Thirty Nine Barrels

I was Christmas shopping with the wife when the mobile phone rang.  It was not a welcome call.
"Martin, I have booked you on a flight to Angola for the 20th."  It was my manager John.
"Oh. What?!  Steve covers Angola.  Where the hell is he?"
"Steve has just checked himself into hospital.  Back problems."
"That son of a bitch just doesn't want to go!"

Everybody knew that Steve was faking it.  Even I had heard that, during a base meeting in September, he had stated that if a job came up over the Millennium celebrations he wouldn't be available.  Pretty ballsy to say that in front of the regional manager.  Besides, the guy was in his late twenties and built like an athlete.  He was less likely to suffer with back problems that I was to overdose during a rave.

I tried to call Steve on his mobile but naturally it was turned off.

"Well, that's Christmas and the Millennium cancelled," I tell my wife.

At least the flight down to Angola was uneventful.  Stavanger to London.  London to Luanda.  On the previous occasion I had been routed via Nairobi in Kenya (for reasons I have never discovered) but fog meant I had missed the forward connection.  No such drama this time.  In fact I was even met at the airport and, once I got to the base, things had improved there as well.  While still located at the port (to this day they have not re-mettled the old dirt road leading to it), instead of the mosquito-ridden cesspool of old containers that existed previously, the new place was modern, shaded and with a tarmac yard to boot.  Very nice.
While having a hoke around the yard, I came across a set of seismic tools set up in a seven by one-and-a-half metre orange tool rack.  Noting that the cables between the tools were ten metres long, I asked somebody whether these were the tools assigned to me.  No, I was told.  Those ones were for another job out of Luanda.  Simon was doing that job.  My tools were already offshore Cabinda. Fair enough.

That afternoon, I, along with another engineer and the local manager, went to the Chevron offices in town to discuss the upcoming job.
"Ah, glad you are here Martin.  We have a question for you.  The MLR [the downhole seismic tools] tools, how are they in rugged borehole conditions?"

The thing is with any borehole seismic array is that each set of geophones have to be acoustically isolated from each other.  They are therefore not connected by solid bars but rather by long sections of cable which are usually of ten to twenty metres in length.  It is therefore impossible to push them down a hole without risking a god-awful tangle.

"Not good", I reply.  "What is the borehole deviation?"
"Fifty-five degrees."
"Hmm.  Are you intending to run casing?"
"Yes we are.  Can you shoot through casing?"
"At fifty-five degrees, it should be no problem.  A good cement job always helps but at that angle there will be enough casing touching the borehole so that there will be a bond with the formation."
"That's settled then", smiles the Chevron manager.  "We'll run the VSP once the casing is set."
"When will that be?" I ask.
"Oh, after the first week in January."

In car back to the base, one could not but reflect that that conversation could have been done over the telephone.

The following day, the 22nd of December, I flew up to Cabinda.  Expecting the base to be a dry zone, I left in the Luanda staff house a litre bottle of duty-free vanilla vodka I had impulse-purchased in Heathrow duty-free.  Upon takeoff, the airplane went out to sea and stayed there.  Angola was still in the process of moving away from a series of civil wars and it was better safe than sorry.  As we headed north, the blue South Atlantic could be seen lapped against the white beaches far below.  On approach to Cabinda the plane circled the runway before landing.  I was amazed to see people casually waling across the concrete landing strip.  By the time we landed however, the runway was clear.

The Cabinda oil base starts offshore with a series of small platforms and tanker mooring points, then at the head of shallow cliffs by the sea are a series of giant oil storage tanks.  Below the cliffs and set back from the white sandy beach, largely populated by white burrowing crabs, are a row of small yards and bases where the oil-service companies have set up.  There is a more substantial jungle-covered hillside behind these and at the top of it, is a series of chalet bungalows, very American in style.  Frankly, it was rather nice.  Food was taken in a  low multi-storey block which doubled as offices and cafeteria, which reminded me a bit of a town hall.

The emergency drill for the base was simple.  A constant siren means pack a bag and get down to the dock for evacuation by boat.  A warbling siren means dig out the heavy kevlar blanket from the wardrobe and lie underneath it: the place is under artillery attack.  I did ask whether this had ever been necessary.  Apparently in years past some Cuban troops had taken pot shots.
I never saw but I was told that Angolan troops surrounded the entire base, as did a series of minefields.  I did see the night spotter plane that constantly circled, without navigation lights, using heat-detecting technology to spot infiltration attempts.  Being of a curious nature, I asked if that had ever happened.  Apparently its major success was to spot a couple having illicit sex on the beach.

After lunch, I took the minibus down to the beach base.  It was the kind of short bus used in Britain during the late 1970s and into the 80s.  The base itself was small and the guys friendly: an American, Brit and Italian.  We had a company car too!  The most knackered VW Golf my eyes ever had the misfortune to look upon.  It still had seats, a steering wheel and four tires in each corner but most of the rest had gone, fallen either to rust or theft.  The door panels were completely empty.
The working yard was unpaved.  I found some seismic tools and decided they needed a bit of a clean up.  Naturally I didn't want to drag them through the sand after been cleaned either so it was little fun lifting a 67kg, 1.6m long tool and carrying it clear of the soft sand.

I got on very well with Jim, the American.  He was one of those larger-than-life characters, soon telling me of his teenage exploits of ordering hookers and drinks on his father's credit credit while staying at Las Vegas.
"Wait Jim," I said.  "Didn't you say that you are a Mormon?"
"Ah Martin," he replied with relish.  "That just makes the sin all the more sweeter."  Not that there was much opportunity for such sin in Cabinda.  Assuming the base was dry, I had left the duty-free bottle of vanilla vodka in the company staff house in Luanda.  That turned out to be a mistake as expat workers were allowed to buy a small quality of beer each day. A four-pack of small Heinekens does not go very far but it was better than nothing.  Meanwhile the local workers were allowed unlimited purchases, which they took fully advantage of: carrying out beer by the slab.  They would grin widely as us northerners would try to buy more than our allotted amount, only to be gleefully refused by the officious clerk.

That first day I went down to the beach and was amazed to see not only the white burrowing crabs but a family of rather scraggy-looking sea eagles: mum, dad and large fledgling.  The young bird amused itself by casually capturing and killing crabs.  Not much effort was made to eat them.  My sense of joy was added to when, as I was sitting looking at the sea-eagle's antics, a large dark back broke through the surf.  A nesting sea turtle hauled herself out of the sea and up the beach.  It was bright daylight; I thought that turtles only came out at night.  She came right towards me and only reacted with I stood up.  Hissing suddenly, it focused upon me with salt-filled eyes filled with displeasure and laboriously turned around and headed back into the sea.
I felt bad about disturbing the turtle,  Next day though I saw a local guy with a cloth bag slung around his shoulder.  He carried a long thin stick, taller than himself.  Apparently such men used the stick to probe the sand, with turtle eggs providing a welcome supplement to the family diet.
The tools went offshore on the 23rd and I followed on Christmas Eve, expecting to spend the rest of the trip there.  The helicopter itself was an ancient Bell, the kind of shopper made famous in various Vietnam war movies.   During the safety briefing, we passengers are strongly reminded again that in event of a crash landing over water, not to inflate life-vests until outside the chopper.  The week before one of these Bell's had gone down into shallow water.  A couple of Angolans on board had panicked and pulled the inflation line.  Despite the shallowness of the water, they could not be removed in time and their bodies eventually had to be retrieved by divers.

Upon arrival and much to my surprise, Derek the wireline engineer had set up the entire seismic equipment and checked it out too.  Until recently he had been a seismic engineer.  That was great.  I took the opportunity both to thank him profusely and recheck the equipment along with my recently-arrived downhole tools.  Not because I didn't trust Derek; it was just part of the job.  Having satisfied myself that all was in order, I asked what the lookahead plans were.  Open-hole logging was due to start in a few days and a full program taking at least five days.  After that the open section of the well would be lined with steel casing, the casing would be secured to the well-bore walls with cement and then it would be my turn.
Checking with both Derek and the Company Man - who is the head client representative on board, that it was okay, I booked myself a seat on the Christmas morning chopper.

As we are waiting to board, a huge American cementer struggles with his life jacket.  This guy is tall, yes, but the mass is mostly fat: he is easily over 160kg.  He sits by the starboard window and I mentally decide that if the chopper goes down, I'm out the other side.  There is no way he will be getting out and I was not eager to keep him company.  As the chopper lifts, I honestly expect it to be tilted on that side.  It didn't tilt of course but there is no way that a man like that would get medical approval to be offshore in the North Sea.

The Christmas lunch was worth the flight.  Eight huge turkeys had been laid out and the cooks stood proudly by, beaming in the praise they so well deserved.  It was rather strange eating a full Christmas meal when the temperatures are so hot outside, but the dining hall was well air conditioned.  The weight of the turkey, trimmings and pudding only made itself known once outside in the heat of a tropical early afternoon.  I walked down the hillside road to the base afterwards: a distance of just less than a mile.  With all the equipment offshore there was not so much to do and besides, it was Christmas Day.

It was a few days after Christmas when I first noticed the helicopter.  Not the usual crew change choppers but a small, bubble-domed two-man chopper; probably an early Bell, the kind thing they flew on M.A.S.H.  It was flying up and down, about a kilometre offshore.  Beneath it was suspended a boom arm which reminded me of a crop sprayer.  The next day came the smell.  A thick chemical smell that drove people indoors.  The day after that, the slick hit.

If you have every seen pictures of oil slicks hitting a beach, they are unable to do justice to reality.  The smell of oil and chemicals is horrendous.  The oil stands easily fifteen centimetres thick without support.  Everything is wiped out.  Crabs gone.  Eagles gone.  Turtles gone.  All replaced by a noisome black sludge.

Out of all the downs of working in the industry: the abuse, the sleep deprivation, being away from the family, the unsympathetic and even bullying management; none of these ever ever came close to having me quit the industry more than the experience of that oil slick wiping out a tropic beach.

What we we told?  How were the personnel instructed upon the situation?  What measures were issued to to protect us or the environment?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  The air we breathed could have been a very poison but Chevron said nothing to us.  In fact, they made sure that we said nothing.  A colleague who started to talk about the slick on the telephone had the line cut.  Emails did not make it through their destination.  Chevron did their best to ensure there was a complete news blackout.

While none of the employees of service companies were told a damned thing, of course word did leak out.  I was invited down one night to an annex off the main living quarters.  It was effectively a small village where the old regular service hands lived.  They got the supplies from the main canteen and did their own cooking.  They also did their own drinking and none of this four-small -tinnie-nonsense: a bottle of vodka per man was not unusual per person each night.  I can drink but never learned to keep up with that rate.

As the vodka and tonics flowed, the chatter increased.  It started innocently enough.  Small talk.   was introduced to what I was told was the hottest chilli sauce in the world.  One drop would season a cauldron of stew.  Two drops would spice it and three would kill it.  I was advised to wash my hands simply after holding the bottle.  I did so: why the hell would I not?  By the end of the meal the talk turned to the slick.

This is a summary of the story as I was told it.  The country was undergoing a process called "Angoladisation" which involves getting rid of the the ex-pat workers and bringing in local staff instead.  Some local guy was on night shift and it was his job to monitor the levels in the oil-storage tanks which are situated at the top of the low cliffs.   At about one o'clock in the morning, an alarm tripped.  He did what any local would have down: turned off the alarm and went back to sleep.  By eight o'clock in the morning between 20,000 and 40,000 barrels of crude oil had been pumped into the sea just offshore.

Here's the rub though.  Corporate headquarters in Houston had declared that thirty nine barrels of oil had been spilt.  Only thirty nine as a forty barrel spill had to be reported to the international authorities.  Despite the local management trying to disperse the slick with what was locally available, they were overwhelmed.  Because it was only thirty nine barrels of oil however, no hope was sent from the outside.  We were on our own.

In all the years that passed since, that was the single most despicable and cynical decision by an oil company I have personally come across.

New Year's came and a group of us were on a hill top overlooking the local village.  At about half-past-midnight, a few fireworks fluttered up into the sky.  That was the Millennium celebrations done.

I must have been walking to work next day when a long convey of black limousines and SUVs rolled into the base and drove up towards the offices.  Official pennants fluttered from some of the car bonnets.  "Oh oh," I thought to myself.  "Shit is hitting fan."  It was about time.   Almost a week had gone by since the discharge had occurred.

It proved to be an eventful day.  On the way back up the hill, I was walking back up the hill when I heard a rustle from the jungle from about twenty metres to the right side.  Ahead of me and walking straight a large black-backed jackal emerged.  I judged the speed and distance and it seemed we were on a collision course.  It was also a jackal which was supposed to be timid so making a noise to draw his attention, I kept walking.  The jackal looked over, saw me and also kept walking.  This guy was not backing down.  So much for jackals being timid.  He was a big canine: almost the size of a German Shepard.   Our eyes locked and we both stopped simultaneously, no more than two metres away from each other.

There was no way I was going to turn my back on this fellow.  Still holding each other's gaze, we gradually edged around each other, me to the right and the dog to the left.  Holding my ground, I turned to follow his path into the bush.  All the time we held eye contact.  I only moved one was convinced he was gone.  I have no idea whether there was any danger and probably in the view of animal psychologists it may have been completely the wrong thing to do.  Stuck on that road alone with a quite a large wild predator, one can only do one's best.

That night down the old ex-pats' enclave there was a fair amount of racist banter going down.  Apparently the delegation had responded to Chevron's claims over thirty nine barrels with "We may be black but we are not stupid."
"Hang on a minute there," piped up an ancient Schlumberger hand, to general laughter.  Okay, that was witty but on the whole many of the white workers were just plain nasty about the Africans.  When challenged, the rationale of one individual was "You don't have to be racist because you don't have to work with the fuckers every day."  Although genuinely sickened by some of the attitudes displayed, from thereafter I kept off the subject altogether.

Finally, finally finally, it came time to get offshore again.

As the chopper lifted to about 1000 feet, the extent of the pollution could be seen.  For miles in both directions, the beaches were black.  The ocean was discoloured for a mile or so from the beach, with an obvious line marking the edge of the oil slick.  I did not see any evidence of oil booms or other forms of containment being deployed.

The job itself went well as far as the seismic was concerned but the Company Man seemed a mite ungrateful when I pointed out I thought there was no cement over the interval which the well was due to be perforated.
"What?" he almost shouted  "Schlumberger told me they did a good cement job."
"That is not what the seismic data is telling me," I replied.  "I recommend you run an SBT over the interval."   With bad grace the Company Man concurred.  The issue is that explosive charges are used to blow holes through the steel and cement so that the oil can flow into the well.  If there is space on the outside though, the oil can also migrate upwards and perhaps into formations above.  This would reduce production and in extreme cases even lead to oil seeming out on the surface.  Thus an acoustic cement bond tool can be run in order to find out the true state of the cementing job.

After the cement bond tool was run, the Company Man even had the nerve to come back to me to complain that the cement job was even worse than I had predicted.  The ingrate.

That was pretty much that.  Job done and processed.  I had a few moe days on the beach cleaning the equipment and packing it up ready for the next job.  Upon arrival though I had a panicked call from the operations manager in Luanda.

"Martin!  How long are the interconnects on your MRL?" [Translation: how long are the cables between the geophones?].
"Fifteen metres.  Why?"
"I want you to measure them."
"I know they are fifteen metres.  What is going on?"
"Measure them.  There has been another job where ten metre cables have been used and it wasn't noticed."
"Oh, was it using those tools in the yard in Luanda?  Yes I know they have ten metre cables."
"You knew?  How did you know?"
"Well," I said.  "I looked at them.  I saw they were short and there gathered they were ten metres in length.  I'm sure mine are fifteen metres but just for you I'll make sure when I'm cleaning them."

Then home.  The flight from Cabinda to Luanda was depressing.  The distance from the base to the mouth of the Congo to the south is about sixty miles.  Oil covered the beaches for every single mile.

Woolwich Killing: Who is the Real Target?

A soldier dead, a family in mourning, a nation outraged and it feels like the 1970s. This is not a good place to be.

Two Islamist terrorists commit a brutal murder on a London street and hang around waiting for the cops in the hope that they will become martyrs. The unfortunate young man who was slain though isn't the real target. To the killers' mind he is just a necessity. The real target is you. Me. All of us in the United Kingdom. The real aim is to generate hatred of Muslims.

The plan is simple. Extremists of all sides wish to gain support and come to represent their host community. They tell their own would-be supporters that the rest of the nation hates them already, either secretly or openly, that they will never be accepted and will forever be second class citizens. Then an outrage such as yesterday's murder is committed in the hope and expectation of a backlash from the general population.

If violence is the result, so much the better. But violence is rare: what matters is the atmosphere; the words and attitudes following the outrage. Which of us today are angry? The vast majority I am sure. The big question though is how will you personally vent your anger? Will you repost hate blogs, calling for all Muslims to get out of Britain? Will you talk in private, grumbling how Muslims never will be British? Perhaps while walking down the street you might say something hurtful to a Muslim or even just throw one a sour look. Or will you realise that somebody is trying to manipulate you and to do any of these things would bring joy to the dark hearts of murderers?

The Muslim communities are the main target. It is dreadful to hear that some evil act is committed in the name of the God one loves. Something so abhorrent is a desecration of sincerely-held belief. But that is just one level. The idea is that all hands should be turned against them, their families and communities become victims of bigotry and violence and that the words of the terrorists should be proved correct.

It is too easy to fall into the trap set by extremists. Most of us probably don't know any people who would support yesterday's actions but if you do, how should one react? A tricky question but an atheist friend of mine reminded me the other day of this:  

“Never pay back evil for evil to anyone. Respect what is right in the sight of all men. If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men. Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord. But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:17-21)

May the young man killed rest in peace. May his family find, with time, some kind of peace. And may those who preach and practice hate be overpowered by goodness.

Day Trip to Jerusalem

It has to be said from the start. Our guide was a complete racist.

From when we first past the Arab village outside Caesarea, the first comments came about “dirty” Arabs. It is not the first time that taxi drivers comment on this. In fact, if I am in a car and it is daylight, every driver seems to be have a bad word for the place. So he was not the only one. But if there was an opportunity to pass a slight upon the neighbours, Jacob would take it up with gusto. Here is what I saw. Jisr Al Zarqa is indeed a bit of a dump. And the Israelis seem to use this example to foreigners to express their own superiority. I wish the locals knew about this and tidied the place, especially where it backs onto Highway 2.
We didn’t take the main highway into Jerusalem, rather the 433 back route, that eventually leads to Jerusalem from the north. Palestinians are banned from using this road. Fences and patrols would keep them off. Jacob pointed to the hills, saying that they are pretty but evidence of Palestinian arable backwardness. Or is it an example of how the Palestinians had been left only the most difficult land to farm? It wasn’t any value with arguing with Jacob though. I would learn more through listening. He was receiving nods of agreement from some of the Americans in the group though.

Picture from the highway, showing fence as we passed a Palestinian village. Some of the other fences were electrified.

Harsh limestone hillside terraces farmed by the Palestians.

Enough. I had to get this off my chest before describing the actual trip. Because Jerusalem is beautiful. As Jacob informed us, it was the British who passed the law stating that all the buildings in the city were to be built of the light cream limestone (apparently the one good thing we had done). Nowadays the modern buildings are just clad with the stone. It is very pleasing. We drove into East Jerusalem, parking on the Mount of Olives. I will describe the places and history as Jacob did. That is, I will not qualify statements with “in this of that tradition they say that such-and-such will happen or had happened here. Each rock in this place seems to have a story linked to it.

The cemetery on the Mount of Olives will be the site of the Last Judgement. Therefore all interned here will be the first to be resurrected and undergo judgement. To be buried here could be seen as a form of eternal queue-jumping, at the entirely reasonable cost of twenty thousand dollars. But the place gives a magnificent view over the Old City, with the golden Dome on the Mount, the site of Abraham’s attempt to sacrifice his most beloved son Issac at the behest of God. To the left, is the blue-grey dome of the Mosque of Al Aksa. This is where the Prophet Mohammed arrived in Jerusalem, flown on the back of a magical creature. It is the third most holy site in the Islam but is also the site where the Jewish Messiah will build the New Temple after entering Jerusalem through the Golden Gate. Historically, the Muslim rulers of Jerusalem had the Golden Gate sealed, in order to prevent the Jewish prophesy coming to pass. But it is also a site of great tension between modern believers of both faiths.

On the lower slopes of the Mount are the Garden of Gethsemane, now the site of the Church of All the Nations. That is the old Christian Churches : Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox, Catholic, Coptic, Assyrian and Ethiopian. Sorry Protestants: you guys are merely protesting Catholics. The church itself has the most wonderful mosaics inside and outside still have many of the olive trees which Christ would have walked through. There is a pillar marking the spot where Judas kissed Jesus, thus rendering Him up to the seraphim guard. Across the street is the now empty tomb of Mary, the Mother of Jesus. Empty because she ascended directly to Heaven from the summit of the Mount of Olives.
Garden of Gethsemane. Olive trees, some of which are over 2,000 years old.

In order to get to the Church of the Sepulchre, the site of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection, one must walk through Bazaar. That was great but there was simply no time to stop and stare. Although the Church outside is nothing special to look at, it is wonderful to be there. And frankly, the city wasn’t busy. For a site of such historical and cultural significance, there was little queuing, apart for the Tomb of Jesus.
Again the church is split into zones of controls, with to my eye the Greeks getting the best of the deal, holding the site of the Crucifixion, the Tomb and even the centre of the world, at least as it was defined in Medieval times. The poor old Coptic Church just had a booth at the back of the tomb; the Assyrians a bare and graffiti-strewn chapel which has the tombs (again empty) of Joseph of Arimathea and Mary Magdalene. I didn’t even notice the Ethiopian section. Catholics and Armenians had the other, larger sections.

There wasn’t time for us to walk the Via Dolorosa but the last few Stations of the Cross were contained within the church. It was at Golgotha that I had a religious / spiritual / psychological experience (delete as appropriate). People can touch the rock at the foot of the cross (see picture to the left). I did so, lightly brushing the stone with my index finger and thumb. Both digits are still currently painful and when I carelessly licked my thumb later during lunch, I was surprised to taste warm, thick, salt blood.

Owing to the Sabbath, the Jewish Quarter was very quiet. Jacob knew his stuff; he led the group to a vantage point overlooking the Western Wall. It is called the Wailing Wall because above these foundations was once the Temple which contained the Jewish Holies of Holies. Only the High Priest was allowed to enter upon two occasions a year, a rope being tied to his leg in case anything happened to him while he was in the presence of the Holies. The temple was destroyed in AD70 by the Romans and because it is not exactly known where the Holies once stood, we were told that some Jews would not walk upon the top of the ramparts in case they accidentally entered the sacred site.



Jacob had nothing really to add about the Al Aksa Mosque but did relate of the recent riots (this decade) that occurred in the area. It was thus an area which we had to pass through security. That confirmed something that I had first noticed at the port of Haifa. The security guy standing point (right at the front) of the port and therefore the guy first to be shot if the area came under direct ground attack is black. Now, I thought this a coincidence until I was there during a shift change. Sure enough, the black security guard was replaced by a black comrade. At the Western Wall all those on gate duty, at both entry points, were also black.

I think most of the group posted notes into the wall. I was wearing my old African bush hat so didn’t have to avail myself of the paper yarmulkes that were on supply, although I would of worn one otherwise. I wish photography was allowed in the area because my colleague Peter looks, well, a picture in his!

The Judean Desert starts where Eastern Jerusalem ends. As the minibus descended into the rift valley, vegetation got scarcer and then almost ceased. The rounded limestone hills, light brown to cream in colour stood out. The Earth looks different without plants. As a geologist I was able to appreciate many of the features as we drove westward, heading towards the Dead Sea, 400m below sea level and the lowest point on the planet. But seeing the barren hills gave me a feeling of unease. It was like seeing one’s parent naked.

Swimming in the Dead Sea is both the most silly and the most relaxing thing I have ever done. There is no beach in the traditional sense of the word. The edge of the water is blue, sticky claystone which sucks at one’s feet until you slide onto one’s back.. And then you just float! Lying flat out, not even my ears got wet. It is amazing just how much of the body is above the water line. Just as well really, as the water is extremely acrid, being nine times the salinity of normal sea water. Getting out is fun! Showers and changing rooms were available, at the cost of NIS35 (about seven pounds / twelve dollars). Across the water rise up the mountains of Jordan.


It was up the Jordan valley that we returned. Once back inside Israel proper, Jacob spoke about returning to civilisation. Again, we were back into rich farmland.

Apart from such constant anti-Arab remarks, Jacob was a good tourist guide. Knowledgeable and efficient, he knew his routes, his scripts and was able to answer questions on other matters with real knowledge. Every mile there was something he could say about where we were. He is not a stupid man, it just amazing to me that how the strong love of one thing, in this case Israel, can lead a person to think so ill of those who do not share their passion and even to cleanse their nation’s own history. It was the lessening of the man but I know he is not the only person in the region who suffers from holding such an outlook.

It seems to me that Israel is the land where fact becomes myth and legends often become fact. Sometimes telling them apart is almost impossible.

The Shadow Within

This blog entry will not be a comfortable read. The title of this article isn’t about the inauguration of Barack Obama. That for me at least seems to be a joyful and hope-filled occasion in a world where hope has been having a hard time of late. No, the shadow that I refer to is the racism that one still encounters.

When I was growing up, I was taught by my father that people are people and that basically we all want the same thing: a reasonable standard of living, good health and education for our children. That was somewhat at odds with what some of our neighbours were willing to grant us, growing up as we did in England of the 1970s during the Troubles of Northern Ireland. Having a Irish-Catholic background, people were not racist to our face, but often were behind it. My father was not perfect himself: he thought South Africa was the best-run country he had been to on that continent since it brought a better standard of living to more people, both black and white. On that basis, he was content to support the white apartheid government there. Being a marine engineer, he also did not have much time for Indian radio officers and electricians he encountered; considering them mostly lazy and inefficient. For that reason, I came to learn that he too was considered a racist.

It was when I was in my early twenties however, I took a trip down to London with a couple of friends. I had known one of them for years, but the other was relatively new to me. It was all very nice and very civilised until we got to the outskirts of Brentwood. There, they saw the first black man of the day. These nice, civilised people changed instantly. “There’s a nigger! You smell! You stinking gigaboo!” It wasn’t meant as a joke: there was real hatred in the voices. Sometime they were almost screaming. I had heard racist jokes before and had repeated them myself. That was the first time I had encountered serious, heart-felt hatred and I did not find it attractive.

When I was twenty four, I joined the oil industry. I liked it instantly as it was the first really decent job I had and also background did not seem to matter; as long as one could do the work, you would be accepted. Just what I needed. It is one of the aspects of the industry I still like today, but I have to temper my enthusiasm somewhat. Things were not and are still not today perfect. I was told by Pat, a wily and tough accountant, that I could go far. I pointed out to her that she too should be leading her accounts department, as her boss was considered weak and ineffective. “Yes Martin,” she corrected me. “But unlike you, I don’t have a pair of balls.” She was right. When I left the company to go to university, I was enlisted by my otherwise excellent boss to help select my replacement. We got the shortlist down to two and the outstanding candidate happened to be female. I pressed him upon his reluctance. His reason was that he “would not feel comfortable working with a woman.” At least she was hired, but only after intervention from above. Even when I rejoined the industry, sexism still continued to be an issue. I still remember managers who, when faced with a c.v. from a female applicant for an offshore position, would instantly throw it in the bin. I am glad now that things are changing, but female workers are still under-represented in offshore roles by a considerable degree.

As a strange coincidence, the last location where I spent both Christmas and New Year away from home, was also the place where I first witnesses hard-edged racism in the industry. That was in Cabinda, geographically part of the Congo but politically belonging to Angola. Not all the white fellows there were racist but many of them were. When challenged about it, or signs of disapproval were made, the stock reply was something like “I can be racist because I have to work with the fuckers ever day.” It was at that time a local employee had turned off an alarm that had sounded at the oil storage depot at one o’clock in the morning. The result was a discharge of up to 40,000 barrels of oil into the Atlantic, which polluted 180 miles of coastline. I raise it in context here because of the reaction of many of the ex-pat workers. Chevron would only admit in public that thirty nine barrels of oil had leaked, thereby avoiding the need to announce an international pollution incident. A government minister was reported to have angrily said “We may be black, but we are not stupid!” You can imagine the response that this brought privately among many of the white workers.

President Obama taking the oath of office withMichelle looking proudly on. Photo credit AFP

So we come to today’s inauguration, or “niggeration” that it has been called among most of the American employees on board this rig. Note I write “most”, not some. And it doesn’t seem to be a generational thing; all age groups are represented in voicing abuse. Most of the humour centred around President Obama potential for being assassinated, with one view that “I hope he gets a year in power so people can ask “what have we done?” before he gets offed.” I guess the new president didn’t receive much support from the eligible voters on board.

I hope such comments represent an decreasing view point, not just among Americans but among the peoples of the world. Obama spoke today of boundaries falling, of people realising their common humanity. I’m reminded of another fellow from Louisiana. It was a couple of months after Hurricane Katrina had devastated large parts of the state. I attempted to commiserate with him about the damage and loss of life, especially in New Orleans. He looked at me as if I was mad. “Them people were told to get out!”

None of us are perfect; even I have been, correctly, brought to book recently for one of my comments that showed poor judgement and understanding. But President Obama and his staff still has much work to do. I support him in the struggle ahead and wish him luck, success and a very long life.