The expats are restless

Housesitting from hell

2010-08-20T03:19:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you a little story about the housesitting from hell....

A colleague of mine – great bloke – and his sweet wife asked me to housesit their house when they went away for a month. A big, rambling family home. While I risked going crazy by myself, there were enough books and creature comforts to ensure I’d be as happy as a pig in the proverbial. I just had to look after the two dogs and cat, keep the car turning over, keep a check on the generator (active during this bloody rainy season) and chat to the guards.

How hard could it be?

All was going well in the first few days. The Land Rover was a doddle to drive, the cook made food for the dogs and cat and I fed them in the morning and the evening.

On the first Saturday, the puppy wasn’t eating. On the Sunday, he died. Tick fever. Shit. Actually, I won’t make light of this. He was a beautiful puppy and I was shocked and sad.

Next few days, the other dog and cat were off their food and paranoia set in. I asked the vet to return and he confirmed that, yes, paranoia had set in. They were grieving the loss of the puppy and they’d be fine in a few days.

But in those few days, one of the guards stopped talking to me, stopped making eye contact and become quite aggressive. I think he blamed me for the puppy.

The car then broke down. I was at dinner with friends. Offered a mate a ride home. Reversed down the drive. Car stalled. Then nothing. The next day when it was being fixed, the driver told me that it happens a lot and the car is old. Great. I pay the mechanic, fill up on oil and diesel and we’re away. It broke down three more times during the ensuing week.

Then the generator packed it in. A night in the dark (fine. A good book and a functioning torch) and frantic phone calls the next day.

The satellite TV stopped working. But I think this was just an oversight.

The security guard continued his campaign of aggression and another security guard got an ear-piercing, for which I’ll probably be blamed too.

The owners come back on the weekend. And I shall gratefully exit, stage left. Lesson learned: house sit only where there are no pets, no power shortages, no guards, no vehicles and no TVs. The house is probably necessary.

Aunty Ros

2010-07-26T05:46:00.000-07:00

She was my aunt. A beautiful, funny, soulful lady.

I won’t put a photo up. If you want to know what Aunty Ros looked like, picture this: smiling eyes that sparkled when she laughed generously at bad jokes; eyebrows that lifted with enthusiasm when she was telling a story; a smile that was warmer than a hot Australian summer; and a hug straight from the bottom of her heart. Okay, that last bit had nothing to do with appearance, but it may help to picture the warm sort of presence this lady – my wonderful aunt – had when she walked into a room.

Even as the cancer progressed, her eyes remained a shining blue, with the ever-present twinkle waiting for a joke, waiting to laugh. She tackled the annoying disease the way she seemed to tackle life: no fuss, just practical, positive action. She saved her ferocity for her pride in family, not least of which, for her ‘boys’: her husband, her sons and her two brothers; then later, as a fiercely proud grandmother.

As an aunt, Ros didn’t expect much of me except that I’d just be myself. Perhaps it was her career as a school teacher that taught her how to bring out the best in people, or perhaps it was just her jovial, free spirit that inspired immediate comfort in her company. Point is, she had a knack for inspiring affection; a knack for making people feel good – about themselves and about life.

How she will be missed! But her warmth and joy shall continue to radiate. One thing I shall always remember about Aunty Ros, apart from her peerless sense of humour, is that she lived big. Fear of life was for mugs; leaving stones unturned was for fools.

Was it Walter Scott who said “one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name”? Ros Frame, thank you for shedding light with your glorious life. Thank you for sharing your crowded hour so generously.

They all look the same to me...

2010-07-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

“They all look the same to me”, is the racist idiom, still used by bigots the world over and over-used by character-based comedians when referring to people from a different culture or country. Over the past few years of my work in the Pacific and Africa, I have had a handful of foreign friends embarrassingly confess that in some cases they cannot, in fact, tell some people of a different ethnic heritage apart. In truth, I’ve had a couple of close calls myself (including with white people, so I can put my recognition issues down to my ever-growing bimbo status). I’ve had friends from various African countries insist that they cannot tell Chinese people apart and listen to their cries of disbelief when I suggest that the ignorance may be reciprocal.

However, possibly due to some vestige of colonialism (assuming it’s somehow finagled its ways into my genes), it hadn’t really occurred to me that whities might be mistaken thus. (Please overlook the arrogance. Think about it: everyone wants to believe they’re special. Mhmm.) Sure, occasionally my housemate and I would be confused for each other by people, but we were of a similar height, build and hair colour (although he was good looking; a comparison I gladly accepted and one he politely ignored). But this morning, I was in the gym, asking for my new membership card, complete with recent photograph. Shuffling through the pile, the receptionist triumphantly pulled out the card of Jos, a 60 year old Dutch gentleman with thick gray hair and a double chin.

Seriously? Sigh. The cheek of her. I’d make a complaint against her if I could remember which one she was...

Uncircumcised Girl Day

2010-06-30T22:22:00.000-07:00

Female Genital Mutilation/ Cutting is barbaric. Few subjects can make my face contort in horror, nor make my blood boil with anger, than FGM/C. There is no reason for it. People who hide behind 'culture' (whatever that is) to justify it are cowards. Old women who continue to perform the operation perpetuate their own sex's subjugation. It reduces a woman's sexuality. It causes lifelong pain. It kills.

Organisations the world over have been advocating against it for years. I've read dozens of papers and reports on strategies to change attitudes and behaviour - some very successfully. But the last strategy I read about in Ethiopia made me smile.

Uncircumcised girl day. The strategy was to encourage whole villages to celebrate the marriages of uncircumcised girls. "See? Uncircumcised girls can get married too!" I get the point and apparently it peaked enough interest for communities to form action committees to abandon the practice. Brilliant.

But imagine those shy girls on their wedding day. They're blushing brides, but not for conventional reasons. They blush because in these conservative communities where sex-chat is taboo, their in-tact genitals are the focus of discussion. The world is talking about their private bits so that generations of girls to come will not have to put up with any uninvited party touching their private bits ever again. It rather seems to take the romance out of it... but perhaps it's a price worth paying.

So any lady who is reading this and is fortunate never to have felt the rough edge of a rusty razor blade or the sharp flint of a piece of broken glass, spare a thought for your sisters in Ethiopia, Sudan and other countries besides. And celebrate your own "uncircumcised girl" day.

http://www.stopfgmc.org/
http://www.unicef.org/protection/index_genitalmutilation.html

Bee Gees - a name by any other spelling would be as sweet

2010-06-22T22:09:00.000-07:00

I have become a Bee Gee. One who owns something.

Before I ever went overseas, I thought I had a pretty simple name: Matthew Gibbs. Easy to pronounce, not uncommon, almost phonetic. I tried not to judge, but fact is, some names were harder to pronounce than others if you don't grow up with those sounds.

Today, I became "Gibb's". I'd prefer to think of it as having some kind of SA bushman's use of the new comma (a 'tock' sound, for example) but I fear it looks like nothing more than an unfinished story of a Bee Gee's owning something (Maurice Gibb's flares, for example). But at least it was close to my name.

Joyce from Tanzania used to call me "Martin". That was easier than Matthew.
Dzidula from Ghana used to call me "Jibbs", which was different.
My favourite was Allan from Papua New Guinea who called me "Marchew".

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I think I'm holier than thou; that I can pronounce names. Nup. Even if I try the accent, to make the person's name sound as it should, it doesn't work. 'Cos people think you're poking fun. As if I would.

Cranky old man

2010-06-09T04:46:00.000-07:00

It was with some relief today that I discovered that my impatience knows no international borders. Over the last few years in the places I've lived and worked, I have noticed that if I'm kept waiting beyond the expected time or without word from people in charge, I get cross. Restaurants, banks, airports, anywhere. I hate to stand still and be unproductive. It brings out the worst in me. And sometimes the best. But over the last couple of years, I started to worry that my impatience was a bit more sinister; that it existed only in developing countries; that it was an insidious form of discrimination on my part; that it was in places where I should have been more sensitive.

But no! I was waiting in a London bank this morning and after a half-hour's wait for an appointment, I saw red and let the bank manager know it.

Joy! I'm not a monster. I don't discriminate (I actually quite like the ginger people). I'm just a global customer prepared to fight for some control in an increasingly faceless consumer society. And in places where they don't really like customers.

But I still don't have a freakin' bank account.

Kids - Lesson Seven (final for now)

2010-05-17T05:27:00.000-07:00

If you’re the youngest child in a family and kids come along, born to siblings, you are no longer the youngest. And there, my nephews, nieces and Godchildren taught me a lesson about myself… that I love to be centre of attention. ‘Nuff said.

Kids - Lesson Six

2010-05-16T08:15:00.000-07:00

This one's a confusing lesson. It's either "kids repeat what they hear" or "kids form new ideas based on what they hear"... either way, it was embarrassing and hilarious. The Bishop was at our house and after coffee and a chat, he moved to leave. We all shook hands, said our goodbyes, then Bishop turned to my niece...

"Goodbye, little one," he said.
"'Bye, Crazy," she replied, regarding him curiously.

There was an awkward, did-we-just-hear-right? moment, my sister and I exchanged glances, the Bishop collected himself and the departure went smoothly.

(I should point out, for the record, that none of our family refer to the Bish as such. Well, no one except my niece.)

Kids - Lesson Five

2010-05-15T05:24:00.000-07:00

Just because kids can ski, doesn’t mean they should. My sweet French Godson is a big three year old. Big for his age, like. So, when we were staying in the Alps, his parents’ thought they’d try him on the slopes. There he was, wedged into his little boots and suit, slipping on his little skis. But time to go down… “knees, mate, KNEES!” His hands went to his knees, sliding down gracefully, his eyes moved from mine to looking to the right and finally over his shoulder at the other skiers. Face first in the snow. Giggles. The ski instructor informed us that his body was ready, but his attention span was not.

Kids - Lesson Four

2010-05-14T05:23:00.001-07:00

Giggles don’t have to be for a reason. This one is kindof cute, actually. My sister and I drove my two nieces to my parents’ house and they giggled for most of the journey. No idea why, but they just kept looking at each other, each perched in their own toddler chairs, and giggled. We were not invited to join in, not that they appeared to notice that we were even there.

Kids - Lesson Three

2010-05-13T15:58:00.000-07:00

Wii. Seriously. My nephews taught me how to play Wii. I taught them how to imitate a Chinese flight attendant. We are a generation apart.

Kids - Lesson Two

2010-05-12T01:43:00.000-07:00

Waking up with mad ideas. As my sister sweated in labour in hospital, I looked after my two year old niece. After a day of drawing things for her on the notepad, she finally nodded off. In the middle of the night, she woke me up, her round face inches from my eyes, “draw horsies, Matty, draw horsies!” She promptly went back to sleep, leaving her tired uncle confused. That same night she woke me up to go and look at trains, to show me her ear “gunk” and to giggle.

What fun she had. What sleep I didn’t have.

Kids - Lesson One

2010-05-11T04:49:00.000-07:00

There is no shame in being ‘rudey nudey’. For reasons known only to my niece, she loves to get it all off and rearrange her mummy’s kitchen. An image emblazoned on my memory is of her, butt-negid, bustling around bashing a microwave container against all the cupboard doors, crazy hair trailing behind her. Meanwhile, her brothers yahooed down the corridor doing their traditional post-bath nude run. You’d think that after a year spent in Sweden, ‘nude’ would seem second nature to me. You’d be wrong.

Kids are a law unto themselves

2010-05-11T04:47:00.000-07:00

They have a foreign perspective to mine.

They function in a different time zone to mine.

They exist in a bizarre parallel universe where everything apparently makes sense to them.

I have spent the last year (and a bit) blogging on the peculiarities of culture clashes in my sojourns in this global village. But after spending the last two months with Godchildren, nephews and nieces – all five years old or under – I think I can safely say that no culture has perplexed me more than that of the chil’ens. So I shall share with you (whoever you are) some of the lessons to which I have been subjected over the next few blog posts.

You aint got de x factor, tho, innit?

2010-05-07T08:02:00.000-07:00

“Okay, yeah, now I want to see those umbrellas bob up and down, yeah, let those brollies move to the music!” Oh, crap. Seriously? After five hours in the rain, that was not going to happen. But it was for a noble cause. How many times will one audition for X Factor?

It was like walking into a bizarre parallel universe of teeny boppers, Alicia Keys clones and Prince wannabes. Like a modern, cheap Wonderland. Some fellas braved the cold to show off their muscles in singlets, while many a lady braved the cold by wearing little more than a sequined belt. The well-endowed woman next to me defied the weather and gravity in a one-sleeve crop-top number. Effective until she popped out of it, appearing not to notice until I had to politely lift up her boob to retrieve my water bottle. Okay, I made that last bit up, but the point is made: muscles, bling, boobs, legs. Many a contestant had no shame. Most people acted as though they were trying to ignore people looking at them, which meant everyone was pretty much ignoring everyone else. I'm surprised no one packed their own paparazzi.

Then there was me. As I was slowly hypnotized by bling and bright lights – the practice singers convincing me that they would, in fact, always love me and that reassuringly, I was the wind beneath their wings – I started to suspect that I shouldn’t have been there. The Cheshire cat, Simon Cowell, wasn’t there that day, why should I be?

But that cruel wench, Lady Fate, whispered into my ear, “go on, you’ll be worth a laugh for somebody”. So, I finished my book (started at the beginning of the day… that’s how long I was waiting) and was shepherded to my booth.

“She’s really nice,” said the kind shepherd. Cupcakes are nice, I thought. Music executives are cold, calculating butchers. Baa-baa.

But her piercing blue eyes notwithstanding, she was sweet (and looked a bit like Caroline Quentin). She was so sweet that she gave me one of her own cans of drink when I mentioned my dry throat (playing for time). I rallied, had a chat about my work (“so, WHY are you auditioning?!”) and then silence.

“When you’re ready, love,” she finally said, indicating that I should sing.

And out bellowed “Come fly with me”; I was channeling Frank Sinatra and I was unstoppable.

Until I stopped after the first two lines.

Ummm…

Now, it couldn’t have been more than a second. And in that second I decided that I’d bring it home. The last two lines of that song have never sounded so good.

“Ummm…” she said.

“Yeah, I gave you the abridged version,” I said, with what I hoped was a cheeky-yet-charming smile. But I’d seen it in her eyes already. As soon as my singing mouth opened, in fact, I’d lost her. And sure enough…

“I’m afraid that’s going to be a ‘no’. Okay?” A question mark that gave no room to maneouvre. How I ate a rhetorical “okay”.

I wandered out of the massive, bling covered auditorium feeling invisible in that bizarre world. As I converged with shoppers from neighbouring stores heading towards the DLR station, I felt my x-factor disappear behind me, probably as Alice would have done as she left Wonderland. Goodbye to the Cheshire cat, the mad hatters, the morbidly obese tweedle dums and dees in boob tubes and the blue-eyed rabbit.

I think I’ll peg this one down to “experience”.

Sarah Palin is not the only one...

2010-03-31T03:28:00.000-07:00

Preparing for my next contract, I found some old paperwork from UNICEF, stating my nationality as “Austrian”. Maybe an understandable mistake, except it followed me from Papua New Guinea to Sudan to Fiji, Ethiopia and beyond…

But this happens all the time.

“I studied in Sweden,” I say.
“Oh, in Geneva?” they ask.
“No no, SWEDEN… oh, forget it.”

“I worked in Papua New Guinea for two years,” I say.
“Oh yes. I love West Africa,” they say.
Perhaps another excusable mistake, except for when West Africans say it…

I stumbled into a store in New York to shelter from the cold one day. The guy asked where I was coming from. “Kenya,” I told him, “studying democracy there.”
“Oh yeah, they got lots of trouble with that Mugabe,” he sympathised.
“Yeah, in Zimbabwe, yeah. Big trouble. And in Kenya there are issues with politics too,” I steered.
“I know, right?! Mugabe’s ruining that place.”
I then bought something from him. Just to change the conversation.

Now, I’m hardly the most geographical person in the world, but I tend to keep my mouth shut if I’m unsure and google any questions at a later date. (Such as thinking Cologne was in France, or checking where Sudan was after I was appointed to a post there… and other embarrassing instances besides).

Meanwhile, my nationality has always been a point of interest, aside from the ‘Austrian’ typo. I don’t get asked if I’m Australian much: British usually or Kiwi at a pinch. I was even once accused of being an Afrikaaner, which I refuted with every fibre in my being. My favourite was “Are you from Afghanistan?”, but I just think that the guy misheard my introduction…

What a world. But I’m trying to get to know it better!

I'm sorry? Valentine's what?

2010-02-14T06:21:00.000-08:00

I cannot remember the last time I said something romantic to a love interest. Come to that, I cannot remember the last time a love interest said something romantic to me. Well, I was receiving some sweet text messages some time back; sweet, until I realised that they were sent under-the-influence. Well, who doesn’t get a little sentimental after a drink or three?

A few little stories from my romantic past…

I had my first kiss in a cupboard with my ‘girlfriend’ in primary school. The dark was best. Better for her not to have to see my face.

With the beautiful setting of Sydney harbor at night time, the girl I had started dating turned to me, smiling. In my youthful, exuberant haste to kiss her, I ended up planting my lips on her teeth. We did not try again for some weeks. Smooth.

Made a nerve-wracking declaration of “I really like you” sound like a stomach complaint. It solicited appropriate giggles of sympathy from the object of my affection. We remained friends.

Thought someone was flirting with me on the aeroplane – stealing glances at me. Wasn’t wearing my glasses. Put them on to have a look only to see them asleep with their head lolling about in my direction.

Prize winning romance: high school girlfriend broke up with me on Valentine’s Day wearing a skirt covered in red hearts.

In the past, I have also been known to play Mariah Carey’s “Without you” to wrap myself in romance. Or a more perky “This will be an everlasting love” (Natalie Cole). Romance isn’t dead IN HERE (he says *indicating his chest*, the international sign for ‘heart’) or HERE (he says *indicating his head*, the international sign for ‘brain’) just OUT THERE (he says, *indicating the world around him*, the international sign for being judgmental).

Anyway, as much as I hate to admit it, this bloody day has given rise to reflections on the distinct lack of romance in my life. What to do to lure them in… I’ve tried everything. Except the chat-up line. Now, chat up lines are not my thing, but given the lack of romance in my life, maybe I should try it and brave the world’s cynicism and skepticism and general lack of enthusiasm (he says, *foot hovering over the soap box*). And that being the case, I shall take a leaf out of the great Jimmy Carr’s book:

"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?... ‘cos it looks like you landed on your face." Yeah yeah. Take that, Valentine, you mo-fo.

Ciao for now

2010-01-28T22:00:00.000-08:00

It’s time to say ‘goodbye’ (Con Te Partiro)
I’m leaving on a jetplane
Never can say goodbye
So long, farewell…

Name a song that truly captures the heartbreak of leaving. I can’t. Fed up of it. Fed up, I tell you. Leaving a place, saying goodbye. This time, I managed to choke back almost all tears in the office. Went very quiet saying goodbye to my gorgeous office mate who discreetly withdrew when she could see my lips wavering. No one likes to hear a grown (or is it ‘groan’?) man cry. My sister once described my sobbing as the noise a moose might make when it was pulling its hoof out of the mud.

Cried a lot saying goodbye to an Ethiopian mate. Not cool.

Went quiet saying ‘ciao’ to two mates after a few drinks. They understood.

Choked up saying goodbye to my taxi driver. Odd. But I think he was more concerned that would stick to my promise of buying him an arsenal t-shirt. (I will, don’t worry… although half-tempted to buy a Chelsea one and see if he sends it back)

Sorry may SEEM to be the hardest word, Elton John, but it’s really ‘goodbye’. Hoorah that there are always so many people willing to say “hello” – and even better, “how you doin’?” – wherever one goes. That said, nesting time is approaching. Must be…

DJ Americana

2010-01-21T05:27:00.000-08:00

Why do African DJs insist on speaking with a faux semi-American accent?! Argh. Well, I should moderate this by asking why do Kenyan and Ethiopian DJs who do their shows in English strive for the Americana? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not being funny or nuffin’. I love America and Americans. Love ‘em. Wish I was one. Thinking of being one for next Halloween. And some of the American accents can sound quite authoritative – like my mate’s deep Colorado brogue or Whoopi Golberg’s street-smart “why the hell aren’t you listening to me” twang – and even sweet – like Reese Witherspoon in almost any movie.

But why do these DJs do it? It’s all “like” and “I don’t know about you guys, but…” and “whatever” and “Oh. My. God.”. And I’m, like, shut-up, you know, beatches?

Ashamed of their real accents? Belief in a formula that successful DJs are American? Assumption that listeners will listen more? Maybe it’s just the overwhelming cultural imperialism of the US of A. Fellas wearing baggy pants and baseball caps and the majority sporting waistlines that would intimidate a sumo stable. Same same.

Do I fight against it? Or sit back like a twinkie, wearing a hoodie? I’ll think about it as I chew on some grass, cradling my right to bear arms (with bare arms… in a way that only the truly svelte can get away with… ahem). Meanwhile, y’all come back and see me, y’hear?

(Afterthought: Imagine if the Australian accent was the paradigm of international DJs… The language of the self-deprecating smart-arse with little respect for authority… nope, would not go down well in Ethiopia…).

Dear Me

2010-01-12T22:31:00.000-08:00

Inspired by a book a recently read where people wrote a letter to their 16 year old selves, I am writing a letter to myself one year ago. The occasion is the new year – a sort of retrospective – and my upcoming birthday.

Dear Matt,

This year will be a good one. It won’t be career-changing, as the psychic predicted, but considering she told you that you were a German naval captain in a previous life, that news shouldn’t surprise you. But you will travel a lot and meet some wonderful people.

As you walk your sister up the aisle in January, you will have a sudden pang of fear when she tells you that she thinks she’ll faint. Don’t worry – all will be well and within minutes of said near-collapse, you get teary because you realize that you’ve never seen her as happy or as beautiful.

You’ll get bored with your transcripts from your thesis research. This is typical you – able to start something, never wanting to finish it. So, to relieve the boredom, you take up a consultancy contract in the Pacific: five countries in six weeks. You have fun, but for heaven sake, in Fiji STAY IN THE MORE EXPENSIVE HOTEL. You’ll have less money by the end of the contract, but your arms will not have been bitten to death by fleas. Also, on the flight to Kiribati, wear shorts. It turns out that your skinny jeans only have one more wear in them and you don’t want your arse hanging out as you look for a taxi at Tarawa airport.

New discovery: ouzo is your friend. Never thought you’d like it, although your love of Greek salad should have been a hint. When you stay with the most generous friend in the world back in Sweden, she plies you with the stuff; yet another distraction from thesis. Give in. You do a whole lot better in your thesis than you think you will (or deserve to) anyway, so you may as well firm up a friendship with some cheap Greek liquor.

Don’t worry about finding a place to live in Denmark. After a near miss with a dodgy woman emailing from “Nigeria”, you fall in with a top Danish bloke with an amazingly equipped kitchen. COOK AS MUCH AS YOU CAN. By the time you get to your next posting, you will only have three forks and a fry pan. Make the most of the Dane.

Now, for your graduation speech, include another couple of jokes. You already have an okay one about consultants, but everyone expects more of a laugh from you, so don’t go all academic. Another joke may also save you from a dint to your ego when your elderly Swedish teacher says “yes, it’s hard to be serious when you’re used to people laughing at you”. Dude, you mean “with you”, right?

Romantically, this year is a funny one. Something happens that you were not expecting. I won’t say what; just enjoy it, but don’t expect anything to come of it. You travel too much right now to be much use to anyone right now. Oh, but use a mouth wash. That’ll make things more pleasant for all concerned.

Your sister will fly across to Australia from New Zealand for your mum’s 60th, so don’t be worried that the family won’t be together for this big occasion. She just wanted to surprise you too. And when you see both your beautiful sisters jump up from behind the couch with their babies, you get teary again. Cuddle your family more, even when they resist. Be sure to apply deodorant. They’ll resist less.

Now, in Ethiopia, travel in the first couple of months on the weekends. Work takes over immediately and you’ll reach the end of the contract with nothing to show for it but an indentation of your behind in the office chair. Even though you work for UNICEF, don’t expect to see ANY children on this contract. You’ve been told that they’re out there somewhere, so this will have to do. And don’t drink as much coffee – it’ll make you anxious and you’ll start jiggling your legs again which you haven’t done since your last university exams.

Finally, when your dad asks you “what’s next?”, just be honest. You don’t know. And you still don’t. But that’s part of the fun, no?

Take care and don’t take yourself so seriously,
Matt

A street sign named Africa

2010-01-09T04:45:00.000-08:00

Cruising the streets of Addis Ababa with a Kenyan friend the other day, she pointed out ‘Jomo Kenyatta Drive’ on one of the street signs. I told her about ‘Democratic Republic of the Congo Street’, remembering many more street names besides that celebrated African luminaries and countries; not just de rigueur in Ethiopia, but also in Kenya and I’m sure elsewhere. There was no ‘John Howard Way’ in honour of my country’s twelve year mistake, nor a ‘Clinton’s Pass’ (poor Monica) in honour of the famous American roué… There were plans for a cul-de-sac – ‘George W Bush dead-end’ – but it didn’t get up-and-running before he left office. I’m sure an ‘Obama Avenue’ is only a matter of time. I wouldn’t mind seeing a ‘Human Rights (of) Passage’ or just for giggles, a ‘Lois Lane’. Moving away from politics, one street has recently been renamed after Ethiopia’s favourite runner.

But a “Matty G’s ‘Hood” is a little less likely…

Climate Change, what else?

2009-12-28T21:47:00.000-08:00

You know it’s time to leave a place when you start blaming the Government for the weather. For the last week or so we’ve been blessed with unseasonably bad weather. It’s supposed to be sunny, albeit with a cool bite in the air, but instead it’s just plain cold, rainy and miserable. On the upside, I don’t feel I’m missing anything as I’m cooped up working as hard as a pothole-filler in Palestine. On the downside, it’s rubbish. Topically, people are blaming climate change. I don’t know what the hell they would have blamed when there was an odd unexpected shower or two back in the day, but right now, the discourse of climate change is everywhere. I’m starting to suspect that ‘climate change’ has become the scapegoat to replace all scapegoats…

Delays: “We couldn’t deliver the supplies to the village in time: climate change.”
Workplace tardiness: “Sorry I’m late… (shrugs shoulders), climate change.”
Romantic break-up:“It’s not you… it’s climate change…” (actually, next time I’m in a relationship – probably not until 2030 at the earliest, going by current form, but which time the icecaps would have melted so much that someone may actually be washed up onto my doorstep – I might use that… you know, assuming it doesn’t last… ahem).

My big worry is that soon climate change will be the excuse for poor development. Bugger government corruption, bad aid programmes or poor investments. It’s climate change. ‘xactly what we need: another excuse.

Bah. Like I say: it’s time to go, Matty.

Ethiopians are smart

2009-12-18T00:36:00.000-08:00

The authorities have just introduced three new traffic regulations in Ethiopia:
1. Giving money to beggars at traffic lights is prohibited. (At last! An excuse!)
2. Using cell phones while driving is prohibited. (Good luck with that.)
3. Seat belts are mandatory.

There seems to be a bit of a grace period with that third one, since the cops indicated to my taxi driver that he should have been wearing a seat belt, but they didn’t fine him.

So, my driver (whose nickname is apparently some kind of Italian slang for “donkey”… I guess that’s another story) had some seatbelts fitted on the driver and passenger sides of the taxi, but my side doesn’t work properly yet. Now, police in any country make me a little nervous (no wisecracks about a convict heritage, please… I can smell them a mile away and they smell like a French man at a garlic convention), so when I saw a cop this morning on the way to work, I pulled the seatbelt across my chest and sort of hid the end bit that doesn’t plug into anything yet.

Donkey laughed. “You are Ethiopian!”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You are smart. Smart to think of doing that.”
“Oh, okay. So only Ethiopians are smart?”
“Yeah, of course.”

It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t know what to say.

AIDS, aka The Vortex

2009-12-02T22:13:00.000-08:00

The other day – 1 December – was World AIDS Day, a good opportunity to do a bit of reading about the HIV/AIDS epidemic; where the world has come from, where it is and where it’s going.

A few years ago, I was telling a friend about my HIV/AIDS awareness activities in Papua New Guinea when I was back in Australia for a break. When I got the bit about condoms and dildos, she asked me to stop. She thought I was promoting sex and homosexuality (in Australia, the most at-risk group is men who have sex with men... people make assumptions). Her reaction pushed so many issues into my head that I thought I’d be sucked into an endless vortex of ignorance, unable to respond with articulate force. Do I bitch-slap this one or let sleeping ignoramuses lie?

I like to think that it wasn’t the fact that was an evangelical Christian that pushed her into her red-faced reaction. Indeed, the will not to know seems to be motivated by more than that across the world. For some countries, it’s political: “we’re stable – we don’t have an HIV problem!” For others it’s cultural and religious pride: “we’re moral – we’re not sexual animals falling prey to HIV!” For some it’s economical: “we’re poor – we can’t afford to have HIV!”

For all, it’s denial. And the more denial, the more stigma; the more stigma, the more discrimination; the more discrimination, the more infections…

Can’t you just feel that vortex sucking you in? Where does it end?

Dunno. But being informed helps. It really does.

Chariot (with a broken wheel) of Fire (lightly glowing embers)

2009-11-23T21:25:00.000-08:00

(Chariots of Fire theme music thumping in my head)

A sea of 33,000 people wearing green t-shirts. Shouts – the sounds of war cries – filled the air. Us; one pulsing mass of energy, ready to face the enemy. The enemy: ten kilometres of asphalt to be pounded like a one-minute steak. The Great Ethiopian Run.

Local singers raising spirits with the unique Habesha songs, uncannily like well-tuned melodic mosquitos. Impromptu dancers sprang-up, elated at the prospect of running in the early morning heat with friends and strangers alike.

The motto emblazoned on the back of my t-shirt was telling the world that “I am running for a child”, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that I was running for the medal. The glory of being one of 33,000 – ‘thanks for running’ – medal holders. Everyone is a winner.

I was a little nervous. Ten kilometres doesn’t sound like much, but I have a habit of getting bored with running and with such a stimulating environment, I was in danger of being distracted.

The first test came just after the initial surge almost squeezed the breath out of me: we jogged past TV cameras which will ever be a flame to my moth. Centre of attention? Moi? Focus, Matt, focus.

The next distraction was by the third kilometre. St George’s brewery. Open. On a Sunday. Ready for business. My business. But I jogged on.

There were moments of bliss – coasting gently down the hills or jogging straight-backed through shade – when I thought, yeah yeah, I could be a runner; I could take this to the Olympics. But my mind was playing tricks, confirmed minutes later as I trudged up the hill with two, maybe three, false peaks. Who the hell invented hills?

And just after heartbreak hill came the seven kilometre mark and I could have stopped. For some reason, more than halfway on, it seemed impossible to finish. Fat people were passing me. The celebrated tortoise was passing me. My hot brain was playing tricks on me. What’s that? An armless dwarf was passing me… oh no, double-take confirms that it’s a child who isn’t moving his arms very much. Short. Looked armless. Ahem. Moving along.

8km. A massive spout of water is dousing people, but the tide of joggers steered me around the spray. Bugger.

(Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now thumping through my ‘pod into my red, sweat-drenched head).

9km. Relief floods over me. Don’t Stop Me Now.

I didn’t stop and I managed to run all the way in the third highest capital in the world. By my reckoning, with the altitude and all, I almost ran a marathon. Or something like that.

The locusts, the ants and the bees

2009-11-18T03:17:00.000-08:00

The ants couldn’t remember how long the locusts – high above them – had been hovering. The cloud of the relentless insects somehow magnified the oppressive heat. The ants scuttled around, aware of the hold the locusts had over them. Some years back, a group of bull ants had sought to challenge the locusts – high above them – but were crushed. And the ants dared not try again.

Today, the locusts had news for them. The ants had to build smaller nests so they were busy and in small groups. And they were to tell the locusts whenever they planned to do anything. And for a full day, from dawn to dusk, the locusts – high above them – would take from them all food and nourishment. And a group of busy bees who had tried to help the swarming insects and the ants were told to leave the colony.

They were all being punished. What for?

But there were some things that only the only locusts – high above them – should know. They revealed nothing of their reasoning.

So the ants and the bees found themselves in the Kafka-esque position of not knowing what they were charged with. They merely had to contend themselves with the information from the locusts – high above them – that their charge was in the best interest of the colony, and they shouldn’t question why because the locusts – high above them – could see the colony as a whole and therefore judge what was best.

And in the knowledge that the ants were calm and the bees compliant, the locusts continued on their way, raping the land because it was theirs for the taking. The ants would never move fast enough to take their share. The bees were powerless to stop them.

No one makes passes at men who wear glasses…

2009-11-10T04:03:00.000-08:00

Not true, strictly speaking. A few weeks ago, a couple of sex workers started following me after I’d walked a friend home. One of them said: “hey baby! I know what you got!” How did she know? And who told her?

I have never seen so many sex workers in my life. After I realized who the solitary veiled women were waiting on the dark Khartoum streets, I saw a few in Sudan. On occasion my housemates and I spied one or two in Nairobi. And a few drunken ones popped up in nightclubs in Port Moresby, but the Addis streets seem to come alive with the clip-clopping of stilettos almost as soon as the sun drops behind the mountains. I am plucking up the courage to go out and talk to these ladies about their work. So much about Ethiopia seems conservative, yet there is no observable regulation of the sex work. Just as well; I hate the thought of these ladies at the mercy of a thuggish police force. In any case, they’re not backwards in coming forwards in offering their services.

Come to that, in the market the other day, a group of fellas were drawing the shape of love hearts and pointing at me. I smiled, asked if they were directing them towards the lady I was with and they shook their heads and pointed at me again. Sweet. Ahem. I guess people do make passes at men in glasses. Shame I feel the need to pass them back.

Maybe I’ll just take off my glasses. I may not be able to see who’s passing at me, but there’s gotta be a little mystery, huh? “I don’t know what you got…”

The curse of the blue eyes

2009-11-03T03:29:00.000-08:00

It happened again. The blue eyes struck me so stupid that I started running off at the mouth. Anything that popped into my head, I said. I first noticed it a few years ago. A good mate has quite piercing cloudy blue eyes. If you’re having an animated discussion with him, he tries to stab you with them. Then there was a sweet former girlfriend who gorgeous blue eyes would get quite flinty whenever I said something wrong. Then there was a woman in Sweden. Incredible. That’s when the babbling started and she’d sit passively as her eyes dared me to say more, while laughing at me. Then this morning, a lovely lady with a kindly smile let her eyes fool my brain into overdrive. I believe I told her everything from my thesis topic to the names of my God-children to my jobs for the last few years. I also believe I asked her for a job back in Copenhagen (can’t blame a chap for trying).

Brown eyes, I get lost in; the last time was back in April and have been powerless to defend myself since. Like getting stuck in a pool of chocolate. Or something. Deep brown eyes. Lovely. The colour of comfort, reliability and a good piece of steak. They calm my soul.

But blue eyes just make it nervous, jumpy and foolish. Thanks heavens I’m in a country where the vast majority of people have brown/black eyes. At least they are a calming force in this wacky place. Maybe I should stay here to avoid future blue eyes. Or maybe I should ask the ol’ blue eyes in my life to wear sunglasses. That’ll do it. But I wonder what Jane Elliot would have to say about it? “Blue-eyeds to the back of the room!” Yes, please…. Lest they make me feel more foolish than I already am.

Your stump

2009-10-19T05:32:00.000-07:00

Your stump is a mystery to me. I don’t know how it came to pass that instead of a foot on the end of your right leg you have a mess of skin, flesh and bone, on which you hobble between cars seeking one birr, maybe two. I must tell you that your stump shocks me, every time I see it. I must also tell you that I’ve seen some awful things over the past few years and had my life threatened more than once, but your stump is what has finally made me flinch. I’ve cried buckets over the situation of kids in Africa, but never flinched until now. Why is it that your stump has made my heart flip and stomach drop?

Is it your youth? You’re a young bloke, with bright eyes. And a blighting stump.

Is it the physicality of your wound? The raw dirtiness of the bone.

Is it the idea that in your disfigurement you’ve been dehumanised by whomever did this to you? It’s almost like a hoof.

Is it the shaking head of the taxi driver? “Why don’t these lazy people get a job?”

The mystery of your stump seems to fit in almost perfectly with the secrecy that shrouds the government’s version of recent history, like a damp blanket. Coupled with the progress of your city, it seems to blind me to the poverty. So when you popped up next to my taxi and waved your stump at me, it came as a nasty shock. A strange wound from a distant conflict? The result of a fight? An infection that went too far; life saved only by taking your foot? Your stump, like your poverty, will remain a mystery to me. Why is it so? Why do you have to live like this?

Five to seven years

2009-10-07T23:59:00.000-07:00

A taxi driver told me that Ethiopia wasn’t well-developed. I knew that. He said that farmers were still using bullocks to plough the fields. No tractors. I already had an inkling that most subsistence farmers would still be like that. But he told me to watch-out because "in five to seven years, it’ll be different. It’ll be developed." And these are not Ethiopian years, this is a Gregorian calendar year. Western years.

A shade too optimistic? But who am I to disabuse him? The longer I work in development, the fewer patterns I can discern. Maybe Ethiopia will develop in leaps and bounds in five to seven years. Maybe the US will have an equitable health system in five to seven years. Maybe the Israel-Palestine conflict will be done and dusted in five to seven years. Maybe people will be remembering TV’s "Big Brother" fondly in five to seven years time. Who can say?

Anyway, the Government has a plan for the next five to seven years which is more than I have. In five to seven years time I plan to be 33 to 35…. That’s as far as I’ve got. Well, not quite, but I don’t want to talk myself up until after I’ve achieved the anticipated heady heights. Then – and only then – will I tell you all that it was all part of my plan. Retrospect will be a wonderful platform from which I can crow, as many have done before me.

I admire the taxi driver who had a pre-retrospective on Ethiopia’s development. Now THAT is confidence. THAT is planning.

There's no place like home

2009-10-02T00:03:00.001-07:00

I’m in Kansas. Not as in the actual American city (or is it a state? Don’t know, don’t care.), but as in the Wizard of Oz metaphor of being where you started off. I’m in Kansas, Toto. Finally finding time to learn something about the place I have been calling home for the past five weeks, I learned that “scientists” reckon that Addis Ababa is the point from which human beings migrated around the world. So, in a very real, historical and archaeological sense, I have come home. Just goes to show how far evolution has come: it doesn’t feel at all familiar. I guess it didn’t have a Starbucks rip-off and broken drains back then.

But apparently, when we all upped and left and sought pastures green, we took everything with us. For, even though Ethiopia has one of the fastest growing economies in the world (and is doing pretty well for Africa, considering that it’s landlocked and is not dependent on oil), it is still pretty poor. Over a third of the populations are still estimated to be living below the poverty line.

Putting a bright spin on things, after the Mother Country sent us to the far-flung corners of the globe, we grew and did well for ourselves. Many of us even came back to the continent to colonise. Show our appreciation by taking more. And then there’s the weird little irony that even though Ethiopia – technically and historically and all that – colonised the rest of the world who knows how many tens of thousands of years ago, it has never been colonized.

Maybe everyone else was too busy seeking the land of Oz.

Good appetite

2009-09-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

“Good appetite.”

With a plate piled-high with food from the buffet, I do a double take.Is the waitress taking the piss? It only takes a second to realizethat the translation from “bon appetite” has been all too literal, butI swear I saw a glint in her eye; a glint implying that I did indeedhave a good appetite and it required commenting on. And so unfolded mynext two trips to the buffet that week.
Is it in poor taste to enjoy a buffet in a country still rememberedworldwide as having one of the worst famine’s in history? Perhapsthat’s taking it too far: I do appreciate my food and a man’s gotta eat.

But it puts me in mind of a time when a friend had some interestingdiet ideas… going on the Atkins diet (red meat in truckloads) but as apescatarian/ vegetarian (tinned tuna and boiled eggs in truckloads…you didn’t want be around in the office when that lot was digested…you’d spend the whole afternoon blaming the dodgy bathroom plumbing…).My friend talked quite a lot about this diet and wanting to loseweight from her already trim frame, prompting one of the nutritionistsat work to pull her aside. “I think it’s in very poor taste that youtalk about food like this in a country with emergency levels ofmalnutrition.”

It’s a tricky one. The sensitive issue of food. We don’t leave ourlittle peculiarities behind. My peculiarity is eating a lot.

Okay,lunch calls…

Don't repress my regime!

2009-09-18T23:56:00.000-07:00

There was no red light

2009-08-29T00:36:00.000-07:00

“Would you like to take us for drinks, Mister?”

“What? I asked for a coffee and you ask me for a drink?”

“We could go back to your hotel and talk about it…”

And with a rushed payment for the coffee and muttered thank you for the traditional dancing, I legged it, my friend ambling calmly after me. There it was: on my second full day in Ethiopia, I end up in a brothel. Class.

I met one of the hotel concierges on the street outside the hotel and we went for a walk through Addis. We found one of many fantastic coffee shops, then he insisted we go to café where there’s traditional dancing. “You can get the photos of the dancing while we drink coffee.”

Enter said café to find that it’s a private house. No other member of the public is there. I start to get suspicious, but feel guilty for that (lesson now learned) and resolve to stay and give it a chance. Upon being seated, three women with traditional shawls and traditional Nike trainers begin dancing. For me. Just for me. Then one leans in close and asks the question that sent me making a dash for the door (not before I was asked to pay an entrance fee) and throwing notes behind me for the coffee.

My hotel guy claimed innocence – “the place was not like that when I was there last time” – and I laughed on the inside. Well, I couldn’t hope to have a boring introduction to Ethiopia, could I?

Tickets, money, passport

2009-08-25T00:32:00.000-07:00

On a caffeine high, coupled with predictable pre-departure nerves/ excitement/ anxiety. Have a sneaking suspicion that I’ve forgotten to pack something. I always do. Remembering what comes at various junctures: when it’s just too late for me to turn back to the house, or when I’m on the plane, or maybe not until I actually need to use the toothbrush/ deodorant/ underwear that I’ve forgotten.

Idea: make a list. It’s not as if I’m not practiced at this packing and moving business; I know I have travelling light down to a fine art. Except for my effin laptop which is actually getting heavier the older it gets.

To do when solvent: buy a MacBook. But not the ridiculous ‘air’ one. That’s too light. I want to be able to remember I have a computer in my bag before I hurl it at a member of a minority group.

Note to self: stop making inappropriate references to social groups in case people don’t get the joke.

Anxious.
Always get anxious at this stage. Think of things or people I’m leaving behind. Although I’m sure some ‘people’ would prefer rank about ‘things’.

Memory (from first return home in 2004): Others do actually continue to live without your constant presence. Some will not even think of you each day. Imagine?...! But as for now, no more coffee. Fish and chips. Definitely time for favourite meal before the off…

Save Darfur from 'Save Darfur'

2009-08-11T05:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I walked passed a gaggle of geese perched on a low wall by the canal, flapping their wings in indignation. The cause? A small boy with a little remote-control boat, encroaching on the usually calm canal waters. The status quo has been ruffled; they were used to being dominant. Bizarrely these birds reminded me of the ‘Save Darfur’ movement (the geese) which has recently been upset by a new book by Mahmood Mamdani (the boat)… They aren’t quite sure what to do after years of dominating popular discourse on Darfur. This comparison didn’t come from left field; I am reading this book (“Saviours and Survivors”) and it has bought old observations back to the surface.

When I worked in Sudan – much of the time on Darfur-related work – it became frustrating trying to explain the complexity of Darfur: what is happening, how it started, when will it end? It was frustrating because we don’t want to hear a long, complex story. We want to know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are. We want to polarise it and make it something digestible, understandable; something they have a reference point to. This is something ‘Save Darfur’ excelled at: Darfur is nothing more than the Arab government and aligned militia attacking the black African population of the region.

In reading this book – which launches a heavy artillery attack on the ‘Save Darfur’ movement (finally an academic has had the courage to do so) – I realised that I hadn’t heard much from ‘Save Darfur’ recently. Upon reflection, I realised that this relative silence just about coincided with the election of Barack Obama. Sure enough, the New York Times – a major ally of ‘Save Darfur’ – decried the lack of attention the movement received, with one columnist accusing the Obama administration of ignoring Darfur.

What makes this coincidence all the more interesting is that it pertains to a change of language that was ushered in by the Obama administration. When the USA and ‘Save Darfur’ started crying “genocide” – the only country still to officially refer to Darfur in such terms – the War on Terror was in full swing. ‘Save Darfur’ suggested that military action was the only way to end the suffering there (seemingly ignoring the fact that military action in Iraq had killed more civilians than have died in Darfur). And fitting the rhetoric of the day, the conflict was characterised as the “Arab” Muslims killing the “black African” Muslims. Bad guy, good guy. Like there was nothing more to it. I even heard someone once say “well, what do you expect?” The simple categorisation said it all, apparently.

That was the frustrating part. Total failure to really understand the history of the situation. But I wonder if it’s also a wilful ignorance. Who wants to know that the rebels are not necessarily freedom fighters. Twenty years ago, for example, fighting in Darfur was about land; pitting the land-rich against those with no land, usually nomads. These resource struggles go way back to the colonial division of land and politicisation of tribe; tribes with both ‘Arab’ and ‘non-Arab’ roots. Even now in Darfur, some atrocities being committed are rebel groups against rebel groups, doubtless based on that age-old struggle that pre-dates government involvement today. I’m not attempting to extricate the Government of National Unity from the conflict, but to illustrate the political rats nest that Darfur has always been.

But do I just have the hump because someone didn’t read their history books or just wanted to make the story more accessible to the public? Not just. By misrepresenting the reality, it inhibits the notion of a negotiated peace. It’s not that I don’t appreciate some of the achievement of Save Darfur. Having worked in an organisation that was once threatened by a funding crisis when the media grew tired over the suffering of children in that war-torn region I appreciate the value of advocacy and attention. But at the end of the day, ignoring the historical realities that continue to inform tension and mistrust, an end to the tragedy is just not possible. The flapping geese may need to learn from the boat.

The girl who cried gas

2009-07-30T03:44:00.000-07:00

Picture it: Oxford Street, London. Sunny day. Bustling people. I was sauntering along, thinking that all was right with the world. A young woman was walking towards me; gorgeous, covered in bling, but elegant in her own way, accompanied by her posse who shuffled along half a step behind her. Just as she was passing me and I reflected on her grace, she half-turned to one of her boys and said “ooh, I smell a fart.” Class. The chic image was shattered and I, too, was left with the scent of a fart and the disappointment of a fan whose star has fallen. I was in half a mind to turn around and say “those who smelt it dealt it”, but I didn’t want to face the potentially embarrassing retort “whoever said the rhyme did the crime”, so I left it.

On my first day back in London I was thrilled to be reminded of what elegance really means.

Summer in the city, single in the city...

2009-07-09T02:41:00.000-07:00

Looking around at the Copenhagen evening sun in the summer is glorious. Not a cloud in the sky and, despite my lack of glasses, the scene was crystal clear. I had one of those wonderful moments of serenity when all seems right with the world. I have no idea what it is about a soft summer sun on a city that makes me sigh with appreciation. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sights of nature – of breeze-rippling grass, glinting green water and swaying trees – but there is something special about a city. The clichéd side of me is nudging me to say that it is a deep appreciation of humankind’s cleverness in architectural and engineering achievements; our ‘up yours’ manipulation of Mother Nature, but I don’t think it is. It is still related to people though; the city being a place where people of all sorts converge and the structures that I find so beautiful in the evening sun merely represent the fact that people are here, all around me – the pulse of the city – using these buildings and bridges and churches and roads and I find that extremely comforting. As simple as that. I am not alone even though I am by myself, ‘cos I hate being by myself and you never really are in a big city.

Although, I felt a little lonely in the supermarket as I cycled home from this spectacular view. I popped in to get the forgotten yeast for the pizza dough and decided to pick up some wine, chocolate and chips to spoil myself for the weekend. Glancing down at the conveyor belt I had a pang of amused self-pity: it looked exactly like the last-minute Friday-night shop of a single man. Add a soft-porn mag in a paper bag and you had yourself a stereotype right there.

It reminded me a little of the time I was moving out of my second apartment in Khartoum. I’d offered a few things to the guy who lived on the roof of the building I could see from my window. We’d developed a bizarre little friendship – exchanging waves as I closed my curtains of an evening and despite his limited English and my non-existent Arabic, found a sortof brotherhood in our shared-faith. As we were going through my things, I gave him a couple of Sudanese beds, pillows, sheets, mosquito nets, mosquito repellent and some magazines left behind by the previous occupant. Now, some of these magazines were Vogue – hardly raunchy by any stretch of the imagination – and my mate dropped everything else when he saw them and started flicking through them at speed. Suddenly he stopped, and turning a page with a woman in a bikini towards me, he started giggling like a school boy. I smiled – it was hardly a surprising reaction in a city under Sharia law where most women were fairly well-covered (bodies, if not faces), but then I panicked. Was I trafficking in soft-porn? I prevaricated, but soon realized that there was no way I was getting those mags back, so I let it be and helped him downstairs with the beds as we passed them to the eagerly waiting hands of some people who had materialized to share in the spoils. See? In a city, there are always people about...

Salt Water Stops in My Eyes

2009-06-29T13:07:00.000-07:00

I was biting back tears after I made a brief but heartfelt “thank you and goodbye” speech. I couldn’t believe I was leaving. My boss, a considerate Kenyan gentleman, whispered in my ear “the first place is always the hardest to leave”. That was 2005 and after two years I was leaving Papua New Guinea and some of the sweetest, most committed workmates I have ever had. My face was pruney from crying.

Cut to August 2007 and I am leaving Sudan. High stress final week and I am still doing my job on my last day because the UN – in its extraordinary efficiency – still hasn’t replaced me. I sob at the door of my dear colleague Josephine and cry into the hair of my office-mate Louisa and strangely remain dry-eyed for everyone else. A throbbing headache haunts me for the next three weeks, but my tear ducts go undisturbed.

Now, June 2009, after graduation day, no tears have fallen from this fair face. All around me, my friends have been leaving Sweden, puffy-eyed and dehydrated, at varying degrees, but having cried at some stage. Not me. And I’m perplexed. Why is it so? I am like my beautiful four year-old nephew who was going through the “but why?” phase when I saw him last. “But why am I not crying?” I’ve said goodbye to some very close friends over the last month. I miss them like sons o’ beatches, but no tears. But why?

Where’s the love? Have my emotions been through the ringer so many times that I am genuinely not bothered? Is it a sort of cynicism setting in? Or is it the age-old instinct of self-preservation? You know, push people away a little to make the wrenching-apart process that bit easier when it happens? Bugger off, but take care. Maybe. Maaaaybe. It could just be age. I’ll cry in a few weeks, when it all catches up to me. I’m getting old. I’ve skipped around to no fewer than fourteen countries in the last year and goodbyes seem to have all run together. I may have convinced myself that I’ll actually see everyone again.

But not crying is better than pretending. Oooo, I couldn’t do that. I’ve seen that in my time and all; insincere people crying like a b-grade actor at the Oscars. Don’t like it. It reminds me of a time I went to a church “reconciliation” evening. We were supposed to sit around and pray and think of all the bad things we’d done. Lots of people cried. It seemed to me that we were sitting around holding hands and crying when it was our turn. That may be a little harsh: it worked for some kids, just not for me. I pray and get emotional, but not when someone’s forcing tissues on me with scented candles in a feeling circle. I wasn’t pressured then and I’m not now. Not pressured to pull on my leg hairs to induce tears of pain (‘cos any tears will do).

That is not how I would like friends to visualize me. I will be forever haunted by the imagine of myself saying goodbye to the aforementioned Josephine. I went to her office, she was on the phone and had a government colleague at her desk and I stood at the door choking back tears, with a high-pitched, tear-strangled whisper “byyyyeeee …. *sniff*… bye”. And that’s how she will remember me. Not the happy-go-lucky Australian bimbo who used to sit on her desk and make jokes about nutrition, but as the tear-stained streak of misery in her doorframe. Friends, that’s never going to happen again. I love ya, but I got my dignity, baby.

Muslims, tramps and (glasses) thieves

2009-05-30T02:53:00.000-07:00

Cheese at about one euro fifty per packet, wine for about two euro per bottle and a baguette that was almost free. We were salivating at the checkout in le supermarché (see how I’m speakin’ French?) back in Marseille when race relations erupted in the queue behind us. This was the Marseille I had been waiting to see. Apparently my face showed intense curiosity confused with an impulse not to look, it being such a private argument and all. A woman in a hijab started shouting at a woman who was not in a hijab, but who had a flushed visage. They edged forward uneasily. It was like a stand-off if in an old Clint Eastwood film, only he was never this scary. The Veiled One lashed out. Red Face stumbled back. It was electric. All the while, what I can only assume were French obscenities were being thrown about – I don’t think they were exchanging kebab recipes. Actually, I know they were obscenities, translated by my friend, with the Veiled One shouting “your daughter is dressed like a whore” and Red Face getting more scarlet about it, threatening to call her husband. Oddly enough the daughters looked embarrassed and restrained their mammas, with the daughter of Red Face saying “mum, we’re from different cultures; it’s different for them”. Then the veiled one dropped the bomb. “Enculée!” she shouted. Or in English, “You take it up the arse!” When my friend translated, I was blushing, I was. Finally the store keepers took charge and asked us if we minded moving while the Veiled One and her daughter were pushed to the front of the queue to avoid another clash. When they were leaving, more shouting, with the daughter of Red Face saying “yes, fine, I’m a whore, are you happy?”. The Veiled One didn’t look too happy. Nor did Red Face; I thought she’d have a coronary. Meanwhile, our cashier (who was either high on life or something) smiled benignly at us and shook his French head. Must happen all the time.

Meanwhile, I can’t see clearly now; the glasses have gone…

There is perhaps no stronger feeling of regret nor frustration at losing something, particularly on public transport in a foreign country. And so I found myself on the way back from France with that familiar sensation, having left my glasses on the bus on the way to airport. My glasses. I have another pair here in Copenhagen (two for the price of one), but that’s not the point. The pair I lost were the cheap comfy ones and now they’re gone. So I face another trip to the optometrist in the not-so-distant future and the thought reminds me of when I bought my glasses two and a half years ago in Sydney. My then-girlfriend couldn’t find the time to help me choose the frames, so I took myself off to the shop ready to ask for the assistant’s assistance. “Can I help you, thsir?”, came the voice. I looked around. Couldn’t see anything. Then I looked down. And there I was, being given optical fashion advice by a dwarf with a lisp. Okay, he wasn’t a dwarf, but he was short, as in talking-to-my-nipples short and I was worried he couldn’t actually see my face to make a proper assessment. “How do they look?” “Very thstylithsh.” Oh good. And as it happened, they did. I quickly fell in love with my lisping, vertically challenged spec-guru. And now his hard work has gone.

Dithsappeared on a French busth.

Ne’er to be thseen again.

Sleep, perchance to... touch

2009-05-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

Sharing a bed the other night, I didn’t get a moment’s rest. At it all night; banging and slamming away. Bloody window shutters. We thought we’d leave the windows open to the light, cool night breeze. Marseille is hot right now. But the charming “breeze” turned into a gale and began slamming the shutters and windows against the frame every five minutes. Apparently, I slept through most of the slamming. Woops. But I was woken up at one dramatic one when by bedmate screamed, thinking that the window was broken. Her scream made me assume that someone had climbed in aforementioned window and she was fearing certain death at the hands of our spiderman attacker (we’re on the third floor of a dodgy French hotel building). Oh, but I should explain the bedfellow scenario. A friend. It was cheaper for us to take a double with shared bathroom and toilet than to go twin. Plain and simple. In fact, it’s also the reason that I didn’t get a moment’s rest the night before. Now, I don’t share beds. It’s not something I’m good at, nor something I’ve had a great deal of practice in. I’m just so nervous about being restless – flailing my arm out, accidentally hitting someone – to the point that I almost fall out of bed in my effort to ensure maximum space between me and my bedfellow. Add to that, and in the name of honesty, there are certain other things that men cannot control at nighttime and I would be mortified if a friend accidentally brushed up against James and the giant peaches. Mortified, I tell you. So, in an attempt to preserve personal space and prevent grievous bodily harm (sans mens rea), I seem to stay awake. I come to Marseille with a friend for a post-thesis break and I’m exhausted. That said, it’s been beautiful weather and it has taken me completely away from a thesis I was fast going crazy over. But it takes me no closer to a new career path. Except that I can safely rule-out gigolo. I doubt I’d make a comforting sleeping partner. Lesson learned. And it comes as no surprise that such a lesson should be learnt in France…

I’m a big geisha

2009-05-15T02:16:00.000-07:00

On the home stretch with my thesis I find that I am becoming increasingly mad. Mad in every sense of the word. I’ve been cranky with friends, I’ve been talking to myself and I’ve been showering with my plants because that seemed like an easier (not to mention environmentally efficient) way to water them. I’ve also been hearing things. A group of us decided to take a thesis break and have a picnic by the sea in sunny Copenhagen and as my train pulled into the central station I could have sworn that the train conductor said “I’m a big geisha”. Now, this is Denmark, so anything is possible, but it turns out she was actually saying (in Danish) “don’t leave your baggage on the train”. Shame. I rather fancied the idea of a tall Japanese lady with a coy expression driving at the helm of the S-train.

The next day I had a chat with my flatmate (who doesn’t actually live in the flat) about Princess Mary of Denmark (Australia’s first princess). I told him that I saw her portrait in the National Portrait Gallery when I was last in Canberra: a regal Mary in a ballroom, with a posh frock and royal sash (alla Miss Denmark). The Sydney Opera House is visible through the window behind her to represent her roots, which is a little strange since she comes from Tasmania. My idea, I told my flatmate, was that she should have a little Tasmanian Devil in the background; you know, gnawing on the hem of her dress or swinging off the curtain towards her. My flatmate laughed and wondered aloud whether all Australians were as mad as me.

Ahem.

I think that it is high-time I re-entered the workforce on a full-time basis. An old colleague described writing a thesis as a form of torture and I’m feeling it now. Too much alone time and this is what I come up with: a big old geisha driving a Danish train and an Australian princess being attacked by Tasmanian vermin. Purple haze… all in my brain… never the same…

Househunt

2009-05-07T02:43:00.000-07:00

I should have been keeping a blog about my search for a house. It’s become epic.

It started out easily enough. I was in the final days of my contract with UNICEF Pacific when I started looking into houses in Copenhagen. Found a butt-load. Emailed a few. It was all so easy. Mrs Park returned my message enthusiastically informing me that her family home was free because her family had relocated to “Africa” (you know that wonderful country somewhere south of Europe) to do mission work and it was GOD’S WILL that I take their house for two months and she thanked GOD for my email and I should send two months rent via Western Union immediately and our relationship will be based on TRUST as GOD willed it. Now, being the beautiful person I am, I initially was touched by the over-zealous email. Until more arrived. An almost identical email from another apartment owner was sent to me about a week later. Then another one a few days after that. All suggesting I send rent via Western Union immediately, upon receipt of which, the keys would be sent. M-hmm. Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll send my savings to Nigeria.

Next up was a friendly old Swedish guy who was advertising an apartment attached to his house. Evidently, something was lost in translation because when I arrived, he led my friend and me to the basement (“attic apartment”, my arse). I ducked my head to walk through the door and it didn’t come back up again: I’m six foot two, the attic ceiling was five foot ten. Of course, that’s fine for a bedroom if all you need to do is lie down, but I have the odd habit of wanting to walk normally in my home. So, denying the possibility of showering like Quasimodo, I thanked him (“tak”) for his time and lumbered out of the den.

Third time lucky? Nu-uh. Bad start when all I could smell was rotten beetroot and shite as I walked through the door. Feeling better when I see the ceilings are at least as tall as me. Have flashbacks to childhood when the old fella asked me loudly to take my shoes off. Presumably he was worried about my shoes getting dirty because the place was a sty with mildew abounding. Insult to injury: asking the equivalent of AUD1,000 a month to have the privilege of living there. Mind you, he was prepared to throw the cleaning equipment in for free…

But success finally came yesterday in the form of a funky little flat in a cool part of Copenhagen with a roof-top terrace thrown in. Summer barbecues, here I come. I just hope the summer comes too. But we can't have everything, huh?

Don't turn back...

2009-05-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

Not quite knowing… ‘tis the lot of the aid worker. Or the aid worker is Lot’s wife. Look back and you turn into a pillar of salt, such is the faith you need to have in “the system” to leave one mess and embrace the unknown.

In my line of work, I have heard celebrity charity supporters and colleagues alike – who have admirably retained their idealism – say that they want to leave the world a better place than they found it. To be honest, I don’t really know what that means, nor how you measure it – apart from a potentially self-satisfied acknowledgement that one has “made a difference” – so it seems somewhat vacuous, if well-intentioned, to maintain this mantra. I count myself in this number too: I am ever the selfish altruist. I want to know if and how I am impacting on lives. But right now it leaves too many question marks buzzing in my head. I doubt that I will ever know. I can make assumptions, but I’ll never really be sure if my work has improved the reality of anyone. Except myself.

How do you measure it? How can you tell? Does it depend on people telling you whether you have or haven’t achieved something? Or is it internal, with you deciding which indicators you’ll measure to get a sense of your professional and personal worth?

Or (Shock! Horror!) does it call for you to jettison the self-absorption you’ve come to rely on and put yourself in a context? Have the efforts I’ve been a part of helped anyone or anything? Has my team come through with the goods? There’s no “I” in team as the well-worn (and frequently annoying) expression goes, but there is “e” and “m” which spells “me” and I keep coming back to that. It’s all about me. What the hell use will I be in a team if I don’t know what I bring to the table for someone else to take? Or if I bring so much to the table that other people have to choose, not me? Aid work is too multi-faceted to give an easy answer and it is naïve to think that there is any one sure-fire route to making that illusive “difference”.

It is a strange condition: to either have no direction or to have so many directions that one’ compass is in danger of breaking, but I know that neither is a particularly comfortable reality. Nor is pessimism, which is why these bleak reflections will not be repeated any time soon. I loathe professional angst, but alas, it is these notes that are my mental soundtrack as I gear-up to my final weeks of study; study for a Masters that I was convinced would set me straight in my career, but has left me with more questions than I care to entertain.

I’ll work it out. I always seem to. It just may take a while.

Facebook dream

2009-04-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

It’s finally happened. Facebook has pervaded my life to the extent that I now dream about it.

For a long time I have been talking about culling some ‘friends’ from Facebook (so watch out. Yes, I’m talking to YOU) and finally I started doing it in dreamland the other night. But when I looked for the “remove from friends” function, I couldn’t find it. I decided to go to my settings to see what’s happening. But I couldn’t find the link to the settings either. So, I thought – logically, as you do in dreams – that’s okay, I’ll go out the back and sort things out.

Then Facebook turned into a physical building and “out the back” consisted of walking out the backdoor of the Facebook building. Waiting for me was a group of people pointing towards some mounds of dirt bordered by some simple chains and adorned with crushed dandelions. These mounds of dirt were my settings.

After shuffling around the dirt for a bit, my settings were still not working, so I decided to walk back inside the Facebook building for further recourse. But of course, being a busy site, there was a queue of people lining up to get back inside, but thinking that it’s usually a pretty fast site, I joined the queue and went back inside Facebook. Then I woke up.

Clearly my mind still cannot cope with the virtual reality that is the World Wide Web. Get me back to basics with a mound of dirt, a bricks and mortar building and a queue with real people…

A life-changing experience in London

2009-04-19T23:01:00.000-07:00

My life is a Cadbury crème egg. ‘Strue. Revelations come but rarely in a lifetime and this one blossomed in my recent trip to London.

Devouring chocolate comes easily to my family. I think it’s part of our family motto “eat chocolate or die”. It’s definitely on our family crest: double-edged axes dripping with dark chocolate, melting to denote our shift from Europe to Australia some time in the mid-1800s. So, it really was written in the stars that chocolate would form a significant part of my life. It should come as no surprise that some resolution to my dilemmas over the meaning of life should emerge from a chocolate egg with a rich fondant centre.

But it was a long time coming. The crème eggs in Australia – which I was reacquainting myself with just after Christmas – are different to the ones in the UK. The Australian version is lovely, but the UK eggs are something else. They are sweeter. They are tastier. They are prettier. They are ambrosia. UK crème eggs are all about life.

New life is an egg. A compact, fragile lump about to burst open with a living, breathing being. Not a crème egg, of course, but it’s about the symbolism. Work with me here. Of course, the burst of sugar from a crème egg makes you feel like you have a new lease on life. Sugar hit, thy name is Cadbury… especially when you can crack open the egg and lick the fondant out of the shell…

Or you can shove a whole one in your gob and wait for it to melt. Oi-yoi-oi. The chocolate slowly sweats and melts away until the whole thing collapses like an American financial institution.

Maybe it’s more personal. Crème eggs are people. My loved ones. My brevvren, innit? I wonder at the sweet people I know with a shiny, hard facade and a soft, lovely core. Everyone sees the outside. Special people see the inside. Like my poetic inside.

*Sigh*.

If only life were that simple.

Or sweet.

Or shiny.

Or covered in chocolate…

French Robin Hood and the Laughing Australian

2009-04-14T13:20:00.000-07:00

I met a French Robin Hood the other day.

Well, not so much met as nodded at and mumbled something to. And when I say Robin Hood, he was wearing green tights and a big jacket that looked as though it had been made in Sherwood Forest eight hundred years ago and worn ever since. Anyway, I was at the horse stable (or whatever the hell you call places where horses live) and he rounded the corner in his tights, zipping up his jacket, and startling me by his presence. So unprepared was I by the intrusion into my horse-harassing that I tripped over “morning” in response to his brisk “bonjour”, causing him to look at me strangely. Don’t look at me that way, pal; YOU’RE the one wearing tights; who cares if I’m in France?

Anyway, it turns out that they weren’t really tights so much as immodest jodhpurs because he was the horse trainer who would be teaching my friend’s daughter for her horse riding exam (this is called something elegant in French, but my language skills have gone the way of my gut after the Easter egg assault and I’m pursuing lessons with my two year old Godson). I want to be judgemental and suggest that it is inappropriate to be wearing such attire when you’ll be on the ground all day teaching a bunch of girls, but I shall draw the line and assume that the fact that he is “French” be sufficient explanation.

I have no idea why I fixate on clothing with my cultural analyses. Is it something to do with the adage “clothing maketh the man”? Or a more sinister insecurity? If I agree to that last one, then I’m revealing way too much about myself, so I shall stick with the former. First impressions and all that. I’m not convinced that this is true: some of the most impressive men I know wander around in tracksuits or stonewash denims and I remain in awe of them. It must be the confidence. Bursting with it, they are. Thing is, Robin Hood over here was bristling with confidence and yet he hardly looked like he could arm wrestle Maid Marion let alone rescue her. So I don’t know where that leaves us.

Oh yes I do. Laughter. I love a good laugh and apparently it will be at whatever I can clap my eyes on. Appearance first. Of course, I shall need to break all mirrors if I don’t want to have a heart attack from hysterics…

I am Muriel

2009-03-25T01:20:00.000-07:00

There’s a scene in the Muriel’s wedding when she is in a taxi, driving along the coast in Porpoise Spit with "Fernando" playing in the background. I was Muriel the other morning, in a taxi driving down the coast (as one does in Kiribati – there is coast everywhere you look), with "Fernando" on the radio. Only it wasn’t ABBA’s "Fernando", it was the i-Kiribati version of "Fernando". Out of all the music classics they could have translated to capture the Pacific environs, it had to be "Fernando". I felt nostalgic; I felt Swedish/i-Kiribati; I felt a little bit dirty too.

This is a brief blog in honour of the small country, Kiribati. And, to be honest, the Fernando-fiasco has left me speechless.

I need a man

2009-03-21T22:59:00.000-07:00

“I need a man because he is more active. He would involve himself more actively.” When an i-Kiribati police officer wearing military boots said this to me I nearly choked on my tongue. I then nervously glanced towards the door, remembering that he had locked it when I came in.

In a way, I would have preferred it if he’d been talking about his predilection for passivity in the boudoir – while unprofessional, it would be less offensive than the tripe that continued to spout forth about the professional incapacity of women and their weak constitutions. We were discussing the set-up of disaster management in Kiribati. I asked him politely if he was happy with the current arrangements with the Secretary of the Office of the President taking coordination into her portfolio. “Not really”, he said, and proceeded to tell me why he needed a man. In a choice follow-up he said it wasn’t good enough when women get scared during emergency drills. “Men don’t get scared too?”, I asked. “That’s not the issue”, he informed me. At this point he looked at me, imploring me to agree with him. We had an understanding, see, ‘cos we’re both men. I know what he’s talking about, don’t I? Me? Having grown up in a house with three strong women who protected me from calamity more than once? Not really, no; I do not know what you’re talking about. My inner-feminist has been resting of late, but she was awake now with a burning fire…

Nothing will raise my bile more than chat about how crap women are. Since my PNG days I have learnt how to deal with such discourse.
Rule 1: contain anger and annoyance.
Rule 2: converse with charm and humour, laced with challenge, informed by feminist discourse.
Rule 3: allow face to glaze over in order to conceal contempt for opinions that you don’t share.

Most of the time, the humour works. It diffuses the conversation topic and usually provides a platform for the offender to backtrack. This time, it didn’t work. He thought I was just joking when I suggested that any man would be scared of a bomb – fake or imagined – too. Eventually, I think he caught my frozen expression and noticed that I’d stopped writing. He then apologised if his views were “different to what you were expecting”. Well, I asked you a question about the Government’s capacity to respond to a disaster and you informed me that women are scaredy-cats. You, the trained policeman, are criticising a civilian public servant, untrained in the ways of emergency threats, for being scared – and the blaming her gender for it. Nice. I think we both lost an opportunity there.

My bubble about gender equity in i-Kiribati burst. I guess just because people don’t talk about the status of women doesn’t mean that it is okay and on par with men. Easy trap to fall into, especially when you make the flawed assumption that educated public servants would at least have an appreciation for gender equality, if not a genuine belief in it domestically.
That evening, as I took the bus ride home reflecting on this and wondering what my face really looked like when he uttered those immortal words, the bus driver put a CD in to play: “you a bitch / get out of that, ho / f#ck that shit / get out of that, ho…”. My inner feminist rolled her eyes and went to sleep, exhausted.

Asterix and Obelix in the Pacific

2009-03-19T02:11:00.000-07:00

I feel like I’ve wandered onto the Pacific version of an 'Asterix and Obelix' book. Kiribati is little more than a small village in an isolated part of the Pacific, where the locals are strong – thanks to hardy tropical life – and instead of the Gaulish fear of the sky falling on their heads, i-Kiribati live in constant dread of the sea swallowing them up. The latter is a real possibility thanks to the ravages of climate change and the belief that the islands are actually sinking.

Maybe that’s why the people are so timid. They’re worried that this is the stranger who will finally give them the news that they’re sinking and it’s time to get out. But they don’t want to get out – the lifestyle is fine. I see young men emerge from the water at all hours of the day after a refreshing swim; old man sprawled on their cool concrete floors napping or reading; young women running to school; old people hanging around gossiping in the shade; women and men sorting out the fishing nets and smoking the fish; old men napping in hammocks; and little kids flaunting their nudity in the midday sun because they can. Nevermind the pollution – mostly from the classic drop-toilets over the beautiful blue lagoon – and the potential for water-borne disease; nevermind the potential for a sea surge that might carry your house away; never mind the low funds for fuel that may stop a desalination plant on an outer island and make it uninhabitable; nevermind the sinking land. How’s that for a dose of climate change?

I do not think I had a real understanding of what climate change was before I set foot on Kiribati. Sure, I was aware of perceptions of more unpredictable seasons, of melting polar caps, of dying animal species. But I had never really thought about the scale of loss as a result of climate change until I saw Kiribati. If the sea levels rise much more, Kiribati will disappear. It will go under. Just like that. A whole country, with its own flag, its own parliament and some 90,000 people would not be a country anymore but a haven for fish and a hazard for boats.

Well, the sinking island bit has not been proven beyond doubt as far as I know, but that doesn’t stop people from talking about it. Or maybe it’s just because I’m here to talk about disasters… I was at a school today and after the brainstorm exercise with the kids, one of them asked me if a tsunami was a real risk in Kiribati. Then another kid asked me if the island would disappear soon and if so, would other countries accept them? Now, this is not the kind of question one is asked every day. “Um, what do I do when my country disappears?” I told them to sit tight and hope that they wouldn’t be sent to New Zealand.

Kava it up

2009-03-16T17:44:00.000-07:00

Ka"va\, n. [Polynesian.] (Bot.) A species of Macropiper (M. methysticum), the long pepper, from the root of which an intoxicating beverage is made by the Polynesians, by a process of mastication; also, the beverage itself.

Vanuatu Tourism also reports that this soporific intoxicant is “the only legal narcotic” in the world. Not being addictive, nor having damaging side effects (well, nothing that some bran flakes wouldn’t fix) it is almost the perfect relaxant. Add to that, it has suspected curative – even antibiotic – properties which actually makes it good for you. What is not so good is having some kava with a Heineken chaser. Nu-uh. Learn that the head-spinning hard way. It wasn’t too bad, actually, but it did make fixing a simple Carbonara for some new friends that bit more tricky. Tasted just as good though.

Vanuatu – easily the highlight of the trip so far. And it’s not for all the classic reasons. Sure, the beaches are gold-sandy beauties. The waterfalls – cascading over smooth rocks; cool water veining its way down a sheer cliff face before dousing my skin, once sticky from the humidity, now refreshed and shiny – are stunning. The steaks are tender and tasty. A glorious early morning coffee and croissant with French speakers who – unlike their Parisian counterparts – do not giggle at your poor accent. All of those things have made it memorable. More than that, it’s the people. That favourite cliché of travel. I met up with a whole lot of young aid workers and we clicked. Lots of chats and kava and chats where you don’t have to explain your work, you don’t have to pretend, you don’t have to apologise for being in-country briefly, nor apologise for saying goodbye. We kava-d it up. Heaven.

Black lacey bra

2009-03-05T12:38:00.000-08:00

When I walked into the change room at the gym in Apia, I was not expecting to see a Samoan man putting on a brassiere. But that’s what I got. Honest to God, a bra. A black lacey one, no less. Regular pair of jocks, black lacey bra. I’m repeating it because I still can’t believe it, some 17 hours later and in my fourth storey office. The rest of his attire was quite regular – running shorts and a sleeveless gym shirt; no sequined frocks or feathered headdresses. And he wasn’t wearing it to support the dreaded man-boobs (or “moobs” as I think of them), for this man was no stranger to the gym.

I’m not judging. If that’s what he needs to do, then good luck to him. Don’t begrudge him a thing. And who am I to judge? I rocked up to a country town in Australia to see a mate wearing a designer singlet top, cap (kindof like a golf one) and knee-length shorts prompting my friend’s workmates to say “he doesn’t come from the country, does he?” I can guess what they were inferring, but I also guess I’ve also been removed from Australia long enough to miss the social mores.

No, people can wear what they like, as long as it covers up the important bits. I do not want to be confronted by those on the street. The last time was several years ago in Sudan when a man had whipped it out to pee in the middle of the road, but as it was Ramadan I think he was delirious with the heat. I still don’t know if the car horns were beeping him for being in the way or for exposing himself in such a conservative country, but life went on.

I once entertained the idea of wearing the jelabia (I always stuff up the spelling for this, but it’s the big white dress that men wear in Sudan and other Muslim countries) back to Australia just to see how the authorities would react, but then I was worried about being offensive to the actual Muslims. So, back on track… I wonder what people would say if I rocked up back in Australia wearing a sulu (the Fijian man-skirt). It would be acceptable is I were a Pacific Islander, but an Anglo…? Strangely enough, I think it would be more acceptable in Europe. I might try it. Let’s call it a social experiment. That’s me: on the edge, challenging people’s conceptions of fashion, self-image, gender… and shit. Yeah. But I draw the line at a black lacey bra. That’s just weird.

Lamb Shank Redemption

2009-02-26T19:43:00.000-08:00

Some menu items need shooting, they really do. The menu at the “Ocean View Restaurant” in Honiara is quite a standard list of run-of-the-mill hotel fare – Spag Bol, steaks, fries, spring rolls – until you get to the Lamb Shank Redemption – a slow roasted shank served on a bed of garlic potato mash. No other food has word-play, alliteration or a film allusion. Just the lamb. I wonder if the chef is a wee bit introverted, but secretly fancies her/himself to be a bit of a jokester; sitting quietly with the big hat in the corner of the kitchen writing-up the menu, dropping in this clanger wondering if anyone will appreciate its cleverness; being asked to a customer’s table, not to compliment her/him on the food, but on the menu, insisting she/he take a microphone and deliver a few more one liners – “that’s a sweet lady you have there, I’d Snapper-up before she gets away… I serve this fish with some Lara Thin Boiled potatoes… you’ve been a great audience, shank you very much…”.

The torment of undiscovered genius…

The Smile, the Bus and the Wheelchair

2009-02-24T22:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, out of the blue, delight falls into our lives. Staring vacantly into space on the way back from a school this afternoon, all I could think of was lunch and the sweat pouring off my brow. We cruised up to a bus stop and I saw an old man in a wheelchair beaming happily at the bus, rolling evenly over the dried palm leaves to claim a seat. The door opened, a couple of students jumped out and he waited patiently as the conductor paused and looked at him. There was an impasse. This guy was coming on the bus and there were no two ways about it. The conductor broke into a smile and chuckled – not at the man, merely at the situation; the kind of chuckle that says “how are we going to do this?!”. Things were being said in pidgin – too quickly for me to catch and too different from the PNG pidgin I used to know so well – and fingers pointing, arms waving and the front seat passengers shifting. With a heave and a ho (and a boost from a couple of young fellas from the front row) he swung himself into a seat, directing the conductor to fold-up the wheelchair and put it in front. Often I have heard disabled people cry “I don’t have a disability; my ability is just different to yours!” or something like it. But let’s face it – in a great many countries, people with different abilities still find it tricky getting up steps, crossing the road and clambering onto buses. But this guy co-opted people to help him and they were happy to do it. There was such brilliant no-nonsense camaraderie about the whole business that I couldn’t help but smile. It was all I could do to restrain myself from taking out my camera – only to record the moment – but that was the point, wasn’t it? These guys barely made a fuss out of the scenario – even though it clearly didn’t happen often – so why should I? Some people can do it shamelessly, some even with élan; step out of the moment and take a picture, but not I. I’m glad I stayed in the background. What a joy simply to be reminded about how lovely people are. I mean, I don’t often think people are awful, but I suppose my preoccupations blind me to goodness. It’s a special trick – a different ability – to see goodness all the time.

Australian Psycho

2009-02-23T19:29:00.000-08:00

Standing in line with a middle-aged American couple, or maybe they were Dutch, but they had that air of superiority about them, you know? ; the sort that only the truly fat can muster; a mincing Fijian with a pretty Afro; a cranky British garden gnome; an old Fijian wax work; the Michelin man; and yours truly – the tired, skinny, cynic with mismatching luggage. I was gazing daggers at them all because none of them knew or cared that I was the first to the airport this morning and was sixth in line. Things like that matter when you’ve had four hours sleep while sharing a bed with fleas. And yet, by the time I reached the counter, I was charm personified. Of course, overtiredness does that too: hurls you down the gamut of emotions very rapidly. I’m always aware of an irrational patience when I’m like this. I hate standing in line, but I’m overly polite when I interact with people in person (but not in my head). Am I the Australian Psycho?

Don’t let the bed bugs bite…

2009-02-18T12:51:00.000-08:00

I pride myself on the fact that I am a mosquito’s last port of call. They land on stones before they land on me. I’ve been to countless malarious areas and walked away unscathed. So why – oh why?! – would bed bugs find me so delicious? Actually, not all of me. The underside of my forearms. And I’m not so sure that they’re actually bed bugs; could be fleas or some other disgusting insect.... point is, they’re biting me and I hate it. Turns out I’m not indestructible.

You know when people say “ ‘Night ‘night... don’t let the bed bugs bite!” ? How can one do that? I mean, I know I can spray the bed with insecticide or spray myself with repellent (which I fully intend to do, by the way), but that seems less polite than the friendly petition “don’t let”. It’s not as if I can wake up and talk to the bed bugs as if they were a Nick Park creation. Look down on them with a kindly Snow White face and charmingly admonishing finger saying “now, don’t bite, my dears”. They’re fecking BUGS! Don’t let them bite, my arse. Actually, no, I won’t let them bite that. It’s prize winning, it is. So now I have to go to meetings with UN people and government people and I have little pink specks on the underside of my forearms.

And I’ve just lost the plot.

“The dykes held on for five years and then they broke in...”

2009-02-17T13:07:00.000-08:00

“The dikes held on for five years and then they broke in.” If ever anyone said anything that made me wish I hadn’t tuned out of a meeting, it was this. A very serious Fijian gentleman made this exclamation, earnestly seeking the understanding of his colleagues from around the table. They all nodded gravely, as did I for fear of my micro-sleep being found-out. It took me a good minute to realise that he was talking about the recent flooding in Fiji. How relieved I was. I feel as though I’ve just emerged from my internship with the “men who have sex with men” HIV programme in Kenya – where double entendres abound and because of which you start reading too much into everything you hear – only to be met with more of the same in Fiji. Mind you, five years is a long time to hold on for anyone.

I suppose this could lead into a nice little wander down memory lane when “dike” was only ever structural, when “gay” was only ever happy, when “rubber” was only ever eraser and when “fanny”... oh... no, “fanny” has always been blush-worthy, ‘cept in America. But I can’t wander down that lane because it was closed-off long before I could walk (and therefore wander). I’ve only ever known the nouveau meanings for these words (although, I’ll admit to asking the teacher for a “rubber” in primary school when I’d made an error with my lead pencil. Oh, there’s another one...).

But you know, “dike/dyke” probably doesn’t have the same meaning in Fiji as the one I maturely giggled at yesterday. Come to that “gay” means very little in Kenya, which is why the project I was involved with had to be given such a blunt label. Tell it how it is.

My favourite word confusion story comes from a mate. His volunteer organisation was making him live in a particular place – no choice – and his Papua New Guinean superviser was apologising to him saying the pressure came from management: “Ya, I’m sorry Mark, but they’re breathing up my throat”... Interesting place to be. Almost as interesting as a dike in Fiji, I imagine.

Valentines... bah humbug

2009-02-14T18:12:00.000-08:00

I’m disappointed. The Fijians in Suva have bought into Valentine’s Day. Hotel staff and taxi drivers ask me if I’m celebrating Valentine’s Day. Sometimes I say “no”, other times I make up a girlfriend or wife, if asked, but one that is far away, and once I actually told the truth that “I haven’t marked it in about ten years” raising a hearty laugh from the internet cafe lady, followed by an apology for reminding me about it (prompted, perhaps, by my scowl). There are even signs up at the various churches wishing all and sundry a “Happy Valentine’s Day!”.

Is this my bah-humbug festival? I love Christmas (despite the meaning being lost on so many) and Easter (ditto, but I don’t mind the chocolate excess). But I think my anti-Valentine’s fervour comes from two different sources: its total commercialisation and my high school girlfriend breaking up with me on the day whilst wearing a skirt with hearts all over it.

Or maybe, just maybe, I resent the lack spontaneity. I will not be told when to tell my loved one that they are my loved one. I'll say it when they least expect it. I want to leave it hanging, you know? Get around to telling them when I’m good and ready. As Kim says, “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen, Sharon.” Is that why I’m single?

The Queen is on the Money!

2009-02-13T14:12:00.000-08:00

The Queen is on the money. I don’t mean she’s made a good judgment lately. I’m in Fiji and she’s actually on the money. Like on the Australian five dollar note, but all the notes. She puts it about a bit, doesn’t she? Well she used to. You used to look at a map and see patches of red all over it – that red meant ‘British Empire’. Now there’s still red where it used to be, but these days it means ‘debt’.

I had forgotten that Fiji was still a part of the Commonwealth. I’m so used to apologising to people overseas about the fact that Australia is not actually independent; I’m so used to thinking that Australia is the ONLY former colony to still be attached to the Motherland. Nonsense, when you put serious thought into it. But my impression of Melanesian states is that of a proud people who retained such rich independent cultures despite colonisation. Papua New Guineans especially have extraordinarily diverse cultural practices and traditions within the country; they seem as though they would be independent, but they’re not. Colonisation seems like an age ago. Well it was another age. Most colonies were consigned to the history books before I was born. But the legacy still remains, and although fading, the symbolism persists.

So much for impressions. I feel base my life on impressions. And on being impressed. And on trying to impress. And on sometimes impressing. Nice to impress sometimes. I just made an impression on the check-in lady in Nadi when I was putting my baggage on the connecting flight. I left my passport on the counter and sauntered off after giving her a ‘thank you’.... quickly followed by a sheepish eye-aversion as I shuffled away, passport between my legs. But at least it was still there. I feared it being taken away as I was coming through passport control. I’d cleverly neglected to print-off my UNICEF travel authorisation AND my itinerary, so had no documents to say how long I’d be in the country or who was sponsoring me. In the three and a half hour flight over I convinced myself I’d be dragged into a secure room, a bright light shining in my face and coconuts being hurled at my head as the bureaucrats accused me of attempting to stage another coup in Fiji. Instead, the passport controller pointed out that I’d forgotten to tick one of the boxes – “purpose of visit” – and after a seconds-long stand-off I ticked “business”, she shrugged her shoulders, stamped me in and gave me back the passport – I was free! This must be how James Bond feels when he escapes his captors for another time. Just like this.

The Donkey Suicides

2009-02-12T12:24:00.000-08:00

The other night I remembered the most outrageous story I was heard from Southern Sudan. Unfortunately it cannot be backed up by anything approaching reliable proof, but it hit the papers, regardless. Two donkeys – those noble beasts of burden – were carrying heavy weights on some uneven Sudanese roads. It was hot and they were stressed, one leading the other. They started lugging themselves across a bridge that was still waiting for barriers to be built on both sides (a victim of the “development” process). When the first donkey reached the middle, its load heavier than it he ever thought it could be, he reportedly took one look at the swiftly moving river beneath him, veered off to one side and calmly threw himself off the bridge, promptly swallowed by the unforgiving river.

His friend behind paused and glanced down. Then hoof after hoof, he slowly trotted towards the side and tipped himself over, following his now resting friend.

Their loads were too heavy.

It’s a pretty serious indictment of a country that even the donkeys are depressed with the way things are going. The repetition, the endless cycle of civil war/ development/ civil war/ development takes its toll on a country’s psyche, surely? I was tempted to think of this story as an allegory for aid workers, but for them, there’s always an ‘out’. Always the option to leave the bizarre reality of places like Sudan. It happened to me, which I realised just before I left.

On the way to my last field trip in Sudan, we were flying in a light aircraft over the lush (thanks to the rainy season) green pastures and hillocks when upon me came a moment of clarity when I had a glimpse of just how expansive that country is. Maybe it was the sunlight piercing the grey clouds, maybe it was the green that was greener than air-sickness itself or maybe it was just the altitude, but I had finally floated onto some semblance of calm … the little shadow of our little plane bobbed across the uneven land, engine noise was in my ears, fumes were up my nose and a lovely land filled my eyes. It was made lovelier by the knowledge that the majority of people I had met in Sudan were not violent souls; they were people who cared deeply about their country...

And I felt like a fraud. For the first time in my life, I felt like a transparent fraud; a development tourist. Flying when it suited me and flying out when I was tired and confused. It’s terribly humbling when you realise for the first time – you know, really realise – that you can’t save the world. I can’t even save a pair of donkeys.