Kicking Sand In The Face Of Bureaucracy
BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS–It’s hard being a pencil-pushing pauper in paradise. Just ask Phil Rempel, a bureaucrat who works in Bridgetown, on the beautiful island of Barbados. You see, when Phil, a lifelong civil servant, got his job with the Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade, he thought it would be his big ticket out of town, an opportunity to further his federal career in an exotic foreign land. But Phil didn’t realize how frustrating it would be to work in a country that’s on party-alert 24-hours a day.
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Phil is normally a no-nonsense worker who takes pride in being punctual and productive. He assumed that working for the Canadian High Commission in the beautiful Caribbean island nation of Barbados would make him more productive, free from the day-to-day distractions of modern Canadian living. After all, the Caribbean has always done wonders for his Canadian compatriots who vacation there year after year.
Phil also wanted to leave the semi-Arctic conditions of suburban Ottawa because the frigid weather was bad for his rheumatoid arthritis and made it nigh-impossible for him to concentrate on his bureaucratic ambitions.
He thought that a tropical assignment would be perfect–a chance to gain some international experience and meet interesting foreign people. But the assistant to the high commissioner to Barbados is already complaining about the stressful work conditions.
“All this fresh salt air stings my eyes,” complained Phil. “And with the constant sunshine, I’m developing a squint. My boss always smells like Curacao rum and mangoes, and the staff have a care-free attitude that makes me believe that we’re the tourists.”
With the prevalent party attitude around the office, Phil is having a hard time getting anything done.
“Cliff [Entwistle], the assistant deputy to the first secretary of Public Affairs, keeps spiking my Snapple with delicious spiced rum, and I’m often drunk by 10:30am,” Phil complained. “Kerry [Stewart], the assistant to the ambassador, has no respect for the dress-code. She comes to work in a sarong and a thong bikini. It may be 38° Celsius outside everyday, but that’s no excuse for the women to be running around the consulate half-naked. How am I supposed to process the S-42 reports when all I’m thinking about is 38-D’s?”
Phil had hoped his job would be more rewarding. He’s been getting some satisfaction from replacing lost and stolen Visas, and answering important questions about immigration and customs issues, but the overall climate has been unproductive and unsatisfying to the Ontario native.
“We might be working in a tropical paradise, where we’re woken each perfect morning by the lulling sounds of the sea-surf, and exotic birds,” continued Phil, “but those macaws crap more than fifty plum-eating pigeons, and it’s a bitch washing that sh*t out of the Jeep Laredos they pass-off as diplomatic vehicles.”
Phil hasn’t appreciated the endless sun and warm tropical breezes. Instead he’s been complaining about his constantly-peeling tan and the perspiration stains on his dress shirts.
“I keep getting sand in my PDA,” Phil moped. “The jacuzzi in my condo keeps getting clogged with bamboo leaves, and last week three Swedish college girls wouldn’t stop hitting on me in the Club Med Cafe. Those filthy girls wanted to show me how they conserve warmth back home, and it was already hotter than Hades that day.”
Phil had also hoped to meet that “special somebody” in the tropics, but so far it hasn’t worked out for him.
“The people you meet in this so-called paradise are only around for a week,” Phil added. “Hardly enough time to develop a meaningful relationship. The women are only interested in a fling and hot sweaty meaningless sex on an overpriced souvenir beach blanket.”
If you ask Phil, working in paradise isn’t like a leisurely walk on Parliament Hill.
“I just want to go home,” he cried into his Malibu and passion fruit cocktail.
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