Monday 14 December 2009

The Natives at Play

Observing the natives in their natural habitat, is an important part of settling in on a New Planet. Instead of going to the zoological gardens to observe other species, I prefer to sit in a cosy room with a hot beverage, observing some of the strange rituals practised by the natives. It affords me much amusement and I am beginning to take these strange aliens to my heart.

The first thing that I noticed upon arrival some years hence, was the strange apparel the aliens wear. At first I was eager to fit in, but have so far resisted the urge to scrape my hair back and plaster it down with gel, and have not bought enormous silver hoop earrings, almost white skin foundation and pale pink, shimmery lipstick.

I wonder, with a slight smirk, if the undeveloped aliens truly think that pink velour fabric stretched over chunky thighs with a large, white and usually wobbly belly hanging over the waistband, is an attractive sight. Surely there is better use of such material....like a circus tent or housing for a small nation? Those that resist the pink furry stretch fabric are oft times squashed into a pair of denim trousers, a good three sizes too small, and hearing their thighs rubbing together as they mince along reminds me somewhat of a herd of wildebeest rioting across the plains of the Southernmost Colony. And I do wonder, what the purpose is of the flimsy piece of string-like fabric I see poking out of the back of said trousers as they only just manage to stay up? My eyes can scarcely resist ogling the sparkly butterfly or red heart or sequined (usually provocative) word that hovers, oh so cleverly, and not so subtly, above the well-rounded gluteus maximus...perhaps that is the intention, after all.

And watching these beings strut and squeal and throw up in the street, I once more wonder at the diversity of beings on this planet. As well as the loud-mouthed, foul-tongued undeveloped beings who hide their features beneath sinister hooded apparel, there are of course the lovely and gentile sorts too. These can usually be spotted next to sporting arenas, and particularly at horsey events...occasionally it is difficult to tell beast and being apart. They wander around dressed in cigar-scented caghools, leather boots, casual yet obviously exorbitantly expensive cashmire sweaters, cunningly draped pashminas and sometimes, but not always, carry a pampered pooch in a leather handbag.

There is also, to my delight, a plethora of check-shirted, high-waisted, sensible-shoe-wearing beings with loud nasal laughs and immense intellect. In days of sunshine and sweltering heat, they are easily identified by the white socks and brown sandals they sport and their knobbly white legs poke out plaintively from a pair of long shorts or short longs, depending on your point of view. They wander the highways and byways, clutching their oversized bags, pushing their spectacles up their high-ridged noses and are many a time to be seen wandering up a nearby mountain with a map in a plastic bag and a large rucksack on their backs...and of course the obligatory thick-soled hiking footwear, red walking stick and packed lunch (squashed marmite and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower cordial).

I do so enjoy the varied species of life on the New Planet, I think I will continue along this vein in my next epistle...

Thursday 10 December 2009

Under attack

It has become apparent to me that the New Planet has a number of unpleasant elements floating about in its atmosphere (and no, I'm not talking about large-mammaried celebrities). Although I have been on this planet for a number of years now, I continue to be attacked and struck down by these dastardly bugs. Surely a being should build up a resistance after a time? They lurk out there, waiting until I am tired and vulnerable, and then they swoop in and attack and leave me feeling as if I have been run over by a herd of woolly mammoths. And since my stomach is now churning after another assault, I shall retire to my chamber to contemplate, scheme and plot about the best way to take over the world.

Friday 4 December 2009

Couch Potatoes...

On the New Planet the nights are drawing in, darkness descends in the late afternoon and the air is frosty. And in the gloom, when shopping is manic with present-hunters pushing and shoving and jostling to get the best deal, traffic building up making easy travel nigh impossible, the only retreat for a sane traveller is the couch, in front of the picture box...well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. But I'm not going to ramble on about the endless repeats, no, I have something much more important to mutter about.

To my disgust and not a little shame, I have found myself enthralled with the latest 'reality show', which as any ex-Southernmost Colony dweller realises instantly, is actually Celebrity Veldschool. For those travellers too young to remember such rites of passage, ask an older sibling or friend that grew up in the dark days 'before', as they will surely remember the delights of such compulsory excursions during their undeveloped years.

Aah yes, veldschool - an entire week of hikes in the rain, leaky shelters constructed out of twigs, runs up a mountain at dawn before breakfast, melkkos, cold showers and the constant, daily, incessant and vehement indoctrination and propaganda designed to make us all aware (and terrified for that is surely a terrorist's aim) of the red terror that lurked behind every khaki-bush, rock and eucalyptus tree. That that very same red terror is presently the governing body on the Southernmost Colony, causes me to smile and wonder what the 'oom' that was in charge of the drip-feeding would think of it all now.

And let us not forget the games we were forced to engage in...'terroriste en soldate' - dropped in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a torch and an instruction to leopard crawl towards the pool of light in the clearing far away, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the 'soldate' who might stumble across our little band of 'terroriste' as we lay in the damp pine needles, faces daubed with mud like a primitive tribe preparing for war - which in essence we actually were.

Oh, the joy of avoiding capture and the thrill of swimming through crocodile infested rivers, negotiating the twists and turns of bat-riddled caves and muddy swamps as we made for home, in the rain and the pitch dark with the 'oom' yelling at us in a foreign tongue, the language of governance, which we were all expected to speak fluently. Would that I had remained a 'terroris', as I would now be living in splendour with inestimable amounts of treasure at my disposal (even though it should actually be used to govern the colony and not be used for trips to other planets and the building of immense mansions with a sea-view).

So my point is this, as undeveloped beings on a far off planet, we survived the tortures of sleepless nights in a cave, on the muddy ground, in a windswept cabin, bugs, spiders and the occasional serpent, didn't complain (much) and were not paid vast quantities of treasure to endure these deprivations. We were even forced to ablute in full view of the other undeveloped beings, many of whom did not even have the manners to turn away as we perched on the small bucket in the middle of the woods, and all this in the name of 'education'. I can only imagine how well such experiences would be viewed by the safety-obsessed bureaucrats on this planet - why, nary a helmet or knee pad or harness or hoist was seen - we did it all ourselves and if we fell down a ravine or lopped off a limb while using an axe unsupervised, tough, we simply climbed back up and continued on our merry way...and no one was sued.

Tantrums and pouting were not allowed, food was scarce and might well have been cockroach pate and lion testicle for all we knew. Did we mutter and moan and storm off in a huff, no we did not! I'm not comparing us all to the opinionated and puffed up seekers of fame that are presently sequestered in a jungle, I'm only pointing out that we survived veldschool, and so will you...

Monday 30 November 2009

Feeding frenzy...

As mentioned in my last epistle, food on the New Planet plays a big part in every one's lives, so I'll continue on this delectable topic for now...

Once a traveller has mastered that great institution known as 'the pub', and fallen prey to the monstrous carvery with its soggy carrots, undercooked meat and runny gravy, one can explore the other delights that the New Planet has to offer. Seldom will a being leave a Sunday lunch at the pub with enough energy to do anything more than collapse on the couch with trousers (not pants because these are what one wears under clothes) undone and stare at the telly. Last (or first depending on how you look at things) Day of the Week dinner is a big thing on this planet and you can’t get more traditional than roast beef and potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, peas, sprouts, carrots and gravy, followed by the ubiquitous sticky toffee or banoffee pie pudding. Of course, there are still some brave enough to actually cook this meal 'from scratch' and serve it up from the comfort of their own homes. Even one such as myself, who grew up in the Southernmost Colony, was inducted into this ancestral right back on the old planet as old and new ways merged to create a new species of being, the Britbok. Obviously this was before discovering the delights of charring dead animal flesh on a open fire built inside half an oil drum, an activity that would not be well received by the ''ealf an' safety' dictators (or the 'No, you shall Never Have Any Fun Again or Use Common Sense to Prevent a Ridiculous Accident Police', as I like to call them) that reign supreme here.

Of course there are the usual speedy-cuisine outlets, the golden arches, the genial grey-haired man with his deep-fried, cholesterol raising fowl and assorted places that serve dead animal flesh skewered on a strip of metal, but let us not forget that famous New Planetarian institution, the faithful 'chippy', often creatively named (In Cod we Trust, Almighty Cod, The Frying Machine). Ah yes, white fishy flesh wrapped in a heart attack, I mean batter, and slices of deep-fried root vegetable wrapped in newspaper…actually in a polystyrene non-biodegradable container or soggy packet, smothered in salt and vinegar and loaded with fat. Yum.

There is a very odd tradition here that I have yet to make sense of, the fondness for what they call "mushy peas". This is not as exotic as it sounds. They are really squashed and battered peas with the same texture as green peanut butter and the same coarse, dry stick-to-the-top-of-my-mouth-making-me-feel-like-I’ll-never-be-able-to- talk-again properties as the brown stuff. Usually a large dollop is served up on top of the strips of root vegetable, turning them green and leaving little lime coloured rivulets of liquid for the cod or hake to wallow in. I’m sorry, but I can’t take them seriously.

Friday 27 November 2009

Fed up...

For any calorie counting, sugar watching, fat-free-food-obsessed traveller, the New Planet is a land mine waiting to explode and cover the unsuspecting being in creme filled chocolate. Walking down the streets of any small town or village, the nostrils are assaulted with a variety of smells guaranteed to drive any moderately hungry person off their head. Sweet and salty, nutty and nasty, fruity and fantastic, there is something about the mixture of aromas that meander about narrow lanes that cannot quite be described. For someone coming from a Southernmost Colony where thousands teeter on the brink of starvation, there is an almost wanton array and selection of culinary delights on display at this stage of the planet's orbit around the sun.

The vast displays of cocoa-bean delights that appear at Yuletide served up in industrial strength sized boxes, are surely designed by some skinny sadist monster from the depths, as who can resist the shiny wrappings, the bows, the bangles and the spangles that beckon from every shelf as the festive season draws near? Not me, that's for sure. Boxes and bags and bow bedecked nut, nougat and caramel filled treats lurk and call very loudly to any cocoaholic brave enough to enter a shop at this time of year.

How will I survive the tempations; the dairy products so artistically arranged on small wooden pallettes, the skyscraper-sized displays of every kind of alcoholic beverage known to mankind (ten for the price of one as if every being is intent on getting so inebriated they fall head first into the trifle), the arrays of sauces and snacks, frozen mini-cupcakes, sausages rolled in pastry, skewered sea creatures dipped in bee nectar, immense fowls of every form stuffed within one another, and don't even get me started on the expectations of the undeveloped beings who appear to think that their parents' treasure is unending and that whatever their hearts desire will be bought, packed, wrapped, bedecked and be-bowed and placed beneath the yuletide bowers. How can beings resist the multipacks of powders and potions and paints that appear on the shelves of retail outlets at this time of year? Well, I'll tell you, they can't!

And let me not forget to mention the often garish multi-coloured strings of illuminations that twine and twirl and dangle around lamp posts and trees and garden fences, that drip off eaves and strangle mantles. Small, large and gigantic fronds of fir (or plastic) hang heavy with the weight of the glass baubles and bells and strings of silver or gold or green or pink, a veritable overdose of glitter and glow and yes, it does warm the cockles of one's heart (unless one is particularly cynical and annoyed at the disappearance of the TRUE meaning of this season). In the dark damp nights, amidst the twinkles and sparkles and festive cheer, a traveller from the Southernmost Colony longs for the bright sunshine of nature and family and friends, and experiences pangs unlike any that occur during the previous rotations of the moons.

Fortunately, this season does not last too long (although it certainly begins far too early) and once the geegaws and niknaks are packed away once more, life on the New Planet resumes once more, normal and natural...until the first cocoa-clad bunny comes hopping into view...

Monday 23 November 2009

Nasties and heroes

I have discovered to my dismay, that even on the New Planet, a place I thought to be safer and securer than the Southernmost Colony, there exist felons intent upon the destruction of my small content sphere. These dark creatures lurk in gloomy rooms, their many tentacled hands tapping furiously upon their keyboards, breath foul and reeking, bodies unwashed and crusted with dirt as they try to separate me from my ever dwindling treasure (or so I imagine).

I find myself filled with rage at these purpetrators of crime and wonder what misfiring synapses inside their small brains enables them to assume they can lay their grubby fingers on that which does not belong to them. Perhaps it is the anonymity of these felonious beings that makes me so irate.The unmitigated gall to think what's mine is theirs simply because they will it so. But, despite finding my limbs weak with fright and anger, I am delighted to discover that within mere hours of these dastardly devils attempting to plunder my wealth, they are being tracked through the cybersphere and will soon, no doubt, find themselves in shackles and, oh if it were only so, in the stocks where others like me could pelt them with rotten fruit and sodden clumps of mud! And I am eternally grateful to the heroes behind the scenes that are seeking out these felons...

Monday 2 November 2009

Round and round I go...

And then we have that great invention called the roundabout, which the New Planet seems to have created deliberately to annoy travellers. Now, these are not to be confused with the pimples in the road that they have in the Southernmost Colony and call a traffic circle. They range in size from small circles with four roads converging, to massive, congested, five lane confluences with nine or ten roads converging like spaghetti throwing a tantrum. Woe betide if I don’t know which exit to take. I have ended up going round and round and round trying to find the correct exit, get into the right lane and avoid being squashed between other drivers who do know where they’re going and are not at all sympathetic towards lost foreigners.

The exits are not always that clearly sign posted and I have discovered after many a tearful journey, that it doesn’t help to only know the name of the town I am going to, but I also need to know the names of the nearest big town, and at least five or six villages en route. I also need to know in which direction I am headed. It’s all very well to be on what the New Planetarians call 'motorways', but if you're heading North instead of South, matters become even more confused. When you think you're heading for The Great Capitol City and end up at the Severnth Bridge leading into a nearby planetoid where they speak in sing song accents and eat leeks, a newly arrived traveller can end up feeling a right twit (well I certainly did).

I am only now beginning to make peace with the road systems, but at least I finally know how to find my way home if I get lost. I once found myself trapped in a jungle of winding alleyways and narrow, never previously before discovered lanes bordered by impenetrable hedges for three and a half hours because I just didn’t know which way to turn as nothing was familiar (and it was pouring with rain, which is does from time to time as I might have mentioned previously).

There is definitely something about coming from the Southern Colonies…not only does the water go the wrong way down the plug hole, but for the directionally challenged left feels like right, North feels like South and all directions make absolutely no sense at all. And a local cartograph is not necessarily helpful. You might find the building you're looking for on page 94, but how you actually get to page 94 is another story. Sitting in a layby as you flap through the pages of the cartograph like a demented butterfly, is no fun at all, especially when you decide to turn left at the crossroads and you should have turned right and are now headed in completely the wrong direction, something you only discover when you see the lights of a large metropolis ahead.

Being told in a serious voice to “Go straight down the Motorway, take the Portageway (which is not sign posted or I can’t see the sign because there is a large truck blocking it just at the crucial moment), then go round the roundabout past the post office on the left, then go straight after the sixth set of traffic lights and veer right at the mini roundabout, then go under the bridge and cross over the small lane but don’t take the first left fork, go past that fork and at the next left fork go straight and take the fifth left fork then keep right but bear left as you round the bend, which curves to the right just before you turn left as you pass the tall oak that was stuck by lightning in 1265, and if you carry on straight you can’t miss it. But if you’re leaving before the sixth moon rises above the horizon, I suggest you rather take minor route 416 and in that case go….” does not make it any easier.

And it's not only the road system that needs to be learned, there is also vocabulary, which can lead to confusion not to mention embarrassment. For instance, a robot is a mechanical thing that walks around making beeping noises intent on taking over the world. The thing that goes from red to amber to green, which I find at intersections, is called a traffic light and running over a sleeping policeman is not an incident of manslaughter after all, it’s only a speed bump.

Ah, the joys of traffic. The transportation routes are like overfilled sausages, stuffed to bursting with strange, well maintained craft beetling about. I notice at once that all of them have four wheels with the appropriate amount of tread. They are all on a mission and know exactly where they're going, unlike myself, who is still, despite these many years, devoid of any kind of navigational skill. But at least I can find my way home now, so that's comforting...

Saturday 31 October 2009

Highways and byways

So what’s it actually like living on this little planet? These are my observations over the past rotations of the moon, and I hope they will if not inspire, at least encourage and give a bit of hope to those battling to find a place they can call home.

Living in one city is pretty much like living in any other city anywhere in the world. On the New Planet though, there’s a whole lot less place to park my craft. Luckily for me, I get to move to a rural area and heartily recommend this to anyone contemplating the move. Okay, I won’t get paid as much as I was in The Great Capital City, but it’s cheaper to live in a small market town or village and there’s something to be said for waking up to the lowing of cattle and the stench….I mean aroma... of animals, instead of hooting taxis and traffic that continues all through the night.

Hordes of travellers from diverse planets, most speaking an unintelligable tongue,rush about the tiny planet and this traffic continues to make me catch my breath. Even after these many rotations of the moon, I still find myself in awe at the chaos that can ensure from something as simple as one traveller applying the brakes to his craft, without warning, causing the river behind him to slow down, then stop, thus creating one immense parking space on one of the byways.

This Planet truly is a green and pleasant land; gorgeous stone cottages and tiny winding lanes bordered by hedges, tulips blooming on every verge, roundabout and roadside in the spring and the long hot evenings in the summer (although there are some Natives who declare that summer has been ghastly this year). Now, quaint though these winding lanes are, they are no fun to drive down in the pitch dark. I almost have a heart attack one afternoon when a many-wheeled vehicle wider than his half of the road, side swipes me and takes my mirror with him.

Most of the New Planet's roads are only wide enough for one craft and if I happen to meet a sluggish farm-making craft, much reversing to find a wider spot occurs. Again, not fun in the dark. Also, if it happens to have rained (which as already established it does fairly regularly) the roads get flooded and I come across a long tailback of craft all trying to turn around and reverse to avoid another craft that is stuck in the water or the mud, of which there is a plentiful supply. This, is not an easy task and unless there is a convenient farm entrance nearby turning is virtually impossible.

So coming unsuspectingly round a bend I encounter a queue of surprisingly calm drivers (unless you’re from the Southernmost Colony in which case you are irate at the delay) I reverse slowly into the nearest convenient farm entrance or dent in a hedge, turn and try to find an alternative route to my destination. You can imagine the joy of driving down these tiny lanes when it has snowed and the road is icy. Many a merry motorist has ended up in a hedge or in a field full of cows, having skidded on a frozen puddle or black ice.

Picture the road to your nearest large metropolis in peak hour in the midst of a taxi blockade…this would be an average day on one of the New Planet's Motorways. Yes, I kid I not, this is a TINY island and EVERYONE has a craft of some kind and drives it (not always as politely as one would suspect) on the motorway. Peak hour is a nightmare and best avoided if at all possible. A traveller can spend 3 hours doing a ten minute journey. AND, wherever I go they are digging up the road. There are road works everywhere. I have never seen so many little orange cones in my life. Someone somewhere is getting very very rich. So, I in my infinite wisdom prefer the simple roads, floods, muds, tractors and all.

Thursday 29 October 2009

A new tribe

The day finally dawns when I stop referring to the Southernmost Galaxy as home and this is when the real settling in has begun. After a specified period of time I take myself and my nearest and dearest off to an official ritual where I am inducted into a brand new tribe, am asked to swear an oath of allegiance to this new tribe and its ruler and a few days later receive in the post a sparkling new Cross Galaxy Nomad Permit. This puce coloured one will allow me considerably more freedom in moving around the galaxy than my previous one.

I have taken much advantage of this liberty, exploring new planets as often as possible and each time am thrilled to pass through the Portation Gateways with barely a hiccup as I flash the maroon book at sleepy men manning the entry points to these planets. I even smile smugly as those that still hold the Green Mamba Permit wait in endless lines, fidgeting anxiously in case they are refused entry and sent back to the Southernmost Colony in disgrace. And even though this once happened to me (another entire epistle entirely) I still breath a sigh of relief at being able to do so much travelling with so little trauma.

I stop feeling like an alien and begin to call myself an immigrant! It’s certainly an adventure and it takes a very long time before I adjust, some people never do, but that’s why they invented spacecraft.

Tuesday 27 October 2009

The sun will come out...

To my relief (and amazement after a long dark period), one day the clouds lift, I realise the sun does shine and I start to adjust, which is the longest phase. I find myself adapting every day and yet few days go by without my thinking or saying something about how it was “back in the colony on the Southernmost tip of the galaxy”.

I begin to look and feel like a New Planetarian, I dress the way they do, (although I draw a line at pink velour tracksuits, enormous silver hoop earrings and a belly button ring) I start to use colloquialisms, innit? At first I am unlucky enough (in my opinion) to be stuck in The Great Capital City but I master the supersonic underground transportation pod, start calling it the “Tube”, and begin to hate it like a true Native. I learn how to make polite conversation with strangers by instantly talking about the weather, I learn to queue...at the bus stop, at the supermarket, at the doctor’s surgery, on a hospital waiting list, outside a stadium in the pouring rain en route to a footy match or musical gig. And I do it without complaining (much).

I look the part, I’ve got the jargon down pat, I’ve mastered the system and yet as soon as I open my mouth I identify myself as an alien from another planet. I wonder if anyone ever truly feels part of their new planet, when their accent (unless an alien has the ability to change it like a certain blonde Amazon across the waters does) will always give them away.

Monday 26 October 2009

No place like home?

There are definite phases all new arrivals to the planet must endure. First off there is the elation and excitement when everything is new, everything is better, the public transport system is amazing, the postal service works, the telecast transmissions are stupendous, there are places to go and things to see, “stuff” seems so much more accessible to everyone, other garlic munching planets are only a hop, skip and a jump across 22 miles of watery cosmos, summers are really hot and the suns do shine from time to time, life is great in the land of plenty and then suddenly one day I wake and realise what I’ve done.

Reality strikes and the realisation of how different it all is leads to depression, where everything is wrong, the weather is dreadful, nothing is like home, the skies are overcast and soggy, I miss my family and friends, the weather is appalling, the natives aren’t that friendly and behave like foreigners, the suns only shine a few hours a day until the great deluge begins once more, no one in The Great Capital City speaks the lingo that it invented, the weather is pretty grim most of the time when it isn’t pouring and all I want to do is book my ticket, get on the next spacecraft and leave this soggy planet forever.

Many aliens give up at this point and return to the Southernmost Colony wiser but sadder. Others press through the dark days with the help of friendly Natives (and there are lots of these I discover) or the odd 500 000 other Southernmost Colony beings that live on this planet and I am happy to report that this is what I do.
For those planning on taking the journey or those newly arrived, it is a good idea to still mix with those of your home colony, as they understand the difficulties and challenges you faced daily. Equally important though, is that you mix with the Natives as it is only by doing this that you will fully integrate and stop looking back. A word of warning, you will occasionally come upon Natives that will try to take you to task for the not so distant policies of the authorities upon your previous planet. National guilt may even raise its nasty head, but once you have assured 'them' that you played no part in the evil machinations of the then-government and that you too abhor the system you grew up in, they will leave you alone to continue fitting in...hopefully.

And this is when the hard work really begins...

Saturday 24 October 2009

Newly hatched at Heathrow

Something most newcomers find extremely difficult, not to mention frustrating and demoralising, is that of finding the right job. There is plenty of work out there and something I learn the hard way, is to put my pride in my pocket and get a job, any job, even if it’s not the kind I would ever have considered doing in the Southernmost Colony. Just getting in to the system can be a nightmare.

I am treated as though my life before never existed. Whatever I did and achieved and my years of experience in different fields on the other side of the universe, count for nothing here. Prospective employers have never have heard of the corporation I worked for before. Unless my Didactic Diploma was obtained here, it counts for nothing. Perhaps you were a well thought of pedagogue on the home planet, here you will find yourself considered an ‘unskilled educator’. Even if you were the Managing Director of an Interplanetary-Conglomerate and brought in millions each month, you will still be treated as though you served food and beverage in the office canteen. I learn quickly that despite the fact that I was at the top of my game and a Most Highly Thought of Being in my field, I have to be prepared to start again.

Now obviously, there are those who instantly find the job of their dreams and do not experience the newly hatched chicklet feeling. I’m very happy for them and I’m not bitter. Really I’m not. No, really, I’m not. This piece of wisdom is for those, like me, who have a nightmare of a time finding gainful employment where their skills and experience are appreciated.

My advice to prospective space travellers and those recently arrived on this planet is this; just do whatever you can till you find that perfect position. And yes, that just might mean doing a job you consider only suitable for “Previously Deprived Aliens”.

Consider working as Public Sanitation Technician, Family Environs Upkeep Manager, Transparent Wall Technician, Refreshments Overseer, Theft Prevention and Surveillance Officer or Wealth Distribution Prevention Officer …all perfectly acceptable and done by nice normal people like you and I.

And this is what I do, I take up the unenviable job of being an Alternative Pedagogue, which though soul destroying, does provide a good wage (I suspect most of it is danger pay), which enables me to accommodate and nourish myself till I find a place of employment where I am appreciated and not abused and/or threatened by adolescent and undeveloped Natives.

So you didn’t picture doing “something like that” on the New Planet? My advice? Get over it, roll up your sleeves and get stuck in. It doesn’t have to be forever...

Thursday 22 October 2009

The rant continues...

Part of fitting in as an Interplanetary Wayfarer means turning your back on what you left behind. You may have had a large dwelling with twenty four boudoirs, a study, a pool, a driveway with actual parking space, a huge estate, an obedient lackey and any number of subservient minions, but you’re not going to have that here…not unless you are lucky enough to be loaded. Dwellings are small, gardens are smaller, the New Planet is tiny and bulging at the seams. Space is at a premium and you may feel decidedly cramped for a long time.

The stark fact of cross galaxy migration is this; fitting in requires effort and compromise, mainly from me. They know how things work and if I don’t, I’d better find out quickly, as ignorance is not considered a defence. If I don’t know, I should ask. This though, raises another problem. I have discovered to my chagrin and some annoyance that asking too many questions makes me look incompetent, so it is vital that I quickly learn the art of observation.

I begin to observe everyone (in a non-stalker way of course) and take on board how they do things, say things and operate. Watching people is an essential skill in surviving the cross galaxy migration process, and I continue to do so every day.

A little rant...

When a being grows up in a system, he simply thinks that’s the way it should be. So to a New Planetarian, who has grown up with an efficient and functioning state of governance, it can be hard to understand a newly arrived alien going on about all the red tape and not realising the importance of doing things strictly according to the book. It’s hard to explain exactly why the way things get done seems so pernickety and officious.

But it’s something I get used to and begin to appreciate eventually. Once I have figured out “the system”, I realise that it works. One thing the New Planetarians do very well is run my life for me. Getting on the wrong side of the system, is not clever.

My point of view is this, and forgive me as I rant a while, if I’m going to go and live on a foreign planet on the other side of the Galaxy, and believe me the New Planet is foreign even if they do (sort of) speak the same language, it’s no good expecting things to be like they were at home. You can’t come and live on the New Planet and still expect to live under the laws of the Southernmost Colony. If driving like a lunatic while in command of an unroadworthy all terrain vehicle was acceptable in the Colony, it’s not acceptable here.

Nothing riles me more than those beings that have crossed the Galaxy to make a new home on this planet, and then completely disregard the way things are done here. Generally, this is a law-abiding society and if you can’t hack the law and can’t be bothered to obey, get on your spacecraft and go home.

Wednesday 21 October 2009

It should have been so easy...

I grew up on the Southernmost Colony, but speaking the language of the New Planet. My grandmother spoke fondly of the Great Ruler also known as the Queen of the New Planet and had Coronation Mugs and royal memorabilia on display in a bowl of gelatine. Every manuscript or hysterical publication we read came from the New Planet. On a Friday we waited with great anticipation for the hysterical publications for undeveloped and adolescent aliens to arrive by spaceship. These spoke to us weekly about life on The New Planet and woe betide if the spaceship was late.

I spent the days at the end of the week sequestered in my sanctum sanctorum devouring and swapping hysterical publications with my siblings, reading them over and over, cutting out pictures of famous ball kicking players and reading about musicians of enviable status. I spent my metamorphosing years bivouacking with the unrestrained youngsters in the pages of the books I read, solving mysteries with the unbelievably clever and astute undeveloped beings of the New Planet, who seemed at a moments notice to be able to cycle off on their unicycles or go camping in meadows without fear of aliens of other species and skin colours abducting them.

These young beings seemed so much more liberated in their abilities to disguise themselves, navigate the byways of their planet and solve the problems that the Developed Elders seemed incapable of sorting out themselves. Some of them attended exciting Institutions for Education where they slept in large communal sleeping areas and played pranks on their Pedagogues. I was beguiled by the descriptions of their antics and their nocturnal feastings on ginger-bread and sardines at the Witching Hour. Oh how I longed to attend such an Institution.

Since my own ancestors had only fairly recently (in the last 100 years or so), migrated to the New Colony at the southernmost tip of the galaxy, I felt more New Planet than Southernmost Colony and had aunts and uncles and cousins with strange accents that visited us from the New Planet. So having imbibed this culture from a young age, fitting in would be a lot easier for me than for those of my Colony that communicated in other parlance. Or so I thought…

And to follow soon, my observations of this small planet...

Deliverence

Getting used to the traditions and customs of my new planet makes me feel as though I only hatched out of my egg when the spaceship landed at the Row of Heaths. It’s a bit like relearning everything I know. Yes, they do speak the same language, which is very useful for reading signs and communicating the most basic of needs. But actually, once I have lived here for a while, I discover that this is not the reality of it.

Coming from a planet where the Ruling Powers That Be are known far across the vast plains for their inefficiency, where it takes a month for a communication transcript to get from one side of any big metropolis to the other if it gets there at all, and where rules and laws can be bent, mutilated or broken to accommodate each different situation, living on the New Planet can be quite a daunting experience.

Imagine my wonderment on discovering that I can dispatch an epistle today and my friend on the other side of the planet will receive it tomorrow (except for this particular cyberspace epistle which will arrive instantly at the southernmost colony and all points north, west and east). Of course there are exceptions to the rule, but for the main part, I am still taken aback at the precision of the postal service here. And with the Yuletide season approaching at what seems to be a turbo-charged sprint, I am most grateful for this wonderment....despite the fact that the purveyors of said post have voted to spend their time during this period warming their feet by the fire instead of making the Yuletide deliveries!

Tuesday 20 October 2009

Accents and actions ek se...

The piece of planet I have landed on is full of other aliens also from the southernmost tip of the galaxy and I have no difficulty identifying them. Although they look the same as the natives, the moment they open their mouths I am able to sagely nod my head and mutter “newcomer” under my breath.

While travelling on the supersonic underground transportation pods (not present on their home planet), they speak too loudly and appear vulgar, even crass. They smile and laugh too easily, causing the natives to frown and purse their lips. They seem arrogant and are insensitive enough to actually speak to other members of the public also using these hot and crowded means of transportation.

Perhaps it is the novelty of rushing like some burrowing insect from the Planet Colioptra down the winding and unfamiliar supersonic underground transportation pod access tunnels, that has made these aliens behave in a socially unacceptable manner, but nonetheless I cringe quietly and make a mental note to remain quiet, obey the rules and somehow disguise my guttural accent so as not to offend anyone, because I have realised fairly rapidly that not all the natives are friendly.

Monday 19 October 2009

First encounter with a native...

I settle onto the couch of one who once dwelt on my now very far away home planet. He has survived the transition and is happy to educate me in matters pertaining to life on the New Planet. Such a companion/educator is essential and highly recommended for all newly arrived aliens .

Since I have pockets full of Treasure, I decide that the first thing I should do is deposit it in the nearest Institution for Finance and Receptacle of Wealth.

The day after arriving, I proudly present myself and my pile of Treasure (carefully hidden in a sturdy canvas bag) at the nearest and most sombre looking Institution for Finance and Receptacle of Wealth. I will need this facility when I finally get paid the first precious pieces of silver from my still to be found, new job. Unfortunately it proves easier said than done.

I begin to realise that I am a long way from home and that, although it sounds alike, the language spoken here is not entirely the same as that spoken Back Home on the southernmost tip of the galaxy. What happened next goes like this…

“Morning, I arrived from the southernmost tip of the galaxy yesterday and I’d like to open an account at your Institution.”

“Certainly. If I could just let me have a copy of you latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to show me proof of residence…”

“I only arrived yesterday and am staying with a friend, so I haven’t actually paid any accounts yet.”

“Yes I see. Well if I could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill, that will do to show me proof of residence…”

“Sorry, but I don’t think you quite understand me. I’ve only been on the planet for a day so I don’t have a permanent address yet, and as I’ve only been here one day I haven’t actually paid any bills but I have a letter from my friend stating I’m staying with him till I find a dwelling of my own. I have all this Treasure (jingling the sturdy canvas bag) that I’d like to deposit into an account.”

“Yes, of course I understand. So if I could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill, to show me proof of residence…” (At which point the large orange vein in my temple begins to throb wildly).

“Look, listen carefully, I’ve only been here ONE DAY. I have NOT been here long enough to pay any bills yet, but I have a letter from my friend stating I’m staying with him till I find somewhere of my own…”

“So, are you saying that you don’t have a recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill?”

“That’s right. I’ve only been this end of the universe for a day and I have not been here long enough to pay any bills yet, but I have a letter from my friend stating I’m staying with him till I find a dwelling of my own…”

“There shouldn’t be any problem opening an account for you then….if you could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to show me proof of residence…”

(taking a deep breath and muttering direly)
“So are you actually saying that unless I have a recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to prove where I live, I can’t deposit my treasure in your Institution?”

“As I said, there shouldn’t be any problem opening an account for you ….if you could just let me have a copy of your latest paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bill to show me proof of residence…”

At which point I rant in an undignified and alien manner and storm out muttering in a tongue she does not comprehend. I realise later that I have just run into that great machination called Bureaucratic Beadledom, peculiar to this part of the Milky Way.

Breathing deeply and ready to take on the Empire I cross the street, walk into the next Institution and again present my case, to be told most politely that of course I can deposit my treasure and that obviously as I have only been on this planet for a day I wouldn’t have any recently paid electro-dynamic induction and distribution bills, and that it is no problem as they have contingency plans for just such an event.

I am duly presented with a posh file of documents and leave on a high, having now secured my treasure a berth in the financial institution of my choice. I suppose it all depends on which Institution newly arrived aliens go to and whether or not the Being behind the Glass is able to take the initiative and make a decision if something said does not exactly fit in with the standard responses that are expected.

I wonder now if I will ever understand the natives...

Landing...

No matter how smoothly the departure process takes place, there is not much that can prepare a Traveller for the stern and suspicious face of The Man at Colonization Control. He does not care that I have given up everything and everyone I love and sacrificed my comfortable life. He does not care that I have wept a bit, wondering if I’ve done the right thing and he certainly does not care that I am exhausted after a sleepless five nights with a screaming ten legged crustacean kicking the back of my chair for the last 102 hours.

No, his job is to make sure that I am here legally, that I can support and accommodate myself and the fruit of my loins without recourse to Community Cash, and also, to make sure that I do not have TB (Transgalactic Bercolosus). In the event that I did not realise this was an entry requirement and do not have the necessary x-rays (which I don’t) I am ushered to a refrigerated room, made to wait endlessly, then asked to disrobe so my lungs can be x-rayed.

Once this is done, I wait in petrified silence till said x-rays are developed and they are certain I am not bringing in any nasty diseases or contraband secreted in one of my cavities. I then return to the strict Man at Colonization Control who gives me a bit of a grilling and then because he’s in a good mood having already refused entry to 503 aliens that morning, he lets me through reluctantly with a look that says, “we’ll be watching you”.

I am allowed to collect my handkerchief and golf club and merge into the crowd. The ten legged crustacean is not as lucky and is searched, questioned and detained for hours before they politely put it on the next spacecraft and send it back.

And so the adventure begins…

Sunday 18 October 2009

Another piece of Poultry...

The Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Waiting Room is swarming with aliens of all sorts. Shapes and skins of differing textures and colours, some smelling strongly of animal products, species that differ in all ways from me but one, crowd The Waiting Room. The babble of voices speaking assorted tongues surrounds me, a cacophony of sound that hurts my auditory senses and I wonder what has brought them all here.I am returning to the planet of my forefathers so that I might in some small insignificant way complete the great cosmic circle and I am here at this hallowed place to get permission to cross the galaxy.

My choice to leave the home planet for galaxies new is both thrilling and terrifying. I am sure I will embrace it and everything it has to offer passionately… or I’ll give up and return beaten and cowed. The decision to go is not made easily and I foresee difficult times ahead. It’s not possible to simply wake up one morning and decide, “Hmm, today I think I’ll migrate across the solar system and try out life on another planet.”

No, it is a decision that requires planning and preparation and not a little courage. Despite the difficulties that are sure to ensue, I believe it is possible to survive in that distant place. Many have and I have feasted on their tales of splendour about the fields of green grass and the rivers of flowing honey that have crossed the stratosphere to enthral and excite those of us with a spirit for adventure…or those of us that need to run away from something. Of all the things I fear as I set about putting into place my departure that which I fear most is this, that not all the natives are friendly.

Despite the careful preparations, I’m nervous. I’ve done all the legwork. I’ve religiously saved my hard earned wages, sold my homestead, transportation, animals and regrettably my mother-in-law to raise the required millions that I need to make my application. And fortified with the juice of the Naar Tjie, I finally take that all important step and head off to wait in the queue for hours and hours from the dim dawn light till the Seventh Sun turns the little hard metal seats in The Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Waiting Room into something closely resembling a griddle pan for my numb posterior.

I arrive what I think is very early, only to find a raggle taggle line of cross looking prospective travellers already waiting. They are strewn across the dusty floor in various states of consciousness, some are reading, some are staring vacantly into space dreaming of the new life to come, some are attached to small pods blasting a mixture of beats, rhythms and harmony into their auditory canals. All have an anxious crease between their eyebrows or in the case of the Great Lummox of Boschbergenstein, triplet of unibrows.

Although the doors do not open for at least another four rotations of the Sixth Moon, the queue continues to grow and each arrival has heard the horror stories of being turned away to return only when the next solstice occurs, because the quota for the day had already been let inside and even though there are only two individuals in the line ahead of me, I remember with churning stomachs, that my friend’s relative’s great aunt’s cousin’s brother’s niece’s boyfriend had already been waiting for four and a quarter hours when the doors had firmly closed in his face and he had been advised to try again the next time the moon cast its shadow on the Halls of Montezuma.

Interplanetary travel is no joking matter and one needs fortitude, resolve and a large bladder.But since I arrived in good time, I am ushered though the glass doors, given a number and instructed to join the row of musical chair playing applicants. One by one, the numbers are called, the anxious looking seekers of freedom move up a chair so the next one who has been propped up against the wall can finally get a seat, and the wait continues. Every now and then a Being bursts into tears and rushes from the room pursued by a sweating partner, and I wonder what went wrong, what piece of the intricate puzzle was in the wrong place, if the Most Secret of all Police have somehow inserted their tentacles into the dream.

Scenes like this do not engender much confidence in me, so I hastily leaf through my documents to make sure I have not missed something. Finally my number is called and I present myself at the gleaming window, hand in my carefully collected documents and supporting evidence, my hopes and dreams neatly packaged on official stationary, and then move along to the cashier to pay for the Interplanetary Wayfarer Document, which might just be refused (and I will not be refunded my money).

Greasy stains from sweaty palms can be seen clearly on the counters in front of me. That nervous churning feeling of butterflies flying out of formation won’t really go away till I actually have the blood coloured Interplanetary Wayfarer Document safely secured in my Green Mamba Cross Galaxy Nomad Permit.

This of course all relies upon my having fulfilled every requirement, exactly and precisely the way the great interplanetary bureaucratic machine requires of me. If every “Ŧ” is not crossed correctly, if every “Ĩ” squiggled is not perfect, if every line is not completed painstakingly and accurately, if I do not have all the necessary permits and treasury statements showing that the requisite amount of treasure has been in my account for some months and is not just a vast amount transferred hastily from a rich uncle in the furniture business to try and fool “them” into thinking that I can indeed afford to live on their planet and which will be just as hastily be transferred back into his account the minute I have boarded the spacecraft, I will be refused Entry. If I cannot show the offer of employment from someone on the New Planet and confirmation of quarters for when I arrive with accompanying letters of proof from prospective providers of said quarters (this includes proof of ownership, recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bills, letter from a landlord granting permission for incumbent Space Travellers and/or relatives/friends to lodge/squat there till such time as gainful employment is secured) I will be sent away with my tails between my leg.

Finally, bladder bursting (because you are not allowed to leave the hallowed Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Room once you have graciously been ushered inside) I emerge triumphant, waving the precious document with jubilation.

As soon as my belongings are safely secured in my handkerchief and the handkerchief is safely secured to the end of my golf club, when the parties, the justifications for leaving, the heated debates with those that think I am just one more piece of poultry in the catastrophic inter-galactic chicken run, the insistences that I am doing the right thing and the tearful farewells at the space station are over, I finally board the spacecraft.

Seeing the last glimpse of barren brown planet slowly becoming smaller and smaller below, I feel a mixture of relief that it’s finally happening and aching soul wrenching sadness at leaving everything and everyone familiar behind, a feeling I will certainly continue to experience time after time. And there’s always the small voice at the back of my mind that insists vehemently… “if it doesn’t work out I can always go back”- isn't that why space craft were invented?