Wave your flag

This may only be funny for those who have lived in Luxembourg or in a similar place during European or World Championships. Of football. European football. The one where you actually touch the ball with your foot (see also Secretary Albright on this topic).

Because in those multicultural places the usual sequence of events is that the games start, and by the first day a flag or two appears in every other window, to indicate the nationality of the person living there. And if somebody doesn't want to watch the group stage games (no, not me, but if there is somebody who doesn't get all excited about watching three matches a day with the boys in the basement), they can just peak out of their window right after the end of the game and have a look at the flags flown from the honking cars to figure out who won. If Portugal plays, it's recommended to get home latest by the halftime, because if they win, the supporters will all be on the streets celebrating their victory over Morocco, and causing major traffic disruptions.

Here, now, the Africa Cup is on. The last group round was happening (side note: I was busy in the kitchen while half of the men I live with was watching football...), and we knew that if Congo loses against Tunisia, they will be out, and if they win, they will be in the quarter-final. If they tie, all depends on what Cap Vert plays against I don't remember who.

Well of course the game ended with a balanced 1-1, and the commentator either didn't know the result of the other game, or he didn't want to tell, and it wasn't clear whether the teams knew it either, because nobody seemed overly joyful or too disappointed.

So we turned the sound off and waited. It didn't take two minutes and the happy honking and cheerful yelling from the street confirmed that they made it through. DRC in the quarter-finals.

Then they played against the other Congo, and they were losing 1-2, and then they turned it around and ended up winning 4-2... now that's fiesta à la congolaise. All easy rider motorbikers were storming up and down the boulevard, all cars were honking crazy out of their minds, and at some point a bunch of children showed up on one end of the street, running down towards the roundabout, shouting proudly Lé-o-pards Lé-o-pards (the nickname of the team). We were also happy for them, and I tried to picture the madness at home if Hungary made it to the semi-finals of the European Championships...

We were secretly hoping for it, but we still didn't get back the internet. I don't know if it's going to be enough if the team makes it to the final, or they would actually have to win to be awarded that way. We'll see. Playing for the final on Wednesday. Stay tuned!

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.

Naughty or nice

I know I know, everybody wants to hear about Christmas here.

It's different. I noticed already in early December that the Christmas tree placed in the middle of the roundabout feels odd to me. Later on I noticed that something was about to happen because the road to the airport was flooded with a mass of people even thicker than the usual. I didn't think that was possible. Normally it's two lanes' worth of space filled with three lanes' worth of cars, tsukudus, motorbikes, buses, surrounded with pedestrians. Now it's the pedestrians taking up about two lanes' space, and the vehicles struggling in the rest.

By the third week of December the place started to look empty, one could dance tango in the cafeteria (except one never does tango alone, so let's say two couples could easily tango in the cafet), and those staying here founnd each other in the vast emptiness and started planning their „holiday” activities. It isn't really much of a holiday, 24 December is supposedly a normal working day, with 25 being a day off and 26 a working day again. There were rumours of an „everybody get out of here at 2” email on the 24, but I never receieved it, and spent most of my afternoon in the bank (where the simplest transaction of cash withdrawal takes 8 minutes per client, but that's another story).

So Wednesday evening we met at somebody's place, basically to not be alone and to discuss the details of the „real” Christmas party the next day.

Thursday, the 25, found me dancing in the kitchen at half past nine. Then later on, in other people's kitchens. An apron tour, Goma-style. We were supposed to arrive to the party's secret and charming location by 2 the afternoon, but the host called at quarter past asking us to pick up some tabasco on the way, and to tell that in case we had some potatos, we may as well bring them...

Once arrived to the Lake House, I managed to put on a show worthy of Modern Family, while working the pizza dough dressed up to the nines, and shouting to the people from the kitchen that they should finish that garlic bread already. Apart from this, I think I behaved in a rather acceptable way, I only had to kick off my shoes to go to the oven in the garden, and commissioning somebody to steal the wannabe Christmas decoration red tie from the wannabe Christmas tree bush happened a lot later.

There was some gift exchange as well, my household now has some wine glasses as result.

I only tell this for jealousy's/bragging's sake, but the party was originally planned to be a swimsuit lake party, but that day the weather was a bit chilly (we celebrated the three days of Christmas with cold showers, because it was overcast with no sunshine and those times there is no hot water in the house), and we convinced the boys to dress up decently so we could wear our red dresses.

The next day we all had lefotver lunch together at somebody else's, and somehow the pizza dough kept growing, so we managed to feed a few people off it even on the evening of the 26.

Then came Saturday, quiet, at home, but Sunday found us all together again, for lunch, for movies, for snacks. And Monday came way to suddenly (see also Melanie C on this topic), and I was rather happy to have another weekend before the New Year's haze so I can get some rest, but then after signing and dating many papers I had to accept that there is two days left of this year.

I have a strange relationship with time in general. After the three days of cold showers the weather became sunny, warm, shiny. This, combined wiht random days off in the middle of the week, and me having spent the last two weeks with the same ten people, always in somebody else's kitchen, resulted in my brain going to the playa, and my body really wanting to follow it. I have difficulties accepting this whole end of the year business when I feel that I should be in the Heikkilas' (dark and cool) living room, wathcing terrible music videos from the '90s. I had a (couple of) G&Ts to help this feeling, but honestly, I'm convinced it's summer.

Increasingly

So the first week of December (and the ones before that) were busy and headless chicken crazy for several reasons, mainly work-related.

The below conversation was delivered (can you deliver a conversation?) on the Friday of that week, after I got a mild sunburn on the right side of my neck. Other events of the day have not made the cut of my selective memory.

It was a reception kinda thing, by the lakeside, fingerfood and dangerously open bar. Somehow exhaustion and dehydration and stress remove my last existing filters and so I talk freely about whatever crosses my mind.

Somebody asked me the very cliché yet very relevant question: „So Kata, how do you like it here?”

To which I replied, after due consideration: „Increasingly”.

This extremely fascinating story could as well end here, for it says almost all that needs to be said on this topic. But it's important to mention, in case somebody doesn't remember, that on my second day here somebody told me that I wasn't going to last half a year. He probably meant no harm and was having a genuine conversation, but it was defining my actions and attitude for a long time. I wanted to prove him wrong more than I wanted to feel right where I am, and I also wanted to prove wrong everybody else I know was doubting me.

It is also important to state, in case somebody didn't get it, that the expression „increasingly” is accurate. And I was really happy that I found it in that moment. It is no secret that it wasn't and it still isn't always easy, and even I didn't expect it to be so. BUT! I ended up liking what I do and where I live and, most importantly, really liking who I am. And yes, I know, I sound like some tacky self-help book, but whatever. I still have no idea how I got here and what exactly I'm doing here, but I've been winging it all my life, and this time around I quite enjoy it.

Which also means, a big thanks to everybody who was on the supportive side. I knew many of you were worried for me, and not only for the obvious safety reasons (which remain, let's be real), but because you probably also thought I wouldn't last half a year. I wasn't exactly sure myself :). But here we are, me under the mosquito net, and you envying me because I can go to a Christmas party wearing a short sleeve shirt.

Shortlisted

Non-exhaustive list of things I miss:

• music
• in the car
• from the radio
• concerts
• Jason
• funky stockings
• short skirts
• men who smell good
• bridges over troubled water rivers

and of things I don't miss:

• driving when snow falls
• parking in Brussels