Up relatively early considering it was a day off, and down to a tools shop I’d noticed on the main road, about ten minutes walk from The Bunglalows, to but some gardening tools. I got a rake, a hoe, a trowel and a spade (the pointed sort with no T bar on the shaft, which you never see in the West), all for the equivalent of £7.
At the back of our bungalow – and indeed all the others – is a turfed area, with a few trees. Beyond that there’s a wall, probably 10 yards away, and the width of the bungalow is probably about the same, so I’ve got 100 square yards of potential garden.
This was something I’d thrown into the ring way back at the interview, and could indeed be described as the clincher. Being a keen allotment holder back home, I’ve been intrigued by the prospect of gardening out here since my first trip in 2004. I’d have my own garden I was told. When I mentioned it to LM, he said I’d better clear it with higher management, and so I took the opportunity of bringing it up at the meeting we had in the first week with DoS and HD. “It’s your garden,” said the latter, “do what you want with it.”
And so I got down to it this morning, chopping up the newly-rooted turf with the hoe, and peeling it off with the spade. As I was standing by the wall trying to get the line right, I noticed a man with a paunch and an expensive hair-do, who greeted me and introduced himself as Big Cheese, the landlord. We chatted for ten minutes about the quality of vegetables here, the prospects of the site’s palm trees transplanted from Egypt, and the identities of the gardners. I askewd what the site had been before, and he told me that it was all rocky ground, and that the topsoil (about 1 ½ metres deep, he said,) came from a fertile area 100km south called Spring Valley. He also told me that the gardener had plenty of a nitrogen bearing substance if I needed it. He pronounced himself delighted that I was making a garden, and said he hoped that others would too.
He buggered off, and I got chatting to LM, who’s been eying another bungalow and secured my help with moving his stuff later this afternoon. I got back to lifting the turf for a bit, and then Ahmed appeared, wanting to know what I was doing and suggesting that the architect wouldn’t be too happy. Restraining myself from saying “fuck the architect” I pointed out that the owner of the site was contented, and that settled his hash. I got back to the turf lifting, and then Reza turned up and queried what I was doing and foreseeing problems, blah, blah fucking blah, which I told him to take up with the management and with the landlord if he didn’t like it – I said it with a bit of heat, I regret to say. It’s amazing how a reference to higher authority will stop a busy body in his tracks.
In retrospect, however, I’m simply pleased that the first interruption came from Big Cheese, the one person who could give a definitive blessing or not to the idea. So that’s sorted and, fuck the lot of them.
I didn’t get too much done, what with all the interruptions, and with LM’s bungalow move. I can’t see what he’s doing it for, really, they’re all alike. Nevertheless, I must admit to a wee bit of heard mentality, thinking “if he’s moving, maybe I should..?” But I’ll refrain, especially as I’ve started on the garden. KST is wanting to move too, on to the other side of the site, “because it gets more of the sun”. That’s just daft, the sort of thing my mother would reasonably want back in Blighty. In a few weeks from now, he’ll be glad to get away from the bloody sun.
Whilst doing the removal job, two new teachers – leadership and management, not English – and an IT bloke, arrived from the airport. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. They had that wide-eyed, tired but eager to please, trying to take everything in, kind of look that no doubt all new arrivals will and which I had a just two and a half weeks ago.
Into town later with LM, I wanted to buy a set of PC speakers, and get my Sony Eriksson k800i phone unlocked so that I could use a local sim card. The speakers were easily got for £12. The unlocking meant a trip to Madhar St, 2KM given over entirely to mobile phone shops. It was an eye-opener. Which shop out of hundreds? So of course I chose one almost at random (to narrow the search down I’d gone off the main street, but our taxi driver advised against that, suggesting there were better shops in the main drag. So we went into a place where a young man was counting an enormous wedge of wonga. “Just a minute”, and when he’d finished gave me 60% of his attention, because young men were in and out of the place all the time, asking questions, bringing in second hand phones to sell. He told me that he’d recently got back from Iran, where he’d been learning English He rang a friend, who came and took my phone away “for software”. It came back after 40 minutes, all working hunky dory and costing £10.
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