R&R

Soooo, I was warned already during the resignation-moving-whatamidoing-whatiswrongwithme period, when I was trying to get some useful information out of those faceless email addresses that became my colleagues, that I should be prepared for having a lot of holidays.

I didn't quite understand it then, and not only because that resignation-moving-whatamidoing-whatiswrongwithme period ended with me finally not being able to take about 6 days of annual leave, but also because I already worked somewhere with 30 days of paid annual leave, and granted holidays between Christmas and New Year's, and I couldn't really imagine that it can be outdone.

Well, it can. Besides the 30 days, we get 5+2 every six weeks. I will soon elaborate why.

I quickly understood why they warned me about this ahead of time.

In terms of work, efficiency, balance it isn't exactly beneficial that you have barely unpacked (after 8 months, by the way), you start thinking where and when next, because it's best to book your flights about six weeks before your travel, otherwise it gets very expensive (except maybe for Mombasa – I haven't been there yet, but this year is still long). And then you probably came back to 500 unread emails, 300 of which have solved themselves while you were gone, but you still have to open them to assess that, and then you have the 200 that actually require action, and if you were smart you have about a week with your backup colleague before they go away, and then you work for two for ten days, then they come back, you de-brief and have about a week together because after that you leave again... well, the saving of the world is constantly hindered.

But. Whoever came up with this system, must have spent a few days in an environment where they felt part of a surreal board game where they were the only one not knowing the rules. Where they were permanently tired, and more than what could be explained by the physical/mental efforts they make. Because, you may find it unbelieavble, but it can be really tiring to always monitor your bottled water stocks, because they run out faster than toilet paper (and that's quite something, toilet paper always runs out), that perishable food shouldn't be kept even in the fridge, because you never know when during the day power goes away and when it comes back. That there are nights when it's practically impossible to sleep, even with earplugs, because somehow it's written in the stars that between the last argument in the bus stop and the night-day shift change there must be some partytime at the petrol station across the street, then some night time shouting contest at the bank next to the petrol station, and of course the muezzin calling for prayer. These are very carefully planned through the night, so I never find out if I managed to bake that apple pie in my dream, because I always wake up before the end. It can be very tiring to always, always be stared at. That if I go to the internet provider, I get take out of line and served before everybody else, sometimes even in some big important person's back office. Of course it still takes forever, even if I only recharge the credits for the wifi, but at least the entire audience of the shop can watch me and one of my bearded flatmates, for the duration of the procedure.

Of course, wanting to go out for dinner and being told by the waiter that about half of the items on the menu are „not there” is a bit of a first world problem. (However, when we ordered a pizza and the guy came back about forty (40) minutes later, only to tell us that it will take a while because they are out of flour, I felt a strong urge to headdesk.)

And I know that nobody will belive that one Sunday morning, at about half past seven, I woke up to the sound of somebody banging on the door. As a good habit I started panicking, it must be at least a fire (there is no fire extinguisher in the entire apartment. When we moved in, we asked the concierge about it, and he replied, somewhat upset : „No fire. No fire.”), and it didn't quite comfort me to find the guard on the doormat. I made him repeat his speech three times, because at first I only understood „car”, so I went on panicking that it's lost or broken (the parking is closed with a fence), or that I have a flat again, or I have to move it so someone else can park (it was during Christmas, mine was the only car in the whole compound, I could have parked anywhere), or whatever else is going on. By the third time I finally managed to understand, he wanted to know if I wanted him to wash the car...

It probably tells a lot about my mental state that it happens to me on a regular basis to burst out laughing in the living room, briefly remembering the motorbike guy coming at me from the opposite direction in the roundabout, staring angrily and honking. Sadly, it's more scary than it is funny, I worry every day about running over somebody.

Something else that is even less funny, but adds a lot to my general WTF feelings is how usual and wildly accepted it is here to see uniformed and armed people on every corner. The uruguayis now even wave at me from their funny trucks, but that doens't make their patrols any less armed. What really is unsettling is that the only time we notice weapons is in situations where a little old man rides his crappy bike in front of us and we can see his rifle casually slung on his back.

Of course, the above may as well be simple symptoms of a more chronic culture shock, but they definitely take long to heal and may reoccurr easily. I have lived abroad and I think I have gotten over things like not being able to speak Hungarian to anybody (and when I suddenly do, everybody around me has a weird look on their faces), and I somehow manage without sour cream. In general I think I'm pretty good at accepting the current situation as the only available version of reality, but I notice often, that my patience, which wasn't the world's largest to begin with, runs out a lot faster than what I'm used to. So if the sixth or eighth week approaches, I gladly buy my ticket and go somewhere where life is a little less absurd. Or at least, absurd in a way I'm familiar with.