Culture shock – the fatigue of the mind

 Disclaimer: the below contains information that is yet to be proven scientifically.

Culture shock is an experience similar to muscle fatigue. We know what causes it: similarly to aching muscles, culture shock emerges when you do something you’ve never done before, or at least for a very long time. For instance, travel to a different country, different continent, different culture. In these cases, it isn’t the quads or biceps that are being worked extra, but parts of our brains. By default, it’s a pleasant activity: it feels refreshing to shake up those lazy cells a bit. This is the time when you marvel at the odd signs on billboards, at the red buses driving on the wrong side of the road, the unknown yet good-looking pastries, when you stare at seas, mountains, cities, plains with awe.

Then, just like muscles when they are overworked, the head starts feeling discomfort. Wall climbing is fun for only so long, after which you’d like to ease the ache of the muscles; similarly, the fascinating new environment can easily become exhausting. All that novelty starts to get irritating, and you wish that everything worked the way you’re used to it, so you can get some rest.

Culture shock isn’t only that it’s always summer and you have to drive on the wrong side, that there isn’t running water, sometimes not even electricity. It’s also a culture shock feature when nobody tells you which door to use to get on the bus, do you have to hail it down, can you pay with bills or do you need half a kilo of coins to buy your ticket.

It’s part of culture shock to not know if your latte is indeed called latte, or it has some odd local name, one that could translate to upside down, broken, Russian, or creamy coffee. When you have to do a full tap dance performance in the bathroom to figure out whether the faucet works on sensors requiring movement, voice, or the appropriate facial expression.

Culture shock isn’t only when you get yelled at on the street “Muzungu”. It’s also when the bus driver addresses everybody getting on the bus as “darling”, and those getting off only get spared because they use the back door. It’s when all your professors are referred to by their first name. When the cashier asks you how you are but doesn’t wait for the answer – they would have the time though, since part of culture shock is not understanding the local coins and taking forever fishing out the right amount from your wallet.

Culture shock isn’t only when you’re in a place you don’t speak the language of. It’s also when you’re somewhere you in principle should be able to, yet you have no idea what the neighbour said although they were visibly very excited about it.

Culture shock isn’t only the unknown and suspicious fruits on the local market. It’s also having to learn where the market even is, which store is cheaper, what that fruit is, which garbage bin is for recycling paper. That what they call a tram is really a cable car. Or what they call a cable car is really a tram. How big are the beds, and in what order you have to pile up the utterly confusing system of pillows and blankets, which also have names that have nothing to do with “pillow” and “blanket”. To learn whether life stops on Sundays, or on the contrary, everything can be scheduled for any hour of any day.

Culture shock is like sore muscles. It fades away after a while if you keep working the same muscles. But if you mix up your workout routine, and move into a new environment, all that training was for nothing, body and mind notice the change immediately. If you jump around between tropical and concrete jungles, better to accept that some soreness will be permanently present. Sometimes in the head, other times in other body parts.

 

(The original article appears here.)

No longer under the mosquito net

It doesn't take Sherlock to figure it out, so most of you probably know already that the notes from under the mosquito net have been suspended for an indefinite period. (In accordance with an old agreement with Yannis, the use of the terms forever, never, always, ever, is to be avoided if possible.)

Even after two years, I considered myself a rookie, and sometimes had to remind myself that it was no longer an acceptable excuse, even if I've never been to Tango Bar on a Saturday or in Cocos on a Friday night.

I somehow realized I knew more than what I gave myself credit for when, during the last month, I got to host two (real) newcomers, and suddenly had to look at the world with their eyes. And remember the (frightened, wide open) eyes I had when I arrived. And recalling the people who marked my first day ("You won't last 6 months here" guy, whom I wanted to send a postcard to when I hit December 6, except I neither knew nor cared about his location at the time, and "You'll be fine" guy, who probably saved a good number of tears for me, and whom I wanted to marry after that for a few weeks, out of sheer gratitude), I knew that I wanted to be optimistic yet realistic, and show them that Goma being what it is, it takes time to feel comfortable, but after that one very quickly may feel at ease.

I believe that any two years at any location, if looked at as one chunk, would show changes in anybody's life, character, thoughts. It's not location or profession-specific, even if some places and some jobs are more intense at times.

Nonetheless, I have to say, looking at it as one chunk, that these two years have given me the professional boost I wasn't sure I was looking for. I left that chair behind that messy desk of mine with more confidence, and, more doubts. This I believe to be fertile soil for progress. If the "only" result I walk away with is the feeling that I like what I do and that I'm good at what I do, that's already huge.

And there is, of course, a lot more. In my line of work it's quite hard to separate work from personal, because the people are the work, and this must especially be true in a field location, where the people you work with are pretty much all you have (with the refreshing exceptions of Benoit and Aleks). This can get tricky as you know more and more people in different capacities, and sometimes you feel you know too much and can tell very little.

But it is so worth it! What Goma took away in terms of safety, stress, inefficiency, bureaucracy, it gave back – and much more – in people. People in all colours and shapes and stories, people I liked or didn't, but who always gave me the freedom to decide for myself, people who – often without knowing – pointed out my own weaknesses or strengths, or showed me a direction I'd never thought I'd be going. People, who, I know, won't be all with me for the rest of the journey. But some will. And even those who won't, have put something in my baggage.

I've been back to Hungary for 3 weeks now. I'm still in the phase when I think nobody really understands my experience, which partially is true, in the sense that none of us will ever be able to fully understand any experience of any other of us – that's just being different humans. But it's not entirely true, because there are people who have experienced something similar and could relate, if I tried. But I haven't. Part of me doesn't want to be understood. I want to be special. I want to make a point of belonging to a different tribe, and unless you've been in Goma when I was, sorry, your tribe isn't mine.

Childish, I know. It will pass, I know. Probably part of the Repatriated Expat Blues.

Which I'm treating with the Passing By method – not staying too long in a familiar place, but moving on the next unknown. In a week I'll be in the not so United Kingdom, studying business psychology. Something I probably wouldn't have done without the lessons learnt and missed during the past two years. Where that will get me after is again something that time will tell. I deal with the future when it gets here.

Till it happens to you

It comes up every time a large number of people die a violent, senseless death: why do we care more about Paris (Nice, Brussels, etc) than we care about Istanbul, Baghdad, Beirut, etc. The debate heats up and includes comments that question, albeit rhetorically, when we will see a #prayforBeni post.

Thing is, we won't. And the explanation, I think, is rather simple. We care about whom and what we know. I'm no expert on the matters of the human mind, other than the fact that I have one, but I think it's difficult to relate, especially emotionally, to something abstract. Places we've never been to, people we don't know, are abstract. How many people you had to account for at the Istanbul airport that day? Maybe the occasional traveling one, who was, by the way, in transit, relatively far from the actual trouble. How many you had to worry for in Brussels? I, for about a dozen. That's when it hit closest. And although I have nobody in Nice, it is a weird feeling to picture that promenade where we were strolling with Shari and it was so damn cold, in a state of sheer panic.

The rest remains abstract, unreal; Beni most of all.

I'm not trying to excuse the way we act and react, but I think it's the main reason. And the way we consume news and information these days – you choose the channels you follow, and most probably your friends are from a similar culture so they will care about the same things and you get somewhat stuck in the same circle, with the same news focusing on the same region, geographical or cultural.

The solution? I doubt there is one, but love thy neighbour sounds like a good start. Get to know people from Beirut, Baghdad, Istanbul, from places and cultures initially foreign for you. They will stop being abstract, and you will be able to relate more.

Then you can worry about more people in more places when something happens, because all of a sudden it's not something remote, but it's happening, even if indirectly, to you. Then you understand, the bell always tolls for you.

I know my kingdom awaits

Home is not a place. I suspect I've known it for a while; I've had and keep having many homes, some are in places I've always only been a visitor, and I'm slowly recognizing that home, in fact, is not a geographical term.

The house you grew up in and never left is of course a home. But very few of us have that house still, and even fewer of us have never left it. For those of us who did leave, and returned to either the house or ourselves being in a changed state, the search for home is on ever since.

Good news: once given up on the idea of „the one” home, we can see that homes are everywhere.

Home is in any city where you don't need a hotel room. Where you can cook, because you know where to find all the devices in the kitchen, even if it's not yours. Where you bump into people you know on the street. Where you find your way without a map, relying on landmarks more than street names. Home is where you know your reference points, literal and figurative, even if they keep changing. At home, you know where you are.

Home is people, too. Conversations where you can say what you think without being judged for it, debates where you can disagree without dismissing the others' opinions. It's inside jokes and terrible puns, and if you’re doing it right, it's also comments that would sound awfully un-PC in any other context. At home you dare to make those jokes because you know that they know what you mean and what you don't mean. Home is where you feel you belong – a feeling our band of gypsies is so eagerly after.

Home is time. Time you spent somewhere, a period of your life that has been instrumental in your personal development. Important in becoming who you are today; or in building who you will be tomorrow. In short, home is where you know who you are, and its geographical location is but a stage decor.

Home, they say, is where the heart is. Now that's good news, considering that your heart, in the vast majority of the cases, stays within your body. Meaning that your heart is wherever you are. Meaning that your home can be anywhere you go. you carry it in your heart, and you're never without it

Ultimately, we're a bunch of emotional superheros

I had to say goodbye to four people today only. And to a few others in the past weeks. Not the "I'm driving you to the airport, or worse, dropping you off at the border" type of goodbye, but the "I'm going on holidays and by the time I come back you won't be here" kind, which is pretends to be a little easier because it allows denial about the fact that it's indeed a goodbye.

I know that Christian would ask, before I could even make a sad face, "But Kata, what did you expect?", and that Anders would tell me that "people come and go". Except that I explained to both of them several times that I am fully aware of life being just like this, and I didn't expect anything else, so they wouldn't actually have to say any of it. 

This time around I'm actually on a positive note: I'm happy for having met them, and quite excited about seeing them again in a probably confusingly first-world setup. Or in a familiar mission environment; one never knows.

However, the beauty of the experience together, and the perspective of a next one doesn't make the actual departure day much easier. It's like staying up all night talking with your flatmates about life and love and David Bowie and belly dancing and tattoos and friendships that fade away and second chances and adoption, and then having to go to work the next day. Was it a great night? Oh yes it was. Do you feel like a zombie? Oh yes you do. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Does it make you feel any less of a zombie? Not really. Would you do it again? Without a shadow of a doubt. Knowing full well that it would leave you feel like a zombie for a while. 

Couple of naps/weeks later you will still remember how comfortable, deeply connected, blessed and grateful you felt for having somebody listen to your often ridiculous relationship drama and highly inconsistent political views, whereas the zombie day will seem  a proof of your inner strength - see, I could go through a day without sleep! 

This is how goodbyes should feel. I'm damn lucky for the days they were around, and I'm a total badass for getting through the day they left.

TL;DR: Still very happy!

The Tshukudu Movie Club came back from its winter sleep that night. Admittedly, the winter sleep was induced by my antisocial tendencies, topped up with kazi mingi (brush up on your swahili for that one).

But then Benoit came back from where he was, and Habibi came back from where he was, and even Ponyito was home, and then German decided to take a nap on our sofa, pretending he was participating, so Movie Nights were definitely back.

On top of that, we (Benoit) offered the Oscar-winner foreign language film of 2015, which happens to be Hungarian. Not a very cheerful one, but certainly one with a very unique point of view. One of the many things I enjoy about this otherwise surreal life setup is that I get to proudly show around things „my people” have made and done. Including the ball point pen and the Rubik cube.

And there, in the living room, between guacamole and Danish (?) brie cheese, I just realized that it was an anniversary. I'm a terribly nostalgic person, I remember what I was wearing when I first met somebody important, or that I was buying mango juice with the Chief when I realized I was missing somebody, so it's somewhat normal that I remember that it was the 7^th June when I arrived to this mission. I remember how I was explaining to the immigration officer at the Entebbe airport that I don't need a visa because I will be working for the United Nations, how utterly bizarre it sounded, and how disappointed she was that she couldn't make me pay for it.

Accounts of those first days can be read here  and here , and although you could follow the last two (2!! TWO!) years through this blog, I'm not sure it can really reflect just how far I've come. 

Professionally, which is important, since no longer enjoying anything at work was the primary reason for quitting the old job, but ironically, coming here made me see just how much I learned on the old job. And how important it is to call it quits when it's time.

Personally, too – I figure everybody is changing , and while „maturity” isn't necessarily the adjective that comes to mind when you're talking about a person who is excited about the trampoline in her sister's garden, there is certainly personal development to be noted. Development not in the sense that what was before needed fixing, but development in the sense that exposure and time makes all experiences richer. I'm not saying I'm afraid of fewer things now, but maybe of different things, and I'm more open-minded towards my fears. And a lot more confident about the few things I know. And the many things I have an opinion about. I don't fear Game of Thrones debates, because I have about as much of a chance at being right, as does anybody else. Even Marcello.

Important to note that this personal development or discovery or epiphany is not necessarily location-specific. I'm sure the lovely breeze of North Kivu has done me good, but I think most credit needs to go to all the amazingly weird people I've met here. Again, I don't think that North Kivu is the only place to meet amazingly weird people. We are everywhere. I'm just particularly lucky about this specific set of weirdos, because they are, just like The Animal Parties, happily aware of their own weirdness. And embrace it.

These lovely weirdos have - if unknowingly – helped me a lot in my learning to let go exercise.  I've counted 7 (seven!) flatmates in the last two years, and all of them have been a blessing - one way or another. The movie nights have almost completely changed its audience, but it hasn't changed its nature - depressing and disturbing movies (almost) every Tuesday. 

I am a rather clingy, please-don't-leave-me, together forever kinda girl. It is known. But my Goma-weirdos come and go faster than I could change my hair colour, and there is nothing I can do about it. And this, ultimately, is a great lesson. Not to say I have been a model student all along, but somewhere in the past two years I learned to appreciate the moments we have, and mope a little less over the ones we can no longer have. 

There are more specific lessons I've benefited from as well. One of the many great things about my line of work is that I get to meet all kinds of professions. And since they think they depend on me (they don't), they tend to be a little more sociable. I get to ask questions, and learn about what they do – and they do some really cool stuff, and come from places I never heard of before (and definitely couldn't have placed on a map), and have very different life experiences. And a story. Everybody has a story!

I love stories. And cheese. I get them both here. What else can I ask for?

From Goma, with pis and love

http://hellomagyarok.hu/post-it/from-goma-with-piss-and-love

 

Visiting gorillas

The news were grim that Saturday morning: they talked about machine guns, explosions, slaughter in a concert hall.

In our closed-in conflict zone life it didn't make a practical difference. My flatmate (seasoned readers by now know that the number, origin, profession and personality of my flatmates change frequently and regularly) took me out for breakfast – probably out of guilt for leaving us and moving back to the other life. To a world where one can find concert halls, and choose from more than one place to go out for breakfast.

In Goma, choices are a little scarce, so it was obvious that we go to "The" Bakery for coffee and croissant.

Upon entering the room, I unexpectedly burst out in a proper teenage girl gone crazy monologue:

"OMG it is really Him! I can't believe he's really here! Can we sit next to their table so I can secretly stare at him?"

We could. We did, even though the flatmate still had absolutely no clue as to who "he" is. We struggled through the usual long and painful process of ordering, and all he could make me say was that I have to immediately text the girls that "he" is here. The fact that one of the girls jumped into her car and drove to the scene made him all the more confused.

One of Goma's favourite celebrity is probably unknown outside North-Kivu, apart from the conservationist and hardcore nature-loving communities, where Emmanuel de Merode may be known. The anthropologist and conservationist, originally from a Belgian aristocrate family, is the Chief Warden of the Virunga National Park since 2008. In that quality, he is saviour of the mountain gorillas and all other animals living in the park – and, occasionally, subject to teenage crush of expat-girls.

By Martin Friedrich Jauck - http://de.rodovid.org/wk/Person:785090, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32273787

Of course, he isn't the only one who does an incredible, admirable job in the park. The Virunga, just as the entire region, has been home to civil wars and many complex and complicated armed conflicts, for decades; from poachers to rebels many groups want and try to benefit from the natural resources of the region. Being a ranger in the Virunga is a dangerous job: during the years, more than 140 of them have died in different clashes, often protecting the civilian populations. That the park is open to visitors again since October 2014, is a result of their persistent hard work.

So is the fact that I could visit the mountain gorillas. It was a visit for real, they were at home, in their natural habitat, munching on the leaves, while our group was standing in the rain, listening to the rangers odd guttural sounds, which aims to tell the gorillas that we are friends, there is nothing to be afraid of.

Was it for those grunts, that they didn't really care about us, I don't know. In any case, they weren't bothered by the four of us standing around in raincoats, wearing surgical masks, with only the sounds of our cameras and our sighs.

They didn't know that we got up at dawn, have been driving through the bumpy roads of Norht-Kivu, where the visitors are always accompanied by at least one armed escort – I was entertaining the smiling Claire with my limited swahili vocabulary. The gorillas weren't interested in the story of us climbing upwards in the jungle for a good two hours to meet them. At least we had the same opinion about the cold rain: the chief silverback was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, visibly not being impressed by the weather. The smallest baby was hiding in his mom's arms from the cold and the rain, and was peeking out from there. He was the only one paying any attention to us at all.

We also quickly understood that the gorilla families don't get the same briefing as the tourists. We were told by the rangers to not go any closer than 7 meters, to not make eye contact with the chief because he will consider it as a challenge, and to avoid sudden movements. Some of the younger black-back males had a rather flexible interpretation of 7 meters and started approaching us if he felt like it, so we had to wonder whether keeping the distance or avoiding sudden movements is more important. The chief looked at us time and again, while munching his leaves and branches; then we tried to pretend we weren't watching him.

The most memorable part of this trip wasn't the size of the grown up gorillas, or that my hands were freezing at 3000 meters; not even the knowledge that we are watching a species that is extremely endangered – there are about 800 of them in the world, most of them living in the natural parks of DRC, Rwanda and Uganda. From the moment we met I couldn't stop thinking that although they may be sitting here in the jungle, eating leaves all day, but their features and behaviour is very human. The mom dropped on her back and laughed out loud, the chief was pouting at the rain, the kids were jumping around, wrestling, or fighting over the food.

And our departure went just as unnoticed as our arrival earlier. They went on with their usual daily activities, while we completed our descent, shivering, to the rangers' post. There we were welcomed with hot tea, blankets, big safari tent as seen in adventure movies, table set for lunch, and a gorgeous view over some other peaks of the Virunga range.

The park also operates a few lodges equipped with all commodities in the middle of the jungle – their prices are also quite remarkable. Benefiting from the relatively calmer times, they started offering different excursions in the region: besides the gorillas and the Nyiragongo volcano, they set up a tented camp on one of the tiny islands on Lake Kivu. Partially thanks to these improvements, the Virunga is recommended by no other than The New York Times as one of the tourist attractions of 2016.

This is good for promotion, it's probably an honour, maybe hope, but also an illusion: for the average tourist, this is still an extremely far, expensive, and dangerous trip. Besides, if anybody can, they shouldn't visit this region because The New York Times says so. Rather because nature, vegetation and animals alike, can been seen here in a state that is rare and can only be found in a few places in the world. "Undisturbed" sounds like a deeply ironic adjective here, yet it carries some truth.

And then, as a teaser, there is always the possibility of running into the Chief Warden in The Bakery!

Makes the people come together

One way to know it's summer now here is to notice that all major football (European-style football) tournaments are organized around this time of the year. Last January DRC was in the semi-finals of the Africa Cup (and we didn't have internet, for political reasons), this year it's something called African Nations' Championchips, meaning that only players who play in their national league qualify. Something like a Euro Cup where Christiano Ronaldo can't play.

And this year it's organized by Rwanda, and they were in the same qualifier group with DRC, and the first leg was played here in Gisenyi (the first town on the Rwandan side of the border; on a nicer day it can be seen from the canteen), and even the border was open until 10 pm (instead of 6).

The last qualifiers were this past Saturday, with no else than the semifinal at stake. Our tv doesn't really have channels these days (we used to have Al-Jazeera and some local gospelly thing), but we didn't quite need it: critical masses were watching it at the petrol station across the street, and in (and outside) of a pub just down by the roundabout, and were loudly expressing their feelings when DRC scored. And then when DRC won! Fiesta was on, just like last year, cars, motorbikes, flags, people, up and down the boulevard. Our guard came upstairs to tell us that one of the cars has the lights left on, and when we congratulated him, he basically melted into a puddle.

The semifinal was on Wednesday, and they won again, extra time and penalty shootout and all that jazz, so Sunday is the final, root for the Lépoards!

Side note: it's interesting also because it makes one wonder how much it is possible to identify with the country we live in, and whether it depends on time, or something else. If I was still living in Luxembourg, would I rather write „we won”? I still talk about the Grand Duke's family as if I know them personally (well, I was present twice when they waved from the balcony, that should count, no?), but is it just a question of getting used to? Clearly, I can't really identify or sympathize with the current president of DRC, but I mainly like Xavier Bettel because we've both been bonnevoisins, (and because he initiated and pushed through the law about same sex marriage), but I don't exactly follow his policies. When I was living in Angers in 2007, and people around me often referred to Sarkozy as „your president”, I always kindly reminded them that he's about as much of a Hungarian citizen as I am a French, and, besides, they voted for him, not me, so... start with the man in the mirror.

(The other way to know it's summer is that the days are longer. One certainly notices the sun setting and six instead of half past five.)

Brought to you by the Tshukudu Movie Club

You probably know that we have a movie club. We call it Tshukudu Movie Club, because our house can be found if one takes the second exit of the Tshukudu Roundabout, and turns right at the petrol station. We don't bother much with street names in Eastern DRC.

So every Tuesday, members of the Tshukudu Movie Club get together in my living room (depending on the chosen movie and everybody's individual leave situation, we may be 3 or 15), and watch the week's selection.. We have very serious rules, established categories and real voting in the facebook group.

Although they don't form a separate category, we managed to watch a few African-themed movies in the past months. My recommendations are below.

• Out of Africa. A classic. I've seen it much before I'd even thought about coming to Congo, and I remember how I was touched by the bittersweet love story, and the bittersweet Robert Redford. I admired, although didn't understand, the baroness, who grew up in Denmark, and one day she decided that for her freedom is to... have a farm in Africa. Watching it now, from Goma, what strikes me most is how it shows that little it shows from the unprepared, often insultingly ignorant point of view of a European traveller. In any case, it helps us remember just how much of a stranger we really are here. And Kenya is so stunningly beautiful. So is Robert Redford.

• God Loves Uganda: Upsetting documentary about a group of American missionaries, exporting their values and particularly their religious beliefs to Uganda, not considering for a split second just how strangers they will be there. The movie is disturbing, and not only because it was shot in a country where homosexuality is against the law, but also because it cruelly shows what immense energies blind faith can move, and put in the use of goals the outsider can't understand.

• Virunga: Probably my favourite of the five, an engaging documentary about the Virunga National Park, the endangered mountain gorillas living there, and the rangers who work in the park and protect it – and sometimes die for it. There are many armed groups operating in and around the area; the network of their interests and alliances are quite hard to understand. The region is extremely rich in natural resources, therefore it's not unusual for some big oil (or other) company of the developed world to come around trying to make use of the utterly complicated and absolutely not transparent, or simply non-existing public administation, and of the vulnerability of the park. The movie gives an overview of this complex, sometimes hopeless struggle, shows a glimpse of the life of the gorillas and the rangers (and they would deserve a movie of their own!), and you get to see Goma!

• Lumumba: for advanced users only. It shows the short political career of Patrice Lumumba, the first prime minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo, and with that, the last days of the colonial Congo. It doesn't hide the opinion (fact?) that the political powers of the time often used the inner conflicts of the former colonies to their own benefit, and if they didn't see any, they would easily leave the country and the people to struggle on their own.

• Hotel Rwanda. If you are not very familiar with the history of the Rwandan genocide, you can get a classic war movie with some hiding and an everday hero. If you are vaguely familiar with the story, or have read the memoirs of Roméo Dallaire (the force commander of the UN peacekeepers during the genocide), you may have an idea of what you're going to see, although it doesn't try to fully describe the bloodbath. It couldn't, but it's not the purpose either. And if you have been to Kigali, the capital of Rwanda, you may find this movie disturbingly realistic, because even thought the streetview has changed in the past 20 years, some details can be still recognized, and the Hotel des Mille Collines still stands and operates where it used to in 1994; with expats sitting by its pool, drinking their cocktails, looking down on the valley, the country of the thousand hills.

And of course there is always The Lion King, we're watching that next Tuesday. There will be banana bread. Maybe apfelstrudel - come by! ;)

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.