And then the Africa Cup started

You wake up one Tuesday, and there is no internet. Not the first time it happens, so you check if there is electricity, reset the router, get somewhat angry and go to work. Then the radio tells you that demonstrations are going on in town, that you shouldn't be using certain roads, and that actually you shouldn't be leaving your compound until further notice. You've been there for 8 months and this is the second time your radio is of some use, so you're almost excited about it, you just worry about your friends who are in the affected parts of town.

Then later your learn that internet and sms services are cut off because the government ordered the providers to do so (there is a law in place that allows them), and although there are rumours as to why, nobody really knows. It seems obvious that it's related to the demonstrations that are related to the proposed amendments to the electoral legislation, and that opposition and educated youth are not happy with the proposal.

You never lived in a country where a government would actually shut down internet, you thought it was only ever happening in North Korea. First you think it's ok as long as you can get your work done (and they manage to have connection somehow through a satellite, don't ask), but soon you feel disconnected if you cannot see your whatsapp and facebook messages. And you can't, for days.

You message your mother to tell her there's no internet and she shouldn't worry, and you hope she doesn't ask why. She doesn't; from her point of view, it's normal to not have access to internet in Africa; she doesn't think it's a bad sign that you used to have it but now it stopped.

You actually do use your radio and listen to what it says. You worry some more about your friends in affected parts of town, but you still get annoyed by the people in your canteen who would usually go home or somewhere else for lunch but are now grounded and thus you have to share your lunchtime with them.

You drive to work and you are annoyed because a traffic jam starts building up and seriously, why do we have to drive 15 the hour?! You see there is some slow motion vehicle in front, and you're irritated and think it should be out of your way until you realize it's not some construction work machine but actually an FIB tank. You think the Senegalese are funny in their full gear, but they are  actually scaring you.

You monitor the international news portals. Not because you think they can tell you anything new, but because you want to see what makes it to Europe, what makes it home. You want to know how much longer you have until you have to disclose some information to reassure your family.

The week passes by and nothing actually happens. Well, nothing actually happens to you. News reports, although with widely varying numbers, that people have died and got wounded during the protests, but you haven't experienced any of the atrocities first-hand. You think you've handled it rather well, and tell yourself there wasn't really anything to handle, and you almost believe it. Until you get home on Friday, and feel a heavy, draining fatigue, mental and emotional exhaustion. Then you know that „it”, whatever it may have been, has indeed affected you in a sneaky, understated, but nonetheless effective way.

R&R 2.0

The other important thing about r&r-s, and I could have put it in the previous post, but it was already getting too long, and nobody reads long posts, is that you get used to people coming and going.

I know it sounds obvious, but in an environment this surreal it quickly becomes very important whom you share it with. I always had problems with accepting that the people around me will not always be around me. I know I know, if you want stability, why move to the Congo. But honestly, if you want stability, why move to Luxembourg, or basically anywhere where people go for a determined (or undetermined, but in any case limited) period.

So everybody goes off the map every six-eight weeks, for reasons described previously. And because we can. So basically the „are you going home for the weekend?” catchphrase, learnt in the dorm, and its variations are still in use, and any awkward silence can be broken are avoided altogether buy discussing holidays past and future.

On the other hand, this also means that for instance the loser crowd who got stuck here for Christmas and New Year's and with whom I got cosy, took there suitcases backpacks other stuff in the first week of January and took off in all possible directions. During this, I was standing in the kitchen wondering what to do with my life.

Then the weekend when I was suddenly left alone, I went to Gisenyi with one of the girls (it's impressive how much I miss female company, but that's a story for later), and then, from Saturday afternoon to Monday noon I didn't talk to a single soul (except for the cat), and it's quite unbelievable how much I enjoyed it.

Then, to celebrate The Return of the Flatmates, I made a dinner that left all vegans in awe, and the non-vegans were well fed too, and I was kinda glad that we are going back to normal, even if it meant work 5-6 days a week, and actually having to show up in the office at 08.30.

And then I was happy that my colleagues were back, so I didn't have to work for two and a half any more, but I was also mildly disturbed by no longer being alone in the office, but still appreciated having somebody to talk to (lack of female company, see above), and then. Then I reminded myself that it has always been clear, that people here come and go at an even higher pace, and that's quite something, since already Luxembourg was a quickly changing environment in this regard, and that those r&r-s, mine, or those of others, just prepare me to people leaving one day; that I have to take farewell parties as if they were Kristina's, meaning that she will have a welcome back party in six-eight weeks, and then another farewell soon again. And that there is a reason why everything feels so much more intense here: time is less, spaces are tighter, we are relying on each other a lot more, and nonetheless, we leave suddenly, with no prior warning, and often for good. And those who stay, for as long as they stay, have learnt already, partially thanks to the r&r experience, how to get over the sudden void they feel.

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.