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.