Pushing for change

The schools in Romania have been on strike this last couple of weeks to push for better pay and conditions. As I am on a Romanian salary at the moment of about $100 a month, I too have been supporting the cause, making my voice heard by staying in bed all morning then marching noisily up and down the high street complaining that I’m not nearly rich enough.

Last week I had the pleasure of going to see the high school talent show, which was held at the town’s civic hall. The place was packed, there were people standing in the aisles and the kids had been rehearsing for weeks. The performances were much more polished than you’d get in the UK and everyone had a great old time. But that wasn’t what I was reporting on.

On the way back, one of the other teachers at my school offered me a lift home in the car. Not being one to turn down a lift from someone of the opposite sex, I obviously accepted. On the way back though she dropped a bombshell. Sitting there in the car as innocent as you like she says, “Look I hope you don’t mind me asking but…how much do you get paid back in the UK?”

I squirmed and tried to get out of answering the question but she wouldn’t let it go. “I don’t mind” said she, “I’m just curious you know. Not that it bothers me.”

I was trapped. With another 10 minutes to go to my house I couldn’t evade or escape and she had me cornered. I was the deer in the headlights. I quickly done a bit of mental maths before realising that my maths is bloody ropey and decided that I’d do best just to take a few thousand off the national minimum wage and say that.

“HOW MUCH!!!???!!!” She screamed, the minute the figure left my lips. Well there goes my shag, I thought. The rest of the drive home was in embarrassed silence. I did TELL her I didn’t want to answer the question!

As we got close to my villa where I live with a doctor and dentist, I realised that my ordeal wasn’t yet over. I casually said it was ok to drop me off at the end of my road and I’d walk the rest of the way home, but she was havin none of it. As she dropped me off outside my place the last thing I heard her say as I got out the car was… “Oh my god it’s like a palace!” I cringed all the way inside.

I guess she must think I’m the prince of England.

Curiosity got the better of me last week. As I said I live with medics so I thought it would be a good idea to make use of the opportunities that this presents, so I mentioned over dinner that I would like to come into the hospital one day and see what it was like.

The doctor I live with works with babies, and one of the kids I tutor is the daughter of the gynaecologist and they work closely. So when I came home the next day I found out that they had arranged for me to go in and see a real live birth, if I wanted to of course.

And of course I wanted to! Chuh! I’m on holiday in a foreign country what better way to spend my evenings…

The next day after teaching a full day I got the call. “Are you ready to go?” she asked, “I’ve told the woman ‘don’t push don’t push!’ til you get here”

With the waters already broken, as well as every taboo in the English culture, I set off hospital-wards in the car while my host drove and discussed the problems she had had the previous night trying to look up gynaecological terms in English to make sure she could describe the scene in graphic detail without grammatical error. I love the Romanian way, always thinking ahead to make the guests feel welcome!

When we arrived at the hospital we were all set to go round to her office, which is at the side of the building. When we tried to get in though, the door was locked. I was thinking that the mother wasn’t going to hold those contractions back much longer when my host casually walked round the side and climbed through the window!

“Come in,” she said, “the window to my office is always open.” - On closer inspection it turned out that the window of her office is in fact always open as it had no window pane in it. The window had been broken some time back but the hospital doesn’t have the money to repair it. When I described this to my brother, a doctor too, he said that this is medicine in the trenches. It had an air of excitement about it. I wasn’t too sure about the use of a Coca-Cola bottle in an operating theatre for administering drugs but then what do I know about medicine.

I put on a white coat and went upstairs to see the pregnant woman taking a last look on the ultrasound at the baby. I was going into the delivery room in disguise as medical student.

When I walked into the delivery room, the mother to be was propped up, legs akimbo on the delivery table. I went to stand in the spectators gallery in the corner with my whistle and scarf to cheer her on.

Giving birth is a messy business. The action starts with this massive *splosh* and the mother sort of winces a bit. Then all this messy liquid comes out and there’s lots of screaming. Bit like taking a big shit really.

My gynaecologist friend showed me the first shock of hair covered in slime as the baby started to poke through and commentated very matter-of-factly as he casually handled this purple, slimy thing.

Push and push as the woman did, the little dude just wasn’t going to come quietly. Without warning, he grabbed the surgical scissors and performed an episiotomy, which is a quick snip down there to widen the exit. At that point, I remembered with a start that I hate sharp things and operations and I can’t stand the sight of blood.

The world went deathly white as I looked on. The baby, the mother, the fit nurse in the corner of the room with the slime vacuum, everyone disappeared from view and I became acutely aware that my legs were having trouble supporting my weight. Just before the world went black I dragged my sweaty, now-white ass over to a chair and sat down, with the sound of all the nurses laughing their heads off behind me.

When I came round a minute later, I found out it was my lucky day. There was another woman expecting a baby and her waters had just broken! Oh my life…

Plans for this week include watchin a Caesarean section and perhaps seeing someone having a tooth extracted. Well it beats watchin TV.

Technical issue

Guys can you do me a favour and post a comment or two just to tell me if it works. I haven't recieved any comments for a while and I'm being told that the comments link is faulty.

Also does anyone have any idea how I can merge my two blogs, this one and www.andytgeezer.blogspot.com without having to manually move the posts.

Cheers
A

Kuwait Archives 21st Jan 2005: The Tank Graveyard

Just a quick one to say that I'm still having fun out here in the middle east, currently on a 5 day break for the Eid holidays.

Went to visit a graveyard of tanks yesterday, a remnant from the Gulf War in 1992. The American decided in their infinite wisdom to take out all the tanks in the Iraqi army as they tried to flee back to Basra, knocking them scatty with uranium rounds and vaporising the contents i.e. the humans.

Me and my best mate out here, Richard had read about this legendary "tank graveyard" on the net and heard rumours of it around the school but nobody seemed to know where it was. Ian, the music teacher, had sent us on a merry old chase last weekend, giving us a rumour of where it was, which we chased up to no avail, but after a week studying aerial maps and scouring the internet we got a fair idea where to look.



Typing the words "Kuwait tank graveyard" into google got us really excited as it turned up these amazing aerial photos of devastation, showing mashed up tanks for miles. We had to see this. Some studys have shown that the place is still fairly radioactive, and rumours abounded that the place was shut off to the public and no photos were allowed. Me and Rich set off with cameras and T-shirts. Gerry and Cathy took the dog in another car. Seemed like a nice place for a walk.

After an hour driving through the desert we decided to fill up the car at a fairly remote service station. As me and Rich filled up with cheap fuel (that's erm...9p a litre to you back home....*ahem* full tank for 4 quid) Gerry took Dfer (that's "D" fer Dog) out for a piss in the ruined building next door.

On closer inspection among the rubble it was clear that this place had been the site of a pretty brutal gun battle during the war, and the kuwaitis had been too lazy too tidy up since. Bullet holes riddled the concrete walls and the middle section of the roof had caved in, probably as a result of a mortar. Shotgun shells lay scattered around the ruins, testament to the brutality of man, and stray dogs picked through the bones of the building. This was my initiation to the aftermath of war.



I suppose that "war tourism" is in bad taste but in Kuwait, where there is precious little tourism and even less taste I don't suppose that matters.

We u-turned out of the petrol station and headed off-road where we thought the tanks were. Ended up in the desert in the middle of a minefield, surrounded by mines and dust as far as the eye could see. No tanks. So we done the sensible thing and let the dog off the lead and had lunch.

After a number of wrong turns we were on the verge of giving up. Getting out of the cars in exasperation we were looking over the map when, by a stroke of luck, this US marine drove up and asked us what we were looking for.

What a character this guy turned out to be! Giving us directions he added in Texan tones, confident to the point of arrogance, "Look man this place is off-limits to civilians, but whatever you decide to do man, I couldn't give a shit, after all we shot those guys up over 10 years ago it's no secret"

We headed there with added resolve. 5 hours after we had left the house in the morning we found it. The tank graveyard was hidden behind large burms, piles of sand built up for the express purpose of preventing people from seeing what was inside. Over the burms you could see the remains of tanks and heavy ordinance if you craned your necks. The army checkpoint at the end of the road and the signs saying "no photography" didn't help lift our spirits.

We initially drove past it once up to the checkpoint and went through. But seeing the tank graveyard from a distance just wasn't good enough. Me and Gerry wanted more. Sod this we thought lets go over the edge. Gerry led the way, I followed shortly after. We had been warned of unexploded ordinance. I value my legs.

We parked up, Rich was too chickenshit to go over the top, despite having bought a new state of the art camera, so him and Cathy looked after the cars.. All the gear and no idea that man.

As we got closer to the tanks the size of the graveyard struck me. We were gettin nearer to the site of a complete massacre. I was gobsmacked and completely lost for words. As we walked around the yard, the sight was overwhelming. It was like being in a scrap yard but all the scrap was heavy ordinance and represented someone’s final resting place. The tanks were coffins. It was a graveyard. But the tanks were empty. Indescribable.

The camera went click click click and I went around with my jaw on the floor, always conscious that we were not supposed to be there and that we may get picked up at any time. We left after 20 minutes worried that the Black Hawk Helicopter in the distance might have spotted us.

7 hours after we set off we were home. The pics are all here. What an amazing day.

Personals

S - Me and the boss had the worlds biggest row despite my efforts. He's a tosser. So much for the new years resolution

Dying of boredom

I've had cheese for breakfast
I've had cheese for dinner
The sheer stress of boredom
is makin me thinner

Slimmer and slimmer is my social life
Skim the Friday Times just to find a wife
Here's my wrist, God give me the knife
I'm in a tunnel, someone turn on the lights

It's dark in here, I'm going out of my mind
Scanning books just to pass the time
The Middle East is not a place
for a guy of Twenty Five

Kuwait is a graveyard of the walking dead
The queen of the ghouls is my deputy head
....


Unfinished poem from last year! Have just been rooting through the archives on my computer and found this. I'm no longer in the mindset to complete this one as this was a product of ABSOLUTE and complete boredom, a state I cannot and will not return to, so will leave it in it's unfinished form a bit like Michaelangelo's David. Except without his cock hanging out...

Kuwait Archives - 03 September 2004

Kuwait Journal

It seems to me that whilst we in Britain would readily denounce the habits of people from the rest of the world who come to our country for their insularity, we are not happy to practise that doctrine that we preach.

I’ve come to accept in my short time in Kuwait that I have been in the country and surrounded by ex-pats I’ve come to realise some unenviable home truths about the British that have become transparent as a result of my new vantage point outside of the country.

It’s been a long while since Britain ruled the world but we see in the behaviour of Brits abroad an arrogance that is no longer fitting with the way the new world order stands. Admittedly the west is militarily superior in virtually every respect due to that initial headstart way back when, and that has propelled the people of Britain to believe in their own invincibility.

Our development in the “western” sciences and arts has put us in the enviable position that it is our way of thinking that everyone in the world wants to learn, hence my advantageous position over here, ahead of legions of poorly paid but probably harder working Indians.

As a result the British and the Americans over here come over with an inflated sense of self-importance that at home we would not inflict on our fellow human beings. Many are rude and arrogant because things are so free and easy to obtain that we assign to everything a lower “value” in real terms.

Many ex-pats seem to come over with the attitude that they are going to behave exactly as they do at home but with less responsibility because they are not at home and do not have to answer to anyone that they would regard as their “superior”

As a result the attitude that some English people exhibit while abroad, all over the world, is quite deplorable. Though we expect rudeness from our “inferiors” we fall into the habit of “giving as good as we get” then simply being rude to pre-empt what’s coming. This unfortunate state of affairs leads us to the sad state that the locals never really stand much of a chance to show their hospitality before we ascribe to them simple sweepingly generalised labels.

Sadly this leaves me with wide open mind to explore what really should be well-charted territory alone while the ex-pats look on perplexed. Why would I, a native of Britain with a good British passport, have a desire to interact with the locals of Kuwait?

It was made painfully clear to me tonight that the ex-pats here are not interested in really finding out about how things are here, any deeper than it applies to themselves. This weekend I visited the local masjid (that’s the proper name for a mosque not the derogatory term ‘mosque’ which was used to deride the places by opponents in an earlier age, but has subsequently been adopted) to ask them to teach me about Islam.

The imam invited me in and showed me around then invited me back to attend a prayer meeting. Tonight was the night of the headmistress’s party at her house for new staff and I was there. Before the night was over, I mentioned that I had to leave to go to mosque to learn about Islam.

The whole place stopped and looked at me a little bewildered. Why would I want to go to masjid and learn about Islam when I’m in an Islamic country? What would possibly possess me to want to mix with these strange locals in my own time such that I would want to go clubbing with them if the opportunity presented itself?!

Yeah but that’s what I want to do. I’m not seeking to imitate the locals but to learn about them. As I’ve said before if I wanted to live like an Englishman I would stay in England.

[I must confess in editing this post in retrospect that I was ashamed of the other ex-pats. I really was ashamed that they were so narrow-minded and that they really didn’t give a shit about the religion or about finding out about the country where they lived. They were just there to leech off the place.]

Deeper than that sentiment though is the feeling that it is the responsibility of every man on earth to seek to understand and empathise with his neighbour, a responsibility that has been sadly neglected by most of the world as has been highlighted post-September 11.

We only have to look at recent events really to see that it is this lack of understanding and tolerance for our neighbours, which has led to the discord of our global society today. Following the events of September 11, the world was crying out for people in the west who understood the ways of the Arab world but it seemed that no-one had taken the time and responsibility before that time to bother to look.

The deficit in understanding was lethal and remains so to this day, and we have now reached a point where, on top of the ignorance and intolerance we also have suspicion thrown into the equation when considering relations with the people of the middle east.

It is a sad state of affairs really that we have allowed global relations to slip to this low. It seems that the world has largely lost hope, though it was with hope that I came out here looking for. Hope that in the heart of the Middle East I would find people with the breadth of mind to take on the challenge of understanding so foreign and strange a culture, so far removed from our own.

We are perplexed about the culture of Islam, that much is transparent in what I perceive to be the over the top reactions of our press in the west to the affairs of state of the people of the Middle East. It is with fear and ill comprehension that news is reported in the media and that fear breeds further resentment and more fear in a cycle of ignorance. When, I wonder will we step to the side and view our neighbours with eyes untainted by hatred and see that really we are all as one beneath the skin, regardless of our beliefs. Underneath it all we are but humans struggling to get through our lives by whatever beliefs or doctrines that serves us best. If instead we looked at the similarities and not the differences between us it would not take us long to realise that really we do believe in the same thing and that is peace among men.

What the ex-pats abroad, in their frustration and egocentric rantings, do not seem to take on board is that the locals seem as perplexed about us as we are by them. In our slight dissatisfaction we scream and yell at them and they think we are rude. But the responsibility I believe lies ultimately with us. Within our easy little existence, discomfort is almost redundant and we easily lose our tempers over minor issues while expecting much greater levels of tolerance from others for our rude behaviour.

Meanwhile the people of the Middle East look to the west with admiration for our achievements and what do we do but throw it back in their faces by being so rude and arrogant.

One from the Hungarian Archives - Chess

Update on the situation over here. I finally had a weekend and some time to explore the city which is very beautiful and romantic and stuff.

On Friday night, the crew went to this wicked student bar, open air with tiny dancefloor which i felt compelled to take over. Found myself quite separated from the crew by virtue of some primal urge to dance and by the end of the night was quite surrounded by Hungarian Beauties, all of them wanting to take me home. Maybe.

When the club closed, Steve and Dave wanted to go home (It was about 5,30) and Dave was meant to crash on our floor. I was surrounded by a whole bevy of beautiful women and they kidnapped me and took me, quite against my will *cough* to another club which didn't close til 8am!!!

We saw the sun rise at the first club, stumbled around the streets for a while at the crack of dawn then disappeared into another club til bloody 8am!!! Naturally, when we rolled out of that next club, I decided I was tired and went home, leaving the 2 lovely girls. I am still kicking myself now.

Saturday was wicked too. Me and Steve had breakfast at around 4pm, a greasy fryup courtesy of me and then went for a long walk around Budapest, crossing the river to Buda and climbing the hill to look across at Pest as the sun went down over this beautiful city. What a day and what a view! The chain bridge was closed to cars and they had a load of stalls and this stage where
we saw the most amazing band, really talented 4 guys playing a sort of oboe - saxophone thing and the bagpipes as well as some amazing little sort of gourd-like guitar thing. They played what me and Steve assumed to be Hungarian folk which sounded like the most exotic jazz fusion. It was brilliant. The sun set over Budapest in the mountains was all like purples and oranges and stuff and the backdrop of Buda Palace was so ideal. We also bought tickets to the Ballet for the next Saturday then went out to TGI Fridays and out to play pool with the crew all night. I slipped off at 1.30 my body had had quite enough.

That did however mean that I could get up nice and early this morning. I rolled out of bed at about 8.30 and decided to go to the Train station subway place where I saw these guys playing chess before and I decided to join them . The price was 200HUF, about 75p that u had to put down to bet against this guy. The first game saw me get slaughtered as I was a bit nervous and he was good. The second I was a little careless and he cleared out the back line like a reaper. 400HUF down. Not good.

In the third I played my best chess ever against this guy who plays for a living. I saw the tiniest of gaps in the corner after he castled early on in the game. I had to force out the pawn in front of the horse space on his right side just to carve him open so I moved my queen into the space next door and up and he took the bait, moving his pawn into the offensive. I retracted the queen, pulled out the knight and moved in, causing him all sort of damage at the back. His whole back line was obliterated in minutes and he was reeling. I then moved in for the kill, everything went black as I sacrificed my queen to make sure that he was utterly defenceless. On the
back foot with only a bishop on the white squares to defend himself against a nearly full army I crushed him up against the side wall with my two castles. It was a great feeling.

Then he slaughtered me in the 4th but enough about that...

Anyway that's my weekend in a nutshell. It's a big nut, maybe like a coconut or something like that but it’s been superb.

Return of the ex

I don’t usually involve myself with ex-girlfriends. It’s not out of choice of course but mainly due to the fact that I don’t ever have girlfriends. These last few weeks then have been particularly unusual for me.

Just before I took off for Romania I heard the bad news that one ex had gone into hospital with some serious bad shit. I won’t go into detail but those of you who know know the details already. I hadn’t spoken to her for a year after an incident involving an ex-friend while I was in Kuwait and frankly wasn’t too bothered about never seeing her again so it came as a bit of a surprise when I was told she was ill and I should go in and make my peace with her.

This I duly did and a few days after I left she went into intensive care with complications and things looked hairy for a while. As far as I’m aware though she’s through the worst of it and life goes on for me here in Alexandria in the Teleorman region of Romania, 80km south of Bucharest as though nothing had happened.

I wondered for a while that perhaps I’m a selfish bastard and I should be worrying a lot more about her, but let’s be honest, she was all too happy to fuck off with my mate when I left the country so I think I’ll leave the worrying to him. Does that make me a bastard? Shucks.

This got me thinking though. My track record is notoriously poor in keeping with the family tradition. Following such examples as set by my two older brothers has really meant that I don’t really fly off the starting blocks when it comes to dating women. Looking back my first real girlfriend decided to get hit by a car in Ghana and ended up in and out hospital for the next year and a half having countless operations to put her leg back together.

The next three years saw a complete absence of action at university, a record that seemed to surprise everyone but me. Then, after another year off (of studying and girls of course) I finally met someone else. Who is now in hospital with some serious life-threatening shit.

Am I a curse?

Then, last night the latest ex decided to start up a conversation with me on msn for no readily apparent reason to say ‘hi I’m working on my essay then I’m off to see my new boyfriend’

Well woopee fucking doo. What am I supposed to do? Jump up and down?!

Ex's huh? can't live with 'em...

Well at least I have the curse for comfort...