Views contained herein are mine alone, and not representative of MSF.

It has been three weeks since I arrived in Zimbabwe for the cholera emergency, and I find the country even more fascinating as each day passes. The country is both beautiful and depressing at the same time. Gorgeous buildings built at the turn of the last century left unmaintained and falling into ruins, suburban mansions contrasted by high density townships with no or little running water except the sewage flowing through the streets, huge tracts of what used to be productive farmland now in disarray and being reclaimed by bush. This is a country that is most definitely not what it used to be.

When I arrived, most of the conversation evolved around the outbreak in Kadoma, a town about two hours away from Harare. One of our mobile assessment teams came to the town and found a cholera treatment centre completely overwhelmed by patients. This prompted an rapid reaction of both supplies and personnel to aid the clinic.

A German nurse, who was there during the peak of the outbreak, described it to me, "It was horrible. The Cholera Treatment Centre was so full it had patients lined up outside with their drips just hanging on the fence ... There were people just lying on the floor, on the road, in a footbath, even in the wheelbarrows they arrived in ... Many were lying in their own vomit and diarrhea. It. Was. Just. Horrible."

The MSF team helped put up a few tents, including on the road in front of the clinic, but it was quickly obvious that a bigger centre was needed, and so the search for a better location began. For a short while, a Cholera Treatment Centre, or CTC in MSF parlance, was set up in a commandeered school, but it could not be used for long. Information was then received about a football field near the area heaviest hit by the epidemic. The team assessed the situation, and the Congolese water and sanitation officer announced, "Drop me here, and pick me up in an hour. Just leave me a notebook and a pen."

An hour later, the team picked him up. The Mobile Team Coordinator told me, "He is a maestro. In that hour he planned out a textbook CTC, literally: It is exactly as depicted in the MSF Cholera Guidelines. He did a really amazing good job."

A few days later, the CTC was complete, and started to receive its first patients, and the previous centre stopped admitting new patients. Things became more orderly, with much better infection control, with a proper one way system for admitted patients. The numbers plateaued, and the team scaled down to return to their original duties.

Enter me, stage right.

I arrived in Zimbabwe a couple of days after getting the phone call, and went straight to Zimbabwe. I did not pass London or Amsterdam for briefings. I did not pass Go, and most definitely did not collect 200 pounds. All I knew was that I was to be a logistician doing something, somewhere for the emergency. During most of my briefings in Harare, I was led to believe that I will be posted to Kadoma, but then somebody found out that I have some administration experience, and so I became logistician/admininistrator for the Harare project, after a short stint in Kadoma to help with supplies.

I arrived in Kadoma about a week after the peak -- a few days after I arrived in-country. The team there were awesome. There was the acting Project Coordinator, a 68-year old American nurse with 13 grandsons, who was jokingly referred to as the Ebola Queen, or simply "Gogo" -- Grandmother in Shona, one of the main local languages; a gruff Sri Lankan doctor "Sekuru" -- Grandfather; the aforementioned German nurse; and the expatriated Essex boy who was the allround log.

The CTC in Kadoma is one that is run by three partners: MSF, Kadoma City Health, and a faith-based NGO called Celebration, with supplies in the warehouse from all groups, as well as a beautiful water system set up by the Spanish Red Cross. I had a couple of storekeepers, and a few people from Celebration who worked at the dispensary in the old CTC. I enjoyed working with most of them, although I fear that they worry about the fate of my eternal soul ... Maybe it was because I played some Iron Maiden to them when asked what kind of music I like. I left the music playing, as I had do do something else, and kept it on until they asked me to turn it off. At this point, the track that was playing was "The Number of the Beast". Oops.

I am now working in Harare, where the project is running three CTCs and a bucket chlorination campaign. I am in charge of human resources and finance/administration for the whole project, as well as logistics for one of the CTCs. Last week I conducted interviews to recruit an administration assistant, to avoid getting bogged down, and thankfully found a really good candidate. The interview process lasted half a day, during which I found it hard to hide my glee whenever a cocky candidate's face dropped after we mentioned an Excel test, seconds after boasting about how great they were at it. The best interview story has to be about the one whose phone rang in the middle of the interview. He hung up immediately, and apologised profusely for the interruption. Then his phone rang again, and he told the caller that he was in an interview. The caller apparently refused to believe him, at which point he handed over the phone to me, and asked me to explain to his mother that he really was in an interview, and not just avoiding a maternal conversation ...

There are some more stories I would like to tell, but they will have to wait until I've caught up with the admin backlog ... Till then, stay safe.

I have to say, I had a blast in Sierra Leone. Well, I cannot honestly say Sierra Leone, as I only experienced Aberdeen, which I believe is a suburb of Freetown, but my experience there reflected extremely well on the country.

I spent most of my time just dossing about the beach, drinking copious amounts of beer and swimming. Not necessarily in that order. That would be silly. And dangerous. Anybody who knows me would agree that I never do anything silly or dangerous, right? In fact, I was so careful that I even put money aside for the airport tax and the taxi to get there, as well as some spending money for Monrovia. That's forward thinking ...

So, on the last day, having timed the journey to maximise time on the ground with the assumption that I'll be going on one of those mechanised contraptions driven by speed demons that passes as taxis in these parts, I of course got the one cabbie in the world who drove at a constant 25 km per hour. Light traffic? Paved roads? Nothing could make this guy go faster. I was tempted to blast out Born to Be Wild by Steppenwolf and hijack the cab, anything, as long as I don't miss the flight ... It wouldn't look good if, like my Kenya trip, something happened that would make me accidentally spend an extra weekend away. Seriously, who would believe me?

At long last I arrived at the airport, where I was horrified to notice that there were no cars parked. Zip. Nada. I could have throttled the driver, who just looked at me and asked, "Has your plane left?" Giving him a stare that would have made Granny Weatherwax proud put paid to any more statements from him.

A man whom I recognised as a WFP staffer came to the taxi and asked if I was there for the flight to Monrovia. After receiving a grunt of confimation, he said, "We couldn't get a hold of you ... the flight got stuck in Conakry, so there is no flight to Monrovia till Monday. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Right. OK. I was out of Leones, but still had my Monrovia spending money. That would cover food and booze for the next few days, but what about accommodation? I was thinking of crashing in one of the lifeguard towers on Lumley Beach, but the thought of trying to explain to a police officer that, "No, Sir, I am not a vagrant. In fact, I am a upstanding tourist with a legitimate visa and good credentials that just so happened to run out of money whilst in your fine county," wasn't very appealing. So, to Plan B.

Plan B involved getting in touch with an MSF section still active in Sierra Leone and crashing at theirs. I know they exist, because I bumped into three of them the night before, and recognised one who used to work in Monrovia. They mentioned the general area where their office was, so I hiked up my rucksack, and thumbed my way there, gambling that I will track them down. The gamble paid off, sorta: I found the office, went there, said hi to the people there and asked if I could crash in a spare room or even on the floor somewhere. The head of mission took one look at me and said, "No, you can't stay here." So much for inter-sectional cooperation.

So, after arranging with the three girls to meet at a pub later in the evening, I retreated to my lair to plot. Or, I would have, if I had a lair.

Anyway, I found a hostel, which I would not recommend. It was clean enough, but after I checked in, I realised that something was fishy. I couldn't quite place it. Maybe it was one of the rules posted on the wall that kindly reminded guests to not leave valuables in their room, "especially when staying with a partner for the first time or when he/she is unknown to you." Or, maybe it was when the hostel staff and their kids huddled around the TV in the middle of the day to watch Jamaican soft porn. I'm still not sure.

Having paid in advance (hoping and praying that my flight will not be cancelled again), I was left with enough money for limited options: I could eat once a day, and get pissed in the evening; or, I could eat three times a day, and ruin a perfectly good weekend in Freetown by missing out on the excellent Star Beer. In true Orwellian style, I chose the former.

On a roll, I decided to emulate Mr Orwell a bit more by calling my family and explaining my predicament to them, and asking them to wire me some cash for the cab trip back to the airport and the airport tax. On a Friday bank holiday in Indonesia. As always, they came through, and even added a bit extra, "to buy food." I did. I ate twice a day and drank more beer, it was magnificent.

I finally arrived in Monrovia on a Monday afternoon, just in time to miss lunch at the expat residence, but thankfully I received a top up to my per diem that was sufficient for my meagre needs. It also helped a lot that I only spent a day in there, as the bounty is generally plentiful back in good old Saclepea, Nimba County.

Just so that people here don’t think that I’m on an extended holiday in exotic locales, I feel obligated to report that I have actually been working. Since my return, we’ve had two official outbreaks, of yellow fever and measles, respectively, and a vaccination campaign. I have never seen anybody as smug as our doctor, who raised the alarm for both outbreaks. I supposed he’s entitled to, because as he pointed out, “It’s not every day that you get to accurately diagnose a patient that leads to an outbreak alert.”

Then there was a traffic accident involving one of our cars, which also needed to be dealt with. Thankfully the whole drama only lasted about a week, with our driver free from blame.

I have also started to build a semi-permanent structure to be used as a waiting area for patients taking part in a malaria study, as well as converting two 20-foot containers into four consultation rooms. Not me personally, mind. I’m just getting a bunch of really good carpenters to follow pictures from an MSF guideline.

That's it for now, folks, got to go. I’ve just been told (on a Saturday, after most of the staff has gone home for the weekend) that there will be another vaccination campaign, this time for measles, starting from first thing Monday morning. Fun and games ...

Till next time, stay safe.

Aberdeen was sweltering today. I came off the King Air 1900D, and the heat hit me, quite like a wall. I know that authors often refer to heat as something solid, but it actually felt it today. Not as bad as when I went to a club in Monrovia a few weeks ago, that during the day doubles as a fish packing factory, but still felt pretty damn solid.

Went through customs and immigrations like a hot knife through butter (let's see how many cliches I can use in this post), and, as if I had the luck of the Irish, managed to cadge a ride with random people from Hastings airport to Hill Station. From there, I was chatting with some people who jumped on a car and offered to take me to Lumley, from where Aberdeen is a mere hop, skip and a jump away. I didn't even have to pay because, as it turned out, I was hitch-hiking with types I'm supposed to stay away from. Oops. They were nice enough, though.

I'm sure that by now you have guessed that I'm not in that dreich toon on the North-East of Scotland. I am actually writing this by a beautiful beach facing the tropical Atlantic Ocean, on the outskirts of Freetown, Sierra Leone. Yes, that country that was the backdrop to Blood Diamond. I was actually just at Paddy's Bar, which served as inspiration for the place where the leading man met Jennifer Connelly. Sadly, I was the only customer. Belatedly, I received information from a friend who worked here to "stay away from Paddy's before midnight". So I will. But enough Star beer will cure all. It's damn good beer.

I am thinking of taking the rocky road then swelling seas to Dublin on Monkey Island either tomorrow or the day after. See how it goes.

Stay safe.

Well, it's been a while.

Since the last time I wrote, the evil doc left, much to the relief of most members of the team, then I went on R&R to Ghana, which was very nice, then went on a logistics course in Nairobi, which was bloody fantastic.

I'm quite happy to say that I maximised the amount of fun to be squeezed out of a week's visit to a new city: Headbanging at Carnivore during rock night, chilling out at Casablanca watching the beautiful people dance, spent an awesome evening dancing till sunrise at a club called Black Diamond, eating nyama choma at Buffet Park, having a meat feast at carnivore (if you go, stick with the ostrich ... best red meat I have ever had in my life).

After my return to the project, I had a busy period of handing over the admin job my replacement (we get along great, she says I'm like the little brother she always wanted to strangle ...) as well as receiving a handover from the previous log. All good and well, and I'm thoroughly enjoying me new job.

I guess it can be summed up by my first week on the job, back in December. I received a report that the mobile clinic car broke down in the bush, so I despatched another vehicle to rescue it, the generator at the clinic broke down, and needed to be fixed, the battery bank wasn't charging, So which meant that the lights connected to the inverter, which are supposed to be on for 24 hours, were not. Oh, and had a patient who expired and was abandoned by his family, turning me into funeral director for a day.

One thing that I was trying to get used to was radio speak, which initially made me feel really cool, until I realised that talking like action heroes in the movies is neither cool nore clever, as is evidenced from the following discourse between me and one of my cars.

Me : Turtle One-Three, November Base.
T13 : November Base, go ahead, over.
Me : One-three, please depart Sierra Alpha Charlie to November Yankee to assist Turtle One-Eight, over.

See what I meant by being cool? Or maybe I have an over-active imagination whilst simultaneously being affected by watching too many flicks. Anyway, the conversation continues ...

T13 : Base, one-three. Confirm, I should depart to November Yankee? Over.
Me : One-three, that's affirmative. I want you to rendevous with One-Eight in November Yankee, assess the situation, report to me and assist him as needed, over.

Silence. All I could hear was static.

Me : One-three, do you copy? Over.
T13 : Negative, negative. Could you repeat your traffic, over.

I repeated my message, only to be answered by another long silence, until ...

T13 : Base, I'm reading you loud and clear, but I'm not getting you, over. Please speak English, over.

Damn. All illusions I had of being cool shattered in an instant. Liberian English has foiled me yet again.

Speaking of which, the language here is fascinating. I would greet or be greeted by patients saying, "How de mornin'-oh?" The reply would be, "De mornin' fine-oh," or "Tryin', small-small, tank gawd," unless the patient is feeling a wee bit poorly, in which case the response would be, "Ahm tryin', small-small."

I also enjoy how people often skip the niceties. "Good morning," I would say. "Fine," the person would reply. Or, upon making eye contact before saying anything, the person would nod, smile and say, "Fine," before walking off. Maybe it's just me.

Soon-soon, Ah trah to wrah in Liberian. There is so-so words sou' stray, 'cause dey be no complete, so Ah beg you, be payshen-oh! Ah don' wan' confusion, so Ah beg you, don' flog me. Wait small, an' fine de meanin'*

Radio talk can be funny, sometimes. A while back, a driver was asked to come to the base to pick up some expats to take to the refugee camp, where our clinic is located. He arrived, we piled in, and then he waited. Impatient, he started honking the horn and yelling to the watchman and radio operator, "Go get me the cool box! You tell me to take the cool box to the camp, but now you keep me waiting!" Nobody recalled and requests for the cool box, so he said, "You call me to take ICE-PACKS to the camp, how do I carry ICE-PACKS without the coolbox?"

He still hasn't lived that one down yet.

Sometimes, the exchanges on the radio can be pure comedy to me, such as the time one of the Monrovia cars was trying to raise one of the stations. After not receiving any response, driver started to complain, "Bravo Hotel, what is your problem with me? I call you, and you never call back ... please answer me, over." It was almost heartbreaking.

In January I went on R&R again, and ended up doing Monrovia-London-Hong Kong-Jakarta to be able to make my dad's birthday party, the dedicated son that I am. Aside from seeing the family, the best part of going home was to fly in Ed Force One, the Iron Maiden tour plane, from Monrovia to London Gatwick.


The highlight since arriving back in the project was the attempt to introduce rock to Nimba by throwing a headbanger's ball at Farmer's Friend for my birthday. I don't think rock music will hit the Liberia charts, but dammit, I had fun trying!

Oh, I'm due R&R again in a couple of weeks, the last holiday I will take during this mission. I think I'll go to Sierra Leone, if only to add a random stamp on my passport to intrigue airport officials a bit more that usual ...

Did I mention that I love this job?

Till next time, stay safe.



*That, my kind friends, translates to, "Now, I shall try to write in Liberian. There are many words that sound strange, because they are not completed, so please be patient. I don't want to fight, so please don't beat me up. Wait a bit and find the meaning."

Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a dog of wealth and taste. Now,
Rolling Stones quotes aside, this is actually a fact, relatively
speaking of course. I am much better off that most dogs in Nimba County,
or at least in Saclepea … Nothing like being the big dog in a small
pound, as it were.



Keep in mind, when I say big, I am not talking about stature. As a dog,
I’m quite non-descript, I stand only about knee high at the haunches on
the average human. Not aggressive, but not obedient either. I can be
friendly, sometimes apparently overly so, as my masters seem to think
when I run around under the table waiting for them to feed me after they
eat. I mean, seriously, what’s a dog to do? Hunt? Pshaw. That is for
lesser beings …



Strange things, these human masters of mine. I mean, just the other day,
I saw the Log and the Administrator playing a weird game with their
next-door neighbour, a Frenchman from ACF. The rules seem simple enough:
Throw a small wooden ball, then throw larger, heavier metal balls as
close as possible to it. I think they called the game petanque. Don’t
get me wrong, I like balls a lot, I lick mine often enough, but what was
the humans’ point? Also, just last week, they had ceremony where lots of
important looking people were giving speeches, congratulating themselves
for opening a new building that they called the Out-Patient Department.
After the speeches, they (and me!) had a feast, and there was some
dancing as well, including by a masked dancer on stilts, that in local
custom is believed to bring good luck. I think a good time was had by
all, myself included.



But I digress.



As is obvious from the title above, my name is Quiplu, though some call
me Mr Quiplu. In one of the local dialects, Mano, my name means White
Man. I guess my masters picked the name because whenever they walk in
town, young children always chant, “Quiplu, Wah Meh … Quiplu, Wah Meh”
while waving or running after them. And no, ‘wah meh’ is not a Mano
word, nor is it Ghio, another local dialect. It is the Liberian
pronunciation of ‘white man.’ My name just proves my point about humans
being strange: I have brown fur with just a patch of white on my face
and chest.



Despite being the most spoilt pet in Liberia, I am not alone in the
compound. For starters, there is my reluctant sidekick, Mais Non! the
cat, whom I often chase away whenever I notice that he is getting more
attention than he deserves. This is normally when the masters give us
food. In all fairness, I am larger, faster, and more worthy of their
attention, so it is well within my right to take what he thinks is his,
despite my masters chasing ME away when they feed him. Such cheek!



Mais Non! hasn’t been around much lately, though. Maybe it’s because I
got myself a girlfriend, a hyperactive brown bitch called The Annoying
Dog, Mrs Quiplu, or simply Quiplette. Despite my trying to teach her the
house rules, sometimes even enforcing it, she simply never listens,
insisting on entering the house, nuzzling them when they eat, wagging
her tail enthusiastically under the table, and much more such mischief.
She won’t last; I think I’m getting bored of her already, especially
because since she arrived, I don’t really get fed anymore. But that’s
OK; I’ve already had her. She may leave.



It’s not that I don’t have feelings, but a dog has priorities, you know.
Getting a regular feed is one, and the occasional leg over is another.
Done and done. Besides, she was getting a bit pushy, growling at me when
I attempt foreplay, sometimes even trying to dominate me. But I showed
her who is top dog. Oh yes.



I was unwanted and unloved during my early months, until an expat saw me
and decided to purchase me as a pet. Since then I have broken in a lot
of expats, some of who cared for me while others abhorred me. Recently,
this has turned for the worse, as there has been a recent death due to
rabies. The death happened around three to six months after a rabid
puppy bit the patient and the patient’s family. As a result, the capital
team has suggested that they get rid of Mais Non! and me. I was sitting
under the table at lunch while I eavesdropped on my masters’ conversation.



“It has to go!” said the doctor. “Just put them in a box, and leave them
in the bush. Problem solved,” she continued. “I would rather keep them,
but if you leave them in the middle of nowhere where they cannot fend
for themselves, you might as well kill them” said the administrator.
“No, I will not kill them, nor will I tell any of the staff to kill
them,” said the log. “I agree,” said the administrator, “any of you who
wants the animals put down should do it yourself.”



The construction log chimed in in our support, “The dog and the cat help
make sure that there aren’t any green mambas or other snakes in the
compound, not to mention getting rid of rats that spread Lassa fever. If
getting rid of them is only a suggestion and not an order, I would keep
them.”



The midwife, who never liked me anyway, has repeatedly suggested that
she wants to poison Mais Non! and I, much to the annoyance of the ones
who actually like me.



The lines seem to be drawn, on one side there are the boys who support
my case, and all the girls bar one abstention who want to get rid of me.



…



I regret to inform you that Mr Quiplu and Mais Non! were “sent to the
farm” a couple of weeks ago, in a fit of hysteria and hypochondria, a
move that completely split the team into two hostile groups. After
intervention by the head of mission, things have been patched up a wee
bit. On a purely professional basis, there is no problem, but on a
personal level, well … Let’s just say that some people will never be
friends …



On the up side, I have found a few decent watering holes in central town
(I have heard people get their hackles up when we call Saclepea a town,
or, god forbid, a village. This is a city! It’s even officially
recognised as such) namely “Farmer’s Friend,” “Red Bull,” and “People
Will Talk,” the latter being my personal favourite for hanging out at
night, as it plays the least amount of Celine Dion and Bryan Adams in
comparison to it’s competitors … on the other hand, they play a lot of
Whitney Houston, so it was a tough decision. I prefer Farmer’s Friend to
go and watch football, but the past few weekends I have only managed to
watch Chelsea games, as that is the most popular team in these parts,
ostensibly due to Djogba. Next popular would be Barca, also because
there is an African player doing well in that team, whose name currently
escapes me. I like Barca, but not too keen on Chelsea, but at least
there aren’t that many Man U supporters …



Aside from going to the pub and watching football, I have started to go
out more often, albeit mainly in the weekends and in the evenings. I
visited the refugee camp last week, and got a guided tour from the newly
elected president of the camp committee. I was a bit surprised when I
realised that the camp was like any other village, aside from the
various NGO stickers on hut doors and the UNHCR tarpaulin sheeting. I
was even shown the only mud hut in the whole camp that has two storeys …
it was under construction when I went, and apparently the owner/builder
wasn’t too sure of its structural strength. I had to admit I could feel
the packed mud floor give a little when I was on the top floor.
Creative, certainly, maybe even ingenious, but I’ll pass, thanks.



As you could imagine, I spend most of my time in the office. Luckily, I
always have System of a Down and/or Metallica to accompany me, enough I
hope to sustain me as well as propagate Rock!™ I have managed to get
some of the base staff to greet me with the metal horns, and even
managed to get some to do “Too much rock for one hand” gesture … I shall
attempt to break the standing record of “Too much rock for 13 people”
before I leave.



I imagine that the sounds emanating from the office I share with the
Admin Assistant would be bizarre: My metal and rock mixing with tunes
from Radio Saclepea 97.0 (The Voice of Peace, Love, Unity and
Development). A lot of the songs they play are Ghanaian, Sierra Leonean
or Liberian, with a few Nigerian songs for flavour. That’s fine by me; I
like quite a few songs. I realised that there might be a problem when I
found out that at least once a week the radio plays Celine Dion for
approximately four hours straight. Not my cup of tea.



So, a request to all of you back home: Please, please, PLEASE erase
Celine Dion from the collective consciousness …



Stay safe …

Well, I've finally arrived at the project in Saclepea, Nimba County after leaving Monrovia Friday morning for the kiss movement with with
the Nimba car. And no, a kiss movement has nothing to do with tilting your head to avoid bumping noses, neither does is have anything to do with tongue tickling: It is when a car heading from point A to point B leaves at around the same time as a car leaving point B for point A, so they can meet somewhere in the middle.

It was an interesting ride. Along the side of the road there were countless hulks of abandoned cars, some were rusty, others still had
their chassis and carriage work in good nick, all completely stripped of anything salvageable. Another thing that caught my interest was the public service billboards in the villages and hamlets that we drove past, which ranged from public health awareness ("Wash your hands after pupu") to peace building ("No matter what tribe or religion, we are all Liberians" or "Say no to mob violence") and more. Many, many of those billboards were about rape. "Real men don't rape!" exclaimed one. "Sexual abuse is a crime," says another. Yet another says, "Raped?! Come to the free clinic to avoid HIV/AIDS."

While in Monrovia, I read a book called Emergency Sex, written by three friends about their experiences working for the UN in the 90s, from Cambodia to Haiti, via Somalia, Bosnia and Liberia. In the chapter where one of them was working in Liberia, he asserts that during the civil war, an estimated 100.000 women were raped. When in transit in Brussels, I was chatting with a lady who works for another NGO dealing with sexual and gender based violence, who said that the place she works in receives upwards of 40 rape cases, often more than 100 cases per month. In many cases both the victim and perpetrator are under 15 years old. It seems the women of Liberia are still suffering.

Our compound has the feel of an idyllic tropical resort, with palm and rubber trees all around, a volleyball court, bamboo fencing et cetera. That is, if you ignore the business-like radio antennae, the continuous loud crackle of radio chatter during the day, and the fact that there is no mains power at all. At the moment our team hails from every continent on earth bar Antarctica, which adds to the cosmopolitan (?!) feel to the proceedings, as well as leading to interesting conversations and revelations. For example, today we agreed that health care in Kenya is far better than both Indonesia and Colombia. Or discussing Monty Python with a Frenchman ...

Job-wise, I am having quite a long handover/overlap with my predecessor, which is good. It's not rocket science, I just need to keep to a schedule already set, and remember to dot the I's and cross the T's. So far so good. We are a bit busy preparing for the opening of the out-patient department, which will happen on Wednesday, which in my case means that today I got to go shopping in the nearest town with a butcher, which is an hour drive away

The project itself is atypical of MSF, as at the moment we are building a comprehensive health centre, consisting of in-patient, out-patient, and obstetric departments, plus a pharmacy. At the moment the CHC is run in a tarpaulin complex, with all the above plus an isolation ward for suspected Lassa fever patients. I am told that that viral hemorrhagic fever is endemic to this area, and that we get quite a few cases. Having said that, malaria fills up the wards more than other diseases.

For that reason, as per common sense, we take malaria prophylaxis. Some take daily doses of Malarone. Me, I prefer my weekly tablet of Lariam. Apparently, some people suffer from psychological side effects of the latter, but all I get are really funky dreams, normally for two nights after taking it (In my case, Friday and Saturday nights). I had one dream where I got french kissed by a bipedal, eight armed version of the facehugger from the Alien movies ... That was interesting. In another, I gained the power of telekinesis, which was well cool, I was a bit sorry when my alarm went off, but there you go. In any case, I look forward to my next encounter with the wonderful world of Lariam-induced dreams. Hey, not only is it legal, it's REQUIRED!

On Sunday past, three of us went out for drinks with some of the staff in town. Initial assessment is that the local brew, Club Beer, is a
decent drink. Not fantastic, but a hell of a lot better than the Murree Beer we had in Pakistan. During the course of the afternoon (the sun comes over the yard-arm quite early on a Sunday), I realised that the key to understanding Liberian English, is to think of every word in English that begins with the phoneme uttered, and see which word fits into context. Think of Glaswegian where the word ends with the glottal stop, and I think it would be close. I experimented by cutting off words arbitrarily, but it's still hit and miss. I shall learn. Oh, yes.

So, there you go. My first few days in Saclepea, Nimba County. Stay tuned for further adventures of AdminMan, same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.

Stay safe.

First off, allow me to make the following observation: Geneva must have the highest hot chick per capita rate in the world.

It is my opinion that during the Lake Parade which was held, conveniently, on my last night there, that the prettiest, sexiest girls were put on flat bed trucks alongside the ugliest, fattest drag queens imaginable, and shown off to the world. I approve of this cultural anomaly.

After the parade, there were at least eight or nine stages on the other side of the lake, sadly almost all of them were playing shite house music, not quite my cup of tea, but luckily I found a stage that was playing some samba.

I ended staying up all night for the second night in a row, this time just to enjoy the party, and to be able to catch my early flight to Monrovia.

The previous night I stayed up because for some reason, the hostel where I was staying put me in a room with three Brazilian girls, which was alright for me, but as I spent all evening at and near a bar called La Terrace, I did not feel like walking in and climbing into the top bunk at two o'clock in the morning, so I went for a wander, and waited to see the sun rise over Lake Geneva.

It was a good evening, I met a bunch of kids who were interns at the UN, hung out with them, and later met a couple of really cute local girls ... one of which stood me up the following day. Oh, well.

I had most of my capital briefings today, with my predecessor handing
over to me over the next few days. I haven't seen much of the city,
but so far I've only heard good things about it.

I think I'll like it here.

So, I flew out of Glasgow, and only got stopped by the police once at the airport, for smoking in a non-smoking section. My bad, I thought I'd be fine anywhere outside. In any case, I didn't get any hassle whatsoever, which is excellent in my opinion.

Whirlwind visit to the London office, signed my contract, then rushed back to the airport, only to find, yet again, I didn't get any hassle. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about not being stopped and searched, but because I ended up checked in and in the terminal for five hours. (I was playing it safe, then the bloody plane got delayed.)

Anyway.

Made it to the hotel, woke up still knackered, then did a whole day's worth of briefings, after which I took a walk around town.

I have to say that I like the place. I think I should have came here to learn French instead of Paris, as people tend to speak to you in French if you start a conversation with them in that language, including, in my case, pidgin French. I shall definitely return.

This morning I had my medical, passed with flying colours, despite the doctor almost refusing to continue the check-up until I promised her that I will consider quitting smoking. I promised, but had my fingers crossed behind my back, so it doesn't count. So there.

While walking home from the hospital, I saw a wonderful sight: A slightly dilapidated building, decorated with colourful graffiti and banners all around, with it's name proudly emblazoned over the door: Le Squat du Jour. It was a community centre, venue, internet cafe, creche and more. While taking photos of the building, a local told me that it would be empty, as the occupants most likely will be at another squat that is being evicted today. I think I'll return tomorrow, and see if I could hang out for a bit. It would be very cool.

I also have a party of sorts on Saturday evening, as I got invited by some randoms that I met by the lake yesterday. So, at least I have tomorrow planned out OK, despite not being able to stay for long at the party: My flight leaves way too early in the morning.

Anyhoo. Got to go eat.

Stay safe.

So, I've got a new job.

I shall be Field Admin, with the special powers of Bookkeeping, Budgeting and Human Resources. Not the sexiest job in the world, but sure as hell beats data entry at a certain unnamed business banking centre in Glasgow. And where is the location of this upcoming adventure? The answer is sunny Liberia on the west coast of Africa.

I've never been to Africa, so as you may imagine, I am getting quite excited, with only the countless forms that I have to fill in prior to departure slightly dampening my mood.

I haven't got my tickets yet ... I only found out a couple of days ago, but the current plan is to have my brief in Geneva on Wednesday and Thursday, then a bit of paperwork in London on Friday, then off to Monrovia. Ideally I'll spend the weekend there before heading off to the project, as I have heard interesting things about Monrovia, especially the beaches. I haven't seen the sea for quite a while, and I do miss it so.

Stay tuned for further adventures of AdminMan ...

Itchy feet. Not fungus. Need to go somewhere. Anywhere. Preferably on a motorbike or a boat. For free or better yet, get paid for it. Any takers?

Back in Glasgow, after being back in Jakarta. It was weird being back, but I had a good time, catching up with old friends, making a few new ones ...

Still weird though.

I landed a job earning a mint for doing practically fuck all, but it was a temporary job, fortunately. Twiddling my thumbs all day would do my head in.

Anyway, like I said, I'm back in Glasgow. I shall write a short blog about my experiences with Special Branch over the next few days. Suffice to say, they are wankers with no idea of how to conduct airport security. Details to follow.

I've started hanging out at a cool bar where the beer is only EUR 2.50 per pint ... well, per half a liter. Nice place, drop dead beautiful barmaids, friendly clientele.

Problem is, though, I now know that I am actually really shallow. Or am I?

Right. Allow me to set the scene. A random stranger is propped up against the bar, obviously foreign to these parts. A beautiful girl nudges him, and offers her drink to him, whilst speaking in a indecipherable language. Utilising his burgeoning powers in global communication methods, the stranger looks dumb, and says, "Huh?" thus confirming any suspicion the young lady might have about the stranger's intelligence. The monosyllabic grunt proved to be enough for the belle to realise that she's talking to a foreigner. "Oh, do you speak english?" "Mais, oui!" the stranger exclaims, "Je parle anglais!"

Not dropping a beat, she says, "'ere, try this! This drink, it is called Lolita, after the book. It's my favourite book. I want to be Lolita."

Interesting. So, after establishing that the young lady is actually of legal age (she is 22), the conversation quite naturally turned to the time tested method of asking a girl her top five list of favourite books and movies. I was mesmerised by the fact a girl that hot was actually chatting me up, so all I can remember is that she loves Wud-ring 'ites by Emily Bronte.

She is smart, beautiful, sexy, but at some point over the next few days, I noticed a potential problem. I'm not quite sure what triggered the alarm. Maybe it was when she said that she hated Jews. Or possibly when she went on a rant against Arabs and Muslims in general. Or that she is a card-carrying member of a right wing party.

Hmm ... maybe I can save her from a lifetime of political conservatism ... Aye, that's it! That's why I haven't asked her to leave the table everytime she comes to sit with me. Yeah, I'm being really altruistic, and trying to convert a borderline (?) fascist to the wonderful world of leftwing activism. Yeah.

Worst case scenario, I've still got a date with one of the barmaids, who thinks that I have a very cool Scottish accent. Who am I to correct her?

I love Paris.

I'm sure you will be happy to know that I am still pretty much the same Annas, as proven by my hanging out with a drugged up homeless busker in front of the Notre Dame, as well as countless other undesirables on different occasions. It seems my theory that homeless people in general are friendlier than the general population remains true.

I started hanging out at a cool bookstore, however, I think I annoyed some of the regulars when I asked a question in all innocence, "Am I the only person here who isn't an aspiring artist of some sort?" The answer is of course in the affirmative, but some took the question a wee bit too personally. Tough.

Bloody angst-ridden wannabe painters-cum-writers-cum-misunderstood poets. I trust that a sense of
humour will be quite beneficial to careers of artistes, see Mark Twain for details.

Most were/are good fun though.

I'm thinking of staying in Paris for as long as humanly possible, but at my current spending rate, this will not be particularly long. I stopped by a bicycle courier company to offer my services, ravaging and mauling the French language until it was a mere shadow of what it was before I tried speaking it, but managed to understand that I should return with a bike and my CV, and that they are looking for new staff a lot of the time. I'm banking on the premise that come autumn, the idea of being out and about on a bike dodging blind and mad Parisian drivers will not be appealing to many. I'll get a job then.

Well, here I am again. An Indonesian in the diaspora, celebrating independence day away from the motherland.

It has been six years since I have been home, properly home, that is. It's not easy, being the nationalist that I am, to be away for this length of time.

When I think back to the various times I celebrated independence day, the times that stick out most are the times when I was living with or around peoples who lack the independence from foreign colonialisation that we have in Indonesia.

On the 17th of August 1998, I was living with East Timorese guerrillas in the jungle south of Los Palos, among a group of people who have been sacrifying almost everything for their nation. Some lost their whole extended family, others had at that point never seen their offspring. Others still had never met their parents, losing them at a very young age, and being brought up by the guerrillas. I had never felt so lucky, and I had never felt so ashamed to be Indonesian until then.

On the 17th of August 2003, I was on the Thailand-Burma border, researching my dissertaion on the Karen. They too have been colonised, and have been fighting for independence, and later autonomy. They too have suffered much in the hands of foreigners. First the Brits, then the Japanese, and now the Burmans.

On the 17th of August 1945, we declared independence from the Dutch and the Japanese. It took a further four and a half years before our independence was recognised. 61 years on, and the Dutch still hasn't offered a formal apology for the shite they put us through for almost 350 years. I think they will wait till the last Dutch veteran of the Indonesian wars dies before they apologise. Fuck 'em.

Dirgahayu Indonesiaku. Persetan dengan para penjajah, baik asing maupun pribumi. Satu saat kita akan merdeka sepenuhnya.

... and the ladies are living up to expectation.

Now, all I have to do is understand what the hell they are saying ... and get used to the layout of French keyboards:

azertyuiop
qsdfghjklm
wxcvbn,;:!

Oh, one would need to use the shift button to type numbers, as otherwise 1 to 0 would be as follows:

&é"'(-è_çà

I managed to score a flat for EUR360 per month, which is pretty sweet considering that I arrived with no real idea where I was going to stay ... It seems decent, in Arrondissement (sp?) 15.

Anyway, I'm off to see the sights, which I plan to do over the next few days, as the course doesn't start till 14 Aug.

Stay safe.

Just booked a one-way ticket to Paris. I'm off on Tuesday, the course starts on the 14th, and I plan to do it for a month at least.

See you when I see you!

Right.

Back in Glasgow, after debriefing in Amsterdam. Told that I need to gain technical skills before going on another mission, but they won't let me go on the technical course till I get technical skills. Hmmm ...

Sod 'em. I'm going to France within the next few weeks to do a French course for a month or two, and then I'll see where life will take me. Another MSF section, perhaps? Or another NGO? See how it goes.

More later.

Yup. I broke the soldier assigned to be my bodyguard. Not quite on
purpose, obviously.

The story is that today I went for a walk, and what with having just heard
of some issues back home, I decided to knacker myself. So, off I went
striding away at a decent pace towards Moji, where there is allegedly a
barber. At Moji bazaar I was told that the barber was closed, so I figured,
well, I'm out of the compund, might as well head up the road for half an
hour, and then take a donder back down, so I continued.

I noticed the soldier huffing and puffing a few paces behind me, but I
carried on with intent. Until I realised the soldier wasn't where I
expected him to be. Oops.

I backtracked for around five minutes, and found him wheezing by the side of
the road. After waiting for him to get his breath back, off we went, this
time I was going slow enough to have a cigarette while walking. The poor
bugger still ended up gasping for air, gesturing wildly for me to carry on
without him. Oh, the temptation! It would be great to go on a solitary
walk, unencumbered by Kalashnikov wielding squaddies, but I could get into
trouble and so could he, and trouble is something I could do without, thank
you very much, so common sense prevailed, I'm afraid. We slowed down to a
pace that he found reasonable, and he explained that he has or used to have
a fractured heel, or at least that's what I think he was saying. Excuses,
excuses, excuses.

I'm still finding it very strange to have the army following us around,
ostensibly for our "protection", but that's how the project was set up, so
we're stuck with it.

Our project here in Leepa Valley is closing down, but despite being only
five days away from closure, things are much quieter than it was at the same
stage when closing Lamnian. No landlord issues, no disgruntled employees,
everything is hunky-dory, touch wood. We're not even going to ship than
many more items back: Most things will be donated to various Ministry of
Health installations in the valley.

After delivering a donation to the Rural Health Centre in Leepa town, we
decided to have lunch in the better of the two restaurants in town. It was
a bizzare place, that restaurant. The cook was a large bald man with a
massive beard, one of the waiters was a four-foot tall midget and the other
an albino. To make things more interesting, the moment we walked in the
restaurant, the not-so-secret-secret-policemen came in and sat around the
next table, trying, and failing, to be subtle. You could tell who they are
from their wearing clothes that were clean and ironed to perfection, in a
town where hygiene is close to non-existent, by their pretending to read a
newspaper while staring at us, and hiding behind it comedically when we look
in their general direction. Oh, and by the fact that armed soldiers edge
away from them when they walk past. Of course, being only three feet away,
they were kinda hard to miss ...

Did I say the place was bizzare?

Anyway. Food was great, and I got the cook giggling like a maniac as I
asked for more and more chilli. They must have thought I was mad. Oh,
well.

If everything happens according to schedule, I'll be back in Glasgow on 1
August after debriefing with my PC in Hattian, the HoM in Islamabad, and in
the Amsterdam office. Pints, anyone?

Since I arrived in Lamnian, Í have been obsessing about climbing the highest
mountain in the area, Kafir Khan - Heretic King, which is also known as
Shisha Mali - Mirror Mountain.

Well, be careful what you wish for, as a group of us managed to reach the
summit, 3522 metres above sea level according to my GPS, but it was quite an
epic journey ...

As I said, I have been looking wistfully at the distant summit since I
arrived, and quite a few locals caught me doing so. Over the past few
months, I asked many people, most of whom corroborated my estimate of six
hours to the top. Hmm ... I could do that!

Due to a number of things, I never quite had the opportunity to go, so I was
on the verge of writing the whole thing off until I was told that a bunch of
other people were up for the adventure. One of the local staff suggested
that we do a complete traverse of the mountain, as the descent was a fast
and easy walk.

We left our compound, altitude 1774 metres, at around 0600. It was a
georgeous day, and the view was astounding. We started up the road from our
compound, through a couple of hamlets called Khorian and Jandhiala, and then
entered the forest. Up we went, trodding slowly to the top of a ridge,
where we rested by a meadow reminiscent of the Sound of Music (I think I
pissed off some of the guys by bellowing "The Hills Are Alive With the Sound
of Music" ... I always thought I had an angelic voice, but apparently not.
Oh, well.)

After resting a while, and getting our first batch of Mars Bars, as
dispensed by the PC, we hung a right, and started up the mountain proper.
It was slow going, what with us stopping often, coaxing and cajoling the
doctors from Leepa and Hattian respectively, who have never been up a
mountain before. Kudos to them, they kept going. They did much better than
me when I was going up my first mountain as an apprentice of Mapala UI, and
that was only Gunung Gede, 2998 meters.

We summitted as a group after a bit more than the projected six hours, but
it was a great feeling. We were on top, and some of us lost their cherry.
They are no longer mountain virgins. Who knows, they might even begin to
experiment, and start using ropes and harnesses! The possibilities are
endless.

We had lunch at the summit, the menu included chicken karahi, chapati and
paratha, among other things. Truly a feast fit for kings, and definitely
the best meal I have ever had on a mountain, thanks to the wives of the
various staff who came with us (the staff, not the wives.)

After about an hour of feasting and taking the obligatory posed photos with
the requisite MSF flag, we set off down the other side of the mountain. On
the way down, we stopped at a hut to ask for directions, and actually gained
a guide for the price of one of our doctors doing a quick consultation with
one of the ladies of the house.

Then, things became interesting in the Chinese sense, as in "May you live in
interesting times," a traditional Chinese curse.

As mentioned above, local knowledge was that the descent was to be easy
compared to the ascent.

Easy? Aye, right!

I won't get into details, but the descent included a camp fire with a
discussion about which albums would each member of the group want to have if
they were stuck on a desert island (surprise selection came from the
midwife: Van Halen's Greatest Hits.) It wasn't quite Joe Simpson's
experience in the book with a movie tie-in of which title escapes me, but it
was hard going.

But, all is well that ends well.

As I said last time, our project in Lamnian will close down at the end of
June, so things are actually moving at a decent pace. The log-store is
pretty much empty, as is the pharmacy, and we have been slowly saying
goodbye to our neighbours. The staff are going to throw a party for us on
the 29th, which will include a surprise performance of a local singer and a
dancer. I'm not supposed to know this, of course, and neither is any other
expat, so I have been practicing my surprised look for a few days now.

I got to use my surprised look this morning, when the PC asked me if I
wanted to transfer yet again, this time as log in Leepa. I volunteered for
it, but did not expect a positive reply, so this is great news for me.

So, stay tuned for an extra month or so of my rambling writings.

Till next time, stay safe.

Annas

So, Lahore was great fun!

I left Lamnian in a Lamnian car early morning to pick up the nurse in
Hattian, then took a Hattian car to Muzaffarabad to pick up the doctor, and
we were off in a Muza car to Islamabad via Murree, where we changed to an
Islamabad car. On the road we played the usual games, such as 20 questions,
which I suck at (it was my first time playing that game, so that's my excuse
and I'm sticking to it), discussed a plethora of things from the nature of
happiness and success to the virtues (or not) of women wearing thongs and
low cut jeans, not to mention faith, religion, plans for the days ahead and
most everything in between.

In Islamabad, we checked out a couple of bookstores and CD/DVD shops, but I
decided that spending money before my trip would be unwise, so I took the
safe
route and kept my money in my wallet, only spending money in a restaurant on
Pir Solawa, a mountain with what would have been an awesome view of
Islamabad, except that it was a very hazy evening. Oh, well.

We left Islamabad for Lahore on a PIA flight early on Thursday. It never
fails to astound me the number of people who are working completely
pointless jobs in airports, like the lady whose job it is to stamp the
labels on carry-on baggage. She looked bored out of her mind, and who could
blame her? Bloody hell. Talk about mind numbing exercises!

Anyway, we arrived in Lahore, and made a beeline to the taxi stand to get a
ride to the Regale Internet Inn, where we were planning to stay. The plan
was to stay there for at least one or two nights, mainly to see if we could
meet up with backpackers, then end in luxurious style at one of the
five-star hotels
to throw a party for our new friends.

That plan never happened, as we had so much fun at the hostel, and the
people, both guests and staff, were absolutely awesome, we simply decided to
stay there for the duration. (Oh, and there were a few cute backpackers as
well, but that didn't influence our decision at all. Oh, no, sir, not at
all.)

In Lahore, most of the time we took the mode of transport favoured by
masochistic midget contortionists with suicidal tendencies, namely the
motorised rickshaw. Sadly, neither of us were midget contortionists, and to
my knowledge at least, none of us have suicidal tendencies. I do have my
suspicions about one of the other guys being slightly masochistic though. I
guess it will be one of those unsolved misteries, just like the Bermuda
Triangle and the Marie Celeste.

One of the first things that surprised me in Lahore was having to admit to
being slightly taken aback by the risque dress that
Lahori women were wearing. You could see their elbows! Wow!

On that first afternoon, the owner (I think) of the hostel took us to the
qawwali, religious singing, at the Data Ganj mosque. As we walked in, we
were given front seats, at first much to the annoyance of the local
faithful. After whispers of "anglezi, anglezi" the disquiet died down, and
all was well with the world. Soon after arriving, there was a small
commotion when a group of important, pious looking men arrived. We found
out later that one of them was a holy man from Delhi coming specifically to
see the qawwali.

The ceremony started with a man reciting several surahs from the Qur'an, and
then the music started. I wish I could understand Urdu, as the songs seemed
to be stories. The reason for this theory is that I managed to catch a few
words that I understood, or that are Indonesian words with Arabic origin. I
also heard the words Laila Majenun, which is a Persian (I think) folk story
of love found and lost, with tragic consequences. Should I return to
Lahore, I will be sure to bring a translator with me to the qawwali, to not
miss out.

During the singing, several men went to centre of the circle, and started to
shower money on the holy men. Lots of money. Actually, lots and lots and
lots of money. I counted at least five or six thousand rupees in ten rupee
bundles from one man alone, and another who threw a sizable amount of 100
rupees. The latter then threw himself at the feet of one of the VIPs, and
just sobbed. The former confused me, though. He looked absolutely bored,
and I noticed that a few of his minions was collecting the money he was
throwing, and retuning it to the boss, who proceeded to repeat the practice,
occasionally throwing the money to the ceiling.

Throughout the ceremony, people would come up to the holy men, give/throw
some money, and proceed to kiss either their feet or their hands.
Apparently the visit was a big deal indeed, and it was a great honour to
meet them.

Later that night we went to Baba Shah Jamal's grave, for another Sufi
ceremony. We arrived before it started, and the place was already packed.
Packed and smoked up to the heavens. Despite being in the open air, it felt
like being hot-boxed, virtually everybody was openly smoking hashish. I
think I insulted one of the faithful when I said, "No thanks, maybe later,"
when offered a joint.

Luckily, I was saved by the arrival of the star attraction: The drummers.
One of them was extremely dark skinned, about six feet four, built like a
brick shithouse, with curly
shoulder length hair, a thick beard running halfway between his chin and
solar plexus, and steely eyes.
Very formidable looking, definitely not a character I would want to cross.
The other was slim, roughly my height, short haired and seemed very
amicable.

And then they started playing. And boy oh boy did they play.

They played with dhols slung over their shoulders with a strap. The dhol, a
traditional drum, is around 60 centimetres tall, with leather skins on both
ends, one played as the bass, the other as the snare, beaten with at least
two types of sticks, the run of the mill straight sticks, and J-shaped
sticks.

It was amazing. The two men played an unrelenting beat well pass midnight,
sometimes sounding like a whole samba band minus the whistles, sometimes
creating an undulating sound, sometimes the audience acted as if the beat
was talking to them, laughing out loud at some parts, exclaiming "wawawa
..." in praise of the drumming. Sometimes the beat was fast and hard enough
to make Lars Ulrich, Metallica's drummer, proud.

As the smoke thickened, many in the audience started to shake their heads,
faster and faster and faster they went, their faces a blur, some with their
eyes rolled back so far you could only see the whites. Spiritual
trancendence through chemical reaction, an age old concept used by Celtic
druids, Rastafarians and American Indians alike.

Throughout the night, occasionally somebody in the audience would yell,
"Bolo bolo shakhila ali kalandar maaaaast ...." and the rest would chorus,
"... Ji!" I'm not sure of the actual wording, but I believe the sentence
translates roughly as "Say! Say! Ali is a saint and a friend of Allah ...
YES!"

An absolutely amazing night. I would do it again, and maybe even partake
more completely in the religious/spiritual experience.

The following day, after a long lie in, we went to the Bad Shahi Mosque and
Lahore fort. The mosque is beautiful, with amazing acoustics. To prove the
last point, our guide told me to stand in a corner (I thought, bloody hell,
it's been a while since I was told to stand in a corner ...) and whisper
into the wall, while asking the other guys to do the same. We could hear
each other five by five, despite being almost 10 metres away. That too is a
must see.

Our guide was really good, despite seeming more than a bit bitter at how the
Sikhs and the Brits treated both the mosque and the fort during their rule.
For example, he would say, "This is where the sultan and his wife would
learn astronomy, and stargaze. As you can see, the marble is intricately
carved, and the fountain is brilliantly engineered. When the British came,
they filled it up with mud and turned it into a tennis court." Or, "The
walls of the Shish Mahal is inlayed with lapis lazuli and other stones, as
you can see from the remains. A lot of it is missing, as they were
vandalised during the Sikh period". And so on.

But like I said, he is very good, and very enthusiastic about history (he
was a history student). He was overjoyed by the fact that we were tourists,
as "Since 9/11, we have no tourists. People are scared to come to
Pakistan."

If any of you visit Lahore, give me a shout, and I'll pass on his email
address/mobile number. He truly is a fountain of knowledge, with dates,
years and all sorts of historical details at the tip of his fingers.

Later in the evening, we decided that being responsible adults, we should
make sure that the kids at the hostel have something decent to drink, even
if it is locally brewed, so the nurse and I went to one of the five star
hotels, which allegedly has a "permit room" where we could get some. Sadly,
being a Friday, the permit room was closed, which led to a very interesting
conversation with an extremely dodgy character outside the hotel who was
offered us booze at an extremely inflated price. We tried to negotiate a
reasonable price, which he (and some of his mates, who appeared out of
nowhere) turned down, but yet he insisted that we get into his car.

Now, call me paranoid, but when three people continually try to stand in my
blind spot wherever I turn, I tend to get a wee bit suspicious, and I
believe the nurse echoed my sentiments. We made our final offer, and turned
to walk away, when they agreed. Great! That'll be two cases of beer,
please.

"Get into my car, and I take you to beer." Er, no thanks, how about we give
you the address, and you deliver it to us, because we sure as hell ain't
gettin' into that rickety piece of shite with you. He agreed, but we were
sceptical. True enough, he never showed up. Oh, well. Lahore was to be a
completely dry trip.

No worries, we went home for a quick wash, and prepared to go for dinner
with a family friend of the nurse, whose father worked in Pakistan 15 years
ago. We were picked up and taken to a restaurant called Cooco's Den, just
behind the fort. The food was extremely good (I decided that I need some
balls, so I had exactly that: Goat's balls chopped up and cooked in chillis
and other spices. The dish was called Takatak. It was OK. A bit chewy,
but OK.) After dinner we went to an area called Fortress Stadium for some
lovely ice cream, and then home.

But not for long. We found out earlier during the day that the area near
Cooco's is traditionally the home of the dancing girls, who during the
different periods taught princes about courtly etiquette, as well as being
entertainers. We asked our hosts during the evening if it was safe to go,
but they didn't know, as neither of them have ever been there, the place
called Heera Mandi -- The Diamond Market. They recommended against visiting
the area, so we politely agreed, but regrouped at the hostel, and talked
some of the kids into giving it a shot. We were all excited and intrigued
by the idea of seeing dancing girls in religious Pakistan. What would they
be like? Would they be like geishas? Or maybe like Lebanese belly dancers?

In all, there were eight of us: Indonesian, American, Scotsman, a couple of
Icelanders, a Frenchman, an Austrian girl, and for the life of me I cannot
remember where the last guy was from. Off we went in three ubiquitous
rickshaws, racing through the traffic, and promptly arrived at the wrong
gate. Oops. Not a good start to the evening. After this false start,
things started to look up, as we finally made it to the general vicinity of
our destination. But where are the dancing girls?

We asked around, until we found a raving mad rickshaw driver who said, "I
take you to see sexy girls! Come! Come! I take you!"

We hopped onto his underpowered, overloud vehicle, and he took us around,
giving us the grand tour of the Diamond Market, which turned out to be no
more than a red-light district. The only dancing available was "home
dancing," as he put it, which we gathered was horizontal. So that's that.
No dancing girls. Our collective fantasies shattered.

No drama, we can still make an evening out of this fiasco.

"Now, all we need is a pool hall," I said. Lo and behold, there was one
within spitting distance, so in we went, had a few games against the locals,
chatted for a bit, played karambol, and a good time was had by all,
including the locals, who were confused by the fact that we were there to
begin with.

As all good things must, our time came to an end, and we bid adieu to our
new friends. As we loaded back onto the rickshaw, one of the hosts pulled
me aside and said, "This is very bad place. Don't come back." Surprised, I
asked him if it wasn't safe there. "No, it is very safe, but it is bad
place. Please, please don't come back."

For what it's worth, apparently there are dancing girls on the streets
between 11 o'clock and midnight. I suppose it would be interesting to see
what actually happens.

The doctor left us to fly back to the UK on Saturday, but not before we
visited the Lahore museum and saw "Kim's Gun" the nickname of the cannon
named Zamzama featured in the beginning of Rudyard Kipling's book, "Kim".
Legend has it that whomever holds the cannon will hold Punjab, making the
cannon one of the first spoils of war taken by victors in historical
battles.

I didn't enjoy the museum, as it gave the feeling I get when visiting
museums back home in Indonesia: It was as if a nation was celebrating what
it once was, useless nostalgia compunded by pictures of artifacts that are
kept by the former colonial powers. In this case, the trigger was a faded
black and white photo of Tipu Sultan's sword and dagger, "now kept at
Windsor Castle." It pissed me off to no end.

The best thing about the museum was the bookstore on the museum grounds,
Kim's Bookstore. Very good selection of books, but sadly the shopkeeper
knows his stuff, and prices his books accordingly. I found a used book, a
collection of some of Jalaluddin Rumi's poetry, and asked the price, which
was pretty hefty for a used book in Pakistan, but as the man correctly said,
"It is translated by an authority on Rumi." Damn. I bought it anyway.

On the last night, we had an encore of the drummers mentioned above, this
time in the hostel. Again, they gave a beautiful performance, but it was
just that. A performance. It simply didn't have the electricity that
Thursday night had, but we did get to know a bit more of the drummers. They
are known as the Sain brothers, and the elder, hard looking man is actually
deaf. Properly and utterly deaf.

It was astounding knowing that, and seeing him whirling around at high
speed, drumming like there's no tomorrow, and still keeping in time with his
younger brother. Truly a sight to behold.

Anyway. That was Lahore. I will return some day, but till then, I have
work to do. Lamnian is closing in less than two weeks, and after a few days
in London and Amsterdam, I'll be back in Glasgow, just in time for some rock
music at Rev in good old QMU.

Till next time, stay safe.

Annas