Top of the mountain, bottom of the pyramid

Seven days on the Kilimanjaro

I'd been preparing for it for months, but the closer I got to departure date, the more it felt like an unbelievable and truly mad idea to climb Africa's highest peak, the highest free-standing mountain in the world, the Kilimanjaro. To try climb it, at least. I was intimated, as it is expected when facing something unknown, respectable. I went for it nevertheless.

Day -2.

4 am: baaaah.... It may not have been a good idea to order dinner from the Indian. I present all symptoms of a proper food poisoning. And I have to get into a car this afternoon, and then on a sequence of planes. It will be fun.

6 pm: ok, I may actually make it. I drank about 2 liters of re-hydration solution today, combined with ginger tea, I took all pills the clinic could give me, and haven't eaten since last night. Ready for a Kigali-Bujumbura-Nairobi-Kilimanjrao trip. ETA 09:00 tomorrow.

Day -1: food poisoning is all gone, but I've been wearing this dress for the last 30 hours, and it's nice and hot in Tanzania. And I can't find the container for my contact lenses. At least there is a bunch of cute Spanish boys in this hotel; they've just gotten off the mountain and now they enjoy life. They don't even seem exhausted. Maybe there is hope?

Day 0. Problem of the contact lenses solved, I found some sort of a container. Spanish cuties tried to get me worried by saying things like „freeze”, but I'll worry about that when I get there. Right now I'm busy with the email I received five minutes ago, for a job application, including a link to an online test that I have to send back within 24 hours. Good thing we're only leaving tomorrow, and I think I've even seen a desktop computer in the lobby.

Later: The desktop computer had slower internet than we did back in the old dial-up days, but I finished the test nonetheless. From tomorrow on, it's really climbing only. I even got ski pants, when it goes below zero, or when I go beyond 5000.

Day 1.: I have to admit, I have a drinking problem. Mainly because I managed to fix the pipe of my camelback in a way that blocks the flow of water. Maybe this mountain is too complicated for me? It started so well though! At the Machame gate the ranger greeted us in Hungarian, and we had enough time to observe and evaluate our fellow hikers. There is a superfit GI Joe, two Dutch girls, one Australian, a bunch of guys seemingly from an office, and one who looks like an accountant even in his mountain gear. Today we only walked in rainforest, which always makes me feel like I'm in some science fiction with dinosaurs and stuff.

Day 2. : So, that weird tummy discomfort that is supposed to be the warning sign of all altitude problems? I have it. I can barely look at the breakfast (porridge, scrambled eggs, sausages, fruits), but the guide stands by the table until I finish it all. He would make an excellent grandmother, he keeps chanting „eat more”. On this part of the trek one can still find toilet „huts”, otherwise it's the endless jungle to serve as bathroom. As long as the jungle lasts, that is. The further we get the smaller the trees are, and by the end of the day they are replaced by bush and rocks.

I'd never wondered before how it must feel to walk on rocks scattered all over the place for hours, but now I know. Pretty annoying. Especially when it starts raining, the cloud descends, I can't see further than 5 meters, the rocks are slippery, my hands are cold. The GI Joe of course doesn't even raise an eyebrow facing all this, and the Australian girl must be simply crazy, I have only seen her skipping, at an altitude when some start having problems breathing.

Day 3. : If I don't even notice that my nose is half frozen by the morning and that I have bruises all over, despite the nice mattress, then it means I'm adapting my needs to the possibilities provided by the environment? Or descending in Maslow's pyramid (while ascending on the mountain) is really marked by the fact that I don't even mind doing my thing in the bush or among the rocks?

I was told this will be a long day, but I lost all sense of time. The cloud comes, the cloud goes, we get rained at, hailed at, the Shira plateau doesn't seem to end, and when it does, it becomes a mysterious moonland. Not that I've ever been on the Moon, but it sure looks like this. Too bad my steps aren't as light as they would be up there. Today's highest point is at 4600 meters above sea level, from then on it's downhill – on slippery rocks, for a change. We get to the Barranco-camp exhausted, soaked, cranky, but after dinner the sky clears out and we get to see the peak. Quite a treat. We have a little debate with our cook, who is concerned that we don't eat and drink enough („First day, no milk. Two day, no milk. Why no milk?”), and our guide who is worried about me being too quiet. Maybe he's comparing me to the Australian chick, she came down the hillside jumping around to freestyle rap. I just hope the accountant got here too, he seemed to have a lot of struggle when I last saw him.

Day 4: We couldn't see it last night, but the Barranco-wall, today's first (and main) challenge is right at the end of the camp. It looks completely vertical, but they say it isn't. But then again, they also say summit day won't be terribly hard, and that the night wasn't too cold, and still, I look like a Michelin-doll every night now, as I try to put on all my clothes. I put some chocolate powder on my porridge to please the cook, and while lining up at the loo I learn that I'm not the only one who has to go there a lot. (Yes, I got to the point when discussing this with shivering strangers who haven't showered in 4 days is completely normal. One more floor lower chez Maslow.)

Up on the wall we are like little spidermen, in a single file, slow and patient. We only stop when we can't breathe anymore, or when we have to let a group of porters pass. It's unbelievable what these boys and girls are capable of. They put a full kitchen on their heads, and then climb over the wall, uphill, downhill, while I'm trying to decide whether inhale-exhale or left-right should be more important. (And by the way, whoever says the Kilimanjaro is an easy hike because there is no technical climbing, should reconsider the concept of easy. Danke schön.) Our GI Joe friend of course completes the wall without a blink of an eye, and the Aussie girl loudly cheers for everybody. We need it, as well as the spontaneous party on top of the wall (at 4400 meters. I have no idea who brought speakers, I don't even have a hairbrush.)

Day 5: I'm starting to slowly accept, because I couldn't deny for much longer, that we're getting really, really close to the hardest part of the trip. I fell asleep with a little shortness of breath, and put on all my clothes except for the ski pants. I was cold nonetheless. In the morning I shove the porridge in my mouth without any conviction, and don't even mention that I noticed the increasing number of sausages per person served. I think twice before venturing out to the bathroom. It is very far. And seems to be put on the edge of the cliff. The peak peeks out from the clouds time and again, maybe as a motivation, but I sense a little teasing in there too. Far away, so close.

No choice left, we have to go. While walking, I don't actually feel any pain. I follow my guide as a little donkey, and if I have to catch my breath when I stop for a drink, it's not only because of the altitude. When I take the time to look around, it strikes me how beautiful, how wild, how different it all is. If I had the energy to think, I would note that it's also very divers: since the Machame we've seen jungle, evergreen, alpine desert, moonland, volcanic ash. And definitely more than enough rocks. Next time I see a bigger stone it'd better be in my engagement ring.

We get to base camp early afternoon. It's very cold. Since we start the summit climb at midnight, we should try to rest the afternoon. It doesn't even occur to me to get changed. One, I am already wearing everything I have, and two, to perform a baby wipe-supported self-cleaning, I would have to get undressed. Again, the higher we go on the mountain, the lower we get in that pyramid of needs. Our guide gives a short briefing and asks how we are. How could we possibly be? I am very, very excited now. Nervous. Up until now everything was going just fine – considering of course that we've been going up a mountain for five days - , but now I feel like all my faith is slipping away and I don't understand why am I even here. So I eat some mango, at least the cook will be pleased.

Day 6: The days are blurring together. I'm woken up before midnight, I am completely confused, my heart beats like crazy, I don't understand anything. I'm pretty useless in the morning in general, and this, in the middle of the night, being dragged out of my tent, just makes it much worse. Except for the below zero temperature, the weather is gorgeous. The sky is clear, it's almost full moon, the stars are bright, and yes, the intimidating, snowy Kilimanjaro is right there, in all her majesty. It's almost scary. But I have no time to reflect on the deep beauty of nature, we have to leave. Our fellow madmen are strolling in front and behind us, in a single file again, with their headlamps shining like an army of fireflies.

I start losing all marbles around 4 in the morning. I'm exhausted beyond measure, I can't decide whether I should eat some chocolate, or throw up rather, or sleep, or cry, or I don't know. I suddenly recall that I brought some music, and for a while I'm pushed forward by The Killers, Florence, Mika and Milow. But then I'm just sitting on some rock, munching on dried pineapples, and even The Kooks can't cheer me up anymore. I lie when I answer “mzuri sana” to those who pass by (meaning “very good”, the usual Swahili answer to “how are you”), but in reality I have no idea how to go on. Or what for.

Then the sun comes up. It's always like this in this part of the world: sudden, unexpected and short. The clouds become pink, then orange, the Mawenzi peak emerges, and that's it: it's morning. Which makes me feel like there is hope in the world again. It doesn't make me move any faster though, and I get more and more hopeless by every minute, seeing how far we still are.

Three hours later, around 9 in the morning I finally get to the Uhuru-peak. I'm not sure what makes me happier: that the sun is out and I can take off my gloves, that my phone didn't freeze and I can document the achievement, that I can sit down a little, or that from now on I only have to go downhill. Maybe all of the above. And the fact that tomorrow afternoon I can finally take a shower, and will sleep in a a real bed. And won't need to drink from the camelback. Moving upwards in the pyramid.

In the afternoon it snows a little in the base camp, and then we start the descent. By the evening the landscape starts to look like it may be inhabited by humans. Below 3000 meters one can even see actual trees! The Aussie girl turns out to be Canadian, and the Dutchies want to wash their hair as much as I want to wash mine. In general, everybody is relieved and very proud.

Day 7: We made it! I thought it would be easy downhill, I could breathe and everything, but instead now I have two hurting knees, three blisters and, for the first time in a week, proper sore muscles. And a picture with the Hungarian flag and the certificate stating that I did actually climb this mountain, and I start to believe it too.

In the bus, on the way to Arusha the radio is on full blast (as anywhere, any time, in Tanzania), but it doesn't bother me now. I don't even mind that it's the Westlife cover of ABBA's I have a dream, I sing with them.

Day 14.: On the way to Nairobi, after take-off, the pilot says we should have our cameras ready. We are lucky, the weather is clear, and we can have an aerial view over the Kilimanjaro. She's majestic. But I'm no longer afraid. After all, we have a history.

iNeed

I've probably said this before, because it's true: this (=living/working here) is the most selfish thing I've done in recent human history.

As a person I accept and admit it, but I've come to thinking lately whether “we” as a group are self-centered. It's hard to tell if it's me only, or I hang out with people who are similar to me in this regard, but sometimes I notice that I use this life, one I chose, and the conditions of it, as an excuse to make it all about myself.

As if living here - and the more time I spend here the more I know it's actually quite nice, as far as peacekeeping missions and humanitarian life go – would justify wanting all the fancy comfortable things my superficial self probably always would want. I need to go on holidays, I need to stay in a nice hotel with a pool, I need a drink (or five), I need to party it out, I need to be by myself, I need to get laid, I need to eat sushi, I need a massage, I need to binge-watch ER, I need to be in pyjamas all day.

But do I, really?

Clearly, most of the above are rather cases of “want” than they really are of “need”. Of course everybody would want that. And in all fairness, I would not pretend I don't want them in the other life either, I would get what I can, and I would say, if ever questioned (mainly by my own not-so-superficial self): “because I can”.

But the difference is, here I don't have to justify. I dramatically say “I need a pool, a book, and two days of not talking to anybody”, and it's okay. Some may ask how long it's been since my last holidays, or if it's been busy at work, but no further explanation is required.

And I'm not talking about traumatising experiences I need to recover from. I'm probably the only person who never ever leaves the office, and if I don't read or listen to the news, I can be perfectly ignorant in my little bubble of work-home-party-recover-repeat routine. This may as well be a post-war conflict zone, but I can reduce my troubles to “we're out of tonic” and “which part of 'please follow the attached instructions' did you not understand”. Yes, my hair is mess, even more so in the dry season, and I haven't been able to wear contact lenses for the past three days, but if I think about those objectively, I know they are annoyances but not major stress factors.

On the other hand, I've lived in a very safe, comfortable, rich, middle-class posh environment, where hair was healthy and electricity was permanent and yet, I have seen a little too many burnouts. Although I'm working on overcoming it, I think I still live by the rule that until I cry every day, or feel the urge to, it's not stress. It may be a little too much work and not enough sleep, but oh it's not stress. It's just life.

It would have sounded ridiculous and would have resulted in a few frowns in the other life if I pulled a dramatic “I need to get out of here” just as I do nowadays. Why would you need a break from your perfectly channeled routine life? Why would you acknowledge that sometimes your work gets on your nerves or simply exhausts you and all you need is a pool, a book, and two days of not talking to anybody? (Oh wait, have I said this before?) Why would you admit that something is missing, and especially, why would you admit that you're trying to substitute it with the closest thing available?

In that regard, it's actually not that bad to put ourselves first so often. It's a different way and level of awareness of our own needs, just as the awareness and sense of risk and danger is different here. You need to know when you need to get out, and I've always tried to train(? convince?) the people I work with to pay attention to when that point comes, because nobody is going to tell them they look like they need a break (I sometimes greet people with a friendly “you look awful”, but that's just my caring personality). At least, between the volcano and the lake, you are permanently monitoring your own needs. And voicing them.

On that note, I'm gonna get some cheese nans. I love my cheese nans.  

Mohamed and the mountain

So I came down the mountain, right? Dirty and with blisters and all that jazz. But that means that I first went up the mountain! I yet have to understand why... probably to find out whether I am a closet mountain person. Well, I am certainly not. Even though I love watching them (mountains, in general. Occasionally mountain people too.), there is admiration and some weird longing in there, wanting to be there, but then when I'm there, I constantly expect the Spirit of the Mountain to come tell me that they know I don't belong there, and I can try this hiking routine as much as I please, but let's set the record straight, I will always be an outsider.

Nevertheless, this is my first time over 4000 meters, so this is where you say yay! I didn't throw up, I wasn't too dizzy, and I only wanted to cry once, out of sheer frustration.

The Mountain is by the way called Karisimbi, which in the local language (kinyarwanda) means little white shell, apparently because it often has a white cap. The internet tells me the cap isn't necessarily of snow, but often hail or other frozen things. I had the honour of encountering those, and I was not particularly thrilled.

Those of you who have already noticed that I have been linking half of Wikipedia here probably ave already read up on climate, flora and fauna. For the others I can tell that I had not seen a proper jungle before. But now. Picture will follow to show that it is indeed thick and green and lush with a whole bunch of plants or trees or, well, vegetation that is entirely unknown to me. Any time I stopped to catch my breath or to have a slice of cold pizza, I was looking around in awe, thinking wow. The first day of the hike is rather friendly, there are not too many very steep parts so there is time and space for looking around. The famous mountain gorillas also live in the neighbourhood but they didn't come around when we were on the path. I think they usually do though, we have experienced some gorilla poo (some visually, some in a more tactile way).

The second day on the other hand (overnight camp is at 3600) is a lot less user-friendly in the difficulty department. But the forest goes completely wild and my idea of a jungle is now forever changed. I had to stop a lot more to breath, and I spent most of those breaks staring at my surroundings.

Unfortunately we had a lovely and loyal cloud following us all the way. First it just added to the mystical feeling of it all, but at some point it started bothering me that here I am up at 4000 and can't see the neighbouring mountains or anything in general, while everybody was telling me how gorgeous the view is. Oh, and it gets quite humide inside a cloud.

The higher you go the less vegetation you see, but the wind gets stronger, and that, together with the humide cloud quickly decreases the comfort level of the naiv hiker. Me. And they also increase their disappointment level – there came a point when even I had to accept that this cloud is not going anywhere and the most I'm going to see is the volcanic ash/dust under my feet. That made me a tad bit cranky, my face was freezing, 4500 was approaching, meaning the air was getting thinner but tthe cloud was getting thicker. I think I mentioned a few times that I really don't give a damn about what's up there, I'm sure it's not any different from what I already can't see where I am, but the evil wind is certainly stronger, I've had it. By then I'd been through all kinds of plants and mud up to my ankles at times; I was neither particularly patient nor ver nice.

At the end of course I kicked myself up there, the last push was when those coming down told me there is a hut where I can warm up for a few minutes. And to take pictures like the below, for documentation purposes.

(I also have a summit-selfie taken in the hut, but I keep it for the moments of doubt when I need to remind myself just how I felt there. It's not a recommended sight for the weak at heart anyway.)

Then at the border I met half the town and got dragged back to daily life and my flatmate ony called my Robocop for two days.

Birds flying high

So we came down the mountain, me, my dirty little body and my thirteen blisters, and all I wanted was a shower, but immediately, and then there was a whole bunch of people at the border (it was Sunday of a long weekend, everybody was heading home), and half of them started saying hello and being impressed that I actually have a face and not only an email address, and then there was a girl who had troubles with her visa/ID and would have needed my help and didn't quite notice that I was off duty, and my boss didn't answer his phone, and so I was not much of a help for the girl, five minutes before border closing, when I didn't even have my house keys with me, and of course the line on the congolese side was slower than a dead snail, but at least they didn't bother me with the usual „which country is this passport from” type of questions, and I had a bit of a headache and my knees hurt quite a bit and my face was burning from the wind, but.

But there and then it suddenly felt good. That yep, this is the way it usually is, and yeah, I probably look like garbage, but I will soon have a shower and will look better tomorrow (although I will move like a rusty robot), and it's absolutely normal in this life that on the Sunday of the long weekend we stand in line on the border, and on Monday we will discuss who did what, like we used to in the dorm, where „are you going home this weekend” would replace most sorts of hello.

And then I have two new colleagues (yeiiii), and other new faces, and at times I get questions I actually know the answer to, and in general, in a sneaky and unnoticed way the moment came, when there are things that I know better, or at least I've been trying to understand longer. I've asked many people many times, and nobody could really tell me, when do they stop feeling like complete aliens; now I think I maybe understand why. Because we are always very much aliens, but there are moments of clarity when we, or I, feel that I almost know what I'm doing and why, and for the rest of the time I practice being and alien, and I have actually gained quite some experience in doing so.

And then there is the dry season, so it may or may not rain once a week for a bit, and then suddenly colours and lights and smells just get out of control and shout in your face „life! Air! Nature!” and then Kata beholds that it is very good.

(I'll tell you about the mountain later. It deserves its own post.)

You're afraid of _leaving_ a war zone?

First of all, Dave, it's not a war zone. I prefer defining it as a post-war conflict zone, but previous disclaimers on the accuracy of my statements (not to mention political correctness) still apply. These are personal impressions and they don't try to look like well-researched, knowledge-based, undisputable truths.

Second, afraid is probably too strong a word. But yes, the idea of leaving this place does make me a bit squeaky. Nervous, if you like.

Some of it obviously has to do with the going away, leaving behind, starting over aspect of it – I've been whining and wondering and reflecting on it more than enough. That part is not necessarily specific to those leaving a place like this, it's just the nature of coping with leaving in general.

But RRX (Repatriation and Reintegration of eXpats, credits for the term go to Alex) is a complicated matter. Or so I think; I actually never had to do it. But I know why the thought is scary.

Besides the obvious emotional ties that one either has to cut off, redefine or ignore, going back to the real world is an unsettling concept, because... because summertime and the livin' is easy.

I know it sounds blantantly ignorant and superficial, but come try live in a place where it's 24 degrees all year long with a cool breeze most of the time, and then tell me you didn't like it. 24 when everybody is freezing their body parts off, and 24 when everbody's brain is melting away during the dog days. You can't help but think you're constantly on holidays. Downside of the great weather: you lose the concept and control of time. You're in a time warp.

And then you're also in a bubble. Because, weather aside, this is a very easy life! Your limitations in movement, choice, people, can be such a blessing. All you have to do is go to work. You don't have to do any housework, you don't even need to cook if you don't want to, you don't need to be bothered with things like having your car washed or fueled, in principle everything is provided for. Or, as you soon find out, there is a way to have it provided. Grown-up concerns like buying a fridge or choosing an insurance are so, so far away. Even if you have an actual (grown-up) life back in the real world, you're not there to deal with it. You're not there when the fridge is delivered, you're not there when the car needs to be inspected. Somebody is filling in for you.

Remains your free time then. That is, if you have any. If you don't want to, you can just work 7 days a week – I'm sure there is always more to do, and in fact many work through the weekends, regularly. I've seen many people being really passionate about what they do – I'm fascinated by their passion, and most of the time also by their work, but again, I'm easily amazed by people who are experts in something I have absolutely no clue about. Knowledge, my friends, is impressive. Passion and dedication are downright hot.

So if you work a lot, you don't ever have to bother with social obligations. You work, you order in (even your food choices are made easy: either indian, lebanese, or a pizza. Then repeat.), go to sleep. Wake up, eat, have coffee, no need to spend much time on deciding what to wear because your wardrobe choices are also limited, and go to work. Repeat until R&R. You don't need to interact with people more than your job absolutely requires it. You will be labelled as just another workaholic and left in peace at that.

But let's say you have free time. You can choose to make it all your own, to be antisocial. You can read and study and work out and not talk to anybody for two days. Nobody would notice. And if they will, they will just acknowledge it as your weirdo thing. (Everybody has a weirdo thing. If you're not a weirdo, I don't know what you're doing here. Maybe you're weirdo thing is that you're normal. That's creepy.)

But ok, you're weirdo in a different way and actually like being around people. Breaking news: it's super easy! Your choices are – surprise – limited, but that's why it's so easy. You will bump into the same people over and over again, and you assess them quickly, as they assess you. If you don't like somebody, you don't need to try or pretend; social obligations are different here. Those whose company you actually enjoy, well, you hang out with them. Tadaa! Soon you will have a group of people you just call „the usual bunch” but you actually mean „comfort zone”, and you never have to enter a room, a bar, a party without knowing that your people will be there. What is very comforting about this is that you will have your designated place in that usual bunch, and although you may think you don't like it, like I was trying to fight the foster parent role for a while, it actually does feel very reassuring to have a place. To have defined who you are, even if in a very specific context.

So that's the easy life of a soon-to-be-repatriated expat. I think by definition all of us should be categorized as soon-to-be-repatriated. Because soon, we will leave.

And that's when the RRX programme comes in handy (or would, if it actually existed). Why?

Because, to sum it up, you're throwing back the poor expat to an environment where they have to pay taxes (and figure out how), have a flat of their own and take care of it, either go through the troubles of getting their own car, or get used to public transport again, having the overwhelming choices of more than 3 restaurants, supermarkets to buy their own groceries, God forbid a kitchen of their own with functioning devices, 30+ TV channels and endless possibilities of entertainment in their free time, freedom to move around short and long distance; where the cars parked outside the bakery don't reveal who is inside as they used to, where walking into a bar or a party means a whole bunch of unknown faces, where the statement „I live across from the church” doesn't trigger the answer „ah, next to the Argentinian house!” as it used to, and where they have to make their choices again. Not only in terms of toilet paper, but also in terms of people. They have to assess and evaluate every new person in every situation, because the possibilities are pretty much endless.

No wonder the poor expat soon feels they have to reassess and re-evaluate themselves and their place in this new reality. And that is unnerving, because all their points of references have been shifted. Not only do they wonder who they are, but also where, why, how.

So, dear audience, be patient with your Repatriated eXpat. They are nice people, but need recovery time.

Because your friendly neighbourhood expat can live in a place like this

Picture time!

Because I was asked on several occasions why I don't take or post more pictures. The reason to that is that I don't feel like a tourist (now what I do feel like is a whole different question), and usually we don't take pictures of our everyday life that much. But at the same time I had to admit to myself that I do wish that all of you knew more about this region (even though I don't think I can be much of a help there, I basically know nothing of anything. I'm a Jon Snow, big time.), and the easiest way to raise interest is probably showing pictures.

So there you go, parts of my way back and my first week:

Kigali, when I woke up and looked out my hotel room

Kigali, on the way from the hotel

On the road, somewhere in Rwanda

The Nyiragongo volcano, still from the Rwanda side

My workplace, in a mildly tacky sunset. Behind the bamboo walls hide the toilets

Workplace, different angle. The building on the left is my office.

Lake Kivu, hotel, sun, palm trees.

Epiphany, not a stroke.

So... attempt to at least partially answer the „why did you sign for another year?” question.

First of all, because I have no other job anywhere else, but that's far from being the only and decisive point.

For many reasons.

And one of them is not even related to the work, the future, the perspectives. I've had quite a few revelations or epiphanies these weeks – emotional turmoil plus hot summer weather plus days on end in a car by mysefl plus music result in smartass Kata coming out reinventing the wheel. Or the Spanish wax, if smartass Kata decides to be such a Hungarian girl.

So, one: realities and ideals. When you are in Goma or somewhere similar, you tend to dream of places where electricity is always on, where running water is always hot, where traffic makes more sense, where you can have sushi and life is easier. Whichever is your next R&R destination, you idealize the place and think of it as your saving grace where everything is as close to perfect as possible.

Well, spoiler alert: it's not very close. Those ideals aren't very ideal after all.

There is electricity, yes, and hot running water, but guess what. There are also neighbours starting to drill at 8 am, and the lawn mowing people start lawn mowing at 08.30, and you don't have earplugs because you didn't think you need them. There are actual roads and actual traffic rules, but breaking news: the roads are constantly being worked on. The Germans are almost as proud of every Baustelle they can stage as they are of any Stau they can report. The French use their indicators in a way nobody understands (including themselves), the Belgians don't ever use their headlights, and the Dutchies spend the entire summer moving around with their mobile homes. There is public transport, yes, and most of the time it's a rather efficient system, depending on the country of your ideal, but it may also mean buses with no windows where nobody bothers turning on the airco. You can see attractive men with no shirts on, but chances are, you are in some crowded music or sporting event, and those bodies are sweaty, their owners are drunk and probably jailbait. And yes, you can go to the movies, and then be grumpy about the people munching and talking all through the film.

No, I'm not complaining about all those things I can have. I'm just trying to show how our ideals and wishes and desires are unreal and how we set ourselves up for a certain level of disappointment with the proverbial greener grass on the other side routine. Arguably, life in a Goma-like environment is not on the same comfort level as in many others – which, by the way, most of us have left by choice.

Said choice is probably reason number two: I can only speak for myself, but I ended up where I am now because I wanted a change. It wouldn't be far from the truth to say that I wanted desperately out, but let's just say I wanted something different. Now, to nobody's surprise, I do have something different. And spoken strictly about work, which I haven't really done in this blog so far. Not bashing or trashing what I have done before, because it's water under the brigde now, and because I wouldn't be doing any of what I am doing now if it wasn't for all experiences I had, just stating mere facts: I enjoy what I do (even if Rafa tells you I come home from work upset three times a week and tell him that the world is filled with idiots and nothing ever works and all procedures are useless and mean), and although I can show for a few things we have achieved, I can certainly see many, many more things to do, complete, improve. Maybe when I'm done and gone, some procedures won't be that useless and mean? I don't think I can make a big difference – the system is too big, the machine is too heavy and I'm not quite a Don Quixote. But I can make small differences and that I will try. I know it sounds very vague and mysterious and a bit of a blah blah. In my line of work it's hard to measure impact of daily work. I used to say that as long as everybody got paid I did my job, but nowadays I no longer run the payroll (to the absolute relief of everyone who had the misfortune of being on a payroll I had to calculate). So what do I do all day? Write emails nobody reads, with instructions I have to explain over the phone (because my recipients have smart filters: If from Kata, then straight to poubelle)? That kinda sums it up; at least this is what I use as example in my Swahili class when talking about kazi yangu. But that's not the point! The point is that somewhere in that obscure emailing and calling and thinking and talking business I see some procedural/programme work that could and should be improved, and that's my goal for the next year.

Because, remember the topic of this post? I extended for another year. With of course the possibility of pulling the plug when I see the writing on the wall. I'd like to think that I'm getting better at seeing it.

And one thing is quite clear to me: right now, the writing is nowehere to be seen. Reason number three just manifested this week. I have been touring Europe, going only to places I know. Basically places where I don't need a GPS or a map. And Brussels. (Although I don't use them in Brussels either, I would get lost with them all the same.) Places where I feel familiar, some of them I call home. My kingdoms and Grand Duchys. I drove down to Luxembourg from Brussels; a trip I have done many times before, by car, by bus, by train. I haven't been there this year, I was excited, I felt comfortable and I found my RTL Radio and they played some good old Bruno Mars for me. I didn't miss my motorway exit (I think my car could drive there un(wo)manned), I knew my way around. The next day I went to take an infamous EPSO exam – at the centre I always did. I recharged my phone credits, got cash at the gare, bought a newspaper, refilled my make up stacks from the usual store. Went to the pirate ship park, took a bus, had lunch at the usual place. And while doing all this, I constantly felt nervous. I was waiting for somebody to come at me and call me out on my bluff. Somebody to tell me „you are faking it, you are not for real, and we all know that”. They didn't, but they would have had a point. It was not for real anymore.

And it didn't feel bad. A little sad of course, as all separations are, but it also came with a bit of a sigh (an imaginary one, as the whole non-conversation with a non-person was purely imaginary). That finally, it is out. That those times are over. And that it's probably time to go home now.

And for the first time, somewhere around the Cité Judiciaire, I realized that home, if temporarily, meant the building after the Tshukudu Roundabout. And the crappy bed under the mosquito net.  

They come and go

So during all this whining about people coming and going and most of all, leaving me, I forgot that if it wasn't for all those people coming and going, I wouldn't have to give a 5 minute long answer to my nephew's „where are you sleeping?” question, explaining that I'll stay at Gramma (his Gramma, my Mom), but then will spend the weekend at Raluca, go see Zsuzsi, then stay Chez Pisti for another weekend, and then at the Hotel Heikkila before coming back to Gramma and then going to Goma again.

Point is (apart from him probably telling at the creche that Auntie Kati always has a suitcase with her because she sleeps around a lot), it took me till stopover number 3 to realize that I'm being given a room, a bed, a key somewhere else every 3 days, and that it only feels natural.

And yes, sometimes there is a lump in my throat when I drop the spare key in the mailbox (because I always sneak out like almost lovers, during the day, when my host is at work), but that's just part of the deal. Nothing ever comes for free, and maybe the price for having people who get grapefruit juice and pesto for your breakfast is that you only get to see them twice a year. Not everybody can accept your „I can't make decisions right now” drama queen BS when the question simply was whether to take a tram or walk – and the ones who can may have been trained on your sporadic, irregular and not very coherent whatsapp messages, because they live a few continents away. Spending a mindless „field” weekend with somebody who says what you think or thinks what you say (and gets up early to get fresh croissants for breakfast) feels all the more special because you don't get to do that every other weekend.

On the other hand, we have it easier. People who are the eternal gypsy like I am (and yes, I am going to use the term „gypsy” from now on – I know it's probably not very PC; please interpret it as the literal translation of the French expression „gens de voyage” - ie the people who keep moving around. Regardless of skin colour or country/continent/territory of origin.) have a much easier way of knowing or recognizing real friends. Those who stay in touch really mean it – tadaaa! I imagine one could stay in the city they grew up and keep more or less the same circle of friends because that's the way it's always been, without having to think twice. Now I don't have a way it's always been. But I have friends who give me keys and rooms and their Dad's pálinka etc, see above. The ones who schedule their lives for a week to accommodate my arrival and pick up conversations where they weren't even left off – all hail to technology, for it makes it possible to aks the girls which dress I should wear for a party, and it makes no difference if we are on different continents.

I'm not sure if there is a moral to this story – my stories usually don't have one. If there is one, it should read: Dear friends, please keep going away so I know which one of you is for real. And also, so I can have my suitcases explode in your living room. Love, K.

(Stay tuned! The next chapter will cover the „why did I sign for another year” topic, and other deeply existential questions.)

What you did last summer

Warning! Highly philosophical content! Not for the faint-hearted!

Sooo, not that I count it, but luckily facebook now does have a function that reminds you of what you have done last summer. Not that I wouldn't know otherwise: I came here.

And now that we're at it: last week I signed for another year. This is the part where you're happy for me! It's good! I'll explain later why it's good.

On the other hand, this is the time of the year when many people don't sign for another one, and so June and July are all about people, colleagues, friends and other individuals coming and going. At this point it's more the going, and it's really interesting to observe how each one of them copes with whatever is there to cope with. It's important to note that this come and go is never a cakewalk. And no, it does not make it any easier that you have done it twenty-seven times over. It's like the classic dentist's example: you know what's coming at you. You know it's for the better, and you know you have to get through it. But you also know the procedure itself is not going to be particularly pleasant, and that there is nothing you can do about it.

So I watch them, and keep thinking, there is nothing new under the sun. I yet have to figure out what makes us the constant vagabond, drifter, pilgrim, but it doesn't really matter. I have been on both ends of the come and go, and I can tell you, it's not a tad bit easier on either end. It is not easier to leave, it is not harder to stay. I have tried, this time around again, to be understanding and compassionate, mainly because I strongly remember those last weeks a year ago, when I no longer had a flat, a car, a life, a rug under my feet, and all I wanted was for all of it to be over, for me to finally be let go. I thought, now I'm the one staying, it is hard enough for everybody else. I will wake up in the same flat next week, I will probably drink my coffee from the same mug, and the aubergine in the canteen will keep being too greasy (it's good though...). And then at some point I decided there is no point in pretending: it is just as hard for me as it is for anybody else. The person I will not talk to while drinking my coffee will be a different one, just as the one I will complain to about the greasy aubergines. So I'm back to square one, wishing for this all to be over, and everybody who needs to, be gone.

Because it's also an important piece of the puzzle that even the rookie vagabond knows when it's time to go. It's a bit like drinking water on the Camino: you've been thinking about it for a while, that maybe you should drink, but then you think nah, I'm stronger than that, I'll drink when I stop, when I have to tie my shoelaces, when there is a village. Don't do it! If you only drink when you're already thirsty, it's too late. And it's similar with leaving. When you first wonder how it could be somewhere else, it's time to brush off the dust of that suitcase of yours. You will need it soon. In either case, don't wait until you're about to throw up.

So bottom line: it's hard to leave and sucks to stay, and yet I say je ne regrette rien. For my fellow pilgrims, Jamie will have a few words. And notes.  

And you will hear the songs you know

One thing I constantly miss here is radio. Access to radio the way I'm used to – in the morning, in the car, in the shops. I feel out of touch if i don't hear the hit of the week every other hour.

We have a few channels, some are French-speaking news or culture channels, some are Swahili-speaking with news and music, strictly African, and, as Marcello calls it (and quite accurately at that) mono-mood. Dingirdingdi.

And then the Uruguayi radio. That's quite an experience too. Usually in the mornings it's slow, emotional, and form what I can tell, „why don't you love me” type of music, with the latino beat, of course (I don't want to sound racist here! I'm just trying to make the point that the music sounds like it comes from Latin-America, but I can't tell if it's Venezuelan or Argeninian or what.) If it's a little more upbeat, or even downright cheerful, we suspect the DJ got lucky the previous night. The afternoons it often plays almost forgotten dance-disco from the 90s. There is a reason why those are almost forgotten, and should stay that way. And, if you happen to drive somewhere during the day, you can catch the DJ being lazy: they usually just pop in a CD, and then you have Alanis Morissette for 43 minutes. One track after the other.

Considering the above, it comes as an unexpected, refreshing, motivational surprise, if time and again you stuble upon the entire Bohemian Rhapsody. Or, like today, after my first run in over a year, dirty but proud, happily exhausted, good old Jason tells me that I can always come back home. 

Please define normal

I know I have vaguely mentioned this in the hubsterblog already, but it's worth stating again that the human mind is capable of really amazing things. Such as accepting as normal something that beforehand would have been qualified as absurd. Impossible. Surreal.

If you think of it, that is quite a good thing, because otherwise many people would go insane all the time. Imagine waking up on a Sunday, realizing you're under a mosquito net, looking out the window, seeing Lake Victoria and a couple baboons, and understanding you're looking at Entebbe. And then not starting to feel a vertigo panicking „OMG, I'm on a different continent, what's gonna happen now”, but rather thinking: breakfast. And that you should probably put on some clothes. And that soon the football world cup will start. Then for a moment you think of good old Davor Suker, because Croatia will be playing the opening game, and tadaaa: you're thoughts are in a completely familiar field already. Ok, you stop and think for a moment before brushing your teeth, because you probably shouldn't be doing that using tap water, but otherwise you feel (and look) like you do on any given morning waking up in a hotel, after a long day of travelling.

And it's the same later, or even more natural. At first of course I ended up with a few wide-eyed „wow, there really is no electricity”, but it lasted for about five minutes. It helped a lot that I got here in summer (the European notion of summer), and weather didn't shock me much at first. Ever since I got comfortably stuck in eternal summer.

What is important though is that I don't start every morning with a „WTF Africa” moment, but rather with thoughts like: Coffee. What should I wear. Why is it Monday. Why did I stay up so late last night. When will it be weekend again. What do I have to do today. What should I wear. And at work too, I mainly go on about things like why is my computer so slow, why did I not write this newsletter yesterday, and if I did, did I print it too? And if I did, why can't I find it. Optionally, I wonder whether it will rain exactly when I have to go to the other compound, or why is it always the problematic French girls and not the cute French boys calling me all day long.

And it is still all right, but the thing is, since I accepted this one as the only currently valid reality, I also accepted that the guards of the neighbouring motorbike shop change shifts at 5.30. Yelling all over the place. And that Papa Pierre always washes our pink fresbee, very meticulously. Already, that there is a Papa Pierre who comes to our place to clean. Whenever he feels like it, that is. I agreed to participate in important and demanding trainings over the weekend, in a container, where lights, projector and air conditioning come and go, and there is a complete construction site working next to us - not quite like the soundproof isolated training rooms I was used to when I was organizing those courses.  With the acceptance of this version of normal come the ladies selling bananas and cigarettes by the side of the road, and also that the „Attention! Road blocked!” sign is always put at a point where you no longer have a chance to take a detour but have to completely turn around. And of course you're being looked at and looked down on, for making such a fuss. And of course the motorbikers in the roundabout, coming from the opposite direction, giving you an angry look. Depending on mood and level of fatigue I get annoyed by these, but no more than I did by the high schoolers shouting on the Luxembourg- Kleinbettingen train. I never understood why they would do it, but I knew that's the way it is.

And the good thing is, this works the other way around too! Usually for two days after arriving to Europe I keep locking all doors of the car and feel like honking at every intersection. Or any time I see a motorbike, a pedestrian, a bus or any other car. But then it's done. I don't feel haunting nostalgia for all the construction vehicles (although I often think how much my nephew would enjoy an average drive to work here), and I only laughed at the avocados once. But they were so tiny! Ok, I am very happy about tap water, and I take real long showers, in anybody's bathroom.

Maybe it's because the way from here or back takes so long, and I have time to apparate from one life to the other. It's usually then, during the trip, that I realize how very far we really are. And when I have a look at the statistics of the hubsterblog, and I can see on the map how many of you are reading me and from where, and when I see Mali being green, I know it must have been Bea, and then the distance kinda hits me.

I don't remember eating a sexy beast

I know that I always say that fruits and vegetables are available easily and cheap here, but then I never elaborate and tell what we make of them

If you have been paying attention, you already know that one of my flatmates is vegan, which means he doesn't eat or drink anything that is of animal origin. No eggs, no milk. Since we usually cook together, the household is practically vegan, with a few kilos of cheese here and there, because it's good, and I should bring home some local cheese next time, and beause it can be added to most dishes at the very end, therefore inducing a case of cake eaten and had.

In the indian store and on the market we can buy different types of lentils, couscous, beans and chickpeas, and every time somebody comes back from the developed world, they bring some quinoa with them. These then can be combined with the aubergine-zucchini-squash-cauliflower-tomato-bell peppers team, and they usually end up being very tasty dishes. If I make the soup, I start with the obvious onion-paprika base, and throw in everything I can find, blender it and at the very end add a little powdered coconut milk. If Marcello cooks, the soup has more of a minsetrone feel to it, I tend to pour that all over myself, and Rafa just squeezes lemon juice into everything.

The avocados here grow to a decent size, and zucchinis even bigger, so it happens that the combination of those two end up as fake (zucchini) pasta with avocado sauce. Noms.

Sometimes the chickpeas make it to the soup, but most of the time they serve as base material for the hummus. Luckily for us, because of the indian contingent, there are a few well-equipped indian stores here, and tajina (pureed sesame) is always accessible. Which is good, the hummus needs it. (As pesto usually has cheese in it, we don't keep any at home, so nowadays, if life gets hard, I eat tajina with a spoon from the jar. Nothing is unsolvable.)

One of my favourite creations is fresh spinach being sautéed (any expert is more than welcome to provide the appropriate English term for this) in olive oil with garlic, mixed with mushrooms and quinoa in the wok. I can eat that standing right next to the stove. I could, if my flatmates weren't circling in the kitchen, like vultures, waiting for the dish to be of edible temperature.

Ratatouille (again, please be shy with your English term proposals. The household and life in general is largely multilingual, if I don't know a word in English, I throw it in French. Or Hungarian. Spanish. Swahili.) is an obvious choice, and the advanced version at that, with aubergine and some sort of squash. Aubergine happens to be my other love, turns up in grilled version as well, usually hiding under tomato sauce,

but I have also made ugly but tasty purée out of it. I can make ugly but tasty purée out of pretty much anything, last weekend I put carrots in the hummus. I would have put more, but the boys thought that the carrots chips will be afternoon snacks and ate half of it straight from the oven dish. This then gave me the brilliant idea of making some more for the Tuesday movie night, something to munch on, which is not processed potato chips from the store, but also doesn't require my dancing in the kitchen for hours, as I do when „we” are making pizza.

My dancing in the kitchen for hours usually has some surprising results. Such as: baklava (vegan), chocolate cake (vegan), rainbow cake (vegan, but tastes very artificial),

garlic cheese bread (no, not vegan. It requires cheese, garlic butter and love. A lot of love.),

Grandma's pogácsa (also not very vegan), banana bread (vegan)

or stuffed bell peppers (vegan upon request). Aaaaand! Last weekend we made sushi and tempura! We spent about three hours in the kitchen, and devoured the outcome in less than nine minutes. And then all went straight to a food coma. It was great.

All good things come to an end (but there is nothing new under the sun)

I've talked about this before, but back then I just started thinkging that here nothing and nobody is consant, and once, not so far from now, I will be standing in the empty flat, because the boy have moved out, and I will be the most senior in the office because everybody else has left, and it doesn't matter that I know it's normal, and that in an environment like this people come and go even faster than usual, I will hate it all the same.

And it's particularly strange considering that I don't plan for (warning! Big words ahead!) ever or for long term or until retirement etc either. So I am here on a temporary basis, but how dare the others not want to be part of my life forever from now on, even after my life is not going on here any longer?

If somebody suspects hearing some stagiaire-life echos, they are not mistaken. And not only because the timetable of the stagiaire times „Monday language classes, Tuesday skate night, Wednesday Apoteca, Thursday swim day, Friday preparations for Saturday's party and Sunday recovery, debrief and press release” only differs a bit from the timetable we have here: Tuesday is movie night, Wednesday is Chalet, Thursday quiz, Friday Coco Jamboo and Saturday Tango Bar (Sunday is for recovery, debrief and press release), but also because everything is so fast and intense. Somebody showed up at our housewarming in November and we thought he was kinda weird (he was on time! and kept systematically opening bottles of sparkling wine), and then we spent a whole weekend with him in Kigali in February (Miss Rwanda was there too), and his farewell party lasted a week because we hated the fact that he was leaving us. At the Christmas party I thought that girl wasn't very original with her (my) red dress idea, and I don't like competition anyway, and now we are planning a seaside getaway for the Easter weekend. The girl I met on New Year's Eve and thought had an interesting face is now my Sunday coffee-in-sweatpants buddy. And of course the Doctor didn't even need all 75 days of this year to figure out my role in the group, or my frustrations and my tricks trying to hide them, but it's his job after all.

My role in this group, by the way, not very surprisingly, is to always have bandaids, sunscreen, napkins with me, to always know the timetable, to make sure everybody has their passports and nobody is hungry, ever. It may or may not be a coincidence, but our household has become the foster home of all the lost kids, where you can show up on a Saturday if you don't remember where you left your car on Friday, where you get fed soup and/or pálinka if the salmon-strawberry cake combination was a little too much for you, where all your love stories can be told, and where nobody is hungry, ever. I am very happy about this, because it just ended up being this way, and because we share all the feeding, pálinka-pouring, love story-listening and other tasks that come with foster-parenting.

All this of course doesn't make the whole situation any less schizophrenic: we all (or almost all) believe to be here on a temporary basis, but at the same time we all (or almost all) are currently calling this place home. Because there is no other way to do it. We all (or almost all) have a concept of home, and most of us can even show it on the map, but that's where our nephews and nieces live. And maybe one day, not so far from now, we will live there too. And then somebody else will be standing in the empty flat, hating it. 

Holida-y

I was on holdiays! DRC didn't make it to the Africa Cup Finals, but they did win the „little final” so finished third afterall, so yay!
Let me start with geography. It is summer South of Equator now. Then consider that last time I had proper holidays was when Die Sömetings were touring Switzerland and Italy, and well, that wasn't yesterday. Then add to it that I grew up in a small, flat, landlocked country, and then spent a significant amount of time in little, flat, mainly landlocked countries since. And if somebody thinks that I'm a bit of a plant as in I can't go on for long without sunshine, well, they are not mistaken either.
Oh, and let's not forget that I currently live in a place where movement is a bit limited, and in addition everything is just far enough for us having to drive all the time, and where food is cheap and fresh, but the choices are rather limited.


Considering all of the above, I have to say it was quite a brilliant idea to choose the Republic of South Africa for my vacations. The country truly is the Australia of this continent: they have a funny accent and love their barbecues.  Other than that, they have on display: hills and mountains and valleys, two oceans, all kinds of wild beasts, and fair amount of sunshine. Oh, and nice food and pleasant wine.

So we didn't really do much more than driving a lot (from Johannesburg all the way to Cape Town, with detours and frequent beach stops), then walked a lot, ate well and supported the local wine industry. I am really not sure why I packed so many clothes as I refused to wear anything that had sleeves – a decent tan is a must.

The country is beautiful! It's probably also because of the season, but I couldn't stop being amazed and thinking these colours cannot be for real, and that maybe in this country public works mean repainting the skies and the ground.

Besides the sunshine-oceans-good food combination, the thing I really enjoyed is that in South Africa it's not eternal summer, the seasons actually change, I just happened to arrive at the right time. This makes people, tourists and locals alike, act differently. Like when in the Benelux the first sunny day arrives, and everybody is over the moon and all over the patios and walks up and down in town with a happy grin because maybe winter will end sometime, and maybe life has a point after all. And even if it doesn't, it's so much prettier when the lights are right. I've been missing this feeling and was really glad having found it again.
Of course summer in February also means (as I learnt) that the beauty industry moves down to Cape Town in November and stays and works there until March, because Europe and North America is up to their belly buttons in snow, and that can make it hard to shoot credible underwear commercials. I guess. So everything was packed with really good looking people, and it seemed it was their job to be gorgeous. This is a very pleasant background for holidays, but then also a bit confusing until you know where they all come from, and then at some point it can be a little overwhelming too. Ok, fine, I didn't cry much over the beauty of everyone around me. I did feel extremely sorry for myself over the unbearably, tackily beautiful places I had to be, and that the only way for me not to see the Atlantic from my balcony is to close my eyes, but even then, I can still smell it.