I have realised that I'm a little over-dressed for Brazil.
I arrived back onshore, in Vitoria, on Tuesday. Only for a few days - in theory - while they RIH and flow, with me returning for shut-in and SRO. But with delays already established as being the done thing, I wouldn't bet against there being further delays, which means more time on the beach, doing nothing, for me. And as I'll be going home in just over a week for a two week holiday, this means my work is almost over.
All this is rather pleasing, especially as I have an apartment-style hotel room with a balcony that overlooks the long beach that this city of quarter of a million is wrapped around. The weather is an immaculate mid-20 Celcius with cool breeze and mere wisps of clouds. Beautiful people lie on the sand, or stroll by lackadaisically, wearing the slightest of trunks or bikinis, or perhaps some baggy shorts, maybe a sports vest. And therein lies the problem.
When it comes to fashion, I have never exactly been at the very vanguard of the movement. Occasionally, a girl will wear a pretty dress, and I will think “Well, isn’t that a pretty dress,” but usually my eye is caught quicker by an impractically short dress, whether nice or not. With my own dress sense, I am not much better. For years I wore mostly green, simply because it made clothes shopping quicker if I only looked for green items. Mercifully, this changed in Korea, which was very fashion-conscious and came like a bolt to the system, and with the help of some delightful ladies I purchased some “hipper” and “trendier” items. I even had a manbag! (sadly missed, as such things are forbidden in Scotland.) And just as things were beginning to get a little shabby again, my long trip to Dubai last year allowed me the opportunity to sharpen up my wardrobe once again. Make no mistake, as I stride down your street, hips swaying and pelvis all over the place, I am the smooth modern model of the young professional.
But that doesn’t cut it in Brazil. You see, I’m just not geared up for beach-life. My collared T-shirts are too tight and don’t sway in the breeze, my full-length trousers are very out of place in this shorted/trunked community (even though the large split in the crotch of one does allow for generous aeration) and are hopelessly impractical when walking through sand, but worst of all is my socks and shoes – it’s just not right. I might look ok in a bank, or a mall, or a meeting, or a bar, or an exhibition, but at the beach I’m decidedly out of place.
But never let it be said that I don’t adapt to my environment. While my usual attire, wherever I am, is the aforementioned, the need for change has been recognised, and hence a dramatic shift in policy has occurred. I already have a pair of shorts – swimming shorts that are long and baggy enough for beach shorts – but I did the unthinkable yesterday and bought my first ever pair of flip-flops. And then I wore them. Sockless, I walked out of the hotel and onto the beach, and became one of the beautiful people, strolling along the sin-kissed shores, waves lapping vigorously as the water submerged my toes. For up to an hour I strolled before it all got a bit too much for me and I had to return to the hotel.
But it’s a start. I’m not by nature a shorts-and-flip-flops man, but after a month in Brazil the surroundings are having an effect on me. This is just the first step – soon I’ll be going samba crazy, playing beach volleyball, and doing capoeira on rooftops. Oh, and mugging tourists at gunpoint, of course.
Friday, 10 August 2007
Thursday, 2 August 2007
View From The Helideck
Aboard this clanking, grinding, whirring piece of heavy industrial menace, floating off the coast of Brazil in the south Atlantic, it's easy – indeed even normal – to feel oneself becoming less human and more mechanised, adapting to the hydraulic metalism that is one's living environment. The only green here is the slimy broccoli lumped into a heated tin for lunch servings – there is no nature, no growth, no life. Nothing, but for the few confused flies that have travelled from a supplies vessel, and the ubiquitous cockroach which knows no limits. Existence is automated – those on board this noisy, sleepless platform are cogs in a greater machine, and are here to function only. Enjoyment or happiness are alien concepts to the dead eyes that pass in the corridor. We are stranded, cut off from those we know and love, from the places we grew up, from everything familiar; cast off in an unholy roar of savage mechanics that becomes our temporary home. We adapt, but most adapt by mechanisation.
Still I resist, however, for the time being. As yet still fresh, I cling to those memories of home and friendly faces, knowing that I will re-unite and in the meantine must maintain my humanity against the near-overpowering onslaught of brute steel around me. To do this I must snatch whatever remnant of reality and freedom I still can, and herein lies the wonder of the helideck.
I have espoused the virtues of the helideck in the past, during my ten day stint offshore Mauritania, which was notable for its grand total of two hours' work. The helideck is a lifeline. Not just because that is where our winged eagle will one day swoop down to save us and carry us back to tearful family, but because in this claustrophobic engine that one hundred men are crammed into, the helideck represents the only open space available. Ten metres by ten metres, or more, this octagon is without walls, and is open out to the endless ocean and epic sky. It's even green.
Helidecks range in size, shape, position and quality. The ideal helideck is elevated from the rest of the rig, or at least jutting seriously out, and will remain relatively undisturbed by crane operations. It shouldn't be part of a thoroughfare, and should maintain a degree of privacy. Importantly, the surface should not become too slippy after a little rain. Pasty white sunbathers littering the area is a definite no. I am not a social helideck patroller, and hence prefer the crew of the rig not to crowd me during my daily or twice-daily stroll.
The helideck on this rig, by most of the above standards, is not a great one. It's somewhat inset into the rig, so not private, and I garner stares from anyone descending from the rig floor. Rope to form a gridlike pattern is strung across it, thus hindering my walk. Crane operations are infrequent but can interfere. On the plus side, I have not had to share my helideck space yet, and there are no pasty white sunbathers.
The main plus of this helideck, though, and a big selling point of any helideck, is the view. For all the space and freedom a helideck grants, to avoid being swallowed whole by the rig and reformed into some unthinking scrap of metal, an interesting view of the outside world is vital. Not all rigs have such a view. My very first job in Egypt found me surrounded only by an expanse of sea, the Mediterranean. In my five weeks there, despite immaculately clear conditions, the only thing of note I saw was a distant ship sailing by. Still, that compares well to any stories I hear from the North Sea, which I pray nightly I never have to go. Cold, overcast and unspeakably miserable, there is nothing to see and no way to see it, and life eventually becomes a silent shell huddled in the smoking shack, avoiding the bitter stares of the aging, fingerless, dour Scots, condemned to their graves in this vile existence.
Usually, in my experience, each helideck has offered something in the way of a view. Even Nigeria, too far offshore to see the coast, offered fish. Fairly regularly, the calm surface of the water would be broken by a fish jumping out, and then another, and another. Fish could always be seen swimming just under the surface. In the distance too was a rig. Mauritania didn't have much to offer either, but a nearby drillship flaring looked quite pretty, and I was visited by a bird, photographed in an earlier entry, that kitchen Mark (expert birdwatcher) idenitifed, to everyone's joy, as a "brown booby". And there can be fewer better views than a brown booby.
I photographed also the view from the drillship off Equatorial Guinea. Usually the haze obscured it, but at sunset the sun would dip behind the volcanic island, giving a quite spectacular end to the daylight. Sunsets in general are quite good from rigs.
For views, the best rig to date was the one offshore Oman. The rig itself was a total dump, a festering pile of metal decaying into the sea. But when H2S operations weren't going (thus confining everyone indoors for days), and the air was clear, the view was terrific. From one side, the craggy mountains of Oman were clearly visible, almost pink in the sunlight, with a settlement lighting up a sparkling line of orange streetlights at night. It looked close enough to swim to. And to the other, just a little more distant, faint pink mountains belonging to Iran could be seen. We were in the Arabian Gulf, at a bottleneck, and thus ships sailing by were a constant occurrence, ships of vastly different shapes, sizes and purposes. Quite often, we would see small speedboats – smugglers – in groups, dashing from one country to another. Once, a military gunboat sailed by, Omani I believe, with a giant gun on a turret. Just in front of this gun, on an open space on the deck, was about fifteen soldiers, on mats, crouched and bowing for one of their five daily prayers.
This rig and helideck now can't hope to match that offshore Oman, but it's pretty good. The first couple of days I arrived were wet and windy, with any view obscured. But it's since cleared, and to the north-west a long line of mountains can be seen. Most are smooth and rolling, but a few are alone and sudden, and one particular is impressively large. It is below this large one that the orange glow of civilisation appears at night. All this is definitely too far to swim, should the need arise, but for closer signs of life we need look no further than the many fishing vessels that meander by. This is a common occurrence in Brazil, I gather, and at any given time I can expect to see at least one fishing boat in close proximity, with the five or so fisherman close enough to communicate in sign language, should I ever happen to learn the Brazilian signs for "Take me home, I beg you." I've seen them catch individual fish from lines. The fisherman tie their boats to the rig legs, and during the rough spell over the weekend, three boats tied together, with one tied to the rig, bobbed vigorously up and down while they waited for the storm to abate.
Further afield than the fishing boats, distant ships sail by, and three rigs are clearly seen. Two are very close together, twinned for some reason, and at night light up like Christmas. Rigs, in fact, look quite pretty from a distance. But then, most things look like pretty from a distance, or a few beers.
Finally, and from a distance of about two hundred metres, while on a stroll in the sun round the helideck yesterday, I saw some unexpected movement in the light ocean waves. My previous experience from a holiday in Iceland kicked in, and I waited a little, and sure enough it returned: a whale. Gently surfacing for air, then going under, then resurfacing. I think they – or at least the ones in Iceland – surface three times before heading back down. It wasn't a big whale – we're not talking epic Blue Whale proportions here – but it was certainly bigger than a dolphin, or a porpoise. I will endeavour to bring my harpoon gun for future Brazilian adventures.
It's these small glimpses of an outside world that help retain a degree of humanity and sanity while onboard an ugly vessel of function, sucking up ancient dead life from kilometres below so that the select millions can do bigger and better shopping. I would offer you some photos, but cameras are forbidden on this rig, and the camera smuggled in I accidently put through the wash, and now it doesn't work. I'm a little upset about this.
Still I resist, however, for the time being. As yet still fresh, I cling to those memories of home and friendly faces, knowing that I will re-unite and in the meantine must maintain my humanity against the near-overpowering onslaught of brute steel around me. To do this I must snatch whatever remnant of reality and freedom I still can, and herein lies the wonder of the helideck.
I have espoused the virtues of the helideck in the past, during my ten day stint offshore Mauritania, which was notable for its grand total of two hours' work. The helideck is a lifeline. Not just because that is where our winged eagle will one day swoop down to save us and carry us back to tearful family, but because in this claustrophobic engine that one hundred men are crammed into, the helideck represents the only open space available. Ten metres by ten metres, or more, this octagon is without walls, and is open out to the endless ocean and epic sky. It's even green.
Helidecks range in size, shape, position and quality. The ideal helideck is elevated from the rest of the rig, or at least jutting seriously out, and will remain relatively undisturbed by crane operations. It shouldn't be part of a thoroughfare, and should maintain a degree of privacy. Importantly, the surface should not become too slippy after a little rain. Pasty white sunbathers littering the area is a definite no. I am not a social helideck patroller, and hence prefer the crew of the rig not to crowd me during my daily or twice-daily stroll.
The helideck on this rig, by most of the above standards, is not a great one. It's somewhat inset into the rig, so not private, and I garner stares from anyone descending from the rig floor. Rope to form a gridlike pattern is strung across it, thus hindering my walk. Crane operations are infrequent but can interfere. On the plus side, I have not had to share my helideck space yet, and there are no pasty white sunbathers.
The main plus of this helideck, though, and a big selling point of any helideck, is the view. For all the space and freedom a helideck grants, to avoid being swallowed whole by the rig and reformed into some unthinking scrap of metal, an interesting view of the outside world is vital. Not all rigs have such a view. My very first job in Egypt found me surrounded only by an expanse of sea, the Mediterranean. In my five weeks there, despite immaculately clear conditions, the only thing of note I saw was a distant ship sailing by. Still, that compares well to any stories I hear from the North Sea, which I pray nightly I never have to go. Cold, overcast and unspeakably miserable, there is nothing to see and no way to see it, and life eventually becomes a silent shell huddled in the smoking shack, avoiding the bitter stares of the aging, fingerless, dour Scots, condemned to their graves in this vile existence.
Usually, in my experience, each helideck has offered something in the way of a view. Even Nigeria, too far offshore to see the coast, offered fish. Fairly regularly, the calm surface of the water would be broken by a fish jumping out, and then another, and another. Fish could always be seen swimming just under the surface. In the distance too was a rig. Mauritania didn't have much to offer either, but a nearby drillship flaring looked quite pretty, and I was visited by a bird, photographed in an earlier entry, that kitchen Mark (expert birdwatcher) idenitifed, to everyone's joy, as a "brown booby". And there can be fewer better views than a brown booby.
I photographed also the view from the drillship off Equatorial Guinea. Usually the haze obscured it, but at sunset the sun would dip behind the volcanic island, giving a quite spectacular end to the daylight. Sunsets in general are quite good from rigs.
For views, the best rig to date was the one offshore Oman. The rig itself was a total dump, a festering pile of metal decaying into the sea. But when H2S operations weren't going (thus confining everyone indoors for days), and the air was clear, the view was terrific. From one side, the craggy mountains of Oman were clearly visible, almost pink in the sunlight, with a settlement lighting up a sparkling line of orange streetlights at night. It looked close enough to swim to. And to the other, just a little more distant, faint pink mountains belonging to Iran could be seen. We were in the Arabian Gulf, at a bottleneck, and thus ships sailing by were a constant occurrence, ships of vastly different shapes, sizes and purposes. Quite often, we would see small speedboats – smugglers – in groups, dashing from one country to another. Once, a military gunboat sailed by, Omani I believe, with a giant gun on a turret. Just in front of this gun, on an open space on the deck, was about fifteen soldiers, on mats, crouched and bowing for one of their five daily prayers.
This rig and helideck now can't hope to match that offshore Oman, but it's pretty good. The first couple of days I arrived were wet and windy, with any view obscured. But it's since cleared, and to the north-west a long line of mountains can be seen. Most are smooth and rolling, but a few are alone and sudden, and one particular is impressively large. It is below this large one that the orange glow of civilisation appears at night. All this is definitely too far to swim, should the need arise, but for closer signs of life we need look no further than the many fishing vessels that meander by. This is a common occurrence in Brazil, I gather, and at any given time I can expect to see at least one fishing boat in close proximity, with the five or so fisherman close enough to communicate in sign language, should I ever happen to learn the Brazilian signs for "Take me home, I beg you." I've seen them catch individual fish from lines. The fisherman tie their boats to the rig legs, and during the rough spell over the weekend, three boats tied together, with one tied to the rig, bobbed vigorously up and down while they waited for the storm to abate.
Further afield than the fishing boats, distant ships sail by, and three rigs are clearly seen. Two are very close together, twinned for some reason, and at night light up like Christmas. Rigs, in fact, look quite pretty from a distance. But then, most things look like pretty from a distance, or a few beers.
Finally, and from a distance of about two hundred metres, while on a stroll in the sun round the helideck yesterday, I saw some unexpected movement in the light ocean waves. My previous experience from a holiday in Iceland kicked in, and I waited a little, and sure enough it returned: a whale. Gently surfacing for air, then going under, then resurfacing. I think they – or at least the ones in Iceland – surface three times before heading back down. It wasn't a big whale – we're not talking epic Blue Whale proportions here – but it was certainly bigger than a dolphin, or a porpoise. I will endeavour to bring my harpoon gun for future Brazilian adventures.
It's these small glimpses of an outside world that help retain a degree of humanity and sanity while onboard an ugly vessel of function, sucking up ancient dead life from kilometres below so that the select millions can do bigger and better shopping. I would offer you some photos, but cameras are forbidden on this rig, and the camera smuggled in I accidently put through the wash, and now it doesn't work. I'm a little upset about this.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
Flat Update
I got the keys to my third flat yesterday – it is officially mine. Just a shame I’m thousands of miles away, on a rig. Nevertheless, it’s sitting there waiting for my return, semi-derelict but spacious, and with a great attic. From how things are shaping up, it looks like I’ll have five days to enjoy it – between 20th and 25th August – albeit with most of that time frantically getting my first flat in a healthy enough condition to rent out.
My second flat, meanwhile, after being spurned by the dirty Frenchies, has now been snapped up by two young student nurses. 20 and 21 years of age! Surely shapely, fresh-faced creatures. They move in the very week I return to Aberdeen.
And the fourth flat... it’s rumbling away in the background, slowly on its way to being purchased. I’ve got grand plans for that one – knocking down all the interior walls and fitting a giant jaccuzi. Jacuzzi flats, as those in the know will tell you, are to be the next big thing.
Ja...cu...zzi... what a silly word.
My second flat, meanwhile, after being spurned by the dirty Frenchies, has now been snapped up by two young student nurses. 20 and 21 years of age! Surely shapely, fresh-faced creatures. They move in the very week I return to Aberdeen.
And the fourth flat... it’s rumbling away in the background, slowly on its way to being purchased. I’ve got grand plans for that one – knocking down all the interior walls and fitting a giant jaccuzi. Jacuzzi flats, as those in the know will tell you, are to be the next big thing.
Ja...cu...zzi... what a silly word.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
On The Rig With Nothing To Do
It’s been a strange fact so far, that my two weeks onshore in Brazil have been among the hardest two weeks I’ve had with work since I’ve started, yet finally when I go offshore I suddenly – and to my relief – find there’s nothing to do whatsoever.
Within my company, Brazil occupies a somewhat special place in the heart. It was there for the hard times – the national petroleum company, Petrobras, continuing to contract us when we were deemed too “luxury” for other oil companies. We have our own small base here, nestled covertly within the much-larger base of a much-larger oil service company. Brazil is legend for engineers going wild, with tales of bad behaviour too numerous (and inappropriate for my genteel audience) to describe. But is also legend for the terrible onshore bonus, only rectified this year, and for the hard hours done in Macae, preparing kits, dealing with the language barrier and the stifling summer heat, making slow progress in thankless tasks. This holiday and party destination also happens to be the nation that means the hardest work for our engineers involved.
Until we get offshore. You see, also legend within Brazil is the terrible inefficiency of its offshore operations. Petrobras is the national oil company, therefore run by the government, and as government operations inevitably are, it does a smooth, well-oiled operation. Tales abound of the epic stints our engineers have spent on Petrobras rigs – 54 days is the record, to my knowledge, but I’ve heard of a number into their 40s. One of my colleagues spent an entire month without ever putting on his coveralls. Another, to his delight, watched every game of the World Cup. Engineers get lot and forgotten about in Brazil. It is an irony that all our hard preparatory work onshore is for nothing, offshore.
Thus, suddenly, after two weeks of a helpless routine of work and dinner (I’ve not once set foot on a beach yet) I’ve suddenly time to kill. The rig I’m on is weathered and battered, and has never been loved, and performs a function rather than playing generous host, yet it has just enough space to avoid feeling trapped. The four man rooms have no bathroom, so showers have to be taken in the communal changing rooms. There are only three showers, but fortunately Brazilians don’t appear to wash. What Brazilians do is watch TV, continuously. The bane of my life right now is the TV in my four man room. Except at night, when I switch it off and turn off the lights, it is an ever-flickering presence. I’ll walk into the room to find it blaring, but without anyone there to watch it. During the day it blares, with a Brazilian sleeping soundly, and probably very happily, in his bunk. One time, when alone in the room, one of my room-mates walked into the room, turned the TV on, noticed that I was there, then smiled and turned the volume down a little before walking out of the room. I am told by my colleague on this rig – “Len” – that there is a rig somewhere in Brazil with a porn channel, and that he would wake daily to the sound and sight of yet another blowjob. Mercifully, this channel is not here, though I did yesterday walk into my room to find three Brazilians gathered round a computer, appreciating a cultured collection. The Shrek characters engaged in vivid acts most entranced them.
Currently I am clinging on to a small unit Len and I have commandeered. It has that precious of things, an internet connection, and I’m treading a fine line between making our presence felt here, but remaining discreet enough so the OIM (the rig manager) doesn’t think we’re hogging the connection from others. If I go too far either way, then all could be lost, but as long as we stand firm in that we need this unit to programme our gauges we should be ok. It is a constant saviour that nobody else seems to really understand what we do, so we can bamboozle them with talk of our needs for specific conditions to set up our very specific, yet mysterious, tools.
I’m trying to start a gym routine now I’ve got time, and a semi-decent gym is stuck in a shack just out from the main building. It hasn’t a rowing machine, but in tribute to the drug-addled Tour de France (“French Tour” for my American readers) I’m having a go on the cycling machine. I managed 4.3km in 25 minutes along a pre-set bumpy route. Is that good? The food here is unpretentious canteen fare, but is varied and tasty. The creme caramel I can particularly recommend.
As for the other key staple of rig life, the helideck, my experience is as yet limited, due to the windy, wet conditions since yesterday. However, it is not set to be a classic helideck. Inset into the rig, it has a rope mesh across its face, thus hindering easy walking. But it has a non-slippy surface, and there doesn’t appear to be much competition for space.
There won’t be any great deal of work to do till Monday at the earliest, and possibly much later. As I have holidays in three weeks, I don’t really mind what happens, and would be quite happy to stay here rather than go back to the slog of Macae. It’s a strange feeling when you prefer being on a rig than next to the beach in a relaxed little town in Brazil. Maybe this is institutionalisation. Here I am isolated and safe from the concerns of the real world, of which there are many currently. A nice little routine of meals, gym, internet and strolling on the helideck. But the big, bad world is still waiting out there, just beyond the horizon.
Within my company, Brazil occupies a somewhat special place in the heart. It was there for the hard times – the national petroleum company, Petrobras, continuing to contract us when we were deemed too “luxury” for other oil companies. We have our own small base here, nestled covertly within the much-larger base of a much-larger oil service company. Brazil is legend for engineers going wild, with tales of bad behaviour too numerous (and inappropriate for my genteel audience) to describe. But is also legend for the terrible onshore bonus, only rectified this year, and for the hard hours done in Macae, preparing kits, dealing with the language barrier and the stifling summer heat, making slow progress in thankless tasks. This holiday and party destination also happens to be the nation that means the hardest work for our engineers involved.
Until we get offshore. You see, also legend within Brazil is the terrible inefficiency of its offshore operations. Petrobras is the national oil company, therefore run by the government, and as government operations inevitably are, it does a smooth, well-oiled operation. Tales abound of the epic stints our engineers have spent on Petrobras rigs – 54 days is the record, to my knowledge, but I’ve heard of a number into their 40s. One of my colleagues spent an entire month without ever putting on his coveralls. Another, to his delight, watched every game of the World Cup. Engineers get lot and forgotten about in Brazil. It is an irony that all our hard preparatory work onshore is for nothing, offshore.
Thus, suddenly, after two weeks of a helpless routine of work and dinner (I’ve not once set foot on a beach yet) I’ve suddenly time to kill. The rig I’m on is weathered and battered, and has never been loved, and performs a function rather than playing generous host, yet it has just enough space to avoid feeling trapped. The four man rooms have no bathroom, so showers have to be taken in the communal changing rooms. There are only three showers, but fortunately Brazilians don’t appear to wash. What Brazilians do is watch TV, continuously. The bane of my life right now is the TV in my four man room. Except at night, when I switch it off and turn off the lights, it is an ever-flickering presence. I’ll walk into the room to find it blaring, but without anyone there to watch it. During the day it blares, with a Brazilian sleeping soundly, and probably very happily, in his bunk. One time, when alone in the room, one of my room-mates walked into the room, turned the TV on, noticed that I was there, then smiled and turned the volume down a little before walking out of the room. I am told by my colleague on this rig – “Len” – that there is a rig somewhere in Brazil with a porn channel, and that he would wake daily to the sound and sight of yet another blowjob. Mercifully, this channel is not here, though I did yesterday walk into my room to find three Brazilians gathered round a computer, appreciating a cultured collection. The Shrek characters engaged in vivid acts most entranced them.
Currently I am clinging on to a small unit Len and I have commandeered. It has that precious of things, an internet connection, and I’m treading a fine line between making our presence felt here, but remaining discreet enough so the OIM (the rig manager) doesn’t think we’re hogging the connection from others. If I go too far either way, then all could be lost, but as long as we stand firm in that we need this unit to programme our gauges we should be ok. It is a constant saviour that nobody else seems to really understand what we do, so we can bamboozle them with talk of our needs for specific conditions to set up our very specific, yet mysterious, tools.
I’m trying to start a gym routine now I’ve got time, and a semi-decent gym is stuck in a shack just out from the main building. It hasn’t a rowing machine, but in tribute to the drug-addled Tour de France (“French Tour” for my American readers) I’m having a go on the cycling machine. I managed 4.3km in 25 minutes along a pre-set bumpy route. Is that good? The food here is unpretentious canteen fare, but is varied and tasty. The creme caramel I can particularly recommend.
As for the other key staple of rig life, the helideck, my experience is as yet limited, due to the windy, wet conditions since yesterday. However, it is not set to be a classic helideck. Inset into the rig, it has a rope mesh across its face, thus hindering easy walking. But it has a non-slippy surface, and there doesn’t appear to be much competition for space.
There won’t be any great deal of work to do till Monday at the earliest, and possibly much later. As I have holidays in three weeks, I don’t really mind what happens, and would be quite happy to stay here rather than go back to the slog of Macae. It’s a strange feeling when you prefer being on a rig than next to the beach in a relaxed little town in Brazil. Maybe this is institutionalisation. Here I am isolated and safe from the concerns of the real world, of which there are many currently. A nice little routine of meals, gym, internet and strolling on the helideck. But the big, bad world is still waiting out there, just beyond the horizon.
Friday, 27 July 2007
Meat
I've been eating out for lunch and dinner every day for the last two weeks. I'm sick of it, I tell you. I keep ordering massive portions for two, accidently, and then trying to eat them; either that or I'm going to all-you-can-eat venues and packing my damn face full of all sorts of crap. My belt notch setting - which used to be on 2 just 18 months ago, now wavers between 4 and 5. My belly is hard and round. Even worse, I've split one of only two pairs of trousers I have with me, right down the crotch. You don't notice it until I sit down, and then it all spills out. You can get arrested for this is many countries, but fortunately this is Brazil, and everyone walks around hald-naked.
But presuming the chopper isn't cancelled again, as it was today, I'll be offshore tomorrow, for a couple of weeks of very little work (I hope). Thus, I can begin eating sensibly and commence a rigorous gym routine. I might even wear my good trousers.
But presuming the chopper isn't cancelled again, as it was today, I'll be offshore tomorrow, for a couple of weeks of very little work (I hope). Thus, I can begin eating sensibly and commence a rigorous gym routine. I might even wear my good trousers.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Macae End 1
Ten days of base work suddenly ends: I go to Vitoria in 4 hours (04:00): escape from perpetual preparation, enter into standby: tomorrow I will deeplyregret the beer and cachaca I enjoyed tonight.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
The French
Indians vs The Polish vs The French. That was the pitched battle for my recently refurbished flat. In the end, the French won, due to their quick and good references. It is a couple, both studying for their pHd, PHd, PhD... it's the third one, isn't it?
This is good, because I wanted a nice, respectable, mature couple in this flat, after the fiasco of the Indian students in the other flat who crammed up to thirteen other friends into the place and covered it in smoke and grime. That place is currently undergoing a quick upheaval, hopefully to be finished when I return to Aberdeen.
However, already two people have warned me about the sanitary habits of the French, especially their free and easy approach to urination, so I may have to put up a sign on the bathroom door saying "Le toilette est ici, seulement".
This is good, because I wanted a nice, respectable, mature couple in this flat, after the fiasco of the Indian students in the other flat who crammed up to thirteen other friends into the place and covered it in smoke and grime. That place is currently undergoing a quick upheaval, hopefully to be finished when I return to Aberdeen.
However, already two people have warned me about the sanitary habits of the French, especially their free and easy approach to urination, so I may have to put up a sign on the bathroom door saying "Le toilette est ici, seulement".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
