A religious experience

Getting up at 4:50 AM to perform my religious duties is not one of my hobbies, especially because I haven't got a religion. However, this morning, I did. Lalibela is the center of Ethiopian orthodoxism, and especially known for its churches carved out of rock. The Sunday morning mass was therefor not to be missed. Walking to church was an experience in itself: in the dark of the night, white figures seemed to be coming from every direction, quietly hurrying over Lalibela's unpaved and hilly roads towards the church. Lalibelians like to take shortcuts from the official road, and expect foreigners to do the same. So, we climed a steep rock in the pitch dark, and glided over mud, which had become extra slippery after yesterday's thunderstorm. Not surprisingly, at some point, my foot ended up in a pool. Oh well, suffering and Christianity go hand in hand, I guess. We did manage to get to church and find our guide, who helped us find our way into church. Just outside the church, chanting and drums added to the already mystic atmosphere. We took off our shoes, and the women covered their head before entering. These rules are not the only similarities with entering a mosque: also in this church, there was a carpet, but no chairs, and men and women sit apart (though parallel, not one behind the other). Together with our guide and the French couple we've befriended, we sat down in the men's section. The fact that we were allowed in during service, was because they hoped to inspire tourist in such extent that they would convert. In my case, I would call that an ambitious plan. It felt very special to be there, although we didn't understand a word of it. The whole mass took two hours, which was more than enough time to conclude that the floor carpet was thin, and the church floor hard and uneven. Afterwards, the guide happily told me that that was on purpose, to make churchgoers feel Jesus Christ more (or feel his suffering, perhaps, in which case it certainly worked). The churches also employ other ways to increase religious devotion among believers: around St. George church, famous for being carved in the shape of a cross, the rocks contain several holes, which used to be filled with dead people. Now, there is only one left. Standing staring at a pair of dried-in feet, the guide told us that the tourist office had thought it better that the rest of the bodies were removed. He seemed sorry for it. The idea behind littering the surroundings of the church with dead bodies is that it will remind people about their mortality, and therefor about the fact that how pleasant the hereafter will be, is determined by one's acts and behaviour in the earthly life. Speaking of the earthly life, after mass we returned to our hotel room, sat in the sun on our private balcony and took a small nap in the big bed. We then went for lunch in a somewhat remote, but architecturally fascinating restaurant. We spent several hours there, drinking local wine and enjoying the most magnificant view I have ever seen. From the hilltop restaurant, we had a 360 degree mountain view. The sun and clouds made for spectacular colours on the hills. Ethiopian mass might not have converted me, but seeing that view was as close as I will ever come to a religious experience.

Le roi est mort

Having lived in both Turkey and Burkina Faso, I am used to waking up in the middle of the night from the call for prayer from a mosque. Therefore, when I woke up last night at 4AM from the typical loud mumbling, I assumed it to be one of the mosques in this predominantly Ethiopian-orthodox country, and waited for it to end again. But it didn't. It didn't stop after I had gotten up to get my earplugs (which didn't help much), and it didn't end after I used the bathroom, and it didn't end when the sun came up, and it didn't end when I went out to get bread. About two weeks ago, the prime-minister of Ethiopia died, and Ethiopians have been actively mourning ever since. In Bahir Dar, we saw a large procession of women, wearing white scarves and carrying candles, holding a large picture of the prime-minister. His picture appears everywhere, and Ethiopian television has been talking about nothing else ever since we got here. The whole mourning even seems to have its own theme song, which is played everywhere. Today, we learned, would be a big day: it is the day of the funeral. Walking towards the stall where I tried to mimic 'bread', 'no, bread', 'no, BREAD', 'no, not that fried thing', 'no, not that fried thing either, and 'yes, that one, three please' in respective order, I saw a large assembly of people, all wearing white and praying heavily in and around the church. The loud mumbling seemed to come out of the church. I had been blaming the wrong religious group for disturbing my nightly peace. Although... For this special occasion, the orthodox church and the mosque might have been cooperating in trying to make as much noise as possible. I was therefore happy to leave the town of Gonder for a few hours, for a hike in the mountains. Naively, I presumed our guide would take us on another tourist walking tours through alpine hills. Not so. We glided through the mud, had bushes sweaping in our face, and even climbed down a trickle. The climb took us to some 3200 meter high places, and we had fantastic views, and even saw several groups of baboons. I was knackered afterwards. The drive back to Gonder held another surprise: our van got completely stuck in a procession of villagers, again wearing white. I wasn't sure why they were in the middle of nowhere blocking the road, but it was very clear that they did not feel like stepping aside for our car. Quickly, our van was completely surrounded by people. And those people decided to use the situation to study us, a strange species of humankind, more closely. I felt a bit uncomfortable in that car, with four women staring at me (and clearly, they did not feel at all uncomfortable by that). I think that at some point they were inspecting my armpit. Judging on their tone of voice, they did not completely approve. Coming back in Gonder, the mumbling had ceased, thank god. Life seemed to have returned to normal. We went to the busstation to buy a ticket for tomorrow's bus to Axum, only to find out that the bus will probably not leave, because the road is bad. But that will be decided on tomorrow, so if we please want to show up at 5AM at the busstation with our luggage? Sure, why not. After that disappointment, we tried to regain some of our strength, and breath, in a hotel restaurant, where a huge screen was showing the funeral of the prime-minister. We wondered what on earth the six reporters attending the funeral could possibly still be reporting after hours and hours of broadcasting the ceremony. Probably some endless variations of what the receptionist at our hotel, who barely speaks any English, answered me rapidly when I asked him about the chanting for the prime minister: 'he was a good prime minister, a good Ethiopian and a good African.' I'm sure. The whole thing reminds me a bit of something I learned in West Africa, namely that a lot of Africans who have had little education have difficulty distinguishing between the traditional system with an absolute king and village chiefs, and modern-day democracy. And now the king died, and it is not clear what will happen next. Le roi est mort; vive le roi!

The real Africa

So there we are. Ethiopia. I thought I might try the other end of Africa, after several visits to the western part of the continent. The whole idea started when I was eating out with a friend at an Ethiopean restaurant in Amsterdam, and asked him if he had any good advice on where to go for the summer holidays. 'Why not try Ethiopia', he said, and here I am. Of course I compare Ethiopia to West Africa. From the happy West African muslims (who celebrate the end of Ramadan with some strong liquor) to the serious, Ethiopian-orthodox Christians of Ethiopia. Ethiopians seem rather calm, especially compared to the lively people I have met in the Sahel countries. Here, I can walk several blocks without anyone starting to talk to me, or shout at me, or throw something in my face which I'm supposed to buy. It's a bliss, but it's also a bit, well, can I use the word boring? For those who do feel they should talk to us, follow us around and irritate us, I have developed a new technique to get rid of them: stand still, face them, look them in the eye, thank them, and give them a firm handshake. It works wonderfully well. Today, we went on a trip to the Blue Nile falls, which are spectacular, especially in the rainy season. Getting there included difficult negotiations with several middlemen (who walk around town, making offers to tourists, and then trying to get someone with a minibus to work along), which where settled on a good price only after I had stood still, faced him, thanked him and given him a firm handshake. Then he knew we were serious about refusing his initial offer. After negotiations, we were put in a minibus, together with two Sudanese tourists. Then, the bumpy ride on unsurfaced road began, which took as through several villages. People in those villages looked pretty much like what some would describe as 'real Africans': long, thin, wearing cloth around the shoulder and exposing their long legs, bear-footed, and carrying a long stick to get their colourful cows into the direction they want. The real Africa... The Bradt travel guide, written by Philip Briggs, says some interesting things on that, and I completely agree. What is the 'real Africa'? Is Addis Abeba (the capital town) less 'real' than the rural areas? Does foreign influence diminish the 'realness' of a place? Are Africans less real when they are educated, travel around the world, not surprised to see a white face, and in the possession of a smartphone? Does all those things make me less Dutch (well, I'm not in the possession of a smartphone, but all the other things)? Of course not. Seeing African villages is lovely, because it is so different a lifestyle than what we are used to, but it's not less 'real' than modern African life in larger cities. Well, that was what I was pondering about, during that bumpy ride in a minibus, which took somewhat longer than necessary, because we had to stop for cows on the road at several occasions. Their owner was probably distracted by his mobile phone.

Cocktails and a cup-er-tea

“Why would we talk about the weather? In summer, it’s hot, in winter, it’s cold. That’s it.” And that was all our Turkish class teacher was going to say about the subject. Turkish people apparently don’t talk about the weather. I cannot blame them: between my arrival in the beginning of August and, say, halfway September, the weather has consistently been 30 degrees, dry and sunny. Indeed, not really food for conversation.

Gradual change of season doesn’t exist here either. One day you’ll wake up to find that autumn has arrived. This happened to me a few days ago. I welcome the rain though, since there has been a growing layer of smog (or at least: brownish substance) hovering above town. It’s true that urban pollution makes for great sunsets (something to do with the sunlight hitting the pollution particles and being reflected, I guess), but it also makes one’s lungs go black and one’s nose go blocked. Therefore, it’s good that it rained, because that takes the pollution out of the air. On the other hand: not sure if it’s necessarily a good thing when the brownish substance comes down.

Since Ankara has a land climate, it has warm summers and cold winters. Therefore, weather can’t always be stable. At some point it must change. And it does. Overnight. They don’t do gradual change of season here: one day you’ll wake up, and suddenly summer has turned into autumn, as it did a few days ago.

The weather really invites to curl up in a chair with a warm cup-er-tea and some nice reading material on… violence against women, honour killings, or hate crime. Yes, the human rights portfolio is very interesting, but also a bit of a depressing one.

Luckily, work is not all about reading: it’s also about networking. I run to formal dinner, to reception, to social drink. I’ll speak English, French, and “show off” my baby-Turkish. I’ll get home with a stack of business cards. The other day, I went to a very nice dinner/reception at someone’s house/residence, to eat/network/drink/network/socialize/network. I spend hours chatting to diplomats and ngo’s, standing near the cocktail bar (which I only later discovered to be a cocktail bar – darn) and admiring a beautiful view over the biggest park in Ankara. When I had left the party and was waiting for a taxi, I thought I was off duty. But no: seconds before getting into the taxi, someone started interviewing me (‘Are you Swedish? – No, Dutch. –Do you work on human rights? –Yes. –Is X still working at the embassy? –No, she left. –Can I give you my business card then? –Alright.) and pressed a business card into my hand.

Yes, it’s all very glamorous, diplomatic life. The evenings, that is. In the morning, I just go back to my office with malfunctioning climate control, with my cup-er-tea and a report on gruesome human rights violations.

Gender issues and seating arrangements

Here in Ankara, I will try to avoid sitting next to a man in the bus. Not because anyone would hit me, stone me, fine me or throw me out of the bus – in this big city of a moderately Islamic country, none of that happens. But still, I try to be prudent, and I have noticed that women tend to sit next to women, and men next to men.

In more rural areas, the men-with-men-and-women-with-women-rule is more important. Coming from Beypazarı, my (platonic) male friend and I encountered no problems sitting next to each other. However, the only vacant seat in the bus, next to a Turkish lady, remained empty, even when there were more passengers than seats in the bus. This was because all the ‘extra’ passengers were men. Only when a woman entered the bus, the seat was taken: men sit with men, women with women.

I have read that this rule is even put down in law: apparently, unmarried couples are not allowed to sit next to each other. When my boyfriend came to visit me, I was a bit nervous that this would mean that I had to spend the seven hour bus drive from Ankara’s enormous bus terminal (in size and design comparable to a moderately large airport) to Denizlı next to someone else then him. Luckily, the rule is rarely enforced, so I could spend the journey next to him. It didn’t make the trip more comfortable, but it did make it much more pleasant and fun.

Booking the bus ticket was quite an adventure, though. Because of a miscommunication, my Turkish colleague, who would book the tickets online for me, booked a one-person ticket. When finding this out the day we were supposed to take the bus, I frantically tried to call the only bus company who still had some tickets left. They didn’t answer. In the end, I decided to jump into a taxi and visit their office, in a last, desperate attempt to arrange the tickets. Their ‘office’ was tiny, and had one guy behind one computer, and one phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, but was completely ignored by the guy nevertheless. I wondered how to explain what I wanted to this guy, who of course didn’t speak any English, but he was very cooperative: he invited me to take his seat behind the computer, and let me fill out the form myself. When I really didn’t understand what he was trying to say, I called my colleague, who could translate. ‘What did he say?’, I asked my colleague later on. ‘Oh, nothing. That you are very beautiful, yadiya, bladida’. I wouldn’t qualify that as ‘nothing’!

I did have to indicate whether when booking whether we were male or female. If I would have booked the ticket alone, the seat next to me would be reserved for ‘women only’, to make sure I would not end up next to an unknown man. Quite a service.

The point of going to Denizlı was that it is very close to Pamukkale, which is a lovely town next to natural mineral baths. It also contains the remains of an ancient Byzantine town, including an ancient swimming pool, in which one can still swim. We were keen on taking a refreshing plunge, after walking in the burning heat for hours and hours, but the water was actually very warm: 36 degrees. Swimming wasn’t possible either: because of all the ancient columns that were lying in the water, one could either spend his time climbing over them, or just lying down on one and relax. I choose the latter, obviously.

But, the boyfriend left, and my work started to take up so much of my time, that relaxing trips to cute little towns don’t seem to be an option anymore. Even my evenings are spend either in Turkish class, or having drinks / dinner at some network event. Friday evening, I went to my first work-related dinner. We had lovely food (including tofu, yay!) in a lovely house. It was quite a formal dinner, so, contrary to the seating plan in Turkish buses, we were supposed to sit man-woman-man-woman. After the dinner, when everybody else went home to release their babysitter from duty, a friend and I got into a taxi and hit town. In Ankara’s nightlife, no formalities apply, nor any prudence about man-woman relations.

Saturday, we went for more relaxation, smoking water pipe. I’m fervently anti-smoking, but I did want to try this water pipe once, and it was quite nice. It is much more relaxed (you can just leave it for a while) and much more social (you can smoke it with several people) than smoking cigarettes. It will never really be my thing though.

Saturday night ended in a lovely, atmospheric restaurant called Aylak Madam, in Karanfil sokak. They had paintings featuring women all over the place. I asked and got some of their placemats, which are really arty, to brighten up my white walls. They had flowery, second-hand lounging chairs, where I sat with my friend, drinking tea and discussing gender issues. When I went home again, happily clutching my placemats, I found the bus quite full. There were some vacant seats, but they were all next to men – I decided to continue my prudence, and just stand the whole way.

When I came home, I put up the placemats with paintings of women. Only now I noticed that the poster someone who had stayed in my room before me had left, was a poster announcing a women film festival. Women for women. Women with women. Being in this country for a while now, I am starting to really realize for the first time in my life how blessed I am to have grown up in a country where gender inequality is hardly an issue anymore. Well, hardly… Friday, I talked to a professor, who has specialized in gender and politics. When I talked about the situation in the Netherlands, I felt a bit ashamed. My own country is scoring very badly on women participation in the labour market, and the issue is almost a taboo. But still, I have rarely felt discriminated against in my own country. At least I can just sit down wherever I like in the Netherlands, without thinking. It would be nice if the rest of the world would follow suit.

Integration

Well, life has really started again. On Monday, I suddenly found myself in a traffic jam; something I hadn’t experienced yet in Ankara. The embassy is suddenly filled with people again, and also the rooms in the institute I’m staying in, are filling up. To celebrate this boom of liveliness, I’ve decided to organize a social drink. Many people complain that Ankara is not an interesting city, because there is not much to do here, so I figured it would be better to create my own events. I’ve invited about everyone I’ve met so far. So, tomorrow in the Golden pub: be there or be square.

And finally, Turkish language course started. The teacher is a nice, rather severe young woman, who speaks Turkish and only Turkish. I couldn’t help laughing when she made us repeat every letter of the alphabet at least three times aloud: “lè! Lè! Lè! - Mè! Mè! Mè! – Nè! Nè! nè!” We had a hard time practicing the difference between the c and the ç. “Tsè! Dzjè! Dchè! Tchè!”, we tried, but she was not easily pleased. After three hours, she let us go.

It’s good to start learning Turkish, because, despite my last blog, life would get a lot easier if I would just be able to communicate with the average Turk in the street. For example, I tried to get from the embassy to my language course with public transport today. Now, most public transport companies in large, modern cities (what Ankara definitely is) have WEBSITES on the IN-TER-NET. Such a spiffy gadget helps citizens to find there way around town with public transport, because it indicates which bus goes where, and/or offers an online plan-your-travel tool. Not in Ankara though. So, trying to get around by bus means hoping you made a lucky guess, and writing down bus numbers everywhere you go, to remember for next time.

I had never been from the embassy to this particular point in town, but I thought it shouldn’t be too difficult. I clearly thought wrong. Asking people for information is hard if you don’t speak Turkish, because nobody here speaks English. They are very kind and patient though, so I was quickly adopted by two Turkish ladies, who did their best asking bus drivers, but apparently none of the buses which came went to the place where I wanted to be. After twenty minutes, I suggested to the ladies that I would take a taxi, but they looked unhappy with that plan. After thirty minutes, I was afraid I would miss my language course, so I tried again: “I, taksi”, and this time they seemed to agree. They had given up on the bus as well.

On my way back from the language course, I actually found the bus to my house not far from the language center. I had beaten the bus company once more. It drove off just as I reached it, and I had to wait for 15 minutes for the next one. When I entered the bus, the ticket man, instead of silently taking my money and giving me a ticket, asked me something in Turkish. Once again, I didn’t understand. Normally, I would smile and look helplessly, but now I had had enough of the combination Turkish bus + Turkish language. So I just pointed to his ticket booklet indicating I wanted him to give me a ticket, and sat down. Integration: it takes two steps forward and one step back to get there.

Single words

I believe the use of full sentences is overrated. I manage perfectly with just shouting out a few words.

This last week has been Bayram holiday: the holiday to celebrate the end of Ramadan. All government buildings were closed in Turkey, but our embassy opened again on Wednesday. We were with a handful of people, which made the atmosphere quiet, but also nice and informal. Due to the fact that the receptionist and every logical replacement for him were on holiday, I managed the reception desk for a day. Of course, I don’t speak Turkish, but a friendly colleague had learned me to say ‘call tomorrow’ in Turkish. So, if all else failed, I just shouted ‘yarın ayarın’ through the phone, and hoped they would understand.

The Bayram holiday offered a good opportunity to finally see some more of the city. With a German friend who studies (and thus speaks!) Turkish, I went sightseeing: we visited the museum for Paintings and Sculptures, which has a nice collection and no logic at all behind the order of the paintings; we went to the ethnography museum, which shows nice costumes and pottery, and a lot of pictures of Atatürks funeral (his tomb used to be in this museum); we went to the Parliamentary museum, which lacked information on vital politically-historical events in Turkey, but did display the shoes and pens Atatürk used to wear and use; and we went to see the ruins of a big Roman bath, diplaying the ingenious system of floor heating in Roman times.

And when Ankara started to feel too small for us, we decided to take a minibus (dolmus) and look ahead. Finding a minibus to Beypazarı, a nice small town with Ottoman houses, reminded me of how I once decided to go from Tbilisi to Gori in Georgia. It was 2009 and I was alone, and curious to see Stalin’s birth town. Georgian is not written with Latin letters, so next to not speaking the language, I was also not able to read it. I knew three things: 1) the name of the busstation from where minibuses to Gori would leave; 2) the Georgian word for minibus and 3) the name of the town I wanted to go to: Gori. So, I got into a taxi, said the name of the busstation, and viola: I was dropped off there. It was big and hectic. Then I started walking around, in this place where really no one spoke English, and all I did was repeat all the time: ‘Gori. Minibus’. People pointed at all directions, and at some point someone tried to get me into the big (and expensive) bus for Gori. So I shook my head and said: ‘minibus. Gori’. Believe it or not, but I found the right minibus, and spent an agreeable day in the only town in the world where they believe Stalin was a really cool guy. So again, you see: a few words can bring you a long way.

But so, we went to Beypazarı. It was a lovely town, with very nice regional specialities, mainly made from carrots. They have carrot lokum (Turkish fruit) and carrot juice. And one of the main roundabouts in town has a really big statue of… a carrot. Gotta love those carrots. We went to a museum there, where they showed us a traditional painting technique, and we were even allowed to make our own painting. Although the expected tip was extravagant, it did provide us with a nice, hand-made souvenir. We ate in a lovely restaurant, where they served home-made baklava (hmm!), gözleme (a pancake with cheese or potato) and ayram (a salty yoghurt drink which Turks, and only Turks, love). Then, we climbed up through the old town, where people stared at us, to the former castle, and endulged in Turkey’s national pastime no. one: eating sunflower seeds.

Another trip with the minibus brought us to Kızılcahamam, another nice town. It is surrounded by mountains, like Ankara, but unlike Ankara, these mountains are actually green. We went to the national park to breath in some fresh mountain air. However, all we breathed in was the smell of barbecue. Apparently, national pastime no. 2 is barbecuing, and a national park is an excellent location for that (risk of fire, anyone?). We had a hard time passing all the picknick benches, where hundreds of families were enjoying their kebap. A lot of them wanted us to join them and taste their food.

But, so much for the fun: Bayram is over and a new political year is about to start. This Sunday I have been to the congress of the Kurdish political party. It was interesting to see a political congress in Turkey. It was huge, warm, and there was a lot of dancing and food involved. After listening for a few hours, my colleagues and I went home again by taxi. I pointed the taxi in the right direction through hand gestures, paid him, and then asked for the receipt: ‘fiche, lütfen’. Yes, 10 words or so. Really all you need.

Getting around

“I’m going home now. I want to do some sports tonight”, I told my colleague the other day. “Oh, are you walking home?”, he asked. I told him not to be ridiculous: my house is a 10 minute drive away from the embassy, but walking, it takes about 45 minutes.

Inspired by this, I actually did walk home the other day. It was a very long walk along a very uninspiring boulevard. Towards the end of the boulevard is some governmental building, which means the road is lined with high fences, warning signs displaying soldiers with weapons (probably saying something like “don’t take pictures here, or this guy will shoot you”), and, behind the fences, real-life soldiers behind concrete walls, eyeing into the world suspiciously from underneath an iron helmet. Then, I took a right, where there is a military compound. Again, the signs with the ready-to-shoot soldiers are there. And some flat buildings which look like they have been imported from the Soviet Union.

Towards the end, it gets better: the walk is now leading along embassies, and views of the bare mountains surrounding Ankara are very pretty, especially towards sunset.

So yes, it is doable, this walk. If you have time and the sun is shining (which it has been consistently doing the past three weeks), it is actually nice. I’m not so sure about the walk from my house to work though. Because that one is up hill. And walking up hill actually means walking at a very steep angle up hill. The hills are so steep here, that cars often don’t make it to the top - so no wonder my legs had a hard time carrying ME to the top at first. But: if you train hard and persistently (and involuntarily, in this case), it will pay off: I can now walk from the supermarket back home without being out of breath at the end.

I have been making quite some long, hilly walks the past few weeks, which was mainly caused by the fact that I had to choose between either walking or taking a taxi. Now, taxis are not very expensive, and taxi drivers are ridiculously reliable here. They always take the shortest way possible, and make lengthy apologies whenever they take a wrong turn, and readily lower the metered price because of that. I have often had to bargain with taxi drivers in other countries, but never because I insisted on paying the price on the meter, and they on me paying less than that.

But even though they are perfectly reliable, I grew tired of taking taxis all the time. But today, I finally, for the first time, managed to take a bus home from the city centre. Yes, it took me a while to figure out the bus system, but it’s not my fault: there are probably hundreds of buses, and nowhere is any information on which one to take. There is no clear website for this, and the only information available about a bus is its destination - and maybe, if you’re lucky, the neighbourhoods it crosses. A neighbourhood here, however, can take hours and hours to cross on foot, so you don’t want to risk ending up at the wrong side of it. Nevertheless, I found a bus from the centre to my home today, and took it. I got out in front of my supermarket, feeling like I had beaten the Turkish bus system; despite trying so hard to discourage me from using it, I had managed to use it in my advantage. And so I walked home, smiling and humming, walking up that hill like I was Julie Andrews in an Alpine setting. Ankara’s roads - they won’t get any prettier, but at least I know how to find my way along them.

Ain't got no - but I've got so many other things

They say it’s an ugly town. I actually quite like walking home in the evening and seeing the town spread out in the surrounding hills and valleys. Quietly surrounding town are the mountains, bare and desolate. At dusk, the valleys become misty, and while Ankara town becomes darker, the sun puts a last spotlight on the mountains. And yes, local architecture mainly comprises flat buildings, but at least they are all painted in different, bright colours. If you have to live in a building block, better make it a colourful one.

They say it’s a boring town. I have been quite enjoying myself so far. It probably helps that I didn’t expect much. “The key of happiness is low expectations”, as my boss likes to say. I have been walking around on the broad boulevards, I’ve checked out the buzz in Tunali street, I’ve dined in lovely, luxurious, quietly hip and happening Filistin street, and I have taken a stroll through the old citadel with it’s old, lovely, winding, hilly streets and hidden corners.

They say traffic is horrible here. Well, I’ve seen so much worse. True – I don’t actually participate in traffic. I just get into a cab and put my faith in the taxi driver. And alright, the local driving style is rude and self concerned, and waiting in front of a red light is unheard of, but still, it is nothing compared to Istanbul.

Ah yes, that’s another one: they say it ain’t no Istanbul. Well, they are right there. Ankara ain’t no Istanbul. It’s a fully grown town of its own, quiet but lively, with it’s own pretty charm.

The new nobody

A little over 24 hours after being dropped of at my new place of residence, I was being picked up again to go to my first expat party in Ankara.

Diplomats, especially the younger ones, are an interesting sort of people. They have ‘success’ written all over them. They have been picked from among the brightest of people for their jobs, are well educated, well paid and have social skills in abundance. You would hate them for it – if only they wouldn’t be so bloody nice. They take any new person into their midst and take care for him, take him to their parties, advice them on where to go, where to drink, where to dine, where to sport and where to take their holidays, and entertain them with interesting conversation on politics, culture, art – mixed with refreshing anecdotes and jokes.

One can either be intimidated by it, or try to join in the fun. I tried the latter, but was quickly revealed as being only a beginner in this world.
- ‘So, which countries have you lived in then?’, the nice Belgian guy with whom I was having an animated discussion on countries and cultures asked me.
- ‘Ehrm, the Netherlands. I’ve been to Burkina Faso for six months, and I once was in Italy for a while…
He himself, of course, had lived in various countries, amongst them Bosnia during the war. It was rather impressive.
- ‘So, how long will you be staying for?’, was another question. ‘One, two, three years’.
- ‘Ehrm, five months. Well… almost five months. I’ll be home again with Christmas’.
Or how about:
- ‘So you are the new who?’ As people come and go in the diplomatic world, it is normal to introduce oneself as ‘the new…’ to indicate who’s place you took at your embassy. At least I knew the answer to that one:
- ‘I’m the new nobody. I’m just unique’.

Head first

“You have an appointment at 11 tomorrow morning at the embassy”, the head of my department told me yesterday in the car. He had come to pick me up from Ankara airport. “But, so, you’ll officially start tomorrow? Or Monday?”

I had seen this coming. Diplomats, themselves fully accustomed to change of country, climate and culture, often expect the rest of the world to be of the same sort. They can arrive at 3am in a foreign country, and be happily at work already at 8:30am next morning. Of course, I have grown to be more flexible with these kind of changes over time, but I’m still a beginner compared to them. However, I decided it would be good to have a look at the embassy, and that I would start working a week earlier than originally planned.

And well, now I’m here, I better get started as soon as possible. When arriving yesterday, feeling tired, overheated and having a headache, I started wondering why I had gotten myself into this situation again: having to start anew. Digging into a new culture, facing language difficulties and cultural misunderstandings, finding new friends. Looking for a supermarket, a simcard, a means of transport. Finding out about dress and behavioural codes.

But then... Then I had a good night sleep, and I met nice people. Some spoke Turkish, some spoke English, some even Dutch. But they were all nice and smiley and patient. And I realised again the importance of forcing yourself out of your comfort zone every now and then. It does require investing some energy, but it has a big return on investment.

And I found a supermarket, which was good. I hadn’t eaten anything until 2pm today, which was a great display of solidarity with the fasting Muslim community, but not something I was planning to make a habit of. And there is even a Starbucks around the corner: there is nothing like big, capitalistic, global food chains to make one feel perfectly at home.

So. There we go. Head first. Like a real diplomate. Hoşçakal!

Adult Life

1.5 years after coming back from half a year in Burkina Faso, and a year after my little comeback trip to Africa, I find myself once again packing and preparing for a new adventure abroad.

Turkey – after West Africa, a longterm stay there seems like peanuts. They have roads, regulations, and budget airlines connecting to the Netherlands. There are proper shopping malls, and at least one season in which it can freeze: what more proof is there that a country is part of the Western world?

The past year, I have been busy with what one can call Adult Life. I got a job, a proper one, and all the responsibilities that come with it. And actually: it’s not that bad. The job is nice, and challenging, and comes with a lot of Opportunities. And they give me money, more than I ever had as a student, so I can go shopping twice a month, eat out four times a week, and still deposit a reasonable amount of money on my savings account each month.

I have also been busy bonding with the European continent: I felt I had neglected it. I’ve been to Oxford, London, Porto, Luxembourg, Valencia, Brussels – and – Istanbul. That was where it started.

One of the Opportunities that come along with the job, is to work abroad for a few months. I tried to think what would look good on my cv, which would most probably have been Brussels. But then I realised that I might be taking this Adult Life-thing too far, and decided to go for a job in a country which intrigues me, where I need to make an effort in order to understand the customs, the politics and the people. So, Turkey it is.

I’m not gone yet: I still have two weeks. But preparations have begun, so let’s say I’ll keep you posted!

In sickness and in health

"It's so good to see you again. Wow, you must have gained at least 5 kilos!" It felt good to see the people on the family compound where I've lived in January and February of this year again, but I was not sure whether I like their compliments that much. Later, one of the chauffeurs at the embassy gave the final push: "wow, you've really grown big". Sandrine told me not to worry, because it's a friendly thing to say here, but I had already made a mental note to self: go on serious crash diet as soon as I get home.

And to imagine that I have already been on a bit of a crash diet, although involuntarily. My health has been on and off (but mostly off) since arriving in Ouaga. It has seriously reduced my appetite. I'm not sure what's wrong, but I'm sort of hoping for parasites. Someone at the embassy told me she has had them, and they made her loose 10 kilos within half a year or something. I thought that that sounded rather appealing.

But the few inconveniences my failing health poses are nothing compared to the great human mysery I witnessed in the largest hospital of Ouagadougou. Sandrine had invited me yesterday to join her to the hospital to visit someone there. When I told her that I had never been there before, she told me: "don't be afraid to walk out again if you can't bear the smell. Many people can't".

When we arrived at the hospital, a naked man was lying in the hospital's courtyard. No one took notice of him. Of course, I have seen people like him before: naked, thin and mentally ill. One like that lived in the large open drain I used to cross on my way to the gym. When living in a developing country, you'll quickly get numb from all the human suffering you witness daily, but five months in the Netherlands has made me grow a bit sentimental again.

Inside, the situation was what to be expected: bad. Even disregarding the usual use of colours we decided we didn't like anymore after the seventies, and the bad lightening, the place looked terrible. Patients are lying on pattresses on legs (the sort that doctors use to examen patients on), and not more than two meals a day. That's it. Bring your own bed sheets, and your family members to assist you with eating, going to the toilet, sitting up, lying down, and changing your cloths.

It was a dirty place, with hardly a doctor in sight. The roommate of the person we were visiting preferred to lay on the floor on a straw tappestry, because she was tired of the thin mattress. She looked absolutely horrible, and I wondered if she would ever leave that place alive. "And you, madame, how's your health", Sandrine asked aerily. "Fine", the woman whispered. It reminded me on how we used to joke in Moorré language class that you should always say that you're doing fine here, even if your almost dead. I had never expected to see a real life example of such a situation.

When we left again, careful not to run over the naked guy who was still lying in the courtyard, I thought about how some people say that we should not give development aid, because we need the money for ourselves. I suggest they come and see, and reconsider.

My health than. Luckily, there are also good things about African health care: they are not as calvinistic as we are. Sandrine told me to buy some medicine against my cold. "People don't take medicins agains colds", I said. "In Africa we do", she replied, and took me to a pharmacy. So, I'll probably be fine again tomorrow, and if not, whatever you do, do not let them take me to the hospital. Thanks.

Souvenirs

The management of Ouagadougou International Airport seems to make a point of preservering the specific character of a development country's airport. Due to construction work, the whole place looks like it has been ruined by a recent earthquake, and people are still running around the place in great shock and disorder. Unfortunately, the disorder is permanent. Of course, some things are the same in all developing countries, like the chaotic arrivals hall. 'What are we waiting for?', a tourist in the line before customs asked me. Clearly, it was his first visit to Africa. Once you've been there more often, you learn to accept that waiting is just a substantial part of life in this part of the world.

But even I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw how luggage is handled here: they line it up on the floor, and leave the passengers to fight their way through the crowds, looking for their luggage. This is how I ended up waiting for my luggage for half an hour, only to find that it had been there all along: it had been hiding in a corner.

Ah, Ouaga. It has such a different dynamic than Bamako. In Bamako, everyone seems to be on the move all the tile. People are hasty and keen on getting whatever job done. In Ouaga, everything seems to be more laid-back, and I can understand why. It always feels like the desert is just lurking behind your back in Ouaga, ready to take over town when you happen to look the other way. Even in the rainy season, everything looks a bit dusty, sandy and pale. In the heat of the day, everyone literally lays back, preferably on the cool, covered pavement leqding up to the bank, breathing heavily and slowly.

Malian people seem to be minding their own business more. I could walk hundreds of meters through Bamako without anyone bothering me, which is rather exceptional. Apart from the occasional rasta, who will follow you on the street and scream aggressively that you're a racist if you don't want to talk to them.

It is good to be back. Je suis une Ouagalaise, after all. I enjoyed the surprised faces on the embassy when I just walked back in, and it's nice to visit my friends and to feel so at home in a place so far away from my official home. It's like coming home after a long holiday.

And yes, it hurted a bit to leave Bamako behind. I spent the last day running around town, buying silver bracelets and a copy of the Communist Manifesto to tease Soumano with. He gave me a beautiful small kora (a musical instrument used in this region) in return. 'Pour la princesse', he said, using the nickname I had adopted by now.

In the airplane to Ouaga, I played with my new silver bracelet, as princesses tend to do. The bracelet hugging my arm was at least a little bit of Bamako holding on to me. It wasn't love at first sight, I must admit, but when I fell in love with it, it came with such force, that I actually don't need any souvenirs to carry Bamako with me: I've already got it under my skin.

The Truman show effect

Given the fact that I had less than five days left in Mali after the youth conference, and that most interesting things to see here tend to be a bit difficult to get to, I will, in the end, see very little of this beautiful and fascinating country. So I'll just call this trip an appetiwer, and am resolved to come back some day (soon) for some serious exploring.

However, five days did allow me to make a little trip out of town. I chose to go to Siby, which is about 1,5 hours by minibus from Bamako. This is excluding time you have to wait at Bamako's busstation before the bus finally takes off. All the while that I waited, the sun hit down on me through the opened side door of the van. I tried all sorts of acrobatic moves in order to get my face and bare arms out of the sunshine, without crawling onto the lap of my fellow passengers, but with feeble result.

My acrobatism was nothing compared to that of the minibus's tickets collector. He was responsible for closing the side door every time it had been opened, but because it didn't function well, it had to be pushed close with some force from the outside. At one point, this meqnt that the guy had to descend from the roof (where he had apparently been sitting) while we were going full-speed, and push the door close with his two feet and one hand, while holding on to a bar on the roof with his free hand. He lived.

In Siby, I decided to hire a guide for the day who could drive and show me around. He was friendly, capable, and had been trained in France, although he didn't immediately give that impression. Not only was he very small, but he also looked like he had been following the same diet as Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous: no food, just fags. He was skinny to the bone, and at 29 had already managed to smoke out 50% of his teeth, with the remaining teeth being predominantly black.

He took me on the back of his moto and we tourd the country a bit. It felt a bit like ending up in the Truman show, though: everything around us looked so bloody perfect, that I suspected the people to be actors and the houses to be actually made out of cardboard. Children were happily playing; there was not a piece of rubbish in sight; families worked on the land together, shea nut (karité) trees weaved back and forth, women were chatting and laughing together, and old men were hanging round, drinking tea. Round huts with straw rooftops clustered together into neat villages, everybody waved and smiled, and everything was set to a background of friendly, red rockmountains, overgrown with plants.

It got even better when we arrived at the waterfall: it wasn't an extremely high one, but it came down along soft rocks, which meant you could stand in the running water, and it ended into a natural pool. There was no one there, except me and the guide. I slipped into the cool water and enjoyed a natural massage from the waterfall.

After that, we proceeded to a natural arch on a mountain top, under which we had lunch and enjoyed a truly breathtaking view.

Next morning, I squashed myself into a minibus again, and off we went, wibbeling-wobbeling towards Bamako.

Battle of the giants

Of course, there are many challenges for a tourist in a country like Mali. Potholed roads, muddy streets, well, let`s call it a general lack of infrastructure. People don`t really use street names, and don`t know how to read a street plan, which makes it hard to ask people the way. Because prices are not fixed, you will spend endless time and energy discussing the price of your taxi ride, souvenir, or anything more expensive than a banana. Well, you could even negotiate about the price of a banana, but I don`t bother. As a nice little extra, your light skin will make it hard to walk the streets unnoticed, which means you will always attract attention, also the unwanted sort. Streets in the inner city are extremely crowded, and taxis and minibuses will seriously run you over if you don`t get out of their way in time. And then, there are all the diseases and infections you could pick up. Problems with your digestion are guaranteed. And if you don`t get ill from bad hygiene, malaria, or dehydration, you could alternatively get sick of all the car fumes, food smells, smells of things rotten and disposed, the open sewages, etcetera. You`ll need a strong stomach around here.

But the greatest challenge of all that I have had to face yet, is an intellectual one. This is due to Soumano. This guy is well-informed, well-educated, has studied in France and has done an internship at the United Nations. I liked him immediately, but after we had exchanged niceties for a few days, the battle began. Soumano and I love to discuss with eachother about practically everything. We`ll discuss politics, of course. Development aid. Ideologies. The future of Mali. Relationships and marriage. Religion. Death penalty. Gender roles. We will fight about everything; it`s man vs. woman, socialist vs. liberal, Muslim vs. atheist, Africa vs. Europe, responsible father vs. free spirit. We are harsh on eachother. "You`re too much of an idealist", he`ll say. "We`re not allowed to kill animals, or criminals, you don`t even want us to hurt plants", he`ll say. "You deny responsibility for you own actions, you`re own thoughts even, by always referring to your god", I`ll tell him.

This is the true reason why I travel, I thought, sitting opposite Soumano, and enjoying a little pause before the next round of our battle of the giants began. I travel in order to find the most interesting of people, who are different from me in almost every aspect, but who share the same urge to exchange ideas, insights and feelings with other people.

Even when the initial charm of lack of time-management and efficiency has worn off, when the physical discomfort makes you feel tired and weak, when you start realising that "adventurous" is often the same as plain "dangerous and foolish", and deprivation of the luxuries you`re used too starts getting to you, even then, I can be perfectly happy anywhere in the world, as long as there are interesting people around to talk to.

Petit frère

Since internet is really, really slow and I don't have much time, this will be a short message. Today, we visited several youth wings of political parties, a student organisation and we had lunch with an MP in one of Bamako's many expensive hotels which are practically all sponsored or owned by Qaddafi, le grand guide. He is also providing the new housing of all government buildings.

We learnt a lot today. For example, that people start giggling, and then have to think long and hard when you ask them why exactly they are a member of their party. It usually has nothing to do with ideology, or the electoral programme, but more with personal affiliation, as they say. I guess they mean that friends or family are supporters of that particular party too. We also found out that in order to become a politician, you'll have to have a lot of money, which you have to give to the party. This is not really corruption or something, because it happens out in the open. It's more necessity, because political parties have very little money of their own to spend on electoral campaigns and stuff. Since young people usually don't have much money, they have a hard time getting on the electoral lists.

Another problem is the culture. Young people are often not taken seriously. We spoke with a 'young' MP, who is 38, and if I understood correctly, he's the youngest MP ever in Mali. 'If I have an appointment with a minister, the guy will call me petit frère, in order to belittle me. But I'll have none of that', he said. I liked his attitude.

Well, there is so much more to write about, but I'll have to do that another day. Bonne soirée à tous!

The sad side of human life

Shopping, drinking beer and a boat ride. It's three things that contribute considerably to my happiness in life, and three things I did within 24 hours after arriving in Bamako, the capital city of Mali.

The day of traveling and the hussle at the airport had tired me, but as soon as I breathed in the humid air of the African night, I was bright awake again. I have come to Mali, together with another guy, in order to work on a project to enhance youth participation in Mali. The Malian counterpart of the Dutch organisation that has sent us here had sent their vice-director to pick us up at the airport. I like this Soumano guy a lot: he can't stop talking about politics and development aid issues. I suffer from the same disease. Anyhow, when Soumano suggested we would go out and drink a beer, I readily agreed. I felt perfectly happy while drinking my Beaufort beer, watching people dance the salsa and chatting to Soumano. Afterwards, I went to bed feeling excited, despite having been awake for 22 hours.

Next day, we spent walking around town. On Sundays, a lot of marriages take place, especially when the month of Ramadan approaches. After a marriage ceremony, the guests will drive through the city in procession, honking and shouting. They are a noisy, but happy bunch.

In the Village Artisinale , I couldn't resist the temptation of buying a pair of handmade leather sandals. Yes, I know, I had already taken six pairs of shoes with me to Mali, which some might think a little much. However, I originally planned to bring eight, so I think it's only right that I've bought myself an extra pair. Hey, I'm just a strong believer in backpacking in style.

After having been pushed and pulled around, questioned about my motives for traveling and my marital status, and being asked for money many times, as is normal when walking the streets of the inner city, the peace and quietness of the river was well deserved. We went on a boat trip on the Niger, the river that runs through Bamako. It was lovely, seeing fishermen throwing out their nets with great skill.

Next day, we went even more into the heart of Bamako, finding crowded, dirty, muddy streets. I know I shouldn't compare Africa to European standards, and I don't like people who only focus on the sad side of Africa, but man, life ain't easy around herefor some people.

Luckily, there are always the expat hang-outs, where daily reality can be blocked out completely. Apaloosa is one of those places. It's a Texan restaurant, run by a Libyan guy, and with Ukrainian girls behind the bar. I suspect the girls to offer all sorts of pleasures for those who are willing to pay for it. Speaking of the sad side of human life.

West Africa, revisited

A lot has happened since I last wrote on this blog. After New year’s eve, I left the big house with the pool and went down under in African life. I lived on a family compound (cour familiale) in a very, very small house, with no running water except for the tap outside on the cour. I ‘showered’ with a bucket of water, and the toilet was a hole in the ground outside. One of the biggest dilemmas of daily life was whether to go to the toilet during day time, when the sun burns your skin while you’re on the toilet, and when the number of flies coming out of the toilet are countless, or to go at night, when cockroaches are creeping out of the hole, and mosquitoes jump at the opportunity to put their little teeth in the flesh you necessarily expose.

The family I lived with consisted of a polygamous 80-year old, his two wives (his first wife has passed away), and some of their sixteen children, mainly women who are for some reason without husband. A few members of the third generation were running around the cour as well, among whom Ouri, a happy five-year old. She would run into my room after school and recite what she had just learnt. I endlessly repeated the seven days of the week with her: ‘les sept jours de la semaine sont: lundi – mardi – mercredi – jeudi- vendredi – samedi – dimance – la semaine est finie!’ she would should out like an army commander. I even learnt a few words of Dioula – the language the family speaks – and greeted le papa every morning with a handshake, in order to show him my respect. He was deaf, which rendered communication with him very difficult, but smiles are universal. The night I left Ouaga, he took my hand and started muttering. It took me a while to understand that he was praying. I am in no way religious, but I felt calm and save after his prayer. Even though I was flying Afriqiyah, the Libyan national airline. Libya is known for their leader Qaddafi, who likes to travel around the world bringing his own tent, and who has a clear dislike of anything Western. (For some brilliant pictures of the guy and his sense of fashion, please go to http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/08/qaddafi-slideshow200908#slide=7). Afriqiyah is known for having had one of their planes crashed last May.

The trip back home was full of mixed emotions. I cried my eyes out when I left Ouaga, of course. Ouaga International Airport (the name suggests so much more than there actually is) was a big chaos, but Afriqiyah’s airplane was new, if not to say futuristic, and staff was pleasant. We flew to Tripoli over the Sahara dessert. I saw the sun coming up, throwing it’s early morning light on the sand dunes. Somewhere in the dessert, I spotted a small light. There must have been people tracking the dessert. And then, out of nowhere, I suddenly saw Tripoli. It was all magical. But then, reality kicked back in when the plane landed, and I realized that I actually had only fifteen minutes or so to make it to the next plane. Tripoli airport didn’t help to cut my stress levels, even though a humongous portrait of Qaddafi smiled down on me reassuringly. Since Qaddafi is not a fan of the Western, capitalist world, all indications in the airport were in Arabic, and in Arabic only. Luckily, Libyan people are very friendly people, so they made sure I got to my airplane without much fuss.

When I left Burkina at the end of February of this year, I was already planning to go back. However, I had not expected it to be this easy. I have been asked to go to Mali, in order to assist young Malians, active in politics, to make a plan on how to improve youth participation in Malian politics. Since Mali is next door to Burkina, I might as well hop by there as well. I'll keep you posted on how I find Mali, and what it's like to return to my 'hometown' Ouagadougou. West Africa, here I come again.

Dancing Christmas night away

As in most cultures, Christmas in Burkina is mainly about food. To be more specific: it is all about meat and beer, as several Burkinabè assured me. This made me wonder whether the Germans have ever colonised Burkina.

The 24th December, the embassy closed at 2 PM, leaving me with enough time to do my shopping. Again, as in most cultures, it is not wise to go shopping the day before Christmas. I did manage however to visit two supermarkets, a crafts shop, the big market, two bakeries (of which one had chickens walking behind the counter – will never really get used to that), a fruit stall and a Lebanese restaurant which also sells nice pastries and cookies. At the latter, my friend and I, tired of making our way through the crowds, settled into a chair and ordered nice fruit juices and food. After that, we went to a maquis, where we watched television and the crowds go by.

Christmas day I spent visiting people, as is normal around here. After an impressive breakfast, I went to visit Sandrine, who had prepared vegafood for me, and had baked a cake, and had bought chocolate, which meant that when I left there, I almost felt over because my belly was so big. But just to be sure that I wouldn’t die of starvation, she insisted that I would take home some of the cake as well. After that, I visited two more people, who made me eat even more fries and cake, and both gave me food to take with me, so in the end, both me and my handbag were stuffed.

After dropping my stock of food at home, I went to the cinema to watch a movie with Eddy Murphy, who’s humor I always fail to appreciate, but somehow it helps if he is dubbed over in French. I ended the evening in a bar again, dancing on African beats once more.

The second day of Christmas, or Boxing Day as the British like to call it, is not really celebrated here, so life went on as usual. I went to eat a big icecream at an Italian restaurant with a friend, where I stumbled upon a few colleagues. We joined them and I listened to one of my local colleagues raging about a meeting she had had with representatives of other organisations. Appearently, someone had said something which had made her angry, making her say ‘tu es bête comme tes fèces’: you’re as stupid as your arse!’. There’s one to remember. When we had finished, my Dutch colleague offered to pay for us all. I insisted that I would pay for the icecream, but my burkinabè colleagues told me to put away my wallet and be grateful. ‘It’s very impolite to refuse something that has been offered to you here’, they told me, and my friend added, with a cheeky face: ‘en Afrique, on ne décourage pas la bonne volonté’ (in Africa, we don’t discourage people’s good will).

So, the year is coming to an end, and so is my internship. I have tried to prolong it as much as possible, but it’s really finished now. I guess tomorrow I will right you a little evaluation! I’m really sad that things are coming to an end, although I’m not really into the phase of acceptation yet. However, I will find myself some comfort food now: I think Turkish baklava makes an excellent candidate!