After four days of 16-hour shifts, in hot and wet weather; surrounded by loud, fat, brash, aging, incompetent “Gawd-damn” Americans; enduring tough, physical, monotonous work over-and-over again as a result of others’ incompetence; on a cramped, beaten-up, filthy, hazardous drill-ship packed with lizards and mosquitos; the second last thing you want is an email bonanza, one saying your mortgage for your recently-purchased flat has fallen through, and the other informing you that essential repairs to your bathroom will cost £8000.
The last thing you want, of course, is a 45-minute monologue, without pause, from a wobbling imbecile about the snake-gators he invented and the Herculean trials and tribulations of setting up business selling said items in China, at a loss, in great and intricate technical detail. Followed by a lecture on the possibilities of converting this “hunting accessory” into the lucrative gardening market as strimmer legshields, for Hispanics.
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
Watching The Island
Hello. I’ve decided to end all sentences in my next paragraph with exclamation marks.
It’s been a busy old few days! Since arriving back in the Faroes on Friday morning, hurling my thrusting body around like a dervish getting stuff ready for mortgages and Equatorial Guinea preparation, and then flying to the said country and going offshore, where unusually there’s been tons of work! I find myself now, after ten hours of work, with a few hours rest before another ten or twelve hour shift! Who says this job is all about sitting round, drinking coffee???!!?!!!!?!?
Right now, then, I’m somewhere to the east of the small island that houses Equatorial Guinea’s capital, Malabo. Equatorial Guinea takes place on three separate chunks of land, all small. One is a fat (but still tiny) strip on mainland Africa, squished in by Cameroon and... Gabon, I think; one is some tiny little blob of an island near the mainland; and the one I can see now is, for some reason, off the coast of Cameroon. If I was Equatorial Guinea, or in charge of it at least, I would seriously consider getting rid of the mainland bit, which is just a stupid rectangular chunk, and the crappy blob island, and just being the island with the capital. It would make far more sense, and be far more compact, than being a country in pieces, scattered about the place.
But I’m not in charge, unfortunately for the 500,000 people of “Equatorial G”; instead some evil military dictator calls the shots. He has been since the late 70s, when he killed the previous evil military dictator – his uncle - in a coup and ate his heart and penis. It didn’t make much difference to the people – they continue to die at an average age of 45, live in poverty, and know by now not to dare to dissent. Equatorial Guinea happens to be the third richest nation on earth, per head of population, yet the population suffer en masse from malnutrition, have no infrastructure, and live on less than a dollar a day. I wonder who’s got all the money? The vast oil bonanza that could transform this small nation instead just bolsters the bank account of a cannibal. And so it is for the bolstering of this man’s account that I find myself here, staring at his lush jungle island of hell, as part of a giant machine that grinds on relentlessly and unstoppably, so that we can drive to the shops and take holidays to nice beaches.
I was barely in Malabo. It was dark when I arrived on Saturday evening, the first proper darkness I’d seen in over a week (none in the Faroes, and I slept through Aberdeen’s few hours of darkness). By a happy stroke of luck, I’d been upgraded to first class on Air France, and was delighted to find the red wine unchilled and the legspace more than my legs could stretch. Thus I arrived in a relaxed manner, and glided through passport control (reported to be tough) without trouble. The security guy from the oil company we’re working for met me, and basically told me the place was safe. That’s the thing about military dictatorships – they’re usually pretty safe for foreigners.
The next morning I found myself on this rig, or drillship rather, which I expect to be my home for the next two weeks. It’s an absolute tip. The beds are alright fortunately, and miraculously there is a wireless internet connection, and the food “is much better”, but the working space outside is atrocious. It’s extremely cramped, rusted piece of junk metal litter the area and there’s a general air of chaos. It’s an American oil company, not a big name one though, and a total cowboy operation. All the senior guys were still senior thirty years ago, and don’t seem to have adapted to the times yet. Luckily for me, and my two colleagues, this means we can baffle them with our technology, which is extremely niche and specialised.
It’s a different type of jobs from my usual, and is far more involved and labour intensive, and far more is at stake for us, so it’s not my usual month of acquiring a tan and drinking coffee. But hopefully, after the next 24 hours, it’ll calm a bit and there’ll be a pleasant week of “monitoring data” and watching sunsets.
And sunsets are very nice here.
It’s been a busy old few days! Since arriving back in the Faroes on Friday morning, hurling my thrusting body around like a dervish getting stuff ready for mortgages and Equatorial Guinea preparation, and then flying to the said country and going offshore, where unusually there’s been tons of work! I find myself now, after ten hours of work, with a few hours rest before another ten or twelve hour shift! Who says this job is all about sitting round, drinking coffee???!!?!!!!?!?
Right now, then, I’m somewhere to the east of the small island that houses Equatorial Guinea’s capital, Malabo. Equatorial Guinea takes place on three separate chunks of land, all small. One is a fat (but still tiny) strip on mainland Africa, squished in by Cameroon and... Gabon, I think; one is some tiny little blob of an island near the mainland; and the one I can see now is, for some reason, off the coast of Cameroon. If I was Equatorial Guinea, or in charge of it at least, I would seriously consider getting rid of the mainland bit, which is just a stupid rectangular chunk, and the crappy blob island, and just being the island with the capital. It would make far more sense, and be far more compact, than being a country in pieces, scattered about the place.
But I’m not in charge, unfortunately for the 500,000 people of “Equatorial G”; instead some evil military dictator calls the shots. He has been since the late 70s, when he killed the previous evil military dictator – his uncle - in a coup and ate his heart and penis. It didn’t make much difference to the people – they continue to die at an average age of 45, live in poverty, and know by now not to dare to dissent. Equatorial Guinea happens to be the third richest nation on earth, per head of population, yet the population suffer en masse from malnutrition, have no infrastructure, and live on less than a dollar a day. I wonder who’s got all the money? The vast oil bonanza that could transform this small nation instead just bolsters the bank account of a cannibal. And so it is for the bolstering of this man’s account that I find myself here, staring at his lush jungle island of hell, as part of a giant machine that grinds on relentlessly and unstoppably, so that we can drive to the shops and take holidays to nice beaches.
I was barely in Malabo. It was dark when I arrived on Saturday evening, the first proper darkness I’d seen in over a week (none in the Faroes, and I slept through Aberdeen’s few hours of darkness). By a happy stroke of luck, I’d been upgraded to first class on Air France, and was delighted to find the red wine unchilled and the legspace more than my legs could stretch. Thus I arrived in a relaxed manner, and glided through passport control (reported to be tough) without trouble. The security guy from the oil company we’re working for met me, and basically told me the place was safe. That’s the thing about military dictatorships – they’re usually pretty safe for foreigners.
The next morning I found myself on this rig, or drillship rather, which I expect to be my home for the next two weeks. It’s an absolute tip. The beds are alright fortunately, and miraculously there is a wireless internet connection, and the food “is much better”, but the working space outside is atrocious. It’s extremely cramped, rusted piece of junk metal litter the area and there’s a general air of chaos. It’s an American oil company, not a big name one though, and a total cowboy operation. All the senior guys were still senior thirty years ago, and don’t seem to have adapted to the times yet. Luckily for me, and my two colleagues, this means we can baffle them with our technology, which is extremely niche and specialised.
It’s a different type of jobs from my usual, and is far more involved and labour intensive, and far more is at stake for us, so it’s not my usual month of acquiring a tan and drinking coffee. But hopefully, after the next 24 hours, it’ll calm a bit and there’ll be a pleasant week of “monitoring data” and watching sunsets.
And sunsets are very nice here.
Monday, 11 June 2007
Beds
I worked out, last night, that this year so far I have slept in about twenty-six different beds, not including overnight flights (of which there have been about five).
That works out as roughly a new bed every six days.
What's your bed-to-day ratio?
That works out as roughly a new bed every six days.
What's your bed-to-day ratio?
Friday, 8 June 2007
Car Trouble and The Equator (Almost)
Back in Scotland, early at 9am, and it's been a busy old day. Whereas Green and Varwell had the luxury of a mid-morning nap and a day of delightful idling, and I believe are now tipping some beer down their gullets with Kitchen Mark and French Claire, I instead have had to rush around getting mortgages, flats and foreign jobs sorted out.
Much of this rushing around has involved my car. "Car" might be too flattering a term for it: "moving grey tin" might be more accurate. My car has been behaving very oddly all day. It now refuses to go above 45mph, and has been making some very disturbing smells. Only after some analysis did I get to the bottom of these worrying smells - the front left wheel. When I parked the car after a concerning series of small trips, I noticed smoke pouring out of the front tire. It was very, very hot, and was making some disconcerting "clacking" noises. I think something might be wrong.
The reason I am rushing though, immediately after hitting these shores after a lovely week in the fairytale Faroes, is because my holiday has been cut short by almost a week due to work. Personnel problems, yet again, have meant I am required at very short notice, and so I'm going to Equatorial Guinea tomorrow, at 6.15am.
The Faroe Islands and Equatorial Guinea, I am guessing, are a little different; but that is only a guess as information on Equatorial Guinea is pretty limited, and what I can find doesn't paint a very attractive picture. No infrastructure, widespread poverty despite vast ruling class wealth, malaria problems, horrendous humidity, an average life expectancy of less than 50. Fortunately, however, I don't think anyone will be trying to kidnap me.
Worse still, I've got to travel there on Air France. Via CDG. What a damn piece of crap. The French - sort this out. Air France - stop cooling your red wine!
Much of this rushing around has involved my car. "Car" might be too flattering a term for it: "moving grey tin" might be more accurate. My car has been behaving very oddly all day. It now refuses to go above 45mph, and has been making some very disturbing smells. Only after some analysis did I get to the bottom of these worrying smells - the front left wheel. When I parked the car after a concerning series of small trips, I noticed smoke pouring out of the front tire. It was very, very hot, and was making some disconcerting "clacking" noises. I think something might be wrong.
The reason I am rushing though, immediately after hitting these shores after a lovely week in the fairytale Faroes, is because my holiday has been cut short by almost a week due to work. Personnel problems, yet again, have meant I am required at very short notice, and so I'm going to Equatorial Guinea tomorrow, at 6.15am.
The Faroe Islands and Equatorial Guinea, I am guessing, are a little different; but that is only a guess as information on Equatorial Guinea is pretty limited, and what I can find doesn't paint a very attractive picture. No infrastructure, widespread poverty despite vast ruling class wealth, malaria problems, horrendous humidity, an average life expectancy of less than 50. Fortunately, however, I don't think anyone will be trying to kidnap me.
Worse still, I've got to travel there on Air France. Via CDG. What a damn piece of crap. The French - sort this out. Air France - stop cooling your red wine!
Thursday, 7 June 2007
Faroya
I have been in the Faroe Islands for seven days now - that's more than some people have been alive for. Hence I confidently believe that I am in a good position to assess this country accurately. A chronological account of my visit is, alas, not possible, but instead I shall describe my week in evocative detail using subject headers and my new mastery of "bold".
Puffins
While on a very misty boat-trip, we saw real, living puffins, bobbing about on the sea. No doubt, had the mist not enveloped us and obscured all vision, we may have seen some enjoying their day on cliffs and rocks. Puffins, for those not well versed in this popular bird, are smaller than you might imagine. They are about the size of a bottle of wine.
Far more than living puffins, we have seen many stuffed puffins. A number of shops sell stuffed puffins, for around about £50. Green bought one today in fact, and hopes to successfully smuggle it into Scotland. Apparently you're not meant to have stuffed puffins in the UK because they're endangered or something stupid like that.
Buses
Torshavn, the capital of the Faroe Islands, has free buses. This was brought in to combat the growing number of cars clogging up the city centre (apparently up to seven cars can be seen at one time during rush hour). I am very impressed by this move by the Faroese powermongers, and it makes life for the tourist very easy. Even though it's only a fifteen minute walk into town, on the way home from town this walk is uphill and therefore inappropriate for a tourist trying to relax on holiday.
The skateboarding community also appear to approve of the free bus service, as we observed one boy hopping onto the no.3, waiting as the bus went uphill past a few stops, then hopped off again to enjoy skateboarding back down the hill the bus had just taken him up.
Sheep
There are lots of sheep in the Faroes. They seem to roam free on hills and have a wilder, craggier look than the soft-edged Scottish sheep.
The Weather
There is an image of the Faroe Islands being this bleak, windswept, rainy outpost on the edge of civilisation: this image is correct. However, during the week we have been here, the weather has been mostly lovely. Green's face has turned bright red from the sunshine, and Varwell has been caught muttering about the stifling heat being almost unbearable. Let's not get carried away, there hasn't been any moments when I've suddenly mistaken my location for the Mediterranean, but from Monday to Wednesday the sun was out, people were eating and drinking outside cafes, not wearing a thick coat wasn't seen as an act of lunacy, and the conditions were as I'd describe a lovely, bright Scottish spring day.
This is coupled with the fact that it is almost midsummer, and the day never really gets dark. At about 1am it certainly much duller, but to describe it as a traditional night-time would be an exaggeration. Of course, in winter the reverse is true: months of darkness with only a little light hinted at around noon each day. But I don't think many tourists visit in winter.
The Scots And Italians
We've seen two football games here, and thus two sets of fans. On Saturday we witnessed the Italian fans... or did we? Where were they? We saw a handful of swarthy men wander the eerily quiet streets, and the game itself there were a couple of Italian flags and one brief Italian football chant during the 90 minutes, but that was it. The World Champions of football, and a nation of 60 million, made next to no impression on these tiny islands.
The Scots on the other hand, well. There was no mistaking the Scots were in town. On the day of the game, in the town centre, a large number of burly men gathered, almost all in kilts, and almost all drunk, singing, dancing and causing bemusement to the local population. Scots were everywhere - but mostly in the pubs. As this is the fourth time Scotland has been drawn in a qualifying group with the Faroes, the Faroese by now know what to expect, and so took this invasion of ridiculous but hilarious madmen in very good humour. They were perfect hosts in fact. In the town centre, in front of the parliament buildings, the Faroese flag had been lowered and replaced with the Scottish, and speakers had been set up blasting out (inevitably rubbish) Scots tunes.
Later too, the pubs were mobbed, not just by the Scots' Tartan Army, but by local Faroese, who clearly treated this like a festival day. Everybody was very drunk. The Scots have a very good travelling support. Apart from the outlanding and overdone national costume, the behaviour, though drunken, is very friendly, and involving of the locals. The Faroese we spoke to seemed to love when the Scots came visiting. I've complained about the dour misery of the Scots when working offshore, but when en masse, on holiday, they are anything but.
Beer
It's £5 a pint here. Even with the beer being a strong 5.6/5.8%, this is expensive.
Girls
Well, I'll be damned if the girls aren't very pretty young things. I'd kind of expected a bunch of inbred troll-like lumps, but instead I find a lot of very perky, sweet-faced elfin lovelies. Most of whom seem to be about 15.
The Faroese
We'd been led to believe that the Faroese people might be quiet, reserved and taking a little warming up, but have found them to be outgoing and friendly. We've definitely caught them at a good time - during good weather and during the football, when the town has been relaxed and often drunk. I think the Scottish are popular here too. But I've been impressed.
Buffets
Buffets are very popular here at lunchtime. We sampled a pub-style buffet, a Chinese buffet, and a pizza buffet, all at a very reasonable £8 each. Alas, puffin or whale buffets don't appear to be in abundance.
Football
We saw to games while here: Faroes 1 - 2 Italy, and Faroes 0 - 2 Scotland. The Italy game was played in the national stadium, and was in freezing wind and rain, and the Faroes really took the game to them. The Scotland game was played at the amazingly picturesque Toftir stadium, which involved a ferry trip and climb up a steep hill. The weather was lovely and sunny for this, and the Faroes were unlucky not to have got a goal, though Scotland deserved to win overall.
My Travelling Companions
It goes without saying that both Green and Varwell have been simply outstanding travelling companions.
Photos
I'll put up some photos when I can be arsed.
Puffins
While on a very misty boat-trip, we saw real, living puffins, bobbing about on the sea. No doubt, had the mist not enveloped us and obscured all vision, we may have seen some enjoying their day on cliffs and rocks. Puffins, for those not well versed in this popular bird, are smaller than you might imagine. They are about the size of a bottle of wine.
Far more than living puffins, we have seen many stuffed puffins. A number of shops sell stuffed puffins, for around about £50. Green bought one today in fact, and hopes to successfully smuggle it into Scotland. Apparently you're not meant to have stuffed puffins in the UK because they're endangered or something stupid like that.
Buses
Torshavn, the capital of the Faroe Islands, has free buses. This was brought in to combat the growing number of cars clogging up the city centre (apparently up to seven cars can be seen at one time during rush hour). I am very impressed by this move by the Faroese powermongers, and it makes life for the tourist very easy. Even though it's only a fifteen minute walk into town, on the way home from town this walk is uphill and therefore inappropriate for a tourist trying to relax on holiday.
The skateboarding community also appear to approve of the free bus service, as we observed one boy hopping onto the no.3, waiting as the bus went uphill past a few stops, then hopped off again to enjoy skateboarding back down the hill the bus had just taken him up.
Sheep
There are lots of sheep in the Faroes. They seem to roam free on hills and have a wilder, craggier look than the soft-edged Scottish sheep.
The Weather
There is an image of the Faroe Islands being this bleak, windswept, rainy outpost on the edge of civilisation: this image is correct. However, during the week we have been here, the weather has been mostly lovely. Green's face has turned bright red from the sunshine, and Varwell has been caught muttering about the stifling heat being almost unbearable. Let's not get carried away, there hasn't been any moments when I've suddenly mistaken my location for the Mediterranean, but from Monday to Wednesday the sun was out, people were eating and drinking outside cafes, not wearing a thick coat wasn't seen as an act of lunacy, and the conditions were as I'd describe a lovely, bright Scottish spring day.
This is coupled with the fact that it is almost midsummer, and the day never really gets dark. At about 1am it certainly much duller, but to describe it as a traditional night-time would be an exaggeration. Of course, in winter the reverse is true: months of darkness with only a little light hinted at around noon each day. But I don't think many tourists visit in winter.
The Scots And Italians
We've seen two football games here, and thus two sets of fans. On Saturday we witnessed the Italian fans... or did we? Where were they? We saw a handful of swarthy men wander the eerily quiet streets, and the game itself there were a couple of Italian flags and one brief Italian football chant during the 90 minutes, but that was it. The World Champions of football, and a nation of 60 million, made next to no impression on these tiny islands.
The Scots on the other hand, well. There was no mistaking the Scots were in town. On the day of the game, in the town centre, a large number of burly men gathered, almost all in kilts, and almost all drunk, singing, dancing and causing bemusement to the local population. Scots were everywhere - but mostly in the pubs. As this is the fourth time Scotland has been drawn in a qualifying group with the Faroes, the Faroese by now know what to expect, and so took this invasion of ridiculous but hilarious madmen in very good humour. They were perfect hosts in fact. In the town centre, in front of the parliament buildings, the Faroese flag had been lowered and replaced with the Scottish, and speakers had been set up blasting out (inevitably rubbish) Scots tunes.
Later too, the pubs were mobbed, not just by the Scots' Tartan Army, but by local Faroese, who clearly treated this like a festival day. Everybody was very drunk. The Scots have a very good travelling support. Apart from the outlanding and overdone national costume, the behaviour, though drunken, is very friendly, and involving of the locals. The Faroese we spoke to seemed to love when the Scots came visiting. I've complained about the dour misery of the Scots when working offshore, but when en masse, on holiday, they are anything but.
Beer
It's £5 a pint here. Even with the beer being a strong 5.6/5.8%, this is expensive.
Girls
Well, I'll be damned if the girls aren't very pretty young things. I'd kind of expected a bunch of inbred troll-like lumps, but instead I find a lot of very perky, sweet-faced elfin lovelies. Most of whom seem to be about 15.
The Faroese
We'd been led to believe that the Faroese people might be quiet, reserved and taking a little warming up, but have found them to be outgoing and friendly. We've definitely caught them at a good time - during good weather and during the football, when the town has been relaxed and often drunk. I think the Scottish are popular here too. But I've been impressed.
Buffets
Buffets are very popular here at lunchtime. We sampled a pub-style buffet, a Chinese buffet, and a pizza buffet, all at a very reasonable £8 each. Alas, puffin or whale buffets don't appear to be in abundance.
Football
We saw to games while here: Faroes 1 - 2 Italy, and Faroes 0 - 2 Scotland. The Italy game was played in the national stadium, and was in freezing wind and rain, and the Faroes really took the game to them. The Scotland game was played at the amazingly picturesque Toftir stadium, which involved a ferry trip and climb up a steep hill. The weather was lovely and sunny for this, and the Faroes were unlucky not to have got a goal, though Scotland deserved to win overall.
My Travelling Companions
It goes without saying that both Green and Varwell have been simply outstanding travelling companions.
Photos
I'll put up some photos when I can be arsed.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Monday, 4 June 2007
Island Life
I believe Varwell has written an extensive account of Faroese life, therefore I can rest easy knowing an account has been recorded for posterity, and can sit back and continue drinking my expensive but decidedly strong beer.
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