stuff this ex-pat aid worker likes

It seems I have to give up apologising for not making blog updates. Instead, I will own up to my sporadic blogger status and have done with it. Haven't been feeling the creative inspiration to write on a regular basis.. or the discipline required as groundwork to allow the creative genius space to breathe. I have been following one particular blog lately (you can find it here), which has been gaining popularity among my own ex-pat aid worker connections, at least according to the status updates on facebook. It's a self-deprecating look at the world of the ex-pat aid worker, and anyone working in this area cannot fail but to recognise him/herself or colleagues in the regular posts.

As previously mentioned, my creative genius is a little slow at the moment. I've been trying to think of a theme the blog hasn't covered, to make my own ironic input. Seems I'm always a few steps behind the posse.

Check out the blog, especially if you're one of the target audience. If a superb idea hits in the middle of my next meeting of the taskforce of the working group for the initiation of great development ieas, I'll post it here.

Going Bananas

I was in Gaza province for work at the weekend- part of the flood response activities now that there's a red alert situation- more about that later. On the way back, we stopped at the land of plenty that is Macia, where fruit stands line the street, laden at this time of the year with avocados, pineapple and passionfruit. I may have gotten carried away with the abundance of fruit, the size of the avocados, and the low prices, and ended up with much more fruit that I could reasonably see my way through before it would go off.


In the end, I baked, making my old reliable banana and chocolate cake, to rescue the bananas before they had turned completely black, and the passionfruit I transformed into muffins- a new recipe that turned out well, getting the thumbs up from Rodrigo (who has now banned passionfruit from the apartment due to the incompatibility of the seeds with our already dodgy kitchen sink drainage.

The picture doesn't really do the muffins justice, but you can take my word for it that they're tasty.
There's also a cookie dough (chocolate and cashew- again from Macia) sitting in the fridge awaiting it's turn in the oven tomorrow. Enough for eating at home, and for treats in the office!

Moving up in the world

I recently moved into a new apartment in Maputo, having succeeded in dragging my Brazilian love to this slice of Latin America in Africa. It's my third abode in the city, and I'm steadily moving up (from the 2nd floor to the 5th, to the 14th), and further north, albeit remaining on the same street. Our view is nothing short of amazing, and in the past weekend, I was loathe even to leave the comfort of the balcony to venture elsewhere in the city. With some slightly aged balcony couches, a few long surviving plants, a fresh breeze and a sea view all the way to the horizon, it makes for a peaceful retreat- apart from the noisy quad racers on Friedrich Engels (honestly- isn't there plenty of quad terrain around for them, without deafening the good citizens of the city?) and the occasional impromptu African hip hop party breaking out below.

We've been lucky to find this place - decent apartments with views in Maputo where the landlord is not uber-greedy and demanding monthly rents on a par with Dublin, are not easy to come by. The new arrival to Maputo is unlikely to find one of these, but an older hand like me lies in wait for exiting friends.. and pounces.. inheriting not only the apartment, but the associated paraphernalia (I have a step machine in my spare room, and old Halloween costumes in a cupboard/room off the kitchen).

Other friends have not been so lucky recently with their homes, with landlords pushing up the rent way beyond what is reasonable for buildings with only occasionally functioning lifts, and dilapidated stairwells. Those features, one of course expects from a country low down on the human development index- just not for $3000 dollars per month. The exchange of money and services requires two willing parties though, and in this case, it's often the aid agencies, and embassies spending their cash on housing subsidies which offer almost no incentive to employees to opt for a cheaper place. In some cases, the organisations pays all of the rent; in others, the employee pays up to a specific amount (say $1500), and the organisation pays everything else - sometimes with no upper limit, so of course many people prefer to take the apartment for $2500, and let the organisation (or let's be clear about it - homebased taxpayers) foot the bill for the rest. And this comes on top of what are usually very generous salaries....

I understand of course the desire to house employees in safe, comfortable accommodation, but it seems that even in an age of budget cuts and decreases in financial assistance provided to developing countries, little, to no attention is paid to the vast sums of money spent in this way, nor to the implications it has for housing markets in the host countries.

Table For One

This evening I was hit with the desire for meat and wine of the red variety. Due to a sudden rainstorm which deterred any friends from joining me for dinner, I found myself enjoying a solitary meal in an Italian restaurant close to my apartment building. As I sat there, sipping South African wine and watching the rain spatter the streets; I relaxed into my own company, observing my thoughts. It was a much-needed pause after a busy work-filled week. I don't eat dinner alone in restaurants very often; breakfast and lunch in cafes- yes, but dinner feels like another category - a formal event which usually necessitates a companion or two.

But really, eating alone every so often is a little luxury, a treat to oneself, a little deviation from the idea of dinner as a social event, with raucous laughter and sparkling wit. Alone, there are no awkward silences, no small talk, just me, some delicious food, and my thoughts. I wait for the rain to ease off a little and I order dessert, lingering over each bite as forks of light illuminate the night sky. I pay the bill, pick up my small red umbrella, now rendered ineffective as a result of the wind (think of a blustery rain-shower in Dublin), and wander the short walk back home, skipping over puddles, feeling all of a sudden, lighter (even with the food in my belly), calmer, and free.

The Inverted Midas touch

When we moved into our present apartment, I and my flatmate purchased a number of plants.

Roughly 7 months on, I think there is no question as to who has the green fingers, and who has the finger of death.

Here is one of my flatmates plants:

And one of mine, which, while hardly boasting full, Amazonian rainforest foliage when it began its life with me, it did at least resemble a living plant in the beginning. It went well for a while, but gradually the leaves started to fall off, one by one.

Until all that was left was a sorry twig:

One in the hallway is doing better, but I'm not sure that has anything to do with me, and I'm pretty convinced that it has started to droop a little since I began paying more attention to it. Time will tell if it can withstand my inverted Midas touch.

My Favourite Day of the Week…

…it can only be Friday. The expectation of the weekend and two whole days of no work, potential lie-ins and lazy breakfasts. Friday night plans with friends. I think of when I lived in Dublin, in the days after finishing college and working in a company with a young workforce. Fridays meant long breakfast breaks, finishing work early, a few drinks with colleagues, maybe ending in a club with friends later on. The city would heave a sigh as the offices released their captives into the world to wreak havoc on the night. Where Saturday night socializing was a more contrived affair, Friday nights straight from the office possessed an air of relaxed abandon that I have not experienced to such a degree since.

Sundays on the other hand, for me induce mixed feelings. When I was young it was mass in the morning and Sunday roast-beef lunch, neither of which I was ever a fan of (the latter, not because of any lack of cooking skills on my mother's part - roast beef has simply never been my favorite). Although it meant sometimes trips to the seaside, or elsewhere, the Sunday evening ritual of Glenroe (a popular Irish soap of days past), followed by preparation of Monday's lunch sandwiches, was not one I looked forward to, and the anticipation of this seemed to cast a shadow over most of my Sunday afternoon. I suppose it indicates that I wasn't such a fan of school- or maybe it was simply the early rising requirement of schooldays. My family members, are not in general, known for our love of early mornings. My father was the only one who would get up early even when on holidays (perhaps it was the only peaceful time in a household of 9 people), and most of his daughters take a leaf out of their mother's book when it comes to Saturday morning lie-ins.

In Maputo, Sundays are family days, days where young couples stroll by the sea and children splash about in the water. Families meet up in cafes, parks and each others homes. It's also the day where the rich young idiots with the souped-up cars show off their steeds on Friedrich Engels, pumping the sound systems up to the last, accelerating between the speed ramps, and imagining that they are the proverbial hot stuff. Security guards outside the houses and apartments look on with an air of amused disdain at the dust they leave behind in their wake. Another black mark against Sundays. Friday still remains the favoured day, with Saturday a close second.

Holding on and Letting Go

I am hanging off a rockface feeling my fingers slipping. The encouragement from below is next to useless- I should put my left foot WHERE? Are you crazy? Fear of falling paralyses me, and I tire as I search about for hand and footholds that look like they could help me on my ascent. I have a choice; to take a chance and try to move, risking falling (even with the awareness of the safety rope, my body and mind resist this option), or to remain where I am, and fall anyway as my grip weakens. After much deliberation and multiple instructions from multiple sources on the ground, I move, and I fall, but the rope holds and I am still alive. I try again, and this time I make the move successfully, feeling a surge of adrenalin as I do so.

I complete the climb, abseil back to the ground, where I realize how valuable this is as an exercise in letting go. Fear paralyses – in climbing as in life. We make a few brave moves, and then find ourselves halfway up the sandstone cliff of our life unable to work out where our feet and hands need to venture next. Advice from friends or family can be useful, but often, they simply cannot see our perspective, and we cannot appreciate that someone else may know better than us. We can only move when we feel the moment is right; when we are ready to surrender and accept the success or failure that may result.

In life, standing still because of fear is not an option. We must act, even if we are unsure of the outcome. This is the essence of karma yoga, the message of the text of the Bhagavad Gita. As we let go and surrender on the rock, so too must we act without being attached to the result of the action. We cannot allow fear to dictate our action or inaction, but we should use knowledge to direct our action. While climbing, we move only after analyzing our situation a little, deciding where the crack and bumps of the rock will allow us to balance. In life too, knowledge and action should go hand in hand – we can try to act from a place of understanding and knowledge….

The wise see knowledge and action as one; they see truly – Bhagavad Gita

…. and then...

we have to let go and trust the universe.