The Vegetarian’s Dilemma

As I have mentioned previously, Hubby was invited to be the keynote speaker at a conference of Anti-Vegetarians in Cape Town. While I may not have mentioned the anti-veg part before, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out these guys’ agenda.

During the six-day conference, we were treated to three dinners all of which boasted menus of meat, meat, and more meat. I’m not even exaggerating for a change! Monday night’s welcome dinner was a carnivore’s delight as we were presented with everything from springbok sausage to antelope steaks. Two or three vegetables were served but they weren’t to be seen on many people’s plates. And when people got tired of eating dead animals there were some really cool dancers (and lots of random ducks) to amuse and entertain the masses.

Our second dinner was hosted by a government organization and bothered with only one small plate of salad for the entire room to nibble on between platters of springbok biltong, ostrich steaks, wild boar stew, and other yummy treats. To add insult to injury for any vegetarians in the vicinity, the décor for this particular meal included dead animal heads and skins on every wall. A gentleman who will, for a small fee, tile your home in animal hide supplied the latter. While dead animals may taste great, neither of us was too keen to use them in our decorating motif.

Until, that is, we were presented with an opportunity to buy a springbok hide for only $20. I’m not sure if it was all the game we had consumed, the wine, or simply a case of peer pressure, but before the evening was out, we were the proud owners of one female springbok hide. (Or as Hubby likes the tell the tale, it was the hide of a random Buck who spent too much time flirting with the HubbyBuck in front of the Typ0zelle. But we all know that I’m not the jealous type and he’s silly like that.)

Random Homey Thoughts

I didn’t know that ‘Ren owned a teashop in Toronto!


Ski Dubai at the Mall of the Emirates. I’m vaguely surprised it’s not pink.


Trader Vic’s in Dubai was the scene of many odd couplings…


…And a lot of rum cocktails. Woo hoo!


Always remember that if you’re playing darts against the dog and the dog is losing, he will eat the dart in order to win.

Cheers Cairo

Hubby and I arrived – again – in Cairo on Saturday and are already well on our way to almost being at home. Well, as at home as we can be without our own things that is. Rumor has it that our Air Shipment should arrive any day and the Sea Shipment… Well, we haven’t actually had any word on that. (No news is good news with Garry Gnu?)

Shopping trips to City Stars and Carrefour have resulted in a flat screen TV (still in its box after two weeks), a food processor (to be tested this evening on salsa), and a microwave that thinks that popcorn can be made in 2 minutes and 15 seconds. Which it can’t.

These trips to the shops have also demonstrated that Egyptians take their dairy seriously – the cheese aisle alone was two sides of a 150 foot refrigerated case. I could see Hubby getting nauseous the further up the lane we walked.

Our apartment, for those of you who have been wondering, is a furnished two-bedroom flat, which spans ½ a floor of our building. We were told that it was originally meant to be used as the landlord’s flat and appears to be about twice the square footage of most of the other flats in the building.

That said, it needs A LOT of work starting with new curtains to replace the Hawaiian-themed ones in the living and sitting rooms and the rust-stained ones in our bedroom. We then need to work on obtaining new couches, as it appears that prior to our arrival Smurfs lived here. As it is now, both Hubby and I require cranes to hoist us out of our low-rise seats in the evening. Finally, we need to do something about the kitchen, because it currently sends me into fits of sobbing when compared with The World’s Greatest Kitchen™ back in Nairobi.

But enough of my kvetching – you’ll hear enough of that later once our days in Cairo actually reach double digits. Before I finish telling you about our Home Leave, and regale you with tales of our awesome trip to Cape Town last week, I want to leave you with a story about our first full day in Cairo two and a half weeks ago.

Upon arriving in Egypt, you are entitled to either four bottles of liquor at the airport Duty Free or three bottles from one of the city’s many Duty Free shops. Since we had successfully smuggled... er... liberated four bottles from Frankfurt, we opted to go to the shops with our friends Black Beard and Adelpha. Little did we know the adventures that awaited us.

Due to poor research on our part, it took two taxi rides, four hotels, and a stroll across the Nile before we finally found the correct Duty Free. (For those of you who need to avail yourselves of its services, the correct location would be the Cairo Sheraton. Or better yet go to City Stars as we did yesterday.) Confronted with a blissful assortment of overpriced liquor, we told the Beards to pick two bottles as a thank you for being generally awesome and proceeded to stare blankly at the shelves to make our own final selections.

At this point, Black Beard asked if we would allow him to buy some cigarettes. I had the grace to look apologetic when I gave his polite request a rather blunt, “No.” While I would happily help him kill his liver, I refused to annihilate his lungs, I explained. He pouted, asked if I was serious and shrugged his broad piratical shoulders.

(Smoking is the one vice I can’t stand. It smells and causes yucky diseases not only for the smoker but also for innocent people in their vicinity. Be a serial killer somewhere else please.)

Five minutes later, the group had made its selections and our six bottles sat on the counter ready to begin the lengthy payment process. That was when the Kid at the first stop asked me flat out to buy him three cartons of cigarettes. I laughed and said no, assuming he had overheard our earlier conversation.

He repeated his question a little more firmly. The incredulous look on my face even had Hubby giggling quietly. “I just said no to my friend and you think I’ll buy you cigarettes instead?” “No. No. Is no problem,” he replied. “Only three.” This Kid was not too swift on the uptake. “No cigarettes. Just booze. No!” I glared and used my best B!tch Voice to make my stance clear. The Kid shrugged and probably gave some thought to not letting us take our allotment but in the end made due without his cigarettes.

Less than 12 hours in Cairo and I had already been hit up for baksheesh. I guess that makes me a local – or something.

In Which I Am Going to Hell

One of the non-Triplet highlights of our trip to the Midwest was hanging out with our friends at my favourite bar in the university town where we used to live. Meeting up at Guido’s over large martinis and the world’s most awesome nachos has become an annual tradition during home leave. Sadly, as most of Hubby’s friends are at or near the end of their PhDs, this may be the final such outing.

That said, while I love seeing Sconni Boy, Mrs. Sconni Boy, Not Joseph Smith, Edgar, Lola, (our kind hosts for the evening), and the rest of the crowd, the real highlight of the evening for me was hanging out with my old friends from CT&T: Wheels, Tech Girl, and Framboise. I hadn’t seen this merry trio of misfits since I left CT&T three years ago and it was a wonderful reunion.

The first bit of props for the evening have to go to Wheels who not only looked amazing after losing an insane amount of weight but also left work early for an “appointment” in order to join the festivities! He and I sat and chatted for about an hour before the girls showed up during which time we gossiped like in the old days while I sipped on martinis two and three and he drank lemonade number one.

By the time Tech Girl and Framboise arrived, we were all ready to order food and get down to some serious drinking. Eating the giant plate of nachos that was put before me was only slightly better than the fun the four of us had reminiscing about the old days. Much of said reminiscing had me saying things that will be played back for me in lieu of an explanation when I get to Hell. These conversations included choice tidbits like, “I can’t believe they did that! What about Gangrene Boy?!” “He died.” “Oh crap.”

One of the things I enjoy doing while I drink is ripping up the paper coasters they give you into tiny little pieces. Bars that know me well usually stop giving me coasters after a few visits but evidently Guido’s had forgotten, and I was able to sit and shred paper all evening. Perhaps the best part of the shredding (other than sharing my coaster with Tech Girl) was raining bits of shredded paper on the table of girls behind us. Sadly, they never responded to our confetti gifts so I kept raining bits of paper on them throughout the evening. I will not be ignored!

By the time martinis four and five had been consumed, the girls and Wheels had to go home. Something about having “jobs” to go to in the morning. I didn’t quite understand but I let them go after much hugging and groping. I cannot tell you how much fun it was seeing those three again. Gossip, drinks, and causing trouble – it was like the last three years had never happened and we were all back at CT&T again. I miss them.

Of course, I really missed them when the boys decided to move locations and try out a new piano bar on the other side of town. To say that we were overcharged when we paid the $5 cover charge to get in was an understatement. Two pianists singing off-key and only playing the correct song about 40% of the time is not what I’d call a successful concept. Other than flashing (upon request from the boys) my new purple polka-dotted bra for the umpteenth time that night, the piano bar was pretty much a bust (pun unintended).

Worst of all, since I was thoroughly sloshed from Guido’s, I opted not to drink at the second bar so I was sober for all of the bad music. *shudder* Luckily, no one else in our group was terribly impressed so we left after about an hour or so. Of course, being the smart-ass girl I am, I made a point of filling out a request card before I left and left it on the piano. “Stop playing and learn to sing in key. Please.”

Hell, here I come!

Three Times the Fun

Since I’ve mentioned them at least six or seven dozen times since they were born in June, I thought that it was finally time to actually tell you about The Triplets. Our two new nieces and one new nephew belong to Hubby’s brother, BIL, and his wife, Red, who live in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest which is just over an hour away from Bee’s house where we stayed during our Midwestern sojourn.

As they are currently less than two months old (and born a month early too), The Triplets were still being bottle-fed when we saw them. And while it might be easy to avoid picking-up, holding, or feeding babies when there is only one of them around, when there are three you get roped into helping whether you like it or not. Although Hubby managed to put off his Uncle duties until the third day, I was roped into holding and feeding early on day one. I managed to feed all three of them at one
point or another during the three times we saw them. Thus, the photos here of me feeding the babies are real and not doctored.

Although it was not my favourite activity, I also helped burp them after feedings but only after I had long chats with them about the torture that they would endure as teens if they spit up on me. (Brand new, tricked out Porches for the good children, rusted out 1981-era Hondas for bad kids.) The one activity I managed to avoid, however, was changing diapers. Despite getting a good whiff of their toxic nappies, I never had to actually touch a dirty one. Thank god.

In all honesty, The Triplets are cute and my BIL and Red are good at pretending that they are not in over their heads. Thanks to a steady stream of helping hands from everyone from Aunt Bee and Red’s dad to church members willing to wake up at 2 a.m., they have thus far managed to keep insanity at bay. When BIL heads back to work in September, it’s possible that the asylum won’t be too far behind for poor Red who will be the sole caregiver for the three infants while he is at school. As I said, they’re doing well right now but the real tests are still ahead of them.

All in all, the kids are cute, they don’t cry, they don’t spit up on their favourite aunt, and Hubby looked really cute when he was holding them. That said, as I mentioned a few days ago, I’m not pregnant. Don’t have any plans to be pregnant. And, when all is said and done, better them than us.

Baby Fever

If I had to sum up this year’s home leave in one word, it would be “babies.” We played with them, bought gifts for them, fed them, burped them, and even tried to kidnap one. Alas, for those of you who were “in the know,” there are no little Typ0s on the way. Thank god!

While the biggest baby news of the trip (aside from my NOT being pregnant) occurred in the States, we’ll talk about the triplets later. Today is all about the cutest baby in the whole wide world, Carlos Jr. The first time we met him last year, he spent a lot of time regurgitating his food for us. This year we were treated to his “Bob the Builder” dance, which, in addition to being cute, Hubby has now adopted and is sadly an improvement over his usual “moves.” Despite Jr’s efforts at teaching Hubby to dance I still wanted to kidnap him and take him home. Of course, his parents, Care Bear and Carlos, would probably object to that.

Another of our many home leave traditions is getting together with C&C (and C) to hang out, eat Chinese food, and talk about the good ‘ole days when Care Bear and I were in high school. These conversations always include a recap of the first time I met her and called her a bitch, and how I totally outed her class skipping ways during her wedding. (How was I supposed to know that her mother hadn’t figured it out yet?!)

Of all my friends, Care Bear has probably known me the longest. (On this trip, I attempted to connect with someone who has known me for even longer but it never happened because I’m a huge loser.) (You can disagree about that last part now.) Together, we have lived through flashing boys playing tennis (that may have been more me than her), incredibly whacked out mutual friends, super short kilts, apple hair spray, and more.

I know that it drives our husbands crazy that we talk about the exact same things every time we see each other but I don’t care. Seeing C&C is the best trip down memory lane anyone could ever ask for. And seeing little Carlos Jr. – the World’s Cutest Baby™ - is the icing on the cake as he looks like the perfect mix of both of them. (The old me would have said that he was lucky that he got his looks from his dad, but I’ve turned over a new leaf. Or something…) Plus the kid is super smart and knows not only how to throw magnets at his mum, but that when he does so he should run straight to the naughty corner. That’s my kind of kid.

The Buck Reunion

One of our big plans every year in Toronto includes going downtown, eating fried pepperoni at the Nova Scotia bar, and hanging out with our good friend SGH (aka the HBuck). Even though she has been actively trying to steal my husband for at least a year or two now, I still look forward to this annual tradition and spent quite a bit of time planning our nightlong pub-crawl ahead of time. I even booked a room at the King Edward Hotel downtown on King so that we wouldn’t have to go all the way back home and lose our buzz mid-commute.

Having made a point of wearing the shoes my mother said would give me a blister mid-crawl, I headed downtown to check-in and get an early drinking start to my day. First of all, my mother was wrong – they gave me TWO blisters, both of which showed up before I even reached the hotel. Second of all, there is nothing wrong with $1.99 socks that have teddy bears on them (these purchased to alleviate said blisters).

In any case, we met SGH at the hotel where she proceeded to undress my husband with her eyes while he undressed her with his hands. Okay, maybe neither of those things happened but that’s because I was there ready to “beat that Buffy down” and she knew she couldn’t take me. Or something…

Our first stop of the evening was the Irish Embassy, a bar near King and Yonge where we proceeded to down numerous pints of beer (for them) and cider (for the blogger with good taste). At one point, when it appeared that the gentlemen at the table next to us had left without paying their bill, we suggested that our waitress steal the laptop they had left behind. It turned out that the Dine and Dashers were actually the owners so we opted for merely increasing her pay scale.

(Random: My mother and I actually saw someone Dine and Dash at a rather nice restaurant in North York one day. We were shocked that anyone – even this obnoxious woman – would ever do that. Even more amazing is that the waiter seemed to have expected it and just shrugged when he saw his one-dollar tip/payment.)

After an incredibly long walk up King, we went in search of the Nova Scotia bar only to discover that it was gone! *sob* The stupid glut of condos that have been going up all over the downtown area took over our beloved bar and were using it as a construction office. Thus, it was three highly
annoyed people who made their way further down the street to a Firkin where we did not eat fried pepperoni with our many pints of cider and beer. Stupid condos!

The next bar we tried to go to was also closed – but this time it was a private party for federal government employees. (Your tax dollars at work, eh!) Down but not yet drunk or defeated, we went to our usual sushi place and didn’t eat any sushi with our fancy martinis. All during dinner, however, we were interrupted by this little kid selling chocolate covered almonds. Now, I love chocolate covered almonds as much as the next Fat Girl, but bugging drunken people is not a good way for an 11 year old to make money. So I started speaking Kiswahili to him and when he couldn’t respond, I simply shrugged and went back to my endamame beans (which weren’t chocolate covered).

Our final stop of the night was a very subdued 1 Blue Jay Way, also known as Wayne Gretzky’s bar. We have had really great drinks and dessert at this bar in the past but were greatly disappointed by the poor service and what we were told was the “new menu.” That said, Hubby still managed to drink an $11 glass of Wayne’s finest ice wine, which he declared to be “nyeh.”

Overall, it was a fabulous night, even if the HBuck lied about her bra size. (Size 32D? Pu-leze!) Hubby and I both agreed that this is one home leave tradition we look forward to every year. Drinks, good friends, good food, and blisters from walking all over downtown Toronto – it sounds like the perfect night to me!

North American Odysseys and other Oddities

I thought I would kick off the great Home Leave Recap of 2008 with news about the wonderful people who live forever in shame because we share DNA – my family! We spent our first two weeks back in the Real World™ with my parents in Toronto where I was forced to do all the painting on the newly renovated basement. While cheers of “No more red shag carpeting!” could be heard from one end of the city to the other, my father’s impressive vocabulary could also be heard by those who asked about the workmen who dry walled the once large room.

By the time I left, the walls had been painted, the new white carpeting had been installed, and the new leather furniture had been delivered at 8:45 a.m. on Sunday – aka 24 hours before we left for the States. The room looks fantastic and is highlighted by the world’s largest flat-screen TV, which will someday find a home on a wall once everyone can agree where it should go. (I like it on the table right where it is, thank you.)

Keeping the news in the family, I met my newest nephew, Clan, who was born last October. This brings BBA’s total to three cute kids (after my nephew Mile and my niece Yemil). Mile is a particularly good kid whose obsessions include his Nintendo DS (a next Gameboy-like device that everyone we met seemed to own) and “versing” people. For all that I enjoy tormenting the kid by correcting his grammar and being a general Pain in the Aunt, I really hope that BBA will agree to send him to Egypt to us for a short trip sometime. If he’s really good, I may even decide not to abandon him in the desert.

When I wasn’t drinking, eating Harvey’s, or playing my mother’s electronic Soduku game (so much fun that I actually bought my own), I kept busy shopping. Since I only basically shop once a year, I usually go a little crazy in the stores, which is why Hubby *always* goes with me. He claims it’s to be supportive and help me pick out clothes but really he’s afraid that I’ll spend more than $2.50 on any one item of clothing. (Hubby Edit: That’s harsh. I usually let her spend at least $5.50.)

The other big news out of Toronto is that we’re thinking of buying a condo. We’re thinking of buying a condo that we will never live in and whose rent will not cover all of our expenses. Ok, put like that, it doesn’t seem like a great idea but it is an amazing two-floor loft/condo in a really nice part of downtown. The condo is incredibly nice – if tiny – and our biggest issue in making the final decision is whether or not we want to sink our non-existent savings into a place that we can’t live in and won’t be ready (knock on wood) until 2011. What do you think? Should we make the move into becoming real-live adults who own things larger than an i-pod? Or should we continue our portable existence and keep our Peter Pan status intact?

Denial and De Nile

Bless me Readers for I have sinned. It has been almost a month since my last post and these are my excuses…

Ok, so my plan to blog at least once a week has gone up in plumes of smoke like most of you predicted. Buy hey, I did blog from Indonesia and I totally *thought* about blogging while I was at home in Toronto and later in the Midwest. It was simply that my busy schedule of shopping, drinking, and playing with the triplets interfered with my ability to commune with my laptop. Mea culpa.

For those of you who don’t keep up with my Facebook updates, I have arrived in Egypt and can now call my flat in Cairo home. There was even “food” (aka frozen, breaded chicken and feta cheese) and water in the fridge to greet us when we arrived. Even better than that, our friends Black Beard and Adelpha arrived just moments after that with beer and chips!

Before I start telling you about our incredibly amusing first day in Cairo, I had better catch you up on how we spent our three weeks of Real World™ freedom. Chances are, however, that these stories will be interrupted briefly due to our upcoming one-week trip to South Africa, which begins on Friday. Hubby is going to be the keynote speaker at a geek-fest conference and talk about things I don’t understand. Yay!

So stay tuned for lots of fun stories about how I single handedly renovated my parent’s basement; my many hours spent shopping, drinking, and hanging out with friends; and the new triplets which precipitated even more drinking!

Dedicated to the Muses

Although neither locale would be pleased to hear the comparison, Jakarta reminds me a lot of Delhi. Or at least what Delhi yearns to be – modern, clean, semi-efficient in that way that only developing countries seem to get away with. Even the ever-present graffiti seemed to the mold.

I attempted to walk down the tree lined street, bordered as it was with three lanes of traffic on the one lane road, but soon found myself confronted by that most un-Nairobi-like of obstacles – the heat. While it may be pleasantly “dewy” indoors, outside the sun bore down and left my skin slick with sweat. Not even pulling my hair into the world’s most unattractive bun helped slake the humidity from aura.

My goal yesterday was to visit the Museum Nasional, which I eventually arrived at 100,000 Rupiah poorer thanks to a taxi driver who decided to take me 12 km out of the way before turning back around in the correct direction. (Evidently I agreed to this, although I can’t recall doing so.) Not knowing the way around is one of the key reasons I hate taking taxis – as soon as they pick up the scent of “tourist” they always take the scenic route!

Lonely Planet boasted that the National Museum in Jakarta is one of the finest in all of Southeast Asia. And if you speak or read Indonesian it may well be. Since I don’t, and I missed the English tour in the morning, I can say it’s a fine a museum. I’m just not quite certain what everything was.

The best exhibit by far was the room with all of the ceremonial weapons. Sadly, it was in a photography forbidden zone or I would have taken dozens of photos of the beautiful daggers, spears, and other assorted accoutrement.

A Belgian woman I met (and spoke French with) urged me to see the beautiful (and also unphotographable) jewelry exhibit next door. I’m not sure what this says about me, but I greatly preferred the jeweled knives across the way to the frippery to be found amongst the golden rings and other such adornments.

On Hubby’s behalf, I took some note of the Batik exhibit. I found it interesting to see that for the most part, this ancient method of dying and printing fabric hasn’t changed much over the years. I even recognized a few of the print blocks from Hubby’s depressingly large collection of locally-made shirts.

But then who am I to complain? In this museum even the puppets wore batik!

A great deal of space, in more than one gallery, was taken up with musical instruments of various shapes and sizes. From my mother’s school bells to elaborate xylophones (for lack of a better term), a love of music seemed to be an important message throughout the museum. One of my favourites was a series of hanging gongs that could be played almost like a series of base drums.

Even the weapons exhibit boasted its own instruments. What I had perceived at first glance to be a scabbard or perhaps even a ceremonial scroll holder (because you can never have too many of those), turned out to be a flute. Once apprised of its purpose, the six evenly spaced holes did seem a poor addition to a container meant to keep important military documents safe and dry.

More than anything else, even pottery jars, there seemed to be surplus of stone carvings of every shape and size. Most seemed to be religious in nature with random decorative pieces thrown into the mix here and there. Few, unfortunately, were labeled in any language, which made guessing their purpose and history a fun game.

My favourite item, however, appeared to my Canadian sensibilities to be a canoe. Again, there was no signage that I could find whilst the guards were yelling at me and pointing at their watches – they were apparently annoyed that it was almost closing time and I was making them work.

Writing imagined histories is my favourite part of visiting any museum. I wonder what adventures were met in that boat. Was its great voyage to a nearby island to kidnap a local princess? Or perhaps a simple trading mission to obtain new musical instruments. Who knows?

In Which Guilt Wins Over Pain

Last thing’s first – we are never, ever moving to Jakarta. I know what I said the other day, but that was before my feet turned into the local fly-through McDonalds for all of the bugs in Indonesia.

If it weren’t for my world-famous self-restraint, I would have hit bone days ago in my quest to rid myself of this persistent itch. As it is, I am walking around with my arms and feet drenched in Off and reeking to high heaven of bug repellant, all in the vain hope that the mosquitoes (and all their other Satan loving, Typ0 devouring, evil friends) will stop nipping at me. The other people in the house keep talking about the lack of mosquitoes and reveling in their itch-free existences.

I hate them all.

Of course, they’re not being eaten alive – I’m here to protect them! Why settle for a Hubby snack when you can feast upon the wondrously tasty treat known as Typ0?!

But I am no longer allowed to feel self-pitying about my itchy (and I mean itchy) state. You see, without meaning to, I did a very bad thing yesterday. And worse, I actually feel really badly about it.

Let me preface this tale by telling you a short story. You see, in both Delhi and Nairobi, the primary sport of most businesses (be they taxis, touts, or simple hawkers), is to “screw the white guy.” The game doesn’t change whether you are gora or mzungu – you will be overcharged, double charged, or shortchanged. This is all part of being a “rich” person in a “poor” country.

Like most good games, this one is played by two people. You know you’re being charged twice as much so you haggle good naturedly and only overpay by a little rather than by a lot. You both win since you both feel that you got something over on the person and you each look forward to the next round of tournament play.

That’s the game. And those are the rules. Only, no one told me that taxis in Jakarta didn’t know about or even play the game.

So yesterday I called a Blue Bird taxi to take me to meet Hubby et al for a cup of coffee. After waiting the requisite 30 minutes for the darned thing to show up, I hopped in and told the cabbie where I wanted to go.

Upon arrival at the café, the meter read 18,500 Rupiahs so I gave the driver 20,000R and considered it all good. “No! No! Must pay,” he pointed at a sign beside me on the door. “You call?”

The sign stated that anyone who called ahead for a cab had to pay a 25,000R minimum. My Mzungu Meter immediately went off. We had never been ordered to pay a minimum on any of the other taxis we had ordered during the week. I threw my shoulders back, pulled out my patented uber-bitch voice, and gently explained that this was not my first trip to the circus. “I take taxis everyday and I always order ahead. I have never had to pay a minimum. I will pay what is on the meter!”

We back and forthed for a few minutes while I tried to explain that I wasn’t a stupid foreigner he could trick and he tried to urge me to pay the extra 5000R (or 50 cents). In the end he admitted defeat and I exited from the taxi as the victor.

Only it turns out that I am a stupid (and as it turns out mean and untrusting) foreigner. When I regaled the awaiting crowd at the café, Canuck Girl explained gently that Jakarta wasn’t like that. In fact, she continued, Blue Bird is famous for the being honest with foreigners. The 25,000R charge was valid and I should have paid.

I felt (and still feel) beyond horrible. I honestly thought the taxi driver had been trying to fleece me but it turns out he was just doing his job. Can you say GUILT? *sob*

Wherever you are, Mr. Taksi guy, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. But that doesn’t excuse my bad manners. Sorry.

Turning the Page

Two years ago, when I first moved to Kenya, I made a commitment to myself – a literary commitment. I felt that if I were to truly understand what it meant to live in an African country then I had to do my homework.

I made a pact with myself to read at least one book a month (fiction or non-fiction) about Africa or by an African author. Initially, I tried to narrow my scope to Kenya but quickly realized that my somewhat voracious reading habit would not be satisfied by such constraints. My subsequent selections took me from pre-Apartheid South Africa through Mugabe’s torturous reign in Zimbabwe, to white Kenya’s checkered past and the battle for the souls of child soldiers in Sierra Leone.

I have kept more or less to my resolution and during those months where finding time to read was difficult, I made up for lapses by reading an extra “theme” approved book the following month. Since I usually read my fair share of books each month, my challenge simply expanded my literary horizons to a genre with which I am now obsessed.

Curiously, I have recently discovered that my small reading convention has taken on a wider audience. The “African Reading Challenge” has provoked hundreds of readers around the world to do what I’ve been doing – travel Africa through literature. Despite inadvertently participating for the last two years, I haven’t joined the Challenge but would like to recommend some of my favourite applicable titles.

Keep in mind, that as a temporary Kenyan, I allowed at least some of my choices to be determined by geography. So in no order in particular I would like to recommend:

A Long Way Gone – Ismael Beah (Sierra Leone)
Last King of Scotland – Giles Foden (Uganda)
White Mischief – James Fox (Kenya)
Facing Mount Kenya – Jomo Kenyatta (Kenya)
House of Stone – Chistina Lamb (Zimbabwe)
Swahili for the Broken Hearted – Peter Malone (trans-continental)
Where We Have Hope – Andrew Meldrum (Zimbabwe)
God’s Bits of Wood – Sembene Ousmane (Senegal)
Emma’s War – Deborah Scroggins (Sudan)
The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency - Alexander McCall Smith (Botswana)

Early next month, I will continue my real-life African adventure and move to Cairo. Because of this impending move, I decided to focus my reading on a part of Africa I had not yet read about in my literary journey – Egypt – and the Islamic world in general.

This morning, I finished the first of my initial selections – “The Yacoubian Building.” Written by the man who will soon (I’m told) become my dentist, Alaa Al Aswany, the book tells the tale of the residents of the titular block of flats. From the troubled son of the doorman to the numerous rich businessmen with libido issues, the characters are drawn vividly and sympathetically, urging the reader to discover the twisted roots at the base of the Yacoubian Building.

The building, we are told, actually exists in Cairo exactly where the author placed it; so too do the conflicting and intersecting worlds of Western values and excess and Islamic traditions and fundamentalism. These different faces of Cairo live together not only in the author’s early 1990’s Egypt but also inside the Yacoubian Building and on its roof where the majority of the people who call the building home live.

My follow-up book, which Hubby picked up as a surprise, has thus far proven to be magnificently interesting. “Nine Parts of Desire” by Geraldine Brooks explores the outwardly silent world of Muslim women. Only a few chapters in and I can already say with conviction that it is definitely in the running for my top ten “Best Reads of the Year.” The current reigning number one is Reading “Lolita in Tehran” which I have recommended and happily gushed about ad nausem to any and all who will listen.

So what does any of this mean? Am I recommending that you join my reading safari through Africa? Perhaps – if that’s where your books take you. More importantly, I urge you to discover your own backyard or immediate universe through the books it has inspired. You never know – you may even find new heroes to exalt or new dreams to chase.

The Big Straw

From the little bit I’ve seen of it, life in Jakarta would be terribly difficult – delivery McDonalds, malls filled with nothing but cafes and free Internet, and wine bars with incredible food and even better vintages. Don’t get me wrong -- I’m well aware that this is not how most Indonesians spend the their days but for an expat wife on vacation it wasn’t a bad first day.

Hubby, as you may know, is in Jakarta completing his final business trip for the Organization. And since leaving me behind in Nairobi wasn’t an option (that I was willing to discuss), Hubby said I could tag along. Thanks to the Organization, which is too cheap to pay for a hotel when something free is around, we are currently staying in the home of one of Hubby’s colleagues. For the most part, this is actually rather nice since we are living in a local neighbourhood and the home is tastefully decorated in traditional Indonesian style. On the downside, we are also situated uncomfortably close to a mosque and the morning call to prayer may soon be the morning call to the police if I can find the guy who “sings” the prayer off-key in apparent glee at waking up his “non-believing” neighbours. I realize that this is simply good practice for living in Cairo but (and this may come as a shock to those of you who thought you knew me well) I’m not a morning person and being jarred from my slumber prior to the crack of dawn is not my idea of a good time.

But news from the Indonesian island of Java isn’t all bad – after spending less than 48 hours here, I am tempted to tell Hubby that he may happily apply for a job and move us here when our time in Cairo is done. Despite my continued status as every insect’s favourite three-course meal, I have rather enjoyed the dewy heat and remarkably friendly people we’ve met here.

This being the developing world, however, not everything works quite as well as one might hope. Case in point is the taxi we called yesterday at 11:15 a.m. to take us to meet Hubby’s colleague, Coola. We finally gave up on the taxi at 2:00 p.m. and decided that despite what the dispatcher kept promising, no car was going to show up “in ten” minutes. Luckily, Coola was able to pick us up in his car to take us to one of the local malls, Citos, where we were amazed at the sheer number of cafes that one structure could support.

From our seat at Excelso, I counted no less than six cafes (including the one we were in) in my line of sight. And that didn’t even include the Starbucks I knew to be a few shops down the way. And it is here that today’s blog really begins.
Our local host, Coola, recommended that we enjoy a “siphon” coffee at his favourite café. As I’m not much of a coffee drinker, I optioned for a chocolate chip frapachino instead. Sadly, this meant that I could only be an observing bystander to the performance art portion of our meal.

After an exhaustingly long wait, our drinks finally arrived. In front of Hubby and Coola were placed two Bunsen burners and a glass contraption with water in the lower bubble and coffee grinds in the top. When the flame below the water was finally set alight, all non-coffee conversation ceased as we immediately sensed that something cool was about to occur.

Slowly, the water began to boil and through the grace of magic (Coola’s words, not mine) the water and steam rose into the second bubble and began to make coffee. After a few minutes we assumed the coffee was made when the top bubble filled with the dark elixir – but we were wrong. Suddenly, the coffee fell back into the bottom bubble. At this juncture, our waitress took the pieces of glass apart and poured Hubby his first cup of siphon-made coffee, which he declared to be quite lovely independent of the cool science show we had just witnessed.

By the way, my frappachino was good too. I even got a really big straw with which to drink said coffee beverage. The lesson here, my friends, is that sometimes you get to be part of drinkable performance art and sometimes you get the big straw. It’s up to you to decide which is better.

It's Birthday Time!

Happy birthday to my big brother, BBS!!
You're old!!

Kwaheri Kenya

This will be my last post from Kenya. In a few hours, I will be boarding a plane that will mark the official end of our lives here in Nairobi. They say that you never really leave Kenya: that she will always be in your blood – Kenya becomes part of your soul. And it’s true. Even as I prepare to heft my bags downstairs into an awaiting taxi, I know that I will always carry a piece of Kenya with me.

As some of you may know, I will be spending the next week in Indonesia as Hubby has one last business trip to complete for the Organization. While I am excited about a trip to a new country I have never visited before, I am even more excited about a new job that will keep Hubby in town instead of traveling all over Africa and Asia without me.

After Jakarta (Hubby doesn’t love me enough to take me to Bali) I will be spending a few days in Dubai before we head back to North America for a few weeks with both of our families. After emptying out all of the shops in both Toronto and the Midwest, we will fly to Egypt before heading to a weeklong conference in South Africa. While this means postcards for some of you, most of you are probably shaking your heads at the silence you think awaits you here at Wandering the World.

I am well aware that I do not have the best track record when it comes to blogging from abroad but I am going to try to post at least once a week (hopefully more!) while we are away. So please check back regularly so that you can witness my metamorphosis from Nairobi Typ0 into Cairo Typ0. There will also be stories about my business class flight on Emirates to Toronto (go air miles!), my BIL’s new triplets, the battle between the H-Buck and the TypoZelle, and of course you can be there for the beginning of our new lives in Egypt.

This entry is not a goodbye – WtW will continue as it always has no matter where we call home. Nor is it a farewell to Kenya as I will be back to see the many friends we have made here. Expat life has taught me that home is where the heart and your suitcase are - and part of my heart will always be in Kenya.

Kwaheri for now Kenya. I’ll be seeing you again soon!

Truth in Advertising

I can't believe how well the guys at xkcd know me.

Weighing In

On Sunday, Hubby and I handed over the keys to our flat, paid all of our final bills, and are now once again officially homeless. Our portable lives have been stuffed into various suitcases and we are counting the passing of time not by phases of the moon but by our access to laundry facilities.

The worst part about carrying our lives around is the fights that it causes. I have brought slightly less than two weeks worth of clothing, one stuffed animal, toiletries, and a few books. Hubby has brought a month worth of clothes, several tonnes of papers (Hubby edit: one notebook) that he simply cannot live without, dozens (Hubby edit: six) of books, two stuffed animals, and a bunch of “stuff” (Hubby edit: read, our bills, taxes, birth certificates, etc.) that really could have gone in one of the shipments (Hubby edit: Yeah, right). Other expats will understand my frustration and are likely already nodding in sympathy. For those of you who live near malls and modern conveniences, allow me to elaborate.

You see, when we go home we do pretty much one thing: shop. We buy a year’s supply of new clothes, deodorant, shampoo, books, and anything else we think we may need whilst we wait for our next trip home. All of these things – new and old – must then be stuffed into suitcases and carry-ons and flown to our new home. And the one truism of home leave is that suitcases that arrived in North America empty will always be overweight on the flight home.

Normally, this wouldn’t be too bad since we like to fly on airlines that love us and give us an excess baggage allowance. (We love you Emirates!) Our trip home to Egypt, however, will take a slightly less happy route – three flights from the US to Cairo all of which are on airlines that don’t think we’re cute and will charge us obscene fees when they see our bulging bags.

So when I gripe that Hubby is over-packing, I’m not simply being selfish and thinking about my future shopping trips which he kindly curtailed by bringing thirty dress shirts and fourteen pairs of pants (Hubby edit: I don’t own that many clothes period!). I’m also thinking about all of the money we will have to pay because of those extra items that are really just taking up space that my new things could have used! See, not selfish at all!

Happy Canada Day!!

Happy 141st birthday to my home and native land!!

And happy 41st anniversary to my lovely parents too!
See you soon!!