I have often been accused of being addicted to coffee. My friends, years ago, threatened to host a massive "intervention", inviting my family along, until they realised that genetics played a major role, my mother suffering from a similar affliction. She would more than likely have driven the get-away car directly to the nearest Starbucks to order me a grande vanilla skim cappuccino - intravenous STAT!
So, after years of being harranged, imagine my relief when I came across the following quote this morning at my favourite Granada coffee shop: "El Café es la bebída que incita a pensar. Y cuando un pueblo empieza a pensar, resulta peligroso para tiranos y los enimigos de la libertad" (W.H. VccKers). Roughly translated, it says, "Coffee is the drink that incites/inspires one to think. And when a village begins to think, it is dangerous for tyrants and the enemies of liberty".
Finally, after years of friends trying to tie me fast to that metaphorical wagon of non-caffeinated moderation, I have found my justification. My love of for an extra large cup of steaming black goodness in the morning (afternoon and evening) is no normal addition. Don't you see? It is an addiction to freedom and liberty, to the struggle against the tyrants of this world! So, I say, "Pour me another glass of that dark roasted liberty and let the tyrants fall!
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Curvaceous Lady
I’ve signed myself up for a ten-day photography course in Thailand with Jonathan Taylor, one of the top photographers working in this region. Day one: The basics of composition. I’m being asked to find lines and curves and patterns of repetition that make a good composition. We get off the Skytrain and I begin my internal cheerleader monologue, trying to drown out the fear that I’m going to be a phenomenal flop: “You are a photographing genius! Your photos know no bounds!”
I spot a line of broken-down wooden structures lining a staircase. “Repetition” I think, “I’ve found it!” I do my best “I’m an arteeest” pose, crouching down to get that unforgettable angle … Nothing doing. The wooden repetition still just looks like rotting wood clumsily banged together. I start to get nervous. Jonathan gently suggests that I think smaller. Fixated with these planks, I walk up to one of the decrepit wooden things and try to think small - desperately searching for a line or curve. I spend the next 10 minutes obsessing over a nail in the wood. It’s a line! (This is NOT going well!)
I leave Jonathan to go and sit inside an air-conditioned mall while I search for inspiration. I begin to have an argument with the internal cheerleader … she was lying to me!
I round a bend and there it is, what I’ve been waiting for … a pile of bricks. What ensues is a ridiculous picture of me rummaging for 30 minutes among a pile of bricks, obsessed with the patters of 1’s and 2’s being repeated, trying to make the pile of bricks not look like … well, a pile of bricks. I eventually think I need to introduce Jonathan to this pile of bricks and proudly walk into one of Bangkok’s poshest malls, my black trousers stained orange. Giorgio Armani is shaking his head. “Come quickly … it’s astonishing!” Jonathan follows me patiently into the heat, but unbelievable, he seems less excited by my pile of bricks. I try pointing out the repetition of the numbers, the lines … It begins to dawn on me that I look like a mad woman and we’re only two hours into our ten days.
After some mini cakes at a posh little coffee shop, Jonathan takes me a few blocks away to a plaza lined with fantastic architecture. Here the whole concept of lines and curves finally begins to make sense, but Jonathan tells me that the police don’t like people taking photographs here. “Well,” I think, “The authorities be damned! I’ve got curves to capture and this day is not going as I had hoped!” I wonder off and begin snapping until a policeman comes and tells me to stop. I try my biggest, most charming, “Oh, come now dear sir” smile, but to no avail. We were waved off, but I had captured my first shot …
Sunday, October 22, 2006
“I miss the donkeys!” … A lesson on culture shock
Walking slowly down the cleanly buffed halls of the Georgetown Mall, I felt myself slowly drowning, gasping for breath, in a rising flood of merchandise, advertisements and messages. Scantily-clad posters of artificially manufactured, starved and busty Victoria’s Secret models, jewellery stores selling massive shiny rocks, bright neon lights, slogans and logos all assailed me – assaulting each of my senses.
And all I could think as my heart beat nervously in my chest and my brain struggled to process this absurd onslaught of messages was, “Help! Someone, please! Where are the donkeys? I just want the donkeys!” I was longing, inexplicably for the crowded, dusty streets of Kabul, where donkeys, money changers, crippled mine victims begging for “bakhshish” (charitable gifts of money) and man-pulled wooden carts all join in the chaos of rush-hour traffic. The chaos of an American mall was simply too much – too clean, too organized, too bright and too demanding.
I suppose my friend Chris was right when he said that culture shock is not so much the obvious differences. It is not my not needing to wear a scarf, for instance (though I did take a double take a few times on the way out of a house when I realized I was lacking my chadur). Instead, the more difficult culture shock involves one’s constant semi-conscious evaluation of and adjustments to unspoken norms, rules and behaviours.
Reverse culture shock, usually far more difficult and painful, is more like an old pair of jeans that no longer fit. Perhaps they have shrunk in the wash of time that has passed in one’s absence or perhaps one has grown too big for them. In either case, these norms and rules which once fit so perfectly are suddenly uncomfortable and unnatural, leaving one to suck in and pull tight so as not to be revealed as being totally naked and ill-equipped in one’s own “home” culture.
After five weeks away and having generally succeeded in pulling my Western jeans on, I have returned to Kabul and am again having to readjust. I am reminding myself again not to look men in the eye, not to laugh too loudly in public, to dress appropriately and to take time to ask the long series of questions about one’s health and family that make up a proper Afghan greeting. I am reacquainting myself with dust and dirt, with a few hours of municipal power daily, with cold showers and the challenges of transportation. My tongue is relearning its way around the Afghan language. And as much as some of these things leave me a little frustrated, I mostly find myself happy to be back. Not yet quite comfortable in these cultural clothes, but grateful to once again see the donkeys.
And all I could think as my heart beat nervously in my chest and my brain struggled to process this absurd onslaught of messages was, “Help! Someone, please! Where are the donkeys? I just want the donkeys!” I was longing, inexplicably for the crowded, dusty streets of Kabul, where donkeys, money changers, crippled mine victims begging for “bakhshish” (charitable gifts of money) and man-pulled wooden carts all join in the chaos of rush-hour traffic. The chaos of an American mall was simply too much – too clean, too organized, too bright and too demanding.
I suppose my friend Chris was right when he said that culture shock is not so much the obvious differences. It is not my not needing to wear a scarf, for instance (though I did take a double take a few times on the way out of a house when I realized I was lacking my chadur). Instead, the more difficult culture shock involves one’s constant semi-conscious evaluation of and adjustments to unspoken norms, rules and behaviours.
Reverse culture shock, usually far more difficult and painful, is more like an old pair of jeans that no longer fit. Perhaps they have shrunk in the wash of time that has passed in one’s absence or perhaps one has grown too big for them. In either case, these norms and rules which once fit so perfectly are suddenly uncomfortable and unnatural, leaving one to suck in and pull tight so as not to be revealed as being totally naked and ill-equipped in one’s own “home” culture.
After five weeks away and having generally succeeded in pulling my Western jeans on, I have returned to Kabul and am again having to readjust. I am reminding myself again not to look men in the eye, not to laugh too loudly in public, to dress appropriately and to take time to ask the long series of questions about one’s health and family that make up a proper Afghan greeting. I am reacquainting myself with dust and dirt, with a few hours of municipal power daily, with cold showers and the challenges of transportation. My tongue is relearning its way around the Afghan language. And as much as some of these things leave me a little frustrated, I mostly find myself happy to be back. Not yet quite comfortable in these cultural clothes, but grateful to once again see the donkeys.
The NGO Chaos Theory
“It seems like NGO workers are constantly followed by a certain amount of chaos.”
These were the words of an almost perfect stranger, a friend of a friend who had graciously offered me his sofa in Dubai when I had, in desperation, contacted him less than twenty-four hours earlier to ask if I could stay the night. This conclusion, I recognised, had largely been formed through years of experiences with our mutual friend, a fellow Kabul-based NGO type. Yet, somehow, through our first conversation this man, who knew almost nothing about me, had managed to confirm for himself this statement. I sat there wondering whether to be insulted or convicted. Surely I am not followed by chaos … am I?
Perhaps he had reason for his statement. After all, I had just shared with him the story of how it was that I had come to sit cross-legged on his living room floor – a story that included airport strikes, cancelled and delayed flights, plane malfunctions, international calls failing to go through, totally booked hotel rooms in both London and Dubai, taxi drivers getting me lost and a rather dodgy promise of a seat on the flight to Kabul the next day. I hadn’t even mentioned my having booked a rental car at the wrong airport in Washington, DC earlier in my holiday.
“Chaos?” I thought. “I deny it!”
No, just a day in the life of a NGO worker – one who functions in a world where Murphy’s Law rules, a world where complications will always occur at the most inconvenient times and will find the most amusing solutions and a world where laughter and patience are essential tools should one not wish to find their next trip involving a straight jacket and padded walls. I’m sure this is thoroughly normal.
Alas, all this “chaos” did not meet my mother’s prediction of my meeting a tall, dark and handsome number on the connecting flight. I had to settle for several offers by airport staff – the first to sell me a pack of gum for the bargain price of one million Euros with the Granada Airport barman included, the second by a car rental agent at Gatwick to help me book a hotel room for two instead of one (wink wink), and yet another by the passport check man who lamented at what a shame it was I was travelling alone. I suppose this is better than the Afghan passport and baggage checking staff who always feel it is absolutely necessary to know my marital status. The last time I was asked by the Kabul passport checking official first, where I was travelling to and then whether my husband was there, I decided that “there” was a general enough term and said yes. I certainly hope he’s out “there” somewhere. I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the next chaotic travel experience to find out where.
These were the words of an almost perfect stranger, a friend of a friend who had graciously offered me his sofa in Dubai when I had, in desperation, contacted him less than twenty-four hours earlier to ask if I could stay the night. This conclusion, I recognised, had largely been formed through years of experiences with our mutual friend, a fellow Kabul-based NGO type. Yet, somehow, through our first conversation this man, who knew almost nothing about me, had managed to confirm for himself this statement. I sat there wondering whether to be insulted or convicted. Surely I am not followed by chaos … am I?
Perhaps he had reason for his statement. After all, I had just shared with him the story of how it was that I had come to sit cross-legged on his living room floor – a story that included airport strikes, cancelled and delayed flights, plane malfunctions, international calls failing to go through, totally booked hotel rooms in both London and Dubai, taxi drivers getting me lost and a rather dodgy promise of a seat on the flight to Kabul the next day. I hadn’t even mentioned my having booked a rental car at the wrong airport in Washington, DC earlier in my holiday.
“Chaos?” I thought. “I deny it!”
No, just a day in the life of a NGO worker – one who functions in a world where Murphy’s Law rules, a world where complications will always occur at the most inconvenient times and will find the most amusing solutions and a world where laughter and patience are essential tools should one not wish to find their next trip involving a straight jacket and padded walls. I’m sure this is thoroughly normal.
Alas, all this “chaos” did not meet my mother’s prediction of my meeting a tall, dark and handsome number on the connecting flight. I had to settle for several offers by airport staff – the first to sell me a pack of gum for the bargain price of one million Euros with the Granada Airport barman included, the second by a car rental agent at Gatwick to help me book a hotel room for two instead of one (wink wink), and yet another by the passport check man who lamented at what a shame it was I was travelling alone. I suppose this is better than the Afghan passport and baggage checking staff who always feel it is absolutely necessary to know my marital status. The last time I was asked by the Kabul passport checking official first, where I was travelling to and then whether my husband was there, I decided that “there” was a general enough term and said yes. I certainly hope he’s out “there” somewhere. I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the next chaotic travel experience to find out where.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Custard Mouse ... Mouse Custard
My friend Peter and I went out to a local Indian restaurant about a week ago to have dinner before he left for home-leave in Australia. After a wonderful meal, we called the waiter over to inquire about desert options. We were politely informed that they were serving two deserts. When we didn’t recognize either by its name, we asked the waiter to describe them. The explanation came exactly as follows:
“The first is custard mouse. The second is mouse-custard.”
I worked hard to stifle a sudden burst of laughter. I was convinced that I must have misheard the waiter and so I apologetically for the explanation again. The waiter’s face was earnest as he again politely informed me that the, “The first is custard mouse. The second is mouse custard.”
Still thoroughly confused and finding it near impossible to not roar with laughter, I asked, “What’s the difference?”
The waiter managed to look only slightly peeved and explained a third time, “The first is custard mouse. The second is mouse custard.”
Realizing that we were clearly not getting anywhere with this conversation, Peter and I thought it best to consult the menu. We noted three options listed with their traditional Indian names and asked the waiter which desert was which. Pointing to the first item, the waiter said, “This one here is the custard mouse.” Finally feeling as though we were making some progress, I asked which item the mouse custard was. Again, the waiter pointed to the first item.
I stole a brief glance at Peter, who at this stage had given up all efforts to control his laughter. We looked to the waiter and ordered one of each, figuring that this way we would at least assuage our curiosity. When the desert arrived it was indeed two different items, each of them absolutely delicious.
Ask me to describe them and what can I say? One was a custard mouse. The other was a mouse custard.
(On a fun side note, when I returned to the same restaurant two nights ago with a different friend I was asked if I would like to order a cappuccino, which I gladly accepted. The waiter returned a few minutes later and informed me that since they were very sorry, but since they had no ice cream, they could not serve me a cappuccino.)
“The first is custard mouse. The second is mouse-custard.”
I worked hard to stifle a sudden burst of laughter. I was convinced that I must have misheard the waiter and so I apologetically for the explanation again. The waiter’s face was earnest as he again politely informed me that the, “The first is custard mouse. The second is mouse custard.”
Still thoroughly confused and finding it near impossible to not roar with laughter, I asked, “What’s the difference?”
The waiter managed to look only slightly peeved and explained a third time, “The first is custard mouse. The second is mouse custard.”
Realizing that we were clearly not getting anywhere with this conversation, Peter and I thought it best to consult the menu. We noted three options listed with their traditional Indian names and asked the waiter which desert was which. Pointing to the first item, the waiter said, “This one here is the custard mouse.” Finally feeling as though we were making some progress, I asked which item the mouse custard was. Again, the waiter pointed to the first item.
I stole a brief glance at Peter, who at this stage had given up all efforts to control his laughter. We looked to the waiter and ordered one of each, figuring that this way we would at least assuage our curiosity. When the desert arrived it was indeed two different items, each of them absolutely delicious.
Ask me to describe them and what can I say? One was a custard mouse. The other was a mouse custard.
(On a fun side note, when I returned to the same restaurant two nights ago with a different friend I was asked if I would like to order a cappuccino, which I gladly accepted. The waiter returned a few minutes later and informed me that since they were very sorry, but since they had no ice cream, they could not serve me a cappuccino.)
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Lying on the Beach in Kabul
Exercise is a great challenge here as security greatly constricts the amount of free movement anyone can get. Before leaving Boston, I heard from my father about a yoga class that a few of his colleagues attend each week. Not ever really having taken yoga before, but figuring it could constitute yet another part of this grand new adventure, I made a point of investigating soon after my arrival and discovered there was a class on Monday evening.
The amusements started a third of the way through the class when the electricity suddenly began having what I can only describe as a sort of manic-depressive episode of on-off-on-off again flickers, finally leaving us in utter darkness. I was already beginning to suspect that the instructor was out to bend my body into positions it was never meant to take on. The lights going out only meant that I was left to bend in response to auditory commands with no visuals to follow at all. It was like a strange game of Twister without the help of knowing where the red dot is.
The instructor’s commands made the class all the more entertaining. She would say things like, “Now imagine yourself getting bigger. You’re taking up more room.” And so I would try to imagine myself taking up more room, only to realize that the whole point of taking these classes was so that I might lose some weight and take up less room.
When it came time for our relaxation exercises at the end of the class, I almost couldn’t contain the giggles. Despite my strategic position next to the stove, the classroom had been freezing all night. In preparation to unwind, the instructor told us to put on all the warm things we had. I fumbled around in the dark and managed to locate my socks, sweater, coat and shawl, which I duly wrapped tightly around me. I lay on my back, closed my eyes and prepared to become totally relaxed.
The instructor’s instructions came, “Relax your neck, your shoulders, your legs.” I tried to ease the tension and avoid the urge to shiver.
“Now imagine that you’re lying on a beach in the sun. You can feel the warmth of the sun on your face.” Struggling to keep my toes from becoming stiff with cold, all I could think was, “Lady, my imagination just cannot work that hard!”
“Now, breathe in deeply.” I inhaled deeply and almost chocked from a lung-full of diesel fumes coming from the stove. This yoga thing just cannot be good for you!
Finally, if the class hadn’t provided reason enough to laugh, through the silence I heard the soft rhythm of a man snoring. I thought, “Perhaps he found the beach.”
The amusements started a third of the way through the class when the electricity suddenly began having what I can only describe as a sort of manic-depressive episode of on-off-on-off again flickers, finally leaving us in utter darkness. I was already beginning to suspect that the instructor was out to bend my body into positions it was never meant to take on. The lights going out only meant that I was left to bend in response to auditory commands with no visuals to follow at all. It was like a strange game of Twister without the help of knowing where the red dot is.
The instructor’s commands made the class all the more entertaining. She would say things like, “Now imagine yourself getting bigger. You’re taking up more room.” And so I would try to imagine myself taking up more room, only to realize that the whole point of taking these classes was so that I might lose some weight and take up less room.
When it came time for our relaxation exercises at the end of the class, I almost couldn’t contain the giggles. Despite my strategic position next to the stove, the classroom had been freezing all night. In preparation to unwind, the instructor told us to put on all the warm things we had. I fumbled around in the dark and managed to locate my socks, sweater, coat and shawl, which I duly wrapped tightly around me. I lay on my back, closed my eyes and prepared to become totally relaxed.
The instructor’s instructions came, “Relax your neck, your shoulders, your legs.” I tried to ease the tension and avoid the urge to shiver.
“Now imagine that you’re lying on a beach in the sun. You can feel the warmth of the sun on your face.” Struggling to keep my toes from becoming stiff with cold, all I could think was, “Lady, my imagination just cannot work that hard!”
“Now, breathe in deeply.” I inhaled deeply and almost chocked from a lung-full of diesel fumes coming from the stove. This yoga thing just cannot be good for you!
Finally, if the class hadn’t provided reason enough to laugh, through the silence I heard the soft rhythm of a man snoring. I thought, “Perhaps he found the beach.”
Explosions in Kabul
I should immediately apologize for this title as it really is unfair, but I just couldn’t think of a better one. These are not the kind of explosions that one might expect here, at least not if you’re new to the country.
On Sunday afternoon, as the snow began falling heavily all over Kabul, the heater in my bedroom stopped functioning. Dad and I tried hard to rectify the situation that evening, but to no avail. I threw on an extra blanket, filled my hot-water bottle and pulled on fleece socks, determined not to let a cold Afghan night get the better of me so early in my time here.
I spent the next day working out of Dad’s room, which was considerably warmer. When a guard, who my mother nicknamed Pedro after a good Spanish friend to whom he bears a striking resemblance, came in to fill the diesel tank on Dad’s heater. Trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to remember the word “bokhari” (heater), I tried to indicate to him that my stove had gone out and would not start. I quickly resorted to silly “come” hand gestures and got him to follow me into my bedroom.
“Oh, stop!” said Pedro upon seeing my heater.
“Yes, stop!” I replied, making more funny gestures, this time of shivering. (Now we’re communicating!)
I left him to mess with the heater and returned to the heat of my father’s room. A few minutes later Pedro entered the room again. “Miss, Stop!” I gave him a puzzled look and followed him to my bedroom. A miracle had occurred! Somehow he had managed to get the thing started again.
“You got it started!” I said with real glee.
“Yes. Start!” he said with a smile.
So where’s the explosion you ask? Well, just wait …
I returned to my father’s room to finish some emails and leave my room to heat up, when I had a sudden, strange urge to check on the stove. I got up and walked across the hall to my room. Just as I opened the door, I heard a great “WHOOOSH!” sound as the flames went shooting out. The flames then retracted momentarily before another great orange WHOOSH.
Only knowing about three Dari words so far and none of them amounting to anything approaching a frantic, “HELP, THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BURN DOWN!!!” I resorted to calling down a very dignified, British, “Excuse me?” The son of someone who works in the house and happens to know a little English emerged from the kitchen and seemed to become quickly confused by this strange foreign woman, looking very frightened and saying, “Come! Please, something’s happening!”
As he walked into my mini-combustion center he let out a startled “Oh!” and ran over to the stove, turning some knob and making the flames come down to a restful flicker. He turned to me, still looking rather shocked, and said, “Actually, very dangerous!” All I could do was let out a nervous laugh and repeat over and over again the word, “Tashakur” (thank you).
I’m sure this isn’t quite the kind of danger we were all anticipating, but I can now say I’ve experienced one explosion here in Kabul.
On Sunday afternoon, as the snow began falling heavily all over Kabul, the heater in my bedroom stopped functioning. Dad and I tried hard to rectify the situation that evening, but to no avail. I threw on an extra blanket, filled my hot-water bottle and pulled on fleece socks, determined not to let a cold Afghan night get the better of me so early in my time here.
I spent the next day working out of Dad’s room, which was considerably warmer. When a guard, who my mother nicknamed Pedro after a good Spanish friend to whom he bears a striking resemblance, came in to fill the diesel tank on Dad’s heater. Trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to remember the word “bokhari” (heater), I tried to indicate to him that my stove had gone out and would not start. I quickly resorted to silly “come” hand gestures and got him to follow me into my bedroom.
“Oh, stop!” said Pedro upon seeing my heater.
“Yes, stop!” I replied, making more funny gestures, this time of shivering. (Now we’re communicating!)
I left him to mess with the heater and returned to the heat of my father’s room. A few minutes later Pedro entered the room again. “Miss, Stop!” I gave him a puzzled look and followed him to my bedroom. A miracle had occurred! Somehow he had managed to get the thing started again.
“You got it started!” I said with real glee.
“Yes. Start!” he said with a smile.
So where’s the explosion you ask? Well, just wait …
I returned to my father’s room to finish some emails and leave my room to heat up, when I had a sudden, strange urge to check on the stove. I got up and walked across the hall to my room. Just as I opened the door, I heard a great “WHOOOSH!” sound as the flames went shooting out. The flames then retracted momentarily before another great orange WHOOSH.
Only knowing about three Dari words so far and none of them amounting to anything approaching a frantic, “HELP, THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BURN DOWN!!!” I resorted to calling down a very dignified, British, “Excuse me?” The son of someone who works in the house and happens to know a little English emerged from the kitchen and seemed to become quickly confused by this strange foreign woman, looking very frightened and saying, “Come! Please, something’s happening!”
As he walked into my mini-combustion center he let out a startled “Oh!” and ran over to the stove, turning some knob and making the flames come down to a restful flicker. He turned to me, still looking rather shocked, and said, “Actually, very dangerous!” All I could do was let out a nervous laugh and repeat over and over again the word, “Tashakur” (thank you).
I’m sure this isn’t quite the kind of danger we were all anticipating, but I can now say I’ve experienced one explosion here in Kabul.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
