Friends in Foreign Lands

New Year's Eve I found myself, legs draped over a case of beer, in the back-back of a bullet-proof SUV with another American mom on our way to a party. Country music came from an iPhone of a Texan marine sitting in the middle with our husbands. Somehow the American-ness of the talk, the sense of humor, the music, the behavior was surprising. Why? It dawned on me that I hardly ever hang out with groups of Americans. [Granted, the crew we were with have big personalities. American Mom J is brilliant and boisterous. She and the Texan were first on the dance floor, and I promise you, I have never in my life seen a man dance the way he did to "I'm Sexy and I Know It." Must have practiced in front of a mirror for months. I just stood there frozen, peeking through my fingers and giggling.]

Living like we do, here and there, for a few years at a time, we make friends from different places - a lot of them expats, too. This has always been a perk of our transient life, the downside being that we have to say good-bye. It can, in some ways, hinder the development of a friendship (the end will come so why invest too much), but it can just as easily intensify it (no strings attached, no predetermined assumptions about each other to get around). Curiosity about each other is deep - not only is this a unique person like anyone - but they are literally foreign, a totally different upbringing in a totally different environment. What was that like? And amidst that weirdness, finding common interests seems all the more special.

David and I were thinking about the friends we've had since we started this life together. I'm talking about the ones we were close to, the ones we went out with on the weekends, had over for the afternoons into evenings and all nighters for the family. The ones we traveled with, listened to and comforted in hard times, and confided in. They are from England, Belgium, The Netherlands, Austria, Zimbabwe, Germany, Palestine, Jordan, Denmark, Canada, Portugal, Ireland, India, Serbia, Italy, France, South Africa and yes, America.

Some of them are here now, but most of them are far away in other countries, and it will take a lot of luck and money to see each other again. But it's not impossible - take Clem, for example, an Italian who worked with David in Kosovo and Afghanistan has overlapped with us in Jordan and Zimbabwe. Reunions, as always are special - I just spent time with Austrian friend from Zim, Bettina, who had relocated to South Africa. For my 40th, we saw English friends from Jordan, Ben and Caroline, in Oman. Good, special times!

With email, Facebook, blogs and Skype, it's actually possible to keep in touch. So this is to you, friends! We love and miss you, and feel very lucky to have gotten to know you. As always, hoping our paths cross again...xo

Here are some of you...

Holly in Sudan

Ben and Caroline with Emily, Oliver and Alex in Jordan

Bettina with Noah in Zim

Clem, Seb and Olivier in Zim

Chuck, Andrea, Olga and Jovan in Zim

David with Ammar in Jordan

Melissa and Mike in Zim at the traditional handing over of the BBQ/braai to our guests

Jim, Jesse and Maaike in Sierra Leone

Great going away party: me with Joanna, Falastin and Andrea in Jordan

Caroline with Jonathan in Zim

Sheryl in Zim

Katrien with Tarek in Sudan

April and May Flew

Just three more weeks until we leave for the States, 9 more days of school, and 9 days total til Karol and Jason arrive. Whew, time has flown and continues to fly by. So much going on these days.

Here are photos from April that may or may not have been in the other blog:



In addition to getting ready for visitors and the 7 weeks we'll be traveling around seeing friends and family back in the States, I have been preoccupied with closing up my first year as Vice-Chair of the Parent Teacher Organization at HIS and planning for the next year as Chair. Taking on this role last year was not something I did lightly, but it has been more work and more of a learning and growing experience than I could have imagined. I expect next year to be even more challenging. It's weird having a mildly political position in which there was no election and to feel so vulnerable to disappointing many, while at the same time knowing I will be held responsible for a lot and have some influence as a parent representative. Hope I can do some good and not offend too many people!

At the same time, my two consultancy experiences remind me that I need and should do paid, professional work. Ah, finding the work/life balance - I'll spare you. Bottom line: ideal scenario for now is part-time paid employment that is challenging, provides opportunities for me to learn about and support Zimbabwe, and generates some income.

So with an August job search on the horizon, I have been taking steps to build an incredible PTO team, the likes of which have never been seen! To delegate...that is the goal! Advice?

The Longest Season in Zimbabwe

We keep thinking the rainy season will end, but after every sunny week, the clouds settle in for the weekend, the temperature drops, the snails and slugs take their slimy morning strolls, and tennis lessons are cancelled again.

Sometimes it can feel like fall when the sky is bright blue and there's a chill. Fall is my favorite season, but it doesn't really exist here - neither does summer, winter or spring as I know them. Mid-August to mid-October is the hottest time, but temperatures range from the mid-50s to the mid-80s, and it's dry. Can't really call that summer, can you?

Pecan tree in August

That "hot" 8 weeks directly follows winter which is confusing (mid-May to mid-August) when it can drop to freezing at night but get up to 70 in the day. Indoor heating doesn't exist here, so for me, winter is most convincingly winter. We have a fire every night in the fireplace those months - even now - then in June, we'll escape to the heat & humidity of the States in summer.

Pecan tree in March

The rainy season is the longest season, I'm just realizing. It's practically half the year here. The bush grass gets twelve-feet high, and everything grows and grows and grows. The city is transformed into a lush, damp tropics. What would normally be a summer, given the Earth's tilt, is kept cool by the rains. It never reaches 80. You start the day with a fleece robe and furry slippers. By noon, if the sun's out, you're wearing flip-flops and a cotton skirt.

Lush driveway

This is our first entire rainy season. We've been in Zimbabwe for a year now - a year, 3 months, and 2 days to be exact. On the one hand, it doesn't seem so long ago that I welcomed the new green of the rainy season. However, the prospect of having to pull more putse fly larvae out of my 4-year-old daughter's leg has reduced my tolerance of the damp to nil. The rain may now cease.

On antibiotics. Feeling fine. Leg looking better.
Doctor says there may be 9 more to come out. :(
They are currently being smothered to death with an ointment and will be coming to the surface in the next day or so. We'll see.

We will be buying a clothes dryer for those of you reconsidering your trip here based on this latest story of an African nuisance (which lays its eggs in damp clothes drying on the line - thus the need to iron everything). 

Side note: does anyone remember how blond Eliza's hair used to be? I keep telling David that Miles used to be blond when he was a baby, and that upon returning to the States everyone commented on how dark his hair became. (Can someone back me up?)

Resilience

Today at the gym I go to regularly, there was a small gathering ‘round the corner bar to say good-bye to an employee. The gym is one room - there’s an exercise floor lined with mirrors on one end, weights in the middle, and the bar in the corner where tea, nutty muffins, salads and sandwiches are sold. Listening to the good-bye speech of the owner (who looks a lot like my sister-in-law Tracy), I started to get tears in my eyes even though I hardly know the woman leaving. She’s moving to Australia so her children will earn residency and be able to attend college there. There’s no quality university in the country, so most college-age kids leave. It’s likely it will be a permanent move for this family that has lived for generations in Zimbabwe. These kinds of moves are typical and have been especially prevalent during the last ten years or so when economic and political uncertainty has been so overwhelming.

There are a lot more white Zimbos in Harare than I expected. It's something I haven't experienced before: a significant population of white people in Africa who call it their home (unless Lebanese in Sierra Leone count). I can’t count the number of people I’ve met who were kicked off their farms and who now are reinventing their lives. When a farm was taken over, it was often at gunpoint, and families lost a lot: their possessions, their house, their livelihood, and all the land they’d developed and invested in over the years. As I get to know people, I feel how they have been through something traumatic and have reached deeper into themselves. They're extremely hardy, but you can see the toll the stress has taken. And still they're extremely positive and warm and have a stellar sense of humor.

As usual, my vague expectations of a new country have been scrambled somewhat. I didn’t come here expecting to have a very sympathetic view of the white Zimbabwean farmers. But of course, people are people wherever you go. It’s easy to feel sympathetic when you meet lovely genuine people, and then you see how they've suffered. It’s all very humbling.... my moving-around-life…. What do I know of suffering and survival? How easy has my life been? How lucky am I?

First Impressions

Although the move and settling-in are challenges are stressful, we are all excited and feeling positive about our choice to make a life here. The climate and nature are gorgeous, the people friendly (both international and local), the aid scene apparently energized and growing, and the surrounding area has a lot to explore.

I felt giddy even at the Johannesburg airport. It was much more developed than Amman or Doha’s airports: lots of stores with safari camping gear and the usual African souvenirs: carved wooden masks, statues of elephants and rhinos, zebra skins, clothes with tribal and animal prints, pith helmets and khaki vests with countless pockets. This compared to Amman/Doha with tiny gold painted glass tea sets, elegantly embroidered head scarves and black floor length robes, and framed golden Arabic calligraphy of scripture from the Quran. The airport was of the high-ceiling, glass and steel frame enclosed design, and restaurants jutted out into the parking lots of 747s. We were probably more excited by the real English breakfast with delicious bacon (hello pork!). Instead of the usual young guy serving us in the restaurant, a middle-aged local woman waited on us. Seeing women in areas of work that I haven’t seen them in for the last 5 years in the Muslim world has been surprisingly refreshing. It makes me feel more relaxed to see women drivers, women bagging groceries, women waitresses and hotel managers. Because that used to be me—I used to work jobs that my many of my Jordanian and Sudanese friends could only imagine very down-and-out women doing. Yet seeing these women reminds me that I used to feel like I could do anything, and that is a freedom worth having. While there are advantages to the dignity, respect and honor that are important in Arab cultures, there are also advantages to just be taken for yourself and to be free to make something of yourself without worrying about how it might have a negative impact on one’s own (or one’s family’s) reputation.

Granted, these are first impressions. Still, I always remember vividly those first moments upon arriving somewhere. How can I forget that I had to be careful not to shake hands with the guy who picked us up at the airport in Jordan because despite his being a really nice guy who is well educated and fluent in four languages, he’s a devout Muslim who practices “not touching women.” In that first drive into town I was highly irritated that I had to monitor my behavior and that I had to worry when I accidentally grabbed his arm to stop him from giving something to the kids. He respects me, but he will be defiled by shaking my hand? After a while, one gets to sort of understanding these things. In a way, he’s showing me respect. It’s the same reason why a (male) cashier will put the change on the counter instead of in a woman’s hand. Same goes for eye contact. That stuff I didn’t like getting used to. Like thinking twice about a man making eye contact with me… What kind of woman did he think I was? Another loose Western woman?

In Harare, the sky was overcast when we arrived but the clouds were far away. I sensed the altitude from the depth of the sky and lightness of air. While David checked into the Bronte’ hotel, the kids and I explored the garden. There was a small fish pond in the middle of a green lawn. Around the perimeter were countless varieties of plants and trees. After years of desert and rock, the diversity of the nature was overwhelming – leaves of all sizes, shapes, colors and textures, sticking out in every direction. I felt like I was in a Matise (?). The hotel was white with dark wooden door and window frames. The rooms were off open air brick passageways that link to the garden patios under the huge jarcanda and cactus trees. Dozens of the locally made statues dot the gardens. There’s one of a mother swinging her daughter playfully that’s on our way to the room that Eliza likes.

...more later

Moving On

I keep getting asked: are you excited about the move? Are you ready? Are you looking forward to your new life in Zimbabwe?

Life as it is has not allowed my mind much time to consider these things. The end of my work is like a tsunami, everything thought or read or discussed accumulating into a thick wall, pushing forward, consuming everything else. I leave the house before the kids are ready, come home in the darkness when they're already back in their pajamas. I wish I had more to show for all the hours I put in. It's slow, but I am past the biggest procrastination station, full steam ahead for the next six days. Driving me is the real desire for product and the letting go.

Next are the logistics for leaving: material and personal. Sorting out the household: give away (what to whom), sell, pack the bags to take on the flight, pack the bag to ship, arrange to have other things professionally wrapped and sent. Spend time with people: one-on-one, in couples, a tea party for Eliza's friends, an early German Christmas party. Buy things native for people that they will not think too odd to utilize. DHL them to the States for mom to wrap as our xmas gifts in absentia. Meet with teachers for a preschool semester summary. Make skype phone calls in anticipation that we will not have a good enough connection in Harare. Buy children's toothpaste and other items we imagine we might not find there.

Then I'm hoping there will be time for reflection. Two years is long enough to expect you might know something about a place, if only a stronger feeling of it than when you arrived. It's also good-bye to the Arab world which we've lived in for most of the last five years (Alhamdaleila!). It's not that I've got real problems with the place. I'm just looking forward to seeing how my life will be different in a non-majority Muslim area...and to seeing something other than marble, stone, sand and thorny bushes they call "trees" here.

The Change That's Coming

From THIS to THIS in roughly six weeks. Wishing soooooooo much I could focus on the family's transition instead of being overwhelmingly busy at work. Am thankful we have the additional income to help with the move though.

Birthday Reflections

Only three years ago I was hugely pregnant and waiting for my husband to leave Sudan to meet me in Chattanooga so we could have this baby. I think D & I were separated then for almost two months. He sent me flowers for my birthday.

I was going to write that it sure doesn't seem like three years since we left Sudan, but it hasn't been...(hello, memory). After Eliza was born, we moved back to Khartoum after Christmas to spend another year...well, 8 months. We came back for Sara & Brandon's wedding in September and stayed until Christmas again. After New Year, we moved to Jordan. And before we reach Christmas this year, we'll have moved on again, this time to Zimbabwe.

So that's life at 38.

Jordan went by very quickly. But it still will have been two full years, complete with visits from family who we've never had visit us abroad before. And that was a real treat.

There are many wonderful things about our coming life in Harare that we're anticipating. So I am excited about it and looking forward to it. It's the distance and potentially greater disconnect that are my only concerns. Flights there will be longer and more expensive. The internet connection will be slower. But we will (hopefully) have a house that is inviting and comfortable for guests, and I dream of hosting month-long visits from family and friends. That's really what I want from this life - to be able to share it.

Our remaining two months in Jordan will be busy with work at SC and preparing for our move that will be around the second week in December. In a week, ten Iraqi youth will start a training on making documentary fillms. This is a project that a few others and I created out of thin air over the summer, and it is exciting to think it will actually happen (cross your fingers). They will work with a director to make a short documentary about the lives of a few Iraqi kids and their experiences living as refugees in Jordan (and hopefully we'll have stories of kids in Lebanon, too). Then there's a workshop I'm organizing between SC staff in Lebanon and Jordan that will be a chance for "internal learning"...swapping their stories from the field, what their various educational programs have done well, "lessons learned," what they can borrow from each other, how they can coordinate programs better in the future, etc. That'll be in a month. I like the work. It's the best work I've had in a while, and I'm thankful (if a bit more stressed).

In the immediate future, we have a whole week off (Eid Holiday), then I have Eliza's third birthday to prepare for, then David will be gone for two weeks back to the States (in Chatt for 2 nights and one day to supervise the shipment). When he gets back, it'll be our first farewell party: Ben & Caroline are leaving. And that's when the good-byes start up again.

Jetlag

Another aspect of living on the other side of the world is readjusting to the time difference. Usually it's worse leaving the states to fly east. I struggle with sleep for at least a week. Amman is 7 hours ahead of the east coast. Most times I am wide awake at 4 a.m. and then crash hard in the afternoon. But jetlag is unpredictable, like this time, arriving at night after sleeping off and on for the whole 10 hour flight, getting to Amman late afternoon, falling asleep at 11 p.m. and waking at 2 a.m. (with the kids!), then sleeping from 8-3 in the afternoon.

I had more regular hours for a few days, helped by the need to go to work and take the kids to school. But I still felt sickly tired in the afternoons and would be energized by a second-wind late night. Then nearly a week after arriving in Amman, I fell asleep for a couple of hours putting the kids to sleep, woke up at 11 p.m. and then couldn't sleep all night. ALL night. This is extremely unusual for me. I read. I lay in bed thinking. I read. I lay in bed thinking. I felt completely awake, not tired at all. I took the kids to school then came home and slept all day, waking at 4:30 p.m. When I tried to wake at 12:30 and 1:30 and 2:30 that afternoon, it was almost nauseating. I felt like I was drugged. My whole body was heavy and tingling numb. Lying back down was exstacy. And I am a sucker for that feeling of lying back down and satisfying the need to sleep more.

After that binge nap, I still was exhausted and went to sleep at 11 that night and was up at 5:30 a.m. for a few quiet hours before the kids woke up. Yet I still feel kind of shaky, slightly nauseated, and light-headed, chilled, weak. My theory is that my usual ability to fall asleep or get back to sleep easily backfires with jetlag. It's like my sleep-o-meter is so strongly set that it rebels if I mess with it.

Exhaustion is like hunger: a sickening, disorienting, undeniable, primal urge. And here we are in the midst of Ramadan, the month of fasting. I feel like I can somewhat relate.

The Farewell Party

Aid work requires moving around a lot, as do other international jobs. For family-type positions, it's usually a 2-5 year post. I suppose fresh blood is needed: avoiding complacency or "burn-out." Expats are expected to need a break to return home.  

But we don't usually go home for long, like a lot of other families who find themselves choosing to stay in the expat world. It's a way of life, a sub-culture between cultures. And it's those vagabonds, the mixed-up misfits from all over who make up this expat community, that are the draw for me as much as the work or the stimulation of a new country and its people. For the socialite in me, I can't get enough of hearing about their varied lives, and lucky me when I find myself becoming friends with some of them.

Like any group of outsiders, we gravitate towards each other. We need each other, and we know where to find each other. From a family perspective, it's about housing, schools, shopping, doctors...we don't have much time to figure it all out. It's a networking frenzy, and out of it some key contacts develop into friendships. No one is there long enough to forget the early months of being so alone and unknowing and overwhelmed. We introduce ourselves to the newbies, invite them along, and start explaining everything we think could possibly be helpful.

And this is a long introduction to get to the farewell party for Falastin and Adam, which was, if I may say so, a very nice party. Falastin was my Arabic teacher, my pilates coach, my car-pooling buddy, and my friend. Her daughters are the same age as my kids. She grew up in Nazarath, a Palestinian community controlled by the Israeli government. She used to work for an NGO that specialized in capturing and producing the Palestinian side of news stories. She risked her life for her work. She stood in front of loaded rifles pointed to her chest and told the man pointing it where he could put it. She also is extremely fashionable and has a most impressive collection of spike-heeled boots. Her husband is a Danish correspondent to the Middle East. After a year and a half of seeing them several times a week and talking to her nearly every day, they are moving to Copenhagen. 

That's the downside to this odd expat life. You jump feet first into friendships, and then suddenly someone has to move on. And as wonderfully appealing as the invites to visit friends around the world are, you know it's not going to be easy. Still, you have to be open to the possibility, to hope you have the chance to make it happen. You mark the leaving with a celebration, and you feel lucky to have known them at all. 

Bye for now, Falastin! 

Falastin's shot of me as I take the one above.

Falastin with Andrea (amazing cook, architect, founder of an NGO working 10+ years in Iraq, mother of two under 3, connoisseur of the finer things, from the forests of Bavaria--my well-organized, generous co-host & friend) 

Rikke (Danish), Johanna (Irish), Falastin (Palestinian), Mette (Danish), me (Chattanoogan)

   

Releasing our breath after sucking in for the show-your-pilates-belly body-by-Falastin shot.

Sharon (Sierra Leonian), Miriam (German), Kathryn (Texan)

David with Amar (in foreground), brother of Ghaith who is D's sister Bradley's husband. (whew! all that to say - we have the pleasure of having family in Amman!)

the beginning, off to a late start

The usual morning. Sipping coffee. Dressed for work. Trying to rush through my personal emails while Fe is outside with the children. I can hear her talking about how to take care of each other instead of fighting. Miles is conversing on a favorite topic: I am the biggest! I am bigger than Telmo. I am faster than you are. I am the winner!

No need to rush Miles to school. It's August. No need to rush to work. I'm part-time, after all. And I want to meet Thair who's coming to cut back the trees in the garden. This being Jordan, he's an hour late. 

Tardiness comes naturally to me though, and it's definitely a perk living abroad to have people be more understanding about it.

That said, most Jordanians seem to have higher expectations for punctuality than say Sudanese or Sierra Leonians. Infrastructural development makes it easier to get to places on time. Fewer real excuses.

So this is my first blog, naturally a bit late for a person who considers herself a writer of sorts.