Dicey Endeavours

Nostalgia

2011-05-19T11:18:00.000+02:00

I have, on occassion, entered one or two writing competitions (generally the type that gets you a free trip) and while I know that my writing is not prize-winning, I continue to hope that the judge will have really bad flu, be completely fuzzy and oblivious and just choose mine so that he/she can just go to bed already. But it occurred to me that the article I wrote for the last one predated the existence of this blog, so I am now adding it to the repertoire. For a brief time before I headed into Sudan I lived in Kenya, and did a little travelling there as well. What a gorgeous place....

Amboseli Game Reserve

Having never stayed in a Kenyan National Park before, and the sum of my experiences to that point having been South African National Parks, it hadn’t crossed my mind for a second that finding food and drink would be a problem. Until we arrived at our ‘rest camp’, and discovered how loosely they use the term ‘camp’: Waist high fences are your ‘protection’ from the animals, and long drops and cold showers are the extent of your “convenient and adequate ablutions”. Café or food stalls? Sorry, what?

Luckily our driver, Mariepe, was a Maasai man who lacked the ‘safe’ gene, and, ignoring all signs saying “animals will rip you limb from limb after dark if you leave the camp”, with us in tow he headed out into the bush with his panga and found us the local Masaai tribe. To their obvious hilarity and many repetitions of ‘crazy misungu’ (white person), they finally led us to a goat carcass hanging from a tree, chopped us off a couple of hind legs and added some ‘ugali’ (local version of maize meal) to the package. I am sure the price we paid funded the purchase of at least one herd of goats.

With our rather dubious meal packaged in two-year-old newspaper we headed back rather quickly to the relative safety of our camp and fire. Mariepe volunteered to prepare the ugali, and proceeded to cook it into a state not unlike play-dough. By this point I had diced and braai’d the goat, so Mariepe gave us a brief lesson on how to eat. One must pick up a piece of ugali, flatten it in ones right hand (the left hand should not to be used for eating) and use this as a spoon to scoop up a piece of meat, some meat drippings and some salt, and eat it as a whole parcel. Wish some shyness, and much giggling, my travel partner and I complied with instructions and found ourselves eating a very respectable meal.

There are few things quite as beautiful as watching the sun set behind Mount Kilimanjaro, eating something local and surprisingly delicious, and listening to hyenas call to you from the other side of a one meter fence you pray they can’t get over. ..

Mariepe, our driver, at the Magadi Hot Springs, en route to Amboselli

Passport Stamps!

2011-05-01T11:45:00.000+02:00

One of the most annoying things about my trip to the States being cancelled is that I had ordered a brand new spangly passport, had a lovely new exciting looking visa pasted into it, and gone.... nowhere. It has been many many years since I had a naked passport. I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Enter my friends. One of the awesome things about staying in one place, is that I have now redeveloped a lot of my friendships that had been left flapping in the breeze. Some of these friends are awesome holiday planners. I have traveled with one friend, I have traveled with a boyfriend, but never before have I traveled with a group.

The journey started with a big 4x4 and an overloaded trailer, and LOTS of booze we thought we might not get through. Heading straight from Cape Town up country for 10 hours we landed our asses in Augrabies falls National Park, whereupon the booze supply was rapidly done away with.

Augrabies Falls

Having rested, got in the holiday spirit, and begun the inevitable destruction of our livers, we headed out two days later in search of game drives, and predators. A brief stop over at a desert camp gave us our last night in a real bed, and a covered porch from which to watch the thunder storms, before heading to Kgalagadi Transfontier National Park.

What was meant to be desert and barren, turned out to be lush and grass covered. With rains that like of which havent been seen in a decade, the dunes and red earth had turned lush and green, with golden grass fronds reflecting the sun and bringing to mind Sting and his Fields of Gold...

Kgalagadi Transfontier Park

The only down side was the complete lack of animal sightings. We saw lions twice, but both times they were doing a very good job of pretending to be rocks, and little else stood out above the grass. Could this deter us? Na-ah! A bottle of Tequila became the shot of choice for ever predator spotted, but its amazing what becomes classified as 'predator' after the first few.

"Hey guys I saw a snake! They eat mice right? Well, actually, it was only a mouse. Don't they eat insects or something?... No?.... You sure?.... then it was DEFINITELY a snake I saw. Yup. DRINK!"

A lack of decent tasting drinking water, along with a generally accepted suspension of road rules (aside from the 50kmh limit) contributed to a rather raucous group of passengers, and eventually we felt for the sake of the park rangers and the carefully hidden animals, it was best to head to our next destination. Namibia!

Having used the border post as a spot to turn the car around once, the actual crossing of the border lacked a little oomph, but we all got our stamps, the search of our vehicle completely missed all the cocaine, herion and sawn off shotguns they were sure we were hiding, and eventually we found ourself in Namibia on a road to... nowhere....

Namibia

Blinding heat and a road that stretched endlessly before us was the most significant thing about the majority of the actual journey. Luckily what lay 6 hours ahead of us was a Spa based at Ai Ais Hot Springs, and the gorgeous views of the Fish River Canyon. Second only in size to the Grand Canyon, the Fish River Canyon was a surpising and giddying rift in the flat land we had driven through. Awesome in size and fascinating in its creation and composition, we would have stayed many long hours at the view point, had the wind not been so cold, and the call of the hot springs so loud.

Fish River Canyon

All good things end, and after 12 days of camping and driving through dusty deserts we were a sad group to head home, but grateful that when we got there we could have a hot shower and sleep in a bed that didn't slowly leak air all night.

Next year: Caprivi Strip and Okovango Delta? Or lying on sandy beaches, eating massive lobster and swimming with Dolphins in Mozambique? I love where I live...

Hiking is a group activity

2011-01-31T21:33:00.000+02:00

I am sure that everyone has had a failed relationship. No, scrap that. Not a failed relationship, rather one that just didnt work out. And we all know that there are stages of recovery. One of them being anger/rage/fury/discontent. This process is often prefaced by the phrase "I cant believe he/she did X..." or even "How DARE he/she even think that....X" However, I have come to believe that every relationship has an element of Stockholm syndrome to it. Think about it for a second. Seriously. Have you ever left a relationship and when looking back at it you thought, what was I THINKING? I mean, really. How was that EVER ok with me? Thats Stockholm syndrome. We learn to survive our circumstances.

Looking back over my recent colossal breakup, I have had many a flashback to moments of 'WTF?' One of them occurred because I have recently got back into hiking. My ex (we shall call him here 'The Separatist') was, and probably still is, a fitness fanatic. You know the type, cant go a week without exercise, and should there be such a terrible week the urge to connect razor blade to wrist becomes significant. I, on the other hand, like the idea of exercise, but its been so long since I had a regular regime that the reality of a high speed hike, or any fast movement uphill for that matter, is likely to give me something akin to seizures with associated heart failure. Luckily I have some equally unfit friends and recently we discovered we all like to go for walks in pretty locations. As a result we have started 'hiking' every weekend, sometimes in the most breathtaking locales, enjoying the ability to actually have a conversation while walking on relatively level ground.

The Separatist, however, felt it really important that I be able to enjoy his past times. Fair enough, I wanted to. Yet I only recently remembered him saying that he had to think long and hard about whether a relationship with me would work if I couldn't enjoy his hiking/canyoneering/climbing with him. *Breathes deeply*. Ok, moving on. So there I was, hiking determindly up a mountain, early onset epilepsy about a minute away and The Separatist disappears into the distance. Screw this, I thought, and stopped walking to take a moment to 'admire the view' and waited to see if my absence was noted. About 10 minutes later I gave up on breathing and headed back up the hill, only to find The Separatist sitting drinking water at the top.

By this time I was furious, tired, breathing heavily, sweaty, and probably about as far from sexy as I have ever been, and feeling exactly like I looked. And there he sat, calm, collected, not even breathing heavily, watching me walk up the hill.

I was, I think somewhat understandably, seriously hacked off. However, when I tried to voice this through my dry mouth, aching muscles and complete inability to get enough oxygen to my brain, he looked at me with wide eyed innocence and said:

"But we are going to the same place, does it really matter if we get there separately?"

Please close your mouth, its unattractive to sit there gaping at the computer screen. Yes, that really is what he said. At the time I rolled it around in my head and somehow made it ok. In retrospect I punch walls and burn effigies of his face.

"Oh really?" I should have said "Next time you feel like some nookie, how about you get yourself off and I will get myself off? We are both just trying to have an orgasm, does it really matter if we do it together?"

The Downslide

2010-12-08T17:56:00.000+02:00

Something recently came to my attention. It was a rather shocking, not because I hadn't thought about, but more because I hadn't really thought about the reality of it. I am getting older.

This realisation hit in two parts. One was that I put on a lot of weight. Not, you know, tons. But enough that I outgrew all my clothing and had to buy a whole new wardrobe. At first I thought this may be because I had settled into a life of office work, tv watching and very vigorous drinking, and had abandoned my life of running round a crazy restaurant, never eating and some slightly less vigorous drinking. I took up exercising and for a few months (in anticipation of looking fabulous on my wedding day) I was not only running 5-10km every morning, but doing aerobics every evening as well. Not one kilo shifted. Recently I took on a consultancy setting up a restaurant, so I have been working 90 hours a week, running round a crazy restaurant, barely eating and taking part in a familiar amount of vigorous drinking. Not a molecule of my butt has shifted location, and my 'sexy' jeans remain stubbornly one size too small.

Having come home after a long absense I had come face to face with a lot of my friends suddenly looking distinctly older. Yes, we all have facebook and up to the minute updates of how people look, but in photos you seldom see the slight sag of a tummy, the creases round an eye, the grey hairs peeking out from beneath the dye. Arriving home and realising that my 20-something, perky, taught, fit and muscular friends had in many cases settled into softer, rounder, balding, slightly faded shapes was a bit of a shock to the system.

Still, it was happening to others. The second part of my realisation happened today. I put on make up for the start of my evening job and discovered that if I put on eye cream BEFORE the foundation, the cover up doesn't sink into the smile lines quite so much..... and came up hard against my own mortality. My bum will never be as firm, my boobs never quite so perky, my skin never quite as smooth as it was a year ago, or even as they are today. Puts things in perspective a bit.

I thought I was done journeying for a while. Seems the downslide still has the potential for one hell of a ride.

Proposal Number 5

2010-09-20T18:10:00.000+02:00

Its a little strange to think that after 5 marriage proposals I remain single and unmarried. Because I am. Single and unmarried, that is. Not strange. Well... maybe that too.

I recently ended a relationship, and although there is a large part of me that is sitting curled up in a corner sniveling to myself, there is also a small part of me that is indignant that I have once again ended an engagement and... wait for it... have no ring to show for it!

Personally I think an engagement lacks a little oomph if there is no jewelery involved. I mean, nothing says commitment quite like R20k of your savings. "Here you go darling, I love you enough to invest THIS much of my money in something that will never be useful for anything other than the decoration of your hand. And that's ok with me, because I get to keep that investment close for the rest of my life."

Besides, what is a good breakup without a little fight about belongings? It gives you something to focus on, really. I mean, you haven't broken up for no reason. Usually its a culmination of all the little arguments, and 'discussions' and tiffs that you have had, but when breaking up its nice to have something new to fight about. And what better than who gets to keep the ring? I mean, THAT argument can keep you full of anger and and in denial about your grief for years.

Alas, so far I have been robbed of that luxury. Five times. By now I should really have a collection of them. To be fair, the first one was a 17 year old boy who thought that because I was the first girl that liked him he should marry me, so the ring would probably have come from a Christmas cracker. That being said, number two was only 20, but he had already designed the house we were going to live in. Still no ring. He proposed to all his girlfiends though, so I imagine that had he bought a ring for all of us he would be eternally broke. I am sure he thought that a house designed 'just' for me was proof enough of commitment. He proposed to a friend of mine a year or two later, and as far as I know he showed her the plans for the house as well. She got a ring though.

Proposal #3 was a little offhand really. I said yes to this one though, and we had planned to announce it to family and friends after we finished studying. We had a future planned and it involved traveling and he said, "well yes, I think we had better get married, it will make traveling and visas easier." Aren't you just swooning with the romance? No ring, because that would be the same as announcing it...

Proposal #4 was just before I left on travels of my own. I think the reason I didnt get a ring with this one was that I was leaving the country. Letting that R20k investment out of your sight is quite silly, really. Why spend all that money if she stands a chance of being swept off her feet by some half clad Adonis-like Greek on a white sandy beach somewhere? Good thing really, because I didnt make it back to the area for 4 years.

Proposal #5... well. I really should have had a ring for this one. The plan was to get one once I actually arrived in the country (I am still in South Africa and he is across the pond) but since the continental divide proved as large as always expected, I am single and ring-less. We cant even fight about who gets the frying pans, or who the house warming gift was really for, because neither of us is going to send it across the pond anyway. Handing back the others belongings isn't quite the same when its delivered by postman by necessity, rather than as an indication of vitriole and an unwillingness to deign to be in the others presence.

I am kinda curios to know if there will be a Proposal #6. And if there will be a ring. Let this be a warning to all future prospects... I want a ring. And if you break up with me after I accept it... I am keeping it. Thanks.

Safari Bliss

2010-08-11T22:55:00.000+02:00

I will be the first to admit that as a South African I am just a little snobby about this whole idea of 'safaris'. Technically, 'safari' is just a Swahili word for journey. In Kenya one will often say, "Oh I cant wait, I am going safari this weekend" and when asked where to, one would reply "oh to the beach, soak up some sun", for example. For the rest of the world it has come to mean khaki coloured clothing and long hours sitting in the back of a game viewer truck driving past massive quantities of lions and leopards all ready to wow you with their ability to kill, and waiting to pose for your photograph.

The reality is quite different, really. Animals are hard to spot, the rainy season means long grass and low visibility and the dry season is generally at a time of year when people dont like to travel. Going to a game reserve and having high expectations of seeing leopard is somewhat like going fishing and expecting to see a shark. Just because you cant see them doesn't mean they aren't there, they are just hard to spot.

For me, game viewing was always about driving up for the weekend (or long holiday) and spending days with beer in a cooler, driving at super low speeds chilling out in the bush with friends or family, and stopping when you felt like it. I always laughed a little at the tourists piled into their guided trucks stopping to view the abundant impala, and stuck with a schedule not their own.

No more! I have been converted! My company is a tour operator and one of the occasional perks is going to a lodge or on a tour on 'business' to do a site inspection. Which is what a friend and I did this last week. Oh wow, the place was wonderful. Rustic but awesome, we stayed in tree houses! The game drives were not as terrible as I imagined, but rather gave us a wonderful insight into what was going on around us, with guides that keep you informed.

The treehouses were so cool, with separate but private bathrooms on ground level, open air. Showering naked in the bush with monkeys sitting on the branches above you watching with fascination is a rare experience! The first morning we woke up and got out of bed to head down the stairs, only to blearily open my eyes to discover that our little hideaway was surrounded by buffalo! Luckily when we started talking loudly they headed away and I was able to make my way down the stairs, maul free.

That day we spent almost 8 hours in the open top trucks, and had the most phenomenal luck. A leopard actually just sauntered up to our car! So rare that despite the many reserves I have been to in several countries I have never seen one! And it just wandered up to us to say hi.

One of the highlights of the trip was a game walk. After days of telling you how important it is not to let a hand dangle out of the truck, or step out of the vehicle at any time that isn't prearranged by your guide, they then get you out of the car and walk you off into the bush. Although warned that we were unlikely to see any big game, you cant help but see an elephant in every rock and a hungry lion behind every tree. The idea of the walk, however, is to take in the little stuff, pick up rocks and scare the scorpions, learn about tracks and the animals in the area. The joy of walking through bush that has never been tamed and is home to so much life is just phenomenal.

Lest I gush and suddenly make myself out to have gone soft, I shall end it there. Needless to say, coming home was a little sad, but this country makes me proud to be African. Below are some highlights from my trip. Till next time...

I apologise for Vuvuzelas

2010-07-14T16:34:00.002+02:00

I know my wanderings have taken me many a place, and many a city, but my home town is Cape Town, South Africa. When I left the country in 2004 I never thought I would return to stay. I imagined all sorts of places I would live my life, but none of them included moving back to Cape Town.

However, life being life, and mine in particular having a tendency to spit me out at random locations around the world, I ended up back in the Mother City. The idea was for my long distance relationship to stop being long distance, and for him to move here to this gorgeous city to live with me.

However, South Africa being what it is, and him being the mountain man and small town boy he is, jobs are tough, pay is bad and cities are still noisy.
So..he's back in CO, USA and we are back to limbo.

Isnt it funny though, how often our view of our country can be so dramatically altered by one event? Ok, so here I speak not of the mundane or the average, or of a small passing comment that shifts the universe as a butterfly fluttering its wings in a canyon. The Soccer World Cup is hardly inconspicuous. But it is just one event. And this one event has irrevocably shifted how I see my country.

I admit freely that I was one of the people who saw with dreading heart the unveiling of the decision to host the event here. Along with many of my countrymen, and a large portion of the world, I had images of strikes and transport problems, undeveloped infrastructure, unfinished stadiums. Crime, not so much, but only because unlike the propoganda of the international media I know the violence is generally limited to areas where the people who live there have few other options. Would you walk through the ghetto in your city late at night carrying a camera? Unfortunately, our ghettos are bigger than most countries, so the statistics are scarier.

The way the people of South Africa have risen to the challenge has amazed, delighted and impressed me. The response of visitors and the awe I have seen in their eyes as they walk round my beautiful city, stare at the cultural peculiarities of my countrymen and gape at the mountain range in the middle of our CBD has caused me many a moment of smug pride that I get to live here and they dont.

When it comes to 'feeling it', I have to say that few countries have quite thrown themselves in the way we have. First, we came up with a 'sound', that although it has probably deafened half of South Africa, and will forever outdo the most annoying sound in the world, will forever bring to mind thousands of drunk football supporters straining to outdo the person next them. And then we threw in some showmanship.

(btw, the man in the above photo is carrying that all on his head.. no straps or anything - just balanced)

Maybe it helps that our flag has so many ridiculous colours? I think the simple fact that we stand out in the crowd by default is helpful to our cause.

All in all, crime rates dropped (even the crooks were watching the games) and our spirit was maintained, most South Africans supporting one team or another after we inevitably didnt make the quarters. Never to be left out, one could even see the occasional tearful South African sobbing into their Netherlands scarf at the final, and watching with grief as our new-found foreign friends flew back to their home countries.

I dont know how to express the patriotic welling of emotion I feel when I see how well we have done. The pure love for the people here that have warmly welcomed the world and blown them away with beauty, culture and variety. We have a long way to go, but dear God, we have come so far.

I have only one apology and that is for the ongoing prevalence of the vuvuzela. Admit it though, I bet you only hate them so much because you cant blow one yourself...

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

2010-07-13T14:25:00.000+02:00

I am sure that at some point in the past I have mentioned that I am a little OCD. Like most people with mild OCD, I am not obsessively neat in all areas. My sock drawer is not perfectly aligned, I do not have special places for my pens and pencils at work. I am not even that neat, really. My clothes are draped over a chair when I take them off (and in a busy week this chair can, for all intents and purposes, cease to exist as a chair) and I will often leave stuff on the lounge table when I stumble to bed after a late night DVD watching session.

However, I am clean. I kinda have to be, because my hair gets everywhere. If I don't clean regularly I end up with hairball tumbleweeds in all corners of my house. And the place I am most concerned about when it comes to cleanliness is my kitchen. I cant cook in a dirty kitchen, and a dirty counter top is anathema to me. Just ask my long suffering lover when he has been using the counter top as a bread board instead of an actual breadboard. Carrie covered in blood doesn't come close. Ok, so maybe recently due to some stresses I let it slip a little, but I mean really, who scrubs the oven every weekend anyway?

Why am I telling you this? Because rental agents are from hell. Although that may seem like a completely irrelevant topic, I assure you it is not. My lease is coming to an end. This is a good thing because I am moving back to the suburbs and halving my rent, so I cant wait to get out. The commute is worth it. However, The Agent has had to come into the flat to show it to the prospective renters. She tends to give me about 2 hours notice, usually when am I at work, and almost definitely every time I forget to take my knickers off the line on the balcony. The first time this happened, my flat mate was in the process of moving out, my brother was crashing in the lounge and there was STUFF everywhere. I warned her. She said no problem.

A few hours later I get a phone call. "Hello, angel (god knows why she calls me that), dropped by the flat today. A bit messy, isnt it?"
Duh...
"Anyway, darling, I just wanted to let you know that your kitchen really needs to be deep cleaned before you move out. Its rather filthy right now. Of course, if you dont, we will just have to take it out of your deposit. But thats all daaaarling, chat to you soon, byeeeee!"

There was a brief shocked silence as I held the disconnected phone to my ear, closely followed by a blush that I swear started at my toes and ended at the tips of my hair. I was extremely embarrassed. My only conclusion was that my chef brother had decided to cook the night before and had managed to pour Bearnaise sauce into the toaster and throw roasted cherry tomatoes at the ceiling. I stormed home in a righteous fury only to see.... nothing. The kitchen was clean.

Nevertheless, I spent the whole of the next evening scrubbing. I got on my hands and knees and scrubbed the stove, under the stove, I moved the fridge, I cleaned the cupboards, I took toothpicks and scraped the tiny molecules of bacteria out from between the tiles that my super-triple-strength-multi-pupose-kills-everything-alive-even-post-Chernobyl-cockroaches cleaning spray couldn't get. Eventually I was satisfied.

The next day, The Agent called to ask if she could bring a client round to view the place. Of course! By now the flatmate had moved out, overseas guests had made their way home, my brothers limited possessions were secreted away in the spare room, and frankly, the place was looking cleaner than I had ever seen it. I was confident. I left her a note apologising for the state of the place last time, made some lame excuse about lots of guests (I was still feeling a little shameful - and I apologise too much when I am embarassed) and hoped she was well.

I retuned home afer work in good spirits (nothing makes me happy quite like coming home to a clean house) and see the following note:

"Hi Miss P
I think its just best if we get the deep cleaners in after you leave. They cost about R300 but they scrub walls and they will be able to get that mould out of the grouting etc. I know it seems expensive, but at least you wont have to worry about the post-lease inspection or anything.
Thanks Angel!
The Agent"

I was absolutely stunned. Speechless. I have come to the decision that R300 is well worth my peace of mind, and that I am not going to clean ANYTHING until I move out. And every time I speak to her on the phone, I listen carefully for traces of a German accent...

N.D.A

2010-05-13T16:41:00.003+02:00

If you didn’t know, NDA stands for Non-Disclosure Agreement. And mine has come to an end. This warrants a huge big sigh of relief, not so much because I was burning to tell people, but more because I just don’t like having a piece of paper tell me what I can and can’t say.

On the other hand, I can now talk about a truly wonderful meeting I had in Sudan before the end of my employment with that truly awful security company (I never wrote a post specifically about the company but read through July 2008). In fact, it’s the very meeting that spelled out the end of my employment there. Could I talk about it at the time? Ah… no. NDA. Was my boss willing to cite my refusal to be immoral as a reason for firing me? Hell no! So I got a list of absolute bulls**t instead.

For those of you that aren’t aware of the terms of the peace agreement in Sudan, one of the provisos was that the SPLA (Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army, formerly the rebel party- now in power of South Sudan) would receive formal training and become the military arm of the new government, rather than an untrained rowdy homicidal mass. To me this sounds a lot like training a bunch of rebels to kill better, but hey. Who am I to speak, it seems to be working.

With this is mind, one of the services that our security company was offering was Officer and Intelligence Training, which is a large part of why I was running around to VIP’s and being nice. On a fairly boring and uneventful day one of our contacts came to the office and told us that a colleague was interested in training for a large group of soldiers. Excellent! However, the boss was back in England at the time and he asked me to meet with them on his behalf. So I did.

I was invited to one of the nicer ‘hotels’ and I met with a very large and quite frightening man in the main cafeteria. He and his 3 HUGE ‘collegues’ invited me to their room (and when I say ‘invited’ I use the term to mean squashed in on four sides by huge men and spirited away from the public areas in haste). I think it’s quite understandable that I was a little nervous. When we got to the room, the main guy and two men escorted me inside, and the fourth stood guard outside the door. What struck me first about these men is that they looked Arab. In South Sudan the people are mostly African and in North Sudan they are mostly Arabic. It’s not often that the cultural lines mix for the same reason that seldom do you see Palestinian people in Jerusalem. Its considered unwise. I chose not to say anything about it because I needed my fingers for writing, and instead made it quite clear that I was just taking notes on requirements and structure of the training on my boss’s behalf and for the purpose of quoting. They were scarily excited to be meeting with me.

So, we began with the usual. How many people, what level of training are you interested in, do you need any basic equipment (radios, computer training, etc) and little by little I became very suspicious. Firstly they wanted training for 2000 people. Then they needed all equipment and weapons (which I chose not to point out was illegal for us to supply- thought I would leave that one to the boss) and then they started going on about basic training. Now all SPLA have had basic training…. So who the hell were these guys? I thought the best way to ask was to pose a question about uniform. Which colours will the uniforms have to be in? He laughed outrageously and said, “well, anything so long as we can tell the difference between us and the SPLA when we fight them!”

Ahem. *cough*

I was meeting with rebels from Darfur.

Yup, go right ahead and let that sink in for a moment.

Done? Good. Lets move on then. At this point I started trying to wrap up the meeting as quickly as possible. “Is there anything else you can think of right now that you would like me to hand on to my boss? “ He thinks for a second and then he says, “I think what we really need is some support from the UN. That would really get the world on our side. Please can you arrange for us to meet with them?” My jaw dropped and I was speechless for just a moment. As I regained my voice and prepared to speak he said, “oh, and we would really like to get some support from Tony Blair. I know we can’t meet with him, the man is busy, but could you arrange a phone call with him? That would be great.”

I took a sip of water, thanked him so much for coming to meet with me and said that I would pass on all the information to my boss, and he would be in touch soon. I then almost ran from the room, found the nearest bar with lots of people that I knew and downed a few whiskeys.

When my boss returned a week or so later I handed over all the information to him and prepared to have a good laugh and then a serious discussion of how we were going to tell these guys to bugger off without being killed. Instead his face was thoughtful. “Well, if we did the training in Chad then technically we wouldn’t be contravening the laws…”

I told him in no uncertain terms was not I going to be involved in an endevour that would put peace at risk for a country that had enjoyed peace for only 4 years in 40. I was fired the next day.

As far as I know, the man is currently in Chad, but I have no knowledge of his dealing, business or position there. I do wonder if he ever got that call with Tony Blair?

New Year and Resignations

2010-03-02T17:04:00.003+02:00

Before you read the following harrowing story of insanity and stupidity, you may want to familiarize yourself with New Year last year.

So, having come full circle, I seemed to think it was a good idea to go back to working for these people. Let’s put it this way… they headhunted me and offered me 30% more (net) than I was earning at the time….

So this time, I was working for their new venture, a restaurant with a private beach. Sounds awesome, doesn’t it? It really is a gorgeous location, but the running of the place leaves much to be desired. I will explain.

The plan for New Year was this:
Exclusive entry, bands and entertainment, with a front row view of the fireworks and use of the private beach…
2 menu options:
Seafood option (3 course meal with deluxe seafood platter – crustaceans etc) R1500
Non-seafood option (3 course meal with no seafood – mostly for our Jewish clientele) R1000
Menu price included a bottle of bubbly, entry and entertainment, but not service.
Deposit must be paid in advance (everyone pays a R500 deposit). Total and tip to be paid on the night. Non-payment by the 24th of December would release the booking and the waiting list would then be contacted.

The restaurant seats 160 comfortably if the weather is horrible, and it being Cape Town you have to expect the worst, so we all agreed to book that many people.

Please see below the disintegration of my plans:

• Before the restaurant even officially opened we were fully booked for New Year. It was crazy. The problem being that all the ‘regulars’ who hadn’t managed to make a booking began to get all indignant that they hadn’t been ‘invited’. Now, our darling boss has never, and I mean never, even heard the word ‘no’. Heaven forbid that we don’t let the poor psychotic entitled horrible bastards in for the night. Next thing I know, I have 200 people booked for the night and nowhere to seat them.
• I chat to the boss, manage to convince her to pay for a Bedouin tent for the evening so that we can cover the deck, and to rent chairs and tables. She agrees, which means that I then had just enough for the people booked.
• Both the boss and the Head Chef (who honestly thinks he is God) decided that now that there was all this extra space, they could overbook again: and added an extra 90 (yes I did say 90, that isn’t a typo) people to the bookings.
• At this point I tell everyone that we are overbooked and that we cannot under any circumstances take any more bookings. 290 people, in a restaurant that seats 160…
• On the 16 December the boss decides that we have too many VIPs on the waiting list and that everyone must pay IN FULL by the 20th December or they lose their bookings. You can’t do that. You can’t just call someone up and say, “Hi, I know we said that you only had to pay R500 but really, we want the whole amount. No, no, not by the 24th. By the end of the week.” That’s not how it works. But that’s what she decided to do.
• At that point we started having REAL problems. I had a list of bookings that had paid a deposit, a list of bookings that hadn’t paid yet (but were also VIPs so I couldn’t hassle them for money before the 24th) and then for fun and games we had the bosses list of people who had now paid the total in full. Since she has never actually worked in a restaurant before it didn’t cross her mind that they might have to pay the service on the total paid in advance (if it isn’t paid when they pay the total, the waiter works all night for no tip. Who is going to tip on a bill they paid a month ago?), so she didn’t charge them service. To make it all really interesting, some of the people on the different lists were seated at the same table.
• On the 30th of December, the boss added another 20 people.
• I managed to call the rental company and they managed to help me out with some extra tables and chairs.
• Finally the night before the event, I sat up until 2am in the morning to write out a manual for the event. I listed every single booking, their menu choice, their seating requirements, allergies and special requests, and table number. I also created table plans (one for the floor staff with numbers of seats, one for the chef with the menu requirements, and one for the manager with the billing requirements).
• I felt I was ready
• On the day of New Years Eve, we started setting up the restaurant. The boss looked at it and decided that she didn’t like how it looked (maybe because we had 130 people more than we could actually accommodate… maybe not).
• I changed and reprinted all the table plans.
• She changed it again.
• I changed and reprinted all the table plans.
• She shouted at me for wasting my time on table plans. Then changed the table layout again.
• In secret I changed and reprinted all the table plans.
• We all agreed that everything was as it should be, most peoples requests had been accommodated, and that nothing was going to move. Mostly because we had decided that to prevent confusion we were going to settle the incredibly complicated food bills as the group sat down so that they could get drunk and just pay for drinks later.
• The Head Chef changed the menu. No kidding. 30 minutes before we opened for New Years EVE, for a fully booked restaurant full of customers who have paid in advance, he changes the menu.
• I went and got dressed up, wiped the fury from my face, convinced myself not to walk out and prepared to stand at the front entrance with the guest list.
• The very first table that walked in took one look at their table, decided it was too tight and demanded that they sit at the next table over. The Head Chef (aka: God) – who had AGREED that we must NOT move anyone, told them, “sure, no problem” and seated their group of 10 on a table set for 16.
• The table of 16 arrived, and had nowhere to sit…. From here on out I am going to just jot down the highlights because I think that you get the picture:
o No one got the table they had requested
o No one got the food they had pre-ordered
o The tables moved around so much that the waiters had no idea who they were serving or what their requests had been
o The billing was a complete disaster because the managers had no idea where the customers were. I was still processing bills at 4am.
• We ended up having approximately 400 people in the place, and maybe 60 happy customers.

I handed in my resignation the next day. I now work for an IT company.

Caviar

2010-02-18T10:45:00.004+02:00

I am back! Yup, I know. Faint. If there any of you left to faint, that is….. I bet that one or two of you had me on their ‘following’ list, and for just a moment when my new post popped up you went ” Um… WTF? Oh yeah! THAT chick.”

Moving on. You know, I do keep choosing jobs that engulf my life. Luckily, I also choose jobs that have hilarious moments, or this blog would be something along the lines of ‘today I pushed paper round my desk and one of the guys in the office made a joke’. Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for my sanity, I now have EXACTLY that kind of job. What this means is this:

• I am (for the first time in about 8 years or possibly ever) working a 9-5, Monday to Friday job.
• I have my sanity back and have stopped swearing at random people in the streets.
• I no longer foam at the mouth if anyone asks me a stupid question.
• I have time to spend with my boyfriend, who has finally settled in Cape Town
• I occasionally sleep
• I have time to write blog posts.

In an effort not to bore you to certain death, I shall not discuss the ins and outs of my new wonderfully normal job, but rather I shall reminisce in bits and pieces about my jobs in the last year, and the fun and games they have brought.

And I would like to bring to your attention a story about how NOT to eat caviar. One of the quirks of having a ‘New’ South Africa is that you have a huge percentage of the population who have come into money (whether by restitution, guilt, or sudden employment) who wish to appear wealthy and worldly, but in reality have very little knowledge about how the other half lives. When people suddenly find themselves with enough free cash to afford a nice restaurant, they sometimes find themselves in confounding situations. This was one of those situations.

A table of 4 people came into the very fancy restaurant I worked in for a while. One of them was a newly appointed government minister celebrating with his wife and two friends, very clearly members of the Newly Rich. Naturally, they ordered the most expensive items on the menu, but even the minister balked when told the price of the Beluga caviar ‘on special’ for R5000. Not a problem, his wife simply waited until he had left the table for a moment, and imperiously signaled the waiter to take her order. R5000 Beluga Caviar please.

The restaurant takes pride in how it serves the caviar, because it is presented in such a way that one can either use or ignore all the extra bits that come with it. The caviar itself is served traditionally in the tin it comes in, perched on top of crushed ice, in a martini glass, with a hand carved mother of pearl spoon. A shot of premium vodka, also kept cool in crushed ice, is served on the side. The martini glass itself is served standing on a small plate which carries the standard extras of melba toast, grated egg, etc etc. Its beautiful really. Imagine something like this, but with a martini glass:

Mrs Minister, when presented with this array, and while studiously avoiding her husbands horrified expression, had a clear moment of panic. She gingerly reached for the vodka, and then changed her mind. Then picked up a piece of melba toast and hurriedly put it down. At this point she realised that if one was to appear worldly and wealthy, one must appear to be comfortable with expensive food. With a quick shrug and a sudden set of her lips, she reached confidently for the tin of caviar, grabbed the mother of pearl spoon and simply scooped it all out in one big black eggy glob onto the ice in the martini glass. At this point 3 waiters and I all stopped what we were doing and turned to stare. The restaurant was engulfed by a wave of silence as everyone turned to look at what we were all staring at. Oblivious, she snapped up the vodka in her other hand, dumped it unceremoniously into the martini glass and vigorously stirred it with the aforementioned mother of pearl spoon. I swear the whole world held its breath.

She stopped, looked at what she had created, evicted the brief look of terror from her face, set her shoulders and took a sip.

Have you ever seen a whole room full of disgusted faces? Every one of us had a notion of just how unpleasant that must have been.

I will give her this though: She finished the whole damn thing.

Hard work

2009-05-20T23:27:00.002+02:00

Its amazing how little time I spend online, now that I am working my ass off. I am loving my job abd working really hard and spending almost no time online, my friends think I have deserted them, my housemates think I am partying till the early hours, and my blog is looking woefully neglected.

However, I now have internet at home! Finally a first world comfort! Bizzarely, I had better access in Sudan. Crazy though that is.

Now I just need my own laptop/pc. Currently I am on a housemates one, and the keyboard is German, so trying to find the letters is frustrating. This is just a quick note though, to say a couple of things.
1. I DO have every intention of writing a proper post soon
2. I didnt REALLY put the phone down on that woman. I actually managed to control myself enough to say goodbye (sweetly.. you know that voice? The type you use to speak to a person you arent sure will understand you..ever?), and put down the phone (rather firmly I´ll admit) and went and had a cigarrette.

In other news, The Magnificnet Long Distance Boyfriend arrives on 27th June. Go ahead. Count.... yup, thats 38 days from today. I try not to count but I mentioned it at work, and now all the waiters say things like:

God, man, only 38 days till she gets laid. Maybe then she´ll get off our backs.

OR.. the simpler version.

Morning Sarah! 38 days! *wink*

Its getting painful. Anyway, more updates soon. Any person that counts down days to me may be subject to a violent reaction...

I found the new crazies!

2009-04-05T19:24:00.002+02:00

You know, I always thought that it was just the nature of the jobs I had that I work so hard and such long hours. I realise now that maybe it why I chose them..
Anywhoo, thats my excuse for no posts in ages. Life has been hectic, settling back into my routine, getting to know my friends again, finding places to live. (I currenlty live with Uncle Nazi. He starts sentences with 'now, you KNOW how tolerant I am.. BUT... and goes on to explain 500 reasons why he isnt. Its a temporary measure. Own place to follow soon)

I do, however, have a new job. Which I absolutely love. I am the Guest Relations and Training Officer for a gorgeous pair of restuarants in Cape Town. Despite the massive dip in restaurant sales, and tourism, our restaurants are booming. We walk around and the restaurants around us have more empty tables than full, and we have a waiting list as long as my arm. Its wonderful.

However, one of my roles is Events Coordinator. This means that every group of over 30 that comes through our door, I have to look after. Everything from set menus to corporate functions, to special dietary requirements, to tables for bodygaurds. Thats me. It can be fun, it can be stressful, and every now and then I have a desire to shoot people in the head. Must be a hangover from Sudan.

To give you an idea of the people I deal with, I shall relate a story. I havent exaggerated in any way. I promise.

A woman I shall call Sue contacted me for an Event. The group is a a bunch (35) of businessmen in the booze industry being entertained by a local brewery.
No problem, we can turn on the style and make it a great corporate event. I send her all our set menus to choose from, as well as a form to fill in for any dietary requirement. I get all the info back except the dietary info. No problem. I hounded her for a few days, and finally, the day before the event, she sent me the form. On it are two Kosher people. *blink*

I called her immediately and asked her how Kosher these two are. "Are they the sort that say steak with creamy muchroom sauce, but hold the bacon... or are they the separately packed, signed and sealed sort?" I asked apprehensively.

"Not sure", says Sue, "I will get back to you."

About two hours later she called me back
"Yup, fully Kosher"

"Um.. Sue, you know we arent a Kosher restaurant, right?" I asked.

"Well, what do you mean?"

(Has the woman never MET a Jewish person??? This is Cape Town for heavans sake!)

"Well, we serve meat and milk, we serve crustaceons, and we serve pork.. ALL of which are completely outlawed for Kosher food," I explain.

"Oh". She sounded dismayed, as if she had had no idea we might not be able to cater. "Well, cant you do something for them, like prepare just a kosher meal for them?"

I stifled a scream of frustration, and managed to explain that no, we cant prepare kosher food, because we dont have a kosher kitchen. This woman knew so little about the requirements of people with special diets, it kinda amazed me she was functioning as a tour leader.

I called around, and managed to find a local Kosher deli that would not only prepare and deliver a sealed Kosher meal, but would also match the food as closely as possible to the set menu planned for the night. It was getting on to 4pm in the afternoon when I called her to tell her that all was confirmed and that I had managed to arrange some Kosher meals for the clients.

"Oh one last thing," she says as I close up the conversation. "I just found out that one of the guys is celebrating his birthday. Can you make a cake for him?"

3 long deep breaths.

'We dont omake cakes here, and thats a large order, cake for 35 people.... but you are welcome to bring one with you."

"No that just wont do. can you outsource one for us?"

*sigh* "yes, Sue, let me see what I can do"

I rushed around, found a bakery that was willing to take the order so late in the day and managed to get in the order just before they closed for business at 5pm. I called Sue back and told her the cake would be ready when they arrived, told her the exorbitant cost, and she just accepted it, then said "Hey, can you ask them to make it Kosher?"

Grinding my teeth together I told her no. I told her that the Kosher people would have to go without cake. Then I told her that I had another call coming through, and to have a nice day, and put down the phone.

I stood in the restaurant for a few minutes, and breathed. Just that. Breathed.

The next day the event group was due to arrive at 6.30pm after a sunset cruise round the bay. No people at 7pm. No one at 8pm.

Finally they arrived at 8.30pm, drunk as lords. No problem, I can handle this. got them all seated, fuond the contact person, aske dher where the Kosher people sitting so I could tell the waiter.

No idea she says. Ask around. I finaly found the names from my list, approached the customers, and endured their drunk and scornful laughter as they cracked up at the very thought that they might require a kosher meal. Apparently, no one at the table had requested Kosher. they had mentioned they were Jewish. Thats about it.

Next I went to the contact person again and asked who the birthday boy was so we could bring the cake out at the appropriate time. "Oh hes not here" she slurred. "dont worry, we will take it with us and have it at the lunch at the brewery tomorrow."

I sighed and walked away, banged my head against the wall a few times, and left. The waiters could handle the rest.

I arrived at work the next day, and at about 12 noon, I recieved a phone call from Sue. I had just finished reading the manager handover report from the night before. 'Group was riotous and had to be repeatedly asked to be quiet, for disturbing other customers. Group was rude to the hostesses, claled them cheap escorts to lure in the rich men. group make a speach mid way through dinner service. Customers asked to be moved away from the group... etc'

"Hi Sarah. Thanks so much for the function. They all had a wonderful time, food was great, very happy customers. Thanks for getting the cake too. By the way, the customers forgot to take it with them. Just deliver it to the brewery for them. they will need it in about an hour. Thanks."

'Uh, Sue, we are a restaurant, we dont do deliveries"

"Oh I am sure you can find a way to have it delivered, cant you?"

"No..... I cant," and put down the phone.

Back

2009-02-09T14:16:00.008+02:00

I am back from my travels again, this time in the wonderful company of my delicious man in the beauty of my own amazing country.
Plans go ahead, house has been moved into, and man to follow soon. New interviews appointments for permanent jobs made, and much in between.

Its all a little crazy right now. More to follow when the appropriate internet connection allows. Updates soon, I promise....

(Internet cafes are not conducive to effective photo uploading)

Oh to be paid to be beautiful

2009-01-05T12:19:00.002+02:00

This is the night of the 3rd. New years has passed, the madness is over, but half of Johannesburg is still in Cape Town, as are half the celebrities.

I started my evening with a fairly standard section. One table that seats 14 people and two 2 seater tables. This is a pretty good section actually, right up until you realise that at 9pm the 14 seater is leaving, an extra table is being added and 20 people are being seated there.

I try desperately to get the early seating to bugger off, they know they only have a limited amount of time, as they only booked that afternoon. They are still slow to leave. Finally I get them off the table, and the booking arrives. I havent yet got enough glasses on the table, but the manager seats them anyway. They are clearly middle eastern. The host of the table turns to look at me, an expression of obvious disdain on his face.

'This.... (he waves at the table) ... is not good enough. The service is rediculous. The Sheikh is going to be at this table!' He then turns to the trainee (male) that I have shadowing me for the evening, and says to him, 'sort this out'.

Another waitress comes over to me with a look of horror on her face. 'You serving 'The Bastard'? Oh dear. Ok, hun, this is what you do. You smile, accept the crap. I will have a gin and tonic, double, in the back area for you to sip on, and just grin and bear it. He is an absolute C**T but he tips.'

With this information in mind, I sip my G&T and return to the fray. As I am hurriedly placing glasses on the table a dark skinned Arab man arrives with a bevy of beautiful women on his arm. 3 are Russian, 2 local, and as they sit down The Bastard answers the phone.

"Yes, they have arrived..... Yes, I am happy, they are very beautiful... of course, I will let you know if there are any problems..." he says, looking the women over one by one as they sit down and sharing a wink with the man, whom we now know to be the Sheikh.

With this transaction completed, he starts giving me wine orders, which I rush to collect. As I speed back into the restaurant, a man touches my arm, and very politely asks me if I can give him some directions, holding out a piece of paper with a street name on it. I start to explain where it is as rapidly as possible, knowing that The Bastard will be tapping his feet imperiously, but as I look up I realise that the man I am talking to is Richard Branson. Against every anti-celebrity bone in my body, I start to blush. Luckily I am able to keep talking as if nothing has changed, and manage to keep going with the directions. He thanks me, then pauses and asks me the inevitable question.

"So what is an English girl doing working in a restaurant in Cape Town?"

I explain that I am indeed South African, and that I just have a habit of picking up accents where I live, having just returned from the UK. And then apologise and tell him that I am sorry to cut him short, but that I am in the middle of a wine order. He rapidly apologises for keeping me, and I run on to deliver the wine.

As soon as the wine is delivered, I go back to the service area and have another sip on my G&T at which point the other waitress comes in and looks at me, and we both simultaneously have a girly moment including holding each others arms and bouncing up and down squeeling 'Richard Branson was here!' I am not a celebrity follower. I am not even that impressed by famous people, but for some reason Richard Branson tickles the heart of almost any woman. The richest good looking man out there. Its definitely worth noticing...

Anyway, the evening continues much as before, tables get served, my two seater tables keep asking me for gossipy updates on the going ons of The Bastards table, and the Bastard continues to live up to his nick name. I grit my teeth and continue, thinking of the money to get me through.

Finally the end of their meal approaches, the bill is asked for, but as I walk outside with it one of the other members of the party intercepts me, and says he would like to pay the bill himself.

'Has service been added?' he asks me.
'Yes, 10% service sir," I reply. Normally at this point very rich people add on another 5/10%.
'Thats fine', he says, and waits for me to put the black American Express through on the machine. Damn Damn damn fuck and damn. The Bastard #2.

I did, however, see him slip a few R200 notes into the hands of one of the 'ladies' for hire. I think I may be in the wrong industry. All she did was sit there and look sultry.

I can do sultry...

New Year Madness

2009-01-02T00:58:00.005+02:00

I always work new years. Its one of those things. I figure, why go out and spend loads of money on a night that essentially means nothing, when I can work and earn money instead?
I really wish I hadnt worked last night. Although, if I hadnt, I couldnt have laughed about it today.

I worked a double shift. This means that I started work at 10am, and fully expected to only be finished work at 4am. It didnt quite turn out that way but I was expecting a long and draining day. I was also determined to make it as fun and stress free as possible. However, I forgot the most important part. This is my life. When is it ever dull?

The day shift passed with no major stress. Half of the country is in Cape Town right now so finding parking near the beach was frigheningly hard, but I managed ok. Customers were great, mostly tourists. I made some decent cash and was looking forward to the evening shift. Me and another waitress (the only other lone female staff member) took our break at the same time and decided (maybe not wisely) that a pre-madness cocktail was a good idea. We headed back to work at about 6pm, and helped finish setting up, admittedly slightly drunkenly. The official new years eve bookings only started at 9pm so the place had quite a few people standing around having cocktails (I would like to mention at this point that the weather was GORGEOUS!) when a policeman came in and asked to check our liquor licence. Instantly all the staff vanished, and all the managers suddenly decided for the first time that they would acknowledge the fact that the head chef is the senior member of management. Why? Because every one of us knows that the liquor licence doesnt exist.

I wasnt actually supposed to know, but as a personal licence holder (the only way you can sell alcohol in the UK is to have a licence holder on the property), I make a habit of checking licences. The licence on display in our restaurant is for another branch of the company, in another city.

Instantly all alcohol sales had to stop. All the customers were told that the bar was closed, and all the staff informed that on this New Years eve, in the middle of summer, the hottest spot in Cape Town, which is booked to overflowing, could not sell alcohol.

The staff greeted this information with hilarity. Right up to the point that the policeman walked out the front door and the manager ran around telling us all that we were basically going to continue ignoring the law. Now, I should really have walked out, if I was a nice law abiding citizen. On the other hand, new years eve money is not to be sniffed at, and frankly, I am not the most law abiding of citizens. Screw it, I was gonna work anyway. The interesting point here is that it IS legal to give alcohol away. So naturally, us staff just taking the drinks we wanted for the evening was essentially the most legal thing we did all night. Right?

The evening progressed with the usual madness and insatiny, swearing and barely restrained punches, right up until my 24 seater table asked to pay. Individually. I nearly screamed at all of them, but managed to restrain myself, as they were obligingly paying before they started dancing and getting down to some really serious illegal drinking.

In a suprisingly short space of time, the restaurant empied and the duties were done. It was time to leave and only 2am. I headed over to a friends place, where stragglers were still drinking by the fire outside, and talking rubbish amongst themselves, had a drink, and headed home. Except that as I walked outside I discovered that my car had been broken into, the window smashed, and the bag which contained my nicest dress, and my brand new shoes (which I had packed in the event that I was let off work early) had been stolen. Also in the bag had been a Christian Dior bag, full of Dior makeup that a regular customer had given me. The fact that she gave it to me was more important to me than the fact that it was Dior. And now its gone.

Happy fucking New Year.

I was pretty bleak about the whole thing. I have calmed now, and the events of last night were suffiently amusing that I have moved on. I shall relate them to you in due course. They include rich Sheiks, high class prostitutes, and Richard Branson. Stay tuned.

Blood will flow. Or rather... it has.

2008-12-21T01:38:00.004+02:00

You will NOT believe the day I have had. Seriously.

Firstly, you have to understand that I worked a late shift last night. This means that I worked until 2am, drove half an hour to get home, had a drink, read my book to wind down, and was probably asleep by 3.15am.

Today I worked a double shift. This means a 10am start, work through until 4pm. Go on an hour break, and start again at 5pm. Work through until 2am. Tonight I got home a little early.

The day started out with the usual rubbish. Our manager drives us mad. I don't mean like managers usually do. I mean in the way that makes you see red with rage and fury. I seldom lose my temper at work. In fact, I have prided myself on the fact that I have NEVER sworn at my staff, shouted at them for anything less than outright insubordination, and that my staff have always stuck around because I treat them with respect. This manager doesn't know what that means. I quite regularly have to go stand in a dark corner somewhere and breathe, so that I dont actually walk out of the restaurant, or, you know, kill him.

I was pretty tense. Next thing I know, its mid lunch service, and one of the waiters is shouting at one of the chefs because the pasta that goes with the veal is cold. The chef wants him to take it anyway. What does he care, he cant see the customer. Before anyone can blink the guys are actually punching each other over the food pass, veal and cold pasta is all over the floor, and I am standing there absolutely frozen, when I know I should be backing rapidly away.

I want you to picture this for a moment. Both the chef and the waiter are diminutive. I am 5ft 8" and they are both shorter than me. The manager who breaks them up is 6ft 2". He cant actually pull them apart they are so locked in together. The kitchen resounds with the words "jou ma se poes" (and no I am not going to translate) and the two continue to go at each other in what is an almost comical parody of a dog fight involving chihuahuas on crack.

Finally the whole thing calms down, and food is distributed hot, and a slightly confused customer appeased. It gets towards the end of my shift and I can see my break rapidly approaching. About 20mins before I am due to leave, when I can almost taste the cigarette I am going to light up immediately, I suddenly hear a massive fight going on in the kitchen and next thing I see a chef run into the back area behind the building with blood actually POURING out of his head.

WHAT? ..I hear you say. Yes. Blood. Pouring. It appears that two of the chefs in the kitchen (not the two previously involved) decided that the best way to deal with an argument was to pull knives on each other and make like one of the Scream films. The ENTIRE kitchen was drenched in blood, managers were running around with pristine white shirts dripping crimson, waiters were sent out to deal with customers the best way they knew how, and kitchen staff were scattering in every direction. Police sirens began to wail, closely followed by ambulances. What exactly do you say to a customer when your chefs are carried out the restaurant by emergency medics, while being handcuffed at the same time?

We all assumed we would close for the night. But no. The show must go on. We were booked to capacity, and over capacity and we had to find a way to serve them all. We went though a list of what food has been taken off the menu due to 'contamination' and the staff meeting at 6pm resounded with the sound of jokes that went something along the lines of: 'Our steak is to DIE for' or 'you should try the linefish, its BLOODY good'. Also, you would think that everyone would be very very very nice to the kitchen staff for the evening. Not true. That kitchen was like a Nazi interrogation chamber. We all avoided it like the plague, unless we knew that the food being served next was ours. Then we just took a deep breathe and plunged into the fray as one would plunge into a river full of piranhas... as quickly as humanly possible.

Finally the night was almost over. And then Mr Sarcastic (the manager that makes us all see red and is single handedly responsible for about 6 waiters walking out the restaurant mid-shift) felt that clearly he hadn't needled me enough this evening and started walking round my section making sarcastic remarks about absolutely nothing as all.

I gave up. I just cashed up, did the duty assigned to me, and walked away. The drive home was miserable, as I was driving my brothers car in which I cant smoke, and by the time I got home I was tense and tired and craving. I arrived home, and as I was closing the door, I realised it was going to slam, and instead of propping it with a foot, I grabbed it with my hand... which instead of halting the impact, merely provided a means with which to inflict pain on myself. It was only then that I cried.

I have written it down, so maybe I can sleep now. I am working another double tomorrow. I hope that no one tries attempted murder, and that if someone does, it isn't me getting homicidal on my manager. Wish me luck.

The challenge

2008-12-14T18:47:00.006+02:00

Ok, so a blogger I love (in the form of Malicious Intent) has set a challenge to those of us who aspire to creativity. You can read it HERE.

This is my reply (because no doubt this is kinda how my life would go):

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
- a ticket to the USA to go see him for the first time in months

On the second day of Christmas my true love realized for me:
- I cant use the ticket because American immigration hates the Arabic in my passport and keeps thinking I am responsible for genocide in Darfur. (SOUTH Sudan people...SOUTH!)
- a Major General in Sudan had also sent a ticket to get me to Sudan to meet his 'other' wives.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
- a new passport with no Arabic in it
- A steel baseball bat to fend off the Sudanese admirers
- A pair of skis so that I can learn when I get there

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love realized for me:
- The new passport is going to take 4 months to issue
- The Major General has an AK-47 and the baseball bat is ineffective
- The skis wont fit in my luggage and are considered a weapon by airport security
- That 150 cows is worth a LOT of money and that maybe he should pose as my father at the negotiations...

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
- An expedited Passport that costs twice the amount
- A big gun courtesy of the American Firearm Association (you can travel on a plane with it so long as its in a locked case - apparently)
- Charms that look like skis so that I have the 'feel' of owning skis before I get there
- A card saying that having me is worth more cows than can be bought.
- Nothing else, because the first four have left him broke

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love realized for me:
- In South Africa an expedited passport means you pay more money so they can afford the phone call to tell you the passport is going to take the usual amount of time.
- That after spending all that money, I could have bought an AK-47 off the side of the street in the local township for half the price.
- That because charms of skis have sharp edges I cant take THOSE on the plane either, because I might stab someone in the eye with it and take over the world.
- That the card wont reach me until next Christmas because the term 'snail mail' means something in this country.
- That because the Rand is doing so badly on exchange, the $$ he has spent actually seem like WAAAAY more when compared to South African Rands
- Nothing else, because he is still pissed off he spent all that money for nothing.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
- A phone card so I can phone the department of Home Affairs myself, and complain about the wait for a passport.
- A training manual on how guns don't kill people, people do.
- Plastic charms which aren't as pretty but wont kill people in an airplane.
- An email with the same message about cows in it.
- an exchange calculator so that I can keep a tally of rates and let him know when the opportune moments are.
- Anti-malaria medication, since its starting to look more and more likely that I run away to Sudan and take the cows
- Nothing else. Even more broke than before.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love realized for me:
- because we only have one landlines network and a complete lack of monopoly controls, calls are so expensive, and you are on hold for so long to Home Affairs that frankly, one card isn't enough.
- Giving a gun to a woman who regularly wants to kill customers/staff/managers might not be such a good idea, and that he cant afford the bail money.
- charms are a choking hazzard
- emails may not reach me for ages because internet access in South Africa is almost as bad as the phone lines they run off
- in the current economic climate the exchange rates are changing so as to make an exchange calculator null and void.
- the peace agreement in Sudan is coming to an end and could mean the end of any chance of going there for the cows.
- That he cant actually take any more days of this Christmas c**p and that he is going to run away to a be a Buddhist monk and forget women even exist

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
ooooohhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Yes I know...

2008-12-13T03:28:00.002+02:00

I changed it again. My life is so transitory, my blog may as well reflect it. And yes, that really is the view from the restaurant in the evening. Gorgeous isn't it?

I took your suggestion Moe. Be proud :-P

Christmas blues

2008-12-13T03:01:00.002+02:00

I started writing this post 3 times and realised that in the mood I am in its going to be sad, sarcastic and vitriolic. So, instead, I am going to post a little send-around letter I received that, having been a therapist for a few years, made me scream with laughter. Maybe you will get the joke too.

CHRISTMAS CAROLS FOR THE SEASONALLY DISTURBED

* 1. Schizophrenia --- Do You Hear What I Hear?

* 2. Multiple Personality Disorder --- We Three Kings Disoriented Are

* 3. Dementia --- I Think I'll be Home for Christmas

* 4. Narcissistic --- Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me

* 5. Manic --- Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets
and Stores and Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees
and.....

* 6. Paranoid --- Santa Claus is Coming to Town to Get Me

* 7. Borderline Personality Disorder --- Thoughts of Roasting on an Open
Fire

* 8. Personality Disorder --- You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm
Gonna Pout, Maybe I'll Tell You Why

* 9. Attention Deficit Disorder --- Silent night, Holy oooh look at the
Froggy - can I have a chocolate, why is France so far away?

* 10. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder -- - Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,

Have a merry Christmas, y'all. Mine shall be merry, and by merry, I mean drunken.

I love to cook, but...

2008-12-04T23:29:00.002+02:00

I have recently decided that I am never going to use the words: 'I make this WONDERFUL (insert meal here)! You will love it!' before starting to cook for someone, ever again.

The reason for this is that inevitably, the thing I have always unfailingly made to absolute perfection will fall apart into a mixture of odd-looking, ill mixing ingredients.

This has happened on three different rather important occasions.

1. When I first moved in a with a boyfriend in the UK. It was winter and we wanted stew. My stew back home in Cape Town was legendary. My friends would hang around a little longer in the afternoon in the hope that they would be offered some for dinner. So I promised an astounding stew. A fantastic one! I was safe in the knowledge that my stews always satisfied. The end product was a glutinous bland mass of decimated vegetables and meat that somehow managed to not only taste of absolutely nothing whatsoever, but to look like it tasted that way too. The boyfriend raised an eyebrow, looked at me like I was completely mad, and never let me cook again.

2. Attempt number 2 (I haven't had a kitchen of my own in such a long time that there have been mercifully few attempts). My lovely man (who I so recently visited in the USA) and I had returned to CO from our road trip and I felt like comfort food. Macaroni cheese seemed like the best thing. Again, I felt safe in the knowledge that it was the one thing there was no way I could muck up. And it would be the first time I had EVER cooked for this man, and I kinda wanted it to be at the very least edible. It was a disaster. A gloopy mass. A big bowl of cheese flavoured yellow glue. The only positive to the whole meal was that it so effectively bound my stomach I didn't have to worry about sneaky bathroom visits for a few days (you know whats its like in a small space with a new partner...) My man was very nice about it though. That made me feel worse. He even went so far as to (*shudder*) eat the left overs the next day. That made me concerned for his health.

3. The most recent attempt happened only 2 days ago. Luckily this time I was feeding a friend. This particular friend still maintains that I made him the best steak he has ever eaten. So I had a reputation to live up to. Luckily he is also a really honest friend, and has no problems being totally straightforward about his opinion. Which affords me a certain amount of relief when it comes to being worried if someone is just putting on a brave face and fighting down the nausea. I decided to make him a butternut squash risotto that I made recently for Miss M in the UK. On that occasion it came out incredibly well, so I thought to replicate the meal.
This one did not. For some bizarre reason the risotto went sticky before it had softened, the butternut was bland, and the whole lot badly in need of salt despite the handful already administered, and frankly, it even looked awful.
I looked at my friend as I handed him his plate with the caution that if it was as bad as I suspected it might be, I had some left over curry in the fridge and he could have that instead.
After a few minutes of chewing in silence I couldn't bear it anymore and told him again about the curry.
He replied by saying: 'No actually I am finding this quite fascinating to eat. Because, despite what it looks like, I am surprised with each new mouthful that it doesn't taste like mashed banana.'

I think that has pretty much done it for me now. Yet, I have offered to cook dinner for two friends tomorrow night. What was I thinking? Now I have to think of a fail safe meal...

You know, I think the common thread in all those meals that went so badly wrong is that they all went bad when I tried to make them in a new country. I wonder if that means I will be able to make a killer stew again, now that I am back in Cape Town....?

I would like to point out....

2008-11-25T13:26:00.002+02:00

To those of you that didnt pick it up... yes, pretentious. Me? No. I watch them and laugh at the idiocy. Hence the writing of it in the blog......

Its MY ass!

2008-11-24T15:19:00.002+02:00

Camps Bay is an interesting area in Cape Town. Most of the city is fairy pretentious anyway. Girls get dressed up in stilettos to go to the shop to buy cigarettes. And because a vast majority of the modeling, fashion and advert filming industry takes place in Cape Town, most of these girls are gorgeous. I feel positively homely. Camps Bay, however, takes it to a whole new level. There isn't a breast free from scalpel interference, or a face over 40 with a wrinkle. Since our restaurant is 'the hottest spot in Cape Town' (Cosmopolitan Magazine.. thank you very much) we are inundated with people wishing to 'be seen'. We are also obscenely expensive.

I think however, that for those of you who frequent the service industry, and have not worked in it, I have some pointers for you....

1. NEVER, no matter how important you are, say 'Do you know who I AM?' when the manager cant find your booking. We don't care. You are one of many. How nice for you.

2. Don't be rude to the waiters. Your food, and your drinks, WILL have a few mishaps on its way to your table. The staff get the job in a place like this because they are best, and cause they are ballsy. They don't really care what you think.

3. When your table orders drinks, order all at once. I cant actually tell you just how annoying it is when you have to run back and forth to a table ferrying individual drinks because people are being indecisive. The barman gets annoyed, and shouts at the waiter. The waiter gets annoyed and shouts at the runner. The runner gets annoyed and walks away to go play with glasses, and then you have to wait 30 minutes for someone to bring you your food, because everyone is suddenly over worked.

4. Dont go to a very expensive restaurant unless you can afford it. We can spot you a mile away. You order tap water instead of bottled, and ask the price of everything before you make a decision. Don't gasp when we tell you the price. Its not on the menu for a reason. If you have to ask, honestly, you cant afford it.

5. Tip your waiter. If you don't tip respectably, we REMEMBER you. And you will get the trainee the next time you visit because we always give the bad tippers to the newbie. Hierarchy is wonderful :-D

And finally:

6. Never slap the bum a waitress with a tray of drinks in her hand. She may 'accidentally' spill them on you. I did. And you will look like an absolute idiot to your friends. He did. *sniggers*

Use it, dont use it. I look forward to the NEXT guy that slaps my ass....

I take it all back!

2008-11-23T02:36:00.002+02:00

Sorry!

I started the other blog, and then realised that not only do I still have material to write about, but I also don't have the energy right now to jump backwards in time and tell the story of the past. So I deleted it. A little impulsive maybe. But it was just staring me in the face every time I logged in, and I couldn't bear it mocking me any longer.

So tomorrow I shall start the tale of tonight. Well tonight began at 10am this morning and ended at 2am with a call to police emergency response. Why can my life never be dull?

I shall tell the tale when I have had some sleep, but right now I am off to crash. I have worked 30hrs in the last 37. Why, oh WHY do I do this? I get bored otherwise I think...

Moving on

2008-11-18T14:21:00.002+02:00

I feel that this chapter is now over. The craziness and the humour of my 5th world existence is now past, and its time to move along.

Where I am now is wonderful. I have a job I love, in a restaurant I love, working right on the beach. Its a fantastic fancy place, top of the Cosmo list next month, and I love the people I work with and the customers I serve.

However, the reason I started blogging, oh so long ago, is because I had a massive amount of information and funny moments I wanted to record, and Sudan was where I was, so Sudan is where I started. The place I felt it most though, was when I was still in London, and so I have started a new blog, here. Its retrospective and begins with me leaving Cape Town, and eventually will end where I started in Sudan.

This is where I am right now. Its the perfect place to live out the summer.

See you all another time, in another place.

3rd world... or whatever

2008-11-06T22:36:00.004+02:00

I am constantly at a loss as to what to call South Africa. Technically, South Africa is a 'Dualistic' economy. This means that parts of the country are 1st world. Thank you British Empire. Yes yes, you Dutch colonists can say all you like, but when you get right down to it, no one was better than the British Empire at building a good road with a roundabout or two for decoration, or setting up a nice universally unfair tax system.

Unfortunately, thanks to our rather infamous former government (among others of its predecessors) the rest of the country is pretty much buggered. Yes, that's right, buggered. The truly startling thing about Apartheid was that it kept this bit well hidden. Well, from South Africans anyway. International news is much more effective when local news is run by the government. "Poverty? What poverty? Where?" was pretty much the official stand point. That and standing with fingers in ears going la-la-la-la-la whenever anyone raised a valid point, or a sanction for that matter. If la-la-la didn't work, a nice quick bullet to the head normally did the trick. As a result, South Africa is largely 3rd world. People outside the cities do, in fact, live in huts. They do, in fact, herd (and sell their daughters for) cows. This is not a common 1st world pursuit. To be 1st world you have to PAY someone to take your daughter, in the form of a dowry, or in more recent times, a wedding. Failing that, one can pay someone else to watch the cows and this makes you 'respectable'.

What's my point? Oh yes, the blurring of the lines. The 3rd world has kinda mixed into the 1st now. It is uncommon, but not unheard of, for neighbors in a nice suburb to be disturbed by the ritual slaughter of a chicken in the middle of the night. Now I am not saying that the slaughter of chickens makes you 3rd world. I mean, essentially abattoirs slaughter chickens every day, and we even add ritual to it to make it Kosher or Halal. It is, essentially, ritual slaughter on a grand scale, but done where you cant see it. What makes it feel a little wrong is the fact that its happening next door, in someones back yard, on the lawn.

I digress. I am in a funny mood. It might be the single malt I found in my Dads cupboard. Mmmmm....

So, the third world has entered our suburbs. How, you ask? In the form of guards. I arrived home in Cape Town, and on the way back from the airport, and into the suburb where my father lives, I noticed spaced out wooden huts (nice, respectable, clearly well made ones). Each had a nice bright number painted on it.

Dad: Oh darling, you don't know about the new guard huts! Every one of these huts has a guard in them at night. Every resident has a whistle, so that if there are any problems they can alert the nearest guard and they will receive help.

I sat for a moment speechless. This is necessary?

Dad: Oh darling, it's wonderful. When I get home at night now, I don't even THINK of highjackings anymore. It's such wonderful peace of mind. Isn't it great?

'Yes, yes it is,' I replied as I tried to get my head around this. At night we now have a guard at every street corner, watching us. It feels oddly Nazi-esque, somehow. While I am grateful for the added protection, as I work nights and will be coming home late, I am slightly horrified that its needed. What will happen when the thugs run out of other hunting grounds, and realise that a guard is fairly easy to kill? Fenced compounds? Areas with designated movement?

Ah well, we shall see. In other news, being home is nice. I have a bed again, not a sofa, and (*bounces*) a cleaning lady! I have a kitchen to play in, and a car to use, and a seaside and mountain I am going to glue my eyes to for the next 3 months. Will keep you updated on the new job when I decide if I really want to be working there :-P

P.S. Speaking of weddings, my Dad mentioned today that he has money put aside for my wedding. I am kinda tempted to have one now, just for the sake of using the money. Am I bad?

Ladies and gentlemen, its country number 5....

2008-11-03T02:07:00.002+02:00

Indeed. My 5th country in 3 months. Less than 3 months in fact. I left Sudan on the 1st of September. I went straight to Nairobi, where I had a lovely evening with my mother, and flew to the UK in the morning. From there I went to the USA, and then back to the UK. And now... South Africa.

Yes, this traveling mass of insane humanity is moving on to yet another adventure. This one is the adventure of going home. And in true Miss P. style, the decision was made in about 2 hours.

The conversation went like this (in two msn windows)

Miss Tig: Hey I have a job for you if you want it. Great money!
Me: Yes, but you are in Cape Town, and I am in London.
Miss Tig: Well, when you planning on coming home? Cause this guy really needs someone to help him.
Me: I really dont know.

Me: Hey Miss M. Miss Tig says she has this great job for me, but its in Cape Town. Doesnt that suck?
Miss M: Well, you could always get the ticket home on my credit card, and we can sort the cash out later.
Me: Ummm...

And that was it. So I am going back to Cape Town. I am packing up my stuff into an ever decreasing package and shipping myself back to the country I honestly didnt think I would live in again.

I fly on Wednesday. Well.... here I go. Wish me luck.

How the mighty have fallen

2008-10-27T17:53:00.002+02:00

I think I have essentially spent the last year of my life living out of a suitcase. Or bags, or rubbish bags, or whatever was handy at the time to transport my belongings.

When I moved to the truly awful pub in the countryside, complete with smelly named regulars and overconfident 19 year olds, I had one suitcase. It was the suitcase I brought back to the UK with me when I left Kenya. It was the same suitcase then went to the USA with me. It had the essentials.

While I was staying at the pub, a friend of mine managed to book a precious afternoon off to take me down to her friends barn in the countryside, where she had stored some of my stuff for me when I first left for East Africa. Even after I had decided that I couldnt stay at that pub, there was no way that I could call her and re-schedule, after the effort she went through in the first place to take the time off. The sum total of those belongings was 2 big black bags of clothing, and a box of personal items. Photos, dvds, music etc. All of which was stored in the tiny cubby of a room I existed in at the pub.

On one of my days off, I made a trip into London to an interview for an assistant manager position at a great pub off Oxford Street in central London. The accomodation looked great. Not too noisy, clean, own shower, shared spotless kitchen etc. The money was good, the job similar to what I had done before. I accepted on the spot.

I managed to get the manager at the country pub to allow me to leave some of my stuff there and made my way to my first day at the new place looking like a bag lady who had the benefit of a bath. I was dragging a suitcase, and carrying a box, and carrying a rubbish bag full of bits and pieces. And instead of arriving before the place opened, I arrived just as the customers were streaming in the door for their midday pick-me-up pint. Joyous.

The first couple of days of the job were fine. Nice staff, no drinking after work, no mad parties, only blissful quiet and sleep. The pub during opening hours, however, was insane. I have always worked at the type of quality location where making someone feel welcome and comfortable was more important than being able to do 15 things at once. This was not that type of bar. This was a 4 people at a time, people waving money in your face constant rush against the clock to get as many drinks out in as little time as possible. Frankly? I sucked. Badly. Its ego-destroying to discover that in your field there is a job you cant do. I know my job, I know my work. I could keep a pub running day to day with my eyes closed, and in some cases in the past have very nearly done exactly that. But this was beyond me. Do I really want to be stressed all day every day anyway? Needless to say, my week trial over, I am back staying at Miss M's and going to interviews tomorrow.

I truly am getting a little tired of moving around so very much. I would like all my belongings to be in one place, my bags to be unpacked, my room decorated with something other the stains of the previous inhabitant. I am homesick for a home I dont have. Lets see what the next pub brings...

Deja vu

2008-10-05T19:58:00.002+02:00

Yesterday night was my first real opportunity to get to know the regulars of the pub. I worked Friday night too, but its too busy on a Friday to have the occassional conversation with a customer sitting at the bar.

I arrived after managing to stay awake through my break, and felt somewhat ready for the evening. Sitting at the bar was a man I was later told is commonly known as 'Stinky Brian'. If we were anywhere near water or the sea I would have believed him to be your typical wisened old fisherman, prematurely aged by the sea, the sun and excessive quantities of ale. He even smells somewhat like fish, which gives rise to the name. He sits at the bar with an expression of impending doom, like a man who knows that its only a matter of time before Death deals the final blow, or someone takes away his drink; either of which would be equally disasterous. He sits directly in front of the glass washer, which means that you cant actually avoid standing directly in front of him. He leaned over to me after I had been on shift for 10minutes and asked in a very soft, drink muddled voice, "'ave ya seen me phone, luv? I aint seen it. You seen it?" No sir, I havent. Let me check with the staff.

I checked with the staff, and all assured me he had lost the phone about a year previously, and just to keep saying I would give it to him if I find it. I told him exactly that and turned to speak to the next customer. My customer ordered a standard round, but was in a very excited mood as he was on his way to Greece the next day. He decided to celebrate this by ordering a couple of shots. One for him and one for me. One of the joys of working in a pub run by heavy drinkers is that I can drink on duty. Legendary. I accepted the shot and continued on.

The next guys made me feel old. They looked about 10 years old, not a beard hair among them, so naturally I ID'd them, and they were all 19! One of them offered me a drink. Thanks very much. At this point I wondered how drunk I could be and still make a passable imitation of working.

I headed back to a wave from Mr Greece and was told in no uncertain terms that I would be drinking another shot. Yay! I had just gotten to the point when more drinks suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. He handed accross the money, with a lingering hand on mine, and a long stare into my eyes. Oh dear. Suddenly I hear: "Oi luv. You seen me phone? I know its 'ere somewhere." No sir, sorry.

I turned back to the 19year olds, who were making up for their low number of years with a high number of drinks. One looks me up and down. "You new? I can show you about town, luv. Whats your phone number? We can start with my place." Oh. My. God. I just got chatted up by a prepubescent chav.

"You there, luv. I lost me phone. You seen it? I aint seen it." No sir, fuck off sir, go somewhere else sir (I thought to myself).

I went to go and bitch to a fellow staff member, but before I could say anything he asked me if I could pop down to the cellar and change a keg, as he was mid order. No problem, I popped down, changed the barrel, and returned to try bitch again. Before I could speak, he says "thanks hun. Its so nice to have a girl around here who knows what they are doing. I mean, I could never sleep with 'Caroline' for example, cause if she cant even learn how to change a keg, whats the chances she can learn in bed?" It took my slightly addled brain a few minutes to work out if I was indeed seeing a come-on in there or not.

"You seen me phone, luv?" No, you stupid drink steeped old fart of a fake fisherman, I have NOT seen your bloody phone (I thought to myself. At some point thought would become speach, and I was getting nervous).

Mr Greece waved frantically for the next round and I delivered it with the required 2 shots, which were rapidly downed by me and him. "So what you doing after work? Come back to mine and have a drink." Sorry mate, I have a man. "Oh really where is he then? He is in the States right now. "Well then, you have the 'different continent' rule, dont you then." I sighed and walked away.

"Oi luv, you seen me..." I turned to find that Stinky had fallen asleep mid sentence. I took the glass out of his hand, poured the remaining drink down the sink and woke him up. "Dont wake me up! You should be workin, not wakin me up. Wheres me drink?" You finished it before you fell asleep. "Awrite, luv. I'm off to me bed. You comin?"

I am not exceptionally pretty. I am not exceptionally busty. I just keep living in small towns and communities desperate for fresh meat of the human female variety. God knows whats going to happen to my ego when I move back to the city and find I am one of many and no longer remarkable. On second thoughts, should I stay?

New jobs often suck

2008-10-04T02:12:00.002+02:00

So I started my new job with all the flair and hope that one starts any new undertaking. Although this job is simply a means to an end (paying off a stupid phone situation, and saving up for the return to my man) I hoped to enjoy myself while I did it.

My first mistake: Accomodation. On the day that I came for my interview, there had been a farewell party the night before for the member of staff that I was to replace. This meant that everyone I met was hungover. Including the manager I was interviewed by. This was fine by me. I like a drink or seven when a good party is an excuse, and I was assured that this was not the normal state of things. However, when I asked to see the accomodation offered (pub jobs in the UK usually come with accomodation. It means you cant pull a sickie), I was told that the place was strewn with drunk people, but assured that the accomodation was above average and that I would have my own room. I figured that after living in a tent in the dustiest and most disease ridden country in the world, that I would be able to manage. I was sorely sorely mistaken.

The day I moved in I lugged my belongings from London out to the countryside, and arrived ready and full of a certain hopeful cheer. I knew I was going to hate it when I walked up the stairs to the accomodation. Imagine a teenagers bedroom. Got it? Now imagine that the teenager has been sharing his bedroom with 10 other teenagers for the last 4 years, and that they had occasionally decided that a bonfire INSIDE the house was a good idea. Not to mention the belongings of several past members of staff that they couldnt be bothered to take with them on their next adventure. At the top of the stairs is a landing that has to be negotiated with a certain amount of nimble footedness to avoid the old shoes, the random dirty glasses (some broken) and for some bizarre reason, a packet of ready sliced cheese. I am still sure that the cheese turned to watch me pass.

I made it relatively safely to my room, a little concerned for my health, and was in for yet another disappointment. My room is tiny, has a single bed that I choose not to know the history of, and has one small window, which I choose to keep closed because the heating doesnt work and the air outside is frosty. At some point it was part of a bigger room, and has been subdivided, using standard corner cutting chip board of the cheapest variety. They never plastered, or painted, over it. Also, it is directly above the bar, and not only can I hear the music downstairs, but I can actually hear the conversations of the customers as they sit at the bar on their 20th pint of the day.

At this point I almost walked straight back out again. However, I liked the people and figured if I could live in Sudan, I could live in this. Until that night. I wasnt shifted to work for that first night and so I sat at the bar and had a few drinks. Both my man, and my Dad, called that evening to ask how I was doing, and I assured them that the pub was great, the staff nice people, and that I was looking forward to my job. That rapidly changed when it reached 3am and the staff were still going strong on the drink. At this point I wanted to cry. The all night drinking is, in fact, a nightly event. As are the drugs (which I avoid as much as is possible). I woke the next day with a feeling of dread but was determined to give it a shot. I worked my first shift with a hangover, and was astounded when a staff member I hadnt met yet arrived for her lunch shift half an hour late (to no comment from management) and immediately poured herself a double gin and tonic. By the time she finished her shift 5 hours later she was hammered. I asked the manager if this is normal. 'Oh yes,' he says, 'she does this most days.'

I hate it. I hate the accomodation, I hate the staff who drink solidly, I hate the supervisor who gets too drunk to count the tills in the evening, and I hate that the only quiet I have in my room is somewhere between 3am and 9am. I am staying until the end of next week, I shall collect my pay, and run with my tail between my legs back to London. Dear god, what a place. Beautiful pub, beautiful location, and the most derelect and insane staff I have met for a while.

I am DEFINITELY too old for this shit!

New blog, new situation

2008-10-01T02:06:00.003+02:00

So, there may be a few changes. And although some photos and a small change in font and colour may appear to be a little small in the change department, they reflect slightly larger changes in the rather strange situation that is my life.

I have taken a new job. I will be working in a lovely little country pub in a small town in a very affluent area of England. This is, of course, a temporary situation. Lets just wait and see where it leads.

No more Sudan, no more Kenya, no more 3rd, 4th and 5th world. I have done my time, and once the dust and grime was out of my hair I realised I didnt want it back in there.

Whats amusing to me is that when I first started thinking about writing a blog, it was when I was working at a small local pub in London. The things that happen behind the scenes, and in front of the bar were often more funny than any episode of Cheers could hope to be.

Now I am moving to a local country pub, where the affluent newcomers are flanked by the long standing plumbers and mechanics, who were the ones who made it such a desirable place to live to start with. I love seeing subtle Gucci and Prada standing next to spattered plumbers uniforms as the sleeves reach accross the bar for a much needed pint of local ale. This looks like it could be fun...

First K/night

2008-09-29T16:43:00.002+02:00

Knights in shining armour come in many different shapes and sizes. Mine came in layers of warm clothing, and a headlamp.

Charley and I began our road trip 3 days after I arrived in Colorado. I had to adjust to the massive leap in altitude and to get used to the new time zone. This was accoumpanied by much breathlessness and the complete inability to brush my teeth without stopping for a breather.

We decided that we would be camping mostly and would stay in a motel or hotel every few nights so we could have a proper shower, and a bed big enough to actually move around in.... Charley has adjusted his truck by adding a platform in the back, meaning that you can store all your stuff underneath it, and have a mattress on top. This means that you have about a foot and a bit of clearance in the back, so you cant quite sit up, but the roof isnt on your nose either. Ideal for rainy or cold places where we wouldnt want to be in a tent.

So, off we went. More gear and equipment was loaded into that truck than I have used before ever. We even took a makeshift kitchen sink. We headed up to a national park, the name of which completely eludes me. It was pretty, and mountainous, had elk, and then it started to rain. Not your usual rain. It didnt pour and stop. It didnt get heavier and lighter. It just slowly fell at exactly the same quantity, for hours. Repetitively. Constantly. Tapping. All day.

By the time we were ready to camp, we were a little tired of the whole rain thing. We took a few items out the back, settled into the 'shelf bed' and watched a film on the laptop. Shortly after it was finished it was about the right time to go to sleep, so we settled in and laid down our heads. To be fair, they didnt have far to go from our previous almost sitting position, but I felt there had to be a distinction for me to feel like I was going to bed.

I rested my eyes, and cuddled up nice a cozy, and slowed my breathing, and very suddenly realised that I am claustrophobic. Yes, indeed. Claustrophobic. The thought that I was going to wake up with the roof a foot above my head, the fact that I couldnt get out without sliding to the end of the 'bed', well, I started hyperventilating and was heading towards a full on panic attack, when Charley helped me out the truck and lit me a cigarrette. At this point we were standing in the constant rain. It hadnt changed, it was still steady and slowly soaking. Charley just stood there and stared at me for a few minutes. I think he might have been trying to decide if he should put me back on a plane and send me on my way.

I eventually got my breathing under control, with the aid of my beloved nicotine. Charley finally looked at me, and asked if I was going to be ok in the truck, or if I needed the tent. After several sobbing breaths (the sobbing being re-introduced thanks to my contemplation of a whole night in the truck) I said that I needed the tent.

So at 12:00 at night, in the constant drizzle and the freezing cold (it was below freezing at this point), my Knight erected a tent, placed the mattress and the bedding and all the little comfort things in there, and took me to bed with a cuddle.

It poured all of the next day too. The memory of that constant tapping is making me shudder even now.

Back Story

2008-09-28T11:01:00.002+02:00

So, as it is in the title that this blog is about my adventures, I have avoided personal side stories. Now, my adventures have taken me on a personal story that has become the crux of my latest moves. So here is the back story... the last few weeks will be entered in a series of installments, partly because I am incredibly jetlagged, and partly because I lack enough creative energy to write it all at once. So.. to start at the beginning...

About 2 years ago, while I was working as an assistant manager of a pub in London, an American guy called Tam came to work for us. He just happened to be in the pub at the time that my boss was interviewing, and when he inquired about the available position, he was hired on the basis that his handshake was firmer by far than any other artsy students who had applied that day, and the fact that he could speak fluent (yet somewhat bastardised) English.

Tam and his wife turned out to be the turning point in my opinion of the general American population. My experience thus far had included over-fed tourists turning their noses up at a decent 'bangers and mash' and asking for the nearest McDonalds. Not only did they as a couple shatter all preconcieved stereotypes, they then went on to host every member of their family and to parade them past our pub in ones, twos and complete family units. I have seldom met an entire family that I like as much as I liked this one.

The last family member to arrive was Charley, Tams brother. Never has having a boyfriend been so inconvenient as it was when I met Charley. I was powerfully attracted. We spent a day together going through museums, and who knew you could have so much fun, or laugh so much looking at old and outdated displays? But, I was seeing someone. I wasnt going to break up with the guy I was with for a guy who was in the country for less than a week. Neither would I cheat. The challenge was showing ambivalence. I fear this lady may have protested too much.

I never forgot him. A few months later I recieved a bunch of orchids annonymously delivered by the flower company. It took me 5 months to find out they were from Charley. We eventually got back in contact about 7 months ago. And we have been online every day, night and any time inbetween, chatting skyping, video chatting, msn and one failed phone call. I couldnt let this go on and not find out one way or the other if there was a future.

I planned a holiday. He booked time off. I have just returned from the holiday and I have never been quite so deeply in love in my life. I shall leave it at that for now, as the leaving is fresh. I shall come back to the start of our holiday which, unsurpisingly, began with an adventure that is amusing in restrospect, rather than at the time. Be back soon.

Sorry I cant take your call right now.....

2008-09-10T16:57:00.003+02:00

I am off, holiday begun. See you when reality returns.....

Lovin' London

2008-09-05T12:10:00.002+02:00

Oh, dear old London, how I love you! With your drinkable tap water, your effective but overcrowded public transport system, your lovely unbroken tarred roads, your range of food, drink, and places to enjoy both.

Yes, I am back in London. I had so looked forward to returning to civilisation, and to all the things listed above. However, I landed at Heathrow at 4pm in the afternoon. I had been travelling since 3am English time, and I was exhausted. I waited in the inevitable English queue for about an hour, finally got through passport control (after some suspicious looks at the Arabic stamps on the previous page) and made it to the Picadilly line. By which time it was rush hour. Within and hour of returning I was swearing at tourists standing on the wrong side of the escalator, shouting at people to let me (and my massive suitcase) off the tube before they get on, and generally just being cranky and hating the transport. Oh, how I longed for a 4x4 and some bumpy roads....

I survived though, and the next day was sitting eating lovely Japanese food in a trendy little restaurant overlooking the Thames. I sat chatting with a friend I havent seen since I left Cape Town about 3/4 years ago. Aside from the two guys and girl at the next table, we were the only people in the restaurant. We had a wonderful meal, full of little tasty things on little bamboo sticks, and discussing my friends failed marriage. Yes, I am not only old enough to have friends getting married now, but apparently I am old enough to have friends getting divorced. We decided however, that at the very least, they got to have a fantastic party at the expense of their parents, and his wife got to wear a beautiful gown, which so rarely happens these days.

He felt a little left out though. We decided that maybe there should be more situations where men get to wear beautiful gowns. This was the slightly hysterical and giggly conversation of about 15 minutes. Rising hysteria, mixed with food on sticks, and Japanese beer... I think its fair to say that the other table heard out conversation...

It was only after we had paid, and stood up to leave, that either of us paid much attention to the fact that although there were two guys and a girl at the next table, there were, in fact, no female voices. In fact, the girl (wearing a denim mini skirt, bobby socks, mary janes and with lovely long blonde hair) had a fairly distinctive adams apple.....

Yes, I am definitely back in London.

Marriage

2008-08-24T19:59:00.002+02:00

Its the topic on my mind. Partly because my cousin is getting married in a few weeks and partly because I keep getting proposed to and partly because EVERYONE else I know is either getting married or proposed to, and partly because 'rings' recently came up in conversation.

Anyway, today I was rearranging store rooms. Sounds simple doesn't it? We have 13 store rooms (I say store rooms, I mean containers, 20ft ones and one 40ft). 3 freezers, 4 fridges and 6 dry stores. They were in a mess. The bleach was being stored with the grains, the tinned food was in duplicate in 4 different store rooms, the meat was just in one big pile in the middle of a freezer with no shelves, I could go on. Basically a health and safety and logistical nightmare. I spent all day carrying 20ltr drums of cleaning liquid and drums of tomatoes and various other heavy items around. So I needed something to keep me entertained.

I decided to bring up the topic of marriage with my exclusively African staff. Normally they don't really talk to me. I am just 'madam'. This makes me feel old and slightly embarrassed, so I try to give them something to laugh at me about thats completely unrelated to work so that they still think of me as 'boss' but also as 'human'. (Its also weird to me that at the moment I have about 50 staff who report to me and most of them are 10years older than me. Sucks to be them)

The topic came up while I was laden with about 20kgs of 100% All American BBQ Sauce (made in Kenya) and my phone rang. I went though all the trouble of putting down my 100% real imitation foodstuff, reached into my pocket with filthy hands, got my phone out, only to realise that the call was from a crazy SPLA member I have been desperately trying to avoid for months. He decided I was going to be his second wife (not divorced, he just wants two wives). Please note that HE decided. Apparently this is not my choice. So I put it on silent and put my phone back in my pocket and turned back to what I was doing. And saw all the staff staring at me. Apparently not answering your phone is just NEVER done.

So I explained. Again they stared at me for a moment. Then one of them finally got up the courage and said "Madam, what is wrong with him that you aren't considering it?"

Me: Because I want to be the ONLY wife when I marry.

Staff: *amazed and confused silence*

Staff member #1: You know, you Kawajas (white people, foreigner etc) are very strange.

Me: Well, why? Are your wives happy with a second wife in their home?

Staff #2: No, but we just think they are being jealous. Its not for me to worry about.

Me: OK, well, if a man can have two wives, then why cant a woman have 2 husbands?

Staff: *absolute silence*

Staff: *followed by all making horrified noises in unison*

Staff #3: But Madam! That is madness. It has never been done before

This is coming from a man that until 3 years ago had never had a job, never used a flush toilet, never slept on a bed, or lived in one place for more than a year at a time.

Me: But many things have never been done before! You have never... (and then I stopped. How do I relate the above mentioned items without sounding like your typical elitist foreigner?)

Me: Um... well, I think that women should have the same rights as men and should be allowed to marry as many men as they want!

And with that I humphed off. There was a notable silence behind me, followed by a string of amazed high speed Arabic, followed by hysterical laughter. Job done, mission accomplished. Now they all think I am crazy.

Hey, at least this lot wont want to marry me!

Frustration

2008-08-19T10:27:00.002+02:00

Work is fine. Its exactly what I have always wanted to do while in Juba, in fact. I am making things work. Its what I love to do the most. Give me a working system and I get bored and lazy. Give me a complete mess and I dive right in.

However, the holiday is looming. I haven't had a holiday in years. Not a proper one. Yes, I took 2 months off work when I first left England and went to stay in Nairobi, but it was for personal reasons and I was nearly catatonic for the first 6 weeks so it doesn't count.

A real holiday involves:
A beautiful or interesting location of choice
Someone to spend it with
A complete lack of responsibility for that time

THAT I have not had in years! But I have one coming up... This is how my thought process during the day goes:

'Ok, I need to get the health and safety procedures written up, and those staff record forms are almost ready to be implemented, I need to go buy ink from that American guy... oooh, America, I am going there soon... for a holiday! I should probably remember to pack my hiking boots (which country did I leave them in again?) and I mustn't forget .....' And thats the end of my concentration for the next hour.

I am being a bit useless. Somehow, though, I have managed to get my employers to believe I am being incredibly productive. They keep trying to bribe me to give up my holiday for obscene amounts of money. No way. Not on your life. I have been looking forward to this holiday (and the person I am spending it with) for WAY too long.

I have to get this work done though! I. Must. Concentrate. Blogging not helping.

Oh dear

2008-08-14T21:28:00.002+02:00

I would like to state in advance that I am writing this immediately after the event, and am therefore a little drunk.

Imagine this for a moment:
You grew up in a country that drives on the left hand side of the road. Therefore your car has always been right hand drive. Not only that, but in your country the concept of an 'automatic' car is for the rich and lazy. You drive manual (stick shift). Your driving license test was done in a manual car. Then, for some bizarre reason you cant quite fathom, you move to Sudan. In Sudan, cars come from wherever was importing them the cheapest at the time. The law is to drive on the right hand side of the road. Any given car you drive could be left or right hand drive. Automatic or manual.

Now imagine you have been in Nairobi (Kenya) for a few weeks and have once again reverted to type and have been driving a manual, right hand drive (left side of the road) car, and have once again become accustomed.

Are you confused? Excellent.

I went out tonight. I was driven to the designated location, and handed the keys when we got there. Then, I had a few glasses of wine. And got in the car to drive home.

First, I got in the wrong door. I looked around, checking that no one had noticed. No one around. Great. I got out, walked round the car, got in the correct side. I put the key in the slot, and turned on the ignition, gave the accelerator a couple of pumps to make sure the car was warm (what was I thinking, its 35 degrees C for heavens sake). Then I tried to put the car in gear. Oops. Nothing happened. Why? I was in an automatic.

Turn the car off. Foot on brake. Start car. Gear in 'drive'. Moving forward. Progress. Oh shit! Wrong side of the road.

Amazingly, I made it home in one piece. Once I was actually driving I was fine.

I have started the new job, and I am loving it. The place is in an absolute mess. The previous manager was a mess and when they fired him he deleted everything off the computer. This means there are no stock control systems, no menu costings, no bar costings, no staff lists, wage percentages, P&L's, ANYTHING! I love it! The thing I enjoy most is setting up systems and making them work, then handing them over. I get bored fast, but this consulting thing suits me fine.

My accommodation is great. I have an en suite room, with air conditioning and wait for it.... a HOT shower! I have definitely landed well here. I wonder if they want me back full time?

More to come, watch this space....

Back

2008-08-08T23:32:00.002+02:00

I am the panicky sort. Generally if things start faling apart, I panic. Well, that used to be me. Despite all the drama of last few weeks, I had this wierd calm that things were gonna work out. Dont be decieved though. I did have my down days when I thought the world was going end, but generally, I was suprisingly calm.

The problems were these: I lost my job, I wasnt paid, I couldn't sue, I have a holiday booked and no spending money.

Enter Nicky. I used to work with Nicky at my old bar that I ran in Juba (the one with all the animal rescues - We called it Bedouin Bar and Menagerie). She left her job there for basically the same reasons I did. We loved working together though. She has just got a new position with a company in Juba that caters and runs several camps AND she needs someone to help her set up catering sytems. Enter me.

I will be going back to Juba on Wednesday to do 18 days of work helping with costings, service procedures, ordering and stock control protocols etc. Wohoo! All expenses paid, and a wad of cash in my hand just in time for my holiday. Also, a possibility of a full time job should I want it after my leave. We shall see if I want to stay in Juba though. Anything could happen.

In the mean time, its a whole new company I havent worked for, new accomodation, new camp mates, and I just cant wait for the new stories I get to write in this blog. Bring it on!

Watch this space...

Smoking

2008-08-05T14:54:00.003+02:00

As I have previously mentioned in this blog, I am a smoker. I smoke a lot. Probably about 30 a day. Yes, I can hear lung cancer beckoning. I am in the best kind of denial. The problem is I LIKE smoking. I don't want to stop.

Anyway, Kenya has started a lovely new law that says no smoking in public. Not just restaurants, or public buildings. Public. Not on the street, no quick puff outside the back of a restaurant, NOWHERE in sight of a person that isn't on your own personal property. Unlike most other places in Africa where the police are more worried about important things like, you know, catching murderers, rapists, robbers etc the police here are looking to line their pockets. Its the most aggressive implementation of a law I have ever seen. If you are seen buying cigarettes you are watched like a hawk all the way out of the vicinity, just in case you sneakily light up. They are the Kenyan equivalent of the license plate scheming Sudanese traffic cops.

I figured that my car being my personal property, I could smoke in it. I always smoke when I drive. I always have the windows open while smoking, which makes driving in winter freezing, but I refuse to bathe in cigarette smoke, so open windows and a cigarette while driving is how it works. I was driving down the road, cigarette in hand and came to an intersection. Sitting, nay, lounging, on the grassy kerb were two police men. Police here carry AK-47's by the way. I stopped at the intersection, checked both ways, started to drive and nearly hit one of the gun wielding policemen as he jumped out in front of my car and instructed me to pull over. You don't say no to someone carrying a large automatic weapon that could kill you and your entire family in one short burst.

And he smiled at me. Big wide grin. 'Madam, you are smoking in public' (he can just imagine the bribe money in his hand already)

Me: No, I am in my car which is private property. I am not in public.
Cop: Madam, your windows are open therefore you are affecting the public.
Me: Sir (always be nice to idiots... they are easily offended), if I am in my house, should I keep the windows closed while I smoke because the smoke may affect the neighbors?
Cop: *after brief blank stare* Your windows are open. It is against the law.
Me: I tell you what, I am just going to call my lawyer.

I went through the pretend motions of making a phone call. I am an excellent actress when lying in real life. Put me in front of a camera and I go all freezy, but in real life I can pretend to be ANYTHING. Its a talent fine tuned during my teenage years. My mother is a recovering addict, and you cant lie to a practised lier. I had to learn fast. Moving on...

Me: Hi there... yess, its *Miss P*. I am fine... yes, well I have been stopped by the cops, they say.... bla blah blah........
Back to the cop: Right, my lawyer says its not illegal to smoke in the car, and if you want to charge me with it, he will meet me at the station. Which station are we going to?
Cop: Madam, there is no need to go to the station....
Me (interrupting): excellent. Thank you for the warning, have a nice day...

And off I drove. I know that what he was after was some money in his palm. Since I lost my job (and my boss refused to pay me) I am damned if I am going to give anyone else money for free. I have a holiday booked I cant afford, no job to come back to (yet) and absolutely no idea whats coming next. Actually, bearing in mind the state of mind I am in, he was lucky to get off with a pretend lawyer phone call! Next time I am going to steal the AK. Maybe rob a bank... Hmmmm... let me think this one through.....I'l get back to you in a bit

Oh, and by the way, here is a pic of my little house in Nairobi. A bit different to a tent in dusty Juba isnt it?

The Next Chapter

2008-07-30T14:09:00.000+02:00

Its amazing how relative experiences can be. I am back in Nairobi, in Kenya, which is 3^rd world. There are potholes in the roads and they flood stupidly when it rains. There is no public transport, and the power stations regularly go down leaving you without power for hours, sometimes days. But, to me, its bliss. I am back in a real house, I have a kitchen, a proper bathroom, hot water, a fireplace, a car that isn’t 4x4 (although its confusing getting used to right hand drive and left hand roads again) and shops where I can buy fresh fruit, meats, sea food etc. It’s wonderful!

The one thing that hasn’t changed though, is staff. They are everywhere! In one of my blog posts, I had a rant and stated all the things I was going to do when I get back to civilisation. On of them was walk to the bathroom naked. Now, I am staying with my mother right now (feels like a massive step backwards, but I love her to bits and she cracks me up so its ok) and since she has seen it all before I fully intended to get up in the morning and walk to the bathroom without having to stop and put something on.

We have a cleaner but she is off sick until Friday. I woke up this morning curled under a duvet (I haven’t slept under a duvet in ages! Been too hot), stretched and wandered out of my room across the hall, and into the bathroom. As I was about to close the door I heard a silence. Not the type of silence one expects in an empty house, rather the type of silence when someone abruptly stops moving so as not to be noticed. I peeked my head (only my head, I was naked as the day I was born) out the door, and there, blushing furiously and trying desperately not to be noticed, is the cleaner, come back to work early. And behind her, through the window, the gardener. I have no idea if the gardener saw anything, but the cleaner hasn’t been able to look at me since. Poor thing.

So yeah, I am back in Nairobi for a month. I have some promising temporary work coming up, and then I am shooting off on my holiday at the end of August. Things are looking up. I think I will be back some day though. I haven't got East Africa out of my blood just yet… we shall see what the future holds.

However, if you are interested in the goings on in Sudan, and the bizarreness that is Juba, I recently discovered that one of my campmates also writes a blog. Amusingly, some of her posts almost directly correlate to mine as we have had similar experiences, but as she is still there, the stories aren’t about to end… Petunia in Paradise.

I am not about to stop though. There will be more of the adventures. I also have to mention that while I was writing this, the electricity went out and I have been sitting in a house with no hot water, no electricity, no TV and its bloody cold outside. I may as well be back in Sudan, for comfort sakes! Africa wins again.

Back to reality

2008-07-23T13:11:00.002+02:00

You may have noticed that not only have my last few blog posts had nothing whatsoever to with Sudan, or me for that matter, but also that they are very close together in posting times. Usually there is a nice long break between posts because I am busy and don't have time to write.

There are reasons for these observations. Three reasons in fact.

1) I was fired
2) I have suddenly realised how much I am going to miss Sudan
3)I am still trying to process the above.

If you read the post named 'Its been a while...', well, that is basically why I was fired. I don't think its fair. Certainly not reason for instant dismissal. But there is nothing I can do about it here. Lovely Sudanese law. So I have chosen not to dwell on it, and to move on to the next thing. Not sure what that will be yet, but it should be fun finding my next adventure.

In the mean time, I am leaving Sudan and going back to Kenya next week, and I have suddenly realised how much I am going miss some things here.

The craziness, although exhausting, has been amusing. I have had some truly amazing experiences, and learned more about my continent than I ever thought I would (did I ever mention anywhere in here that I am South African? I don't think I have).

And I am going to really really miss the people. Not the locals. The people working here. I love the people I live with. The crazy young business man who never stops working except to party once a week; the dance and sex obsessed construction manager who will happily dance all by himself to a tune he loves; his girlfriend who works crazy hours for an NGO distributing condoms, mosquito nets and water treatments and has a wicked sense of humour; the new young pilot who keeps me company on long evenings and likes ALL the same music I do; the crazy ex military guys who come and go and have stories that make even me blush.

I am going to miss the hodge podge of people from all over the world I have met in Juba. My crazy French/Kenyan/American friend who spends weeks trying to fix my computer and wont even let me buy him lunch; the brazilian guys who couldnt be more stereotypical if they tried; the Irish that have to keep trying to convince people they arent terrorists, the Scandinavians that wont let you into their camp unless you speak a Scandinavian language. Basically Juba is a mix of Missionaries, Mercenaries and Misfits. I love them.

I am going to miss the adventure of a windstorm in a tent, and a rain storm on the drive home. Avoiding the goats in the road, and boat trips on the Nile. Dinner in the open air, and a cold shower after a sweaty day, by moonlight because there is no roof on the ablution block. The fact that on a clear night you can see the most amazing stars because the only lights nearby are oil lanterns.

Dont get me wrong, I am glad to leave, and I am looking forward to the luxuries in life again. But, I am going to miss Sudan. I have found a little piece of me here.

Shameless advertising

2008-07-23T12:37:00.002+02:00

Yes I know, but I am shameless. I really think you should all check out 'All mouth and nae Troosers'. Seldom have I met someone with such a fantastic talent for writing. This lovely man started writing a travel book, and discovered that blogging was a brilliant opportunity to vent his random rants. I guarantee hilarity! Check him out....

I love my friends

2008-07-22T12:57:00.003+02:00

This was sent to me by Miss M. I LOVE my friends....

They grow them bigger here.

2008-07-19T12:01:00.005+02:00

I am not easily scared. I have few phobias. Very few in fact. I like snakes, I dont mind spiders, I love heights (although I always have an odd urge to throw myself off high things... not suicidal, just a weird urge). Basically I can be fairly rational in the face of scary things.

However, I have one major flaw in the phobia department. I am absolutely, one hundred percent terrified of praying mantis. There is no reason behind it really. I just absolutely hate the little buggers. Are they good luck to have in the home? Do I care? Not in the least. If one tried to come into my home I would take the deodorant and the lighter and flame the little bastard to ashes.

Which is well and good unless you live in a canvas tent. My zip on my tent broke. Naturally. So I was sitting up one night late talking to someone wonderful on skype till about 2am, finally said goodbye, and was just about to turn out the light... and a praying mantis flies into the tent. And lands on the lamp next to my head. NEXT TO MY HEAD!!!!!!

I stifled a scream, and ran/fell/stumbled accross the tent to the furthest corner I could. And stared at it. Now what? The mantis was sitting quite calmly on the light, enjoying the fact that unlike the laterns outside, this light wont kill it. I wish I had a lantern in my room. But no. There it sat, staring back, calmly rubbing its horrible little front feet together.

I reviewed my options:
Home made deodorant flamethrower? ..... no, canvas tent.
umm...
Someone else to come get it for me? .........Its 2am. They might kill me instead of the mantis.
huh.
Maybe a shoe thrown expertly accross the room? Wait, I am a girl. I cant throw. My wrists always get in the way for some reason...

PANIC!

I actually started crying. I dont cry... much. I can turn them on or off, but generally I dont cry unless its tactical. But this time I started crying out of sheer frustration. My palms were so sweaty with fear that my hands could just about rival my eyes for liquid leakage.

I decided to try master my fear and grabbed a bowl that I kept in the tent for the kittens water, emptied it, and slowly moved towards hells creature. It was now sitting on the side of the tent. I gathered my thoughts, took a deep breathe, let out a little wimper and pounced on the thing with the bowl.

Except

I hadnt thought about the fact that canvas walls arent solid by definition. The little fucker slid out from under the bowl and flew accros the room, brushing my hand as it went. Have you ever done that dance? That 'theres something on me I am sure of it but I cant work out where' dance? I did it for a full 3 minutes. Only to see it had landed on my mirror. This time I didnt stop to think, I just pounced. GOT IT!! Wohooo! Slid a piece of cardboard underneath and took it outside and left it under the bowl. It took me a full hour to get to sleep.

The next day I was flushed with triumph. I had overcome fear and survived without mantis induced death. Until I walked to the canteen for lunch. There, sitting on the fencing, was the biggest praying mantis I have ever seen. It was longer from head to tail than my hand.

I took a picture on a very high zoom setting so that people couldn't tell me I was lying about the size, and then walked all the way round the camp to get to the canteen from the other side.

When I leave here, I am never, ever coming back.

The Sudan Situation

2008-07-15T09:01:00.002+02:00

I have been getting an awful lot of questions about the situation in Sudan, and I have realized that I never really explained it. So here is the most boring post you will read, unless you are interested in politics of course.

Right, to start with you have to understand that Sudan is the second biggest country in Africa. Only Algeria is bigger and then not by much. When the colonials were dividing up land a while back they basically just sat down and drew lines on a map. This may make sense to monarchs playing a game of 'Risk', but when it comes to African tribes this is somewhat like putting the school bully and the school nerd in one project group; violence will follow. Within Sudan they managed to include both the African tribes (the South) and the Arab tribes (the North) in one country. Not only that, but the part of the country that has the worlds largest unexploited oil reserves happens to be in the South, with the Africans. And everyone wants it. Now there are all sorts of interesting tribal justifications about the war between North and South, but the basic fact of the matter is that they both wanted control of the oil. Well, obviously religion comes into it too. When doesn't it?

So, a rebel group formed in the South. The SPLA/M (The Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army/Movement). They fought for freedom from the rule of the North. I am not completely clear if they hoped to take over the whole country or if they just wanted the South to be independent. However, eventually international agencies got involved and on 9th Juanuary 2005 they signed the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA). South Sudan is to have its own government (located in Juba) and the SPLA was to undergo training by anyone and everyone willing, so that they could become a true military branch of the Government, rather than remain a rebel group.

All well and good. The problem is that Khartoum (capital of the North) still has control over an awful lot of the goings on in the country. For example, the police force is from Khartoum. You can imagine how much the SPLA and the police love each other cant you? Darfur (also North) is still a major problem as well, as its still a holdout for loads of rebel groups. To be fair they probably spend more time fighting each other than anyone else, but the point is they are still fighting. Whats interesting about the whole process is that essentially what the CPA allows is the training of a rebel group, so they can fight better. Anyone else worried about this?

So the current situation is an interesting one. The President of the country is currently at risk of being charged with 'war crimes'. Now, I am all for arresting and putting in jail (or in some cases just killing) the type of person that not only goes to war, but decides to throw in a healthy dose of genocide aswell. However, when we are looking at the president of a country that has peace for the first time in 22 years, do you think its worth it?

Besides, the Sudanese Government is basically puttings its fingers in its ears and going 'la-la-la-la-la-la' at high volume. They have issued a statement that they do not recognise the ICC (International Criminal Court) and have actually refused to hand over 2 people who have warrents out for their arrest. Would you believe that one of the guys who is charged with 'Crimes against humanity' is the Minister of Humanitarian Affairs? I do just love this country.

Anyway, what this means to me living here... nothing at the moment. Juba has been independant of the conflict for a long time. However, should the ICC decide to arrest the president (the descision is going to take 6 weeks), things will rapidly become more interesting. The UN, for one, will suddenly be very unwelcome. They account for hundreds, possibly thousands of people living in Juba, not to mention the funding for half the NGO's.

For now though, I am safe, and the conflict is all in in Khartoum, Darfur and Abyei so I am fine where I am. 6weeks time will be interesting though...

Its been a while

2008-07-14T11:11:00.002+02:00

Ok, so after much disgust from various parties about my complete lack of posts in the last week, I have finally succumbed to the pressure and sat my ass down to write something.

However, I just don't know quite what to mention. I am running out of sense of humour recently, I have to admit. I mean, its been your usual Juba week. Should I relate a moment from the party I went to? Or should I talk about the fact that the road to my house is completely washing away with each rain storm? Or maybe the massive market that has suddenly appeared from nowhere near my site, and has the place crawling with drunken people walking into the road? Hmmmm.

Work I think. We have a new client. Our new client is a reputable NGO that works all over South Sudan. Whats great about the contract is that if they like our guarding services, they are going to use us in the national sites, so thats about 100 guards. Do you have any idea how much money that is??? And I get bonuses for every guard I place. 100 bonuses....... *sigh* Now, our gaurds are good guys. We have had a couple of complaints about sleeping on duty but thats kinda par for the course, so I was confident. We placed some of the new guys and a few of the old faithfuls on each site, and left them to it.

Two days after the contract starts I get a text message from the Director of the NGO. 'Your guard has disappeared. Plese find a replacement immediately'. Fuck. Racing around for 30minutes gets me a guard willing to work for the day, and delivered to the site. When I arrive on site I go see the director, and tell her that the replacement has arrived. She tells me that the guard (who at this location is a woman...according to her ID) has returned and told her she was on a lunch break..... huh? So I call the security manager, and he says he has spoken to her and that she had to go to a meeting, and couldnt find anyone to replace her and had left. I went to go and speak to her myself and she tells ME that her sister was in hospital in dire emergency and needed someone to be at her side. I like the escalation there, dont you? Anyway, turns out she was visiting a boyfriend. One of my staff from my old restaurant saw her. Shes fired. Bye bye!

I thought I had it all settled. The NGO were happy about the quick response. Fine.

Until Tuesday... I was at home chatting away online at about 9pm. I get a call. 'Miss P, your guard is drunk and had to be sent home. Please send a replacement'. Fuck. So I call the security manager on duty. No answer. I radio him. No answer. This guy is on duty for a security company in a dangerous city in a war torn country and he turns off his phone and his radio. About an hour later I get a call saying that the replacement has arrived. How the fuck that happened I have no idea because I didnt get hold of anyone. Someone just showed up. Wasn't gonna tell her that though. However, he was found asleep. An hour after arriving he was asleep. At 11pm at night. So fast asleep that she had to shake him to wake him. Luckily he pulled himself together enough to not appear drunk (which I have no doubt he was). Finally all is settled for the night, so I woke up the next day hoping I had sorted it out. I get a phone call at 7am. 'Miss P, your guard has arrived at work again. Yes, the one that was drunk last night. Yes, he is still drunk. And yes, he thinks he is working the day shift!' I wanted to cry.

I finally managed to get all the staff sorted out. I gave the security manager a serious screaming at (I say screaming at but rather it was a serious talking to. I seldom scream at staff, except at chefs for some reason. Maybe because they scream at me first..). Naturally he had an elaborate excuse as to why he couldnt possibly have his phone or radio on him. This is the third time I have had a disciplinary with the man. I have spent the last 6 days wondering how to fire the idiot, because he is fairly well connected to important people. But guess what? In true Sudanese style he simply hasnt shown up to work in 3 days. He got paid on Friday....and disappeared. *sigh*

So my boss arrived back yesterday to a contract gone horribly wrong, a manager that has run away, an an office that has staff files all over the place in an effort to work out who is who and where they are (I know its very un PC, but the only way I can tell these guys apart sometimes is the tribal scarring on their foreheads). Ah well, its just another day in paradise. Oddly I am having a wonderful day. I think I actually like stress. That or I am going native. I think thats more likely.....

4th of July in Juba..... bizarre

2008-07-07T11:40:00.003+02:00

OK, I have to start this post by apologizing to any Americans who read it. Not everything I write is complimentary. If it makes you feel better though, I can happily slag off my home country for a good 500 words in my next blog. Trust me, its easy. There is a lot to slag. You know, our next president is a rapist after all.

Anyway, moving on. It was the 4th of July. Grand old Independence Day. So naturally, everyone and their dog in Juba wanted to have a party, and everyone was trying to market theirs as the 'most authentic American'. As part of the quartet of the hardest partiers in Juba, everyone was trying to get me and my housemates to go to theirs (can I call them housemates if they only live on the same site that I do? We have different tents and we share a mess area, but thats it. So what do I call them? Suggestions please). For some reason, when me and my housemates go out, Juba follows. I think its because we like to dance so much, and people who dance, drink. People who drink not only spend more money(hence the invites from businesses) but tend to remember the night as being more fun, often erroneously (hence the invites from people).

As a result of this, we were inundated with invites to various different parties. One person was having a party at their camp, with DJ and dancing, another bar was having a party with a free buffet of suckling pigs, southern fried chicken (dont ask how that goes on a bbq, but they did it), potato salad etc. Another person was doing a full spread of grits, mac and cheese, pulled pork (what the hell is that anyway?) and other bits and pieces you hear about in movies.

Naturally, we opted for the free buffet. Wouldnt you? And the party was HUGE. We were dancing on the bar till the early hours. This was not the highlight of my weekend though. The highlight was on Sunday, when the director of USAID here (United States Agency for International Development) invited us to his house in the USAID compound for the afternoon. Now, I have mentioned that they are the only compound in Juba with a pool. What I didnt realize was what their houses are like. Seriously. Like a house you would find anywhere in the world. Cream carpets, big comfy sofas, flat screen TV, full kitchen (airconditioned), private patio garden with garden furniture.... actually, come to think of it, its probably a nicer house than any I have personally lived in anywhere! I was blown away. Do you have any idea the expense involved in shipping this stuff all the way from the States? Yes, not from the same continent, the States. Across an ocean and a massive continent comes the cooker and the sofas and the dining room table and the four poster beds, and the tiled bathroom with the special water filter so you can drink the water you shower in if you wish. The sheer enormous cost blew me away, almost as much as being able to walk around a house barefoot again..

I thought it was amazing, and I said as much to the housemate of our host. Her reply was to look at me sideways. 'Are you serious?' Of course I am serious you freak, this house is fantastic (I thought). She then went on to explain to me that placements in Juba are only for one year, as opposed to placements everywhere else in the world which are 2 years. The reason for this is the hardship. Its the only place where USAID employees are expected to share a house (*shock and horror*) and where they dont have a separate office compound, only the one compound with everything in one place. I tried to look sympathetic, while quietly thinking of my hot tent, complete lack of living area, no TV and a lazy fan that works when the generator works.

Yes, this is where the taxpayers dollars go. For the money that is spent on transport, shipping and logistics just for the furniture and kitchen appliances of one house, you could probably set up 3 sexual health and information clinics in a rural and desperately needy area. For the value of the compensation pay they get for the 'hardship' of living in one compound, you could sink a borehole and provide clean water for a community of several hundred people. But remember, it is so very important that the employees are comfortable at all times.

I was proud to go back to my tent and know that everything in it came from Nairobi, and therefore carried less carbon footprint and provided more work and income for people in a developing country that need the business and income more than almost anywhere else in the world. For surely that would be part of the idea of an 'Agency for International Development'?

On the other hand, I spent all day in that house, watching TV and cooking in the kitchen (Mac & Cheese, whilst wearing cut off jeans and listening to Billy Ray Cyrus - no kidding, not my choice) and swimming in the pool and having a hot shower before I went home in the evening. I dont think I have felt that clean, or that relaxed, since I moved to Juba. God Bless America!

.......and they change into animals at night!

2008-07-02T13:51:00.005+02:00

I have had an interesting few days. By interesting I mean stressful, but I choose to say interesting because it means that when I reread this I am less likely to pull my hair out at the root.

Banks in Sudan work like this: Money (as in cash) comes in from the branch in Khartoum. It gets withdrawn here by people who have done transfers or banked checks, and then it either goes to private people, or it goes straight across the road to the money exchange business and goes elsewhere in the world. Money is NEVER deposited into the bank here. This means that every month, money has to come from Khartoum. Khartoum is North Sudan. They dont like Juba, because Juba is South Sudan, and technically the head of a 'rebel' government. So money doesnt always arrive on time. Its like international passive aggression. You stole my country, so you cant have any money, so there!

This month, Khartoum is feeling a little sullen because two planes from Juba crashed on their shiny new airstrip. So we didnt get any cash. This means that none of the businesses could withdraw any cash, which means that I cant get paid by my clients, which means I cant pay my staff. In fact, one client was lucky enough to be the last person in the bank to withdraw cash, but he was paid 5000sp (sudanese pounds) in 5pound notes. So I got paid in 5 pound notes. I am now Queen Paper Cut, from counting repeatedly.

Anyway, I happened to have some US Dollars left so I paid one of the staff in dollars. After I paid him he was discussing with the security manager (who is also Sudanese) where he could exchange his money. I overheard the following conversation:

Security Manager (SM): Well you can go the place in town with the green roof. They always give a good rate.

Staff: No. The Ugandans are there, they are Hyenas

SM: Oh yes I forgot. But you are wrong. They are not hyenas, they are snakes.

Staff: Ooooooh. Where else can I go?

SM: well there is that guy there on custom road. He is Ethiopian.

Staff: Will go there.

I puzzled over this for a few moments. I tried and I tried but I could not work it out. Finally I turned to them and asked them what on earth they were talking about. Snakes and Hyenas?

The SM turned to me and said, 'Oh its the animal they turn into at night' and went back to his conversation.

Again, I had to stop for a moment.

Me:Wait wait wait, what do you mean 'turn into'?

SM:(talking to me like I am a child) The Ugandans, they have a medicine. They turn into animals at night. Thats why you can't trust a Ugandan.

Me: (thinking that I will play along and see where this conversation can possibly go) So why does them turning into animals mean you cant trust them?

SM: Well, the power it gives them means that they can make you see what they want you to see. So if you exchange money, they can make you see all the money, and when you walk away you will find you are holding blank paper.

Me: Has anyone ever had this happen to them?

Staff: Yes, madam, it happened to my father. He exchaged money in Kampala (capital of Uganda) and when he got home he found that only the front and back piece of every bundle was real money and the rest was paper.

Me: I dont want to insult anyone, but is it possible that he was just cheated and he didnt check the bundles before he left the exchange?

Staff and SM: No.

Do you feel absolutely dumbfounded? I am floored. I mean, surely logic would dictate a review of the facts? In fact, they are right there to see! No, they are Hyenas at night and this gives them the power to make you see what they want. What amazes me is that there is probably a particularly bent money dealer in Kampala (who maybe travelled to Juba at some point for an outing) who has engendered a whole new breed of folklore. I hope he is proud.

I would love to have this power. Strangely, it only works with large bundles of money....

Having a bit of a rant....Not funny, Sorry

2008-06-30T13:02:00.003+02:00

To all those of you who have admired my stoicism in the face of adversity and thought me a better person for it, you are about to be disappointed. I am having an 'I hate Sudan' day. Not a down day, not a depressed day, not an irritable day. I am having the kind of day where everything around me suddenly and inexplicably becomes too much, and I am almost willing to climb out of my own skin just to get the hell away.

I think the reason for this is that I am planning a holiday. In September (that is exactly 9 weeks away, I double count every day) I am travelling back to the UK for a week or so, and then on to USA for 2 weeks. As I have been planning and fantisizing about this fantastic event, I have been dreaming of all the things I am going to enjoy while I am there. And this is where the problems start. Because suddenly I am reminded of how many things I currently miss.

I shall give a brief rundown, in no particular order:

Hot showers, or showers with water pressure. All showers here are cold (except in the USAID compound, which we have access to once a week on Sundays when they open the pool area and showers to a select invited few- trust American NGO's to have luxuries in Sudan... and to be stingy).
Being able to walk from my shower to the mess area and still be clean. I can just about make it to my room/tent while remaining clean, but by the time I get to the mess area I have a sheen of dust on me.
Having hair I can pull a brush through. I use the following products: Deep Moisturising Shampoo, Deep Moisturising Conditioner, Nourishing Hair mask, and then, after towel drying, Nourishing Leave-in Conditioner. Within an hour of my hair drying, the tips are frizzy, the rest is brittle and it tangles if I so much as touch it. I have long hair. Most of the way down my back. I think I might shave my head.
Roads. The 'roads' here are made from Murrum. Its a clay type sand with stones in it that makes a passable road surface when its dry and new. After even one bout of rain however, it is not only corrugated, but liable to develope rivers down the middle. Driving is a new adventure after every rainstorm.
A kitchen. Not just a room with a stove and a fridge and a work surface. I mean a REAL kitchen. With nice laminate or marble countertops, tile floors, an oven that works, untensils and, most importantly, food that I can guarantee isnt going to give me salmonella.
Staff. I dont mean having staff around. To be honest I would much rather wash my own clothes and do my own dishes and mow my own lawn, if only it meant that I could get out of bed in the morning and go to the bathroom without having to put clothes on in case the staff see me. Or walk round the property at night without having people watching me. What I miss is staff that understand what you are asking for. The service staff here just dont. Even if they speak English, they just dont. For example, there is a woman that cleans our rooms. I say to her every day that she must just leave my bed alone, as I like it the way I make it. Every day she comes in, shakes out the sheets which I have neatly laid, and then folds the whole lot up in the middle of the bed in a neat little square, surrounded by a expanse of undersheet. Eventually I gave up and told her not to clean my room, I was so irritated. However, when I decided that it needed a sweep (probably about an hour later) I went in search of a broom and was immediately swamped by staff who were intensely offended that I wanted to sweep my own room, because 'Madam shouldnt have to do the work.' I finally agreed to leave them to it and when I returned an hour later, the bedlinen was once again folded up neatly in the centre of the bed. Please note that these staff are Kenyan. Sudanese staff can generally be found under a tree sleeping. They have been at war for 20 years and the concept of 9-5 is truely foreign.
Food. As my finale, I think food is the thing I miss the most. I miss steak you can cut without resorting to a hacksaw, I miss chicken that you know wont kill you, I miss vegetables other than tomatoes, peppers and onions, I miss sauces, sushi, fresh fish, risotto, pies, desserts, chocolate, ice cream, fresh milk, filter coffee, pastries, carpaccio, fresh homemade tortellini, FOOD!

When I arrive on London, I am going to do the following in this order: Have a shower, wash my hair, go shopping using real roads to get there, make a real homemade, fresh meal, sleep in a bed made like a normal person makes their bed, and in the morning I am going to walk to the bathroom naked. Yes, naked. (Miss M, I know I will be staying with you, but I am sure you will understand the need, and that you will simply avert your eyes. You have seen it all before after all).

I think that after that I will be ready for the holiday.

Actually I forget one last thing. I am going to pour myself a glass of tapwater, and drink the whole damn thing, and LAUGH in the face of Typhoid and Bilharzia!

Traffic Jam - Juba style

2008-06-25T08:10:00.004+02:00

You would be amazed at how long it takes for 400 head of cattle to walk down the road...
I spent the time waiting working out how much my offered 'bride price' would actually be worth. Here in Juba one cow is worth US$1000. So, if I accept a price of 150 cows, thats US$150,000.
Hmmm.....
Now that IS tempting! Maybe I can have the ceremony, get the cows and make a dash for the border? No.... they are moving too slowly. Damn. Have to come up with another option...

Anyway, about this photo, please note the electricity wires in the background.....These have been here since colonial days. A whole power system was installed, people trained, and then the whole lot handed over to the Sudanese. Within a couple of months 3 of the 4 substations had blown. So now the only places that have electricity are the hospital and the electricity department building. The rest of Juba sometimes gets power for about 2 hours every few days.

Oh, and this isnt the dodgy area of town. This is one of the good parts :-)

The joys of staying in a tent.... next to other tents

2008-06-23T22:40:00.004+02:00

I hadn't thought to blog this because I thought that parental reading could lead to mild embarrassment (I THINK they have the link to this site) , then it occured to me that they are grown ups too. So.....

Remember how I said I live in a tent? With fabric for walls? THIS is what can happen.

There are 10 tents in a row. 2 down from me is a couple, I shall call them John and Jane. In between us is a guy that I shall call Joe. He is a typical cockney in all senses. Brash, heavily accented and absolutely hilarious. He always has a quick comment, generally lewd, that makes everyone just crack up.

On this one occassion John and Jane were enjoying each others company, sexually, LOUDLY. I knew, lying in my bed, that everyone could hear them. I was two tents down and it sounded like they were on my doorstep. It wasnt like I was going to get up and go say politely, 'scuse me, guys? Can you, like, keep it down a bit?'

So I just hoped they would hurry up. It was just at a particularly loud point in this event, that suddenly, from the next tent, a booming cockney voice that could probably be heard in Khartoum shouts out: 'Oi! If you are going to be so loud about it, at least invite me in!'

The entire row of tents erupted into hysterical laughter. Everyone just cackled, and we could all hear each other cackling, and it just went on and on and on. It was just one of those moments.

To their credit, I dont think it even stopped them!

I found the red tape!

2008-06-19T11:04:00.003+02:00

I knew there must be some somewhere! They couldnt all be guarded by sleeping AK47 wielding crazies! But wait, let start at the beginning of my day....

I started my day intent on taking lots of pics to put on here but was rapidly disabused of that notion when I entered the military compound and my camera was removed. They have never done that before, but I guess posting pictures of a military installation on a blog is not really secure! I SOOOOOO wanted to show you though. I shall describe it. There is, outside town, a massive big white wall with barbwire on top. You drive up to it thinking... oooh, fancy (by Sudan standards, you understand). It goes on for a couple of km's but eventually you enter through a lovely big gate, and...... nothing. Seriously, nothing. There are some prefab buildings in the distance and some tents and thats about it. So, ok. Fine, drive to a prefab building, walk into what looks like a teenagers bedroom (without the bed) and you get to meet Mr VIP.

On this occasion, however, I had to wait as they were all eating. I sat in the corridor/place between prefabs, and was rapidly approached by two men in unifrom. They began with the usual pleasantries. Where are you from, do you have children, I have 500... and then finally one of them sat down next to me and says, 'Madam can I ask you a favour?' I was a little suspicious but said yes anyway.

'Madam, I need school fees for my children. Will you pay them for me?

Just like that. I said no, that I didnt have any money in this country.

'But madam, you are Kawaja (white person), I know you have money. Why wont you help Sudan? My children need an education so that Sudan can grow. Why can you not do this?'

Luckily, at this point I was summoned to the office.

I had three people I had to meet today. VIP 1, 2, and 3. Mainly it was courtesy calls, the equivalent of jumping up and down with my hands in the air saying, 'HELLOOOO! Remember me? Yeah, thats right, me with the proposal!' Of course, what I actually said was, 'Hi there, I just thought I would stop by and bring greetings from my boss in UK. He sends his regards and says he will be back soon.' Courtesy is very important here. You cant start a conversation without enquiring about the health of VIP's self, family, cattle and general state of mind. After going through this with VIP 1, he asks me take a seat, offers me water (lifeblood I tell you, in this heat), and then asks, 'So, Madam, are you married?' Now, when I first got here it was too difficult to fabricate a fictitious husband as that would lead to questions of children, and why a healthy girl, almost past her prime (I am 25, but thats old to these people) doesnt have any. So I created a Fiance. I also wear a band on my wedding finger. This, apperently does not work.

VIP 1: Are you married, madam?
Me: No, but I am engaged.
VIP 1: Aaah, so you are still available!
Me: No, I love my fiance very much
VIP 1: Ah, but you are not married yet, there is still time for me to make my offer!
Me: No really, I love my fiance and will have no one else.
VIP 1: Yes but what does he have to offer you? I can offer 150 heads of cattle for your family. Does your father approve?

Holy shit, I am stuck in the dark ages. I finally get out of the conversation by cunningly changing topic and then moving to the office of VIP 2.

Me: Hello sir how is your wife, uncle, 10 children, 3000 cattle, neighbours dog, local shop owner etc etc etc.
VIP 2: Ah I see you are not with Mr Boss today? So, are you married?

REPEAT

And again:

Me: Hello sir (place correct self given rank here), how are... blah blah blah... (I very nearly said 'blah blah blah', I was so bored by this point)

VIP 3: Aaaaaa, Madam. So tell me, are you married?

I have seldom felt so pleased to leave place.

Anyway, next stop was VIP Location no 2 to discuss another proposal. Luckily, this man simply said he had recieved the proposal, passed it on to the correct person, and that it was best I went to go and see him at the Ministry. YAY! Coherent conversation!

Off to the ministry. By this time it was about 4pm, and I was looking forward to getting home and having a beer. I arrived at the ministry, found the correct office and guess what?? There are two armed and AWAKE guards outside his door! I was directed to another office with a man seated behind the table who seemed friendly enough. After the pleasantries I explained who I was and he said he would go to the office and speak to Mr MAJOR VIP.

I waited about 2 hours. I was accoumpanied in the office by another woman waiting who looked like she had spent her whole life sucking lemons, and due to recent events, had decided to graduate to limes. Finally, after a lifetime in which all my lifebearing eggs actually had got past their prime, I was told by Mr Go-between that Mr MAJOR VIP hadn't had time to go through the proposal, but I should come back in a few days. I have finally found the red tape! There is, indeed, some left fluttering about out there! Despite my annoyance, general bad mood, and exhaustion I was cheared by the fact that I now had some incling of what Amy goes through, and that I could sympathise.

I was about to leave when Mr Go-between stoped me and said:

'So, madam, are you married?'

Finally, some pics....

2008-06-17T12:08:00.012+02:00

So to all you out there who cant believe that what I say is indeed the truth I have some photos to show you!

I havent got an aweful lot of them, but just a few to keep you going for now. Tomorrow I have to go visiting people, so I shall give you some photos to laugh at hysterically. They will be of various 'Government Buildings'.

For now: My tent, my humble abode. The back wall is actually a door that leads to the en suite, but I didnt think you would want to look at pictures of toilets. They all look the same really...

The row of tents......The problem with canvas is that you can hear everything through it. Including the snoring of the person next to you, or any other nocturnal activities...

This is my office from the outside. I am on the bottom, and good old MTN has moved in above. We can hear every step they take as they walk back and forth upstairs, but hey, if they get up and running I may have a hope of a decent signal.....

My office from the inside: You wouldnt think it would look so decent would you? Its like playing with meccano; you can create anything you want to with containers. Please note the 'no smoking' sign above my desk. My boss thinks its funny and he put it there on my first day to ward off any hope I had of having a 'smoking' office...

This is the road I drive to work and back every day. Today it was oddly lacking goats....

The reason I moved outside town: This is my view in the morning from my tent:

Nowhere inside Juba can you get such a beautiful view. To be fair, in 4 months time when the rains come to an end this view will be of dry, barren, brown land. So I shall enjoy the green while I can...

And then, just for a giggle, I thought I would add a picture of our local graveyard and the sign accompanying it. This graveyard is in use. Its in front of the entrance to the bar I used to work, so we tried to clear up the area a little and we were arrested! For interfering with the graves!

Anyway, thats a taster of whats to come. I cant wait to show you the ministry buildings. Whats wonderful is how proud they are of them. Anyway, ta-ta for now...

Sudan Blues

2008-06-10T19:36:00.002+02:00

Despite the constant entretainment of living in a country where absolutely everything is ludicrous, I do have my down days. Today was one them. I woke up feeling a little less than ok. In any other country I would have called a friend and had a bit of a winge about the state of affairs, but phones dont really work here. In fact, I live right next to a signal tower for a shiny new network, and yet every time I try to call I get a 'no signal' message! One can, most of the time, get throught to someone else within Juba, but getting in touch with anyone outside Juba? No.

So here I was, feeling shitty, unable to call anyone. The friends I have here are good friends, but more the sort that you hang out with and have fun, not the ones you can sit and have a good bitch about life with.

I decided to immerse myself in work instead. Luckily I had a very busy day. Part of which involved meetings with various important personages in various important parts of the Government. I cant really be more specific (damn that non-disclosure contract) so I will leave it at that. But I noticed something unusual about every one of them. They offered me their phone numbers. And no, I am not talking about 'my people can call your people' kind of phone numbers (mainly cause these people dont have 'people'), I mean their actual personal phone numbers. Can you imagine if everyone who happened to meet with the mayor of London (for example, and I can use this example because, as far as I know, they dont have a mayor here) was given his personal phone number? There would be havoc. However, the process here to see someone important, is this:
Go to the office (or prefab, or container or whatever he is currently using as an office) and knock on the door.
Yes, its that simple. There is inevitably someone sitting outside the door holding his AK47, but most often his hands are crossed over the muzzle with the butt wedged on the floor, and his head is on his hands and he is asleep. God knows what would happen if he jerked in his sleep and accidentally pulled the trigger. However, walk past the death wishing 'security' and you get to sit with Mr Important, and start discussing some important new proposal or something, and everyone else has the same idea. They knock on the door and walk in. Does Mr Important get annoyed? No. He talks to them too. So there you are sitting with your proposal that may as well have TOP SECRET written accross the front, and random people keep walking in and having discussions, while covertly looking over your shoulder at the paperwork that has been splayed across the table. This is fairly standard behaviour across the board of important people. Would anyone like to hazzard a guess at why the rebels were able to get into Darfur at exactly the time when they were least expected last month? I have a few theories....

Anyway, meetings done, I headed home. Sorry, I meant office. Did I say home? Ooops. Freud. So I spent a productive afternoon playing with my phone trying to contact the security guards who are on standbye, only to discover that they dont actually have a phone at all, but rather gave me their fathers sisters husbands uncles phone number (cause they all live in the same house) and that they arent home. I gave up and headed home.

And then it started to rain.

In Sudan, it doesnt just rain. You know how in Egypt the Nile floods every year? Its because it rains in Sudan. And, dear God, can it rain. I have a whole new understanding of the possible reality of the biblical plagues. It rains and rains and rains, the whole place floods, and then the frogs come out. In thousands. You cant walk down a sodden path without standing on one. You kinda have to slide your feet, so you dont squash them. And then there are the bugs. I am not going to go into the bugs. It will take too long.

I eventually got back to my tent, plugged my laptop in, and it STARTED! No freezer neccessary! Wohoo! And for some reason that simple little thing lifted my spirits. Who needs friends on call when you have a computer that starts without a freezer? All is right with the world again. For today. Tomorrow it might cut out the middle man and just rain frogs. You never know.

Just one thing

2008-06-09T11:22:00.001+02:00

I have only one thing to say today that I think sums up my life;

I had to put my laptop in the freezer to start it today.

I can drive a hovver craft!

2008-06-05T16:19:00.004+02:00

I can drive a hovver craft. Did any of you know this? Well I can. Dont worry if you didnt know. Neither did I.

Let me start at the beginning. Sudan needs money. Obviously. The Sudanese Government however, cant charge the expats here for much as almost all of them are working for NGO's and Aid agencies, and have tax exemptions. But it irks them to see all these rich white people driving around in their lovely cars. And then they hit on a jackpot. The cars.
'Surely there is something we can do with these cars?' they said to themselves.

This is what they did. Firstly, because GOSS (government of Southern Sudan) is all new and shiny after they have been declared free from the North, they decided they wanted their very own number plates. So every car in Juba had to have the number plates changed to official GOSS ones. This cost each owner about $700. Now here is where the jackpot comes in. Unlike in developed countries where you get 6 months to a year to change your plate, they gave everyone two weeks. Yes, two. And it takes approximately 1 month to get anything done in Sudan. So, now they can fine everyone. Excellent. This worked beautifully, but everyone eventually got themselves sorted.

The ministers all sat back and looked in satisfaction at the money generated by their little ploy. Ah, but if only they could find an excuse to do it again.....

Wait a second. Excuse? What do they need an excuse for? Are they not the shiny new government that has the power to do whatever they want? Yes! Indeed!

So 6 months down the line (this now being about 3 weeks ago) they decided that GOSS number plates werent good enough. No, they want one for each state of Southern Sudan. So the law changed. 2 weeks notice. Another $700 per car.

I was driving down the road, minding my own business when I was flagged down and told that I had the wrong number plate. Fine, dont bother arguing. How much is the fine? 40 sudanese pounds. OK I can live with that. Except that the reciept he gave me said 30sp. But you know what? I dont really care. Corruption is rife and I couldnt be bothered to take my life in my hands while I go back and complain to the rather aggressive traffic cop. I thought that would be the end to it. However, as I drove further down the road I was flagged down yet again. By this point I was getting a bit annoyed. I showed the guy my reciept for the fine I had JUST paid, and he looked distinctly disgruntled. He then spent several minutes walking round the car looking for something else to fine me on. Suddenly he remembered the new law passed yesterday, and I was asked for my licence. Gladly, I handed over my UK license card, which he proceeded to look at with fascination.
'This is not a licence', he says to me. 'Only Sudanese license is real license. You must get Sudanese licence. 40 pounds. Now.'
Fine. Just fine. Here is your 40 pounds you mad stupid idiot (I thought to myself).

Anyway, I paid the fine and then went back to the office to try to get my real Sudanese license sorted out. Apparently I need to take all my documents to the traffic department, which I did. When I arrived at the desk they gave me a form to fill out. They asked to see my visa, which I gave them. I looked through the form and it asks you to tick off which type of vehicle you want your licence to be for. I asked the guy behind the desk if he needed to see my licence. 'No madam, just tick the right one.'
A sly grin slid across my face as I ticked EVERYTHING. The guy didnt blink, just stamped all the correct things and handed me back my official Sudanese licence.

I am licenced to drive the following:

Motorcycles less than 4 wheels and not more than 400kg laden
Motor cars and dual purpose vehicles not exceeding 3500kg and no more than 7 passengers
Medium goods vehicles and heavy tractors
Heavy Goods vehicles
Light omnibuses seating more than 7 and not exceeding 20 passengers
Medium omnibuses seating more than 20 and not exceeding 60 passengers
Heavy omnibusses seating more than 60 passengers
Combination of vehicles
Pedestrian controlled vehicles
Engineering plant
Hoover Vehicles

I have several questions here. Firstly, have you ever known a motorbike to carry a load of anything near 400kg? Secondly, what is a 'combination of vehicles?' Thirdly, what the hell is a 'pedestrian controlled vehicle'? Doesn't controlling a vehicle in and of itself negate the term pedestrian?

Lastly, what is a 'hoover vehicle'? I have decided to believe it is a hovver craft, of which there is ONE in the whole of Juba, and its privately owned and used on the river. Now at least I can steal it, and should I get stopped, I can prove that I am legally allowed to operate it.

Here's to hovver craft and pedestrian controlled vehicles. May I discover and drive them soon!

Bombs, Ben Affleck and Gin & tonics

2008-05-26T09:34:00.002+02:00

Does anyone watch CNN? If you do you may have recently seen a broadcast interview with Ben Affleck about the situation in South Sudan.

Yes, indeed, darling Ben came to visit. In fact, he may still be here, but he tends to hide from us ex-pats. No, his face is for CNN alone. Yes, you detect a small hint of dislike. I have a very simple reason for this. If you have the money and the fame to get peoples attention, and the desire to help out a country in trouble, excellent. I support you. Indeed, I raise my drink to you and may even donate a little to your cause.

However, if you are going to do all those things, and then LIE about the reality of the situation for shock value I will just think you are a twat. Ben Affleck was recently seen on CNN telling the world about his new projects in South Sudan. Excellent. They need all the help they can get. Then he mentions bombs dropping all over the place, and his life being at risk for the duration of his stay. I pause briefly to open the curtain and check if there are any bombs falling. Nope. Sorry. I think back over the last few months.. has my life been at risk? Not really. I mean, if you want to go for a walk through an empty town at midnight surrounded by people who really really need money and food, then yes, you will be in danger. But only idiots walk around ANYWHERE in the world at that time of night alone. He also mentioned that because he is high profile he was at a higher risk. These people have been at war for 20years. They live in mud huts and have never seen a toilet, let alone used one (seriously: we had to train our new staff in how to use the toilets. They were baffled). The last thing they are going to do is recognise a celebrity when they have never even watched TV! Overall, the picture he paints is one of ongoing war, violence, bombings, deaths and poverty.

I spent the evening mulling over this as I sat at a bar on the Nile, watching the sunset and sipping my G&T. I smiled briefly at the Sudanese man to my left drinking his Johnny Walker Black and raise my glass in salute. Yes, the Sudanese have it very very hard. There are few jobs, there is little money, they have no income, or medical facilities or transport or water. They need help from the rest of the world, they need help building an economy that can support the livelihoods of the people here. They need a sustainable water supply. They need lessons in healthcare and hygiene. Basically, they need a hell of a lot. This country is buggered. But what it needs most is a lack of scandal and intrigue so that real businesses are willing to invest in the country and help provide for its future. Not stories of bombs and danger and lives at risk.

I order another round, and raise my glass to you Ben, you idiot.

Monkeys

2008-05-23T09:48:00.003+02:00

I am a smoker. Not a social smoker, not an 'only after sex' smoker, not a drinking smoker. I smoke. A lot. And as a result I am very protective of my cigarettes. Especially since here in Sudan you can't just pop down to the corner store and buy a box. You have to think in advance. 'How many boxes am I likely to need until the next time I pass a shop?' Its a constant stress.

Yesterday, I bought two boxes before I went home. Just in case the first box didnt last, or my host smoked some and I didnt have enough or whatever. I bought two. I went home to my temporary accomodation and opened a bottle of wine and settled in for the evening. At the 'house' we currently have a Patis Monkey. She is a very sweet little thing. She is about the size of a small cat, and spends much of her time jumping from table to chair to shoulder to chair to table in an endless cycle of excess energy. She is only about 3 months old so I suppose she is a bit like a two year old in monkey form. She is a rescue. When I was still working at the bar, one of our staff told us that he knew of a monkey being kept illegally, so we rescued it, then realised that along with the two mongoose, the 5 kittens, three cats, one bird, and a very sick chimpanzee we already had, there was just no way we had the time or the space to look after it. So we palmed her off on the Host. He loves her, so it worked out well.

However, as I was sitting outside reading my book and quietly sipping my wine, I suddenly decided that giving the monkey to the Host was a bad idea. This is because as I peered over the top of my book I was confronted by the sight of darling little baby monkey with a mouthful of cigarettes. Not from the open box. Oh no! She had ripped the closed and sealed box to pieces and was sitting there quietly and systematically pulling each cigarette from the box and ripping it apart. As I leapt up to save the last of the cigarettes from the box from being eaten, the monkey got such a fright that she jumped backwards, landed on the OPEN box of cigarettes and let out a stream of pure putrid monkey urine, straight onto the box.

I had one cigarette left. ONE!!! I hate monkeys.

Inbetween

2008-05-21T09:14:00.002+02:00

I am currently inbetween. Inbetween jobs, inbetween houses. The new job starts 2 June, as does the new accomodation. However, the last job ended last Saturday, as did the accomodation that came with it. So, in a way, kinda homeless and kinda jobless.

However, I have been lucky enough to get some temp work for the next few days, and a very good friend of mine has offered accomodation at his camp (I am fairly sure there is an alterior motive, but hey). Its actually really nice accomodation. A description: It is a container built for accomodation, so its a metal box, with wood panelling on the inside. The width is the length of a queen size bed and there is an en suite. The toilet is so close to the basin that when you sit on it you could rest your head on the basin and have a little nap if you wanted. There is a little concrete patio out front, with a table and a few chairs and an attempt has been made at a garden. Thats it. This is NICE accomodation. I shall explain why: Its quiet, its safe, you arent attached to someone elses pre-fab house and therefore can't hear the nightly bodily functions of your neighbour. There is some private space out front, and since there is wood panelling, there has been no need for paint, which they never use anyway. Its clean. The goats on the other side of the boundary fence are treated well so there is limited bleating, and the family doesnt beat their children so there is no screaming.

It has one major downfall. Its quite far outside town (please note that the term 'town' is used loosely). Its actually only about 8km, but it takes about 25-30 min to drive it. There are a number of factors here: The 'roads' are so bad that your car will fall apart at more than 30k/h. The goats randomly decide to cross the road and you have to avoid them because if you hit one the owner will kill you (thats not a joke), and lastly, the traffic. Yes, traffic. 3 years ago, there were 45 cars in Juba. Now there are 4085. And no roads. They even have spangly new traffic cops who for some reason unbeknownst to man, wear white. They stand there staring, terrified, at your car and occasionally wave frantically in an effort to not be knocked down by the stray car that has been herded off the road by the goats. I love the drive into work in the morning. Its a different adventure every day.

Soon however, I will be moving into my new house back in town and the adventure will end. Well, will lessen maybe. Or maybe not... there is never a lack of entertainment here for those that are willing to laugh instead of scream. I think I quite like this little hiatus into distance travel. Inbetween is a good place to be.

Last days are never easy

2008-05-18T09:59:00.002+02:00

Yesterday was my last day as Food and Beverage Manager of the good old Bedouin Bar in Juba. No, I will not be leaving Juba (although the small sane voice in my head has been urging me to do so). I will instead be making my way into Sudanese politics working for a security company that does SPLA training. This should be fun.

As to my last day. You know, I really thought I could just close eveything up, hand everything over and then my last day would just be a matter of wondering around the bar, graciously accepting free drinks from well wishers. But this is Juba, it was not to be.

We had a meat crisis. This sounds bizarre, but we did. There was no chicken or beef in the whole of Juba for 3 days. Well, there is local beef and chicken, but if you see them, trust me, its salmonella on a plate. Finally, using my excessive charm and flirting to the point of prostitution, I was able to convince one of the camp managers of another camp to part with 10kgs of beef and 20 chickens imported from Nairobi. Excellent. 'Ta-da!' I say to the chefs as I walk triumphantly into the kitchen with my prey. It cost an arm and a leg, but we managed, so we have enough for the customers for the next 5 days.

This is all Friday. This was the day of sorting to be followed by Saturday: the day of drinking. Saturday dawns, as does the food poisoning. I was poisoned by my own kitchen, the bastards. Through the haze of nausea and cramps, I manage to make my way to work, only to look over the orders for the day, and see at the bottom of the list....... 20 chickens. Excuse me? This is followed by ..... 10kg of steak. WHAT???

I wait 5 minutes to calm down, and head into the kitchen. 'CHEF!!!' I scream at the top of my voice (this is me calm, by the way. Bear in mind that my own staff had poisoned me, and the toilet had recently become my best friend). WHAT THE F**K IS THIS ORDER????? He looks at me in complete shock and asks what I mean.

Me: 'Why have you ordered 20 chickens and 10kgs of beef? I brought those items in yesterday!!'.
Chef: We have used them all and we need more. We only have 1kg of beef left and 4 chickens.

I cast my mind briefly to the previous night when the only defining feature of dinner service was a tumbleweed drifting lazily through the empty restaurant.

Me: What, exactly, have we used them for?
Chef: Well we couldnt get any meat for staff food last night so we gave them chicken (there are 42 memebers of staff that work for this camp).
Me: You gave them CHICKEN????
Chef: *bewildered* yes, why not?

This is the mentality I deal with. He is convinced it was the right thing to do. He doesnt stop to think about where exactly the next order is coming from, just that, as far as he was concerned, he made a decision that makes sense and now he being shouted at. This is rapidly followed by him explaining that he has been using fillet steak for the beef stew, and that most of the fillet we recieve needs to be trimmed anyway and we lose about 300g and that also goes to the staff. Do you see a trend? At this point I took a brief break to throw up.

Written warning issued. Maybe NOW I can start to enjoy my last day. You may be thinking at this point 'didnt she say she was sick?' Yes I did. The information you are missing is that I am always sick. Everyone in Juba is. There is the highest density of tropical diseases found anywhere in the world in Southern Sudan. Its so bad that talking about the condition of ones 'stool' is commonplace. It is not unusual for a customer to tell me happily while eating his meal, that he is so healthy at the moment, he doesnt even have the shits. This is normal dinner time conversation. You can diagnose just about any illness here from the quality of your stomach processes. Malaria, Typhoid, Giardia, Amoeba, etc etc etc, all have their defining characteristics. So yes, I was sick. And yes, I had every intention of getting drunk on my last day anyway.

However, one chef didnt show up, another chef had to take his wife to hospital (undiagnosed dysentery like disease, as usual) and my cleaner was 2 hours late cause her little boy has malaria. So I spent all night in the kitchen running around like a mad person and by 11pm when the kitchen closed, all the people that came to buy me drinks had gone home, and I was dead on my feet. Bed, book, sleep. Hell of a last night.

Ah well, I shall make up for it today. I sit here with a G&T in hand ready to celebrate on my own if neccesary...... Cheers!

The day Chicken became a Cat

2008-05-16T14:07:00.002+02:00

We have a bird called Chicken. He is not, in fact, a chicken, but we call him Chicken anyway. He is a Bulbul. A small little brown thing with yellow feathers round his bum, that is very sweet and sits on your keyboard when you are typing (this is most common when you have something very important to write, like a letter to the Ministry of Health).

We found chicken attached to the bar. This was not his natural state of being. Rather is was a clever idea of the gardner who had found him. The gardner decided that since we already have a mongoose on a leash (Mr Mong, banded mongoose, eats toes) then obviously this is what crazy white people do with their pets. So he tied a piece of string around Chickens leg and attached it to the bar. "See, madam? Now the customers can see your new bird!" (imagine a completely toothless grin to accompany the statement).

Needless to say, we rescued poor little Chicken and raised him ourselves. The problem is that Chicken thinks he is a person. He sits in the office and has loud conversations with anyone that will listen. This in itself is not really an issue. What is an issue is that he cant understand why cats, hawks and dogs all think he is a bird. If the humans can be affectionate with them, then surely he can too? Clearly not. So far he has escaped a close call with a hawk (I saw a flash of striped tail and a frantic tweeting flutter by my window, followed by a yellow bottomed creature plummeting like a stone to the ground), being attacked by a cat (explaining his complete lack of tail feathers) and most recently being stepped on by a dog (explaining his current lack of co-ordination).

Chicken looks a little tattered. He has been silenced and now sits quietly in the office recovering from his wounds. Its a very sad little sight. Give him a few more days and he will be twittering around and waiting for the next animal have him for dinner.
For surely, if he is not a bird, and he is not a human, the only thing left to consider is his continuing escape from death traps. Only one explanation remains for his excessive number of lives.
Chicken must be, in fact is, a cat.

The first (old) installment

2008-05-16T10:16:00.000+02:00

As a young woman living in Southern Sudan, I am increasingly realising how bizarre my day to day life is, and have finally got off my lazy dusty ass and decided to create a blog to record the craziness that is the 5th World. As a taster of what is come, here is a mail I wrote some friends a while back about a normal day at the bar:

The Infamous Banana Split Incident

It was a normal night at the good old Bedouin bar. I arrived after my mid-afternoon rest and I began to do the usual opening up things for evening service.

'Do we have all the items on the menu?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Well, the cows were sick this week so we dont have any beef.'
'Ok, I can live with that. What else?'
'Weeeell, we dont have any cheese.'
'WHAT? Why not?'
'Somebody put it in the freezer and now its solid. But we can always get cheese from the market...'
'They sell cheese at the market??? I have never seen it!'
'Well, its in a tin.'
'In a tin?'
'In a tin.'
'Fine, get some. Anything else?'
'We dont have a dessert on the menu. But we could do a banana split I suppose.'
'Excellent. Thats the kind of initiative I am looking for!'

I walked away feeling that maybe the chefs were learning. Excellent. Next item..

'Do we have enough alcohol in the freezers for tonight?' (fridges dont cool stuff down fast enough)
'Ummm, well, there's a problem there.'
'What now?'
'The freezers arent working.'
'They arent working. Why?'
'I dont know, madam.'
'Did you speak to the electrician?'
'No, he has malaria.'
'So how long have they been off for?'
'24 hours'
'WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME?'
'...............................'
'Fine, lets have a look at them then... OK, you see this button here?'
'The white one?'
'Yes, the white one. Whats that next to it?'
'A plug?'
'Yes. Now watch carefully..... You turn the plug on like this..'

Finally I feel that everything is marginally under control. And the customers start coming in....
There are two sets of customers here. The old, drunk and dysfunctional, and the young, drunk and rapidly becoming dysfunctional. I love crazy people though so it suits me down to ground. They start to crowd round thethe bar and fill up the tables, all of them with the patina of dust that has settled during the journey from their shower to the bar. The hot and sweaty day fades into a hot and sweaty night as the music begins to rise in volume to match the merriment of my customers.

I circulate amongst the tables just to chat to those I know, get to know the ones I dont, and generally to blackmail them into coming back. I have to ward off a few bum slaps, a couple of marriage proposals from the more desperate than most, and one or two generalised complaints about the quality of our cheese. Luckily I can be quite charming. Or I hope I can.

I decide to head to the kitchen to check how things are going on this suprisingly smooth running night and as I pass the bar I am passed by a waitress carrying something rather odd looking.

'What is that?' I say, glancing in confusion at the plate
'I dont know, the chef just told me to take it', Sylvia shrugs and stares at me blankly.
'Come with me' I say, dragging her into the kitchen. 'CHEF! What on EARTH is this?' I ask, pointing accusingly at the plate.
'Madam, THAT is the banana split', says the chef, and then watches in consternation as I crumple to the floor in hysteria.

For sitting forlornly in the middle of the plate is nothing but a banana cut in half.
Thats what you get for trusting initiative.