Exploring, part 3

After two weeks without an apartment, we changed tactics, and decided to rent a car for the week so that we could drive around and get to places that were further afield (ironically, we ended up renting the first place we looked at that week, which also happened to be 5 blocks away from the hotel where we were staying. Go figure.) Even though we didn’t end up doing too much apartment-hunting after all, it was great to have the car, for, uh…well…IKEA runs. And weekend getaways, of course.

On our next weekend trip, taken just after we picked up the car, we went to a seaside town on the outskirts of Dublin called Malahide. There is a lovely, well-preserved Norman-era castle there, which was occupied by a noble family right up until the 70s. In fact, the name of the last owner was…wait for it… Lord Milo!

However, halfway through the castle tour Jorge started patting his pockets rather desperately, looking for the car keys. Yes indeed, just four hours into rental car ownership, my dear husband lost the keys. And of course, he didn’t lose them inside the house; no, he lost them somewhere along the 20 minute walk we took through the very spacious park around the castle.

Fortunately, the kind soul who discovered them lying on the path took them back to the parking lot, unlocked the car, looked for the blinking lights, and left our keys inside the car (thank you Good Samaritan, wherever you are!)

Jorge, not content to let me relax, ever, decided then to play a prank and convince me that the person who returned our keys had then stolen the I-Pad from the glove compartment in return, which sort of marred my joy at not having to walk home. He didn’t have the heart to keep up the scam for long, though. Needless to say, we no longer keep valuables in the car, and I hold the car keys when we go out.
In all the excitement, however, I didn’t take a single photo. Sorry.

Still here

Thought I disappeared, didn't you? Well, I'm still around.

So, we went to Seattle for 6 months. And to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. And some other stuff happened. and now we are back home in Malawi, in our little (palatial) flat in Lilongwe, getting used to being back to "normal" life.

I thought about doing a big long "what I did on my 6-month vacation" post, but A. that would be much too much work, and B. who would want to read that?

So instead, I'll start at the beginning. Waaaay back to last October, when Jorge and I loaded up 6 bags, 1 stroller, 1 carseat, and a fidgety toddler into a taxi and took off for the US. But on the way, we made a little pit stop in Paris. Not bad, eh?


So first things first, if you ever get a chance to take an international Air France flight, keep in mind that when everyone else has gone to sleep, they have free Haagen Dasz ice cream bars in the flight attendants' galley, just there for the taking. Jorge ate 7. I'm dead serious.



We had a lovely time, despite the riots and strikes. We were warned that the museums would likely be closed, the trains wouldn't run, the shops would be closed, but in fact, everything went pretty well. The ticket takers for the train to Versailles refused to take our money in silent protest of the French government's decision to raise the retirement age, so we got to ride for free.

We spent much of our time visiting the many museums of Paris.



We took Milo to see the Venus de Milo, but he was unimpressed.


We also took many long walks through the city, until my poor pregnant hips couldn't take much more.






One day we took the train out to Disneyland Paris, where Milo was struck dumb by the sight of Mickey Mouse live and in the flesh.

And it being one of OUR vacations, it was impossible to leave the country without mishap, of course.

We rented a tiny little closet of an apartment for the week, up on the 4th floor, with no elevator. Did I mention the 6 bags, packed to the maximum weight allowance? On our last day, we booked a taxi to collect us at 5AM to take us to the airport. Piece by piece, we shuttled the bags down to the curb. We had to leave the keys inside the apartment, so to make sure we didn't accidentally take them with us, we left the apartment wide open, the keys on the counter, as we loaded up the taxi. Finally, with only Milo's car seat still waiting in the apartment, Jorge handed me the backpack that was propping the building door open so that I could load it up.

The only problem? He was standing outside the building, not inside. In slow motion, I yelled "nooooooo"....and we both watched the door close, locking us outside.

I would have admitted defeat. But not Jorge. No, my husband's a problem solver. He recruited the mortified taxi driver to translate for him, and then he pressed every.single.doorbell for all the apartments in the building. Until finally, a rather peeved and disheveled French woman answered. After looking out the window and determining that yes indeed, we were stupid American tourists and not creative burglars, she buzzed us in. And we made it to the airport in time after all, on our way back to the U.S.

Ineptitude

Everyone who lives in Africa for very long accumulates a nice trove of stories around ineptitude - there's the friend of mine who, for example, picked her car up from the mechanic, only to find that they had sliced her entire car engine clear in half. Or another friend who followed up with a supplier on the school supplies he'd been told had been ordered 6 months earlier, only to find that the order was never placed. The person-I-shall-not-name who tried to clean our car with steel wool. Things like that happen regularly in Malawi.

But Jorge had a very interesting experience of ineptitude while walking through a busy shopping area of Lilongwe last week. He was going to meet a friend, when a very tiny Malawian man walked up to him and said "Give me the money."

"What?" Said Jorge, a little surprised. We're used to small children yelling out "Givah me a-mon-ee!" as we walk past, but it's unusual for adults to be so bold.

"Give me the money!" He repeated. Again, Jorge was just totally confused, and said again, "What?!"

Finally, the little man pulled from his pocket a small, blunt kitchen knife, about 3 inches in length, and repeated his demand. At this point Jorge was still a wee bit puzzled, and amused at the size of the knife, but was starting to realize that the poor guy was trying to rob him. So Jorge just said "No." The little Malawian seemed to be stumped at that point, unable to figure out what his next move should be.

At that point Jorge saw the friend he was meeting, waved, and then gently took the would-be-robber's hand and held it out of his way as he walked the few feet to talk to his friend. The foiled robber just continued to stand there plaintively nearby,I suppose still hoping for some money, as the crowds all milled around them. And then Jorge walked off and went on with his day.

It makes me very grateful indeed that Malawi is still at the point where most people haven't even figured how to be criminal very well.

Back home

I'm back in Malawi, and as busy as ever. As much as I love to travel, I always feel such a deep sense of relief and calm once I finally get off the plane, make it through immigration and customs, and get on the road home. It's all so familiar to me now, so comforting. I know just where on the road there will be pumpkins for sale, or to watch out for the intersection where minibuses clog traffic. "Ah!" I was pleased to note while on my way home, "Mice are back in season!" After coming from a big city, the expanses of land where you see nothing bit scrubby grass and bushes for miles just soothes me.

Of course, then I get home, and there's a dead car battery to deal with, a shady dealership that doesn't want to honor its warranties, post office employees who fail to show up for work...all the usual African nonsense. Still, it's good to be home.

I'm still working on getting the next round of trip photos up, but in the meanwhile, I thought I'd share our very typical exchange from this afternoon's commute home:

Jorge: "Did you see the new embassy that just opened right around our house?"

Me: "Nooo....which one?"

Jorge: "Don't you see the sign?"

Me, looking up and reading the sign above my head: "Ah, yes. The Christ Embassy. That will be useful." [Note: I am not making the name up. Most likely it's a new storefront church.]

::Long pause::

Me: "Do you think their consular office is open? I want to get a visa for heaven."

E.S.L.

My husband says the darndest things. The other day over dinner, he looks at me with a puzzled expression, and asks me: "What do you call whale fat in English?"

"You mean blubber?"

"Yeah. That's weird." Then he starts singing the tune from one of the songs from Milo's favorite music CD. Only the words don't sound quite right: "Blubber, blubber, in the trees..."

Umm, no, honey...the song is about bluebirds, not blubber!

I am just adding this to a long list of wonderful song misinterpretations. Some of my other favorites are when he sings "Let it Be." For years he thought the song was actually called "Letter 'B'" and was some sort of odd homage to Sesame Street. He still prefers his version, even after I corrected his mistake.

And just the other day, I had "Rockin' the Casbah" stuck in my head. I hollered out "Sharif don't like it!" and Jorge responded with "Rocking the cash bar! Rocking the cash bar!"

::Swooning with joy over my choice in a mate::

Weird things you'd never think about

So, it might come as a surprise to you that the world wide web is not, in fact, the same worldwide.

In fact, when you live in a place like Malawi, it can be quite different. While you are probably seeing ads for drugs claiming they will finally quell your Irritable Bowel Syndrome, the ads on my computer screen are frequently in Arabic.

But here is something I see almost every day when I log in:

I mean, come on - I have been through the US immigration process, I've seen it up close. You mean there are suckers here in Africa that think getting a green card is like winning some sort of Powerball game? I have no idea what happens if you are silly enough to try to "win," I have no intention of ever clicking on one of those virus bombs myself.

Whee, look at me! I'm a regular blogger again!

We're getting settled back into normal life here. Friends have come to visit over the last couple of evenings, tonight I have a birthday party to go to, and tomorrow a friend is throwing us a welcome-back cocktail party at her home. I no longer feel like a disheveled and friendless new mom.

Over the weekend we went out to the Lilongwe Sailing Club. There was no wind, and the hippo was out, so no one sailed. Instead we just barbecued and chatted with friends. Our friend Sonia shared with us a funny story, but first you need some background:

Malawians have a very difficult time differentiating the "L" and "R" sounds. They can't really hear the difference, and frequently interchange the letters in their writing. For example, the newspaper today described a man as being "raid to rest."

So over the summer, during all the political turmoil in Zimbabwe, Sonia got daily updates from the staff, all of whom were following the situation closely.

"The erections are being manipulated," they told her,

and, (my favorite),

"Mugabe is fiddling with the erections."

:-)