What you did last summer

Warning! Highly philosophical content! Not for the faint-hearted!

Sooo, not that I count it, but luckily facebook now does have a function that reminds you of what you have done last summer. Not that I wouldn't know otherwise: I came here.

And now that we're at it: last week I signed for another year. This is the part where you're happy for me! It's good! I'll explain later why it's good.

On the other hand, this is the time of the year when many people don't sign for another one, and so June and July are all about people, colleagues, friends and other individuals coming and going. At this point it's more the going, and it's really interesting to observe how each one of them copes with whatever is there to cope with. It's important to note that this come and go is never a cakewalk. And no, it does not make it any easier that you have done it twenty-seven times over. It's like the classic dentist's example: you know what's coming at you. You know it's for the better, and you know you have to get through it. But you also know the procedure itself is not going to be particularly pleasant, and that there is nothing you can do about it.

So I watch them, and keep thinking, there is nothing new under the sun. I yet have to figure out what makes us the constant vagabond, drifter, pilgrim, but it doesn't really matter. I have been on both ends of the come and go, and I can tell you, it's not a tad bit easier on either end. It is not easier to leave, it is not harder to stay. I have tried, this time around again, to be understanding and compassionate, mainly because I strongly remember those last weeks a year ago, when I no longer had a flat, a car, a life, a rug under my feet, and all I wanted was for all of it to be over, for me to finally be let go. I thought, now I'm the one staying, it is hard enough for everybody else. I will wake up in the same flat next week, I will probably drink my coffee from the same mug, and the aubergine in the canteen will keep being too greasy (it's good though...). And then at some point I decided there is no point in pretending: it is just as hard for me as it is for anybody else. The person I will not talk to while drinking my coffee will be a different one, just as the one I will complain to about the greasy aubergines. So I'm back to square one, wishing for this all to be over, and everybody who needs to, be gone.

Because it's also an important piece of the puzzle that even the rookie vagabond knows when it's time to go. It's a bit like drinking water on the Camino: you've been thinking about it for a while, that maybe you should drink, but then you think nah, I'm stronger than that, I'll drink when I stop, when I have to tie my shoelaces, when there is a village. Don't do it! If you only drink when you're already thirsty, it's too late. And it's similar with leaving. When you first wonder how it could be somewhere else, it's time to brush off the dust of that suitcase of yours. You will need it soon. In either case, don't wait until you're about to throw up.

So bottom line: it's hard to leave and sucks to stay, and yet I say je ne regrette rien. For my fellow pilgrims, Jamie will have a few words. And notes.  

And you will hear the songs you know

One thing I constantly miss here is radio. Access to radio the way I'm used to – in the morning, in the car, in the shops. I feel out of touch if i don't hear the hit of the week every other hour.

We have a few channels, some are French-speaking news or culture channels, some are Swahili-speaking with news and music, strictly African, and, as Marcello calls it (and quite accurately at that) mono-mood. Dingirdingdi.

And then the Uruguayi radio. That's quite an experience too. Usually in the mornings it's slow, emotional, and form what I can tell, „why don't you love me” type of music, with the latino beat, of course (I don't want to sound racist here! I'm just trying to make the point that the music sounds like it comes from Latin-America, but I can't tell if it's Venezuelan or Argeninian or what.) If it's a little more upbeat, or even downright cheerful, we suspect the DJ got lucky the previous night. The afternoons it often plays almost forgotten dance-disco from the 90s. There is a reason why those are almost forgotten, and should stay that way. And, if you happen to drive somewhere during the day, you can catch the DJ being lazy: they usually just pop in a CD, and then you have Alanis Morissette for 43 minutes. One track after the other.

Considering the above, it comes as an unexpected, refreshing, motivational surprise, if time and again you stuble upon the entire Bohemian Rhapsody. Or, like today, after my first run in over a year, dirty but proud, happily exhausted, good old Jason tells me that I can always come back home. 

Please define normal

I know I have vaguely mentioned this in the hubsterblog already, but it's worth stating again that the human mind is capable of really amazing things. Such as accepting as normal something that beforehand would have been qualified as absurd. Impossible. Surreal.

If you think of it, that is quite a good thing, because otherwise many people would go insane all the time. Imagine waking up on a Sunday, realizing you're under a mosquito net, looking out the window, seeing Lake Victoria and a couple baboons, and understanding you're looking at Entebbe. And then not starting to feel a vertigo panicking „OMG, I'm on a different continent, what's gonna happen now”, but rather thinking: breakfast. And that you should probably put on some clothes. And that soon the football world cup will start. Then for a moment you think of good old Davor Suker, because Croatia will be playing the opening game, and tadaaa: you're thoughts are in a completely familiar field already. Ok, you stop and think for a moment before brushing your teeth, because you probably shouldn't be doing that using tap water, but otherwise you feel (and look) like you do on any given morning waking up in a hotel, after a long day of travelling.

And it's the same later, or even more natural. At first of course I ended up with a few wide-eyed „wow, there really is no electricity”, but it lasted for about five minutes. It helped a lot that I got here in summer (the European notion of summer), and weather didn't shock me much at first. Ever since I got comfortably stuck in eternal summer.

What is important though is that I don't start every morning with a „WTF Africa” moment, but rather with thoughts like: Coffee. What should I wear. Why is it Monday. Why did I stay up so late last night. When will it be weekend again. What do I have to do today. What should I wear. And at work too, I mainly go on about things like why is my computer so slow, why did I not write this newsletter yesterday, and if I did, did I print it too? And if I did, why can't I find it. Optionally, I wonder whether it will rain exactly when I have to go to the other compound, or why is it always the problematic French girls and not the cute French boys calling me all day long.

And it is still all right, but the thing is, since I accepted this one as the only currently valid reality, I also accepted that the guards of the neighbouring motorbike shop change shifts at 5.30. Yelling all over the place. And that Papa Pierre always washes our pink fresbee, very meticulously. Already, that there is a Papa Pierre who comes to our place to clean. Whenever he feels like it, that is. I agreed to participate in important and demanding trainings over the weekend, in a container, where lights, projector and air conditioning come and go, and there is a complete construction site working next to us - not quite like the soundproof isolated training rooms I was used to when I was organizing those courses.  With the acceptance of this version of normal come the ladies selling bananas and cigarettes by the side of the road, and also that the „Attention! Road blocked!” sign is always put at a point where you no longer have a chance to take a detour but have to completely turn around. And of course you're being looked at and looked down on, for making such a fuss. And of course the motorbikers in the roundabout, coming from the opposite direction, giving you an angry look. Depending on mood and level of fatigue I get annoyed by these, but no more than I did by the high schoolers shouting on the Luxembourg- Kleinbettingen train. I never understood why they would do it, but I knew that's the way it is.

And the good thing is, this works the other way around too! Usually for two days after arriving to Europe I keep locking all doors of the car and feel like honking at every intersection. Or any time I see a motorbike, a pedestrian, a bus or any other car. But then it's done. I don't feel haunting nostalgia for all the construction vehicles (although I often think how much my nephew would enjoy an average drive to work here), and I only laughed at the avocados once. But they were so tiny! Ok, I am very happy about tap water, and I take real long showers, in anybody's bathroom.

Maybe it's because the way from here or back takes so long, and I have time to apparate from one life to the other. It's usually then, during the trip, that I realize how very far we really are. And when I have a look at the statistics of the hubsterblog, and I can see on the map how many of you are reading me and from where, and when I see Mali being green, I know it must have been Bea, and then the distance kinda hits me.

I don't remember eating a sexy beast

I know that I always say that fruits and vegetables are available easily and cheap here, but then I never elaborate and tell what we make of them

If you have been paying attention, you already know that one of my flatmates is vegan, which means he doesn't eat or drink anything that is of animal origin. No eggs, no milk. Since we usually cook together, the household is practically vegan, with a few kilos of cheese here and there, because it's good, and I should bring home some local cheese next time, and beause it can be added to most dishes at the very end, therefore inducing a case of cake eaten and had.

In the indian store and on the market we can buy different types of lentils, couscous, beans and chickpeas, and every time somebody comes back from the developed world, they bring some quinoa with them. These then can be combined with the aubergine-zucchini-squash-cauliflower-tomato-bell peppers team, and they usually end up being very tasty dishes. If I make the soup, I start with the obvious onion-paprika base, and throw in everything I can find, blender it and at the very end add a little powdered coconut milk. If Marcello cooks, the soup has more of a minsetrone feel to it, I tend to pour that all over myself, and Rafa just squeezes lemon juice into everything.

The avocados here grow to a decent size, and zucchinis even bigger, so it happens that the combination of those two end up as fake (zucchini) pasta with avocado sauce. Noms.

Sometimes the chickpeas make it to the soup, but most of the time they serve as base material for the hummus. Luckily for us, because of the indian contingent, there are a few well-equipped indian stores here, and tajina (pureed sesame) is always accessible. Which is good, the hummus needs it. (As pesto usually has cheese in it, we don't keep any at home, so nowadays, if life gets hard, I eat tajina with a spoon from the jar. Nothing is unsolvable.)

One of my favourite creations is fresh spinach being sautéed (any expert is more than welcome to provide the appropriate English term for this) in olive oil with garlic, mixed with mushrooms and quinoa in the wok. I can eat that standing right next to the stove. I could, if my flatmates weren't circling in the kitchen, like vultures, waiting for the dish to be of edible temperature.

Ratatouille (again, please be shy with your English term proposals. The household and life in general is largely multilingual, if I don't know a word in English, I throw it in French. Or Hungarian. Spanish. Swahili.) is an obvious choice, and the advanced version at that, with aubergine and some sort of squash. Aubergine happens to be my other love, turns up in grilled version as well, usually hiding under tomato sauce,

but I have also made ugly but tasty purée out of it. I can make ugly but tasty purée out of pretty much anything, last weekend I put carrots in the hummus. I would have put more, but the boys thought that the carrots chips will be afternoon snacks and ate half of it straight from the oven dish. This then gave me the brilliant idea of making some more for the Tuesday movie night, something to munch on, which is not processed potato chips from the store, but also doesn't require my dancing in the kitchen for hours, as I do when „we” are making pizza.

My dancing in the kitchen for hours usually has some surprising results. Such as: baklava (vegan), chocolate cake (vegan), rainbow cake (vegan, but tastes very artificial),

garlic cheese bread (no, not vegan. It requires cheese, garlic butter and love. A lot of love.),

Grandma's pogácsa (also not very vegan), banana bread (vegan)

or stuffed bell peppers (vegan upon request). Aaaaand! Last weekend we made sushi and tempura! We spent about three hours in the kitchen, and devoured the outcome in less than nine minutes. And then all went straight to a food coma. It was great.

All good things come to an end (but there is nothing new under the sun)

I've talked about this before, but back then I just started thinkging that here nothing and nobody is consant, and once, not so far from now, I will be standing in the empty flat, because the boy have moved out, and I will be the most senior in the office because everybody else has left, and it doesn't matter that I know it's normal, and that in an environment like this people come and go even faster than usual, I will hate it all the same.

And it's particularly strange considering that I don't plan for (warning! Big words ahead!) ever or for long term or until retirement etc either. So I am here on a temporary basis, but how dare the others not want to be part of my life forever from now on, even after my life is not going on here any longer?

If somebody suspects hearing some stagiaire-life echos, they are not mistaken. And not only because the timetable of the stagiaire times „Monday language classes, Tuesday skate night, Wednesday Apoteca, Thursday swim day, Friday preparations for Saturday's party and Sunday recovery, debrief and press release” only differs a bit from the timetable we have here: Tuesday is movie night, Wednesday is Chalet, Thursday quiz, Friday Coco Jamboo and Saturday Tango Bar (Sunday is for recovery, debrief and press release), but also because everything is so fast and intense. Somebody showed up at our housewarming in November and we thought he was kinda weird (he was on time! and kept systematically opening bottles of sparkling wine), and then we spent a whole weekend with him in Kigali in February (Miss Rwanda was there too), and his farewell party lasted a week because we hated the fact that he was leaving us. At the Christmas party I thought that girl wasn't very original with her (my) red dress idea, and I don't like competition anyway, and now we are planning a seaside getaway for the Easter weekend. The girl I met on New Year's Eve and thought had an interesting face is now my Sunday coffee-in-sweatpants buddy. And of course the Doctor didn't even need all 75 days of this year to figure out my role in the group, or my frustrations and my tricks trying to hide them, but it's his job after all.

My role in this group, by the way, not very surprisingly, is to always have bandaids, sunscreen, napkins with me, to always know the timetable, to make sure everybody has their passports and nobody is hungry, ever. It may or may not be a coincidence, but our household has become the foster home of all the lost kids, where you can show up on a Saturday if you don't remember where you left your car on Friday, where you get fed soup and/or pálinka if the salmon-strawberry cake combination was a little too much for you, where all your love stories can be told, and where nobody is hungry, ever. I am very happy about this, because it just ended up being this way, and because we share all the feeding, pálinka-pouring, love story-listening and other tasks that come with foster-parenting.

All this of course doesn't make the whole situation any less schizophrenic: we all (or almost all) believe to be here on a temporary basis, but at the same time we all (or almost all) are currently calling this place home. Because there is no other way to do it. We all (or almost all) have a concept of home, and most of us can even show it on the map, but that's where our nephews and nieces live. And maybe one day, not so far from now, we will live there too. And then somebody else will be standing in the empty flat, hating it. 

Holida-y

I was on holdiays! DRC didn't make it to the Africa Cup Finals, but they did win the „little final” so finished third afterall, so yay!
Let me start with geography. It is summer South of Equator now. Then consider that last time I had proper holidays was when Die Sömetings were touring Switzerland and Italy, and well, that wasn't yesterday. Then add to it that I grew up in a small, flat, landlocked country, and then spent a significant amount of time in little, flat, mainly landlocked countries since. And if somebody thinks that I'm a bit of a plant as in I can't go on for long without sunshine, well, they are not mistaken either.
Oh, and let's not forget that I currently live in a place where movement is a bit limited, and in addition everything is just far enough for us having to drive all the time, and where food is cheap and fresh, but the choices are rather limited.


Considering all of the above, I have to say it was quite a brilliant idea to choose the Republic of South Africa for my vacations. The country truly is the Australia of this continent: they have a funny accent and love their barbecues.  Other than that, they have on display: hills and mountains and valleys, two oceans, all kinds of wild beasts, and fair amount of sunshine. Oh, and nice food and pleasant wine.

So we didn't really do much more than driving a lot (from Johannesburg all the way to Cape Town, with detours and frequent beach stops), then walked a lot, ate well and supported the local wine industry. I am really not sure why I packed so many clothes as I refused to wear anything that had sleeves – a decent tan is a must.

The country is beautiful! It's probably also because of the season, but I couldn't stop being amazed and thinking these colours cannot be for real, and that maybe in this country public works mean repainting the skies and the ground.

Besides the sunshine-oceans-good food combination, the thing I really enjoyed is that in South Africa it's not eternal summer, the seasons actually change, I just happened to arrive at the right time. This makes people, tourists and locals alike, act differently. Like when in the Benelux the first sunny day arrives, and everybody is over the moon and all over the patios and walks up and down in town with a happy grin because maybe winter will end sometime, and maybe life has a point after all. And even if it doesn't, it's so much prettier when the lights are right. I've been missing this feeling and was really glad having found it again.
Of course summer in February also means (as I learnt) that the beauty industry moves down to Cape Town in November and stays and works there until March, because Europe and North America is up to their belly buttons in snow, and that can make it hard to shoot credible underwear commercials. I guess. So everything was packed with really good looking people, and it seemed it was their job to be gorgeous. This is a very pleasant background for holidays, but then also a bit confusing until you know where they all come from, and then at some point it can be a little overwhelming too. Ok, fine, I didn't cry much over the beauty of everyone around me. I did feel extremely sorry for myself over the unbearably, tackily beautiful places I had to be, and that the only way for me not to see the Atlantic from my balcony is to close my eyes, but even then, I can still smell it.

 

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!