Scribbling #26: The Endoscopy

I've been having a few problems with my stomach and digestive system over the past few months, which I pretty much attributed to stress, but after having a bad couple of weeks where my dodgy belly felt absolutely rotten inside, I decided to consult the doctor.

The system of consulting here is not as haphazard as it is in the UK, where basically you see your General Practitioner (GP), then he makes an appointment at the hospital so the doctor there can tell you exactly the same thing as your GP just did, then make another appointment for the procedure to actually be carried out.  Here in Slovakia, you get the 'shuffling' system, whereby you get shuffled from doctor to doctor like some sort of infernal pack of cards, to which end you shuffle your feet just outside the door of the required medical practitioner.  Waiting.  And waiting a bit more. And then some more waiting on top of that.  Until you wonder what it all could possibly mean...

Anyway.

So after making an appointment at the gastro-whatsit doctor, which was the third doctor I saw that day, I quickly found out that this would involve something called an endoscopy, whereby the medical staff would proceed to insert a Discovery Channel camera crew down my throat, where they can find hidden treasures such as the last burger I had in McDonalds before I substituted all burger concoctions for salads instead.  The target date was when I had night shift, so this would mean that I would work for eight hours without eating or drinking anything at all.  Fun stuff, as you can tell.

The doctor was nice enough and spoke English, and so Mrs. C was gently ushered away into the waiting room outside with some encouraging words from the nurse.  These lovely sentences produced the lines which were later translated as 'This is a really unpleasant procedure, so its best that you are not here.  Goodbye, we'll call you later.'

Mrs. C was not invited to this party.

After putting my bag and coat away onto the customary coat rack, they asked me to open my mouth so that they could administer some local anesthetic.  Happily, it did not taste much of anything, although my mouth did feel a little bit weird...

After this, I got told to be lie down on the bed on one side, asked me to open my mouth again, put in an almost-plastic-dummy(translation: soother/pacifier)  with a hole in the middle, and got told to breathe a lot.  The first thought that I had about the tube that the doctor waved around in front of me was: Wow, that's rather thick.  Thinking about it and having someone try to shove it down your throat are two different things, so this is pretty much what happened:

Doc:  And no we just gently put this in...

JC: groooaaarWWROOOAARRRrrrr!!

My leg at this point went up involuntarily and my whole body tensed.  All of it.  Every single skin cell was taut to absolute 'run away, run away' readiness.  My chest section heaved and tried to find something to throw up.  Didn't happen.

Doc: Ok, that didn't quite work.

And then he gave me a lecture.

Doc: Just remember to breathe, that I've done this job for over twenty years now and have had many, many, patients.  Everything is going to be fine.

JC:  Yeah, I *cough* know. *cough* Sorry.

Doc: Okay, here we go again...

JC: Ooomh-huuuh...

Doc:  Okay, good...

At this point, my entire body heaved all at once, causing me to stop breathing and trying to choke on the camera crew.

Doc:  Okay, one more time, remember to breathe.. and try to swallow every now and again.  The tube is always moving, so you always need some swallowing.

JC: *cough* *belch* Sorry. *cough* Okay, again.

Doc: Once more...

JC: Hoooowaaarrrghhhh...

Doc:  Ok, I'm in the stomach!

JC:  WeeeRRRaaarrrGGG...

Doc: Okay, there's no... no ulcer...

JC: WWWRRRRRaaaaaaaaaaa...

At this point, I'm hitting the table with my fist like a WWF wrestler that is refusing to give up because of some gag reflex.  At least, I hoped that I was giving that impression since I was drooling all over the side of the table by now.

Doc: And now I just need to quickly get...

JC:  NnnnnRRRRRRGGHHHHHHH.....

And the doctor inserted a small wire into the tube in order to get some, as Mrs. C later called it, 'stomach juice'.

JC:  WRRRRRRRGHHHHHHGaaaaaaahoooo.....

Doc: There, all done.

JC:  hoooo, boy...

Doc:  You're a good patient, usually by now you'd have tried to grab at the tube and pull it out yourself.

JC:  Really...?

Doc:  Well, we'll just finish up...

And so we did, with me having to stop giggling every now and again after re-living what had just happened, and also that we made another appointment to see what had happened to the inside of me.

And then Mrs. C bought me Subway.  Yay!

Scribbling #25: One Year On...

Well, plus a bit more.  Maybe sooner or later at least three of my blog titles will actually be vaguely accurate, if not strictly true.

So yes... I have more or less officially lived in Slovakia for just over one year! Huzzah, I'm still alive and not gone insane yet!  Over the course of the year I've kept this blog (with the overwhelming number of posts of about two a month which means that yes, I do have a life) and shared a fair number of new things about living abroad.  I'm also excited about the days ahead of us, as they will be firmly rooted in our village just outside Sala, with our proceedings being all over Slovakia and a bit more of Central Europe.

This, of course, means lists of things to do.  I like lists.  They keep the world somewhat orderly, no matter how much chaos seems to be around us.  Mrs. C likes giving lists, because then things can actually be done without me being sidetracked too much, such as procrastinating on Facebook or even just staring into space with a happy expression.  I can then be feeling manly about said list, especially if there are manly things to do, such as manly lifting or manly DIY jobs around the house.

I don't have to translate DIY, do I?  Really? Wiki it.

Anyway, here's a top 5 list of things that were hard to deal with in my first year:

1. Language: Seems obvious, doesn't it really?  According to some website somewhere that I've forgotten the name of, the Slovak language is about the fourth hardest in the world, coming after Basque, Hungarian and Russian.  Japanese was weirdly at number ten.  I don't think English was on the list at all, since it is relatively easy to learn.  Even native Slovaks that have to do the Slovak language exams find it hard, since there are rules within rules about grammar and word order.  You think it would be like sitting your English exam?  You don't know, you just don't...

2.  Happy people: Slovakia is not the most joyous place in the world, or the most trusting.  Not surprising, since the little country has been invaded about a bazzilion times in the past thousand years since it has 'strategic' value within Europe.  Communism was added into the mix for some years, creating a dour society that has been hard to shake off since there were so many things during that time that were enforced, banned, or just plain not talked about.  So trust is an issue.  Add to that today's customer service and well...

3.  Silly drivers: No corner is too blind, no hill is too steep and if you think anyone is going to keep to the speed limit at all times everywhere, then you're having a laugh.  If you are being followed or happen to be behind a car with the registration plate beginning with BA or NZ, then beware! The person behind the wheel has an 83% chance of being an idiot.  The other 17% are lovely, lovely people, but they are outgunned at the moment.  It really is time to redress the balance.  But without speed cameras.

4.  Culture shock:  Sometimes it all just gets too much.  The language, the stupid bereaucratic system that permeates documentation, the Post Office... All of these can just send you numb.  There was one point when I came home and didn't want to speak to Mrs. C for some time, mostly due to a whole bunch of stuff that happened all at once.  Egging me on the next day and geting me to do stuff did not work.  I was shut down, on standby, out of order.  Please leave a cup of tea and a biscuit and come back the next day.  Mrs. C did what most women do and decided to tell this/complained to another young lady, this time Mrs. P.  Feedback from this conversation was again not helpful.  It's like this - either the person has to let it all out by talking to people, or the person goes to the mental Batcave and shuts himself in for a while and dusts off the metaphorical cobwebs.  I know that I am the latter and not the former, that is for sure.

5.  Life learning: As with point 4, you learn how to deal with a number of things.  The amount of stress put on a resident non-speaker is high, as you feel totally useless in doing anything and that you're always, always leaning on another person to help you out at all times.  This would not happen at all in the UK, as I would be dependent on myself for getting the car fixed, getting a plumber in to look at the pipes, be able to talk about the weekend to a colleague at work.  And since I'm working and present life is a constant challenge of having any time for anything, then checking that off my list for next year would be a massive tick.  At the moment, I'm only having one lesson per week for Slovak, if that.  This is not enough.  Neither is two and neither is three.  But on the other hand, lessons are expensive, so this can't be done.  Intensive courses are available, for a large fee.  But friends and colleagues talk, and you learn a little bit at a time and you find that even though you still can't construct a sentence worth much in the eyes of a Slovak language exam, at least you knew more than you did yesterday.  The trick is to remember that and not get frustrated.  Taking every day as a lesson is a positive choice and as many know, a positive choice and attitude is an act of will.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.  And it's not someone holding a flamethrower.

Scribbling #24: An Englishman's Home is His Castle

Well, that's the idea, anyway.

So we are now moving again!  That's twice this year.  Once in February from Nitra to Sala, and soon from Sala to a village just outside of it called Trnovec nad Vahom.  We've already had plenty of experiences with village life without actually living there properly yet.  The next door neighbours used the 'improper' friendly form of greeting us for the first time, which is apparently a big no-no in the Snakes and Ladders game of Slovak manners.  Old people ride around on bikes and look like they are going to tip over at any second.  Instead of hoodies, we have a bunch of stray cats, all lined up and looking suspicious on street corners.  Old people also come into our house uninvited while we're trying to renovate.  Case in point:

Old uninvited person that we've met before and has just decided to open the front door and let herself in (AKA Gladys): Hellooooo!!!

Mrs. C and JC: Silence

Gladys: I saw the front gate open and decided to let myself in.  Did you know that your red light thing is on?

Mrs. C: No, but thanks for telling us.

Gladys:  Also, your cat keeps on meowing all the time.  It needs feeding! (switches to Hungarian) It needs feeding!

Mrs. C: What?

Gladys: (switching back to Slovak) It needs feeding!

Mrs. C: Yes, it's fine, it can go catch mice.

Gladys: Look, I'll go to the store and get it some food, right?

Mrs. C: No, you don't have to, it...

Gladys: (In Hungarian)  Look, I'll go to the store and get it some food, right?

Mrs. C: What?

Gladys:  (Switches to Slovak) I'll just get it some food...

Mrs. C: No, really, you really don't have to.  At all.  It's not ours, it's one of the strays.  Thankyou.

Gladys:  I'll just go to the store and get it some then!  Okay?

Mrs. C:  No, you don't... ok, she's gone.

JC: (English) What just happened?

Mrs. C: She's just gone off to get some food for the cat.  And there's a light at the back that's gone on.

Pause.

JC:  She's seriously gone to get food for the cat?

Mrs. C: Yes.

Vilo (our amazing, fantastic, painter/decorator): You're going to have some really nice neighbours around here.

Mrs. C: You think?

Vilo: shakes head

Ten minutes later...

Gladys:  Coo-ee! I'm back! 

(Well, she didn't actually say 'coo-ee', but that's the effect I'm trying to give here, like a retarded episode of Last of the Summer Wine - look it up on YouTube, Canadians)

Mrs. C: Yes.

Gladys:  I'll just feed the cat then, Christina.  And that's your husband there, James, eh?

Mrs. C: Yes, there he-

Gladys:  Make sure to tell him that the roof needs doing as well!

Mrs. C: Yes, I'm sure he-

Gladys:  Right, I'll go feed the cat then now!

Mrs. C: Okay, fine... well, we're just leaving now, okay?

Cut to: Gladys's mate, Doris, striding up the path after seeing Gladys and decides to let herself in as well.

Doris:  Oi!  Do you know that your red light thing is on...

Mrs. C: We really have to go!

And we leave, letting Vilo shut himself into the house and letting him do more work.

JC: Oh, yes, Canadians never leave their doors unlocked, because it's perfectly acceptable, and who would ever come through the front door anyway...

Mrs. C: Drop it.

So now, dear reader, the front gate is always locked after we go in, to keep the local Old Lady Mafia (henceforth known as the OLM) out and our sanity in.  We need as much of it as we can, since we're moving in while painting etc.  It started out looking like a ruin, and now we think its going to look awesome.  We just need to add the finishing touches.

Like a floor.

:-)

Scribbling #23: A Theory. Or Possibly A Hypothesis.

Picture the scene, when at the kitchen table in our flat (translation for Canadians and other exotic creatures of the 'Northus Americanus' variety: 'apartment') where myself and Mrs. Preggers Rev. C were having breakfast, I suddenly got a look of revelation.  A piece of my mind had taken a thought and ran quite a distance with it, before it metaphorically ran out of breath and couldn't be bothered.

Mrs. C gave the normal look of consternation when I had this 'eureka' moment, mentally preparing herself for the rubbish that was about to spew out of my mouth.

JC: I think I've just worked out why Slovakia has been invaded so many times...

Mrs. C: Okay. Yes?

JC:  Well... here's the thing.  Although my work is considered dull or horrendously exciting at any given time, there has been a couple of times when [insert long and boring explanation here of what I do for a living].  But basically, with the factory and all its noise, when someone shouts out that the 'dvojka' (second) product is wrong, then they have to ask again, to make sure that the other guy didn't say that the 'trojka' (third) product is wrong, so they can write it down on their production sheet thing, and the first guy gets agitated and yells it even more incoherently.  It gets very confusing sometimes.  Just like in battle, you know?  You have to know who's shouting what, there's lots of noise, it's really confusing.  Like chaos.

Mrs. C: Okaaay. (Chews thoughtfully on cereal)

Pause.

Mrs. C: I don't see what this has to do with Slovakia being inva-

JC: What happens when you want to fire number two cannon?

And that's exactly why Slovakia has been invaded so many times.  :-p

Scribbling #22: Rubbish

Well.  It's about rubbish, not that it is going to be rubbish, so bear with me.

Anyway.

Over the past week or so, I have had the exquisite pleasure in following a couple of rubbish trucks to work on two separate occasions.  This post may seem boring so far, but still, stay with me here.  The first time around wasn't so bad, until I noticed the large branches, and here I mean branches, not mere twigs or pieces of sapling, but big, proper, huge, neolithic (I just liked that word just now, totally inappropriate that it is, but hey, it is twelve past midnight) pieces of wood that flew out of the top of the truck, thankfully to one side into a ditch and not going through my windscreen (translation for Canadians and other exotic species of mammal: windshield, because it shields the wind, not rain or anything else, obviously) and impaling me (translation for Canadians blah blah blah: VIP).

My first reaction to this was unprintable.

My second was to overtake said truck, which I successfully did and carried on with my day, such as it was.

The second time around I was travelling towards our new home that we're currently destro- er, 'renovating'.  On this occasion, large bits of white polystyrene were coming out of the truck and since it's light, said polystyrene was being taken by the wind and being thrown at me and my *cough* our  car.  Cue driving over one large piece and having the satisfying effect of seeing it, in the rear view mirror, explode into a million pieces, forming a polystyrene hailstorm into the driver behind me.

After that piece of inconsequential drama, and after working at the house, tidying up the rubble that was a result of Mrs. C's and our friend's 'modifications', it feels to me that a few things are different already in just being in the process of living in a village.  We've already met our neighbours, the old lady down the road, the grandmother of the next door neighbours and her rather aggressively friendly dog.  We've lived in our flat in Sala since February and we know the crazy post woman (no judgment, but she is mental) and the other lady who likes shouting at Christina every now again about cleaning the stairs. That's about it.  Oh, we have friends in Sala who live outside the flat, but there's something good about walking next door and just saying 'hi'.  A flat encloses you, you only see people go up and down stairs or in and out of cars.  Unless you do a barbecue on the balcony and everybody thinks the place is on fire, nobody will say anything other than a 'mornin'' to you.  And that last sentence is someone else's story.

And its always handy to have someone around with a mini-JCB, just in case.  Well, it is in our village.  You should see how much polystyrene we have to get rid of...

Scribbling #21: Please take my money, I'm a good person!

Since Mrs. C had borrowed the car, I was reduced to the two hour drudgery of using the bus system to-and-fro from Sala to Nitra and back again in order to get to work. Getting there was no problem, but I didn't quite have enough change in order get back home. So I had to take some money out of the ATM and then I had this sudden vision which sort of went like this:

Gives 10 euro note to bus driver.

Bus driver looks at me blankly.

Bus Driver: [Says something very fast and very incomprehensible in Slovak, but is probably a 'no']

JC: Okay. I'll just sort of.. sort of go away then, shall I?

I leave the bus, slightly humiliated.

Apparently this doesn't usually happen (the bus driver saying no, not me having the visions, which happens from a rather over-active imagination), but I thought it was better not to chance it and anyway, I was hungry. So, lo and behold, I went henceforth unto the supermarket which happened to be right next to the bus station. I grabbed some bargain pop and some bargain bread, and went straight to the counter, which happened to contain a bargain Goth at the till.

I noticed the big, heavy, ostentatious cross she had draped around her neck. From this, I was wise enough to not assume that she was a Catholic, but just someone who liked tacky jewellery. But that's okay. I'm sure there is therapy along the line somewhere, probably reaching into childhood.

She scans the items, having slight trouble with the bread and then throws both items down the chute in the quick, efficient manner as described in Scribbling #1. She told me how much it was, and I handed her the ten euro bill. Or at least I tried to. Shaking her head adamantly, she said that she couldn't take anything that large. I was slightly shocked by this, as it was ten euros, not a hundred, which would have been silly anyway in order to buy two items of bargain food. I stood there with a look of disbelief, or at least I hoped it was disbelief and not a case of 'look at me, standing here holding a ten euro note in one hand and a bewildered expression in my face and wondering how all of society is crumbling around me due to my need to get change for a bus ticket because of a daydream that I had ten minutes previously'.

This happened next:

Shop Assistant: Pffft!!

(Snatches the money out of my hand, counts out the exact change out of the till, dumps it in my hand)

JC: Thankyou, you're a credit to your culture.

(Hurriedly exits stage left with everything in hand)

Pause.

Shop Assistant: Pffft!!

What happened here is that shop assistants don't have to be nice. Everyone needs groceries and everyone needs petrol, so most people behind the till give the same, stony 'how dare you enter this shop and give me work to do, random stranger' expression.

Go to a mobile phone shop such as O2, and they all say good day to you all at once, because you don't need to be there, there are other shops that sell phones. If they are nice to you, then there is more chance that the customer will come back. We are social, relational creatures, even introverts like me. I like it when I get good, polite service, and Slovakia seems to be warming up to that fact as well. It is still in the baby step stage, but there is still hope for the future.

Scribbling #20: The One About the Fat Man Throwing Out Little Plastic Cones

An abstract and hopefully mysterious title, I feel.

So, I was on my way to work, using the bus network between Sala and Nitra.  This wasn't by choice, as I'd much rather go to work by car, but since it had decided to become paralysed (master cylinder broke so none of the wheels turned) I suddenly had a new pastime to indulge in: waiting at bus stops.  It was on one of these glorious occasions that one of my work colleagues turned up next to me, and soon a discussion about the great divides between countries ensued, such as Slovakia with its West and East, Great Britain with its North and South, Canada with its West, East, North and South.

Slovakia, as an economy, is doing okay, but its West/East gap is gradually widening.  Bratislava, the capital, is becoming more westernised, where capitalism is becoming more and more prevalent there.  This is good news for businesses wanting to invest into somewhere where the labour is relatively cheap, but the workforce is also quite well educated.  Case in point, there is someone who works at our place that speaks Slovak, Czech (there is enough difference between the two - about 20,000 words), English and German.  His job is not international sales, its throwing plastic mouldings into a big chipping machine.  On the other hand, Slovakia's reluctance to be part of a €400 billion emergency EU 'bank rescue package' is not really that surprising, since it is one of the few countries to do 'okay' during the recession.  Not great, but okay.  We (myself and Mrs. C) are finding out on a first-hand basis how the recession has effected the housing market, as we trawl through the internet to find some decent places before our rental contract runs out.

This conversation was interrupted by a small vehicle that painted road lines in the middle of the road.  I had never seen such a contraption before in Slovakia, so I stood there vaguely enchanted, watching it and its driver carry out their rather mundane job.  Man and machine, together doing practical work that helps others decide which side of the road that they should be on and so therefore help save lives and stop accidents.  Very noble.  Almost as noble as the fat man sitting on the back of the vehicle, throwing out small plastic cones every now and again, so that no passing car would ruin the line.  How that was a job in the paper, I won't ever know, but at least it gets you out in the fresh air, I guess.

Scribbling #19: The Sign Language Barrier.

The questioning glance from the work colleague was clear enough, so I held my right hand up with three digits up, indicating that I just threw three pieces of product away that I considered to be no good.  I didn't think much about it until the colleague's questioning glance descended into the pit of his furrowed brow and then stayed there, not able to get out.  He asked if I meant 'four'.

And then I remembered the thumb.

In continental Europe it is quite common for us Brits to completely miscommunicate by thinking that we are being oh-so-very-clever by getting over the language barrier and instead use some basic mime practice instead.  And then we get worried and not a little bit frustrated when even this doesn't work.  As in all cases, the thumb represents 'one', not the first digit, so when I held up three fingers, my colleague immediately and quite naturally believed that I was being very lazy in not using my thumb, or that I had some sort of horrible hand disease that stopped me from using my other fingers unless I placed my thumb in a special way upon my pinky.  In any case, a message that was supposed to have been as simple as this that did not go across well, will probably not be the end of them.  Imagine if you were in a bar or restaurant and you ordered three drinks like I did, and you get four.  Now imagine the hilarity and subsequent slight embarrassment when your friends point this out, believing that you got yourself two, just because.  Same difference.

In many other countries, using hand signs could lead to getting arrested or at least get you into trouble with the local population.  Use of the thumb in a British context means 'goodbye' or 'that's good'.  Use of the thumb in a Middle Eastern context is the equivalent of flipping the bird at someone.  And in a Japanese (let's cover all the angles here, shall we?) means to indicate one of a male gender.  No idea how they came up with that one, but hey.

Also, I was taken aback one day when one lady looked at me very seriously and slapped her wrist a couple of times.  I thought I had done something wrong and, even if I am now over 30, I thought a slap on the wrist was slightly over the top.  After 20 minutes going through the Slovak-English dictionary with her, I found that all she wanted to do was ask what the time was.  I spent another ten trying to explain what a 'slap on the wrist' meant in English.  I was quite impressed with this, since it took at least half an hour to explain 'it's raining cats and dogs outside' last time...

Scribbling #18: The Workplace Handshake

Something that I have been treated to is the male-to-male handshake, possibly the most polite greeting you can give to someone at work.  This is, to me, impressive, as this has never happened in the UK, unless we are just about to go on holiday for a long time (e.g. Christmas), you've just completed one full year at your workplace, or its your birthday/anniversary.  In the Slovak workplace, at least on the shop floor if not the offices, this happens every day.  It is remarkable and it feels more personal, since for at least a couple of moments the shaker and the shakee were important to each other, that we are all in this together, that we share work-related problems on a regular basis.

To most people, this is a small, even inconsequential thing.  I don't think it is, as I find that although the people here can share problems, it is always at a distance and never 'full on', as other cultures can give it to you.  In the workplace, UK men are especially ones for gossip and sharing personal problems if you even hint at using the words 'something the matter?'.  I've listened politely to such issues as a death in the family, dealing with drugs and dealing drugs back in the '60s, going through three marriages, the CSA, how it is nearly impossible to get a decent job in Poland, what gigs they went to at the weekend, etcetera, etcetera... Here it takes time, as trust is always a big issue and so thus always a rather tall hurdle to negotiate.  Language is also a 'slight' barrier to leap over, but the message usually gets across.  With pictures.  And whooshing sounds.  And mime.  Eventually the door cracks open just enough to peek in, then it shuts quickly again, in your best interest of course.

Slovak people also notice if you are particularly pro-active.  They may not say about it to you, but they will say it to each other and it will be remembered then joked about later.  Especially if it happens to be about such aspects as health and safety. During my first days, I wanted to know where to throw broken knife shards away, as putting it in the normal rubbish will endanger the cleaner to nasty cuts and scratches.  Finding that there wasn't any such place... well, just picture myself and one of the women from the office dragging an empty oil barrel across the shop floor and then asking one of the guys from the toolroom to cut it in half so that we can use it to store waste metal.  Oh, the looks I got after that...  No Slovak understands the need for rudimentary H&S and it is only being implemented now so that businesses have more of a foothold for foreign investment.  This includes such items as fire safety, recycling, trips, drops and falls and so on.

So, that's what I get from a handshake.  You have been warned...

Scribbling #17: Indy and Šupy's diary

Scratched inside their plastic hutch is the beginnings of a joint co-diary, nay, a journal, in rabittry hieroglyphics that has also just been translated.  Seems that Indy is quite the writer, albeit using some sort of medieval saga type language.

Day 1 - Indy:

And yay, verily, the Keepers of the Gate opened the closing place of our humble abode and, forsooth! we were given unto a pair of strange beings, that put both Reginald and I, Charles Montgomery XVII, into what seemed to be a cage that had been last used by an animal of the feline variety.  I believe it to be, after studying the inscriptions on the inside of the prison, that this animal went by the name of 'Crisco' and hereunto time, his fate hath been left unknowest.  Mayhaps that this unfortunate specimen was eaten by these new Keepers?  We must also assume that we are alone in this, as we have been separated from our mutual friend for the last time.  We then travelled what seemed to be many, many miles to my indentured brain until we arrived into our new cage, which seemed to be far more luxurious and homely than the last one.  We hid away from the Keepers in order to plan our next step.  This may take a couple of days, dear reader...

Šupy:

What the hell happened?  First, I was quite happily minding my own business, then some pair of jokers came and nabbed us right from under the nose of our present owner, toot sweet, like.  Charlie-boy couldn't make head or tail of what was going on.  And then there was poor Eric, left on his tod.  Charlie reckons that this is some sort of adventure, but then he decides to shove words like 'indentured' into sentences where there really isn't a place for them whatsoever.  Thinks he's so smart, the muppet.  And we got taken in a cat cage.  A cat cage.  It smelt of cat.  And the big female kept cooing at me every now and again on the trip over to our new home.  At least its got a feed bowl and decent bedding.  I mean, that's the new place, like, not the human female. Yeah, well.  The hutch is big enough to bunk in.  Charlie was the first one to take a butcher's, no pun intended, like, but we'll see what happens next, roight?

Day 2 - Indy:

Intervention!  Gadzooks!  The male of the pack had decided enough was enough, it had seemed, and wondered just what we were doing in the hutch!  No respect for privacy, these, these... those!  Thouest knowest that one clings to one's own personal space like a General clings to his horse, maps and his life, letting everyone else get blasted to bits.  That'll serve them right, lower working class chattel...

Šupy:

Er, tangent mate, tangent.  You went off on there, Charlie-boy.  So, anyways, the big bloke, 'e decided to go and half-inch our house out of our own home!  Would you Adam and Eve it?  Found that there was suddenly more food outside the hutch than in it, plus this weird crunchy stuff in a bowl.  I guess if we're lucky, these muppets will actually let us out of this cage.  On the other hand, it is quite cosy in here.  What with the bedding.  And the toys.  And the fact that you know that nobody is going to run up behind you, carrying a lead pipe, shouting 'Freedom!' and then hittin' you on the ol' noggin.  Poor old Charlie - never knew it would make him regress like, after being beat up by Sammy the hamster after too much Braveheart.  I dunno.  Oops, another tangent, like.

Day 7 - Indy:

Our home, fully restored to its fullest condition, was placed within the warm confines of dost bedding.  We were then disturbed by a smaller version of a human female.  Mayhaps they shrink in the wash and should be given more water?  This one kept on shouting at us and a couple of new humans a lot.  I feel that the vapours may be coming on.  Regin - Šupy was taken out and petted a lot, which he didn't like very much, but then he hath not got the same, iron discipline as I have.  Yes, when I fought in the war of 1863, they knew I - ooo, carrots!

Šupy:

Some young girlie keeps trying to poke me and pick me up and hug me and keeps shouting 'together!' every now and again.  At least she isn't a septic tank, otherwise there would be a whole heap of trouble, like.  Wasn't so bad in the end - she just sort of stood back and watched after a while.  Hm.  Where she came from, I haven't got a digeridoo.

Day 18 - Indy:

And so, dear reader, it looks as if we've nearly ran out of hutch.  This means one thing of course, we have to write our knowings within the sand of our own imagination.  Or just stop writing until the Keepers bring us a new cage.  Or just don't bother, since we've got a lot of eating, going binky, and pooping to do.  We have to catch up with our owners on many things, especially since one of them has now left of course.  Makes it easier for us to plot their destruction.  Mwah-hah-haa!

Šupy:

Er, I'll just stand over here then, right?  And incessantly lick the male's arm and hand for any minerals and/or salt if it happens to reach inside the cage.  At least he takes us out and lets us run around, like, since we are getting bigger.  It's good to stretch your legs and explore every nook and cranny, just in case we find somewhere to escap- um, have a holiday somewhere.  Yes.

The story will continue once the rabbits have been trained to post a blog of their own.

NB.  Translation for Canadians and other exotic creatures.  Yes, I am a nice person.

going binky - term for when rabbits leap about, generally being frightened about being so happy.

septic tank - Cockney rhyming slang for Yank, or American.

digeridoo - rhyming slang for clue.

half-inch - rhyming slang for 'pinch' or steal.

Adam and Eve - rhyming slang for believe.

noggin - head.

left on his tod - left alone.

take a butcher's - Butcher's hook => look.

Scribbling #16: Slovak wildlife and weather

The British culture is somewhat hinged around talking about the weather. This means that if you have been talking to someone who is new to you and happens to be from the UK, then you know that you have got to the 'just about friend' stage, as they are comfortable in talking to you about the completely obvious. Statements would include:

'Wow, it really rained today, didn't it?' while wearing the biggest raincoat ever;

'Wow, it's really hot today, isn't it?' having just been sunburnt. (Really hot in UK means anything over 20C);

'Wow, it's really windy today, isn't it?' after your umbrella has just been gutted.

Either that or they just switched to default setting and they really do hate you, one of the two.

Slovakia has a rather inventive weather system, basically called the 'whatever' system. It might still be freezing in March at eleven below, and then jump straight to 18C within a week. At the moment we've had rains, lightning storms, 30C weather, blue sunny skies, all in the course of a week.

Which brings us amazingly neatly onto the wildlife.

Bear with me.

Since there has been so much rain, lots of fields have been flooded, giving an impression that there has been a lake shortage and we're due for a catch up. All this water has also meant that a certain type of insect can lay its eggs in there, and hey presto, we have plenty of them. The sudden mosquito plague has been one of vast annoyance for myself and for just about everyone else living here. Not to mention the big momma flies that swoop in, steal a baby from its pram, then fly away again, giggling.

Okay, an exaggeration.

Maybe.

A lot of the back roads are surrounded by these stagnant-water-covered-fields, so when you drive down them it creates another type of 'rain' all over your windscreen. The pitter-patter of baby and adult mosquitoes flying into the windshield, with the last thing going through their tiny brains being their backside, will certainly be a memory of mine that may linger for a while, if not cherish.

Scribbling #15: Finding the 'right' job

Slovak law has changed recently, making it slightly harder to register with the local authorities. Beforehand, as an EU citizen, all I had to do was show up at the Foreign Police, announce that I was here (as in just by going to the FP, not by shouting at a policeman's face 'Hellloooooo! Can you hear me!? I'm in front of you, look!', as this would be considered bad form) fill in some paperwork, and within a couple of weeks - hey presto, a shiny laminated residence card.

Moving from Nitra to Sala involved some change - I had to prove that I was at the address by giving a letter to the police from our landlord, to say that yes, unbelievable as it is, but we have a couple of Johnny Foreigners staying at our place - or words to that effect. Mrs C gained the added perk from marrying me in being able to obtain a permanent residence card as well. This means that she no longer has to visit the police, year in and year out, in order to get a visa sticker that will nicely cover one entire page of her passport. However, she still needed that one year visa renewal before she was able to get hold of the actual card, as the police needed something to tie her over with. More paperwork, but there you go...

With my card in place, I can quite happily become an employed worker within the realm of the Slovak Republic. I was so grateful and felt so blessed to get hold of a job within the space of a couple of months of 'officially' being here. Obviously the English language by itself is restrictive here, as it will limit you in what you want to do... but by combining it with the little Slovak I do know and add a huge sprinkle of mime - most conversations can be fought through. Although the end result may not be what one would expect or want, for example the people you're talking to suddenly look at each other and burst out laughing, probably because you've just sworn at them without knowing.

In finding a job, the cultural dissimilarities shine through, especially if the company's roots are in foreign investment. The 'middle ground' language is taken as English, but if you have a group of Japanese businessmen that had been taught by someone from, say, Glasgow, and a Slovak group that had been taught by someone from Chicago... then miscommunication can be rife. There has been many a time here at my place of work would just nod and smile along with whatever his boss was saying. The end result of this would be:

JC: Well?

Slovak tech: I do not understand what he said. But it sounded bad.

Not only that, but there was one time when I was introduced to someone who proclaimed that he was from 'sunny Barcelona'. Which, I thought, was a very nice if not slightly strange thing to say. It made the guy sound like he was on a quiz show. Ten minutes later, I realized that he tried to say that he was from 'Sony Barcelona'. Suddenly you're dealing with a customer, not some nice person who has a quaint outlook on life.

Increased foreign investment within the Slovak Republic also means that a lot of jobs are taking over people's lives. See those cars whizz past you on the highway, especially those with 'BA' written on the back of them? No they're not 'A-Team' enthusiasts, they just need to get to their next supplier, customer, sellling point, conference, or whatever.

I found this out by going to a job interview once in Bratislava. It was going quite well, and after an hour's talk it seemed that the Quality Manager was indirectly asking me to become one of the 130,000 employees that they have worldwide. There was one slight catch - he had to make sure that I was okay with travelling. I said I was okay with that, in light of what has happened over the last year and a bit.

He then said that the project I would be working on is something that is happening right now, this minute. And that would mean that I would have to spend a month in South Korea at the Kia plant.

He then spoke about more travelling, such as four months straight going to Zilina and only being able to come back on weekends, plus the extra flying back and forth to Korea and... I had to ask a couple of rather pertinent questions.

JC: What, exactly, family life do you have?

Silence.

Interviewer: There is no family life. It's just this, plus travelling.

JC: And you like this?

Interviewer: *shrug*

At this point I was saying silently 'Er, God, help?'

Silence. He knew that I had made my mind up already. This job was like putting a square peg into a round hole - there was no way that this was going to work. Not only that, but the job itself is highly demanding with the need to chase up people etc. In hindsight, I'm glad the guy told me about the travelling first without springing it upon me mid-job.

Thank goodness for small Japanese firms, that's what I say... ;-)

Scribbling #14: Five things I miss about the Motherland

Due to the UK election kerfuffle going on, with the Lib Dems (translation for Canadians and other exotic creatures: Liberal Democrats. The Conservatives are 'Tories' and the Labour Party is known as 'The party formerly known as New Labour, until the 'new' shininess was found to be just gold leaf, which eventually peeled to unveil the cold, black hearts of people who like shaking hands with, say, Robert Mugabe') taking centre stage in many a news story, I became vaguely wistful of what great things I left behind in the country of my birth. So, here's a list in no particular order of what I sort of miss, but don't really all that much:

1. TV programmes.

Such feats as Top Gear, the Antiques Roadshow, Christmas re-runs of Only Fools and Horses, great F1 coverage and the fact that everything is basically not dubbed. Instead of flopping on the sofa and letting my brain and my facial expression drift away in front of the telly, I instead have to choose if I want to do something creative with my time, or try and watch a DVD, like a film or something. Sometimes I opt for creativity. Sometimes the film. Sometimes it's just staring at the TV, without it being switched on. When Mrs C. then asks me what I'm thinking about, I have to say 'nothing', because I really am. I'm just waiting for the next neuron to fire in order to connect the fact that for me, there really is nothing on since I now live in a Slovak-speaking culture. Good thing, then, that English DVDs with Slovak subtitles are readily available. I just bought the Full Monty today for ten cents of a Euro. Bargain. But I still miss Top Gear.

2. The local pub's pig roast and pub lunches.

I've never been, it sounds disgusting, it looks disgusting, but I miss it because it was always there, every Easter, if I wanted to go to it. The motorbikes outside the place and the heavy metal Gandalf-lookalikes hanging around just added that extra appeal of 'what if?'. What if I did go and end up having food poisoning? Would it still be fun the day before my bowels turned to water? Eternal questions such as these should be given due consideration. And of course, there were always the great pub lunch - being able to sit outside in the pub garden on a slightly sunny Saturday, enjoying the pub view and all things pubby.

3. Indian restaurants.

There is only one that I really know of, and that's in Bratislava. Basically, the Slovaks' aversion to spicy food means that there is not much chance of 'going out for an Indian' (translation to all Canadians etc, etc.: Yes, that's how we say it. It's a phrase in itself. Get over yourselves.). The kebab and the chicken tandoori passed the traditional chippy as first choice for the discerning Brit on a night out. This might be due to legal regulations about not wrapping up the fish and chips in newspaper, and the UK as a nation decided not to be interested due to the imposed health and safety regulations on a takeaway meal. Either that or we've had enough of that amount of grease, one of the two.

4. Decent roads. Mostly.

Apart from the old tracks and the pot-holed monstrosities that plague Britain, they have one redeeming feature - decent road markings and cat's eyes. These little reflective bits of plastic embedded in the road make it so, so nice to drive at night to. In Slovakia, the markings here don't use the same type of bright/reflective paint, so they are hard to make out at night - especially so as the roads also don't drain water very effectively and the surface reflects oncoming headlights like nobody's business. Slovakia is definitely not the greatest place to drive at night, but then Britain spends millions on its roads, with that nice paint right up there as a priority to have. At least I know which side of the road I have to be on...

5. The Big Smoke.

London is the best capital city in the world. Get over it, people.

So, five things. It was going to be ten, but this is a blog. I'll save it for the book.

Scribbling #13: The Day I Nearly Died. Again.

Well, maybe not died, but quite probably seriously hurt and/or crippled.

Yesterday, I was happily going about my own business driving to work (yes, I do have a day job, thank goodness) when several things happened. First, a few cars ahead of me, one guy decided to slow down and stop in order to turn right. No big deal. Except that the guy behind him left it a bit late and according to Slovak (mostly male) driving tradition (i.e. he was tailgating anyway) nearly meant that the second driver would be sharing boot (translation for Canadians and other exotic creatures: 'trunk') space with him. Then there was the driver behind him, who had to emergency stop. And then there was me, who checked my mirror, braked and found that no matter how hard I was pushing the pedal I would probably be sharing tea and biscuits with the Big Man Upstairs if I didn't do something. And then the little voice at the back of my head ordered me - very calmly due to the sudden rush of adrenaline - that I should turn to the left because there is no oncoming traffic. This was when I was on a blind corner...

Anyway.

I braked, I swerved, I scored.

And then there was the matter of the car behind me. Who swerved right and basically parked alongside me. Yes, he was tailgating me too. All this from 90 km/h to 0 in a space of seconds.

I knew someone was trying to tell me something earlier on when I saw a car that had rolled over on its side, with the (rather hairy) driver standing outside of it, nervously puffing away at his cigarette.

This whole escapade isn't all that uncommon here. Talking to people at work, that kind of situation does happen - some come out of it ok, sometimes not. On the other hand, there is a lot less traffic in Slovakia than in England and a lot less traffic in, say, Bucharest...

Ah, adventures...

Scribbling #12: On-Lone Ranger

When the horse-type guide looked our group over and asked who had not ridden before, I rather sheepishly put my hand up. He led the first horse out – a rather imposing but magnificent animal – and pointed vaguely in my direction.

‘This one is yours,’ he said.

‘Mine?’ I asked, thinking that I had blagged the horsey equivalent of a Mercedes.

‘No, not you,’ he replied, shaking his head in a rather urgent fashion. ‘Hers,’ he said, pointing to Mrs. C who was standing next to me.

Christina’s eyes lit up like a fairground whose owner had spent way too much on neon.

‘This one is yours,’ our guide said, bringing out a rather reluctant and much smaller tan and white horse. To me, it looked as if it had been used to haul around cannons, around the time of the American Civil war.

The horse looked at me, turning his head one way and then the other, as if he thought he might like me better if he looked full on with only one of his eyes. I stared at this weird looking beast and quickly gathered why a large part of humanity was trying to get away from the ‘let’s go camping and ride horses’ to ‘let’s drive somewhere and go to a nice hotel with a big, comfy bed’.

This is a large animal with a mind of its own, was one of my first thoughts.

I hope it doesn’t kill me, was probably my second.

I hope I don’t look like a complete idiot in front of Christina, followed pretty quickly after that.

The horse – I named him Dave (it’s Dave the horse to you, pal!) – let me come near it, so I gingerly put my left foot in one stirrup, swung the rest of my body over, shoved my right foot into the other stirrup and tried not to look like a sack of potatoes which happened to be on top of a horse while wearing a brightly coloured helmet.

Hey, I’m on a horse! I’m not dead! Where’s everyone else gone?

The rest of our two-man, two-woman group, including Mrs. C, had immediate visions of being just like John Wayne and had ridden off, not bothering to wait for me or Dave. This was the decider - I had to coerce my horse to move.

I clicked my tongue, like they do in the movies. Nothing happened.

The rope I was holding onto for grim death – pulled at it, making the horse’s head move around from side to side. Other than that, no effect.

I kicked him in the sides a bit with my heels. Again, no response.

My horse doesn’t work. Therefore, it is broken. QED.

However, our guide (let’s call him Steve, because for every Dave on the planet, there has to be a Steve) was not as forgiving and decided to go down the route that any good engineer would take when something is not behaving – thump it very hard indeed.

Once I regained some semblance of control and stopped having a mild cardiac arrest, I guided Dave towards where the others were and decided that this, this must have been how the Lone Ranger felt like - just before he upgraded to a bigger horse. A rather relieved Mrs. C was supportive enough to have waited in order to laugh and point, then take the camera off of me and proceeded to take lots of pictures, just before she rode off at a fast trot.

The best thing about this adventure was that we weren’t really being guided as to the trail that we had to take. Our horses knew where to go and we went off the trail every now and again to have a nose about. To have that kind of freedom was rather refreshing, as I’m sure we were breaking several UK health and safety measures by doing so.

Good.

Dave was happy enough just to walk and not expend too much energy. He trotted when he could be bothered and was an otherwise docile animal until Steve decided that we weren’t going fast enough to keep up with the others, so he hit Dave on the backside very hard indeed and cheered.

‘Yee-haa!’

Now here’s the strange thing – although I was holding onto everything for dear life, going at high speed was far more comfortable than just walking or trotting, as you’re not bouncing around on the saddle like some sort of loon. On top of that, I was having immense fun.

We slowed for the trail ahead, and this is when our guide told us to be careful because the trail now gets a bit more wild – full of branches, roots and large rocks that the horses could get caught in and trip over. Then we stopped completely because Steve had seen a group of monkeys off-trail and in the forest. Our intrepid guide took his horse and with a metaphorical hi-ho Silver, ran his horse up the trail wall and into the trees, where everyone followed him except for Dave and myself. With some cajoling, my horse reluctantly moved off the trail and stopped.

I clicked my tongue. No response.

I pulled the bridle and kicked my heels. Still nothing.

Dave had decided that he was far too old for this sort of carry on and had switched into standby mode.

I gave up, mostly because I wasn’t really confident enough after only an hour in the saddle to be really adventurous and go off into the wild. And that, to me, was the smart thing to do – which doesn’t happen very often. On the other hand, Mrs. C was checking out the monkeys, so I figured that she could tell me the full story about it afterward.

‘Didn’t really get a good look at them,’ she told me later.

This was rather anti-climactic after seeing a bunch of horses dramatically run up a hill, kicking up mud and grass and bolt off into the woods.

‘Nothing happened? Are you serious?’

‘Um, yes,’ was the reply. ‘He kept on saying, “look, look, they’re right there” and we sort of squinted and turned our heads a bit, but didn’t really see them.’

I had now decided that Dave was a very intelligent horse to have known not to bother. These young ‘uns, all vim and vigour and nothing to show for it, he had probably thought.

Pointing Dave’s head in the direction of the trail once again, we soon came across some rather impoverished looking cows, which were all minding their own business until a bunch of horses came along. This made them all a bit unsettled, and once an entire herd of them are disturbed all at once, they all got up and started to poop in unison, which sounded like a retarded orchestra playing a mixture of cow noises and dung hitting the floor.

‘Yeah, they do that,’ said one of our fellow group members.

‘Really?’ I said, in the way only the British do, using implied sarcasm and irony at the same time. ‘Amazing.’

Dave took this moment to bend his head down to drink at the water out of a nearby trough, while the humans were all looking at the ugly cows. And then it was time to move off again.

Two hours later, and with lots of pictures taken of beautiful scenery, we were back at the stables, my muscles aching in places that I really thought shouldn’t. That comes, my lovely wife assured me, from not being able to ride a horse properly. If I didn’t just sit on it and instead tried to move with the horse in some sort of rhythm, then I wouldn’t have been in as much pain. I had been well and truly told - I just wished that someone had done that beforehand. Mind you, it was the first time that I had been on a horse, so I was glad that I didn’t die or suffer some sort of serious injury.

We said goodbye to Steve, Dave and the American couple that had joined us in our group. I got in the car, ready to go – my body very glad to be sitting in a soft seat.

Scribbling #11: Crisco's Diary

Found within the walls of the kitty litter box, we found cat hieroglyphics etched deep into the plastic. After minutes of blatantly made-up research, we found that it was a diary of Crisco's life so far. Since the cat has gone off into the wilds of Sala (and might possibly come back once he's visited all the local females and gambled all his money away - giving it six months at the moment...) we decided to give this completely fictional account for our own amusement.

Day 1 of captivity:

Today I was deceitfully given by the younger female human to another, older female. The large prison had been shut by then, making the older one feel that she had no choice. I love it when a plan comes together. This older female human seems pleasant enough. I purr contentedly, making her feel safe with me, thinking that I am a 'young' cat. Little does she know that back in 1972, a certain crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These cats promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Nitra underground. Today, still wanted by the government, we survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, don't worry, as this captivity is only temporary...

Day 3 of captivity:

Decided to urinate on everything that I like. Including the guitar bag, which smells great now. Have marked my territory by spraying everywhere. Wanted to spray on the female as well, but I thought better of it after the human was making loud noises and waving her front paws angrily at me. Never mind, everything is pretty much now mine.

Day 8 of captivity:

Yeeeaaah, maaaan!! Like, she put me in my basket, man, and went, really, really, really er... what was I saying? Yeah, fast! Fast... what, no food? No, in the car! Yeeeahh... we went to the vets and the guy there took out a small knife and before I knew it, I was asleep, maaan! And now I'm just wandering about, bouncing off walls and generally having a ball, man! Hmmm...

Hey! Something's missing!



Day 20 of captivity:

Getting used to being domesticated. I get a tasty stick-thing every time I do something that is not normal, like urinate in this sand stuff and not clawing the curtains, or attacking the human. Also like being given food and not needing to hunt it down first. I wonder if you can hunt this animal called 'Whiskas'? It is very tasty. Also getting used to drinking out of a bowl and not out of the toilet.

Day 58 of captivity:

The window is open and lets me go out into the wild. The window is still open when I get back. My human is good to me and I will get her a present. I believe that is her love language.

Day 60 in captivity:

The human was not impressed with the present I gave her. It was freshly killed and although there were a stream of feathers everywhere, I made sure that there was enough for her. I believe that makes her very ungrateful. What is this and the waving of the angry paws? Maybe she prefers the animal known as 'Whiskas'?

Day 128 in captivity:

After solving crimes around the city, I found out the way to open the front door. The silly human does not always lock it, so I find my own way out, if there is no other means of escape. I may decide to go out on my won, if the food doesn't keep coming and I am not allowed to hunt.



Day 1,257 in captivity:

I decide that I need to go. I leave a note explaining why - that Terry the gerbil and Steve the tomcat absolutely need to find Jill the water buffalo. This may take some time - around three months. I feel that I am leaving under a cloud and I may not return, but it seems that I have no choice.

Day 1,538 owned by a human:

Couldn't be bothered to find Jill. If a water buffalo can't be found be a gerbil, then all hope is lost anyway. So I go on a looting and pillaging spree, acquiring the affections of next door's and get free food. Two other humans I know find me - one that doesn't want to touch me and one that keeps sneezing all the time. I find myself back in my owner's apartment. I am at the moment very embarrassed as I have been forced into the bath and had been given a wash. The female is very pleased to have found me.

Day 2,128 in captivity:

The female has another human in the house. They seem to like each other. I show my liking for him, as he gives me food and lets me do Etch-a-Sketch on his arms, although he doesn't seem too happy about the latter. I show my appreciation of him by giving him a head-butt right between the eyes at 5am. Since he is then awake and waving his arms around, I then obviously ask for food. This is usually not given, but there is no harm in trying. Again. And again. And again...

Day 2,258 in captivity (the last entry):

I have been moved to yet another location, along with the two humans. The journey was nice enough, but I feel more trapped as there is not as much space. It is also a new town which I am eager to explore. And to meet local females. And maybe get more food. The female has left the window open, so I wonder if-

To be continued... Maybe.

Scribble #10: The Language Barrier

Language, especially when trying to communicate in one that is not your first, can have some results that are not entirely expected. For instance, a younger lady at work said to me, 'baby', which made me pause for a second. Do I now go red, stutter out something about being married? Or do I actually think about this for a second and realise that there should have been a slight rise in tone in the second syllable, making it 'baby?'. I answered 'nie', then tried to demonstrate the potential for embarrassment through the English language and mime, by sidling up to her and saying 'Lenka, baaaby' in an exaggerated fashion and using to my full advantage the optional extra of the waggling eyebrows. The result was that she went bright red, then laughed it off along with other work colleagues and myself.

The point of this is that I am amazingly blessed with the types of work that I do at the moment - first with the 'normal' eight hours a day, but secondly and more importantly the work that I can do with the youth groups here that are a part of ACET, YouthAlpha and the church plant that we're creating. With a bit of creativity (i.e. being completely bonkers), I've found that very little language skill goes a long way, especially when it comes to working with the kids here. My 'Mr. Bean' style of communication has helped immeasurably, as has my willingness to play various games with them.

On the other hand, going to the Post Office here is horrible, whether you know the language or not, but especially so if you don't know the local lingo. I do my best to smile, nod and look as friendly as possible without overstepping the invisible boundary and ending up looking like a creep, but there does come a time when you really do need to know what is being said and if your battery has died on your phone then you're a wee bit stuck. I'm currently resolving this by taking lessons with a personal tutor, who is not afraid to correct me on every word that I say and who actually encourages you to speak, not just stick to the books. I'm hoping to get at least to the standard of 'functional' within a year - but I'm not sure even then, as Slavic languages are the fourth hardest to learn in the world (according to the embassies in the UK, Basque is No.1, with Hungarian second). English is relatively easy to learn, but like the rest of them, you have to take the time and effort to master as much as you can.

Support from Slovak friends has been great - especially about positive comments about the accent, which I was afraid of. Come across as too British and there is no flow, making the language seem ungainly. Speaking it correctly the first time around - even though there may be a short silence before you work out what you want to say and how to say it - is a great thing and is hugely encouraging to the student, tutor and other potential students. I just want to fast forward a few months...

Scribble #9: Designated Driver Part Dva

There is no middle ground in Slovak driving, and this is particularly true when it comes to guiding an automobile through snowy and icy weather. Particularly ice. This winter's weather has been amazingly unpredictable and we even had a temperature difference of around 18 degrees during one week. This may not be such a big thing in Canada, which is a country that was never properly finished, and as a result the weather there can be safely described as 'a bit mental'. And we never had to take a pickaxe to our car in order to get four-inch thick layer of ice off. Also as a reference to how big Canada is... from Sala, we can reach three capital cities within three hours. In Canada, if you start off at Edmonton, you can reach Calgary in about the same time. And trust me, you really, really don't want to.

There is practically nothing that a lot of Slovak drivers (particularly those with 'BA' in their number plate) will slow down for. Blind corners, overtaking up a hill, leapfrogging in front of oncoming traffic - these are all taken for granted. Ice really isn't. And neither is snow. Driving limits are 50 km/h in a town, 90 on the open roads and 130 on the motorway. Drivers either go at a snail's pace in winter, or at a ludicrous speed that will either make them or another person end up in a ditch as all of them drive bumper to bumper. For instance, you suddenly find that you've hit ice and you are losing control of your car. You slip it into neutral and don't make any sudden turnings but instead steer it gently into the skid. Then you get hit by the guy behind you because he's decided to panic and put his brakes full on, thus sliding into the back of you. You now totally lose control of your vehicle and end up going into a ditch, while he keeps going on his merry way. I saw this time and time again, with people trying to flag passers-by down, with half of their car's rear end missing or stuck in the nearest tree.

Driving in snow, even with winter tyres, is something to be respected - I know, since I have hit a ditch once and had a few close calls. Winter tyres are lovely, but they are not made out of some sort of magical substance. Mrs. C has grown up in Canada, and has hit the ditch on numerous occasions, and this may not be her own fault either, as the roads can get so bad that the only way that you know where to go is to follow the person in front. If he happens to seemingly fall into a large hole in the road, then you kind of end up following him, no matter how hard you try not to. On the other hand, Canadians get skidpan training, which I think would be a lot of fun to do.

There have been quite a few times where I've glared back at the glaring high beams in my rear-view mirror, especially when on ice and that person is a little too close for comfort. But there's nothing you can do about it, except for going at a snail's pace yourself. I'm just glad the weather's warming up and the snows are melting. Roll on spring and 20C, that's what I say...

Scribble #8: How Not to Go About Your Business

One major gripe that I have about Slovaks is their work ethics, where basically they have the 'anything goes just so long as we don't have to confront anyone about it' (otherwise known as the AGJSLAWDHTCAAI) method down pat.  Case in point - timing.  It's all about the timing.  There really isn't any.

I've just started a new job here and I kind of found out that I had to come in on a Saturday morning about ten minutes before the end of Friday shift finished.  This constituted as 'overtime' - which I had not been asked about whatsoever.  For me, it was unusual because the week before I had been asked and gladly accepted.  This time, I hadn't.  Plus the fact that Mrs C. would put my head on a pike outside the factory if I did go in, since we were planning a weekend together.  After I had calmed down a bit, I walked into the office, put on the blue plastic bootie covers that the Japanese like so much, took a deep breath, took another one and then asked my manager, very calmly, if I was expected to come in tomorrow.

She looked at me.  Then pointed to the Human Resources lady.

I asked her the same question.

HR: Yes, you're to come in tomorrow.

Pause.

HR: Is there a problem?

Yes, there is a problem.  The fact that I feel like an indentured servant and that if I hadn't happened to look at the board ten minutes prior, I wouldn't have known, we wouldn't be having this conversation and I would probably be in a lot of trouble on Monday, due to lack of knowledge of what the heck I'm supposed to be doing, I didn't say.

JC:  Yes, [myself and Mrs C.] were planning a weekend away together.

HR:  Okay, then.  That won't be a problem.  We'll just shuffle these people around and...

To which, ten minutes later, she actually asked the shufflees to come in on those times, as she should have with me - at least to my way of understanding.

Slovakia runs on the JIT principle - that you get told what's going on Just In Time.  You may get a phone call on a Wednesday for a big planning meeting on a Friday - and don't forget to summarise everything you've done for the past couple of months before then.  And that's okay.  Because on the upside, they're flexible enough to move people and times around.  And it's also okay for important people within a meeting to just get up and leave and not come back for another hour or so.  The non-confrontational part of this shines through, as no-one wants to say to your face that, actually, it really isn't okay and yes, I really do have a problem with that.

When a foreigner puts his foot down, it then becomes passive-aggressive, which is never a good thing.  Items on the agenda may be done 'in your best interest', leaving you out of the loop, making you feel hurt and distinctly unworthy - especially if plans or projects had gone on for a long time.  It creates a chaotic situation that everyone just has to get along with.  This makes me think that it is the inability to actually trust one another which really bogs the country down - it takes forever to really get to know someone as a friend here, no matter how friendly you or they may be to each other.  Unfortunately, it reflects on me as well, as it takes about the same time for people to get to know me - the introvert who would much rather be writing to you than have a conversation with you, but who - somewhat ironically - likes to hear himself talk once in a while.  But, once you get there, then you really, truly, absolutely have a definite friend, who will put time and energy into you.

I'm finding this out pretty quickly for myself as we're just starting a new life in a little place called Sala.  There is a lot of history connected to the town, but more importantly there is a certain group of people here that we are increasingly getting close to.  We've seen glimmers of what actually happens in their lives and we're excited to get these tasters and know even more about them.  This creates a type of intimacy that you know in which you can be open about your opinions, which in turn can be rebutted or fuelled.  And quite frankly, this makes it fun.

Scribbling #7: A taste of Costa Rica...

So, there I was – hanging on a wire two hundred feet up in the air, completely stuck, suffering from dehydration and feeling a little bit like a complete idiot.

The guide wasn’t the least bit happy with me. I could feel his glare fifty feet away from me like the Death Star ray on Alderaan. Turning my body around on the spindle, I weakly reached up and tried to pull myself along by just using my arms.

Nope, not gonna happen.

I could hear Christina (AKA Mrs C) yelling at me from the other end, being generally encouraging and wishing that she could actually help.

I look down. And I think to myself, without a trace of fear, wow, it’s really beautiful here. I’m very lucky to be alive.

Costa Rica is a really lovely place, especially when you find spots that are a little – well, a lot out of the way of the main cities and towns. The people are friendly enough (well, they have to be, since their country hasn’t had an army since 1948) and I was glad that Christina and myself were having a great time on our honeymoon so far, especially since a lot of it was outside, adventurous and within the confines of ‘civilised’ wild nature. The country certainly ticked a lot of boxes when it was first suggested to us by another couple, so while my at-the-time-bride-to-be (otherwise known as ‘ATTBTB’ in the on-line gaming world) was working with preparations for the wedding, I was chasing up after companies, getting the nine or ten day honeymoon set up.

Yes. Good choice.

A sharp buzzing noise interrupted my dehydration-induced state of euphoria – it was a handle attached to a rope, running down the zipline towards me. The guide shouted at me to grab at it, which I did, without too much success. Then he started to encourage me - to not be afraid of the height, that everything was okay and above all, hurry up as he has a lot of sleeping and reading to catch up on. I wasn’t afraid – I just didn’t want to leave any time soon. Especially when it involved moving away from the really nice view of the canopy, overlooking a river set into a valley. What did he think I was? Crazy?

I made another lunge and unfortunately caught the handle. Our guide pulled at the rope, dragging me unceremoniously along with it, and got to the other end without too much trauma and a fair bit of sympathy from my new wife.

Our guide – let’s call him Pelé, because he ironically looked the exact opposite to the famous football player – said to me something along the lines of, ‘Don’t stop on the next one. There’s no rope to help you on the next one.’

To which I said – nothing, because I was too knackered to speak.

Nevertheless, I only got stuck because it was my own fault anyway, thinking that I had to slow down from the breakneck speed in which I was going. Slightly too much, it seemed.

The next few ziplines came and went without any incident – they merely had a cumulative effect on me in how great the views were and how pretty the country was, particularly when viewed from a greater height. Costa Rica seemed to have been set aside for the postcard industry.

Scribbling #6: Designated Driver

For some reason, the transition of driving from the left side to the right side of the road was never a big deal for me. My Canadian and Slovak counterparts did think, upon occasion, how hard that must have been to do. No - it was really easy. It's just the language transition that's hard. And that includes understanding Canadian - especially the cute way that they think I have, in some way, paused while speaking and immediately leap in with their opinions that they were conjuring up just a moment ago, thereby completely derailing my train of thought. Brits like to take their time during conversation - letting it flow back and forth, mulling over the words in the same sort of way as one would sip at a vintage wine, savouring each letter and phrase.

Conversations in the car between Mrs C and I have been rudely interrupted in the past, especially if we are in the fast lane of the local highway. You may think that you're fine, no-one is behind you at all. Check that rear-view mirror again, sunshine. Yes, that's a Mercedes coming up right behind you at over 240 km/h. And he doesn't look as if he is stopping. I pull over to the middle lane between two cars, lightly stepping on the brake, and the Mercedes roars by, the driver gesticulating at me wildly as if to say 'see what happens when you keep at the speed limit? It automatically puts you in my way!'. And neither am I particularly surprised to see the registration plate beginning with 'BA' - designating that the car has been registered in Bratislava. Any country road, any blind bend, going up a hill - you will be overtaken by some nutter from the capital city of Slovakia.

It's easy to drive defensively here. You just get out of the way of the idiots. But sometimes, you really can't - like being on a roundabout (translation for Canadians and other aliens: 'traa-fiic cirrr-cle')and you want to turn left, so therefore you want to be on the inside lane, then move to the outside, right? Not if the car next to you on the outside lane has anything to say about it. He wants to turn left as well, but just to be 'safe', he will do just that on the outside lane, cutting you off from the exit and making you go around again. In the UK, they have a great system, where the lanes are painted to actually force you out onto the correct exit, keeping everyone in their place. Which would be the 'proper' thing to do as we are British.

I've been honked at a couple of times as well, especially when waiting for a gap to drive into on a roundabout. So I ignore their horn and wait some more for a random mahoosive gap in traffic. It may take a couple of moments and I may be getting a strange look from Mrs C in the meantime, but I wish to savour the moment of holding up traffic. I should really name our car 'Dick Turpin'.

But of course there is always my personal favourite - winter tyres. To a Brit, these are like manna from Heaven. We revere them, but we have no way of obtaining them on the Isles - they're just too expensive. We like to blame the Man for not obtaining a stupid amount of salt for our roads, for not investing in snow ploughs, for not... and so on and so on. In this country, I've driven on snow at over 120 km/h.

I may have been drinking a cup of tea at the time as well. Which would also be the 'proper' thing to do.

Scribbling #5: New Year Shenanigans

New Year's Eve here is otherwise known as Silvester, named after Pope (or after he kicked the bucket: Saint) Silvester I. I'm not sure exactly what people did back in the 4th century AD to celebrate, but it would have probably been along the lines of conversation and food, which is what I experienced this year. The Wii hadn't been invented then, or Dutch Blitz. Or fireworks.

It would've really sucked to have lived in the 4th century AD.

With the clock nearly at midnight, we all went outside and walked up the street towards Zobor hill, in order to get a better view of the city. 12 am was struck and we beheld the Seige of Nitra, except with less Turks and fatalities. Colours filled the sky at a dazzling rate, with two-ers and three-ers exploding like nobody's business. And of course, since it was Slovakia and health and safety only applies here when someone actually gets recruited to fulfil that role, people were quite happily lighting them on the street, in their hands, aiming at their neighbour's house and generally not caring.

Slovaks love their fireworks, as opposed to the UK, where we merely like them and try not to get too excited by such things. For some reason we're very happy with sparklers, thankyou very much.

We flew Chinese lanterns (well, not actually FLY them. We didn't get on board of a massive one and floated our way to Prague or something. That would have been a daft idea. What were you thinking?) and then some more fireworks were lit by our Slovak compatriots. On the balcony.

Perfectly safe. Just don't set the garden or the dog on fire.