Sean Harrington

Waffle House Fights Terrorism with Diabetes

2009-09-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

Heineken Pancakes

2009-04-11T03:12:00.000-07:00

I have had a long week of 16-18 hour days and constant bitching from the customer trying to get the unit to baseload. When the weekend finally comes (which in a muslim country is Thursday not Saturday) I am geared up for getting sloppy drunk. A man-camp starts wear on you after a while; the combination of long hours, shitty food, and no women can make any man start to go mental. So when the opportunity arises to blow off some steam it sometimes can get a little messy. There is a poker game every Thursday night; I don’t play I just like to drink and talk shit; but anyway on this particular night poker table is heated. I use this as a great opportunity to get hammered, no pun intended.

We start to pound brews with this old timer. I’m going to hide this poor old fucker’s name and call him Spits; mostly because he makes a “brrp” sound every 10 seconds. It’s enough to drive you mental. He’s a nice enough guy but I can tell this poor cunt is way past his prime and is ill-equipped to handle the 5 am drinking sessions anymore. But he’s up for the challenge tonight fights going back and forth; spits is selling his tall stories of jobs in this place and jobs in that place

Spits: “brrp” You see I’ve been to sites all of the world you see “brrp”. I know how this business works “brrp”. You want to be successful in this business; “brrp” you need to listen here.

We just kind of ignore him and watch the poker game. Then out of nowhere; down goes Spits. And when I say he went down…he went DOWN. Basically did a straight legged keel over and landed flat on his back. No one was around him no one pushed him, no one is even talking to him, just all of a sudden, down goes spits.

Poker1: Jesus somebody better help the fucker.

Poker2: Look at your fucking cards you cunt, he’ll be alright…raise.

But he wasn’t alright he just laid there looking up a the ceiling glassy eyed. I honestly thought that this clown was dead. I mean we are in a camp in Algeria…if the guy has a heart attack; he is dead for sure.

Me: Dude, are you alright?… Dude!?

Spits:….arrggh

Poker1: Yeah, he’s all right. Let’s get some more beer

Waiter: Number one?

Poker1: No we want more than fucking one.

Waiter: Eh…sorry. Is finished. Beer finished

Poker1: … Crack open the cooler

Me: No problem

They put a padlock the coolers after a certain point in the night, maybe to discourage the same debauchery that was going on at that very moment. But anyway I found the largest stick I could in the camp and started to beat the lock mercilessly with no success. As I’m hammering away somebody whispers some words of wisdom in my ear.

Poker2: Dude just get a screwdriver.

Me: Ahh, the hinges, smart man.

Success, stolen beer for everyone, but now that we have beer we need late night vittles, and this night for some reason I had a hankering for pancakes, so off to the cantina we go.

Waiter: What is this pancake? I am Algerian. No pancake

Me: If I don’t see pancakes on my plate tomorrow there’s gonna be problems…Here, lets go I’ll show you how to make some fucking pancakes.

Of course this is Algeria and there is no pancake batter anywhere so I had to make them from scratch. Flour…check; eggs…check; milk…check; sugar?

Me: Sugar, where is the sugar?

Waiter: Sugar?

Me: God damn it. You know sweet, sugar.

He hands me a bowl of white powder and I make the batter and slap it on the grill and away we go. Luckily they had fruit and syrup. The first batch I wanted them to try. The sour look on their face was priceless; it was like I asked them to choke down a shit sandwich.

Me: Give me that, their not that bad…oh these are awful.

I went over to the bowl of white powder…salt.

Me: Dammit!!! This is salt not sugar. We have to make it again.

Second batch was a success and from then on pancakes were on the menu…you’re welcome.

$1000 and the Crazy Brownie Lady

2009-03-01T08:29:00.000-08:00

As most of you know I went to Georgia Tech and my good friend from highschool Nate went to Clemson. Both campuses are only about a 2-hour drive from each other so we have both been to every GT/Clemson game since we were freshman in 1999. Two years ago when Nate and Steph came down for the game Tech was supposed to get slaughtered by Clemson and Nate wanted to place a wager on the game. While at a bar the night before he convinced me to bet him a $1000 that Tech would win straight up; no spread. At the time I figured I just threw away 1000 bones but its turns out that Tech won the next day. Not only did they win but they were leading most of the game. Which gave me the opportunity to scream “ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS!!!” at the top of my lungs into Nate’s ear every 10 seconds. He only paid me $500 and at one point in the year he had said we should go double or nothing on next years game. This past year my R&R happened to land right on Clemson/GT game so in preparation for the game I had t-shirts made that said GT Clemson with the date and ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on the back. Nate had happened to score an unbelievable parking spot right next to the entrance so we were able to walk back to the car and pound a few more shots at halftime. While I’m knee deep in a Powers bottle a mildly attractive 30-something blonde chick with a southern accent thicker than biscuit gravy approaches me and comments on my shirt.

Crazy brownie lady: Hey y’all what’s one thousand dollars all about?

I proceed to tell her the story

Crazy brownie lady: Can I have some?

Me: laughing well I haven’t won it yet.

Crazy brownie lady: Well if you y’all win can I have some of that money?

Me: What?

Crazy brownie lady: My husband just lost his job and you don’t need all the whole thousand dollars I just want a little. Tell you what I made some special brownies and I’ll sell you some after the game.

Me:…O…K

Lets be honest I lived in Atlanta for 8 years I’m used to dealing with panhandlers, just not well dressed white ones (sorry if that offends you but it doesn’t make it any less true). Tech did win the game but Nate bitched out of the bet so there was no money exchanged at all this year. As I return to the tailgate I see crazy brownie lady waiting near the car but this time she has a 3-year-old daughter in tow and a fist full of brownies.

Crazy brownie lady: Hey y’all!! Y’all won! Do you want some brownies?

Me: Yeah whatever; how much for two?

Crazy brownie lady: Twenty dollars each.

Me: What!?…Fine, whatever.

So I grab two out of the little girl’s hands and Douchie (J.T.) and I pound some brownies and we both come to the conclusion that there is nothing “special” about these brownies whatsoever. We start a game of cornhole (or bags) and try to phase out this crazy bitch. 30 minutes later I get a tug on my leg and it’s a 3-year-old girl with a huge platter of brownies.

Little girl: Do you want some brownies?

Me: No I’m all set sweetheart.

Crazy Brownie Lady: Its OK honey, he doesn’t want any. I guess he wants that whole thousand dollars to himself.

Am I getting guilt-tripped into buying a platter of normal brownies by a crazy bitch and her 3-year-old daughter? Luckily I’m a heartless bastard.

Lost in Translation II

2009-02-22T01:34:00.000-08:00

Its been slow around here this week so I’m going to post a throwback story from my time in Tenerife. Because I know all of you are loyal readers you know that it is customary for a restaurant to provide a free “chupito” on the house after a meal. On one of these occasions I was really in the mood for an irish coffee. I am quite particular about my irish coffee and I don’t prefer it in the traditional sense and I don’t want any of that gay whip cream on it either. Coffee, whiskey, baileys…that’s it. I began to work through my mind on how to order this en espanol: coffee, café; easy enough; whiskey is just whiskey; pretty hard to fuck that up; but bailey’s is not so easy. My experience in Spain is that they normally do not have the common brands of liquor. So I decided that irish cream was a safer bet.

Me: Puedo tener un café con whiskey y con creama de irelandia (which I thought directly translated to cream of Ireland)

Waiter: Como? (the expression on this man’s face was indescribably awkward)

Luckily there was another patron near by that spoke English and far better Spanish than me.

Patron: You just asked for irish cum in your coffee.

Me:…What!!! Um bailey’s?

Waiter: Ah si bailey’s, no problema

So if anyone is looking for some irish man-juice in Spain. Now you know how to order it.

Number one! No Problem

2009-02-15T09:52:00.001-08:00

For some reason no matter what nationality a person is or what primary language they possess if they don’t know very much English the first 2 phrases everyone picks up are “no problem” and “number one”. Coming from the perspective of someone who has struggled with foreign languages I understand that it is much easier to understand a foreign language than it is to speak it. So when you are in this transition period of language retard to borderline fluency you try to steer the conversation so you can respond with the words you do know. When you drink it gets easier and when you get drunk its impossible. So I want you to imagine a conversation where the person who are talking to understands half of what you’re saying but can only respond with either “no problem” or “number one”.

Me: Can I get a hamburger?

Waiter: Ugh …yes no problem.

Me: Thanks buddy

Waiter: USA Number one!

And so on and so forth. The reason why I bring this up is because I am amazed by how many conversations can continue like this.

Me: How can I get some girls around here?

Waiter: For you? No problem my friend, no problem.

Me: Sweet, are they good looking?

Wiater: Number one!

Me: Actually I’m looking for a girl who will do number 2 also.

Waiter: No problem

Me: Fantastic, you’re the man.

Waiter: You number one!

Me: I’m looking for top shelf though my friend

Wiater: For you? No problem my friend no money. Very very good sewha.

Me: Well where is this sewha?

Wiater: Number one?

Me: Hey I’ll take as many as I can get.

Waiter: No problem.

Oh man…Maybe this isn’t funny for you but I am pissing my pants laughing just writing this. Its just a culture thing that I find hilarious. It’s similar to the Filipinos and the “And then?”. But that’s another story for another time. I’m going to start pulling out some of my old stories from college and high school to fill in some of the lulls, check in next week.

Lost in Translation

2009-02-08T06:48:00.000-08:00

One of the nights out we decide to go to a sushi restaurant for some grub and Jose brings his girlfriend along who doesn’t speak very much English. Before I go on, this story requires a little background from when I was in Tenerife. While in the Spanish-speaking Canary Islands I came upon a custom where after every meal the waiter would offer you a free “chupito” on the house. A “chupito” out there means shot. So I was under the impression that the Spanish word for shot was chupito. So after we gobbled up our sushi I asked Jose’s girlfriend “Te gustaria un chuptio” which I thought meant “would you like a shot”. From the sour look on her face I can see I have said something terribly wrong. I try to save myself by making a shot-taking motion with my hand “You know…chupito, chupito”

Jose: What are you trying to say?

Me: Chupito…you know; shot.

Jose: Oh…no my friend, here chupito means blowjob.

Me: Jesus Christo…Well, what’s the word for shot?(Apparently chupar means to suck)

Jose: We just say shot

For those of you playing at home, look in the mirror and make a shot taking motion with your hand and realize how embarrassing that is. I guess I should pretend I don’t speak any Spanish…well I guess I don’t have to pretend.

The Dominican

2009-02-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

I will not tell you everything that goes on during my R&R’s; one because I’m shady and two to protect the innocent. But on my first 2 weeks off from Algeria I was looking for a place close to the US where I could blow off some steam and still save days for the tax break. I ran into a guy in Algeria who was from Puerto Rico and said that the Dominican is where it’s at. And he happened to know a friend that rents out his place in Santo Domingo for cheap…Sounds perfect, I’m not really a resort type guy anyway so I figure this will give me a bit more chance to taste some Latin flavor; so to speak. Anywho; I decide to go down there in October which incidentally enough is hurricane season. As I step off the plane the guy I’m renting from calls me and tells me is going to pick me up from the airport, his English is not great and his sense of urgency is even worse. As soon as I get outside the sky opens up to torrential downpour; like curtains of rain. As I sit outside the airport waiting for Jose for 2 hours while it rains bananas I can’t help but wonder if this was all a terrible mistake. But as I come to find this is nothing but true Dominican fashion and it clears up to leave not a single cloud in the sky, Jose shows up, and we are on our way.

I wanted to know what the locals do for fun in DR. So I pressed this question upon Jose and he told me that what they like to do on a normal Friday night is gang up to the liquor store, buy a few bottles on wine, and park their cars in the parking lot and blare their ridiculous systems. Seemed a bit high school to me but I was game. So we get a few bottles of wine and sure enough there are several cars with insane systems in them cranked up to near deafening level and the vibe was pretty cool. But things got interesting when a redbull truck pulled up, folded out to a DJ stand, and everyone synced their car together through the radio. At which point a stage was pulled out and they had a dance off by some deliciously scantily clad females shaking their ass in favor of applause. The girl with the most crowd support got to dance on a lucky guy in the crowd. It came down to two girls and the crowd couldn’t decide so they both danced on a lucky patron. I looked over to Jose and I see that he had a crazy look in his eye and ran up to the MC and spit some Spanish to him, and all of sudden…

MC: GRIIINNGOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

So they pulled me up to the stage while these girls danced on me like they were trying to make molds of their private parts in my thighs. As I previously mentioned I am a gringo and can’t dance a step so I just stood there and let this happen like I was in my own private strip club.

This place is awesome

DC Consulate Take Three

2008-10-25T10:38:00.001-07:00

I love the Algerian consulate…for real these people are just a peach. From previous blogs you have read about the blatant lying and disregard for Americans, but what I haven’t told you is during my last visit to lovely Washington DC they gave me the wrong visa. Which apparently is a very big deal because they had threatened to basically deport me when I arrived at site. Which is strange considering it’s the exact same visa I had the last time I was here. But anyway I convince that its too scary to travel to Algiers at the moment due to all of the suicide bombing over the past few months and they agree to let me wait until my R&R so I don’t have to make 2 trips to the ole US of A. But I wanted to make very sure that when I do go back that they know that I’m coming and it will be brisk and efficient visit without phantom copy machines or disappearing fax machines.
Me: Hello, my name is Sean Harrington and I was here a few months ago and asked for a work visa but you gave me a business visa.
Receptionist: What?
Me:… (God dammit here we go again)
Consulate: Who is this whiteboy?
Me: Hello, my name is Sean Harrington and I was here a few months ago and asked for a work visa but you gave me a business visa.
Consulate: Oh yes, I heard about this let me see your visa…Ah see I was on vacation then that was the problem some other guy did this for you.
Me: You know actually I think I remember seeing you at the hotel right after I got into the country.
Consulate: …what?…Oh yes, that’s right. Don’t tell my wife.
Me:…Um, OK. (what?)
Consulate: Not a problem we’ll have this fixed for you in a few minutes.
Me: OK great I’ll just wait in the waiting room.
Consulate: What? No, no go get some coffee or something, in fact why don’t you go back to your hotel.
Me: I though you said it would take just a few minutes
Consulate: You don’t want to go straight back to Algeria do you? That place is awful, I’ll see you tomorrow.
At this point I just give up and go back to the hotel and relax it has been a long trip with long layovers and missed luggage and I can’t deal with this crazy fucker anymore. The following day I get a similar exchange.
Me: Yes, this Sean Harrington do you have my visa?
Consulate: What? Who is this?
Me:…*sigh* I was in yesterday.
Consulate: Oh yes, the white boy; yes its ready come on in and get it.
I can’t wait to go back…

Drowning Kittens and Sober Asians

2008-10-25T10:34:00.001-07:00

Wow, long hiatus I know. Things have been hectic and wild here in lovely North Africa and I know that you all are going through massive blog withdrawals over the past few months. I realize that I’m a big deal and I would miss me too. So where to start, well as you can see the someguyinafrica experiment is over because one; you are paranoid and two; I don’t give shit. Sorry Debbie, you can tell me I told you so to my casket; in the meantime you’ll just have to deal with the fact that Bin Laden isn’t surfing the blog boards for African expats to behead. But what happens when you work out here for a while is you get desensitized to just about everything. A few major things are animals and racism. We’ll start with the animals, for those of you who are more traveled you know that the rest of the world does not exactly share our American/UK view of humanitarianism when it comes to cats and dogs. Bob Barker would shit himself he came to Africa. Because you see, spade and neutering are expensive and messy so most people just don’t bother. As a result there are stray dogs and cats everywhere, and when it becomes a problem they have to be taken care of. And I’m not talking about Oprah showing up onshore to adopt a family of kittens. We’re talking good old Russian steel and gun powder baby. So when you hear gun fire in the distance its not Al-Qaeda making a move at the gate, it’s the security performing a little fido and kitten population control. But after a few months without American idol and triple grande lattes you don’t even look twice. You know come to think of it, it probably eventually ends up on my plate, and I think I’m ok with that now too. Why waste the meat right?
Racism, man its thick here on site. The major division comes between the working class and the skilled class. It also happens that most of the educated workers on site are white and the working class is either Arabic or Asian. The Arabs are not a big deal they keep to themselves and they don’t drink so there is little overlap there. However the Asians do consume tasty beverage and some of the white people don’t like it. Someone decreed before I arrived that all the Thais and Malays were banned from drinking in the camp forever. Which was a problem considering that I had a Filipino crew on site for 2 months. When I went go up and visit the boys you’d have Thais coming out of the woodwork “Hey man, can you buy me a beer”. They came out of the shadows like ninjas, ninjas I tell you. Super bizarre it has a very illegal drug purchase type feel to it. Whenever I bought the boys some beer I had to put the whole shifty eyes on like I was buying blackmarket snuff porn (take it easy; its just a metaphor). At one point the camp manager came right out and confronted me about it.
Manager: The Filipinos are drinking too much at the bar.
Me: Well there is only one bar so…
Manager: The bar is for expats only
Me: Well they’re on the same visa that I am so why don’t you just say it. The bar is for white people only
Manager:…
There you have it that’s Algeria for you.

Return to Africa

2008-10-25T09:51:00.002-07:00

Back to Africa

So… after a short stint back in the UK I am headed once again to meet the lovely people at the US-Algerian embassy in D.C.; to attempt for the second time, to get my long-term work visa. The second time around I have this process down so I was well prepared for the lies and shady goings-on of the embassy.

Me: Work visa application
Reception: Do you have passport photos?
Me: right here
Reception: Do you have $100.00 money order?
Me: right here
Reception: Do you have 2 applications?
Me:… 2?
Reception: Yes you need 2.
Me: OK I’ll go back to the hotel and print out another one.
Reception: That is not necessary you can just copy.
Me: Oh great you can make me a copy.
Reception: No
Me:… OK I’ll just go back to the hotel then.
Reception: Not necessary sir you can just make a copy.
Me:… “sigh”…Do you have a copy machine?
Reception: Yes, of course.
Me: …Well can I use it?
Reception: No
Me:…(what?!?!)
Me: OK then, I’m going to go now

Come back, give her the second copy and I’m on my merry way. She tells me that it will be ready Friday. Another lie; it will most likely be finished in a day or two. I pick up my visa 2 days later and I’m off to Amsterdam.

I stayed in my hotel room and got room service for 2 days; and no one has any proof otherwise.

So anyways off to Africa, Hooray!! I get off the plane and much to my surprise there is a guy holding a sign that says my name right on it, in big bold letters. This seems odd to me after the big stink the last guy made about not having a sign. Not only that, when I walk up to the guy and tell him I’m “Some Guy” this is the exchange that takes place.

Me: Hi I’m “Some Guy”
Driver: Who do you work for?

This seems very shady to me.

Me: umm…Company A (the names have been changed to protect the innocent)
Driver: Yes of course, of course, Company A
Me: uh, what company do you work for?
Driver: I work for Company A as well.

OK…this is the moment that I fear from previous blogs, you know the drill: hood, webcam, big sword, Allah. I feel like I have to test this guy.

Me: So, uh which hotel are we going to?
Driver: “xxxxxxxx”

OK this guy seems legit; we’ll give him a go. I make it to the lovely xxxxxxxx in one piece and the next day its army escort time to the site. The army escort is an interesting affair. It basically consists of 3 cars; 2 marked army vans and an unmarked car. We drive down the Algerian highway as an army car sandwich and me in the unmarked car as the meat. I mean when you think about it, if you’re trying to buy your way to allah with human explosion (Prague ’06 represent) isn’t it obvious that the infidel is in the middle car? Well anyway, halfway through there is a shift change. We wait on the side of the road as the army leaves and the police arrive. Jurisdiction conflict I guess…but, my Algerian long term contract has finally started…so it seems…

England

2008-10-25T09:51:00.001-07:00

I will be honest with you people…I’m not fond of England. I like the people, the music, and the general scene around here; but I hate the government. This place is socialism at its worst. If you want to cut a loud fart out here you need to queue for 20 minutes and fill out 10 forms in triplicate. Its not a fun place to work. You are only allowed to work 10 hours a day and 6 days a week. And the crew always uses the day off to get piss drunk…So that’s what I did. I apologize for to my family for what I’m about to say here, and I don’t condone excessive drinking blah, blah, blah…it’s funny so save your morals for normal people. I use my day off to walk around lovely Southampton and I am dying to taste some food that doesn’t taste like the sweat off a fat man’s back; so I happen upon a Japanese restaurant. OK maybe a little sushi I mean its not cooked by Britians so it might be good…Terrible; and it starts a conversation with a drunkard in the bar as to why the food is so terrible here. And then to a little booze and to a little more and we bring the bartender into this conversation. Cute little thing, 22 max. I abandon the drunkard and I am now focused on the bartender. I’ve had a few so my tact has escaped me and maybe I start to hit on this girl…a tad too strong. Her boyfriend is in the bar and takes notice. He would like to engage in fist-to-cuffs. He’s not the largest lad in the world but he’s going on and on about how he’s in the military and he has to go to Iraq because of me; normal drunk European-American drunk talk. I’m not interested in fighting this little boy so I decide to buy him a drink.

Boy: Ahh so its drink you want then eh? I will drink your ass under the table…

Sounds like a fair challenge to me. For those who have know me for a while you know that my shot taking ability has declined tremendously since my ulcer in college. But I’m feeling patriotic, like it’s the Olympics of drinking and I’ve got honest Abe and GW looking down on me, scolding me…”Now don’t be a pussy Sean”. So I hunker down and accept this challenge. Lucky for me he chooses my strong suit…whiskey. Every possible bottle of whiskey you can think of is in this little Asian bar. Shots are flying all over the place. The whole bar is getting into this, and its getting rowdy.

Boy: Forget this shot shite…I’ll show you how a real man takes his whiskey.

He then takes the bottle out of the bartender’s hand, flips the shot glass upside down, pours the whiskey on the upside down shot glass, grabs a straw from behind the bar,……and snorts the whiskey. Listen; I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my day; far too many I’m not proud of; but snorting alcohol? Yeah so I did it, and it hurt just as bad as you can imagine it would. I can sense that this is going nowhere so I ask the bartender “what’s that fancy looking white bottle with the ribbon up there?” The owner of the restaurant, small little Chinese man, “Oh no, you no want that. Very strong Chinese wine; very strong”…Perfect, it was a 110 proof alcohol. It tasted a little like death with a slight hint betrayal. It does the trick and throws my little British friend over the deep end. At this point he is sobbing on my shoulder telling me he loves me and us English-speaking people need to stick together. No way I’m going to drive on the left side of the road like this. I walked back to the hotel to live another day content in my victory…U.S.A. U.S.A. U.S.A.

Well its good I got this little Asian experience because it looks like I might be headed to Taiwan.

Eau de Hobo…Blackened

Things are busy in Peterborough I haven’t had much time to chronicle my adventures out here. People have been asking about new posts so I have this quick little anecdote for you…

The pollen out here is driving my allegeries to the brink of madness out here so I have been praying for heavy rain to wash it all away. When the rain does come a very pungent and strange odor comes with it. So I ask the project manager, Mick the Mc, who has been here before what the scoop is.

Me: What is that sewage smell?

Mick: That’s not sewage, you see. That’s a crematorium.

Me: …

Mick: But it’s not a regular crematorium that you would take your Grandparents to; it’s a public one. You know for like dead animals and hobos and shite.

Me: Hobos?

Mick: Aye, you know drifters, gypsies and shite, those poor cunts that can’t afford a proper burial. I mean where you gonna put them all? One of those cunts kicks off in the streets, we just burn the fuckers…”Sniff” Do you smell that filth? Burning rotten hobos, that is.

So if you’re ever in Peterborough UK, every time it rains you can taste the sweet, sweet flavor of burning hobos.

Gyppos, Pikies, Knackers, Tinkers whatever you want to call them they are very real and in full force in Peterborough. And let me tell you Brad Pitt nailed that accent; they sound absolutely ridiculous. They park their caravans (that’s trailer for you Americans) right on the sidewalk. They tie up their horses on the grass by the highway. And nobody does shit about them because they’re fucking mental. Here’s a story I heard from a guy a met on the road that owns a farm in Ireland.

Farmer: Pikies, aye I know all about those cunts. I built a beautiful gate for my farm back home with a 10-foot high steel gate with custom fitting steel swing door. It even had a nice little leather strap to tie the gate together…beautiful. Took me days to get it up there. The morning after it was finished I woke up to find the whole fucking thing gone! And then some pikie has the nerve to lay this number on me.

Pikie: I see you’ve got quite a gap in your fence there
Farmer: aye
Pikie: You know your man has quite a nice fence he could sell ya.
Farmer: really?
Pikie: Aye, beautiful steel frame with a swing gate.
Farmer: How much?
Pikie: 1000 quid should do it… I might as well sell you the leather strap as well.

Farmer: So I bought my own fence back for 1000 pound
Me: Jesus, you can’t do anything to stop them?
Farmer: For fuck’s sake no. You run up on your man there and he’ll bring an army of those cunts with him. Those knackers shag themselves mental. And they’re too cheap to buy condoms so there are millions of fuckers.
Me: What about the police?
Farmer: Fuck no… The police don’t go near the cunts. Every cop knows that the first thing a pikie does when he gets nicked is shit in the cop car.
Me: haha…what?
Farmer: Without fail every time, once a pikie gets nicked he drops his draws and shits on the back seat. I don’t know how they do it. Shitting on command like that…nasty cunts.

…

awesome

Algeria One..

2008-10-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

Off to Atlanta for 2 nights then off to Algiers with a connection through Rome.

I get off the plane having absolutely no idea what to expect I hear stories of kidnapping and Algeria being one of the most dangerous places to be in Africa. Needless to say the rush of landing in my first Islamic country had my palms drenched. Of course they loose my luggage. Negotiating that lost luggage slip was quite the challenge. When you don’t speak a single word of another person’s language you end up flaying your arms around like Helen Keller on a week’s worth of adderall to try to get your point across. After my best impression of retarded charades I end up with the lost luggage slip in hand. Considering I’m due to hit the desert tomorrow I am quite confident that I am destined to spend the next 4 months in Algeria with no clothes and to top it off no driver to be found. The trick is that they don’t carry around signs saying “Harrington” or “GE”. This because your local Algerian terrorist can simply read the sign and approach me now knowing my name and/or company and since I don’t know what the driver looks like I would be sent into a dim lit room equipped with webcam headfirst; so to speak; ready to make my Islamic youtube debut.
However the driver finally does find me whispering Harrington to every white guy in the airport; and we are on our way. The driver fittingly enough does not speak a word of English. I conveniently reciprocate this anomaly but not speaking a lick of French or Arabic. He was a nice enough guy though and wanted to talk to me regardless of our language handicap and preceded to tell me his life story in French interrupted only my intermittent

“Dude I don’t speak French…no francais”

But this guy wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop is mindless rambling. I guess he figured I would understand French a little better than Arabic being western but he might as well been speaking Cantonese. The best part is he would ramble for a while and then stop as if he was asking me a question. I would just look at him, shake my head, and mutter “Dude….I don’t speak French”. And he would continue on as if I adequately answered his question. Finally we get to the hotel and I hit the hay before my next leg of the trip to the camp in the desert.
The driver and I head to the International Algiers airport and pick up my bag which wasn’t bad there were a few people who spoke English and thank the invisible man of your choice they found my bag with just minutes to spare.
We are now off to the Domestic Algiers airport and here no one speaks English and I mean not one word.

Algerian airports are interesting; it goes a little like this. When driving to the parking lot there are 3 security checks, which each consist of 3 police officers carrying AK’s patting you down and going through your crap. Then once you get to the terminal you have to go through another security check to get to the ticket counter. Standing in line; or queuing for my UK friends; doesn’t exist here. It reminds me of outside a Miami club during spring break; people push and cut in line; it’s no holds bar. At the counter I flash the US passport and they don’t even open it hand me my ticket and my seat number; which is worthless and I’ll explain that later. Then send you to another security check before you get to THE security check. At this point its time to say goodbye to my French speaking friend and he gives me series of directions in French as if to will my learning of the language by simply speaking it to me. I have to clue what he said I figure I will just use intuition to find my way through the gates. So….there are no gates there are series of TV screens with Arabic characters in front of doors to buses. My flight is 2 hours delayed and I am frantically running up and down the airport making sure that the city I’m headed to doesn’t appear when I’m not looking. I can think of no worse fate then being stranded in Algiers with no escort. My paranoia pays off and my bus shows up nowhere near where it’s supposed to and I am off to the plane. Three more security checks later and they take your ticket from you and step on the ground by the plane. They take your luggage you checked earlier and place it on the ground. You have to then pick it back up and hand it back to them. If anyone can place the logic of that for me I will be eternally grateful. Two more security checks and its on the plane. Now remember they have taken my ticket earlier so the seat number is worthless. Again its no holds bar first come first serve to the seat. Unless of course you’re white then you can be removed from any seat.

The desert camp
Straight off the plane, another 2 or 4 security checks, and its time to go through the police checkpoint.

Police: Something in Arabic
Me: English?
Police: No English
Me: I’m American
Police: Oh OK then what company
Me: Sonelgaz
Police: What?
Me: Son-El-Gaz
Polce: No
Me: What?
Police: Write down

I fill out another landing card

Police: Company?
Me: sigh…Sonelgaz
Police: No show me
I show him the landing card he doesn’t like it. Finally I take out a letter from the company
Police: Ah, Sonelgaz go ahead
…nice, this is just how it is people
After completing that intellectual exchange its time to find the escort. Same deal, no sign, just whispers. This time its much easier because I am clearly the only westerner in the airport. We hit the road its only about a 30 minute drive from the airport. Its about 11PM with a darkness that only the desert can achieve and we are going about 80 to 90 miles an hour in a Renault van with no lights on.

Me: Umm are you going to put on your lights?
Driver: …
Me: Lights? La luz? (as if Spanish will help now)
Driver: … I can see

After a long day of retarded sign language and Arabic lies I am ready to just lie down in my matchbox bed and count camels to sleep. But before I do, a trip to the thrown strikes me. For those of you not into fecal matter jokes read no further…..But let’s be honest shit is pretty damn funny. Anyway as I come to the end of my masterpiece feeling much more relaxed than before I turn around to grab some TP. But of course there is none to be found; and only one thought can be found resonating in my head…
“…Fucking frenchies”
Because of course the French are into bidet’s not TP. And for those of you who are well traveled you know most bidet’s in remote areas are not the like cute little sink types you see in nice hotels on the Champs-Elysees, more often that not they are simply a hose connected the wall next to the john. As I delicately yet clumsily position myself for this hopeless maneuver I can’t help but think to myself that there is no chance for this to end well. And my prognosis was correct and as I successfully pressure washed all four walls of my bathroom I came to the stark realization that I will have to take a fucking shower every time I take a shit. To add a cherry on top to this chestnut as I put the hose back it comes disconnected and now the floor is flooded with crap smelling water as well. And of course most showers in remote areas resemble the ones from your freshman dorm, because water temperature control is lost on these people. You have the choice of igloo ice sprinkle or burning cauldron of Satan. I decide that 3rd degree burns out weigh polar rain at this point and pass out to live another day.
Usually the traveling is the most entertaining and interesting part of my adventures so don’t expect posts everyday but if something interesting happens I will be sure to keep everyone in the know.

The day after

At about lunch time the day after my manure slip and slide fiasco the project manager confronts me with some interesting news. It appears that there is “something wrong” with my room. And all of my belongings have been transferred over to a new room.

Project Manager: “Housekeeping says there is a problem with ‘the pipes’”
Me: “Oh really? Well that’s fine by me. I hope you figure out the problem”

The problem is a bidet hose in my hands is the equivalent of putting a squirt gun in the hands of Michael J Fox.

Back on the road

Well, my stay in Algeria was a short one due to the fact that the job was nearly complete when I arrived and they are still not ready for me on the long-term job. The customer had endless remarks on the early departure of the last engineer but when the job was finished they were quite exciting to get my ass back on a plane. Probably due to the fact that I charge an hour more than they make in a week. But this trip was almost as interesting as the last.

Site coordinator: Where is your ticket?
Me: …What ticket? I don’t have a ticket.
Site coordinator: Where is your ticket… your ticket?

Oh yeah this is going to be a good one I can actually feel myself type these words as I hear them.

Me: I don’t have a ticket
Site coordinator: The paper I give before
Apparently the piece of paper he gave me before had an open-ended return flight on it. I had no idea. By some extreme luck I didn’t toss it out when I came in so everything is gravy.

Site coordinator: We leave 5 minutes…
Me: What? I haven’t even packed or anything. I need to book my hotel in Algiers.
Site coordinator:…
Me: I don’t even know if there are rooms available tonight
Site coordinator: Ok…10 minutes

My driver in Hassai Messoud speaks a little English, which is good, but when we get to the airport he takes my bags and walks away. 10 minutes…20 minutes…an hour goes by and my flight comes and goes. Where the hell is this guy? I have no number to call no way to get back to the camp. I start to get concerned. I am frantically running up and down the airport to find this guy or anyone who speaks English… No dice, finally the guy shows up out of nowhere gives me a ticket that is totally in arabic and shoves me through security. Did he take my bags? Or check them? Who knows at this point. I’m just glad to be on my way. This airport is even more ghetto than the last one. No screen, no gate number…nothing. Just a guy yelling out shit in Arabic in front of a glass door in front of a bus. I just stand by the gate and show my ticket to the counter man every 10 seconds and finally I am on my way…Praise Allah.

I get to Algiers and I am reunited with my long lost French-speaking friend. We give the customary double cheek kiss, we are brothers now, because remember this guy told me his life story; in a language that I don’t understand but it’s the thought that counts. So we go back to the hotel and guess what? Yeah, that’s right there are no rooms available. That’s why you book them in advance to avoid shit like this. We drive back and forth between 5 or 6 different hotels all over Algiers looking for a room. But this gives me some much-needed QT with my French-speaking buddy. 2 hours of non-stop French chatter. But this time I turned the tables on him. When he would pause as if to ask me a question I would go off in English. He started to get annoyed, “No English”. Oh, so I guess this guy doesn’t like that huh? We had a nice little chat with neither of us having a clue what the other was saying and finally we find a hotel with a room.

The next day, I book my flight and I have to go to the reception and explain when my flight is to him so he can tell my driver. I hand the phone over to the reception and he asks “What is your drivers name”. You know what I have no idea. When we arrive at the airport my bags are too heavy so I must pay a fee before I can board the plane. I’m not quite sure I can capture the following scene into words that can accurately describe the comedy that took place in this Algerian airport; but I will try. During my excursions to Europe I have to navigate an unconscionable myriad of social discourses; not least of which is language. The driver, as you know from earlier posts, speaks French and Arabic. The airline that I am flying out on is Spainair so the ticket counter clerk can speak Spanish and Arabic. I can also speak a little Spanish. The project manager in France speaks French and English. The Spainair guy says that my flight is reserved but not paid for so I must pay for it now. They don’t take credit cards out here and I don’t have enough cash in the bank to cover the plane ticket. It doesn’t dawn on me yet that he speaks Spanish so we have a communication problem so the driver calls the PM in france. Spainair tells driver, driver tells PM, PM tells me. This goes on for a while until I decide to call the travel agent in the States. She of course speaks English only. She needs to talk to the PM so I tell the Spainair guy who tells the driver who tells the PM. So here we are 3 stooges with 2 phones playing language musical chairs for about 30 minutes or so trying to get my ass to London. By some miracle she pays for the ticket online I tell Spainair in Spanish, he tells driver in Arabic, driver tells PM in French and we are on our way. The flight from Algiers to Barcelona is of course delayed so I miss the connection to London. I book another flight and has I check in they tell me I need to get my bags. When you miss your flight even though your bags are scheduled to be sent to your final destination they take them off if you don’t check in. So I go to British airways they send me to Spainair they send me to go through the security check in terminal A. The lost baggage people tell me to go terminal B. I go through the security at terminal B…Finally success. Bring my bags out check them and go back into terminal security and fly out.

London? London. London? Yeah, London!…bad food, worse weather, Mary-fucking-Poppins; London!

Pre-algeria the beginning

2008-10-25T09:47:00.000-07:00

Well I had wanted to start my Middle Eastern excursion prior to launching this little blog of mine. But the months came and went and no Saudi. Here’s a quick recap…

Virginia to Atlanta to Ironton Ohio to my parents place in RI back to Virginia to Zeeland Michigan to Palm Beach Florida to Ft Myers Florida back to Atlanta. No Saudi yet; I get a phone call from the boss’s boss“How do you feel about Algeria?” I hear it’s the worst place on Earth…. Let’s do it. Off to Tenerife in the Canary Islands then to Middlesborough England back to RI for one day through Newcastle, Paris and Amsterdam, then off to DC to go to the Algerian embassy…

Algeria

Before I begin this tale I should preface everyone unfamiliar with Muslim culture and most Arabic people (especially the men) are very two-faced. Meaning they will shake your hand when you walk in the door and spit on you when you turn your back. For the most part they think of westerners as inferior in almost everyway. I’m not going to get into way that is here, they are not a mean spirited people; quite the contrary actually; its just that there is no room for western ideals in their way of life. Anyway the point is that you have to become accustomed to the fact that they lie to westerners and sometimes it seems they lie for no reason at all. This is how my day at the Algerian embassy in DC went:

Me: Hello, I need an emergency work visa for Algeria.

Consulate: We usually don’t take walk-ins.

Me: Umm is that the point of the embassy.

Consulate: ….OK give me your form. Goodbye.

Me: Umm I was told to wait here until the visa clears.

Consulate: That is not allowed. Goodbye

Me: Well, what is the waiting room for?

Consulate: Who is paying for your stay here in DC; Algerian company or US company?

Me: US

Consulate: Great goodbye we will call you.

So I leave and about an hour later I see a voicemail on my phone it is from the same guy.

Consulate: Sir the invitation letter is from US company. I need the letter from Algerian company. Please have them fax letter to ### ### ####.

I get this straightened out and call them the next morning after it is faxed; no answer so I take a cab back down there.

Me: Is my visa ready?

Consulate: Who are you I don’t know you?Me: What? I had the company fax the letter over.

Consulate: Not possible there is no fax machine here.

Me: You personally left a message on my machine saying to fax the letter over.

Consulate: ….Oh OK I got the letter…(unbelievable, it gets better)

Me: ….OK, do you have my visa?

Consulate: No it is not ready.

Me: OK I’m going to wait here until it is.

Consulate: (pauses for 10 seconds and looks at me blankly)….Here is your visa

It was in his pocket the whole fucking time…..

Moving

2008-08-20T23:37:00.000-07:00

So....do to my recent posting many of you...especially the lawyers have mentioned that I am being too liberal with my posting considering my recent location of employment choices...so I'm moving the blog to a place where my name and company and alike are not plastered every where. I fully intend to educate everyone of my loyal readers what life in this place is really like. And the posts are going to get really dirty soon. So hopefully my newly found anonymity you neurotic clowns in the states can sleep easy.

if you want the new blog address send an email to seanpharrington@gmail.com and you will recieve it.