Simple Errors

Something you don’t want to read at 6.50am on a Sunday morning, while checking an email from the boss, in reference to your earlier one-man job.

The sh*t is going to hit the fan over this one...

[asterix his, for some reason]

The rest of the email was as stern in tone, if with fewer asterices. And indeed, it made for grim reading, and my fan looks to be left far from sparkling.

It’s a sunny morning in Brazil, and the sea shimmers under the radiant blue of the sky. On this filthy rig, which I’m growing worryingly accustomed to, by rights it should be a good morning. Not just because of the gorgeous weather or the promise of another leisurely day, but because the job I’m on is going swimmingly. Though being extremely reluctant to go in the first place, and despite still being decidedly keen to go home, what looked to be quite a tricky little affair has been astonishingly glitch free. Last night we ran a wireline in hole, effectively a data-gathering tool literally held by a wire and slowly lowered down kilometres of tubing. This way we can speak to our gauges and get all their data. Very unusually, and very bad form, I have been given no back-up on this job. These tools are notorious for failure, and in the past a back-up has been a lifesaver. So I was a little nervous about this operation, as failure would mean failure, and would expose us for the cardinal sin of having no spares.

But it worked, and worked extremely well. I left Nik for the overnight stint, intending to take over this morning, but when I got there, he’d finished! Hours ahead of schedule, and everyone was happy. Not least me, because I now had my whole day to sit back, and didn’t have to hole myself up in a box watching numbers on my computer.

Alas then that the past caught up with me.

The last month, you may recall, I’ve been doing nothing. Nothing. Two weeks on a rig alone, then two weeks in a hotel, alone. Doing nothing. Well, except, briefly program some tools on a rig and shove them down a hole. Very easy stuff – how could I go wrong? Well, wrong I went.

A different operator finished off my job, which was just to retrieve my tools and download them. What did he find? Only one of three worked. Worse, the two that didn’t work appear to be because I didn’t screw them in correctly. Rather carelessly, I screwed them in the wrong slots. Even worse, this mistake meant it possible that I’d screwed in other companies’ tools in the wrong slots – so not only did I cause our tools’ failures, but I caused the failure of two other companies’. This is, let it not be understated, bad news.

But maybe not. The verdict hasn’t yet come in and the jury is out. No doubt I was a little careless, but it’s very possible the fault lay with our tools, in which case I’m off the hook. Oh, how I pray for the slight possibility of mechanical failure. It’s not a sackable offence fortunately – though writing about it on a blog probably is – but it will earn a deservedly stern rebuke, and probably half a pinkie chopped off (my company have a firm disciplinary line).

In the meantime, life on my little tin can in the sea goes on. My six-man room only has two men now, but they’re the ones who like to wake with the TV at 5am, and one of them seems dedicated to watching TV loudly all day in nothing but his underpants. As he has a large belly and is over 60, this does not make my room an attractive spot. But the food is surprisingly good, and the 3pm snacks are lovely, and my colleague Nik is proving to be good banter.

And best of all, an end is in sight. This week I think I might escape homewards, to face the music on base and then bury myself into the alcoholic retreats of life. And, with an exciting guest appearance! (watch this space)

Good And Bad

Good News: I have discovered three new toilets.

Bad News: I saw a cockroach saunter across the mess room floor.

Without Space To Live

At 5am, the TV comes on...

And so I find myself in the midst of grim and noise. From promises early last week that my return home would imminent, instead I find myself again stranded offshore, this time on a candidate for the worst rig yet. The Petrobras-owned P5 represents its owner well - shoddy, scabby, inefficient and an ugly fuming brute of uselessness. Whoever built this rig, decades ago as it surely was, cannot have conceived that humans would have to live here. There really is nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. No space to live or work, and nothing to do.

My six-man room exemplifies the worst of it. A cramped space smaller than my kitchen at home, there is no bathroom. Like some evil all-pervasive Goblin of Petulance, a TV hangs above the single desk and chair, shouting and screaming and flashing out bright lights. The other five in my room appear to work a 6am to 6pm shift, which apparently necessitates the TV being switched on at 5am to rouse them. After 6am, fortunately, there is a chance for peace, though by some magical force each time I wake I find the TV is back on, yet mysteriously no-one else in the room.

The toilets... oh God, the toilets. Downstairs, in the stuffy, stinking, claustrophobic locker room, three grimy swing-door toilets dwell. Their bins overflow. I see cleaners in the locker room sometimes, but some things cannot be scrubbed, and an air of abject filth hangs heavily. I avoid this room as much as possible, and try to grab the third-level toilet whenever possible; although still gloomy and with a broken seat, this does at least offer privacy, and is also my refuge for a shower too. But availability of this toilet is restricted, as heavy competition for its use exists.

Everything else is crowded and cramped. The mess room is tiny and always full, the gym consists of three runnings machine crammed into a shack, the TV room doubles as the check-in room and the meeting room, and only the third party offices suggest any generosity of space, being two shacks placed aloft the helideck; but then, being as there is nothing else to do, these shacks are always stuffed full of bored Brazilians, yelling at each other. Yes, it's so bad this rig that even the Brazilians, who in the past have seemed impervious to poor living conditions as long as there's a TV, find it claustrophobic. I've never seen the helideck in as much demand - last night, five guys were in a circle and chatting happily for hours. There was simply nowhere else for them to go.

So I'm none too enamoured with my living conditions right now, especially as I'm damn well wanting home. However, there is a few small mercies. The food is bearable, and sometimes ok. My room can be quiet for a few hours at a time. And best of all, I'm able to get internet on my laptop, which is the single saving mercy that perhaps rescues my situation from dire to survivable, and also elevates this rig to mere second-worst ever, just ahead on the rankings of the metal hell that was the Rani Woro in Oman.

I got here on Saturday (in somewhat controversial circumstances that I alas decline to go into here) and spent all of Sunday and Monday working. It's been clear since then, and the next few days will be likewise. The job is the standard two-man job we do in Brazil, and my second man is Nik, a very reliable and pleasant recruit from our Dubai office, from India. The carrier (i.e. the big piece of pipe that holds the electronics we send underground) we're using is a big beast, and the first time I've used the type, and although hard work physically, the whole process of programming the electronics, assembling the carrier, getting it torqued on the drillfloor and testing it all, went very smoothly indeed. Worryingly smoothly, you could argue, as usually you expect a few problems. Still, I got sent an angry email from base because I'd followed the "wrong" procedures. There were no right procedures! We never have procedures in my job, we always have to just hope for the best. I sent a strongly worded email back to this effect, and have been pursuing my right to go home and enjoy my life, the issue of which is continually being obfuscated.

Despite all of the above, I'm not quite as angry as I may seem. I'm in pretty good form. The Brazilian guys here are pretty friendly, and I'm also pleased that despite "wrong procedures", a tricky job has so far gone well. After a month of isolation, it's nice to be in company again and with stuff to do. The rig is awful, but manageable. But it's been seven weeks away now, in unusual circumstances, and home would definitely be welcome. Sooner rather than later.

Behind Closed Doors

What's in Room 703...?



...





















Oh!

Golly!

Ooh!

Yikes!

Two Weeks Stranded In Vitoria

It's been two weeks now, stranded alone and helpless in Vitoria. There are better places to be left in, and worse places. It's pleasant here - it's bright and sunny with long stretches of beach, the mountains and sea are very attractive to the eye, and the place seems relaxed and friendly. But gosh, there's not much to do. For the residents, it's fine, but for the solo visitor it's a little limited. Tanning myself on a beach for hours doesn't appeal, and there's less in the way of bars and more in the way of bar-restaurants: the latter makes the lone traveller somewhat conspicuous as they sit alone at a four-seater table.

But my time hasn't been spent entirely in quiet retiral in my hotel room. I've taken plenty of walks, and there have been a few things to visit. Also, through this "couchsurfing" website Varwell is a proponent of, I met with a lovely girl who has provided me with a bit of human contact and some interesting conversations. So ennui has been kept at bay.

It looks like my spell of nothingness is to come to an end anyway. In an email to my boss I explained I'd been away six weeks doing very little, and quite fancied going home - so he's put me on another job. So Friday or Saturday I'll be going offshore to kickstart some new search for oil. Fortunately, I've been assured I'll be replaced as soon as personnel are available, which looks like next week.

Which would be good timing actually, as it would coincide well with... well, let's just say "Handsome Matt" and watch the girls squeal...

Anyway, here's a few photos of Vitoria, and its attraction. Sorry, plural, attractions.

This is a steep walk, leading up to Vitoria's premier attraction, the Convento Da Penha, a 450-year-old and still functioning convent, situated on top of a hill and overlooking Vitoria and its conjoined twin Vila Velha, plus the bays, beaches and hills.

It was Easter Tuesday ... blah blah blah, sorry can't be bothered writing. Just look at the photos.



Oh look, a cathedral.

Photo Archive Volume 4

Welcome to the final installment my photo archive, where all yesterday’s tomorrows becomes tomorrow’s yesterday – today!

Yachting in Croatia

In late August last year, I went yachting with some upper class people and foreigners. For a week we only wore our underwear, and cruised around the Adriatic, sipping gin and tonic. Unfortunately I neglected to bring my camera battery charger, so my battery ran out after a couple of days, so I missed such events as “Pirate Day”, which was very entertaining. So you’ll have to do with some photos of boats and people you don’t recognise.

Here’s a yacht with some people on it.

Here’s pretty much the same thing. In the background you can see Split.

This is one of the bays we stopped in overnight. This was also the bay the naked Germans showed up, which I took care not to photograph.

Here’s a Croatian village. Which one, I can’t remember.

Here’s two people on a yacht.

And look, here’s me. On a yacht.

Beach in Brazil

I’ve already written lots about Brazil, but here’s one more photo for the record, as it’s quite nice. It’s of a beach in Barra, an area of Rio.




Finally, by popular demand (i.e. Eileen), here's my classic from last year: "Goats at Night". The observant among you may notice that these are, in fact, donkeys.

Photo Archive Volume 3

It’s time, once more, to immerse yourself in a world of photographic marvel!

Korean time

Way back last February, if you can remember that far back, I happened to bump into Aberdeen’s petite Korean-town underbelly, and was invited to the Korean New Year celebrations. It was both fun and intense, but I only managed to take one single photo of the occasion. This was it. It was during some traditional game (Korean have traditional games for every possible occasion) involving playing keepy-up with some kind of cloth-like ball. I managed one keepy-up.

Before And After

During my final month of Brazil, in 2007, stuck on the NS-16 for all of October, mostly by myself, and with absolutely nothing to do, I began to shimmy around the edges of sanity and if not peered, at least glimpsed the abyss. For that entire month I didn’t shave, and this picture accurately captures my mental state near the end of the month.

Fortunately, I escaped to freedom. Look at this handsome chap!

The Storm

It’s back to Nigeria again. After my time offshore in April, I had to spend a couple of weeks in Port Harcourt, to sort out kit on base. This was a woefully slow and inefficient operation, with every possible step encountering delays, not least the various shut-downs where foreigners weren’t allowed out because of political upheaval and perceived danger. Thus my time was spent in the Presidential Hotel, playing tennis and drinking cognac. With my cognac colleague, one afternoon, we ventured out for a spot of tennis. The sky was distinctly gloomy and the air ominous, but we thought we might squeeze a quick game in. We started the warm up and suddenly I noticed a couple of drops of rain: only a couple, but very heavy, wet drops. My colleague didn’t notice anything. The warm up continued and I got hit by a few more drops, then a few more. My colleague still hadn’t been hit, but now the large splashes were quite evident on the court. We discussed whether we should continue, but by now the frequency of drops had increased and we think it best to call it a day. So we began to wander back inside...

...and suddenly we heard a noise. A rushing, a howling, an unholy screaming – and movement. I yelled “run!” and we both ran for cover. But it was too late. A solid grey wall of water slammed into us, and just the one second before finding cover and I was soaked. My colleague was a little behind me and was utterly drenched head-to-toe. Rain was crashing down in blocks, swirling about and noisily rampaging. Tennis was off for the rest of the day. Instead we had a show.

That storm in Nigeria is unquestionably the craziest I’ve ever seen. For the next ten hours, the rain never let up, the the thunder and lightning was incredible. I was sometimes worried my windows might shatter with the noise. For a few hours, the lightning came every couple of seconds, ranging from evil looking dagger sticking straight into the ground, to enormous eruptions of light that illuminated the sky for seconds at a time. Sadly, my camera and ability are not well equipped to capture these things well, so you’ll have to make do with a photo of some rain.

Chess

This is the chess board I bought in Kuala Lumpur. Though quite expensive, I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. The perfect chess board should both look beautiful but still be playable – a lot of ornate chess pieces are so fancy that the pieces aren’t easily distinguishable, thus making the playing of the game difficult. But this board is just right.

Equatorial Guinea

I was in Equatorial Guinea for a few weeks in June, though most of the time was offshore. However, there were a few days in the capital, Malabo, upon finishing the job. The first of these days was most notable. Myself and my colleague, Mr Calm, were very relieved to be back onshore and, as is always required, got stuck into the beers. This took place in our unnecessarily heavily-guarded guesthouse. We ploughed through a fair number of beer cans before deciding to go off for a walk. It was just a random ambling, roughly in the direction of the centre, and the main road. Equatorial Guinea is, per head of population, the third richest country on earth; however, all of it is owned by the corrupt military dictator while the rest live in squalor and die in middle age. This is what we saw on our walk, pretty much. The city suburbs were just a pile of mud, with dirt tracks for roads, and no facilities. It was a very interesting walk though, and the people we passed seemed very friendly.

However, we only got back half an hour after darkness, little realising the panic our wander had caused. Although Equatorial Guinea isn’t terribly dangerous, the security was paranoid and ramped up, and operations were run by the very pleasant and frightfully efficient Bill, who used to be in charge of security for the President of Afghanistan. He’d found our guesthouse empty, except for about twenty empty cans of beer, and began to panic when we didn’t return after sunset. So in his jeep he’d been careering about the city’s bars to look for us. Fortunately, we didn’t get in trouble for this venture, as he blamed himself for not telling us to inform guesthouse security when and where we were going. Just a few months later a couple of our guys were chucked out the country for doing something similar. Anyway, the photos.

A view of the suburbs.

Me, holding a pear, in a beaten-up old car, with a confused boy.

The Cheesman Wedding

My old friend Edward “Ed” Cheesman (he prefers people to call him “Ed” but I’ll never get used to it) got married in August. The wedding was fabulous, and so good in fact that I completely forgot to take more than ten photos.

The five ushers.

I became quite aggressive with those not on the guestlist.