the passenger seat of the white, nondescript automobile, next to a silent Algerian who chain smoked and we went rolling off into the desert, on a circuitous and not-so-direct way to downtown Hassi Messaoud. I squinted without my sunglasses, peering off into the sands, making a strange noise I couldn’t repeat again if I tried when we passed a rather bloated camel who lay with eyes wide open and tongue out straight, as if he had been trying to hack one more good lugey at the world before he croaked. I hoped it was Michael (there is only one person who will understand that). It was after a few moments of the awkward, smoky car ride I realized I had no idea where we were, or where we were going. When I inquired, another cigarette was slowly lit and puffed this time with a James Dean demeanor, and Mehdi slid farther across the car, resting against his door, before peering out of his right eye at me. “We are going to BP, for a meeting. But first we need to…uuuhhh…we need to get petrol. That Is why we go this way, do not worry.” Unsatisfied with his answer, and in retaliation to the mounting quasi paranoia I was now beginning to experience, I scanned the desert for functional camels that I might make a daring getaway on if need be. Cmon…there’s gotta be one around here, damnit!!!!
When we hit the outskirts of town again it was in a section of questionable merit. The roads looked as if a war had come and gone in the previous day, and the gas station we stopped at looked as if it had been the main target of the previous day’s war. Mehdi ejected from the driver’s seat and began talking with another man. They both looked at the vehicle, said a few more words, and then disappeared into the fictionally-war ravaged building. A few men in turbans and long beards slowly walked by, staring at me in the car. One walked by again, after throwing something I feared would explode into a trash can. He stared again. I swore I had seen his face on a FBI Most Wanted poster, along with the other 3 guys who had strolled by.
The sudden ridiculousness of the situation began to sink in. I’m not going to a meeting. Well maybe I am, but it’s not with BP damnit, it’s with my MAKER! Screw you Mehdi! Screw you! I scanned the street; no one was anywhere now. I scanned the car and found the only thing that I could make lethal: a Bic pen. I held it tightly in my right hand silently planning my heroic escape if this guy didn’t come back in 3 minutes, keeping in mind that the package just deposited into the trash can would probably ignite the entire block any second, taking out the American and no one else, as they had all been warned and had fled to a safe and pleasurable viewing distance. If the explosion didn’t happen due to a faulty fuse, surely there were men waiting with a black sack to throw over my head. Surely. I eyed my trusty Bic and justly deemed it un-trusty due to the fact it was actually soft from sitting on the dashboard in the heat. “Would’ve survived, but his Bic was flaccid, ma’am” I imagined the men from the State Department telling Elizabeth. “His what????”
I was halfway to giggling over how witty and funny an epitaph it would make when the door flung open. I hadn’t been watching the other side of the car, and someone had snuck upon it. With floppy Bic in hand I turned quickly, ready to attack with lightning speed and leopard like reflexes.
An outstretched hand was nearing me, with the instrument of destruction gripped tightly within its firm, murderous paw. Not knowing what else to do, I lowered my Bic quickly and raised my hand. Meeting half way in the car, I grabbed the cold metal instrument and removed it from the combatant’s hand.
“Thanks for the Coke, Mehdi.” I said embarrassed.
“Ne pas de problem…you’re welcome” he replied, smiling as he got in. “Je suis desole, the pumps aren’t working, so I will get petrol later.”
We drove to the meeting, which turned out to be a ‘meeting’ in the literal sense of the word. I was asked 2 questions over a 2 hour period. I sat wondering when the paranoia that Mr. Bush touts had ensnared me to the point that I had almost given someone ink poisoning. I was ashamed that I had thought the thoughts I had.
In the car ride back Mehdi apologized for his terse, cold attitude earlier, explaining he had been irritated with BP for demanding a meeting at such short notice and for requiring one of the Captains, myself, be included. We began talking about our families and hometowns. He lives not too far away, in an oasis that is renowned throughout North Africa for its amazing dates He promised to pick up some for me next time he went home. He went on to tell me that he has 5 brothers, and 1 sister, and that they ranged from University English professors to architects, to computer software engineers, and that he was trying to raise money to start his own business.
So Mehdi proved to be just like 95% of all the other Algerians I have met so far: intelligent, thoughtful, polite, and motivated. It might surprise some to learn that this country, that is spoken of in such volatile and fear inspiring ways by many in Washington and elsewhere, is mainly inhabited by peaceful people who have built an amazing society, and who, above all else, enjoy the Simpsons. I say Mr. Bush, REMOVE THEM FROM THE ENEMY LIST, THEY LIKE THE SIMPSONS!
On the way back while discussing our families and Fox Network Cartoons, I caught myself still star out at the desert searching for a camel, that just in case, just if need be, just if…I could hop on and make my Hollywood style getaway on with something a little more lethal than a Bic pen for a weapon. Just in case…
It is known by most who know me even half well that I am one of the world’s finest procrastinators. I can procrastinate like no other, when faced with a decent enough challenge. As of recently, I have been taking online courses to finish a degree I began millennia ago in a galaxy far away. This time I aim to finish, though not today, probably sometime tomorrow…don’t worry, I’ll get to it.
Faced with mounting assignments this week, including a research paper, I did what came most natural: I found every conceivable excuse to not do it until the last day…today. I must admit I tried last night, honestly, but it just didn’t seem right. I, therefore awoke early this morning with the ready to release energy necessary to finish my momentous assignments. But first one must have breakfast, followed by another cup of coffee while talking with another pilot, which is of course followed by the best pre paper mental warm up known to modern man…ping pong. Just one game. Ok, two. Better make it best out of five. Post ping pong exhaustion is best remedied by another cup of coffee while watching a fishing show beamed in over the satellite television, and exchanging trout fishing stories with the Operations manager who has never been trout fishing but can imagine what it’d be like. And then it’s finally time for…oh shit…PANIC.
I made it back to my room and began typing as fast as the words came to my mind. Sometimes this doesn’t work though though because mistakes often I make dog and thoughts sometimes are aardvark random pencil. Yet I had determination on my side this time, and perseverance is a trait I possess when I want to possess it. I was somewhere into my second paragraph when the door rattled with a knock. Thinking it was the local, thieving house cleaning staff (no really, I am down to ½ the clothes I came here with) I shouted over the air conditioner in French that I needed nothing and they could skip the room. A moment passed and then there was another knock. I opened the door and found Mehdi, one of our local staff standing aback from the door in the shade of an overhang smoking a cigarette with a mischievous air about him. He stood staring my way for a moment before quietly, as if on a soft sigh, saying “you must come with me. You must come with me now. We have a…..meeting”. As he finished his last word he began walking off towards an idling car I had never seen in our compound before.
“Hey wait…hold on a second! What is this all about? How long will we be gone?” I shouted after him in stark contrast to the mysterious, sigh like address he had seconds earlier delivered upon me.
“Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes…BP…come, come now” he sighed again, turning slightly.
Annoyed that Mehdi and Mr. Murphy were now ganging up on me, I threw on my sandals, a ball cap and a shirt that did not have salt stains from excessive sweating. Sexy huh? I hopped in the passenger seat of the white, nondescript automobile, next to a silent Algerian who chain smoked and we went rolling off into the desert, on a circuitous and not-so-direct way to downtown Hassi Messaoud. I squinted without my sunglasses, peering off into the sands, making a strange noise I couldn’t repeat again if I tried when we passed a rather bloated camel who lay with eyes wide open and tongue out straight, as if he had been trying to hack one more good lugey at the world before he croaked. I hoped it was Michael (there is only one person who will understand that). It was after a few moments of the awkward, smoky car ride I realized I had no idea where we were, or where we were going. When I inquired, another cigarette was slowly lit and puffed this time with a James Dean demeanor, and Mehdi slid farther across the car, resting against his door, before peering out of his right eye at me. “We are going to BP, for a meeting. But first we need to…uuuhhh…we need to get petrol. That Is why we go this way, do not worry.” Unsatisfied with his answer, and in retaliation to the mounting quasi paranoia I was now beginning to experience, I scanned the desert for functional camels that I might make a daring getaway on if need be. Cmon…there’s gotta be one around here, damnit!!!!
When we hit the outskirts of town again it was in a section of questionable merit. The roads looked as if a war had come and gone in the previous day, and the gas station we stopped at looked as if it had been the main target of the previous day’s war. Mehdi ejected from the driver’s seat and began talking with another man. They both looked at the vehicle, said a few more words, and then disappeared into the fictionally-war ravaged building. A few men in turbans and long beards slowly walked by, staring at me in the car. One walked by again, after throwing something I feared would explode into a trash can. He stared again. I swore I had seen his face on a FBI Most Wanted poster, along with the other 3 guys who had strolled by.
The sudden ridiculousness of the situation began to sink in. I’m not going to a meeting. Well maybe I am, but it’s not with BP damnit, it’s with my MAKER! Screw you Mehdi! Screw you! I scanned the street; no one was anywhere now. I scanned the car and found the only thing that I could make lethal: a Bic pen. I held it tightly in my right hand silently planning my heroic escape if this guy didn’t come back in 3 minutes, keeping in mind that the package just deposited into the trash can would probably ignite the entire block any second, taking out the American and no one else, as they had all been warned and had fled to a safe and pleasurable viewing distance. If the explosion didn’t happen due to a faulty fuse, surely there were men waiting with a black sack to throw over my head. Surely. I eyed my trusty Bic and justly deemed it un-trusty due to the fact it was actually soft from sitting on the dashboard in the heat. “Would’ve survived, but his Bic was flaccid, ma’am” I imagined the men from the State Department telling Elizabeth. “His what????”
I was halfway to giggling over how witty and funny an epitaph it would make when the door flung open. I hadn’t been watching the other side of the car, and someone had snuck upon it. With floppy Bic in hand I turned quickly, ready to attack with lightning speed and leopard like reflexes.
An outstretched hand was nearing me, with the instrument of destruction gripped tightly within its firm, murderous paw. Not knowing what else to do, I lowered my Bic quickly and raised my hand. Meeting half way in the car, I grabbed the cold metal instrument and removed it from the combatant’s hand.
“Thanks for the Coke, Mehdi.” I said embarrassed.
“Ne pas de problem…you’re welcome” he replied, smiling as he got in. “Je suis desole, the pumps aren’t working, so I will get petrol later.”
We drove to the meeting, which turned out to be a ‘meeting’ in the literal sense of the word. I was asked 2 questions over a 2 hour period. I sat wondering when the paranoia that Mr. Bush touts had ensnared me to the point that I had almost given someone ink poisoning. I was ashamed that I had thought the thoughts I had.
In the car ride back Mehdi apologized for his terse, cold attitude earlier, explaining he had been irritated with BP for demanding a meeting at such short notice and for requiring one of the Captains, myself, be included. We began talking about our families and hometowns. He lives not too far away, in an oasis that is renowned throughout North Africa for its amazing dates He promised to pick up some for me next time he went home. He went on to tell me that he has 5 brothers, and 1 sister, and that they ranged from University English professors to architects, to computer software engineers, and that he was trying to raise money to start his own business.
So Mehdi proved to be just like 95% of all the other Algerians I have met so far: intelligent, thoughtful, polite, and motivated. It might surprise some to learn that this country, that is spoken of in such volatile and fear inspiring ways by many in Washington and elsewhere, is mainly inhabited by peaceful people who have built an amazing society, and who, above all else, enjoy the Simpsons. I say Mr. Bush, REMOVE THEM FROM THE ENEMY LIST, THEY LIKE THE SIMPSONS!
On the way back while discussing our families and Fox Network Cartoons, I caught myself still star out at the desert searching for a camel, that just in case, just if need be, just if…I could hop on and make my Hollywood style getaway on with something a little more lethal than a Bic pen for a weapon. Just in case…
Monday, July 09, 2007
African joys
It was particularly warm last night. Granted ‘warm’ is a relative term around these parts, because, well...ok, hell, ‘warm’ doesn't exist here. This is a land of harsh extremes. So let's start over.
It was freaking hot last night. I spent the evening hours in Hassi Messaoud, our operations hub for the flying we do throughout Algeria. I shoveled down a lovely meal of something indiscernible, smothered in other indiscernible-don't ask, don't tell-loveliness, with a side of curiously unidentifiable mush that I'm fairly sure smiled at me at least once during the course of dinner. You just cannot get African food, in all its glory, elsewhere. Thank God. A few days earlier I entered the company cafeteria for lunch and picked up the menu du jour just as the local attendant came to retrieve my meal coupon. Each day you have a choice of two exquisite entrees and a plethora of randomness laid out on a central table. Glancing at the 2 choices I did a double take. July 5th: Haricot verte avec poisson o Meat love. Surely the menu did not say Meat love. I laughed as the attendant looked on quizzically. "Monsieur?" he asked. "Yes, I'm sorry, ummm, I'll...errr...Je voudrais le Meat Love." "aaah, oui monsieur, le meat love est bon!" "I was afraid you'd say that!" I said laughing. You might wonder why I'd order meat love. It may sound even more risqué than ordering fish with green beans in the middle of the Sahara desert, but I had an urge for the Love. Minutes later I was handed a platter with a ball of ground beef, some parsley scattered ornately on top, and about 5 soggy french fries. "Le meat love, monsieur, bon apetit!" Mmmmm, mmmmm good!
The meat love it turned out was a hard boiled egg wrapped in about 1/4 of a pound of hamburger. It was, to say the very least, interesting. It took me a while to stop giggling like a school girl about the plates name, but once I cut into the mystery that lay before me I started laughing even more. It was a concoction that our cook in Abeche, Nestor, would have been very proud of. Nestor's crowning culinary achievement was his fruit salad, with mangos, canned pineapple and thinly sliced, cold canned hotdogs. He was proud, very proud. The pride lasted until the next morning when our mechanic, Leo, threatened to remove his scrotum with pliers if he ever made the dish again. Maybe I should send him the recipe for Meat Love.
After dinner, with a dangerously rumbling stomach warning of misery to come, I made off to talk to my beautiful fiancé on Skype, the internet telephone program. We recently bought web cams so that we could both see each other while chatting, and it always puts my heart at ease to see her smile live on camera. We spoke for sometime before I retired to my small, single sized mattress in my balmy room. The air conditioning was misbehaving, sending bursts of cold air for a few moments, and then turning itself off for 15 minutes or so. I fell asleep atop the covers after watching 10 minutes of amusing Arabic pop music videos in which women with fully covered faces sang seductive songs. Oh, I’m sorry, did I say amusing? I meant slightly depressing.
Around 5 am I woke up barely enough to realize that the air conditioner had revived itself from its mechanical slumber and that the temperature had dropped significantly. I drew the covers over me and started to drift off again into my dream. Through fading consciousness I heard what sounded like a small rattle coming from the AC and then a fairly loud "THWUMP-POP". The sensory nerves in my eyes produced a bright flash as something hit me square on the forehead, and my eyes rolled immediately to an alert posture. Thinking it was probably a chunk of ice that the unit had finally dislodged, I brushed my face and chest off seeking to swipe the mystery object from my bed. When my hand brushed over my chest I hit something big and cold. It moved.
It actually ran down my chest and stomach towards the sheets below. I simultaneously, and violently jumped from bed shouting something along the lines of "oohaahuuuuuhauah!!!", fumbling for the light switch. After a few moments of terrified searching, I found the switch and flicked it on. As the fluorescent lights flickered slowly on, illuminating the white walled room and my now disheveled bed, I caught glimpse of the culprit.
A cockroach the size a small Jack Russell terrier sat alert on the bed, staring my direction as if taunting me. "Sup buddy? You want a piece of this?" he yelled. I stood dumbfounded for a moment, slightly relieved it wasn't some large, prickly and poisonous black scorpion that I've heard about. Then my anger towards the paratrooper cockroach took hold of me and I answered with a resounding 'Hell yeah I do you bastard!'. After a rather non eventful battle, the cockroach was deposited in the trash bin and I wiped my sandal of bug goo on the rug by the door. As I went back towards my bed I saw little black specks freckling my white sheets and my white pillow. It would seem that my AC had been struggling due to a build up inside its vents. It also would seem that the now deceased, dive bombing perpetrator had been struggling to build a little residence for himself and his 100,000 relatives inside the very AC that sat 4 feet over my head. When the AC finally won and dislodged the pest it also dislodged a million flecks of cockroach shit all over my bed, and me.
I went back to the trash can and hit the cockroach again, just for good measure.
It was freaking hot last night. I spent the evening hours in Hassi Messaoud, our operations hub for the flying we do throughout Algeria. I shoveled down a lovely meal of something indiscernible, smothered in other indiscernible-don't ask, don't tell-loveliness, with a side of curiously unidentifiable mush that I'm fairly sure smiled at me at least once during the course of dinner. You just cannot get African food, in all its glory, elsewhere. Thank God. A few days earlier I entered the company cafeteria for lunch and picked up the menu du jour just as the local attendant came to retrieve my meal coupon. Each day you have a choice of two exquisite entrees and a plethora of randomness laid out on a central table. Glancing at the 2 choices I did a double take. July 5th: Haricot verte avec poisson o Meat love. Surely the menu did not say Meat love. I laughed as the attendant looked on quizzically. "Monsieur?" he asked. "Yes, I'm sorry, ummm, I'll...errr...Je voudrais le Meat Love." "aaah, oui monsieur, le meat love est bon!" "I was afraid you'd say that!" I said laughing. You might wonder why I'd order meat love. It may sound even more risqué than ordering fish with green beans in the middle of the Sahara desert, but I had an urge for the Love. Minutes later I was handed a platter with a ball of ground beef, some parsley scattered ornately on top, and about 5 soggy french fries. "Le meat love, monsieur, bon apetit!" Mmmmm, mmmmm good!
The meat love it turned out was a hard boiled egg wrapped in about 1/4 of a pound of hamburger. It was, to say the very least, interesting. It took me a while to stop giggling like a school girl about the plates name, but once I cut into the mystery that lay before me I started laughing even more. It was a concoction that our cook in Abeche, Nestor, would have been very proud of. Nestor's crowning culinary achievement was his fruit salad, with mangos, canned pineapple and thinly sliced, cold canned hotdogs. He was proud, very proud. The pride lasted until the next morning when our mechanic, Leo, threatened to remove his scrotum with pliers if he ever made the dish again. Maybe I should send him the recipe for Meat Love.
After dinner, with a dangerously rumbling stomach warning of misery to come, I made off to talk to my beautiful fiancé on Skype, the internet telephone program. We recently bought web cams so that we could both see each other while chatting, and it always puts my heart at ease to see her smile live on camera. We spoke for sometime before I retired to my small, single sized mattress in my balmy room. The air conditioning was misbehaving, sending bursts of cold air for a few moments, and then turning itself off for 15 minutes or so. I fell asleep atop the covers after watching 10 minutes of amusing Arabic pop music videos in which women with fully covered faces sang seductive songs. Oh, I’m sorry, did I say amusing? I meant slightly depressing.
Around 5 am I woke up barely enough to realize that the air conditioner had revived itself from its mechanical slumber and that the temperature had dropped significantly. I drew the covers over me and started to drift off again into my dream. Through fading consciousness I heard what sounded like a small rattle coming from the AC and then a fairly loud "THWUMP-POP". The sensory nerves in my eyes produced a bright flash as something hit me square on the forehead, and my eyes rolled immediately to an alert posture. Thinking it was probably a chunk of ice that the unit had finally dislodged, I brushed my face and chest off seeking to swipe the mystery object from my bed. When my hand brushed over my chest I hit something big and cold. It moved.
It actually ran down my chest and stomach towards the sheets below. I simultaneously, and violently jumped from bed shouting something along the lines of "oohaahuuuuuhauah!!!", fumbling for the light switch. After a few moments of terrified searching, I found the switch and flicked it on. As the fluorescent lights flickered slowly on, illuminating the white walled room and my now disheveled bed, I caught glimpse of the culprit.
A cockroach the size a small Jack Russell terrier sat alert on the bed, staring my direction as if taunting me. "Sup buddy? You want a piece of this?" he yelled. I stood dumbfounded for a moment, slightly relieved it wasn't some large, prickly and poisonous black scorpion that I've heard about. Then my anger towards the paratrooper cockroach took hold of me and I answered with a resounding 'Hell yeah I do you bastard!'. After a rather non eventful battle, the cockroach was deposited in the trash bin and I wiped my sandal of bug goo on the rug by the door. As I went back towards my bed I saw little black specks freckling my white sheets and my white pillow. It would seem that my AC had been struggling due to a build up inside its vents. It also would seem that the now deceased, dive bombing perpetrator had been struggling to build a little residence for himself and his 100,000 relatives inside the very AC that sat 4 feet over my head. When the AC finally won and dislodged the pest it also dislodged a million flecks of cockroach shit all over my bed, and me.
I went back to the trash can and hit the cockroach again, just for good measure.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Nothing
I flew today to nowhere.
With me flew only my copilot.
When we arrived in nowhere there was nothing.
To my left: there was nothing.
To my right: there was nothing.
Behind me was the instrument that brought us to nothing in nowhere.
Above me sat the merciless sun that burnt this nothing.
We walked to a trailer.
Inside the trailer a man welcomed us to nowhere.
He told us to be careful.
That there is no one out there, but if there was,
be careful.
No one, but maybe someone, wants this nothing.
Truthfully, no one wants us to have this nothing.
We walked back outside: still nothing.
The sun, a glowing ember just inches away
A thin line, waving in the heat encompassed us
The thin line undulated into forever in all directions of nothing
My thoughts drifted, like the radiation wafting from the nothing
Into nowhere
Where I thought
about
With me flew only my copilot.
When we arrived in nowhere there was nothing.
To my left: there was nothing.
To my right: there was nothing.
Behind me was the instrument that brought us to nothing in nowhere.
Above me sat the merciless sun that burnt this nothing.
We walked to a trailer.
Inside the trailer a man welcomed us to nowhere.
He told us to be careful.
That there is no one out there, but if there was,
be careful.
No one, but maybe someone, wants this nothing.
Truthfully, no one wants us to have this nothing.
We walked back outside: still nothing.
The sun, a glowing ember just inches away
A thin line, waving in the heat encompassed us
The thin line undulated into forever in all directions of nothing
My thoughts drifted, like the radiation wafting from the nothing
Into nowhere
Where I thought
about
Monday, June 25, 2007
Braveheart Bob
'So I was pulled up at this robot (stoplight) and this bloke walks up to the car with all these sunglasses. He says 'hey mon, how bouts some sunnies (sunglasses)?' and I tell him to piss off. He asks me again and I tell him to piss off. He was a huge guy though. He doesn't leave so I roll down my window and tell em I wanna try on a pair or two. He hands a few in and I'm laughing at how stupid this fella is cause I've got a plan.'
I sighed, half listening to the story from the short South African, while those around us seemed enraptured and glued to his words that were all pronounced in a deep Afrikaans accent.
'So I've managed to get three pairs from the huge bloke and I've got one on and he's asking me questions that I'm ignoring. Stupid questions. Then the light turned green and I shouted at em 'fuck off and go back to your own country!' and jammed on the gas and screeched away. He was running after me yelling and all I could do was laugh...I mean he could've killed me if he caught me, but heh...', he shrugged it off very macho-ly.
I pretended to be studying the bottles of Coca Cola in the glass doored fridge that was to my right, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of falsely thinking I was believing or enjoying his cruel story. A couple of the others at the table all chuckled and traded a few more stories about being bad-asses. I found it hard to bite my lip again when the conversation starter, the guy with the sunglasses story, started telling war stories about flying in Chad.
When the rebels invaded Abeche, for the 145th time, last November, I was conveniently sipping cold beers with Elizabeth on a beach off the coast of Thailand in the Andaman Sea. I wouldn't have it any other way. Not that I had planned it that way by any means, though had I known I probably would have decided it to be an ideal time for a beach cocktail getaway anyway. Yet Steve and Myriam had remained in Abeche along with other AirServ staff and all the other various NGOs staff as well.
When I returned, among other stories I heard, was the one about the pilot for WFP (which, ironically does not stand for World Food Program, but actually for We're Fucking Pussies) who had lost it and was sent home. The day after I arrived he was shipped off, and we all bid him a giggly farewell. The story goes that the rebels invaded, and after 24 hours the staff of WFP made a trek across town to seek refuge in the French Military Garrison. When it was clear the rebels had left the town the following evening many NGOs, WFP included, returned briefly to their compounds to survey the damage, if any. When the pilot in question returned to his compound with the rest of the crew he found a single empty cartridge in his bedroom, which had evidently come from a (drum roll please...) gun. Upon seeing a mysterious shell lying on his floor, pilot in question -we'll call him Bob for convenience sake-broke down into hysterical fits and began crying uncontrollably. Hours later when the WFP crew returned to the French Base Bob was still crying to the amusement and confusion of the French soldiers and other NGO staff. Aah, the fearless African bush pilot. Recovery did not come quick for Bob, in fact he and others requested he be removed from his posting and replaced immediately. Poor Bob.
It's funny, to me in a weird way, to see what sets people off, and what makes them crack in this sort of fashion. I don't want to think about what will make me do it, and I hope I never experience an attack of Bobitis.
I sat and thought about how it could be that Bob had forgot that I had known him, and his less that valorous history in Chad, as he sat 3 feet away and bragged about how brave, cunning and adventurous he is, and was. I read more Coke bottle labels instead of ruining his moment of glory. Someday Bobby-boy, someday.
I sighed, half listening to the story from the short South African, while those around us seemed enraptured and glued to his words that were all pronounced in a deep Afrikaans accent.
'So I've managed to get three pairs from the huge bloke and I've got one on and he's asking me questions that I'm ignoring. Stupid questions. Then the light turned green and I shouted at em 'fuck off and go back to your own country!' and jammed on the gas and screeched away. He was running after me yelling and all I could do was laugh...I mean he could've killed me if he caught me, but heh...', he shrugged it off very macho-ly.
I pretended to be studying the bottles of Coca Cola in the glass doored fridge that was to my right, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of falsely thinking I was believing or enjoying his cruel story. A couple of the others at the table all chuckled and traded a few more stories about being bad-asses. I found it hard to bite my lip again when the conversation starter, the guy with the sunglasses story, started telling war stories about flying in Chad.
When the rebels invaded Abeche, for the 145th time, last November, I was conveniently sipping cold beers with Elizabeth on a beach off the coast of Thailand in the Andaman Sea. I wouldn't have it any other way. Not that I had planned it that way by any means, though had I known I probably would have decided it to be an ideal time for a beach cocktail getaway anyway. Yet Steve and Myriam had remained in Abeche along with other AirServ staff and all the other various NGOs staff as well.
When I returned, among other stories I heard, was the one about the pilot for WFP (which, ironically does not stand for World Food Program, but actually for We're Fucking Pussies) who had lost it and was sent home. The day after I arrived he was shipped off, and we all bid him a giggly farewell. The story goes that the rebels invaded, and after 24 hours the staff of WFP made a trek across town to seek refuge in the French Military Garrison. When it was clear the rebels had left the town the following evening many NGOs, WFP included, returned briefly to their compounds to survey the damage, if any. When the pilot in question returned to his compound with the rest of the crew he found a single empty cartridge in his bedroom, which had evidently come from a (drum roll please...) gun. Upon seeing a mysterious shell lying on his floor, pilot in question -we'll call him Bob for convenience sake-broke down into hysterical fits and began crying uncontrollably. Hours later when the WFP crew returned to the French Base Bob was still crying to the amusement and confusion of the French soldiers and other NGO staff. Aah, the fearless African bush pilot. Recovery did not come quick for Bob, in fact he and others requested he be removed from his posting and replaced immediately. Poor Bob.
It's funny, to me in a weird way, to see what sets people off, and what makes them crack in this sort of fashion. I don't want to think about what will make me do it, and I hope I never experience an attack of Bobitis.
I sat and thought about how it could be that Bob had forgot that I had known him, and his less that valorous history in Chad, as he sat 3 feet away and bragged about how brave, cunning and adventurous he is, and was. I read more Coke bottle labels instead of ruining his moment of glory. Someday Bobby-boy, someday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
