PNG'd

The one thing I can say about my parents and about my grandparents and all their grandparents and that guy in that painting in the living room, who is allegedly an ancestor from back when the family name meant something but now never will and your father and I are so disappointed, or might just have been bought at a garage sale I can’t remember, is that they were survivors. And not just any survivors! They were survivors who got laid.

And how do I know that my parents liked to screw? Because I’m here. (And because I didn’t hear them yelling ‘don’t open the door’.) In the absence of any metric to determine in advance who will survive and get lucky you have to look at the outcome to determine who those people were.*

It’s kind of the same for figuring out who will freak out here. Are you the kind of person who’s going to be a liability in a tense situation? Are you inclined to panic over the regular thumps of mortars and rockets? Dunno. You might be you and you might not be. And you probably won’t know until one goes off.

Am you going to jump every time you hear nearby gunfire? No. But frankly if you’re coming out of a city or off a farm and guns scare you…
Will you freak out when explosions rattle the walls and make your ears pop? No. But I might have if I hadn’t been so worried about dropping my beer.
Will I freak out when someone shoots at me?
Or when I’m knocked off my feet in an explosion? Dunno. It hasn’t happened.

There’s no reason to expect that you will be able handle it. So you stay prepared, keep your armor close at hand, and practice in your head what you’re supposed to do. Which is always: Get your ass flat on the ground and crawl to one of the ubiquitous concrete shelters. They’re bright yellow and labeled “Duck and Cover” like the cold war jingle.

But you can’t be paranoid and jumpy all day long. Because almost all day everyday - things are OK.

So relax.

There’s beer in the world and the sun’s out.

*) Richard Dawkins explains this so much better. It’s the difference between In-Fisherman and Old Man and the Sea. Seriously.

Posted by pngd at 10:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Everyone I work with, everyone I interact with, is firmly entrenched in their career path. No one's under 30 but nearly all of them are under 50. This puts me into a different generational frame of reference. “Have you seen Battlestar Galactica” - “Oh, sure. The episode from last week wasn’t very good though”- “Last week?…what the hell are you talking about?”

But the guys in boots are younger than the girls in the other browser window. They’d only just be older than jailbait back home but here they’re heavily armed, heavily armored, and completely in charge. Of course this doesn’t make conversation any easier. “Remember He-man?”- “The weird anime show? Not really, it was only on for one season.” - “Anime? One season?…what the hell are you talking about?”

Of course both groups can talk about their kids… Clearly Sex Ed in the 70’s was as abominable as it is now.

Posted by pngd at 09:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Visa? I don’t need a visa. I’m here by invitation of two governments, three international bodies and my mommy.

The visa rules have changed. “Since when?” We queried, sure that there was a mistake. “They are different now.” The disinterested reply.

Not entirely disinterested. We had interrupted his coffee break and ruined what was going to be a spectacular day off. Except for our flight the entire airport was closed. His boss was on vacation and the rules were fuzzy enough that enforcement was nine tenths of the law.

“Well, we have fulfilled the old rules, and we have a letter from your government saying we don’t need a visa.” “No. You must have a visa.” No grey area there…

Well, we can see the heavily armed guys on the other side of the terminal. That’d be our ride. Should we bum rush it? It’s the wild west out here. Big guys, big swaggers, big belt buckles.

No. We're not going anywhere without permission. It *is* the wild west out here. If you blow past any security or give anyone a bad vibe, they’ll ventilate you. There’s no controlled escalation here and no need for apologies.
“Your colleague ignored the checkpoint instructions? And without warning his ride was turned into a three ton armored colander? Tell your remaining colleagues to follow instructions.” And don’t run in the halls...

“We have a letter that has been translated. You should read that. It is signed by your minister.” Cajoling works in the movies. “No. This is no good. No visa.”

Finally we get it. It’s a shakedown. Good. As soon as he takes a bribe we’ll have his entire ministry back in here. We aren’t tourists and we don’t work for big oil. We don’t *do* corruption.

“Ah! There is a fine. How much is the fine for entering without a visa?” wait for it…

“There is no fine. You must go back.” Firm, concise, shocking.

Slackjawed and defeated we got back onto our plane. The South African stewardess was happy to see us at least. “This means I don’t have to give you the safety briefing!” Very true. It also means you have to listen to another 90 minutes of gallows humor. “Have you heard of ‘dead baby jokes’? No?”

Excellent.

Posted by pngd at 04:30 PM | Permalink

The most important thing to do before you can start about working here, more important than having your papers in order, is get your badges.

No one gets in or out of any building without presenting the appropriate badge. Sometimes in series. My compound badge may get me into the secure area but I'll need to show a military badge to get past the front checkpoint but I'm going to need an embassy badge to walk to my appointment. But sadly my embassy badge is the wrong color. I can only walk through the front doors and up to the door to the wing my meeting is held in. To actually sit in the office of the person I was invited to meet I'll need to stand in line to be escorted into that wing and surrender anything I have that is considered sensitive.

Camera? Gone. Sign here, please. USB drives (I carry a fistful) Gone. Sign here, please. Cell phone? Gone sign here, please. A quick frisk (very tasteful, no nudity) and I'm starting and finishing a 15 minute meeting.

Since I'm actually allowed on the main premises I don't have to be escorted to the door, have my appointment crossed-out and initialed before I can reclaim my gear and head out. I'm now free to wander the compound and partake of the accoutrements of castle life.

The swimming pool is excellent, as are the barbershop and cafeteria. The coffee stand is awful but that's not for lack of trying. I think the coffee is shipped already ground and goes stale during transit. The library is minimal. It's just the travel books people dropped off when they were done. Two bookcases of romance, four shelves of spirituals, three bookcases of thrillers and mysteries (Tom Clancy is HUGE here), and half a shelf of non-fiction. Mostly political biographies. But the gym… My god, the gym. And for free! Keep your worn out gym bunnies and roid-cut trainers. These kids are big, strong, and tough. And young. Really really young.

But I don't have time. I need to go back to my office. So I walk out the front door and wave hello to our close protection. When they pull up their heads swivel around like owls and their sunglasses reflect the entire street. Off we go, back to work.

But that's another badge.

Posted by rj3 at 07:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)