Reflections from a sandy country

2003-06-23T02:42:00.000-07:00

So much to tell. Living on a rollercoaster at the moment, not ideal as my stress levels are sky high, but it's exciting i guess. In Oman at the moment with visiting friend from the UK, showing her the sights, ran a conference yesterday and setting up another project today, so the relaxing by the pool idea has gone out of the window. Was in Kabul a couple of weeks ago, and am back next week. When life calms down, i might reflect on all of this, but until then, my disjointed observations continues.... the following was written on my laptop, sitting on a veranda overlooking the sights of suburban Kabul. It might take some time to digest these experiences properly, for the moment all i have is the immediate relay of events... as follows...
I’m sitting in a room with a brass and iron art deco coat stand, built in oak cupboards, wires hanging out of one wall, and a bare light bulb providing the scant light available. Every so often it dims for a few seconds, then returns. Down the street outside plays a French-sounding ditty, which I recognize as a horn, with occasional blasts of bollywood-esque movie drama, and a lively conversation passing in the streets. I don’t recognize pashtu, but they sound upbeat, confident, and comfortable as they negotiate the dark earthen alley where the entrance to my guesthouse lies. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Kabul.

I landed here at ten to two this afternoon, already forty minutes late. Well, 24hrs and forty minutes to my hosts, who expected me on the plane from Dubai yesterday, rather than on a PIA flight from Islamabad today. I sent repeated texts from that supposed staple of the modern day Middle Eastern explorer, the Thurya phone, only to be greeted with the helpful response that I had encountered ‘unknown error number CC38’. With no handbook or helpline available, it wasn’t a lot of use to me. It was however, somewhat comforting that should I run into the Taliban during my stay, at least my mum could call and check on my wellbeing, even if I wouldn’t be able to SOS my hosts at the UN to come and spring me out. Insha’allah it won’t happen.

On our descent in to Kabul, I stared at the landscape, trying to get a feel for what lay below, as in my short trip I doubt that I will get much of an opportunity to see the country. It is pretty dangerous to leave Kabul city limits, and without my main UNDP contact here, none of the others will take the responsibility for taking me outside of the city limits. Not that I blame them. I’m not sure if I want to take that step myself.

Below me on our descent lay the most amazing cresent of mountains, for if I’m not wrong (and my fledgling geography could well be much mistaken) Kabul lies on a plain surrounded by a mountain range. There was an amazing stretch of river tributaries decorating the flat earth, like a giant fern frond creeping across the sand. As I admired it, I realized the anomaly in my observation. Rivers shouldn’t creep across sand, water encourages growth, and growth is dark. These rivers were empty, and as we got lower and lower, I searched in vain for any suggestion, glimmer or reflection that could have been water. There was none. As we drew closer to Kabul, I followed the old river bed, where it was at right angles with the only main road, but no bridge had needed to be built, as they merely filled in the bed at that point to level out the way. Just before we hit the runway, I spotted a series of three pools, greenish brackish water rippling in the sunlight. Small figures gathered around it, and then they were gone, as we cruised in towards the pitted tarmac that is Kabul International airport. Littered with skeletons of twisted fuselages, and broken wings, the airport is the first salute of a war torn land to its international tourists. I couldn’t decide if it was pride, warning or merely laziness that left them there, I’m fairly convinced it is all three, in varying degrees, by varying government department.

The journey started well, accompanied on the plane by a gaggle of Chinese tourists, though I felt somewhat incongruous dressed in my Pakistani salwar khameez and headscarf. I was somewhat comforted by the fact that Afghanis kept making bored conversation with me in Pashtu, then being slightly surprised with the slightly public-schoolgirl ‘I’m sorry, but I only speak English’ response. The Chinese just got shoved, and there’s a whole region of Afghanis who resemble Chinese living in the north. I think it was the beige hats and cameras around the neck that gave them away in the end, though it may have been the fact that one of them walked down the steps of the airplane, towards a gaggle of very war weary and craggy afghani soldiers, with his tiny Samsung video recorder hovering at eye level. I didn’t get the impression they were too impressed. With my fake tan and copious applications of bronzer, I reached a passably afghani color, as they are generally fairly light skinned, and many of them have blue eyes, so I blended quite well. My host complimented me on my attire anyway, so it can’t have been too odd.

Samira found me at the airport after about an hour of waiting for my bag. A Persian gentlemen involved in the telcoms industry had been helping me, very kindly, and waited for me as I fretted slightly at the edge of the scrum, having just realized that I didn’t have enough dollars, I had no bag, no flight out of Afghanistan, and no-body there to collect me. As worries go, I was hitting the high notes. I collared some UN people that I’d seen arriving on the UN flight, and asked them to pass my business card on to the UNDP. Looking back, my hands were shaking by that point. They were actually fairly patronizing, but they did the job, and I thank them for that. Samira spotted my bag after about an hour of waiting, the zip was broken and it was buried in strange 3litre bottles of a clear fluid, one of which appeared to have leaked all over my little duffle. No real harm done, apart from an ex-white Microsoft shirt newly tie dyed, and the realization that my other white shirt had been neatly rolled at the end where there was now a gaping hole where the zip had been. It was only M&S, I’ll live.

The UNDP rep, Samira, was so welcoming, though so much younger than I had imagined, probably twenty five at the most, with her spangly salwar khameez and headscarf. I could have hugged her, but I resisted, though I don’t think she would have minded, I think they are used to odd westerners now. Svetlana the ex UNDP woman I had collared with my business card was waiting by the car with Francis, a beautiful Frenchman who speaks fluent Pashtu, and it appeared they were coming with us. Svetlana used to work on the schools project, I believe, but was back on holiday. I didn’t feel up to commenting on this, as I was otherwise engaged staring out of the window at my first glimpses of Kabul, but predictably, Samira was all surpise and sweetness, though there was an odd note in her voice. I almost felt it was somewhat of a bitter pill to swallow, seeing people you used to work with returning home to their lives in the west, only for them to swan back in on holidays, when those like Samira and Mahmood had little choice but to stay.

The streets of Kabul teem with people, and I noticed that it is a very low city where most buildings are below three stories. Perhaps the higher they go, the better a target they become. There are wide streets, and the air is mountain fresh. It is poor, yes, and there is evidence of the war everywhere, from gaps where buildings should be, to bullet holes in most of the walls. Yet, like Islamabad, it seems to maintain a dignified poverty, unlike that of somewhere like Karachi, where it the stench of the slums is never far away, and the plight of the urban poor seems so much more rotten than that of people with access to earth and land, even when it is as barren and unforgiving as that of Kabul or Islamabad. So hard to make the distinction though, and so presumptuous, on a mere 8 hours in the country.

We went straight to the UNDP offices, where I attempted to order my addled brain into work mode, and attempt to get an agreement on the actual points for my trip. Without Marc, the senior UNDP rep on the project, I wasn’t going to get far, but I managed to have a frank and full discussion with his deputy Mahmood, in which I think I made some of my points clear. It is an awful feeling informing someone that you are donating hundreds of thousands of dollars to their incredible charitable project, and then presenting them with a budget that shows a percentage to press trips, and to corporate T&E, and how the rest will actually be split up. He tried valiantly to convince me to just ‘double’ the number of training days, or software licenses, but my hands are tied. There are great points to this job, and there are shit ones too, where the corporate mantle sits heavy on one’s shoulders.

As we sat there, various members of staff came in to see the Microsoft person, and I can safely say I was nothing like any of them expected. Sporting ethic gear, and a youngish appearance, I think they were at first taken aback, and then slightly put out that I wasn’t more, American perhaps? Corporate definitely. I think I was supposed to be wearing a short skirt suit and shades…. But I achieved so much more in the salwar. As Mahmood and I went over training for the third time, an American woman in jeans and a headscarf marched in, completely hijacking our meeting without apology or hesitation. She told me about a great project they are setting up, and I agreed with her, it is a great project. Mahmood’s face was a picture though, as he saw his budget slipping away, until I reassured him afterwards that it would have to be submitted separately anyway so she couldn’t get her hands on his money. It is scary how many opportunities I can see here for funding and support. I just need to understand the politics better in order to justify these to the management, as there is no real business opportunity or developing market here at the moment.

This evening, I sat on the veranda, trying in vain to make my thuraya phone work, again. Failed, again. There was a game of pool going on below, between the proprietor, a young afghani with a French accent called Amin, and an ancient gentlemen with lovely English, who I believe is the ex-Afghani ambassador to Germany, if Phil’s description was correct. Phil played him at pool when he stayed here last month, and won, whilst being blown away by the man’s tales of old Kabul. I chatted with two guys from the Food Development Agency who have been doing an Agricultural census, checking the numbers of cattle/crops in all the villages. They’ve just finished, and are cleaning and sorting the data now. I made the mistake of telling them I’m with Microsoft, and they merely snorted and went back to the age old piracy debate. If they think I’m foolish enough to expect to find $250 per license software in a city still rebuilding its walls, then they can carry on, more fool them. Interesting to chat to though, I may join them for a spot of BBC World viewing in a moment.

Day Two.

Last night, I law awake for quite a while before finally dropping off to sleep. The windows are double, one layer of mesh, one glass, and there is no a/c. It’s a tricky choice; breeze with the soundtrack of Kabul streetlife, or silence and suffocating heat. I chose the former. In my drowsy state, I started recalling some of the necessary safety precautions that one of the Dubai journos I know had briefed me with, prior to leaving on my trip. His extensive training in the British TA in the 1980s had apparently left him an expert on 2003 Kabul safety requirements. It was sweet of him to help, though he absolutely terrified me two hours before departure because I didn’t have an automatic motion sensor for my door, rubber doorstops or water purification tablets. After Pakistani goat’s brain curry and salted lassi for lunch on my last day in Islamabad, the water here doesn’t seem to be causing too many troubles! However, midnight in a guesthouse in Kabul is not the time to start bemoaning a lack of security accoutrements. I finally dropped off, only to wake again at 6am when everyone seems to get up, then on the ¾ hr mark thereafter, until 9.15, when I realized I actually needed to get up as the car was arriving in ten.

Samira and Mahmood clearly weren’t expecting me to gatecrash their weekend quite so spectacularly, and I think they thought I would be a lot more independent, whereas my rosy view involved a lot more participation activities with them. Still, they rose to the challenge remarkably, helping me with my return ticket, and rising early on their weekend to take me round town. What a trip. As perhaps I would be, they were fairly flummoxed as to what to show me, this being a city in recovery, and destruction not being high on their list of proud monuments. More a reminder of what they unfailingly refer to as ‘the fighting’. My ignorance insulted even me at moments though, as I realized how little I knew of the events that had been going on in Afghanistan over the last eleven to twelve years. Most of the destruction has nothing to do with the Americans overthrowing the Taliban. I expected anti-American sentiment, but encountered only a weary resignation to their presence, and a feeling of ‘let’s see’ about whether this time, an occupying power could actually do something to help. It was surprising how often we saw rebuilding that was accompanied by the phrase, ‘it’s the Germans’. That old ‘zee gerrrmaans’ quote drifting back from old war films seemed to be 180* in reverse here, an old western power quietly helping with the business of renovation, restoration, and building hope. You can see evidence of the first two all around the city, and I hope I saw the last. In the two hours we drove around, we counted 14 wedding processions, complete with Nissan sunny bedecked with red taffeta bows, swathes of white satin, and garlands of plastic flowers. Some backseats were clouds of bride and her bridesmaids devoured by their dresses, some were occupied by grinning boys, or quietly satified parents. All were happy, hopeful, looking forward.

It’s hard to describe Kabul. A sprawling metropolis of destruction, in the clean sunny mountain air, populated by a determined and positive population. We went to view the training centers that we are working with the UNDP on, they were stocked with the newest Dell computers, in spacious rooms, with a trainer who used to be an assistant to the Governor in Pakistan, and was the MD of his computer company, but on return was wooed by the UNDP and now can’t wait to leave. Sentiments probably not welcomed by the UNDP people standing around, but interesting to hear. We visited the embassy district, beautiful fortresses, surrounded by guards and gates. By this point, Mahmood was getting antsy, asking what I wanted to see, where I wanted to go next. Unfortunately I wasn’t pre-briefed by a handy Lonely Planet, so couldn’t give him any pointers, and we kept driving. I had spoken to a friend, Phil, who was here a few weeks ago, and he had mentioned a palace that was incredible to see. When I asked, they initially shrugged it off as destroyed, but it seemed to prompt a rather heated discussion in Pashtu. I didn’t push it, but the landscape began to change, as we left the city that stands, for the true face of the city that was. Neither of my hosts had ever been to the area, and were as shocked as I. We passed school upon school that was coated in bullet holes, burnt out shells of former regional centers of learning. One such school, Habiba High School was an impressive sight from a distance, retaining its structure and imposing elegance on the rubble around. When you get close you can see the scorch marks and rocket holes. Mahmood told us a story of how they paved the stairs to make ramps for the tanks, then drove the tanks in to make use of the vantage points above the city where they could target surrounding homes with greater accuracy. Their hit rate was still low, but for the soviets, it was an improvement. Later the school was used to launch hand held rocket launchers, when the tribes were fighting each other, and even later the Americans used it again as a vantage point to monitor any activity in the ruined lands it surveys. This was a school that attracted thousands of intelligent teenagers from across Afghanistan, and fed them into Kabul University.

The university was about half way along this road of burnt schools, and destroyed buildings. There had been a dramatic drop in the skyline – from two stories to two feet in places. Turning in to a tree lined avenue that could have graced any redbrick or ivy league in the west, was a stark comparison of the world outside, and a reminder of what had been. Why it survived as it has, I have no idea, as there is no other evidence that the warlords of the tribes had any fondness for learning or education of any sort. All around, students lie in the shade of leafy trees that I couldn’t name, blankly staring at sheets in a manner I remember so well from my own student days. The buildings seemed to be standing and, though very sixties, were functional and sturdy. Cisco has a networking center there, and the UNDP are working closely with the representatives of the University to ensure that the students have access computers, and the skills to use them.

As we left the university, we were immediately thrown back into the world of destruction. Opposite the gates, there is a statue. To be precise, there is half a statue, the top half has been blown away. Target practice, one assumes. The bottom half is beautifully inscribed with Pashtu script, I presume, as it is very similar to Arabic, or Urdu, but unfortunately I’m nowhere near expert enough to tell. Two minutes up the road is a crumbled cinema, with the front blown away apart from the sorry sign. The building next door seems to have slumped in defeat, stripped of its frontage, and the floors have cascaded downwards, held together by the metalwork of Mother Russia, and destroyed by American armour in the hands of the Muhajeen. I counted two families living in the shelter of these perilous walls, one on the ground floor underneath the compacted front supporting wall, and the other scurrying between ground and first floor, selling scraps from lurid plastic bowls amongst the dust and dirt of the pavement.

The markets we saw were another feat of human endurance and persistence. Teeming with the women in their blue burkas, they haggled over entire carcasses of lamb (I presume) which hung from the dusty rafters, open to the street and the flies and the drainage waters below. Ice cream stores were in the majority, and holes in the wall selling afghani bread could be seen around every corner. Afghani bread is a real treat, soft and thick, with bubbles of air, and soft chewy dough, it is the perfect cross between arab bread and a thick farm loaf, with bubbles like an Aero. Delicious. The food tends to be fairly simple and plain, unlike the spices of the Indians or Pakistanis, and without the Arabic tendency to grill meat, pulverize veg or pulses and mince herbs. I’ve eaten stew with rice since I arrived, all in the same tasty orange sauce, all that changes is the type of meat hidden inside.

Still, there was one element of the tour that really took my breath away. As we drew away from the ruins of the cinema and the family in their crumpled home, we turned a corner on which stood the biggest wreck I had seen so far. It was one of a series, as we were heading towards the old Russian district. First was the traffic ministry, the building I had seen on the corner. Next was the towering brick factory, an edifice with cousins in Manchester and Leeds, a throwback to the Industrial Revolution. This one was peppered with holes a meter and a half wide, and the top of its pale yellow sides were scorched. Apparently, they attacked in the middle of the day, when the workers were inside. The rockets splintered the sides, lit up the machinery, and the whole place burned. Quickly. And simmered for a very long time.

We were now traveling towards the palace. Just as Phil had described, from a distance, it is perfect, then your angle slightly changes, and you can detect some flaws in the roof. As you get closer, these grow into huge missing sections of roof, and there are some gaps in the front of the majestic façade. We drove to the very foot, and it was an awesome place. Through the wrecked outer walls, you can see sections of tiling still hanging on the walls, vibrant colors not diminished by their cracks or display case of brown cement in which they were set. It was built by the founder of Afghanistan, though whether he was the one that threw out the Russians, or the one that the Russians threw out, I couldn’t clarify between my two eager guides, still pointing out history through the window of our Datsun. Next to the palace are the remains of the Russian barracks, lines upon lines of ordered buildings, torched and shot to pieces. As Samira said ‘Annie, [bit of a name issue – I let it be] it’s not about the buildings, but about the people who were in them.’ She’s so right, and Kabul today is a testament to those who were left, and those who left then and have come back, though the situation is far from clear.

I’ve loved every minute of Kabul so far. The airport terrified me, and will again tomorrow as I sit there from 9am unsure whether I will be taking the 11am flight or the 3pm flight, or either, as my ticket originally said I was flying to Sharjah on the 15th rather than the desired destination of Dubai on the 14th. So we shall see where I end up. Wherever I do end up, I will be able to say, I’m so glad I’ve been.

2003-05-20T03:01:00.000-07:00

Feeling rather overworked today. I'm in that strange limbo state where my brain is actually on work, mostly (allowing for the fact that i'm currently taking some time in my lunch hour to surf the internet and discover how to lose weight by eating cheese and mayonnaise) and actually quite focused. For the first time in a job ever, i made plans for next year, plans that involved me still being in this job. Having spent most of my career planning my next leap, that was quite an odd revalation. Still, I haven't made it through this year yet, and the whole financial review thing is coming up which means no-one's job is secure. Such fun. I'm actually supposed to be planning at the moment, but my brain went dead, so i had to stop.
Having a quiet week this week, on purpose. Brandy dropped round last night, my carb facist kiwi neighbour and friend, she'd been out for chinese with the boyf and decided to stop in. She consoled me on the new haircut, as i had a sneaking suspicion i bore too much of a resemblance to liam gallagher for my liking, and was jealous of my flat, which is always nice. It's looking pretty good at the moment though, the carpet from karachi airport has made it much more of a sophisticated den rather than unfinished ikea rip off! And i love my bed, which is king sized with huge duvet that requires artic a/c to combat dubai heat, to get that perfect blend of 'i could be warm if i wanted to, but i'd rather have a cold nose and a toasty duvet to make me warm' Sad I know. But true. And ruinously expensive in a/c, so i may have to rethink my internal temperature luxuries. Tam is coming round tonight, for farewell pasta, should think we will discuss the world, and life, and i'll get advice from the scarily wise head of a twenty year old about to head off to university. Apparently modelling in dubai is boring. It'll make a great chat up line in clapham though. Sorry, hoxton is more her scene. I don't even know london any more. That's scary.
Decided i was homesick for anglesey again the other day. There's a guy i know, from across the straits, but living out here, and i decided that i'd marry him and have english/welsh babies, a landrover and a fleet of labradors, in a matter of thirty seconds. I repented, when i remembered what having cold bones felt like, but it's still there, a little kernel of an idea that won't go away. I thought that the theory went 'once an expat, always an expat'. Apparently it's closer to, 'fleetingly a welsh country bumpkin, crave to be a welsh country bumpkin'. Need to cultivate some working at home talents, as i'd go mad otherwise. Ah well, it's there to be pondered.

2003-05-19T03:40:00.000-07:00

It's officially been ages since i've updated this. Since mum left, i went through a quiet reflection stage, where i sort of morphed into my house, and started actually living in it properly, then a mad, don't want to be in any sort of box at all thanks, so am going to be super professional one day, slacker the next, boring film watching mate one night, and tequila downing dribbling fool the next. Quite pleased that stage has passed actually. Suddenly, part way through my manic taste of schizophrenia, work got serious, and i've been churning out news with the dedicaiton and vigour of a proper PR person. Part satisfying and part nauseating, at least i'm justifying my salary whilst the powers that be sit in darkened board rooms and crunch numbers. It's year end for us. Such an invigorating time of year.
I was in Pakistan last week, which proved to be the peak of mad activity, and i'm quite enjoying the slope downwards so far this week. As per usual, we didn't have enough time to see the city properly, we arrived tuesday evening, to meetings, had meetings from 8am till 11.30pm on wednesday (brain numbing presentations) and then up for 9am meetings pre midday flight back on thursday. So quite knackered. To say the least. My boss came with me, he's actually quite a legend occasionally - when he let's his guard down. It was well and truly down on this trip - when we were in the lounge before departure (business class - oh how the other half live - it was fab!) he announced that he and his wife are splitting up. They'd been to her parents house in Abu Dhabi for counselling discussions all day, which sounds akin to hot pokers in your eyes, as clearly their darling daughter was not to blame for any part of the breakup. All the way through, his extended family were ringing to say 'Never liked her anyway' and similar comments, which must have been really easy to reply to when faced with your soon to be ex wife and her furious parents. So he was fairly exhausted. As well as quite annoyed they hadn't kept it to themselves for a while longer till things were closer to one conclusion or another. He seems fairly decided though, which is a shame. She's really nice. But i'm not married to her. Or him. Both of which are very good things.
So Pakisatan, anyway. It's quite an amazing place. The buses are these rickety minibus affairs, though somehow taller than your average minibus. Though they actually look nothing like your average minibus. Except if you happen to have one with no windows, coated in gold leaf, rich red paint, tassles and ribbons attached and elaborate verses of the koran painted into the incredible melee of design and adornment that cover these moving works of poverty stricken asian artists. Otherwise known as bus drivers. The cars are ancient, handmade affairs, and put that recent ad in the UK where the guy hammers his car into the shape of a ... corsa? vw? audi? into complete perspective - they really do hammer their cars into shape in Karachi. The metal is like leather, it has been shaped and moulded so many times, it looks like you could form it with your hands. Again, few windows in these mobiles either. We had windows in our car, natch, being rich westerners. It's hard to take sometimes, and you wish that you could just be driving in something more fitting, but when you stop higgledypiggledy at a stop sign or traffic lights, and the beggars start banging their stumps where arms were on your windows, I'm glad we travelled in style. Lepers, handicaps, children, homeless, street vendors, everyone piles at your windows begging as you wait for the lights to change. I've never once seen them get as much as a rupee from anyone, not just us.
We never really left the hotel this trip, and i was actually quite gutted. I'm starting to build up contacts in the city now, people who could show me the real Karachi, but we never have the time, no matter how much time i build into the agenda. The MS team there sniff the gaps out and duly fill them, announcing their efficiency as I trot off to my room for a well deserved ten minutes lie down and fag break. You have to smile, you have to thank them, you have to hold the insides of your pockets tightly in your fists like a ball to stop said fists flying out and connecting, powerfully, with a well meaning grin. I did finally get a chance to shop though, in the airport, where i bought a beautiful silk carpet for half of what i would pay for it in the west, less than i'd pay in dubai, and twice what i should have paid in karachi. I was tired, i gave up on the bargaining. My boss sighed in disgust and walked out with three carpets, to my one, which he paid just over double what i did for. Which means he got a bloody good deal. And i just got an ok deal. Still, i got his booze entitlement at duty free, and the carpet looks beautiful. The perfect backdrop to the dead jasmine plants on my dusty balcony.
My friend lucy arrives in a month's time. I can't wait to see her, though it will be odd showing my life here to someone from home - what will she think? If she doesn't like it, will i doubt it? I don't think so, but can you know for sure? Still, we shall see. Have a top itinerary planned. Need more visitors to get to do all the things i want to see!!!

2003-04-29T07:26:00.000-07:00

We played tag team parents last night. As mum walked across the open walkway toward the departure gate, dad was sprinting (as well as a 50something yr old man with very few ligaments remaining in his left knee) towards her a floor below, and for ten minutes we were a family again, transported to Dubai. Most odd. Returned to the Irish Village where a few remaining mates were sitting outside, and thoroughly confused them. Walked out with mum and back in with dad, with minimal fuss and fanfare, which was the funniest part. They met the ex as well, which was a bit odd, and he was terrified. Possibly why he's an ex. He texted to say that dad was the spitting image of terence stamp, but i'm going to have to search for a pic on the internet to figure out whether that's a good or a bad thing. Also not sure if that was an olive branch or just the result of many beers, but that's poss the first text since we stopped talking. Which is an effective way to end a relationship i found.

Having a wonderful afternoon indirectly fighting with my GM. Possibly not the greatest of career moves, but as the days tick on, the positioning of this as a job rather than a career become even more firmly entrenched. He wants me to lie, i won't. Again - in PR this could be a career limiting move.

2003-04-27T22:28:00.000-07:00

MIA.
Mum arrived on the 18th, leaves tonight, perhaps i'll get brain space back again in a couple of days.

Must sleeeeeep. Shame it's 9.30am and i've got a whole day of work ahead.

2003-04-15T07:59:00.000-07:00

My old agency have lost the account i used to work on and i'm not 100% sure how i feel about that. They finish a week on friday and they're all out for a massive piss up. I'm actually quite jealous, it's sent me off down memory lane in a big way. There was this awful girl we worked with when i joined the account, resembled a troll in pretty much every way, including the spiteful and generally unpleasant nature. In an awful way, she meant i made friends with the team much easier, mainly because i was vaguely normal! Well, i hope that's right anyway! Jaaaaackie had moved to the states at about 18, as an au pair, then moved to a job working with our Austin office in Texas, on the same account. I think she lasted about 8 months on the account in the UK, before the lovely marcella replaced her. I'm so getting sentimental and remembering the good bits... arguing with leon for no particular reason and both of us enjoying every minute, lunchtime drinking in the sleazy pubs of darkest hammersmith, to return stinking of beer and fags and it not being a sackable offence. It's just a contrast to this office i guess, where the conversations being shouted across me are in urdu and hindi and arabic and farsi, as opposed to the simple selection of laaaandan and oirish... so no confusion at all. I'm a dab hand at 'tikk-ay' and 'khalas', mabrook and maaashaalaaaa.... but my conversational arabic sucks.
So here i am, in an empty office, waiting to dial into some pointless conference call, before i go home and cheer myself up by cooking random concoctions and doing my washing. What a glamourous life i lead. Maybe i'll call the boy adrian to add some spice to my evening. Or pester the ex. Had a wonderful time cooking up revenge tactics on the roof by the pool last night with the girls... I still have chris' key, so there were great bunny boiler suggestions flying around, cultivating in the suggested text 'surprise darling, you've got new carpets! Left the key with the nice camp man downstairs.' Or something. Sent at about 10am so he'd have all day to suffer. Nothing like a bitter breakup!
The telephone is beckoning, time to dial up and pretend to be professional again. Joy.

2003-04-14T02:13:00.000-07:00

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2003-04-13T06:14:00.000-07:00

Attempting to be productive today, but it seems I'm actually incapable. Which is a fairly terrifying thought, as i then worked out my current debt status, and i can't really afford to lose this job, much as it does my head in. Why i ever thought i could stick technology PR is beyond me. Possibly the most boring pastime in the history of the world. Head swimiming. Plus I've spent the day listening to Radio 2 and Radio 1 over the internet, revelling in that little taste of home. Can hardly complain, dubai is a beautiful, interesting and vibrant city, but a girl gets homesick sometimes. And this is one of those times. Hmm.

2003-04-12T05:27:00.000-07:00

I'm chewing my arm off with boredom. No-one seems to have noticed yet.

2003-04-12T03:49:00.000-07:00

What a weekend. Madness, drove an hour to the off license which is in the next city (you have to have a license to buy booze in dubai), went on a mission to buy a veil in karama, for the hen night following... which was a limo and champagne round all the bars in town. Had a small tantrum and abandoned the hen party at about midnight when they decided to go to a club i don't like, which was mature of me, and ended up with a friend, two random guys and a large tequila fetish. Woke up at 2pm the next day with the realisation that i had a lunch date for one, for lucy's birthday party, and managed to get there by about three, which was pretty impressive actually. It was a beautiful day though, there were about 40 of us on tables underneath a trellis of pink and white bouganvillia (sp?) by the pool, in the sunshine. Stunning. Chris, lucy's boyfriend, had organised party games to keep us all amused... pass the parcel, identify the celeb, tug of war (which the girls nearly won) and space hopper races - the funniest had to be british bulldogs though, with lucy's commentary.... and the fact that her dad kept trotting through the hoards of tackling boys as no-one would touch him.
Suffering horrendously this morning, which was not helped by the discovery that my brand new little car has been sodding clamped. This complete tragedy was only tempered by the fact it did go some way towards explaining why i was an hour late to work. My boss is sternly walking pacing past me every so often but i'm getting good at the alt/tab trick to flick programs so i actually look really busy typing a very boring proposal letter. Speaking of which, that was actually the most exciting thing about yesterday... lucy & chris got engaged.... which was completely excellent and just the best way to end a great day.
Men have confused me as well this weekend. The one i want doesn't seem to have noticed, and the one i'm not interested in seems very keen. Animal print ties and a tendency to make statements with dramatic pauses followed by ... NOT in true 80's teenager style. Hmm. Not the sexiest of characteristics. Ach well, shall perseve in making the other one realize my existence and see what happens. My mum is already choosing her hat for the wedding though.

2003-04-08T23:34:00.000-07:00

My house is not my own anymore. It seems to belong to a grown up individual with taste and decorum - someone who would choose pale gold sofas and be right... they look perfect. Someone with an interior decorator as a good friend. Still very wierd. Fortunatley, the sofas are very comfortable, and so at least, when lying on them, I can avoid being overwhelmed by their elegance and complete contrast to, well, me.
I shall have to start having manicures and frequenting Agnes B for my 'wardrobe'.

2003-04-08T05:02:00.000-07:00

I'm knackered. Properly head tottering, eyes closing, jawbreaking yawns knackered. I think it's probably to do with distinct lack of sleep and over consumption of the evil drink on the night before last, followed by the hellish combination of pointless meetings in a stupid location (abu dhabi) which only served to sour my mood more. Collapsed into bed around 11pm and grudgingly re-opened eyes a full 9 hours later, half an hour later than i was supposed to carry out this deceptively simple task. Opening eyes in the mornig is hard. And my strange work colleagues have decided that 7.30am is the perfect time to organise an aerobics class. Not that i have any desire to give my colleagues an insight into my fitness levels, how poorly i shave my legs even after nearly 15 years of trying, my fitness levels, how red my face goes after any sort of exertion (actually, not all sorts... never thought about that before. Shall have to focus my areas of exercise! Behave!) and quite how grumpy i am at 7.30am. And did i mention i hate aerobics. There's something innately wrong about doing sports with colleagues, somehow its a recognition of their frailties and parallel needs to be fit and healthy and the like. But somehow, people who cycle home don't elicit the same embarrassment. It's gyms. They bring out the worst in me.

So anyway, i'm graduating into the world of fully fledged expat status today. I finally get curtains, my sofas and my car. Which means those crooks at the rental company can stop bleeding me dry, my pervy neighbors will have to turn the tv on rather than watch me potter (how this is interesting i'm not sure, it's not like i'm doing naked picture hanging or window cleaning or something?). And i'll have somewhere to sit. Which is a bonus. Just need to get my booze license now, a tv and my satellite subscription and i'm all sorted. Quite what i'll do when i don't have a list as long as my arm of things to sort out I'm not sure... I need a hobby i guess. Ach well, shall extend the decorating of the flat as long as possible.

I'm tempted to launch into war shit. I'm not going to, my head hurts too much. Save that for another day. Shame Salem Pax disappeared - 'Where's Raed?' was an excellent site. Come back Pax, all is forgiven.

2003-04-06T03:46:00.000-07:00

My previously sunny mood has just crashed - amazing how a few words from a stubborn boss can create such mayhem. Beautiful calm sunny day today, with clear blue skys and warm air - perfect for sitting on the beach or having lunch on my balcony with few cares in the world. Instead I'm worrying about ad deadlines, journalists misquoting my execs, idiot editors misquoting global news releases and whether or not the local fake artists will have caught up with Hong Kong in time to kit us all out with those natty Louis Vuitton gas masks by the time the chemical weapons/SARS arrives.

My radio in my car is broken. I can only work both the clock and the radio display by pressing my thumb (and wierdly, only my thumb works) on to the LCD displaly while using my other hand to tune the radio in. Not the best idea when driving down the sheikh zayed road at 140km/hr. However, I managed to tune into something this morning, and had one of those bizarre out of body moments as I drove through the towers section of the road, listening to Saturday Night Fever's Staying Alive (staying alive). The towers is a section of highway leading into Dubai from Abu Dhabi that is lined on each side by skyscrapers. There's nothing behind them, or next to them, just about ten skyscrapers on each side of the road, leading down from the Emirates Towers, to the Dusit and Defense Roundabout. I have no clue why it is called Defense Roundabout, there's no sign, no landmark or map that shows it as this, but nevertheless, Defense roundabout it remains.

Again, work interrupts. Oh for an internet connection at home. Though perhaps maybe i should get a sofa and a mattress first. Priorities.

2003-04-05T00:46:00.000-08:00

It seems that this is rather more addictive than i'd previously imagined. As I hadn't really stopped to think about the limits of blogging, that's not a terribly illuminating statement. I have been pondering my next post most of the morning. Parts of me are tempted to go for the full on bio, then get into day to day, and other parts resist.

It's beautiful weather again. When the war finally kicked off, the sky was stormy and filled with sand, we had lightning and rain daily and the portents of doom predicted by the more religious in my little mixed up community really seemed to be coming through. So i'm sure said religious people are rather annoyed with the cool, dry, sunny paradise dubai now resembles. Must remember to get out and sunbathe before dave & sharon's wedding and the arrival of mother and aunt in a few weeks. Somehow the kudos of sporting a tan still lingers, even though it has lost the suggestions of holiday, escape, relaxation or freedom that a tan in a london office immediately shouts out.

I couldn't wake up this morning. Even after an early night, curled up on my bed (in the living room) watching a pirated chicago dvd on my laptop, I still couldn't wake up. The dvd was hilarious, not because of the film, which i found middling to slightly enjoyable (renee was all wrong) but more due to the hilarious subtiltes. As Catherine trills her way through the seductive 'All that Jazz' the subtitles read 'UndersTand Seargant Major there is jazzz' and similarly random phrases only very slightly linked to the film on the screen. Highly distracting but very amusing. Shall have to make a concerted effort to sort the flat this week, i've been living there a month and only just bought a bed (with no slats or mattress) and an wardrobe from the ikea warehouse sale. So i live in the living room on a creaky old bed, with the bar I had made for next to nothing by a local carpenter. A bed and a bar, some jasmine on the balcony and a load of mismatched ikea furniture and exploding suitcases in the bedroom. Domestic bliss.

2003-04-04T22:34:00.000-08:00

Hello world. Not that I expect a wide audience and general round of applause, but being new to this blogging lark, i thought i might start with a grand flourish. Unfortunately, it will have to be a short lived flourish this time as i'm at work, and i'm not entirely sure that blogging is in my job description. I could attempt to get it entered within, banking on cultural and language difficulties in translation to ensure that they finally gave up in frustration and allowed me to include this strange word in the list of tedious responsibilities, but perhaps justifying my deception if i ever got hauled up for using company time to blog ... may be a bit on the trickier side. Perhaps.

One other thing ... a big thankyou to mr peter kenny - one of my all time favourite people - for sending me his blog page (?) which promptly made me hugely homesick for the warehouse factory ... sorry large marketing agency ... where we used to work in a sort of team affair on the banks of the river in hammersmith. Top bloke though, with a top website as well... www.anothersun.co.uk

ciao, for now.