Sleeping in a bed of dead puppies. That’s how The Mountie described our situation right now. The precise breakdown of the analogy or metaphor I’m not sure of, but I know it instinctively feels right. These puppies have been dead a few days, there’s a fair bit of mush, and God they stink. Sleeping at night is peculiarly comfortable, but certainly not desirable.
We’re now approaching five weeks in Nigeria and from today are officially further behind than when we first arrived. The rig and the job has been plagued with problems. The fatality last month is naturally the most significant, and was all wrapped up with the catastrophic crane failure. But since then, other problems have followed, all of a technical nature but all with the result that we’re still here, still on the rig, and still waiting. Waiting to work, or just waiting to go home and remember that life takes place in an actual vast world and not just on a floating boat in the anonymous Bight of Benin.
It’s of great frustration. We only have a couple of days of work to do really, but operations just cannot seem to get to that point. Our equipment is working well and we’ve successfully demonstrated our system is ticking away nicely, and rig operations were at the brink – a day away! – of being far enough along so that we could wrap everything up, smile, high five each other with a “job done” holla, and go home. But operations have gone into reverse, equipment is returning from the seabed back to the rig, and we’ve got to start it all over again. It’ll take at least a week to properly being again.
I could bore you with rig operation chat, but it’s all just a bunch of acronyms, pieces of yellow-painted metal, gaskets, valves and all of the aforementioned failing in creative ways. For most of the time, The Mountie and I are just innocent bystanders anyway. We’re set up and ready to go, and have been for some weeks, but even when the starting pistol finally went it turned out to be a false start. And so we mooch around in accommodation, stare blankly at walls, and malign the fact that we are grown men sleeping with dead dogs.
The Mountie has hope, however, even if he doesn’t feel too hopeful. His holidays are approaching and he gets swapped out next week. My own hopes have been gathered together, crushed into a small box the size of a little acorn, and put aside in the back of brain for use at a future date. There are murmurs that I may be swapped in a period of time larger than a week, but I know that if this happens then I’ll be punched hard in the face and sent packing to America, for another job. It’s a more appealing prospect, I’ll admit, than continuing in the Groundhog Day that offshore Nigeria seems to have entered, but it’s not quite the same as arriving back at my sun-kissed cottage in the countryside to be met by my beaming wife and my two lovely children – Rufus aged 4 and Mooshella aged just 2 1/2 , and my haven’t they grown? – rushing up to and embracing me, or whatever it is that normal life is (I forget the precise details now).
But let’s not upset ourselves with vague visions of the future, and concentrate on the plus points of the here and now. Such as my nightly helideck walks, on a helideck that rates very high on my comprehensive helideck index. Or the cakes, which have occasionally been quite nice – the Danishes were spectacular (though they’ve been absent for some
time now...). Or the excitement of getting back laundry and wondering what else has gone missing – I’ve only two pairs of socks now, and The Mountie lost 80% of his wardrobe but went on the warpath and got it all back (except the socks). Or the stairway banisters, which have just the right amount of friction to them. I think that’s all.
Yes, that’s all.
Showing posts with label Nigeria. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nigeria. Show all posts
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Monday, 16 August 2010
My Two Lives
I have two lives and two careers right now: my life offshore in the
oil business, and my intense career as a football manager of a lower
league English club. It testifies to the state my head is in right now
that I’m not sure which one is real and which one isn’t.
I strongly suspect that the oil career may be a figment of my
imagination. According to that, I’m still in Nigeria but haven’t done
anything at all in weeks, which oddly seems to be the case every time
I go to Nigeria. A couple of weeks ago there was the fatality
offshore, resulting from the sudden and catastrophic failure of the
crane. Myself and The Mountie were downmanned and sent back to the
Novotel in Port Harcourt, where we spent a week drinking gin, playing
a Nigerian card game involving Swiss flags, Star of Davids and latent
psychic abilities, and lamenting our Groundhog Day existence that
seems to have been going on since March. I’ve worked out that so far
this year I’ve been away 150 days, which is 67% of the year, but about
110 of these days have been in Nigeria, overwhelmingly hanging around
in the bland Novotel. It occurs to me, at the back of my mind, that I
once lived in Edinburgh, and had friends and family, but that’s dimmed
to a mere dream within a dream.
Fortunately, unlike the darkness of the Novotel in late May, myself
and the Mountie kept ourselves psychologically healthy with the
aforementioned gin and card games, but the Novotel wasn’t to last
long, as last week we returned offshore. We had great hopes that this
would herald the recommencement of operations, which for us are only a
few days worth of work before we’re finished and can go home. But this
was a somewhat foolish hope, as a week has gone by now with absolutely
nothing whatsoever happening.
A couple of years ago, on this same rig, a different crane failed
suddenly, dropping a gigantic piece of equipment on a guy, killing him
instantly. With that and the more recent crane accident, people have
become understandably jittery, so for the last two weeks very
extensive ongoing checks and tests have been undergone on the
remaining three cranes. These are very, very nearly complete and very
soon – so we believe – a decision will be made as to whether we can
carry on.
In the meantime, myself and The Mountie have only had the most minimal
amount of work to do, and otherwise have had a lot of time to kill.
Table tennis has killed a small amount, as has eating Danish pastries.
But there’s still a lot more time in a day.
The last couple of days have seen helideck pacing kill an hour, after
most of the week was rendered non-viable by weather and “random”
incidents. The most concerning of these was a few days ago, at about
9pm, when I’d ventured up onto the quiet helideck on a peaceful, calm
evening. After doing only a few circuits, I was greatly alarmed when a
fire hose – fixed in position and aimed at the centre of the helideck
in the event of a helicopter fire – suddenly spluttered into life and
became spraying foam and water. A few paces more and it would have
sprayed over me. As this was spluttering, the hose at the far end
exploded into life with much more force, ejaculating a forceful blast
of foam across the entire helideck, and only my far distance from it
prevented me getting soaked or even knocked off my feet. The far one
soon stopped, but the close one continued, sluggishly. I left the
scene and returned half an hour later with the hoses again dormant,
but couldn’t get into a rhythm as I was in too much fear the hoses
could go off again at any moment.
They’ve behaved since then, but the helideck only kills at most two
hours a day. Meals maybe another hour. Washing, coffee, meetings, and
checking very slow internet another hour or so. But there’s still a
lot of time in the day. So what do I do?
I have become a Football Manager. My greatest addiction has returned.
As a young lad, many years of my life were lost to a game called
Championship Manager, in which I could take the helm of a football
club and take it to glory or ignominious failure. It was a game that
could suck a day, then a week, and suddenly a year from a life without
you even noticing. All engrossing, I lived many lives as the manager
of teams such as Manchester Utd (I deliberately got them relegated by
playing Ryan Giggs in goals and fining him every week), Italian
minnows Casale, Wycombe Wanderers, AC Milan, Portugal, Ivory Coast and
tiny Kettering. But recognising that I was growing up without social
skills and with the knowledge only of obscure winning tactics in a
fictional universe, I kicked the habit. It was tough, but I kicked it.
And for years I’ve been clean, with a mere tiny relapse a few years
ago when bored in the North Sea.
It struck again. It only took The Mountie to say, “You want a go of
this?” and offer me Football Manager 09/10 (the modern incarnation of
Championship Manager) and suddenly my life has been sucked from this
world and replanted me in another.
In this new – real, it seems – world I am inhabiting, my name is R.
Russell de Russell (I’ll let you guess what the R stands for), born in
1964 from Belgium, and I am the manager of the Blue Square South side
Thurrock, average attendance 200. The year however is now 2017 (with
Cameroon and then – oh no – England winning the World Cups) and after
five years coming 15th every season, I managed to get promoted to the
Blue Square Premier – which, for unfamiliar readers, is just four
leagues below the top division. I have achieved the heights, such as
being voted Blue Square South Manager of the Year and signing 38 year
old Jimmy Bullard, but also seen lows, such as my debt-ridden club
almost being bought by a consortium who threatened to replace me.
It’s tough, being the manager of a poor, barely supported football
team with a yellow home strip and light blue and purple away strip,
trying to motivate a bunch of players being paid about £100 a week,
but I’m thriving on it. Many lower division Belgian clubs have tried
to prize me away from Thurrock but I have remained resolute and stuck
with my little team, who now command crowds of up to 900.
Of course, being a full-time manager is a demanding and full-time job,
and so I am utterly immersed in it, with no time for outside thoughts,
such a friends, family, sleeping or working on an oil rig. Thus I am
dedicated to my profession and my football management lifestyle,
blocking out the distracting world around me as I stare at a laptop
screen that has become my real world. My career has become my life and
everything I am.
Thus, I now have two lives. My real life and my imaginary life. And as
the scenario of sitting in a room on a giant boat in the Atlantic
Ocean south of Nigeria and getting paid to do nothing there is clearly
a nonsense one, I can only conclude that my football management career
is my real life, and lose myself forever in this most immersing of
addictions.
oil business, and my intense career as a football manager of a lower
league English club. It testifies to the state my head is in right now
that I’m not sure which one is real and which one isn’t.
I strongly suspect that the oil career may be a figment of my
imagination. According to that, I’m still in Nigeria but haven’t done
anything at all in weeks, which oddly seems to be the case every time
I go to Nigeria. A couple of weeks ago there was the fatality
offshore, resulting from the sudden and catastrophic failure of the
crane. Myself and The Mountie were downmanned and sent back to the
Novotel in Port Harcourt, where we spent a week drinking gin, playing
a Nigerian card game involving Swiss flags, Star of Davids and latent
psychic abilities, and lamenting our Groundhog Day existence that
seems to have been going on since March. I’ve worked out that so far
this year I’ve been away 150 days, which is 67% of the year, but about
110 of these days have been in Nigeria, overwhelmingly hanging around
in the bland Novotel. It occurs to me, at the back of my mind, that I
once lived in Edinburgh, and had friends and family, but that’s dimmed
to a mere dream within a dream.
Fortunately, unlike the darkness of the Novotel in late May, myself
and the Mountie kept ourselves psychologically healthy with the
aforementioned gin and card games, but the Novotel wasn’t to last
long, as last week we returned offshore. We had great hopes that this
would herald the recommencement of operations, which for us are only a
few days worth of work before we’re finished and can go home. But this
was a somewhat foolish hope, as a week has gone by now with absolutely
nothing whatsoever happening.
A couple of years ago, on this same rig, a different crane failed
suddenly, dropping a gigantic piece of equipment on a guy, killing him
instantly. With that and the more recent crane accident, people have
become understandably jittery, so for the last two weeks very
extensive ongoing checks and tests have been undergone on the
remaining three cranes. These are very, very nearly complete and very
soon – so we believe – a decision will be made as to whether we can
carry on.
In the meantime, myself and The Mountie have only had the most minimal
amount of work to do, and otherwise have had a lot of time to kill.
Table tennis has killed a small amount, as has eating Danish pastries.
But there’s still a lot more time in a day.
The last couple of days have seen helideck pacing kill an hour, after
most of the week was rendered non-viable by weather and “random”
incidents. The most concerning of these was a few days ago, at about
9pm, when I’d ventured up onto the quiet helideck on a peaceful, calm
evening. After doing only a few circuits, I was greatly alarmed when a
fire hose – fixed in position and aimed at the centre of the helideck
in the event of a helicopter fire – suddenly spluttered into life and
became spraying foam and water. A few paces more and it would have
sprayed over me. As this was spluttering, the hose at the far end
exploded into life with much more force, ejaculating a forceful blast
of foam across the entire helideck, and only my far distance from it
prevented me getting soaked or even knocked off my feet. The far one
soon stopped, but the close one continued, sluggishly. I left the
scene and returned half an hour later with the hoses again dormant,
but couldn’t get into a rhythm as I was in too much fear the hoses
could go off again at any moment.
They’ve behaved since then, but the helideck only kills at most two
hours a day. Meals maybe another hour. Washing, coffee, meetings, and
checking very slow internet another hour or so. But there’s still a
lot of time in the day. So what do I do?
I have become a Football Manager. My greatest addiction has returned.
As a young lad, many years of my life were lost to a game called
Championship Manager, in which I could take the helm of a football
club and take it to glory or ignominious failure. It was a game that
could suck a day, then a week, and suddenly a year from a life without
you even noticing. All engrossing, I lived many lives as the manager
of teams such as Manchester Utd (I deliberately got them relegated by
playing Ryan Giggs in goals and fining him every week), Italian
minnows Casale, Wycombe Wanderers, AC Milan, Portugal, Ivory Coast and
tiny Kettering. But recognising that I was growing up without social
skills and with the knowledge only of obscure winning tactics in a
fictional universe, I kicked the habit. It was tough, but I kicked it.
And for years I’ve been clean, with a mere tiny relapse a few years
ago when bored in the North Sea.
It struck again. It only took The Mountie to say, “You want a go of
this?” and offer me Football Manager 09/10 (the modern incarnation of
Championship Manager) and suddenly my life has been sucked from this
world and replanted me in another.
In this new – real, it seems – world I am inhabiting, my name is R.
Russell de Russell (I’ll let you guess what the R stands for), born in
1964 from Belgium, and I am the manager of the Blue Square South side
Thurrock, average attendance 200. The year however is now 2017 (with
Cameroon and then – oh no – England winning the World Cups) and after
five years coming 15th every season, I managed to get promoted to the
Blue Square Premier – which, for unfamiliar readers, is just four
leagues below the top division. I have achieved the heights, such as
being voted Blue Square South Manager of the Year and signing 38 year
old Jimmy Bullard, but also seen lows, such as my debt-ridden club
almost being bought by a consortium who threatened to replace me.
It’s tough, being the manager of a poor, barely supported football
team with a yellow home strip and light blue and purple away strip,
trying to motivate a bunch of players being paid about £100 a week,
but I’m thriving on it. Many lower division Belgian clubs have tried
to prize me away from Thurrock but I have remained resolute and stuck
with my little team, who now command crowds of up to 900.
Of course, being a full-time manager is a demanding and full-time job,
and so I am utterly immersed in it, with no time for outside thoughts,
such a friends, family, sleeping or working on an oil rig. Thus I am
dedicated to my profession and my football management lifestyle,
blocking out the distracting world around me as I stare at a laptop
screen that has become my real world. My career has become my life and
everything I am.
Thus, I now have two lives. My real life and my imaginary life. And as
the scenario of sitting in a room on a giant boat in the Atlantic
Ocean south of Nigeria and getting paid to do nothing there is clearly
a nonsense one, I can only conclude that my football management career
is my real life, and lose myself forever in this most immersing of
addictions.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Fatality Offshore
It's been a pretty dark time over the last few days. Myself and The Mountie went offshore with the full expectation that we'd be done in no time, as for once matters were fair cracking on and moving speedily. But things went wrong.
There was a fatality, plus two serious injuries, on board during a crane accident. A crane was load-testing, which basically involves dunking a large bag in the water, and the calculated extra weight tests the crane. Except this time it failed catastrophically. The crane basically snapped and threw three men in the water. Two were saved and flown to Johannesberg for treatment, the other wasn't found.
For myself and The Mountie, it started literally with a jolt. We were in our cabin, on our laptops, when we felt the drillship jerk slightly. I dismissed it rather casually as a large wave, The Mountie thought something large might have been dropped. A few minutes later the rig alarm went off, saying "Man Overboard" and informing us all to muster. This very simply involves going to the lifeboat and standing next to it. A straightforward operation, but the most chaotic muster I've ever been part of, as it took over 45 minutes to get even a remotely accurate headcount. It was only after this period, and after some increasingly plaintive PAs requesting the guy phoned the bridge, that it transpired that there was a man missing. It was thought only two men had gone overboard. In fact, there had been three. Despite boat and helicopter search-and-rescue operations, he hasn't been found, and I presume was dead within minutes of hitting the water.
As far as my own safety went, I was never in any danger, and the work I do offshore doesn't really expose me to too much. Nonetheless, it's very sobering to be on a rig when there's such an accident. I saw the guy who died at the morning meeting, and by the afternoon he was dead. I'm sure he just expected it to be a routine day, just as I had, and just as we all do most days.
The upshot of it all is that operations have been suspended. The crane is hanging off the side of the rig and needs to be recovered before they can recommence. There has to be a full investigation into the entire incident. Also, separate to all this, another piece of equipment needs repaired that could take some time. This means that after a few days offshore, myself and The Mountie are back in the Novotel, waiting indefinitely for things to restart. We are occupying our time with football, Football Manager, gin and chess, cards, anticipation of the "day's special", and occasional dips in the pool. But no table tennis - the table is still broken, and bats missing.
I've deliberately kept all names of the rig, rig operator and oil company out of this blog, as I don't want people accidentally stumbling upon it. Everything I've said here is unofficial, as there were no rig meetings about it, and therefore only rig rumour to go by, but I think it was mostly reliable. From the internet I've found the following:
http://www.upstreamonline.com/live/article224696.ece
and also (copy and pasted):
Hay lads
the rig i am on in Nigeria the xxxx xxxx today just had a major disaster i was watching as it happened, they were load testing the port aft crane when the fu..... crane boom snapped!!!!!!! also ripping the crane cab to bits throwing the crane op and the ET around a 100ft to the sea below seen the poor buggers falling they were lucky it wasnt the deck cause it was close............also the lad who was supervising the load testing is missing i.e dead, the ET is in a serious state the crane op is hurt but looks like he will make it. IT TOOK xxxxxxxxxxxx 15 MIN TO LAUNCH THE FRC BOAT THE SMALL CRANE/HOIST WAS SPEWING OIL AND WOULDNT LOWER!!!!!!WTF!!!! AND OVER AN HOUR TO GET A FULL MUSTER....................... be safe lads cause disaster is never far away offshore specialy down here
There was a fatality, plus two serious injuries, on board during a crane accident. A crane was load-testing, which basically involves dunking a large bag in the water, and the calculated extra weight tests the crane. Except this time it failed catastrophically. The crane basically snapped and threw three men in the water. Two were saved and flown to Johannesberg for treatment, the other wasn't found.
For myself and The Mountie, it started literally with a jolt. We were in our cabin, on our laptops, when we felt the drillship jerk slightly. I dismissed it rather casually as a large wave, The Mountie thought something large might have been dropped. A few minutes later the rig alarm went off, saying "Man Overboard" and informing us all to muster. This very simply involves going to the lifeboat and standing next to it. A straightforward operation, but the most chaotic muster I've ever been part of, as it took over 45 minutes to get even a remotely accurate headcount. It was only after this period, and after some increasingly plaintive PAs requesting the guy phoned the bridge, that it transpired that there was a man missing. It was thought only two men had gone overboard. In fact, there had been three. Despite boat and helicopter search-and-rescue operations, he hasn't been found, and I presume was dead within minutes of hitting the water.
As far as my own safety went, I was never in any danger, and the work I do offshore doesn't really expose me to too much. Nonetheless, it's very sobering to be on a rig when there's such an accident. I saw the guy who died at the morning meeting, and by the afternoon he was dead. I'm sure he just expected it to be a routine day, just as I had, and just as we all do most days.
The upshot of it all is that operations have been suspended. The crane is hanging off the side of the rig and needs to be recovered before they can recommence. There has to be a full investigation into the entire incident. Also, separate to all this, another piece of equipment needs repaired that could take some time. This means that after a few days offshore, myself and The Mountie are back in the Novotel, waiting indefinitely for things to restart. We are occupying our time with football, Football Manager, gin and chess, cards, anticipation of the "day's special", and occasional dips in the pool. But no table tennis - the table is still broken, and bats missing.
I've deliberately kept all names of the rig, rig operator and oil company out of this blog, as I don't want people accidentally stumbling upon it. Everything I've said here is unofficial, as there were no rig meetings about it, and therefore only rig rumour to go by, but I think it was mostly reliable. From the internet I've found the following:
http://www.upstreamonline.com/live/article224696.ece
and also (copy and pasted):
Hay lads
the rig i am on in Nigeria the xxxx xxxx today just had a major disaster i was watching as it happened, they were load testing the port aft crane when the fu..... crane boom snapped!!!!!!! also ripping the crane cab to bits throwing the crane op and the ET around a 100ft to the sea below seen the poor buggers falling they were lucky it wasnt the deck cause it was close............also the lad who was supervising the load testing is missing i.e dead, the ET is in a serious state the crane op is hurt but looks like he will make it. IT TOOK xxxxxxxxxxxx 15 MIN TO LAUNCH THE FRC BOAT THE SMALL CRANE/HOIST WAS SPEWING OIL AND WOULDNT LOWER!!!!!!WTF!!!! AND OVER AN HOUR TO GET A FULL MUSTER....................... be safe lads cause disaster is never far away offshore specialy down here
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Back Home At The Novotel
Ah, things are back to normal. Yes, I'm back in the Novotel in Port Harcourt!
As I calculate it, the Novotel has been my home for the year more than my actual home in Edinburgh has. It has assumed a grim familiarity, which ranges from my intimate knowledge of every choice from the menu to being greeted by name by most of the staff. The identikit rooms - I must have stayed in about seven different ones by now and the only thing that varies is the number on the door - I could easily navigate blind.
I am here again with The Mountie, and this time we're digging in for the long haul. The majority of March, April and May were spent in the Novotel so we know what to expect, and are now armed with chess, whisky and cards. Of greater concern is the table tennis table, now missing two bats and a net. We have brought this issue up with reception, but if you know the Novotel and you know Nigeria, you can be assured this will not be remedied very soon at all.
With a little luck though, it will be only a handful of weeks here, and I can return to enjoy a little of the festival in Edinburgh, and resumption of a normal life enjoyed for almost a month since I returned from Norway in late June. Having been practically away for almost four months by that point, I was feeling a little jaded but have been suitably refreshed by a pleasnt few weeks that included:
- The World Cup. Not a classic one, in the end, and a rubbish final, but it still overtook my life for the couple of weeks after I returned from Norway.
- Whisky. I have acquired an expensive taste for whisky and boast a respectable little collection. On the plus side, it means I am drinking less beer; on the minus side, it means my alcoholism is getting pricier.
-Golf. I played a round of golf with my grandfather and my cousin. It was the first time I'd played golf in 18 years, and I was actually not too bad. It was very enjoyable, and I intend to play more, with the ultimate goal of one day getting one hole on par.
-York. I went to York with a brunette. I heartily recommend it.
-Film. I'm supposed to be writing a film with BBC documentary film-maker Mike. It's been slightly hampered by him being in London for weeks and now me being in Nigeria. Despite that, we've still done about a third. It's awfully good.
-Mother House. My mother bought another house. In the country this time. She bought it because it was the only way to combine her solitary cat and her manfriend's five lively Labradors. It appears to be working, but I give it less than a month before the cat gets torn to pieces in a fit of canine enthusiasm.
That's all. I'm going to finish drinking my Old Pulteney 17 Year Old. Myself and the Mountie drank half a bottle of Dalwhinnie 15 Year Old last night and it somewhat hampered our enjoyment of today, but I'm recovered now and as I may be going offshore tomorrow I need to savour what could be a last evening for whisky for up to... a week!
As I calculate it, the Novotel has been my home for the year more than my actual home in Edinburgh has. It has assumed a grim familiarity, which ranges from my intimate knowledge of every choice from the menu to being greeted by name by most of the staff. The identikit rooms - I must have stayed in about seven different ones by now and the only thing that varies is the number on the door - I could easily navigate blind.
I am here again with The Mountie, and this time we're digging in for the long haul. The majority of March, April and May were spent in the Novotel so we know what to expect, and are now armed with chess, whisky and cards. Of greater concern is the table tennis table, now missing two bats and a net. We have brought this issue up with reception, but if you know the Novotel and you know Nigeria, you can be assured this will not be remedied very soon at all.
With a little luck though, it will be only a handful of weeks here, and I can return to enjoy a little of the festival in Edinburgh, and resumption of a normal life enjoyed for almost a month since I returned from Norway in late June. Having been practically away for almost four months by that point, I was feeling a little jaded but have been suitably refreshed by a pleasnt few weeks that included:
- The World Cup. Not a classic one, in the end, and a rubbish final, but it still overtook my life for the couple of weeks after I returned from Norway.
- Whisky. I have acquired an expensive taste for whisky and boast a respectable little collection. On the plus side, it means I am drinking less beer; on the minus side, it means my alcoholism is getting pricier.
-Golf. I played a round of golf with my grandfather and my cousin. It was the first time I'd played golf in 18 years, and I was actually not too bad. It was very enjoyable, and I intend to play more, with the ultimate goal of one day getting one hole on par.
-York. I went to York with a brunette. I heartily recommend it.
-Film. I'm supposed to be writing a film with BBC documentary film-maker Mike. It's been slightly hampered by him being in London for weeks and now me being in Nigeria. Despite that, we've still done about a third. It's awfully good.
-Mother House. My mother bought another house. In the country this time. She bought it because it was the only way to combine her solitary cat and her manfriend's five lively Labradors. It appears to be working, but I give it less than a month before the cat gets torn to pieces in a fit of canine enthusiasm.
That's all. I'm going to finish drinking my Old Pulteney 17 Year Old. Myself and the Mountie drank half a bottle of Dalwhinnie 15 Year Old last night and it somewhat hampered our enjoyment of today, but I'm recovered now and as I may be going offshore tomorrow I need to savour what could be a last evening for whisky for up to... a week!
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Novotel Ennui
The last 28 days of my life have been spent virtually entirely in the Novotel in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, doing nothing.
It hasn't been very interesting.
It hasn't been very interesting.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Nutcracker Nightmre/Bye Bye Belt/Nigerian Dream
Nutcracker Nightmare
Though it’s easy and tempting to look back upon the innocence and simplicity of childhood, where every day was summer and spent climbing apple trees, with the fuzzy glasses of nostalgia, the reality is that at these unpolished and raw young years life could swing from the greatest of highs to the greatest of lows. The wild euphoria of running around with a ball was only matched by the crashing devastation when a fellow infant reduced you to tears by rudely taking the ball away from you. As years go on, it is easy to forget the extremes of emotion encountered daily, before the severity of adult existence crushed the spirit and reduced living to a finite middle ground of unwavering grey.
Fear is something that is still experienced in adulthood, like a headache ranging from a dull background throb to excruciating and immediate headsplitter. But it usually has some basis in reality, if perhaps not always entirely rational, such as the fear of the unknown (dark, future, death). As a child, though it’s easy to quickly forget, fear of the unknown can come at many different angles, since there is so much that is unknown.
Which is why, perhaps, as a young child I was afraid of a mouse with three heads.
Many years ago, when I was perhaps five or six, I watched some very odd cartoon which featured a mouse with three heads. My memory of a cartoon watched about 25 years ago is obviously pretty vague, though that I remember it at all is testament to its impact, but I seemed to recall it being somewhat of an evil mouse, and it appeared from a hole in the room and did evil stuff. It was magical, as three-headed mice surely are. There was also something about a king in there.
As a child, this three-headed mouse tormented my night-times. I would lie in bed, frozen in a mortal fear, looking at the corner of my room, convinced a three-headed magical mouse would appear at any moment and cause all sorts of horror. It was a particularly pointy-faced three-headed mouse, its cartoon roots making it no less sinister: it was no Mickey or Jerry. For a period of months (though surely not years) this awful mouse cast a bad spell upon the night, threatening to appear from a sudden mousehole at any moment. No wonder I often slept with the light on.
Years on and into adulthood, and no longer afraid of three-headed mice, it has occurred to me at time to wonder what the cartoon I saw actually was. How reliable is a 25-year-old memory? All I knew was there was an evil three-headed mouse, maybe a king, and the cartoon was definitely very weird and so therefore probably Eastern European. And so, what else to turn to but Google?
And there we have it. After a combination of searches for three-headed mice, kings, cartoons, and Eastern European animation, I found it: Schelkunchik, Щелкунчик , or The Nutcracker. With Wikipedia giving a nice little summary of this Russian gem, I found that it was also on Youtube, and so have been able to watch it again for the first time in two-and-a-half decades and relive my old nightmares. Animated to the sound of Tchaicovsky, it has definite shades of Fantasia, but in a freakish way that only Communist cartoons can manage. For those who can’t be bothered with 26-minutes of Soviet animation, here’s a little summary.
It’s Christmas and a fat royal boy gets a present, a nutcracker (in the form of a soldier). He quickly discards it for something else, and then a poor girl starts sweeping the room and dancing with her broom. She notices the Nutcracker. Then the scene is a big royal throne room with king, queen and baby prince, receiving presents in a ceremony. Suddenly, gnawing its way through the floor, a large evil three-headed mouse appears and starts to cause all sorts of trouble. It’s a queen mouse, and has a three-headed baby mouse son under her cloak. The queen mouse is about to kill everyone but the king pours poison on her, she explodes, and her tails lands on the baby prince, turning him into a nutcracker, and turning the rest of the room, people and entire palace into ice.
Then we’re back with the poor girl. The three-headed mouse (the son, grown up) appears from a mousehole in the corner of the room with lots of mice minions and attack the girl. But the nutcracker comes to life, summons all the Christmas tree baubles and they all have a big battle. Just as the three-headed mouse is about to kill the nutcracker, the girl throws her clog and hits the mouse, making him and all his minions explode. Then the nutcracker turns into a somewhat gay-looking prince, the poor girl turns into a beautiful princess, and they dance for ages as the ice kingdom comes back to life.
So there we have it, my childhood nightmare in a nutshell, nutcracked, and with having confronted my fears, my nightmares can fade. And with the Soviet Empire crumbled and our only threat coming from a ragtag bundle of warriors in the mountains of Afghanistan, perhaps all our fears can be eased: the Islamic militants don’t seem to go much in the way of cartoon making.
Bye Bye Belt
Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed in my last entry, about pole-dancing, something extra on the pole aside from erotic dancers. This was in fact my belt.
Just before pole dancing mania began, there was an incident. It had been waiting to happen for the week prior. My belt was on its last legs, as I first noticed when whipping it off for airport security. One of the notches, very worn, had ripped to the outside, thus leaving just a rather sickly, twisted belt in its place. Eventually, it could no longer take the strain, and broke. Bye bye belt.
This was no normal belt, you must be aware. I’ve worn this belt for likely ten years now, maybe more. This belt travelled and was part of my day during every trousered moment of travelling in 2001. It faithfully stuck by me during every respectable moment of two years in Korea. And the last four years, it has jet-setted around the globe in search of oil, and very patiently tolerating my expanding waist. It’s been with me since belt setting “2” all the way to the frightening belt setting “6” (but only after large meals, honestly). But finally, like a faithful old dog, over-service broke it in two. However, I feel that by tying it to a pole-dancing pole, where it has been left, it at least has the chance of a new life.
The sudden lack of belt also means that I am beltless for the remainder of this trip. Fortunately I am not dieting, and so my belly is successfully keeping my trousers in place.
Nigerian Dream
Since I last left you, in the strip club guesthouse, there have been a few changes. Mostly, myself and the Mountie are no longer living in such questionable accommodation. Instead we have been dismissed from the secure compound and banished back to the badlands of Port Harcourt, and to French “Novotel”. No escape from the French, it seems. This, overall, is an unfortunate move, as the compound had a tennis court and many other delights, even that of space to walk, whereas the Novotel has merely a table tennis table and really nothing else to offer. Sure, it has a bar, but the beers cost three times that of the compound, and a whisky costs £7!
The upside, I think, is that for now all work is over. There’s been a bit, but mostly I’m done until going offshore, perhaps next week. For visa reasons, it is easier to keep me in the country until my whole two or three days offshore, even though I’m not doing anything.
The Mountie and I have done our best to keep ourselves entertained. Last Sunday, to celebrate cessation of hard work, we drank champagne and smoked cigars. We felt awfully sophisticated. We tried this again last night, except without the champagne and with some whisky instead. It would have gone fine, but it was a different type of cigar we tried – “Romeo & Juliet” – and the difference was significant. After finishing it, both of us (and the Mountie is a regular smoker), found ourselves in a state of utter weakness. Light-headed and exhausted, and with a good few drinks down us already, we agreed to call it a night. It was 9.30pm. I don’t recommend the Romeo & Juliet.
Table tennis, or “bippy-bap” as we call it, has otherwise occupied us. The table is in a tent in the small Novotel gardens, and as a result is stiflingly warm. After just a few games we are dripping with sweat, and whichever one of us has lost also in a furious huff. Fortunately, I am up in the (best of three) series 6-4.
And 6-4 it will end, for as I speak The Mountie is on his way back to the UK, back to cold weather, and back to freedom, for he has holidays booked. I am left to fend for myself in the Novotel. Until tomorrow, when another colleague, “The Yellow Bunny” makes an appearance. I don’t know if the Yellow Bunny smokes cigars, but I know he doesn’t drink much, so I sincerely hope his bippy-bap skills are honed.
Though it’s easy and tempting to look back upon the innocence and simplicity of childhood, where every day was summer and spent climbing apple trees, with the fuzzy glasses of nostalgia, the reality is that at these unpolished and raw young years life could swing from the greatest of highs to the greatest of lows. The wild euphoria of running around with a ball was only matched by the crashing devastation when a fellow infant reduced you to tears by rudely taking the ball away from you. As years go on, it is easy to forget the extremes of emotion encountered daily, before the severity of adult existence crushed the spirit and reduced living to a finite middle ground of unwavering grey.
Fear is something that is still experienced in adulthood, like a headache ranging from a dull background throb to excruciating and immediate headsplitter. But it usually has some basis in reality, if perhaps not always entirely rational, such as the fear of the unknown (dark, future, death). As a child, though it’s easy to quickly forget, fear of the unknown can come at many different angles, since there is so much that is unknown.
Which is why, perhaps, as a young child I was afraid of a mouse with three heads.
Many years ago, when I was perhaps five or six, I watched some very odd cartoon which featured a mouse with three heads. My memory of a cartoon watched about 25 years ago is obviously pretty vague, though that I remember it at all is testament to its impact, but I seemed to recall it being somewhat of an evil mouse, and it appeared from a hole in the room and did evil stuff. It was magical, as three-headed mice surely are. There was also something about a king in there.
As a child, this three-headed mouse tormented my night-times. I would lie in bed, frozen in a mortal fear, looking at the corner of my room, convinced a three-headed magical mouse would appear at any moment and cause all sorts of horror. It was a particularly pointy-faced three-headed mouse, its cartoon roots making it no less sinister: it was no Mickey or Jerry. For a period of months (though surely not years) this awful mouse cast a bad spell upon the night, threatening to appear from a sudden mousehole at any moment. No wonder I often slept with the light on.
Years on and into adulthood, and no longer afraid of three-headed mice, it has occurred to me at time to wonder what the cartoon I saw actually was. How reliable is a 25-year-old memory? All I knew was there was an evil three-headed mouse, maybe a king, and the cartoon was definitely very weird and so therefore probably Eastern European. And so, what else to turn to but Google?
And there we have it. After a combination of searches for three-headed mice, kings, cartoons, and Eastern European animation, I found it: Schelkunchik, Щелкунчик , or The Nutcracker. With Wikipedia giving a nice little summary of this Russian gem, I found that it was also on Youtube, and so have been able to watch it again for the first time in two-and-a-half decades and relive my old nightmares. Animated to the sound of Tchaicovsky, it has definite shades of Fantasia, but in a freakish way that only Communist cartoons can manage. For those who can’t be bothered with 26-minutes of Soviet animation, here’s a little summary.
It’s Christmas and a fat royal boy gets a present, a nutcracker (in the form of a soldier). He quickly discards it for something else, and then a poor girl starts sweeping the room and dancing with her broom. She notices the Nutcracker. Then the scene is a big royal throne room with king, queen and baby prince, receiving presents in a ceremony. Suddenly, gnawing its way through the floor, a large evil three-headed mouse appears and starts to cause all sorts of trouble. It’s a queen mouse, and has a three-headed baby mouse son under her cloak. The queen mouse is about to kill everyone but the king pours poison on her, she explodes, and her tails lands on the baby prince, turning him into a nutcracker, and turning the rest of the room, people and entire palace into ice.
Then we’re back with the poor girl. The three-headed mouse (the son, grown up) appears from a mousehole in the corner of the room with lots of mice minions and attack the girl. But the nutcracker comes to life, summons all the Christmas tree baubles and they all have a big battle. Just as the three-headed mouse is about to kill the nutcracker, the girl throws her clog and hits the mouse, making him and all his minions explode. Then the nutcracker turns into a somewhat gay-looking prince, the poor girl turns into a beautiful princess, and they dance for ages as the ice kingdom comes back to life.
So there we have it, my childhood nightmare in a nutshell, nutcracked, and with having confronted my fears, my nightmares can fade. And with the Soviet Empire crumbled and our only threat coming from a ragtag bundle of warriors in the mountains of Afghanistan, perhaps all our fears can be eased: the Islamic militants don’t seem to go much in the way of cartoon making.
Bye Bye Belt
Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed in my last entry, about pole-dancing, something extra on the pole aside from erotic dancers. This was in fact my belt.
Just before pole dancing mania began, there was an incident. It had been waiting to happen for the week prior. My belt was on its last legs, as I first noticed when whipping it off for airport security. One of the notches, very worn, had ripped to the outside, thus leaving just a rather sickly, twisted belt in its place. Eventually, it could no longer take the strain, and broke. Bye bye belt.
This was no normal belt, you must be aware. I’ve worn this belt for likely ten years now, maybe more. This belt travelled and was part of my day during every trousered moment of travelling in 2001. It faithfully stuck by me during every respectable moment of two years in Korea. And the last four years, it has jet-setted around the globe in search of oil, and very patiently tolerating my expanding waist. It’s been with me since belt setting “2” all the way to the frightening belt setting “6” (but only after large meals, honestly). But finally, like a faithful old dog, over-service broke it in two. However, I feel that by tying it to a pole-dancing pole, where it has been left, it at least has the chance of a new life.
The sudden lack of belt also means that I am beltless for the remainder of this trip. Fortunately I am not dieting, and so my belly is successfully keeping my trousers in place.
Nigerian Dream
Since I last left you, in the strip club guesthouse, there have been a few changes. Mostly, myself and the Mountie are no longer living in such questionable accommodation. Instead we have been dismissed from the secure compound and banished back to the badlands of Port Harcourt, and to French “Novotel”. No escape from the French, it seems. This, overall, is an unfortunate move, as the compound had a tennis court and many other delights, even that of space to walk, whereas the Novotel has merely a table tennis table and really nothing else to offer. Sure, it has a bar, but the beers cost three times that of the compound, and a whisky costs £7!
The upside, I think, is that for now all work is over. There’s been a bit, but mostly I’m done until going offshore, perhaps next week. For visa reasons, it is easier to keep me in the country until my whole two or three days offshore, even though I’m not doing anything.
The Mountie and I have done our best to keep ourselves entertained. Last Sunday, to celebrate cessation of hard work, we drank champagne and smoked cigars. We felt awfully sophisticated. We tried this again last night, except without the champagne and with some whisky instead. It would have gone fine, but it was a different type of cigar we tried – “Romeo & Juliet” – and the difference was significant. After finishing it, both of us (and the Mountie is a regular smoker), found ourselves in a state of utter weakness. Light-headed and exhausted, and with a good few drinks down us already, we agreed to call it a night. It was 9.30pm. I don’t recommend the Romeo & Juliet.
Table tennis, or “bippy-bap” as we call it, has otherwise occupied us. The table is in a tent in the small Novotel gardens, and as a result is stiflingly warm. After just a few games we are dripping with sweat, and whichever one of us has lost also in a furious huff. Fortunately, I am up in the (best of three) series 6-4.
And 6-4 it will end, for as I speak The Mountie is on his way back to the UK, back to cold weather, and back to freedom, for he has holidays booked. I am left to fend for myself in the Novotel. Until tomorrow, when another colleague, “The Yellow Bunny” makes an appearance. I don’t know if the Yellow Bunny smokes cigars, but I know he doesn’t drink much, so I sincerely hope his bippy-bap skills are honed.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Lunch Hour At The Strip Joint
You join us during our 4 hour lunch break at the strip joint.
In fact, this takes place in our - myself and the Mountie's -own accommodation, which oddly has a strip bar pole right in the middle of it. The only explanation I can think of for this is that a lot of French people appear to use this staffhouse.
It's only temporary accommodation anyway, as later today we're going back to our pleasant one-man mini-flats. Our work here is just about done: the last few days were pretty busy, assembling and fitting stuff onto big bits of pipe, in up to 37C heat. Lots of photos taken, lots of Frenchmen consulted, all good so far.
So, job done, go home? It appears not. Offshore is due in a couple of weeks (only for a couple of days) so until then we get to pretty much kick back in the Onne compound, the weirdly, blandly, charmlessly pleasant fake village set up to safely house lots of fat oil workers so they never have to interact with a real African (except hookers and cleaners). In this compound, with guards stationed all around and rolls of barbed wire lining the walls, we are pretty much safe from rampaging kidnappers.
So, two weeks of waiting. What can we do to occupy our time?
In fact, this takes place in our - myself and the Mountie's -own accommodation, which oddly has a strip bar pole right in the middle of it. The only explanation I can think of for this is that a lot of French people appear to use this staffhouse.
It's only temporary accommodation anyway, as later today we're going back to our pleasant one-man mini-flats. Our work here is just about done: the last few days were pretty busy, assembling and fitting stuff onto big bits of pipe, in up to 37C heat. Lots of photos taken, lots of Frenchmen consulted, all good so far.
So, job done, go home? It appears not. Offshore is due in a couple of weeks (only for a couple of days) so until then we get to pretty much kick back in the Onne compound, the weirdly, blandly, charmlessly pleasant fake village set up to safely house lots of fat oil workers so they never have to interact with a real African (except hookers and cleaners). In this compound, with guards stationed all around and rolls of barbed wire lining the walls, we are pretty much safe from rampaging kidnappers.
So, two weeks of waiting. What can we do to occupy our time?
Saturday, 6 March 2010
The Chicken Republic
The Chicken Republic has no chicken. Welcome back to Nigeria.
“Could I have a chicken burger and a chicken-cheeseburger, please?”
“Sorry sir, we have no chicken-cheeseburgers any more.”
“Oh, well, could I have two chicken burgers please?”
“Sorry sir, we have no chicken burgers.”
“Oh... um, do you have any chicken?”
“No.”
“Hmm, well what food do you have?”
“We have ice-cream and salad.”
Yes, after almost a three year break, I've found myself back in the mean streets of Port Harcourt, Nigeria, where the pock-marked streets fill with unceasing, desperate traffic, where black-clad police with rusty guns swagger and shout (and guard us), where mounds of rubbish decay and slide into streams, where our hotel has two levels of security before we can enter, where goats ride on the back of motorcycles or hang dead from the back of trucks, where archaic vehicles defy all-known mechanical laws in the pursuit of impossible motion, where every morning invites a new day of humidity and sweat, and where – and I would have it no other way – the Chicken Republic has no chicken.
It has been three years since I last visited Nigeria, and in that time the days and weeks of frustrated fury that it bred in me have mellowed to a grim amusement bordering on fondness. Oh Nigeria, you naughty, cheeky boy, who throws tomatoes at the neighbours' windows. Oh Nigeria, you little rascal, who puts a potato deep into the exhaust of the headteacher's Volkswagen. Oh Nigeria, you awful rogue, who pesters the minister's daughter with obscene “sextexts”. Oh Nigeria, you scourge of my life, who sets fire to the local dog. Oh Nigeria, you brutal criminal, who deserves your life imprisonment for a series of violent attacks on old ladies. What I mean is that Nigeria, a vast country of 150 million people, is a mixed bag that invites multiple interpretations, but that these interpretations will invariably range from “cheeky” to “utterly evil”. It's not a country for the faint-hearted, or for minister's daughters; but approached from the right aspect it has a certain spirit that isn't entirely unappealing: approached from the wrong aspect and you might just wish your armed escort would lift up his battered gun and quickly end your misery.
That in Port Harcourt the local political rebels MEND have recently ended their ceasefire and have openly resumed hostilities and a policy of kidnapping foreigners is only the dainty cherry on a lovely pie.
Myself and my fellow beardy colleague, “The Mountie”, arrived here on Thursday, after an overnight in Paris (to puncture the bubble of glamour, our evening was spent at a Charles de Gaulle airport hotel; gosh, how I hate that airport). Our bags were lost in transit because they offloaded our bags in Lagos, but to our minor surprise they appeared 24 hours later, much to the relief of anyone with a sense of smell. Our first few days were spent in Port Harcourt, checking equipment, trying to buy chicken, and being very glad that the astonishing prices charged by the Novotel weren't billed to us. Previously, three years ago, I'd been under the wing of Halliburton, and stayed in the faded, jaded Presidential Hotel (now out of favour since stormed by armed rebels), and with this brought security in the form of an armed vehicle escort and lots of police with guns. Now we've gone solo, almost, and security comes in the form of Ezra, a tough but cuddly policeman, who sits in our car and smiles, and plays with his phone. He's far too nice to shoot, so I'm hoping the rebels will bypass us out of common courtesy.
For now though, our days of Ezra, the Novotel, chickenless chicken restaurants and Port Harcourt mania in general are over, as we today arrived at the sanitised freezone of Onne, just south of Port Harcourt, and where oil companies and fat old foreigners can rest safely and securely without having to indulge too much in local culture – except, of course, when it takes the form of a young and attractive female allowing a deeply unappealing and usually married man to have sex with her in exchange for money. Ah Port Harcourt, ah oil business, ah human civilisation for thousands of years.
The secure compound we're staying in, generally though, is decent, if anonymous in style, and certainly feels a lot more relaxed than the last compound I stayed in, in Malongo in Angola, which had every appearance of an army camp, had no bar, and a shop which forbade you to buy more than four small beers. Things here are clean, the accommodation is very comfortable and spacious, internet is easily accessible, and there's a bar without apparent alcohol limitations. Instead of Americans, the dominant species is French: I still have not decided my opinion on this. On the downside, the distance between accommodation and the work yard is large, and requires a driver, which causes logistical hassles and less daily freedom.
How long myself and The Mountie will be here is uncertain. Our immediate duties are to fit some stuff on some other stuff and makes sure it fits – a highly precise and technical operation, you can be sure. After that, we expected to dally a little before going offshore, but speaking to a French gentleman named Marco it seems that offshore could be many weeks away, in which case it's unlikely we'd be hanging around here until then. So we'll see.
Marco, I should quickly and quietly mention, and copy directly from an email sent to my boss, is a Frenchman who epitomises all that is bad about France. He's so high powered as to virtually be able to fly unassisted, but quite frankly is the rudest man I have ever met. When The Mountie shook his hand, Marco barely even registered his existence. He only registered mine because I'd been pestering him with phonecalls all day. Perhaps I should send sextexts. A nasal Gallic-nosed Frenchard with rigid, curly locks, in his 50s and without a smile, his deeply ill manners and total lack of help had myself and my good-hearted colleague firmly agree on one descriptive word: prick. Yes, Marco, if you read this, we think you are a prick. If I could press a button that would kill you, yes you Marco, after a week of pain, then I would press that button while staring into your piggy little eyes. Marco, I hate you.
With these sentiments I should probably leave you. But just be glad that after four days in Nigeria the nation I have now grown to resent most is not Nigerian, no not at all, but is French. Worryingly, it is the French I will be mostly dealing with in the next few days. Chicken Republic – you rumbustious imp - all is forgiven.
“Could I have a chicken burger and a chicken-cheeseburger, please?”
“Sorry sir, we have no chicken-cheeseburgers any more.”
“Oh, well, could I have two chicken burgers please?”
“Sorry sir, we have no chicken burgers.”
“Oh... um, do you have any chicken?”
“No.”
“Hmm, well what food do you have?”
“We have ice-cream and salad.”
Yes, after almost a three year break, I've found myself back in the mean streets of Port Harcourt, Nigeria, where the pock-marked streets fill with unceasing, desperate traffic, where black-clad police with rusty guns swagger and shout (and guard us), where mounds of rubbish decay and slide into streams, where our hotel has two levels of security before we can enter, where goats ride on the back of motorcycles or hang dead from the back of trucks, where archaic vehicles defy all-known mechanical laws in the pursuit of impossible motion, where every morning invites a new day of humidity and sweat, and where – and I would have it no other way – the Chicken Republic has no chicken.
It has been three years since I last visited Nigeria, and in that time the days and weeks of frustrated fury that it bred in me have mellowed to a grim amusement bordering on fondness. Oh Nigeria, you naughty, cheeky boy, who throws tomatoes at the neighbours' windows. Oh Nigeria, you little rascal, who puts a potato deep into the exhaust of the headteacher's Volkswagen. Oh Nigeria, you awful rogue, who pesters the minister's daughter with obscene “sextexts”. Oh Nigeria, you scourge of my life, who sets fire to the local dog. Oh Nigeria, you brutal criminal, who deserves your life imprisonment for a series of violent attacks on old ladies. What I mean is that Nigeria, a vast country of 150 million people, is a mixed bag that invites multiple interpretations, but that these interpretations will invariably range from “cheeky” to “utterly evil”. It's not a country for the faint-hearted, or for minister's daughters; but approached from the right aspect it has a certain spirit that isn't entirely unappealing: approached from the wrong aspect and you might just wish your armed escort would lift up his battered gun and quickly end your misery.
That in Port Harcourt the local political rebels MEND have recently ended their ceasefire and have openly resumed hostilities and a policy of kidnapping foreigners is only the dainty cherry on a lovely pie.
Myself and my fellow beardy colleague, “The Mountie”, arrived here on Thursday, after an overnight in Paris (to puncture the bubble of glamour, our evening was spent at a Charles de Gaulle airport hotel; gosh, how I hate that airport). Our bags were lost in transit because they offloaded our bags in Lagos, but to our minor surprise they appeared 24 hours later, much to the relief of anyone with a sense of smell. Our first few days were spent in Port Harcourt, checking equipment, trying to buy chicken, and being very glad that the astonishing prices charged by the Novotel weren't billed to us. Previously, three years ago, I'd been under the wing of Halliburton, and stayed in the faded, jaded Presidential Hotel (now out of favour since stormed by armed rebels), and with this brought security in the form of an armed vehicle escort and lots of police with guns. Now we've gone solo, almost, and security comes in the form of Ezra, a tough but cuddly policeman, who sits in our car and smiles, and plays with his phone. He's far too nice to shoot, so I'm hoping the rebels will bypass us out of common courtesy.
For now though, our days of Ezra, the Novotel, chickenless chicken restaurants and Port Harcourt mania in general are over, as we today arrived at the sanitised freezone of Onne, just south of Port Harcourt, and where oil companies and fat old foreigners can rest safely and securely without having to indulge too much in local culture – except, of course, when it takes the form of a young and attractive female allowing a deeply unappealing and usually married man to have sex with her in exchange for money. Ah Port Harcourt, ah oil business, ah human civilisation for thousands of years.
The secure compound we're staying in, generally though, is decent, if anonymous in style, and certainly feels a lot more relaxed than the last compound I stayed in, in Malongo in Angola, which had every appearance of an army camp, had no bar, and a shop which forbade you to buy more than four small beers. Things here are clean, the accommodation is very comfortable and spacious, internet is easily accessible, and there's a bar without apparent alcohol limitations. Instead of Americans, the dominant species is French: I still have not decided my opinion on this. On the downside, the distance between accommodation and the work yard is large, and requires a driver, which causes logistical hassles and less daily freedom.
How long myself and The Mountie will be here is uncertain. Our immediate duties are to fit some stuff on some other stuff and makes sure it fits – a highly precise and technical operation, you can be sure. After that, we expected to dally a little before going offshore, but speaking to a French gentleman named Marco it seems that offshore could be many weeks away, in which case it's unlikely we'd be hanging around here until then. So we'll see.
Marco, I should quickly and quietly mention, and copy directly from an email sent to my boss, is a Frenchman who epitomises all that is bad about France. He's so high powered as to virtually be able to fly unassisted, but quite frankly is the rudest man I have ever met. When The Mountie shook his hand, Marco barely even registered his existence. He only registered mine because I'd been pestering him with phonecalls all day. Perhaps I should send sextexts. A nasal Gallic-nosed Frenchard with rigid, curly locks, in his 50s and without a smile, his deeply ill manners and total lack of help had myself and my good-hearted colleague firmly agree on one descriptive word: prick. Yes, Marco, if you read this, we think you are a prick. If I could press a button that would kill you, yes you Marco, after a week of pain, then I would press that button while staring into your piggy little eyes. Marco, I hate you.
With these sentiments I should probably leave you. But just be glad that after four days in Nigeria the nation I have now grown to resent most is not Nigerian, no not at all, but is French. Worryingly, it is the French I will be mostly dealing with in the next few days. Chicken Republic – you rumbustious imp - all is forgiven.
Monday, 30 April 2007
May Day
It's May Day today and yet another day I'm not allowed to leave the hotel because of the dangers - the third day in the last four. Apparently some rival party leaders, understandably upset at the brazenly open rigging of elections, have decided to have some rallies in the cities of Nigeria, so it's dangerous for me to get involved. They've chosen today because May Day is a national holiday. May Day seems to be a national holiday everywhere, but for what reason? It's not like Christmas or a special national day. It must be because it rhymes. So I might play some more tennis and maybe drink some gin; I probably won't play anymore online poker because the internet keeps crashing and I lose my money. Certainly I'll put a preposterously large amount of food in my mouth at dinner. I'll likely end up watching the GOD Channel. I've become grimly fascinated with this channel and the stadium evangelising. Whether you're Christian or not, I defy you not to find this channel incredibly odd. I think I'm going crazy.
Today celebrates, incidentally, my one year anniversary in this job. But I'm pretty sure that's not what all the holidays are about.
Today celebrates, incidentally, my one year anniversary in this job. But I'm pretty sure that's not what all the holidays are about.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Sweating In Nigeria
For all the flaws of this grand but faded hotel - the Presidential - I'm staying/imprisoned in while working in Port Harcourt, it does have a tennis court around the back. This one feature transforms days spent in the hotel from idle nothingness to having something to look forward to. My colleage - the "cognac colleague" - is about the same level as me, so we can have some pretty competitive matches. The only trouble is the heat - in the mid 30s, with the sun out, and with high humidity, it can get more than a little sweaty.
Sweat has been rather a feature of the last couple of days. Dripping, pouring, soaked-through with sweat, not through the leisure of tennis but from the toils of work. From hopes earlier this week of being home by now, it now doesn't look likely till early next week. There has been an enormous amount of work to do, preparing kit, made all more difficult by changing demands from the office in Aberdeen regarding what's meant to be happening with the kit. By the end of the day my coveralls have been dripping wet and filthy, and my hands black from dirt and grease. It's most unlike my usual working day of coffee and afternoon naps.
Today is a day off from this though. Not because it's Saturday, and not because we've finished, but because Halliburton have insisted on a shut-down. This means no Westerners are to leave the hotel or compound. The reason is something about run-on elections, and this apparently poses a risk.
To be honest, I'm beginning to think the security is a little too much. Port Harcourt is a violent city, but it's not a war zone, nor is it like one. Kidnappings appear to have descreased. There's been some election violence in Nigeria, but none that I'm aware of here, and none that has involved foreignters. The other day, after going to a meeting in some other part of the city, I had to wait for about 45 minutes for extra security going home. The one armed guard in my vehicle wasn't enough, I had to also have another vehicle with four armed police trailing me. Just for me. It wasn't at night, it was broad daylight in the middle of the city, I think there was a little too much paranoia at play.
Anyway, just a couple more days of this mania, then I'll be back home. Nigeria saps my motivation, and I don't feel being here benefits the nation much. It's certainly a financial boost, but I'll be happy not to return for a while.
Sweat has been rather a feature of the last couple of days. Dripping, pouring, soaked-through with sweat, not through the leisure of tennis but from the toils of work. From hopes earlier this week of being home by now, it now doesn't look likely till early next week. There has been an enormous amount of work to do, preparing kit, made all more difficult by changing demands from the office in Aberdeen regarding what's meant to be happening with the kit. By the end of the day my coveralls have been dripping wet and filthy, and my hands black from dirt and grease. It's most unlike my usual working day of coffee and afternoon naps.
Today is a day off from this though. Not because it's Saturday, and not because we've finished, but because Halliburton have insisted on a shut-down. This means no Westerners are to leave the hotel or compound. The reason is something about run-on elections, and this apparently poses a risk.
To be honest, I'm beginning to think the security is a little too much. Port Harcourt is a violent city, but it's not a war zone, nor is it like one. Kidnappings appear to have descreased. There's been some election violence in Nigeria, but none that I'm aware of here, and none that has involved foreignters. The other day, after going to a meeting in some other part of the city, I had to wait for about 45 minutes for extra security going home. The one armed guard in my vehicle wasn't enough, I had to also have another vehicle with four armed police trailing me. Just for me. It wasn't at night, it was broad daylight in the middle of the city, I think there was a little too much paranoia at play.
Anyway, just a couple more days of this mania, then I'll be back home. Nigeria saps my motivation, and I don't feel being here benefits the nation much. It's certainly a financial boost, but I'll be happy not to return for a while.
Wednesday, 25 April 2007
Slow Progress
I got back onto dry land on Sunday, just squeezing onto one of only three seats on the chopper that day. Since then, life has been a series of drinking, tennis and hanging around doing absolutely nothing, bored out of my damn skull.
The drinking has been fine. I'm with two colleagues, and one is an Indian Muslim, so can't be tempted to pour cognac down his throat, but the other colleague most assuredly can. We had a fairly heavy session on Sunday, my return, in which I retired at a sensible hour and just before I lost my mind, but my cognac colleague failed to do, and from all accounts turned into an ultra-buffoon. And last night, for the very entertaining Man Utd vs Milan Champions' League semi, a few beers were sank also.
The tennis has been fine. My poor Muslim colleague plays like a cripple, so is of no competition, but my cognac colleague and I are finely matched. I lost our first match 6-0 6-2 6-2, but yesterday's match finished at me down 6-2 4-5 but the game had to be abandoned due to some other pricks who wanted to play. This was a shame as the quality of our game had risen to levels that would surely have graced the professional tournaments.
The hanging around doing absolutely nothing, bored out of my damn skull has not been fine. The reason I am still here, a prisoner in Port Harcourt, is because we are awaiting our equipment to return from the rig so that it can be checked and packed away safely. Usually this is a very straightforward and speedy process, but in Nigeria it is protracted to agonising lengths. The three of us go to the base with all assurances that our kit has or soon will arrive, and we wait for the entire day with no result. One set of kit, from a different job, is two weeks late. I know the logistics of oilfield equipment is not entertaining reading, so I won't rant on about this, but rest assured that it is even less fun waiting for oilfield equipment than it is reading about it. Especially when you're in some dire base with no facilties, let alone joyous diversions. It's no fun being in Nigeria in this blinkered existence of hotel existentialism and inefficient base monotony, and I'd quite like to go home, given that I've finished the job, so all this hanging around due to others' inadequacies in logistical handlings is very frustrating.
Still, despite all this, I must remember that my daily bonus works out as more than I used to earn in a week as a dishwasher, for substantially less work. And much more soberly, is about 50% of the average Nigerian's annual wage. So all my whinging is but a childish cry to the far greater anguish of those enslaved in this most undemocratic of bullying autocracies.
The drinking has been fine. I'm with two colleagues, and one is an Indian Muslim, so can't be tempted to pour cognac down his throat, but the other colleague most assuredly can. We had a fairly heavy session on Sunday, my return, in which I retired at a sensible hour and just before I lost my mind, but my cognac colleague failed to do, and from all accounts turned into an ultra-buffoon. And last night, for the very entertaining Man Utd vs Milan Champions' League semi, a few beers were sank also.
The tennis has been fine. My poor Muslim colleague plays like a cripple, so is of no competition, but my cognac colleague and I are finely matched. I lost our first match 6-0 6-2 6-2, but yesterday's match finished at me down 6-2 4-5 but the game had to be abandoned due to some other pricks who wanted to play. This was a shame as the quality of our game had risen to levels that would surely have graced the professional tournaments.
The hanging around doing absolutely nothing, bored out of my damn skull has not been fine. The reason I am still here, a prisoner in Port Harcourt, is because we are awaiting our equipment to return from the rig so that it can be checked and packed away safely. Usually this is a very straightforward and speedy process, but in Nigeria it is protracted to agonising lengths. The three of us go to the base with all assurances that our kit has or soon will arrive, and we wait for the entire day with no result. One set of kit, from a different job, is two weeks late. I know the logistics of oilfield equipment is not entertaining reading, so I won't rant on about this, but rest assured that it is even less fun waiting for oilfield equipment than it is reading about it. Especially when you're in some dire base with no facilties, let alone joyous diversions. It's no fun being in Nigeria in this blinkered existence of hotel existentialism and inefficient base monotony, and I'd quite like to go home, given that I've finished the job, so all this hanging around due to others' inadequacies in logistical handlings is very frustrating.
Still, despite all this, I must remember that my daily bonus works out as more than I used to earn in a week as a dishwasher, for substantially less work. And much more soberly, is about 50% of the average Nigerian's annual wage. So all my whinging is but a childish cry to the far greater anguish of those enslaved in this most undemocratic of bullying autocracies.
Monday, 23 April 2007
Nigerian President
The results of the Nigerian election have come and - surprise, surprise! - the ruling party have retained power with a landslide result. But against all expectation, it seems that a Star Wars alien is now the president. Meet Umaru Yar'Adua.
Saturday, 21 April 2007
The Weeping Chef
I think the chef is depressed. Usually on the cheap stereo in the kitchen, dreadful, pumping mid-90's trance blasts, regardless of which large, middle-aged, bald(ing), failed-in-their-chosen-profession northern-English cook is on shift. But since the most recent one - more a head balanced atop a sphere than an actual man - appeared on the rig for his month's service, the music has taken a turn for the downbeat. We have Pavarotti and classical music, and not long ago I heard The Scorpions' melancholic lighters-in-the-air post-Communist mega-anthem "Wind Of Change". I can only imagine that his wife has left him, or that he's having some other crisis of confidence that I am all too familiar with in chefs, having lost years of my life working in sweaty kitchen with these deeply unstable characters.
I'm pretty depressed myself, as it happens. Early yesterday morning, our carrier appeared on surface and so we got everything broken down, downloaded, and packed away, thus ready to leave the rig. But one too few choppers arrived, and though my colleague escaped, I am left stranded. It's the big election day today - the presidential one - so no choppers, meaning that it won't be till tomorrow I get away. That's two entire evenings of cognac-drinking celebration lost, enough to ignite a fury in anyone. I've probably got another week in the country, as there's two sets of kit to check over in the base.
Chambers liked my shirt.
I'm pretty depressed myself, as it happens. Early yesterday morning, our carrier appeared on surface and so we got everything broken down, downloaded, and packed away, thus ready to leave the rig. But one too few choppers arrived, and though my colleague escaped, I am left stranded. It's the big election day today - the presidential one - so no choppers, meaning that it won't be till tomorrow I get away. That's two entire evenings of cognac-drinking celebration lost, enough to ignite a fury in anyone. I've probably got another week in the country, as there's two sets of kit to check over in the base.
Chambers liked my shirt.
Sunday, 15 April 2007
Update From The Rig
Wireline crew snapped cable (schoolboy error) so no SRO though fortunately no tool damage as it was in the catcher and we'd not yet RIH, but a routine check led to unfortunate galling of threads. Backup MDL unreliable - water damage - so had to do improvised job on mangled threads with help of mechanic and will swap housing and adaptor in the lubricator on Monday. All providing we get the go ahead for SRO - by no means certain as company man seems to have very little faith in the wireline crew. Whatever, hope to be off in less than a week.
Sunday, 8 April 2007
Happy Easter
Happy Easter everybody. I hope everyone is having a delightful Easter, spent with friends and/or family. Of course, I hope you all take a moment during this special time to remember the real reason for Easter – that is, Jesus rolling a big chocolate egg down a hill, or something, for our sins.
For my sins, I’ve been on this rig since Tuesday. Me and bunch of big burly men. Seems to be a theme, doesn’t it? It happens to be the same rig I was on back in January, for my last time in Nigeria. However, it’s a little more comfortable this time round, as I have a room with a window, and the room is being shared with someone who is hardly ever there. In fact, I think he left the rig today, meaning that for the time being I have a room to myself – an incredibly rare thing on a rig. Last time I had to share with a flatulent, impatient colleague with an insane sleeping schedule that messed up my sleeping pattern royally, and took me over a week to eventually recover.
Anyway, this pleasant state of comfort – which I don’t expect to last – has been matched by the leisurely amount of work I’ve been doing. I got on the rig a couple of days earlier than usual, thus giving myself and my colleague this time a generous amount of time to get our tools set up, and an even more generous amount of time to sleep, drink coffee and watch football. Our tools were all run-in-hole today, and I can now look forward to a few days of absolutely no work whatsoever. Everything appears to be roughly on schedule, and if this is the case I can expect to be finished and off the rig in about ten days. Plunged into a Nigeria is the midst of elections.
The elections have been causing a little bit of strife actually; not so much so in Nigeria itself, but a great amount of concern has been shown on the rig because it might affect the helicopters. For at least four days there won’t be any helicopters to and from the rig, but rumours have been abound that this could be as much as fourteen days, and might include all domestic flights. However, most of these rumours have been perpetuated by a pessimistic Canadian (why doesn’t America just swallow up this nation and save everyone a lot of grief?) so I’m not expecting too many problems.
That’s my Easter in Nigeria then, following a Christmas in Nigeria. Truly a festive haven of a nation. I quite want to do something to celebrate this special day, but there’s no hills and, as far as I’ve seen, no chocolate eggs, so I’m just going to chuck some cake down the stairs instead.
For my sins, I’ve been on this rig since Tuesday. Me and bunch of big burly men. Seems to be a theme, doesn’t it? It happens to be the same rig I was on back in January, for my last time in Nigeria. However, it’s a little more comfortable this time round, as I have a room with a window, and the room is being shared with someone who is hardly ever there. In fact, I think he left the rig today, meaning that for the time being I have a room to myself – an incredibly rare thing on a rig. Last time I had to share with a flatulent, impatient colleague with an insane sleeping schedule that messed up my sleeping pattern royally, and took me over a week to eventually recover.
Anyway, this pleasant state of comfort – which I don’t expect to last – has been matched by the leisurely amount of work I’ve been doing. I got on the rig a couple of days earlier than usual, thus giving myself and my colleague this time a generous amount of time to get our tools set up, and an even more generous amount of time to sleep, drink coffee and watch football. Our tools were all run-in-hole today, and I can now look forward to a few days of absolutely no work whatsoever. Everything appears to be roughly on schedule, and if this is the case I can expect to be finished and off the rig in about ten days. Plunged into a Nigeria is the midst of elections.
The elections have been causing a little bit of strife actually; not so much so in Nigeria itself, but a great amount of concern has been shown on the rig because it might affect the helicopters. For at least four days there won’t be any helicopters to and from the rig, but rumours have been abound that this could be as much as fourteen days, and might include all domestic flights. However, most of these rumours have been perpetuated by a pessimistic Canadian (why doesn’t America just swallow up this nation and save everyone a lot of grief?) so I’m not expecting too many problems.
That’s my Easter in Nigeria then, following a Christmas in Nigeria. Truly a festive haven of a nation. I quite want to do something to celebrate this special day, but there’s no hills and, as far as I’ve seen, no chocolate eggs, so I’m just going to chuck some cake down the stairs instead.
Thursday, 5 April 2007
Rig spelling
Many of the people I have to work with are, to be frank, complete spastics. Nowhere is this better exemplified in their use of written English. The standard of English in the oil industry is appalling. While this is forgivable with non-native speakers – who continually put native speakers to shame with their command of two or more languages – there can be no excuse among those who grew up speaking and learning the language. Even Glaswegians. Nary a day goes by without me seeing another notice or set of procedures with glaring, painful, basic, schoolboy mistakes. A recent notice, posted in my room, stood out especially.
Now as you can see, there are a number of errors contained in this simple message. The author – a gentleman named “Steve”, who is likely a dour Scot – obviously exhausts himself with his correct debut sentence, because it all falls apart from there. My assessment follows:
When I can get my hands on a red pen, I’ll amend the actual version. I may also, if I can locate the crass illiterate, sit Steve down and give him a quick English lesson.
Now as you can see, there are a number of errors contained in this simple message. The author – a gentleman named “Steve”, who is likely a dour Scot – obviously exhausts himself with his correct debut sentence, because it all falls apart from there. My assessment follows:
When I can get my hands on a red pen, I’ll amend the actual version. I may also, if I can locate the crass illiterate, sit Steve down and give him a quick English lesson.
Monday, 2 April 2007
Prisoner In Port Harcourt
After a number of failed attempts, I finally made it to the enchanting city of Port Harcourt on Saturday morning. Flights direct to the city only began a week ago, in the absence of their burnt-down airport the little Virgin Nigeria aircraft had to instead land in the Nigerian Air Force base.
This recently reintroduced direct flight has removed the requirement to land at the airport of a nearby town, Owerri, and then take the two hour drive to Port Harcourt. While this certainly makes the trip more convenient, and safer (a foreigner was kidnapped and the escort shot dead on this drive not long ago), it does take away from some of the "fun". The whole experience from Owerri to Port Harcourt was a riot, almost literally so. Upon landing in Owerri, as I did on my first trip here three months ago, and looking on in astonishment at the two burnt-out aeroplanes just off the runway, I then had to face a pitched battle to reclaim my luggage. This involved delving through a five-thick cram of people, and then negotiating the touts and beggars to find our bus and armed escort. Then there was the two hour drive.
Everyone who has experienced this drive shares the same sense of awe, and perhaps horror. In a bus, with jeeps packed with armed police both in front and behind, it was a journey over potholed roads, through jungle, bustling slums and police check-points, past innumerate car wrecks and burnt-out lorries (there's a lot of burnt out things in Nigeria), and through traffic that grew increasingly dense and frantic. We moved onto a dual-carriageway, where most of the vehicle wrecks lay, and when the traffic grew too heavy in our direction, our escort promptly crossed the dire-green polluted swamp of the central reservation and into the oncoming traffic. All the cars behind our bus and escorts decided to follow, and this could only result into total gridlock for everyone, which was only resolved by our armed police leaping from their vehicles and shouting a lot, waving their guns, until eventually we moved back into the proper carriageway. A bullet-pocked, ancient sign of "Port Harcourt: The Garden City" introduced us to the concrete, litter-strewn mess that beheld us. In the distance, a vast jet of flame shot vertically into the air - an oil flare burning: more fumes for this condemned city.
But all that was avoided this time, by our direct flight to Port Harcourt, and so you could almost have been lulled into a false sense of security. But security is even tighter than it was at the start of the year. Then I sometimes travelled in a jeep with only the driver, and no armed policeman. But now the company bus has had its windows blackened, and even the journey to base involved an escort vehicle with armed guards, in addition to the two armed guards in the bus.
On base, I met with my colleague and we did a few hours of work, testing equipment and getting it ready to pack away. We had to leave early, because a political rally was taking place for the election a few weeks away, and there were worries the road would be congested. So we were taken to our home and prison, the Presidential Hotel, an ancient relic much in the manner of Lagos's Federal Palace, although I do have a little more affection for this particular artefact.
There's been little news since then. A loud, though very sparsely attended, awards show round the back of the hotel on Saturday night, combined with a faulty air-conditioner, left me with a poor night of sleep, but I only had to go into base for a couple of hours the following morning. Since then, it's been a case of eating, sleeping, and watching football. There's a tennis court here, so I intend to get a game later, if my colleague can raise his levels of motivation (he's been here a month, and Nigeria is an extremely demotivating country).
It looks like I'll be off to the rig sometime this week - the same rig I was on for my last job here. It's quite far into the ocean, so there's much less chance of being taken hostage. It's not a bad rig, but has abysmal internet. It should be a two or three week job. But, as ever, in the oil business not least the Nigerian sector, everything is subject to change and delays.
This recently reintroduced direct flight has removed the requirement to land at the airport of a nearby town, Owerri, and then take the two hour drive to Port Harcourt. While this certainly makes the trip more convenient, and safer (a foreigner was kidnapped and the escort shot dead on this drive not long ago), it does take away from some of the "fun". The whole experience from Owerri to Port Harcourt was a riot, almost literally so. Upon landing in Owerri, as I did on my first trip here three months ago, and looking on in astonishment at the two burnt-out aeroplanes just off the runway, I then had to face a pitched battle to reclaim my luggage. This involved delving through a five-thick cram of people, and then negotiating the touts and beggars to find our bus and armed escort. Then there was the two hour drive.
Everyone who has experienced this drive shares the same sense of awe, and perhaps horror. In a bus, with jeeps packed with armed police both in front and behind, it was a journey over potholed roads, through jungle, bustling slums and police check-points, past innumerate car wrecks and burnt-out lorries (there's a lot of burnt out things in Nigeria), and through traffic that grew increasingly dense and frantic. We moved onto a dual-carriageway, where most of the vehicle wrecks lay, and when the traffic grew too heavy in our direction, our escort promptly crossed the dire-green polluted swamp of the central reservation and into the oncoming traffic. All the cars behind our bus and escorts decided to follow, and this could only result into total gridlock for everyone, which was only resolved by our armed police leaping from their vehicles and shouting a lot, waving their guns, until eventually we moved back into the proper carriageway. A bullet-pocked, ancient sign of "Port Harcourt: The Garden City" introduced us to the concrete, litter-strewn mess that beheld us. In the distance, a vast jet of flame shot vertically into the air - an oil flare burning: more fumes for this condemned city.
But all that was avoided this time, by our direct flight to Port Harcourt, and so you could almost have been lulled into a false sense of security. But security is even tighter than it was at the start of the year. Then I sometimes travelled in a jeep with only the driver, and no armed policeman. But now the company bus has had its windows blackened, and even the journey to base involved an escort vehicle with armed guards, in addition to the two armed guards in the bus.
On base, I met with my colleague and we did a few hours of work, testing equipment and getting it ready to pack away. We had to leave early, because a political rally was taking place for the election a few weeks away, and there were worries the road would be congested. So we were taken to our home and prison, the Presidential Hotel, an ancient relic much in the manner of Lagos's Federal Palace, although I do have a little more affection for this particular artefact.
There's been little news since then. A loud, though very sparsely attended, awards show round the back of the hotel on Saturday night, combined with a faulty air-conditioner, left me with a poor night of sleep, but I only had to go into base for a couple of hours the following morning. Since then, it's been a case of eating, sleeping, and watching football. There's a tennis court here, so I intend to get a game later, if my colleague can raise his levels of motivation (he's been here a month, and Nigeria is an extremely demotivating country).
It looks like I'll be off to the rig sometime this week - the same rig I was on for my last job here. It's quite far into the ocean, so there's much less chance of being taken hostage. It's not a bad rig, but has abysmal internet. It should be a two or three week job. But, as ever, in the oil business not least the Nigerian sector, everything is subject to change and delays.
The Federal Palace Hotel
During my three nights in Lagos, I stayed one night in the dully functional Halliburton staffhouse, and two nights in the Federal Palace Hotel. The latter is a faded behemoth of a hotel, clearly built several decades ago as the model of decadent opulence, but systematic neglect sees this hulk slowly decay with the passing of time. It has plenty of facilities - a restaurant, swimming pool, bar, conference rooms, appalling business centre - but absolutely no atmosphere. Everything is tired. And due to the guests being either Western oil workers with their company paying the bill, or rich Nigerians, the prices are vastly inflated.
So while superficially grand, it is the attention to detail that matters so much in the quality of a hotel. This is where Kuala Lumpur's Hotel Maya scored so many points, and alas where the Federal Palace fails. The lifts are hopelessly inefficient - an entire geological era can progress without one of the three lifts becoming available. The business centre is expensive, the internet very erratic, and the staff rude. The restaurant staff aren't so much rude as simply uncaring, though the buffet is decent.
But where it really matters is the room itself, and this is where the Federal Palace exemplifies itself.
I stayed in two rooms during my two days, and the one pictured here is the better of the two. It was a reasonable size and the bed comfortable enough. The other room actually had a double bed, but the room was smaller. There's no style to speak of: functional, not outstanding.
The other view of the room highlights the large windows which open out onto the balcony. Above the windows are lights, which do much more than any of the three lamps to brighten the room. It's a curious phenomenon that in any hotel I can remember staying in, none ever have a light hanging from the centre of the room, as just about every room in a house would have. Instead, they use various dull lamps scattered about the room to give light. This must be for reasons of conducing atmosphere, but for practical purposes just makes the room oppressively dark at night. Especially in the case of my first room in the Federal Palace, which only had one pathetic lamp working, and one more if I balanced the base of the lamp over the temperamental switch. The bright light above the window in my second room was pretty good though, but did make an annoying buzzing noise.
The balcony, and chairs. Quite a private balcony, but the height of the barrier and frosted glass meant that if you sat on the chairs you couldn't see the view, only the barrier.
I think Lagos is partially situated on some islands, the Federal Palace being on Victoria Island, and so my window had quite a nice sea view, for Lagos anyway. While most of the city is a congested slum, this kind of view could almost fool one into believing the place was quite pleasant. To my surprise, I didn't see any bodies washed up on the shore.
This little bit (what's it called? A jetty?) stuck out from the hotel. There appeared to be a film crew there the days I stayed, and there were lots of handsome young men and pretty young girls together in a big group too, so I'm guessing they were filming some kind of soap, or film, or Pepsi advert. Or porn.
Yes, in the bathroom, not one sink, but two!
Again, poor attention to detail, with regards to the shower curtain. It was fixed in a position that meant, when you showered, it hung far too deep into the bath, so gave little space to manouevre without finding yourself stuck to it. Also, I believe this style of bathroom suite is not quite up to modern tastes. The toilet water was permanently a worrying brown.
A large, spacious closet, with only a fridge. Room to hang hundreds of dresses, if you were so inclined.
TV and desk. But that's all. No kettle, no coffee - a criminal oversight in my view. Every good hotel should have these basic amenities, because I don't want to have to phone room service and wait 45 minutes every time I want a damn coffee. I am of the generation that wants things NOW. There was also no iron or ironing board, which all good hotels will provide. It goes without saying that internet access in this room could only be a distant dream, thus forcing you to use the dreadful and expensive business centre.
I rather liked this table and chairs however. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable.
So while superficially grand, it is the attention to detail that matters so much in the quality of a hotel. This is where Kuala Lumpur's Hotel Maya scored so many points, and alas where the Federal Palace fails. The lifts are hopelessly inefficient - an entire geological era can progress without one of the three lifts becoming available. The business centre is expensive, the internet very erratic, and the staff rude. The restaurant staff aren't so much rude as simply uncaring, though the buffet is decent.
But where it really matters is the room itself, and this is where the Federal Palace exemplifies itself.
I stayed in two rooms during my two days, and the one pictured here is the better of the two. It was a reasonable size and the bed comfortable enough. The other room actually had a double bed, but the room was smaller. There's no style to speak of: functional, not outstanding.
The other view of the room highlights the large windows which open out onto the balcony. Above the windows are lights, which do much more than any of the three lamps to brighten the room. It's a curious phenomenon that in any hotel I can remember staying in, none ever have a light hanging from the centre of the room, as just about every room in a house would have. Instead, they use various dull lamps scattered about the room to give light. This must be for reasons of conducing atmosphere, but for practical purposes just makes the room oppressively dark at night. Especially in the case of my first room in the Federal Palace, which only had one pathetic lamp working, and one more if I balanced the base of the lamp over the temperamental switch. The bright light above the window in my second room was pretty good though, but did make an annoying buzzing noise.
The balcony, and chairs. Quite a private balcony, but the height of the barrier and frosted glass meant that if you sat on the chairs you couldn't see the view, only the barrier.
I think Lagos is partially situated on some islands, the Federal Palace being on Victoria Island, and so my window had quite a nice sea view, for Lagos anyway. While most of the city is a congested slum, this kind of view could almost fool one into believing the place was quite pleasant. To my surprise, I didn't see any bodies washed up on the shore.
This little bit (what's it called? A jetty?) stuck out from the hotel. There appeared to be a film crew there the days I stayed, and there were lots of handsome young men and pretty young girls together in a big group too, so I'm guessing they were filming some kind of soap, or film, or Pepsi advert. Or porn.
Yes, in the bathroom, not one sink, but two!
Again, poor attention to detail, with regards to the shower curtain. It was fixed in a position that meant, when you showered, it hung far too deep into the bath, so gave little space to manouevre without finding yourself stuck to it. Also, I believe this style of bathroom suite is not quite up to modern tastes. The toilet water was permanently a worrying brown.
A large, spacious closet, with only a fridge. Room to hang hundreds of dresses, if you were so inclined.
TV and desk. But that's all. No kettle, no coffee - a criminal oversight in my view. Every good hotel should have these basic amenities, because I don't want to have to phone room service and wait 45 minutes every time I want a damn coffee. I am of the generation that wants things NOW. There was also no iron or ironing board, which all good hotels will provide. It goes without saying that internet access in this room could only be a distant dream, thus forcing you to use the dreadful and expensive business centre.
I rather liked this table and chairs however. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable.
Friday, 30 March 2007
Escape From Lagos
I arrived in Lagos around eight in the evening on Tuesday. I've been trying to escape ever since.
Lagos is a terrible place, there is no two ways about it. I've not spent a great deal of time here, thankfully, but it only takes a few hours to see how bad it is. There is nothing positive to be said, unfortunately. It is aggressive, congested, filthy, hopeless, pitiful, menacing, frantic, desperate... the list goes on. The traffic is a spectacle to behold.
Organisation is not a Nigerian speciality, hence two aborted attempts to fly out to the even more miserable city of Port Harcourt, where all the kidnappings take place. Yesterday morning I rose at 4.45am to be taken to the airport. I wasn't told where I was going or what time, just to stand in "that" queue. I stood in the queue, fighting off a hundred Nigerians to reach the harrassed attendant. There I was told very little of useful information - "Your name isn't here! Try check-in - next!" - and went to the check-in queue and fought off a hundred Nigerians to be told my flight had just left. To my surprise, my flight was direct to Port Harcourt. The airport there burnt down last year and repair work still hasn't begun, apparently, but they are now flying direct to the helicopter base.
I tried to get a new flight, but after battling yet another hundred Nigerians, was told the one for 11am was full. However, I was on course to getting the 3.30pm one, and even managed to withdraw the 5000 Neira (#20) required to change the flight, until being told I couldn't actually do this because my ticket was a corporate ticket and my company would have to do it. Or, rather, the company contracting ours, the woefully inefficient Halliburton Nigeria (I don't have anything against Halliburton per se - they were excellent in Malaysia - but their Nigerian office is appalling).
Having missed my flight and with no other flights to get, I had the pleasure of sitting in Lagos airport, unquestionably the worst airport I've ever visited, for many hours, before being told I would have to go to the office in town. A pick-up arrived, also with a colleague from my company, who I'll discreetly call "Len", and we went to the office, after spending a couple of hours in ludicrously heavy, aggessive, selfish traffic. My rescheduled ticket was for the following morning, at 7am.
The rest of the afternoon was spent getting a late lunch and having drinks with Len, and catching up on all the news. He then had to leave the get his flight home, and I got some sleep in preparation for a 4.15am wake up.
Well, this morning I duly rose, waited, and was driven to the airport, only to be told at the last minute that I didn't, in fact, have a flight. No, it was actually for the 3.30pm one. Thanks guys. On the way back, through crazy, bustling, angry, uncooperative traffic, the passage sped up only by the fact I was sharing my jeep with two angry armed police, I heard my flight may actually be 11.15am. It wasn't - as I discovered upon waiting in th hotel lobby for an hour.
Anyway, the hotel is where I find myself now - the very tired Federal Palace Hotel, with grossly inflated prices and utterly apathetic staff (I think this might be a Nigerian service trait). I hope to be getting a lift through some insane mentalist traffic at 1pm to the airport, to get my afternoon flight to the stinking, open sewer of crime-infested Port Harcourt, where I will spend my time as their prisoner in another tried old hotel, or figuring out the chaos of the Halliburton base.
Welcome to Nigeria!
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Added note
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I didn't make that afternoon flight, as the driver only turned up an hour and a half late - an hour and a half of me waiting in the hotel lobby - and probably only turned up at all because I phoned the Halliburton boss wondering what was going on. The driver still insisted on taking me to the airport though, just so I could confirm I'd missed my flight. I did, however, on the fourth attempt, make the flight the following morning.
Lagos is a terrible place, there is no two ways about it. I've not spent a great deal of time here, thankfully, but it only takes a few hours to see how bad it is. There is nothing positive to be said, unfortunately. It is aggressive, congested, filthy, hopeless, pitiful, menacing, frantic, desperate... the list goes on. The traffic is a spectacle to behold.
Organisation is not a Nigerian speciality, hence two aborted attempts to fly out to the even more miserable city of Port Harcourt, where all the kidnappings take place. Yesterday morning I rose at 4.45am to be taken to the airport. I wasn't told where I was going or what time, just to stand in "that" queue. I stood in the queue, fighting off a hundred Nigerians to reach the harrassed attendant. There I was told very little of useful information - "Your name isn't here! Try check-in - next!" - and went to the check-in queue and fought off a hundred Nigerians to be told my flight had just left. To my surprise, my flight was direct to Port Harcourt. The airport there burnt down last year and repair work still hasn't begun, apparently, but they are now flying direct to the helicopter base.
I tried to get a new flight, but after battling yet another hundred Nigerians, was told the one for 11am was full. However, I was on course to getting the 3.30pm one, and even managed to withdraw the 5000 Neira (#20) required to change the flight, until being told I couldn't actually do this because my ticket was a corporate ticket and my company would have to do it. Or, rather, the company contracting ours, the woefully inefficient Halliburton Nigeria (I don't have anything against Halliburton per se - they were excellent in Malaysia - but their Nigerian office is appalling).
Having missed my flight and with no other flights to get, I had the pleasure of sitting in Lagos airport, unquestionably the worst airport I've ever visited, for many hours, before being told I would have to go to the office in town. A pick-up arrived, also with a colleague from my company, who I'll discreetly call "Len", and we went to the office, after spending a couple of hours in ludicrously heavy, aggessive, selfish traffic. My rescheduled ticket was for the following morning, at 7am.
The rest of the afternoon was spent getting a late lunch and having drinks with Len, and catching up on all the news. He then had to leave the get his flight home, and I got some sleep in preparation for a 4.15am wake up.
Well, this morning I duly rose, waited, and was driven to the airport, only to be told at the last minute that I didn't, in fact, have a flight. No, it was actually for the 3.30pm one. Thanks guys. On the way back, through crazy, bustling, angry, uncooperative traffic, the passage sped up only by the fact I was sharing my jeep with two angry armed police, I heard my flight may actually be 11.15am. It wasn't - as I discovered upon waiting in th hotel lobby for an hour.
Anyway, the hotel is where I find myself now - the very tired Federal Palace Hotel, with grossly inflated prices and utterly apathetic staff (I think this might be a Nigerian service trait). I hope to be getting a lift through some insane mentalist traffic at 1pm to the airport, to get my afternoon flight to the stinking, open sewer of crime-infested Port Harcourt, where I will spend my time as their prisoner in another tried old hotel, or figuring out the chaos of the Halliburton base.
Welcome to Nigeria!
-------
Added note
-------
I didn't make that afternoon flight, as the driver only turned up an hour and a half late - an hour and a half of me waiting in the hotel lobby - and probably only turned up at all because I phoned the Halliburton boss wondering what was going on. The driver still insisted on taking me to the airport though, just so I could confirm I'd missed my flight. I did, however, on the fourth attempt, make the flight the following morning.
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