Monday, December 11, 2006

Shame on Sharm

By itchingmyknee

Holiday from hell. Vicious vacation. Lethal leave. Beastly break. Ruinous rest. I have just returned from a week in “Egypt”. Only it wasn’t really Egypt, it was a tourist resort called Sharm el Sheikh. Egyptians have never lived there, it was built with the sole purpose of entertaining (torturing) resort-hopping (hapless) tourists after a little sun and sea, and perhaps a (bitter) taste of Africa.

The first couple of days were alright. We looked around our hotel and explored the tourist trap that is Naama Bay. It’s off-season out there now, so there weren’t many other guests staying, but we’re not the most social animals anyway. The hotel insisted on blaring pop music full blast from 8pm to 2am, even though it was a bit nippy out in the evenings so no one was actually out dancing, they were all a-bed with a pillow over their heads (excepting the occasional drunken pikey on an all-inclusive).

Then disaster struck. Food poisoning. The worst, or indeed best, that Egypt could muster. My fella and I were out for the count. Delirious. Spending more time in the bathroom that anywhere else. Locked in our room-cum-dungeon where we wallowed in our sickness fuelled by nightmares and putrid gases. We were stuck like that for an eternity. Waking in our sweat-soaked sheets we knew we had to get out, had to get drugs, had to smell the air. I really thought we might die. We stumbled to the pharmacy five minutes down the road. I didn’t make it, I fell back on the sandy street and shouted, “Go on without me, I can’t make it.” My brave boyfriend battled on, beaded in sweat and grasping his belly. When he retuned his expression spoke volumes, “They tried to charge me £50 for paracetamol”, he said. “I would have knocked the guy out but I couldn’t raise my fists. Managed to get him down to £13 for six.”

We’d missed the excursion we’d booked to Ras Mohammad, the underwater national park. It wasn’t just the money wasted that weighed heavily, we had both been looking forward to swimming with the pretty fishes. We were determined not to miss our other trips, and so on Wednesday night, fevers just broken, empty-bellied and slack-jawed we put on every item of clothing we’d packed in preparation for climbing Mount Sinai. We knew it would be gruelling, but we could not have foreseen how so. The bus came at 10pm, the climb would take place overnight and culminate in the sunrise at the peak. Then we would climb down the 3000 steps to the bottom. It was the second time this holiday I thought I would die. I don’t know how we made it up that mountain, muscles screaming, clothes soaked with sweat, fingers chapped with cold. The climb took hours, with occasional stops in Bedouin shacks to catch our breath. We did the climb on an empty stomach, terrified of getting caught out half way up the mountain, and hunger clawed at me like a rabid rat. I dreamed of my mother’s cooking, of stews and roasts and little green peas. There wasn’t even air in my lungs to complain, only the grim resolve of step after step, leg over leg all to the frenzied grind of my battered digestive system. The high point, both literally and metaphorically came at the top. Watching the sun rise on our endeavors and warming our tired bones made the whole climb worthwhile, and we told eachother how proud we were and wished on Moses mountain for better fortune. The whole thing lasted about 16 hours and we returned to the hotel at 2pm on Thursday. I ate and ate and ate and slept for the rest of the day.

The next day we’d booked quad biking in the desert. I won’t say much about this except that the desert was beautiful, the bumps were brutal and I fell off mine. Narrowly missing death by crushed cranium, I rolled like a stunt girl away from the falling machinery and felt the adrenaline rush of the “near-miss”. I used up my third life that day, and I only hope that like cats we get at least nine lives to play with. The holiday saga continued even after we arrived back home. The stairs to get us off the plane didn’t arrive, and we were stuck on an airless plane while the feckless stair-driver was prized off some bar stool. The whole holiday was more an exercise in human endurance than a rest: it would have been more relaxing to have joined the army. But I come home fitter, hardier and with a mental strength I never knew I had. I curse that red snapper and rice we ate in Naama Bay that first night. I curse the humous and the olives and the whole Fawares restaurant operation.

The sad thing is, for all the poisons that the food released in our bodies, for all the trauma it caused, the pain and frustration, the money wasted… it tasted so good.






Librarian's Corner IV

By wrackingmybrains

I’m glad to say that, since I’ve been there, we’ve only ever had to call the police to my library once. However, colleagues who work in larger libraries, in less genteel areas, tell me that they have to call in the services of the Old Bill on an almost weekly basis to deal with either belligerent drunks or abusive and potentially violent fine non-payers.

The offending party at my library fell into neither of the groups just mentioned. She was an immaculately made-up Russian in a suit who had politely asked me for some extra time on the computer to finish the business letters she was writing.

As she typed away, a group of schoolboys, regular after-school library visitors, had taken up their customary position in front of the Children’s Computer to play games and watch music videos online.

The problems started when the Russian lady, let’s call her Mrs S, somehow managed to lose one of the documents she was working on. Just at the same moment, the boys on the next computer started laughing at a video they had downloaded. The eldest boy, a teenager called Kasim, called his mother over to see it and she began to laugh as well.

At this point, Mrs S suddenly stood up and accused Kasim of hacking into her computer and stealing her documents. He was, she claimed, obviously now laughing about it and bragging to his mother, who was encouraging him in his criminal activities.

My colleague Jane, a very calm Californian, went over and explained to Mrs S that it was very unlikely that the boys could access her computer from theirs as the machines were not networked and that, in any case, the boys were fully engrossed in the MTV website and rather unlikely to be interested in Mrs S’ business letters.

Mrs S replied that the boys and particularly their accompanying mother, an Irish convert to Islam called Mrs O’Neill, had every reason to be interested in her correspondence as she was writing to Hilary Clinton to inform her that she, Mrs S, was being followed home by ‘Islamist women’ who were plotting to put bombs through her letterbox. After accusing Mrs O’Neill of being part of the letter-box conspiracy and her other, seven-year-old son of being ‘an Iraqi suicide-bomber,’ Mrs S then turned on Mrs O’Neill’s friend, a black disabled lady, who was standing up for the boys, and accused her of being ‘a member of Black Power.’

Jane, understandably, had had enough and asked Mrs S to leave the library but she refused, insisting that Mrs O’Neill and her sons would follow her home and attack her. She then actually requested that we call the police so they could protect her from the supposedly malevolent group of small boys and mothers. Jane disappeared gratefully downstairs to fulfil this request, leaving me to try and calm the situation, which was becoming increasingly noisy, both factions now loudly insisting that the other had no right to be in the country.

Eventually, I managed to get the children and the two mothers to wait in the hall - they refused to leave until the police arrived so that they could vouch for Kasim’s innocence, although I assured them that I would do it myself - while Mrs S sat down quietly at the computer again and resumed her typing, apparently unhindered by her lost document.

Seven o’clock, library closing-time came and the mothers were becoming restless, annoyed that Jane and I had not forcibly ejected Mrs S from the premises. I went to call the police station again and find out what was taking so long.

“Oh sorry, love, we were just waiting for the shift-change at seven o’clock so the others could go for their tea, we’ll just come along now.”

Jane and I could have been murdered by the Russian mafia by now for all the police care, I thought to myself at the time. It just goes to show that the police should pay a little more attention to the activities of sinister Russians in the West End…

In any case, the fuzz arrived eventually and, clearly trying very hard not to laugh, reassured Mrs O’Neill that, no, Kasim would not be arrested. They took Mrs S’ address (which she seemed rather unsure about) and finally got her to leave the library, although not until after Mrs O’Neill and her children had gone safely ahead so that no following home would be possible.

The next day, I looked up the address that Mrs S had given the police on the Internet and it turned out to be a hostel for mentally-disturbed women. My manager sent a letter to the hostel banning Mrs S from the library, but it was returned a few days later; apparently Mrs S has moved on. Perhaps she has gone to Washington to pay Hilary Clinton a personal visit.





Thursday, December 07, 2006

Taxi Driver

By bitingmylip

The alarm went off at 6.20. 6.20. That means I had about 4 hours sleep. God. How can anyone function on 4 hours sleep? Plus I felt like sixteen tiny men were hitting the sides of my brain with not so tiny sledgehammers. Thud thud thud went my head in time with the alarm’s beep.

He was not moving, so I reached over and picked up the beeping phone and held it right next to his ear. He moved then. After he’d shut off the bloody thing he looked at me.
“You going to work from here then?” he said. I thought about it for a few minutes. That would mean 2 more hours in bed. It would also mean going to work in yesterday’s clothes. I decided against it.
“No, I’ll get a taxi home then go in,” I said, tentatively. He shrugged and picked up the phone to order me a taxi.

It arrived about ten minutes later. When the driver knocked on the door it set my head buzzing with hangover again. I managed a brief peck on the cheek before shuffling out into the morning drizzle in yesterday’s clothing.

The taxi driver held the door open for me. What a gentleman, I thought. He was a nice looking gentleman too: kind face, rounded tummy, jaunty hat. I sat in the back and put my seatbelt on as he got in the driver’s seat. A sudden thought made me check my wallet and I realised I didn’t have any spare cash. How had I spent 60 quid on a Wednesday night? Had I been mugged?
“Excuse me, but it’s ten pounds right?” I asked, my voice gruff in that not-long-been-awake way.
“That’s right,” he said.
“I’ve just realised I’ve not enough money,” I said. “Can we stop at a cash point on the way?”
“How much have you got?” the taxi man enquired. I counted.
“Err… a fiver,” I said. “In coins.”
“Oh right,” he chortled. “We’ll stop then.”
“Yeah, there’s a cash point near my house if we don’t see one before,” I informed him.
“OK, we’ll find one.”

I sat back and closed my eyes briefly.
“Difficult place to find, this one,” the driver remarked.
“Yeah,” I said, my eyes still closed. A few more minutes passed.

“The worst thing that can happen to any human being happened to me the other day,” the taxi driver said conversationally.
I opened one eye warily. “Oh yes?” I said. He turned slightly in his seat to look at me.
“Yeah,” he continued. “And I tell you this because something shitty happens to everyone at some point in their lives, and you should be prepared.”
I must have made some noise that seemed to invite him to carry on.
“See, I just split up with my girlfriend, and I had to re-mortgage my house to pay her her share. And now I can’t afford the repayments on the house.”

Not knowing much about mortgages or live-in lovers, I made some sympathetic sound and rubbed my eyes. He turned to look at me again. We were in a traffic jam. How was there a traffic jam at 7am? Why wasn’t everyone in bed?

“Yeah, see now, 2 people, 2 people could afford the payments. But one person on their own – I can’t afford the payments.” He turned back to look at the road but continued talking. “And now the bank has repossessed my house. I’ve got four weeks to come up with 8 grand, or they’ll kick me out.”
“Oh no,” I said, “That’s awful.”
Encouraged, he turned around again, one hand on the steering wheel.
“I know,” he said. “So now I lost my woman, and I’m about to lose my house. I’m living at my brothers and all I do is work. Work work work. Trying to do whatever I can to get that money. Otherwise, you know, I can see myself becoming a tramp. Living on the streets. Can’t let that happen.”
“No,” I said, horrified, “of course not. How long were you with your girlfriend?”
“16 years,” he answered. “16 years! 16 years and one day she turns around and says we’re not together anymore. So I lose her, then I lose money, now I lose the house.”
He shook his head. Some radio talk show babbled quietly under the hum of the engine.
“That’s terrible,” I said after a few minutes. “But – er – I need a cash point…”
“Oh yes,” he said, “I’ll keep my eye out. So anyway – like I say I’m staying at my brother’s. Can’t think about it too much or it’ll drive me mad. But it’s terrible. How old are you, 20?”
“I’m 23,” I say.
“23. Well, that’s still young, but you know, it’s unfortunate. Something like this will happen to you at some point in your life. Something awful happens to everyone at some point. Oh look – cash point.”

With this he swerved the car into a Tesco petrol station and pulled up alongside a NatWest. As he stopped the car he turned fully in his seat.
“It’s just the worst thing,” he said again. “One of the worst things that can happen to a person. When it all goes wrong at once.”
I nodded, my head throbbing, and climbed out of the car. As I walked back with the tenner screwed up in my hand I could see him drumming his hands on the steering wheel. I cocked my head to one side. He turned to look at me. All my stuff was still on the back seat. I smiled wanly and got back in.

“Alright?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. He glanced back at me again as he drove out of the petrol station.
“It’s just left here,” I said as we neared my turning. He followed my directions wordlessly, but as we neared my house he gave me one last piece of information.
“You can’t trust anything to work out,” he said. “It can all be gone in a matter of days. And it all comes down to money.”
“This is me,” I said, talking over his last comment.
“OK,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt outside my flat. As he turned back to face me one last time I handed him the screwed-up ten pound note. It was all I had.
“Err… good luck,” I offered. “Really hope everything works out for you.”
He nodded. “Yeah, thanks,” he said. I climbed out of the car. As I fumbled in my bag for my keys, I turned around. He waved. Then, with a loud crunch of gears, he drove off.

Next time, I’m ordering my own bloody taxi.




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