I've just crammed my filthy gob full of sushi - all you can eat for £9. Macae has a vast array of beachfront restaurants offering massive amounts of food for fairly little money. I once used to be a svelte young man, lean and limber, but this gross business I have found myself in is corrupting me into a bloated, capitalist porker.
Some useful Portuguese:
mais, por favor - more, please.
mais, agora - more, now.
Quero mais cognac a mais mulhers - I want more cognac and more women.
Oi! - Hi! (this one still confuses me)
Frustratingly, I've had to work for the last couple of days, and will have to for the next three. But it looks like I won't be going offshore until at least Monday.
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
The Equestrian Alcoholic
I've been in Brazil for four days now, and therefore am fully able to make a considered and thorough judgement of the place, and so I can say with security this: Brazil lives up, magnificently, to its cliches. Brazil is a nation of beaches, parties, skimpily-dressed beach babes, football and lazy lunch siestas, all swathed in that distinctive green, yellow and blue flag with the motto, "Ordre e Progresso", which my firm grasp of Portuguese tells me means "Order and Progression" - a motto with about as much relevance as "Sunshine and Smiles" would have to Aberdeen.
Brazil is fun, that's for sure. And I've not even dipped my toe into the fun fully, as yet, but I can sense already the swirling ocean of fun that exists here. It's winter, but it's still a lovely 25C, and cafes and bars fill with pretty people eating, drinking and gesticulating, and old men in tiny shorts power-walk up and down the beach. Everybody seems relaxed, people are helpful and friendly, and there always seems to be one eye on the next party.
I'm in Macae, a fairly small oil town about three hours drive north of Rio de Janeiro. This is where my company are based, through Halliburton, and where much of Brazil's oil industry is focused. It's nothing special, and it doesn't even rate a mention in the Lonely Planet, but it still boasts a lovely, long beach front with fine sand, and loads of decent bars and cafes overlooking the sea. The job I was supposed to be going on has been delayed to at least Saturday, thus giving me plenty of time to settle in, although most of the coming week will be spent on base. However, the work here will be light, and I did have the opportunity to have a bit of sight-seeing over the weekend, when I visited a place called Buzios.
Buzios is a small town on the coast, about an hour south of Macae. It was made famous by B. Bardot in the 1960s - which is about forty years ago. Bardot, it would seem, had some Brazilian boyfriend who acquainted her with the place, and thus granted its fame (a fame which I'd not been familiar with before the weekend, but then my knowledge of Bardot or Brazil was not extensive). Buzious is also noticeable for sounding a little similar to "Boosy Horse". I've never met a boozy horse, but I did kind of once know a boozy cow. This was a girl called Bozica I met while travelling through Croatia. Her name is actually pronounced Bo-zheet-sa, but I only got to terms with this some time later. Bozica was a girl I tried to instigate a cheap romance with, but she was having none of it and deftly deflected my manouevres and instead used me for several meetings which in retrospect I realise were excuses for practicising her English. But she was very pretty, so I forgive her for using me like this.
Anyway, that has little to do with Buzios - nothing, in fact - and has unfortunately completely shaken my train of thought. I was going to speak at great length about Buzios, perhaps describing the bays of beauty, and the beaches of brilliance, and the bars and Bardots, but you can probably just do a search on the internet and get all this stuff. Basically, I went there, had some drinks, went on a boat, ate some food, and watched with sad envy all the young, happy couples enjoying their youth in this peaceful, sunny resort. I took some photos too, which I'll end with.
Brazil is fun, that's for sure. And I've not even dipped my toe into the fun fully, as yet, but I can sense already the swirling ocean of fun that exists here. It's winter, but it's still a lovely 25C, and cafes and bars fill with pretty people eating, drinking and gesticulating, and old men in tiny shorts power-walk up and down the beach. Everybody seems relaxed, people are helpful and friendly, and there always seems to be one eye on the next party.
I'm in Macae, a fairly small oil town about three hours drive north of Rio de Janeiro. This is where my company are based, through Halliburton, and where much of Brazil's oil industry is focused. It's nothing special, and it doesn't even rate a mention in the Lonely Planet, but it still boasts a lovely, long beach front with fine sand, and loads of decent bars and cafes overlooking the sea. The job I was supposed to be going on has been delayed to at least Saturday, thus giving me plenty of time to settle in, although most of the coming week will be spent on base. However, the work here will be light, and I did have the opportunity to have a bit of sight-seeing over the weekend, when I visited a place called Buzios.
Buzios is a small town on the coast, about an hour south of Macae. It was made famous by B. Bardot in the 1960s - which is about forty years ago. Bardot, it would seem, had some Brazilian boyfriend who acquainted her with the place, and thus granted its fame (a fame which I'd not been familiar with before the weekend, but then my knowledge of Bardot or Brazil was not extensive). Buzious is also noticeable for sounding a little similar to "Boosy Horse". I've never met a boozy horse, but I did kind of once know a boozy cow. This was a girl called Bozica I met while travelling through Croatia. Her name is actually pronounced Bo-zheet-sa, but I only got to terms with this some time later. Bozica was a girl I tried to instigate a cheap romance with, but she was having none of it and deftly deflected my manouevres and instead used me for several meetings which in retrospect I realise were excuses for practicising her English. But she was very pretty, so I forgive her for using me like this.
Anyway, that has little to do with Buzios - nothing, in fact - and has unfortunately completely shaken my train of thought. I was going to speak at great length about Buzios, perhaps describing the bays of beauty, and the beaches of brilliance, and the bars and Bardots, but you can probably just do a search on the internet and get all this stuff. Basically, I went there, had some drinks, went on a boat, ate some food, and watched with sad envy all the young, happy couples enjoying their youth in this peaceful, sunny resort. I took some photos too, which I'll end with.
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Tuesday, 10 July 2007
The Nelson Street Flat Upgraded
A while ago, you may recall, I shocked a few girls by posting up my living conditions, which were less than hospital sterile. In fairness, lots of factors worked in my defence, however there was little defence for aging, rotting food in my living room, and less defence for some of the greater horrors in my bathroom.
But, times change, and last week, after much effort, I finally finished the flat. Not just cleaning it, but the extensive repairs and upgrading that have been ongoing for over a year. The feeling of finishing this long-term project was a mixture of extreme satisfaction and paternal proudness, and also a little empty sadness. For finishing it meant moving out and moving on. The flat is now on the rental market - a market very buoyant in Aberdeen - and I expect "others" to be living there by next week, paying me an extortionate £650 a month.
But one word = just one word, but a picture equals a thousand. So here is the photographic evidence of the final changed state of my flat.
We enter the living room first. Clean, relaxed, and with an apricot finish, this light and airy room overlooks Aberdeen's popular King Street. We observe the lack of decaying pies or fungal growths, and instead observe the tied-back curtains maximising the light, and the quaint coffee table packed with oaky character (bought for £5 from the Thrift Store, which is where everything else you can see was bought - £50 for the 3-piece suite, and a fiver for the little tables).
Another view of the living room, these comfortable armchairs face the window and the TV, despite there being no TV connection points as yet (although my agent is on the case). Time should be taken to study the carpet, which is fresh and new, and (kind of) professionally cut. It also lacks any trace if glass, after a light-bulb spontaneously and dramatically exploded the day before.
Moving - gliding even - into the first bedroom, this photo cannot do justice to the space afforded by this pleasant room of soft edges and muted colours. Overlooking a quiet street and defiantly overgrown garden, this is another light and tasteful room. The most expensive thing you can almost see here is the mattress, at a whopping £70, then the bedsite table at £40, with the duvet and lamp lagging behind at a mere £20. The lamp is expecially pleasing, as it is touch sensitive and has four different brightness levels - simple, but oozing luxury. The chair was a mere £2.50 from the ever-enchanting Thrift Store, the bin a budget £3 from John Lewis, and the bed free, from my brother.
It should be noted that this bedroom is the only room in the house to have been professionally painted and decorated. This is because its original state resembled a scab, and holes had been cut out of the wall, and moudly blinds hung dankly. Also, way back then I was far less confident of my own home improvement abilities; these days I would tackle this kind of problem head-on. Nonetheless, having a room done by a professional does make a difference, and still I wonder how he managed to hang the wallpaper so perfectly than I cannot see the joins. I can barely hang a roll of wallpaper without getting about five giant bubbles forming.
We venture into the second bedroom now, yet another room with a refreshing, airy, invigorating, energising and spiritually uplifting pine feel. "The essence of pine." It is from this window just recently that I observed a nude girl! Yes, really, a real, live naked girl, in a flat opposite. I could hardly miss it - she was standing at her window, doing her hair in the mirror, for ages. This beats the girl-in-a-bra I once saw from my King Street flat. Anyway, I'm not sure if I'll be making this a selling point of the room.
Another study of simplistic elegance, again the touch-sensitive John Lewis lamp, with a soft chocolate lampshade, bringing a rustic but modern style. On the right, you can see a line running up the wall. This is because this room used to have a gargantuan built-in wardrobe, that took up half the room and looked like some clunky beast from some alien industrial planet. So I took a big axe and hacked it to piece - a task I'm sure everyone can appreciate was immensely satisfying. This released black clouds of dirt, just like the attic soot that ruined all my carpets. With the wardrobe gone though, this bedroom has become so much more spacious and versatile, with just a few scars remaining from the built-in wardrobe days (the wall line, a stump of wood on the floor, and an indentation on the ceiling).
Perhaps, of all the rooms, I am most proud of the kitchen. This used to have units down both sides, and little space for manouevre, and certainly no space for dining. But by simply ripping out a few units and moving the oven back, room for table and chairs suddenly became available, thus giving extra function and desirability to this cosy kitchen, plus probably adding about £10,000 to the value of my property. The garish yellow has been repainted a mellow blue, and extra shelves installed for storage. The table and chairs came from that haven for the working class, Argos, which just goes to show that good purchases can still be made from such a place (unlike the crappy wardrobe and chest-of-drawers in my King Street flat, which are already falling apart after a year).
A bit of a pish photo, just of the other view of the kitchen. I should really have opened the cupboard for this, so you could see the fancy-dan combi boiler, and also the shelves I specially made, with cuts to accommodate taller items such as the hoover and the brush.
A simple picture of the hall. On the ceiling I have the attic hatch, with a ladder which folds down, and the attic - which I have part floored and wired for electricity - allow for that much-needed storage space this flat otherwise lacks. It is, however, unspeakably filthy up there.
Finally, the bathroom, with a clean white and fresh pine finish. This is another room utterly transformed from its original state, which didn't even have a shower, and was like being trapped in the cell of a mental patient.
A view of the bath and the sink, and also the bright pink bin. My other flat also has a bright pink bin, for historical reasons, so when I saw this bin in Tesco I couldn't resist. The shower installed is particularly good, with a range of different powers and temperatures than never hesitate or run out.
And for those of you with powerful memories, you will know that last time I specially withheld from putting up a photo of my toilet, for fear of provoking widespread panic and a public ruckus. But times have changed, and here we are - so clean and sparkling white you could eat your dinner off it. I actually broke a toilet brush in half getting it this way, seriously. I am so pleased with the transformation that I may instruct my future tenants never to use it.
There we are then. That was the middle of last week, and now I find myself in my King Street flat, which my previous tenants left in quite a state. It needs new carpets, new paint, and a whole new bathroom (which wasn't their fault). However, I am taking this opportunity to upgrade a number of features, and give this potentially lovely flat an air of sophistication and luxury previously lacking. Of course, the practical upshot of this is that I'm now living like a vagrant again, surrounded by debris and filth. For three nights I slept with only a curtain as cover, on the sofa, but have now progressed to a bed and duvet combo. This flat won't be so long term a project and will be done in a couple of weeks, though I expect to be sent away somewhere before that. Until then, I'll plough on, and see how many remains of pies I can gather in the name of home improvement.
But, times change, and last week, after much effort, I finally finished the flat. Not just cleaning it, but the extensive repairs and upgrading that have been ongoing for over a year. The feeling of finishing this long-term project was a mixture of extreme satisfaction and paternal proudness, and also a little empty sadness. For finishing it meant moving out and moving on. The flat is now on the rental market - a market very buoyant in Aberdeen - and I expect "others" to be living there by next week, paying me an extortionate £650 a month.
But one word = just one word, but a picture equals a thousand. So here is the photographic evidence of the final changed state of my flat.
We enter the living room first. Clean, relaxed, and with an apricot finish, this light and airy room overlooks Aberdeen's popular King Street. We observe the lack of decaying pies or fungal growths, and instead observe the tied-back curtains maximising the light, and the quaint coffee table packed with oaky character (bought for £5 from the Thrift Store, which is where everything else you can see was bought - £50 for the 3-piece suite, and a fiver for the little tables).
Another view of the living room, these comfortable armchairs face the window and the TV, despite there being no TV connection points as yet (although my agent is on the case). Time should be taken to study the carpet, which is fresh and new, and (kind of) professionally cut. It also lacks any trace if glass, after a light-bulb spontaneously and dramatically exploded the day before.
Moving - gliding even - into the first bedroom, this photo cannot do justice to the space afforded by this pleasant room of soft edges and muted colours. Overlooking a quiet street and defiantly overgrown garden, this is another light and tasteful room. The most expensive thing you can almost see here is the mattress, at a whopping £70, then the bedsite table at £40, with the duvet and lamp lagging behind at a mere £20. The lamp is expecially pleasing, as it is touch sensitive and has four different brightness levels - simple, but oozing luxury. The chair was a mere £2.50 from the ever-enchanting Thrift Store, the bin a budget £3 from John Lewis, and the bed free, from my brother.
It should be noted that this bedroom is the only room in the house to have been professionally painted and decorated. This is because its original state resembled a scab, and holes had been cut out of the wall, and moudly blinds hung dankly. Also, way back then I was far less confident of my own home improvement abilities; these days I would tackle this kind of problem head-on. Nonetheless, having a room done by a professional does make a difference, and still I wonder how he managed to hang the wallpaper so perfectly than I cannot see the joins. I can barely hang a roll of wallpaper without getting about five giant bubbles forming.
We venture into the second bedroom now, yet another room with a refreshing, airy, invigorating, energising and spiritually uplifting pine feel. "The essence of pine." It is from this window just recently that I observed a nude girl! Yes, really, a real, live naked girl, in a flat opposite. I could hardly miss it - she was standing at her window, doing her hair in the mirror, for ages. This beats the girl-in-a-bra I once saw from my King Street flat. Anyway, I'm not sure if I'll be making this a selling point of the room.
Another study of simplistic elegance, again the touch-sensitive John Lewis lamp, with a soft chocolate lampshade, bringing a rustic but modern style. On the right, you can see a line running up the wall. This is because this room used to have a gargantuan built-in wardrobe, that took up half the room and looked like some clunky beast from some alien industrial planet. So I took a big axe and hacked it to piece - a task I'm sure everyone can appreciate was immensely satisfying. This released black clouds of dirt, just like the attic soot that ruined all my carpets. With the wardrobe gone though, this bedroom has become so much more spacious and versatile, with just a few scars remaining from the built-in wardrobe days (the wall line, a stump of wood on the floor, and an indentation on the ceiling).
Perhaps, of all the rooms, I am most proud of the kitchen. This used to have units down both sides, and little space for manouevre, and certainly no space for dining. But by simply ripping out a few units and moving the oven back, room for table and chairs suddenly became available, thus giving extra function and desirability to this cosy kitchen, plus probably adding about £10,000 to the value of my property. The garish yellow has been repainted a mellow blue, and extra shelves installed for storage. The table and chairs came from that haven for the working class, Argos, which just goes to show that good purchases can still be made from such a place (unlike the crappy wardrobe and chest-of-drawers in my King Street flat, which are already falling apart after a year).
A bit of a pish photo, just of the other view of the kitchen. I should really have opened the cupboard for this, so you could see the fancy-dan combi boiler, and also the shelves I specially made, with cuts to accommodate taller items such as the hoover and the brush.
A simple picture of the hall. On the ceiling I have the attic hatch, with a ladder which folds down, and the attic - which I have part floored and wired for electricity - allow for that much-needed storage space this flat otherwise lacks. It is, however, unspeakably filthy up there.
Finally, the bathroom, with a clean white and fresh pine finish. This is another room utterly transformed from its original state, which didn't even have a shower, and was like being trapped in the cell of a mental patient.
A view of the bath and the sink, and also the bright pink bin. My other flat also has a bright pink bin, for historical reasons, so when I saw this bin in Tesco I couldn't resist. The shower installed is particularly good, with a range of different powers and temperatures than never hesitate or run out.
And for those of you with powerful memories, you will know that last time I specially withheld from putting up a photo of my toilet, for fear of provoking widespread panic and a public ruckus. But times have changed, and here we are - so clean and sparkling white you could eat your dinner off it. I actually broke a toilet brush in half getting it this way, seriously. I am so pleased with the transformation that I may instruct my future tenants never to use it.There we are then. That was the middle of last week, and now I find myself in my King Street flat, which my previous tenants left in quite a state. It needs new carpets, new paint, and a whole new bathroom (which wasn't their fault). However, I am taking this opportunity to upgrade a number of features, and give this potentially lovely flat an air of sophistication and luxury previously lacking. Of course, the practical upshot of this is that I'm now living like a vagrant again, surrounded by debris and filth. For three nights I slept with only a curtain as cover, on the sofa, but have now progressed to a bed and duvet combo. This flat won't be so long term a project and will be done in a couple of weeks, though I expect to be sent away somewhere before that. Until then, I'll plough on, and see how many remains of pies I can gather in the name of home improvement.
Saturday, 7 July 2007
Thursday, 21 June 2007
Peace On The Boat
With everything packed away and a successful job behind me, I can sit back and enjoy a quiet evening on this lightly rocking drillship. A lot of the service personnel left today so the ship has a calmness to it, and my four man room has only me. My arms are sore from so much lifting of heavy boxes, and my legs are sore from the innumerate treks up and down metal steps, and my right hand is sore from the frenetic playing of a 2D motorbike computer game that has consumed myself and my colleague, but with a job done I can relax.
Most jobs I've done with my company have been 5% labour, 95% waiting, drinking coffee, watching football, marching round on the helideck, thinking about my next meal, reading superior literature or modern Chinese history, and taking afternoon naps. But this job has been of a much larger scale, involving a lot of physical exertion, constant monitoring of data, and a minimum of 12 hour shifts daily. The rigging up is intense, and the rigging down can be so too (though time has been on our side this time), and even the week sandwiched between spent data monitoring wasn't a total cruise as the client requested updated data emailed half hourly. But despite, or perhaps because, of this much larger effort, this job has been immensely satisfactory. I've enjoyed it tremendously.
The oil company in charge are American, not a big name, and the most reckless set of cowboy operators I've ever witnessed. Health and safety - so often taken to extremes in this business - has been absent, and I've seen guys walk about the deck in shorts and T-shirts, and even one of the head guys on the drillfloor without a hardhat. The ship is a rusting hulk, with junk metal scattered everywhere, and greasy walkways. Crane operators throw caution to the wind as twenty-ton containers are swung around, smashing into walls and posts. The craziest moment was when the well was to be perforated (this is the moment that giant guns fire 4km underground, to allow the gas or oil into the tubing and thus to flow to the surface). Nobody could agree on what was happening, or going to happen, as everyone's calculations had gone to hell. The test supervisor - the guy supposed to be running the whole job - was so scared there was going to be a blowout (kind of like a colossal, devastating, rig-destroying explosion) he hid in our unit during the perforations.
But in the end, despite the cowboys, it went really well. We are sitting on a vast gas well, many times larger than anybody had expected. Our company, who monitor conditions down the bottom of the well, became the darlings of the rig as we saved the day; without us, the job would have had to have been cancelled. This is great for us as we've had glowing commendations, though really we've just done our job as usual and have simply been in the right place at the right time.
In the midst of this heavy work and moments of triumph, there have been plenty of opportunities for coffee and idolence, don't worry. One of my colleagues, who I will simply call "The Rabbit", brought a kettle with him, which was a great boon. My other colleage, "Mr Calm", and I have been in fierce competition at the aforementioned 2D motorbiking game. Many, many hours have been spent (at the expense of data monitoring) trying to outdo each other on the time for level 3. There's been some wild moments of drama, and currently I am leading with a simply astonishing time of 21.69 seconds, which some think will never be beaten.
We also, during our week or two here, acquired an entourage. A mini-fanclub, if you will. Unlike most of the foul, dour, grim, bitter, uneducated, plebian gruntpigs that make up the staff of a rig, the operators in my company are actually rather pleasant and charming, so we attract the rig strays. And on this occasion we gathered three: Snake-gaiter man, "The Kid", and "The Bird".
Snaker-gaiter man was mentioned in the last entry, and my God he had to be kept off that subject at all cost. Or any subject he had any knowledge about. He wasn't a bad guy, in the sense of being corrupted by evil, but he was inclined to venture off into appallingly dull and long monologues, which inevitably led onto the subject of business and enterprise. However, he was very important to us, as he was the reservoir engineer who was hanging on our data, and in regular contact with Houston, where the heas honchos were. And fortunately Mr Calm was far more patient than I, and got on quite well with him. (I just flat ignored him by the end.)
"The Kid" had a name, but we chose to forget it. He was young engineering student from a good family and good upbringing, and obviously still a little sheltered - he complained that there was "a lot of cursing" on the drillfloor. He was a weedy little runt, who looked closer to 14 than the claimed 21, and most of my humour went way above his head. I almost had him convinced that AIDS could only be transmitted by handshakes. But, I'll say fair play to him, for being a young little runt on a rig but always seeming sure of himself, and I'm sure he'll go far. But damn, he was an annoying little runt.
And "The Bird" was a real, actual girl - and a pretty one too. Her job was to watch out for sand getting in the drill tubing, which didn't occur (as one would hope). Initially, I took a dislike to her because I've decided I disapprove of girls on rigs, as they distract me, and so I refused to speak to her; but it turned out she was quite friendly and interesting, and she certainly made a refreshing change from Snake-gaiter man or The Kid.
But all that's over now, and tomorrow I'll be choppering back to Malabo. I'll stay there for a few days, alone probably, to get our equipment ready for the next job (a few months away) then fly home, hopefully First Class again. I've been promised at least a week at home, and possibly more depending on when my next job is. Which may be back in Nigeria again, on my most dangerous mission yet - a jack-up rig in the troubled region, only slightly offshore, and without security. But hell, as long as it doesn't involve hearing about more damn snake gaiters, I'll do anything.
Most jobs I've done with my company have been 5% labour, 95% waiting, drinking coffee, watching football, marching round on the helideck, thinking about my next meal, reading superior literature or modern Chinese history, and taking afternoon naps. But this job has been of a much larger scale, involving a lot of physical exertion, constant monitoring of data, and a minimum of 12 hour shifts daily. The rigging up is intense, and the rigging down can be so too (though time has been on our side this time), and even the week sandwiched between spent data monitoring wasn't a total cruise as the client requested updated data emailed half hourly. But despite, or perhaps because, of this much larger effort, this job has been immensely satisfactory. I've enjoyed it tremendously.
The oil company in charge are American, not a big name, and the most reckless set of cowboy operators I've ever witnessed. Health and safety - so often taken to extremes in this business - has been absent, and I've seen guys walk about the deck in shorts and T-shirts, and even one of the head guys on the drillfloor without a hardhat. The ship is a rusting hulk, with junk metal scattered everywhere, and greasy walkways. Crane operators throw caution to the wind as twenty-ton containers are swung around, smashing into walls and posts. The craziest moment was when the well was to be perforated (this is the moment that giant guns fire 4km underground, to allow the gas or oil into the tubing and thus to flow to the surface). Nobody could agree on what was happening, or going to happen, as everyone's calculations had gone to hell. The test supervisor - the guy supposed to be running the whole job - was so scared there was going to be a blowout (kind of like a colossal, devastating, rig-destroying explosion) he hid in our unit during the perforations.
But in the end, despite the cowboys, it went really well. We are sitting on a vast gas well, many times larger than anybody had expected. Our company, who monitor conditions down the bottom of the well, became the darlings of the rig as we saved the day; without us, the job would have had to have been cancelled. This is great for us as we've had glowing commendations, though really we've just done our job as usual and have simply been in the right place at the right time.
In the midst of this heavy work and moments of triumph, there have been plenty of opportunities for coffee and idolence, don't worry. One of my colleagues, who I will simply call "The Rabbit", brought a kettle with him, which was a great boon. My other colleage, "Mr Calm", and I have been in fierce competition at the aforementioned 2D motorbiking game. Many, many hours have been spent (at the expense of data monitoring) trying to outdo each other on the time for level 3. There's been some wild moments of drama, and currently I am leading with a simply astonishing time of 21.69 seconds, which some think will never be beaten.
We also, during our week or two here, acquired an entourage. A mini-fanclub, if you will. Unlike most of the foul, dour, grim, bitter, uneducated, plebian gruntpigs that make up the staff of a rig, the operators in my company are actually rather pleasant and charming, so we attract the rig strays. And on this occasion we gathered three: Snake-gaiter man, "The Kid", and "The Bird".
Snaker-gaiter man was mentioned in the last entry, and my God he had to be kept off that subject at all cost. Or any subject he had any knowledge about. He wasn't a bad guy, in the sense of being corrupted by evil, but he was inclined to venture off into appallingly dull and long monologues, which inevitably led onto the subject of business and enterprise. However, he was very important to us, as he was the reservoir engineer who was hanging on our data, and in regular contact with Houston, where the heas honchos were. And fortunately Mr Calm was far more patient than I, and got on quite well with him. (I just flat ignored him by the end.)
"The Kid" had a name, but we chose to forget it. He was young engineering student from a good family and good upbringing, and obviously still a little sheltered - he complained that there was "a lot of cursing" on the drillfloor. He was a weedy little runt, who looked closer to 14 than the claimed 21, and most of my humour went way above his head. I almost had him convinced that AIDS could only be transmitted by handshakes. But, I'll say fair play to him, for being a young little runt on a rig but always seeming sure of himself, and I'm sure he'll go far. But damn, he was an annoying little runt.
And "The Bird" was a real, actual girl - and a pretty one too. Her job was to watch out for sand getting in the drill tubing, which didn't occur (as one would hope). Initially, I took a dislike to her because I've decided I disapprove of girls on rigs, as they distract me, and so I refused to speak to her; but it turned out she was quite friendly and interesting, and she certainly made a refreshing change from Snake-gaiter man or The Kid.
But all that's over now, and tomorrow I'll be choppering back to Malabo. I'll stay there for a few days, alone probably, to get our equipment ready for the next job (a few months away) then fly home, hopefully First Class again. I've been promised at least a week at home, and possibly more depending on when my next job is. Which may be back in Nigeria again, on my most dangerous mission yet - a jack-up rig in the troubled region, only slightly offshore, and without security. But hell, as long as it doesn't involve hearing about more damn snake gaiters, I'll do anything.
Monday, 18 June 2007
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