Pig Sty Avenue

There’s been no power at the Cultural Centre for two days now. Without lights, it’s too dark to use books, and it’s bloody cold. I managed with speaking and verbal games until the first break yesterday, and then agreed with the students that we give up. But we teachers still had to hang around until two o’clock. Chilled through. Today was better: no attempt at teaching, and we were away before ten. God only knows what’ll happen tomorrow. The story is, GECOL (that’s the General Electrical Company of Libya, whose employees we’re teaching) have leased the Centre, and it wasn’t designed for the amount of use it’s now getting; therefore, the electricity cable isn’t up to the supply, and shorts out – a new cable is required. The Centre’s landlord – whoever that is, probably another government department, - might be forgiven for thinking it’ll get the cable upgraded on the cheap, seeing as the tenant is the electricity board. But life is rarely that simple, eh? I’d love to say that I gave ...

Last night, Friday, sitting at the nearest PC to the (open) door in the Internet Café here just off Omar Mukhtar street, I heard I noise like a woman screaming. Some absurd defence mechanism kicked-in and for a moment I thought it might be local boys fooling around, acting it – there are loads of kids in that area… But it was a woman screaming, and screaming and screaming. A loud cyclic wail of misery, a few hundred yards away, maybe. Two lads went out to the street and looked in the direction of the keening, if that really is what that word means. It seemed the sound was disembodied. One of them came back in and muttered something in Arabic, a terror relieving joke, perhaps, because there was a smidgen of scared, quiet sniggering. I said to Julian, who happened to be next to me: “somebody’s being posted to Imsallata.” Joking the edge off horror. It came to a definite end, quieting, tailing away with exhaustion to a long wail of despair. Such a terrible thing, whatever its...

The ‘waiters’ at breakfast are a right laugh. It’s a buffet so they don’t really have much to do. They are huddled into outdoor jackets, clutching at the collars as if to let in a cubic centimetre of the tepid morning air in the dining room would surely kill them. And they look so pissed off at the whole business of being up in the wee small hours, at 7.30am. Say ‘salaam’ and you’ll be met with a cold stare. The only job they have to do, so far as I can see, is to clear the dirty tables. It makes them so unhappy. Like conscript soldiers sent out into no-man’s land, in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter.

… or is it King Idris getting his own back? Whoever’s ghost is responsible, the symptoms are fatigue, depression, a cough, nausea, dizziness and the need to keep a lavatory within sprinting distance. Most of the other teachers have suffered, too. No-one’s missed work, (aren’t we all brave boys?) But after a morning’s teaching I haven’t had the strength to get to the Internet café, or to do anything much beyond sleep and read.

I went with my colleague Paul, all of the other teachers having decided to stay in Libya for Eid. My students had told me that the shared taxis to the border left from the back of Al Rashid St., so we headed that way at 10 on Wednesday morning. I should explain that ‘shared taxis’ are estate cars or minibuses. Despite their name they tend to have set routes and are more like a bus than a taxi. We asked a driver where the taxi to the border would leave from, but before we could go a few yards there were several offers of lifts in private cars. One lad wanted a 100 dinars, but we haggled and agreed 70 – about £30. He drove very fast, and called in at several filling stations. When we got over the border we realised he was smuggling petrol. Ah well, it’s a living. The whole trip to Djerba took about four hours. Our petrol moving friend took us to a small hotel: the Al Said, whose owner he appeared to know. Now he tried to bump the cost of the trip to 90 dinars, but we settled o...

...out of order. Got down to the 5th from the 11th, and remembered the floppy with the Tunisian post on it. So that'll have to wait.

Back safe and sound. Will post my Tunisian adventures tomorrow.

I’m planning to explore Tripoli. I’ve photocopied a street map, and intend to be methodical. Unfortunately, the weather’s just so bloody uninviting now: cold, wet and windy. Like early March in Britain, say. My students tell me this should last no longer than the end of January. Inshallah. Chilliness notwithstanding, last night I walked down Omar Mukhtar to Green Square, and then along 1st September St until I cut across to Al Jazier and the post office, where I sent a proper letter to my technophobic daughter. I had intended a shisha at the big café on that square, facing the former cathedral. But it was too inclement to linger. The architecture in that quarter is definitely Italian. I’ve never been to Naples, but I’m told the buildings are just like that. Plans for Tunisia proceed. Talal, a student, tells me that the ‘shared taxis’ (minibuses) for the border leave from the back of al Rashid street. It should cost 20 dinars (about £8). I’ve bought a wee notebook so...

I doubt I’d go to Tunisia under any other circumstances; so I’ll go under these: we have two days holiday coming up. This will be the Haj bayram, when fellas go to Mecca, hoy rocks at the devil, and generally, I’m told, have a wonderful time. But I can’t be going there, so I’m looking instead to make a dash for the border, and then up to Jerba. I’m estimating hotel-to-hotel in 5 hours. I’m teaching the present progressive today. On the road from work we overtook a van flying the Algerian flag, full of men in white robes, driving all the way to Mecca by road.

I've had a search on Google news, and there hasn't been a peace conference here, reportedly. So who were all those men in dramatic turbans, stumbling around the lobby in mirror shades, hmm? Whoever they were, they've gone, the hotel's quieter, and I've now got a good room with an excellent view of the sea.

We were coming back from work, around 2.30ish, which is rush hour in Tripoli. Near our hotel is a big row of schools along a main road – kids of all ages. There are four lanes of traffic, moving at changeable speeds, it’s busy, and everybody lane-hops like crazy. Then as we slow right down I see this little girl, seven years old or thereabouts, walking across the road, right in front of us. She still had two lanes to go, and the traffic which had been briefly stationary began to move quickly. But she carried on, in an almost straight line, almost not flinching, one car saw her and braked, the next just saw her and swerved at the last minute, and oh my god! She made it.

All the fellas in turbans are delegates at the Dhafour peace conference, I'm told. Ah well, peace comes before my view, I suppose, so good luck to them, and I'll be patient. Patience also is required with internet speeds here. Seamless surfing's out of the question.

There are a few wee chickens scratching around the garden at the Centre. Coincidentally, I think that they might be the same breed, white-dots, that the Old Man and Danny got for their allotment just before I left England. The cock seems to know it’s time for the lessons to start, and crows like a good ‘un. It’s a remarkably cheery sound, of a morning. On the subject of cheery, the sunshine has lifted my mood immensely already. The horribly short days of Britain at this time of year, alleviated only by twilight around midday, it seemed, can have an awful effect on many people’s mood. Here, the first dawn (and call to prayer) is at 6.40ish just now, and the sun’s up before eight. By nine it’s warm in the sunshine, and when I took my break at 10.30 this morning and took some air and soaked up some rays, well, I could almost feel my serotonin levels jumping.

e landed in Tripoli around four o’clock local time yesterday. Ali Sed was there to greet us, and all of the transport arrangements were made with surprising efficiency. There are to be eight of us at the Al Wahat, teaching at the ‘Cultural Centre’ 20 minutes drive west. The others, teaching at outlying posts were whisked off almost straight away. We were very impressed. Unfortunately the shine went off this morning when we waited an hour and a half for our transport to the Centre. Well, it’s early days I suppose. My classroom’s spacious enough, although peculiarly L shaped. This morning I met the students, and made up a register. Then I asked them to talk about themselves, to break the ice. There’ll eventually be 17 in the class, and most of them I’ve taught before at earlier levels. Now they are starting ‘level 3’, aka pre-intermediate. There was no power at the Centre, and little natural light, so I finished early. The first day is always given over to hellos and admi...

will blog again in a few days from Libya, inshalla.

...really.

That plant is Garlic Mustard . Lovely taste. Nice to get something unexpected.

Overheard story in The Boldon Lad: "There was someone keep ringing at the door bell last night and I looked out and said 'Oh, fucking hell!' There was four really hard looking Chinese fellas stood out there: I keep getting home, full of drink, and ringing up up for a delivery, then falling fast asleep. I cannot help it man! I've pissed off every Chinese take-away for miles around. I must owe them hundreds..."

David Aaronovitch is quite interesting about The Archers . The thing with soaps is, everybody is interested in everybody else. In real life, I remember nosey neighbours used to be a nuisance; nowadays, they’re almost inconceivable: people don’t pop in for a cup of tea anymore – we all just stop in our own houses, watching telly, blogging maybe… But the characters in soaps just love solving other peoples' problems. Partly, that’s the nature of drama; but it’s also why millions of people are soap-fans. It’s a sense of community which we’ve lost in reality. In Eastenders for example, almost everyone lives AND works within a few yards of each other. In London? It’s absurd; but dramatically, soap-operatically, that’s the appeal. That’s why Owen had to walk. You can and should have a villain in a soap community. But not an unrepentant rapist. That would be too close to home. It’s a cheerless thought that in real life you might have one down the street. Luckily, he won’t be popp...

1. Don’t drink and surf, especially if there’s a credit card to hand. I mean, if you went into a shop that drunk, they’d get the spotty boy (with the uniform, who couldn’t get into the police), to chuck you out. 2. Avoid solipsism. Easier said than done. Blogs are an example of utter self-regard, so that’s me being a bit post ironic. 3. Infantilism, ditto. 4. Garlic is a vegetable, not a religion. 5. Start to learnFrench. And organise jobs and accommodation in Paris for the '05/'06 academic year. 6. Grow at least 72 kinds of perennial herbs from seed. 7. Remember that excessive consumption of cheap red wine stains your lips purple, for God’s sake! 8. AND, when you’ve excessively consumed as above, keep shut the fuck up. 9. “Anger is an energy”, it’s true, but it can get you punched in the face if displayed in certain situations. You’re a fan of The Sopranos , not one of them, you daft fucker. 10. Always wear a seat belt when travelling by car in Libya: you know it make...

A Libyan wall. The workmanship! 

rainbows never photo well 

...it is.

Once a upon a time, a long long time ago, a man went to another Man, and asked him if he had a certain herb, a herb which had the magic power to make people happy. And the Man said he had, and the price was not great. And the man was exceedingly happy already. So he took the herb home, and showed it to his wife. She said she thought that there were many seeds through the herb, and they were not as good for making people happy as the dried flowers. But the man said to his wife: that's true, but the price was not great, and there is enough of the dried flowers for us, because we are happy anyway. And so it was. They were happy. And when all the dried flowers were gone, the man thought he would keep the seeds, and he counted them. There were twenty four. Then the man and his wife went on a long journey. For many a year they travelled to hot deserts in the south, and cold mountains in the north, but they never stayed anywhere long enough for the man to plant the seeds. Then one d...