CLASSIC WALLACE, EPISODE ONE

From today I’m adding a new segment to my blog. I’m calling it “Classic Wallace”. Calamitous things happen to my mate Joe Wallace when he’s abroad; he’s been surrounded by wild dogs while taking a bush poo, he’s had his passport stolen in Africa, he’s been fleeced by gypsies in Berlin and detained at the Botswana airport for three hours for quite correctly calling an overly officious airport bureaucrat a “bastard”. You can read all about that last incident in Joe’s excellent blog, The Roast Dinner Letters.

Anyway, last night, while playing a bit of barefoot beach volleyball in the largest sand pit in a town full of cats, Joe stepped in something sticky. Classic Wallace.

DRUNK DIVING

I’m finding it difficult to concentrate this afternoon. Goldfish brain brought on from spending so much time under water I’d say. And what a lot of water it was. Thirty odd metres of it. One hundred feet. The kind of depth that brings on brain bubbles if you don’t handle it correctly. The pressure of all that water over and around you constricts the oxygen in your body. That, and breathing bottled air, spikes the nitrogen levels in your cells. The nitrogen attaches itself to fatty tissues in your brain disrupting the synapses. For some people this brings on nitrogen narcosis, a semi-euphoric feeling a bit like being three beers into a lazy Sunday afternoon. At least that’s what it felt like to me as I settled on the silt at the bottom of The Cavern and watched wide eyed as the bubbles from my regulator burbled and danced toward the ceiling of the underwater cave. It’s a nice feeling and a dangerous one too. Judgement is impaired and poor decisions made. For some people, like my dive partner Phil, activities that would be simple on land become impossibly difficult to manage when you’re “narced out”. In one exercise the dive master held up both his hands, with three fingers extended on each. Using both his hands, Phil had to signal how many extra fingers the dive master would have to raise in order to bring the total tally of fingers extended between them to ten. Three times Akmed raised six fingers and three times Phil raised six fingers in return, each time becoming more insistent that he was responding correctly. He was adamant. In my own half-cut state I found it quite funny. I had an under water giggle at his expense and then failed the test myself.

Feeling drunk thirty metres below sea level wasn’t the only good thing about today’s dives. Diving the Bells to Blue Hole route is an amazing experience. It’s lazy writing but the feeling is indescribable in any satisfactory way. At twenty five metres you look around and see nothing but fish swarming over a coral reef that starts at the surface and literally disappears into the blue beneath you; eight-hundred metres of it. Today was a good day.

The Coolest Thing I Saw Today!

The coolest thing I saw today was a sea turtle effortlessly cruising past me. He didn't want to play. Still super cool.

OKAY, I MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT HASTY

So it turns out I was wrong about Mohsen. The constant interaction with an ever-refreshed pool of bikini clad women isn’t the reason he’s so relaxed. They complicate his life in ways I can’t even begin to fully comprehend, coming as I do from a country where girls in bikinis are a societal cornerstone. It turns out the reason he’s such a laid back cat isn’t his environment at all. If he were a neonatal surgeon specialising in sewing up life threatening holes in tiny little hearts he’d still be the most tranquil dude in his NHS district. The reason he’s so relaxed is simply that he was born placid.

I was having a chat with him last night over Egyptian tea and apple tobacco. As the fragrant smoke mixing on the breeze with the scent of salt water and desert sand the conversation gradually drifted onto girls. Mohsen is 23 years old, a Christian and the oldest son in his family. His sister is 19 years old and is considering becoming engaged to a young man she goes to university with. As the oldest son he has some say in whether the engagement should proceed. Earlier in the day, while taking a break between dives to let the nitrogen levels in our bodies fall, his mother rang him to ask his advice on the matter. He told her to invite the young man to dinner to assess his suitability but added that ultimately the decision had to rest with his sister. If she wanted to go ahead then unless the family had any major reservations it should be allowed to proceed. Privately he thinks she is too young to get married.

I asked him about his situation. He said living in Dahab made it tough. He goes home a few times a year and every time he goes back his sister introduces him to her university friends. I image he’s quite a hit. He’s a good looking guy, with a cool job and he has a natural, easy charm that women instantly respond to. He says that many of his sister’s friends are “slender”, a word he accompanies with a slight intake of breath and a long, double handed gesture upward in a narrow v shape. But he can’t see himself ending up with one of his sister’s slender friends. He says an Egyptian woman would find it hard to be with a man who does what he does for a living. The differing attitude toward standards of modesty and acceptable forms of male/female interaction would be difficult for an Egyptian woman to come to terms with; even a Christian Egyptian. He says an Egyptian wife would find it difficult to contemplate her husband spending 16 hours a day with scantily clad Western women and would be very upset to find that occasionally he receives a hug from a client or accept a kiss on the cheek.

Complicating his situation is the fact that there are no Egyptian women in Dahab. None. Partly that’s geographical. Dahab is situated on the barren eastern coast of a desolate peninsula, less than two hours drive from the Israeli border. Up until 20 years ago Dahab didn’t exist. The only reason it exists at all is to service the diving industry that has sprung up as a result of the Red Sea’s spectacular marine offering. There are no other industries. Every worker here earns their living from the diving industry and the jobs are almost universally of a variety that, here in Egypt, only men perform. There’s also an element of culture clash. Dahab represents Gomorrah to the religious elements of this country; a kind of morally dubious Western playground that Egyptian women should be protected from. So the kind of life Mohsan could offer to an Egyptian woman here in Dahab is quite limited. He is fortunate in that his father is happy for Mohsan to pursue a relationship with a Western women but, being quite devout in his Christianity, is at pains to stress that he will have to chose his wife carefully, as there are no second chances. So he ends up with a significant dilemma, created in large part by his own moral code. The kind of relationship he is seeking; monogamous, long term, fundamentally Egyptian in construction does not necessarily match the aims of the women he interacts with on a daily basis. By the same token, the women who would most readily offer this kind of relationship – Egyptian – would not necessarily be able to understand or accept his lifestyle. It’s a problem.

I still say flirting with chicks in bikinis on a daily basis is a good thing.

The Coolest Thing I Saw Today!

The coolest thing I saw today was the brand name of Egypt's leading distributors of pistaccios, cashews and almonds. It is "World of Nuts". Childish? Yes. Cool? Also yes.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

WHAT IS SOLENT GREEN?

So, I think I’ve found the most paranoid animal in the world, poor bastard that he is. It’s the glassfish, a tiny little thing no longer than a bride’s ring finger, with opaque flesh, so you can faintly see the outline of its skeleton and the tiny little pulsating organs within. They mass in enormous shoals around a specific variety of coral, their movements synchronised with one another. They drift gently in formation, moving as one, and then, without warning, they will rapidly change direction, all at the same time, sending a dazzling flash of silver pulsating across the reef. And then it’s back to the whole opaque drifting malarkey for a few more tranquil minutes. It’s a defence mechanism; camouflage and a warning all in one. A kind of; “you can’t quite work out what we are but we’re big and ready to take names”, which serves to protect them from marauding mackerel, for whom, when isolated from the gang, these little fish represent a tasty snack. The only flaw to this effective little defence system is that in order to stay safe they have to stay with the group. And the group never leaves the safety of its coral fortress, a spindly bit of aquatic life that looks something like a defoliated thorn bush and apparently provides excellent protection from hit and run predators. What this means is that there are no opportunities to head off to forage for food, which in turn means they have to make use of the only food source that’s readily available to them. Each other.

Like I said earlier, poor paranoid bastards.

“Holy crap, look out, a mackerel. Quick, lets all do that impressive flicker thing we’ve been practicing. Everyone hard left on my signal. And GO!”

“Nice work fellers, neat lines. Well synchronised; a super display of strength in unity. Some of our best work don’t you think Dave? Dave? Why are you all looking at me like that?”

The Coolest Thing I Saw Today!

The coolest thing I saw today was the glassfish. Animals you can see through? Awesome cool.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

SEAHORSEWEED?

There are two posts today. Read yesterday's first. It's the one with the blasphemous title. It's better.

The reason you get two gifts today is that now I'm traveling with a laptop I'm no longer restricted to writing updates only when I'm in an internet cafe. It's a good thing. Well, it is if you like my posts. Otherwise the extra post probably makes your tummy hurt, in which case grab yourself a ginger tea and for God's sake have a good lie down.

Anyway... get ready for today's post (also posted today). Here it comes...

There are two things I know for certain; Pringles are a tasty snack no matter where you are in the world and the best jobs in the history of employment involve flirting with endless streams of holidaying women in bikinis. I’m telling you lads, drop everything and nail down some surf school qualifications or a diving instructors ticket. It’s the future.

Let me just clarify here that I’m not advocating that anyone leave their wife or girlfriend to take up this brilliant opportunity; just their job.

My diving instructor Mohsen is probably the most relaxed cat since Miles Davis popped his clogs, which in itself is incredible considering he knocks back 20 cups of coffee a day. Just imagine how catatonically laid back that makes him.

Mohsen is clearly a dude who loves what he does, even though, like the rest of us, he does pretty much the same thing day in, day out. The main difference between his job and yours isn’t that he’s outside in a beautiful, sun-kissed environment – although I’m sure the environmental differences do boost his job satisfaction levels – the main difference between his job and yours is that he gets to flirt with an ever refreshing pool of chicks in bikinis, where as you have to spend your days interacting with besuited middle management types. Check and mate.

Anyway, today I spent a fair proportion of my time under 18 metres of water and I’m happy to report that diving is super fun. I am also happy, and in some respects slightly disturbed, to report that the open water diving course that I completed ten years ago has been recorded on the leading diving accreditation organisation's central database of qualifications, which can be brought up and verified pretty much anywhere in the world where there's an internet link. This is good. It saved me £100. It’s also bad, because now I’m starting to wonder how many organisations out there have my personal details on file. Lots is the only conclusion I can come to. So that's something to ponder.

But put that our of your minds for the time being and get ready for the first ever instalment of; The Coolest Think I Saw Today!

The coolest thing I saw today was a fish chewing on what was either a seahorse that looked like a piece of weed (way cool) or a piece of weed that looked like a seahorse (super lame).

That is all.

Dale Atkinson

GOD LOVES YOU - SEND MONEY

The unchanging nature of progress is still evident on the Red Sea, where the steady march of the tourism rouble has continued unabated since I was here eleven months ago. Back then I didn’t get to experience the twin terminals of the Sharm El Sheikh airport. From the outside they look like the kind of cathedrals to greed that charismatic preachers build in order to get extra bums on seats on Sundays from which to Hoover up even more of those readily available Jesus-dollars (I just read that sentence back and it sounds a bit like I’m inferring that the evangelical churches extract cash directly from the backsides of their parishioners. For the record I do not actually believe this to be the case).

In may ways though the Sharm terminals are shrines to the same God as the Southern Baptist Ministers and it has to be said the cheap airlines and package tour operators which fund these impressive structures are as ruthlessly adept at extracting alms from the touring hoards as any hot-stepping, devil casting, testifying – I SAID THANK YA JEEESUSS! – Minister of the Lord is at emptying the pockets of his gullible flock. The only difference really is that here in Sharm we don’t get the impossibly upbeat songs, the laying on of hands or the speaking in tongues. Actually, come to think of it, that’s not strictly true as there were a couple of Geordies on the aircraft. At least none of my fellow passengers felt the need to close their eyes, raise their arms as if doing the Y in the YMCA dance or adopt that ridiculous look of ecstatic joy adopted by those who want to demonstrate to their fellow parishioners that yes, they really, truly are feeling the awesome power of the Holy Spirit flowing through them and it feels AWESOME! AWESOME!!!!!!

Actually this afternoon was an interesting study in group psychology. On entering the arrivals hall passengers were ushered into three lines. No one was really sure what was going on but a man with a clipboard and a badge was issuing the instructions, so everyone unquestioningly obeyed. Our three lines snaked toward three windows. Over each of the three windows was the branding of the airline on which we had just arrived. To the right of our airline’s windows were another twenty windows, all branded differently but each with a sign offering the same service; Egyptian Visas for $15US. Those windows were empty of customers. The staff behind our three windows were processing a Boeing 777’s worth of weary travelers. Our lines were moving slowly. The other 20 windows had no lines at all. Yet none of us made a break for the unoccupied windows. Partly I think this was because no one seemed sure what we were queuing up for and partly I think it was because any time some curious soul tried to wander over to a different window they’d be rounded up by the clipboard and ushered back into line. To be fair half the English passengers were clearly drunk and a pretty heavy proportion looked like they’d been taught the hard way how to toe the line during a 10 to 18 month stretch in Wormwood. But the rest of us really had no excuse at all. We were like a bunch of queuing enthusiasts on a social outing. It wasn’t until I got to the line and discovered that my airline was charging £11 for the same visa others were offering for $15US that I snapped out of my ovine obedience and headed over to one of the other windows. Evidently I value money over my own precious – or not so precious as it turns out – time.

Interestingly, just as I was heading through customs a bunch of passengers from a rival airline arrived and a new man with a clipboard and badge emerged to usher them toward his company’s windows. This went unchallenged by the original clipboard, which I guess means there are enough cash-cows out there for everyone to fill a pail.

So, like I said, tourism companies are good at extracting cash for services that can be more cheaply and easily obtained independently. Listen carefully to the sound of the hills collapsing into the sea as a result of that earth shattering revelation.

I wrote last year of the Red Sea that the Russian’s were coming. I was actually wrong. They’re already here and, in a large part, it is their money which has paid for the magnificent new air terminals and the fresh, hard-topped roads which connect it to the cities that have burgeoned as a result of the growing tourism industry. Since last year a row of supersized power pylons have sprung up on the road between Sharm El Sheikh and Dahab and construction has started on what will one day be the northbound carriage of a shining dual lane highway. That this newly laid tarmac wasn’t already a fully-fledged part of a dual lane highway wasn’t apparent to me until about 30 minutes into my journey to the Sphinx Hotel, by which time I’d been travelling on it for about 25 minutes. It was only when I looked over at the other carriage and saw traffic on that stretch traveling in both directions that I realised that my driver was a massive Robert Frost fan. He’d been driving on an unopened, unmarked and possibly unsafe road, with no hard shoulder, no soft shoulder at something approaching 140kph. In fact, in many places, no shoulder existed at all bar clean oxygen and a two foot drop. Having bussed about India I was quite relaxed about this really, until we started to go around some blind corners. It was then that I started to calculate that if the road wasn’t yet opened, there was also chance that it wasn’t yet finished, and if it wasn’t yet finished then there was a chance that we’d hook around one of these blind turns only to find ourselves on a suddenly nonexistent stretch of road, with nothing beneath us but the shifting sands of the Sinai Desert and nothing ahead of us but the broken tooth outcrops of rock which rise from its surface. Disturbing thoughts. Needless to say my concerns came to nothing and I made it safely to the hotel, where everything’s pretty good.

Have you noticed how most of these bloody things are about the inherent terror of motorised transport? I’m starting to think that maybe I’m holidaying wrong.

That is all.
Dale Atkinson

THE BUCKET

How long can I keep my hand in a champagne bucket filled with ice water? Not as long as Leigh Angel is the answer to that question. More specifically though the answer is about 22 minutes, give or take, after which time my thumb starts to cramp and I have to withdraw. But let's be honest; the only thing that really matters is the winning and losing. No one really cares if the kid who ran second came in under the old world record mark too. And no one wants to hear him talk about it in the vapid sentences of the babbling vanquished. The winners can smile and the losers can please themselves and the only thing I can really do is suck it up and leave the country with my cold, cold hand grasping numbly at whatever imaginary straws of comfort I can find. Which is what I'll do. Tomorrow. At 9:55am.

Due to the fact I managed to misplace my handover note shortly before lunch and only located it - hidden down the back of the metaphorical cyber couch, ie the temporary file - some time in the mid-afternoon, this message isn't going to contain those nourishing words of love and gratitude that you needy, needy people always demand of my departure missives. If you're lucky I might have a couple of beers in the departure lounge tomorrow morning, get a bit gushy and smash out some hallmark sentiment while, between desperate, tearfilled sobs of anguish, I loudly singing songs from Frank Sinatra's; Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely. Or not.

As I've only got 20 short minutes of gainful employment standing between me and The Leasure, I better fill a few of those minutes with an activity which could, at least loosely, be described as work. I gotta go. More soon.

That is all.