It seems somewhat counter-intuitive to fly for three hours in the wrong direction, then wait for six hours before finally getting a flight in the right direction. But I don’t mind so much. For one thing, I’ve managed to get out of Luanda: armed with my backup passport, photocopies of my old passport and visa, and an agency guy to do all the smooth talking, I was able to slide gracefully through customs and escape with a mere $300 fine – which Halliburton pay anyway. Quick, painless, no bribes or anal rape in dark rooms required. I then flew for three hours to Johannesburg, where I am now, waiting and poised to have some more beers to smooth the passage of waiting.
The airport in Johannesburg is pretty nice too. Luanda’s international airport doesn’t really tingle the pleasure senses, unless you’re a fan of os interios drab, but Johannesburg has a really quite pleasant departure lounge area, with shops, space, bright lights, clear signage, and bars – though it could do with a few more. It’s laid out well, and doesn’t feel like an endurance test like most African airports, or the godawful Charles de Gaul.
I’ll be on a flight in a few hours, and by tomorrow morning touching down in the lovely city of Aberdeen. I say that only semi-facetiously. After the sweaty, intense, unremittingly unattractive megaslum that is Luanda, being back in a cool, calm and architecturally good-looking city will be a pleasure. Being allowed to go out at dark and not fear for my life or laptop will be a relief. Insane and idiotic traffic turning a fifteen minute drive into a two hour ordeal makes Aberdeen's rush hour seem like a petty complaint. Not having bored guards hovering listlessly outside every residence (in the “good” part of the city, at least) won’t be missed. Aberdeen may have a touch of the dour, and have its fair share of whingers, but I hope not to be one of these: I like Aberdeen, and its qualities shine when compared to some of the depressing pits of this Earth.
So, two more flights and 17 more hours. And many more beers, I expect.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Passport Up In Flames
Well, it looks like my passport perished. As the main office disappeared into flames, so did my hopes of escape from Angola.
I had the last three days at leisure. Drinking beers in the evening sun and enjoying crisply barbecued food in the staffhouse. Nothing really happened, and I barely strayed beyond our guarded gates. Luanda has a bit of a reputation for badness, something not assuaged by the presence of four (armed?) guards at the nearby cornershop, and although I wouldn't have been worried about a daytime stroll through the city, it was just too hot, and there's nothing to see anyway. Really, Luanda is not a pretty place. Everything's falling apart, dust and car fumes fill the air, and more attention has to be paid into not walking into a pothole than enjoying what sights may be on offer.
I was back in the yard today and got my first viewing of what used to be the main office. Yup, it's pretty much levelled. The actual office building, three storeys I believe, is now a pile of charred rubble. It's believed an electrical fault on the third floor was the likely culprit. The office was attached to a covered yard, the metal roof of which has buckled and collapsed. The whole scene was like a small slice of the apocalypse. It still smells of burning and ash. There was a meeting at 8am, in which a man jumped on the back of a pick-up and spoke Portuguese for fifteen minutes; the English translation lasted thirty seconds.
And somewhere in the devastation lay my passport, or at least a bunch of dust that once constituted it. I do have a spare passport with me, but it doesn't have the visa, and so isn't much use for getting out of the country if I hope not to get arrested at the airport and given a thorough physical overhauling by the gents at immigration in some grimy back room. One solution is to go to the British Embassy and get an emergency passport out of the country; another is to use the photocopies of my old passport and visa and maybe some help from Halliburton; and another is simply to live in Angola for the rest of my life.
We'll see. The pace of progress is not too speedy over here, but I can take some solace in the fact I'm getting paid pretty well for doing really very little indeed.
Incidentally, this is now the fourth passport I've lost in just over three years. At least this one isn't really my fault (I choose not to divulge the lapses of sense that led to the previous three going AWOL).
I had the last three days at leisure. Drinking beers in the evening sun and enjoying crisply barbecued food in the staffhouse. Nothing really happened, and I barely strayed beyond our guarded gates. Luanda has a bit of a reputation for badness, something not assuaged by the presence of four (armed?) guards at the nearby cornershop, and although I wouldn't have been worried about a daytime stroll through the city, it was just too hot, and there's nothing to see anyway. Really, Luanda is not a pretty place. Everything's falling apart, dust and car fumes fill the air, and more attention has to be paid into not walking into a pothole than enjoying what sights may be on offer.
I was back in the yard today and got my first viewing of what used to be the main office. Yup, it's pretty much levelled. The actual office building, three storeys I believe, is now a pile of charred rubble. It's believed an electrical fault on the third floor was the likely culprit. The office was attached to a covered yard, the metal roof of which has buckled and collapsed. The whole scene was like a small slice of the apocalypse. It still smells of burning and ash. There was a meeting at 8am, in which a man jumped on the back of a pick-up and spoke Portuguese for fifteen minutes; the English translation lasted thirty seconds.
And somewhere in the devastation lay my passport, or at least a bunch of dust that once constituted it. I do have a spare passport with me, but it doesn't have the visa, and so isn't much use for getting out of the country if I hope not to get arrested at the airport and given a thorough physical overhauling by the gents at immigration in some grimy back room. One solution is to go to the British Embassy and get an emergency passport out of the country; another is to use the photocopies of my old passport and visa and maybe some help from Halliburton; and another is simply to live in Angola for the rest of my life.
We'll see. The pace of progress is not too speedy over here, but I can take some solace in the fact I'm getting paid pretty well for doing really very little indeed.
Incidentally, this is now the fourth passport I've lost in just over three years. At least this one isn't really my fault (I choose not to divulge the lapses of sense that led to the previous three going AWOL).
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Fire
I got to Luanda a few days ago. To my surprise, it is a clean, thoroughly modern, efficient and beautiful city. No, just joking. It's coated in a thick layer of dirt, dead animals lie by the side of the road, and buildings rest in states of very obvious collapse. The smell changes every ten metres.
I get an extra half hour in bed too, as the bus leaves at 6.15am as compared to Malongo's 5.45am. Saturdays and Sundays too, so I was up this morning and over to have breakfast, in preparation for another day of hard graft (98% internet surfing). The dining room seemed suspiciously quiet though. Perhaps, I thought, Saturday is a late start - curse my unnecessary early rise! I munched my deeply unappetising cold beans and bread alone. A few people meandered by and poked about the breakfast spread, but the mood was quiet.
A guy appeared then, whom I met yesterday at the base and who was extremely helpful in showing me around. In fact, all the Halliburton guys I met yesterday were very friendly and helpful towards me. He said good morning, and I replied likewise.
Then he said: "Oh, did you hear the Halliburton base burnt down?"
"What?" I replied, for there's no other response.
"The Halliburton office burnt down last night. There was a big fire, and it burnt completely to the ground."
"Are you joking?"
"No, I'm dead serious."
"Oh."
And so it seems that the main Halliburton building in Luanda's Halliburton yard burnt down entirely last night. This was the building with all the admin, HR, managerial, travel logistics, and probably my passport too. It didn't contain my company's equipment, and the building where I've been mostly based seems fine, but for the core building for Halliburton in Angola to be razed to the ground is causing, as one may imagine, some ripples.
There's some good news. First, it looks like I'll be getting today off. Secondly, due to it happening it the middle of the night, I don't think there were any casualties, including, I hope, the many stray cats that hung around.
But mostly it's bad news. This will cause all sorts of disruptions, and worse will seriously damage the business, and in this economic climate could lead to job losses. And from my own perspective, it's very possible my passport was in that building, in which case I'm trapped in Angola forever. Or at least, a little longer than initially planned.
So I guess I better get comfortable in this modern metropolis of delight. And more pertinently, I better find a good supply of beer. Because ironically, Halliburton have a barbecue planned this weekend.
I get an extra half hour in bed too, as the bus leaves at 6.15am as compared to Malongo's 5.45am. Saturdays and Sundays too, so I was up this morning and over to have breakfast, in preparation for another day of hard graft (98% internet surfing). The dining room seemed suspiciously quiet though. Perhaps, I thought, Saturday is a late start - curse my unnecessary early rise! I munched my deeply unappetising cold beans and bread alone. A few people meandered by and poked about the breakfast spread, but the mood was quiet.
A guy appeared then, whom I met yesterday at the base and who was extremely helpful in showing me around. In fact, all the Halliburton guys I met yesterday were very friendly and helpful towards me. He said good morning, and I replied likewise.
Then he said: "Oh, did you hear the Halliburton base burnt down?"
"What?" I replied, for there's no other response.
"The Halliburton office burnt down last night. There was a big fire, and it burnt completely to the ground."
"Are you joking?"
"No, I'm dead serious."
"Oh."
And so it seems that the main Halliburton building in Luanda's Halliburton yard burnt down entirely last night. This was the building with all the admin, HR, managerial, travel logistics, and probably my passport too. It didn't contain my company's equipment, and the building where I've been mostly based seems fine, but for the core building for Halliburton in Angola to be razed to the ground is causing, as one may imagine, some ripples.
There's some good news. First, it looks like I'll be getting today off. Secondly, due to it happening it the middle of the night, I don't think there were any casualties, including, I hope, the many stray cats that hung around.
But mostly it's bad news. This will cause all sorts of disruptions, and worse will seriously damage the business, and in this economic climate could lead to job losses. And from my own perspective, it's very possible my passport was in that building, in which case I'm trapped in Angola forever. Or at least, a little longer than initially planned.
So I guess I better get comfortable in this modern metropolis of delight. And more pertinently, I better find a good supply of beer. Because ironically, Halliburton have a barbecue planned this weekend.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Funeral Fundraising
It turns out that these street highwaymen that block the roads to politely request money, while brandishing sticks and machetes, are actually funeral mourners. Really. To raise the costs for burial, after having mourned and drunk all night, they gather by the roads, block them, and ask the passing drivers for a contribution.
You'll be pleased to hear that I sourced some beer (a supermarket on the way back to the staffhouse) and so bought 48. Not all for me, I've allowed some of the other boys to have a little drink too. I had a big discussion with the Fox News supporter, instigated by him. It was a less a discussion and more of a stand up rant by him complaining about the liberal media. He was, you may not be entirely surprised, a big Sarah Palin fan. Everything I may have heard about her, it seems, is liberal propaganda.
But he's ok actually, as are the Halliburton bunch I seem to be lumped with. We're all in the same boat of hanging about the Halliburton yard all day with little to do, before cramming into a minibus at the end of the day so we can drink cheap Turkish beer in a distant staffhouse.
Tomorrow it's going to change though. Cabinda, and the army camp that is Malongo, are a mere toedip into Angola; tomorrow I get pushed right in as I fly to its congested, infested, infected, unrested capital Luanda. Which so far, I've heard not one good word about yet.
You'll be pleased to hear that I sourced some beer (a supermarket on the way back to the staffhouse) and so bought 48. Not all for me, I've allowed some of the other boys to have a little drink too. I had a big discussion with the Fox News supporter, instigated by him. It was a less a discussion and more of a stand up rant by him complaining about the liberal media. He was, you may not be entirely surprised, a big Sarah Palin fan. Everything I may have heard about her, it seems, is liberal propaganda.
But he's ok actually, as are the Halliburton bunch I seem to be lumped with. We're all in the same boat of hanging about the Halliburton yard all day with little to do, before cramming into a minibus at the end of the day so we can drink cheap Turkish beer in a distant staffhouse.
Tomorrow it's going to change though. Cabinda, and the army camp that is Malongo, are a mere toedip into Angola; tomorrow I get pushed right in as I fly to its congested, infested, infected, unrested capital Luanda. Which so far, I've heard not one good word about yet.
Monday, 2 March 2009
Base Camp Malongo
As many of you may know, it was always a great ambition of mine to join the army. It wasn't so much the combat fatigues, or the giant guns, or even the killing of civilians, but it was the regimented existence of barrack dwelling and stupidly early morning starts that appealed. That, and the total lack of independent thought or action, and the handing over of my own personal freedom to a greater power. Yes, the army was my dream, and what a terrific soldier I would have made! So I find myself overcome with joy at the circumstances I find myself in here in Angola.
Because it's just like being in the Army, except with less napalm or overt homosexuality. I'm awake by 5am to get my bus from the staffhouse to the world-of-men that is Malongo, then I march in line through the security checkpoint where they search my bag for grenades, and then it's to a safety meeting. Whoo yeah! And then, I get to sit about for hours and hours and hours doing nothing at all.
I've been here in sunny Angola for a week now, although days 2-5 were spent offshore, on the wonderfully named "Gorilla 7". I've been on a fair number of rigs in my three years as a glamorous oil exploration pioneer and most of them haven't been too adventurous in their nomenclature. I mean, if I built a rig, I would take some time to give it a memorable name, something that would stand out among the P5s and the SS-54s of this world. Why spent millions building a rig only to call it something generic like Sedco 700 or the sublime Sedco 701? I despair. I don't know what I would call a rig of my own, for it would take some deep thought, but it would almost certainly involve owls or the number 360. Perhaps "Giant Oil Owl Mania Platform" or "Super Wonder 360 Megaship", but those might be better saved for a Nintendo game. I certainly wouldn't throw it open to a committee, which seems to be responsible for the mundane names of offshore installations around the world. So I was very pleased to arrived on the Gorilla 7, my joy only dampened slightly by the helideck's lack of a big picture of a happy gorilla eating a banana. A wasted opportunity.
I was on the Gorilla 7 just to finish off a little job. It was a one man job, just pulling some gauges out of a hole and downloading them. I make this sound easy, and indeed to an experienced hand it should be, but ever since I screwed in the gauges upside down in Brazil last year, I've been a bit wary of easy jobs, so have learnt to view each with suspicion. I was replacing a colleague whose second visa extension was about to expire (the fine is apparently about $8000!) so I had one day with him on the rig as he gave me a quick overview of things, and then I got settled in for a couple of days doing nothing at all.
Apart from the good name, the Gorilla 7 was also one of the best rigs I've ever been on, if not the best, certainly in terms of space. Two-men rooms, various TV rooms and conference rooms, a huge and clean changing room, and a terrific helideck set away from the bulk of the rig, that didn't seem to attract any traffic at all (I like a quiet helideck free of bathers or walkers). I could have stayed here for some time with the greatest of contentment if not for the very average food, and the very limited internet access. But after a couple of days of gentle living, there came a spell of pretty tough work, as the equipment arrived out of hole and I had to break everything apart and rig it all down. This was about 12 hours of work, but it was overnight and I was feeling a little under the weather, so I'd like some sympathy please.
Back onshore then, where I appear to have rejoined the army. Beer is rationed - only six small cans a day, only after 6pm. It was to the barracks for the first night, and having to be up for 5.45am even on Sunday morning. The people I'm currently surrounded with, Halliburton people mostly from the rig I was on, are alright, and in the same boat as me in that they're just hanging about with little to do. Most of them are waiting for their passports back so they can leave the country, although I'm waiting for equipment to get back onshore. One of them, a definite hell-yeah American, noticed I was on the BBC website and said, "The BBC, goddamn. You like the BBC? I can't stand its liberal bias. I prefer Fox news myself, yeah!" I looked at him, thinking/hoping he was joking, before realising he was incapable of irony.
I've since been shifted from the barracks to the Halliburton staffhouse, which is a surreal kind of middle-American oasis in the middle of the filthy shantytown that is Cabinda. Arriving through some large gates, it's like entering a small street, with eight houses with immaculate lawns and stone-and-flower arrangements, plus a swimming pool. It's pretty nice to be honest, a definite step up from some of the places I've stayed. It could be argued it's not really representing the authentic Angolan experience, but I don't think that's going to be on the agenda on this trip. And judging by what I've seen, I'm not sure the authentic Angolan experience is something I'd voluntarily put myself into. This morning, still in complete darkness, on the 45 minute trip from the staffhouse to Malongo, we were stopped twice by gangs of kids who'd set up roadblocks, with oil drums and bits of string, demanding money to get through. This the driver took in his stride, as it's a pretty routine occurrence, though there being two separate stops raised an eyebrow. Recovering from decades of civil war, the place has no infrastructure and a corrupt government that use the oil wealth to entertain a lifestyle inconceivable for the majorty to imagine. People hang about the streets and laze outside their homes not due to indolence but because there's no education or work. Setting up a roadblock to demand money seems like quite a good initiative, if you ask me.
I'm protected from this outside existence while I remain in my little army bubble. Guards surround everywhere I stay, keeping Angola out. I should remain in Army Camp Malongo for a few more days, waiting for kit that I suspect will not arrive in time, then I'll fly down to the capital Luanda to spend more time in some pseudo-military surroundings. Then, although the future is always an uncertain beast, I may be off onto another Angolan rig. Until then, I'm going to see what damage I can do with my 6-can (1500ml) beer allowance. Hell yeah!
Because it's just like being in the Army, except with less napalm or overt homosexuality. I'm awake by 5am to get my bus from the staffhouse to the world-of-men that is Malongo, then I march in line through the security checkpoint where they search my bag for grenades, and then it's to a safety meeting. Whoo yeah! And then, I get to sit about for hours and hours and hours doing nothing at all.
I've been here in sunny Angola for a week now, although days 2-5 were spent offshore, on the wonderfully named "Gorilla 7". I've been on a fair number of rigs in my three years as a glamorous oil exploration pioneer and most of them haven't been too adventurous in their nomenclature. I mean, if I built a rig, I would take some time to give it a memorable name, something that would stand out among the P5s and the SS-54s of this world. Why spent millions building a rig only to call it something generic like Sedco 700 or the sublime Sedco 701? I despair. I don't know what I would call a rig of my own, for it would take some deep thought, but it would almost certainly involve owls or the number 360. Perhaps "Giant Oil Owl Mania Platform" or "Super Wonder 360 Megaship", but those might be better saved for a Nintendo game. I certainly wouldn't throw it open to a committee, which seems to be responsible for the mundane names of offshore installations around the world. So I was very pleased to arrived on the Gorilla 7, my joy only dampened slightly by the helideck's lack of a big picture of a happy gorilla eating a banana. A wasted opportunity.
I was on the Gorilla 7 just to finish off a little job. It was a one man job, just pulling some gauges out of a hole and downloading them. I make this sound easy, and indeed to an experienced hand it should be, but ever since I screwed in the gauges upside down in Brazil last year, I've been a bit wary of easy jobs, so have learnt to view each with suspicion. I was replacing a colleague whose second visa extension was about to expire (the fine is apparently about $8000!) so I had one day with him on the rig as he gave me a quick overview of things, and then I got settled in for a couple of days doing nothing at all.
Apart from the good name, the Gorilla 7 was also one of the best rigs I've ever been on, if not the best, certainly in terms of space. Two-men rooms, various TV rooms and conference rooms, a huge and clean changing room, and a terrific helideck set away from the bulk of the rig, that didn't seem to attract any traffic at all (I like a quiet helideck free of bathers or walkers). I could have stayed here for some time with the greatest of contentment if not for the very average food, and the very limited internet access. But after a couple of days of gentle living, there came a spell of pretty tough work, as the equipment arrived out of hole and I had to break everything apart and rig it all down. This was about 12 hours of work, but it was overnight and I was feeling a little under the weather, so I'd like some sympathy please.
Back onshore then, where I appear to have rejoined the army. Beer is rationed - only six small cans a day, only after 6pm. It was to the barracks for the first night, and having to be up for 5.45am even on Sunday morning. The people I'm currently surrounded with, Halliburton people mostly from the rig I was on, are alright, and in the same boat as me in that they're just hanging about with little to do. Most of them are waiting for their passports back so they can leave the country, although I'm waiting for equipment to get back onshore. One of them, a definite hell-yeah American, noticed I was on the BBC website and said, "The BBC, goddamn. You like the BBC? I can't stand its liberal bias. I prefer Fox news myself, yeah!" I looked at him, thinking/hoping he was joking, before realising he was incapable of irony.
I've since been shifted from the barracks to the Halliburton staffhouse, which is a surreal kind of middle-American oasis in the middle of the filthy shantytown that is Cabinda. Arriving through some large gates, it's like entering a small street, with eight houses with immaculate lawns and stone-and-flower arrangements, plus a swimming pool. It's pretty nice to be honest, a definite step up from some of the places I've stayed. It could be argued it's not really representing the authentic Angolan experience, but I don't think that's going to be on the agenda on this trip. And judging by what I've seen, I'm not sure the authentic Angolan experience is something I'd voluntarily put myself into. This morning, still in complete darkness, on the 45 minute trip from the staffhouse to Malongo, we were stopped twice by gangs of kids who'd set up roadblocks, with oil drums and bits of string, demanding money to get through. This the driver took in his stride, as it's a pretty routine occurrence, though there being two separate stops raised an eyebrow. Recovering from decades of civil war, the place has no infrastructure and a corrupt government that use the oil wealth to entertain a lifestyle inconceivable for the majorty to imagine. People hang about the streets and laze outside their homes not due to indolence but because there's no education or work. Setting up a roadblock to demand money seems like quite a good initiative, if you ask me.
I'm protected from this outside existence while I remain in my little army bubble. Guards surround everywhere I stay, keeping Angola out. I should remain in Army Camp Malongo for a few more days, waiting for kit that I suspect will not arrive in time, then I'll fly down to the capital Luanda to spend more time in some pseudo-military surroundings. Then, although the future is always an uncertain beast, I may be off onto another Angolan rig. Until then, I'm going to see what damage I can do with my 6-can (1500ml) beer allowance. Hell yeah!
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Angolan Welcome
"Welcome to Angola."
That's something I've not yet heard, or sensed sentiments of, after having spent a day here now, the vast majority in a state of waiting. I'm sitting in Malongo's Halliburton base right now, waiting. I was supposed to get a chopper to the rig earlier this morning but that was cancelled, so now I've got to wait and see if there's an afternoon one.
At least now this wait can be spent in an air-conditioned room, with internet access, water, a comfortable chair, and a bevy of semi-clad women stroking my underthighs. Maybe not that last one, alas, but the conditions are fair-to-middling, which is a large step up from the welcome that greets all foreign travellers upon arrival to the airport in Luanda, the capital. After a packed flight, albeit not too long at about seven hours, wedged between two men that seemed to want to rest their heads in my direction, I was hoping against the odds that the customs and visa process might not be as onerous as I was expecting. They were worse. Angola has mastered the third world art of hopeless organisation, so upon two large planefuls of people arriving at the same time into a small hallway, it was a genius move to only have one little man stamping the entry cards to confirm yellow fever vaccination. Better still was to hide the entry cards, so that they only appeared in limited numbers at random locations, and you just had to hope you were in the right place at the right time. But the masterstroke was putting this little man - and he was little, completely invisible within the sea of taller people - at a desk in the middle of the hallway, but near the immigration desks, so that the room descended into absolute confusion between people queueing for their yellow fever stamps, those queueing for their entry stamps and those still looking for an entry card to fill in. Nobody knew where anything was, and the only information about the system was through word of mouth - airport officials quickly made themselves scarce upon seeing the madness descend. Or perhaps just seeing that they might have to work.
After about two hours, I made it to the front desk, disrupting the lady's more important duty of fanning herself, and had my passport taken away so they could process it for the fifteen day visa. Now I had to wait in a small room with a hundred or more guys in my situation, although this time I was lucky enough to find a seat. But like the arrival hallway, their was no air-conditioning, or water, and I was feeling a tad fatigued by now. Every fifteen minutes a man would appear with a handful of passports and attempt to read the names, failing to pronounce a single one even remotely correct. After about two or three hours, he finally got to mine - "Nee Crig" - and I was free to go. But where?
Fortunately, I made the right choice. I knew I was supposed to be going to Malongo but had absolutely no details on flights or times or anything. I would usually have wandered into arrivals, hoping there would be a meet-and-greet, but after several hours in the airport I suspected that if this was the case then my meet-and-greet would have given up, or they would already have found their way in and met-and-gret me. My phone isn't getting a signal here so I didn't fancy wandering around Luanda airport and the reputed clusters of touts, trying to figure out my next move. And so I decided to wander through a door. I'd seen a few people wander through this door during my hours of waiting, and now and again an offical would ask them "Malongo?" Well, I knew that I was ultimately heading to Malongo, and so thought I'd try this. It seemed to work. I showed my passport to perhaps the most apathetic man I've encountered in some time, and he gave me a boarding card. A different man seemed to check off my name on a list, but not in a way that made me confident it was my name. Nobody knew when the flight would be leaving, so I just sat and read a book. This room was air-conditioned, mercifully.
Eventually the plane appeared, and me and about twenty others hopped on for the 50 minute flight north to Cabinda. Even on this flight I still had a suspicion I was only on it erroneously, and that some poor meet-and-greet was standing forlornly outside Luanda airport with my mis-spelt name on a card, but knew that Malongo was ultimate destination, and that a key rule of travelling is that if in doubt just get as close to your destination as possible. And at Cabinda airport there was a man who had my name. My name was buried in about the seventh page on a list of hundreds, but I was still heartened by the acknowledgement of existance. A bus bumped through a half hour of dusty tracks and crumbling buildings until we left the poverty of the native land - which obviously the oil workers don't want to associate with - and entered a truly vast guarded compound, safe from poor people. Here, my existence wasn't known about, and it took several phonecalls until someone realised who I was and found a room for me to stay in.
The compound I'm in is very odd. It reminds me very strongly of an army base, right down to the accommodation which looks like just a US army barracks. And lots and lots of men. There's one giant dining hall for everyone, which you must sign in for (don't want a poor person getting free food, do we?) and eating can only be done during set times. How I wish the breakfast set times weren't 4am to 6am: I confidently predict I will never eat breakfast here. There are recreational areas, and even a golf course for those so inclined, and identikit white Ford trucks leaving trails of dust second only to the giant US-style buses that roam, mostly empty. The whole place seems very artificial and hollow, a giant edifice for isolation and money-making; a run-down holiday camp. Imagine living here, in ths fake village, removed entirely from the world around you, eating and drinking at set hours in giant halls with hundreds of others, driving a hired jeep identical to your neighbours'. Sometimes taking the bus to the airport and hoping the dust it churns up obscures you from the black faces, and vice versa, you pass in the decrepit town, with your daily bonus being more than their annual income, with your food and shelter free too. I can imagine that for certain people this could be a pretty comfortable existence, but I think any extended time spent here would see me developing a prisoner mentality.
I suppose that things, now in the base, are a little more orderly, and I don't have to expect the complete shambles that was working in Nigeria, which the dust, dirt and poverty here reminds me most closely of. My accommodation is decent enough, and I was able to watch the football last night. And it's all pretty easy - the Halliburton coordinator is a phonecall or a few doors away and can answer any question, so there's no struggle or uncertainty, unlike the mountain that needed to be climbed for information in places like Brazil. And I should be offshore either later today, or tomorrow, for a different kind of prison experience.
That's something I've not yet heard, or sensed sentiments of, after having spent a day here now, the vast majority in a state of waiting. I'm sitting in Malongo's Halliburton base right now, waiting. I was supposed to get a chopper to the rig earlier this morning but that was cancelled, so now I've got to wait and see if there's an afternoon one.
At least now this wait can be spent in an air-conditioned room, with internet access, water, a comfortable chair, and a bevy of semi-clad women stroking my underthighs. Maybe not that last one, alas, but the conditions are fair-to-middling, which is a large step up from the welcome that greets all foreign travellers upon arrival to the airport in Luanda, the capital. After a packed flight, albeit not too long at about seven hours, wedged between two men that seemed to want to rest their heads in my direction, I was hoping against the odds that the customs and visa process might not be as onerous as I was expecting. They were worse. Angola has mastered the third world art of hopeless organisation, so upon two large planefuls of people arriving at the same time into a small hallway, it was a genius move to only have one little man stamping the entry cards to confirm yellow fever vaccination. Better still was to hide the entry cards, so that they only appeared in limited numbers at random locations, and you just had to hope you were in the right place at the right time. But the masterstroke was putting this little man - and he was little, completely invisible within the sea of taller people - at a desk in the middle of the hallway, but near the immigration desks, so that the room descended into absolute confusion between people queueing for their yellow fever stamps, those queueing for their entry stamps and those still looking for an entry card to fill in. Nobody knew where anything was, and the only information about the system was through word of mouth - airport officials quickly made themselves scarce upon seeing the madness descend. Or perhaps just seeing that they might have to work.
After about two hours, I made it to the front desk, disrupting the lady's more important duty of fanning herself, and had my passport taken away so they could process it for the fifteen day visa. Now I had to wait in a small room with a hundred or more guys in my situation, although this time I was lucky enough to find a seat. But like the arrival hallway, their was no air-conditioning, or water, and I was feeling a tad fatigued by now. Every fifteen minutes a man would appear with a handful of passports and attempt to read the names, failing to pronounce a single one even remotely correct. After about two or three hours, he finally got to mine - "Nee Crig" - and I was free to go. But where?
Fortunately, I made the right choice. I knew I was supposed to be going to Malongo but had absolutely no details on flights or times or anything. I would usually have wandered into arrivals, hoping there would be a meet-and-greet, but after several hours in the airport I suspected that if this was the case then my meet-and-greet would have given up, or they would already have found their way in and met-and-gret me. My phone isn't getting a signal here so I didn't fancy wandering around Luanda airport and the reputed clusters of touts, trying to figure out my next move. And so I decided to wander through a door. I'd seen a few people wander through this door during my hours of waiting, and now and again an offical would ask them "Malongo?" Well, I knew that I was ultimately heading to Malongo, and so thought I'd try this. It seemed to work. I showed my passport to perhaps the most apathetic man I've encountered in some time, and he gave me a boarding card. A different man seemed to check off my name on a list, but not in a way that made me confident it was my name. Nobody knew when the flight would be leaving, so I just sat and read a book. This room was air-conditioned, mercifully.
Eventually the plane appeared, and me and about twenty others hopped on for the 50 minute flight north to Cabinda. Even on this flight I still had a suspicion I was only on it erroneously, and that some poor meet-and-greet was standing forlornly outside Luanda airport with my mis-spelt name on a card, but knew that Malongo was ultimate destination, and that a key rule of travelling is that if in doubt just get as close to your destination as possible. And at Cabinda airport there was a man who had my name. My name was buried in about the seventh page on a list of hundreds, but I was still heartened by the acknowledgement of existance. A bus bumped through a half hour of dusty tracks and crumbling buildings until we left the poverty of the native land - which obviously the oil workers don't want to associate with - and entered a truly vast guarded compound, safe from poor people. Here, my existence wasn't known about, and it took several phonecalls until someone realised who I was and found a room for me to stay in.
The compound I'm in is very odd. It reminds me very strongly of an army base, right down to the accommodation which looks like just a US army barracks. And lots and lots of men. There's one giant dining hall for everyone, which you must sign in for (don't want a poor person getting free food, do we?) and eating can only be done during set times. How I wish the breakfast set times weren't 4am to 6am: I confidently predict I will never eat breakfast here. There are recreational areas, and even a golf course for those so inclined, and identikit white Ford trucks leaving trails of dust second only to the giant US-style buses that roam, mostly empty. The whole place seems very artificial and hollow, a giant edifice for isolation and money-making; a run-down holiday camp. Imagine living here, in ths fake village, removed entirely from the world around you, eating and drinking at set hours in giant halls with hundreds of others, driving a hired jeep identical to your neighbours'. Sometimes taking the bus to the airport and hoping the dust it churns up obscures you from the black faces, and vice versa, you pass in the decrepit town, with your daily bonus being more than their annual income, with your food and shelter free too. I can imagine that for certain people this could be a pretty comfortable existence, but I think any extended time spent here would see me developing a prisoner mentality.
I suppose that things, now in the base, are a little more orderly, and I don't have to expect the complete shambles that was working in Nigeria, which the dust, dirt and poverty here reminds me most closely of. My accommodation is decent enough, and I was able to watch the football last night. And it's all pretty easy - the Halliburton coordinator is a phonecall or a few doors away and can answer any question, so there's no struggle or uncertainty, unlike the mountain that needed to be climbed for information in places like Brazil. And I should be offshore either later today, or tomorrow, for a different kind of prison experience.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Off To Angola
Well, I got back from Mozambique three weeks ago, and have spent the time trying (and succeeding) to regain the stone in weight I lost on that job, by means of a rigorous regime of alcohol and absolute inaction. But now I've been summoned from my atrophy, and in a matter of hours will be Angola bound. But I'm not going to this enchanting, earthly paradise for a holiday, oh no; instead I'll be once again hanging about big chunk of metal with lots and lots of men, getting sweaty and talking about big lengths of pipe. I do wonder where my life is heading sometimes.
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