Sonnet Number One.

Falling and spinning gracefully to Earth,

Almost never causing a stir to berth.

Often going without notice given,

Even though by it, the land is driven.

As weather and season pass by in time,

Helpless and lonely under dirt and grime.

Time passing by and now all forgotten,

Countless of prints all over it trodden.

Many a year may pass ever so slow,

And to be found again gives a bright glow.

As it's useful once more, even this day,

For it to be passed hand to hand to pay.

However small and humble it may be,

Taken for granted, yet vital to thee.

Aaron Jones.

Nigeria 1997 - Going Home

In late August 1997, a Nigerian family started to build a mud house next to the village. They took about a week to build the small, round mud house, which had a thatched roof but no glass in the window and the door was a large piece of tin plate. It looked somewhat cosy. It wasn’t big, but big enough to fit a family of three or four. This family had six members. A week later, though, it was gone. There weren’t any storms or riots to bring it down, but a bulldozer. The local council tore it down because the hovel didn’t have any planning permission. All they did was start the bulldozer up, drove it towards and over the house and left. The family was full of shock and very upset at the sight of their newly built house being reduced to a pile of mud.

On that last day of August, it was my aunt’s birthday, my mother was not happy that she had to spend it in a country like Nigeria. But she got even more upset of an event that happened in the early hours of that morning: the death of Diana. My mother sat there, staring at the television. She began to cry when the CNN newsreader reported something like: “In Paris early this morning, Diana, Princess of Wales has been killed in a car accident.” My mother was never the biggest fan of Royalty, but I could see tears running from her eyes that day. The Americans were especially sympathetic; Diana was hugely popular there. Diana was the Princess of Wales, and we were Welsh. There were Americans living all around us, and they were mourning. They went up to us and said things such as:

“We are very sad that Diana is dead, but we’ll never know how you feel as she was a princess of your country.” I was not fond of Royalty, myself, but even I felt a bit upset because of how she lived her life and being who she was.

When we flew back, it was on the day of her funeral. We were to fly to Lagos airport from a small airfield at Eket and then to Schipol at Amsterdam and then to Cardiff. The part we didn’t like about this six-hour journey was the Eket-Lagos flight. We couldn’t believe how we safely landed. The plane was a small eight or ten-seater. There were five of us and couple of other people. The airfield did not look promising. Potholes and weeds were growing from the tarmac, taxi run and runway. Burnt and wrecked planes were stacked unsafely on the other side of the perimeter fence. The tarmac burnt out feet from the heat. God knows how the rubber tyres kept intact on these aircraft. We had to wait an age because the weighing scales didn’t work properly and someone’s luggage was too heavy.

Eventually, we boarded the ‘death trap plane’ It was the worst plane ever. I had to duck because the doorway was so low. How it could fly, I really didn’t know. There was a bit of turbulence, the plane dipped a few yards, it also swayed. One of the propellers seemed buckled and the whole aircraft was making funny noises when flying. A bit like an old Harley-Davidson starting up and backfiring, but a bit worse. Every ten minutes there was a loud, clicking noise. Everyone on the plane was a bit worried. I think even the pilots were uneven about it. We could even look into the cockpit. I’m not sure if it was meant to look as it did, or half the instruments were missing, but it was very basic and very old. I think a washing machine had more buttons than that, and also had a better chance of making it to the airport.

We cheered as we landed, though we weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry. And we were all wondering about the same things: “How on Earth could that fly?” “How can it be allowed to fly?” and “What was that smell?”

Lagos airport was the same as before: old, crowded, armed security, humid, sticky and broken. We then had to fly back to the Netherlands in this jet aircraft, not in a promising condition, but it was much more reliable that the metallic mess we anxiously sat in earlier. This flight took three hours from the tropical to the floodplains. Then after arriving in the famous Schipol Airport, we stayed for a few hours just exploring the place. Later on, we mounted a KLM Cityhopper heading for Cardiff, which was a flight that lasted nearly two hours. For the first time I saw the shape of South East Britain: the large curve of Anglia and the small tail, which was Kent. That I’ll never forget, because it was the moment that I saw home and civilisation I was used to for the first time after a long couple of months in a country such as Nigeria.

So living in 124A wasn’t all that bad. There were a lot of events, good times and bad times. But they are what make the most exciting parts of travelling!

Nigeria 1997 - People and Mosquitoes

We were supposed to have arrived back at Wales a few days later. We were supposed to be back by my birthday and the Pontardawe Festival. We had been out there for three weeks. But when we tried to look for tickets, the flights were fully booked. There was no room for us to fly out of this country. The next flights available were the first week of September, so I would be staying in Nigeria while having my ninth birthday and also missing the festival, and also missing the first days back at school. My brother, Lloyd, had also spent his birthday out there. So living in Nigeria for another three weeks meant another three weeks living with lizards, dragonflies and more nagging from the market traders.

In the village, we met loads of people, Nigerians, English, Americans, Canadians and even Welsh, too. The Kirbys, an English family from Newcastle were a really nice family. They had a son, Lawrence, who was twelve at the time; he had made friends with Cellan. But he had a bad habit of sucking his thumb, but turned his head when he saw my mother pulling an expression on her face as a way of saying not to do it and then stop it. My brother even stopped him from doing it, but instead he’d push Lawrence’s hand away as he was lifting his arm. His parents soon were using the same method after they learnt on how my mother and brother were doing, and after a while he stopped doing this childish act.

Lawrence is older than myself, but he was friendlier with Cellan because they shared the same interest in football, as most Geordies do. But Cellan supported Manchester United and Lawrence supported Newcastle United, this was the only disagreement they had, but never argued or fought over it. Apparently, Lawrence was supposed to go to trials with Newcastle United after leaving Nigeria, however, I am not sure whether he made any progress with it.

Another English family were the Wilsons from Scunthorpe. Roger, a former officer in the Royal Navy, was a tall, hairy man with light brown hair. Gina, who was brought up in India, was also an officer in the Navy, and was a short, blonde haired woman, she had a big interest for game and quiz shows. She won on a couple of occasions, such as ‘Supermarket Sweep’ and ‘Weakest Link’. They had two children, Abigail and Drew, who were both younger than me. But Drew was the worst of the two; everyday he’d say in a squeaky voice and an annoying accent, “Can I come over to your house and play?” He would nag all the time. Maybe it was just me who got irritated, I really cannot remember why. But he’s matured a lot now, apparently. Abigail was quieter, though. My father knew Roger already from the nuclear power plant at Sizewell where they both worked a couple of years before. The family now live in Alltwen, which is next to Pontardawe, where I’m from. They moved there when Roger became one of the managers at a new power plant in Port Talbot.

My father also worked with another guy who lived across the road from us in Nigeria. He also worked in Sizewell B Nuclear Power Plant a few years before. His name was Simon Wood. I didn’t get to know much of him. But he looked very similar to my neighbour who now lives across the road form my home in Pontardawe, but with blonde hair.

My next-door neighbour was Derek Wynne, from Barnsley, which is in South Yorkshire, and was working in South Korea when we last heard from him. He was, and most probably still is, short with white short hair, big glasses and he always wore a t-shirt with shorts and sandals. Rarely he was in something else. He showed us a couple of insects, which aren’t found back home, so we never saw them before. He kept a rhinoceros beetle, a huge, black, shelled creature with horns. I held it once. It felt weird, as its feet were sticky. I had the largest species of beetle crawling up my arm, and even though I never saw them before, I wasn’t feeling bad at all. I knew it wasn’t poisonous or harmless to humans at all, anyway. Lloyd and my mother couldn’t look at it, they never liked insects and arachnids and stuff. But Lloyd, being four at the time, followed my mother’s reactions and wouldn’t touch it.

He also had shown us a praying mantis. This green thing with huge eyes just stood there, motionless. It had its four legs pinned down on the leaf, and its other two put together and raised up to its head. But it was waiting for prey. Derek had found a fly. He held it in front of the mantis. The fly was crawling around his fingers, rubbing its legs together as they sometimes do. The fly was none the wiser that he was at a huge risk by a huge predator standing right next to it, the fly didn’t know its fate. The mantis was camouflaged amongst the leaf and grass. Suddenly, the fly was gone. If you blinked, you missed it. It didn’t fly off, as the mantis was too quick. It was one of the fastest things I’ve even seen.

Derek married a Nigerian called Aguchi. She was tall and had big cheeks bones, which were a common feature amongst Africans. She always wore traditional clothes, though most native people couldn’t afford them. These traditional robes were very colourful, and a number of different patterns were embroided all around. She also wore a lot of beads.

Derek also showed us a trick, he had pierced a balloon with a pin, but the balloon didn’t blow. My brothers and I stood there amazed, even though I know how it works now, we didn’t understand it then. However, he did something else, too; he pulled out the pin and the balloon stayed intact.

There was also a Canadian family, the surname was French, and I couldn’t remember it. Though their names were Gaston, a tall, blond, French looking guy with a moustache. Dani was a small, plump woman with long, black hair who wore big glasses. Muriel, the eldest daughter, who was then fourteen, she had short blonde hair who wasn’t fat, but neither was she thin. The middle daughter was about eleven, I really cannot remember her name, but she was also plump and more like her mother. The youngest was Cindy, she was a few days younger than me, and was more like the rebellious one and more like a tomboy. Her and Cellan were both very competitive and often competed in burping contests. Normally Cindy would win, but often it was close! She wasn’t like her sisters, she was much slimmer, however not too thin. She had darker skin and shoulder length brown hair. Though the family were from Quebec, their accent was a bit more like French.

The Welsh family were from Anglesey. I can’t remember their surname, but their names were Ann and Clive. We met them next to the swimming pool in the German working village of Fehrestahl. When my brothers and I were splashing about too much in the pool, my mother shouted at us in Welsh and to make us stop, she made an empty threat that she’d stick our heads underwater.

“If you do that I’ll call the NSPCC!” laughed a tall, black haired woman with a big nose. My mother was looking around; she had no idea who said that. Then Ann stood up and started talking to my mother in Welsh. The other people were looking at them in astonishment; they haven’t heard this language before. They looked at them as if fire has just been discovered.

We met a few Nigerians. Our gardeners, Life, who was a short, bald man, about eighteen at the time and he looked a bit like Robert Earnshaw. He was a good gardener; he also looked after the garden for the Wilsons, too. The other gardener, Love, was tall slightly built and had a bit more hair on his head and face, he was probably about twenty-five when we were there. They both did the garden nicely, though I don’t know what became of them after we left.

Our first maid, Pauline, was a bit dim. She was told not to clean my room in the morning because I would still be asleep. I do like my sleep and lie-ins. One day, my mother came out of the kitchen, with CN Breakfast News blaring on the television (it was the only thing that had a good reception); she saw a cable running down the corridor, running past the doors of my brothers’ rooms. She knew it was the hoover, used by Pauline; she was cleaning my room whilst I was sprawled across my bed with my eyes shut. After telling her many times before, she didn’t even bother telling her off, and in an annoyed but polite voice, she said:

“Can you please not clean his room while he’s sleeping? He doesn’t like being woken by such loud noises or anyone coming in like that without him knowing.” Which I don’t, it isn’t nice when you get woken up by a loud vacuum cleaner by your ears.

“Okay, miss, sorry, will not do again.” Next morning she was in there with a duster.

We had a couple of maids after her. We didn’t really want maids, we were not used to having them and we preferred to be a self-sufficient family. But the company requested it as to keep good relations between the workers and the villagers, I guess. Our last maid, Angelina, got my father in quite a lot of trouble. While we were back in Wales without my father, who stayed in Nigeria to work, Angelina stole a Cardiff City football shirt I had (she didn’t take my brothers’ Swansea City shirts, maybe they weren’t good enough!), she also stole my father’s new digital camcorder along with some money. My father reported this to the police, but, somehow, he got fined and put in a Nigerian cell for a while. The conditions at the airport were bad enough, but a jail cell? In Nigeria? There were cockroaches, dragonflies, Nigerian criminals who were six and a half feet tall and have ‘wide load’ on their arms because they had biceps as large as this account. There was a lot of dampness in the cell, and there were a lot of mosquitoes. My mother had to pay a lot of money to get him out of there and fly him back home, as the mosquitoes nearly cost my father his life as he caught malaria.

He was flown back to Wales, as the Nigerian hospitals couldn’t do as much for him. He was very close to dying. My mother was chronic, looking after us three boys and a house while my father lay in hospital. I didn’t really understand what was going on. I knew he was ill, but didn’t realise how much in a bad state he was. My mother said he was lying in a lake of his own sweat. There were bottles of tonic water on the side table, and a load of quinine being pumped into his blood stream. He was in a room, isolated from everyone else. My mother had to see him through a glass window. He did survive the ordeal, but soon afterwards he caught it again. Though this time he had a lot more of a chance of surviving; he said it wasn’t as bad as the first time he had it.

Nigera 1997 - Arrival and Tomatoes

The first time I went to Nigeria was in July a year earlier, in 1997. We arrived back in Wales in the early days of September, the day of Princess Diana’s funeral, because we couldn’t find anyone to pick us up, as they were watching the enormous even on television. The reason we stayed two or three weeks extra than planned is something I cannot remember, but I think we were unable to get a ticket, which meant I missed the Pontardawe Festival and I had to spend my ninth birthday in the corrupt, foreign country of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

We flew from Cardiff International Airport to Schipol in Amsterdam, which took about an hour and a half, this felt quite weird because for eight years I have been stuck on an island. We then arrived at Lagos Airport about three hours after taking off from the Lowlands. As soon as I stepped out of the doorway, the heat came at me like ten men and hit me instantly. The sweat was coming off me like the Niagara. As it was my first time in Africa, I didn’t have an insight to how hot it was.

In the airport itself, the conveyor belts were shabby, as they weren’t working properly, if they were working at all. The straps were rags and half of them were missing or out of place. The cogs were rusted and full of webs and dust, probably even the spider moved out, as it was collapsing under its own weight. Because the belts didn’t work, my brothers, my mother and myself had to sit on the uncomfortable leather seats, and leather and tropical heat goes together like an arsonist and a match. We sat there for hours, as my father went through the large crows of shouting, sweaty, angry people waiting for luggage on the only working, slow conveyor belt, which was old and creaky.

Eventually, when he arrived with our bright yellow suitcases, we went through customs, but to make matters worse, we had to wait for another couple of hours: the Nigerians had to go through our suitcases looking for anything illegal such as weapons, explosives, drugs or maybe even a family. But instead of using their hands or x-ray machines, such as most customs would do, they flicked everything everywhere, rummaging around, by using their rifles. After they had finished, we had to find out things they flung around the room and put them back in the suitcase.

When boarding into the small bus (with other people who were working with my father), I fell asleep straight away. This would have been impossible if I wasn’t so tired; as the main roads were something I’ve never seen before. At first, I didn’t know they were main roads because they would be classes as dirt tracks in this country. They were filled with holes and craters. For filling up the holes, passing drivers would pay the Nigerian children for doing so. But, after the drivers passes, the children would re-dig the hole and start over again and pretend to work on the hole and rob other drivers. The children weren’t sniggering as if the just pulled one huge prank (which they had); they kept a straight face and kept on ‘filling’ the hole. It was like a job to them.

Later on, we saw dead bodies on the side of the road. My mother, with quite a flushed face, asked the bus driver:

“Why doesn’t someone move those bodies and bury them?”

“No do that!” replied the driver, his English was as poor as the people, “If move body, will be accuse!”

“Accused of what?” she asked with a puzzled look.

“Murder! People see you move body! People say you kill, you be accuse, go to jail and pay funeral! Very expensive!” explained the bus driver. The people on the bus, including myself, were quite astonished by this. It would never happen in our country, as there would be police everywhere. But if a Nigerian were to walk down a Nigerian road, and see a dead body, he would have passed it even if it were the President, as there are probably so many bodies around.

A few days later, my father was at work in the aluminium plant, so the rest of us went to the market. The natives, noticing us by our skin colour, suddenly thought we had loads of money, and then a hoard of them came at us like a herd of elephants. They were trying to sell us food like breadsticks, which were hard and bland sticks that were quite difficult to chew, and they didn’t taste nor look like bread at all). No one at all liked them, except for me, I didn’t mind them, and so my mother bought one bag, which contained about ten, and I ate about one a day as they took so long to finish, yet there wasn’t an expiry date on them, so I could still have a bag on me now and still be eating them, but it would be a bit risky. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were slightly aged in the first place. The market traders were rushing around, balancing wooden trays and wicker baskets on top of their heads. The open market was situated along a main road full of holes. One of the traders, a small kid with ragged clothes came up to us and said, “Pay me!” He was selling tomatoes; they were small and scarlet red with no bruises, which seemed unusual. The boy’s arms and legs were long but as thin as running tap water. His tray was balancing on his bald scalp somehow, his skin was all wrinkly and he had flies crawling all over him. His eyes were big, white and close together, which made them really stand out.

My mother was inspecting the tomatoes, they seemed ripe and not in a bad condition. The only thing was they were small, so that meant she would have to buy more. A few tomatoes cost twenty Naira, which was equivalent to two pence. My mother placed the tomatoes back in the tray and reached for her purse to pay him. Then there was another guy, wearing a dirty, blue shirt with half the buttons missing and he wore trousers, which seemed they had argued with his ankles and getting friendly with his knees. They were also torn at the bottom, too. He came running towards us. He was clean-shaven and his hair combed back, and he was carrying a bag of large, unripe and bruised tomatoes. As he was running towards us, he picked the kid up and threw him in the gutter. The mud splashed everywhere as he landed and the child was covered in muck, and so were the rolling, bouncing tomatoes.

Then the bloke said: “Buy my tomatoes! Bigger and only fifteen Naira!” My mother refused, walked off towards the dirty child who was picking his tomatoes up from the ground and wiping the mud off them. She bought a few of them from him, even though some of them were now slightly bruised since the torn road had battered them. She did it because she felt sorry for the kid, as anyone else probably would. And the man acted in an inappropriate and childish manner by doing what he did; and I wouldn’t have bought his manky tomatoes after that.

Nigeria 1998 - Vultures and Rainstorms

A year earlier, we went south of Tunisia, to the tropical country of Nigeria. This time, my father was working there, in a village of Ikot Abasi, which lay in the region called Akwa Ibom. One part of the village was for the workers for Alscon (Aluminium Smelting Company Of Nigeria). The factory itself however, was situated several miles up the muddy, holey, cratered road.

All the vehicles were old, dirty with flaking paintwork and mostly Peugeots. The taxis weren’t cars or trucks, like we have here in Britain, but old, rickety motorcycles from the fifties; they were also used for family transport. Sitting on a one-seated motorcycle was a family of five or six, and I saw this more often than twice. The father was driving; behind him was his wife holding on; his two children sitting on the front mudguard; and the grandmother was hanging off the back. If there were such things as road taxes or road safety laws in Nigeria, I don’t think anyone would be driving.

What were very, very common in and around the village were lizards. These little things were crawling everywhere: on walls, roofs and roads. One time, I was lying in my bed, and though the windows were closed, as well as the door, I could hear little creatures scurrying over walls and the ceiling of my room. I switched the lamp on, and there was at least a dozen lizards running about. To this day, I don’t know how they got in, but I wasn’t scared at all. I knew they were harmless and non-venomous, and also I like reptiles! They also helped us; they were feeding on the dragonflies and other insects, which were proving a nuisance above my head, which often kept me awake.

One day, we were going to this river a few miles away from the village, the coach was going down this forest road, suddenly, this flock of big vultures flew out of a tree right in front of the coach and smacked its windscreen. When the vulture interacted with the coach, the force of its heavy body squeezed its head and neck behind, which might have instantly killed it. I am not sure if it left a good mark or two on the bus after it had been flung to the side into the bushes on the edge of the road, but possible made a few scratches or a small crack. But it made some noise, a bit like a hammer going through a car bonnet.

Later, when coming from the river, it began to belt down with some tropical rain. As the rain hit the windows of the coach, it sounded like we were driving into a war zone, and it was also a long time before reaching the village. And suddenly, half buried into the mud road, was a small truck with its trailer towering into the sky. But though there was a small group of police, there wasn’t any warning or diversions. There wasn’t even anything supporting the truck, it was free standing with a large crowd of people standing and gawping underneath it. It took a long time to pass it as the traffic was queuing up and the people were gathering. I just could not believe my eyes.

Tunisia 1999 - Markets and Shopkeepers

Going back on Mother’s Day of 1999, on the fourteenth of March, my family and I left Wales for a week to go to Tunisia. The name of the three-star hotel was “El Maraudi”. It was situated on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea just North of a small town of Port el Kantoui. This town was where my first memory of the holiday took place.

It was on the third day, I think, my family and I were walking around. The buildings had a typical Arab type structure with flat roofs; arches around the bottom, rectangular windows and white plaster with cracks running along the side of the dusty walls. Tall minarets, large domes, voices shouting, talking and calling in Arabic could be seen and heard everywhere, people rushing about, a market trader running after a group of children stealing a couple of apples. In the square there was an open market selling all kinds of stuff: fruit and vegetables, rugs, clothes, and there was one man using his camel and wooden cart as a taxi. The market traders wore long robes with different patterns, and head dresses to keep their heads cool in the hot sun.

The smell was not all that pleasant, in a hot, poor country; people’s hygiene cannot be that good, and with all the scent sticks and the smell of camel dung all over the place. There were also fumes coming from the traffic passing the road nearby. The smell of sticks, crowds of people, fumes, camel extraction, I wouldn’t be here long enough to get used to it, I thought!

There was a big crowd, and, unusually for this time of year in Tunisia, it was very sunny. We would have picked another time of year, but my father could not get time off, as he was working in Libya as a computer systems engineer for the Spanish oil company, Repsol.

We were walking around, looking in shops, seeing what to buy for our family and friends, and for ourselves. My brother, Cellan, bought a Tunisian hunting knife, Lloyd bought a large bongo, and I had bought scorpions in a frame but my parents were still looking what to get. We were walking up this narrow alley, sandy and dusty, with a step or two every few yards. We could hear the loud market noise echoing along this empty street. There were four or five shops scattered from the bottom to the top. My father and Cellan were ahead of us.

The rest of us (Lloyd, my mother and me) were passing this shop selling mats, fezzes and traditional clothes. Suddenly, a man, presumably the shopkeeper, ran out and waved his hands about like a frantic mental patient, and stopped us in our paths. As I can remember, he was a tall, young man with combed black hair and a tidy cut moustache, he was wearing a brown, leather waistcoat and a white, baggy shirt, trousers and black sandals. He excitedly started to speak Arabic to us, but soon realising that we were looking at him lie he just emerged from a the drain, due to the complete incapability to understand any word he said, he started to attempt speaking ‘English’ instead. Though it was poor, we could just about make it out.

“You buy!” he said.

“No, thanks. We already have a mat,” answered my mother.

“But you buy more mat!” he replied, trying to persuade us, as most Tunisian tradesmen were trying to do.

“We are fine with mats and have one at home very similar to yours.” He kept going on.

“They no expensive, they cheap. They made by hand. Buy from me!” he said. By now my mother was getting annoyed.

“I told you, we do not need any of your stuff!” muttered my mother in an annoyed voice through her gritting teeth. Cellan and my father had just come out of the shop ahead and were looking through its window.

            The shopkeeper began to get angry with is; he grabbed Lloyd and tried to drag him into the shop. The six year old was, obviously, worried, so was my mother. It was a bit shocking to me, too. I didn’t have a clue what was going on when seeing this man grasping some kid’s arm and pulling him). Eventually, from a tug-of-war type scenario, Lloyd’s arm slid through the hands of the Tunisian and got free.

            But Abdul didn’t give up. He really wanted to sell something from his shop, but we didn’t want to buy, certainly after what happened and what was about to happen. He didn’t realise that, though, so he grabbed my arm and started yanking me. My arm did begin to hurt. And unable to free myself, Lloyd and my mother tried to get my away from this guy, but they couldn’t. Frantically, she called my father over. They were beginning to walk away when they heard my mother’s cries; he and Cellan then came running down towards us.

            When my father arrived, he pulled the Tunisian away from me, the shopkeeper and my father started arguing, and some of it was in Arabic. My father had picked up some of the widely spoken language, because he worked in Syria for a while a few years before and he was also working in Lybia. It finished as the shopkeeper said something, but none of us understood, apart from Abdul and also my father. Suddenly, my father made him fall to the dirty, dusty and sandy path like a sack of spuds.

            It took a while for us to find out what he said. But it turns out that my father heard him say something, which was inexplicably unacceptable to anyone. I don’t blame my father for doing what he did; shopkeepers should respect their customers, not force them into their shop and insult them like that.

            The week went by, and the weather was changing from day to day due to the unpredictable Tunisian weather, just like Wales. But, what else was a mood killer too, was that the best weather came on the day we were to leave (which was also the same day as Ernie Wise died, unfortunately). But, in all, the week turned out to be a really good trip. We met loads of people, we visited Dougga, an ancient Roman town nearby, and we walked around the city of Sousse. We also went to this Arabic club somewhere in the north, which the buildings were built out of slabs of rock and mud. There was also traditional Arabic and Tunisian food there, which wasn’t so bad. There was also a stable for camels and an arena for bull fighting.

            I found Tunisia to be full of life, yet full of risks. But we saw and did a lot during that week, which made it somewhat really interesting. And hopefully I could return there sometime.

Tunisia and Nigeria

During my time in Germany and travelling around, I got to see a lot of things and meet a lot of people and learnt a lot of the culture. It makes life much more interesting and much more exuberant when travelling and experiencing the world in such a way. I’ve been to many places already, but there are many more places and things to go and see. 

I still remember my times in Nigeria and Tunisia. I wrote about them for my English exam at the end of school when I was fifteen, and I’m safe to say that my English teacher was very impressed by not only how I wrote it, but what also happened there. I have recently come across my English work, so I thought I’d share it. I’ll start with Tunisia, and then go onto Nigeria. The whole thing is pretty lengthy, but then again, a lot of things went on there! 

And due to the length of it all, I’ll have to split them into three parts: Tunisia 1999, Nigeria 1998 and Nigeria 1997, though that last part is also long, so that may get split, too!

It Ain't Half Cold, Mam!

I don’t think this cold will be getting warmer. It’s cold enough to kill a car battery off… and it’s been cold for longer than that. 

I don’t remember things being so cold back home. These days, I have to wear a t-shirt, a jumper, a hoody and a thick jacket (one of those bomber-style jackets with sheepskin and leather and stuff). Then I’m warm. Apart from my legs. I can’t exactly fit into 4 layers of trousers. I’d be walking around as if I have two peg-legs… which would not be too good. Especially if I slip on ice, I’d also have trouble getting up. I guess it may be amusing to the passing public. But then, who wouldn’t find it funny when someone dressed in a suitcase worth of clothing just fell on the pavement?

 

I may actually start wearing my scarf I bought in some outdoor shop in Abergavenny about three years ago. I never got round to using it, as it hasn’t been that cold enough. Now I’m having second thoughts. And my gloves may also come into good use. But a hat? I don’t wear hats in public, nor hoods. Hoods restrict my already bad view. 

And I don’t really have hats for cold weather. I don’t like to cover my ears. I know it’s nice when they’re warm, but I don’t like things blocking or covering them. Although, I did wear one of those old Soviet fluffy hats at Dan’s over the weekend. It even had a Soviet hammer and sickle badge on it. It was good. I may invest in one of those. But the only hat I have here is one of those German (maybe Bavarian/Alpine) style hats with the feathers. I got it from Austria last year, and I thought I’d bring it out with me. But I’m not sure if it would be effective… though if it’s a traditional bit of clothing in the Alpine regions, then it may well work!

Also, it’s so cold that I needed a lighter to melt away the ice covering the keyhole of my car door. And when I did that, I had to heat up the key so it could get in the keyhole itself. And when I eventually got in my car, I had to scrape ice from the inside of the windscreen. Inside? How does that happen? Never have I had to get the ice scraper out for the inside of my PKW. And this was at half past nine at night. So early, yet so freezingly bloody cold. I wonder whether my car will be an ice block in the morning…

But after a trip around town to keep the car warm and make sure the battery was alright, I’m now in my nice and warm room. Though I guess I’d have to get up a bit earlier than normal tomorrow to thaw my car into shape! Something everyone looks forward to!

It's alive!

My car works again! How good is that??

I figured the coldness killed the battery off… which was getting on a bit anyway. So I went to the local Halfords type place and got on for about ninety Euros, which is quite good for a car battery!

Anyway, I carried the battery through town, which took its toll on my arms after a while, until I got to my car. By now, it was covered in about 4-5 inches of snow! And it was a bit awkward changing the battery. My hands were freezing and my arms were shaking and those bolts and brackets were secured really tight… maybe rusted on a bit. However, with a bit of force, I got them undone and the battery got replaced!

I was so happy to hear my car coming to life again! One of the best sounds there is!

So, to make sure the battery got charged up, I took it for a drive for a few miles up and down the Autobahn and around town… now I’m going to take it to the local Volkswagen centre to get it serviced. Hopefully the car will be fixed so it’ll be good enough to pass the MOT back home. Which I hope it’ll be good enough to pass on the day I take it in, as it’s the only available day…

But my car will do it. I have faith in it!

        

All good things must come to an end...

Finally and thankfully this weeks is closing. Remember me saying that I had a bad week? There’s an earlier post titles ‘Annoying things that annoy me’, which describes the week I’ve had. 

Anyway, did the week get any better since? That question could really be used as a joke, too. Of course it didn’t get any better.

Well, on the Friday, Rob came to visit from Worms, even though he was an hour and a bit late due to fallen trees on the line. The plan was to go to a football game in Bochum with a couple of others. And then later in the evening, go to Dortmund to meet more other people and have a night out!

So, originally, we were to take the train to Bochum as it’s only about 6 miles away. But for some reason, we had to spend an hour on the trains because of a train to Essen. So, in good ol’ Deutsche Bahn style, it bypasses a place to somewhere else, for a train to go back to that place. Pointless and confusing. Therefore, we decided it would be much quicker and easier by Autobahn.

However, recently the weather has gone really cold and a lot of snow has been falling. And my car does not like the cold at all. And due to this, it failed to start again (the first instance was in Bad Bodendorf, also described in an earlier post). Again, the normal attempts were made by jump-starting it, by rolling to down the street. But to no avail.

There is something that my car doesn’t have which these German cars do. Maybe a block heater or something. So at the moment, my car is parked a couple of street away and covered in snow. I have to do something about it, as it’s only getting colder. But no garage was open over the weekend. So, for the weekend, and for how much longer it takes, I’ll be without a car.

But at least I have a bike for some means of transport. It just would have to do. When it was time for Rob to leave, we walked to the station, and I took my bike so I could get back quicker. So, after he left, I rode to the Subway near the market square in town. And as I got on my bike to go home, the rear tyre decided it didn’t like where it was and separated itself from the wheel. And being cold, dark, windy, snowing and annoying, I did not bother to try and fix it. I didn’t have to right stuff to even attempt to put it back together.

By now, my only means of transport were my shoes, which only the day before I noticed there’s a hole in one of the soles. So, cursing everything over recent days, I managed to push my bike back home, which could just about move.

With only about four and a half hours to go before the next week, surely nothing bad could happen again? I hope not… but anything can and does happen…

However, there have been highlights this weekend. We didn’t manage to make it to the football, but we did manage to make it to Dortmund (after missing the first train due to a drunk in the station shop who wanted Jägermeister when there was none there, and a girl at the till who didn’t know where the ‘Pfand’ button was).

But we did have a really good night at Dortmund. After a few beverages at Dan’s flat with other assistants in the area, we went to a nightclub called Nightrooms, which was very much like the Oceana clubs back home… with a number of rooms and lounges which play different kinds of musique. We left there at about 5 in the morning, and then went to the station for the train.

At the station, we had a bit of time to spare and decided to get something at the bakeries, which were open. I discovered a ‘Bobby’. Which is basically a sausage roll covered in cheese. It was good!

We eventually got home at half past seven in the morning, after encounters with drunk people on the train, after talking to a couple of girls at the (warm) waiting room of Wänne-Eickel station, who have been there for the past three hours waiting for a train, and a taxi ride back to the house. I wasn’t sure how to say goodbye to the driver either. Was it ‘Gute Nacht’, ‘Guten Tag’ or ‘Guten Morgen’? At that time, it was morning, yet still dark… one of those weird times when greetings become neutral.

But, that’s about it for this week. I really do hope the next is more positive and proves much better than the one just gone.

I guess I’ll have to see!

Brand new spanking new features!

Just to update you lovely readers about a change or two…

For this blog, I have added the options to give reactions… after reading a post, just tick on one of the boxes, which resemble your thought the closest. If it’s not listed there, just add a comment stating your (good or bad) opinion! I may add more boxes to tick if I can think of any, or seeing results in commentages!

Also, to post comments, you no longer need to be a registered user. You can just be any non-member random to post whatever. But if it’s totally irrelevant, or something to do with advertising or spamming about cheap offers abroad, or porn, or insurance, I’ll just bin them. Simple as!

And what has caused some confusion to some; is that these posts are posted with the most recent on top, and the older ones filing down the list and ending up on previous pages. So it may make reading easier if you start from the older ones (which are on the bottom, or on previous pages). Especially on posts about events during a certain period, such as that diary thing I wrote about my weekend in Rheinland-Pfalz. Just to let you know, in case things may seem confusing or backward!

Macht Spaß!

Annoying things that annoy me

I’m afraid to say that this week hasn’t been the best. It’s been one of those weeks that you’re waiting forever for it to be over and done with… and it seems like a lifetime.

This week also has been full of things that happened, and those things are the most annoying things to me. They’re not big things. It’s those really small, inconvenient, unnecessary, annoying things that just get on my nerves. Life would be much simpler without them.

To give you some examples of those things, they are…

Going for that much needed first-of-the-day cup of tea, only to find the kettle at school has a post-it stuck on it, saying it’s broken with a reassuring skull and crossbones drawn on it.

Walking a couple of minutes down the road (and also waiting ages for that Ampelmännchen to turn green when there isn’t even any traffic) to go to a bakery, only to find it closed at one o’clock for two hours. Why two hours? Who spends two hours eating their dinner at such a time? And it was especially annoying as it was just after I discovered that the kettle was potentially lethal. So I had to go without tea and bread and cakes.

Driving around a big car park only to find it’s full, only to find one space. But nobody can park in that space because some idiot of a driver couldn’t park right and consequently took up the two places. And it wasn’t as if this car was big. It was one of those crappy Toyota Yaris things. I was tempted to squeeze in there just to annoy him/her/it. There was just enough room to do it, too. I should have done. Or, if I had a strong enough vehicle to do it, I’d just shove it out of the way. But I didn’t want to damage my car because of some stupid idiocy of someone who deserves a couple of slaps. And a few tips on how to park right.

Another similar thing about parking, I was at the lights around the corner from the post office, and I needed to get some Luftpost stamps. And there was a good space outside, enough for two cars. It was one of those lay-by parking spaces at the side of the road. So I thought it was a good find. However, as I waited at the lights, a car parked there, but it was alright. There was still enough room. But noo… the dull woman who was driving parked her nice silver BMW, which took up these two spaces. Did she think she was driving a bus? How could she not see there was enough space for another?? It made me want to shunt that car forwards so I could also park there. But again, why put damage to my humble VW Golf? But why complain about that? We all know people who drive such cars own the road and do whatever they want.

But did I need to bother about finding a place to park outside the post office? No. They seem to close before half past four.

Next day, I went back and I found a place down the road to park. But as I was reversing out, there was this old woman crossing the road behind me, so I had to stop. And also there was this guy and a kid on a bike who decided to cross the road behind me. Why do that when it’s blatantly obvious that I was reversing. The moving car and the two white lights at the back of my car may give it away. And what was even more annoying about it… on the other side of my car was a zebra crossing. Why not use that? The council doesn’t put those things down just for fun. Sometimes I feel like beeping my horn really loud just to startle them. And maybe move back a li’l bit to put some sense into their thick skulls.

Another thing that people can’t grasp is the use of indicators. Especially when changing lanes on the Autobahn. But what gets me most is when waiting on a junction, or at a roundabout. And then a car comes along, and I wait for them to pass. But they don’t pass. They turn down that junction I’m waiting at. And because they didn’t indicate, I didn’t go and I’m still waiting for that huge line of traffic to pass that was behind that car whose driver thought the indicators were only there just for decoration.

What has been annoying me all week was the incompatibility between different computers. I’ve made a poster on Microsoft Publisher on my laptop. And the plan was to put it on the school computer and print a few copies out. But could I? Of course not. The computers at school don’t have Publisher, so I was unable to transfer it onto them. And when I tried to move it onto another program, it couldn’t decode properly. Can’t technology be faultless for once? If these technicians and scientists and such could create a spacecraft to go as far into space, or if they could create the technology to find the complete structure of the DNA double helix, I’m sure they could create something that could make all these programs compatible with each other. Even if that does mean to create just one mega-program with all of the features in one. I’m sure that’ll be more useful to everyone instead of them researching stuff like how to make the perfect pen, or how many times should someone stir milk in a cup of tea, or how many holes does it take to fill the Albert Hall.

And another thing I don’t get is how come I wake up exactly as my lesson start? Even though I did go to bed early, I somehow wasn’t disturbed by the alarms on my phone, and I got up, looked at my clock. And thought… bugger. I really should invest in a much better alarm clock. Phone clocks aren’t such good alarms. They never were.

And this week, I’ve had the joys of experiencing all those things. Maybe tomorrow will bring more experiences that will just annoy me even more. But I hope that next week will prove better.

Musique-al Instruments

Lately, I’ve had the urge to play the piano. I’m not sure why… maybe it’s because of some songs I’ve listened to there’s been some good piano playing.

Also, I’ve listened to all three movements of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Number 14, in C-Sharp Minor. (Opus 27, Number 2, to be precise!). It’s also known as Quasi una Fantasia or Moonlight Sonata. The three movements are all popular and should be familiar to all, but the fact they’re all part of the same sonata is less widely-known.

And, I was watching a famous pianist Daniel Barenboim playing it all. And it was just fantastic. I think Moonlight Sonata is my favourite piece of music, along with Beethoven’s Fifth and Ninth symphonies (especially the Second Movement of the Ninth, which is on the 15:09 minute on the first clip labelled Ninth Symphony below). They are all just something else! I do recommend you listen to them… even if you’re not into that kind of music, you’ll think they’re amazing.

There are many others, too. What’s even more extraordinary about them, Beethoven wrote them while he was going deaf, too! It’s incredible… really is. It will always be better than that kind of rap 'music' and all that.

However, it made me feel even more to play the piano again. I started to learn about ten years ago, but then after a couple of years, I stopped. I don’t know why… maybe I didn’t have time. But for whatever reason, I regret I did it.

I don’t think it’s too late to start learning again. Thing is, I’m in Germany, and I don’t have a piano. I could start looking whether there are lessons about… maybe at my school. But I may wait until I get back home. But it’s a while to go, yet!

But, I do have a harmonica, which I’m learning. I’ve had a couple for ages, but only recently I’ve started to get into it. Maybe wanting to play the piano has brought it on!

But harmonicas are more convenient than pianos. I don’t have to lug a harmonica up the stairs and be careful not to scratch or damage it. And if I’m stuck in a traffic jam, I won’t be able to get my piano out of the glove compartment and start playing away!

So, hopefully my harmonica skills will improve. May be a bit harder as I’m teaching myself from a book, and maybe the Internet now and then. But time will come.

But for now… I do recommend you listen to the three movements of Moonlight Sonata and also the fifth and ninth symphonies. They may be a bit long… but they’re really good!

I hope I’ve provided you with some entertainment, at least!

I’m going back to my harmonica now. Toodles!

Moonlight Sonata, First Movement

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E10K73GvCKU

Moonlight Sonata, Second Movement

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zs0QAA0eItU

Moonlight Sonata, Third Movement

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJeD8ckihN8

Fifth Symphony, First and Second Movements

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhcR1ZS2hVo

Fifth Symphony, Third and Fourth Movements

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDar-ycF5fE

Ninth Symphony, Part I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2AEaQJuKDY

Ninth Symphony, Part II

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSEqQsAXbJw

The Green, Green Grass Of Home

A song made famous by Tom Jones, a singer from Pontypridd, which is in one of the Welsh Valleys. It starts off by the man returning back home after a long time away. He remembers the village and the people exactly how he saw them when he left. Mary, with her golden hair and lips like cherry. That old house that could do with a lick of paint. And the old oak tree he used to play on when he was younger.

But the song has a kind of a sad ending, which isn’t the point I’m trying to make.

What I’m saying is, wherever someone is, no matter how far away, or whatever situation they’re in, they always think of home. They don’t have to think about it all the time, maybe only for a very brief moment, but home is always thought of. It doesn’t have to be the thought of a house with four walls and a door with a few windows. Home is more than that. Home is about being with family, with friends, being in the area where you grew up, even if it’s the local park. Somewhere where you spent a lot of time with the people who you’re close with.

Everyone has a home. Even if they travel around a lot. A home isn’t four walls and a roof. That’s called a house. A home is a familiar surrounding with familiar people and things surrounding. For the average person, a home is where they live, where they grew up, where they share the same place as their family. But it doesn’t have to be in a fixed position. For a Nomad, their version of home may be the desert, a couple of tents and camels. But to them, it’s home. Because they grew up that way; they’re used to that way; they live by that way. If you stick them in a brick house with heating and electricity and the like, that would not be home to them, because they never lived in that situation before. How could somewhere be a home, when you haven’t been there before? It’s the same principal for the opposite. Try putting a successful businessman, who wears a suit everyday, into the middle of the desert with a couple of camels and a turban.

So… the topic here is home. Why talk about home? Because I’m far away from it. But, I do admit that I’m not as far away from home as some, and it may be easier for me to go home than others. However, even when I’m writing this, I am also putting other people into consideration, especially the ones who feel more homesick and the ones who haven’t been home recently.

I’m not one to get homesick. I do miss family and friends when I’m away, but I don’t get down about it. I don’t cry myself to sleep every night longing for going home. I’m not like that. I can go as long as it takes being away. But sometimes, there are some things, which do make me think about home. There are also some people who I think about, namely my mother, father, brothers (not sure if they do the same, though!), my sister (who does miss me and keeps asking about my whereabouts!), and also my grandparents, and nobody could ask for a better family that mine!

There are, of course, many friends of mine back home who I also think about all the time. I’m sure they know who they are, as the list is a bit long to name all.

But what got me to write all this, is because earlier this evening, I was talking to my mother via the Internet, and then she mentioned that my sister, Selina, and nearly five years old, keeps asking where I am. I’m sure I’m safe to say that I’m very close to my young sister, even though there’s about 15 years between us. I often take her in the car to places, to visit our grandparents and other family members. I wouldn’t like to compare the relationship between us to our brothers, though. But me and my sister are rather close, I guess. Apparently, she has the same characteristics and personality as me when I was her age. I’m too young to remember a lot of detail about it, but even now, I can see myself when I see her. It’s weird, but it’s nice to see.

But to have a sister is something I always wanted to have. I have two younger brothers, and after the youngest, Lloyd was born, I thought I’d never have a sister then. And I always wondered what it would be like. And then, at the early stages of my mother’s pregnancy, I dreaded of what will become. I didn’t want a brother again, even though in the end, I’ll be happy whatever. And when I heard the ‘blunt’ news from my father of having a sister, I was all for it. I was looking forward to the day when there was finally a girl in the family.

And since she was born, she has been an important part of my life. And I’m happy to have a sister like Selina. And sometimes, I find it weird being so far away from her for so long, when we were often together in the same room. Admittedly, she can be annoying sometimes when she begs to change the channel to watch some people dressed up as fat aliens eating plastic toast, or when she shoves a sticker book on top of the newspaper asking you to stick things in it, or when she even manages to kick you off the computer so she can play games she can’t play. But that’s how kids are at that age. And looking back at it, it’s comical on how they act and behave. And I think, it’s the wicked and mischievous, yet loving behaviour of hers that I miss mostly.

I also noticed that, when Cellan or Lloyd (my two brothers) come home from college or work or a weekend away, Selina doesn’t tend to greet them like me, she may be still lying on the settee or at least wait by the door. If I’ve been away for a weekend, maybe even for the whole day, she hears my (distinctively sounding) car going up the street, and presses against the upstairs window, and then, before I park the car, she’s standing on top of the steps outside waiting for me. Maybe she does that with the others, but I haven’t seen it.

I don’t know what it is, or what makes it happen, but the two of us are close. Very close, I guess. And hopefully it’ll stay that way, even though I’m not there. I won’t even be there for her fifth birthday. But I’m sure I’ll be there in spirit!

But for everyone, the hardest part of being away is being away from home, family and friends. And one reconciliation is that I’ll be seeing them again soon. And until then, I think I can hold out, as so can everyone else!

Selina in the most recent photo I have of her.

Posing for the camera in one of those funny expressions she often does.

Bless...

Der Rheinturm

The Rheinturm. For those who don’t know what it is, it’s the tallest building in Düsseldorf, Germany. It transmits the signals for radio and television, and it even has a restaurant on top. How original.

However, what is original is what’s on the wall of the tower. I knew of it before, but never actually seen it. I went to the city last week for some course type thing with other assistants, and we visited the Landtag, which is the parliament house for Nordrhein-Westfalen and also happens to be neighbours with the tower.

And going through my photos, I kept looking at the dots of light going up the tower. White, red and yellow dots of light, and these lights kept changing and flashing. It’s intriguing when looking at it. Such an original thing. And what is it?

The world’s largest digital clock.

Now, when we think of digital clocks, we think of squared-off numbers made of lines, which blink on your wrist.

But digital doesn’t have to be just made of numbers. Digital is something computerised or electronically driven. So even lights or anything can be a clock, as long as they represent the numbers of the clock, of course.

So, how can a series of blinking lights be a clock?

It’s quite simple, really. On this particular clock on the Rheinturm, it is divided into three sections, each dividing into two sub-sections. Reading from the top, we have hours in 10s, then the hours in 1s, then the minutes in 10s and then the minutes in 1s and then the seconds in tens and then the seconds.

Each main section is divided by red lights. The only lights not to change.

So… how does it all come together?

The seconds start from the bottom up. So, one second shows 1 white light. Two seconds show 2 white lights. Three seconds show 3 white lights. And so on.

When is reaches the tenth second, the first light on the sub-section above (the seconds in 10s) light up. And the seconds start again. So, for the twelfth second, there are 2 second lights, but one 10-second light. And the process carries on this way, by every ten seconds, another light on the 10-second section lights up. Such as 4 second lights and three 10-second lights are lit for 34 seconds.

When is comes to the 59th second, there are 9 second lights and 5 10-second lights visible. And the 60th second (or first minute) is shown by the first 1-minute light showing. And then the process starts again until the tenth minute. And when the time comes for 9 minutes and 59 seconds to pass (which will show as nine 1-second lights, five 10-second lights and nine 1-minute lights), the first 10-minute light will show.
This all repeats itself in the same way, up until the 59:59, only a second before the first hour. Then all those lights will switch off, and then the first 1-hour light will glow. And the process starts again for that hour.

And when the time is 0959 (in the morning, remember that these Germans believe in 24 hour clocks), the lights on the tower will be showing the nine 1-second lights, five 10-second lights and nine 1-hour lights. Then a flash of all the lights will happen, then they’ll all disappear, apart from one. Which will be right up top on the 10-hour section. But it’ll only be by itself for a second.

And then the process starts all over again.

And then it goes through all that during the day and into the evening, until 1959 (the time, not the year).

So, for eight o’clock in the evening, there’s another big flash of those lights, just like 10 in the morning. But then, after that, there are two lights in the 10-hour section. Meaning the time is 2000 hours. Or 8pm.

So, when it’s coming up to midnight, the light will be showing as (for 23:59): nine 1-second lights, five 10-second lights, three 1-hour lights and two 10-hour lights.

But because the day has 24 hours, it doesn’t go any further. There are no more lights. So the whole thing is restarted from scratch.

But looking at it, it’s very interesting, and also logical to work out. It isn’t as easy as looking at a couple of numbers, but it’s very original. Though it seems doubtful it’ll catch on in the wrist watch market, it’s something that will attract people, intrigue people and get them thinking for once.

To see a smaller online version of the clock in action, there’s a website which is on computer design, and mentions the clock and a li’l diagram of it ticking away.

http://www.behind-the-web.com/index.html

The Rheintur and the Landtag. The time here is 18:15:49.

Click on the image to enlarge!

At the going down of the Sun, and in the morning...

Just a thought. I was reading a recent post from Emily on her blog, and it reminded me… what does Remembrance Day mean to the Germans?

To us British, and also Canadians and Americans and other nations of the Allied forces, Remembrance Day is one of the most important days on our calendars. Not only because it has all the elevens, but also because it’s the main (but not only) day of the year when we remember the fallen soldiers and also civilians during the wars over the past years.

Many people believe it’s just the Great War and the Second World War that are remembered. But what about the other wars fought across the world? The Korean? The Boer? The Falklands? Also the Vietnam and Gulf wars should be thought about. And not only wars of before, but also the wars, which are being fought today and the ones who are fighting in them should also be remembered and praised.

To me, Remembrance Day is an important day. From the beginning of November, I wear a poppy, and even in Germany, I wore a poppy. And it’s still on my jacket. Before leaving for Germany a couple of months ago, I brought poppies out with me, so I could wear one out here.

But out here, I don’t know if they realise what this poppy means. Even though they grew in the battlefields not far away, they seem oblivious to it. I have been wearing it everyday since the beginning of this month, and nobody asked me what it meant. Did they know already? Or didn’t they want to ask? Do the German people refuse to know about it and are trying to forget everything about the Wars?

However, to my class, I did ask them what was pinned to my jacket, and one reply I had was; “Is it a rose that your girlfriend gave you?” Seems a bit obvious that Remembrance Day (or at least our tradition of Remembrance Day) is alien to them. But also, even though these flowers grew in the battlefields on the French border, some French people don’t know what this poppy means.

Last week in Düsseldorf, I was with many other assistants, some of them French. And at the time, I was wearing a French rugby shirt with a poppy below the cockerel badge. And a French guy came up to me, and asked, “Are you wearing the French rugby shirt and the English Rose to show your support of rugby between us?”

First of all, I don’t wear English rugby shirts. And second, the poppy I was wearing resembled nothing like a red rose.

I don’t know how the French commemorate Remembrance Day, but I’m sure they do, anyway. Though it seems the European continent isn’t familiar with the way we do things. Though it may be interesting when and how they do…

Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the ceremony this year back home. For the first time in seven years, I was absent from marching with my Air Training Corps squadron and also the veterans in the parade. For the past three years, I was the Standard Bearer for the local Royal British Legion branch at Pontardawe, but earlier this year, I had to finish the post due to my time going to Germany.

Even though Remembrance Day and other days of commemoration are important to me, I don’t come from a military background. From the top of my head, only five people in my (large) family have been in (or still members of) the military. My maternal grandfather was in the RAF during the Second World War; the brother of my paternal grandfather was a Warrant Officer in the RAF; and my uncle and auntie were also in the RAF and my cousin is currently based in Mönchengladbach with the Army Air Corps. Though the rest also reckon that Remembrance Day is important and also contribute in one way or another.

But will Remembrance Day be as important in Germany as it is in Britain? Maybe. I think so. The Germans have obviously been through more than the Average Joe regarding the Wars, the East and the West, the Wall, and also the years of humiliation and, to some degree, tormenting by some people who still hate them for what the former governments have done. And it is less than twenty years ago since it has all been normal in Germany. And only time will tell when the German equivalent of Remembrance Day may or may not be one of the most important days in the calendar.

Whatever may come of it, what has happened cannot go away from the memories and thoughts of people. And people should remember and praise the ones who fought, suffered, died and survived during wars over the years. The Germans are not proud of what happened, even though it wasn’t the fault of the people. It was not the people who did it, but the governments at the time.

Before coming to Germany, one of the locals at the pub said, “Why the Hell do you want to go to Germany to learn German and teach them English? They’re all Nazis! They killed us; your grandfather was fighting against them! Blah, blah…”

But I told him, it is true that Germans killed British, but they were ordered to. And they’re not Nazis, they’re Germans, Two different things, there. The government sent people to war. The government brainwashed the people into Nazism and fascism. But they are not proud of what happened, they want to forget that and make up for what they did. And today, Germany is a successful nation, with the largest European economy. And by going out there to teach them English, it shows that we’re not at each other’s throats anymore. And yes, they did kill us and we did the same to them. But what would you do in that situation? Kill, or be killed?

Today, many people are still ignorant to the relations between Germany and the countries who fought against them. Many people still think they’re Nazis and still go around locking people up in camps. Let them think that, but it’s them who are the racists in the end. And often, they don’t want to know the present situation, they don’t care that the Germans make the best cars, they don’t want to know that half of their electrical products are German, they don’t want to know that Germany is en par with Britain. They still want to believe that Germany is still run by an eccentric Austrian with a funny moustache.

But with this attitude still around, could it be possible for Germany and the Germans to fully come to terms with what happened more than half a century ago? Could it be possible for Germany and the Germans to commemorate the wars like us?

Things like these don’t happen overnight. It may still take a long time before everyone forgives Germany for what has happened. Until then, German people will quietly do it their own way and in their own time. And who knows, maybe the German population will be wearing the poppy.

But until then, Lest We Forget.

The Layout

After posting the blogs about my adventure… I noticed that the photos were placed in odd places. Just to point out, that it’s a bit difficult trying to put things where you want them on here. The feature for the photos and where to place them is a bit crap. And the preview lies, too.

And when I want to change the alignment on a paragraph, the whole text shifts with it. Must computer and technology be that awkward? Why can’t it just do what it’s told, instead of deciding to do its own thing?

Trains, Changes and Automobiles

Tuesday, 4 November 2008.

School is finally over, and therefore time to hastily make my way to the train station in time for my train back down Süd to Bingen. The train journey was over three hours long, I left at half past two, and had to be at the car park before seven that evening, otherwise, my car would be once again locked up.

But just like the night before, the train journey was rather boring. But I did have my phone and camera this time! So it wasn’t all so bad. I also had a writing book with me, in which I wrote all this to occupy myself, and in case I forgot what went on!

So… got on the train at the station in Recklinghausen and happened to site behind some drunk teenagers who made quite a bit of noise… vulgar and otherwise. In the end, this Turkish guy had a right go at them for saying something about the Turks. Was interesting. But they shut up after that… or went quieter, at least.

This train journey would be better that the one from the last night, this time, it was daylight, it was warmer, I had stuff to pass the time, and there wasn’t any long waits, and each platform I needed was always next to the one I got off. Cushty! And the changes were at the same places as before, Essen, Köln and Koblenz.

The sign for Essen station. I was getting closer...

And I got to Bingen Hauptbahnhof at six o’clock, and quickly made my way to the car park to retrieve my car. But I had trouble getting out once I got there. I didn’t know where I could play for the parking. I looked for signs everywhere and eventually found the machine behind a door signed ‘Notausgang’… even though it was also the door to the shopping centre above. And who puts access to the machine and store behind a door, which is only signed as the emergency exit?

This car park was not making any good impression on me.

So, at the machine, I put in my card. 24 Euros parking fee. I’d have preferred to play Monopoly’s free parking…

And where do I put in the notes? There’s a coin slot, but I have not got any coins adding to 24 Euros. And there was another slot, wasn’t signed for notes, and it looked a bit too wide for them. So I went upstairs to the service centre in the middle of the store and asked this guy about it. He seemed to be happy to speak in English, even though he couldn’t. My German was better, but he didn’t want to speak it. Idiot.

So he explained that the wide slot is for notes, after all. So I went back downstairs and started to pay. And it took me a while to get to the payment bit… as there were only two buttons, and one of them was to cancel. And as I was paying, the guy just appeared in the lift and asked it I was alright… I wish I could have told him this whole story. He seemed to be fond of the word ‘bye’, too…

Mein PKW!

So… I eventually got out of that place (I even managed to use the barrier machine on the other side of the car)! I just wanted to go home… and so I made my way onto the Autobahn, and after a couple of hours driving, I was back in Recklinghausen once more with my car!

I bet John McCain was having a better day in all…