“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.
zondag 28 augustus 2011
dinsdag 16 augustus 2011
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.
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.
woensdag 10 augustus 2011
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’.
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’.
vrijdag 5 augustus 2011
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!
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!
vrijdag 22 juli 2011
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!
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!
woensdag 11 augustus 2010
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.
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.
zaterdag 7 augustus 2010
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.
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.
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