Friday, September 12, 2008
Farewell, Phil
Boat’s almost buttoned up and we are almost out of here. Finishing touches going on now. More on the Philippines, drydock, and the trip home once we arrive back in Chuuk. I’ll try to get a couple photos up as well. Thank you for checking in and hope to see you back in a couple of weeks.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Getting Huffy
We’ve turned a corner on the boat. More stuff is going in than is being taken out. This means coatings: layers of paint, varnish, shellac, etc. to protect the new materials and construction inside and outside the boat. As you can imagine, salt water is a rather harsh environment, so this is a pretty important step, one they luckily don’t entrust to me directly.
I am still working around the process every day, though, which exposes me to the fumes. Today was paint and varnish day, with a top coat of paint on the upper hull, anti-fouling paint on the bottom, and varnish on the new beds, fixtures, and walls in some of the staterooms on the lower deck. In other words, very few places on the boat not being doused in something noxious.
As you may have guessed, the regulations regarding carbon chain polymers, resins, petroleum and acetate products, and basically anything designed to stick to anything else are not as stringent here in the Philippines as they are in the U.S. Good for lasting integrity of boat coatings,. Bad for brain cells.
Inhalants are branch of the psychotropic tree I have never stood on and bounced. I just think I would have trouble taking myself seriously while huffing gasoline or model airplane glue. Perhaps my disinterest in said substances never blossomed due to the fact that the makers of that gateway inhalant, Liquid Paper, shifted to a non-toxic formula when I was still in early grade school and we dealt with mistakes the old fashioned way, with the pink end of a number two pencil. Anyways, killing my brain cells fast enough that my body panics and releases endorphins because it thinks I am in critical danger and pain just never caught on with me.
Perhaps I have been cheating myself all these years. I was loopy as a loon today. Thank goodness for handrails or I might have walked right off the boat. I was doing finish carpentry, a job for which I am more woefully unskilled than painting even. I was reassembling the dining room, ‘mess’ in boat jargon. Oh so aptly named by the end of my day. When we took it apart, all the trim, molding, tongue and groove slatted walls, and finish pieces, we meticulously numbered and labeled them and stacked them neatly. Then, over the course of a month, we thrashed the room, moved everything five times, shuffled all the piles, and walked on more than a few of the pieces. I say this simply to give you an idea of the starting conditions.
Then add toxic fumes. Even though I was not working in an area directly exposed to them, every time the breeze shifted I started having trouble remembering my measurements on the way back and forth to the saw. Numbered boards were confused, misplaced, seemingly mislabeled. By lunch I was having trouble remembering how to use the saw. By the end of the day, I just didn’t care. You guys have got to come out to Chuuk if for no other reason than to start at one end of the mess and walk all the way around, taking in the progression of my work over the course of the day. It would be quite funny if it weren’t so, what’s the word? Permanent. With the windows newspapered to prevent overspray from the painter, it is nice and dark in the mess. As every college grad and bachelor with a touch of romance knows, mood lighting hides a lot of dirt and, in this case, poor carpentry. I am nervous about the inevitable unmasking.
That’s just me on the upper deck, too. There’s a lady who does staining and varnishing who spent all day in an enclosed room with the stuff, below decks. She just started working on our boat last week, as we began having fresh carpentry available for staining, and she struck me as being a little off. Something beyond the language barrier. Something in the way she babbled to anyone who came near her, and to herself if she was alone. Something to do with the way she zoned out while running the orbital sander back and forth over the same piece of wood for hours. Something about that demented, snaggletoothed cackle. Now I know! She’s pickled! And having a fine time of it too. Good for her, I say. I’m not condoning that you all go soak a rag in paint thinner and see for yourselves, mind you, I’m just saying that one man’s combustible propellant is another man’s livelihood is yet another man’s Saturday evening.
I am still working around the process every day, though, which exposes me to the fumes. Today was paint and varnish day, with a top coat of paint on the upper hull, anti-fouling paint on the bottom, and varnish on the new beds, fixtures, and walls in some of the staterooms on the lower deck. In other words, very few places on the boat not being doused in something noxious.
As you may have guessed, the regulations regarding carbon chain polymers, resins, petroleum and acetate products, and basically anything designed to stick to anything else are not as stringent here in the Philippines as they are in the U.S. Good for lasting integrity of boat coatings,. Bad for brain cells.
Inhalants are branch of the psychotropic tree I have never stood on and bounced. I just think I would have trouble taking myself seriously while huffing gasoline or model airplane glue. Perhaps my disinterest in said substances never blossomed due to the fact that the makers of that gateway inhalant, Liquid Paper, shifted to a non-toxic formula when I was still in early grade school and we dealt with mistakes the old fashioned way, with the pink end of a number two pencil. Anyways, killing my brain cells fast enough that my body panics and releases endorphins because it thinks I am in critical danger and pain just never caught on with me.
Perhaps I have been cheating myself all these years. I was loopy as a loon today. Thank goodness for handrails or I might have walked right off the boat. I was doing finish carpentry, a job for which I am more woefully unskilled than painting even. I was reassembling the dining room, ‘mess’ in boat jargon. Oh so aptly named by the end of my day. When we took it apart, all the trim, molding, tongue and groove slatted walls, and finish pieces, we meticulously numbered and labeled them and stacked them neatly. Then, over the course of a month, we thrashed the room, moved everything five times, shuffled all the piles, and walked on more than a few of the pieces. I say this simply to give you an idea of the starting conditions.
Then add toxic fumes. Even though I was not working in an area directly exposed to them, every time the breeze shifted I started having trouble remembering my measurements on the way back and forth to the saw. Numbered boards were confused, misplaced, seemingly mislabeled. By lunch I was having trouble remembering how to use the saw. By the end of the day, I just didn’t care. You guys have got to come out to Chuuk if for no other reason than to start at one end of the mess and walk all the way around, taking in the progression of my work over the course of the day. It would be quite funny if it weren’t so, what’s the word? Permanent. With the windows newspapered to prevent overspray from the painter, it is nice and dark in the mess. As every college grad and bachelor with a touch of romance knows, mood lighting hides a lot of dirt and, in this case, poor carpentry. I am nervous about the inevitable unmasking.
That’s just me on the upper deck, too. There’s a lady who does staining and varnishing who spent all day in an enclosed room with the stuff, below decks. She just started working on our boat last week, as we began having fresh carpentry available for staining, and she struck me as being a little off. Something beyond the language barrier. Something in the way she babbled to anyone who came near her, and to herself if she was alone. Something to do with the way she zoned out while running the orbital sander back and forth over the same piece of wood for hours. Something about that demented, snaggletoothed cackle. Now I know! She’s pickled! And having a fine time of it too. Good for her, I say. I’m not condoning that you all go soak a rag in paint thinner and see for yourselves, mind you, I’m just saying that one man’s combustible propellant is another man’s livelihood is yet another man’s Saturday evening.
Attention Blog Respondents
Hey, I noticed that you guys are leaving neat replies to my blog. I am most appreciative for your attention and participation. Internet traffic is really slow here, and for some reason it takes quite a while to check each blog entry, notice new replies, and pull them up. Unless you are eager to have your reply made public, which is, of course, fine, could I impose upon you to send your replies to my email address? I will be much more likely to notice them and it will also take less time to receive them. Thanks again for reading and responding, as it motivates me to dribble this stuff out of my head.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Portrait of Durian Green
One of Anthony Bourdain’s books has a story of his encounter with a fruit called the durian. It was such an odd description of what sounded like an odd food that it stuck in my head. His final conclusion was that he loved it, but it would be impossible to serve in the U.S. because there would be no way to ship or store it because it stinks so much. This, of course, from a man who eats congealed goat’s blood and cobra venom sacs.
Imagine my surprise and excitement when I passed by a whole passel of durians at the grocery store. I hiked up my skirt, asked the lady in the produce section to pick me a good one, gathered that she didn’t touch the stuff, and picked one out myself, going on…nothing.
Next came the adventure of getting it home. The durian is just plain dangerous. It is a medium green color, about a foot tall, eight inches in diameter, and would not look out of place on the end of a chain attached to a wooden handle in the hands of a medieval knight looking to stove in the helm of an armored opponent. That is to say, it is covered in small, hard, sharp spikes and is heavy enough that holding it pushes those spikes into a hand with enough weight to hurt. Pure murder on a plastic grocery bag, but better than an umbrella or walking stick any day to discourage would be muggers or aggressive wildlife.
Assuming that this thing would be better cold, I displaced some stuff in the fridge to make room for my new durian, which mainly meant moving beer around. I live with five guys. Got up early the next morning and went out to tackle this thing.
The knife provided to us in the apartment kitchen was simply not up to the task, partly, I’m sure, from Madison the Chuukese dive master using it to open cans of potted meat, but I doubt it was all that sharp to start. So, out with the new dive knife and into the durian.
From all the hype, I’d expected a worse stink once I finally got past the spikes and the tough skin to the pale yellow flesh. Though pungent, it was not off-putting. It smelled, I dunno, ripe? Like a mixture of freshly washed baby and banana just starting to turn brown, promise with a hint of danger echoing deep in the hippocampus. The meat, wrapped in segments around large, hard, khaki seeds, was firm yet yielding to the touch, like a mango in consistency.
Not knowing what else to do, I dove in. The taste was a strong combination of equal parts passion fruit, feet, the crust on top of the cream cheese, and my great grandfather’s basement. Somehow that description does not sound as tasty as the fruit was, but all those flavors were present. It was remarkable, memorable, delicious, nasty, and utterly unique, like eating foie gras. Not something you want to do every day, but a good experience and an exotic treat. Only Mike the Filipino and Madison would come near the thing. We put the durian down and then disposed of the skin and seeds as you would crab leftovers, sneaking them into a garbage can down the block as quickly as possible. What, you don’t throw stuff in your neighbor’s garbage? Now, to get the stink off my new dive knife. Apologies to Wilde on the title.
Imagine my surprise and excitement when I passed by a whole passel of durians at the grocery store. I hiked up my skirt, asked the lady in the produce section to pick me a good one, gathered that she didn’t touch the stuff, and picked one out myself, going on…nothing.
Next came the adventure of getting it home. The durian is just plain dangerous. It is a medium green color, about a foot tall, eight inches in diameter, and would not look out of place on the end of a chain attached to a wooden handle in the hands of a medieval knight looking to stove in the helm of an armored opponent. That is to say, it is covered in small, hard, sharp spikes and is heavy enough that holding it pushes those spikes into a hand with enough weight to hurt. Pure murder on a plastic grocery bag, but better than an umbrella or walking stick any day to discourage would be muggers or aggressive wildlife.
Assuming that this thing would be better cold, I displaced some stuff in the fridge to make room for my new durian, which mainly meant moving beer around. I live with five guys. Got up early the next morning and went out to tackle this thing.
The knife provided to us in the apartment kitchen was simply not up to the task, partly, I’m sure, from Madison the Chuukese dive master using it to open cans of potted meat, but I doubt it was all that sharp to start. So, out with the new dive knife and into the durian.
From all the hype, I’d expected a worse stink once I finally got past the spikes and the tough skin to the pale yellow flesh. Though pungent, it was not off-putting. It smelled, I dunno, ripe? Like a mixture of freshly washed baby and banana just starting to turn brown, promise with a hint of danger echoing deep in the hippocampus. The meat, wrapped in segments around large, hard, khaki seeds, was firm yet yielding to the touch, like a mango in consistency.
Not knowing what else to do, I dove in. The taste was a strong combination of equal parts passion fruit, feet, the crust on top of the cream cheese, and my great grandfather’s basement. Somehow that description does not sound as tasty as the fruit was, but all those flavors were present. It was remarkable, memorable, delicious, nasty, and utterly unique, like eating foie gras. Not something you want to do every day, but a good experience and an exotic treat. Only Mike the Filipino and Madison would come near the thing. We put the durian down and then disposed of the skin and seeds as you would crab leftovers, sneaking them into a garbage can down the block as quickly as possible. What, you don’t throw stuff in your neighbor’s garbage? Now, to get the stink off my new dive knife. Apologies to Wilde on the title.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Smith and Galungung
Everyone in the Philippines is armed. Every store, factory, warehouse, restaurant, and pet shop has a uniformed guard out front. Actually, I haven't been to the pet store yet, as I don't want to see what I am probably eating. Each guard is strapping either a crappy looking wheelgun or a well worn 12 gauge pistol grip pump gun on a sling. I take that back. Not all the guards carry a gun. But they do all have a holster, even if it is empty. And six bullets snugged each into a little leather loop on his belt, cowboy style. Even the guys without pistols carry the six bullets. Perhaps, in the event of a large gun battle, they anticipate a fellow guard's need for spare ammo? My favorite is the boatyard guard who only has four of his six bullets. Maybe he misplaced them? Loaned them out to a friend in need? Did he already use two of those things on somebody today? Whatever the reason, I straighten up around that guy.
The guards come in two flavors: white uniform and blue uniform. All the uniforms are so similar in style as to be indistinguishable from one another; perhaps there is a central armed guard uniform distribution center somewhere in the city? The unis are pretty snappy, actually; fancy gold badges and buttons, a whistle, epaulets, name tags, embroidery. Just the right combination of flash and paramilitary style to let you know you're in the former sovereign state of Ferdi and Imelda.
There are several armed guards on rotation at the shipyard. There is always a guy at the gate, usually one wandering around the yard, and one on our boat, I guess to make sure that the yard workers don't make off with any of the big stuff. Normally they just stand around getting in the way, but several times as I have been struggling to get a large load of something up the two stories of stairs to get on the boat, or I am staggering around a corner with something unwieldy, the boat guard is the only one paying enough attention to lend a hand, as everyone else is engrossed in burning, cutting, grinding, sanding, or hammering something. Except that one kid who wanders the boat forlornly with the hame made broom, tackling the Sisyphean task of sweeping up, in face of the fact that forty dirty dudes with power tools and arc welders are just going to continue thrashing it day in and out.
Most of the yard guards are quite friendly and unimposing, all smiles and good cheer. I guess it is easy to be happy when your job is to stand around and watch as others around you sandblast, heft sheet steel, and haul the effluent dregs of assorted waste tanks in old paint buckets. There is one exception, a dour, serious looking fellow I have yet to see crack a smile. Whereas I will mug and goof off at some of the other hard cases around the boat until they smile, this guy, the armed guy, I leave to his own cranky devices. Instead of wearing a holster, he just sticks his revolver down the front of his pants, mobster style. Maybe the source of his unhappiness stems from his lack of a holster. Let’s face it, even the guys without guns have a holster.
So the other day I climbed down the scaffolding from the boat to find my crew in a tight little knot around one of the guards. Isn't it funny that boys up to no good, when gathered in a group, always appear the same, no matter their age, maturity level and surroundings? Since I like to be up to no good myself, I climbed down and stuck in my nose.
One of my friends was holding a chromed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver that the guard was trying to unload. Neat. Can I see? Wow. Feels light. And loose. Flimsy. Almost...shoddy. You did say this was a Smith, right? Yep, says so right there on the barrel. Wait a minute...Are those letters...routered? Because they are a little off. What about the stamp on the other side? Hmmm. Shows uneven fading and again, like the letters, something just isn't right. Let's take a closer look at this thing. Well, nothing fits snugly, the trigger is mushy, The wood grips are hand carved, the cylinder fit is sloppy, I'm pretty sure this is some sort of poorly chromed alloy instead of steel, and, oh my, the cross hatching on the end of the ejector rod, is that done by hand? Did you make this in your basement?
Turns out that bogus handguns are just as prevalent as pirated movies in this country. I told my Chuukese friend Madison that if he bought the gun 'for his cousin' as he was contemplating, I would pistol whip him with it. Not much of a threat considering that the thing would probably fall apart.
The guards come in two flavors: white uniform and blue uniform. All the uniforms are so similar in style as to be indistinguishable from one another; perhaps there is a central armed guard uniform distribution center somewhere in the city? The unis are pretty snappy, actually; fancy gold badges and buttons, a whistle, epaulets, name tags, embroidery. Just the right combination of flash and paramilitary style to let you know you're in the former sovereign state of Ferdi and Imelda.
There are several armed guards on rotation at the shipyard. There is always a guy at the gate, usually one wandering around the yard, and one on our boat, I guess to make sure that the yard workers don't make off with any of the big stuff. Normally they just stand around getting in the way, but several times as I have been struggling to get a large load of something up the two stories of stairs to get on the boat, or I am staggering around a corner with something unwieldy, the boat guard is the only one paying enough attention to lend a hand, as everyone else is engrossed in burning, cutting, grinding, sanding, or hammering something. Except that one kid who wanders the boat forlornly with the hame made broom, tackling the Sisyphean task of sweeping up, in face of the fact that forty dirty dudes with power tools and arc welders are just going to continue thrashing it day in and out.
Most of the yard guards are quite friendly and unimposing, all smiles and good cheer. I guess it is easy to be happy when your job is to stand around and watch as others around you sandblast, heft sheet steel, and haul the effluent dregs of assorted waste tanks in old paint buckets. There is one exception, a dour, serious looking fellow I have yet to see crack a smile. Whereas I will mug and goof off at some of the other hard cases around the boat until they smile, this guy, the armed guy, I leave to his own cranky devices. Instead of wearing a holster, he just sticks his revolver down the front of his pants, mobster style. Maybe the source of his unhappiness stems from his lack of a holster. Let’s face it, even the guys without guns have a holster.
So the other day I climbed down the scaffolding from the boat to find my crew in a tight little knot around one of the guards. Isn't it funny that boys up to no good, when gathered in a group, always appear the same, no matter their age, maturity level and surroundings? Since I like to be up to no good myself, I climbed down and stuck in my nose.
One of my friends was holding a chromed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver that the guard was trying to unload. Neat. Can I see? Wow. Feels light. And loose. Flimsy. Almost...shoddy. You did say this was a Smith, right? Yep, says so right there on the barrel. Wait a minute...Are those letters...routered? Because they are a little off. What about the stamp on the other side? Hmmm. Shows uneven fading and again, like the letters, something just isn't right. Let's take a closer look at this thing. Well, nothing fits snugly, the trigger is mushy, The wood grips are hand carved, the cylinder fit is sloppy, I'm pretty sure this is some sort of poorly chromed alloy instead of steel, and, oh my, the cross hatching on the end of the ejector rod, is that done by hand? Did you make this in your basement?
Turns out that bogus handguns are just as prevalent as pirated movies in this country. I told my Chuukese friend Madison that if he bought the gun 'for his cousin' as he was contemplating, I would pistol whip him with it. Not much of a threat considering that the thing would probably fall apart.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Where There's Smoke...
…There’s probably a small Filipino man swathed like a ninja, smoking a butt, sporting fake Ray-Bans, wielding an oxy-propane cutting torch, burning what would seem to be important hunks of steel off the boat.
34
I tried to keep 34 low key. I didn’t mention it to anyone. Somehow they knew, perhaps from my passport. No one really said anything until lunch. We were eating at a Japanese place. I stepped across the way to buy some treats for the boys at the bakeshop, not really intending to state the reason. When I returned, I was presented with a special dish, the Fruits of the Looms Salad. Don’t ask why in the world it was called that; many things get lost in translation out here. I had been craving fresh greens and salads on the crossing, so this is what the boys opted to order.
The salad was tasty, but the best part by far was the singing. Here I am trying to be low profile about the day (no one wants to make the birthday boy take the hatches off the poopie tank, and I, as the new guy, am not looking for special treatment), and I turn around to find the entire Filipino staff massed behind me to sing happy birthday. Imagine the Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra scene in Christmas Story and you will get a good idea. The rendition was so outstandingly bad that they stopped in the middle, started over, got to the middle again, and pretty much gave up. As lunch continued, we could hear them in the back practicing for the next time some dirty white dude came in for a birthday. Each of them individually came up to me afterwards and said, “Happy Birthday, sir.” It was very touching and most memorable.
Then I went back to the boat and took the hatches off the poopie tanks.
The salad was tasty, but the best part by far was the singing. Here I am trying to be low profile about the day (no one wants to make the birthday boy take the hatches off the poopie tank, and I, as the new guy, am not looking for special treatment), and I turn around to find the entire Filipino staff massed behind me to sing happy birthday. Imagine the Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra scene in Christmas Story and you will get a good idea. The rendition was so outstandingly bad that they stopped in the middle, started over, got to the middle again, and pretty much gave up. As lunch continued, we could hear them in the back practicing for the next time some dirty white dude came in for a birthday. Each of them individually came up to me afterwards and said, “Happy Birthday, sir.” It was very touching and most memorable.
Then I went back to the boat and took the hatches off the poopie tanks.
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