It's Official

So, after much thoughtful consideration, I decided to change the name of my blog to something a bit more upbeat and true to my life and what I do.  Hope the new name sits well with all of you.

Thanks for your thoughts!

More to follow soon...

Aside

I was speaking with a woman the other day about this blog... we hardly know each other and yet we began to talk about our lives, about our children, etc.  She shared a bit about her daughter and her dreams to travel and work overseas... I began to tell her a bit more about my life and the adventures that I have had so far in other countries.  I told her a bit about this blog and she was very keen to read it.  She asked for the name of it so that she could look it up online, and I told her that it was titled, "Trials of a Trailing Spouse".  She gasped and said that this would never do for a name... that I had far too much "umf" to just follow someone around.  I laughed then, but went home thinking about it... maybe it's time to give this blog a new name.
So, I am putting it out there to see what people think.
New name?  Or leave it as it is?

Getting out there

My long-lost cousin Steph Mags pointed out to me last weekend that I haven't written very much on this blog... she is so right, and so here I am writing.  I started this past back in May, but have only now attempted to finish it.  I hope to have much more time to write now that I have my new iMac. :)

I realize that I have not been very positive in this blog so far.  Matthew pointed out to me that I have a lot of complaints, but that I hadn't mentioned any of the amazing aspects of this life overseas.  I am setting out to remedy that with this post.
I think it is easier to focus on the negative sometimes, and it really takes strength of character to pull oneself out of negativity and focus on the positives that are always around us. 
One of the things that is amazing about life overseas is the people I have met.  I have made such amazing friends everywhere I have been.  Usually, they are work colleagues, or spouses of Matt's colleagues.  This is an obvious place to start - common ground... However, there are also those friends that I have met who are niether of these things.  The bonds that I have made with these women are amazing, and continue to this day...
The experiences overseas wrap together with the friends to create unforgettable moments.  I will never forget the drive to find an ancient ruin from the time of Genghis Khan with Jackie, for example.  I was gripping the "holy shit" handle in the front of the UN vehicle so hard that my knuckles were turning white.  I remember her commenting that I didn't seem to be enjoying the journey.  What an understatement!  The road to nowhere was winding out of control down the side of a mountain.  Our four wheel drive Nissan Patrol did not seem to be preventing us from sliding towards the edge of the muddy path that was supposed to be a road.  I was petrified and she and Matt thought it was the funniest thing in the world.  To this day, we all remember that day with fondness.
Silvia and I formed an immediate bond of necessity.  As the only two members of teaching staff at the Luanda International School in Angola who were not living on the school campus, we had to face a 45 minute commute every morning.  I had the car, but the thought of driving on my own through the shantytowns and slums, facing traffic jams and security risks on all sides scared me to death.  I was very pleased to offer her a ride every day, knowing that this would give me companionship above all else.  We quickly grew to enjoy each others company, even the silence at the end of the day when we had run out of energy to talk about school.  We reconnected in Edinburgh not long ago, and they she and her husband have managed to come and visit us at our home here in Canada.  These are the friendships that will always last.
Jen and her girls were my lifeline in Geneva.  Without them living next door, I honestly do not believe that I would have been able to make it through those first few years of Emily's life as a stay-at-home mom.  I was a fish out of water, and Jen had a way of calming my nervous spirit and gently showing me different ways to do the things that I was so unsure of.  Being a mother changed me forever, but it could have changed me for the worse if God had not brought her into my life.  I remember the day we went to look at the house in Luins, just outside of Nyon in Switzerland.  It was a small village with several vineyards, incredibly picturesque, tucked in among the rows and rows of grapes.  As we walked around to the garden behind the house, I saw her getting out of her car.  I whispered to Matthew, "she has a baby!".  This was great news for me.  Even better, though, was the look of astonishment as I watched her pull out not one but two little babes.  When she smiled and said hello in perfect American English, I think I nearly died of happiness.  I turned and said, "This will do just fine!".  I must have seemed like a bit of a freak at the time, now that I think of it.  Good thing she didn't mind though.  Those days will be with me forever.
There were others who found their way into my heart... Avronne was, in the words of Anne of Green Gables, my bosom friend.  I went to her with my deepest sorrows and joys and we supported each other in ways that no one else ever could have.  I thank God for bringing her into my world.
Alison was my sanity at school.  The two of us quickly joined forces when we realized that we were from the same southern-Ontario-hardworking-Canadian-teacher gene pool.  Many fun weekends were had at the chalet near Mont Blanc, and I look forward to having our paths cross again in the future.
There are groups of women in many these places that have really touched my soul... Kyrgyzstan saw Monica, Jacky and the gang surrounding me with support and love, even when they were sent home as "non-essential personnel" and I was left to wonder what the UN would have me do while Matt was in Pakistan after September 11th.  Geneva brought together an amazing group of expat women, all new mothers, all unsure of ourselves and finding our footing in a strange land.  It was an amazing network of people, and we met regularly to support one another.  Colombia evolved over time to produce perhaps the strongest, most amazing group of friends that I have formed overseas.  It will be hard to have a glass of wine on my own ever again, and I will never forget you.  Not ever.
Not to be forgotten are the die-hard friends and family who remain at home and deal with our coming and going on a regular basis.  These amazing people are the foundation of our lives, and they ground us to our home.  I was a bit worried about coming home, and about how I would fit back into the world that they have here, but it has been anything but unnatural.  They are always there, always loving and always understanding.  Amazing to think about it, actually... I have missed so many important events in the lives of these friends and family members and yet they welcome me with open arms.  They have shown me what it means to have unconditional love, and this is something that I carry with me no matter where I go or what I do.
As summer days turn to fall, and we settle into a routine of "normalcy" here at our home in Canada, I am struck by the sense of loss I feel at not having the same sort of community that I am able to find overseas.  Sure, there are great people here... there are several women who I have known for years already, and with whom I enjoy talking and having a coffee.  The bond is different somehow, though.  There isn't a sense of urgency at getting to know each other... they have their life here, and I am just something new to add to the equation.  It isn't the same when everyone is from somewhere else and we all seek companionship, and someone to share a glass of wine with.  So much so, that we would drive halfway across town to do so!  It takes half an hour to get around this town's twists and turns in order to reach the other side, and I don't know one person who would actually get in their car and do the drive.
It is mid October, and we are being forced to think about next year already... and as we look at the lists of posts and consider the options in front of us, I can't help but think about the women that I will meet, and the friends that I will make in the years to come.  Now all that is left for me to do is to focus on the lives that have been forever linked to mine, and remind these friends how much they mean to me.

Missing out

Living away from family and friends automatically implies that one will miss out on countless events in the lives of loved ones.  This has most certainly been the case for me.  New life, milestones, loss, weddings... the list of missed events goes on and on.
I write about this today, with 81 days to go until I fly home, because I feel defeated yet again. I am saddened about having to miss out on yet another major event in life... this time?  The birth of my best friend's first child.  I keep telling myself (and her, for that matter) that it will all be such a blur that it is best that I am not there right away.  I have also made it very clear that there is really no chance of my coming home before the end of the school year... only a very slight chance if things heat up here because of the upcoming elections.  I joked that, if things got really bad and security became a real threat to our family, I might be forced to come home early.  Needless to say, she is now praying for civil unrest in Colombia.  My apologies if anything goes wrong as a result...
Looking back, I think that the most difficult time to be away was during the days that surrounded the death of my Oma Zantingh.  I remember exactly where I was, and the events of those days.  She was very ill.  Leukemia hit her hard, along with diabetes.  She was only a skeleton of her former self in her last months.  It was very sad to see her wither away, and we were all praying that she would not suffer in her last days.  I spoke with my dad before flying out of Angola.  We were on our way to Namibia for a Christmas holiday.  My dad told me that Oma was doing really poorly and that the doctors were giving her days to live.  I phoned when we arrived at our hotel in Windhoek, and she was still alive.  All the family were gathering in our hometown to say good-bye to her.  My heart ached to be there with them.  My dad assured me that she was strong, that she would probably hold on for days to come, and that I shouldn't worry... that I should go and enjoy Christmas with Matthew.
We had special plans for Christmas - we had booked into a beautiful lodge in the middle of the Namib desert, away from modern comforts, including telephones.  Our accommodations were in huts made from adobe, keeping the room warm at night, when temperatures could drop below zero, and surprisingly cool during the day with the soaring temperatures outside.  We were excited to sleep on the rooftop, under the stars... and climb the highest sand dune in the world.  We were packed and ready to go, but I wanted to check our email one last time before leaving civilization to make sure that everything was alright...
Of course you have already predicted that Oma Zantingh had passed away that very morning, and that there was a message waiting for me from my father.  It was too early to phone home to talk to him, so I had to send en email.  I wanted to let him know that I loved him, and that I wanted to be with him.  My Oma and I had been very close, and it was so hard for me not to be able to get on a plane and fly home that minute.  I don't remember much about the drive to Kulala Lodge.  All I remember is that I sat beside Matthew, weeping silently, wishing I were somewhere else.
I do remember coming out of my sadness, though.  There is a time to weep and a time to laugh... that's what they say, isn't it?  We woke at 3am on Christmas Day to climb "Big Daddy", the world's tallest sand dune.  I remember finding a spot off to the side and singing "Silent Night" with tears running down my cheeks.  My dad loved hearing me sing.  I prayed that my voice would carry over the ocean and reach him somehow.  Silly perhaps, but it made me feel like I was there with him that day.  That was the end of my tears.  I also remember sitting by a campfire, remembering Oma's smile, her silky white hair, her love of bicycles, our camping trips at Rondeau Park together, her ability to lift our spirits with her all-engulfing embrace, pancakes and stroepwaffles... I remember raising a glass and toasting her life under an African sky.  I will never forgot those moments... there is a part of me that wishes I had been there to support my family, to comfort my father in his sadness, and to remember Oma along with her eleven children, their spouses and countless grandchildren.  There is something to be said for shared grief.
That was a hard year for both of our families.  That was also the year that Matt's cousin died in a car accident in the far north of Canada.  I remember the fear in Matt's eyes when the phone rang and it was his dad.  His first words were, "What happened?".  His parents hardly ever phoned in those days, before free online calls were invented.  A phone call to Angola meant that something terrible had happened, and we both knew it... but the pain that comes from knowing is almost too much to bear.  The sadness is overwhelming when it has no where to run to.
Then there are the close calls... the events that I almost didn't make it to.  The most memorable of these would have to be my good friend's wedding in the UK.  Due to the inflexibility of my employer and an error in scheduling on their part, I was forced to change a ticket that I had bought to London for the big day and shell out a few thousand dollars to make the necessary changes to my itinerary so that I would not lose my job.  It was a stressful time, and I believe that I am still a bit angry about the whole thing.  It was such an important day, and Emily and I were both in the wedding party, so we HAD to make sure we were there for the big event.  In the end, we flew from Colombia to the UK for less than a 48 hour stay.  We made it, but just barely... I didn't miss it, but I certainly would have liked to spend a bit more time with the happy couple.  You do what you have to do sometimes... and this was definitely one of those occasions.
There are other things to miss as well... things that may seem silly to others, but mean so much to me.  This year I missed something that almost sent me into a depression... Vancouver hosted the Winter Olympics and I, Canada's most patriotic woman, missed it.  Well, in person anyway.  I was there in spirit, watching as many events as I humanly could from Colombia.  Watching hockey with Spanish commentary is just wrong.  It is something that I know I will regret for years to come... the opportunity of a lifetime came and went, and I watched it slip by.  In an ideal world, I would have left everything and flown home for a couple weeks... however, the real world dictated that I stay and teach my classes, and buck up. Great friends and family sent me every piece of Olympic gear out there, which helped a lot... but my heart ached for Canada.
So my friend is thirty days away from the birth of her first child and I am feeling a bit homesick yet again.  I won't even get to see her pregnant!  Well, in real life at least... she is great about showing me the belly over skype and keeping me posted on every detail of her pregnant journey... but it just doesn't feel the same somehow.  She came to see me in Switzerland a month before Zachary came into the world... she was there when Emily started walking... she has been there for almost twenty years.  She is always waiting for me when I come home... at the end of that international arrivals runway with Smarties in her hands.  I long to be there for her, but I am afraid that this is another event that I will be missing out on.  I am with her in spirit though, and that will have to be enough, at least for now.

The Drink

A common theme in my life overseas has been alcohol, of course.   Not the misuse of it, but rather the experience of it.  My motto has always been along the "when in Rome" line.
Guatemala had a cane alcohol that they called guaro where we were living.  It is very strong and not that tasty, if you ask me. 
"Most fiestas are powered by liberal consumption of alcohol, mainly boj (also known as guaro or venado). Guaro is "white lightning" and is made from fermented and distilled sugar cane. Its quality varies greatly with the better brands being quite agreeable but invariably strong. It consumed straight from the bottle or mixed with anything available. Like vodka, it mixes well with anything."
http://www.mayaparadise.com/fiestas/fiestas.htm
We didn't consume very much of the stuff when we were living in Ixtahuacan Chiquito, but we did witness its effects on others.  There was a serious alcoholism problem in the community where we were living, and we would often see men staggering around late at night with jugs of the stuff in their hands.  The community had "banned" alcohol, but it was more of a verbal commitment than anything else, and nothing was ever done to those who consumed it.  The results of a late night binge were usually evident on the faces of the women who lived with these men in the morning.  Spousal abuse went hand in hand with drinking, and no one said or did anything about it.
Kyrgyzstan was an interesting mix of soviet and Kyrgyz traditions when it came to the drink.  The Russians had brought with them their cure-all for everything, of course... vodka!  I grew to love and appreciate this drink over the two years that we spent in Bishkek.  I remember eating a very raw piece of chicken one night at a pub.  It was dark and, by the time I realized that my food was not cooked, I had already consumed over half of it.  I looked at Grigory (my Georgian friend) and he looked back and told me to wait for him.  He came back from the bar with two shots of vodka.  He motioned for me to drink them back.  I didn't believe him, but I figured it couldn't hurt, so I downed them both.  All I can say is that he was right! Vodka is strong, and it kills ALL bacteria in your stomach.  It also works well on a sore throat.  The Kyrgyz use is for everything, which I found quite hilarious.
Outside of the capital, the drink of choice is kumis - a fermented mare's milk that the nomadic Kyrgyz people have made and consumed for centuries.  This goes down in my books as the single most disgusting gastronomic experience of my life.  I am pretty brave when it comes to trying new things, especially when honour is at stake, but I nearly lost my stomach over this one.  The rancid smell of fermenting milk hit my nose before I could even get the liquid to my mouth.  I should have plugged my nose the first time around, but I thought it would be rude.  We were guests in a nomadic tribe's home for the week, so we really had no choice but to drink the stuff down so as not to offend.  I managed to get a sip into my stomach, but there was no way I was getting the rest of it down.  I smiled politely and put the cup down.  As soon as our hostess slipped out of the yurt to get some food, I thrust the cup towards Matt and reminded him of the favour he owed me for the time I ate his smoked mountain pig in Guatemala.  Smart girl.  He helped me out.
We didn't live long enough in Angola to get to know their local alcohol very well.  We did, however, learn to love caipirinhas, made with cachaca.  There is also the caipiroshka, which is the same thing but with vodka instead.  This became my preferred drink in Luanda, especially on a hot day on the beach.  It is basically a ton of lime combined with hard liquor.  A spiked lemonade, if you will.  The other drink that I started to love in Africa was gin and tonic.  Someone told me that there was something in this drink that helped to prevent malaria, so I made it my personal goal to drink as much of it as possible.  Urban legend perhaps, but I didn't set out to prove anyone wrong.
Switzerland saw us drinking Swiss wine, which is practically unknown around the world because it is made and consumed locally.  Not bad, as far as inexpensive wines go, and fairly tasty when consumed with cheese.  That is the idea, of course, to accompany the wine with fondue or raclette or roesti.  Yum.  We lived in a small village called Luins, just outside of Geneva, in the middle of vineyards. There were about six family-run wineries in our village, and this was the situation in all the villages dotting the countryside.  We would often go and sample wines on weekends, and buy from the local family-run businesses.  We were sure to bring some of it home to Canada for family to test and approve.  It really is amazing that almost all of the wine produced in Switzerland is consumed within its own borders.  Survival mechanism, I guess.  What else do you do when you are competing with neighbours like France?
Our most recent experience has been here in Colombia.  The alcohol of choice here? Aguardiente, of course.  A sambuca-like, licorice-flavoured alcohol that burns going down.  Its sole purpose is to make you drunk, and to do so very quickly.  The culture here in small towns is quite silly - a group of people will drink outside of a small corner shop with plastic cups; all of them hovering around a bottle of the stuff.  It is either aguardiente or beer.  Beer is cheaper, of course, so it tends to be more popular outside of major city centres.  Major holidays are drinking days, and they have about twenty of those, so you can imagine how regularly people get drunk.  There will be piles and piles of beer bottles on the streets the morning after a "puente", or long weekend.  At least they know how to let loose, eh?
Alcohol is universal, that's for sure.  Every country finds their own mix and it sticks.  I guess, coming from Canada, I never really thought about having only one drink to represent a place.  We are exposed to a whole range of the stuff due to the multicultural nature of our country.  I guess my mix will be a bit of this and a bit of that.
92 days to go, by the way... and loving every minute of it!

Marathon blogs?

I feel I should apologize for the length of my blogs... it was gently pointed out to me by a very good friend the other day, and I hadn't really ever thought about it, to be honest.
I often get carried away and want to say everything all at once.  What I am learning about this blog, though, is that it is a journey on so many levels.   I will think about something to write, and then a million memories will come flooding back to me.  I thought it would be fun to add some photos, but I realized that most of my photos from these years are at home in albums on the shelf.  I will get to scanning them at some point, but for now... that is where they are.  This morning, I spent over an hour looking at photos from the moment Emily was born onwards today.  She woke up in time to join me for the shots of her walking for the first time and Zachary's birth... such a joy to see the look on her face while sharing these memories with me.  Zach was just as pleased to see himself finally joining the photos.   Here are a couple shots from our trip down memory lane.

I think what struck me most about looking at these photos was the change that came about with the addition of these two amazing children to our world.  The challenge of going to a new place, adapting to the new language, culture, environment... it all became so much more challenging with children.  We no longer have only ourselves to worry about.  I know this seems like such an obvious reflection, but it really didn't occur to me before having kids.  I'm not sure what I thought would happen, but I didn't foresee that things would be so incredibly different.  
Jordan and Saeideh are here visiting us right now, and we enjoyed a ladies afternoon at the spa yesterday (with Emily of course).  I was hit with a sudden wave as exhaustion as I was waiting my turn, and Saeideh was shocked at my surprise by this.  She didn't see how I could be surprised... with all the energy that I expend every day without even realizing it.  This is really the big difference I guess... that I naturally put the needs of the kids before my own.  A mother naturally puts things aside to make sure that her kids have all they need - physically, emotionally and developmentally.  I am learning, little by little, to care for myself.  I have been so blessed to meet such amazing people in my time overseas.   In every place that I have been, there have always been incredible women who have inspired me, challenged me, and taught me so much about being me.  I am grateful for them. 
As my mind starts to drift towards Canada, packing up here in Bogota, and moving on from the amazing friends we have made here, I am filled with mixed emotions.  That is the problem with moving on.  I need to make sure that the next three months are spent making memories with the ones that really matter to me.  That is my goal; to live in the moment, and enjoy every minute of it. 

A Whole New World...

I think that, out of all our assignments, Angola was the most challenging in terms of living.  Matthew was very clever in the manner that he introduced me to Africa, though.  He brought me first to South Africa, and later to Anglo.  South Africa was a whole other Africa, and Matthew knew that.  He knew that he would need to ease me into things gently.

I landed in South Africa on a Saturday morning in July.  Matthew was there waiting for me, although I had to search for his face in the crowd and got a bit worried when I didn’t see him after what seemed like an eternity.  I soon spotted him.  He was there at the back of the crowd.  It had been several months since we had bought the house and he had left for Angola, so it was really amazing to be reunited again.  He had rented a car, so we packed all my luggage into the car and started off for the Drakensburg mountains, half-way between Johannesburg and the coast, where we were ultimately heading.  It was a fairly long drive, and scary to be driving on the opposite side of the road, but we got there in good time, arriving around noon.  It was really cold there!  I could actually see my breath when I got out of the car.  Not what I had been expecting in Africa, to say the least.  The hotel had fires going in the main hall, which I was really happy to see, and I stayed there most of the day.  I have to say that I was a bit worried at that point that I didn’t bring enough warm clothing and that I would be in trouble. 

We spent the night there and left the next morning to drive to the coast.  The place where we stayed for the week was a condo-like unit in a place called San Lameer, south of Durban on the east coast.  It was a “gated community” and we were both a bit uncomfortable with the separation from the surrounding area and the whole division of labour that was blatantly going on; blacks doing all the manual labour and whites doing the rest.  It was very weird, and very obvious.  The condo belonged to the guy that Matt had been staying with in Luanda for a while; a South African working for the World Food Programme.  He gave us a great deal, so no complaints.  Anyway, the place was very nice and it was actually a perfect spot to catch up on much needed rest.  We had both worked ourselves into a state exhaustion, trying to keep ourselves highly occupied in order to forget about the fact that we were so far from one another.  We began taking naps every day and heading off to bed around 9:30 or 10:00 pm, and never rising before 9:00am!  Very nice to relax like this.  The temperature on the coast was pleasant; much warmer than the mountains, and the ocean was perfect temperature for swimming.  We laid on the beach every day and went boogy-boarding.  The last day we were there they called everyone out of the water (we were already out) because they had seen a shark.  They closed the beach for the day.  Neither of us had seen the shark, but took their word for it.

After a week of relaxing and reading (I actually ate through two novels), we went back to Johannesburg to prepare for the trip to Angola.  We stayed at a very nice hotel for the night and went shopping for some needed items.   Again, I believe this was Matthew's way of trying to make my first experience in Africa a positive one.  He knew what was to come.  We went out to a very weird place that was right beside the hotel for dinner; a mall-like building, designed to look like a small village inside.  They had false sky hanging from the ceiling and every shop was actually a separate building inside the main building.  Even the paths were made to look like old cobblestone streets.  It was part of a casino, open 24 hours a day.  At the front entrance they searched us for guns.  The more ridiculous bit was that, if they found you had one, they would store it for you in a safe until you were done shopping.  Hilarious!  It brought the reality of the security situation in Johannesburg to light.  I had not felt any sort of risk until that point.

The next morning we left early and made it safely to Luanda around 11:00am.  There were another UNHCR couple on the plane, along with their daughter, and we all were picked up by the same driver.  It was a challenge getting all the luggage into the minivan, but we made it work.  The man’s name was Carlos and it turned out that Matt and I had met him when we were in Guatemala.  He had been working for UNHCR when we were there with Project Accompaniment, and we met him as part of our orientation when we first arrived.  Small world.  I saw him on the airplane and knew that I recognized him from somewhere.  His wife was from Guatemala and she was great; easy-going, and generally used to the life of a trailing spouse, I could tell.  Her daughter was a bit shocked though.  This showed when she remarked, "Carlos, is there a MacDonald's here?"  We all laughed.  We were dropped off at the house and the driver waited for us while we dropped our things and ran.  He took us to the office of the World Food Programme where we were to pick up our car. 

I was very excited about having a car.  It was a small 4x4 called Jimny.  I had not had a chance to drive in Kyrygyzstan because we were using a UNHCR vehicle.  Only Matt could drive it.  It had been several years since I had driven, and I was eager to have my independence back.  On our way home we stopped to get some groceries.  My first experience with shopping in Luanda.  There was a lot of variety in the shops, but I quickly understood why Luanda was one of the most expensive places in the world to live at the time.  Prices were about three times what you would have paid in Canada.  I realized that it would be a challenge furnishing the house, needless to say.  Matt was smart though, and he had worked it into our contract that we would buy furniture and then leave it when we left and deduct a percentage of the costs from the rent.  It helped a bit, at least.

Anyway, getting back to my story.  We picked up the car and went shopping.  Then we headed for home.  On the way home, we were stopped by the police.  They asked for our papers and, when we showed them to the guy he told us that they had expired.  It turned out that we were driving with what we thought were the right registration papers, but only with a photocopy.  We didn’t have the original.  This seemed to be a problem, so he took the papers and told us that we was going to impound the car.  Panic.  We phoned the UN and they sent a driver to help us out.  To make a long story short, it was not the best introduction to Angola.  We ended up talking the guy down from his demands of $50USD in bribe to only $20USD.  When we got back to the UN building, we managed to have a debriefing session with the security officer and he was mad that we had paid a bribe.  Honestly, what else could we have done?  He told us to let them take the car next time, and that he would get it back no problem, as he knew the head of the police.  That still wouldn't take away from the fact that we would be stranded in the middle of Luanda, at night, without a car.  Not exactly the safest scenario.  Anyway, a lesson well learned.

I spent the next few days getting things organized around the house, buying food and getting a few needed items.   I was happy with my cup of Starbucks coffee beside me and an internet connection.  I also got a mobile phone right away, so that I could feel safe walking and driving around.  We managed to get the much-needed original copy of that car document, so I was able to do some exploring around the city.

As far as driving is concerned, Angola is still at the top of my list for worst places to drive in the world.  The drivers are some of the most aggressive I have ever seen, and you have to either join in or be pushed aside.  What did I do?  I joined in, and I actually started to enjoy it after a while.  The tricky part came when it rained.  There is history to this liquid problem.  When the Portuguese pulled out of Angola, they were so mad that they decided to pour concrete into all the sewers in Luanda.  When we were there, in 2003, the sewers were still out of operation.  So, when it rained, the whole city flooded.  The potholes in the streets were so deep though, that when it rained, you really had to know where the holes were or you could end up with half of you car in a pothole and no way to get out.  I have a good memory, luckily, so this never happened to our little Jimny. 

After a week in Luanda, I met up with a couple of Canadians who were volunteering with a sports programme through CIDA.  The organization still exists today, known as "Right to Play".  They were running a sports camp for kids in Luanda and in the outlying areas, working primarily with refugees and diplaced populations.  They invited me to join them to play basketball, which I quickly accepted to do, and it was fun.  Later that week, they took me to see one of the shanty-towns outside of Luanda.  It was shocking to see what Luanda was really like outside of our apartment and its walls and locks.

Night life was pretty exciting around town, and it was fun to see the combination of Brasilian and African moves on the dance floor. My most stark memory of night life, however, is of rats.  The sewer issue mentioned earlier had other problems, one of them being rats.  There weren't enough places for rats to hide underground, so they lived above ground, in broad daylight.  My first glimpse of a rat was at night, heading home from dinner near the centre of town.  We pulled out of the parking lot and had to slam on the brakes.  Matt thought he saw a cat.  Upon closer examination, we realized that it was not at all a cat, but it was a rat!  It was the largest rat that I had ever seen, and I let out a piercing scream.  It was the first rat that I had seen in my life, but it was certainly not the last.  I treaded very, very carefully at night after that, and paranoid about being bit by a rabid rat.  Yes, highly unlikely, but I was still scared. Everyone I met had a story about a rat, which didn't make things any easier.  One teacher even told us about a rat that popped its head out of his toilet in his first apartment in Luanda.  They had to tape the toilet seat down in order to sleep in peace. 

There were positive things about Luanda as well.  Every weekend we went down to a beach with teachers from the school and learned to surf.  We ate freshly caught fish and played beach soccer, enjoying the sunshine and the sand.  I celebrated my 30th birthday on that beach.  It was amazing.  There were accidents and very scary moments involving sharks, but none of us were ever that badly injured.  It was exciting and adventurous, and we were all young, carefree and without kids.   There were also great parties on the beach for Carnival.  Again, an experience that I will never forget... half-naked people dancing on the beach until all hours of the night, drinking far too much and making a lot of noise.  It is a party in a class of its own, that's for sure. 

So, if it sounds so exciting, what made it difficult?  I know that I have already mentioned the various events that took place in my first month in Luanda which introduced me to the nature of the violence there.  There are details to be shared, though, about these events.  Details which have cut deep into my heart.  I don't believe that I will ever be able to forget any of the events that I witnessed in that short period of time.  The most terrifying was of the young man who, in an attempt to eek out even the poorest of existences, was washing a window of a car at the stoplight outside our apartment.  I watched as the driver got out and told him to stop.  My eyes remained glued as a crowd of people gathered around to watch the argument ensue.  I quickly ran upstairs to get out of harm's way, but peered out of our apartment window in time to see the metal crowbars smashing down on his head in anger.  I was weeping by the time the crowd had dissipated.  There was a pool of blood around him and no one had done anything to help; myself included. 

I am reminded of the fear that one feels living overseas as I write these words.  It has taken me some time to finish this post, because we have once again been reminded of the danger that surrounds us here in Colombia.  I am still recovering from the shock of Matthew and Zachary (and a group of about 20 people) being attacked by armed robbers just outside Bogota a few weeks ago.  It has made me stop and appreciate the little things in life.  It has helped me to gain some much-needed perspective on my world, and it is forcing me to find balance.  Everything happens for a reason.  No doubt in my mind.  I pray that our last 100 days in Colombia are filled with laughter and peace.  May God be ever with us. 

More to follow

125 days to go.  I wanted to make sure you knew that I have been writing... it is just taking me longer than I had hoped to get the next post written as I remember it, or as I would like it to read.  Maybe I should just let it be.  I will have it up in the next day or two, I promise.  Patience!

Separation

Another day gone, making it 128 days until we go home to Canada.  Matt came home last night.  He had been away for almost a month, on and off.  It was certainly nice to have him home again.  Not that  we aren't used to seperation.  We often joke that this is the secret to our success; spending half of our time apart!  A year after we got married, we had to make a decision to live on opposite sides of the country.  Matt got a job working for CIDA, Canada's International Development Agency, which he couldn't pass up.  The job was in Ottawa.  A week earlier, I had been accepted into a teacher's education degree program at UBC in Vancouver.  We lived apart for a year, making the 5 hour trip across the country to see each other every couple months.  It was the start of our life apart.  This was in 1997, when email was still emerging.  It soon became our best friend.  We wrote pages and pages to each other over the course of that year.  I found a printed stack of our correspondence several years later when I was going through boxes of our stuff.  I laughed to think that Matt had thought to print them in case our computer crashed, which it had indeed done. 

After I graduated from UBC, I moved east to be with Matt and we were together for a while there.  That was a record stretch of two years, I believe.  Then I went to Kyrgyzstan while Matt stayed behing in Ottawa to complete a month of language training.  Nice of the Canadian government to be so concerned about Matt's language training and not at all about mine.  I arrived at the airport without a word of Russian and struggled through my first month in Central Asia on my own.  Matt soon followed and, apart from a few short trips in country, we were together for a year.  Then came the UNHCR emergency roster training in Spain. That was a month, and it saw Matthew travelling on September 12th, the day after the attacks on the twin towers.  He was home for only two days before shipping off to Pakistan.  I spent the next two months on my own in Bishkek, while all the "non-essential" expatriate staff were being sent home.  It had nothing to do with Kyrgyzstan being close to Afghanistan though, as most people thought.  They say that it was because of the US Airforce base that opened up.  I still hold to my belief that it was because the country ended with STAN.  I spent my days at school and my nights at the Hyatt either in the gym or marking in the lounge over hot chocolate.  It was a difficult time, but the chocoate helped me get through.

The following year, after our assignment in Kyrgyzstan was over, Matt was posted to Kabul. We were separated for six months then, as I politely declined to join him there.  Post 9/11 Afghanistan really didn't hold an interest for me.  I went home and moved in with a couple friends.  They had an unfinished loft in the house they were renting, so I offered to paint it and decorate it if they would let me move in with them.  Not that I didn't have family in Vancouver, but I was worried about choosing one family over another, and this gave me neutral ground to use as home base.  I went back to school and started my teacher librarianship diploma, and I worked at a famous kids bookstore in Vancouver to make ends meet. 

When Matthew returned to Canada, we had two months together while we waited to hear about his next assignment.  To pass the time, we took a trip down the west coast to Baja California and went kayaking.  Then we spent time with our families in Vancouver and on the island.  We took a road trip with my parents up island, across to the Sunshine Coast, back down to Vancouver and over to the island again.  While on this circle trip, we found the house of our dreams and decided that it was as good a time as any to invest.  It was just after that when we found out our next posting would be to Angola.  Matt was expected to start immediately, but we had to finish the basement on our home so that we could rent it while we were away.  It was decided that I would stay to do this while he went on to Angola to find us a home there and settle in to his new assignment.  This was another four months' seperation.  I think I got the better end of the deal on this one, though. 

I joined Matthew in Angola later that summer, and it was the beginning of the most difficult assignment we had ever been on.  Luanda was a dirty, noisy, angry city.  In my first month there, we were stopped and threatened that our car would be impounded if we didn't pay a fine, I had hundreds of dollars of goods stolen from my car while it was under surveillance, I was attacked getting into my car and I saw someone killed outside our apartment for no apparent reason.  We made some essential changes to our living arrangment, and I purchased some self defence items to keep on me at all times, and that was the only way I was able to cope.  Despite all efforts though, I was eager to leave after a year in Angola. 

Matthew received news of his next post in January the following year, and was asked to go immediately to Geneva, Switzerland.  Talk about exact opposites!  Geneva was everything Luanda wasn't; organized, clean, pristine, safe.  He left in March that year, and so we began another three month seperation.  As a teacher, I had an obligation to the school, so I had to stay in Luanda until the end of the academic year.  It would have been impossible to maintain two apartments in both cities, however, so the school made arrangments for me to move into housing on campus.  It was a whole other world living on a compound.  It helped me to better understand why many expats live this sort of life in dangerous places like Angola. 

In July, I moved to Geneva as well, and we spent the next three years there.  There were short seperations, but nothing compared to those we had already endured.  A month here and there, sometimes more, but never more than six weeks at a time.  It was a time to settle down and learn to deal with each other full time again.  We both felt the void left by not having as much time to ourselves, but quickly found a way to fill this space with our individual interests.  Both of our children were born during these three years, and our lives changed to meet the new parenting roles that we were in.

Just after our son Zachary was born, we found out that we were to be moving to Bogota, Colombia.  After consulting with our pediatrician, it was decided that Zachary might be better off in Canada until he was six months old and could receive his yellow fever vaccine.  So, we began a four month seperation, this time involving the children.  Matt went ahead to Bogota to find housing and check out life in Colombia, and I stayed in Canada with the children.  This was a whole new experience for me, being alone with two small children, rather than being on my own.  Luckily, family and friends were nearby, ready to help.  I don't think I would have survived the seperation without their help.

We are coming to end of three years in Colombia now, and it has been difficult, but not impossible.  Our seperations over the past three years have seemed harder somehow.  I have tried to explain it time and time again to Matthew.  He senses my unrest, but I have had a hard time articulating exactly what the difference has been.  I think that I have finally laid my finger on it, though.  It is a matter of independence, I believe.  I have been struggling with my loss of independence.  When Matthew leaves, it is no longer me on my own in a foreign country.  It is now two children and I coping on our own without him.  This is a hard thing to do in a country where security is such a major issue.  I cannot simply pick up and head out of the city with the children.  A single woman travelling alone with two children?  By car? Something like this requires planning and security clearance.  It requires courage and letting go of my fears.  It is a hundred times more difficult than it was when I had only myself to worry about.  I don't say these things to complain.  I tell you this simply to help you understand why it has been trying for me.  Being a trailing spouse is much easier than being a trailing mother with children.

So it is that we have reached a moment in our lives when we have decided to take a year off.  We have made a decision to stop working for a year and to spend some quality time together as a family reassessing our priorities.  It is something that we need to do together as a family, and something that will help us decide where we should go from here.  All the years of seperation have brought us to a place where we need some time together.  This has also taken courage, and commitment, and I am so pleased that it is becoming a reality.

In sickness and in health

130 days to go!

I am very excited about this blog.  I almost couldn't sleep last night thinking about all the stories that I have to share... I was sick yesterday, and it made me think about all the weird and wonderful things that have happened to me overseas.  I am therefore going to begin with a tale of my first sickness abroad. 
It happened in 1996 in Guatemala.  Matthew and I had just been married, and we decided to take a volunteer position in the Ixcan jungle area of Guatemala.  We were volunteering with an organization called Project Accompaniment, a group that was started to monitor the return of refugees from Chiapas, across the border back into Guatemala. After the massacres in the 80s, the refugees demanded that they be allowed to have internationals living in their communities to witness any acts of violence that may or may not take place.  They were incredibly strong as a group of refugees, and they organized their own return!  This was the first time any group of refugees had done this.   We were well-equipped for the job, as both of us had taken Spanish in University.  After two weeks of language training in a town known as Xela (actually named Quetzaltenango, but the Mayan people still call it Xela), all of our academic knowledge was converted into an ability to speak fluently, and we were ready to go.

We were to be posted to a small town called Ixtahuacan Chiquito, near the River Ixcan in the north-west corner of Guatemala.  It was a long journey in, starting in Guatemala city.  We took a bus to Coban, several hours north of the capital.  Then we climbed on board a small Cessna plane which was to take us into the Ixcan jungle.  It was a four-seater plane, but they had removed the two seats in the rear and placed small step stools on the floor as seats instead.  This miraculously tranformed the four-seater plane into a six-seater, albeit without seat belts.  Logically, me being the tallest person in the group, they gave me a seat near the back of the plane, where the roof begins its decent to the tail.  So I spent the entire flight folded in half, unable to see anything, feeling like I would lose my stomach if I didn't get some air.  Matthew, being the only male who spoke Spanish, was given the seat next to the pilot.  Gotta love that latino "machismo", eh?  To make matters worse, the flight had been delayed for several hours because of fog.  But, there was a job to be done, so the pilot shrugged off the weather and took off despite all warnings.  I was scared to death. No seat.  No seatbelt. No stomach.  No problem.  We landed about an hour later in Cantabal and hopped on a bus to Pueblo Nuevo where we spent the night.
 
We slept in a small hostel (which turned out to be someone's home with hammocks strung up for us).   It was a very long night.  Matthew got sick from eating rancid peanuts and spent the night outside puking his insides out, and we had to get up at 4am to catch the "bus" to the next village.  Everyone was there waiting at 4am, everyone except the driver.  Apparently he forgot to set his alarm, so we finally pulled out around 6am.  The "bus" was another exaggeration.  It was a Ford pick-up, with a metal railing around the bed at the back.  This allowed for more people to be crammed in like sardines.  We stood for hours, holding on to the metal frame for support.  With each hour, more passengers were packed into the bed of the truck.  It was so full by the end that we didn't actually need to hold on to anything.  There was no way you could move, let alone fall.  We arrived exhausted in the next village, where we caught a boat down the river to Ixtahuacan Chiquito.

We arrived in the dead of night, and I distinctly remember the fear that gripped me as we walked in total darkness up the steep bank of the river, through the jungle and into the village.  Our mimi maglites were not much help.  We were led to the home of the village leader, Don Marcos, who officially welcomed us and led us to the house that the community had built for international accompaniers like ourselves.  It was conveniently located smack dab in the middle of the village, on a hill.  This way, everyone could keep an eye on us, and we would be sure not to miss any of the late night fiestas that were a regular occurance in Ixtahuacan Chiquito.  The full deal, marimba and everything.

We had come prepared for our stay in the jungle.  Prepared for anything, really... we carried with us all the clothes we would need for two months, our toiletries, mosquito nets, sleeping bags, thermarests, boots, sandles, swimming suits and towels. On top of that, we brought books to read and journals to write in. Furthermore, thinking we might get tired of beans, rice and tortillas, we carted in bags and bags of oatmeal for our morning breakfast. We also brought a two month supply of M&Ms to eat after taking our weekly chloroquin pills, which anyone who has had to take them will attest to, taste absolutely disgusting. The M&Ms were a survival tool.



We settled into the rhythm of village life quickly.  Our daily routine took on a life of its own... wake at dawn with the roosters, make a fire and cook some oatmeal with bananas.  Wash at the water pump or, in Matthew's case, shave at the water pump with all the little kids giggling between the slats of the wall.  I don't think they had ever seen anyone shave with such white foamy cream on their face before.  Ah, the North American comforts.  The water was freezing, which was nice on hot days, but not great on cold, rainy mornings.  Lunch and dinner were at a different family's house each day.  The arrangement was that we would eat with a different family each day.  We were, in turn, expected to purchase non-perishable foods from one of the local stalls to bring as a gift for the family that was cooking for us that day.  It was usually rice, beans and tortillas.  There was an occasional egg fried in so much oil that it was unrecognizable by the time it reached our plate, or the wild boar that the family had killed that day that had been smoked over the fire until it was too tough to eat.  We were, however, expected to eat everything that was put in front of us so as not to offend anyone.  It was easy to do when thinking about the life of the people who were hosting us.  Waste not.

Matthew as doing research for his thesis, and I helped by interviewing the women. They´d be damned if they were going to talk to a man, so I was the natural alternative.  This helped to pass the time.  We interviewed the family with which we were dining that day, and this arrangement was explained to the community members at a meeting just after we arrived.  I would sit down with the women while they were weaving and ask them a set of questions, while Matt would go off into the fields with the men and do the same thing.  I learned how to weave as a result of these encounters; a skill that I hope I still possess, and hope to pass on to my daughter one day.  I felt so priviledged to be living among such amazingly courageous people.  The stories that they told us filled our hearts with compassion and wonder at the joy that they had for life.  It was an unforgettable time.

Then came the fateful day that I came down with a cold.  It seemed like a cold, anyway.  I started to cough, and this soon turned into something debilitating.  I deteriorated quickly and was soon unable to even rise from my bed.  I would lay for hours in the hammock, coughing.  Our only medical resource was the infamous book, ¨Donde No Hay Medicos¨, translated to mean ¨Where there are no doctors¨.  Using a list of symptoms to come to a diagnosis, we came up with a horrible shortlist including TB.  Panic.  Matthew decided to speak to Don Marcos to see if there was anything they could do to get me out of Ixtahuacan Chiquito to a doctor.  It was decided that we needed to go back up the river to a village called Los Angeles, where there was a working radio and an air strip.

There was the problem, however, that I was unable to walk.  The men in the village quickly came up with the most logical solution.  They decided to lift me onto a chair and strap me tightly to it, despite our protests.  The chair had a thick strap that went under the back legs of the chair, around the forehead of a man that was only half my height and then back under the chair where it tied together in a tight knot.  The back of the chair rested against the back of the man, with my feet dangling out behind.  It was, needless to say, not the most comfortable form of transportation that I have ever encountered.  The man, who I felt eternally sorry for, carried me down to the river where there was a long narrow boat waiting to carry me up river, against the current, to the next village.  The chair was lowered into the center of the boat, and I remained strapped to it for the duration of the journey.  It was a long trip, and I had visions of myself falling overboard, strapped to the chair, unable to swim or save myself for certain death.  Matthew rode behind me, holding on to the chair.  Not that he had a choice; he was to hold onto me or die trying. 

When we reached the village, we were filled with hope.  The same little man heaved my chair onto his back and carried me up the steep bank into the village.  The parade of children following behind giggling at the gringa strapped to the chair is something I will never forget.  I was laid down in the international accompanier's hut; a kind woman who had walked to Ixtahuacan Chiquito to meet us several weeks earlier.  Matthew was beside himself and set about trying to get me some help.  He found the men who knew how to use the radio, but  found it to be broken.  He was desperate though; so desperate that our host offered to walk to the next village to get help.  It took three days until we heard the plane,  but then it was a whirlwind rescue.  The pilot landed, they loaded me into the plane, and I was flown directly to Guatemala City.  Matthew had arranged for someone to radio ahead to have our friend from the Canadian embassy there to meet us, and I was whisked off to the best hospital in the city.  After a series of tests, they discovered that I had broncheal pneumonia.  The treatment?  Antibiotics.  Yes, it really was that simple.  Our friend from the Canadian embassy insisted that we stay with them while I recovered.  We stayed for a week, until I had regained my strength, and we headed back into the jungle.

We took a different route this time, and flew directly into Los Angeles.  Everyone was happy to see me alive and kicking.  We ran into a problem trying to find a boat that was going back up river to our village, though, and decided to walk in.  It was a full days hike from Los Angeles to Ixtahuacan Chiquito, but we were confident we could do it. The trail was clearly marked, as it was the rainy season. By rain, I mean torrential downpour, by the way. The sort of rain that you hear coming before it actually shows up. After it does appear, it only lasts for a few minutes, and then it moves on. Quite nice if you are sitting in the comfort of your "champa" looking out at the jungle. Not so lovely if you are in the middle of the jungle with nowhere to hide. The rainy season translated into muddy season on the ground. The trail was clearly marked because of the mud. We had been warned about the mud, and told not to wear our North American hiking boots in it or they would be ruined forever. So, we were wearing the black rubber boots that we had picked up for a few dollars before our first trip into the area. Needless to say, neither of us had worn them hiking before and, about an hour into the hike, our feet were killing us. Both of us had blisters and we had to take regular breaks to apply mole skin to our heels.

I had always wanted to see the jungle. I can remember dreaming about it as a child. Let me tell you, though, after a couple hours in the jungle, I was beginning to miss home. Endless vines and trees and mud. No bright, colourful birds, no snakes (thank goodness) or interesting animals. Only the trail, the mud, my pack and Matthew, who was trying to encouraging. We both lost a boot at some point along the path, and our socks were no longer any shade of white.
After hours of slogging through the mud, which we had come to know as ¨lodo¨, I reached a breaking point. The intense heat of the jungle, thick with humidity, began to get the better of me. It probably didn't help much that I was still recovering from pneumonia.  I started to breath more quickly and my pace slowed considerably. It was getting dark, and we knew that we still had a ways to go. I started to panic. I did not like the idea of sleeping in the jungle. My breathing quickly turned to panting, and I soon found myself hyperventilating. Matthew quickly came to my rescue, coaching me with a ¨breath in, and out, and in, and out¨ that miraculously brought me back to reality. I rose to my feet, determined to prove my strength in this impossible situation. One foot in front of the other was the mantra I was repeating over and over in my head. And then, there it was... a village at the bottom of the small hill we had just climbed. As we emerged from the jungle, we found ourselves on a path leading into Ixtahuacan Chiquito.  Never had I been so happy to see civilization in all my life.

We had a couple other minor illnesses while we living there, but this time we were prepared.  Cipro became a very good friend of ours, and we learned to try anti-biotics first, rather than evacuate.  It was certainly a challenging way to begin our life together; we had been married for only four months.

Trials of a Trailing Spouse

My name is Stephanie.  I am a wife, a mother and a teacher.  I am also a trailing spouse.  
I decided to start this blog as a sort of self-help mechanism.  I guess I have been having a bit of a hard time... although most of you will probably scoff at my trials.
I have been living away from home for the past 14 years, trailing my husband as he is posted from one country to another with the UN.  It sounds so romantic and exciting to live in places like Kyrgyzstan, Angola, Switzerland and Colombia, I know.  But it does indeed have its trials. 
As a result, my husband and I have decided to take a year off next year and go and do the things that we have always wanted to do.  Our two children deserve a break from the craziness of overseas living, we feel, so we are packing up and heading home in 131 days.  Yes, I am counting.  Sad, you say?  Perhaps.  I call it coping.  Over the next 131 days, I will write down what I can remember of our 14 years overseas.  My sister has been bugging me to do this for years.  It is about time I got started.
I hope you enjoy!  And I know that there are many of you out there who can relate, so please feel free to comment.