The Doldrums

This blog would not be the searingly honest account of one man's struggle to find a decent cup of tea that it most certainly isn't, if I were not to share with you some of the more challenging moments of my escapology act. That is to say the shit bits.

Having successfully navigated the tempest of festivals, fiestas and fun that was my first 6 weeks 'in country', I have, of late, found myself becalmed. I have drifted into the social doldrums and my ship of state bobs listlessly as the party streamers on the pool deck of August fade in the cool autumnal sun.

Such is the lot of the solo traveler and indeed one would hope that having gone to the quite elaborate and not inexpensive effort of having left family, job, and friends to move to a place where I know absolutely no one and have only a tenuous grasp of the language that there would be moments of quietude such as this.

Nonetheless, steps have to be taken, there can be no excuses for sulking. But what steps are these?

The main enemy of any would-be social sailor is Shyness who, with his cunning accomplice Pride, conspires to limit the plucky adventure's opportunities to meet new people to invitations received and parties already know. The enemy of your enemies Shyness and Pride, and so your friend is of course Booze, or alternatively 'Just bloody growing up and sorting it out', but in the absence of such psychological gumption booze will do just fine.

So I have embarked on a series of nocturnal sorties with, for the lack of a better label, 'acquaintances' on the hunt for a social scene that can fill the sail and stir the lank waters of my lassitude. This has led me to drinks with English teachers, birthday parties with strangers, Spanish pop/folk gigs and American pub rock bands. So far the fruits of these efforts have not been bountiful but one cannot expect success overnight, “Life,” as Malcolm Fraser once remarked from the luxury of his Melbourne town house, “was not meant to be easy!”

So you find me on a Sunday afternoon sizing up the prospects of another evening of slightly drunken semi-awkward social maneuvering otherwise known as night life. Tonight its the American pub band venue again with a mustachioed man called Eneko (a friend of a friend of a friend) and colleagues unknown.

Step two is to move house. Its important to know when something has failed – a point lost on most Republicans – and my short stay with Morgan my Togoan flat mate has not been a success. Problems with a dank room lack of writing desk, and high rent gave weight to the decision but like most failed partnerships ours floundered on the rocks of mis-communication. The separation has been set (Oct 29th) and it should be a clean break, I don't expect to see my corkscrew again and Morgan will retain custody of the cleaning products he loves so dearly.

I will leave the description of my new abode to when I have moved in, suffice it to say that it has central heating, WiFi Internet and two Spanish flat mates.

Step three – get a job. Tick! Clearly the most successful means devised by humans to find someone to share a beer with has been the office. Offices have been ruthlessly efficient booze buddy factories since the invention of all day drinking and so its a shame that I won't be working in one. But I will be working in a school which owing to the proximity of annoying teenagers does just as well.

Meanwhile, slack waters slap at the sides and its time for another cup of tea....