UAE Unfettered

Some days, in the evenings when it cools off to 33 degrees Centigrade, when ALL the Jordanian, Syrian, Palastinian, Iraqi, Irani, Sudani, and Zanzibari kids are out to play, it just sometimes pays to take the back roads to the local Eppco gas station to buy a Gulf News and some chocolate. Some days you just get tired of wave after wave of brave little loving yet well-brainwashed souls coming up to you, asking: “ente fie Muslim?” (is it possible that you are Muslim)? La, la, ana mafie Muslim, no it is not possible that I am a Muslim.

Ana fie Christian, and genuflecting like the catholic I am not (protestant that I am), from my forehead to my chest. Ana fie, the only white guy in this neighbourhood. Ana fie, the oh so damn strategically placed elephant / mouse (depending on how you categorize 105kg of the pure muscle boundedness of middle age), of the Russian mafia, the missing link in what ever chain of events you care to start a rumour about, the cool-calm-collected Canadian in your neighbourhood, AND your worst: “attack-kelb”, night mare, as far as you know, my well-brainwashed little friend – you whose infant brother will fear dogs now for the rest of his life because of your little stunt of frantically pushing the poor little bastard towards Golden Guardian Angel Joki, as you went off screaming “HARAM!!!!”, running away, screaming and hollering. Pretty comical I must say ‘cept for the terrified screams of your little brother and the close up whites of eyes. Lucky for you, Golden guardian angel Joki had his muzzle and chest harness on, eh? With me holding him back, eh? Shoulda’ just sic’d him on ya, well-brainwashed poor little coward.

“Kelb! Kelb!” Dog! Dog! “Wen Kelb?” Where’s your dogs? Where’s my dogs? Where’s my two prized, show-winning Amstaffs? They’re gone from this slum area, my little friends. Yes, that’s right, wee shababs, the kelbs have both moved into choice villas respectively in Jumaira and Jebel Ali. Yes, I miss them terribly. Mother of Ahmed, I realize I no longer am providing the target for the children’s rock throwing game but you see UUM Ahmed, sometime you just have to engage the TMKAS and let it do its work subtly and effectively while you carry on living in one of the many slums of Arabia. Please get off the hood of my car Mojohamed – IT IS NOT A PARK BENCH - and stop kicking the soccer ball into the driver’s door, Mojo, thanks. Have you considered professional mental help for your little monstermuslim child, mom and dad? Ever heard of riddlin, mom and dad? Yeah, I’m the Middle East supplier – come one, come all. Wistful thinking.

So instead... the Tactical Muslim Kid Avoidance System kicks in automatically with a smile to sooth the abrubt, upfront, prevalent, soulless youthful angst yet absence of any of it really, that engulfs this particular slum of Arabia. How effective the TMKAS is has everything to with whenever Magrib (evening prayer) decides to roll around with the setting of the desert sun. Magrib thankfully gets a majority of these kids off the street and back home with mom, whose not allowed in most mosques, while daddy goes to pray along with millions of faithful, in response to the local Imam’s 200-metre, technologically-aided wail.

Much less of a workload for the TMKAS in the hour of Magrib. Following, Muslim kids return to the streets in full force. Then finally, later, bed time intervenes in intervals by age, dwindling the seething yackity flock, further reducing the TMKAS workload. The main feature of TMKAS, which is of course, very necessary here in the midst: a human-synapse-powered, precision point-to-point, back-ally instinctual navigation kit on board.

La! Ana fie ‘a different religion than Islam’ don’t ya know. And it ain’t all about the little piece of property your pals sold to the other big-nosed folks on the shore of the mediteranian, believe it or not. Religons other than islam exist in this big, big world, you know. And there’s much huger problems in the world to worry about than a real estate deal gone bad. Wanna go let your narrow-minded father know these fundamental things about life please, thanks.

Ask him this: if he really feels so strongly about it why ain’t he and all the rest of his country men back over there right now, fighting for their little piece of real estate instead of hiding out here in the Gulf making provoking, armchair comments about a thing he’s so, so far removed from? Oh wait a minute, never mind. And now, please get off the hood of my car, Mojohamed, and stop kicking the soccer ball into the driver’s door thanks. Look, there’s hundreds of cars here in the parking lot try one of those over there K? Thanks. You poor little, souless, well-brainwashed Muslim kid. Welcome to the horizontal societies of the world. See if you can evolve from your 4000 year-old barbarism before lunch tomorrow, please, thanks.

Of all the wonderful folks I’ve had the pleasure to meet and deal with in my life, American Muslims are the nicest, W'Allah! (I swear by almighty god!!!) If you’ve ever had the yearning to work for an american muslim, I urge you now to jump at the chance. It’s an exhilarating experience, to say the least. If you come to the UAE to work with _______, keep an eye out for the muslim american people in this company. Seek them out. Get to know them. Be their friends. Why should you do these things? Because it is they who will bend over backwards to help you. Every step of the way, in your new overseas post, in the middle of the desert, they will help you – W'Allah! (I swear by almighty god!!!), they will help you.

Every American Muslim I ever met was extremely helpful in every way possible - Ya Allah! (Praise be to god!), the most high and his messenger Mojo-hamed (peace be upon him, brother)! In fact, I would even go so far to say that if it weren’t for the american muslims I’ve met over here, I’d be in far different circs than I am now. May Allah (god) heap multitudes of blessings upon them for their kindnesses towards me in this regard.

I’ve been in the UAE for a thousand years now, working for ________ a Canadian company who has had, (up to now at least), a contract with the department of _________ in the UAE to deliver __________ Instruction to Emirati boys in vocational high schools.

Sounds like a really sweet deal doesn’t it? I read in a forum on an absolutely wonderful site for UGH!, that _________ is actively recruiting new teachers for this year.It’s nice to hear rumors that they are in fact getting the contract again this year. I started on with _______ a way back when – one thousand years hence. Therefore you can trust me as a guy with a VAST! VAST! VAST! amount of UAE experience, Middle East, and/or other international experience in general.

Oh yeah, I am: “the real Slim Shady”, to boot. Yes that’s right folks. “Zisooksike a job for me so everybody (pause) jist follow me…”, etc. (with only slight apologies to Malcom Marshall, Marshall Malcom).

Something that I couldn’t seem to get my head around in the first couple of months of working for ______ is how a Canadian company’s project in the Middle East, 12, 000 kilometres from its HQ in T.O., could still function as a Canadian company’s project with a such a VAST! (there’s that word again!), number of mostly ameri-muslim convert managers on the project that worked for another company on the same project previously – a company whose contract performance back then was bad enough to lose the contract for them, namely SuSPECT?

Rumour and fact both have it that SuSPECT lost the contract because of mismanagement of the project in general.Naturally, I was utterly amazed to discover within a month or two of working with ______, that many of the key leadership positions in ______ were filled mainly by the very same lead teachers and managers that had been in place for the SuSPECT company’s attempt at contract delivery. Eventually though, I came to understand that these leaders in place with ______ were indeed good men, men of real character – after all most of them were Ameri-Muslim converts.

Actually, last year one of the bleeps with _____ was simply an American – rather than the double whammy of being Muslim and American, and a couple of the bleeps were simply Muslims (rather than the double whammy, etc. – you get the picture) who happened to be (ahem) Canadian instead of American.“How could SuSPECT go wrong then, having had so many good men of real character leading the way for them?”, was the question I turned over again and again in my head as I adjusted to the 45-degree July/August/September heat.

And then, slowly but surely, as the ambient heat baked me to a light olive brown crisp, I began to see the light of ______’s complex leadership structure. Then suddenly, I had an Epiphany, as it were. In that moment, I understood (or claimed to), that the leadership of _______’s project in UAE is in fact built on that good ol’ fashioned notion that men of real character, in fact, rise to the challenge of leadership NO MATTER WHICH company they happen to be employed by.

At that moment, I too may have converted to Isssslammmm had it not been for the distraction of the gorgeously face-painted, hot-legged “night butterfly” clicking her stilletos through the lobby of the Metropolitan, looking a bit richer than she was two minutes ago and slightly flushed. I lost my train of thought completely my wide eyes on the night butterfly. I stared with the guiltlessness of a real Muslim’s soul and thought nothing further of complex leadership structures. Instead I found myself at that moment filled with jealous yearning at the wonderful freedom that Islam's guilt-free living must bring. Heck, if I get 70 young virgins to pleasure me sexually in heaven anyway, (once I happen to martyr myself in the neighborhood Mulla's version of "holy war" anyway), why not start now?

Oh, how I’d love to emulate and imitate the good men of real character leading ________’s project. These men are the ones to be lauded. Muslims by birth yet full-frontal citizens of the western world. "Amerimuslims", tired of the “two-faced nature” of all of the freedoms that North America guarantees them as passport holders. Desert-returning, burnt out American managers who no longer work for American companies (for SOME reason, mmm...), preferring rather to return to “the ____ project” and have another go at “management in the Middle East” (after their previous company was booted off the project for mismanagement).

These are the types of men who, here in the UAE, have risen through the ranks of by virtue of their demonstrated, seemingly almost naïve’, acts of faith alone. Add to that their markedly simple-yet-determined tendencies towards honesty, nobility, and chivalry, all virtues upheld by the honest, no-nonsense religion that they decided to take-on later in life, or even, having not yet taken it on, at least, have become the clockwork middlemen giving outstanding performances as being necessarily subservient towards Muslim managers higher-up in the company.

Having enjoyed a thousand pleasurable years working with such honourable, exemplary specimens of what it really means to be a Muslim, an effective leader, a good person, and a man of real character, I look forward with great anticipation to the day when I can find some way to return the favours these beautiful people have heaped upon me in the last three years.

I yearn for the day when I can repay what I owe these good men of real character. So much so that I will now I swear before Allah (almighty god), to one day return their kindnesses, if any of our paths have the destined privilege of crossing again. Hang on to your seats boys, really tight now! Cuz I’m a comin’ thru! YEEEEEHAAAAAAW!

As for the Arabic language and culture in the UAE, they remain as mysterious and sultry as ever and if any of y’all want a piece of the UAE pie, get ready for “the bull-ride” of your life, so to speak. Enjoy it. It may last a thousand years or only eight seconds, but it’ll be the best damn thousand-years-forward-slash-eight-seconds of your life! Git' along “little doughggy”!

Eye's about to show you the ropes, "ma nigga! got me ma own personal nigga", (Densel Washington to Ethan Hawk in Training Day). Ya bettah concentrate ya’ heah’ me boy?! Ya’ heah’ me, boy?! That’s right! That’s what I’m talkin’ about, right heah, boy.

My advice to anyone who wishes to “teach” on _______’s project in the UAE, is to convert to Islam first then obtain an American passport somehow, some way. It seems to me that these two skills above all others will be the most highly sought after by ________’s project in the UAE next year. One exception may be the unflinching "skill" of looking bored when a very-well-mannered, nice, fifteen-year-old Iranian boy with a big Iranian nose, and immunity (a local UAE passport), whose father runs the police station down near the beach, pulls a six inch knife on you and waves it under YOUR nose and says, jokingly, OF COURSE: “teecha’, I will kill you now”.

Relax man, he’s just acting out normal adolescent urges, you’ll be fine me-lad. Tell the headmaster everything is fine in your class and that you have no discipline problems with the boys, that they love their English language lessons too, and that you love them all like your brothers, and Allah be praised, naturally. Have a bit of a laugh and think about how you used to have to tell your little brother to quit bugging you as you try to do serious things. Find and use that tone of voice now, calmly, and tell the 15-year old with the knife to sit down and please put his knife away, thanks. Oh yeah, remember also to give him a passing mark on the month-end test because your head master, lead teacher, and current project manager/smelly-breathed clown told you to do so inorder to keep your job, and ALSO OF COURSE, because the young man demonstrated such good English speaking skills in the above knife-nose encounter with a native English speaker.

Welcome, please. "Teecha, U R good teecha, W’Allah! U R good teecha!” Uh, thanks, I guess. W'Allah? Do you really swear by the almighty god that I am a good teacher? Well tie me to a fuggin' purebred racehorse and have him drag me a couple times round the fuggin' 1/4 mile! I'll be a swaggering drunkard! Young Yahya here thinks I'm a good teacher. Isn't that special? Anyone got a whip so I can turn his young Arab ass red for all the shit he's put me through in his classroom this year?! Come on, anyone! Step right up don't be shy, my lovely Arab boys here need a good whuppin' every once in a minute. Daddy didn't whup 'im, mummy didn't whup 'im, nanny didn't whup 'im. I ask you then, who's it left to to whup the asses of these boys into the Arab men they emulate only by their brashness and disregard for anything other than the barbarism they seem so to relish? The teacher, the headmaster, the Indian storemen who endure the boys thieving tomfoolery, the police that are charged with curbing the societal rablerousing of their younger brothers. That's who. I ain't nevr raised a hand agin one of em. You know why? I ain't Arab. I ain't Iranian. I don't have hot Arab blood in me. I'm the most patient man on the earth when it comes to dealing with the PUNTERS - to borrow the infamous youthful English alias. Because I happen to care about these pea-brained buttheads. But damn, I seen the Arab teachers and the headmasters get pretty vicious on their asses - drawing blood, in fact.

Did I mention to y'all that the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only girl for me? My apologies, Wa ALLAH! (I swear by almighty god!!!!), I simply keep forgetting to tell people that. A Non-Muslim, Non-American in the UAE is what I am, thank Allah (the most high god).


Drivel drivel,
drivel on, the devil's
in the wings of
the eastern religion's
domes and parapats.
gold leaf and
inner emptyness
glazed eyes, five daily
water up the nose

o woman outlawed
you kant pray here!
the petty temptation
of men behind you
staring
at your raised bum
when you touch
your forehead
faithfully to the
ground before god
keeps you bound

and is the fuggin excuse
they seriously gave

gay muslim men though?
aroused by
raised arses
of their brothers
in the mosque?!
appear allowed to stay
kutchy kutchy, koo,
"teacha, i love you"

OUTRAGE!!!!
FATWA upon the head
of the writer!!!!
kill the author!!!
satanic verses:
the devil lives in the
phalic / islamic
parapat

quit, already, okay?
peter out!
ineffective
subhuman
repressive
'means'
to
almighty god

peter out, quickly.
mojo and your
band of merry
warlords of old
you embarass
the 21st century
middle east

I received a job offer from the King Fahad University of Petroleum Engineering in Saudi Arabia – a two year renewable for 97,400 Saudi Riyals a year plus tickets plus a house plus transport money plus help for the children’s tuition up to eighteen, providing the school is in Saudi and “approved” by KFUPE. Not bad certainly, but that would be teaching English - a passion for me but not my real super intensive passionate passion/specialty - that of taking on and succesfully completing intensely intensive technical projects of various types. It's what I did afore. That is why it exites me a lot to have recieved an offer from the you-ay-ee Armed Forces doing just that - intensly intensive technical projects.

Right now, I’m a good ways thru the process of being hired by the you-ay-ee army, theirs is a two year renewable, blahblah dhs a year, plus this and that perks to make it quite worth while. I feel like I’m balancing on the edge of a huge razor blade, and that if I should move but a millimetre, my manhood would be cleft in two followed by the rest of me. We wait. The army has guaranteed me twice verbally of a concrete offer and have spent the man-hours to examine me medically – I passed, and to examine my past as though I were a royal of England r’ sumpim laik a’t (editor: since this was written i've passed that too). All the way back to kindergarten! Now they want to speed up the immigration process for me and I am stuck in the spot of asking my former employer who suddenly wants very little to do with me, for a ‘no objection letter’. This letter should state that they have no objection to release me.

Suddenly Blah Pinoche’ is hedging on this point. I don’t know why but it causes me extra headaches which don’t have to be at all. He claims it’s easier for Suspect to cancel my visa than to write me a simple letter of release. Makes absolutely no sense at all to me and at the same time exposes Blah Pinoche’ for what he is – I don’t have to spell it out. All those who know Blah, or have worked for him in the past know exactly what I’m talking about.

All I can say is I’d love to be his boss for just one day so I could feed him some of the same crap he’s been forcing on all his employees - especially those of us who are not muslim and not from america, for the past two years. I swear the guy is tough to deal with. He doesn’t trust anyone. I feel like I’m listening to a jilted lover every time he subjects me to more of his weird philosophies of ISSSLLAAAMICCC digestion and “listtening-to-your-innner-dialoguue.” Sounds suspicious, at the very least, if not a clear sign of Blah's chronic depression that has since led to a psychosis in him of some kind, (says the layman psychologist of magnanimous proportions).

Blah wanted to “chat” again. I have already endured his monologues while trapped in his office three times already. Much ado about nothing. Wonder how fast he’ll decide to move once all the armed forces of you-ay-ee are brought to bear on him and they begin asking for my release? A Cog in the wheel he claims he is now. Pretty power hungry cog I'd say - if his comical, empty-threat laden troop-barking at ALL of us at the beginning of this year was any indication. Cog in the wheel? Really, Blah? I think you’re just protecting you’re ass. Fine by me. I too will protect my interests. Find someone else to diddle and then say hello to my new work FAMILY, the Yu-ay-eee Armed forces.

Guys like Blah, who think they need to protect their asses all the time instead of doing their jobs, really oughta be reminded every once in awhile just what it is that they should be protecting their asses against – ie an inevitable onslaught.

It is August here. The country still sleeps but it is soon to wake up. Probably around August 20th or so, is my guess - which is as good as any other guess of a person who embarks on their fourth year here in the desert. The place that employs me has given me 96 hours of instruction time for August. at eighty five per, that’s not too bad. I can pay some bills. Need to talk to the money guy regarding getting an advance otherwise I’ll be up caca-creek without an arabic-style toilet hose to spray-clean my bum with, in a few more days. Car payment, loan payment, house payment all descending on me, rapidly.

It is July 13th, Tuesday Today, and I went for Goulat (walking) with my wife to the police station so that they could register me. But first we had to walk between the moon and New York City in order to get to the passport office to ask what has to be done to register me. The passport office – the employees of which regularly register numerous foreigners to Russia proper, from close, former federation countries like Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, said they don’t know about me because I’ a real foreigner from real far away, Canada.

The woman in the passport office gave us the number of the foreign affairs office in Ekaterinburg city centre. Meanwhile, we went to the police station and inquired about how to register me but as well to inquire about Dima’s passport renewal and how that will affect his residence permit. The policeman was somewhat surprised that we had come to his office to register, given that his office usually deals with registering crimes. Smiling sardonically, he asked my wife if we had a crime to register. She said thanks, no, and we took our leave. They too had no idea what we had to do to get me registered before we leave.

It’s apparently important though, because if I don’t register with the police, when I leave on the thirtieth of July, the immigration police will black-mark me as a foreigner that upset the Russian law system by not registering as a foreigner, even though the same immigration department has a file on me already contain things like a copy of the required official invitation letter my mother-in-law sent to me to come to visit her, and a copy of the three month Russian visit-visa granted to me in Dubai by the Russian consulate.

I made sarcastic remarks while walking with my wife, all the way home and she returned with: “Rowberrt, spikolsi! (Be still, be at peace, and relax) this is normal. You are in Russia now. Don’t worry we will find a way. We will try again tomorrow.” OK… What the hell ELSE am I supposed to say?!

Again, in the span of three years I am twice a complete foreigner (once in UAE and once in Russia), not knowing the language, the culture, or the customs. In this vacuum, the only thing else I really can say is that I am sure glad I am here with family who is Russian rather than simply some poor English speaking Canadian sod, on his own, who knows absolutely nothing about this huge and different country with all its post communist, post-perestroika, slightly mafia-tainted machinations and its altogether tough, tough history.

Here we are in Ekaterinburg, Yekaterinburg, Sverdlovsk, and enjoying every minute, thank you very much. Mostly because we're with family and for myself personally - I’assumed responsibility for a highly intensive intense technical project: to fix up the balcony. I bought a Russian circular saw today for 2200 Rubbles which at 29 rubble a dollar Am. is 75 bucks American or 105 Canadian dollars. Not bad eh? Solid Russian technology for 105 Ca-bucks. I’ll take one please.

"Mom, he's a Taurus" explained my wife to my M.I.L.: “he will make everything very accurately.”Much as I condemn the very idea of astrology as sophisticated snake oil, I cannot help but live up to that assessment, it is my nature to get things done right - so much so that I get bogged down with one small detail of a project and I won't let it go til it's "perfect". The goal of staying on the good side of mom2 by preforming a revamping miracle on her balcony shouldn't be too much of a leap. Why am I fixing up the balcony, you may ask? Well, we’re going to put her flat up for sale. It's actually my wife's flat but it's in her mom's name for legal reasons regarding an ex husband with a vengance. Also mom2 wants very much to be near her daughter and grandson (soon to be two grandsons!) now in her latter years, so she's decided to move down to the Emirates with us. The house will come in handy to pay for upcoming university education, saving for the future, etc.

July 11th, Sunday

Two words: not cold. This Siberian city of two million lies in the same parallel with my home town. Hence the summer is much the same as a home town summer. That is, extremely pleasant, temperatures averaging 20 to 25 degrees Celsius. Of course, summer is only three and a half months long in my home town. Here too summer is much shorter than winter – about three and a half months.

July 12th, Monday

So now after five days I am finished my honey-given project: the balcony. I used left over Wood laminate siding from Ioulia’s previous apartment repair in 2001, plus one packet of 11 boards from Germany bought at “Bakjevanagee” supermarket for all your renovating needs for 380 rubbles. For a mere 1000, or so, rubbles, all together, (glue, corner pieces, what not), for the fixing up of mom2's balcony – that’s 30 bucks American - lets say fifty american to account for unsaid costs.

Turned out not too bad if I may say so myself. The floor was extremely out of level because the concrete balcony base is sagging. So we took care of that too by building a frame and levelling the floor. The floor boards consist of some of Ioulia’s old furniture. It looks really great nailed to the balcony floor.

Russian Billiard tables are designed with small two and half inch openings for the holes. It is very tough to get your angles right. If you think you're good at 8-ball you better adjust your thinking before you try to get good at russian billiards cuz you know what? Not only are the holes smaller, the balls are much bigger than 8-ball balls! Virtually impossible to sink. I had real troubles on this table. This is coming from a guy who lived in a house with a pool table and I played often. I think even my little brother Bernie, who always beat me at pool would have some serious challanges on a Russian billiards table.

The angles have to be right on or you might as well kiss the shot goodbye. Volodia handed me a book on Strategies of Russian billiards. I read the first page with my wife's help and ended that day with a big headache. Criptic visions of cyrillic letters danced before my eyes as I slept. I still knew nothing of the strategies of Russian billiards save for my interpretations of the vector diagrams I studied fruitlessly, drawn on every second page.

They have some real serious ham and beef sausage featured at the little store in Lobnia. They tasted very expensive and that fact added to my pangs of already existant guilt for staying in Moscow for very durn cheap and having very little in the way of cash, with Ioulia’s Uncle and aunt. I was going to leave 100 bucks american in the house clandestinely at the end but my wife caught me said don't do it, it will be looked at like a big insult besides they're family. So I resolved to return the favor big time when they come to visit us down in the Emirates next time! In spite of my pangs, I managed to enjoy the expensive sausages alot almost every meal - cooked, boiled, fried, baked - with other stuff too of course - and barbequed outside. Very nice time altogether in Lobnia, actually. Very restfull. Very nice weather. No mozzies. Wish we coulda stayed an extra few days in Lobnia.

July 3rd, 2004 We are now on the train to Ekaterinburg and I have to write quickly because there is no main power on the train. Spent the night sleeping on the train. On Friday, yesterday my wife prepared food for the train in Tuete Marina’s kitchen. My wife and step son bought for us high class tickets without realizing that food was included in the ticket price. So now we wait to be invited for lunch in the dining car, after downing a home prepared breakfast. Thought I would have the opportunity to take lots of pictures on the train but our window’s pretty small – have to see what the dining car offers in that department.

Yesterday and the day before we swam in a small lake thirty miles out of Moscow near a town called Lubnoi. Very nice little lake. Very freaking cold. I now have a bit of an ear infection it feels like in my left ear. We are due to arrive in Ekaterinburg this morning at 5:30. Not sure who will meet us – probably we will go by bus or taxi to Mother in law’s place. The sun has gone almost down outside the train window both wife and step son are engaged in reading and or sleeping already. As for me, I slept soundly two hours post lunch so I am as wide awake as a jack rabbit being hunted.

This Russian countryside is quite something to see. Very similar to Canadian prairies, and also to the foothills of the Canadian Rockies area in Western Alberta. Same vegetation, same trees. There are a lot of birch and spruce trees lining either side of the tracks here. Saw a whole bunch of quaint looking farm dachas that look a whole lot like Western/Southern Alberta farm houses with one major difference. Here, every house we pass is old and rundown, as if waiting for the national economy to one day soon bounce back – no new paint, harly any new buildings anywhere. In the backyard of many of the houses, however, there is evidence of how sturdy Russians really are when it comes to surviving the tough years. Green houses appear growing who knows what, but surely all is saleable, after feeding the family first.

It was the same where Volodia has his dacha. Well, almost the same. What it looked like to me: these were fancy houses from a time before Peristroika that were abandoned (by former government officials? I was hesitant to ask, actually), and now post peristroka folks with fledgling yet high levels of inititative came by and occupied them and began renovating piece by piece. As in, no money down, no money ever.... I'm just sayin', that's what it looked like to ME.

Some of the places looked very nice with BMW X5's, a couple of topline 2005 merc's, and multicolored 2005 peugeot 307, sport-series cars parked outside of them. One place in particular stood out. It was a corner lot, big, facing the pond, and built into the hill. Every bright red brick on this property exuded a fresh newness and the fences around the places were nice and new with bright black and white chainlink contrasting nicely with the red brick. Two BMW X5's grey and black, completed the scene, gracing the paving stone driveway in a subtle, powerful stance.

As we walked silently by, on our way to the food store, beside the vehicles mentioned above, a couple of big Russian fellers with ripped off sleeve shirts and obligatory tatooes, stood taking a ciggy break, while simultaneously guarding... ...something.

The actual dachas have all been there along time, most of them in the area in different stages of renovation as middle to upper middle-class Russian owners spend time and money each summer to make something of their summer properties. We wanted to see more of Moscow so Volodia based us for two days in his family’s flat. That presented the opportunity to compare his flat and his dacha.

His flat is a typical two bedroom basic unit in Suburbian Moscow. Inside is immaculately clean. Inside is very small compared to a typical two-bedroom apartment in Edmonton's downtown area. The building itself - crap. Smelled like cat-crap in the hall in fact. No building maintenance. The bulb in the lift was burned out. Plaster falling off in great chunks. This was outside in the common area mind you. Two large metal doors with several dead-bolts of various designs lead the way into his flat. Very nice hardwood flooring. Kitchen - lovely. Small but lovely. Very nice SOLID WOOD kitchen cabinets with curved glass in the curved doors - all from Italy, bought at a Buckjivanjees homecenter type place - same kind of place we bought our reno stuff for mom2's balcony revamp. Upright Piano for Olga's lessons now, Phillips surround sound entertainment center, Nice Divan fold out bed in living room. Olga's room - nice size, computer table, one person bed.

Main bedroom - had a balcony for hanging wet cloths. One Bathroom and one toilet. They are seperated and TINY!!! I bumped my head on the door knob of the toilet room all three times in three days that I got up and bent down to pull my pants up upon crap completion. No toilet fans in Russia! I never saw any. Stinky! Luckily, Teute Marina had intervened already by placing an easy to find airfreshener spray can near the toilet! Lucky for the rest of the people in the house.... So that's basically Volodia's flat. They stay there for the convenience of being in Moscow for Volodia's work and for Olga's schooling.

The Dacha is paradise, comparitavely. Big, two story, house. A new billiard table upstairs in the main big room. two bedrooms, living room full bath and russian sauna on the main floor. Besides the pool table room, theres another bedroom upstairs that opens on a landing just where the stairs come up. THe whole dacha upstairs is finished in pinewood panelling and wood laminate flooring. Absolutely nice. Also half bath upstairs. They put us upstairs. Dima in the pool hall, us in the third bedroom. Very nice and peaceful for taking a rest, I tell you.

July 2nd 2004-07-02 Yesterday evening at about 18:00 Volodia drove us to a small lake. We swam. It was 22 degrees Celsius the water was almost tolerable and we swam, Dima, Volodia, marina, and me. Ioulia and the unborn son rested on the beach. Just had the notion to build a house of stone – somewhere. Emirates, perhaps, if allowable and doable. Perhaps. If I suddenly become rich. Approx. $79 grand a year, Canadian tax free, (including accomodation and tuition help for dima that is). Plus free medical and free dental at the local military hospice. Actually, $49, 800 can. straight salary - w/o accomodation and tuition money. One wonders at it all.

Because of my new found ability to promote books by the subject at hand, for my new partner in businesss, amazon.com, I pass on to you good folks the following links about successful negotiation:

The unborn one kicks unusually strongly today, says wife and his mother. Not sure why. She figures it’s all the activity yesterday. Our trip on the Channel Moscow and River Moscow and such. The unborn one is almost six months along now. He’s got a big head. Like me. I’ve felt him kick once or twice that’s it. They rest beside me here on the swinging outdoor divan in Volodia’s big backyard. Ioulia brought a book out with her but I don’t think she’s reading it.

She’s sleeping. The unborn son, continues his life, getting bigger and more aggressive in his kicking, while still suspended in the warmth and comfort of mommy’s baby place. I can buy him diapers, feed him and put some cloths on him now that I have a new job too. Yipee!!! I'm startin' to sound like dad. Ok, just talked to the wife. She said: “Na, Rowb! Why do you account aready money which you have not yet?” “Kam here I vant to you to kiss me”. Life goes on.

The Russian Metro system deserves mention as one of the largest, fastest, loudest, most utilitarian, most well designed underground train systems in the world today. London’s underground pales in comparison. Yes, I’ve been on both. Picadillay square, Charing Cross station, have their uniquely English charms, of course. My purpose is not to downplay those charms by any means. Surely Moscow’s metro train system has some draw backs too, however like a typical Russian-built machine these trains are bullet proof, utilitarian, and made to last for years and years.

They are powerful in acceleration & stopping and have a top speed of about 60 to 80 miles an hour. They scream along very loudly too. They’re painted dark utilitarian military green. You can feel the wind rush into the station and hear the train whining down the tunnel long before it arrives and as it does, it’s four bright headlights with over-compensating, millions-of-utilitarian-candlepower ratings, blaze well away into the dark tunnels ahead of them. They scream evenly to a halt right where the driver wants them and each train is a uniform length, approximately the length of each of the uniformly long stations – about six train cars long. No matter where you stand to board, there will be a train door near you once the train halts.

The main central line goes around central Moscow in ring-road fashion, crossing the Moscow river above ground only in two places. All the really beautiful old stations are located around this ring track – each unique and on the verge of being of spell-binding in the “ornate-ness” of the stained glass work and sculpture that was built into each station, were it not for the thousands of people moving through them by the minute. It would make a very interesting project though and as soon as I have access to internet again I’m going to see if anybody has done any work documenting, researching, or studying these stations yet. Spidering out from the central line in every direction are numerous radials of secondary tracks that handle the moving of people out to all areas of Moscow. Each station is named different and is different in appearance than another. The pattern of the system is well laid out and easily mapped. Good, easy to read maps therefore are available.

In my opinion it’s a far better design than British railway Engineers could ever come up with. On the down side – it is, of course, serving Moscow and as such, all signage is in Cyrillic writ so you have to know how to read Cyrillic if you want to get around at all. I’m just learning how to read Cyrillic but I’m lucky to have an accommodating Russian wife to do ALL our navigating for us. Also there is a bit of a long walk to the metro station from wherever you begin, however, my wife assures me long walks in Russia are normal – get used to it!

If you just can’t handle the walking, you’ll see cars along the road – not taxis. Just guys sitting in their Lada number ones, waiting for a “fare”. Thirty Rubles (about $1.00 Am.) to anywhere within 25-kilometers. After that, it’s up to the driver how much he’ll sting you for. Note: let your wife do all the talking in Russian and it will be very cheap ride for you.

July 1st 2004, Canada day! Ahhh! Back in the Dacha after two lovely days in Moscow with family staying at Volodia’s flat. We packed in several trips, including one bus tour around Moscow, and two riverboat cruises, one down the Moscow channel and one down the Moscow river. Incredible scenery.

I saw Lenin’s preserved body! We paid 400 hundred rubles along with about thirty other people to cut into the long line up to see Lenin. It took only half an hour and the old lady that took our money and our foto-aparats, seemed to know a whole lot about red square and gave us the whole history of it and surrounding downtown Moscow as we waited that half hour. We then cut into line and I’m sure the guards letting us in took their cut of the 400-Rubles I and the twenty-nine others gave to the old lady…. “Eta Normale na.” They told me. Normal, it’s the way it’s done in Moscow.

Vladimir Illeech Uolianav Lenin lay patiently waiting for us all to pass. He didn’t move a muscle. His suit was black and he did not wear a cap. He was a short guy. His hair was red. His beard was red. His face was emotionless, serene. His shoes, blackened well and practical for long walks that central Moscow is known for. To me, he looked like a wax figure of Lenin, but my wife assured me that what’s under that glass case is truly a mummified Lenin that they “restore” every couple of years. Where he lies is about three stories underground and it’s very cool down there – a temperature controlled mausoleum. We went down steps and at every corner very serious young Kremlin police officers stood guard in honour of their past. Don’t talk! Don’t laugh! Don’t look left or right! Don’t fart! This is a Mausoleum! Serious, very serious, looks all around.

And there lay the father of the Bolshevik revolution, patiently enduring post-perestroika Russia. And, in direct contravention of Orthodox Christian tradition, laid to rest in full view of many a capitalist - above ground, persevered, not buried six-feet under (as Orthodox worm-wood usually is required to be). I tried to manage a tear or an emotion, padding softly and silently by the icon, but strangely, could not muster anything at all. The tangible emptiness of 100-odd years of forced religious repression in Russia must have swallowed up any and all urges towards emotion, or tears – at least for me.

All I really felt was: “wow, that’s Lenin, he looks like a wax figure. I just now saw Lenin.” And I thought further, what a thing to have done in life! How many of my relatives, my countrymen, can say the same? Not much more thought by me beyond that as I drifted through the surrealistic tomb of this guy, responsible for so much that I know really, very little about.
Further, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but how is one supposed to shed a tear or lend even a moment’s passionate regret for the loss of the leader of a regime that claimed pure socialist values on the one hand and simultaneously exhibited criminal levels of corrupt bureaucracy and severely debilitating religious suppression at the expense of its own citizenry on the other?

No wonder the empty feeling…. I saw none of the other capitalists, sentimentalists, Non-muscovite Russian citizens who came to pay a visit, behind nor before, make any Russian Orthodox or other genuflections of any sort whatsoever when filing by the Lenin’s mummy. Thousands upon thousands of paying tourists cut in line by paying 400 rubles to old ladies making money, to file by Lenin’s body silently between 7:00 and 13:00 daily. I imagined that the ghost of Lenin probably was hovering above us, ready to swoop and strangle someone, anyone, all of us, for a travesty such as this.

The old lady who took our money and foto-aparats met us as we emerged from the depths of Bolshevik ideology. She didn’t look at all afraid of being severely guilty of crimes against the state – taking money from tourists to cut in line to see the very icon of communism in Russia…. She looked pretty fresh actually, and took us on the rest of the tour near the wall of the Kremlin castle where in are buried the ashes of prominent communists from every country of the world. Yuri Gagarin’s trip into space in 1961 earned his ashes a spot in the Kremlin wall too. Opposite the wall in more conventional burial plots, lie the bodies of past presidents of Russia: Chernyenko, Andropov, & Stalin, along with all the dead Generals who had made their communist marks hither and thither over the years.

All at once the tour was over. We were directed out by our knowledgeable tour guide in to the general non-fenced off area of the huge Red square and handed back our foto-aparats with a stern warning not to use them until we were well outside the Kremlin boundary, for fear of police confiscating our fot-aparats.

I stood with my wife and step-son in red square. We saw the Kremlin. We saw the sights of central Moscow. We stood in red square. Ponder that for a second. I grew up in a generation of western kids that still saw Russia as an inaccessible place - blazing red as Mars in its communist hold over it's people. I never once dreamed of visiting Moscow or any city in Russia as tourist attraction. I grew up, a bit naively i suppose, on stories of people stripped completely of their freedoms, especially their religious freedoms. I grew up with visions of people sneaking about in constant avoidance of actual living of a day to day life. Rather living a life spent in fear of the strong arm of the Duma - KGB. How wrong it seemed I was as I actually began to see - begining with the kremlin and red square, little bits of how much pre-communist history and deep culture that Russia has to base it's present national identity on. It seems we in the west have missed some things in our learning about Russia. Consider the rapid rekindling of the great power and strength that lies in the incessant prayers of thousands of devout Russian Orthodox babushkas (whether it was "allowed" for them to pray or not), for instance.

I remembered with a smile too, the late 1980's/early nineties news story of a 19-year old German pilot of a Cessna 152 who took off one day from Germany, crossed the border into Russia, flying low, and eventually landed in Red square, safely. They arrested him of course. And now, I saw how in the massive open area of the square he easily could have landed there. A Cessna 152's landing roll in normal wind conditions is pretty short, like 300 feet, that's it.

We continued standing, ten o'clock, mid-morning still and young people in love strolled past with beer bottles in hand, characters mellowed by the brewskis they fondled. Strolling by the front of the mausoleum of Lenin's tomb, I watched a black pigeon peck at the fallen crumbs of something larger left behind. The tomb was closed until tomorrow. The hungry black pigeon pecked on. Beyond the tomb, between the Orthodox Church and a horse-mounted monument to a Russian General who stopped the fascists taking Moscow in WW2, Lenin, Marx, Tsar Peter and Tsarina Caterina offered photo-ops for three bucks American (The next day when we came back I was trying to find the guy dressed as Lenin for a quick picture and couldn't see him anywhere so I asked Dimitri: where's Lenin today? I want to take a picture." Dima replied: "Rowb, he is taking a rest now, break time" and he gestured towards the Mausoleum. "Eh?" I believed him for a half a second (good one, again, Dima!), and for that half second of belief, Dima, Ioulia and uncle volodia all began laughing at me.

Timing is the key and Dima's got it, I tell ya. I believe My wife has now told everybody she knows here and in Russia about Dima's little - getting Rob - with the "Lenin's on a break right now" practical joke. Look, I know Lenin's been dead for a long time ok! Come on, leave me alone ok! I don't wanna talk about, quit laughing!

Through two archways out of red square and back into downtown Moscow, people threw money in the air ensuring one day they'd return to this place. A crowd of poor old folks stood ready for the next person to throw their money. Over the shoulder and tinkling on a Hollywood star like emblem inlaid in the sidewalk, the old folks closed in and grabbed as they could.

Have you ever thrown Macdonald's Drive-thru French fries out the window of your car and watched the seagulls fight for every morsel as you munched down your drive-through quarter-pounder with cheese meal? Sad truths exist in downtown Moscow, it appears.

Meanwhile, skirts are short, girls are slim and bare A LOT. Stilettos are of the latest fashion and usually enticingly laced to pairs of Neet-bared young Russian female's legs, very hard NOT to look at, even with your pregnant wife punching you in the arm six or seven times: "Rowbertt!!, Rowbertt!!, Rowbertt!! ", then slapping you silly. Just kidding, I've learned to be far more furtive then that, and of course, I somehow find the way to remain faithful in spite of the occasional Holy Moses, look at that over there, can't help it if she walks in front of me, dear, lingering glances.

We strolled back to the car, through a construction tunnel, past tables of hawkers hawking items of value to tourists. Pirate software freely displayed, Windows XP Professional, $2.00 Am., Russian Army hats in perfect shape - $5.00 Am. Russian Army medals - $10 Am. Sunglasses - cheap. Socks - cheap.

Back in the square, Government Universal Market which used to house essential goods for citizen's lives now houses fashion boutiques and storefronts of every branded merchant worthy of note. Capitalism has a permanent residence in Red Square and no-one seems to mind at all.

Volodia, a Moscow business man of about five feet two inches, and Ioulia’s uncle, was angry. He did not greet us with a smile. He business is not commercial tents as I first understood it to be. Rather his business is industrial-strength textiles of all sorts including material to make everything from commercial tents to armored vests for police and army personnel. Far more furtive, far more lucrative, THIS industry, yes?

First thing he said was in Russian to my wife: “I’ve been waiting three hours”. Mmmmh, good start to our one week with them in Moscow, thought to myself. Wifey, the evanescent diplomat, had him laughing in fifteen minutes after he went and got the car – a 2004 Toyota Corolla. After Gorbachov and perestroika, it became permissible for people to own their own land. Volodia, made the most of the new laws and within several years of perestroika had bought himself a Dacha, thirty kilometers out of Moscow, almost directly on the bank of Rika Gorka (Small Mountain Creek).

It’s a two-story chalet with three bedrooms and two bathrooms sitting on a big chunk of Russian land in amongst other developed acreages with similar big chalets on them. About two acres large, Volodia’s chalet is as peaceful and idyllic a setting a post-perestroika Muscovite could ever want, considering what years of communism has wrought in Russia and on her citizens. If Volodia’s life and dacha purchase are anything to go by, I would say that middle-class Russians could probably be considered some of the wealthiest people around.

First of all it seems that post-perestroika Russians know or care little (yet) about the severe and debilitating dept that living on perpetual credit, North American style, brings. Volodia paid $150,000 Am. cash for his dacha five years ago. His place is now worth over two hundred thousand dollars. Most North Americans that I know, regardless of their age, wouldn’t be able to fathom saving $150, 000 Am. cash for any purpose what so ever. They, I, couldn’t do for sake of a huge dept load. Huge & burdonsome. Russian wealth is real, the result of working and saving, then buying things of value, rather than financing everything and making banks rich; ourselves poor, through high interest. Sometimes I wish my observations weren’t so gosh darn condemnatory of such large masses of people.

Actually, to tell the truth, what it looked like to ME: these were fancy houses from a time before that were abandoned by folks perhaps made government rich but now post peristroika folks with fledgling inititative came by and occupied them and began renovating piece by piece. As in, no money down, no money ever.... I'm just sayin', that's what it looked like to ME.

The rain has just stopped after a steady two hour sprinkling here in Moscow. I am sitting out in the back-acre garden pagoda of middle-class Russian wealth contemplating how huge the world the unborn son is about to become a part of is, and writing about it all. Simultaneously, I’m Drinking a 30-cent Botchkarov beer. Very good.

The plane was two hours late. It was 12:00 midnight. Dima, Ioulia, the unborn son, and I finally boarded Aeroflot Airbus A-320-100 in Dubai. The flight was five hours. No in-flight movie, & no TV screens on the backs of the standard configuration naughahide upholstered seats. I understood (and accepted the terms gladly) how it is possible to fly Moscow Dubai on $410.00 Am. My wife said she loved me.

I slept on the plane much more comfortably than I had expected. Dima dibbed the window seat, wife said she wanted the middle seat, so I got the aisle seat. We descended and I saw Russia for the first time in my life. We came from the desert; how green the forests look from 5000 feet! At 7:00 in the morning Moscow’s southern edge slipped under us: a patterned silk sheet of civic topography, morning-lit by the still horizon-bound, ochre sun. The unborn son kicked my wife in the belly from the inside and she said: "oh!"

The landing was like something out of an Alex Hailey novel. Nonetheless, the professional Aeroflot drivers got the plane down without too much worry – if you’re a normal passenger, that is, without an aircraft maintenance licence, a PPL, 20-hours towards a CPL, and 10-ODD years of “finding stuff out” in your back pocket. We all unfastened our seatbelts well before the sign went out and well before the aircraft came to a complete stop and there was nothing the flight attendants could do about it.

We roared along, in subtle, Rolls-Royce, high by-pass ratio, big-jet, fashion, up to the Sheremyetevo Two airport terminal and the gate #2 ramp/walkway thingy coupled itself to our aircraft door through some secret society of aircraft ground-handlers’ magic. Overhead racks were popped open hurriedly and they vomited forth luggage of regulated shape and size into the arms of their owners. And we waited, standing in between the seats, migration cards filled out and ready to hand to ultra-suspecting passport control officers. I have never seen such scrutiny of documents in my life.

We were the only passengers there because it was seven in the morning and the officers were taking their time. At least ten minutes per pax. After a good hour or so, I finally made it up to the window, feeling quite confident. I had an invitation from my mother-in-law to visit Russia and had gotten my visa previously and properly done in Dubai at the consulate. I smiled and handed the keen young officer my passport and waited as he scrutinised and scrutinised some more. Utraviolet lights came on, the picture page plastic was examined from the side and lifted a bit to see if it was a fake. The picture was looked at extremely closely and in the end he looked at me and said: “wait here please one minute”.

Wifey, already through the Russian citizen’s line with Dima were waiting on the other side of passport control, bags already claimed, just plain got mad at the young feller. I got a little worried, thinking that this perhaps not the best way for her to behave right now and wanted to tell her to cool down a bit. But, again, I guess I have more to learn about Russians and their ways. She found his captain somehow, and they jawed in Russian for about five minutes. I still didn’t know what was going on, but figured it might be because I only had shown him the Dubai-Moscow ticket, Wifey had the return portion (from Ekaterinburg to Dubai), tucked safely away in her bag. So I asked her to show the guy the return ticket. She didn't understand me in her agitaed state so I made our never mind, it doesn't matter, don't worry, gesture as if I had control of the situation when in fact it was my wife's angry reaction that eventually saved me from interrrogation from immigration cops in the windowless room that the Arab family in from of me had been ushered into.

Next thing I know, as I was standing (over here for one minute) patiently taking it all in, the captain walks briskly and sternly over, opens the glass door to the young feller’s booth and says: “NA! Ni Che vo?!” (What is this?!). And the rest of what he said I didn’t really catch all of it but heard enough to know that he was saying this guy is her husband, they are a family, why are you treating him like a criminal, ease up a bit. Apparently there has been a wave of Canadian passport counterfeit attempts in Moscow over the past couple of months. Just my luck.

Anyways, once the chewing-out was over the young feller had another official quick look at my passport – to save a bit of dignity, I suppose - and gave it back to me. I said, in what I felt was a very sincere tone: “spaseeba balshoi” (A great big thank you). He answered: “pazhoulusteh” you’re welcome.

Every once in a while since we've been married my wife says to me: "nice to have a Russian wife, eh?" And here again was an instance in which I couldn't agree more. I imagined too what it might have been like for me if I had tried to fly into Sheryemetov Two say three years ago when I still single - my purpose being tourism. Knowing not a wit of Russian either, I don't think I wouda got too far.

Hey, our owner’s taking us someplace! I better jump up on him to let him know how exited I am, and whimper too and run around the door here like I’m slightly nuts, yeah. That’ll get his attention, yeah. Get out of my way Tyson! Younger brother, you can’t jump up on him before me! OW! My ear, what’d ya do that for. Angh! There! See how it feels? Now get down so that I can jump up on our owner. OW Why’d he knee me in the chest like that, that hurts!

Oh! the door’s opening, me first! TYSON! angh! Get back, I’m first. No me! Gee! now we’re free out here Tyson! Lets go as fast as we aaagggh, oops I guess we’re not free. My neck hurts a bit, does yours Tyson? “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh oh, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. But I wanna go! I wanna goooo! Let’s go! Whimper whimper. Oh! Some more doors opening! Let’s run into this small box that goes up and down as fast as we can ‘k Tyson?! OK NOW! NOW! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh oh. Better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member.

As the lift descends:Look at ‘im, eh Tyson, whine whine, bet we could kill him pretty quick if we work together, eh? Oh! Doors opening again! ME FIRST TYSON ANGH, when ya gonna learn! Boy this floor is slippery! I’m running as fast as I can but I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant. Ok now we’re movin’ HEY LOOK KIDS!!!! Let’s go tear them to pieces “JOKI HEEL! TYSON HEEL! Oh yeah, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. BUT KIDS! LOOK! LET’S GET ‘IM TYSY!!! GO! GO! GO! Hey! I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant.

Why is everybody screaming? That kid’s pretty close I think I can get him, aaagggh, oops I guess can’t get him, can I. HEY! Why did that stupid kid with the white kap and white dress on throw a stone at me, and yell: “Chelb Haram! Chelb haram!” LET’S GET HIM TYSY! GO! GO! GO! SNARL! Look at him run! Listen to him scream in terror, Tysy. Let’s really get him now! Hey, I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant. “JOKI HEEL! TYSON HEEL!” Oh yeah, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member.

Oh look, the shiny silver car. I’m gonna jump up here and put my claws on the silver part right here and… there we go. It’s work of art don’t you think Tyson? Oh! Door opening lets leap inside Tyson ready GO! GO! GO! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Gee it’s getting hot in here! Pant Pant Pant. I can hardly breath! TYSON QUIT NIPPIN’ MY TESTICALS, YAUW! Anggh! Get back little brother! Bite me in the balls again n’ I’ll kill ya!

Hey! We’re movin! Ah finally getting cooler. There I think I’m gonna relax. Tyson move over I’m gonna lay down here beside ya. Ahh! That’s nice.

Forty five minutes later…Hey! This ain’t home! Where are we? Tyson take a look at that nice rotty bitch over their being walked by a house maid, mmm mmmm that’s sweet yessiree that’s sweet. Hey there’s a Dobi over there, hey a Shepard! Whine whine, yessiree that’s sweet. Hey we’re stoppin’! I’m first getting out. HEY! How did we both get our heads stuck in here? Get your head out of that space between the headrest and the doorframe Tyson.

OH! The door’s opening I’m getting out first, NO ME! Aagggh! I guess not: “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Whine Whine Whine. Who’s that? Oh oh, that’s the big guy from yesterday, run Tyson! He’s big. Run Tyson! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Oh, oh! Well, I guess the big guy’s alright – he just wants to pet us, not hit us repeatedly with a slipper…. Hey look a gate opening! I’m first! ME! HEY LOOK, A HUGE LAWN! Sniff sniff, mine!, pzzzzzz, dibbs! Pzzzzz, mine! pzzzzzz.

Hey Tyson watch! I’m gonna drop a huge load right ghnn! HERE aahh! Oh yeah, it feels so good taking a crap on nice fresh green grass - right on my leash - owner’s gonna love that. Hey! What’s that lady want? Oh Boy, she loves me, wot Tyson?! She’s all over me, eh?! Look at her boobs Tyson. What do think eh? Right, sweet man, they’re huge snd soft too. She LOVES me man. She’s huggin me close! She smells GOOD! Ohhh, Whine whine she’s turnin’ me on Tyson! Oh yeah!

There’s the big guy again, cringe. Wait a second, he has no slipper. It’ll be alright. He’s just trying to pet us. Yeah, he’s alright. Don’t have to run from him. In fact I like him now – gonna lick his hand, LICK. He’s smilin’ now.

Hey. How come our owners’ got wet eyes like that we better lick his face and wag our tails to make him feel better: LICK LICK LICK WAG WAG WAG, ok done.It’s all good Tyson. We’re in a YARD li’l bro. You like it here? I do. Hey! Where’s our owner gone? Whine Whine. Hey look the silver car is going away! Hey….

This fence is pretty high, eh Tyson? We better get down.Hey Tyson, look at this HUGE GREEN LAWN sniff sniff mine! pzzzzzz.

A tribute to Golden Guardian Angel Joker and Golden Guardian Angel Tyson. A couple of champs. I’m gonna miss them.

June 16th Nine days to go…. We leave on the twenty fifth of June for Moscow for a one month holiday. I am ready already. I gave my lovely puppy Tyson, away to a big british fellow with long dreadlocks and wife with same, named Carl and Joki I gave to one of my former students - one of the more well behaved ones, (actually a really good guy - his mom is Tanzanian). So, both dogs have a better place to stay now. Tyson has a little Dachshund brother to play with all day and a big pool to swim in and a villa staffed with about thirteen servants! Joki has a young German shepard brother of three months to watch over now and lives in a huge villa occupied by a family of dog lovers. Sure miss them. I miss them more than the little green vervet I spent one year with in tanzania, as much as the intelligent and quick little sheep-herding cross dog I had in Tanzania named piki (motorcycle in Kiswahili). I must say that the Amstaff is one of most perfect breeds of dogs I've ever had the privilage of been around. I feel these Amstaffs were really something special. I soon will own another own, once our baby is old enough.

Growing up our family had pets including dogs and though they were all lovely and good companions, etc., I really enjoyed these Amstaffs more than any of my other pets. Perhaps it's simply because these are the only pets I've ever invested 6000 bucks in (when all was said and done)! Anyway, as I was saying, our family a big dalmation named Robbes Pierre, a big shepard named Billy, my cousins had a big retriever/St. bernard cross named Rusty, my mom had a beautiful purebred shepard named Zenta, my grampa had a very nice example of a purbred dobbie named Barry, my little brother had a husky/maniac cross with one blue eye and one green named Ashia. My other little brother owned a lovely hound that had some racing blood in her I'm sure - named daisy, then later when daisy died in a freak accident, he bought a mutt and named him Santa's little helper. my oldest brother's family has a little Yorkie cross and they've named him Bethoven.

In the mean time I write this blog in a fog. In fact I am in the midst of wondering just where the yellow goes, when I brush my teeth with Pepsojoes.

Golden Guardian Angel ladybug is the younger of my borderline, illegal-in-this-Country Am staffs, depending on the ever chaning mood of the director of the Ministry of agriculture who owns several pitbulls the Amstaff's 100 times more aggressive breed-cousin. Ladybug's older brother, Golden Guardian Angel Joker is a champion – first place in the terrier class of the Dubai dog show 2004! Yes we were pleasantly surprised. Right now I have about five to seven shots of Absolute Blue in me. Mixed, of course, with orange-carrot juice, just recently ordered from Marco Supermarket. Marco supermarket is just across the street from Al Chile supermarket – downstairs in our building, No. 42.

Means absolutely nothing as far as I can tell. Really? Nomber 42? So the freak what?! That sentence has no verb I alertly observe. I yearn for my homeland. Canada. It is my homeland don’t you know? I yearn for it, Canada in the same manner I yearn for my wife's caress after a few days of not having good wholesome sex’n’cuddle in the midst of a vast, first pregnancy. I’m a bit off right now to be sure but the words here writ, surely, stand as fodder for eventual revelation to the vast audience that is the WWW. Big brother has not nothing on you baby! Keep the faith! Lose the tie, but keep the faith!

The beet goes on. Borsht is the best soup in the world, I've been convinced to believe by eating it and the constant raving that this is in fact the case. Today I ate potatoes pure' and chicken fried and yes, I feel fed to the fullest. My wife’s cooking transcends all ceilings, glass and non-, in her constant “strival” towards the perfect cooked meal. (GOLLY!) it’s some good stuff!!!

I wonder how much of the on the job slag I miss. I am a straight listening dude; no really. Slightly pissed right now - can’t hardly see the keys for a lack of freakin’ focus but nonetheless believe in that silly little thing called "consciousness of the immediate" wherein one’s thoughts transmitted to paper are confined within the acolocic, alchoholic, alcoholic, THERE! filter confining - referred to sometimes as moderation.

DOGS! Back to ‘em! they have so much potential as amstaffs. For the past several years they’ve had so much freakin’ potential. And yet because I slave at finishing these degrees and because Bleep slaves at being the perfect man-about-the-Sharjah-and-Dubai-town, Russian DIPlomat in the freakin’ UAE, and because my wife is four months on, showing muire than slightly, and RESTING by Dr. Nasser’s orders, NO ONE HAS TIME FOR THESE FINE AWARD-WINNING ALREADY, SHOW ANIMALS!!! Damn! It’s frustrating! I phoned K9 friends in Dubai (different from the K9 P and kaka lauded in so many lovely limericks here and beyond) last week to try and pawn the two of my Dubai-bound champion dogs off on them egged on primarily by the aggravated nagging of melovely (alternatively me-luvly)…, and was snubbed by: EVEN THEM!!!!

What are you to do when even K9 friends have no place for your beloved animals!?! Dogs, Dogs, dogs, dogs! Damn canines! My wife threatens air in a syringe. She has had enough, it looks like. And there is the coming baby that we MUST consider. Canis Lupus might well have been a BETTER choice to constrict and confine to such a city prison flat! At least a bloody wolf would not (likely, that is) have nabbed first place in the Dubai freakin' Dog show! God help us for spoiling two champs!

AND… the beat goes on, in an authentically Arabic style and countenance. What a word: countenance! One that fills the empty quarter of any country with desert dignity surpassing Europa elite flare, Latino limbo, African Astute arrogance, and Chinese "oh so chinoise" chai. If micheal Jordan, in full five-storey IMAX, can admit to failing repeatedly then, gosh darn it!!, So the flip can I!!! Yes..., I have failed in CRITICAL areas of my life only to with paint scraper peel myslef carefully off the pavement to wear yet another Nike air innovation and drink yet another clear sprite bubbly sugar water. Woohoo!!! As they say in the slightly outdated, yet trying to seem hip, remains of a past youth culture vernacular…. And this ends this drivel.

See you when I’m SOBER – man. Okay byro, steady now chappie, STEADY!

Entry at the end of a rather rough year, I must say. Had the unfortunate privilege of dealing with a Bellushi (Southern Iran) student, made very angry from a rookie Lead teacher coming out of California. I had to defend myself against the swinging fists of a young feller that this new lead teacher had spent the past half hour screaming at. Yes, he may well have been an interim director of the anthrax language institute (or some such name)in San Fran. But, my goodness, this ain’t San Fran is it. And yes, he may well have had three months previous experience in the Sharjah school away back in the nineties when a failed contractor, SuSPECT had this contract. But my goodness, SuSPECT is long since dead round these here parts – man. Methods used then don’t belong here now, IMO. Dare I say it? Suspect's was a VERY American method – domineering, in your face, US Marine style - my way or the f’ing highway managment. Here’s a guy that I will never ever give a chance to in the future. I will curse in his face and tell him straight that I don't work with cowards if and when he offers me his hand in greeting.

Here’s a guy that is a classic coward. He does not face his own bungling and puts his mistake on his subordinate's shoulders, me, forcing the project director, his ‘good friend’, as I understand it, to initiate my transfer to another school. Oh well. We’ll see who’s left standing after this year. Maybe he’ll win but I don’t think so. Maybe he’ll lose. Big time. For example, further bungling, and being extremely stubborn, he spearheaded the transfer of the student mentioned above to the school that the student and I both have now spent the rest of our year (successfully) at!

Another measly gratifactory power grubber by a middle man with no feet to ground. In any case if I ever run into him again, he will see my answer. He who laughs last laughs best. Transfer me to another school for HIS mistake? I can teach anywhere. I did and I will I have proven it already.

I am a professional teacher and I teach. He on the other hand is a scared little bleeb. A coward who spoils things for other people. A coward who listens to the "all-in-a-days-work-for-these-guys" lies of certain Amerimuslim teachers, hiding here in UAE, US passports in hand, who have their own agenda and in fear, the coward complies.

Incompetent management of resources due to inexperience is sometimes forgivable. Incompetence due to cowardly character is not and should be rooted out quickly. Especially over here. Yes, it gets personal. HIS is coming, to be sure. HIS is coming.

There is an old Arab proverb that goes something like this (my paraphrase). Two Bedou brothers, Mustafa and Mohamad, met in the desert - one on safari through to Yandu, KoSA and one temporarily settled in a desert camp near Abu Dhabi, family and goats surrounding. They were having chai and over chai Mustafa and Mohamad discussed the events of the weeks preceding, in which they had not seen each other. The conversation came around to a certain man that had cheated the brother on safari around twenty years ago.

“Remember that man that cheated me so many years ago, Mustafa?”, the travelling Mohamad asked. “I do, I do” laughed Mustafa, relishing even the mention of deceit, being Arab, though it was indeed his own brother who had been deceived! “Well, my chance came to get him back yesterday. And I got him good! I got him good”

Mohamed was somewhat shocked but not at his brother's revenge-induced joy, rather that his brother could only wait twenty years to payback the guy: “REALLY?!” “But why so soon, my brother? Why ever so soon?” Ah yes, if an Arab can wait twenty years and more…. Talk about holding a grudge though eh? Later.

TEECHA-U

A poem by Byromaniac

Twenteen teecha
Tora-tora
Hebah-hebah
Shwe-shwe

Gandu, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gandu to you!
Gahabah, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gahabah to you!
Gawad, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gawad to you!
Mejnoon, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Mejnoon to you!
Mafi sheh, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Mafi sheh to you!

Teecha, one minute, bithrum.
No Omar, Iglis, minfudluck, Al Heina!
IGLIS! Thank you.
fucyu teecha!
MAS’HARAH TEECHA U!
Silence staring.
WALAHI! not me teecha!!!
WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha.
Iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer,
Ishmael, Essa, Salim.
WALAHI! Not me teecha!

Wazzab Teecha!
Twenteen teecha!
Ishirine?
Twenty not Twenteen!
Twenty teecha?
Eiywa. Twenty zain!
FifTEEN, FIFty teeacha?
Hamstash, hamsine?
5 - 0 teecha?
FIFTY!
Hamsine – fifty teecha?
Eiywa. Fifty! Zain! Tamam!
FUCYU TEECHA!
Silence staring.
WALAHI! not me teecha!!!
WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha!
Iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer,
Ishmael, Essa, Salim
WALAHI! Not me teecha!!!

Tora-Tora.
Hebah-hebah.
Shwe-shwe.

Torah - Torah?!
TORAH! TORAH!
Hip hip TORAH!
Jazz-hip-jazz-hop drop the beat
Skip fantasia

Me gud, teecha?
Mia-mia

Tora-Tora
Hebah-hebah
Shwe-shwe

And the beat goes on. Al Aikumu-a-salam....

(and; with interjections)

TEECHA U

Twenteen teecha
Tora-Tora Hebah-hebah Shwe-shwe Gandu Teecha u (Bitch) That’s DJ Gandu to you! Gahabah, Teecha u (Pimp) That’s DJ Gahabah to you! Gawad Teecha u (Gay) That’s DJ Gawad to you! Mejnoon Teecha u (without a brain, dumb slightly confused) That’s DJ Mejnoon to you! Mafi sheh Teecha u (without courage, afraid, timid, shy) That’s DJ Mafi sheh to you! Teecha One minute bithrum No Omar, Iglis, minfudluck, Al Heina! fucyu teecha! MAS’HARAH, TEECHA U! Silence staring WALAHI! not me teecha!!! WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha! iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer, Ishmael, Essa, Salim WALAHI! Not me teecha! Wazzab Teecha! Twenteen techa! Ishirine? Twenty not Twenteen! Twenty teecha? Eiywa. Twenty Zain! FifTEEN, FIFty teeacha? Hamstash, hamsine? 5 - 0 teecha? FIFTY! Hamsine – fifty teecha? Eiywa. Fifty! Zain! Tamam! “Fucyu teecha!” Tora-Tora. Hebah-hebah. Shwe-shwe. Torah - Torah?! TORAH-TORAH!!! Hip hip TORAH! Hip-jazz-hop, skip fantasia. Mia-mia. Me gud, teecha? Tora-Tora. Hebah-hebah. Shwe-shwe. And the beat goes on. Al Aikumu-a-salam....

The summit of Jebel Hafeet,
Reddy rocks & heat.
Decision made.
Ekaterina, Crimson & Jade.
Falcon rose,
Moving, wung way out pose.
No static prose,
The Numb Bard; he knows.…
Current, windswept air.
Thoughts on Julia,
Emerald-ruby, bare.
My freckly viola....

“at the foot of the Ngong hills…” (Blixen, K.), Well, almost at the foot of the Ngong hills, anyways - I was cheated. It was in Nairobi Kenya, actually in 1989. On a week long debrief (waiting for the KLM flt. out of Jomo Kenayta Airport), I took some advice and 600 Am bucks to town with me. I went to the open Bazaar between Moktar Dada street and Kenyatta Avenue. I bought Ebony Makonde carvings and Batiques in African themes, glassware and brassware, a cane sword, some discrete daggers in discrete shafts, Ebony and hammered land-rover-spring-bladed, traditional Masai axes, and clay heads in the form of a Masai man and woman – gifts for all my brothers, cousins and all my new sister-in-laws, cousin-in-laws and mom and dad.

In the two-year span of prime life it took to spend in Africa, there were many new faces to buy for. I spent about 200 bucks Am. Then I had a burger loaded and “chips” for lunch at wimpy’s on the second floor of an office building the window of which overlookcd Kenyatta ave. An alluring young Kenyan lady sat beside me for lunch a minute later. I looked alternatively out the window at my burger, taking bytes of it, and nervously out of the corner of my Baptist up-brought eye, at her not so subtly positioned in my direction, bare legs.

I was fresh out of eighteen months of conservative village-living in Dodoma. Eye-batting with her and her bare legs through lunch, I managed a nervous smile, at the most two, between bytes of wimpy meat-n-bun. She then suddenly smiled extremely sweetly and propositioned to spend the afternoon with me and some of my money. Well, I never.... At the same moment I came to a new self knowledge. I understood what it meant to be a white man of 22 in downtown Nairobi eating lunch at an innocent wimpy’s with an alluring young Kenyan lady choosing eat lunch, like, right there, beside ME, dorky, glasses-faced, an in-love-with-only-airplanes-since-1967-kind-of-guy, with a mission from God to fulfil, and with just barely enough of inkling of the consequence of choosing to spend the kind of time and money she was hoping for.

So yeah, I excused myself, saying: “Ha! I have an excuse! I’ve a mission from God to fulfil, madam, otherwise I’d very likely be impossible for you to stop once you've invited me to have fully-clothed, unprotected sex with you right here in this over-crowded fast-food restaurant.” Wait a minute; I didn’t say that at all. I only fantasized about saying that along with fantasizing about the not so subtle positioning of the bare legs of the alluring young Kenyan lady and her so sweet smile, as I was chokin’ the chicken before I went to sleep that very night, to relieve the tremendous stress of having a mission from God to fulfil, and of course, also, out of a simple, wilful, harmless submission once again to a rather unassuming male habit that 95% percent of us men engage in before we discover a more fitting place for peter.

I didn't go blind and, funnily enough, it wasn't the alluring young Kenyan lady who cheated me. It was a Blackman on Kenyatta Ave, after lunch (and my excuse to the alluring young Kenyan lady), calling out to me from behind after I passed him on the street, asking me why I didn’t greet a black man on the street. “Are you a Dutch, from South Africa?” Eh? I had to turn and see who would dare hint that I had a trace of racism in me. Come on, I grew up in Cameroon. I stayed in Tanzania’s capital village, Dodoma for eighteen months, not only greeting but learning from, working alongside, living with, and eating with them every day.

Me, not greeting a black man? How dare you suggest I am racist! So I turned greeted the black man and he engaged me in pleasant conversation regarding my knowledge of the ANC and Nelson Mandela’s plight – buddy was still in apartheid’s klanger back then - and because I was touched by his fib and sympathetic to Mandela’s plight, the black man on Kenyatta managed to wangle 10 Kenyan shillings out of me. He wangled too, an address in Canada where he could reach me to pay me back.

He was a member of a small band of Nairobi based con-Robbers whose buddies accosted me after about twenty more minutes of shopping, posing as Kenya secret police asking why I was helping a member of the ANC. They accused me of giving information and money to an ANC agent in South Africa. It worked. They had me believing they were secret police – all the ID’s were pretty authentic looking - and that my only way out of this was to pay a sizable bribe. I handed over my 400 bucks in the middle of the day, in a small crowded cafeteria of people having chai, on Kenyatta Avenue. They got me. I was cheated by them. In vain, I reported it to the Nairobi police.

On the idea of blending of entertainment and news, I wonder what makes us tolerate it. For instance I went to www.memory hole.com and knew I was about to watch a guy get his head cut off, live. In the midst of my disgust and shock over the video, a tiny dark part of me tingled with anticipatory fascination. Even over here in UAE. What do I mean by that? Just this: I hope to heck UAE remains the peaceful resort country of the rest of the Arab countries rather than a haven for actual acts of terror. i.e., The place that, (if they do at all roam here), the terrorists will continue coming here to relax AFTER carrying out acts not TO carry out acts.

The fascination? Dunno, maybe from my reading of Wilbur Smith's "The Leopard Hunts in Darkness." His Zambian soldier torture scenes leave nothing out and the Berg video held my attention in the same manner. While of course UAE is a peaceful country, according to some news items, Zarqawi is in fact a Bedouin – a tribe which crosses a number of borders here and makes a sizeable chunk of the local UAE pop…. Bin Laden had a bank account here too.

Of course we know that we're dealing with a convicted murderer. Zarqawi was convicted in absentia in his homeland Jordan and so despite the fact that he killed an Amrikan, his number of friends in the bedou tribe may not be all that high.

Two nights now, though, I have tossed and turned. Thinking about family, getting out, the transient nature of the terror threat (Basrah to Yandu is quite a jaunt for a jackal), the fact that his cronies are all well-versed in making and using poison gas weapons, things like this are making this expat. lose sleep. I have family here. what would we do if fit decides to hit the shan?

What a way to die. 26 years old and trying to make a real go of it with a new business. What was Nick Berg doing in Iraq? The same thing ALL of us expatriates are doing in the Middle East – exploring the big, big world, trying to make a decent living, realizing that life does not begin and end with North America, crossing cultures and learning fascinating foreign languages, trying to become better human beings by living in and experiencing other cultures first hand…. I could go on.

"Sheik Abu Musab Zarqawi slaughters an American infidel with his hands and promises Bush more," was the title of the video.

A Sheik is traditionally someone who expounds wisdom to the followers of the Prophet Mohamed, especially on Al Juma (Fridays). Zarqawi is a terrorist who usurps the title in the same manner that his crazy banished friend OBL does. In other words they’re as much a Sheik as I am, except within the bounds of the very narrow and select societal ‘structure’ indulged in by him and his anarchistic Militant Islam buddies.

Now for commentary on an English translation of the Nick Berg video excerpts:

Excerpt: "Nation of Islam, is there any excuse left to sit idly by? And how can free Muslims sleep soundly as they see Islam being slaughtered, honour bleeding, photographs of shame and reports of Satanic degradation of the people of Islam, men and women, in Abu Ghraib prison?"

Comment: Abu Musab Zarqawi certainly is free but the question of his mini-brand of anarchistic vicious Islam’s legitimacy has yet to be answered by not only the nation of Islam but by himself. Where did he come up with the idea that his anarchistic ideas will be accepted by the Nation of Islam? The Gulf area Arab Muslims in general certainly don’t want to have anything to do with his mini-brand of anarchistic vicious Islam.

Excerpt: "You will only get shroud after shroud and coffin after coffin slaughtered in this manner," it said. "As for you Bush, dog of the Christians, anticipate what will harm you... You and your soldiers will regret the day you stepped foot in Iraq and dared to violate Muslims."

Comment: Slaughtered in what manner? Like a coward would slaughter a defenseless person as part of his twisted jihad that is not at all a jihad? Does he not know his own Q’uran? He speaks in direct contradiction to the holy book, Allah, and the Prophet Mohamad (Ok, I’ll say it because of the context, in times like these more than ever - peace be upon him) and Allah’s Q’uran now speaks out against this militant blasphemer. Janai is no place for cowardly jackals like Abu Musab al Zarqawi who would substitute bloodlust for religion.

Jihad requires that he fight bravely to the death for what it is that he believes. He should lay down his Chinese made gun, lay down the cheap sword now defiled by the act of cowardly murder and fight like a warrior of God with his BARE hands. He did not slaughter an infidel with his hands. He murdered a civilian citizen of the United States of America with weapons of weakness. he had on his shoulder the choice weapon of a weak man, a Chinese made AK47. In his hands he had the weapon of a coward who cannot even face his enemy’s civilian citizens, rather ties them so that they are defenceless and from behind slices their neck.

A lion attacks from the front, facing his enemy alone. A leopard attacks from the front, facing his enemy, alone. Zarqawi and his jackals are instead interested only in feeding off the carcass of their strange brand of anarchistic Islam. It takes him and four of his cowards who cannot show their faces even, to kill an unsuspecting defenceless civilian from behind. If it turns out that the man he killed is in fact one of El Shadwah el Kitab – the people of the book, this means that he has incurred the wrath of Allah by killing one of El Shadwah el Kitab. If it so that Nickolas Berg is one of the people of the book, Allah will banish Zarqawi from Janai for this cowardly, scavanging murder.

Excerpt: "So we tell you that the dignity of the Muslim men and women in Abu Ghraib and others is not redeemed except by blood and souls," the man said. "You will receive nothing from us but coffin after coffin slaughtered in this way."

Comment: And the people living in the real world tell YOU that the dignity of Islam suffers only because of cowardly jackals, in the service of no-one, (certainly not Allah or Islam), like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. May his Allah fill his days and nights with debilitating and overwhelming torment and terror for the killing of one of El Shadwa El Kitab.

Excerpt: "Does Al Qaeda need any more excuses?" the man asks. "And how does a free Muslim sleep comfortably watching Islam being slaughtered, and its dignity being drained?"

Comment: Al Qaeda is an excuse itself, for selfish bloodlust, nothing more. Al Qaeda should be renamed “The cowardly jackals that kill defenceless people to satisfy our bloodlust”. Again, the dignity of Islam is drained only by cowardly jackals, in the service of no-one, (certainly not Allah or Islam), like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.

Excerpt: "The shameful photos are evil humiliation for Muslim men and women in the Abu Ghraib prison," the masked man says. "Where is the sense of honor, where is the rage? Where is the anger for God's religion? Where is the sense of veneration for Muslims, and where is the sense of vengeance for the honor of Muslim men and women in the Crusaders prisons?"

Comment: Where are all these things? They are alive and well as far as I can tell, here in the Gulf region, populated by Sunni & Shii alike. And right now, in fact all these things are pointing towards Zarqawi, a coward, a jackal, & a weak man who kills the defenceless civilian citizens of his enemy from behind. He is nothing in the eyes of Gulf Muslims, both Shii and Sunni. He is nothing except a part of his pack of jackals, influenced by the King of Jackals, the banished Bin Laden.

It takes five jackals to work up the courage to murder one defenceless civilian and further, the civilian must be bound so as not to strike back in any way. Zarqawi is a coward. Zarqawi is a jackal, Zarqawi is weak. Zarqawi is nothing.

Excerpt: "Regarding you, Bush, Dog of the West, we are giving you good news which will displease you," he said. "Your worst days are coming, with the help of God. You and your soldiers will regret the day when your feet touched the land of Iraq and showered your bravery on shelters of Muslims."

Comment: He calls Bush the dog of the west and earlier the dog of the Christians, but he himself is the one behaving like a cowardly jackal, and he is a jackal of no-one in particular and for for no-one save the four other cowardly jackals that roam the land with him looking for easy prey, knowing not how to guard against a mighty force occupying his land, nor how to fight like a true lion. May he suffer a long and tortuous death at the hands of the American soldiers.

His jihad means nothing in the eyes of his Allah by even an elementary reading of the Q’uran. Janai has no place for weak, cowardly jackals like Zarqawi.

Ok, that’s off my chest. Now I’m off to see the wizard.

Finally: You know what would be really evil? If Bush, through his CIA & FBI men in Iraq, required this of Abu Musab Zarqawi in the name of cutting the feet out from under democratic ‘politik’ makers who wave the Abu Gharib prison affair under the nose of the silent majority in hopes that Kerry will emerge the better-smelling rose…. I wonder too if a suddenly contrite Abu Musab Zarqawi, would get the ten million $ Bush is offering if he turned HIMSELF in.

Gotta go eat breaky.

Tom Conover was a prison guard who became a writer. He offered his comments in the Gulf News on Sunday May 9th regarding the happenings at the Abu Gharib prison. He says it’s a heady thing to have prisoners at your mercy. He mentions his training in the areas of care, custody, and control of prisoners and that the training he received focussed primarily on the final element – control.

He says the true test of the prison guard, the system, and indeed the nation, is how you will treat those who are helpless before you. He compares the nakedness of POWs depicted at Abu Gharib to the atrocities suffered by POWs in WW2 – ie gassing to death because of ethnicity, dying slowly from starvation, or desease, painful torture of every kind, etc. To go along with the comparison you first must accept Mr. Conover’s attempted coercion that the shame of nakedness of the POWs at Abu Gharib is an atrocity equal in weight and form to the atrocities suffered by the POW’s spurring the writing of the Geneva convention.

I for one don’t accept Mr. Conover’s equivocation. Now I’m going to go off on a bit of a weird tangent just to show the ridiculousness of crying out against these supposed atrocities against the POWs at Abu gharib (Father of the Raven) prison, so bear with me if you will.

Allow me to coerce you for a moment into believing that Mr. Conover is exceedingly gay, engaging regularly in homosexual activities with multiple male partners. Imagine that he is not in the least ashamed of his gayness – what with the liberation the sexual revolution has imbued upon him – suppose too that he is a very vocal and active advocate of gay rights. Seems imminently plausible enough, in this day and age, right?

Would anyone left of enter, any liberal, any democrat these days call his vocal active gayness bent an atrocity? I think not. In reports I've read and pictures I've seen, nothing is mentioned or shown beyond the prisoners nakedness and having to endure being photographed in simulated sexual positions with each other and perhaps being sat upon by a marine guard while subdued between two medic stretchers - pretty normal state of affairs when you're dealing with the captured enemy, in any soldier's estimation.

My point is that when comparing a normal amount of pre-interrogation nakedness for the express purpose of humiliation toawards confession, and "abuse" endured by prisoners of war when compared to the shameless naked acts engaged in by gay men in America, we can see many more similarities than differences. So, at the same time prisoners face these "atrocities" the gay community in America unrelentingly demand legitimacy for very similar nakedness and abuses, through the voice of their extremely vocal advocates in western culture. This sort of behaviour is nothing out of the ordinary - for them.

In that world-view, the things the prisoners are forced to endure don’t seem so bad at all now do they? But of course, to go along with my hypothetical comparison of Mr. Conover to a gay rights activist you first must accept my attempted coercion of your belief that this is actually the case. Getting back to reality, I really don’t see the point of calling these activities atrocities. No, no, not because I’m gay and for some reason, can’t differentiate between what’s considered atrocious and what’s not, no.

My unwillingness to see these activities labelled as atrocities stems from an entirely different slant. That is, a comparative one. Is it really to be considered an atrocity (by a third party mind you) to have to endure nakedness and nude photography in the hands of your captors while at the same time your fellow (still free to terrorize) Iraqi ‘soldiers’ and Al Quaeda faithful are busy:

• Beheading defenceless civilians
• Mutilating the bodies of their freshly killed American POWs
• Shooting civilian hostages in the arm and letting the wound rot
• Buring and kicking apart the bodies of civilian citizens of USA, Canada, and Europe and hanging the body parts from the Fallujah mid-town bridge
• Plotting and carrying out the murder of five civilian expat oil company managers gunned down at a petrochemical plant in Yanbu, K.O.S.A.
• Tying one of the oil company manager’s bodies to a truck by its right leg and whipping through town yelling and screaming victory - a four man mini-anarchist army flaunting militant Islam and murderous Chinese made (Russian-designed of course! Rumor mongers -don't make me look foolish please oh please!) AK-47 automatic weapons. Then turning in to the local high school, body in tow, just after lunch and screaming GOD IS GREAT! GOD IS GREAT! LOOK THIS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES (kick, kick, kick, the dead oil company manager tied to your truck) GET OUT OF YOUR EXAMS AND COME JOIN YOUR MUSLIM BROTHERS IN FALLUJAH! ATTAIN THE GREATEST RANK POSSIBLE FOR A MUSLIM BY JOINING US IN THIS GLORIOUS HOLY WAR!

Doh! Lost my train of thought - the atrocity of having to remove dog caca from the living room has just been thrust apon me by my lovely wife. Oh the dogmanity! Oh the dogmanity! The smell alone is atrocious enough to cause global warming. There that’s done.

You want to call the shame of POW nakedness and routine interrogation procedures of those not smart enough to get killed by their American enemy instead of caught by them an atrocity, Mr. Conover? What will you then come up with for a term describing the normal day to day terrorist goings on in a Middle East war zone? Light-hearted fun I suppose?

That would be funny if it weren't for the context. I propose a 'counter atrocity' that of surgically, sans anaesthetic, removing the testicles of the four nasty terrorist bastards who caused the meyhem at Yanbu, boiling them, then feeding the testicles as lunch to the castrated individuals to whom they used to belong. Now that’s an atrocity worth writing about, in my opinion.

On the question of atrocity, a level of necessary evil that does not yield an evil person might well be definable in this instance. Look at Private England. Given the context, a military prison, is her routine interrogation procedure called for by her bosses really that evil? On the other hand, is her laughing at the small penises of naked Iraqi captured terrorists necessary? Is her evil for being photographed laughing at detained terrorists - lets call them what they are - being given a bit of their own medicine necessary? Perhaps it very well IS necessary, Mr. Convenor, in the context of terrorism and a Middle East war zone.

Who’s to say? The media? No. Not the media. They are there to give accurate account. According to Al Jazeera, the following have died in Iraq doing so. According to Tom Conover, would these deaths be seen by him as atrocities produced by this war, I wonder?

• Terry Lloyd, 22 March 2003, ITV News correspondent; disappeared in southern Iraq and was declared dead a day later.
• Paul Moran, 22 March 2003, freelance Australian cameraman; killed when an apparent human bomber detonated a car at a military checkpoint in north-eastern Iraq.
• Kaveh Golestan, 2 April 2003, Iranian freelance cameraman on an assignment for the BBC; killed after stepping on a landmine in northern Iraq.
• Michael Kelly, 3 April 2003, US journalist and Washington Post columnist; killed while travelling with the US army's 3rd infantry division in Iraq.
• Julio Anguita Parrado, 7 April 2003, New York correspondent for El Mundo daily Spanish newspaper; killed in a missile attack while accompanying the US army's 3rd infantry division south of Baghdad.
• Christian Liebig, 7 April 2003, reporter of German weekly magazine, Focus; killed in a missile attack while accompanying the US army's 3rd infantry division south of Baghdad.
• Richard Wild, 5 July 2003, British freelance cameraman; gunned down in central Baghdad.
• Jeremy Little, 6 July 2003, Austrian journalist with NBC News and embedded with the US 3rd infantry division; died of post-operative complications, days after being injured in a grenade attack.
• Duraid Isa Muhammad, 27 January 2004, producer and translator for CNN; killed in an ambush carried out by unknown assailants outside Baghdad.

About levels of necessary evil, Lois McMaster Bujold, a raving maniac – I mean - an award winning Science Fiction and Fantasy author whose majority of stories are set in the future and concern the Vorkosigan family and the planet of Barrayar tells us:

Any community's arm of force - military, police, security - needs people in it who can do neccesary evil, and yet not be made evil by it. To do only the necessary and no more. To constantly question the assumptions, to stop the slide into atrocity." "Barrayar", 1991

Even on fantasy planets, it appears the community’s arm of force has to deal with judging levels of necessary evil and considering how to avoid a slide into atrocity. I wonder if the Vorkosigan family or the other residents of Barrayar would deal with shifty definitions of atrocity created and shamlessly published by people who consider themselves expert commentators on a Middle East POW prison just because they used to be a prison guard for a while, in a New York jail, before they decided to write for a living.