R.I.P. DOOBEY

R.I.P. MISS DUBUISSON a.k.a. DOOBEY, DOOBS, THE DOOBSTER

As Austin's weather changes from autumn to winter; as freezing rain drips from the gutters and "that old north wind" blows the yellow leaves from our Texas ash, we mourn the tragic loss of Doobey, our precious black-and-white cat who died last night after a wild animal attack.

She was buried this morning in our pet plot at the bottom of the back yard with her white catnip mouse, her knotty, psychedelic, drool-encrusted charmer, and a little mint-scented catnip "for the road."  Doobey was a dear, sweet animal who brought peace to everyone in this life; may she find it now in her next life with her shadow companions, the boys, Brother Mercury, Brother Minx, and the ashes of Brother Jaffa. 

She is survived by Gris-gris and Possum who grieve today, seemingly sincere, along with their humans, at this sudden bereavement.  We are all broken-hearted.

As Doobey was a "pound cat," we knew little about her when we chose her nearly ten years ago.  She was not photogenic -- her website picture suggested she might be a gang member -- but her charm on first meeting was irresistible.  She was about six years-old and had been in the shelter for a while (probably because of that photo.)  A homeless man had found and handed her in and it was thought she'd been abused because she was skittish and terribly timid.  Despite this, she liked to play and adored tummy rubs, habits which she retained until the end. 

Doobey spent her first week under our bed, a refuge she took frequently over the years.  She gave the impression that she didn't enjoy attention but once the barrier was broken, was forceful, nay, demanding in her quest for strokes, splaying herself before you, legs akimbo, so that "no" wasn't an option.  She liked nothing better than to be brushed vigorously with a stiff brush for half-an-hour at a time.  She wasn't really a lap cat but when the weather was cold and she selected you from a roomful of people, her unique method of "lap-sitting" involved wedging herself between your thighs and gripping with claws fully extended.  This was a painful exercise.  She had long claws.  We will miss her claws.

We'll miss her drinking out of a mud-filled birdbath instead of her bowl of fresh water.  We'll miss her funny, waddling walk which didn't stop her catching a bird from the air.  We'll miss her choosing only clean towels and sheets to sleep on, and springing out of the linen closet like a jack-in-the-box.  We'll miss her black-and-white furriness on the black-and-white rug, so perfectly camouflaged that she could catapult a grown man across the room.  It wasn't deliberate; she wasn't that kind of cat. 

Doobey was a back porch cat.  We believe that cats, even pets, are essentially wild animals.  We've always given ours the option to be "inside" or "outside" or a combination thereof.  Some may judge us for this -- our vet was always irritated -- but  Doobey hated to be indoors for long.  She loved the outdoors, particularly the back porch, and though it proved to be her undoing, she lived contentedly, even blissfully, when the weather was good, on that porch for ten years.  Oh, how we'll miss her presence at the back door, insisting on an open door but opting not to enter!

We thank her for nurturing Jaffa during his short life; and for nurturing (read, tolerating) Possum, and teaching him some manners.  Just yesterday, he jumped on her back and knocked her over...she just licked his ear and walked away.  That's the kind of cat she was.

We thank God, the Universe and Suchness for bringing her gentle spirit into our lives.  May that spirit always live within and around us.  

Doobey prefers the rotary clothes line to the fountain

Doobey, hunter extraordinaire, submits to Possum, kitten extra-irritating

Happy Birthday, Mum!

Everything I am and everything I do, I am able to be and do because of my mother.  I thank her every single day, but today, the 30th of September, I wish she were still on this earthly plane so that I could hug and thank her at the same time.  Happy 88th Birthday, Mum!

On Sunday morning, 26 February 1984, I was up at the crack of dawn to make sure my suitcases were perfectly packed, everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion.  Having listened to the wise words of my friend's brother, who'd been to Libya several times, the contents of my suitcases were made up of clothes and personal items, and food I'd been told wasn't available: luxury items like chocolate and candy, and staples like favorite boxed cereals, crisps, crackers, dried soups, nuts and raisins.

My mother and sister chose not to come to the airport with me and on the whole, this was a good thing.  Fear of goodbyes seems to run in our family.  My mother hugged me as if she were never going to see me again, as if I were going to my certain death.  Not knowing my mother, you wouldn't know that such hugging was an unusual occurrence.  We're not demonstrative as a family.  Not only are we British, which almost by definition makes us break out in hives when confronted with a spontaneous squeeze, but my family in particular struggles with the manifestation of physical affection, at least with each other.  Hugs tend to be awkward things producing much nervous laughter after we've accidentally slapped each other a few times in the attempt.  Pathetic but true.  It wasn't until I finally left home that I learned how to embrace another person without either physical trauma or hysterical laughter.  These days, the only problem is that everyone seems to "go at" a hug differently.  I never know if it's going to involve a hug on its own, (arms over; arms under; one of each; which one?) a hug and a kiss on the cheek, a hug and two cheek kisses, sometimes even three kisses with only a bit of a hug.  I try to go completely limp when a hugger approaches so they can "go at it" and I'll respond accordingly.  I've been head-butted too often to take any chances.

On the front steps of our family home stood three soon-to-be wailing women.

"Goodbye, darling," my mother said, face awash with tears.  "Take care of yourself."

"I'll be fine, Mum," I said, bursting into tears and laughter at the same time, a family habit.  "I'll be fine."  I took a deep breath.  "I'll write as soon as I can...you will write to me, won't you?!"

Hug, hug.  Sob, sob.

"Of course I'll write to you!  I'll write at least once a week, I promise.  I'll put it on my list of things to do so I won't forget."

"You mean I'm back on your list of things-to-do?!" I laughed and cried.  "I'm honored!"

"I'll put you on my Sunday list, between feeding the cats and cleaning the fireplace!  I think that makes you number fourteen."

Laugh, laugh.  Hug, hug.  Sob, sob.

"I'll be home on leave before you know it.  I'll call as soon as I can get to a telephone to let you know that I'm safe."

"Bye, darling!"  Hug, hug.  Sob, sob.  Wail.  Laughter.

"Bye, Mum!"  Hug, hug.  Sob, sob.  Wail.  Laughter.

If I remember correctly, my sister and I didn't say a word, we simple WAILED. 

That's how it went in my weirdo family.  I'm not completely convinced that that's how it goes with your typical English family.  Is anyone out there cringing with recognition?  Hugs, sobs, wails, and laughter, all at the same time?

My new boyfriend, the one I'd met around New Year's Eve and had really come to like over the two months that followed, watched all this, slack-jawed, with the engine running, his eighteen-month-old son, asleep in his car-seat in the back.  As we drove down Elm Road in the early morning hours, away from Winchester, away from everything I'd ever known, I looked over my shoulder at Mum and Verity, waving until they were out of sight.  In the years ahead, this would become a familiar pattern, a tradition almost, but on that first occasion, I felt so wretched, I thought my heart would break.  The minimum time I would have to wait until I saw my mum and my sister again was four months -- I'd never been apart from either of them for so long before -- and I wasn't sure I could bear it.

THE DRAGON SPEAKS...APPARENTLY RATHER BADLY...

You may have heard that I finished my first draft of TEA IN TRIPOLI last weekend -- 65,000 words of potential, just waiting for my twitchy fingers to create a fabulous second draft.  Oh, but all those words wore out these fingers, and they are attached to exhausted hands on the end of exhausted arms.  Not quite Carpel Tunnel Syndrome but tired, tired, tired. 

Thus, I decided to invest in a computer program called Dragon Naturally Speaking which can hear what you say and turn it into words, bringing relief to bone-weary hands.  My delightful, beloved ex-husband, John, had an early version of it -- Dragon Speak -- to write his own book, though he had little success because it couldn't recognize his voice and that's fundamental.  However, that was a long time ago and Best Buy was selling the new and improved version 12.

Things went awry from the start: the product rang up as $200 when the shelf read $120.  It was incorrectly labeled on the box.  I paid $120 and headed home.  I cleared the decks, prepared to work, but it took forever to install.  I did laundry and came back; hand-watered the yard, came back; clipped nails (mine and the cat's), came back.  In the end, DNS flipped me the bird, computer-style, a big red circle with a black railroad-crossing X saying, "No way, Jose, I ain't installin' on your stinkin' computer."  I uninstalled, started again.  Another laundry load and an hour of answering questions to justify my right to its installation, it reluctantly agreed to come aboard.  I felt disrespected and a bit hurt.

Once registered, I began the tutorial when the program chooses whether or not it will work with you, i.e. if it will provide "voice recognition."  It's like an audition.  This is where John had experienced difficulties, and where folks said I would "fall down."  But I wasn't worried at all.  I do a lot of voice-over work, have hosted, read news articles, even been resident storyteller on a radio show (sadly defunct) on our local NPR station, Sound Sight.  I have studied vocal techniques and taken singing lessons.  I'm an actress and a professional touring storyteller.  Using my voice is my job.  I had absolute confidence that Dragon Naturally Speaking would acknowledge, nay embrace,  my dulcet tones.  

I explained to its database that I was in America speaking British-accented English.  It didn't question whether I was English, Scottish, Irish, or Welsh, which seemed important, like it might present problems down the line, but okay, if they didn't need it, that's fine.  I put on my headphones-with-mouthpiece exactly as set out in the picture.  Ready to roll.

Lesson 1 required me to say a line which DNS would absorb into its being and store in its database, thereby "recognizing" my voice.  I was to say, "Welcome to Lesson 1" which I did, into the mouthpiece exactly as requested, just like I was at a voice-over audition.  "Welcome to Lesson 1!"  It was not accepted; it was not "recognized."  Ten diverse, discouraging attempts later, a sense of rejection was creeping in.  I decided to use my standard American accent.  Nope, didn't like that.  I tried my Asian American accent which I know to be unrecognizable and I was right.  I tried every American dialect I've ever used, from Texas to Mississippi, from Montana to New York (both Gentile and Jew).  I tried Liverpudlian, Cornish, and cockney; did impersonations of James Stewart, James Mason, and Donald Duck.  DNS wasn't having any of it.  By now, I was offended and upset.

Lesson 1 eventually suggested that my English-accented-American vocals weren't good enough to pass the recognition test.  I had failed the audition.  But I was to be given another chance.  DNS suggested I move on to Lesson 2 which, it turns out, is for those with speech impediments and special needs.  I fully appreciate the value of this and am extremely pleased that the people at DNS take seriously the requirement for such a program.  On the other hand, I've never had a speech impediment except for a bit of a "sh" sound on my "s" when I've been reading aloud for a long time, or I'm weary, or I've had a little too much gin.  And my only special needs are a cup of tea first thing and another at 4:00 p.m.  I tried not to be insulted and did as I was told: read from a piece of chosen text (a book by Dave Barry) for five minutes.

The only word that voice recognition could make out was "the."  I chose another text and read for five more minutes and the only discernible word was "the."  And it's now day #4.  DNS has now heard me read for forty-five minutes and still, "the" is all I am apparently capable of saying.  How can I "improve accuracy" when I'm only saying, "the"?  I mean, what is there to improve upon?  It should be finest, most accurate  "the" in the known universe by now!

I'll close this by saying, I dictated an email using my Smartphone this morning and guess what, the text was as clear as spring water and there was only one misspelled word.  And you know what that means, don't you?  DNS -- all $120 worth of it -- has failed its audition and is not welcome on my computer.  DNS needs to work on its own vocals before it deigns to comment upon mine.  To quote Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

NATIONAL STORYTELLING CONFERENCE 2013

I'd only vaguely heard of the National Storytelling Network in 2005 when my new friend Donna Ingham told me that there was to be a storytelling conference in Oklahoma City, OK.  In a gesture of true mentor-ship, she offered to share her hotel room with this weird Brit, that is, if a 6-hour drive was do-able.  I was in the middle of a successful storytelling year with a hectic summer timetable so it wasn't easy to re-arrange my schedule and I couldn't leave for Oklahoma until the Friday afternoon but it was such a generous gesture and I enjoy an adventure so off I jolly well went.  Oh, how glad I am that I did.

Because there in Oklahoma City, I found out that there existed in the US a veritable tribe of storytellers from every part of the country, from all ethnic origins, with every kind of story.  Please don't think me arrogant when I tell you I had no idea then that the Art of Storytelling was a real and thriving thing and that people other than me were making a living doing it.  Of course I knew I hadn't invented the business of storytelling -- I wasn't that conceited -- but I had invented my own little version of it in Austin, Texas, basically a music town, self-proclaimed "Music Capital of the World."  My own craft had grown organically from a love of telling stories, my life as a theatre actress, and the need to pay my mortgage; I'd been touring Texas schools and libraries with my multicultural folktales for ten years when I set off for Oklahoma that July afternoon.  I genuinely didn't realize that other people were doing precisely what I was doing, and doing it skillfully, fiercely, passionately...and traveling the country with it, indeed the world.  It was stunning to unearth a wealth of storytelling talent I didn't know existed.  There was a whole tribe for me to learn from.  I was truly excited: I was not alone!

Next was the discovery that people were telling personal stories as well as folk tales, and while they stood at the microphone sharing their anecdotal tales with hundreds of listeners, they sang, joked and laughed as if they were with close friends in an English pub, always one of my favorite places to listen to and tell tales.  What a revelation!  You see, I'd created and performed my own personal narratives at local fringe festivals never knowing there was any other platform.  My insular world was changing, opening up.  I drove back with plans to revisit a long list of family stories, travel tales, personal disasters.  I was inspired!

In 2008, Donna and I, now good friends and storytelling colleagues, KOA'ed our way to the conference in Gatlinburg, TN, memorable not just for the wonder of that story-filled weekend and the upward trajectory of my learning curve, but for the 24-hour stomach bug which hit moments after we left the conference center and forced me to sleep and vomit my way to Austin in the back of Jerry Ingham's SUV. 

My lasting memories thus far were of an Elizabeth Ellis' keynote which filled my eyes with tears, my heart with hope; a panel of Native American tellers discussing stories from their native cultures; the multi-teller interpretations of the old folktale, Beauty and the Beast; workshops that crammed my head with wondrous ideas; and an array of delicious stories, the likes of which I'd never tasted before.  I was in storyteller heaven.

This year, the first summer I've been theatre-free in five years, I had the thrill of attending the NSN Conference in Richmond, VA.  Still rooming with Donna Ingham, but this time inviting a new storyteller friend, Joanie Stewart, to join in the conference experience.  I'm a bit more knowledgeable now and wish to share what I love with others.  My pleasure, I assure you!

The 2013 gathering was somewhat different from my previous encounters.  The world is changing and the "business" of storytelling is changing along with it.  This conference embraced and helped disentangle that brave, new world: digital storytelling with Joe Lambert; photo-tales with Oliver Uberti; stories and face-painting with Christopher Agostino.  Allison Downey taught us about story-slamming at The Moth and how to create five-minute anecdotes of our own.  Kim Weitkamp shared her proven marketing ideas on how to get noticed in the plugged-in world of social media.

The blessings of good, old-fashioned storytelling were there too.  Megan Hicks taught us how to fracture fairy tales and we came up with Hansels and Gretls to make you weep!  Darci Tucker demonstrated the art of deep character study to embellish history and keep our youth culture on their toes.  Lyn Ford used the age-old practice of yoga to start our day; we laughed like loonies to lift our spirits!  There were showcases, story swaps, and story slams; there were fringe shows (I did one!), late night stories with wine at the bar, and later night stories in hotel rooms. 

At the end of the day (forgive me, Mum), we still focused on the Art of Storytelling -- "the original sustainable art form" -- but with a set of new variables thrown in for good measure.  I've thought about those variables ever since I got back to Austin and what keeps coming to mind is Elizabeth Ellis' 70th birthday party.  As everyone circled up, I studied those splendid smiling faces, all singing and celebrating, and I thought of Dr. Seuss, "Oh, the people you meet, the stories they'll tell.."

And I remembered what stands out most at NSN conferences: the people, the people, the people.  The world is changing and the "business" of storytelling may have to change with it, but change, for the most part, is a good thing.  After all, one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  But as long as we, the people, remain openhearted and open-minded...and tell those tales every chance we get...we can make anything work.  Bring it on, dare I say, bring it on!

Once upon a time, there was a princess with a new set of variables...

LOOKING GOOD...FOR YOUR AGE

When I was at the store buying groceries which included a bottle of wine, the cashier asked to check my driving license.  I don't flatter myself that I'm being carded because I look under-age but it always makes me smile.  The cashier, who couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen herself, looked at my card, then at me...back at the card, at me again...and blurted out,

"Whoa, you look good for your age!" 

Her eyes widened with horror as she realized that she'd said something potentially offensive and she slapped her hand against her mouth to shut herself up.  I laughed aloud at her obvious train of thought.

"God, I'm real sorry, " she said, "I didn't mean it like that..."

"It's okay, I know you didn't," I reassured her.

"I meant it as a compliment!"

"No worries, I know you did..."

"I'm real sorry, ma'am.  OMG, my mom would kill someone if they said that to her."

"I took it as a compliment," I said, "Now, put it out of your mind."

 "Are you British?" was the follow-up, and I was pleased to change the subject.

But I thought about it in the car on the way home, how difficult we find it to say, "You look good," without adding "for your age."  And I remembered a similar occasion, perhaps ten years ago.

I was in Sally's Beauty Supply.  I had a fierce summer cold which had kept me in bed for several days and which had given me itchy, bloodshot eyes; a swollen, beet-colored nose; dry, cracked lips; and a cold sore the size of India.  The grey roots of my hair had needed attention for ages and displayed over an inch of old-age for the world to see.  In an effort to raise my spirits, I'd decided, probably foolishly, that I would shampoo a red rinse through my lifeless rats-tails.

There was a line at the cashier counter because the young female "associate" hadn't mastered the till yet and was totally frazzled.  I reckon she was maybe sixteen years-old.  When she came to serve me, she took my Clairol Hair Color (auburn) and said,

"You got a Sally's card?"

You know, I probably did possess such a card but with a bunch of disgruntled frogs scratching at my throat, I didn't feel like talking so I just shook my head.  And then came the infamous, never-to-be-forgotten line:

"Do you want the discount?"

What discount?  Hadn't she just offered me a discount with the Sally's card?  Was there another discount on the actual product?  I shrugged at the teenager and said gruffly, "What discount?"  I knew my words were almost unintelligible so I turned to the lady behind me to see if she were any the wiser.  She wore a sympathetic expression but was biting her upper lip in an effort not to laugh.  She put her hand on my arm as she turned to the assistant.

"Sweetie, never ask a woman if she wants the discount.  If she wants it, she'll ask for it."

"What discount?" I repeated to the friendly woman in the queue.

"Well, um," she smiled kindly, "she asked if you wanted the senior discount."

"The senior discount...how old do you have to be to get the senior discount?"

Still suppressing a laugh, she shook her head.  "Sorry, honey, but you have to be fifty-five."  

My head was so fuggy, I could hardly take in the fact that this teenage assistant thought I looked like a senior citizen when I was only forty-five, but it was clear that the youngster was not really aware that she'd said anything wrong.  She carried on with the business at hand.  Me, I went back to bed for two full days.

When I consider it now, I'm struck but how unimportant age is, how it's only significant if you believe it to be; or, at least, (if you disregard the accompanying aches and pains) how it's simply a matter of perspective.  Earlier this year, my delightful, beloved ex-husband, John, was tremendously excited about his upcoming birthday because, at age sixty-two, he was finally going to be allowed into Barton Springs pool for $1.  On his birthday, he went to Barton Springs, proudly announced through the glass at the pool kiosk, "One...at the senior citizen rate, please," and the young man on duty didn't look up, never questioned him, didn't even register his existence.  He didn't care one way or the other.  John was rather disappointed there wasn't anyone to acknowledge how old he was; or more specifically, how good he looked for his age.

So perhaps it's better to be who you are with no concern for your actual age.  Better not to worry about what anyone else thinks; now there's a thought!  People will always see you differently from the way you see yourself, if they see you at all.  "What other people think of you is none of your business!" the adage goes.  All that counts is how you feel about yourself.  Also, as demonstrated by the boy at the pool, no one really cares anyway.  And as long as you get the discount if you want it, why should you care?

Arabian Whispers

When you can't speak the language or read the papers or mix with the locals or even walk the streets of the place you call home, it's difficult to find out what's going on around you.  In such a closed world, hearsay and gossip are often all that's available to keep you informed.  Bearing that in mind, I share an anecdote based on memories + fact + buzz + imagination.

Libya had many public holidays when I lived there (it still does, if recent calendars are anything to go by) and these fell into two categories: religious and political.  The Muslim festivals were timed according to local sightings of various phases of the moon, and dates were not definite until quite close to the occasion, slightly annoying when one was trying to plan an event.  During the lunar month of Ramadan, Muslims fast during the day and eat at night.  It always seems to me that life during Ramadan, which ends in the Eid al Fitr holiday, is basically "life up-side-down," i.e. relax, rest and sleep in the daytime; eat, socialize, and celebrate at nighttime.  I'm not sure what was supposed to happen at AGIP regarding office hours during the holy month; our local staff were conspicuously absent on Ramadan work days! 

At times of fasting, every-day business routines are often affected.  In Tripoli, this meant, from an expatriate perspective, that all the super-souks, local shops and bakeries were shut throughout the day.  As the secretaries had no transport, and our only chance for food hunting was during our lunch-hour, Ramadan routines reduced our "grocery shopping" opportunities to nil.

The non-religious holidays were celebrations of events connected with Gaddafi's reign as Leader.  March 28 was British Evacuation Day; June 11 was American Evacuation Day; and October 7, Italian Evacuation Day.  Another date that was always acknowledged was 1st September, a date so important that "1st September Street," a main road leading to Green Square, was named for it. 

With thanks to various on-line sources, especially the BBC, here's a little history lesson:

On 1st September 1969, a group of military officers (among them, a 27 year-old Muammar Gaddafi) deposed King Idris of Libya in "a bloodless coup."  They seized power and declared the country a republic.  While the king, who was in Turkey at the time, dismissed the coup as "unimportant", troops and tanks converged on Tripoli in the early hours of that morning.  Within two hours, they'd taken key positions and the royal palace, military and security headquarters were taken.  All communications with the outside world were cut and a curfew was imposed.

The military junta renamed the new regime the Libyan Arab Republic.  The coup was sudden and came as a surprise to the rest of the world.  At the time, the US had a large airbase in Libya; Britain was involved in important engineering projects there and was also the country's biggest supplier of arms. The new Libyan officials assured Britain that no harm would come to their good relationship.  The Revolutionary Command Council which took over running the country, issued a statement declaring the aim of the revolution was "unity, freedom and socialism".  However, it also warned that all and any attempts to overthrow the revolutionaries would be "crushed ruthlessly and decisively".  

Apparently, the coup passed off with only a handful of shots being fired (hence "bloodless") and was welcomed initially as a reaction to what were seen as the pro-Western policies and corruption of the monarchy.  Thousands took to the streets to demonstrate their support.  When the new cabinet was announced, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi was named commander in chief of the armed forces.  He took the title of prime minister in January 1970, and his power grew incrementally from then on.

Saturday 1st September 1984 was therefore the fifteenth anniversary of the Coup D'Etat which put Colonel Gaddafi in power.  Although I have no diary entries or letters to back up this story, I'll share what I remember of the rather dramatic official festivities that year!

In the weeks preceding the 1st September public holiday, our minibus driver, Musbah, veered off our usual route from the expatriate camp -- or Stalag 99, as we called it -- to the AGIP offices in downtown Tripoli and took us on a different one.  Instead of taking the main road -- Gurgi Road, if my memory serves -- he went along a newly-opened section of the municipal beach road.  Although he couldn't speak English, it was plain from his gesticulations and general manner that he was proud of what was happening on this brand spanking new stretch of road.  The high banks alongside it were being packed with flowering plants.  Hundreds of workers were digging and raking with gardening tools, or on their haunches planting these gorgeous flowers.  The workers appeared to be non-Arab contract labor as far as I could see from our speeding bus -- Indian, Filipino, Sudanese -- but I don't know enough about Libya's labor force at that time to tell you if that is correct; it's simply my observation.  What was clear is that much work had already been done to create this wide seafront boulevard and all that was left to do, the final phase, was to tarmac the surface.  Evidently, huge amounts of time, money and effort had been given to get this thoroughfare looking its best.

When we asked our Italian colleagues and English friends what this was all about, they passed along what they'd heard: that the new beach highway was to be incorporated in a vast presentation of Libya's armed forces, a demonstration to flaunt its war power.  This exhibition would take place during the day on 1st September 1984, to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of the coup.

We understood there was to be an air show with dramatic and daring flying displays; demonstrations of artillery, weaponry, armored cars and tanks; military parades with marching soldiers and brass bands.  It was to be an all-out display of military strength and firepower to show the Libyan people how strong they had become since Big G took control, and to prove to the world that Libya was a force to be reckoned with under the G-man's rule.

As we secretaries were on summer hours, we finished work at 2:00 p.m. on Thursday 30th August and on our drive back to the camp, we saw the now completed piece of road, resplendent with its gleaming black tarmac finish and its bright, sunny flowerbeds.  I could appreciate Musbah's pride.  It really was a remarkable achievement.

The AGIP girls, all English, were advised not to leave Stalag 99 on 1st September.  It would be best for us to stay at home and keep out of the way of Libyan locals who may be overwhelmed by the occasion and seize an opportunity to prove first-hand their might over representatives of their political adversaries, i.e. a bunch of British ladies.  According to my journal, it's obvious that we girls -- at least, this one -- decided to follow the safety recommendations.  I entertained a small group of friends for lunch at my tiny "beach apartment," and in the evening, we took a roundabout route to play tennis at the Australian camp.  We kept out of the downtown area altogether.

During the day-light hours, we heard the military planes and jets whooshing overhead and occasionally we stepped outside to see them pass.  We could hear gunfire in the distance.  On a conscious level, we didn't take much notice.  Subconsciously though, I tended to worry about military events of this kind; I always had a gnawing concern that something could go wrong for which we expats would get the blame and become the target of retribution.  However, I tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, albeit artificial.  One thing I had learned was that unpredictability was the name of the game, and there was no point in speculation or anxiety.  Worry was a completely wasted emotion.  It would be what it would be. 

My journal states that I went in to work on Sunday 2 September and Monday 3 September; I don't remember the exact circumstances but I often had to work extra long hours since becoming secretary to the head man, Mr. Cavanna, and Janice, who worked for Dr. Ageli, Mr. Cavanna's Libyan counterpart, was on vacation so I was looking after his office too. 

My two days work was followed by three more public holidays before the weekend. This means that a whole week of holidays was provided to the Libyan people to acknowledge Gaddafi's fifteen years in power.  Whether this was planned or whether it was as a result of the events of Saturday 1 September, I have no idea, but here's what I know.

When I was picked up for work on that Sunday, the day after the celebrations, Musbah did not take me along the new beach road.  We went via the Gurgi Road, our more usual route.  The next day, the same thing occurred.  I didn't immediately question this because Musbah could be as unpredictable as anyone else; perhaps he was bored with the new beach road.  But Musbah looked unhappy, disgruntled, as if things were not right in his world.  "Musbah," I asked, "why aren't we going along the new beach road?"  Of course he couldn't understand me so I tried to "gesture" the question, pointing in the direction of the sea, "Beach road, Musbah, beach road."  He dismissed me in that way of Arab men, turning his head away and ignoring me, as if I hadn't spoken; actually, like all men, really.  When I asked him a second time, he did a hand gesture, slapping his hands together three times, left-on-right, right-on-left, left-on right, that hand gesture which says, "It's over.  I don't want to talk about it."

After he dropped me at Stalag 99 at the end of that second day of work, I had three days holiday and a weekend day so I wasn't back on the minibus until the following Sunday by which time rumors of what had taken place on Saturday 1st September had begun to fly.

I understand that the beach road had been prepared especially for the display of military vehicles.  I can only imagine this next bit because I'm not very knowledgeable about military events and, let's face it, I wasn't there.  However, picture with me, if you will, armored cars, jeeps, motorcycles, trucks, and tanks, all lined up and ready to drive along the fabulous new road.  Since the giant, dangerous tanks were the pride and joy of both the fleet and the occasion, the plan was that they would be the first to set off, with all the other vehicles following behind, two by two, like the animals on parade, marching to the ark.  It was going to be a grand affair.

The problem was that the tarmac had only recently been laid on the carefully primed area, and it had not had time to "set."   Thus, the furnace that was the desert summer sun had broiled, baked, and melted it.  I suppose this might well have happened even if the tarmac had been given ample time to harden.  Either way, it was positively bubbling by the time the tanks began their majestic rolling march.  As a result, the weight of the tanks forced their thick metal tracks into the molten surface, digging, ripping, churning, until it was a roiling mass of black gravely tar.  This was the ground then, that every other piece of military hardware had to travel across and in no time at all, the tanks were stationary in front, glued to the road surface like beetles in treacle, with a traffic jam (forgive the pun) of unimaginable proportions right behind them. 

Naturally this wasn't announced in the newspapers but even it had been, it would've been written up in Arabic so we couldn't have read it.  Our Italian colleagues got the basics from their Arab friends who could speak Italian; we heard it from our Italian colleagues in their broken English.  Other reports filtered back from English friends who'd heard it from their Tunisian cook, Sudanese gardener, Egyptian receptionist, etc., etc., etc.  Rumors floated about expatriate offices, ephemeral as specks of dust on the dry Sahara wind.  If there was ever a case of Chinese Whispers...or in this case...Arabian Whispers, I report it here for your delectation. 

Obviously, I can't guarantee the veracity of this account.  To be honest, I'm not even 100% sure it was the 1st September holiday though all signs point to that being accurate.  I can only vouch for the details I received at the end of the whisper line, and for my own experience which was that after seeing the fabulous new beach road before the military display, we never went down that particular stretch again. 

On the following Sunday, as mentioned above, we returned to work as usual.  Janice and Denise were back from leave and the minibus was full.  We all called out in our assorted English accents, "Musbah, take the beach road!  Musbah, we want to go along the beach road!" but Musbah only crouched over the large steering wheel of his precious bus, scowling with irritation, staring ahead, and ignoring us.

Three Kilometres from Tripoli (borrowed from TripAdvisor)

Blatta Orientalis Learns the Hard Way

As the mercury rises here in Austin, Texas, so the bugs are re-appearing.  This morning, I heard movement in my waste paper basket and knew it was a cockroach.  And there it was, big ol' feelers waving in the air!  Ugh!  I was reminded of my first cockroach sighting in Tripoli.  I was unfamiliar with the little beasties...had never seen one before.  Here's a snippet from a May 1984 letter to my mother, telling her about that experience.

"The weather is now beginning to get really hot, even when the sun isn't shining, and the old-timers tell me to stop moaning because it will be very much hotter than this soon so I'd better get used to it.  Yesterday I had two giant ants in my flat, each one about an inch long and very fat.  I managed to kill both of them before I had time to think, but it made me rather nervous of what was yet to come.  Shall I tell you what was yet to come?  COCKROACHES!  I have encountered my first one.  It was in a paper carrier bag containing tissue paper.  I could hear it rustling when I went to bed last night but convinced myself that the noise was coming from outside the flat -- a wild dog rummaging through some rubbish, maybe -- although I knew deep down that I was kidding myself.  Anyhow, the moving tissue paper was the very first thing I heard when I awoke this morning so I just had to do something about it.  I shifted the bag slowly (having worked out where the sound was coming from) and there it was, an inch and a half long, black and shiny, and running away from me.  Fool!  It should've known better than to run.  I grabbed the insect pray (lethal even to humans) and released almost the whole tin in the corner of the room where the roach had stopped; a little extravagant you may think but after all it is my first confrontation with the horrible little buggers.  I shall find out this evening just what my actions have done.  I was too scared to look before getting on the bus in case it hadn't worked...

Well, I've just got back and the cockroach has disappeared.  Either it managed to survive and I've wasted a whole tin of murder-gas; or cockroaches come back to retrieve their dead.  I don't know which is worse."

Blatta Orientalis