Paperwork

Paperwork has never been my forte.  So it proved on that particular Thursday.

At the start of the hitch the company flew me out by El Al; not and experience I particularly want to repeat.  The airline itself is no better than average; it was the questioning that I can live without.  The kind of questions that one gets with no other airline departing Heathrow.  When leaving Israel I put up with the questioning with good humour.  “Where have you been?”  “Who have you been meeting?”  “Do you have any friends in the Middle East?”  “Have you been given anything to carry with you today?”  “We are asking you these questions because we are afraid that you might have been given something which could be a bomb.”  In Israel I don’t mind for it is their country, they make the rules and frankly that is the reality of it.  But at Heathrow, I surprised myself at my own reaction.  This is my own country and there I stood, the same questions from the same dark-eyed kids; the same scans, the same swabbing of my luggage.  At least I was treated with smiles which I imagine is different to the treatment is given to Israel’s nearer neighbours.  I better understand now the frustration of others. 

My time in Israel itself was remarkable in being a matter of routine.  Not so much happened and for once I did not go offshore for the four weeks I was there.  Instead I was down the port most days, cleaning and preparing the equipment for the next job which came up in the week I was due to leave.  Usually that would mean I would be staying on but not this time.  This time I had it all arranged and for once people had listened: I had given them over two months’ notice that during the October half-term I was to be taking the family to Cuba.  The holiday was booked and paid for.  Passenger details had been supplied; names, address and passport details.  Visas had been issued and I had to be home by Friday the 14^th at the latest.  No ifs or buts.

Since my equipment when offshore on Tuesday the 11^th of October, my work here was done.  So I contacted my office in Italy and asked them to rebook my ticket for the Tuesday or Wednesday.  My colleague Richard was already in country so everything was covered.  It was the Jewish New Year (I think, there are many bank holidays in Israel) but the point was that the flights were full.  Damn.  I asked the office to look out for cancellations and try to get me out on Thursday.  My original ticket was for early Friday morning so at least that was the last resort.  Except life is seldom that predictable.

There was no luck for me that Thursday.  No flights and what was worse, I had run out of clean clothing.  I just gathered it all together and threw it in one of the washing machines at the staff house.  I came down at four o’clock and looked in the machine.  Damn, I thought.  I had left some tissue in one of my pockets.  I looked closer.  That was no tissue; that was a Saudi visa.  Where was my passport?

It was with wide-eyed horror that I retrieved the tattered remains from my shorts pocket.  The cover and details section had survived reasonably well but the pages had been turned to papier-mâché.  I briefly toyed with the idea of turning up for the flight at the usual time and presenting this sorry ex-document.  Common sense kicked in after five minutes.  I started with a Google search for the British consulate and called the number.  Naturally, being a holiday it was closed.  The call was diverted to London.

“Hello, can you tell me please whether the consulate in Tel Aviv is open tomorrow?” 

“Are you in Israel?”

“Yes, my passport has been accidently destroyed and I have to fly out tomorrow.  I urgently need consulate help.”

“Well the consulate is in Jerusalem.”

This would have been an extremely major problem, especially when travelling from Haifa.  One would have to travel past the airport by several hours.

“Er, are you sure?  I am pretty certain it is in Tel Aviv.”

“Let me check.”

The Foreign Office lady came back several minutes later.

“You are right,” she said in a rather sheepish voice.  I got the address and directions from her.  If I appeared first thing in the morning I could have an emergency passport in only four hours.  Great, but it meant that that after all the trying to get on those El Al flights earlier in week, I was to miss the one I was actually booked on.  That meant that the next call was to my manager Nikos.  I had some explaining to do.

“Nikos, I’m in trouble.”  I explained the situation and realised that I was asking the company to bail me out. They would have been quite within there rights to book me on a later flight departing over or even after the weekend at no extra charge.   “I guess I’ll have to pay for the ticket since I have to be home tomorrow.  It was my own stupid fault.”

“You’ll pay for it yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, send through your card details and we’ll do our best.”

Next was setting up the taxi another round of explanation to the local engineer-in-charge.  Then I realised I would have to contact the tour company: after all the vacation was booked with the now trashed passport.  Oh if the Cuban authorities kicked up, it could be a very short vacation.

There were plenty of other calls I had to make but one of them was not to Mrs V.  I could imagine how that conversation would go.  Darling, I wrecked my passport so you just go to Cuba without me.  No, that would be a call too far.  Besides, I had an ace up my sleeve; a second passport at home.  Once the tour company had its details I had a fighting chance.  Better then to keep the stress levels to myself rather than share the misery.

Next morning I made it to the Tel Aviv consulate but not before the taxi had dropped me at the wrong location.  Cursing, I walked the mile or so with luggage to the right office block but still made it in time before the consulate opened.  It transpired afterwards the taxi driver wasn’t a sadistic idiot: the UK embassy was having a refit and the consulate department had taken up temporary accommodation.  The staff though were very understanding, sympathetic and, more to the point efficient.  I had an emergency passport in less than three hours.

Now an emergency passport is a strange beast.  It looks just like a normal passport but the cover is white and not the usual burgundy colour.  It is issued for a limited time and this piece of paperwork is good only until one reaches the UK, upon which it is to be surrendered to the immigration official.  It proved to be a source of some puzzlement and entertainment to the kids questioning me at Ben Gurion Airport. 

“Why is your passport white?”

“It is an emergency passport.”

“Why do you have an emergency passport?”

“Because this is my original passport.”  I present the small plastic bag containing the earthly remains of what used to be my valid travel document.

Some of them were quicker on the uptake and said “Ah, laundry” but others were not so astute and demanded a full explanation of yesterday’s events.  My voice began to get rather tired but finally I was allowed to board after more than the usual questions, scans and swabs.  It was a blessed relief to board a British Airways flight.

Sure enough, at Heathrow the official at Immigration, with some ceremony, declared that the brief life of my white passport had come to its end.  Like a mayfly it lived for just a day and was now spent.  Which would have left me in another world of trouble if that was the only identification I had with me.  The onward flight to Edinburgh awaited and I still had to prove myself there.  Sure enough, ID was demanded so I am glad that for internal flights, a driver’s licence will still suffice.

It was Friday midnight before I got home but it was only on Sunday afternoon, after I successfully passed through Cuban immigration that I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. 

I never did get around to telling Mrs V.  Unless she reads this of course….. 

A Non Incident off the Italian Coast

I’ve just finished reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5.  A truly great book but I’m not going to review it here.  Rather its episodic nature put me in mind of a small incident that occurred in the northern Adriatic some years back.

Italian rigs don’t operate on the same level of safety as their counterpart in the North Sea.  I don’t know how it is today but around five or more years back, one could forget about safety reporting, meetings or reviews.  The job I do has the potential to be highly dangerous with the worst-case scenario of multiple deaths if I get it wrong.  That doesn’t really seem to matter though.  It was always a struggle to get people to appreciate safety.

The time was 19.35, winter and a dark night.  One of the advantages of lax safety is that one could use a mobile phone, with the helideck being the best place for reception.  I caught something out of the corner of my eye.  Was that a red flare?  It was just a glimpse; I couldn’t be sure.  Five minutes later there was no doubt.  Another flare appeared from the same quarter.  Somebody needed help.

I took a bearing and rushed down to the radio operator to report what I had seen. The rig’s crew were Croatian, so while one guy went up on deck to check my story, the radio operator raised the Croatian coastguard.  Since the rig was in Italian waters however, we were referred to Rome, headquarters of the Italian coastguard.

Contact was swiftly established.  Meanwhile the guy had returned from the helideck and confirmed there was another flare at 19:45.  Rome advised they had no units  in the area but since the rig had a supply boat on standby, they advised us to send it to investigate.  It was time to see the Italian company representative.

The Company Man’s first approach was to ascribe the sightings to fireworks from a nearby town.  The rig was out of sight of the coast and the supporting account from the Croatian crewman ruled this out.  We had a request from Rome to investigate the flares.  The arguments went back and forth but finally the Company Man refused to release the standby vessel to go.  What would happen if something happened to the rig while it was away?  The weather was good and it was the first time I had ever heard safety being cited for any reason on that rig.  In this case however, it was a reason for inaction.

In the grip of anger, I returned defeated to the radio operator and we both sighed and shook our heads.  I was on deck to witness a flurry of six flares at 20:00hrs.  Then there was no more.

Next day, the weather was beautiful.  Last night was just a dream.  What could happen on such a glittering calm sea?  Certainly no one could be in trouble, no one could die.

So it goes.

Nice Joke Henry. Well done

I knew that I was due to set out once more to the Holy Land. The last few months had been spent gathering equipment together, egging on those who needed to fix things to bloody well get on with it and finish fixing them and generally whining, cajoling and if necessary, downright begging colleagues to spare some of their vital time helping me (and therefore the company) to scrape everything together. Finally though, the system had been assembled, tested, installed, retested and packed up and shipped. I just had to wait for the word that it had arrived in Haifa and that would be me off to tidy up those last little loose ends that inevitably are left flapping before the start of any job.
The confirmation email that my equipment had arrived in Haifa came on the Sunday, just as the snow first shut down Edinburgh Airport and much of the road and rail system with it. Still, there was time. The forecast showed that the snow would abate into the week and cold sunshine was expected for Wednesday. The logging of the prospective gas well wasn’t due to start until about the 6th or 7th of December. If I got out there on Wednesday, Thursday latest, it would be okay. Just.

With Monday came the further snow as expected. On the Met Office look-ahead Tuesday would be fine. It wasn’t, at least where I am living. Being right on the edge of the Firth of Forth, where I am in Leith is usually the last place around Edinburgh that gets snow. As so was the case this time. But by the time we had a few more inches, my friend Dave was reporting eighteen inches (45cm) on the south side of the city. The airport is further to the west, general transport had shut down and Tuesday saw heavy snow. So I called the office and advised postponement of the flight until Thursday. There was also talk of another friend, Richard, being brought up on standby “just in case”. Fair enough.

Wednesday’s forecast was for fairer skies and a decline in the stiff easterly wind which was the cause of the drifting. Except nobody actually told the weather that. The pellet-like snow continued to hammer down like grey curtains of gravel, each new storm being driven up into the mouth of the Firth of Forth by a persistently intransigent east wind. The Kingdom of Fife was blurred out of existence and in one remarkably heavy sharp shower, the massive hulk of the Platinum Point apartment complex that dominates the view from my house to the north disappeared. Unkind correspondents on facebook called this an improvement and as a reporter of fact, it is my sad duty to note their opinion here.

In truth I was getting nervous. After barely being able to negotiate the horribly snowed roads within the city while driving Mrs Veart to her place of work, I called my boss Nikos again and told him that Thursday wasn’t looking probable either, as the route chosen for me meant departing early-morning (06:05) via Paris. No agreement came forth for another postponement however. I packed and was ready to go.

04:00 Thursday. Checked the BAA website again. Edinburgh Airport still shut. Not surprised. I dropped an email to interested parties and went back to my warm bed.
At least when morning proper did come, things were not looking so bad. The wind had decreased. My daughter’s school, closed throughout the week was now open again. The work/school run was easier today and after the check on the Scotrail website, the trains were running again. The worst was over. But still Edinburgh Airport was shut. I had a brain-wave. I advised Nikos not to risk Edinburgh again for Friday but instead I would travel across to Glasgow. The West coast had not been so badly hit by the storms and with the rail running, there was every chance of a successful departure.
Nikos advised setting out for the west immediately. I have to confess that I didn’t do this. The lines were open, the forecast was fair but cold and the situation was normalising. So it wasn’t until later in the day that I arrived in Waverly station to pick up my pre-ordered ticket. Just in time to see the rail timetable be suspended again. Oops.
Trains were still departing but now on a ad-hoc basis, with rail management deciding which destinations were to be attempted. They did well to get anything moving but still fair to say there was a goodly amount of confusion and chaos. When I finally made it through to Queen’s Street station, it was clear to me how lucky I had been. Snowfall in central Scotland had been in the order of two feet (60-70cm) or more. Goodness that was tight and needless to say that the journey had taken many hours. But still, made it to Glasgow. A taxi took me along the near-empty roads of Scotland’s largest city and by evening I had made it to the Holiday Inn, Glasgow Airport. I wouldn’t recommend the food though. My flight via Amsterdam was not until late Friday afternoon. My friend Richard could stand down. After an indifferent (and poor value) meal I turned in.

The book I had been reading so far on the journey was Mark Kermode’s autobiography It's Only a Movie http://www.onlyamovie.co.uk/. Now safe to say that Dr. Kermode, by his own account, isn’t one of life’s more adventurous travellers, at least by temperament. And while the account of his life as a film critic is often hilarious it is not in the least soothing. Frankly, the guy is nuts. His style of writing is exactly how he talks so reading the book was just like having him whining on about his experiences travelling across Russia and the Ukraine while being in the room standing next to you. It is so easy to hear the guy’s voice because he (with Simon Mayo) has a two-hour radio show on a Friday afternoon to which I am a devoted listener. Having undertaken several similar trips (and in worse conditions Mark) I sympathise but with my stress levels already quite high, it was not the best choice of book for such a trip. But I did laugh, when I could bear to return to reading it.
I had a real lie-in Friday morning and went to breakfast about 09:30. Ate far too much and behind me the eldest toddler of a very young Chinese family alleviated his boredom by drumming his metal spoon upon the plastic of his high-chair; very, very loudly and with a degree of persistence that will surely stand him in good stead later in life. I beat my own retreat back to the room, which I had the hotel’s agreement to quit at 14:00hrs. Which is roughly the time I crossed the road to Airport Departures. On the boards there was no check-in deck listed for Amsterdam but I put that down to just being early. I noticed a bloke talking to a Serviceair person who deals with KLM matters in Glasgow and since the same idea had already occurred to me, I asked him if he was enquiring about the check-in desk number. He had but the lady there only referred him back to the board. As I went to wonder off, I looked back to see him talking to another woman at an actual desk. The man saw my gaze and waved me across has he lifted his bag onto the scales. We were in!
Now divested of the heavy hold luggage, I decided to go through security early and amuse myself as best I could in departures. A flow of wellbeing was now upon me, unabated by the “necessity” of removing my boots for x-ray or not being able to find Israeli shekels in any of the exchange counters. The gate number of the Amsterdam flight appeared on the departures’ board. Excellent. I called Nikos with the news who informed me that “I was the Man.” I indeed felt that way and cleared off to the bar for a celebratory pint of cider. It’s called “Thatcher”? No, not even that can put me off.

I ripped my head up and attention away from Kermode’s latest misadventure. What was that announcement saying? Amsterdam? Cancelled? No. This was not right. He couldn’t be saying that those who had already checked in should go to the domestic arrivals to retrieve their bags from Belt One. How can this flight be cancelled? Was anything else cancelled? Was the airport shut? Sure there were delays but…. Check the board. The board knows all, tells all.
Cancelled. I make the phone call “Bad news Nikos.”
“Fuck fuck Fuck FUCK!”
I retrieved my offshore kit and went back to the Serviceair counter. There was already a large queue. Instead of joining it, I headed straight back to the Holiday Inn, reserved a room and dumped off the bags in their holding room. Earlier that day I had hinted to the reception staff I might see them later in the day. Must be more careful with my predictive humour.

Rejoining the queue, I noticed the guy whom I had spoken to earlier and waved him across. After talking for a wee while, we found that we had links to Donegal, which led to great chat taking place. Usually it only takes one Irish person to start an epic chinwag but when two get together the gab is non-stop. Telephone calls allowing. Must of bored the poor ladies who were Bali-bound to distraction. Sorry. Stephen, if you ever read this, I’m on facebook.
As we neared the head of the queue, one of the ladies mentioned above said to me “When you said it would take two hours to be seen, I thought you were joking. But you were right.” Sadly I was but I was not so surprised when I was booked on a BA flight for London. Bidding farewell to Stephen at the Holiday Inn (one cancellation, one new booking) a returned to check-in, this time with British Airways.
“I’ve booked you on an earlier flight sir and you should go straight through to gate now.”
Cool! This might work after all.

Indeed there was a throng around Gate 22 but gradually the queue was going through. I handed over my boarding card. There was a disagreeable beeping noise and a red light flashed.
“Sorry sir, this is the wrong flight. You are on the next one.” I looked at the clock, the boarding time was right. There was one difference in to flight numbers, my card ended in a 5 and the flight was a 3.
Where now? Bar. Before I made it there though I fell into another conversation with the young guy who was manning the Best-of-the-Best lottery stand. Apparently the company is winding down their operations and within six months he will be out of a job. Sometimes there are good reasons to talk to a person and after finding out a little more of his background, I advised him to go to university. I was thirty when I graduated and my degree gave me a fighting chance.
Back to the boards. Since leaving the gate, BA1495 had slipped another half-an-hour. Grrrreeeaat. The chances of making that last connecting flight to Tel Aviv was evaporating quicker than a snowflake in a blast furnace.
Heathrow wasn’t reached until after 22:30, the departure time of my connection. We were directed through to the baggage hall, where a queue had formed in front of the help desk. No bags were coming through and there was on other staff except for the two workers behind the counter. It took an hour to reach the front of the queue, only to be told that my bag was still in the system and I should instead just go up to Zone G for an accommodation voucher.

That hour seemed to be a massive waste of time but as it turned out, it wasn’t.

Up at G Zone in Terminal Five, Heathrow airport, approaching midnight, it was chaos. The omens were not good when waking past sleeping figures stretched out on the hard cold floor. Which queue to join? Any one of them I guess.

After a while though I thought “What the hell am I doing? Let’s just phone around the local hotels and check in. Better than standing here for the next goodness-knows how many hours.”  So I did, but to no effect. Either the hotels were all booked solid or just not answering. Back to the queue.
“Excuse me,” asked an feminine Irish voice behind me. “Do you think that it is worth standing here in line?” The voice belonged to a tall, beautiful girl in her twenties. Now her name isn’t Alma but I’ll call her that to spare any blushes. Not that anything untoward happened but the lady did fall silent, at least for a little while when, during a long conversation, I mentioned my wife and family. Perhaps I imagined it and I speak with the fading vanity of a middle-aged guy. However, taking with Alma made the next few hours speed by, at least from my perspective.
During this time in the queue I noticed an interaction between one of the BA ground staff and a customer who was trying to get some information.
“Excuse me”
The young lady obviously heard the request but blanked him.
“Excuse me,” this time said just a little louder as obviously the first attempt had not being heard.
“Don’t yell at me!” the BA ground person yelled at the customer. That guaranteed that everybody turned to listen to the interaction to follow. The guy persisted and refused to be fobbed off. He asked her for information and received the reply “I told you to ask my colleagues.” She waived her left arm vaguely. His gaze followed the direction of her gesture. There was no BA staff there.
“Which colleague?”
“Any of those colleagues!” Still there was nobody in the direction she was pointing.
“Can you point to the person you want me to speak to?”
She couldn’t.
“You can’t help me, you’ve got no information and you won’t tell me who to speak to. You are a fucking joke woman.”

The customer stormed off and within moments the young woman found real (and not imaginary) colleagues for her own comfort.

At the time I put this down to overtiredness of all concerned. When my turn came I found out why the hour spent earlier had not been in vain. In G sector they were making no attempt to arrange onward flights; their concern was just with accommodation. I on the other hand had already been booked on the 08:25 to Tel Aviv. Appreciated.
By the time me and Alma reached the Copthorne Hotel in Slough (very nice too) it was after two o’oclock. I set an alarm for 05:45. The room was excellent but I was overtired. Woke up several times in the night but the oddest occasion was at 04:35. O4:36 there was a knock on the door.

“Hello? Is there a problem?
“Sorry,” answered a male voice. “Wrong room.”
Certainly was.


Check-in about 07:00. Went to the machines that treat people like themselves. Fed in my booking reference. “Please seek assistance.” Try again with the same result. Join another queue.  Finally get to the front. A new guy has just taken over.
“Hello,” I say. “I need to check-in for the Tel Aviv flight.

“Why didn’t you go to the machines? You should go there.”
“I went there and they referred me to assistance. Last night I queued over five hours.”
“Well I’ve been working 15 hour days for the past couple and if you argue with me I will go home.”
Various options went through my head. He had instantly lost my respect. True, the last few days had been tough on everybody. But this new strategy of “defensive stroppy” isn’t impressive. ‘If you don’t play by my rules I’m going to take the ball away.’ Let’s think this through. So this guy goes home, citing stress and abuse. I am referred to his colleagues who either a) turn me away and refuse to fly me or b) accept that their colleague over-reacted and fly me. Either way “defensive stroppy” merely is a dereliction of duty, creating an angry client that then has to be handled by other staff members and if case a) occurs, future loss of business for British Airways. It really is a no-win strategy.
I do not accept a friend’s alternative explanation that the T5 ground staff are really aliens who feed off human misery.
Back to the assistance desk.
“I am not arguing with you. I merely want you to check me in to the Tel Aviv flight please.”
Which he did.


The rest of the journey when pretty smoothly, despite the hour-and-a-half delay on the tarmac owing to Spanish air-traffic control strike. Okay, I was in the middle seat, flying cattle class but my fellow passengers were civilised and seem to have similar reading habits. I got into Tel Aviv and cleared immigration, giving the officer behind the desk a “Spasibo” (Russian for “thank you”) and winning a knowing smile in return. I even found the taxi without much stress, despite being known as “Martin Ward.”
Just south of Haifa the smell of burn pine strongly entered the car. Just in the past days forty one Israelis had died in the recent forest fires.
The hotel was rubbish and I headed out to a restaurant since the only thing I had eaten was the foil-wrapped item served on the flight.
During the consumption of my warm salad I received the following message.
“Hey Martin, hate to give you the news after your endeavour to reach Israel but logging has been postponed for a month.....”
“Nice joke Henry. Well done”

Except it was not a joke.

Finding your Cat in the Dustbin?

Set up a close-circuit television to monitor your car?  Finding your pets in the dustbin?  Chances are your don’t live in a tough area nor is it environmentalists and animal haters.  What you might have is a problem with your neighbours.

Now I’m not saying that this is the case with Darryl and Stephanie Andrews-Mann, owner of both cat and CCTV that have become famous this week.  I simply don’t know.  But being of a Catholic and Irish background and growing up in East Anglia during the 70s, my family had its share of such nonsense.  From being ignored, having music left blaring next door while the neighbours went out on a nice day, plants trampled in the front garden and the neighbours on the other side wedging the guttering so that the water ran in our direction then sending a letter threatening legal action, I’ve pretty much seen it all.  It is not for nothing that my mother invested in a Doberman pinscher when I was three years old.  Lovely dog it turned out to be but I still remember it swinging me around the back garden by the back of my trousers despite my terrified and doubtless pitiful cries.

As for the trampled plants, my mother buried some wooden planking studded with two-inch nails.  Strictly illegal of course and she was advised not to do it again by Gordon, a sympathetic local copper.

It worked though; after that the daffodils were left in peace.

http://www.youtube.com/verify_age?next_url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DOtuqQb_6cNk

Desert Tales

I’m not a fan of deserts. I guess I was a teenager when I saw my first one, flying over the Grand Canyon but that hardly counts as we were otherwise air-conditioned, spending only a few hours outside in the cool air at the rim. Magnificent, but it was not a desert journey.

The first desert I have actually stood in and broke sweat was in West Texas. Not that I broke very much sweat mind you. Autumn soon turned to winter and a cold-front, a Blue Northerner, moved over. Night-time temperatures dropped to -10 C and the morning desert was rimed with frost or even a sugar-dusting of snow.  In the final phase of training I was on the early shift, stopping off to buy breakfast for the guys on the well. One morning and being British, I fancied a cup of tea and noticed it on the fast-food menu board. Seven coffees and a tea. Great. But my joy turned sour when I grabbed my cup. Of course, the tea was iced. Perverts.

Later that same winter I found myself on the Kuwait-Saudi border. It was a war desert; seven years before the allied coalition had swept through the zone, carrying away everything before them.  As I think back, I can still see the village with no walls. Nearly every room of every house was open to the elements. The image of a lime-green bathroom is still with me. Goodness knows what weapons were used against the town but the outer walls were stripped bare, leaving most structures standing. Outside the town a burnt-out T60 tank, Soviet-made and as dead as it’s former owner, Saddam Husain is now. Road signs warned of the dangers of unspent ordinance.
At least the Texan desert was scrub-filled and full of life. This desert was flat and strewn with small boulders. Being winter, it wasn’t hot. It did not encourage me to volunteer for further desert work. I moved to Norway soon after.

The Kazak steppe was unexpected. It was June and I had just spent nine long hours in an ancient Land Cruiser, complete with de rigueur cracked window screen. We had driven north from the head of the Caspian Sea, up the main highway, zigzagging our way through the massive pot-holes and the thin strips of asphalt that connected them. To either side the land was green and shrubby.  Finally we turned off left onto a dust track and ironically the drive got easier. We were soon at the rig site and the door was opened. The smell!  The strong smell of sage brush was amazing and so refreshing. But there was no soil; below the bushes was only sand. It was the same kind of terrain in central Kazakhstan, uncompromisingly flat but in the Spring the sagebrush smell was replaced with small clumps of wild tulip and the occasional sighting of a large tortoise as it lumbered across the (better maintained) highway. I was worried for their safety but the Kazak drivers never failed to slow down and go around them. I think the Steppe remains my favourite desert because it isn’t quite one.

I had a drive through the Judean desert last year. It is a bit of a shock really, starting as it does at the east gates of Jerusalem. The terrain is of ranges of low naked hills, the ground level gradually dipping down under the tectonic stresses until the finally one comes to the lowest place of the face of the Earth: The Dead Sea.  On the other side, the rising vertical cliffs define the land of Jordan. What nonsense we humans make for ourselves; drawing out our petty lines and killing each other for their sake. This magnificent rift valley will continue to crack slowly open; pulled by the planet's internal stresses, regardless of how much blood is spilt upon them.

Now we come to the grandest desert of all. I first saw the Sahara in Egypt. I can’t say I was impressed. The coast road between Alexandria and Mersa Matruh is another war desert, passing as it does through El Alamein. There can be found a museum, or rather a parking lot for a bunch of old tanks, all painted the same colour.   More affecting are the war graves of German, Italian, British and Commonwealth troops. The British graves are maintained within a walled garden and lack the grand, towering monuments that overlook the other two.


The aftermath of war is hard to escape, even sixty years on. Here too the road has signs warning of the dangers of mines. I was disappointed with Mersa Matruh though. I thought an early evening walk along the beach would be nice;  after all the place is supposed to be a holiday resort for the locals. Soon I found myself unnervingly on the wrong side of barbed-wire and black-painted sign with white Arabic script. I retraced my steps and next day a colleague confirmed that I had indeed wondered into an old minefield.  A local girl had been killed there the previous autumn.


It was late winter and Egypt was cold. Along the southern coast of the Mediterranean, I have endured some of my most chilly jobs. I guess further north, one is prepared for it and dress accordingly. But even the apartments in Egypt are not really warm, being dress in tiling and designed more to keep the heat at bay.

Heat is something that the Sahara in Mauritania has given me. I have worked here before offshore. In the capital Nouakchott it is sometimes hard to tell when the street ends and desert begins. Years ago, I was doing heavy work down the port.  It was +49 Celsius, with high humidity. The week before, temperatures had hit +55 C. The air density had decreased to such a degree that the helicopters could no longer generate enough lift to take off. 

On this latest occasion however I am not restricted to the coastline. A couple of hours of flying on a fixed-wing aircraft took us to the deep desert. Of course, one is living in a rather Spartan oil camp but even there is air-conditioning and water at hand. When outside however, one is only too aware of the grand austerity of the surrounding land.  I haven’t been to the Great Erg with it’s towering dunes. In fact, compared to some parts, the desert here isn’t overburdened with sand. But it is the heat and dryness that has to be experienced. Sweat isn’t a problem: the body is desiccated as the hot wind steadily blows from the North East.  Temperatures hit 57 C, making touching anything metal with bare hands an uncomfortable and short experience. It is not beautiful to my eye but there is indeed majesty to this land.

I was asked by my friend Lindi whether I preferred working in hot or cold environments. I am a creature of my own environment so of course my body is adapted for living in Northern Europe.  But if I had to choose to work in a very hot or very cold environment, I would choose the very hot. In The Worst Journey in the World Apsley Cherry-Garrard writes that Antarctic exploration is the cleanest way of having the most miserable time possible.  Now I am no explorer and barely a traveler but when I was in Canada this winter, I found that warmth was only to be found indoors. Out working, my feet were cold most of the time and once inside, the problem of moisture occurred as snow turns to water.  In a hot desert, there is at least a chance of being comfortable sometime during the day.

Travel Expectations

Free airport WiFi is usually too much to hope for so I’m not disappointed. Why should this day get any better?

Yesterday started off okay. I bid farewell to the Canadian crew that had become my companions and friends over the past month. Nice bunch of lads. Josh drove me up to Quebec City airport. A bit early as it turned out but no matter: Mike and Josh had an initial two-day drive ahead of them which would become a week if the equipment had to be delivered immediately to Alberta.

I have to admit that it was with a slightly sinking heart that I viewed the large group of high-school teenagers that proceeded before me onto the aircraft but my fears were unfounded. They were well behaved. Unlike the flight steward stationed at the back of the aircraft who was flirting with me almost from the start. It is said that the one who is asking the questions is the one in pursuit and was this boy inquisitive. It was perfectly clear that he was off duty after this flight and had a place in Toronto. Nice to the fancied, I suppose. Anyway, at the end of the flight he gave me a knowing smile and told me that after resting this afternoon, he was sure to get into all kinds of trouble that night. I would say it was a certainty.

Fortunately I had other arrangements that afternoon which was in the form of meeting one of my wife’s oldest childhood friends. Marina, husband Ted and their youngest daughter were at the airport to meet me and it was a real pleasure from the start. I had spoken to Marina many times over the years, usually even if it was just to say that Masha wasn’t in. It was a surreal experience to finally meet all the same. And surreal that childhood friends from St.Petersburg should end up so far from home. When the city was called Leningrad, it was impossible to even imagine such eventualities.

Marina’s oldest daughter, Dasha, had recommended an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. Her account of the place was that waiters would be hovering to ensure one’s plate was never empty. What none of us realised that was the level of service commanded by pretty eighteen-year -old girls. The rest of us did not attract such attention. Service was slow, the waiters offered no advice on portions and still could not count when Marina and Ted were getting the numbers right. Portions were systematically smaller than requested. So I can recommend Maki Japanese Sushi restaurant if one is on a diet. Which, in all honesty, after a month of hotel food, I need to be. That had to wait however as we stopped off on the way back for cream cakes. The first portion, a small building of an affair, wiped me out completely and I had to finally draw the line when Ted offered slices of cheesecake as a follow up.

All too quickly it was time to get back to the airport. A shame because it felt like I had known them both for years. I certainly hope they can make it to Scotland.

With perfect timing I was swiftly through security (despite meriting special attention from the guards. Was it my aftershave?) and through to the gate. The flight was pretty full. After takeoff the lady I was sitting next to spotted a couple of empty seat and was off. Fair enough. Since my light didn’t work, I thought I could use her vacated place to read. And it would have been a fine scheme if the two men in the row ahead of me had not both decided to recline their seats back to the maximum. I could already feel the feet of the young woman sitting behind me through my chair. Beside her was a large lady of a certain age. It would not have been possible in all good conscience to recline the seat down on her. I was trapped. I turned sideways to read but when the cabin-lights went down, that was no possible either. The one available light to me meant that the book would have been six inches from my nose. I called the steward.

“Are you able to fix this light?”
He smiled pityingly at me. “No sir. We don’t carry any repair materials. It would be very dangerous to attempt to fix the plane while in flight.”
“Of course. I understand. It’s not like changing a light bulb I’m sure. Are you able to find me another seat?”
“No sir, the flight is very full.”

And that was that. For that time at least. I was not happy but tried to sleep. I turned full sideways, curling up on both chairs with the heavy central armrest raised but pressing on my torso. Just as I was dozing off, I was tapped on the back. It was the big toe of the girl behind, whose foot had slipped around the side of the chair. I was fucking awake now.

In a cold anger, I rose none-too-gently and had a walk around the aircraft. There were empty chairs but these had already been spread into by other passengers. Too angry to sleep and not possible to read. Then I remembered the l.e.d. flashlight that was in my coat pocket. I went to the overhead locker, unfortunately right above the two gentlemen ahead of me, and I got the torch. Its blue-white light is actually very good to read by. Eventually though I just needed more space. Another walk and then the toilet. Hmmm. Plenty of space here. Nobody waiting. I’ll just take a piss for now.

“Attention please. We are experiencing turbulence. Please return to your seat and put your seat belt on.”

I’ll have my piss first, if you don’t mind.

Bang bang bang. “Sir, you need to return to your seat.” It was a stewardess.

After adjusting my dress and washing my hands I came out. “I would, if I had a seat that was fit for a human being to sit in.”

I resumed my coiled position, buckled up and started to read again. As she passed, I saw surprise register on the face of the stewardess as she spotted the torch.

“Sir, is there a problem with the light?”

“Yes there is. I can’t sit in the other chair to read because the gentleman ahead has the seat fully reclined and it forces the book into my face. I cannot recline my own seat although I tried because the legs of the girl behind are already sticking in my back and as you can see, I cannot recline the other seat either.”

“Would you like me to look for another seat for you?”

“That,” I replied. “Would be delightful.”

The stewardess returned within five minutes. In an apologetic tone, I told her I would not have been so upset except I had raised the matter with her colleague several hours before.

The seat was with the babies at the front of the bulkhead. Asking whether the light would disturb the baby and being reassured it would not, I settled down. Even with the occasional waft of an overfull nappy, it was still more conformable that the rabbit-hutch that had been created for me by my fellow passengers. I even managed an hour’s sleep.

I returned to my original seat for landing. After the plane had come to a final halt I rose. I had to say something.

“Please, you two gentlemen had both your seats fully reclined last night. It made sitting behind you impossible. I had to ask for a new seat.”

“Why didn’t you just recline your seat?”

“So everybody behind you have to recline their seats to the maximum? Where does it end?”

“So I am responsible for last night?”

“Partly, yes.”

“What, you don’t want me to sleep? Am I to stay awake?”

I could see where this was going, it was clear that nothing matter to him except his own needs and either it was the full half hour telling the whole story or:

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

“It is better that you have nothing more to say.”

Since I was already up, I joined the queue to exist ahead of them both. I also took my time letting the people ahead out of their chairs.

Passive aggression on my part? Probably. Like any situation, it is a culmination of small events that can lead to a large incidence. I didn’t have to go there. Point made.

And to put it all into perspective, the title of the book I am reading is “The Worst Journey in The World.”

A Kind Word from A Stranger

Many many people, some of them who will even be reading these very words, have shown me kindness over the years. In all truthfulness, on most of these occasions, I am not as appreciative as I should be and for that I am sorry. This note however isn’t really about such cases. It’s more the random word from the unknown person that strengthens and inspires.


I had such a case in the Pyrenees a few years back. I wasn’t intending to climb any mountains but was talked into it by my younger and much fitter friend. I told him not to wait for me but I would meet him up the top. Soon he disappeared through the trees above. The path was hard and at first I was glad to break through the tree line into the clear air and views. But then the Sun started to shine. It was hot, I was fat and being fair-skinned, I am susceptible to sun-stroke .

It must have been quite a sight that greeted that young mountaineer, descending from his morning climb. I had taken off my tee shirt and wrapped it into a turban which also covered the back of my neck. My large white belly must have been shining in the bright sunshine.

As we passed, he looked at me and said quietly “Courage, mon amie.”

* * *

At this time of year, when we are told that we should be happy, often that is not the case. Looking back today at that small episode has made me aware that even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference. And what a wonderful thing to wish for another!
These words are my Christmas gift to you. It isn’t much. A thousand dollars would have been more practical but I haven’t got that to give.
I wish you a happy, peaceful Christmas. May others show you their kindness.
And I wish you courage, my friends.