Home is where the beer is

Greetings from Ethiopia.

People keep asking me, “What are you doing in Ethiopia? I thought you worked in Ireland now.”

Shall I remind you that I work for a humanitarian organization, and that, while Ireland certainly does seem to be on the edge of a crisis, it’s been a loooong time since the potato famine. And that yes, a diet based primarily on cured pork and potatoes is probably not the most nutritious, there are still plenty of children out there in the world not getting even that. So indeed, I did not actually move to Ireland to lead an emergency nutrition intervention there; Dublin is just a base for me to be able to travel out to other countries with more pressing needs.

Last week I attended an international conference on nutrition, and met many accomplished and fascinating people from governments around the world, as well as universities, the UN, and donor agencies. This coming week I will be helping our Ethiopia office develop their program design for several new projects.

It’s nice to be back ‘on the continent’. While I can’t say I miss the traffic, or the pollution, or being conspicuously foreign, I have been reminded just how friendly and the expat community is, how easy it is to fall into comfortable conversation over a cup of tea or a glass of local beer. The challenge of working in difficult contexts still feels like an interesting puzzle to solve, rather than a frustration.

This is my longest trip away from Dean I’ve ever had to make, and I’m a bit worried the little stinker will learn to walk while I’m gone, but travel is just one of the things I’ve become accustomed to over the years. I miss my boys, but I know they will be fine until I get home.

At the moment I am staying in my organization’s ‘guest house’ in the city of Addis Ababa. It’s been a very, very long time since I stayed in a guest house like this, and it brings back such funny memories of the months that I lived in Sudan. Guest houses are funny places. They are filled with odd little remnants of past guests, such as nearly-empty jars of Nutella with only a bit of dried out paste left in the bottom. At the same time, there never seems to be enough of the most basic items, as no one wants to buy stuff only to have everyone else use it up. We’ve been out of sugar for days now.

Guest houses are always bare and undecorated, but also usually have extensive libraries of paperback novels and gossip magazines. People drift in and out, sometimes stopping to have long talks over the dining room table, sometimes not seeming to return to the house for days. There is always a vague feeling of it being a fraternity house – as if not too long ago, someone threw a kegger and no one ever got around to completely cleaning up afterwards.

While I’m grateful for the space and the comfort – a kitchen to cook my dinner in, internet access a BBC on the TV – I have to say I will be most delighted to return to my pokey little Dublin apartment in a week.

Fashion (hell) week

When you work for a job that sends you off to difficult places like remote African nations, one of the things that is always covered in your induction is how to deal with culture shock. I always brushed these sessions off, because I don’t think I’m terribly affected by culture shock. My feet hit the Seattle airport, and the next thing I want to do is go to Target. If you ask Jorge, of course, he claims that I have spent the last week glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, overwhelmed by all my options every time we enter a shopping center or department store. But don’t you listen to him, I’m doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.

There are definitely some things that it takes a while to adjust to, every time we move back and forth, though. And this time, it is the fashion. Either fashion is completely hideous right now, or Irish women are hideously unfashionable. Either way, I am completely perplexed by people’s choices in clothing.

It started in the Amsterdam airport. I thought it was a fluke when I saw my first pair of hammer pants. But then not five minutes went by, and I saw another pair, and this time in a hideous floral print. Floral hammer pants. My God, what has this world come to?

Apparently in the 6 months I was off in Africa, someone decided that the 80s, skin-tight jeans, and cut-off shorts were all due for a comeback. Apparently this person was not alive in the 80s, or they would know how horrible it all was the first time around.

Remember when you had to lay down on your bed to zip up your jeans? I caught a woman a couple days ago who couldn’t squeeze her cell phone into her pocket.

And the cut-off shorts… [shudder]. I could understand if your jeans were accidentally shortened in some kind of horrible industrial accident, and you couldn’t afford to buy new ones – but actually paying for booty shorts and then trying to winterize them with black tights…no. I cannot forgive you that, my friend.

Irish women also seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that one can actually wear black tights with anything. One particularly egregious example was a woman wearing a white floral skirt, white shoes…and black tights.

Today I found myself walking home behind a woman in an unbelievably short dress (over black tights, of course), and thinking, not for the first time, “but where are her pants?” I realized that life in Africa has left me very conservative when it comes to fashion. For me, wearing a tank top in public is like going out in your bra. Leggings (especially when your ego will not allow you to buy the size that actually fits, leaving them stretched out and translucent) to me are the same as walking around in only panty-hose. I tried to go shopping the other day, but found everything to be either too tight, too ugly, or much too short.

It figures. I’m finally in a developed country, for once not pregnant or recently post-partum, feeling great about my body, and ready to shop…and I can’t find anything I would be willing to spend money on. That is life’s way of telling me to save my pennies, I guess.

Artistic tendencies

So, time for a weekend update. This last one just flew by. I got to work on Monday feeling like I never had a break at all.

It was a full weekend. On Saturday we went to a friend's beautiful home for breakfast, where Milo splashed in the pool and chased chickens. In the afternoon we drove out to the village to visit our housekeeper Godfrey and his family. Milo is a total celebrity in the village. He just smiles and waves to the crowds of adoring women and children, while they fight over who gets to hold him next. I think it's beginning to go to his head, really.

Our babysitter came back with us, and Jorge and I went out on a much-needed date alone. We went to the one Ethiopian restaurant in town, my favorite, and then after that went to the newly opened "jazz club" for a musical performance by a world music duo from France. It was a really lovely night out, and I looked forward to more nice dates with live music, until I found out that the "jazz club's" owner is only going to have live music once every 2 months (to keep the excitement and interest up, you know.) This led me to speculate that I should call my house a restaurant and start charging people. After all, I cook dinner for others at least once every two months. Seriously, only in Lilongwe. Also, did I mention that pretty much EVERYone I know was also at the concert? Not much new happens here in Malawi, that's all I have to say.

Then on Sunday we went to church, and decided to stick around for the picnic afterwards, even though this meant Milo would have a late nap. Whoa, big mistake. Milo got home, slept for thirty minutes, then wanted to party. We left him in his room a bit, hoping he'd go back to sleep. Instead, he took off his diaper, took a crap on the bed, and proceeded to fingerpaint.

(Just an aside here - when I was pregnant, I said once that it is really never OK to talk about your kid's bowel movements in regular conversation. Seriously, no one wants to know how many times your kid poops (or doesn't poop) in a day. But I am making an exception in this case, as the circumstances are rather extreme. I promise, I will try not to let it happen again.)

Needless to say, it was kind of a mess. I spent my Sunday afternoon cleaning the crib, the sheets, the stuffed animals, the boy, the floor, the mosquito netting...Ah, the joys of motherhood.

And also, Milo now has a new nickname in our house: Poopy Pollock.

Speaking of packing

One of the things that every expatriate does is stockpile food from home. We’re all guilty of it. I have a 3-month old package of Philadelphia cream cheese sitting in my fridge right now that I can’t bear to open. It is so precious, so rare! I just like to open the refrigerator door and see it twinkling back at me in all its foil-wrapped glory.

A lot of the foods that we take for granted are difficult to find in many African countries. In Eritrea, the only cheese I ate for 5 months came packaged in little foil triangles. In Sudan, they follow Sharia law, meaning no pork. One time I returned to Darfur from home leave, toting a 50-pound backpack of food, stuffed with pepperoni, prosciutto, and pre-cooked bacon. I felt a little guilty cooking the stuff around the housekeepers, but it was so good.

Malawi is better than most countries I’ve worked in, in that we can get quite a lot of good imported foods from South Africa, so for the most part I don’t feel deprived. But there are a few things from home that every American likes to bring, so that on a rough day we can whip up some of our favorite comfort food. Each time we travel from a developed country, we push the limits of our baggage allowance, then hoard our precious commodities like crazy once we get over here. For me, those items are:

Bakers chocolate for making brownies (This makes me very popular)
Parmesan cheese (the real stuff and the fake. It’s all good.)
Tony Chachere’s
Refried beans
Wonton wrappers
Chocolate chips
Marinated artichoke hearts
Creole mustard
Andouille sausage (the real stuff, from Louisiana)
Cheese of all kinds. It stinks up the plane, but who cares!

This is actually pretty restrained. I know people who work for the US government here who get free shipping from the states, and they have olive oil and salsa sent over by the gallon. I once went into a friend’s house and saw, stacked high up in the pantry, packages and packages of American toilet paper, shipped over on Uncle Sam’s dime. I mean, I would understand if we only got the scratchy brown stuff here, but the toilet paper here is great – triple-ply, little patterns stamped on – that’s luxury, folks. You wouldn’t get toilet paper like that in Chad, let me tell you.

Goin' away

I don't have too much to write about, because I haven't finished going through my trip photos. Angkor Wat will be up soon, though, I promise.

Over the weekend Jorge and I drove out to Salima. Our friend Bethany is leaving Malawi in about a week, and as a nice way to send her off, her roommate Ann planned a weekend getaway for Bethany and her friends - there were about 20 of us in total, and we rented out a beach house by the lake.

Going-away parties are an ever-present thing in expat life. Every couple of weeks I'm invited to a barbecue, cocktail party, dinner, or other event to say goodbye to a friend. Most of these people I will never see, or even hear from, again. A small number become life-long friends, keeping in touch by sporadic e-mail over the years.

You get used to all the coming and going, but it's always a bit sad. Because everyone has been new at some point or another, people are friendlier to new arrivals, and you make friends fast. But most of the time those friends leave just when you're really starting to get to know eachother. I live with the sad knowledge that I have had so many "almost" friends - people I would have really built a bond with had we only had more time together.

So I say goodbye to another friend, and wish her a wonderful life wherever she may end up.