Port of Mogadishu, Somalia

Slightly Bemused writes:

Is there something that is the opposite of the ‘Empty Nest’ feeling?

So Little Slightly arrived, and is currently asleep upstairs. Although unobtrusive, I have been aware of her presence, and her moving around, since she arrived. The house feels fuller, somehow, even in the silence of her sleep.

I cannot help but be amused, too. Shortly before she joined us in the world I made a very pleasant trip to a dentist. He was very nice, calmly joked a little and gave me something. When I awoke I had 4 wads of gauze where my wisdom teeth used be. A few days later I had a daughter.

On Monday of this week I wandered down to my new dentist. He was very nice, very calmly joking, and interested in the work I used to do. He would like to do some of it himself, and he has the benefit of youth at this point. When he was done, I had a big wad of gauze where the tooth that has been trying to kill me was. A day later, my daughter appeared through the Arrivals doors, back into my life. Maybe it is something about her. She has never been troublesome for me, not like pulling teeth, but somehow I still have fewer. Hmm.

There is actually a connection between the two events, a not very pleasant one. Although the evening to that point was. On one of my earliest trips I was in charge of off-loading food and supplies in Mogadishu port, Somalia. The port was run by the US military, mostly reservists. A lot of my actual work, when not running up and down the side of the ships, was liaising with them to get berths, time slots, and occasionally organising a tug. Although one tug event was a little unusual.

There were only two berths our largest ship could use. Along the seaward wharf there were officially three berths. The outermost one was usually reserved for naval vessels, such as the absolutely enormous US Navy transports. I mean, seriously, those things are big! I was given a courtesy tour one time, and it was the first time that I saw an engine that was pretty close to as big as my town! Certainly bigger than my house. And that was just the left one.

Anyway, the middle berth could not be used. At some point during the conflict for control of the port, as the government forces fell back, one of the pilot boats for the port was sunk at its mooring. Nobody was certain if deliberately, or just a casualty of war. Pilot boats are small, and can act as baby tugs if need be, but their main job is to bring the pilot out and back from arriving and departing ships. So they are small, and maneuverable. But when sunk to the bottom of the harbour at a key mooring, they can loom larger than their size implies.

A common pub quiz question is ‘what is the difference between a ship and a boat?’ This elicits responses along the line of ‘a ship carries a boat, a boat is carried by a ship.’ This runs afoul of a few issues like when you get the really large transports that can deliver many ships to their ports. The Royal Navy, though, describes it with regard to the centre of gravity. If it is below the waterline, it is a boat. If above the waterline, it is a ship. This is why submarines are always boats.

Before the war, Somalia had been one of the largest exporters of camels and goats, mainly through the port in Mogadishu (above), and during certain times of the year, relating to religious observances across the various Islamic communities, the quay was in constant motion, and a very lucrative business was cleaning the ground and selling the fresh fertiliser to the farmers of the surrounding area. Bananas, melons, grapefruit: incredibly delicious but always prepared as juice with too much sugar. But produce was plentiful in those days.

Across from the port gates, to the side of our imaginatively named Port warehouse, was the local abattoir, where goats and camels met their fate. Here I learned about the Judas Goat. One goat trained to enter the area would lead the other animals in. Hesitant to enter themselves when they smelled the area, they followed one of their own in a trusting manner.

Our cook was a regular there. With the Italian background in Somalia’s past, she would hand make her own pasta each time for dinner. She would also try to get to the butcher’s early to get the best bits. Our office and accomodation was a staging post for people visiting or going up-country. Whenever she knew there were to be guests, she would inveigle a couple of camel fillets, which alongside the fresh pasta in homemade tomato sauce made for a heavenly repast, The fillets would be presented in large oval dishes, roasted to perfection in their own gravy, and sliced.

Those of us who stayed there all the time craved these days for the delicacy. Most days the meat, though plentiful and well cooked, was pretty much random. But when the fillet was presented, we had a cunning plan to keep the mitts of new guests away. We called it ‘snake’ and given the shape and presentation, it was not a hard conclusion to come to. Hands would recoil, and we would tuck in with gusto!

And the little pilot ship languishing in the water used direct the ships in and out as the goats and camels and grapefruits went off to their new homes. But it was blocking important space, and the might of the US Navy was called to bear.

Over a weekend, after the observances of the Friday were past and Saturday morning woke up to another sunny day, two huge cranes were brought in, and set up between the berth my ships normally used, and the back ones. No docking was to take place, as divers and cables delved below, and over the course of many hours and even into Sunday the little boat saw air once more. Lifted onto the back of an awaiting salvage tug, it was shipped down to Mombasa for repairs.

But until it broached the surface once more, that tug awaiting it had little to do. The Captain of one of the big naval transports was offshore awaiting a berth, and he passed on an invitation to the Port Master and the captains of the other ships. I am not sure how I got invited, but the young lady who smiled at me was also there, so it was fun. The Master of the salvage tug brought us out, and we transferred aboard through what seemed like a tiny door in the side of this huge ship. Apparently, this was where the pilots would board and alight, and despite the ‘calm’ seas there was quite a lot of movement between the two vessels.

Now, I have bever been good at running, or jumping, and coordinating the transfer between the ships nearly proved my undoing. I mistimed, foot missed the other ship, and down I went. But for some strong arms on the watch I was in the water between two large chunks of metal. Not good. I did thump my jaw off the gunnel, though, and one of my teeth shattered. Let’s just say that I will not be doing any Captain Jack Sparrow shenanigans.

Later, safely brought back to shore I was brought to the dentist in the military hospital on the airport. A lovely man, who laughed and joked as he poked around to see what was what, it turned out he was a senior orthodontist from Chicago, and was a reservist. So in a tent with open flaps on two sides, the sand blowing in, he took apart the remains of my tooth, rebuilt it, and put to fillings in the back molars, He told me that my wisdom teeth were impacted (pointing forward, not up and down) and this created stresses in the remaining teeth. They would have to come out, and I was warned that I would eventually have to get more work done.

A little over twenty years later one of those molars finally gave up, and so an extraction was needed. A misstep, a mouthful of sand and an interesting story to tell the next dentist.

In the meantime I hear movement, and the house will start to come alive once more.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday

Pics: Wikipedia/Google Maps

 The Khyber Pass in the Hindu Kush range in the area of Afghanistan and Pakistan

Slightly Bemused writes:

In just a few days Little Slightly will land once more here, almost 20 years since she first came to Ireland. She was 6 months old.

Just before she turned 7 months old, as I was upstairs in my parent’s house, her mother called out, and I came down to find the world had changed forever. This year, she will be with me for that anniversary.

These days I watch the news from Afghanistan and I wonder how my former colleagues are doing, are they and their families well? I wonder how the people are doing, and if there was ever any real future pointed out for them as promised two decades ago. The suddenness of the withdrawal and the rhetoric and words of the great world leaders lead me to fear that all that was achieved will be lost once more.

Given my profession and my role, I was recalled on 9/11 back to my team’s base in Nairobi. With all transatlantic flights suspended, Schiphol Airport was packed to the walls with stranded passengers sleeping wherever they could. Those who actually had onward connections, mostly east or south, were politely asked by evidently tired airport staff to please stand, allowing those who could not get home to use the seats or lie in the favoured spots for sleeping.

Little Slightly got to spend more time with her grandmother. This was a bad move on my part. We had a large, beautifully crafted dresser which my mother used to display items on the shelves and behind the glass doors above the main top.

Somewhere in there was my baptismal gift from my aunt, a silver plated side serving basket (above) for holding sweets and candied fruits. Underneath, though, was where she kept other things out of sight. The old green-bordered table cloth and 12 matching napkins which had been a wedding present to her and my Dad was in one of the drawers, and was still trotted out regularly for occasions. While plain, it was functional. Also in there was a set of ten place settings of earthenware dinner and side plates, soup bowls, cups and saucers.Little Slightly’s mother fell in love.

As movers were due in a while to ship my stuff to our home, at very little urging my mother agreed to add these to my shipment. Little’s Mom was ecstatic! During our divorce, she insisted on retaining possession of the crockery set, ultimately as an heirloom to hand to our daughter from her Grandma Slightly.

We never had the heart to tell her these were not wonderful bone china sets (she bought Royal Doulton with the money we were gifted for our wedding. I got a pair of runners). No, they were collected from the local Centra where you got stamps for so many pounds spent, and they came one item at a time. With a large family and a full set you can imagine how much we spent in that shop alone! But they were liked, and my mother was happy to have the space. I got the table cloth and napkins in the divorce.

I was in a funny predicament. I worked for a US based agency, and after a short while a flight ban was issued for all staff. By this time I was already in the air. The ban was lifted for our team pretty much as the plane came in to land. So for the hours in the air I was in breach of the security policy, but not for take-off or landing. I did get a reprimand from headquarters for that. You gotta love unthinking bureaucracy.

We were quickly tasked to head to join our Pakistan country team and prepare for what was known to be a pending crisis. Flights were booked for us, but illogically not for our security advisor. He was later added to our travel team, but such was the demand for seats by various aid agencies and UN personnel he could not get a seat on our final flight. He was with us to Dubai, and then left to see could he possibly get on our flight.

While waiting for our onward, my American colleague wolfed down loads of McDonald’s like someone who thought he would never see another burger again. Side note, the Pakistani food was fantastic, and I never felt the need for a plastic burger. It was here I also learned the joys of a boiled egg in a pot of curry.

When called to board, we met our colleague, who had successfully managed to get a seat on our flight. But here came a wrinkle – the original booked passengers, four of us out of our now five, were bumped up to business class. Our nutritionist colleague, who was married to the advisor, tried to get him bumped up to join us. Very politely she was rebuffed as he was a late arrival, but they would happily ask one of his seat row mates to swap with her so she could sit with her husband. Such was the depth of her love that as she tucked into the business class lunch she never once wondered how his meal was going.

I was in Islamabad at our country director’s home as we briefed him on our preparations when the word came in that the bombings had started in Afghanistan. We ended up with our travel on to Peshawar delayed, in the same hotel that the emergency response team from one of our own Irish agencies was staying. This was fun as we knew each other well, so the delay while we made more plans and preparations went by in good company, easing the pressure of the strictures placed on us while we evaluated the situation.

I remember one of the team, a man I had worked alongside in a previous challenging environment, came in one day quite shaken. While out for a walk to the local shops many people addressed him with a word as they passed. He was convinced they were saying “Osama” to try and freak him out. Actually, they were most likely saying “Asalaam”, but in the rush and the bustle he did not catch this. It did relax him once it was explained.

We were moved to Peshawar to prepare for the response. People were fleeing across the border. While the international news today concentrates on the situation in Kabul, the rush across the borders reflects the situation twenty years ago. Here I learned a few peculiarities of the region.

Outside the town is a famous market where you can apparently buy anything you want, an inspiration for at least one James Bond film scene. My job was setting up our accommodation/office, and for this I needed to change the locks on the house we rented, and get keys cut for the relevant staff.

So off I went with a driver to the locksmiths and hardware stores, mostly located along the fringes of this market. In one of the shops, as I awaited the keys to be cut, I wandered around looking at the wares. There was a beaded curtain between the front of the shop and a room at the back. As I looked at it, the shopkeeper indicated I should go in. I did, into another world.

The beaded curtain separated the world of keys and locks and nails and bolts and saws and hammers from walls covered in guns. Handguns, revolvers and semi-automatics, rifles which looked like copies the British Raj likely used up to AK 47 imitations. Made, as I later learned, by local blacksmiths, they were cheap. An imitation of the Russian Army Makarov handgun cost the equivalent of $1 – it was the bullets that were expensive.

Bemusedly backing out and returning with my keys to our base, I mentioned this to the team over dinner. My McD-guzzling friend looked up sharply, asking where I saw this. He had planned to go and buy a dozen and give them as Christmas stocking presents to his mates back home. I was able to hide behind the excuse that it was our driver brought me, I could not find it again.

From there, I made my one and so far only trip into Afghanistan, to Jalalabad for a single overnight to deliver goods, rations and basic furniture and equipment for our office just opened there.

As a result, I got to go over the famous Khyber Pass and under the fabled arch. A thin and winding road brings you eventually to a wonderful vista as the mountains open out to each side, and the plains of eastern Afghanistan lie spread out before you. Sadly on that whole trip cameras were not allowed, for safety reasons, but the image is etched in my memory, along with the images of the wonderfully painted buses and trucks with their music blaring.

When I arrived back eventually to Peshawar I decided to get a haircut and my beard trimmed. A nearby hotel that served alcohol to foreigners, and from whose roof the many faces of war correspondents were beamed to the world, had the most convenient barber. I had difficulty explaining that I did not want to shave my beard off, merely tidy it up. Apparently with the fall from power of the Taliban, many of those who had been based in the country were returning to smooth cheeks and chins, and that I wanted to keep my whiskers, albeit shorter and neater, was a cause of certain confusion.

Twenty years ago the world changed in a way unimaginable, whose impact still resounds today. Twenty years before that, the world again changed as people tore down a wall, and the face of politics and economics was set awry and the path to tremendous inequality of wealth was firmly established. Twenty years before that, it changed again as a man took a small step, and for many the universe expanded. I listen to the news and think that the world has changed once more, and perhaps it is set to every twenty years, truly a generational shift.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday

Pic: AFP/Slightly

A model of a Toyota Hilux pickup. ‘This model is from western Uganda,’ the author writes, ‘where a local craft shop makes them from recycled goods. The wheels are the caps off photo film tubes.’

Slightly Bemused writes:

I got a note through my letterbox a short while ago. From the lovely people who previously tore up the roads around my town and caused my ceiling to collapse, creating a concatenation of events that resulted in me getting a new bathroom suite, they are due to start ‘Reinstatement Works’.

A detailed note, it comes with a lovely map, colour coded to help you understand when you will be most inconvenienced as they once more tear up the road, this time to put everything to rights.

With the impeccable timing of the last few weeks of freedom before the children of the estate return to school, they should have started along the avenue of my estate on Monday. Preliminary forays were made on Monday and Tuesday as companies who had done private works during this period, including installing gas from the mains line, rushed in to complete their own ‘reinstatements’ before the main event begins.

Little Slightly is due to arrive in about ten days, and it will be bang smack in the middle of these works. I let her know, and she laughed. We think that they are trying to make her feel at home – or at least that is how we will look at it. She lives in Wisconsin, just south of Milwaukee. The Land of Lakes, they only have two seasons there: snow and road works.

As we chat while she drives home from work (handsfree, honestly! Wisconsin police are worse about that than the Gardai) she interjects with commentary on the ability of other drivers and the sudden appearance of road works that were not there this morning. It makes for an interesting insight to her character, and some nice, long conversations.

But it got me thinking about the many different roads I have driven down, sometimes agog as new vistas opened before me, sometimes in boredom as the ‘commute’ happened again.

Whatever people may think about Irish roads, they are really quite good. We have one of the largest averages of kilometres of paved road per capita, and can get nearly anywhere in the country on a hard surface. While I admit freely that some suffer dreadfully from low maintenance and depthless potholes, these are for the most part getting fewer.

When I started driving, I recall that the way that you knew that you crossed into Northern Ireland was the quality of the road surface. Some may argue where the exact border is, but the relevant county councils on either side knew perfectly where their authority to pave and line the roads ended.

Similarly, when the motorways started appearing, if you wanted to know how far it was, they had this funny rule where they could only maintain the roads to a high standard with the European funding making the motorways possible for two kilometres on either side.

Then you were back to bone shaking potholes made possible by inadequate funding and council workers breastfeeding their shovels as their junior colleagues piled steaming tarmac into water filled potholes. One truck later, and hey presto! loose tarmac across the road and a wider, deeper pothole!

Most African countries do not have the wherewithal for such networks and, for many, once outside the main routes you are onto soft surface roads. Many are murram, which is a very durable surface for such conditions, but does require maintenance. I only know of one in Kenya, but I am sure there are others, but I once visited a school for how to make and maintain these roads.

A huge area, it was a scattering of holes, piles of murram, to one side the section for powered machinery, and to the other for making roads the old fashioned way, by hand and shovel.

Together with our agency’s chief engineer, we hoped to improve a road out to a number of villages we supported in order to allow them better access to markets. All too often on mud roads major ruts would develop in the rainy season, becoming hard as rock in the sun of the dry season. Black cotton soil is about the worst for this, being a gelatinous goop that any vehicle will struggle through in the wet season, to elongated erratic mini canyons when baked in the equatorial sun.

As a result, often overloaded pickups with produce from the villages would overturn on these tracks of hardened mud, sending the passengers clinging to the sides and sitting atop the load already straining the limits of the pickup’s capacity in every direction. Sadly, all too often some passed away from injuries and trauma. We hoped that a better road would be safer, while some of our teams tried to explain load limits and basic road safety, but to little avail.

Murram roads, though, can be fun in one way. Lovely and smooth when first laid, after a while they develop corrugations across the road, perpendicular to the direction of travel. These are slightly different to feel under your tyres depending on which side of the road you drive on. As they develop like miniature sand dunes due to the passage of vehicles, they have a slope up in the direction you are going, and a fairly steep, if short, drop on the other side.

Strangely, this can mean that they are less annoying when you drive on the other side of the road, and so often you see vehicles approaching, each on the wrong side, before moving into their own lanes and passing each other, before again returning to the other side.

These serrations are interesting, caused by the wind of the passage of the vehicles pulling the lighter sand and dust up from among the pebbles of the road surface. They apparently occur at some harmonic of the average speed at which cars and pick-ups and busses and trucks go past above. I was told that if you hit the right speed, you no longer feel them. This average must be quite high as I have often been driven at what I would consider unsafe speeds, and no harmonious silence of the wheels.

A bishop I worked with in West Africa joked that in Ireland we drive on the left side of the road, in France they drive on the right side of the road, but in Africa they drive on the good side of the road!

I think my favourite stretch of road was an unfinished section of an interconnector in Kosovo before the war and NATO bombings. At the time, to drive from the capital Pristine to the southern town of Prizren, you had to head out the road towards what is now North Macedonia to the town of Ferizaj, or Urusevac in Serbian, and turn south. This added up to an hour to the journey, for all the roads were of good quality. But they were narrow, and in some sections climbing and descending mountainous areas, quite twisty.

So an interconnecting road closer to Pristine was being built, and would easily take that hour off the journey. But other matters had intruded, and the budget for finishing it was not available. Brought to the point just before the final surfacing was to be made, it was a rough but quite passable shortcut for vehicles with good clearance. We often used this stretch to teach drivers new to 4×4 cars how to handle them. While the extra and consistent power is great for powering along, they also come with high centres of gravity, and are quite easy to overturn if not careful.

This stretch was also the local lover’s lane, where the youth of the regions would flock to get out from the watchful eyes of their parents for a bit of back-seat canoodling, sometimes even before the sun went down. From some you could hear the strains of whatever song was considered popular, played at a volume that must have been ear shattering inside the car if I could hear it above the sound of my Land Cruiser’s large diesel. But it was fun one night.

I had travelled south to Prizren, and was returning late back to Pristine, where I was based. The car was being driven by my colleague, who was learning and gaining experience before she could be cleared to drive alone. We were late, and the sun had gone down, and it was a lovely bright almost full moonlit night. I decided we would chance the shortcut, with both the thought of giving night driving on rough road experience to my friend and also to get home a little quicker, as it was Friday night. The driver was a lovely lady who is a sister to me to this day, and still the only person to ask me if her ‘bum looked big in this?’ It didn’t, and she still has those jeans and they fit.

Along one stretch we saw the line of cars, and knew we would soon be on the main road. We decided to have a little fun. This stretch of road was very good, and the moon very bright, so in a fit of insanity and divilment we stopped and turned off the lights. After letting our eyes adjust and ensure we could still see the road clearly, we started off past the cars with the engine revving high but in low gear and speed, and roaring like some mad demon from hell.

Our chariot of noise was a Toyota Land Cruiser we called Betsy, and we sailed past in the dark like a howling hound of hell. As we passed, we saw heads popping up, and in some cases interior lights coming on as the lovers struggled to figure out what had disturbed their cuddling. I do hope it did not deter any from getting back to whatever it was they were doing, but I also hope they still remember that night.

By the way, if you do want a roaring engine, none of this four cylinder 2.5 litre turbo nonsense like in a Land Rover. Once the turbo kicks in you get plenty of power, but the engine whines. A six cylinder 4.2 litre straight diesel like the Land Cruisers growls at low revs and howls at high, providing an even gradation of torque throughout with no sudden burst as the turbo decides to come along and play. They are great vehicles, and while definitely not the world’s most environmentally friendly, they were designed for a purpose and environment, and we, and are, perfectly suited.

They are also a proverbial pain to clean with a single bucket of water at the end of a day on wet muddy roads.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pics by Slightly

The author’s seemingly smiling vacuum cleaner placed to remind him to clean the stairs

Slightly Bemused writes:

With a few weeks to go, the house is coming along and it is now safe to allow people to enter the house without a health warning. Carpets have been vacuumed: I’ll not comment on how many runs were needed until the sound of grit stopped. I definitely did the Elastigirl ‘Agh!’ and shoulder droop on more than one occasion. Floors have been washed and surfaces reclaimed from the depths of bachelorhood. Well, mostly.

In the front room, chairs and the couch have been rescued from the state of convenient flat surface and returned to a condition whereby I could invite a guest to take their ease. That annoying sticky patch on the kitchen table has been removed. I had cleaned a lawnmower carburettor on it, and the easing oil soaked through the newspaper I had down. Only been a month or so, so no worries. Tools gathered back together.

The old sofa has been removed from the shed, the old washing machine taken from the centre of the kitchen floor and removed to the shed to await repair, and the new freezer ordered. The old one may work, but something fuzzy in the murky depths cries out to be killed with fire. Instead, I will just replace it and have the supplier dispose of it safely.

Windows were opened wide, both for airing, and to try to gain some small sense of a breeze as the weather tried its best to render me down. Fresh smelly things were put in strategic places to cover potentially unpleasant odours. Being here all the time, I may not notice, but I did get a lovely sense coming in the door of brightness and airiness downstairs, and cool calming sleepiness upstairs. The young lady in the shop was very persuasive.

The new bathroom has been scrubbed, and will get at least another once over before the impending arrival. A new blue thingy has been put into the toilet tank and now the flush water matches her curtains. Who says men cannot colour coordinate? OK, maybe not what was meant, but I will take what I can. I may have to explain the intricacies of the ‘little flush’ and ‘big flush’ buttons, as she grew up around huge cisterns and using toilet bowls that are so full we would use that amount for a flush even in the old days. I never understood American style toilets from a design point of view.

When I had managed this feat, I mentioned it to my Little one. Her biggest fear was that I would do what her mother still gets her to do each week: scrub the room down with bleach. I was able to reassure her that such would not be the case. My first ever trip outside of Ireland was to Sweden. I sold my beloved Toyota Carina and set off to spend Christmas and New Year with two young ladies I had met and who invited me over. Apparently my rendition of the Green Fields of France under the stairs in Clongowes appealed to them. My abilities in face painting, while rudimentary, were sufficient to turn their costumes for the final party into something they thought was wonderful.

Anyway, when I arrived, for the first time in my experience I was in a bathroom with no separation for the shower. The entire end of the room was the washing area, with a very handy wooden bench to enable proper scrubbing of feet. Completely sealed with a robust vinyl covering that seamlessly covered the floor and walls, after you were done, a squeegee sluiced the water away and reduced soapy buildup. So now my shower has one, and the tiles and glass panels are sluiced down and deep cleaning needed less often.

I have showered in some strange places, with strange growths on the walls and, potentially, glow in the dark strangeness in the corners and ceilings. And that is here in Ireland! Thankfully, I have not had any such since the new suite went in (nor, indeed, in the old one), and I will ensure that there are none while my daughter is around. So long as she does her bit with the squeegee, I can manage the rest. I may even forgive her if she forgets.

And then I did it again! You would think I would have learned after the last time, but no. Without thinking, I picked up the Maasai rain stick to dust under it. To make matters worse, I dusted the stick itself. It took not kindly to this manhandling, and lo! the next day we had rain. Lots of rain. for lots of days.

It was so bad that the normally lovely Lilian Smith of Rising Time renown has threatened to come and find me. I currently live in fear of the doorbell ringing and a posse of irate radio presenters who struggled to raise the spirits of a nation while reading out those forecasts would be outside, egged on by the maligned meteorologists from Met Éireann. Not sure how the guys from Carlow Weather might react, but they tend to be more devious and clever in that part of the world, and may settle for unseating Kildare from the hurley league as revenge.

So the stick has been carefully returned to its place of display. I thought I should get one of those ‘Break Glass In Case Of Emergency’ wall boxes and ensconce the stick safely within. The sealed nature would keep the dust away, and the glass still allow me to show it off. Likely moving it from where it is into the box will bring precipitation, but hopefully only light showers as it understands what is happening.

A good friend suggested I put a sign on it to only break in the event of severe drought.I am thinking it may also be useful should I be attacked by Fire Elementals.

Slighly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic by Slighly

Slighly Bemused writes:

“Just where do you think you are going?”

These are words that in some form or another parents around the globe have asked their children, usually of a weekend night as young adults hope to head off and meet up with similarly questioned friends for a night of teen or college aged fun.

My parents were no different, but they had a slightly different spin. Particularly once we hit a certain age they deemed us adult enough to decide the appropriateness of where we went for ourselves. What they wanted to know was simpler: where will you be and what time will you be home.

Due to a family accident many years ago, now they were worried in case they heard of something. They would know if they should worry if it was where we said we would be, or not if not. And my Mum’s bedside light did not go out until after the last of us was home and the deadbolt turned in.

There were a lot of us, so a lot of worry. As their queries were not about limiting our freedom and fun, but lessening their very justifiable concerns, any little thing to help alleviate that was worth it. And we all learned that the loudest way to come in was to try and be quiet. Ears that were alert for your safe arrival would cause my Dad to rouse if he thought it was untoward. He had an old spade handle turned to a billy by the bed, just in case. No, walk in normally if gently was best. From my own experience, I think it is that once a noise is identified even by a sleeping brain as safe, sleep can continue.

If for whatever reason we came in later than expected, we had a system that was foolproof: a note on the kitchen table. Usually something simple, it would give the bare details that let worried parents know that their darling son or daughter was back home safe, or left early, but basically all is well with them. These became missives to the whole family as they were always read by everyone, if possible before Mum and Dad could get to them, in case there was something juicy that we could tease each other with.

As younger teens, this often meant poking fun at the older ones who may have had a bit too much to drink. The words “You need more Solpadeines” told tales that it would take a few more years to understand. At times like that for the writer brevity was your only man.

So here I am, cleaning out the room that Little Slightly will stay in while she is here, and I came across a note I had left for my parents many years ago. When I read it, I realised that I had to share. In many ways, this was a prelude to my Wednesday column, but I had to chuckle at the memory of when I met my parents after I awoke around lunchtime. The note was still on the table, having been read by all still living in the house, my brother who had by now gotten married and lived up the road and had popped in, and apparently a couple of neighbours who were wont to call in of a morning for a cuppa and a chat with my Mum.

As an aside, in a small town, never try to sneak around. The Union of Mammies will have you tracked before you have even made up your own mind.

As I inhaled my first cup of tea of the day I had to endure my Dad’s teasing as he came in from the garden. He grew potatoes and peas and tomatoes which, over the years, had supplemented our diet and eased the cost burden on him, and which he found therapeutic in his retirement. As he washed his hands at the sink he chuckled that of all our family I was probably the only one who could use so many words for such a simple message. It needed, he reckoned, not more than seven words. Throughout what was my breakfast, I endured a small competition across my family as they came up with different variations that would have sufficed and had me abed quicker. I leave it to all your imaginations what those could have been.

I lost track of this note as my Mum kept it among her private stuff, and it was returned to me with other things years later after she passed. Placed somewhere in a pile of things from her that I hoped to share with Little Slightly about her Grandma, it came to light again over the weekend. Please forgive the hubris, but allow me to share my ‘I am safe’ note, written to alleviate the concern of a pair of loving parents, in as few words as I could manage at the time. Minor edits to names to protect the innocent. My car was a Toyota Carina Second Generation (as above) and Conor’s was a blue Datsun 120V 4 door saloon.

Should they arise, I am happy to answer questions, but not before about 4pm as I will be out and about.

2:17am: Wednesday, May 17, 1989

Hi Mum and Dad (and anyone else listening in)

I am just writing this note to let you know that I am alright. I was thinking you might get worried when you did not see the car outside. It’s ok, I ‘m up in bed, asleep (I hope). Please call me about 9:00. I am not going in to work. Let me start at the beginning.

I got out to Brownstown (Newbridge) at about 8:30 for the meeting Conor rang me about. The meeting ended about midnight and we headed home, Conor following me out the road to Caragh. About two miles outside Newbridge there was a tree down, blocking the road. So we both turned back, and reported this to the Gardai in Newbridge. We then headed home.

We took the motorway and the Monread road, as it was more direct and main road, as a fog was setting in. However, on the way off the motorway Conor’s car cut out. He got it going almost immediately and we headed home again. Just at the turn-off to the Naas road, his car died. DEAD. It would not go, give lights, anything. With that, a squad car arrived and helped us push the car out of the way into the little turn off there. We headed on in my car, maybe to get a tow-rope and pull it out of there or whatever.

Then, just as I passed where Brother Slightly had his accident I got a double blowout – both nearside wheels. As a result, I went into the verge a bit, but I have to hand it to Toyota, the car handled beautifully. It did not crash, just went onto the edge of the road. I pulled over into the drive of the house there to change what I thought was a front blow-out. Conor showed me the back – I nearly died. So I changed the front and headed slowly back to Sallins, where I stopped outside the meat storage place. I’d say the rim is probably wrecked, but I needed to get the car out of the way.

Anyway, we decided to try Conor’s spare on my car, and maybe get home, but on the off chance we took my battery with us and walked to his car. As we crossed the railway bridge (by the way, a train light in fog is spectacular) something happened to make the night better. It began to rain. In true fashion we continued on and got to Conor’s car. In pitch black I changed the battery. Thank God, but the car worked first time. Delighted, but not too much in case things would go wrong again, we headed for my car. Try Conor’s wheel, tow it home, etc. Guess what? That’s right. Conor’s spare was flat. As a pancake. It should have been ok, but…

So we took my ‘spare’ and cleared my car out, and headed home. Conor has my battery. I am charging his (although I think it is a case of nearest hedge) as he will get my spare fixed in Celbridge tomorrow.

And that, basically, is that.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Wikipedia

Slightly Bemused writes:

There is something rather forlorn about seeing a child’s toy abandoned on the green. There is a story behind it, but you can only guess what it might be. It becomes even more forlorn when there is another, at the other end of the driveway. Like an image from an apocalyptic film you kind of expect sounds of wind howling and old newspapers blowing across the grass.

Of course, this was not an apocalypse, and while rain was due we do have two scooters. One has been around for about a week, and the other, while there for a shorter period, has gradually worked its way closer to the heart of the estate.

The image in my head is of two little girls (both are pink, so forgive the gender assumption if wrong) who were out playing on one of the wonderful hot days, and in came the ice cream man. He wanders through the estate on any day where the sun looks like it might make an appearance, and the tinkling tune of his clarion call may just have enticed little ones to drop their scooters and run in the direction of this delight. Like the Pied Piper of the 99. With sprinkles.

I have seen parents run for cover when this van arrives, looking to avoid the need to dig out cash that may not be available. With everything touch or tap these days, who has coins to fill the taste buds of young ones on a hot day?

But why did they not return for their conveyances? I like to think that after the ice cream, having spoiled their dinners, they ended up in bed. Then they awoke the next day to the news that the long awaited holiday to the coast had arrived. Bags were packed, swimsuits dug out, and off they went in search of a sandy beach in Galway, or Cork, or Kerry. Or maybe a forest park with boats in Roscommon. Who knows?

I do know from my own childhood in a caravan around Ireland that there are many wonderful places to bring children with energy to spend and a delight to run about freely. Back then, sun screen was a rarity, but today with a good factor, a child can be left to their own devices in so many places of wonder. So wonderful that a lonely scooter is the last thing on their minds.

As an adult, I learned that one of the reasons that my Dad did this was that with such a gaggle of us anything else was well beyond his means. But he and my Mum made them memorable. Strangely, stopping by the side of the road with the ‘van for egg salad sandwiches was the height of a wonderful adventure. Then back in the car and on to somewhere exotic, like Cuuracloe, or Garryvoe.

One of my best memories was being taken out in what I later learned is a rib for a quick trip around the bay. Knees tucked under a weather sheet in front, we jumped over the huge waves and around back to the pier. Of course the waves were only huge because I was small, but such a thrill! I wonder if they still do that?

I also wonder where I left my bike that time, it was not on the green. But it is likely I was the one that left it in the back yard. My Dad nearly drove over it as we came in a week later while he was towing the caravan. He was not happy, and my eldest brother was dispatched to move it. Once moved, my father moved the car into a certain position, the ‘van was decoupled, and manhandled by all of us into its position until next year. Later that day I was out and about on the bike again.

So as I look out my window, sup a nice warm malted barley drink on a chillier day than of late, I look on the abandoned scooter and think of children having adventures in forests and beaches and on mountains with abandon. Before being called home, told to collect their scooters, and start preparations for reality once more.

Slighly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pics by Slightly Bemused

Slightly Bemused writes:

My blue fluffy slippers have outgrown me. Or at least the left one has.

I was coming down the stairs and it made a bolt for freedom, almost making the hall door before I caught up with it. I thought you were supposed to be eighteen before you got the keys of the kingdom and freedom to roam, but it is not that old yet. And its twin remained firmly on my other foot as I sort of hop skipped down after it.

Before I began my descent, I was looking at the pair and thinking it was time once more to wash them. A nice thing about fluffy slippers is that you can do that, although they may be like recalcitrant infants when young who resist the need to be clean.

When I was growing up the only person I remember having slippers was my Dad. He was a serving officer in the Army, and would come home at weekends, change out of his uniform and shoes, don the pair of slippers and come down from aloft in something more comfortable. I have no idea if he wore slippers during the week when in the barracks, but if he did I am sure they were not fluffy.

And yes, he had a pipe, but there was none of this nonsense of my mother having his pipe and slippers ready for him. I do though remember his sigh as he sat in his chair, pulled out a small knife, and pared off the tobacco from the plug. With a sound like an old steam engine, he would light up with a match in a ritual that eventually left clouds of smoke just above my head. When I later learned about different types of actual clouds, that image always came to my head. He finally gave up smoking when his grandchild named for him put his hand on his knee and said with that unerring gravity of a five year old ‘Grandad, I will miss you when you are dead‘

Having grown up in a place where you put your shoes on in the morning and only took them off at night before bed, tracking in whatever from outside onto the carpet, it was a bit of culture shock to go where everyone took off their shoes at the door. Arriving at a new colleagues house one time, I realised that having a pair of 20-hole Doc Martins did not make for easy or quick entrance. I later changed for more sensible shoes.

A very practical matter, in places where vacuum cleaners were not as ubiquitous as here, avoiding bringing dirt in is a good idea. I am told that it is also better for your foot health, allowing them to breathe. However, allowing your left foot to breathe close to the top of the stairs could have other implications.

But my blue fluffy slippers did finally make it for their bathtime, and will be out sunbathing to relax afterwards.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic via Slightly

Slightly Bemused writes:

How do you know when your instant noodles are ready to eat?

This is not intended to be a trick question. For something seemingly simple, it actually is not. For example, are we talking about the type that come with their own handy cup, or the variety that needs to be boiled in a saucepan? And do you wait until the water there has boiled before you go for your two minutes, or start from scratch?

If you use the extra vegetable sachet, with its four peas, six kernels of corn (yep, I counted once. I was bored), and some bits that may once have dreamed of being carrots, wait until they are no longer crunchy, but have gone squishy. Your noodles might be ready then, and if you avoid the dubious orange bits, perhaps even palatable.

The stalwart of many a student diet over the years, instant noodles will, demonstrably, keep you alive.

My preference is the packet variety, especially when I remember to bring food bags. I do not always eat the whole pack, so I may want to save the rest (still dry) until tomorrow. If all you have to eat are the noodles, a whole pack may be what you need, but if you can snarf an egg, find some scallions, maybe some bamboo shoots from a tin in a weird and wonderful little shop, well, you just may have a delight of dinner!

Always bring some stock cubes, though. Usually better than the ‘flavour pack’

The biggest problem, though, can be the boiling water. Did you know that water at high altitude boils at a lower temperature? So if you are sitting atop the world in the Himalayas, your two minutes may take a bit longer to get your noodles ready.

In a number of places I have travelled, noodles were the lunch of simplicity. They won’t spoil, and you can carry them pretty much anywhere. But hot water was an occasional problem. The best solution I ever had was a very simple, down and dirty vacuum flask. With a big cork bung, it was better than the high tech ones my colleagues had. It also served to provide hot enough water at about mid afternoon for something close to a decent cup of tea. And lunch, in the oversized aluminium cup, did take a bit more than two minutes. But the veggies were not crunchy, and the view was occasionally spectacular!

In our vehicle, too, there was a way of wedging the flask behind the passenger seat against the back one. It did not move, and was there when we needed it. In the same car I also once figured out that you could lodge seven 500ml cans across the front dash, and in the summer, that meant if you turned the aircon on but set the blower to demist, by the time you got home you had cold beer.

And enjoy it over a bowl of instant noodles!

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic via Wikipedia

The ‘Climber’ Swiss Army Knife

Slightly Bemused writes:

I found an old friend over the weekend. Well, sort of. Bottom of a box that once held a nice bottle of whiskey, since used for odds and ends. I had forgotten I still had this box, or the one it contained. MacGyver would have liked the contents, I am sure. It has a blue handle, and was bought in the cabin of a now defunct airline in the days when you could buy blades on board.

I have lost track of how many of these I had over the years, useful tools that helped in many situations. Forgetting once security became a bigger issue, I lost one when I forgot to pack it in my main luggage. They also took my nail clippers at the time. Whenever I left a posting, I would pass it on, a small gift to my friends and team staying behind.

I remember the first pocket knife I owned. An old one, single blade, no handle. My father found out, and I was not allowed to keep it. I was told to return it to the friend who gave it to me. In an ironic twist, he gave it to me because his father would not let him keep it. So we buried it, in the best secret treasure traditions of young boys who read too many stories.

At the base of the wall of an ancient dilapidated mud walled building, carefully scratching a secret sigil in the side to indicate the location, we wrapped it in a plastic sandwich bag to protect it and buried it deep. It was the last we saw of it. Before we could recover it, the house was torn down, our treasure likely entombed at the bottom of a pit of builder’s rubble somewhere.

I always wanted one of those ones that you can open with one hand, but my understanding is that they are illegal in many countries, including Ireland. Having the same knife as some American TV characters is not worth that, so I went down the MacGyver route.

Once I was old enough, I bought my own first proper Swiss knife. Took a few attempts to settle on the models I liked (Climber, if you like to know, but the Wenger Giant is a giggle!), but it had everything I thought I could need. I was, and still am, amazed at the engineering, and barring a rotary one, they have the best can openers I have come across. I have opened many a tin of beans and other delicacies over the years.

The model also has a reamer for putting holes in wood or sails, with a convenient hole through the shaft for threading coarse twine to repair your sail. Beside that, a handy item for clearing the stones out of your horses hooves. The remnants of the boy’s mind brought up on adventures pictured himself galloping across the plains to a port to escape the dastardly lord, with vital intelligence. Aboard ship, we meet with a calamity, and it is up to me to repair the sails. Later, we could celebrate by opening the bottle of rare wine with the handy corkscrew, toasting our success!

Of course, there were a few problems with this. Let us start with the fact I do not own a horse, and have a dreadful seat when astride one. I can barely sew on a button, so the sails were not likely to last much beyond whatever ministrations I made. And I was still too young for wine. Quick tip: if you have one: after inserting the corkscrew, there is a way to lean on the long end of the shaft. This breaks the first seal, and makes it easier to withdraw the rest. Ironically, it was a Swiss officer who showed this to me first.

Anyway, I grew up, and eventually did work in some places where having this useful item was a boon.

Later updates included essentials like scissors, toothpicks and tweezers. That last is a dangerous thing to let your daughter have access to. I was over to see her, and we were watching a film in my hotel room before I dropped her home. I can tell something is up, and eventually she gets up and goes to my luggage. she shuffles around and finds what she is looking for.

Back she comes, leans over me and says “Hold Still!” A moment later I yelp in surprise as she deftly plucks a hair from the centre of the bridge of my nose, just above my glasses. My hair was all darker then, and it was annoying her. I had never noticed it, and I have nothing close to a unibrow, but every so often now I spy it returning and with a chuckle I make sure it does not haunt her dreams. I somehow doubt the inventor ever expected that to be an application.

Now different people have different favourite pocket knives, and most pilots I knew always had Leathermans. They were built such that they could open a 200 litre drum of aviation fuel, which I guess could be important in rural, out-of-the-way places. But they did not have corkscrews, and their can openers were not as good.

Nor did they come with tweezers to meet the needs of precocious 10-year-old daughters.

Update: I spoke with Little Slightly, and re the hair issue, at my urging, she has added the following:

‘I read this and, while I don’t particularly remember it, I’m completely certain it’s true as I still do this to my fiance. He’ll have one random hair on his face or arm that’s longer and darker than the rest and I can’t stop staring at it. Just so distracting. At this point he knows and will just say “pull it” so we can continue on in the conversation. So, yes, I know this had to have been me. Also confused what you all use tweezers for, because their primary use here is to pluck facial hair.’

Should I mention that the reason stated on the Climber was always for removal of wood splinters? Probably not.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Victorinox

A Beechcraft King Air B90

Slightly Bemused writes:

I spent a few hours discussing flights. Times, seats, options. The usual malarkey that was once an almost daily feature for most regular travelers. Hopefully nothing will go awry.

We spoke about where to sit. In a rare occasion of acceptance that my side of the genetic lottery brought short legs, the realisation that this means legroom is not an issue was cause for some amusement. I do have to buy shoes as a compensation though, and that could help.

So, a little one who has done her research on which seats are statistically most likely to survive wanted to be rearmost. However, experienced curmudgeon was able to say that put you right up against the loos. Farthest back cannot lean, and while smell has never been an issue for me on those flights, the queues can sometimes invade a certain amount of personal space. So, not rearmost, but a few seats ahead.

What time are you flying? Night flights? No point in a window seat. Dark just looks dark even at 30,000 feet, but an aisle seat means that the inner people want to climb over you to head back for the loo queue. But also means that you do not have to.

On the way home, flying through Newark, get a seat on the right hand side so maybe you can see Lady Liberty as you come in to land. Pretty much the only thing Newark airport has to offer. Not a bad airport, and certainly not the worst I have been to, just is is small, and has little to offer. That being said, I have a cousin who is a chief of cabin crew who likes Newark, precisely because it is quiet. I suppose it depends on what side you are coming at it from.

This will be her first transatlantic flight on her own. And it got me to thinking about first flights, which may or may not have involved actual flight. My first flight to the US was after a fire had pretty much destroyed all of my clothes, and a faint air of diesel hung about me. Beyond a bum bag (which I have since been ordered under pain of daughterly ire never to wear again) with my important documents,

I rocked up at a busy Chicago passport control with nothing but me. I was tired, my lady had snuck off to go in through the US citizens’ lane, and it was late, the day before Thanksgiving. There were hundreds behind me, and after a moment the guy used the green stamp and said ‘Welcome to America!’ I forget what I said, but I was not quite prepared for the chill of a Chicago November when we left through those doors.

And it got me thinking of memorable flights of my yore. Not the places I had been to so much as the flights that took me there. And occasionally back. I have been cleaning up my place, and occasionally come across old diaries. For some reason, I thought it would be cool to note every type of aircraft I have flown in. I am not sure why I started, probably the little kid in me trying to get out. Not sure why I stopped.

But this one I remember. A Beechcraft King Air B90 from central Europe to Nairobi. Zagreb to Geneva (day or two holdover) to Heraklion to Luxor to Djibouti to Nairobi. And all for the smile of a girl. What a flight, what a reunion, and what a story. All true, both gladly and sadly.

The plane was going back to base, ultimately to Capetown. I knew the crew well, having worked with them often. So with annual leave coming up and the chance of a hitch of a lift I reached out with both hands.

The pilot who flew from Zagreb to Geneva accidentally left the starter module on for the flight. The module provides a massive spark for the turboprop engine, a little like many lawn mower engines. But leaving it on is not a good idea, and it burned out. So we are lined up for start-up and the pilot tries to start the engine on the first true leg down to Nairobi. And… nothing happened. Bit of a problem. Props are turning, buttons are pushed, but no vroom.

Did you ever take down and rebuild a car engine? There are similarities. I also was, and am, a qualified electronics engineer tech. So I sort of knew what I was looking at. A box with wires in one side was not giving the wires out the other side what the engine needed. My background was in sound engineering, but strangely these connectors were very much the same.

We had at least another day layover and the pilot found someone with the same make (type?) of aircraft, and bargained a replacement starter pack for the new one that had been ordered. I am not sure why, but he wanted to get back to Nairobi So did I, but he seemed more keen. Besides, he knew how to fly the plane, I did not. But I did learn about the gearboxes on propellers: you can actually hold them still before the pilot kicks in the gears. I have never been sure if that is a good thing to know, or not. I prefer to stay well away from rapidly rotating machinery. Call it a life lesson, I had a run-in with a Bell and Howell projector one time. I learn, I remember!

So early of a morning I change out the starter pack under the watchful eye of the pilot, and of the owner of the other plane. I must have done well. The engine started, we got clearance, and away we went.

Did you know small aircraft do not always have ‘facilities’? Thankfully I can hold, and hops are not too long. Heraklion in Crete is a wonderful montage of lights at night and strange toilets. I am glad I was not the pilot – I would likely have landed us in the waterside.

My only time to Luxor, although I had the opportunity another time. Too late, too dark. All I remember is the pilots canteen and a few hours sleep. And as dawn arose, on to Djibouti. We had to refuel, and a number of nice men with a fuel truck turned up, and we started pumping. But then the chat plane arrived, and they all barreled off for the freshest leaves. So we finished fueling, wrote up the sheets, and eventually a manager came back and signed off. We could go without fear of repercussions on return.

And finally last leg to Nairobi. Wilson Airport, almost a home from home for a while. The smile I got was worth all the time. I still have the picture of the day [seen and verified by editor!] I turned up, but I do not have her permission to share it. Sadly, someone else had won the affections. So the journey home had to be memorable to forget that. It was, but that is for another day.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic via Wikipedia