Whos given up everything to follow a dream ?
Discussion
Matt Harper said:
Hasbeen said:
Probably due to the disappointment of not being as good as I had hoped, I found I was unhappy in my marriage. I signed the house & car over to her & moved on.
Am I reading this incorrectly, or are you saying that you scked your wife, because you discovered you were no good at motorsport? A bit harsh, maybe?I believe I blamed my unhappiness, which was all mine, on everything around me. Of course It took years to see that. I could not see it at the time, & snap out of the miseries.
PS. It was a pretty shattering experience to work your way up to an F1 drive. Be competitive enough in your first year to take second in your countries championship. Start thinking of a drive in world championship. Find out how good the top half dozen really are. Come back to reality.
Edited by Hasbeen on Thursday 22 November 02:45
whilst waiting for the next, and final (?), instalment.
So here it is guys, the final chapter and many thanks for all the encouragement. Very much appreciated.
Having agreed to take the position, well, perhaps agreeing is a tad strong. The fact is I never really agreed to anything. This strange little Dutchman had stepped in to our life, taken over, charmed the socks of my beloved, all but ignored me and turned or little existences upside down in the space of just over 12 hours.
It was sheer genius. He had in very short shift read us both like books and played to our weaknesses and desires every step of the way.
I was left sitting on his comfortable office sofa while he was off with his Secretary making arrangement, feeling a mixture of complete elation and excitement. These feelings though where very much tinged by a sense of complete and utter disbelief, pinched with more than a hint of bewilderment.
My beloved on the other hand just babbled in excitement as I listened and agreed. She was already making lots plans in her head whilst taking the picture Bram had painted and inserting us well and truly in the middle of it. Gone was the rather skeptical young lady that had stepped on the Bus with me in Glasgow, in her place sat a little princess planning out her first ball with all the eagerness and excitement of a 5 year old on Christmas Eve.
Me, well I started to worry just a little, I found myself acting very out of character. It was as if at some point in the past 12 hours I had undergone a personality transfer with beloved and I was now the one that was filled with a real sense of skepticism.
s
t like this did not happen in the real world.
The office door opened mid way through my doubt tinged musing and Bram strides in grinning broadly. “All arranged, I have your contract here for you to sign. Just have a quick read and place your pen on the x”. Bram says while handing me the document. While I am doing my best to look over this Bram is excitedly laying out the itinerary for the next couple of weeks.
“Ok, your going to need some injections before you can travel to Gabon. I have arranged an appointment with you for next Tuesday at a private clinic in Glasgow, strictly speaking you are supposed to have these injections 14 days prior to travel” he states conspiratorially “don’t worry about this though as I have made some arrangements to have you vaccination card back dated a little” he says with a wink and his best trust me smile.
“You will fly out from Glasgow on Friday afternoon, connecting flight from Heathrow to Paris then on to Libreville. You should arrive there around eight in the morning”. This all stated in a manner that suggests this is perfectly normal. He somehow makes it sound like he is telling the wife what he would like for dinner.
This nonchalant manner leads me to sit there nodding like the proverbial dog while trying to match his unconcerned demeanor. I am in fact beginning to shake inside, quite violently, so much so I find myself grasping my hands together in an effort to stop them trembling.
Beloved is still, at this stage, caught up in the romance of the whole affair and just nods and grins stupidly..
Instructions duly laid out I am informed that my tickets will be couriered to my address as soon as they arrive. “Should you need anything, anything at all, just call me” he states as he I take the proffered business card from him. He then turns his attention back to my beloved “My dearest girl, don’t you worry about a thing. We will speak regularly I will arrange everything, if you need me you know you just have to shout” he says “In fact I will be in Scotland for a few days in November with my wife, we can meet up then, shop, eat and ensure that everything is good with you”
They then hug, beloved now has tears running down her cheeks. This is getting fking silly now me thinks.
Bram, you will not be surprised to hear, had arranged our onward travel back home. The train to Den Hague was booked and Jim would be waiting for us at the station. We would then spend the rest of the day in Den Hague and would stay as guests of Jim’s till the next day when our return Ferry was booked.
So we said our final farewell to Bram as he placed us on the train at the station and made the short Journey to Den Hague. It sort of struck me at this point that in Holland everything seemed to be very close to everything else, yet when you look at the map it looks like a fair sized chunk of real estate.
Anyway, we arrive in Den Hague and are met by the delightful Jim. After the initial greetings and congratulations Jim explained that he lived only a short distance from the station. The walk back to his house was filled with Jim pointing out the various sights along the way. As it turned out Jim actually lived about three doors down from the Crown Prince of Holland.
Worth a short pause for thought here,. It struck me as completely bizarre that we could stroll past the British equivalent of Prince Charles front door. More so, it seemed that we could in fact chap said door, with more than a fair chance of the crown Prince answering it. This was my first real view in to the Dutch psyche, something I was to learn a lot more of in the coming years. In fact, studying the little nuances of nations became a bit of hobby.
The Dutch though fascinated me from this initial encounter. They must be the most laid back race on the planet.
Now if you cast your mind back you will remember part of my cunning plan to lure beloved along on this trip was the promise of enjoying a little bit of the drug trade, namely smoking hash. Now for many years I attributed the Dutch attitude to drug use as very enlightened and opened minded. I reflected many times on how the Dutch must surely be a very considered and intelligent race.
The truth was somewhat different though; they just didn’t give a fk.
This attitude is inherent in their nature. You can actually stroll past the Dutch houses of parliament, look in the prime ministers window and give him a little wave. Queen Beatrix is often to be seen out on her bike on the street of Den Hague.
Can you imagine this in the UK, as a nation we are far to excitable for any of this, the Dutch on the other hand, well, you could not get these guys excited if you stuck a Sherman tank up their arse while shouting Hiel Hitler.
Worth noting that this supposition had actually been tested in 1941 when the Germans did indeed stick a Sherman tank up their arses while actually shouting Hiel Hitler.
They where, as history will confer, completely unfazed by this and promptly just got on with things.
At the other side of the pond during the same period, we where by this time completely lost in a haze self indignant rage that had us all determined to lay our life’s down to the last man. All this for a bunch of people we had spent much of the previous hundred years fighting with.
The best example I have seen of the Dutchman’s rather nonchalant attitude to life in recent years was a motion that was raised in the Dutch parliament, discussed at length and put to a vote. The motion was very narrowly defeated.
So what was this motion, well, believe it or not it was a motion to change the Dutch first language to English. Seriously, I kid you not. It narrowly lost for fk sake.
Can you imagine the same scenario played out by the Conservatives in our parliament with the motioned tabled to change our first language to French. The resulting outcry would have ended with every one of the backers being summarily executed in front of a sell out crowd at Wembley stadium.
Sorry, kind of wandered off track a bit there. So, we spent the next couple of days enjoying the sights and sounds of Den Hague. To be honest though this whole portion of the trip is a tad hazy.
Following a lovely supper at Jims we proceeded out into the night and quickly found a little hash house. The rest of the evening was spent sampling a veritable cornucopia of marijuana blends. I had no fecking idea there where so many. We were both got completely wrecked.
What Jim must have thought when we returned to the house later that evening I can only guess at. Feck me that stuff was good. We had also purchased a small doggy bag to go, the intention in our stoned haze was to take this home with us.
It was not until the next morning we discovered our rather large bag of grass.
At this stage we had three options, one, take it home. Thoughts of sniffer dogs and imprisonment quickly ruled this option out. Two, dump it “do you realise how much we paid for this st” came back the indignant response of my beloved or three, smoke it. We chose the latter. Hence that day passing in somewhat of a haze as well.
At last we arrived safely home. Settled on the settee, cupper in hand I took to assessing my situation. At this point beloved was on the phone and working her way through her little black book of friends and family. Eagerly and excitedly reciting our tail, various facts being ever so slightly embellished at each telling.
Women I have noted have an uncanny knack for this; we poor blokes often get labeled with the tall tale moniker. The fact is we cannot hold a candle to the better sex in this respect.
So there I sit with my cup of tea, its now Friday. In exactly a weeks time I will leaving home and heading for Africa.
A few little problems with this fact begin to spring forth in my mind.
Firstly, there is the small matter of the shop I run. This most definitely needs dealt with. Secondly, I am going to be gone for at least three months, perhaps longer if beloved comes out to start home making. Thirdly, I have less than a fecking week to get my st together and set off.
Fear begins to overcome me at this point and the realization of what I have just signed up for starts to dawn on me. Beloved on the other hand, having run out of names in her little book, is now working her way through the telephone directory searching for people that she might have met at some point.
Still, events and preparation take hold. The shop is dully signed over to a friend for a small fee, thing was bombing anyway. Details are laid out for bills, accountants, bank and cases are fully packed and ready to go.
Friday finally arrive. Many tears at the airport, bags are checked in and off I go.
The feeling of liberation at this point is..well..quite.. ..liberating. I feel a bit like Indiana Jones, setting of to find the lost treasure of the Incas.
All goes very smoothly and we land on time at Libreville airport on a glorious Saturday, morning. Looking out of my little First class peep hole the Sun is shinning brightly and the place looks incredible. I disembark the plane, a huge 747, and make my way in to the arrivals hall. Given that this is deepest darkest Africa the airport looks quite modern. This surprises me a bit.
Just another quick diversion here, once more to bemoan the technology of the day. Or more precisely the lack of it.
These days a quick click into Google search will bring forward everything you could ever possible need to know about Gabon, a complete cornucopia of information is at your finger tips. Back then and with a week to research it, the best I could come up with was a short quarter page description of the country. This information taken from a dusty old encyclopedia I found in the loft.
Enquires to friends resulted in bemused looks, no one had ever heard of the place. Still, I had established it was smack bang in the middle of the equator, had a land mass twice that on of Uk and a population of just over a million, primarily poor people.
So with this astonishing amount of background information I find myself in standing in the arrivals hall looking over a see of people that appear to be mulling around rather aimlessly.
I quiz my memory and refer to my instructions from Barm “you are to meet a tall balck man called Mr Yubi, you will hand him your passport along with the French Francs”. Yip, that was it.
Oh dear, before me a mass of tall Black guys are currently accounting for around 80% of the occupancy of the packed hall.
Well fk me and thanks for that detailed description of Mr Yubi Bram.
A large number of these tall black guys are hanging around displaying scribbled boards with various names written on them, none of them mine. I try in vein to ask several likely looking candidates if they are in fact Mr Yubi. This is not going well. By this point a particularly pissed off looking guard wielding an equally pissed off looking machine gun is eying me suspiciously.
I start investigating the contents of my pocket at this time while trying to look like I know what I am doing, this is not working and the guard wanders up to me and starts rambling something in French. Well at least I think its French, given that I am Scottish I struggle to grasp English.
I shrug my shoulders a lot and try to communicate in my best sign language. This he obviously takes to be aggressive and begins poking me with the machine gun as his voice raises a level or two and takes on the tone of a growl. I am now very scared.
Suddenly out of the the now curious crowd appears a particularly tall balck man. “Mr Chim, Mr Chim” he begins shouting. “Yes, Yes. That’s me” I shout back in an incredibly relieved and high pitched voice.
My hand is shook firmly and words are exchanged with the Guard., his demeanor suggesting that he has been firmly chastised. He looks apologetically at me and backs away uttering what I assumed to be apologies.
Unfortunately Mr Yubi’s English skills are slightly less than my French skills. Now given that my `French is restricted to “wee” and “bonjour” this does not bode well.
Having struggled through a bit of sign language I hand over my passport and the money, a bag boy is summoned and I am the ushered by Mr Yubi through a side door that completely bypasses the baggage and custom area and I find myself in the entrance hall of the airport.
After a few more attempts at communication Mr Yubi gestures towards the massed taxis outside on the street. This I concluded meant that I was to get a taxi to the small airport that would take me to Port Gentil. Having established that I understood, Mr Yubi bids me farewell and disappears…,with my passport…. a small fact that I never actually picked up on till later.
So off I strode, my little baggage guy trotting behind, to the taxi rank.
The sights and sounds on the street outside the airport where wondrous. Beyond the shiny interior of the airport sprawled a city, a city that looked like something from Casablanca. The roads where filled with battered cars, the streets crowded with little stalls selling a dizzying array of the strangest food stuffs I had ever seen.
I had very little time to take this in though as I was quickly accosted by at least half a dozen excited taxi drivers . Half of this little group descended into a frenzied battle to grasp control of my baggage, while the other half battled to push me towards their taxi. At this rate the prize would be split and I would end up with me in one taxi and my bags in another.
After much pushing and struggling though I reunited myself with my bags and chose a suitable taxi and off we set for the next airport.
This, once more, turned in to a bit of an adventure. This airport was a far cry from the plush international affair that greeted outside guests. This was a little internal thing and comprised of nothing more than a few rough hangers and a runway.
After a fair old time I managed to negotiate my self onto the flight for Prot Gentil, the whole experience leaving me more and more shell shocked as it went on. This was your typical internal flight. Assorted passengers sat with their assorted belonging. These belongings being mainly made up of goods that they had purchase on their visit to the big city.
So, sitting beside a rather large lady who was happily holding a crate stuffed with four squawking chickens we set off.
The one thing that overwhelmed me most though was the smell.
Let me start off by stating that the following observation is in no way racist, it is purly factual. These people stank, when I say they stank I mean they fking stank, the kind of, I am gagging and about to throw up stank.
As said, this is not a racist observation; it is in fact a diet based one. In the west we have a very dairy based diet, in Gabon the staple diet was a thing called manioc, a sort of root vegetable.
There is an old saying; one that I did not fully appreciate the significance of till this point, That saying goes along the lines of “You are what you eat”. So, so true.
As mentioned, in the west our staple is dairy, if you ever meet a native African and they are honest with you they will let you into a little secret. To them we stink like sour milk. In this case, to me these people stunk like stale sweat that had been mixed with puke and left to ferment for a day or two.
Unfortunately for me I could not role the window down and was left to cope with the smell of a plane filled with chickens and manioc sweating locals. Never had I been so happy to see a door swing open.
So here I was, port Gentil. Boy was this place a dump.
Gabon had been a French colony at some point in the past. The colonial French influence being very highly evident from architecture and it was apparent that this city was once filled with very grand buildings. These grand buildings still existed, unfortunately though the maintenance routines had came to a very abrupt end when the French left.
All that remained was a sorry run down mass of once regal building interspersed with roughly constructed shanty buildings. Strangely though it was actually incredibly captivating and seemed to work somehow in a twisted kind of way. It all just seemed to suit the place.
So into a taxi I went again heading for the meridian Mandji hotel. The taxi duly pulls up at the top of the street that the hotel is on and I am charged an extortionate sum of money in African terms for the journey. Ha ho, I’m a westerner, it’s to be expected.
As I stand there looking down the street towards the hotel I am once more assailed by an incredibly bad smell, glancing around for the source of this stink I notice that I appear to be standing in some black lumpy muck on the road.
On slightly closer inspection it would appear that the black stuff is moving.
In the next half second my tired brain finally connects the source of the smell and my eyes transmit the cause of the movement. This it followed by a very loud scream, with me leaping around doing an excellent impression of Basil Fawlty in full school of funny walks flow.
I had been standing in the remains of what appeared to be a rather large dog. It had though long since become a black squelchy mess that was being rapidly consumed by around a million maggots.
Welcome to the manky mandji as it is better known in local expat circles.
Gathering my composure and my bags I proceed down the road and enter the Hotel, to be fair I have seen a lot worse. Well perhaps not a lot worse but it was almost normal considering the surrounding. Better still the receptionist spoke a few rather staggered words of English. So booked in, room inspected, I settled down. At this point I contemplated a walk around town, quickly thought better of this idea and went down for Lunch.
With lots of time on my hands my mind now wandered into those areas that only idleness, with nothing to do but think can access. I reviewed fully my situation, the more I mulled it over the more bizarre it became. Two weeks ago today I was happily browsing my paper on an ordinary Saturday morning contemplating getting dressed and opening my little shop. Now, here I was in a country that I had never before heard of, in a strange hotel supposedly about to start a 1000 pound a week job in the middle of blooming nowhere.
Panic was now setting in to my thoughts; my mind in its idle state was now working overtime. During these musing I quickly established that I was in fact bereft of a passport. Not only that I had very little money left having left much of the cash advance with beloved. My confidence in doing this fueled by one of the many promises made by a strange little Dutchman. This particular promise indicating that I would receive my expenses in advance as soon as I met up with Paul Baker the next morning.
I had a very sleepless night. Most of it spent berating myself for being a gullible idiot of monumental proportions. I mean come on, who actually hands some young guy from a backwater in Scotland with nothing more a to his name than a piece of paper proclaiming his ability to spell “computer” a grand a week and lifestyle of complete luxury.
All I could come up with by this point where scenarios of drug running and white slavery. I was truly terrified. The only hope I had left was that this Paul Baker guy would turn up in the morning and bring sanity to this whole crazy situation.
So there I sat, on a large settee in reception at 9am, eyes firmly fixed on the door waiting for the entrance of my savior. The allotted time of arrival ticked up on my watch and the door was now wilting under the intensity of my gaze.
No savior.
An hour passed since the allotted time, I now really needed to pee. I was fked if I was going to move though. Still no Mr Baker.
The clocked ticked past 1pm, I was hungry, thirsty and scarring the crap out of everyone that entered the hotel. I sat and dared not move. My mind was working overtime. At around 2 I had a choice, piss the seat or risk the loo. I risked the loo returning in record time. No one in reception
By 8pm I was reduced to a complete wreck. I was actually crying at one point. The words “your fked” ran on an endless loop in my head.
9pm, still no Mr. Baker. I am resolved to my fate, its not a good one.
At 10pm a young chap wanders through the door, looks around, spots what is left of me sitting on the couch opens with “gidday mate, sorry I’m so late. Got held up on a safari trip”.
I was very torn at this point between punching him or kissing him.
I instead opted for the classic British response of “No, problem, nice to meet you’ and shook his proffered hand.
I had arrived.
The next day I am dispatched to Gamba on a shell flight having been fully briefed by the very entertaining Mr Baker.
The following days where like a dream. Bram as it turned out had greatly under sold this place. It was indeed paradise. I found myself in a community of Expats working with a small team of “IT “experts” in support of a major opco for one of the largest oil companies in the world. Loved every moment.
Most of all my life was changed forever, I embarked on a journey that would see me rise through the ranks and travel the four corners of the globe.
My time in that little country was filled with some of the most incredible experiences of my life. I had my jeep written off by a bunch of pissed of elephants, watched as Gorillas took umbrage to having a truck blast its horn at them, got a couple of my mates off a murder charge, starred in my own TV show., got hopelessly lost in the jungle and spent a great deal of time living a life that James Bond would envy.
All this from a small add in the Glasgow Herald.
Back in Scotland for the moment though, beloved is still by my side.
Guess what…its still raining.
So here ends my trip into Africa. Perhaps at some point I will get around to writing a little more about my adventures on this amazing continent. The good ones, the debauched ones and the simply shocking ones.
Having agreed to take the position, well, perhaps agreeing is a tad strong. The fact is I never really agreed to anything. This strange little Dutchman had stepped in to our life, taken over, charmed the socks of my beloved, all but ignored me and turned or little existences upside down in the space of just over 12 hours.
It was sheer genius. He had in very short shift read us both like books and played to our weaknesses and desires every step of the way.
I was left sitting on his comfortable office sofa while he was off with his Secretary making arrangement, feeling a mixture of complete elation and excitement. These feelings though where very much tinged by a sense of complete and utter disbelief, pinched with more than a hint of bewilderment.
My beloved on the other hand just babbled in excitement as I listened and agreed. She was already making lots plans in her head whilst taking the picture Bram had painted and inserting us well and truly in the middle of it. Gone was the rather skeptical young lady that had stepped on the Bus with me in Glasgow, in her place sat a little princess planning out her first ball with all the eagerness and excitement of a 5 year old on Christmas Eve.
Me, well I started to worry just a little, I found myself acting very out of character. It was as if at some point in the past 12 hours I had undergone a personality transfer with beloved and I was now the one that was filled with a real sense of skepticism.
s
t like this did not happen in the real world.The office door opened mid way through my doubt tinged musing and Bram strides in grinning broadly. “All arranged, I have your contract here for you to sign. Just have a quick read and place your pen on the x”. Bram says while handing me the document. While I am doing my best to look over this Bram is excitedly laying out the itinerary for the next couple of weeks.
“Ok, your going to need some injections before you can travel to Gabon. I have arranged an appointment with you for next Tuesday at a private clinic in Glasgow, strictly speaking you are supposed to have these injections 14 days prior to travel” he states conspiratorially “don’t worry about this though as I have made some arrangements to have you vaccination card back dated a little” he says with a wink and his best trust me smile.
“You will fly out from Glasgow on Friday afternoon, connecting flight from Heathrow to Paris then on to Libreville. You should arrive there around eight in the morning”. This all stated in a manner that suggests this is perfectly normal. He somehow makes it sound like he is telling the wife what he would like for dinner.
This nonchalant manner leads me to sit there nodding like the proverbial dog while trying to match his unconcerned demeanor. I am in fact beginning to shake inside, quite violently, so much so I find myself grasping my hands together in an effort to stop them trembling.
Beloved is still, at this stage, caught up in the romance of the whole affair and just nods and grins stupidly..
Instructions duly laid out I am informed that my tickets will be couriered to my address as soon as they arrive. “Should you need anything, anything at all, just call me” he states as he I take the proffered business card from him. He then turns his attention back to my beloved “My dearest girl, don’t you worry about a thing. We will speak regularly I will arrange everything, if you need me you know you just have to shout” he says “In fact I will be in Scotland for a few days in November with my wife, we can meet up then, shop, eat and ensure that everything is good with you”
They then hug, beloved now has tears running down her cheeks. This is getting f
king silly now me thinks.Bram, you will not be surprised to hear, had arranged our onward travel back home. The train to Den Hague was booked and Jim would be waiting for us at the station. We would then spend the rest of the day in Den Hague and would stay as guests of Jim’s till the next day when our return Ferry was booked.
So we said our final farewell to Bram as he placed us on the train at the station and made the short Journey to Den Hague. It sort of struck me at this point that in Holland everything seemed to be very close to everything else, yet when you look at the map it looks like a fair sized chunk of real estate.
Anyway, we arrive in Den Hague and are met by the delightful Jim. After the initial greetings and congratulations Jim explained that he lived only a short distance from the station. The walk back to his house was filled with Jim pointing out the various sights along the way. As it turned out Jim actually lived about three doors down from the Crown Prince of Holland.
Worth a short pause for thought here,. It struck me as completely bizarre that we could stroll past the British equivalent of Prince Charles front door. More so, it seemed that we could in fact chap said door, with more than a fair chance of the crown Prince answering it. This was my first real view in to the Dutch psyche, something I was to learn a lot more of in the coming years. In fact, studying the little nuances of nations became a bit of hobby.
The Dutch though fascinated me from this initial encounter. They must be the most laid back race on the planet.
Now if you cast your mind back you will remember part of my cunning plan to lure beloved along on this trip was the promise of enjoying a little bit of the drug trade, namely smoking hash. Now for many years I attributed the Dutch attitude to drug use as very enlightened and opened minded. I reflected many times on how the Dutch must surely be a very considered and intelligent race.
The truth was somewhat different though; they just didn’t give a f
k.This attitude is inherent in their nature. You can actually stroll past the Dutch houses of parliament, look in the prime ministers window and give him a little wave. Queen Beatrix is often to be seen out on her bike on the street of Den Hague.
Can you imagine this in the UK, as a nation we are far to excitable for any of this, the Dutch on the other hand, well, you could not get these guys excited if you stuck a Sherman tank up their arse while shouting Hiel Hitler.
Worth noting that this supposition had actually been tested in 1941 when the Germans did indeed stick a Sherman tank up their arses while actually shouting Hiel Hitler.
They where, as history will confer, completely unfazed by this and promptly just got on with things.
At the other side of the pond during the same period, we where by this time completely lost in a haze self indignant rage that had us all determined to lay our life’s down to the last man. All this for a bunch of people we had spent much of the previous hundred years fighting with.
The best example I have seen of the Dutchman’s rather nonchalant attitude to life in recent years was a motion that was raised in the Dutch parliament, discussed at length and put to a vote. The motion was very narrowly defeated.
So what was this motion, well, believe it or not it was a motion to change the Dutch first language to English. Seriously, I kid you not. It narrowly lost for f
k sake.Can you imagine the same scenario played out by the Conservatives in our parliament with the motioned tabled to change our first language to French. The resulting outcry would have ended with every one of the backers being summarily executed in front of a sell out crowd at Wembley stadium.
Sorry, kind of wandered off track a bit there. So, we spent the next couple of days enjoying the sights and sounds of Den Hague. To be honest though this whole portion of the trip is a tad hazy.
Following a lovely supper at Jims we proceeded out into the night and quickly found a little hash house. The rest of the evening was spent sampling a veritable cornucopia of marijuana blends. I had no fecking idea there where so many. We were both got completely wrecked.
What Jim must have thought when we returned to the house later that evening I can only guess at. Feck me that stuff was good. We had also purchased a small doggy bag to go, the intention in our stoned haze was to take this home with us.
It was not until the next morning we discovered our rather large bag of grass.
At this stage we had three options, one, take it home. Thoughts of sniffer dogs and imprisonment quickly ruled this option out. Two, dump it “do you realise how much we paid for this s
t” came back the indignant response of my beloved or three, smoke it. We chose the latter. Hence that day passing in somewhat of a haze as well.At last we arrived safely home. Settled on the settee, cupper in hand I took to assessing my situation. At this point beloved was on the phone and working her way through her little black book of friends and family. Eagerly and excitedly reciting our tail, various facts being ever so slightly embellished at each telling.
Women I have noted have an uncanny knack for this; we poor blokes often get labeled with the tall tale moniker. The fact is we cannot hold a candle to the better sex in this respect.
So there I sit with my cup of tea, its now Friday. In exactly a weeks time I will leaving home and heading for Africa.
A few little problems with this fact begin to spring forth in my mind.
Firstly, there is the small matter of the shop I run. This most definitely needs dealt with. Secondly, I am going to be gone for at least three months, perhaps longer if beloved comes out to start home making. Thirdly, I have less than a fecking week to get my s
t together and set off.Fear begins to overcome me at this point and the realization of what I have just signed up for starts to dawn on me. Beloved on the other hand, having run out of names in her little book, is now working her way through the telephone directory searching for people that she might have met at some point.
Still, events and preparation take hold. The shop is dully signed over to a friend for a small fee, thing was bombing anyway. Details are laid out for bills, accountants, bank and cases are fully packed and ready to go.
Friday finally arrive. Many tears at the airport, bags are checked in and off I go.
The feeling of liberation at this point is..well..quite.. ..liberating. I feel a bit like Indiana Jones, setting of to find the lost treasure of the Incas.
All goes very smoothly and we land on time at Libreville airport on a glorious Saturday, morning. Looking out of my little First class peep hole the Sun is shinning brightly and the place looks incredible. I disembark the plane, a huge 747, and make my way in to the arrivals hall. Given that this is deepest darkest Africa the airport looks quite modern. This surprises me a bit.
Just another quick diversion here, once more to bemoan the technology of the day. Or more precisely the lack of it.
These days a quick click into Google search will bring forward everything you could ever possible need to know about Gabon, a complete cornucopia of information is at your finger tips. Back then and with a week to research it, the best I could come up with was a short quarter page description of the country. This information taken from a dusty old encyclopedia I found in the loft.
Enquires to friends resulted in bemused looks, no one had ever heard of the place. Still, I had established it was smack bang in the middle of the equator, had a land mass twice that on of Uk and a population of just over a million, primarily poor people.
So with this astonishing amount of background information I find myself in standing in the arrivals hall looking over a see of people that appear to be mulling around rather aimlessly.
I quiz my memory and refer to my instructions from Barm “you are to meet a tall balck man called Mr Yubi, you will hand him your passport along with the French Francs”. Yip, that was it.
Oh dear, before me a mass of tall Black guys are currently accounting for around 80% of the occupancy of the packed hall.
Well f
k me and thanks for that detailed description of Mr Yubi Bram.A large number of these tall black guys are hanging around displaying scribbled boards with various names written on them, none of them mine. I try in vein to ask several likely looking candidates if they are in fact Mr Yubi. This is not going well. By this point a particularly pissed off looking guard wielding an equally pissed off looking machine gun is eying me suspiciously.
I start investigating the contents of my pocket at this time while trying to look like I know what I am doing, this is not working and the guard wanders up to me and starts rambling something in French. Well at least I think its French, given that I am Scottish I struggle to grasp English.
I shrug my shoulders a lot and try to communicate in my best sign language. This he obviously takes to be aggressive and begins poking me with the machine gun as his voice raises a level or two and takes on the tone of a growl. I am now very scared.
Suddenly out of the the now curious crowd appears a particularly tall balck man. “Mr Chim, Mr Chim” he begins shouting. “Yes, Yes. That’s me” I shout back in an incredibly relieved and high pitched voice.
My hand is shook firmly and words are exchanged with the Guard., his demeanor suggesting that he has been firmly chastised. He looks apologetically at me and backs away uttering what I assumed to be apologies.
Unfortunately Mr Yubi’s English skills are slightly less than my French skills. Now given that my `French is restricted to “wee” and “bonjour” this does not bode well.
Having struggled through a bit of sign language I hand over my passport and the money, a bag boy is summoned and I am the ushered by Mr Yubi through a side door that completely bypasses the baggage and custom area and I find myself in the entrance hall of the airport.
After a few more attempts at communication Mr Yubi gestures towards the massed taxis outside on the street. This I concluded meant that I was to get a taxi to the small airport that would take me to Port Gentil. Having established that I understood, Mr Yubi bids me farewell and disappears…,with my passport…. a small fact that I never actually picked up on till later.
So off I strode, my little baggage guy trotting behind, to the taxi rank.
The sights and sounds on the street outside the airport where wondrous. Beyond the shiny interior of the airport sprawled a city, a city that looked like something from Casablanca. The roads where filled with battered cars, the streets crowded with little stalls selling a dizzying array of the strangest food stuffs I had ever seen.
I had very little time to take this in though as I was quickly accosted by at least half a dozen excited taxi drivers . Half of this little group descended into a frenzied battle to grasp control of my baggage, while the other half battled to push me towards their taxi. At this rate the prize would be split and I would end up with me in one taxi and my bags in another.
After much pushing and struggling though I reunited myself with my bags and chose a suitable taxi and off we set for the next airport.
This, once more, turned in to a bit of an adventure. This airport was a far cry from the plush international affair that greeted outside guests. This was a little internal thing and comprised of nothing more than a few rough hangers and a runway.
After a fair old time I managed to negotiate my self onto the flight for Prot Gentil, the whole experience leaving me more and more shell shocked as it went on. This was your typical internal flight. Assorted passengers sat with their assorted belonging. These belongings being mainly made up of goods that they had purchase on their visit to the big city.
So, sitting beside a rather large lady who was happily holding a crate stuffed with four squawking chickens we set off.
The one thing that overwhelmed me most though was the smell.
Let me start off by stating that the following observation is in no way racist, it is purly factual. These people stank, when I say they stank I mean they f
king stank, the kind of, I am gagging and about to throw up stank.As said, this is not a racist observation; it is in fact a diet based one. In the west we have a very dairy based diet, in Gabon the staple diet was a thing called manioc, a sort of root vegetable.
There is an old saying; one that I did not fully appreciate the significance of till this point, That saying goes along the lines of “You are what you eat”. So, so true.
As mentioned, in the west our staple is dairy, if you ever meet a native African and they are honest with you they will let you into a little secret. To them we stink like sour milk. In this case, to me these people stunk like stale sweat that had been mixed with puke and left to ferment for a day or two.
Unfortunately for me I could not role the window down and was left to cope with the smell of a plane filled with chickens and manioc sweating locals. Never had I been so happy to see a door swing open.
So here I was, port Gentil. Boy was this place a dump.
Gabon had been a French colony at some point in the past. The colonial French influence being very highly evident from architecture and it was apparent that this city was once filled with very grand buildings. These grand buildings still existed, unfortunately though the maintenance routines had came to a very abrupt end when the French left.
All that remained was a sorry run down mass of once regal building interspersed with roughly constructed shanty buildings. Strangely though it was actually incredibly captivating and seemed to work somehow in a twisted kind of way. It all just seemed to suit the place.
So into a taxi I went again heading for the meridian Mandji hotel. The taxi duly pulls up at the top of the street that the hotel is on and I am charged an extortionate sum of money in African terms for the journey. Ha ho, I’m a westerner, it’s to be expected.
As I stand there looking down the street towards the hotel I am once more assailed by an incredibly bad smell, glancing around for the source of this stink I notice that I appear to be standing in some black lumpy muck on the road.
On slightly closer inspection it would appear that the black stuff is moving.
In the next half second my tired brain finally connects the source of the smell and my eyes transmit the cause of the movement. This it followed by a very loud scream, with me leaping around doing an excellent impression of Basil Fawlty in full school of funny walks flow.
I had been standing in the remains of what appeared to be a rather large dog. It had though long since become a black squelchy mess that was being rapidly consumed by around a million maggots.
Welcome to the manky mandji as it is better known in local expat circles.
Gathering my composure and my bags I proceed down the road and enter the Hotel, to be fair I have seen a lot worse. Well perhaps not a lot worse but it was almost normal considering the surrounding. Better still the receptionist spoke a few rather staggered words of English. So booked in, room inspected, I settled down. At this point I contemplated a walk around town, quickly thought better of this idea and went down for Lunch.
With lots of time on my hands my mind now wandered into those areas that only idleness, with nothing to do but think can access. I reviewed fully my situation, the more I mulled it over the more bizarre it became. Two weeks ago today I was happily browsing my paper on an ordinary Saturday morning contemplating getting dressed and opening my little shop. Now, here I was in a country that I had never before heard of, in a strange hotel supposedly about to start a 1000 pound a week job in the middle of blooming nowhere.
Panic was now setting in to my thoughts; my mind in its idle state was now working overtime. During these musing I quickly established that I was in fact bereft of a passport. Not only that I had very little money left having left much of the cash advance with beloved. My confidence in doing this fueled by one of the many promises made by a strange little Dutchman. This particular promise indicating that I would receive my expenses in advance as soon as I met up with Paul Baker the next morning.
I had a very sleepless night. Most of it spent berating myself for being a gullible idiot of monumental proportions. I mean come on, who actually hands some young guy from a backwater in Scotland with nothing more a to his name than a piece of paper proclaiming his ability to spell “computer” a grand a week and lifestyle of complete luxury.
All I could come up with by this point where scenarios of drug running and white slavery. I was truly terrified. The only hope I had left was that this Paul Baker guy would turn up in the morning and bring sanity to this whole crazy situation.
So there I sat, on a large settee in reception at 9am, eyes firmly fixed on the door waiting for the entrance of my savior. The allotted time of arrival ticked up on my watch and the door was now wilting under the intensity of my gaze.
No savior.
An hour passed since the allotted time, I now really needed to pee. I was f
ked if I was going to move though. Still no Mr Baker. The clocked ticked past 1pm, I was hungry, thirsty and scarring the crap out of everyone that entered the hotel. I sat and dared not move. My mind was working overtime. At around 2 I had a choice, piss the seat or risk the loo. I risked the loo returning in record time. No one in reception
By 8pm I was reduced to a complete wreck. I was actually crying at one point. The words “your f
ked” ran on an endless loop in my head. 9pm, still no Mr. Baker. I am resolved to my fate, its not a good one.
At 10pm a young chap wanders through the door, looks around, spots what is left of me sitting on the couch opens with “gidday mate, sorry I’m so late. Got held up on a safari trip”.
I was very torn at this point between punching him or kissing him.
I instead opted for the classic British response of “No, problem, nice to meet you’ and shook his proffered hand.
I had arrived.
The next day I am dispatched to Gamba on a shell flight having been fully briefed by the very entertaining Mr Baker.
The following days where like a dream. Bram as it turned out had greatly under sold this place. It was indeed paradise. I found myself in a community of Expats working with a small team of “IT “experts” in support of a major opco for one of the largest oil companies in the world. Loved every moment.
Most of all my life was changed forever, I embarked on a journey that would see me rise through the ranks and travel the four corners of the globe.
My time in that little country was filled with some of the most incredible experiences of my life. I had my jeep written off by a bunch of pissed of elephants, watched as Gorillas took umbrage to having a truck blast its horn at them, got a couple of my mates off a murder charge, starred in my own TV show., got hopelessly lost in the jungle and spent a great deal of time living a life that James Bond would envy.
All this from a small add in the Glasgow Herald.
Back in Scotland for the moment though, beloved is still by my side.
Guess what…its still raining.
So here ends my trip into Africa. Perhaps at some point I will get around to writing a little more about my adventures on this amazing continent. The good ones, the debauched ones and the simply shocking ones.
Thanks for the final chapter, Chim!
I may have missed this part somewhere along the line, but at what point did you find out you were going to Africa? You said early on that you had no idea where it was but I dont think you said how you discovered it was an African country.
Your writing style is excellent and I really think you should consider writing a book - Many other people have written books on much less interesting lives.
Incidentally, I was pleased to read your beloved is still by your side and diddnt' run off with a Dutchman!
I may have missed this part somewhere along the line, but at what point did you find out you were going to Africa? You said early on that you had no idea where it was but I dont think you said how you discovered it was an African country.
Your writing style is excellent and I really think you should consider writing a book - Many other people have written books on much less interesting lives.
Incidentally, I was pleased to read your beloved is still by your side and diddnt' run off with a Dutchman!
Previous said:
Chim. Wow, just wow
^^^ This.If your 'garage' is up to date, it seems you did very well as a result of your perhaps 'dodgy choice.' I have to admit, when you said Bram told you to handover your passport to a stranger, I was thinking, "Uh oh!".
Very entertaining read, too.
Thanks, Chim.
Chim said:
Can you imagine this in the UK, as a nation we are far to excitable for any of this, the Dutch on the other hand, well, you could not get these guys excited if you stuck a Sherman tank up their arse while shouting Hiel Hitler.
Worth noting that this supposition had actually been tested in 1941 when the Germans did indeed stick a Sherman tank up their arses while actually shouting Hiel Hitler.
Made me laugh rather a lot Worth noting that this supposition had actually been tested in 1941 when the Germans did indeed stick a Sherman tank up their arses while actually shouting Hiel Hitler.
Incidentally, are you ex-forces? There's a turn of phrase prevalent in your writing that implies it.
Chim said:
So here it is guys, the final chapter and many thanks for all the encouragement. Very much appreciated.
So here ends my trip into Africa. Perhaps at some point I will get around to writing a little more about my adventures on this amazing continent. The good ones, the debauched ones and the simply shocking ones.
I'd read it. Your writing is superb and thoroughly enthralling. Im sure there are a few on here with similar experiences but none that could recount it so evocatively.So here ends my trip into Africa. Perhaps at some point I will get around to writing a little more about my adventures on this amazing continent. The good ones, the debauched ones and the simply shocking ones.
Brilliant stuff
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