Expat: Part 3: Growing Pains

By Raji Abuzalaf

"Expat" is a novel originally designed to portray the overseas life of an American expatriate.

In addition to relating the unique accounts of living and working outside the U.S., the book has

evolved into an autobiography describing the author's expatriation from his native land, his

family, his religion, and ultimately, the world (spiritually speaking).

This book is [Part 3] of a 4-part compilation:
- Part 1: Growing Up
- Part 2: Never Growing Up
- Part 3: Growing Pains
- Part 4: The Growing Pain

[Part 3: Growing Pains]
Volume 3 depicts life during the first overseas assignment (1979 – 1981).
Foreshadows to future experiences and flashbacks are playfully interspersed.
The story is power-packed with adventure, romance, and of course, music.
In essence, Expat - Part 3 is a very touching and poignant love and adventure story.

Twenty-five (25) original songs are featured in Part 3, along with several poems.
Links are provided to each song recording on Sound Cloud – a free website.

Join Raji - our hero / venturer – as he somehow finds his way in and out of trouble overseas.
Whether he's battling authorities, girls, or his own conscience, you're sure to find it both hilarious and sentimental.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483528625

Raji Abuzalaf

Raji Abuzalaf is a Palestinian American poet, songwriter, and playwright. Born in Kuwait, Raji grew up in Houston, Texas and lived in Hawaii before settling back down in Dripping Springs, Texas. Raji worked as a Computer Consultant in the U.S. and abroad. In addition to producing an album of original Christmas songs, he has published five other books. He has also recently co-published another book of poetry and song with his long-time songwriting partner, Keith Adams. Raji is married with three children and seven grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTERS

1)   Different Strokes

2)   For The People

3)   By The People

4)   Of The People

5)   The Raiders

6)   Good Guys Win

7)   La Plume Forte

8)   La Force Plumée

9)   More Rag, Please

10) First Sojourn

11) Second Sojourn

12) Third Sojourn

13) Fourth Sojourn

14) Fifth Sojourn

15) Sixth Sojourn

16) Seventh Sojourn

17) Final Sojourn?

Chapter 1 – Different Strokes

All roads lead to Rome, someone once said. In our case, there were several routes to Paris. And Pullman Kellogg Algeria Inc., the company deploying me overseas, had agreed to reroute our course via Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I had recognized long before that people will sometimes make reasonable concessions if you ask – so I asked. My wife, Shereen, was more than happy to join me in the detour on our way to North Africa in order that we may visit my family in Wisconsin. Our complete itinerary included Houston, Chicago, Milwaukee, Chicago, Paris, Marseilles, and finally, Oran – our destination port in Algeria.

The Chicago to Milwaukee leg was canceled due to weather, so they herded us on a bus, instead, losing one of our suitcases in the process. Like an idiot, I had packed all of my suits to take to Algeria, and that bag contained four of them, along with other valuables. It took us six months to collect about thirty dollars for the loss. I don’t want to mention any names – but Northwest Orient – based their reimbursement calculation on the estimated weight of the lost bag in total disregard to the material value of what was lost. The bastards!

Our two-day stay in Milwaukee was hectic. Much had transpired in the seven years since I lived with my family there. Uncle Khalil had put his import-export company behind him and was in the process of opening a restaurant. He affectionately called it Abu’s. It was exciting for everyone, yet stressful. His sister, Fahimi, was there to assist the family in their venture. The typical brother-sister turmoil between Khalil and Fahimi kept everything interestingly dramatic.

I spent a lot of the time with Jido, my paternal grandfather. He loved people and crowds, so the idea of being involved with a restaurant thrilled him to no end. My grandmother and aunts fascinated us with vivid stories about the old country and our relatives there. One major new development involved my beautiful cousin, Fufu. She was now happily married to her new husband, Dan. Her old beau that I had known in 1971 had long been out of the picture after Fufu met Dan at college. Fufu graced us with an extremely sexy belly-dance during our last night in Milwaukee. This rendered Shereen livid with jealousy. Admittedly, I still nestled a mild flame for my cousin – she was a true gem and would always be special to me. But I was madly in love with Shereen, so there was absolutely nothing for her to worry about.

Seeing my relatives on the way overseas was a true joy, and I relished every minute of it. But weighing heavily on my heart was my dear mother. Finding a solution for her dilemma had become the priority for me on that particular visit. Mom had always been known for her culinary prowess, sweet smile, and nightingale voice. Everyone had always attributed my vocal skills to her. She had been a devoted wife, mother, and friend to all. But she had undergone a lot in the last few years. The trauma of receiving her own mother in Houston in an unimaginable vegetative condition was surpassed only by the stark reality of having to send her back to Beirut, especially in the midst of the civil war in Lebanon. If that wasn’t enough, the fiasco involving my sister and the contemptible louse purporting to be her boyfriend had sent Mom over the edge. She had become irrational and completely unwieldy. But damn it! She was my mother and I loved her. Years later I would compose a Mother’s Day ballad that was scantly fitting for the angel that was my mother.

My Mother

Where would I be without my mother?

Queen of our home, my father's wife

Where would I be without my mama?

I thank the Lord for bringing me into your life

I thank the Lord for bringing me into your life

Where would I be without my mother?

Praying for me throughout my strife

Where would I be without my mama?

I thank the Lord for bringing you into my life

I thank the Lord for bringing you into my life

You carried me in your womb all that time

And favored me with your mother's touch

You comfort me in my room all those nights

And nurtured me in the Lord, thank you so much, so much

Who would I be without my mother?

Shaping my soul in every part

Who would I be without my mama?

I thank the Lord for keeping you close to my heart

I thank the Lord for keeping you close to my heart

You carried me in your womb all that time

And favored me with your mother's touch

You comfort me in my room all those nights

And nurtured me in the Lord, thank you so much, so much

Where would I be without my mother?

Queen of our home, my father's wife

Where would I be without my mama?

I thank the Lord for bringing me into your life

I thank the Lord for bringing me into your life

When I finally sat down alone with Uncle Khalil, I related Mom’s story to him. She had always held a distinct place in his heart, so he was seriously concerned for her and the family. In the last few months, her situation had deteriorated even further. She had completely alienated Dad and brought embarrassment upon the rest of the family. It seemed to be a predicament without hope. But I had concocted an idea for a solution.

Ever since I was a little boy, I had imagined that there was a right way for people to act. Things that I had not yet known due to lack of experience, I made a point to learn. As I matured, my confidence grew and I learned to persuade people over to my way of thinking. My techniques of persuasion may have been callow, but my intentions were mostly honorable. But I had miserably failed with respect to my mother. I could not get her to see the light. Her actions were causing tremendous hurt to the family, and my father had no clue as to how to alleviate the situation. So I shared my plan with Uncle Khalil.

Summer would be coming soon, and Mom abhorred the Houston summers with their unbearable heat and humidity. If Uncle Khalil would invite her to stay with them in Milwaukee, it might have a healing effect on her in several ways. To begin with, she would be far from the scene of the crime which included my sister and that asshole boyfriend of hers. Secondly, she had been to Milwaukee once before and had loved the weather there – hardly anyone used air condition, even in the summer. Finally, Mom loved cooking and being around food – so what better place for her to sojourn a few months than the new Middle Eastern restaurant that Khalil was mustering. Hopefully, such an extended stay would prove the perfect therapy for her and simultaneously provide relief for the rest of the family. Uncle Khalil graciously agreed. He was willing to help in any way that he could.

So with that strategy in place, Shereen and I were off to North Africa.

The flight from Milwaukee to Chicago also had its complications. Only after arguing vehemently was I allowed to carry my two guitars on board the aircraft. But as we were halfway down the runway, a mechanical failure caused the flight crew to abort the takeoff. If that wasn’t harrowing enough, after disembarking and boarding the new plane, the crew on the replacement flight irrevocably refused me the right to carry my guitars on board. All my insistence was hopeless. I was forced to check the guitars as luggage. When we arrived in Chicago, the twelve-string was broken at the neck. Sorry, sir, we’re not responsible for the contents of any baggage. We only guarantee arrival, they said. The bastards! The f...ing bastards! I swore to never fly Northwest Orient again. When we boarded in Chicago for Paris, the United States Army could not have prevented me from taking my guitars on board with me.

We arrived in Charles de Gaulle Airport in mid morning. As we would later learn, direct flights into Oran, Algeria were always preferred over flying through Algiers, the capital city. Direct flights to Oran, however, only originated from Orly, Paris’s other airport, or from Marseilles. Since changing airports in Paris presented a logistical challenge, Kellogg had opted for us to fly through Marseilles instead. After checking in at the Marseilles gate for seat assignment, the next thing I needed to do was contact my parents and let them know that we had safely arrived in Paris. I was told that this would be a difficult feat to accomplish once inside Algeria. And in those days, the only way to initiate an international call from the Paris airport was through the communications center at the airport Post Office. Shereen waited behind with an American couple that we met who were also on their way to Oran.

Walking through the airport, I impressed myself by understanding all the signs in French, as well as the announcements over the airport public address system. Including college, I had studied French for six years, but besides sundry conversations with Mom and Fufu, I had not spoken French in the real world since I was four years old in Beirut. At the post office, a bright-eyed, young man took my request for the call, informing me that it might take ten to fifteen minutes to put through. Even in French, I recognized his accent as one from the islands, maybe Haiti.

Attendez pres d’ici, s’il vous plait, he said, beckoning me to stay close by.

Oui, bien. Je reviendrai tout de suite. Je veux renseigner mon mari. I told him that I would be back immediately after I spoke to my wife.

Votre mari! His eyebrows nearly touched his hairline.

I didn’t think it was that big a deal to leave and come back. I knew that I would return in less than five minutes. Oui. Je ne serai pas trop tarde. I won’t be long.

Votre mari? he repeated wide-eyed. This time, I could see that he was holding back something. His cheeks filled with air and then suddenly exploded into laughter. And again he repeated, Votre mari. But this time, as if he caught himself, he asked, C’est vrai? Vous avez un mari? He had just asked me if it was really true that I had a wife, except he used the male form of the article. Only then did I catch my blunder. Mari means husband. Femme means wife. I immediately corrected myself, Non, c’est ma femme.

So much for my first French application, I thought. I had let my head over-inflate.

After speaking with my parents, I returned to the gang at the gate and tried a French beer. First of all, it didn’t taste that good. Secondly, it went right through me, so I paid a visit to the toilet – my first European restroom experience. On the way into the lavatory, I noticed there was a young lady standing just inside the entrance, so I did a double take to make absolutely sure I was in the right place. One lingual error was enough for the day. The sign read, WC - Hommes. I didn’t find out till later that WC means water closet, the European term for restroom, but I was sure that hommes meant men, so I entered. I was happily pissing away at the urinal when unexpectedly, a hand, holding a tissue paper, reached over my shoulder. I flinched, slightly out of surprise, but I held my spot since I was still in the midst of my duties. I looked over my shoulder to see who was handing me the tissue which was apparently intended for me to wipe with. It was the same chick who was standing at the door! What the f...! I motioned to her that I didn’t want the tissue, so she continued down to the next guy who didn’t seem to mind. As I washed at the sink, I watched her in the mirror. She passed out tissues, occasionally peeking down, but no one was fazed. I said to myself, What a country! Is there an opening in the women’s restroom I can apply for?

An hour later, we were in Marseilles. Before leaving the States, my Houston-based boss, Bob, had me attend the Overseas Orientation class where I learned several things. Kellogg was building GNL-II, a liquid natural gas plant in Arzew, Algeria on the Mediterranean shore – one hour east of Oran. The computer that Kellogg had installed at the jobsite was an IBM System 3 – a mini-computer. Bob had taken me to the IBM Building on North Post Oak to show me what an IBM System 3 looked like. Thanks a lot. The thirty minute session was valuable, however, as I osmosed quite a bit of knowledge about the System 3. We would have 128KB of memory at our fingertips – a substantial amount in those days. During my overseas orientation, they recommended that we each pack a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of liquor – the limit upon entering Algeria. Even if we didn’t smoke or drink, they suggested that other Kellogg personnel might benefit from it. Shereen and I bought two cartons of Marlboro and large bottles of bourbon and vodka at the duty-free store before boarding the Air Algerie flight to Oran.

The view from the airplane was spectacular as we descended for our landing. The Mediterranean Sea shone crystal blue, showing off jagged shorelines with trees, hills, and mountains gracefully decorating the terrain. Shereen and I exchanged glances of awe and contentment in anticipation of arriving at what would be our new home for at least the next eighteen months. At Passport Control, I responded in French as the Algerian officials addressed us, checking our entry visas and searching through the remaining pages of our passports. We were warned that the officials would search for any evidence of entry into Israel. Anyone having visited Israel would not be allowed into Algeria.

In that fashion, we officially entered the country without much ado. However, collecting our baggage and clearing them through Customs was a completely different matter. It was more like a swap meet than anything else. The Customs officials searched every piece of luggage, bag, suitcase, and carry-on with amazing zeal. They were hoping to find any violation of goods limitations, presumably so they could confiscate it for themselves. I noticed that one traveler played it proactively and got away with four bottles because he slipped the officer what seemed to be a fifth bottle in a brown, paper bag.

The inspector who searched our bags at the examination table complained in French that our two bottles exceeded the per family limit and started to keep one of the bottles for himself. For a moment, I considered the possibility that we had misunderstood the rule, but something told me he was trying to pull a fast one, so I argued my case. Before the official had a chance to react, a young, well-dressed man that I had earlier noticed making his way through the throng appeared at the table.

Hey, Mohammed, he spoke to the official in Arabic, you don’t really want that alcohol, do you? The prophet has strictly prohibited it from us, and besides, only these foreigners would consume it. His dialect threw me off slightly, but I got the gist of what he said.

God forbid, the official replied, sounding morally repulsed. How can these heathens ingest such poison! Once again, I struggled with the dialect, but understood.

I fought off the urge to put the bastard in his place and opted to conclude the useless proceedings and get to our destination. The official quickly marked each bag with his insignia using a fat piece of chalk and sent us on our way. Once that charade was completed, the well-dressed gentleman guided us through the airport exit and introduced himself, now speaking impeccable English.

I am Kadour from the Personnel department at Pullman Kellogg Algeria, Incorporated. I am responsible for receiving and processing all the expats. That was the first time in my life that I had heard the term expat. Are you Abuzalaf and wife?

Yes, that’s us. I’m Roger and this is Shereen. I thought that we were supposed to meet Bob here. He’s from the Houston office.

Yes. Actually, Bob is waiting for you at the jobsite. I will escort you there by company car. Do you have all of your belongings? Please verify.

I think so, I replied, checking one last time.

I took a gander behind me and exchanged glances with Shereen. For a moment, I felt like the prodigal son in the proverbial faraway land. It would be years later that I would compose a song for a play based on the well-known Bible story. It expressed the mixed emotions of the prodigal son leaving his home and family – and coincidentally, aptly represented my own impressions. I said a quick, silent prayer and we were on our way.

As I Search Myself

Despite all the good things that God has given me

Am I wrong to aspire?

Although there's the blessings of a Godly family

I've a longing desire

Living with the sorrow of being second-best

It's been burning my pride

Think about tomorrow as I begin my quest

There's a yearning inside

CHORUS  Well I'm off to explore what my heart is looking for

Is my true destiny waiting inescapably?

And by faith make my claim as I call upon Your name

O Lord, bless me as I search myself

(Well he’s off to explore what his heart is looking for

Is his true destiny waiting inescapably?

And by faith make his claim as he calls upon Your name)

O Lord, bless me as I search myself

There must be an answer that's well within my reach

Yes I’m feeling the strain

I must take a chance and I'll learn from those who'll teach

How to deal with my pain

Filled with the sadness of always feeling strange

I am leaving today

Hoping for the gladness when I can make my change

I believe there's a way

CHORUS

O Lord, bless me as I search myself...

The drive from Oran into Arzew, almost an hour to the west, was fascinating as well as breathtaking. Once we left the city, the countryside was picturesque, painted with rolling hills and expansive fields filled with wheat and grapevines, all emanating from its brick-red foundation – red dirt – everywhere the red dirt. Much of the road was an excellent, paved, multilane highway built years ago by the French before the Algerian Revolutionary War. Twenty minutes outside of the city, however, the road twisted and curved around cliffs, sometimes treacherously. Along the way, we saw only European vehicles, French and Italian – all older models.

In the streets and in the passing cars, we began to notice the people, their dress and physical features. Many women wore white head wraps to go with their white cloaks. The wraps completely covered their heads and most of their faces, leaving only a small triangle opening over one eye to view the world with. If I could draw worth a crap, I would have devised a cartoon based on the fictional character I pictured in my mind and named it Triangle Woman. In complete contrast, younger women dressed European-style, wearing miniskirts and blouses. Many were extremely attractive with long, dark hair, exotic Mediterranean eyes, olive skin, and bountiful figures. Disappointingly, many of the men looked and dressed like bums – unshaven, unkempt, and generally uninterested.

Along the highway, some drivers speeded haphazardly, while others drove ridiculously slowly. Eventually, we arrived at what appeared to be the end of the road. We learned later that many Americans referred to it as the armpit of the world. This was the tiny village of Bethioua, the town on our official mailing address. We drove through the whole village, maybe half a kilometer at most. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, another road appeared to our left, spiraling downhill at a steep slope. At the bottom of the hill, it emerged onto a road on the edge of an immense industrial zone bordering the northern coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Up the road to one side was GNL-I, Gas Naturel Liquide Numero Un, the almost productional liquid natural gas plant built by Bechtel. Directly ahead of us was GNL-II, the plant under construction by Kellogg, my company. To the other side was the reserved site for GNL-III, which would never be built by poor Foster Wheeler. The spectacle was awesome! The flare stacks from GNL-I burned brightly even in the afternoon daylight as Japanese workers labored to erect the flare stacks of GNL-II.

Kadour drove us into the chantier – pronounced shon-tee-ay' – the French word for jobsite. In the front office, we met George, a friendly middle-aged codger, and Dean, a handsome, athletic-looking, young buck. They entertained us while we awaited our welcome interview. After several minutes, Kadour led us to the Government Affairs office where we met Ray, a friendly Canadian bloke. To our dismay, he took our passports and filed them in the company safe. It was the law. All expatriate personnel had to submit their passports to their employer for safekeeping. In this manner, the government impeded unauthorized travel.

The only ways to legally enter Algeria were:

• an entry-only visa supplied solely for work purposes,

• a visitor’s visa authorized for families of citizens or workers, and

• the back end of an exit-reentry visa granted with strict time limitations.

The only legal ways out of the country were:

• an exit-only visa,

• the front end of an exit-reentry visa, and

• deportation.

All visas for expats had to be requested by an official representative of their employer. For identification within the country, the company provided work permit documents for employees and their dependents. This was yet to be procured on our behalf. In the meanwhile, however, Ray issued us temporary permits. As for driving, before we left Houston, Shereen and I both acquired international driver’s licenses. They were a big joke since the effective and expiration dates on them were filled in by hand using ballpoint pen, but they were accepted in most countries including Algeria.

Following our Personnel interview, they summoned Bob who was in the Data Processing Center – Centre de Calcul in French. The data center was housed in a building on the Sonatrach side of the fence which divided the upper region of the chantier in half. Sonatrach, the National Petrochemical Refinery Corporation, was the official client on this and other petrochemical projects. It was a government entity with its administrative offices located in a special area of the chantier requiring additional top-level security to access.

Bob had not flown over from Houston solely on our account. He was killing two birds with one stone. He was also there to fill in for three of the fabulous four who were recuperating in Germany. He was responsible for Bostwick – the Kellogg D.P. manager, Toni – Bostwick’s wife who doubled as data entry clerk, and Suzie – the Kellogg data entry supervisor. The fourth was the Kellogg payroll manager. Incidentally, he had the exact same full name as our Bob, so everyone just called him Payroll Bob. I never got to meet him as he would never return from Germany. He made a surprise exit back to the States, and Vijay – a poor Indian bloke from Kellogg’s Calgary office – would be forced to take over that undesirable position.

In the next few weeks, I would learn that Sonatrach was one of many sociétés nationales – meaning national corporations – in the country. Algeria was a socialist democracy, which meant that they elected their leaders, but the government owned and ran all the major industries in order to provide the many social services for the people. GNL-II was a joint project between Pullman Kellogg Algeria Inc. – abbreviated PKAI – and Sonatrach, so the chantier was staffed by personnel from both companies. This project and many like it around the globe were funded by the World Bank and the IMF – International Monetary Fund. PKAI contracted hundreds of expats like myself from the U.S. and Canada. PKAI also hired approximately three-thousand local employees for training and staffing. Sonatrach’s employees were all local, all administrative, and almost all self-serving idiots, each with his own agenda – namely to undermine the welfare of PKAI personnel while delaying the project. In addition to American and Canadian expats, Kellogg also contracted teams of specialized personnel from different countries including England, France, Japan, Belgium, and predominantly, The Philippines.

In the next few hours, I discovered that nothing – absolutely nothing – mattered as much as the payroll. It was imperative that the PKAI local employees were paid every payday on time. Otherwise, they would riot. There had already previously been trouble due to a delay and it must never happen again. The Data Processing personnel along with the Payroll department were responsible for producing the payroll on a monthly basis while applying a plethora of special adjustments. Everything else was secondary. The successful installation of the long-awaited jobsite computer – the IBM System 3 – at the GNL-II data center had only recently been completed. Therefore, a similar configuration at a service bureau in Algiers had been commissioned every month from the onset of the project.

As usual, the fab four had travelled to Algiers – five hours further east through the mountains by car – to run the payroll. They took with them the pointage – pronounced pwon-tozh' – which always required completion and correction. Several 10-inch diskettes consisted of the three-thousand timesheets and innumerable payroll adjustments. The data entry team that reported to Suzie at our center had been generally unreliable, leaving a great percentage of the payroll data unfinished and botching up a good portion of the ones they did manage to complete. None of Suzie’s keypunch girls were available to join the team in Algiers, so Toni, Bostwick’s wife, was forced to pitch in her efforts. I was told that during some months, the data entry girls performed so badly that Suzie and Toni wound up re-keypunching everything from scratch. Afterwards, Bostwick ran the Payroll processes and corroborated the supporting printed reports with Payroll Bob. Finally, they printed the all-important checks and brought them back to the chantier in time for money counting and distribution. This was a formidable challenge requiring additional manpower and security since the workers were paid all at once and in cold cash. I would later speculate as to how easy it would have been to walk off with the payroll cash for three-thousand employees which must have amounted to three or four million U. S. Dollars. There was little incentive, however, as they used the soft currency of Algerian Dinars which was basically worthless anywhere else in the world. Anyway, after a year of this insanity, Bostwick demanded a brief congé for his team, so our Houston boss, Bob, approved the prescribed stint of recuperation in Germany for them. Payroll Bob had joined them in Germany, but this time, he decided that he had had enough and did not return.

I was also informed that the reason I was even there was because the other American programmer, Ortiz, had been unable to keep up with the rest of the team and their meritorious services. The MIS team arrived a year before with high hopes that included:

• overseeing the installation of the local computer,

• implementing the custom-built Payroll and Man-hours applications,

• installing and implementing JAS3 – the IBM scheduling utility,

• training the local programming, operations, and data entry staff, and

• if providence allowed, producing new custom applications to support and enhance the immense construction efforts of GNL-II.

Bostwick and Suzie had struggled just to keep their necks above water – running the payroll and training the keypunchers. Ortiz’s abdominal fortitude and technical skills were less than adequate for the demands, so he spent his time on preparation work for the computer room which had progressed very slowly. He was great at schmoozing the management and had become friendly with the local personnel, mixing his native Spanish with his bad French – Bostwick called it Sprench. Eventually, Bostwick coerced Bob into transferring Ortiz back to the home office. Ultimately, I was