The Seedy Side of Paris

Hey all,

Quick update on Paris – not as long there as either of us wanted, but was fun anyway – K flies back to Australia from Paris so we will probably head back earlier than planned in a few weeks and lurk about for a couple more days – am planning to buy a beret.  We stayed at somewhere called the “Perfect Hostel,” which, while not perfect, was pretty nice – walking distance from everywhere we wanted to go, although it all ended up being a bit rushed as we had banked on 5 days, not two.  K initially considered “Woodstock Hostel,” but the reviews suggested it was in a very seedy part of town – full of drug dealers, pimps, murderers, tourists – one was taking one's life in one's hands merely stepping out the front door, which was always kept locked and bolted from the inside while even the owners cowered under the beds in terror etc. etc.  So she chose the “Perfect Hostel” instead, which reviews claimed was in a charming quaint area, where birds sing and children dance in the street. Woodstock turned out to be directly opposite the “Perfect Hostel,” in the same alley...  Reviews of “Woodstock” probably written by owners of “Perfect.”  Anyway, in Chartres for the last few days, which is lovely – one of the things I really wanted to see in Europe was the cathedral here – and it is magnificent – staying in what used to be a monastery.  Anyway, have booked a hire car – pick it up tomorrow and spend the next week or so driving around France, so will update on Chartres soon.

Photos.

1. Woodstock hostel, in the evil seedy part of town.

2. Perfect hostel, in the good part of town.

3. Woodstock on the left, Perfect on the right.  Whatever you do, don't cross the street.

4. Painting we saw – not entirely sure what is going on here.  Apparently they were sisters.  No doubt French.

5. Sculpture that took K's fancy and I managed to get a decent shot of by propping the camera on a chair.

Cheers, B.

Romantic Paris

Hey all,

The view from the first floor of the Eiffel tower.

The view from the second floor of the Eiffel tower.

The view from the top of the Eiffel tower.

Which reminds of something that happened at Christmas tree farm.  One day I noticed Canada staring at a huge snow covered roof, a look of wistful satisfaction on his face.  "I'm going to draw a huge penis on that," he said, grabbed a very long plank, scurried outside, climbed up on a stack of pallets next to the roof, and did so.

About an hour later I saw Tall Posh Boy darting outside with a very long plank, looking furtive.  He slouched back into shed about thirty seconds later, downcast, head hanging.  "I was going to draw a huge penis on that roof," he said, "but [Short Posh Boy] has already done it."
"Wasn't Short Posh Boy," I said.
"Oh," he replied, even more upset.

Cheers, B.

Escape from Scotland, Part 2.

Plane finally took off from Scotland at a bit before 4PM.  Happy to have been waiting at the airport in the sunshine for nine hours...  really did not believe it was actually going to take off this time and starting to recognise other people who had been on the same flight two days ago trying to leave Scotland.  Feeling pretty good about life, flight only 1.20 minutes, then a bus ride for an hour, then a quick trip on the metro, then K.

Was not banking on the French being as hopeless as the UK when it snowed.  Plane landed at about half past five.  Bought a bus ticket after getting some help with translation from a lovely French PhD student who had been in Scotland for what was supposed to be a weekend visiting her fiance.  Panic set in when it turned out that all the buses had been cancelled because of the snow.  With PhD Student and a couple of Lithuanian girls, we got refunds for the tickets, tried to hire a car.  All gone.  No taxis.  Planes keep arriving.  Crowd keeps getting bigger, people running everywhere. An hour or two of chaos.  No information from anyone.  People going nuts running about.

Rumour that buses running again, but will take 5 hours to get there – rush to ticket stand, get tickets again, one Australian, two Lithuanians and one South Korean all being kept updated as to what was actually going on by PhD student, who asked questions, threw tantrums when necessary and got information, and was generally fantastic.  We were near the head of a very long queue, probably in the order of 4-500 people by this stage, all trying to get on the first bus that was allegedly going to arrive at some point that evening.  Bear in mind it is probably about -10 at least.  Queue quickly turns into a mob, people crushing forward, pushing in all over the place.  I go and talk to some cops, tell them that this is really getting dangerous, they need to organise a queue as this formless mob/moshpit of people just kind of moving like a huge blob all over the place for no apparent reason.  Helpful French cops smoke cigarettes and shrug shoulders.  Bus arrives, we all miss it because of people pushing in.

Crowd moved to another terminal, with us being put at the head of the queue after PhD student throws another tantrum to someone who actually appears to be trying to organise mob.  Planes still arriving, mob getting bigger, more unruly.  People just keep pushing in – the queue, such as it is, does not get longer at the back, only the front as people keep charging to the front.  Because of this, mob keeps moving forward all over the place in random stupid kind of way as people keep rushing to the front of the queue again and again – would have looked like some kind of diseased organism from above – has moved about 100 metres from original starting point by the time that the group of myself and the four girls go inside to try to keep warm and wait until some kind of sanity develops.  Another couple of hours pass.  I go outside, discover that, finally, the cops and security staff have organised an actual queue that, despite everyone still pushing in, seems to be holding shape, as security staff finally telling people to go to the back of the line.  Which we do – and are now officially at the back, despite being on the first plane to arrive after the buses stopped running.  Wait outside – the group of us now swelling to include two Scottish girls, an Irishman and an American girl who is studying in Edinburgh.  Lithuanians and South Korean give up altogether, decide to spend the night in terminal.

Rest of us keep each other company as the buses slowly arrive, park for 45 minutes as the drivers have a break (!), then pick up people from the front of queue.  People still trying to push to front of queue, giving all and sundry complicated reasons why they absolutely have to be on the next bus.  At this point I really don't care what their reasons are: were someone to come along with a baby seal and claim that it would die unless on next bus, I'd be like fine, give me a hammer – have always wanted a white furry neck warmer.

All profoundly grateful to PhD student, who makes sure that we at least have some clue as to what is going on.  Finally get on a bus at some time past midnight, get to Paris at nearly 2 AM, well after the trains have stopped, and manage to get a taxi to Hostel, sharing with the American student – the taxi, sharing arrangements and destinations all being negotiated by PhD student, who really was just one of those people you hope to meet when things go wrong in a foreign country, but rarely do.  Finally get to hostel, and K, at 3AM.  Left the Edinburgh hostel at 6AM.  This is 21 hours for a flight of less than an hour and a half, and that 21 hours does not include the 48 hours after the first attempt was cancelled.  18 Coaches in all – that is, they left a mob of something in the order of 900 people standing on the pavement in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, well sub zero, with no information, no ability to go anywhere, no organisation at all.  It was a concession to us that they eventually decided not to close the terminal for the night, so we at least had somewhere to get warm.

Never fly with RYANAIR.  Their flights may be cheap but it cost me somewhere in the order of 4-5 times the cost of the flight in dealing with the 4 days of bullshit and extra transport to actually get, eventually, from A to B.  Lithuanian girls, who come from a country with a GDP of about ten bucks where the kind of weather we are having here is considered balmy, astonished that everything falls apart in UK and France when there is a bit of snow.  Back home, everything keeps running – icicles on buildings as thick as a human being – one of them showed me photos.  Group that I ended up with was a lot of fun - without them and PhD student would have had a rage aneurysm.  Seriously considered stealing a car at one point...  PhD student said she would drive it...

Photo.  From left, PhD Student, Lituanians, South Korean.

Cheers, B.

Escape from Edinburgh

Hey all,

Finally escaped Christmas Tree farm after a lift from Boss to train station, another lift to bus station because trains closed, then one bus, then another bus, then finally a train that moved.  Having significantly more difficulty escaping from Edinburgh.  Got on the plane the day before yesterday in a poisonous mood to begin with because of two nights of sleep deprivation care of drunk Australian snorers in hostel, then sat in plane for a good two hours while it started to snow, then disembarked from the plane after the flight cancelled.  Spent hours in the airport finding luggage, getting online and rebooking ticket for today, which took forever because the RYANAIR website kept crashing.  Then went to get a bus and waited in an increasingly ridiculous queue for hours for a bus that is supposed to run every 15 minutes.  Finally young bus attendant girl came out – road between Edinburgh and airport in full gridlock, buses cancelled, people dying left right and centre.  Numerous crones waiting in the queue with me came out bravely with loud comments like, “Well, you are keeping us informed deary, that's the main thing!” in variety of strong regional accents, each one more hideous than the next.  Not remotely impressed by odious display of stiff upper lippishness – would not be necessary at all if the entire country did not freak out and abandon their cars by the side of the road whenever there is a snowflake in the air.  North America, Canada, the Eastern Block, all of Scandinavia, China, Japan, etc etc etc manage to keep functioning when it snows, but not the UK.  No wonder they lost the world cup to Russia.  You can bet Russia does not collapse in a heap when it snows.  If they did then Putin, with laudable can-do attitude, would have someone shot.  Which is one of the things that the UK does not have enough of: summary executions.   They had a Once In A Century cold snap in January earlier this year, which also shut the entire country down, in a way which Would Never Be Allowed To Happen Again.  Ten months later...

A full NINE HOURS after I had left the first hostel I finally arrived back in Edinburgh at another hostel – there was, I should point out, no gridlock on the road at all – more panic and rumour.  New hostel had no snorers at all in the room, with the possible exception of yours truly (but my snoring is not my problem) and last night I had an entire 8 bed dorm to myself.  So after two nights of reasonable sleep am feeling slightly less toxic and full of hatred towards UK.

That will change if the plane I have now been sitting on for the past hour does not take off.  Missed meeting K at airport in Paris because of panicky Brits – so not happy with them.  She is now in Paris, at the hostel we booked, all alone, probably frightened, almost certainly bereft, weeping non-stop – all of which I blame on UK infrastructure.  Admittedly she sounds cheerful and relaxed on phone; am sure this is just a front. Or an affront...

Looked for a present for K in Edinburgh – warm boots?  No – too heavy and bulky to carry around.  Thermos?  No – too heavy and bulky to carry around.  Camera?  No – she would freak out because she already has one, even if it is a cheap nasty thing I bought in Egypt – consequently new camera would be left in box for months with her eyeing it guiltily from time to time, feeling awful about consumerism or something equally ridiculous.  Several other options considered and discarded because of similar issues.  Finally settled black cloth rose broche thing, which is light, small, completely impractical, and which she will hopefully adore.

Captain just came on air – they are running out of de-icing fluid, for God's sake.  Might not take off, again, despite the fact sun shining, sky blue.  What a totally pathetic country.  Later.  Back in terminal again, having had to get new boarding pass, go through security again, and am now waiting for a flight that is allegedly getting into the air at 4PM.  So pretty happy about showing up at 7AM this morning.  Travel tips: under no circumstances ever fly with RYANAIR.  Under no circumstances ever visit UK during autumn, winter, or early spring – if there is a snowflake seen or even heard about by rumour then entire country will stop and do nothing about it but talk about it on news, in between updates on latest dramas on “I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!”  These people once ran biggest empire the world has ever known.  Query: how?  If I sound annoyed consider this: draw a straight line east from here you will hit Moscow... yet they are so shocked by snow, even when there has not been any for two full days, that the entire country falls over in a quivering heap.

Photos.  1.  Edinburgh castle.  2.  View from window of plane during first attempt to escape country.  Fair call - taking off in this would have been difficult.  3.  Reducing violence in Scottish pubs.  4.  View of shocking weather too horrific to fly in during second attempt to escape country.

Cheers (!), B.

Christmas Tree Mafia

Hey all,

Overheard a comment by the Boss on the phone one day about someone he sold trees to, who made the mistake of trying to sell them without paying anyone one off and ran afoul of “The Christmas Tree Mafia”– blokes in balaclavas showed up to his house in the middle of the night, threatened him and his family with torture, death, rape, fire etc.  Innocent Christmas enthusiast now out of the Christmas Tree game for good.  I queried the existence of this mob, which sounds like something from a Guy Ritchie farce.  Apparently Glasgow and Edinburgh all sown up by the ruthless Christmas Tree Mafia gang.  The Boss's brother has had a shotgun held in the face.  The Boss himself has to deal with them, says that they, cheerfully enough, just don't pay if you deliver the trees before getting the cash up front, and will continue to refuse to do so, with perfect good humour until you show up in person and demand your 15K, which the Boss did, and end up in hospital for three days, which the Boss did, after receiving what the head gangster described as a “bit of a slap,” chuckling all the while.

When I told Canada about this he didn't believe me, seemed annoyed that I persisted with the story:
“F*** off.  You're taking the piss [an expression he learnt here and has become very fond of].”
“No I'm not.  Ask the Boss.”
“F*** off. No way.”
“No really.  There is a Christmas Tree Mafia.”
“In a comedy on TV, maybe.”
“Seriously.  Balaclavas.  Shotguns.  Beatings.  Some head gangster, apparently hugely fat, weighs more that a car, called 'Fat Tony,' or something like that.”
“Get the f*** out of here!”

Eventually, the existence of the Christmas Tree Mafia is confirmed by the Boss, Forklift Driver, to Canada's abiding amusement – he would smile and shake his head at random moments for days afterwards.  Apparently I dealt with one of them myself, without realising it – I gave him the counter to count the trees as we loaded them on to a truck.  Probably a mistake.  Also: the counter disappeared.

Photos.  1.  Canada with 12 foot tree.  These really needed two blokes to carry safely, but often the technique was one bloke, who would crouch down, let it tip onto shoulder, then struggle to feet like Bulgarian weight lifter.  2.  The netting machine that put the trees in nets after they had been dragged to a track.  3. Another 3:30 PM shot.  4.  Canada, so full of energy that whenever we were in a break while waiting for the forklift he would, literally, start climbing the walls.  Younger Romanian Familiar in foreground, trying not to lurk too obviously.  The grey sludge all over the floor is not dirt – it is ice.

Cheers, B.

Negotiations

Hey all,

One day Head Romanian offered me a body, as he thought he could lose one from grading and I could use one for the more physical job of making pallets.  Prompted by Canada, I requested Big Kiwi.  Romanian laughed (dry, humourless, evil: fingernails scraping across a blackboard in hell) and shook his head.  He offered me Short Posh Boy.  I stared at him until his conscience got the better of him (he is almost certainly a vampire, sans soul, so you can imagine the stare necessary). Forklift driver watched on as negotiations proceeded, laughing his Scottish Laugh.  Finally we compromised on me taking Tall Posh Boy, both of us walking away feeling like, while we had not got the better of each other, at least we had not been completely screwed.

Not that this stopped him from trying again, the creature – he attempted to steal Canada a week later, leaving me with Tall Posh Boy instead – the initial offer might have been part of a long range plot to do just this.  Using language that I would describe to my Grandmother as “vigorous,” I suggested that this was not going to happen.  He responded by ordering Canada to follow him.  Canada started to.  I shouted at Canada to stop.  Canada stopped.  Using even more vigorous language I told Head Romanian Vampire to pull his head in: there were plenty of stakes nearby and I could always drag him into the sun (if it ever came out again) or put garlic in his water bottle and make his head explode.  Attempting to ignore me, he again ordered Canada to follow him.  I shouted at Canada to stop (again), which he did (again), not entirely sure whether to be amused or annoyed at the situation.  He said that he really didn't mind going with Vampire if it would cause less conflict.  Using slightly less vigorous language I stated that the amount of conflict that was being caused was not the point, nor was the fact that he didn't mind being kidnapped by this creepy slouching villain: the only thing that mattered was the shameless theft he was attempting to perpetrate in broad daylight.  Finally Forklift Driver got involved, told Vampire sternly not to break up the team and then shouted at Tall Posh Boy for a long while, making all kinds of dire threats, which was a bit unfair because it was one of the few times Tall Posh Boy was completely blameless, merely standing there ready to do whatever he was told.

When TPB noted this injustice afterwards I asked him if he had ever worked in a place like this before, to which he responded (quite obviously): “No.”  Showing my kind, compassionate, fatherly side, I noted that when you get a reputation as a “F***ing useless rude lazy c***” in the first couple of days it takes months to get rid of, regardless of what you do and that he would just have to shut up and cop it because of that.  He seemed to take this on the chin pretty well, which I took as an encouraging sign of emotional growth.  Canada pleased with whole situation: “You overpowered Head Romanian.”  Approving nod.  Poland looked on, mystified.

Photos.  1.  On my birthday I asked Boss if we could grab a couple of Pheasants.  Sure.  “And when I say 'a couple' I mean 'five,'” I added.  Silence.  I pointed out it was my birthday, we wanted to have a dinner, it would be bad to make the Pole, or one of the Kiwis, sit in the corner and starve, sad and alone, or worse still ruin my birthday, here in a strange country, without family and friends, afraid for my future.  A sigh.  “Fine.  Get five then.”  Here are all the Pheasant breasts, cut in half, wrapped in bacon, and roasted.  2.  A truck being dragged in to shed by tractor.  Even this became impossible the next day, and the trees were eventually dragged out of plantation on huge trailers by tractors to the transport company's loading yard, 10 miles away.  3, 4.  Frozen Hell does have its moments.  Sunset shot taken at 3:30 PM.

Cheers, B.

Tall Posh Boy, Short Posh Boy

Hey all,

Tall Posh Boy and Short Posh Boy did not finish university, having dropped out to concentrate on their drug consumption “music” until inheritance rolls on in.  Were employed at the request of Head Posh Boy and both made themselves thoroughly obnoxious in the first couple of days – Short Posh Boy was, at least initially, so lazy that I thought he was dead at one point until he lit a cigarette.  After sundry dramas and a week of being penalised by dragging trees through the snow, Tall Posh Boy began to behave himself and worked well, at least when not being distracted by Short Posh Boy, who is a profoundly insolent little brat, if amusingly so, at least until you have to rely on him – but even he, on his own, could be compelled to action by the simple expedient of throwing trees at his head fast enough and hard enough to leave him with the following choice: pick up the pace and pull your weight or be rendered unconscious.  Here is Short Posh Boy's defence when being told off by the boss for not relaying a phone call message to the rest of the house: “Well you should have called someone more responsible!” (offended tone, genuine outrage).  HPB will definitely grow out of it.  TPB may very well do so – there is a layer of consideration for others there which makes him easy to like. Short Posh Boy won't grow out of it until something tragic happens: someone he cares about dies, he gets beaten to within an inch of his life (how this has not happened thus far is a mystery to me), or the Biggest Possible Disaster Of All: he gets cut out of the will.

Paying quite a bit of attention to Tall and Short Posh Boys due to the fact that, after Big Kiwi and Little Kiwi left early for a job in Switzerland, Posh Boys moved in with us because Head Posh Boy (the only one with a license) could no longer drive them to work as his elbow had turned into a block of metal screws.

Unfortunately, after drinking nearly a litre and a half of whisky one night between them, they reverted to original form when hung-over, Short Posh Boy in particular being such a little brat that Canada looked on with a blank dead stare in his eyes as SPB was so rude to Head Romanian that we all felt outraged on his behalf despite his fangs and his lack of a pulse. And you could see at moments like this that Canada would not be a good person to mess with, could conceive him calmly and without any real sense of malice breaking the jaw of someone on the hockey rink in one of their enthusiastic helmets-off punch-ups, then having a beer with the guy a month later – no hard feelings buddy...  Canada's ominous comment on SPB's behaviour: “I wouldn't have put up with that if I was [Romanian Vampire]...”

As they were starting to irritate both myself and Canada with their level of hygiene (a total of one shower between the two of them the whole time they were there), I used the last of their milk making pancakes (in my defence, I gave them a couple each) on my final night in the house.  To hide my theft and release some of the frustration caused by their apparent inability to use a sink, a mystery which shocked them even more than the shower, I replaced their milk with the milk that the Kiwis' had left in the kitchen (but not in the fridge) over a week previously, which was so lumpy and rancid that Canada could smell it at the dining table as soon as I opened it in the kitchen.  I expected a quick sniff the following morning from one of the posh boys while Canada and myself looked on in silent amusement as they had to go with black tea and raw porridge, but it turned out to be much more successful that that.  Here is Short Posh Boy's algorithm for figuring out that the milk is off:

1. Unscrew the cap, smell it, screw up your face in horror and look confused.
2. Try to pour it in to your tea.
3. When it won't come out because it is too lumpy, shake bottle vigorously.
4. Squeeze lumpy milk out of bottle into the cup of tea and stir it in until lumps go away.
5. Smell tea, screw up your face in horror and look confused.
6. DRINK HALF OF IT. Screw up face in horror and look confused.
7. Pour out tea.
8. Pour new cup of tea.
9. I shit you not: repeat steps 1-7 with THE SAME BOTTLE OF MILK.
10. Say, "There is something weird with this milk!"

This actually happened.  I struggled initially not to laugh.  Could see Canada doing the same.  Eventually the need to laugh killed off by mutual astonishment at repetition of steps 1-7.

The one day I had off the entire time there was as a result of being snowed in to the house, which was out in the middle of nowhere a long way from the plantation itself.  TPB and SPB spent about four and a half hours walking through a blizzard to the nearest town to get cigarettes and scotch.  Canada and I looked on in amazement, even Poland shook his head briefly and may have considered raising an eyebrow.  Canada: “F***.  Should tell the Boss that if he wants them to do some work he should just promise them a packet of fags at the end of the day.”

Photos.  Various shots of snow woman in progress of being built in middle of night and blizzard by wasted house mates.  Started off very funny but became quite serious towards the end in that trashed kind of way as Canada and the Posh Boys discussed the pros and cons of giving her a wand and pubic hair, while Poland said things like, “Yes, yes,” or, “No, no!”   I took photos and laughed.

Cheers, B.

Head Posh Boy

Hey all,

Head Posh Boy: actually finished a university degree and is at farm due to parents' request to the Boss to Give Our Son A Job (the gentry do these small favours for each other, c/f Kenya) – despite the fact that he could sit around until the money rolls in he worked hard, cheerfully, reliably, and generally impressed everyone, even Big and Little Kiwi, who noted that Head Posh Boy was “a f***ing good c***.”  Reminded me a bit of Shakespeare's young Henry – get the feeling that the moment it becomes necessary to stop pissing around doing nothing with his life he will do just that, leaving his Falstaffs in the dust behind him.  His career as a Christmas Tree harvester bought to a tragic end when he fell off a pallet onto the concrete and smashed his elbow.  He lay there groaning, especially when Head Romanian started moving his arm to see if it hurt – he was prevented doing any more damage to Head Posh Boy's elbow by Canada, who used to get paid to play ice hockey, so has seen a lot of smashed limbs in his young life, and told him to stop moving HPB's arm about because, you know, bone on bone grinding hurts and compounds the injury. HPB was eventually taken to hospital (by a very nervous Boss, worried about HPB's parents, who could buy or sue The Boss into bankruptcy with their small change) and operated on the next day: now has an elbow full of titanium plates and self-tapping screws.

Canada took the trouble to make a chalk outline of the body with pine needles (see below), further embellishing the scene with police tape made of baling twine and CSI-ish numbers on little paper triangles showing the progress of the accident.  It had a more serious and profound effect on The Boss, who took the health and safety implications to heart, making a number of important changes to the work place:  for example, when the floor turned into an ice rink a few days later he called me aside (in the background the huge forklift did wild, out of control doughnuts while trying to turn a corner: a stampeding elephant of steel), pointed to the ice rink, said “This stuff is deadly, B.  I don't want any more accidents!”  This initiative helped a lot.  There were several more like it, equally effective.

Photos.  1.  The view one morning, wind turbines visible in background.  Photo taken by Canada with his camera.  2, 3.  The scene of the accident, photos taken by Big Kiwi with his – did not ask permission to use these shots, but then all the ones I gave him now adorn his facebook page – what can you expect of people who interfere with sheep? ;)

Cheers, B.

Big and Little Kiwi

Hey all,

Big Kiwi and Little Kiwi moved in to the house with myself, Canada and Poland, and proved to be good to live with – no comments regarding cleaning dishes necessary and was a pleasant house to be in while they were there.  Both were good to work with, cheerful, funny in very dry Kiwi manner with Big Kiwi being one of those people who continually takes the piss out of everyone and never stopped talking, which may have eventually become trying, but did not, at least for me: did become trying for others:

Big Kiwi: “Blah blah blah blah” [non stop stream of offensive smart ass comments]
Elder Romanian Familiar of Head Romanian: “...”
Big Kiwi: “What?  Nothing to say?” [actually taps her on side of head]
ERFLHR: “Don't do that.”
Big Kiwi: “Just trying to make conversation, you know, make the time pass.”
ERFLHR: “I don't speak English.”
Big Kiwi: “Yes you do.”
ERFLHR: “Not to you.  I don't want to talk to you.”
Big Kiwi: “Whoa!  Why not?”
ERFLHR: “I don't like you.  You have big mouth.”
Big Kiwi momentarily reduced to silence.  General laughter from everyone else

Big Kiwi also distinguished himself by causing trouble with Younger Romanian Familiar of Head Romanian, who had a definite crush on Canada, despite knowing he had a girlfriend, and despite warning glares from head Romanian.  Big Kiwi would ask her things like “So, what do you think of Canada?” which in her romantic optimism of course made her think that Canada had prompted Big Kiwi to ask her things like this because he Really Liked Her.  Several days of complicated if very one sided romantic scandals ensued, culminating in her telling Canada that he should come and Hang Out at the caravans and Watch Television with her.   When this failed, she said that they needed to Have A Talk, managing to corner him into one, where she attempted to kiss him on the lips, which he dodged by turning the cheek, and ran away in fear, lest he be kidnapped by randy young gypsy girl, carried off into the forest, never to be seen again.  Canada, who was by this time getting a bit fed up with Big Kiwi's relentless ability to cause trouble, was prevented from further dramas by the early departure of Big and Little Kiwi, at which point Romanian romantic fantasies subsided dramatically, the fires of her tender heart no longer being stoked by Big Kiwi's plots.

Kiwis become legendary due to scoring big when boss suggested following bet to them:  If Scotland beats the All Blacks, I will by you a case of beer every three days for rest of season.  But if the All Blacks win, you have to buy me a case of beer.  They declined this bet, sensibly enough, given that Scotland has never in its history beaten the All Blacks.  At the supermarket they decided, however, to be smart asses about it, and buy the Boss a case of beer before the game, considering it worth it just to rub in Scotland's hopelessness at rugby.  They gave it to him the following morning.  The neat twist on this was the the Boss forgot the bet he had made, thought that he was supposed to owe them a case every three days if the All Blacks won (which they of course did) and was morally obliged to follow through on a bet he hadn't actually made because his workers had paid their half of a bet (that they didn't make) up front.  Below is a photo of the first of several shipments of beer that he was, for the rest of the season, obliged to pay – especially after Forklift Driver had a serious chat with him, telling him all about the perils of backing out on a bet made with employees – despite Forklift Driver knowing full well that the Boss had got the bet back to front, having been told by me.  I think it made his day.

Photos.  1.  First shipment of beer to Kiwis for following couple of weeks.  2, 3.  Icicles two stories long from the head of the window in the bathroom, laced through a creeper shrub thing in front of the house, that later fell down because of the weight of the icicles.

Cheers, B.

The Romanians

Hey all,

The Romanians that I had most to do with were Head Romanian and his two female familiars – Head Romanian ran the grading table and the rest of the blokes helping with it, a revolving cast of Kenya, Big and Little Kiwi, Posh Boys, while the two women did the actual grading – the only job in the place that went to women as the trees were too heavy for even two blokes to lift on occasion.  The exact relationship of Head Romanian to the two girls remains a mystery.  Sisters?  One sister, one wife?  Both wives, both sisters and wives, wife and mistress, sister and girlfriend?  No one was sure.  There was an intense amount of interest in the question, these being the only two girls on the entire snowbound-in-the-middle-of-nowhere plantation, but no one was game to ask Head Romanian, who lurches around looking vampiric, sinister, and is almost entirely devoid of humour and certainly of any sense of irony.

Case in point: he is the slowest driver I have ever been in a car with, by a significant margin.  Unbelievably slow.  It would be quicker to walk all the way to the nearest town to do the shopping.  One day I said to him: “Mate, was a bit worried on some of those corners last night – thought you were going to lose it, fly off, kill us all in a fiery inferno of death and blood.  Shouldn't go round corners up on two wheels when you have passengers like that mate, taking big risks with other people's lives – it's not on.  F***ing shit myself.”  He looked at me blankly, “But I drive really slowly.  I never go above forty.  You must drive REALLY slowly if you think I am fast.”  I am morally certain he was not taking the piss.

Photos.  1.  If you look at the line of snow on the tall straight tree in the centre of shot, you can get some idea of the wind.  2.  The view out the window in the house.  3.  The shed, while snowing.

Cheers, B.

Poland, Forklift Driver

Hey all,

Poland, 35, built his own house in Poland, works here because a good wage back home is about 100 pounds a week, so making three and a half times that for 6 weeks works out very well for him for most of the following year.  Very little English but very funny with the little he did know.  Myself and Canada convinced he would be hysterical if you could understand him.  Also proud of English he did pick up, such as “Yes, yes,”, and “No, no,” his standard responses to any question he was asked – he would try them both until the expression on the questioner's face seemed to indicate that he was making some kind of sense.  Also such phrases as “ Vodka: sleep good!”  “Open the door!” when I forgot to do so to the pallet box, “Close the door!” when I forgot to do so to the pallet box, and “Exit?” which was his way of asking if we had finished the pallet yet to which I would respond either “Exit,” or something like “Twenty three five,” which meant 23 more five foot trees.  Also picked up a few other phrases of the Queen's English that Canada helpfully taught him, eg., “Motherf***”  “f*** off”, “f*** you,” and so forth, not to mention “Very nice,” and “Sexy time!” (complete with exaggerated Borat accent and serious nods from Canada when Poland got the pronunciation right).

The night he got picked up he had to walk, in the dark, through the mile of snow between us and the main road – Canada and I offered to help him with his luggage, to which he responded “Yes, yes, thank you,” but later showed that he had not understood what we were offering as I had to physically drag his backpack off his shoulder through his protests (“No, no, no!”) and Canada had to physically pick up the back of his suitcase (“No, no... thank you... yes, yes”), which he was dragging through the minus God knows what snow in the middle of the night in jeans and a pair of dress shoes.  Poles are tough.

When we got him to the road he said: “Good team!  Dream team!” having obviously worked on the phrase for days, then gave us both firm handshakes, shoulder clasp with other hand, serious nod.  All very touching.  Good guy, only downside was that after I moved in with him, discovered he snored.  Spent the better part of four weeks sleeping on the lounge room floor, on cushions from the couch.  Which was really not that bad at all, as it turned out.

Forklift Driver was a fantastic bloke, pushing 50, and basically ran the entire Christmas tree operation from his mobile phone while driving the forklift, with which he did things that did not seem physically possible and reduced all onlookers to amazed and appreciative silence.  Every place like this that I have ever worked at seems to have a bloke like this, the linchpin of the business, tireless, efficient.  Very good to work with, so emphatically Scottish that he even managed to laugh with a Scottish accent, which he did mostly, as was always in good humour except when Boss annoyed him with one of his wilder innovations or perhaps one day when I was so cold that the numbness in my fingers and toes was spreading above my elbows and knees and in a fit of pique suggested that the Romans had the right idea with Hadrian's wall, that the entire God-forsaken frozen hell should be left to the nutters who, by choice, run about in this weather without underwear while wearing what is, at the end of the day, a dress, and that Macbeth's willingness to actually fight for possession of this land just shows how completely nuts he really was.  He came back the following day with the comment that, yes, Hadrian's wall was a great idea : someone needed to keep the British in their place.

Photos.  1.  Morning.  2.  Poland and Canada loading a tree onto forklift, before snow.  3. Truck full of pallets, before snow.  4.  Sunset.  5. Typical view of Forklift Driver.  On the corner of the shed you can see a pole on which hangs the replacement to the floodlight that nearly embedded itself in my skull.

Cheers, B.

Kenya

Hey all,

Kenya, or The Lion King, or just plain F***wit, depending on one's mood, is 18 or 19 years old.  Just finished high-school, grew up in Kenya to a family that apparently owns three quarters of Africa, sent to boarding school in England for the last few years, then to Christmas tree farm (family friends – they do swaps with each other's children as farm labourers to teach them to be human beings after school) then on to one of the other Colonies (Australia) to polish off the “learning to be human” side of things before on to university, inheritance, captain of industry and so on.  Polite and friendly to us all but mildly irritating as feels polite and friendly in a way I might be polite and friendly to a pack of uncouth but basically good-natured dogs.  Talks firmly to us in commanding voice when we get rambunctious, also in a way I might do to uncouth dogs.  Will probably be fit for adult company in 2-3 years.  Until then is (sporadically) incredibly annoying due to his habit of giving all and sundry orders in a pompous little voice and completely the wrong kind of accent for this sort of environment.  He persists in doing this, despite the total lack of any response apart from laughter, rolled eyes, four letter words, snowballs and even the occasional tree thrown at his head.  I guess having your own cook and driver up until the age of 18 would do that to you.  Made the rookie mistake of not logging out of Facebook on the office computer one day, something which Canada discovered with glee: Kenya spent the best part of a week broadcasting to the world that he was desperately seeking a male companion after finding himself strangely warmed by the sight of the two huge and muscular Kiwis (one of them even has a moustache, for the love of God) he shares his caravan with cooking breakfast in their underwear.  He realised something was amiss when he logged on and found a heap of birthday wishes months out of his actual birthday.  He took this with pretty good humour, which endeared him to Canada, who was (I think) a little bit worried about the consequences after the sheer joy of the vandalism and slander had worn off.

Basically a decent and likable guy though, just spent too much time in a universe where people care what he says simply by virtue of the fact that he said it.  I guess that is why they Send Them Away to do some work somewhere.

Photos:  1.  Stack of five foot trees in foreground represents about half a day's work, all of them being picked off the stack by me...  2.  Forklift compressing trees as Poland ties them off – would frequently get the front wheels two or even three feet off the ground while doing so.  3.  First compression.  Some of the pallet combinations of trees so optimistic that the trees on the bottom were going close to becoming Christmas tree juice by the time pallet finished being compressed.  Once they got icy this was really problematic as at the end of the pallet Poland would be balancing precariously on an icy slippery stack of trees three feet above the top of the twelve foot high pallet box.  Said to Forklift Driver that if pallet combinations not a bit more reasonable would just start counting phantom trees because not worth Poland breaking his skull open after 12 foot drop for 6 pounds an hour.  Forklift Driver, for once, not amused, but number of trees expected to crush into pallet did go down a bit, after conversation between Forklift Drive and Boss took place where I would imagine my threat to arbitrarily rip off all his clients by counting non existent trees in pallet was not mentioned.

Cheers, B.

First Near Death Experience

Hey all,

I was about 10 seconds away from getting killed today when a massive industrial floodlight the Boss had erected on a bit of four by two wood the height of a telephone pole (attached with a couple of brackets that I wouldn't use on a bookshelf) crashed to the ground shortly after I had walked under it.  Losing my private room tomorrow as there are apparently a couple of Kiwis coming to join us at the house – the Slovak rumour turned out to be just a rumour.  Might move in with the Pole as he has a bigger room with some storage space and the Kiwis are mates anyway so will probably want to sleep in the same room.

Don't know when I'll get to post this – missing the internet.

Weeks later: rest of Christmas tree farm posts not in day by day order, due to intense exhaustion, 7 days per week, a once in a century blizzard that engulfed the entire country for weeks, leaving in the dark, sometimes walking through a solid mile of snow to get picked up from the road, getting home in the dark, sometimes walking a solid mile through the snow all over again, cooking dinner, making lunch, collapsing into coma.  On plus side, Canada and I conspired and plotted and landed the job for the entire season of making the pallets with Poland, which meant no more dragging trees (digging them out of snow drifts with hands, dragging them through 100 metres of testicle deep snow, all day, high of -7C, low of -15, etc. etc.  (I have read the Gulag Archipelago, don't need to live it for six pounds an hour)) but even better it usually meant an extra hour's work a day in the shed, where there are lights – which is basically an extra day's pay a week.  Despite huge dramas caused by unprecedented November cold snap (8000 trees left uncut) Boss did not take it out on workers, which I respected – he initially struck me as someone who would.  Forklift Driver definitely a positive influence on Boss.

Feet knackered with mystery lumps all over them, one of my elbows won't straighten properly any more, basically exhausted, in a hostel for a couple of nights in Edinburgh – more exhausted due to insane snoring last night, trying to catch up on blogs all day, but, on the plus side, off to Paris tomorrow, where K will be arriving the day after.  Joy.

Even working at the shed (about half the time outside the shed in the snow doing the same job of making pallets, but without a roof) I have lost weight: here is an average day's food...

Breakfast:
Bowl of porridge in mixing bowl with tablespoons of sugar all over it.
Three egg omelette.
Bacon.
Coffee.

Lunch:
Three sandwiches, thick butter, four slices of ham in the meat ones, peanut butter and jam on desert.
About 100 grams of peanuts.
Half a packet of biscuits.
Two museli bars.
Apple and banana.

Dinner:
A family sized casserole dish full of pasta with sauce made from bacon or tins (plural) of tuna, loads of butter, loads of salt, half a tray of mushrooms and/or onions, and about a third a block of cheese.  Desert usually involving half a bottle of double cream, jam and/or can of tinned fruit.

Sundry snacks throughout day of biscuits, peanuts, meat pie that Boss's Wife usually brings around to everyone near end of the day, toast before bed, biscuits in bed.

Photos. 1.  Pile of trees outside after first real snow.  Looks pretty until you have to pick them up by hand and throw them over your shoulder, somewhere between 1000 and 2000 times a day.  2.  Outside pallet box in the snow.  Canada sitting down, Tall Posh Boy (more on him later) passed the trees to him on the stack of pallets after I got them off the stack and passed them to TPB.  3.  Same stack of trees outside after second day of real snow.  Looks even prettier.  Even less pretty to work with.

Cheers, B.

The Toughest Job Ever

Hey all,

Day three at the Christmas tree farm.  Didn't write anything yesterday because I was too exhausted – the trees they had us dragging were at the back of a paddock so we had to drag them through about 100 metres of wet boggy and thick forest – they seemed to have selected them not on the basis of height or suitability but on the most labour intensive and expensive to remove position in the plantation.  Was exhausting, very very cold, wet for most of the day (the trees are always wet, even when it briefly stops raining) and I had burst blisters on both feet from the gumboots.  Today was much better – new gumboots that don't have holes (and fit me properly (which I was glad of – the old boots and the blisters defeated even the magic silicone pads)) and was working sorting the already cut trees and loading them onto pallets.  Hard labour, but not worst-day-of-GR20 hard, like yesterday was.  The cold here is intense – working in thermal long-johns, a pair of paints, a pair of rubber water-proof over-pants, two thermal tops, a polar fleece top, a rubber raincoat, a beanie, a hat on top of that and rubber gloves.  You'd expect, working this hard, to have to lose a few layers, but after lunch I had them all on for the rest of the day and still got chilled if I stopped working for more than a minute or so.  An Italian rugby player showed up today, was put on dragging, was throwing up by lunch time, did not come back.  Short Posh Boy (more on him later) also started today, was throwing up by lunch time – did, however, come back the next day.

Was working most of the day with the two guys in the house (Canada and Poland) and this huge dark-haired sinister Pole who started today, but who worked hard and cracked a smile from time to time towards the end of the day.  We had a nice rhythm going.  I'd drag a tree from the stack, get it on my shoulder, carry it to Sinister Pole, who lifted it up to Canada on a stack of pallets, who dropped it into the baling frame where House-mate Pole would get it in the right spot.  There is a real pleasure in a smoothly operating chain-gang where a small team sorts itself out and it runs like clockwork: all you have to focus on in the world is doing your bit and not getting behind the other guys.

This tree farm is also a pheasant reserve – they raise them and then let them run around “wild” and then people pay 24 pounds a bird to shoot them.  Rich people: there was a shoot on Saturday where they shot over 700 of them.  Which is an awful lot of money, paid for entirely by one of the nine people who were doing it.  They don't even take the carcasses home with them – the owner of the plantation collects them all and then sells them to butchers.  Unbelievable.  Not that I am complaining because I got a free one yesterday and then myself Canadian cooked pheasant for dinner, wrapped up in bacon, which was delicious.  Hopefully we will be able to get some more – Canadian had this neat trick of skinning and gutting the birds in about three seconds flat by standing on the wings and pulling the legs up in one quick motion – sounds gross, but very quick very neat, and you are left with the breasts ready to cook with no mess.  Bonus: one of the beaters they pay to scare the pheasants into the air with flags (stodgy old Scots not at all concerned about being shot at by rich and excitable Italian playboys of doubtful accuracy) actually used the expression “Bah Humbug!” as he walked past one day, referring to a not very successful shoot, which I thought was wonderful.

The people I am working with are generally good – Canadian and House-mate Pole are fantastic – the rest of the workers are mainly Polish, Romanian, a couple of Kiwis and a few Scots.  The father of the owner apparently made a fortune in sugar, then cornered the Christmas tree market for the UK, then retired and gave a third of the farm to each of his sons.  This is the first time the son I am working for has run a harvest and it shows.  Organisational stuff ups, not enough staff, not enough working hours – and he talks to his workers about other workers and whether he is happy with them or not (which a boss should never do), not to mention the budget of the place, wages, all the rest of it.  I asked one of the Kiwis on my first day, “Is this the first time this dude has run a crew?” because it was kind of obvious even in the space of a short ride from the train-station.  That said, not a bad bloke despite the fact that everyone periodically hates him (with a job this miserable you need to hate someone about it) and I reckon will probably do a reasonable job in another couple of years, once he has Learnt The Hard Way.

Photos.  1.  Poland standing inside the shed pallet box.  Once an empty pallet was dropped in I would close the bottom doors with Poland inside, then start loading trees on to the conveyor.  Canada would drop the trees in from the top of the conveyor to Poland, who would line them up.  After about 2/3s full the forklift would compress the trees, then I would close the top doors, open the bottom ones, and the process would keep going until the pallet was finished, compressed again, and tied off.  To open the top doors the forklift was frequently necessary as the amount of pressure on the handle made it impossible to open, especially if it had been compressed three or four times.  It would all spring open like it was made of rubber, not welded steel, and people had, in the past, had their jaws smashed if they opened it wrong – got myself a serious clock on the arm one day when I was not paying attention.  2.  Sitting in the back of a truck hand loading trees too big to fit in a pallet.  3.  The outside pallet box and the results of our labour in the background.

Cheers, B.

Day 1

Hey all,

First day on the Christmas tree plantation.  Despite dragging 1/3 of 1765 sodden pine trees through non-stop freezing rain over sodden bog and the fact that everyone seems to carry on like it is the toughest job ever, it really wasn't that bad.  I have worked on tougher orchards for less money.  That said, apparently when it starts snowing it does get a bit grim.  On the plus side, the crappy accommodation on site was full, so the owner had to rent a house off site for the spill-over – currently me, a young Canadian guy and a Polish bloke out here just for this job before flying home.  They are both cool – the Canadian is one of those laid back country boys who speaks in a broad drawl so slow you think there is not much going on up there – but there is quite a bit going on.  Is out here after university because his girlfriend is in Glasgow doing further studies.  The house is fantastic – will get some photos if I ever manage to see it in the day time.  There is a dire rumour that the boss is employing a couple of Slovakians who will be arriving soon and moving in: I will lose the solitary joy of a room to myself.  My room-mate will no doubt snore – the other bed is about 50 cm from mine – and even if he doesn't snore, Slovaks are up to no good: I will probably get murdered in my sleep.

That worry aside, I am living a lot cheaper and much more comfortably than in a hostel, and am making reasonable money for this kind of job.  Spent most of the day dragging trees with the Pole and a Kiwi who has been working on the farm for a year or so and is basically one of the foremen, all of us working behind another Pole, who chainsaws all day, pushing the trees down with one foot and cutting them with the chainsaw in between his legs.  The reason for this is that they want them cut close to the ground – the taller they are the more they get for them.  Not a job I would like – two years ago he lost concentration for a moment, nearly took off his leg.

K called at lunchtime, which was a bit of a disaster.  She is at home with the folks, did not have the headset with her, so I was on speaker.  Now, those of you who know me will be aware that I rarely, if ever, swear: in general I shun all coarse language.  But this is an big plantation and, purely in an effort to fit in and be polite, I have picked up some bad habits.  So, when K asked me how the job was I said something like “Not too bad.  F*ing non-stop f*ing rain though.  And cold as sh*t, but they gave me gumboots and a coat and these goofy f*ing pants and...” at this point K said that her parents were in the room.  I am pretty sure her father stormed out.  Then she asked me how I was.  In an effort to get back into her good books I referred to her as “babe” in my reply.  Except it wasn't her who had asked the question, it was her Mum.  So that couldn't have gone a whole lot better.  Fortunately K has already paid for her ticket over here.

There is a wifi spot available at the office at the plantation, but none here – so will get my laptop in at some point and get online, but don't know when.

Photos. 1.  The first bedroom I was in at the house.  2.  The house in the morning, waiting for the boss to pick us up.

Cheers, B.