Wellington Harbour
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Memories of orange
Going through some old emails from 2003, I stumbled across one I sent from my lovely island of Bahrain (which is much in the news these days, and mostly for very sad reasons). Those of you who know me will smile at the reference to colour
I have found, to my great amusement, that Bahrainis are very fond of the colour orange. Not only is my hair colour commented on, but also many of my clothes.
Today, I went to the port to clear my books through Customs. Being nervous of how the tomes might be treated, I decided to accompany the clearing agent.
First stop, 8am, was the Customs clearance hall. We arrived in an office still pre-occupied with breakfast. Samosas and Q’bs (pancake bread) were strewn amongst the papers, rubber stamps and glasses of tea on the desk.
I was offered a samosa. “No thank you” was my reply “If I eat those, I might turn orange” – the joke being, I was dressed from head to foot in it already. But I did steal some of the chief’s large Q’bs. “You like Q’bs?” He was surprised; not so many westerners do.
Thirty minutes later I was back in the office with 24 CDs of Classical music and a video of the “Aristocats” for him to either ignore or send to the Ministry of Information. Hardly contraband, but I suppose they have to be seen to be careful. By that time the Q’bs was rock solid and suitable only to mend warships with. The papers were duly stamped, and for the second time in 6 months, I got out of the port in record time.
The moral of the story: If you want to impress officialdom, wear orange and steal the boss’s breakfast.
I have found, to my great amusement, that Bahrainis are very fond of the colour orange. Not only is my hair colour commented on, but also many of my clothes.
Today, I went to the port to clear my books through Customs. Being nervous of how the tomes might be treated, I decided to accompany the clearing agent.
First stop, 8am, was the Customs clearance hall. We arrived in an office still pre-occupied with breakfast. Samosas and Q’bs (pancake bread) were strewn amongst the papers, rubber stamps and glasses of tea on the desk.
I was offered a samosa. “No thank you” was my reply “If I eat those, I might turn orange” – the joke being, I was dressed from head to foot in it already. But I did steal some of the chief’s large Q’bs. “You like Q’bs?” He was surprised; not so many westerners do.
Thirty minutes later I was back in the office with 24 CDs of Classical music and a video of the “Aristocats” for him to either ignore or send to the Ministry of Information. Hardly contraband, but I suppose they have to be seen to be careful. By that time the Q’bs was rock solid and suitable only to mend warships with. The papers were duly stamped, and for the second time in 6 months, I got out of the port in record time.
The moral of the story: If you want to impress officialdom, wear orange and steal the boss’s breakfast.
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Monday, 4 April 2011
I blame George Bush
This is the second time in three years I have had felt the need to blame George Bush for something other than the invasion of Iraq. In January 2008, he was responsible for my pizza arriving stone cold in Jerusalem (see blog post). Today, I blame him for my passport photo being rejected.
It is all to do with biometrics. More and more countries are insisting on visitors having them and therefore on countries issuing them. It supposedly prevents fraud, forgery and international terrorists.
Small problem, I have buck teeth.
The regulations of my new country require a photo taken with a neutral expression and mouth closed. You are under no circumstances to smile.
I submitted my application this morning and was told my photos were unacceptable because one small part of one of my front teeth was visible. I tried to explain that I can't close my mouth without my lips assuming a "smile position", which was verboten. So, what are the likes of Cilla Black, Janet Street Porter, Bugs Bunny and myself supposed to do? Clearly, we are too toothy for a biometric passport.
I returned to the photographer to have another set of photos taken. I took the previous ones and explained what the issue was. They kindly agreed to re take the photos. I needed Velcro, or superglue to keep my lips firmly over my mouth for the nano second it took to press the shutter. It took six attempts to get something that improved on the original photos.
If by some miracle the passport photo is approved, I am going to have to practice the contorted expression at every passport control for the next five years.
But you know what really puzzles me. I could wear a full head covering, which would disguise my hair colour and style, and that would be fine.
As our American friends would say, “Go figure”!
It is all to do with biometrics. More and more countries are insisting on visitors having them and therefore on countries issuing them. It supposedly prevents fraud, forgery and international terrorists.
Small problem, I have buck teeth.
The regulations of my new country require a photo taken with a neutral expression and mouth closed. You are under no circumstances to smile.
I submitted my application this morning and was told my photos were unacceptable because one small part of one of my front teeth was visible. I tried to explain that I can't close my mouth without my lips assuming a "smile position", which was verboten. So, what are the likes of Cilla Black, Janet Street Porter, Bugs Bunny and myself supposed to do? Clearly, we are too toothy for a biometric passport.
I returned to the photographer to have another set of photos taken. I took the previous ones and explained what the issue was. They kindly agreed to re take the photos. I needed Velcro, or superglue to keep my lips firmly over my mouth for the nano second it took to press the shutter. It took six attempts to get something that improved on the original photos.
If by some miracle the passport photo is approved, I am going to have to practice the contorted expression at every passport control for the next five years.
But you know what really puzzles me. I could wear a full head covering, which would disguise my hair colour and style, and that would be fine.
As our American friends would say, “Go figure”!
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Coffee and the art of remembering
"Bella Italia" Petone
"Smith the Grocer" Wellington
"Steam" Oamaru
"Smith the Grocer" Wellington
Drinking coffee in New Zealand is definitely "couture" rather than "off the peg". Every coffee house has a distinct style, often decorated with delightful objects or pictures. More than once these objects have had me sauntering down memory lane whilst downing a French roast. There is always the possibility that you bump into a part of the past as you sip your latte.
The Pinocchio boy is the trade mark of one of our coffee companies in the city. He appears in a number of shops, to advertise the brand. I had a small pinocchio toy as a child given to me by a neighbour who travelled regularly to Italy.
Take the coffee pots. I was a child in the 1960s. It was fashionable at that time to "perc" the coffee and serve with milk boiled in a pan. My mother had a block of glass which would be set in the base of the pan to alert her when it started to boil. The rattling could be heard in the next room.
The tin boxes remind me of my grandpa Cyril. He ran a bicycle repair business from his garage. Every imaginable item for spare parts were stored in old biscuit tins on shelves.
I can kid myself that visiting a coffee shop is actually jogging. But in this instance it is only the memory that gets exercise.
Friday, 1 April 2011
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