He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision — he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath—”L’aruba! L’aruba!”
Fans of Joseph Conrad will immediately recognise this famous quote from his novella and masterpiece Heart of Darkness. They will also realise that here it has been quoted in modern Internet English, substituting a new word that has entered the English language directly from Italian usage.
Originally intended to mean “Internet Service Provider and Domain Name Register” (www.aruba.it) Aruba has now come to symbolise dread, darkness and terror as well as a wicked habit of time wasting. (The Global Dictionary of Internet Abominations lists the definition of Aruba as, simply: horror)
As thousands of dissatisfied customers of Aruba Domain & Web Hosting Company will attest, the very mention of the word “Aruba” signifies horror to even the “profoundest heart of darkness”.
Many of them, including myself and my colleagues, have experienced excruciating weeks, months and in some cases years in vain attempts at registering and transferring domain names. In our case, our unhappy experience was with the domain name vietri.it, which took more than a year to transfer to Aruba from our previous (more expensive) provider.
We will spare the reader the fine details of the months of agonising correspondence, faxing, phone calling, photocopying, hair pulling, swearing and the involvement of a small army of secretaries in the attempt to successfully transfer the domain name, and simply recount the final gripping moments of the last conversation we had with Aruba before victory was finally ours…
“Hello, is that Angela?” I said, after waiting 17 minutes for the call to be answered.
“Yes, I am me. Is you is Mr Blake, Mr Blake?” answered Angela in very good English.
I was disappointed. After more than a year she still insisted on calling me Mr Blake. Very professional nonetheless I admit.
“We’ve faxed the final photocopies of my new passport; a copy of my British National Insurance certificate; and a signed photograph of Her Majesty, twice this morning and three times this afternoon ” I informed her.
We had taken these extra precautions of additional faxes, because a fax from Salerno in the south to Pisa in the north often doesn’t arrive. But I have since worked out the reason why. It is because the fax has to travel up hill, and therefore we now always take the precaution of faxing more than once and at least 4 or 5 times. (We’ve also noticed that there is a difference whether it is summer or winter).
Incidentally, the reason for this last fax to Aruba was because during the final month of the transfer “procedure” my passport had expired, necessitating a new flurry of photocopying and faxing (presumably so as to make sure that I myself hadn’t expired).
“Oh yes, Mr Blake-ez. We have receive it yesterday!”
I hesitated, wondering whether one should query how she could have received it yesterday, but decided instead to let it go… just in case.
“Well, that’s splendid” I said, choking back tears. “Is it…I mean has…”. I hesitated. “Does that mean www.vietri.it has been successfully transferred?” I spluttered.
Yes! It is beautiful day no?!”
I and my colleagues wept (I, because I was so happy. They, because they were now out of a job). After 14 months and 12 days, hundreds of faxes, phone calls and several brief holidays in which to recover and gather our strength, we had finally succeeded in doing something that would have taken less than a day in the UK. I couldn’t believe it and worried that something had been over looked, and that something awful and terrible would happen.
Just to make sure I (very politely) offered to send a photocopy of my paternal uncles’ elbow if it would help make sure of the transfer, but the assistant declined (also politely), though not after a slight pause, during which i almost believed that she might accept.
“Oh no Mr Blake-ez. We are very quiet (sic) fine. No photocopies more. The good has been done and my happy for you!”
I closed the phone feeling a little silly that I had even, at one point during the process, considered becoming religious if it might have helped. As I hugged my colleagues, I silently castigated myself for being so weak and of little faith. But nonetheless, as a final task I asked my small tribe of secretaries (now sadly unemployed) to make a note that next time we would take the train directly to Pisa and do it in person.