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Our attorneys had warned me that there might be some level of interrogation by the opposition, and that thought sort of lingered in the back of my noggin for a couple of days prior to the proceedings. My role would be as expert witness of sorts, defending the County staff in their decision to issue my client a permit to build their 250 megawatt power plant.
I didn’t know what exactly to expect. Would the opposition be bringing traffic and transportation experts of their own? Perhaps they were already so knowledgeable, or perhaps my previous work so full of gaping holes that they could drive right through any argument I may have presented.
I was almost expecting the high drama and theatrics of the multitude of crime procedurals on the idiot box. I didn’t know what to expect, but took comfort in the fact that I can fake it pretty well, and that I had some minor confidence in my work going in to it.
Funny thing, this thing. There were plenty of lawyers in the room, and they arguments were made to a panel of public officials, but the room was no courthouse or government office complex. Due to the projected crowds that would want to speak, we were scheduled at the Paddock Club in Great Falls, a low ceilinged, concrete floored room that serves as the beer hall adjacent to the grandstands at the Cascade County Fairgrounds. It smelled a little like a college bar on a Sunday morning. Sadly, the big coolers were devoid of libations, and there was no rodeo or monster truck contests to fill the time between when I got there and when I addressed the Board, and between the time that I spoke and the time we left the building.
Truly sad, because this particular hearing went on and on and on for nearly eight hours by the time the Board was finished with us, then they got to the discussion of agenda item number 2. Ouch.
Eight hours of cheap resin chairs, broken only by a couple of too brief breaks and a rather bland sandwich about two thirds of the way in.
The action in question was an appeal by the well organized treehugging factions to the issuance of our Location Conformance Permit at the power plant site. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve hugged my share of trees, but I also burn them for heat and sometimes just for the sake of burning them. Really, though, there are no trees at all at our site east of Great Falls. It’s miles and miles of dang flat wheat fields, interspersed on occasion by some ancient grassy coulees.
From the site, you can see the Highwood Mountains to the east, and the taller features of Great Falls to the west – the oil refinery, the malting plant, the power plant at the Malstrom Air Force base. A little closer are the local electrical distribution lines and the ground level support structures for the huge pipeline that runs through a portion of the site. Then there’re the grain bins and barns and houses and acres of rusted equipment that you’d find in much of rural America.
It looks like a lot of agricultural Montana, yet somehow, some of the local farmers and ranchers believe that the development and operation of an $859 Million industrial site will somehow adversely affect their lives and livelihoods. As if. The stack is only 400 feet tall and can be seen from rarely more than ten miles away.
Maybe that’s beside the point. The people of Montana need cheap electrical power and, right now, this is the best source of it that anyone’s offered to build. Of course, the opposition may not give a rats ass about that. We joke that they won’t be satisfied until we’re all living in caves and drinking out of puddles. Maybe it’s no joke. Since there’s no energy technology you can build that can’t be seen by neighbours somewhere, they are likely anti-energy. We know they don’t like coal technologies, and we’re pretty sure they don’t like wind, because they bitch about the four turbines we’re proposing here.
Maybe their real concern is that they will be able to see the plant, and it’s not the image of rural Montana that they grew to love. Bottom line is that they’re nimby’s.
I just wish they’d give us an option besides “no build”.
Regardless of their motivations, due process allows them this challenge, and allows us to respond. The issue I was assigned to address was our plans for mitigating potential adverse traffic effects caused by the construction and operation of the facility on local and state highway systems. A half hour later, having beat the crap out of the topic, I somewhat nervously anticipated the overly dramatic cross examination, which didn’t come. Marty said that the lead attorney for the opposition was scribbling furiously during my presentation but, specifically upon my use of the term “platoon”, he started crossing things off and then quit taking notes altogether.
What really surprised me was that the nimby’s never brought forth expert witnesses of their own to challenge our findings and reports. Instead, they strew tin after tin of Red Herring about the space, coating the walls to see what might stick. [Sure, I may have mixed this metaphor, but the room was awfully bland, and I was tired of the stale beer smell.]
Their lead attorney struck me as a self important showman. Wearing a poorly fitted and frumpy three button suit (buttoned at the center only!), and having a tangled and unkempt mop of mostly gray hair, he looked like the classic professorial country lawyer. Hemming and hawing at the appropriate times. Getting really breathy during his summation as he slowly outline the potential large scale damages to the most precious … and endangered … Lewis and Clark … Great Falls Portage … National … Historic … Landmark (or something like that – it’s not a very good acronym regardless and really, nobody knows where Lewis and Clark actually bypassed the falls, and it’s not like they would have left any artifacts, and seriously, most of the route lies under Greats Falls now anyway).
And he never said portage, like you’d say portage in Montana or Wisconsin. It was always portage, like the French would say it, as in “… the enormous historic importance of the portage”. Self important. Frumpy. Breathy.
He accused us of bringing in a “legion” of engineers. I guess we may have had the effect of thousands, but I could have sworn we were only three (although we did kick some major ass, engineering testimonywise).
And another thing, “summarize in a nutshell”. Cool trick, I’m sure, but his summary took forty minutes.
“Hogwash,” was the response to many of his allegations by our lead attorney.
Ultimately, the Board agreed, and we can continue advancement of the project, just as soon as I can get out of this airport and home.
Yesterday, a sportcoat was quite comfortable while temperatures were in the mid forties. Last night, though, the snows developed and were up to blizzard by this morning. My plan to fly standby on the first flight out were for naught, as that flight was cancelled. I’m still hoping to leave this afternoon on my original flight, but it’s still quite white through the terminal windows. Tomorrow’s high is forecast to be 15 below zero, and that may make it too cold to fly, so my hopes rest.
Read More......
2008-12-16
2008-10-19
David Palmer, 1927-2008
Come and sit by my side, if you love me
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loved you so true
On behalf of myself and the David Palmer family, I would like to welcome each of you to this celebration, and to thank you all for the support and compassion you’ve directed towards us. It is truly appreciated.
Dad had a plethora of positives. Despite not being a Boy Scout, he was still trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, yada, yada, yada. He was a staunch believer in and supporter of the United States Constitution, especially the Third Amendment, and would never, ever, involuntarily quarter soldiers. He was active and involved in his career, but always made time to advance the Profession through his work with various professional societies. He was a respected Professional Agricultural Engineer, whose primary obligation, like all engineers, was to the health, safety, and welfare of the People. This is an obligation he took very seriously.
He never really retired, just redirected his efforts from work, to professional associations, to volunteer efforts – often rising to top leadership positions. He wasn’t one to hang with the buds and choke down a couple of 40’s. He may not have seen the benefit to that.
He was true to the Rotarian motto long before he was involved in the Rotary. He was a poster child for Service Above Self.
I guess he did have one of bad trait. Like many engineers, Dad was a sorter and a filer of every scrap and tidbit and, mostly, a stacker of said scraps and tidbits, using every square inch of horizontal space to pile some papers about something or another. Many of you have seen the mess of his desk at their Evergreen house, where only the need to maintain the space as a guest bedroom kept the piles of paper below three tonnes.
Prior to that, the piles were in Joel’s old bedroom at the Regent Park place, packed full to overflowing, including the closet. He had moved up there from the family room, when his overstuffed alcove was absconded for use as a bar. [Which, by the way, he only got around to building after we kids had turned 21 and moved out of the house. For many years, that bar was used to pleasantly celebrate the daily happy hour.]
Before that, he piled his many piles downstairs in the furnace room, until fears of radon moved him upstairs. In the furnace room, however, many piles remained piled until the day they sold that house.
In Ames, his home office desk was an interior door, with legs bolted to it to form a table. Of course, a table has no file drawers, so stacks and piles are the only way to organize.
He was a piler from before the day I knew that there was such a thing and, sadly, separating from this inherited trait has proved difficult.
Of the good points, there were many. These have been passed down, through heredity or upbringing, to each of his children. We each share all of these traits in different measure. He had a great love of the outdoors, which Joel tends to follow. His love of music and performance is shared strongly by Sarah. John (obviously) got the brains. I received his love of travel to backwater burgs and exotic shitholes.
We each received his tolerance for most everybody and every idea. We each received his logical way of thinking. And we each received his strong dislike of FDR and the policies of Socialism in this government.
We each have the upmost love and respect for his wife of 54 years.
What have you picked up from the man? Hopefully not his laugh, or hairline, or the way he always sneezed twice. Perhaps you picked up his ability to always have someone to talk to at a party? Perhaps it was his narcolepsy? Perhaps his love of trucks, tractors, canoeing, travel, limnology, rodeo, agriculture, politics, or the Cubs? Perhaps you have noticed an increased love of pie?
He was clever and appreciated wit. [John’s wit, perhaps. I preferred to amuse him with a broader brand of humor.]
Dad was a man of letters, both academically and literally. While going through his office this week, we discovered one of his early letters, written to his eventually esteemed younger brother, Joseph. He was ten years old when he wrote this.
=====
Josephene,
You are a P-I-G baby pig. You are a great big fraidy cat and cry baby. You are a great big old sow that just came out of a mud hole. You squeal [to] your ma and pa and everybody else.
Your chicken pox, David
=====
Little known factoid – you know that cold headache you get when you wolf down ice cream or suck down a Squishy too fast (I think kids today call it a brain freeze). Well, he never suffered from those.
The flowers fall, for all our yearning; weeds grow, regardless of our dislike.
Read More......
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loved you so true
On behalf of myself and the David Palmer family, I would like to welcome each of you to this celebration, and to thank you all for the support and compassion you’ve directed towards us. It is truly appreciated.
Dad had a plethora of positives. Despite not being a Boy Scout, he was still trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, yada, yada, yada. He was a staunch believer in and supporter of the United States Constitution, especially the Third Amendment, and would never, ever, involuntarily quarter soldiers. He was active and involved in his career, but always made time to advance the Profession through his work with various professional societies. He was a respected Professional Agricultural Engineer, whose primary obligation, like all engineers, was to the health, safety, and welfare of the People. This is an obligation he took very seriously.
He never really retired, just redirected his efforts from work, to professional associations, to volunteer efforts – often rising to top leadership positions. He wasn’t one to hang with the buds and choke down a couple of 40’s. He may not have seen the benefit to that.
He was true to the Rotarian motto long before he was involved in the Rotary. He was a poster child for Service Above Self.
I guess he did have one of bad trait. Like many engineers, Dad was a sorter and a filer of every scrap and tidbit and, mostly, a stacker of said scraps and tidbits, using every square inch of horizontal space to pile some papers about something or another. Many of you have seen the mess of his desk at their Evergreen house, where only the need to maintain the space as a guest bedroom kept the piles of paper below three tonnes.
Prior to that, the piles were in Joel’s old bedroom at the Regent Park place, packed full to overflowing, including the closet. He had moved up there from the family room, when his overstuffed alcove was absconded for use as a bar. [Which, by the way, he only got around to building after we kids had turned 21 and moved out of the house. For many years, that bar was used to pleasantly celebrate the daily happy hour.]
Before that, he piled his many piles downstairs in the furnace room, until fears of radon moved him upstairs. In the furnace room, however, many piles remained piled until the day they sold that house.
In Ames, his home office desk was an interior door, with legs bolted to it to form a table. Of course, a table has no file drawers, so stacks and piles are the only way to organize.
He was a piler from before the day I knew that there was such a thing and, sadly, separating from this inherited trait has proved difficult.
Of the good points, there were many. These have been passed down, through heredity or upbringing, to each of his children. We each share all of these traits in different measure. He had a great love of the outdoors, which Joel tends to follow. His love of music and performance is shared strongly by Sarah. John (obviously) got the brains. I received his love of travel to backwater burgs and exotic shitholes.
We each received his tolerance for most everybody and every idea. We each received his logical way of thinking. And we each received his strong dislike of FDR and the policies of Socialism in this government.
We each have the upmost love and respect for his wife of 54 years.
What have you picked up from the man? Hopefully not his laugh, or hairline, or the way he always sneezed twice. Perhaps you picked up his ability to always have someone to talk to at a party? Perhaps it was his narcolepsy? Perhaps his love of trucks, tractors, canoeing, travel, limnology, rodeo, agriculture, politics, or the Cubs? Perhaps you have noticed an increased love of pie?
He was clever and appreciated wit. [John’s wit, perhaps. I preferred to amuse him with a broader brand of humor.]
Dad was a man of letters, both academically and literally. While going through his office this week, we discovered one of his early letters, written to his eventually esteemed younger brother, Joseph. He was ten years old when he wrote this.
=====
Josephene,
You are a P-I-G baby pig. You are a great big fraidy cat and cry baby. You are a great big old sow that just came out of a mud hole. You squeal [to] your ma and pa and everybody else.
Your chicken pox, David
=====
Little known factoid – you know that cold headache you get when you wolf down ice cream or suck down a Squishy too fast (I think kids today call it a brain freeze). Well, he never suffered from those.
The flowers fall, for all our yearning; weeds grow, regardless of our dislike.
Read More......
2008-10-13
Chainsaw Trout
I did this one solo. Those who missed it should regret it through the entire fast-approaching winter.
Leaving at about 0830, I drifted south on MN 52 through some clouds and temperatures in the low 50's. the electric vest was set on 2 or 3, but that came off at my first stop in Preston. As you may recall, I was in search of the elusive Chainsaw Trout, which plies the clear waters of the Root River.
What caught my eye coming into town was a 15-20' fiberglass trout (likely manufactured by FASTCO in Sparta, a Mecca for lovers of big fiberglass things). This modern trout was mounted on a trailer on the north side of town, just outside the tourist information booth.
So I stopped, and shed the vest, then went in to see what I could, which is more than I can say for the 70 year old dude behind the desk, whose glaucoma was so bad his eyes were reduced to two cloudy orbs. It was like I was caught in some awful made for TV sci-fi film on the WB.
I asked about the Chainsaw Trout, which stumped him for a little bit, until I could sense him starting to dredge up the memories from his past. I'd like to say that his eyes lit up at the thought but, you know, the glaucoma.
As the story goes, the Chainsaw Trout was spawned from an old dead tree. Since the tree was still standing, it was carved vertically, the fish standing on its tail. Sadly, as happens with many wild species forced to live out of their native waters, the trout suffered from tail rot,... and termites, and toppled a number of years ago. Ah well.
By now, it was gorgeous-sunny, and from there, it was east over the curvy section of MN 16, as it parallels the Root as it falls towards the Mississippi at La Crescent. Very nice highway, this, undulating up, through, and around the base of the bluffs. First on the left bank, then the right bank past Rushford. Although not quite at peak, the autumn leaves were spectacular. There were a few on the highway, but all of them dry, and not so many that they became a hazard.
I missed the Culvert Man in Nodine, because Ms. Garmin wanted to route me down aggregate to find it, and I refused to follow her instructions this time. Obviously pissed off, she tried twice more to get me on the rocks. Meanwhile, I got pleasantly lost on some narrow county routes before eventually stumbling out of the woods at Winona, where I stopped to eat a long lunch, make a number of calls, and shed the liner of the 'Stich.
Now homebound with plenty of daylight left, I considered a change in plans to play a few word games on Wisconsin's alphabetized county road system, but didn't, electing to get home in time enough to start earning the next kitchen pass. It was a quick shot north to almost Wabasha, then MN60 in Zumbrota.
MN60 wasn't my planned route, but it was so much fun flogging the twisties I didn't bother with the original plan to bypass through Millville, Hammond, and South Troy (maybe next time). Fortunately, all of the traffic seemed to be eastbound, so I rarely had to pass folks, even though I was moving slightly faster than the legal limit. I'd slow down for the curves, generally posted with advisory speeds between 30 and 50 mph, but 25 over that felt about right.
The run back on US 52 was as dull as could be expected, getting home around 3:30, with another 400 miles for the season, and one of my better Octobers.
Will there be riding in November?
Read More......
Leaving at about 0830, I drifted south on MN 52 through some clouds and temperatures in the low 50's. the electric vest was set on 2 or 3, but that came off at my first stop in Preston. As you may recall, I was in search of the elusive Chainsaw Trout, which plies the clear waters of the Root River.
What caught my eye coming into town was a 15-20' fiberglass trout (likely manufactured by FASTCO in Sparta, a Mecca for lovers of big fiberglass things). This modern trout was mounted on a trailer on the north side of town, just outside the tourist information booth.
So I stopped, and shed the vest, then went in to see what I could, which is more than I can say for the 70 year old dude behind the desk, whose glaucoma was so bad his eyes were reduced to two cloudy orbs. It was like I was caught in some awful made for TV sci-fi film on the WB.
I asked about the Chainsaw Trout, which stumped him for a little bit, until I could sense him starting to dredge up the memories from his past. I'd like to say that his eyes lit up at the thought but, you know, the glaucoma.
As the story goes, the Chainsaw Trout was spawned from an old dead tree. Since the tree was still standing, it was carved vertically, the fish standing on its tail. Sadly, as happens with many wild species forced to live out of their native waters, the trout suffered from tail rot,... and termites, and toppled a number of years ago. Ah well.
By now, it was gorgeous-sunny, and from there, it was east over the curvy section of MN 16, as it parallels the Root as it falls towards the Mississippi at La Crescent. Very nice highway, this, undulating up, through, and around the base of the bluffs. First on the left bank, then the right bank past Rushford. Although not quite at peak, the autumn leaves were spectacular. There were a few on the highway, but all of them dry, and not so many that they became a hazard.
I missed the Culvert Man in Nodine, because Ms. Garmin wanted to route me down aggregate to find it, and I refused to follow her instructions this time. Obviously pissed off, she tried twice more to get me on the rocks. Meanwhile, I got pleasantly lost on some narrow county routes before eventually stumbling out of the woods at Winona, where I stopped to eat a long lunch, make a number of calls, and shed the liner of the 'Stich.
Now homebound with plenty of daylight left, I considered a change in plans to play a few word games on Wisconsin's alphabetized county road system, but didn't, electing to get home in time enough to start earning the next kitchen pass. It was a quick shot north to almost Wabasha, then MN60 in Zumbrota.
MN60 wasn't my planned route, but it was so much fun flogging the twisties I didn't bother with the original plan to bypass through Millville, Hammond, and South Troy (maybe next time). Fortunately, all of the traffic seemed to be eastbound, so I rarely had to pass folks, even though I was moving slightly faster than the legal limit. I'd slow down for the curves, generally posted with advisory speeds between 30 and 50 mph, but 25 over that felt about right.
The run back on US 52 was as dull as could be expected, getting home around 3:30, with another 400 miles for the season, and one of my better Octobers.
Will there be riding in November?
Read More......
2008-08-19
Risk Tolerance.
I’ve been walking to work this past week, leaving the marble floored comfort of the Palace for the dust and dirt of downtown Cairo. It takes about 40 minutes, door to door, more or less, with a comparative minimum of life threatening street crossings.
I’m so crisp as I pull shut my hotel room door. Creased trousers. Freshly laundered, starched and pressed shirt. Perhaps a tie and jacket. Quite a change from the end of the trek, when I’m dusty, tired and in a full body sweat. Fortunately, the office tea boy has learned to bring me a cold half liter of water as soon as I get in, so the recovery isn’t so long.
Today, the walk was markedly cooler, but through an incredible haze of humidity and smog, reducing visibility to under a kilometer. The lungs felt the sharp and heavy air almost as soon as I left the building, as there are three flights of stairs just after the first busy street crossing to get me up to the elevated approach section of the bridge over the Nile. There’s not too much traffic on the intersecting ramp, so my second street crossing is almost non-harrowing.
I usually stop briefly mid-span to look up the Nile watch the boats and reflect. Yesterday, I watched an egret for a time, floating his way to the Sea atop a jumble of reeds and trash.
On the right bank, there’s another three flights of steps, past competing shoe shiners, then under the bridge and to the north, between the river and the river road, stepping down and under another ramp to keep the river immediately on my left. The underside of Cairo bridges smells exactly like the underside of most urban bridges – a pungent, piquant mixture of filth and urine.
I like the walk next to the river for a number of reasons starting with my love of moving water. Then there’s the fishermen, some with poles, some with barbs on their hooks, trying to catch something fishlike (and likely inedible) from the ancient Nile. Sadly, the sidewalk becomes blocked after a while by a large sheet steel fence taking up all of the space between top of bank and back of curb so I get a choice – walk out in the street into opposing traffic for the last half kilometer or cross the road.
So far, I’ve always chosen the latter and have (so far) lived to tell the tale (enshallah).
Crossing the street in Cairo is probably the most dangerous thing you can do and this particular road, the Corniche El Nil, while not the busiest in town, is still pretty dang busy at 0830. First, it’s a high curb, so you need to step off, as opposed to walk off of it. Next, there could be three lanes of traffic you need to cross, or is it four? With no pavement marking or lane discipline, the offending vehicles are in a constant state of weave, so it’s hard to judge where they might be at any time. Worst is that there are no pavement signals upstream that would work to force gaps in the traffic. The result is a mass of continual traffic morphing heavy to really heavy to somewhat less heavy but always heavy with very few instances where a gap extends across the entire roadway and for a sufficient time that would allow an unimpeded pedestrian crossing.
Ever play Frogger?
Ever play with real cars?
It’s kind of like that, but you only get one life. What works to my advantage is local law/custom, which has the driver of a car that kills a pedestrian pay the bereaved the princely sum of about $1,200. Since most Egyptians don’t have $1,200, they try not to kill pedestrians (too much). Still, there are 80 million Egyptians, and it seems that most of them survive walking.
This is little comfort. But a minute’s wait, a small gap, and some internal time/distance calculations, and I make it to the median, where the same considerations play out, then I’m on the other side. So, with three crossings under my belt, I’m starting to think I might get to the office.
But first, there are a couple of busy side streets to traverse, and the blocks in between. The in between blocks, by the way, rarely have sidewalks. Sure, they used to have sidewalks, but you can’t see them today because that is where all of the cars park (backed onto the sidewalk with their noses taking up half a lane), forcing pedestrians out into the remaining portion of the street, this time with traffic approaching from the rear. There’s a few more pedestrians on this side of the street, though, so the odds of me, specifically, getting nailed are reduced. Plus, there’s a lot of bus traffic, so when they stop to take on or disgorge passengers, traffic is diverted away from the roadside to pass them.
Half a block to go, and I pass by one of these poorly parked cars, making eye contact with the driver who’s standing in the crease of the open door. As I pass by the hood, I catch him in the periphery, slipping into the driver’s seat, then feel the advancing bumper skim by my right leg and my right hand brush across the accelerating hood.
Well, it was a glancing blow. No harm done this time. Read More......
I’m so crisp as I pull shut my hotel room door. Creased trousers. Freshly laundered, starched and pressed shirt. Perhaps a tie and jacket. Quite a change from the end of the trek, when I’m dusty, tired and in a full body sweat. Fortunately, the office tea boy has learned to bring me a cold half liter of water as soon as I get in, so the recovery isn’t so long.
Today, the walk was markedly cooler, but through an incredible haze of humidity and smog, reducing visibility to under a kilometer. The lungs felt the sharp and heavy air almost as soon as I left the building, as there are three flights of stairs just after the first busy street crossing to get me up to the elevated approach section of the bridge over the Nile. There’s not too much traffic on the intersecting ramp, so my second street crossing is almost non-harrowing.
I usually stop briefly mid-span to look up the Nile watch the boats and reflect. Yesterday, I watched an egret for a time, floating his way to the Sea atop a jumble of reeds and trash.
On the right bank, there’s another three flights of steps, past competing shoe shiners, then under the bridge and to the north, between the river and the river road, stepping down and under another ramp to keep the river immediately on my left. The underside of Cairo bridges smells exactly like the underside of most urban bridges – a pungent, piquant mixture of filth and urine.
I like the walk next to the river for a number of reasons starting with my love of moving water. Then there’s the fishermen, some with poles, some with barbs on their hooks, trying to catch something fishlike (and likely inedible) from the ancient Nile. Sadly, the sidewalk becomes blocked after a while by a large sheet steel fence taking up all of the space between top of bank and back of curb so I get a choice – walk out in the street into opposing traffic for the last half kilometer or cross the road.
So far, I’ve always chosen the latter and have (so far) lived to tell the tale (enshallah).
Crossing the street in Cairo is probably the most dangerous thing you can do and this particular road, the Corniche El Nil, while not the busiest in town, is still pretty dang busy at 0830. First, it’s a high curb, so you need to step off, as opposed to walk off of it. Next, there could be three lanes of traffic you need to cross, or is it four? With no pavement marking or lane discipline, the offending vehicles are in a constant state of weave, so it’s hard to judge where they might be at any time. Worst is that there are no pavement signals upstream that would work to force gaps in the traffic. The result is a mass of continual traffic morphing heavy to really heavy to somewhat less heavy but always heavy with very few instances where a gap extends across the entire roadway and for a sufficient time that would allow an unimpeded pedestrian crossing.
Ever play Frogger?
Ever play with real cars?
It’s kind of like that, but you only get one life. What works to my advantage is local law/custom, which has the driver of a car that kills a pedestrian pay the bereaved the princely sum of about $1,200. Since most Egyptians don’t have $1,200, they try not to kill pedestrians (too much). Still, there are 80 million Egyptians, and it seems that most of them survive walking.
This is little comfort. But a minute’s wait, a small gap, and some internal time/distance calculations, and I make it to the median, where the same considerations play out, then I’m on the other side. So, with three crossings under my belt, I’m starting to think I might get to the office.
But first, there are a couple of busy side streets to traverse, and the blocks in between. The in between blocks, by the way, rarely have sidewalks. Sure, they used to have sidewalks, but you can’t see them today because that is where all of the cars park (backed onto the sidewalk with their noses taking up half a lane), forcing pedestrians out into the remaining portion of the street, this time with traffic approaching from the rear. There’s a few more pedestrians on this side of the street, though, so the odds of me, specifically, getting nailed are reduced. Plus, there’s a lot of bus traffic, so when they stop to take on or disgorge passengers, traffic is diverted away from the roadside to pass them.
Half a block to go, and I pass by one of these poorly parked cars, making eye contact with the driver who’s standing in the crease of the open door. As I pass by the hood, I catch him in the periphery, slipping into the driver’s seat, then feel the advancing bumper skim by my right leg and my right hand brush across the accelerating hood.
Well, it was a glancing blow. No harm done this time. Read More......
2008-08-14
Taxi!
We took a hotel taxi to the office one morning. We had a day off from the Army, and wanted to see the local digs. Hotel taxi was fine, essentially a scheduled fare from Mirage City to downtown. Once we got close, I could direct the cabbie as to where to stop. Fun traffic as always. Twenty Pound tip. Straight to the door.
Heading back, we were, by necessity, going to take a local taxi. These are called Black and Whites because, regardless of brand or marquee, they’re black and white. As my Arabic is somewhat limited to “yes”, “no”, and “god willing”, we instructed the office boy to hail us a cab, ensure that he knew our destination, and negotiate a fare (“fixed fee”, in consultantese).
So we head to the street in front of the building and Ahmed hails a cab. Cab #1 knows nothing of our destination, or something (I don’t speak the language), and he’s rejected for Cab #2. Cab #2 knows where the Hotel is, but won’t budge on the price, so he is rejected for Cab #3.
[Briefly aside, as Ahmed starts to work on Cab #3, Cab #2 honks loud and long to try to lure him back for another round of negotiations. Unsuccessfully.]
Cab #3, from ten feet away and entirely in a language punctuated by sounds I’ve never learned to make, *appears* to understand the question, appears to recognize the solution, and appears to agree upon the fee. Great! We’ll need all of the next hour to make it back for our next meeting with the client.
The instructions we’re simple enough, and included plenty of hand gestures. So much that I think I figured out the route. Head along the Nile to the u-turn past the blue Eiffel Bridge. Turn around and head south along the right bank to the Ring Road. Get on the Ring Road towards Heliopolis. Turn right into the hotel when the consultant tells you to turn right into the hotel. Simple. Maybe.
First off, I put Zachariah in the front seat. Zach's young and so new to this sort of adventure that he sits up straight enough to brush his head on the liner of the cab and scans the surrounds continuously. This makes me feel like a big shot with security. As well, I’m not so obligated to engage the driver but, when I do, it’s from a position of command. So I’m a doofus. Whatever.
Cab #3 heads off, and makes the u-turn in spectacular fashion, but I start to sense, after a couple of kilometers, that the cabbie is getting uncomfortable with his knowledge of the route. I'm also starting to sense that the cabbie has never traveled beyond the three or four square miles around his birthplace. Soon, I’m also starting to sense that this taxi is incapable of traveling at highway speeds safely. For one, it’s of Pharaohic design. There’s a peculiar smell to the thing. There’s a fur on the dashboard, it well could be goat. There are no working seat belts – or gauges - and, with increasing speed, the rattle in the floor turns to a full chassis shimmy.
He misses the sign to the ring road. I saw it. I think I saw the ramp, too. But he realizes too late, that the monster road we just went under was where he needed to be so he turns down a side road and stops at the first taxi he sees.
Then the Arabic starts and there’s a mess of gestures and the driver appears to gather more information and we’re off and, eventually, we find the Ring Road in the right direction. Hey hey.
Then the real adventure starts, because the full chassis shimmy turns into a gut rattling shake at highway speeds and then I know, with out any doubt, that this cab is not safe at any speed. Onward, then! Gods willing, we’ll live through this day!
A few more kilometers, and the cab begins to slow, and we approach a lone Egyptian standing by the side of the highway in the shade of a nearby billboard. "La, la, la!", I blurt, not needing another passenger, but he stops anyway to ask directions it seems. The Arabic and gesturing begins, and the driver shakes the piece of paper he had received from Ahmed at the stranger. The name of our hotel is written on it, and the stranger has no clue as to where the hotel might be.
Off we clatter, the driver becoming more animated, obviously convinced that we were now halfway down the road to Suez. He tries to pull off of the next exit, but I convince him to continue forward. I have less luck at the next exit, and he pulls off to find the nearest taxi to ask directions. He can’t find one, so we head off down a not quite parallel side street looking for someone who may know something about this god forsaken western hotel that’s obviously past Suez now and likely halfway across the Sinai Peninsula.
There’s a gas station attendant. He doesn’t know. The dude getting gas. He doesn’t know. The security guard at the materials factory. He doesn’t know.
Finally, a taximan, except he doesn’t know.
I know, but the driver not listening to me. Zack knows. I’m sure Zack knows, but Zack’s never been overseas before. He never been in a totally ratty cab before. He’s never been in a situation where all of the players didn’t speak English before. To me, this is another adventure. To Zach, I’m not so sure.
Then we approach four dudes drinking tea in the shade in some apartment development five kilometers off of the highway. They send us back the way we came and towards the Ring Road. I hear them say “Mobil”, so I’m looking for a Mobil station, which I see, but the taximan doesn’t want to believe me when I tell him to take the Ring Road away from the City. He’s pretty sure that the hotel he’s never been to is back on the road we just came from. So I let loose with the grunts and gestures and get him going in the right direction.
And the rest of the way back to the hotel was a struggle between our taximan and Zach, who has now decided that he will point the cab in the correct direction by force of will alone, plus some very powerful gestures.
At one point, we were immediately behind an overloaded gravel truck, which hits a bump and looses a volley of rocks, which impact the tattered old cab, and crack the windshield from top to bottom.
Finally, the hotel, and I double the fare, just because, hoping that he can find his way back to old Cairo. Read More......
Heading back, we were, by necessity, going to take a local taxi. These are called Black and Whites because, regardless of brand or marquee, they’re black and white. As my Arabic is somewhat limited to “yes”, “no”, and “god willing”, we instructed the office boy to hail us a cab, ensure that he knew our destination, and negotiate a fare (“fixed fee”, in consultantese).
So we head to the street in front of the building and Ahmed hails a cab. Cab #1 knows nothing of our destination, or something (I don’t speak the language), and he’s rejected for Cab #2. Cab #2 knows where the Hotel is, but won’t budge on the price, so he is rejected for Cab #3.
[Briefly aside, as Ahmed starts to work on Cab #3, Cab #2 honks loud and long to try to lure him back for another round of negotiations. Unsuccessfully.]
Cab #3, from ten feet away and entirely in a language punctuated by sounds I’ve never learned to make, *appears* to understand the question, appears to recognize the solution, and appears to agree upon the fee. Great! We’ll need all of the next hour to make it back for our next meeting with the client.
The instructions we’re simple enough, and included plenty of hand gestures. So much that I think I figured out the route. Head along the Nile to the u-turn past the blue Eiffel Bridge. Turn around and head south along the right bank to the Ring Road. Get on the Ring Road towards Heliopolis. Turn right into the hotel when the consultant tells you to turn right into the hotel. Simple. Maybe.
First off, I put Zachariah in the front seat. Zach's young and so new to this sort of adventure that he sits up straight enough to brush his head on the liner of the cab and scans the surrounds continuously. This makes me feel like a big shot with security. As well, I’m not so obligated to engage the driver but, when I do, it’s from a position of command. So I’m a doofus. Whatever.
Cab #3 heads off, and makes the u-turn in spectacular fashion, but I start to sense, after a couple of kilometers, that the cabbie is getting uncomfortable with his knowledge of the route. I'm also starting to sense that the cabbie has never traveled beyond the three or four square miles around his birthplace. Soon, I’m also starting to sense that this taxi is incapable of traveling at highway speeds safely. For one, it’s of Pharaohic design. There’s a peculiar smell to the thing. There’s a fur on the dashboard, it well could be goat. There are no working seat belts – or gauges - and, with increasing speed, the rattle in the floor turns to a full chassis shimmy.
He misses the sign to the ring road. I saw it. I think I saw the ramp, too. But he realizes too late, that the monster road we just went under was where he needed to be so he turns down a side road and stops at the first taxi he sees.
Then the Arabic starts and there’s a mess of gestures and the driver appears to gather more information and we’re off and, eventually, we find the Ring Road in the right direction. Hey hey.
Then the real adventure starts, because the full chassis shimmy turns into a gut rattling shake at highway speeds and then I know, with out any doubt, that this cab is not safe at any speed. Onward, then! Gods willing, we’ll live through this day!
A few more kilometers, and the cab begins to slow, and we approach a lone Egyptian standing by the side of the highway in the shade of a nearby billboard. "La, la, la!", I blurt, not needing another passenger, but he stops anyway to ask directions it seems. The Arabic and gesturing begins, and the driver shakes the piece of paper he had received from Ahmed at the stranger. The name of our hotel is written on it, and the stranger has no clue as to where the hotel might be.
Off we clatter, the driver becoming more animated, obviously convinced that we were now halfway down the road to Suez. He tries to pull off of the next exit, but I convince him to continue forward. I have less luck at the next exit, and he pulls off to find the nearest taxi to ask directions. He can’t find one, so we head off down a not quite parallel side street looking for someone who may know something about this god forsaken western hotel that’s obviously past Suez now and likely halfway across the Sinai Peninsula.
There’s a gas station attendant. He doesn’t know. The dude getting gas. He doesn’t know. The security guard at the materials factory. He doesn’t know.
Finally, a taximan, except he doesn’t know.
I know, but the driver not listening to me. Zack knows. I’m sure Zack knows, but Zack’s never been overseas before. He never been in a totally ratty cab before. He’s never been in a situation where all of the players didn’t speak English before. To me, this is another adventure. To Zach, I’m not so sure.
Then we approach four dudes drinking tea in the shade in some apartment development five kilometers off of the highway. They send us back the way we came and towards the Ring Road. I hear them say “Mobil”, so I’m looking for a Mobil station, which I see, but the taximan doesn’t want to believe me when I tell him to take the Ring Road away from the City. He’s pretty sure that the hotel he’s never been to is back on the road we just came from. So I let loose with the grunts and gestures and get him going in the right direction.
And the rest of the way back to the hotel was a struggle between our taximan and Zach, who has now decided that he will point the cab in the correct direction by force of will alone, plus some very powerful gestures.
At one point, we were immediately behind an overloaded gravel truck, which hits a bump and looses a volley of rocks, which impact the tattered old cab, and crack the windshield from top to bottom.
Finally, the hotel, and I double the fare, just because, hoping that he can find his way back to old Cairo. Read More......
Ali Baba
Sort of pissed, I suppose. I was being shuttled around various parts and quarters of Cairo by our local guy, hitting a couple of errand spots on the way to my new swank hotel. We returned from a stop at the office, down into the bowels of the secure and covered parking, when I noticed that a couple of flaps on my luggage were open, exposing the empty space beneath.
Ali Baba had struck, moving through the shadows, thwarting the best Hyundai locksets. My iPod is gone now, and a very nice set of ear buds, and my phone, and my toilet kit, and whatever else I can’t remember.
I for the iPod and earbuds, I hope he likes heavy metal, as there was nothing twangy and oudy on the thing. The Phone? It won’t even work in this hemisphere, so good luck with that. Also, best of luck with my toiletries, moron. The razor was dull and the toothpaste was almost gone and the hotel will bring me new stuff upon request.
And the expensive laptop computer and accessories, fully loaded with an easy $10k in software? Idjit didn’t touch it.
So,… what have we learned? Some Egyptians are criminals. Some Egyptians are stupid asses. Some Egyptians are not devout, regardless of their religious tendencies.
What haven’t I learned, but will fairly soon? That I’ll just figure a way to expense the loss. That the flight back will be longer without musical entertainment. That this loss is just the excuse I need to score a Company Global Phone.
That weeds grow and flowers fall, despite our desire to the contrary. Read More......
Ali Baba had struck, moving through the shadows, thwarting the best Hyundai locksets. My iPod is gone now, and a very nice set of ear buds, and my phone, and my toilet kit, and whatever else I can’t remember.
I for the iPod and earbuds, I hope he likes heavy metal, as there was nothing twangy and oudy on the thing. The Phone? It won’t even work in this hemisphere, so good luck with that. Also, best of luck with my toiletries, moron. The razor was dull and the toothpaste was almost gone and the hotel will bring me new stuff upon request.
And the expensive laptop computer and accessories, fully loaded with an easy $10k in software? Idjit didn’t touch it.
So,… what have we learned? Some Egyptians are criminals. Some Egyptians are stupid asses. Some Egyptians are not devout, regardless of their religious tendencies.
What haven’t I learned, but will fairly soon? That I’ll just figure a way to expense the loss. That the flight back will be longer without musical entertainment. That this loss is just the excuse I need to score a Company Global Phone.
That weeds grow and flowers fall, despite our desire to the contrary. Read More......
2008-08-11
Beef
Any hotel I stay at anywhere should be somehow obligated to place their best English speakers behind the bar.
As is typical, I'm less than a week into this particular adventure and I'm about ready for some company that is *not* the client or my traveling companions. Sure, they're all fine and all, but (by the gods) all we have is work.
For me, I like a little banter unencumbered.
Sadly and for now, it's simply, "Ahmed, more nuts!" Read More......
As is typical, I'm less than a week into this particular adventure and I'm about ready for some company that is *not* the client or my traveling companions. Sure, they're all fine and all, but (by the gods) all we have is work.
For me, I like a little banter unencumbered.
Sadly and for now, it's simply, "Ahmed, more nuts!" Read More......
2008-08-10
Kaboom
So, our first day of meetings with the Egyptian Army go well enough. Snowed or no, the Brigadier seems to like what we're doing for them thus far. Anyway, it's hot, 35 C if it's a degree, it's late in the afternoon, and I'm a little dehydrated when we get back to the hotel. My bag goes on the belt and I walk through the detector, which commences to beep in that annoying way of its. My expression must have been a clue to the attendants that I did not want to be bothered by the process so they asked,
"No bomb?", clearly expressing both b's.
"No bomb," I replied, concentrating on the b's.
"Thank you, sir. Have a good afternoon." Read More......
"No bomb?", clearly expressing both b's.
"No bomb," I replied, concentrating on the b's.
"Thank you, sir. Have a good afternoon." Read More......
2008-08-09
Fair Warning
There's some travelogues in the can. These should probably be out on the WonderWeb. They might appear here later (or sooner), but the dates won't be current (or maybe not), so to the casual reader it may (or may not) seem that I'm moving through time and space at a pace that would generate hundreds of thousands of frequent flyer miles.
This is not the case. It's only thousands of frequent flyer miles.
Shit, I am lagged this morning. Read More......
This is not the case. It's only thousands of frequent flyer miles.
Shit, I am lagged this morning. Read More......
Cairo
Came back to Cairo.
Rather *sent* back to Cairo. Hell, it's not so bad. There's plenty of worse places nearby.
And the hotel's big swank. Nice Lebanese place in the basement next to the hundred dollar steak joint. Tasty messah. Tasty steak. Costs more than an Egyptian makes in a month. Costs about what the client will pay without thinking about it.
Lucky you. Read More......
Rather *sent* back to Cairo. Hell, it's not so bad. There's plenty of worse places nearby.
And the hotel's big swank. Nice Lebanese place in the basement next to the hundred dollar steak joint. Tasty messah. Tasty steak. Costs more than an Egyptian makes in a month. Costs about what the client will pay without thinking about it.
Lucky you. Read More......
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