transient

i wake up in another hotel room and struggle to remember which country i am in, although i remember perfectly the project i am working on and what i need to do. i grab a diet coke out of the mini bar and open my computer. some minutes later, i trot down to another hotel breakfast and find myself again picking through the same food you get in every hotel in the western world. i lament that european hotels dont have the nice variety of australian and asian ones at breakfast. i would prefer some rice and vegetables, but in Europe i always end up settling for the eggs (they are always there, waiting for me in a metal trough). i will then pack my stuff, check out, go discuss fossil fuels, return to an airport and fly somewhere, check into another hotel and repeat the process.
i have left england at least once a week since August, and there have been several weeks i have only made it back to london at the weekends. i end up in the oddest of places, ones you would struggle to find on maps in peculiar corners of europe: Leeds, Tampere, Bilbao. it is a rather peculiar existence, but at least not a monotonous one....or is it?

On School Fees

Despite the predictions of many, until now I haven’t felt that the new government in the UK was a total disaster. I didn’t vote for them, casting my ballot instead rather unenthusiastically for Gordan Brown, but I didn’t think it was a huge crisis that the Tories went on to form the (minority) government. Cameroon didn’t strike me as having the harsh evil streak of Thatcher, and as they were forced into a coalition with the libdems, I figured they wouldn’t be able to do too much damage that would hurt the country in the long term. But it seems I was wrong. Of course it was obvious times of austerity were on the way, and the first of the announced cuts I could stomach. Higher taxes have not yet been purposed, but if they were, I would be fine with that. I am not, however, at all happy about the plans to allow universities to charge any fees they like. Having quality state universities accessible to all is, along with the NHS, one of the best features about England (and I say England, not Britain, as these laws do not yet apply in Scotland, thankfully). The universities here are not free, but by coming in under the £4,000 mark, they are just about manageable for all. I know- I took out a bank loan to pay for my own studies in a prestigious UK university. Even as it was, I didn’t bother applying to Oxford or Cambridge (although I was encouraged too) because I knew that the £4,000 fees + the “collage fees” that those two universities are allowed to charge would simply add up to too much for my budget. By the time I approached graduation, I owed so much money that I was essentially unable to look for jobs in academia, which had been my chosen career path. I would not have been able to accept an academic job and still pay back the money I owed to the bank. And that was when fees (+charges) came to about £4,000 a year. If they had been higher, such as some of the ridiculous £12,000 per year figures being floated, I simply wouldn’t have bothered at all, certainly not with a PhD. The price would have just been too high to justify. As it is, I worked two jobs, seven days a week for over two years to help pull down my loans. My family helped as much as they could. I have a job that pays over double the national average wage. Even so, I cannot at the moment, approaching my mid-30s- imagine getting a mortgage, the deposits in the current market are just too restrictive. So if I find myself in this position, I cant imagine how a graduate finishing 3, 4 years in the future will feel. They will be burdened with even more debt than I ever thought possible, stuck with a no-doubt still tight job market, destined to spend years grasping at straws to rise above the miseries of student-style life in the UK. Unless, of course, they happen to come from nice wealthy families, like David Cameron’s or George Osborne’s, who can pay their ridiculously high fees, and help them with that first-time buyer deposit on their house. As it was, I was always acutely aware at UCL of being a bit less well off than my peers: my parents earned less than most of my classmates, and I had been to mediocre state schools, not refined public ones, or even comprehensives. Someone like myself finishing school today would feel no doubt like a total outcast, if they made it to a top university at all. More likely, they will not. the imaginative will go abroad to more hospitable places, like Holland, Canada or Australia, or they will accept a place beneath their capabilities in England, or they might just decide that the supposed benefits of university don’t justify the grotesque costs, and if they did choose that, I certainly would not be able to blame them.

on French strikers and Chilean miners

France is my new Iceland- a country continually wreaking havoc on my travel plans. At least the Icelanders could blame nature, the French are making a mess of everything by themselves. Over the past several weeks, their air traffic controllers have been continually going on strike, causing a massive decrease in the number of planes allowed to fly over French airspace, and thus obviously causing massive delays around Europe. It was due to this that I found myself with a 6 hour delay this past week in Heathrow, as my flight to Madrid got caught up by the French mess. I was well annoyed, as I got to Madrid around 4am, when I had to be up again at 5:30 for an early meeting outside the city. I had dozed off a bit on the plane, once we had been finally allowed to board it, although I had heard the announcement that our flight was a code share with Lan Chile, and that the connecting Lan flight would be held in Madrid, as 40 passengers on our flight were connecting to it. but I was still amazed by what I saw as I disembarked my plane in Barajas: Chilean flags everywhere and people sobbing and shouting CHI CHI CHI, LE LE LE at the top of there lungs. In my tired state, and rather perpetual state of geographic confusion, I wondered for a moment if I might have got off in the wrong country. But no, our plane had parked next to the Lan one, and we disembarked just in time to see Florencio Avalos, the first miner to be rescues, emerge in the rocket like capsule from the bowels of the earth. It was an amazing moment, and as tired as I was, I was glad I could witness Chile’s tremendous accomplishment.

on Helsinki

Helsinki must be one of the most respectable cities on earth. Other than the occasional drunk, it seems nothing ever goes wrong in the place. Everyone appears in control of their destiny, safe in the security that comes with one of the world’s most efficient welfare states. The education system is routinely classed as the world’s finest, and the health care system is in the same league.
That said, many of my earlier comments about Dusseldorf apply here too. I could simply never live in such a civilised place. I am too much of a savage to handle this degree of tranquillity. Yet I will always have a soft spot for Helsinki, certainly more than for other equally civilised places (Dusseldorf, Stockholm). I came here quite a lot as a child and teen, first with my father and then, in my late teens, alone of with mates. In those days it was a pleasant break from some of the chaos in Russia, and it was very close to St. Petersburg where I lived at the time. Things in Russia were very complicated at the time, and Helsinki always represented a welcome combination of calm and material comfort. That said, although I know Helsinki well, I have never been comfortable in it, I don’t understand its rules, or the way the people think and function. A Finnish friend has tried to explain and give suggestions, but her suggestions I found puzzling, and they served mainly to highlight how little in know about this nation. For example, she stressed the fact that my presentations must be impeccable, well- rehearsed and structured, but then even if they are, I should not expect much feedback from the audience. In fact, the most probable reaction is that they all cross their arms and stare at their feet- but supposedly that doesn’t mean they didn’t like it. She also stressed the importance of demonstrating imperfection, especially inn front of other women. This cannot be displayed in any presentation or work- related context, but should take some personal form, such as complaining that the zipper on my purse or jumper has broken! I blinked incredulously as she showed me how to demonstrate this in a “discretely obvious” way which I found totally bizarre. But then I freely acknowledge my techniques don’t work, so I suppose I have nothing to loose by trying out her moves the next time I am there. I wonder if at some point the Finns will get suspicious is suddenly a whole host of foreign people start showing up with zipper trouble?

about a bear

In 1980, the Soviet union held the summer Olympic games. The games have gone down in history for generally all the wrong reasons, such as the US boycotting, but in general they were something of a success for the Soviet Union. Huge stadiums and hotels were built around the country, including the monstrous hotel Rossia, which at the time was the biggest in the world. Interestingly for games set in the heartland of Socialist austerity, the 1980 Olympics was also the first sporting event to launch a mascot that achieved large-scale commercial success as merchandise. Designed by childrens’ book illustrator, Victor Chizhikov, Misha the cuddly bear cub became the hero of the games, presenting a warm fluffy image counter image to that being broadcast in the (boycotting) West. Misha was used extensively during the opening and closing ceremonies, had a TV animated cartoon version of himself and appeared on several merchandise products. Despite his international fame, Misha for me was always personal. My father attended the games, whilst I stayed home with my mother, as I was only about 18 months old and unlikely to appreciate the significance of the event. In Moscow, however, family friends knew of my existence (I am sure my father presented them with all kinds of photos) and the mother of one of my dad’s friends wanted to give me a present, to remember the historic moment by. Inspired by the games, but unable to afford one of the official Misha bears being sold to the tourists, this Soviet babushka made me my very own misha bear. The outside of the bear she knit herself, and then stuffed it with cotton balls. She then knit bit warm eyes and a smiling face, as well as a little red heart over the bear’s chest. The result was a humble looking beast, and one just the perfect size for a small child to slobber on and drag around. And drag misha around I did. The bear made many trips to and from the Soviet Union and later Russia. I took him all over the place for over 30 years, stuffed in a variety of suitcases. His head got a bit wobbly over time, and I chewed off the heart at some early moment in our relationship, but until this past weekend when he was savaged by my kitten, Misha was a reliable companion. Although I realise a stuffed toy is just a bundle of fabric, I was still upset to find him on the floor, his stomach torn open and stuffing spread all over the place. Given the care and attention that went into making him, Misha deserved a more dignified ending. He will be missed.

on madrid

Madrid is growing on me. Until this year, it wasn’t a city I had much experience in, it was mainly just a stopping off point to change planes on my way to South America. I suppose Madrid isn’t the first, or second, place in Spain foreigners would head to. It doesn’t have the striking architecture and excitement of Barcelona, or the beaches offered by more southern destinations. At first glance, it is not even that pretty, and lacks the impressive monuments of even many provincial Spanish towns. Yet, it is somehow an extremely pleasant business destination. It has well developed infrastructure: the airport is extremely well connected to the centre by an excellent metro system, cabs are readily available and not ridiculously overpriced. The hotels and restaurants are equally of good value, so I can stay in a top hotel in the centre and eat in top restaurants without giving my company card abuse. Of course, that technically doesn’t matter- I could eat or sleep wherever I wanted in any city on company expense, but I still like the fact that a good meal in Madrid costs me €40, instead of €150 in Moscow. Actually, it is not even the meal itself, what I particularly like here is that it is somehow comfortable. Unlike in Moscow, there is no pretension and people are laid back and cool; unlike in Rome, things here actually work. In meetings in various companies it is the same: the people are polite, honest and friendly. They don’t spend ages attempting to calculate the cost of your suit (as in Moscow), pretend to be happy and friendly when they are not (Houston) or leave you with the feeling that you are attempting to keep a litter of cats in a basket (Rome, Milan). So, all in all, there is absolutely nothing extraordinary about Madrid, it is just a pleasant place.

on travel, again

When I was about 7 or 8, I sat down very seriously and composed a list of the places I wanted to visit. After some hours of concentration and a few consultations of my father’s massive atlas, I came up with about 200 spots around the globe, mainly cities. Over the next several years, I seriously ticked off places on the list as I got to them. Alas, the list came to a fitting end- disappearing along with the rest of my luggage on a Delta flight- but I remember the top 5 destinations being Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, Moscow, Mexico City and Bombay. I don’t remember the other 195 or so, but I think it was a relatively complete list.
I have now managed to make it to all those places that captured my 7 year old imagination, and yet there are still so many undiscovered places out there, which makes me think that, 25 years on, it is time to come up with a new version, albeit in a much abbreviated form…so here it goes:

1. Tokyo
2. Machiu picchu (Peru)
3. Seoul
4. Victoria Falls (Zim/Zam)
5. Shanghai
6. Iguazu Falls (Brazil, Argentina)
7. Addis Ababa
8. Beirut
9. Rajasthan
10. Cartegena de Indias

Lets see how long it takes me to get there….

aberdeen

The moment the taxi pulled up to the building, something felt familiar, but I figured it just had to do with being back in Aberdeen, which is indeed a familiar place. But inside my nose told me it was more than that. I find my sense of smell is greater than my other senses. Last February I found myself in a temple in China, where I had certainly never been before, but my nose was telling me I had. A wall plaque explained to me why- the temple’s refurbishing had been funded by Chinese in Canada, and the whole structure had been built in one particular type of Canadian Cedar from Algonquin, the same kind of Cedar as had been used to built the camp lodge I had spent four summers living in as a child, in Algonquin park. I knew that smell. The same weird feeling hit me in this lodge in Scotland, but it took my mother to explain it this time: I had stayed at that particular hotel as a child. After she pointed it out, it all fell into place and I could vaguely remember it all, but of course my memories are the fragmented memories of a child- I remember the big fat ginger cat I played with in the garden and skipping stones into the Dee…but I have no recollections at all of the building or surroundings. I stayed in so many places regularly as a child that now I can only just recall. I think it is the result of a highly mobile life that sees me in a different country nearly every week. I think this is why, even as a child I became obsessed with photography. When we were living in Cambridge (when I was about 8), my parents tried to get me to keep a diary, which I resented and hated, not least as every entry had to be written separately on notepaper and then submitted for their approval before being written in The Book. I quickly managed to get out of that duty, reassigning myself as chief family photographer. I have never managed to describe in words the sights and smells around me, and I am constantly terrified of loosing memory of places I have lived in or worked in. I photograph everything- flats, cities, people- as part of a desperate effort not to forget them. In the book The Beach, the main character goes on holiday deliberately without his camera, arguing that the obsession of some people with photography prevents them from living and thus remembering the actual experience in the moment. Maybe that fictional character has a point, and in many ways I agree with the theory. In university, I rarely took notes in class, because I felt I understood things better listening attentively without the additional distraction of writing everything down. Yet, especially on a geographic and visual level, I fear my memory is too fragile and abused to contain the amount thrown at it, so I try to capture everything on camera, hoping that when I look at it some years later, it will at least remind me of some earlier moment of my life.

a sunny place for shady people

Money and "correct" behaviour can hide a multitude of sins.
Tax havens, sunshine and flexible laws attract the wealthy and correct appearing shadys of this world. Somerset Maugham once famously described Monaco as a sunny place for shady people. the same phrase can easily be applied to Bermuda. But, even less than in Monaco, you wouldnt necessarily know that on the surface.
The surface seen by north american visitors on a 3 day cruise shop over is incredibly civilised. The people are all well dressed, in a formal and conservative way. in fact you can easily spot the tourists, as they stand out in their cheap, un-ironed clothes. yes, the men really do wear those shorts, but not in the same way people abroad do. Bermuda shorts in Bermuda are part of a whole ritual of dress. you cant just wear the shorts, you have to have the well pressed button up shirt, normally a tie and jacket as well, and ABSOLUTELY the socks. the socks come in a variety of colours- they are frequently navy or black, but other colours can be seen too, especially if they match the shirt or tie. the shoes are always formal, quality leather shoes, never sandals or trainers. all in all, it is intended to be a formal look, and it is worn in all occasions, although i have to say that seeing a squad of HSBC bankers going on their lunch break looked rather like a group of colonial school boys from, say, South Africa, than the men they actually were. the women are equally formally dressed, although never in those shorts. there is little obvious poverty. housing prices are absurdly high even by London standards, yet people can afford it as average salaries are among the highest in the world and there is no income tax. the people are exceptionally polite, greeting you in stores and even wishing you a pleasant day randomly on the street. I could go on: the beaches are pristine, the restaurants excellent, albeit expensive....but that is not of course the whole picture. dodgy people abound as well, discreetly hidden by the civilised exterior that covers the very serious underworld. For tourists, Bermuda is one of the safest travel destinations in the world. but the day i arrive there is a drive by underworld shooting. some days later, a suspected murdered is busted by secret police, just as the british airways jet he was on was taxing on the runway, preparing for take off. someone i know tells seriously dodgy stories of drugs, prostitution and rape in some of Hamilton's most exclusive properties. someone else describes being confined to a well-known 5 star resort under police protection ahead of a court case.
despite pristine appearances, colonial school boys, it seems, sometimes run amuck.

travel disasters

My dear friend H has recently started a new section to his mammoth travel blog/ web page on travel disasters.
my little blog here is no where near to being as comprehensive as H's, but i was inspired by his idea to add a few dodgy memories of my own. so reviving my old passion for lists, here we go:

1. Srpsko Sarajevo, 2003
it all happened in broad daylight, just outside the bus station where you get the buses to Serbia. i was talking to C on the phone and was preoccupied by the story she was telling me, so that i didnt see the fist flying into my face. by the time my head was upright again, there was already a knife at my neck. blood was everywhere, but fortunately i later realised it was coming from my nose. in the end it was a simple robbery- they took my phone, my money, and whatever else the could grab. fortunately i was paranoid enough that my passport and bus ticket out of the country were in a secret pouch near my ankle. so i got on the bus back to belgrade, shaking and covered in blood. no one sat near me, although it was pretty crowded. back in Belgrade i had no money to get to Novi Sad, no phone to call my friends. so i walked to the Russian embassy where i knew people who knew people. they gave me some money, and the officer shook his head "it is those damn Muslims" he moaned. I, somewhat surprised, pointed out i had been in SRPSKO Sarajevo. the illustrious diplomat answered: "yes, i know, but you see those Muslims, they dress up like Serbs and beat up people to make our Serbian brothers look bad in front of foreigners." i am not sure which part of this anecdote is the worst.

2/a. Vukovar, June 2002
nothing bad happened to me here, as ever horror had already struck. the buildings were shattered. every street was destroyed. H and I wandered into an empty house, and on the shot out wall across from us, totally riddled with bullet holes, was a half blown up picture of Jason Donovan, the last sign of humanity left.
2/b Abhazia, July 1999
Russia might claim to have fought a war for this in 2008, but it was already functioning as a russian puppet state in the 1990s. I bribed my way across the boarder and wandered what had once been a beautiful resort town...but war had cleansed it of 80% of the original population. by 1999, it was full of the elderly, combined with Russian soldiers and prostitutes.

3. Dorval Airport, US side, December 1999
Flying from Canada to the US, you have to cross the boarder whilst still in the Canadian airport. it was thus fortunate that i was still sort of inside Canada, when the pile of Cuban stamps were found in my passport, and it somehow surfaced i had been giving, um....interviews, on Cuban TV. my right to do so, but the guards disagreed.....after several hours of questioning, i bolted back to the civilised side of the airport...enough said on that one.......

4. Rio de Janeiro, April, 2008
one of the ladies my dad was travelling with dies on the trip. unfortunately she died on a Saturday morning and hours are spent trying to navigate the Brazilian bureaucracy- at the weekend. A doctor had to come to certify she was dead, then a coroner had to show up, then embassy staff and so on, with the hotel staff fluttering about incessantly and complicating things further. Some one had to sit with the body the whole time, as we were constantly afraid one of the officials would try to steal her jewelry or cash (she had a lot of both)
i think my lasting memory of Rio will be trying to maintain a straight face, whilst attempting to speak portuguese and corpse sitting.

5. some autoroute in Western Europe, Easter Break, 1992
I am famous for my week bladder. but the time i was on a school trip, on a bus with no toilets, stands out. i really had to go, and ended up doing so on the side of the road, with my entire class watching and taking photos. this incident has repeated itself in other geographies, and i am sure most people who know me will have some similar story, but happening in the company of cruel teenagers was the worst.

6.Cambridge, June, 1999
on a walk with my parents in nearby Granchester, we are forced surreally to make polite conversation with Jeffrey Archer and Margaret Thatcher. it doesnt get worse than that.


7. Aberdeen, April 2010
Icelandic volcanic ash leaves me stranded in Aberdeen, where it SNOWS. i try desperately to get tickets on the overnight train, bu there are none. i end up eventually taking the scenic route back via edinburgh, but not before i get force fed enough deep fried pizza and fried mars bars to make me feel like death. mainly i was alone and bored...for days.

8. Paris- Cambridge, September 2005
I made this trip with my unhappy cat. the key low moment was trying to clean vomit off her fur in Dover's port, with English louts wandering past shouting "nice pussy." she had been sea sick.

9. Glavna Bolnitsa Novog Sada, July 2004
my appendix explodes and i end up having emergency surgery in provincial Serbia. everyone has heard this story already, but it still ranks up there!

10. The Ice Storm, Montreal, January 1998
ice freezes everything and all of Montreal looses electricity, running water and heat. temperatures fall subzero and we all are forced to sleep with each other in the hallway of our building, wearing all our clothes. we cant go to the toilet, but then there is nothing for us to eat either. eventually the Canadian army shows up and brings us blankets and portions of poutine, Quebec's contribution to the world of culinary horror. the situation lasts for over a week.

11. Algonquin park, July, 1987
I am on an off-base 5 day excursion from summer camp meant to teach us wilderness survival skills when a bear steals all our food supplies. the "guides" meant to be leading us (who were about 17 or so) dont want to go back to the main camp and admit that it had been their foolishness that caused the problem. so we canoe over to a campsite where lots of tourists go to set up camp, and the guides send me to beg for food, because i am the youngest and smallest and they think i will get the most. for the next several days i feed everyone else on bread and peanut butter i get given by strangers. possibly the most humiliating moment of my life.

Gulliver's travels in Madrid

My trip to Madrid was logistics nightmare. For some reason, flights from London to Madrid are always overbooked and outrageously expensive. When I tried to book last week, in order to get to a meeting, the cheapest ticket on British Airways or Iberia was over 1500 pounds- I could have gone anywhere else in Europe for less. Or, the company travel agent said with reservation….i could go on Easyjet, for £400. the choice was mine.
I am not a huge Easyjet fan, but I used to travel it a lot as a student, and I hate wasting money stupidly. Furthermore, service on Iberia is never great, and lately it has been pretty mediocre on BA too, so I accepted the Easyjet ticket.
The moment I arrived at Gatwick I started to regret my decision. There was one queue for all Easyjet flights, and it was immense. It took over an hour to get through it, and it was filled with predictably scary people, mainly headed for the south of Spain. The girl in front of me was loudly munching crisps, whilst the girl behind me pondered whether she could get a real tan on top of her spray tan. I cringed and put on my ipod. Then I got to the front of the queue, with the same hand baggage I use for every overnight business trip- a small carry on bag and my computer briefcase. No airline- Iberia, BA, Lufthansa, Norwegian Air- has ever objected to this….but Easyjet insisted that I had too much luggage and would have to check the computer bag. I complained that I did not feel comfortable checking a computer. So eventually it was decided that I could carry the computer- but I still had to check the empty computer bag, for an extra cost of £10 pounds, which I did.
and the flight was 1.5 hours delayed, and when I arrived in Madrid, well after midnight, the briefcase was missing. So I went to the hotel, and later went to my meetings carrying my computer in my carry on luggage, feeling slightly ridiculous. I got a call in the middle of the day saying my bag had been found, and decided just to pick it up back at the airport on my way home.
So I got back to Barajas, picked up my bag, and was of course then informed that I would still have to pay another £10 pounds to check it empty again on the way back to London. And as the guy was checking me in, he noticed the flight was almost 2 hours delayed. At this point, even the Easyjet staff seemed a bit embarrassed for their horrible service, and decided to make a kind gesture. “we would like to give you a bear” the man told me. Since no one had said anything similar to me since I was about 10, I imagine I must have looked rather puzzled. But sure enough- they handed me a little brown bear, dressed in an Easyjet shirt, telling me his name was Gulliver, and that he would bring me luck on the trip back. At this point, I was just hoping to make it home in one piece, but I thanked the guy and accepted the bear.
It was, it seems, an excellent gift.
I got back to London Wednesday and told my colleagues, who seemed incredulous that an airline would offer a teddy bear as compensation to a grown woman in a suit.
So on Thursday, just to prove I was not crazy, I brought in the bear and put him on my desk. Within an hour, a deal I had been working on for over 6 weeks was accepted. The next day another came through and the bear was becoming an office celebrity.
He is now seated on my desk, and it has been concluded that he will now go everywhere with me. Thank you Easyjet, it seems Gulliver is indeed a lucky bear!

in defense of BP- sort of

Over the past two months, BP has turned into everybody’s favourite whipping boy. They stand accused of negligence, eleven direct deaths, the destruction of an entire ecosystem, and the loss of a way of life for thousands of Americans. People in the fishing and restaurant industries have lost their jobs. Birds and fish are dying by the thousands or showing up on the shores of Louisiana coated in oil.
Is BP guilty of all of this? Yes, absolutely. But it is hypocritical and wrong for people and the Obama administration to single BP out for blame. It is even more ridiculous to paint them as some British neo-colonial force acting in American territory. BP is a massive multi national organisation, with 40% of its shareholders based in the US. It has no real nationality and is about as British today as Shell is Dutch. Furthermore ALL oil companies I know have blood on their hands. BP was simply unlucky it got caught on camera.
Contrary to what you might imagine reading the papers at the moment, oil spills are not uncommon, and this one is not the largest. Thousands of barrels are dropped into the ocean every year by container ships with faulty stabilizers alone. Whole cultures and peoples can be wiped out in the interest of western oil companies in places like the Nigerian Delta without anyone in the United States objecting or even hearing about it. safety standards in rigs offshore in Asia and Africa are abysmal and people die- but the lives of Pilipino or Malaysian offshore roughnecks are cheap and their deaths go unreported. In the name of oil, in reality if not in technical terms, The US has gone to war (Iraq being the prime example) and Western mercenaries have staged and/or attempted coup d’etats aimed at overthrowing third world governments sitting on oil reserves (such as in Equatorial Guinea, whose conspirators included an assortment of South African mercenaries, British aristocrats and even Mark Thatcher). But again, these things tend to happen in places like West Africa where journalists are few and lives are cheap. Shell, Chevron, Conocophillips, BP- they are all guilty at some moment or another of atrocities somewhere and until now, the US government has never objected- remember Sarah Palin in the last election shouting “drill baby drill”? they are only objecting now as the results of that drilling is washing up, literally, in their back yards.
Regardless of the agonized hand-wringing taking place at the moment in the US congress, these sorts of accidents are going to become more frequent. We are slowly running out of oil. What is left out there is going to be further offshore, and greater depths, and in increasingly hostile environments. Such reserves will be more expensive to recover, and these companies with both need to raise prices and cut costs in order to get them. And yes, more people will die for oil. And the die for oil because of our collective western greed, but American greed above all. The US consumes more oil than any other country by an enormous margin. It is predominantly to feed US demand that villages in Nigeria get exterminated, and it was to feed US consumption that the Deepwater Horizon was drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. If Americans are truly upset about the oil washing up on their shores, they should start petitioning now for massive tax increases to fund the creation of effective public transport networks that could help reduce their dependence on cars as well as to research alternative energy sources for the future. I don’t, however, see that happening.

on business travel

Many of my friends, especially those who went on in academia, assure me I have a glamorous life. I suppose they get this impression as frequently when they call me I am somewhere abroad, or when they they meet me in the pub and ask me what I did that day, I say I went to Rome or Aberdeen or something similar. One of my flatmates is the same, every time she hears I am off somewhere she gets excited (“oh, rome, how romantic, you must go to the Vatican…”) when I get back and tell her that I didn’t see a single place of cultural interest, she looks at me as though I were some sort of philistine or Neanderthal, always with the implication that SHE would have managed to see such places if SHE had been there. But the truth about it all is that corporate travel is mainly just boring. Most of my time is spent killing time away in airports, most of which look the same (I am sitting now in Dusseldorf, terminal A, with a stunning view of the sun slowly setting over an Iberia 737 that is parked in the gate opposite- really romantic scenery that) when I am alone I read and write, which isn’t that bad, but is certainly far from being romantic or glamorous. When I am with colleagues or my boss, we normally end up in the airport bar, generally talking rubbish or watching the football/rugby/whatever-is-on. What my flatmate fails to grasp no matter how many times I try to explain it is that travelling for work is fundamentally different than travelling for pleasure. My company books me a tight schedule so as not to waste my time and consequently their money. Yes, I have a nice fat expense account, but it is not for pleasure. Don’t get me wrong- I would much rather be travelling than in the office, not for the travel itself, but because I like to meet people in their native setting and have negotiations on their terms. And…..well, anyway, enough for now, it is boarding time.

germany

I have never much liked Germany. It is hard to pin down the reasons as to why. Maybe it is for the same reasons I never liked learning German at school- it is close enough to my own language to be recognizable, but then just when I am nearly tricked into some sense of affinity, I realise it is actually rather different, get annoyed and cant be asked anymore. Or maybe it is just embedded in my DNA, I am not sure. I am certain however that if I spent more time here I would probably be arrested. I manage to break every rule, and I do it without thinking- like crossing the street when there are absolutely no cars coming in either direction, but the light just happens to be red. Some concerned citizens pointed out my error today in best pedantic German fashion. They seemed as puzzled that I would actually be breaking such an obvious rule as I was that they should actually be dressing me down for it. pedantic, concerned citizens annoy me (I mean surely I should be allowed to risk my life crossing the street where I feel like it, and in any case THERE WERE NO CARS) I am reminded here of a story a former professor once told me. Just after the collapse of the Soviet Union, she was offered a visiting professor position in Edmonton, which she described convincingly as the Siberia of Canada. So off she went. At the end of the year, she was offered a contract to stay on as a permanent member of staff, with a decent Canadian salary, at a time when academics in Moscow had essentially been reduced to dire poverty and were often dependant on taking bribes from students to get by. Despite the generosity of the offer, she declined and returned to Russia. When I asked why she said “kanada, eto strana kak apteka”- Canada is like a pharmacy: so clean and sterilised that you could eat your dinner safely off the floor of any public toilet, and my poor professor returned to Moscow with the desire to kiss the first stinking, drunk homeless bum she could find. In one of my favourite stories of the Russian experience in Canada, she was leaving the office late one night (still working Russian-style hours clearly) when a police officer approached her. Like a good Soviet citizen, she immediately gave him her passport, no doubt to his great confusion. He then told her it was very late for a woman to be walking alone- could he escort her to her car? She was too scared to object, and was convinced he would rob her as soon as she got to the car. But when they made it to the car, he just opened the door and wished her a pleasant evening and went off on his way. She naturally became convinced he was a spy sent to monitor her activities.
A slightly absurd example, but I understand that professor’s logic, hopefully without the unnecessary paranoia, as it is basically how I feel everytime I am in germany. The various rules, written and unwritten, are so numerous and so rigid that I feel inclined to rebel, or at least to start questioning them. In its obsession with tradition and ritual masquerading as genuine rules, Germany is actually far closer to France than it is to Britain. But it is somehow even scarier, as the Germans are more efficient than the French at following their national written and unwritten codes.
Walking around Dusseldorf, it is clear to see that all the international studies indicating that this is one of the most affluent cities in Germany, with one of the highest living standards in the world, are no doubt correct. The transport is efficient. The streets are spotlessly clean and the offices immaculate. Walking along the Rhine and coming in from the airport, I can see endless blocks of flats of the quality you hardly ever find in England, and when you do, they are reserved for the ultra-rich. In Dusseldorf, it seems such structures are the norm. everyone looks prosperous and healthy. It drives me insane. Give me Moscow any day over this!

on black bread

Unlike me, my father is a proper Scot. He claims bargain hunting is simply engrained in his DNA. Once in Manila we walked by a Diesel shop and my father said “lets go in and see what is on sale” although there was no obvious sign of any sale. Some 30 minutes later, after intense negotiations, we left with several leather belts which had been 40% off, and which my father talked down further until they became 60% off. I am wearing one now. He can haggle anyone vendor down by some margin: even if he doesn’t speak their language, he uses facial expressions to mysteriously push down the price.
At home where he lives he is something of a known quantity. He can tell you the price of anything in any local supermarket, and he knows every offer on at any moment. When he travels with me, we end up in random conversations, and sometimes even going for drinks with people he has met whilst discussing prices. I once left him alone in Punta Arenas, Chile for about 10 minutes, and when I came back he was drinking a coffee with some Chilean pensioners, discuss the price of salmon. My friend Conar noted that discussing prices is the Scottish generic conversation equivalent to the English standard comments on the weather. He might be right, but I maintain my father is an extreme case.
Yet what baffles me is his blind spot when it comes to Russia. Every time he visits me in Britain (which is rare) he complains endlessly about how overpriced everything is. But he consistently refuses to believe me when I complain about overpricing in Russia. His Russia is frozen in time, somewhere back in the Brezhnev era. When I try to persuade him, he claims I find it expensive because I live in a business traveller bubble. Maybe. But I am the same business traveller in Moscow that I am in Rome, Paris or Madrid- and Moscow is way more expensive than any of those. If I persist in my views, he insists that if only HE were there with me, he would ferret out good bargains. The last conversation on the matter ended with the argument ending declaration “well, you just don’t understand because you never faced down Adolf.” Once any conversation moves to the War, I know it is time to change topics.
Now I have decided to take scientific measures to prove my point. In doing so, I have been partly inspired by my childhood friend C. C works for some government agency (I forget which) and she monitors inflation. This involves getting pensioners, much like my father, to go around supermarkets and note down prices. If the pensioners she recruits are anything like my father, they were probably doing this anyway- C just makes sure they get paid for it. Presumably this information then gets compiled into some sort of database for government purposes. My aims however, are strictly personal. So I have started gathering receipts from grocery trips to different cities and taping them into the little black book I always carry on me. I then use it as concrete evidence to demonstrate to my father that he is allowing nostalgia to warp his bargain drive. Yet despite the presence of concrete evidence demonstrating that rice cakes in central London cost 85p, whilst in central Moscow they are £3.30, my father still refuses to accept my argument. “Man does not need rice cakes. If you had lived through the war, you would have looked at the price of black bread.” Probably I should give up, I sense this is a battle I shall never win.

moscow

It has been a long time since I was last here- too long in fact. It has been an even longer time, seven years to be precise, since I left Russia to study in Hungary. But the moment I arrive it feels like I still live here. Some things simply never change. I lock in to Moscow mode. I have been told I am a different person when I am here- I am not, I just use different parts of myself to function. But being back makes me realise acutely both how much I have missed Moscow, and why I will probably never live here again. As one (Russian) girl in my office put it- everything in Russia is great- except sometimes it makes you want to cry. I think of this as I go to my first meeting. In addition to my business card, reception takes and photocopies my passport and migration card- all of which are studied with more attention than I suspect my actual company materials will be. I then have to fill in several forms, all of which need to be stamped. I am then given an entry pass, and an armed guard escorts me through the building to the section I need to be in. fortunately I anticipated this and arrived at the office complex 15 minutes early to allow time for the procedure. This is quite efficient in many ways- one of the companies I am meeting tomorrow needed me to scan and fax over all my passport details 48 hours in advance, and I am sure there will still be piles of forms to fill out tomorrow when I arrive. At least I am used to this. I could have taken a consultant from my company with me, but chose not too on the grounds none of them speaks Russian. This is true, but another part of the reason was simply that I cannot imagine explaining this sort of thing to one of my British colleagues. I cant imagine taking them around on the metro and trying to explain its wonderfully efficient system, which is super user-friendly and well-signed posted….in Russian. And I certainly cannot imagine trying to explain the situation when I arrived in the airport and ran back in forth between several queues in an attempt to get through passport control within an hour or so, hindered by the people in front who would invite the 20 friends who materialized out of no where right as they approached the front of the queue and suddenly gained the right to go first.
In the evening I go for an incredibly delicious Korean feast with old friends. We drive through the city with its bright illuminated streets and wide avenues. We reminisce about the past, laugh, drink beer and eat kimchi and I am reminded what a special city Moscow is, particularities and all.

Aberdeen

Amazing how dependant our world is on air travel, so much so that 6 days without it can create unprecedented chaos, and touch so many people. One friend was meant to be the best man in a wedding ceremony, which he obviously missed. A colleague was stranded in Rome and had to take a several day trip, patching together cars and trains to get back to London. Another colleague got stranded in Dubai, whilst changing planes on the way from Tokyo to London. I ended up commuting by train between London, Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Aberdeen is the oil capital of the country. My father was raised in a satellite town 20 kilometres or so out in the countryside to the West of city, and in those days it was a sleepy backwater place, poor by even Scottish standards. Most of the lads my father grew up with planned to work on the land after school. Secondary school was voluntary back then, and my father was the only boy from his year who chose to go. The others didn’t really see the point. No one imagined that oil reserves would be found offshore, but they were in the 1970s, transforming Aberdeen forever.
That said, it is still a fairly bleak place, albeit an expensive one. As I arrived in the evening it was snowing, although it is late April and Spring in London. But then Scotland is known for condensing all four seasons into a day, rather than stretching them over the course of the year as the rest of the planet does. Sure enough, it was sunny for a few hours the next afternoon, although still blisteringly cold. For reasons beyond my comprehension, the entire core of the city was built with granite, giving it a gloomy grey colour to match the sky. But most of my meetings take place on industrial estates outside the city centre. From the outside, these estates look pretty grim, but that hides the activity that takes place on them, and the incredible sums of money being pumped about. Equally surprising is there multi-national character. Over the course of any given day, I find myself talking to Texans, Norwegians and Mexicans. But, unlike in most European cities, the cab drivers are all locally born, and astonished when they discover my local origins. One fellow driving me out to a meeting in Dyce was only two years younger than my father, but had gone to school a couple of towns over. He marvelled at my exotic accent, especially when I told him that my (adoptive) grandfather had been the headmaster of the school in Oldmeldrum. “You sound like a real Australian!” the taxi driver marvelled, and I didn’t bother complicating the story by correcting him. But it turned out that Australia was more on his mind than in my accent- he and his wife had thought of moving out there in the late 50s, during the Australian government’s “bring out a Briton” programme. Passage was apparently only 10 pounds a head in those days, and nearly all who went got land. The taxi drivers eyes got misty, looking out in the distance to the future that never materialized: a ailing father in law, the birth of children, a minor job promotion….and in the end they just never made it out there. “Just think, if I had gone, my grandkids would all sound like you” the driver said with a forced laugh, whilst I thought that if my father had stayed, I would no doubt be speaking proper Doric myself, instead of my bastard hybid tongue. The driver and I sat in silence, I guess each imagining how things could have been, had different decisions been taken half a century ago.

image making

so off i trot to the gym. I am asked if i would prefer a male or a female. i choose a male on the assumption that any female in such a job must surely be a bitch, whereas any male doing such a thing must be gay. gay men are easier to get on with an normally have better taste, so i went for the male option. the night before the appointment, harry is in town. he bursts out laughing and describes in detail the person he thinks i will be meeting: totally gay, probably latin american or arab. he proceeded to describe exactly what would happen and how. I doubt harry has ever gone through such a process, but he clearly knows what he is talking about. I showed up at my new gym last night, just in time to see Joao, my new personal trainer, prancing towards me. thats right, prancing. i have to admit, joao is lots of fun and he makes me laugh, which is just as well as the initial tests indicate i am way more out of shape than i thought. i had figured that biking around everywhere would at least keep me fit, but evidently not. although my BMI is excellent, i did poorly on most of the tests. Furthermore, after a 45 minute work out, i confess that i woke up today barely able to move. and here i have to grudgingly admit Joao the uber gay brazilian knew his stuff. he analyzed my body and proceeded to select exercises that hit every one of my (numerous) weaknesses. he came up with activities i had never heard of, and managed to exercise muscles i didnt even know i had- although i certainly feel them all today. and he did all this with a huge smiling and flying jazz hands. He also recommended i train in boxing, correctly concluding it was well matched to my personality. so we spent a good while in the boxing arena, as he taught me some basic moves. fortunately here i was not quite so lost. like most Scots, i know how to fight. the more he teased me dancing around the ring, the angrier i got and the harder i punched. it felt good.

again, london

when i land at heathrow, i know what i have to do.
i am totally broke. i need money. i need a better paid job.
i know a guy in the city with connections. i make a phone call. within a week of arriving i have interviews. then second rounds. IQ testing, which is helpful cause i know how to pass tests. 2.5 weeks after landing i have an offer. high pay. high stress. and i accept because i have no choice. bills are mounting and they need to get paid.
so the party is over. i have a phd but there are no academic jobs out there.
back to the City i go, it is time to make money.

on how i became a rice farmer, temporarily

I eat a lot of rice. I have always enjoyed it, but after I fell ill again in 2006, the NHS team assigned to me in Cambridge designed a special diet aimed at controlling my health mainly through diet, and at the base of that diet was rice. The diet has been a successful, and I have been healthier since then since at any other point in my life, increasing my love for both the NHS and rice.
And so I find myself in Indonesia, surrounded by endless green rice fields, and inevitably I grow curious. A locally based American anthropologist explains it is the world’s most labour intensive crop, requiring months of work. So I decide to give rice farming a try, to see if I can sustain the amount of physical labour the locals seem to be putting in. the answer, in short, is I am a weakling. I try various aspects of it. The first time I climb into the watery field to start planting rice is a shock. I had seen the water-filled fields from the road, obviously, but I had imagined such rice fields as some sort of mini-pool structures. Of course I realized that there was certainly some earth/dirt/mud at the bottom of those fields, but that didn’t not prepare me for what happened when I climbed in a rice field for the first time: I sunk almost up to my knees in thick mud, loosing my balance and nearly falling over. More surprising still, the mud was extremely hot, almost like some thermal therapy treatment. Unable to understand the instructions being given to me, the locals and I resort to sign language. So I copy them by taking 3-4 of the sprouts at a time and sticking them in the goo below at what appears the correct space, horizontally and vertically. After completing one section comes the task of stepping backwards in that goo, which proves harder than it had looked when I had been observing from the grass footpath above, but I manage without falling over in the mud, which is my constant fear. it is backbreaking work, literally, as you must remain bent over the entire time. The novelty of the experience quickly wears out and my back starts to ache and burn in the 35 degrees heat. Then, predictably around 4pm, the rain starts. It feels great for about one minute, then the drops start splashing on the mud-goo, which bounce and coat my face and shirt with mud. Afterwards, I wash up as much as possible in a stream, but I suspect the mud under my toenails might prove to be permanent. Back at my hotel, the staff are horrified. “you were in a rice field? With INDONESIANS?” shrieked my attendant in horror, adding that he would NEVER resort to such activities (despite being both Indonesian and the grandson of rice farmers, by his own admission). The next day I am allowed to plow another field with the cows. Once I get used to the creatures, I find this really fun, although even messier than planting the seedlings. After less than 5 minutes and one turn of the patch, I am covered to the waist in mud, but I cant stop giggling. Probably even the cows think I am insane, which could well be the case.
Each plot can sustain 2 crops of rice a year. In some areas, a third, different, crop may be planted on the same turf for another part of the year to replace the lost nutrients. Rice is a labour intensive crop that relies on back breaking human labour. Incredibly, a bag of rice in the supermarket in Indonesia costs more than it does at Tesco’s in London, and that somehow seems horribly wrong.