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.)