Grind

It's been a hard grind so far.

Punishment in EG

My reward for the misfortunes of Brazil: banishment to a tiny African island, ruled by a despotic military dictator. Yes, it's back to Equatorial Guinea, and it's election time.

I arrived yesterday evening, after a genuinely pleasant flight. After so many cramped, noisy and horribly uncomfortable Air France voyages to and from Brazil in the last six months, the Air France plane to Malabo was an altogether different proposition. EG doesn't appear to attract vast hordes of tourists, and so I was able to have a row to myself in a spacious and pretty empty flight. This additional privacy meant I could shove my bottle of red wine between my legs to heat it up - Air France, please stop chilling your red wine.

I travelled with four other colleagues and for the next couple of weeks at least will be with them. This means I will avoid the ennui of isolation suffered on my last job. It also means I don't have to get drunk alone, as three of the others were equally keen to get stuck into the Heinekens last night. The first of these were at a pizza place, but the bulk back at our staffhouse as it was curfew time. Because of a fat old tosser called Mallett and his frequent drunken problems with prostitutes last year, a curfew was imposed upon service companies such as ours, and when two employees of our company then unfortunately missed this curfew due to drunkenness, it was brought back from 11pm to 10pm. Last night it was 9pm, ostensibly because of the imminent election, but likely because the contracting oil company here ("NE") were anxious about what might happen when five of us were together.

So Heinekens at our heavily fortified staffhouse it was. Our grand modern-colonial style staffhouse, with marble floors and massive beds that virtually need a footstool to climb onto. Around us are high walls with barbed wire, an observation turret, and a number of very bored guards wearing fetching safari hats with nothing to do. This is because Malabo isn't Port Harcourt: Equatorial Guinea isn't Nigeria. There have been no serious issues with foreigners here, and there are no rebel groups that want to kidnap us. But NE, a company founded and filled by vast deep-south Americans, have decided to go down the road of paranoia and security theatre, and so all foreigners working under them live and work in pointless prisons. However, for the locals that's probably somewhat of a blessing, as it means just a little less oil trash littering their city.

It's election time as well. This is the third African country I've now been to during elections in just over a year, after Mauritania's relaxed affair and weeks of edginess in Nigeria. All kinds of scaremongering are being chucked about by NE, especially a truly collosal entity called Leonard, with a deathly ill pallour, a limp, and an obnoxious habit of calling us "children". Leonard looks like he's risen from the dead and been inflated with bile. He claims the natives will be going wild tonight and tomorrow, drunk with hatred for the white man and political rallies, and if we were caught out after dark then things could get nasty. He exaggerates, as you might guess, but there may be a degree of truth in what he says, and the risk of trouble - which is minimal - could be elevated. This isn't just from NE's viewpoint, but from the government too, as all vehicle travel is banned tomorrow, unless with a special permit. The military dictator is taking this election seriously, even though his position isn't up for debate. Rather, it's some mayors and politicians. I'm ignorant of the specific details, but if I was an E. Guinean, I think I'd vote for his party.

Another measure of the seriousness of this election, and of the potential trouble, is that alcohol is unavailable! Facing a possible shutdown tomorrow, we went to the packed little supermarket (surely the biggest in this tiny nation) today to stock up. And to our horror, all alcohol was prohibited, a theme apparently running throughout all bars, restaurants and shops today. We only have four Heinekens left and doubt we can last an evening and a day with this, though a saviour in some special expat club may just come to the rescue.

Tomorrow then is the election, and day of shutdown for expats. I imagine the fuss will die down quickly this week and things will continue in a more normal way. It doesn't look like the workload will be heavy for the next couple of weeks. One of two upcoming jobs here has already been cancelled, and so we've only got to sort out some kit on base and wait for a new visa to be processed. Heineken and other beers will become freely available again, and time will pass. Delays are inevitable and two weeks away for going offshore will likely be moved back and back. I'm not sure if this will help me or not. I volunteered to go away on this job, so soon after eight weeks in Brazil and on the back of a hell of a lot of time away on jobs (since July I've only had two months off) not out of enthusiasm but in the hope of making a friend's wedding on June 7th. I have 45 days on my current visa, which would take me to about June 15th. Therefore, I'm either hoping to go offshore as soon as possible and get it all over and done with, or for things to be delayed massively and get to go home at the end of May after a month kicking dust and drinking beers. Unfortunately, the current itinery doesn't favour either. But we'll see.

My week and life prior to being cut short by this equatorial adventure was spent satisfyingly and productively. A Glasgow visit saw me catch up with loads of old faces and didn't see me too drunk, though there were some very late nights, and a fight. My days in Aberdeen afterwards saw me gain a flatmate/PA, almost break a giant mirror, fall in love with a bureau and feel the effects of the "credit crunch". I thought all this talk about global financial crisis was just hype, but getting a mortgage for the flat I've just bought is proving rather awkward. Hopefully by Monday I'll know if it's possible. I recall last year in this same country, my mortgage on a flat falling through, so let's hope for history not repeating.

Anyway, I believe it's dinner time. To be spent with a bunch of yelling, brash, vast, deep South Yankees. And this truly is the punishment deserved for being a bad boy in Brazil. But surely no crime can fit such a dire fate?

Mistakes Past As Drinks Await

So I find myself in Glasgow, in my cousin's flat, with a pleasant sense of nothing to do. A different kind of nothing-to-do than the listlessness of a hotel's, or clanking claustrophobia of a rig's. Here is quiet, with space, although my first time here the surroundings are still familiar. My cousin bought her flat just six months ago, and it's a terrific place. Not in the best part of town, therefore fairly cheap especially as all the furniture came with it, it has three good double bedrooms, improbably cluttered kitchen and debris-strewn living room including three large and slowly-dying plants. It needs all kinds of work done to it but is currently fully functional, and full of charm. It's precisely the sort of property that attracts me, and so I cannot help but cast my critical eye and imagine the happy weeks I could spend here dismantling everything, accidently electrocuting myself, but finally and in the space of a couple of days the finished article appearing, as if my magic.

An appraisal of my cousin's flat, however, is not what brings me to Glasgow. A thorough catch-up with old faces is. Despite Glasgow being less than three hours train journey away, I've not been here for over 18 months. A lot of my friends live here, possibly more even than in Aberdeen, and so this is a long time to have gone without seeing them. I've simply been too busy. Last year I effectively only had about three months at home, with the other nine being abroad for work and (a little) holidays. And in my three months at home I was even busier. Looking back now, it seems quite amazing. This time last year I had only two flats, neither of them leased out and both them in a state of disrepair and needing some heavy work. In my few months at home, I managed to get them both finished, buy another two flats - both needing a lot of work - and to my immense relief, three of four are now happily rented out, one is my home, and like an impatient mother, a fifth is on the way.

Yes, that was the good news story of my return. I arrived in Aberdeen at 2.30pm on Monday afternoon, looked round one flat only, and less than 24 hours later my offer had been accepted. No hassles, negotiations or delays. The survey came in yesterday and was almost perfect. The only criticism was weeds in the gutter, mere unshaved legs on a beautiful girl.

So that's been good. Also good was my weekend home in Dingwall, and Inverness. I saw my first Ross County game in two years, with them comfortably beating the might of Cowdenbeath 3-0 and being awarded the Division 2 trophy at the end. Various people there I'd not seen in years, and fresh back from Brazil it was a perfectly formed afternoon of homely familiarity, even down to the crisp, fresh weather. Plenty of whisky was then drunk that evening, with Varwell and my brother, and Sunday was spent in gleeful indolence at my mother's, as she made food for me and her fancyman slaved away in the garden (I'm convinced she only has this fancyman for gardening and occasional dinners).

So, all very nice. But, alas, the echoes of Brazil came back to haunt me. On Wednesday I went into the office. It wasn't my finest moment.

A job screwed up, for us and other companies. Tens, even hundreds, of thousands of pounds lost. A complete overhaul in procedures required. A likely written warning for me next week.

And I'm now banned from Brazil.

(hurray!)

No, I'm not really taking this too lightly. I admit, the thought of not returning to Brazil does make me want to sing and dance and enter into a musical, leaping and twirling round lamp posts. It's kind of like a reward for being an idiot. But it's a terrible black mark against my name that, for work, I effectively cannot go back. NRBed, not required back; as a friend and collerague of mine (who has been NRBed from Equatorial Guinea) put it, "Welcome to the Papa non Grata club".

Reflecting on my error, which I've done much of, and the more I learn about it, I realise quite how unfortunate it was. Careless by me, yes, very, but also very unlucky, and in any normal situation the mistake wouldn't have been so costly. The error was, simply, I screwed stuff in wrong. For some reason, the carrier I was using was upside-down, something I have never encountered before or knew existed. A thorough pre-check should have highlighted this, but I made an assumption based on all my previous jobs that I thought safe, but I now know wasn't. My mistake, in a nutshell, was assuming too much.

And missing a helicopter flight. But I don't even want to go into that.

But it's all behind me, well, except for meeting the big boss next week and having another "discussion" (my error is his pet-hate, so I just have to hope he's mellow from his holiday this week). That nightmare of an eight weeks in Brazil is over, and isn't to be repeated imminently. Next stop - Equatorial Guinea, perhaps next week. Not by desire, but out of necessity. I volunteered for it because it gives me a better chance of being home for early June, for which I couldn't get holidays for, and have a wedding, a 30th, a music festival and a Leonard Cohen concert in Dublin all in the space of a week. Plus, of course, the keys to my fifth flat.

All that is ahead. For now I'm only thinking of tonight and tomorrow, where I'll be re-united with old friends and their stories, and can wash my mind away in a torrent of beer and nonsense.

NRB

Oh well, looks like I won't be going back to Brazil...

Five Alive

Oh, it's nice to be back. The Air France flight from Brazil was without joy, crammed in the middle seat despite asking for the aisle, but setting foot on the cold, grey soil of Aberdeen was a happy occasion. Since that time, I've enjoyed drinks with my sister, visited Inverness and Dingwall, seen my brother, my mother and her fancyman, watched Ross County be awarded the Second Division trophy after a season of panache, drank lots of whisky with Varwell and my brother, bought lots of nice wooden furniture, flooded my kitchen by turning on my washing machine for the first time since I moved in, failed to start my dead van and... oh, other stuff too, I'm sure.

Oh yes. And I bought another flat, my fifth. I popped by yesterday afternoon, phoned this morning, and it was mine before dinner. This one's in a nice area of town too - the West End (!). It doesn't have hookers at the front door or junkies meandering the streets, but then you can't have everything. It does however have Green's flat just 30 second walk away, so daily raids can be made on his fridge. It's good to be home.

Release

And exhale...

Arriving on a rig is like sucking in a deep breath of air. For the duration of the stay, you hold your breath; indeed, sometimes it becomes so second nature it's easy to forget there's another way. The rig becomes the all, your entire existence. Usually, I'm ok for the first three weeks, only after that does the lack of oxygen begin to affect me and I start grasping for escape. This time has been a little different.

Despite the rig, the Petrobras-V, being awful, a grudging affection actually began to grow. The bathrooms were filthy, and the bedrooms noisy and congested, but the overall rig had a laid-back and friendly atmosphere, and in the evening the helideck became a social gathering point, which I've never seen before. With terrible music blasting from the nearby gym, groups gathered and watched the sunset, some meandered, some sat on the edge and chatted. Circles of guys sat and laughed and joked.

And the job went really, really well. It looked, initially, to be pretty awkward - some bulky tools I'd never used before, and no back-ups, all a recipe for potential problems. But every step of the way went well. The job was a big success.

So the rig and job, per se, weren't the reason that after just one week I was getting agitated and wound-up, and needing to sit back and breathe deeply. Rather it was the situation. I've been away eight weeks now, with weeks 2 to 6 having been spent alone, doing nothing. This became a little numbing. Two and a half weeks ago, I requested being swapped out, and the boss agreed it was a good idea, but then for two and a half weeks I kept getting assurances that it was about to happen - but it never did. When you're desperate for something to happen, for the conditions of that something to continually change and remain just out of reach is very frustrating.

But usually I wouldn't mind so much. If I spend a week longer away, at least that's a week of extra money. It doesn't matter if I'm hope later rather than sooner. But this time it did. My good friend Matt, whom some may know, was visiting from Australia, in Europe for a month. I've not seen him in almost three years, and so was obviously quite keen to catch up, even if for just a few days. And so for the first time since starting my job, and despite some very lengthy stints away in the past (I have the company record, at 16 weeks), I was requesting to get home. After five weeks away, this is a reasonable request anyway.

But it's too late. Matt's gone home and I've missed him by a matter of days. For weeks, I'd been emailing him, assuring him I'd be getting back soon, but eventually he couldn't wait any longer.

So for these reasons, it's been a frustrating few weeks. Not to mention the news last week that my first job here was, frankly, a disaster. The full analysis is still pending, and I may get off the hook, but even so it was a poor job by me. I made some mistakes and they were heavily punished. I was unfortunate rather than grossly negligent, but a mistake is a mistake, and in this business can be costly.

So after a helicopter flight out of the rig, a hairy taxi ride to get my bag at the hotel, a packed flight to Rio, and discovering my debit card isn't functioning upon arriving at the hotel and so having to change all my remaining dollars and euros to pay for the night, it was with great relief for my hotel door to close, open a cheap can of beer, and sit back in peace and privacy. And exhale. When I arrive back in Aberdeen tomorrow morning, I imagine it'll be some very deep breaths of relief.

Because this stint hasn't been any fun. Personally or professionally. I've had lots of good times with my job - Trinidad, Equatorial Guinea, Mauritania, Malaysia and even, perversely, Nigeria have all been good experiences - but Brazil doesn't seem to work for me.

But home soon. To my beloved flat, a mountain of mail, good beer, familiar faces, pies, Van Nev (which'll need some serious jumpstarting), refreshing weather, and most importantly, real life. In which I can relax and breath, back to normal.

Big Fat Prick

As I've said, every morning I am woken at 5am by the TV and some noisy people. I just stuff earplugs deep into my ears, put my pillow on my head, and by 6am it mostly abates. This was the case this morning, and I found myself in a state of semi-consciousness - but there was an alarm clock ringing. But it wasn't too annoying, so I just let it continue, wondering why nobody was turning it off.

And suddenly I was woken by Nik, exclaiming, "Get up! There's a fire! A real fire!" It was a rig alert that I was wilfully sleeping through. No drill, but a proper oil rig fire.

Of course, it turned out a little less dramatic. I shoved on my coveralls and stumbled up to the helideck, where a bunch of men were meandering about, seeming confused, with absolutely no kind of organisation. This rig seems to have sidelined safety so there are no weekly fire drills, which is kind of good because they're a pain, but kind of bad because in the event of a real emergency nobody has a clue what to do. In this case, the majority seemed to have opted for watching the fire.

I got there too late for the excitement, and indeed would surely have perished if it had been a real emergency, but it seems the flare (a big jet of flame burning off the fuel during the current stage of operations) had gone a bit astray, and the water sprinklers hadn't been enough, and part of the rig had started to burn. But easily remedied, it seems.

That was the highlight. I tried to get some sleep after that but was thwarted by one of my roommates. I don't know his name, so let's call him "Big Fat Prick" for now. Big Fat Prick is an ugly fat man in his 60s. I'd lain down and the room was quiet, when suddenly Big Fat Prick came in, and started speaking very loudly, to the guy in the bed above me, who barely said a word. On and on he went. My earplugs were successfully blocking the pish on TV, but his voice could conquer any ear defenders. I don't know what he was saying, but it was obviously rubbish. I was in a really comfortable position, so withheld from moving and telling him to shut up because I was convinced he wouldn't be around for long. But he seemed determined to stay as long as possible and make as much noise as he could.

So eventually, I decided to sacrifice my comfortable position, so I turned around, and what did I see? Big Fat Prick had opened the curtains on my bunk, and was resting his feet on my bed as he sat back in a chair! You fat prick! He noted my obvious look of astonishment at this, and I told him to stop talking. Which, to his credit, he did, and he even later turned off the light. That doesn't redeem him though. He makes the room an absolute no-go area anytime after 6pm, as he sits back naked except for pants watching excruciating TV over his swollen belly. Sweaty, naked, old man skin.

My day otherwise has been drab and disappointing. I was expecting some kind of news about getting off this rusting tin can, but today I have received not an email. I sent out a few, all unreplied to. Therefore my hopes of getting off tomorrow are pretty much dashed. On the bright side, the lack of emails means there has been no further heart-sinking news about the previous job's failures.

On a different note, someone was sick in the sink of the only good bathroom. Evidently, they'd decided it was ok to leave it there.

Ok, have to go and do some work.