Posts
Outside of Osan Air Base is one of the endless suburbs of Seoul. Immediately outside the gate is a system of narrow streets and alleys, chock a block with shops and food stands and bars, many of which are prominently labeled inside the base as being off limits to military personnel. The neighborhood is colorful and loud, and has been morphing into its current form since 1950. Prostitutes are evident along this street, but I think they target the younger service men more so than the middle aged married guys.
Except for a comparatively much older woman, somewhere between fifty and sixty it seemed, who looked, as they say, rode hard and put away wet. “You want sex?” she asked. “Huh?” “You want sex?” “Uh, no thanks.” I like married women, anyway, and it helps if they’re married to me.
Later on Guam, I related the story to an USAF enlisted guy who had served at Osan a decade or more ago. His reaction was, “Is Old Sadie still working?”
Notorious, she is.
There’s a fine line between what I can comfortably accomplish in any given week, and what feel like ragged, sloppy output. Granted, I’m not a perfectionist, professionally. Not even close, but I make it up with conservatism, making me generally comfortable with the results. There’s a line, though, and these weeks I’m approaching it. After 15 hour days in the R-O-K stacked atop a 14 hour time shift and air travel, I was ready to take a break after the first week. But then I flew to Guam and continued the process.
I had a few hours Saturday and a few more on Sunday not working, but not to myself. Saturday, I accompanied a couple of Company folks who just relocated here. They were trying to find a house to rent and I thought I’d offer my services as Tropical Island Relocation Consultant, offering the wisdom obtained when I first started writing these missives. Local hint – there are a lot of places with multiple chickens as neighbors. If you’re not a cock-a-doodle-dooer, you’ll need to look longer for suitable digs. I spent the rest of the day writing notes for the meetings last week, and getting ready for the meetings this week.
Sunday morning, I started by wading into the ocean to watch the sun rise over the hotel (they have bright blue starfish here), and then I went on a circle tour of Guam to see some of the military history sights. This was really kind of cool. Even though the island is just 30 miles long, it was pivotal during WWII. The evening was spent preparing for the charrette.
Now, it’s a hot Friday afternoon already, and the AE JV team is working on the slides for our outbrief to the Brigadier. Well, some of the team is. Most of us are lounging as best as we can on the folding chairs available to us in this borrowed chapel classroom. We could have piled into the rental and ran over to the local beach, inaccessible by Guamanian locals, but easily reached by those already on Anderson Air Base.
But it’s even hotter outside than it is inside, so my team is dozing and waiting for the next session.
The week went well, by and large. The project is large, and has a mess of moving parts, but what makes it a mess is that it’s a Marine project on an Air Force base managed by the Navy. There’re plenty of toes to step on, so we step as lightly as possible. Also messy is the Joint Venture, a group of three small business architectural firms. Bear in mind that this is a major infrastructure project, and the only architecture is the design of a substation building, but that’s neither here nor there. The Company, on the other hand, has the bulk of the design, but are mere subconsultants to the JV. In fact, we are one of thirteen firms assembled by the architects to tackle the effort. We are, to use the vernacular, Team Gigantor.
I picture the tattoo as a thirteen headed Godzilla with three tails. The tails represent the three joint venture partners, and I’d be more than happy to lop one of them off and toss it into the ocean, but I’ve held my cool so far. There were times earlier in the week when I wasn’t so sure I could and our opinions of said tail dominate our 45 minute drive back to the hotel every evening.
We really shouldn’t be here still. My team had their 40 hours in by Wednesday evening, and we’ve covered everything that needs to be covered. After the client briefing this morning, we should have headed back to the hotel and got some pool time before flying out tomorrow morning. One of the tails, though, thought our time would best served waiting on the chapel for two hours, watching him direct the development of a power point presentation, so that we can sit in a room with the Brigadier who won’t ask any technical questions.
I dislike this tail.
Meanwhile, as with any military job, there’re new acronyms and catch phrases that dominate the discussions. We found a couple we liked and have been making fun of them consistently all week, going so far as to develop a drinking game around “Tiger Team”, “SME”, and “Hotwash”. If only the powers that be would let us drink en charrette.
We anticipate a couple of trips back here before the project is complete, and I’ll try to schedule additional days before or after. It doesn’t look like I’ll get any free time during under the current management, and especially this week.
The hotel’s nice, though, the food’s been good, and the team gets along, so I suppose I could call this a success. Just need to chop off a tail.
Read More......
2013-06-07
2013-03-21
Yokohama and Yokosuka
I hadn’t noticed until this very moment that the town we’re staying in, Yokohama, shares half of its name with the town we’re working in, Yokosuka (the George Washington is berthed there this week). Perhaps that’s no different than working in St Cloud and commuting to St Paul, but I’m pretty sure than Yoko doesn’t mean Saint. Perhaps this is something I can research once I catch up on my sleep, scheduled to occur once I get back to my own bed.
This is the first trip I had since receiving my United Premier Executive Gold status, my reward for spending too many hours on aircraft. My perk over the old Silver status? Nothing. Maybe next time. Thanks for playing.
At the Hotel Plumm, there’s not a single perk, only the tiniest of rooms, with deep tan walls, charcoal grey carpet, and hot pink furniture. The staff put the six of us in six adjacent rooms. Strange, but efficient. The décor suggests that they host annual Hello Kitty conventions, but their literature suggests that they specialize in weddings. For fear of even greater confusion, I won’t turn on the television.
Okay. I turned on the television, but it’s only to pass the time until we start heading towards home. It’s the usual morning infotainment shows, hosted by three to five talking heads. Sadly, the baseball scores are in Japanese, so I don’t know how the Carp did last night. The ads, though, are worth the effort to watch them. As if the bright colors, seemingly foreign soundtracks, and unidentifiable products, weren’t enough, many are populated by mascots and cartoon characters that make one question the seriousness of the entire people.
In the last one, an increasingly haggard businesswoman was shown hustling through her day, hounded by a short girl in a chubby, plush costume with little wings, somewhere between an angel and a snowman. Eventually, the businesswoman consumed something that looked like an oversized stick of gum, and she was instantly revived. I couldn’t tell if the plush angel-snowman was responsible for any of this, or was just hanging out in the scene.
In another, a couple of kids dropped a small metal can into a cup of water, causing it to steam and foam. Seconds later, their bathroom is sparkling clean.
And they have wireless Rock’em Sock’em Robots. Totally cool.
We’ll leave the hotel soon, and take the train to check out some of the sights of the Yokohama waterfront. The cherries are in bloom. They’re early, but beautiful, nonetheless, and add a nice touch to the urban landscape.
Lots of train travel this week, starting with an express from the Tokyo/Narita airport to Yokohama. We couldn’t get rooms adjacent to the base in Yokosuka, so we’ve been commuting by train every morning and evening, about 75 minutes door to door (including a short base taxi ride to get us to and from the gate to our temporary offices). We thought ourselves lucky to even get to the base the first morning. Perhaps five rail companies share the facilities at the Yokohama station, and their trains head out in at least ten directions. We found the right tracks eventually, but found ourselves on a local train, which makes 17 additional stops between here and there. We thought we had it figured out on the second day, but it was the Equinox, so they used a holiday schedule.
Yesterday, though, limited expresses each way, all the way. And today we leave. By the time I return (whenever that may be), I’ll have forgotten.
However, I’ll never forget the Hello Kitty themed breakfast I had this morning, definite change of pace from the noodle shop I had been frequenting. I liked the noodle shop because they had a comprehensive picture menu, which is the best thing next to an English menu, but the latter is a rare thing indeed. Mostly, it’s hit and miss. Fortunately, a lot of Japanese restaurants are tapas (more or less), so the commitment to something awful will only affect a small portion of the meal. With little dishes, we need a lot to feed six Americans, and to slake our gargantuan thirsts. At the end of supper last night, we were presented with an bill that looked more like a grocery list, and nearly half a meter long, once everything was itemized.
The weather’s been nice, which brings out the bikes, reminding me that I need a new battery when I’m CONUS.
Read More......
2012-09-21
Take the Long Way Home
When we last left our insipid traveler, he was in southern Japan, under the impression that he would be travelling CONUS in just a few days. Well, I’m still headed CONUS, but taking a slightly longer route to get there, primarily via Doha, where there’s some engineering thing I need to resolve. For good or ill, I’ll be making my first ‘round-the-hemisphere* trip. It would be ‘round-the-world, but I’ll be staying at mostly the same latitude and never dipping south past the equator. That excursion is still on the To-do list, but isn’t currently on the itinerary.
“Isn’t currently on the itinerary.”
It’s all subject to change. This last modification came about over the past 36 hours. We’re working with a contractor in Qatar who adopted a half complete building from the client. The main reasons it was half complete are that the original design was half-assed and would result in a structure that would blow over in the first stiff breeze, and the original contractor was about half effective in meeting scope, schedule, and quality control. My task, since I’ve decided to accept it, is to look at various holes in the ground, and the concrete that fills them, and write a report as to what I observed. It’s not particularly rocket science, but it’s simple enough that a Senior Project Manager can do it. Plus, I’ve got in my possession a very rare and difficult to secure piece of government plastic that grants me, specifically, access to the location in question.
Ultimately, my valid Common Access Card and relative proximity were the deciding factors, which is why I’m sitting in the ticketing lobby of the Fukuoka International Airport waiting for the Asiana counter to staff up. It’s about 1400 now, and the flight‘s not until 1925, so I’ve got some time to waste, either on this side of the immigration folks or the other. After I write this, I’ll find a noodle shop and order something off the picture menu that looks like it doesn’t have too many tentacles, then secure a boarding pass to Korea.
Until this week, the furthest west I’d ever been was Oregon, and the furthest east was Afghanistan. Although my flight to Doha stops in Incheon, I hesitate in counting landing at an airport as actually being in the country. Someday, I’m sure the Company will send me to work in Viet Nam or India, so I’ll wait until then to say I’ve been around the world. This trip will have to maintain an asterisk. As for south of the equator, we have continuous work on Guam, so I may get one of those projects eventually. There was some talk this week as well about me covering for our project manager on Chuuk when he finally decides to take some PTO. For now, though, Fukuoka to Incheon to Doha to Frankfort to Chicago to Moline. Another five days and 12,000 miles and I’ll be home.
I’m just glad I had the hotel do my laundry yesterday.
In reflection, Japan certainly holds a top ten slot on the “Nice Place to Visit, But…” list. I’m sure the Japanese like it here, but there’s just too little space for my liking it over the long term. They’ve got ways of dealing with it, fine-tuned over the centuries. They queue very well, and aren’t large, loud or stinky. Public transportation can take you most anywhere and isn’t entirely a mystery. The taxis are propane powered, have doilies on the seats and are operated by uniformed, whited gloved drivers. Cities are nicely walkable. Did I mention that most every meal included tentacles? I’ve got serious issues with tentacles. However, the Kirin girl at the ball game last night, upon serving a fresh beer, bussed my empty cup. Nice.
We had a free evening yesterday in Hiroshima, and went to see the local major league team at their fairly new stadium. Sadly, the Carp got filleted by the Swallows. The 3-1 final score doesn’t tell the story of how hapless the Carp were, but I’ll try. Their only run was in the first, when a lucky bloop hit had enough energy to clear the left field wall. From then on, it was all Swallows, outhitting 10-3 and under-erroring 0-2. Towards the end, the Carp’s third pitcher was ejected for hitting two batters in a row. He was replaced by their 6’ 8” giant, who threw little but dirtballs. Overall, it had the look of Triple A ball, but with Double A pitching and Single A hitting, all in a major league stadium.
The crowd didn’t seem to care. Although quiet into the second inning, they overcame their cultural silence and became a bit boisterous, though it seemed that their cheers were entirely supportive, leaving the general derision to myself and my mates, not that anyone could understand our English “Use the good eye, Ump!”.
And the whistling. We had to do that, too, as the Japanese don’t seem to whistle. Anyway, during the seventh inning stretch, the fans sang the team song, and then launched balloons, this being perhaps the weirdest thing I’ve seen here. We’d been warned, so for three hundred yen, we bought a four pack of long, red Carp balloons. Each had a hard disk in the open end to assist in blowing the things up to almost a meter in length and 15 centimeters in diameter. This disk also worked to weigh the nozzle down so that the balloons continued to climb until they were completely deflated, at which time they’d flutter back to earth, all 10,000 of them. I fully expected the stadium floor to look like the parking lot of a shady truck stop, but the fans bussed the balloons that fell near them, and order was again secured.
I’m sure this won’t be my last trip here.
Read More......
“Isn’t currently on the itinerary.”
It’s all subject to change. This last modification came about over the past 36 hours. We’re working with a contractor in Qatar who adopted a half complete building from the client. The main reasons it was half complete are that the original design was half-assed and would result in a structure that would blow over in the first stiff breeze, and the original contractor was about half effective in meeting scope, schedule, and quality control. My task, since I’ve decided to accept it, is to look at various holes in the ground, and the concrete that fills them, and write a report as to what I observed. It’s not particularly rocket science, but it’s simple enough that a Senior Project Manager can do it. Plus, I’ve got in my possession a very rare and difficult to secure piece of government plastic that grants me, specifically, access to the location in question.
Ultimately, my valid Common Access Card and relative proximity were the deciding factors, which is why I’m sitting in the ticketing lobby of the Fukuoka International Airport waiting for the Asiana counter to staff up. It’s about 1400 now, and the flight‘s not until 1925, so I’ve got some time to waste, either on this side of the immigration folks or the other. After I write this, I’ll find a noodle shop and order something off the picture menu that looks like it doesn’t have too many tentacles, then secure a boarding pass to Korea.
Until this week, the furthest west I’d ever been was Oregon, and the furthest east was Afghanistan. Although my flight to Doha stops in Incheon, I hesitate in counting landing at an airport as actually being in the country. Someday, I’m sure the Company will send me to work in Viet Nam or India, so I’ll wait until then to say I’ve been around the world. This trip will have to maintain an asterisk. As for south of the equator, we have continuous work on Guam, so I may get one of those projects eventually. There was some talk this week as well about me covering for our project manager on Chuuk when he finally decides to take some PTO. For now, though, Fukuoka to Incheon to Doha to Frankfort to Chicago to Moline. Another five days and 12,000 miles and I’ll be home.
I’m just glad I had the hotel do my laundry yesterday.
In reflection, Japan certainly holds a top ten slot on the “Nice Place to Visit, But…” list. I’m sure the Japanese like it here, but there’s just too little space for my liking it over the long term. They’ve got ways of dealing with it, fine-tuned over the centuries. They queue very well, and aren’t large, loud or stinky. Public transportation can take you most anywhere and isn’t entirely a mystery. The taxis are propane powered, have doilies on the seats and are operated by uniformed, whited gloved drivers. Cities are nicely walkable. Did I mention that most every meal included tentacles? I’ve got serious issues with tentacles. However, the Kirin girl at the ball game last night, upon serving a fresh beer, bussed my empty cup. Nice.
We had a free evening yesterday in Hiroshima, and went to see the local major league team at their fairly new stadium. Sadly, the Carp got filleted by the Swallows. The 3-1 final score doesn’t tell the story of how hapless the Carp were, but I’ll try. Their only run was in the first, when a lucky bloop hit had enough energy to clear the left field wall. From then on, it was all Swallows, outhitting 10-3 and under-erroring 0-2. Towards the end, the Carp’s third pitcher was ejected for hitting two batters in a row. He was replaced by their 6’ 8” giant, who threw little but dirtballs. Overall, it had the look of Triple A ball, but with Double A pitching and Single A hitting, all in a major league stadium.
The crowd didn’t seem to care. Although quiet into the second inning, they overcame their cultural silence and became a bit boisterous, though it seemed that their cheers were entirely supportive, leaving the general derision to myself and my mates, not that anyone could understand our English “Use the good eye, Ump!”.
And the whistling. We had to do that, too, as the Japanese don’t seem to whistle. Anyway, during the seventh inning stretch, the fans sang the team song, and then launched balloons, this being perhaps the weirdest thing I’ve seen here. We’d been warned, so for three hundred yen, we bought a four pack of long, red Carp balloons. Each had a hard disk in the open end to assist in blowing the things up to almost a meter in length and 15 centimeters in diameter. This disk also worked to weigh the nozzle down so that the balloons continued to climb until they were completely deflated, at which time they’d flutter back to earth, all 10,000 of them. I fully expected the stadium floor to look like the parking lot of a shady truck stop, but the fans bussed the balloons that fell near them, and order was again secured.
I’m sure this won’t be my last trip here.
Read More......
2012-09-15
Plans, Trains, and Automobiles
I’ve pulled all-nighters. In the time before, they were used to make sure that all of the available beer was consumed. Shortly thereafter, they were used to make up for the studying not done due to the beer consumption activities prior. In recent years, I’ve ridden all night on various endurance missions, but have spent more long and sleepless nights travelling from home to wherever (sleeping on a plane is really just being unconscious, so it doesn’t count as sleep). This trip is more of that, as you can’t fly halfway around the hemisphere and not take a mess of time to do it.
After the quick flight to O’Hare and a quicker lunch at Chili’s (not my choice), we boarded a 747 for the flight to Tokyo. I hadn’t been on one for decades, I suppose, although the novelty of being on the storied aircraft wore off as soon as I passed the stairway. Since my seat assignment wasn’t upstairs, who cares?
The international airport at Tokyo Narita is similar to every other large international airport, except that there’re more Japanese in attendance. With each successive meter we progressed away from it, things got progressively weirder. Such is the nature of Japan. We caught an earlier flight to Hiroshima, caught it barely in time, and had to be escorted through security and to the bus that would take us to the plane. On that bus was another of our crew, who was flying in through Singapore. He’d been here before, and I hoped he remembered how we figure out the final legs.
He didn’t.
The Hiroshima flight was half full, but all of the seats were assigned from front to rear, leaving the back of the plane empty, which is where I relocated once we were in the air. By this time, I’d been up for 22 hours and still couldn’t sleep, so I watched the clouds go past, and then counted golf courses once the cloud cover broke. It’s obvious how little space there is here. Cars are really small. Hotel rooms are really small. Compared to Americans, the Japanese are really small. Available land is really small, yet I could see golf course after golf course from the plane. As one disappeared from view, we’d start to pass over the next.
In Hiroshima, I pulled 10,000 Yen from an ugly teller, and got a single crisp, new bill. With each purchase thus far, the bills have been perfect, crisp and new. The coins are well circulated, from a single yen to 500 Yen, about seven bucks. The bills start at 1,000 Yen. I also got a well travelled Where’s George? Dollar as change at the base coffee shop, but won’t release it until I’m back CONUS.
Approaching the 24 hour point in any trip my wits are flagging, yet most critical. If I can’t wrap my sleep deprived noggin around the logistics, I’ll end up on some disputed island in the Sea of Japan, instead of in my cozy business hotel room. So very carefully, my crisp 10,000 Yen note went into the bus fare vending machine and not the soda and beer vending machine right next to it, or was it a bento box fish and rice vending machine? I can’t remember.
The further away from Tokyo you get, the less English you’ll encounter, be it people who can speak the language or dual language signage, so selecting the right bus could be stressful. However, if you can mostly pronounce the destination to a local, it all works out in the end, and we found ourselves still at Hiroshima, but 40 minutes away at the train station. There, we had our choices between trains and train lines, ticket tellers or ticket vending machines, and three levels of trains, one of which might take us to Iwakuni at 100 miles per hour or in the complete opposite direction at the same velocity. In retrospect, we should have taken the local train instead of the bullet train, as it would have brought us to the station a two minute walk from our hotel, instead of the station a twenty minute cab ride away from the hotel. The train was cool, though.
Anyway, I made it alive and unscathed and in bed in only 27 hours, ready to face whatever arises, for example, the really small hotel room, and the really, really small bathroom in the really small hotel room.
The first thing you notice is the electro-mechanical toilet.
Pause.
The next is the faucet on the sink, which is long and moveable, like the one in your kitchen. This is so that it can be swung over to fill the bathtub. The shower wand also runs off of the sink tap, so there’s just one set of controls. The tub is almost as deep as it is long, and it’s not much long to start. The room is efficient, compact and serviceable, and included a cool Japanese robe and slippers, the better to wear while heading downstairs for a steam.
We went to dinner last night, to a place that was a Korean-bred fusion of a fondue joint and a grill your own steak place. Shoeless and crammed around a low table, we ordered the Full Satisfaction Meal. This provided us with as much beer as we could consume and as much meat as we could cram down our collective gullets in 90 minutes.
Immediately, charcoal braziers were dropped into holes built into the table. Seconds later, we were surrounded by beer. Just after that, small plates of meat arrived – various cuts of beef, chicken and seafood. Our job was to grill the food and eat the food, drink the beer and order more beer, and continue this process for an hour and a half, at which time we’d be served a small bowl of ice cream, signifying the effort’s completion. There was salad, too, if I recall, but the bowls of kimchee, cabbage, and greens were lost in the flurry of carnivoracity.
Most of the dining here is more sedate. There’s plenty of rice and noodles, of course, and some thick brown curries. Breakfasts have been at the hotel buffet, where they’ll have eggs in some shape, rice, noodles, fish, curry, fermented soybeans, orange juice and coffee. Lunches we have on base at the food court, where I stop at the local place for Asian food, while the bulk of my crew eats at KFC, Subway, or Taco Bell. I don’t understand it, but that’s what they do. My first dinner in Japan was from the local 7-11, including some hot skewers of meat and a bento box of buckwheat noodles.
Surprisingly, it’s not all sushi, so I think I’ll survive the trip.
I’ll survive as long as I don’t go drinking with the client’s project manager every night, which I’d guess can easily get out of control. Recognizing this, I limited myself to three beers, a couple of shots of sake, and two songs at the karaoke bar. Seriously, what trip to Japan would be complete without participating in awful karaoke? At this particular location (and I don’t know why the others would be much different), a small wireless device was used to search the catalog, find a song and reserve a place in line, After that, the entire process was automated, so there was no need for an imaginary cape-wearing DJ. I chose a transportation themed tune by the Monkeys for my first outing, saving for my final number a dusty NOFX classic, “Seeing Double at the Triple Rock” (…when in Minnesota and you’ve got a drinking quota).
Immediately thereafter, we were presented with our bill. Coincidence? Hard to say.
The colors here are brighter on most things manmade, and big eyed cartoon imagery is everywhere; on clothing, billboards, television, and product packaging to name a few. Meanwhile, since roads are narrow and speeds are low, construction lanes closures are oftentimes delineated with a barrier of 2” pipe. At one local worksite, the pipe was supported by 30” big eyed, green plastic frogs at eight foot centers, each featuring a word balloon that says, “Sorry!” Our orange cones at home seem so impersonal by comparison.
Weirdest thing so far: this is work in the First World. How novel is that?
Next weirdest, Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni is an enduring base, and I see spouses and kids all over the place. On Saturday, the local Boy Scout troop was tramping about in their uniforms. We pass the elementary school and commissary on our way to the borrowed conference room, the community room of one of the family housing mid-rises. On base there are playgrounds, a skatepark and a bouncy bounce. It’s completely at odds with past experience.
Third weirdest, the local Hiroshima ball club are the Carp. I need to find a T-shirt.
Read More......
After the quick flight to O’Hare and a quicker lunch at Chili’s (not my choice), we boarded a 747 for the flight to Tokyo. I hadn’t been on one for decades, I suppose, although the novelty of being on the storied aircraft wore off as soon as I passed the stairway. Since my seat assignment wasn’t upstairs, who cares?
The international airport at Tokyo Narita is similar to every other large international airport, except that there’re more Japanese in attendance. With each successive meter we progressed away from it, things got progressively weirder. Such is the nature of Japan. We caught an earlier flight to Hiroshima, caught it barely in time, and had to be escorted through security and to the bus that would take us to the plane. On that bus was another of our crew, who was flying in through Singapore. He’d been here before, and I hoped he remembered how we figure out the final legs.
He didn’t.
The Hiroshima flight was half full, but all of the seats were assigned from front to rear, leaving the back of the plane empty, which is where I relocated once we were in the air. By this time, I’d been up for 22 hours and still couldn’t sleep, so I watched the clouds go past, and then counted golf courses once the cloud cover broke. It’s obvious how little space there is here. Cars are really small. Hotel rooms are really small. Compared to Americans, the Japanese are really small. Available land is really small, yet I could see golf course after golf course from the plane. As one disappeared from view, we’d start to pass over the next.
In Hiroshima, I pulled 10,000 Yen from an ugly teller, and got a single crisp, new bill. With each purchase thus far, the bills have been perfect, crisp and new. The coins are well circulated, from a single yen to 500 Yen, about seven bucks. The bills start at 1,000 Yen. I also got a well travelled Where’s George? Dollar as change at the base coffee shop, but won’t release it until I’m back CONUS.
Approaching the 24 hour point in any trip my wits are flagging, yet most critical. If I can’t wrap my sleep deprived noggin around the logistics, I’ll end up on some disputed island in the Sea of Japan, instead of in my cozy business hotel room. So very carefully, my crisp 10,000 Yen note went into the bus fare vending machine and not the soda and beer vending machine right next to it, or was it a bento box fish and rice vending machine? I can’t remember.
The further away from Tokyo you get, the less English you’ll encounter, be it people who can speak the language or dual language signage, so selecting the right bus could be stressful. However, if you can mostly pronounce the destination to a local, it all works out in the end, and we found ourselves still at Hiroshima, but 40 minutes away at the train station. There, we had our choices between trains and train lines, ticket tellers or ticket vending machines, and three levels of trains, one of which might take us to Iwakuni at 100 miles per hour or in the complete opposite direction at the same velocity. In retrospect, we should have taken the local train instead of the bullet train, as it would have brought us to the station a two minute walk from our hotel, instead of the station a twenty minute cab ride away from the hotel. The train was cool, though.
Anyway, I made it alive and unscathed and in bed in only 27 hours, ready to face whatever arises, for example, the really small hotel room, and the really, really small bathroom in the really small hotel room.
The first thing you notice is the electro-mechanical toilet.
Pause.
The next is the faucet on the sink, which is long and moveable, like the one in your kitchen. This is so that it can be swung over to fill the bathtub. The shower wand also runs off of the sink tap, so there’s just one set of controls. The tub is almost as deep as it is long, and it’s not much long to start. The room is efficient, compact and serviceable, and included a cool Japanese robe and slippers, the better to wear while heading downstairs for a steam.
We went to dinner last night, to a place that was a Korean-bred fusion of a fondue joint and a grill your own steak place. Shoeless and crammed around a low table, we ordered the Full Satisfaction Meal. This provided us with as much beer as we could consume and as much meat as we could cram down our collective gullets in 90 minutes.
Immediately, charcoal braziers were dropped into holes built into the table. Seconds later, we were surrounded by beer. Just after that, small plates of meat arrived – various cuts of beef, chicken and seafood. Our job was to grill the food and eat the food, drink the beer and order more beer, and continue this process for an hour and a half, at which time we’d be served a small bowl of ice cream, signifying the effort’s completion. There was salad, too, if I recall, but the bowls of kimchee, cabbage, and greens were lost in the flurry of carnivoracity.
Most of the dining here is more sedate. There’s plenty of rice and noodles, of course, and some thick brown curries. Breakfasts have been at the hotel buffet, where they’ll have eggs in some shape, rice, noodles, fish, curry, fermented soybeans, orange juice and coffee. Lunches we have on base at the food court, where I stop at the local place for Asian food, while the bulk of my crew eats at KFC, Subway, or Taco Bell. I don’t understand it, but that’s what they do. My first dinner in Japan was from the local 7-11, including some hot skewers of meat and a bento box of buckwheat noodles.
Surprisingly, it’s not all sushi, so I think I’ll survive the trip.
I’ll survive as long as I don’t go drinking with the client’s project manager every night, which I’d guess can easily get out of control. Recognizing this, I limited myself to three beers, a couple of shots of sake, and two songs at the karaoke bar. Seriously, what trip to Japan would be complete without participating in awful karaoke? At this particular location (and I don’t know why the others would be much different), a small wireless device was used to search the catalog, find a song and reserve a place in line, After that, the entire process was automated, so there was no need for an imaginary cape-wearing DJ. I chose a transportation themed tune by the Monkeys for my first outing, saving for my final number a dusty NOFX classic, “Seeing Double at the Triple Rock” (…when in Minnesota and you’ve got a drinking quota).
Immediately thereafter, we were presented with our bill. Coincidence? Hard to say.
The colors here are brighter on most things manmade, and big eyed cartoon imagery is everywhere; on clothing, billboards, television, and product packaging to name a few. Meanwhile, since roads are narrow and speeds are low, construction lanes closures are oftentimes delineated with a barrier of 2” pipe. At one local worksite, the pipe was supported by 30” big eyed, green plastic frogs at eight foot centers, each featuring a word balloon that says, “Sorry!” Our orange cones at home seem so impersonal by comparison.
Weirdest thing so far: this is work in the First World. How novel is that?
Next weirdest, Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni is an enduring base, and I see spouses and kids all over the place. On Saturday, the local Boy Scout troop was tramping about in their uniforms. We pass the elementary school and commissary on our way to the borrowed conference room, the community room of one of the family housing mid-rises. On base there are playgrounds, a skatepark and a bouncy bounce. It’s completely at odds with past experience.
Third weirdest, the local Hiroshima ball club are the Carp. I need to find a T-shirt.
Read More......
2012-06-09
Taxi
I hear what could be a singer down the hall and through the paper-thin walls of my room at the Sheraton. I think he brought his ukulele. I need thicker walls.
This story begins at the airport, where I arrived via Addis Ababa with nine others on a mission that only required four. Be that as it may, there were ten of us at this rinky dink third world airfield, thoroughly jet lagged before noon, and with the uniform thought of finding our hotel. Rental cars would have been an annoyance to manage, so we’re spending this week at the merci of hapless Djiboutian cabbies and their haplesser Djiboutian cabs.
We started a simple game early on, rating the cabs on the newly minted Djiboutian Taxi Scale. It’s the usual one to ten thing, but based on the notion that the best of all possible Djiboutian cabs is worse than the most beat up wreck you’ve ever driver. We didn’t really know what would be up or down limit on this scale, but we tried to be fair in our rating.
The average cab, a four point five, is a green over white Toyota Mark II. [They look to be seventh generation, which would make them between 16 and 20 years old.] Typically, the average cab has a manual transmission, three out of four cylinders in constant operation, no less than two windows uncracked and operational, peeled vinyl seats, and mostly working interior door handles. This is average, and average gets you anywhere in town for 1,000 – 2,000 Djiboutian Francs (six to twelve bucks), depending on the distance and regardless of the number of passengers you can cram into the thing.
The best thing about them is that they can’t go very fast on less than all cylinders, so any crash would be at a survivable rate of speed. The worst thing about them (and this is true around the world) is that if the radio/stereo works, the driver will crank American Pop/Country tunes through broken and tinny speakers, hoping to make us feel at home. Fortunately, working sound systems only occur on cabs rated five or better.
The variations of the bottom half of the class seem endless, depending on how battered the particular machine happens to be, and includes an assortment of these:
• Cracked windshield - where the crack grows during the ride
• Smashed windshields - with the apparent impact point directly in front of the front seat passenger’s head
• Inoperable window controls - nice when it’s 110^ outside
• Nonexistent windows - improves the overall dust to passenger ratio
• Lack of window trim at the door frame - leaving exposed and jagged metal right where your arm wants to rest
• Worn, cracked, and sagging seats - for added comfort
• Seat covers, dash covers, and package shelf covers in a variety of artificial and authentic animal skins - perhaps it’s roadkill
• Air conditioning (not hardly, just checking to see if you were still with me)
• Trash - it’s ubiquitous
• Generally decrepit bodywork - it’s expected
• Brush applied paint - it’s obvious
• Left or right drive - gives the left front seated passenger the added responsibility for checking traffic during passing
• Bald tires - but they don’t need wet traction
• Wobbly wheels - might fall off
• Rattling and inconsistent brakes - scary
• Spoilers with LED effects - tres cool
• Bad stereos, blown speakers, and amplified ululation - for appropriate theme music
In general, an automatic transmission is worth an extra point, although power windows are typically worth one less point, due to the fact that they never work. Most of the front seat belts seem to latch, but if they hold up in a crash is still a mystery I don’t need to solve.
Operator condition is another factor relating to the overall quality of the ride. Our ability to communicate in their mix of Somali, Patois, French, and a smattering of English (mix and match) is a hurdle, although we have usually made it to our various destinations on the first attempt.
In the afternoon, most of our drivers have a mouth full of green teeth brought on by the khat chewing they’ve been doing since their lunchtime siesta. Mid afternoon seems a good time to catch them, as they are well past the manic needy stage they’d feel before they start using and are on the mellow, downward side of their daily high. Those hopped up on khat are a little less attentive than in the morning, but still try to pass everything else on the road, which is sort of funny if they’re driving a cab rated two or three, foot to the floor, and riding the clutch so they don’t overburden the motor.
Once I’ve taken the same cab twice. Once I’ve taken the same cab thrice. In each case, I’m sure the condition got worse between trips.
Fridays here are like Sundays in the States, if the States were desolate, trashed out desert cities. Our driver that morning seemed to enjoy the totally empty streets and put his particular Mark II (a solid 7) through its paces, pedal to metal on the straights and using the entire roadway for the corners. Now, long ago, Dad told me that the first thing I need to do when travelling to a foreign place is to learn the phrase “you’re going too fast” in the local language. Sometime, though, the thrill is just what I need to set me up for the day, so we let him drive on unencumbered reaching speeds of 30, 35, and even 40 miles per hour.
It was intense.
The other night, we took cabs rated 2 to 6 downtown to find a locally renown Lebanese place. We found it next to the darkened windows of a snooty looking French place and hustled our group upstairs and into the dining room. After some chaos, we found that it was in fact the French place after all, and that it was the Lebanese place that closed, only to be occupied by the French place.
Dang.
And the food was horrible, by the way, and not just because it was French, but because it was horrible French. We drank them out of Tuskers, too, and the lack of additional bottles didn’t add to the experience.
It was dark when we left the place, and worked our way from the side street back to the square, past the ranks of higglers, beggers, and con artists. With ten of us, we needed three cabs, so I started scanning the square as we approached. Then, just to the right, I saw a pale green glow that seemed to both soften and brighten as I started to focus. Once within ten meters, I knew it was a very special taxi.
Typically this week, I’ve taken on the role of Team Logistics, which includes goat roping, security coordination, cat wrangling, schedule conflict resolution, nose counting and the development of cab assignments. In the latter-est, I first ascertain who has local currency, and then place people into taxis. It’s not real hard, but (I swear) these engineers are idiots sometimes and can’t figure out how to enter a taxi without someone telling them to get into a taxi (sheesh).
Usually, I’m in the last cab, because I want to be sure that everyone is accommodated, but not this time. I quickly arranged for the others, gave seating and payment assignments and practically ran to this extraordinary machine.
As I ran my hand lightly over the highly polished quarter panel, I was drawn to the pristine white vinyl seat covers. The underbody had LED effects, as did the spoiler, with a LED ring around the end of the tailpipe. The wheel had stark white wheel covers and matching mud flaps. The rear door opened without a creak, and clicked shut solidly. It was tidy, it was clean, it had a battery operated closet light mounted on the headliner. It had dingleballs and a little stuffed cherub glued to the dash. With automatic transmission and four working cylinders, I was sure that this was it, the elusive Ten, and the Brandi he played had never been so loudly (or most distortedly) amplified.
Minutes later, we were back at our hotel and the ride had ended, with only the memory of his illuminated ornamental hood bird to sustain me.
Read More......
This story begins at the airport, where I arrived via Addis Ababa with nine others on a mission that only required four. Be that as it may, there were ten of us at this rinky dink third world airfield, thoroughly jet lagged before noon, and with the uniform thought of finding our hotel. Rental cars would have been an annoyance to manage, so we’re spending this week at the merci of hapless Djiboutian cabbies and their haplesser Djiboutian cabs.
We started a simple game early on, rating the cabs on the newly minted Djiboutian Taxi Scale. It’s the usual one to ten thing, but based on the notion that the best of all possible Djiboutian cabs is worse than the most beat up wreck you’ve ever driver. We didn’t really know what would be up or down limit on this scale, but we tried to be fair in our rating.
The average cab, a four point five, is a green over white Toyota Mark II. [They look to be seventh generation, which would make them between 16 and 20 years old.] Typically, the average cab has a manual transmission, three out of four cylinders in constant operation, no less than two windows uncracked and operational, peeled vinyl seats, and mostly working interior door handles. This is average, and average gets you anywhere in town for 1,000 – 2,000 Djiboutian Francs (six to twelve bucks), depending on the distance and regardless of the number of passengers you can cram into the thing.
The best thing about them is that they can’t go very fast on less than all cylinders, so any crash would be at a survivable rate of speed. The worst thing about them (and this is true around the world) is that if the radio/stereo works, the driver will crank American Pop/Country tunes through broken and tinny speakers, hoping to make us feel at home. Fortunately, working sound systems only occur on cabs rated five or better.
The variations of the bottom half of the class seem endless, depending on how battered the particular machine happens to be, and includes an assortment of these:
• Cracked windshield - where the crack grows during the ride
• Smashed windshields - with the apparent impact point directly in front of the front seat passenger’s head
• Inoperable window controls - nice when it’s 110^ outside
• Nonexistent windows - improves the overall dust to passenger ratio
• Lack of window trim at the door frame - leaving exposed and jagged metal right where your arm wants to rest
• Worn, cracked, and sagging seats - for added comfort
• Seat covers, dash covers, and package shelf covers in a variety of artificial and authentic animal skins - perhaps it’s roadkill
• Air conditioning (not hardly, just checking to see if you were still with me)
• Trash - it’s ubiquitous
• Generally decrepit bodywork - it’s expected
• Brush applied paint - it’s obvious
• Left or right drive - gives the left front seated passenger the added responsibility for checking traffic during passing
• Bald tires - but they don’t need wet traction
• Wobbly wheels - might fall off
• Rattling and inconsistent brakes - scary
• Spoilers with LED effects - tres cool
• Bad stereos, blown speakers, and amplified ululation - for appropriate theme music
In general, an automatic transmission is worth an extra point, although power windows are typically worth one less point, due to the fact that they never work. Most of the front seat belts seem to latch, but if they hold up in a crash is still a mystery I don’t need to solve.
Operator condition is another factor relating to the overall quality of the ride. Our ability to communicate in their mix of Somali, Patois, French, and a smattering of English (mix and match) is a hurdle, although we have usually made it to our various destinations on the first attempt.
In the afternoon, most of our drivers have a mouth full of green teeth brought on by the khat chewing they’ve been doing since their lunchtime siesta. Mid afternoon seems a good time to catch them, as they are well past the manic needy stage they’d feel before they start using and are on the mellow, downward side of their daily high. Those hopped up on khat are a little less attentive than in the morning, but still try to pass everything else on the road, which is sort of funny if they’re driving a cab rated two or three, foot to the floor, and riding the clutch so they don’t overburden the motor.
Once I’ve taken the same cab twice. Once I’ve taken the same cab thrice. In each case, I’m sure the condition got worse between trips.
Fridays here are like Sundays in the States, if the States were desolate, trashed out desert cities. Our driver that morning seemed to enjoy the totally empty streets and put his particular Mark II (a solid 7) through its paces, pedal to metal on the straights and using the entire roadway for the corners. Now, long ago, Dad told me that the first thing I need to do when travelling to a foreign place is to learn the phrase “you’re going too fast” in the local language. Sometime, though, the thrill is just what I need to set me up for the day, so we let him drive on unencumbered reaching speeds of 30, 35, and even 40 miles per hour.
It was intense.
The other night, we took cabs rated 2 to 6 downtown to find a locally renown Lebanese place. We found it next to the darkened windows of a snooty looking French place and hustled our group upstairs and into the dining room. After some chaos, we found that it was in fact the French place after all, and that it was the Lebanese place that closed, only to be occupied by the French place.
Dang.
And the food was horrible, by the way, and not just because it was French, but because it was horrible French. We drank them out of Tuskers, too, and the lack of additional bottles didn’t add to the experience.
It was dark when we left the place, and worked our way from the side street back to the square, past the ranks of higglers, beggers, and con artists. With ten of us, we needed three cabs, so I started scanning the square as we approached. Then, just to the right, I saw a pale green glow that seemed to both soften and brighten as I started to focus. Once within ten meters, I knew it was a very special taxi.
Typically this week, I’ve taken on the role of Team Logistics, which includes goat roping, security coordination, cat wrangling, schedule conflict resolution, nose counting and the development of cab assignments. In the latter-est, I first ascertain who has local currency, and then place people into taxis. It’s not real hard, but (I swear) these engineers are idiots sometimes and can’t figure out how to enter a taxi without someone telling them to get into a taxi (sheesh).
Usually, I’m in the last cab, because I want to be sure that everyone is accommodated, but not this time. I quickly arranged for the others, gave seating and payment assignments and practically ran to this extraordinary machine.
As I ran my hand lightly over the highly polished quarter panel, I was drawn to the pristine white vinyl seat covers. The underbody had LED effects, as did the spoiler, with a LED ring around the end of the tailpipe. The wheel had stark white wheel covers and matching mud flaps. The rear door opened without a creak, and clicked shut solidly. It was tidy, it was clean, it had a battery operated closet light mounted on the headliner. It had dingleballs and a little stuffed cherub glued to the dash. With automatic transmission and four working cylinders, I was sure that this was it, the elusive Ten, and the Brandi he played had never been so loudly (or most distortedly) amplified.
Minutes later, we were back at our hotel and the ride had ended, with only the memory of his illuminated ornamental hood bird to sustain me.
Read More......
2012-04-24
Ants Shufflin'
This has been one of those field trips where someone eventually says, “You know, working twelve hours shifts is still just putting in half a day”, and the mild humor is acknowledged and everyone gets back to task.
What a week is been. Well, more than a week, but the contract did say eight days, so twelve should just about do it. Once we fly, though, I’ll get home and then it’ll be fourteen more days of beating on other people to produce, so I get a break from the self flagellation, and my domestic team gets to feel the sharp sting of my performance enhancing doughnuts.
[Mmmmm, flagellating doughnuts.]
The work this time is sort of confidential, so I won’t dwell on the details. Needless to write, it does involve lots of fully automatic weapons, an evil plot to take over the world and a hollowed out volcano. But that’s all I’m saying about that.
Meanwhile, back at our temporary digs in the 12,000 square foot villa,…
No shit. It’s huge, with seven bedroom suites, nine bathrooms, servants quarters, and a kitchen that could feed 200. It’s a Company place located immediately adjacent to the office, which is in a villa exactly the same, but the mirror image, and the office villa is full of cubicals. The office still has the nine bathrooms and monster kitchen. In the office kitchen, by the way, the Egyptian nationals on our staff have to wait to cook their lunch until after the Indians have cooked theirs, otherwise, the spices clash too much for anyone’s taste.
In the residence, we use the microwave, if anything, and the kettle, but that’s about the extent, as we eat most all of our meals at the restaurants within walking distance. I’d like to use the pool but, for reasons unbeknownst, we only clean the office pool, and we don’t have keys to that building.
The local restaurants are nice, but they aren’t particularly local. Mostly, we go to the Traders Hotel just down the street, or one of the upscale places at the small shopping mall next to it. At each, we get to eat outside, which is a real plus while the weather is still relatively cool. My favorite meal, though, was at a local Lebanese place in downtown Abu Dhabi where, for 20 AED, maybe five bucks, I received a plate piled high with meat shawarma, fresh flatbread, tabouli, hummus, a plate of fresh vegetables, and a Fanta. Sadly, it’s a half hour or more to get there, parking is awful, and we really don’t have the time.
Mostly, we get up at 0600, go to the office, meet with the client mid morning for a couple of hours, return to the office, leave at 1900 for supper, work until 2200. Rinse, lather, repeat. We got to the site on the second day, about 90 minutes away and pretty much in the middle of the desert. We used the LTC’s Range Rovers to move about the site (as our Galant would have been bogged down in the first little bits of sand). I think he really enjoyed getting off road, as there was no valid project reason to blast over as many sand dunes as he did, or to chase that herd of camel.
We used our “free” weekend Friday to drive to Dubai to see the sights. The tourist activity, however, was continuously tempered by the need to view these sights in the context of the fake city we’re planning to build, so most of the day was work. We saw the Burj Khalifa up close, but didn’t spend the money to take the tour. It’s really, really tall, but that’s about it.
We examined the local elevated rail, which required an 8 station train ride, and a walk through two of the region’s largest shopping malls. One had an indoor ski slope which, next to war, is about the dumbest thing I have ever seen (and I’ve met my Congressman). By and large, they were really, really big, but that’s about it. The train was very modern.
Of course, everything in the UAE is modern, as it was entirely built since the mass extraction of crude began in the latter half of the last century. There’s a sometimes fine, and sometimes monstrously large line between modern and tasteful, and this line is a blur to the local architects. Their attitude seems to be that, if it doesn’t look good when it’s done, we’ll just tear it down and build a new one. Likewise with cars – if I get a scratch on my Rolls, I’ll just trade it in on a Bentley.
This is a place like no other. The amount of wealth is staggering. Fine cars. Fine hotels. Immense construction. Everything is shiny and new, yet there is no sense that any of it is productive. It’s a vastly more consumption based economy than the States although, in the Emiratis defense, they can afford it. I get the feeling, though, that once the oil gets used up, everything will dry up with it. The first president here recognized the fleeting nature of money and constructed infrastructure. He planted and irrigated tress, built highways, and spread the wealth around to the locals. The next generation constructed large buildings and edifices. Their children, only now starting to move up into positions of responsibility, don’t seem all that responsible. You can see them at the malls, strolling about, looking bored, largely purposeless.
Once the wells are all tapped out, I suppose they can get jobs herding goats again. Once the wells are all tapped out, there won’t be power plants or desalination stations. Once the wells are tapped out, this will all be a desert again, and all of my work here over the past decade will be buried in sand.
Cool.
Until then, work follows the money, so this won’t be my last trip to this end of the world.
Uncool.
Whatever. Cats gotta eat. Ants gotta shuffle.
Here’s the Draw Your Own Analogy section of the post:
The office villa and the residential villa are separated by a high concrete wall. The wall extends around the perimeter of each villa. To get from one location to the other requires three or four steps, manipulation of heavy iron gates, and a walk of about 30 meters. I’ve recently noticed that along the sidewalk, next to the wall, is a narrow strip, devoid of dust, and populated by a steady stream of ants moving in each direction, from the yard internal to one villa to the yard internal to the other.
Read More......
What a week is been. Well, more than a week, but the contract did say eight days, so twelve should just about do it. Once we fly, though, I’ll get home and then it’ll be fourteen more days of beating on other people to produce, so I get a break from the self flagellation, and my domestic team gets to feel the sharp sting of my performance enhancing doughnuts.
[Mmmmm, flagellating doughnuts.]
The work this time is sort of confidential, so I won’t dwell on the details. Needless to write, it does involve lots of fully automatic weapons, an evil plot to take over the world and a hollowed out volcano. But that’s all I’m saying about that.
Meanwhile, back at our temporary digs in the 12,000 square foot villa,…
No shit. It’s huge, with seven bedroom suites, nine bathrooms, servants quarters, and a kitchen that could feed 200. It’s a Company place located immediately adjacent to the office, which is in a villa exactly the same, but the mirror image, and the office villa is full of cubicals. The office still has the nine bathrooms and monster kitchen. In the office kitchen, by the way, the Egyptian nationals on our staff have to wait to cook their lunch until after the Indians have cooked theirs, otherwise, the spices clash too much for anyone’s taste.
In the residence, we use the microwave, if anything, and the kettle, but that’s about the extent, as we eat most all of our meals at the restaurants within walking distance. I’d like to use the pool but, for reasons unbeknownst, we only clean the office pool, and we don’t have keys to that building.
The local restaurants are nice, but they aren’t particularly local. Mostly, we go to the Traders Hotel just down the street, or one of the upscale places at the small shopping mall next to it. At each, we get to eat outside, which is a real plus while the weather is still relatively cool. My favorite meal, though, was at a local Lebanese place in downtown Abu Dhabi where, for 20 AED, maybe five bucks, I received a plate piled high with meat shawarma, fresh flatbread, tabouli, hummus, a plate of fresh vegetables, and a Fanta. Sadly, it’s a half hour or more to get there, parking is awful, and we really don’t have the time.
Mostly, we get up at 0600, go to the office, meet with the client mid morning for a couple of hours, return to the office, leave at 1900 for supper, work until 2200. Rinse, lather, repeat. We got to the site on the second day, about 90 minutes away and pretty much in the middle of the desert. We used the LTC’s Range Rovers to move about the site (as our Galant would have been bogged down in the first little bits of sand). I think he really enjoyed getting off road, as there was no valid project reason to blast over as many sand dunes as he did, or to chase that herd of camel.
We used our “free” weekend Friday to drive to Dubai to see the sights. The tourist activity, however, was continuously tempered by the need to view these sights in the context of the fake city we’re planning to build, so most of the day was work. We saw the Burj Khalifa up close, but didn’t spend the money to take the tour. It’s really, really tall, but that’s about it.
We examined the local elevated rail, which required an 8 station train ride, and a walk through two of the region’s largest shopping malls. One had an indoor ski slope which, next to war, is about the dumbest thing I have ever seen (and I’ve met my Congressman). By and large, they were really, really big, but that’s about it. The train was very modern.
Of course, everything in the UAE is modern, as it was entirely built since the mass extraction of crude began in the latter half of the last century. There’s a sometimes fine, and sometimes monstrously large line between modern and tasteful, and this line is a blur to the local architects. Their attitude seems to be that, if it doesn’t look good when it’s done, we’ll just tear it down and build a new one. Likewise with cars – if I get a scratch on my Rolls, I’ll just trade it in on a Bentley.
This is a place like no other. The amount of wealth is staggering. Fine cars. Fine hotels. Immense construction. Everything is shiny and new, yet there is no sense that any of it is productive. It’s a vastly more consumption based economy than the States although, in the Emiratis defense, they can afford it. I get the feeling, though, that once the oil gets used up, everything will dry up with it. The first president here recognized the fleeting nature of money and constructed infrastructure. He planted and irrigated tress, built highways, and spread the wealth around to the locals. The next generation constructed large buildings and edifices. Their children, only now starting to move up into positions of responsibility, don’t seem all that responsible. You can see them at the malls, strolling about, looking bored, largely purposeless.
Once the wells are all tapped out, I suppose they can get jobs herding goats again. Once the wells are all tapped out, there won’t be power plants or desalination stations. Once the wells are tapped out, this will all be a desert again, and all of my work here over the past decade will be buried in sand.
Cool.
Until then, work follows the money, so this won’t be my last trip to this end of the world.
Uncool.
Whatever. Cats gotta eat. Ants gotta shuffle.
Here’s the Draw Your Own Analogy section of the post:
The office villa and the residential villa are separated by a high concrete wall. The wall extends around the perimeter of each villa. To get from one location to the other requires three or four steps, manipulation of heavy iron gates, and a walk of about 30 meters. I’ve recently noticed that along the sidewalk, next to the wall, is a narrow strip, devoid of dust, and populated by a steady stream of ants moving in each direction, from the yard internal to one villa to the yard internal to the other.
Read More......
2012-01-11
Precious Tina and the Prostitute
The Liberians have recently completed their second set of “free and fair” elections since the end of their civil war, reelecting Ellen Johnson Sirleaf to her Constitutionally last term as head of state. The inauguration ceremonies are Sunday, just days away. It was a somewhat disputed election, so I’m glad to be flying this evening, just in case the losers get uppity. I doubt that will be the case, as the mood of the people seems high and preparations are in full swing.
Our CEO will be here for the festivities, as well as our VP of International. Joining them will be dignitaries and VIPs from around the world (and perhaps a few VVIPs), and they are starting to fill every hotel in town, including ours. Every morning and evening, there are new folks here, the more recent ones better dressed than those who came before. Nicer cars fill the parking lots, and the drain on the power grid must be measureable, as we just had a brief outage.
Our Mainer, Brian, knows all numbers of people in Liberia from his work in the Peace Corps in the 1960’s and through multiple subsequent visits and sabbaticals. He’s on the phone talking with locals, or having us drop him off somewhere, or getting picked up at the hotel, so it was no surprise a well dressed young woman appeared at our usual veranda dinner table. My first thought was that she was the daughter of a friend, come to pick him up, and he was taking the opportunity to introduce her to potential American contacts. That seemed true, as she said that she knew Brian because he worked in her village while in the Peace Corps. Although that was fifty years ago, and she couldn’t have been more than twenty five today, I attributed it to my lack of understanding of the patois.
Being polite expatriates, we invited her to join us and bought beers for everyone. [The local brewery, Club, makes a very nice lager, and was one of the very few factories that weren’t damaged during the war.] Shortly thereafter, a couple more of Brian’s local friends showed up, and we were introduced, but what I thought for a moment would be a large group for dinner turned smaller, as Brian left with his friends, and left Precious Tina with us.
After we completed the construction of the dam in the 1960s, the Company hadn’t returned to
the project site until a year or two after the breech, in 1993. A few of our current team were there at the time and related a story about how one of the crew, an avowed teetotaler, fell off the wagon one night and, while trying to ditch a persistent local prostitute, fell down a set of unlit stairs and broke his ankle. Due to the political situation at the time, he had to be evacuated overland to the Ivory Coast and more intensive medical care.
The main floor of the power house is full of large and small holes, just right for eating ankles. Then there are the turbine pits in which you could fall thirty feet before getting sliced into very ugly parts by what wasn’t stolen of the turbine blades. There’re no rails at all along the perimeter of the powerhouse to keep you from dropping twenty feet on to jagged rocks and water. Examining the embankments and channels forces you to scramble up and down sharp, uneven, and sometimes unstable gneiss. The trails through the bush are full of snakes, there’s malaria and yellow fever, and the Liberians drive as bad as Jamaicans. Historically, however, the biggest threat to a consultant’s safety is escaping from hookers.
That’s why, when our small group had drifted off except for three of us and Tina, and she was joined by a more obvious working girl, we remaining three quick bade them good evening and, carefully minding the stairs, hightailed it to the safety of our rooms.
Why Brian introduced us to local prostitutes is still a mystery.
Read More......
Our CEO will be here for the festivities, as well as our VP of International. Joining them will be dignitaries and VIPs from around the world (and perhaps a few VVIPs), and they are starting to fill every hotel in town, including ours. Every morning and evening, there are new folks here, the more recent ones better dressed than those who came before. Nicer cars fill the parking lots, and the drain on the power grid must be measureable, as we just had a brief outage.
Our Mainer, Brian, knows all numbers of people in Liberia from his work in the Peace Corps in the 1960’s and through multiple subsequent visits and sabbaticals. He’s on the phone talking with locals, or having us drop him off somewhere, or getting picked up at the hotel, so it was no surprise a well dressed young woman appeared at our usual veranda dinner table. My first thought was that she was the daughter of a friend, come to pick him up, and he was taking the opportunity to introduce her to potential American contacts. That seemed true, as she said that she knew Brian because he worked in her village while in the Peace Corps. Although that was fifty years ago, and she couldn’t have been more than twenty five today, I attributed it to my lack of understanding of the patois.
Being polite expatriates, we invited her to join us and bought beers for everyone. [The local brewery, Club, makes a very nice lager, and was one of the very few factories that weren’t damaged during the war.] Shortly thereafter, a couple more of Brian’s local friends showed up, and we were introduced, but what I thought for a moment would be a large group for dinner turned smaller, as Brian left with his friends, and left Precious Tina with us.
After we completed the construction of the dam in the 1960s, the Company hadn’t returned to
the project site until a year or two after the breech, in 1993. A few of our current team were there at the time and related a story about how one of the crew, an avowed teetotaler, fell off the wagon one night and, while trying to ditch a persistent local prostitute, fell down a set of unlit stairs and broke his ankle. Due to the political situation at the time, he had to be evacuated overland to the Ivory Coast and more intensive medical care.
The main floor of the power house is full of large and small holes, just right for eating ankles. Then there are the turbine pits in which you could fall thirty feet before getting sliced into very ugly parts by what wasn’t stolen of the turbine blades. There’re no rails at all along the perimeter of the powerhouse to keep you from dropping twenty feet on to jagged rocks and water. Examining the embankments and channels forces you to scramble up and down sharp, uneven, and sometimes unstable gneiss. The trails through the bush are full of snakes, there’s malaria and yellow fever, and the Liberians drive as bad as Jamaicans. Historically, however, the biggest threat to a consultant’s safety is escaping from hookers.
That’s why, when our small group had drifted off except for three of us and Tina, and she was joined by a more obvious working girl, we remaining three quick bade them good evening and, carefully minding the stairs, hightailed it to the safety of our rooms.
Why Brian introduced us to local prostitutes is still a mystery.
Read More......
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
