the view from the balcony - left

The other day, late in the afternoon on a weekend, I went out on the balcony of the place where I’m staying - a flat on the top floor of our office - and beheld a beautiful sight when I looked to my left.

The sun here is scorching. But as the day stretches to its end, it redeems itself: the sunsets here are so, so sweet. Yesterday I watched the sun set to the West and the Moon soaring high to the East. At the same time. Today I didn’t see the  sunset, but I saw an enormous moon’s light bouncing off the ripples on the Nile. Yes, there is some beautiful natural lighting here.

But back to the view from the balcony… after enjoying the beauty of the sunset for a few minutes, my eyes wandered down, and I was reminded of reality.

A man snoozing on a matress-less iron bed in the hazy heat of the late afternoon. Do you see him, next to the chair, bottom-left? Sorry, the quality of the photo isn’t better. That’s his home behind him. My home is much, much more luxurious. We have walls and tiled floors and stuff. We have running water (which isn’t currently running), airconditioners and a generator in case the city’s electric lines go down. We have guards and cars and a microwave. And these are our across-the-street neighbours. I wonder how they perceive us?

(By the way, I am LOVING my time here. I’ve decided that the water problems that are plaguing us - currently we have nary a drop in the building and are depending on the backbreaking labour of the cleaner to help fill up our bins once a day - anyway, I’ve decided that God has given me these problems so that I am not too seriously tempted to stay here rather than return to my new home!)

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Blasting stereotypes of Africa

I just came across this video. It’s funny, ridiculous, absurd, sad, and more true than I care to admit.

I love how the chief tells her that they put the silliest answers possible on the survey because they thought it was a joke! I also love how he said that Americans can’t tell Africans to develop if Ghana beat the U.S. in the World Cup. I also like how the girl says she can’t stay in the village because there’s not internet, but the chief sounds totally hooked up.

But I’m telling you, at least some of these African chiefs seriously have Got It Goin’ On! Check out this chief who manages his entire constituency and does an awesome job of “member care” through twitter: Kenyan Chief Tweets His Way to Reducing Crime … I kind of wish I had a tribal leader like that!

 

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water pressure!

I’d forgotten.

I had gotten so wrapped up in the less-than-ideal pressure of electric showers in cold wintry bathrooms, that I’d forgotten how good I had it. Then I moved into my new home and was thrilled to discover that I now will really have it very good. But I somehow forgot just how much better the water pressure in the northern lands is, compared to the water pressure in a certain desert capital in Africa.

My first shower here was taken dipping my head under the tap to catch a few drops to splash around, just enough to feel clean. My second shower was taken in a rush to enjoy the few moments of water flow I had. Another shower was delayed from evening until the next morning because I just didn’t see any point in taking another half-hearted shower.

our bathroom sink, not even a drop coming from it. And the big bin full of water by its side.

Last night, the electricity went out in the part of the building that holds the water pump. We had no water at all. And so I resorted to the bin full of water that we maintain in our bathroom. Keeping a bin of water on hand is just one of those things you do here if you’re smart.

I know I’m incredibly privileged here. Most people don’t have running water at all, depending entirely on buckets of water, sometimes toted long distances just for a quick bath. And in a hot dusty land, I should be beyond relieved that I can count on a daily (or almost-daily) bathe.

Not only that, but we have a hot-water heater. It only holds about a gallon of water, but in this climate even lukewarm water is enough to keep the edge off. But not many people living in this city have even that. And while the weather is hot, it’s not sweltering at this time of year so there’s really nothing refreshing about a cold shower.

And all this has come to me as a realisation that I should be grateful, incredibly grateful, for what I have. Even in drafty unheated bathrooms, the hot water and strong water pressure I can count on in England is a luxury indeed!

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China’s Economic Takeover is all about Culture (?)

Last week, I came across an article about how China is planning on redirecting a fair bit of its nationalistic (imperialistic?) energy to dominate the world’s economic scene. During the past few years, every discussion about world economics has involved China as a main character. Many of my non-native-English-speaking friends have decided that their children will study not English in school, but Chinese. Because speaking Chinese is where it’s at if one wants to be a successful businessperson in the future.

Economic Growth = China

So this article that I came across was fascinating (click here to read it!): in it, I learned that that monolith we refer to as “China” has realised that economic dominance will never be complete without cultural dominance. Indeed, too many Chinese youth are attracted to Western Culture! This cannot be. China must be great in its own right, so the Chinese machine is going to start reviving and exporting its culture: “President Hu Jintao of China made headlines in the early days of the new year saying China and the West were engaged in an escalating culture war, calling on Chinese people to strengthen cultural production to defend themselves against the assault.”

Them’s fighting words. The article goes on to explain that China’s cultural power didn’t match its economic dominance, and that culture was key for national unity and world dominance. Yup.

So let’s be looking forward to some interesting East-Meets-West culturtwining in the coming years, with the “big boys” playing a key role!

I found the article interesting, especially in the light of recent controversies about working conditions in China. Even though the factories where suicides have recently occurred produce all kinds of digital electronics, a lot of the debate has focused on the disturbing ethics of buying Apple products when we know that many iPhones, iPads and Macs are made in the same complex of factories as where the suicides happened. Uh-oh. I’m typing this on a Mac.

This radio special from NPR is brilliant; listen if you have the time: Mr. Daisey and the Apple Factory

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a new culture

So, where have I been for the past few weeks, you ask? Well, I’ve been moving into my new home!

Yes, my culturtwining days are taking a new route, setting off on an untred road, venturing into new horizons. I will now be twining with the culture of people-who-actually-live-somewhere.

Here are a few of the bits of culture shock I’ve felt in these past days:

  • Last week, I went into Ikea and actually bought something. Something bigger than my hand, that is. There I was, waiting in the queue behind a couple choosing cabinets for their kitchen: usually when standing behind people doing home remodeling I feel like I’m listening to a foreign language - this time, I was making my own kitchen decisions.
  • I spent a week setting up electricity, gas and broadband, and I actually had answers for the questions customer service representatives were asking me on the phone!
  • But perhaps the strangest experience of this new culture I’ve had so far has been the fact that I actually now have an address. Not a in-care-of address or a temporary post office box which may or may not work. No. I have my own address.

Yes, indeed, this is going to be a new culture for me to explore! Perhaps that is why, when yesterday I left on yet another jetplane for yet another international assignment, I felt more “normal” than I’ve felt in weeks. Arriving in my destination felt commonplace rather than exciting. For me, for the time being, traveling is still the norm, while stable feels exotic and adventurous.

Isn't she pretty?

 

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BRB

Whatever happened to CulturTwined? I was so great about posting regularly on here, and now it’s been a full 10 days since I’ve had anything good to say.

It will be about 10 more days before I’m back. I’m in the middle of yet another transition, and I’ll tell you all about it in about 10 days when I set back out on more culturtwining travels!

Of course, if YOU have something to say and want me to post it to CulturTwined, I’ll happily do so! Just email me at kati[at]katiworonka[dot]com

In the meantime, enjoy the spirit of a bumpersticker I saw today:

“Life is not about learning how to weather the storm, rather it is about learning how to dance in the rain.”

 

And a photo of a storm brewing over the Mediterranean Sea in Beirut. That is definitely in the running for status as the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived (and some random trivia: that parking lot in the picture is the former site of the U.S. embassy that was bombed in the early 80s; this photo was taken about 8 years ago, and now it’s a high-rise luxury residence):

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Experiencing Brick Lane

Brick Lane is one of my favourite books of all time. The film isn’t too bad either. Both made me cry.

There’s a scene in the film where Nazneen enters the Bangladeshi shopping area on Brick Lane, and you see swaths of coloured cloth draped from a shop next to a couple of restaurants that serve real fresh Bangladeshi. So it came to be that I did not envy her life, not even the teeniest tiniest bit, but for one thing. I wished I, too, lived near Brick Lane. I would love to be near those colours and those smells and those flavours!

So I was a little surprised when my housemates recently informed me that we live not too far from Brick Lane. A single bus ride. Even better, a 45-minute walk! How could I have lived in such proximity to a place that has captured my imagination, and never been there?

So they offered to take me on Saturday. And Saturday was indeed a dream come true. As my housemate showed me the Tower Bridge and Tower of London, the unique modern architecture of the area, Liverpool Street, and other such major attractions, he must have been rather confused at my insistence that we keep pushing on to Brick Lane.

Saturday was not market day, they had warned me, and yet it still did not disappoint. True, I never found the swaths of bright colours draped above me. But on neighbouring Petticoat Lane we did see rows and rows of shops filled with bright coloured saris and shoes and scarves.

And. I found enough fascinating food joints to keep a foodie like me entertained for the rest of my life. I smelled the spices and the curries as I walked through the Bangladeshi part. Dark-skinned men who are remarkably courageous considering the Londoner’s propsensity for ignoring others, called out to us inviting us to eat in their establishments. We even passed a little joint that boasted having won the “Chef of the Year Award” in 2010.

Then we passed out of the Bangladeshi part into the, for the lack of a better word, hippy part. It was marked by used and antique furniture, enough vintage clothing to fill warehouses upon warehouses, and an even greater variety of food than we’d just passed!

This was where we ate. I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. I had to choose between Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Ethiopian, Crepes, Baileys Hot Chocolate, and Irish Coffee. And this is the slow season: apparently in summer the number of stalls doubles! I opted for Sri Lanki: for a fair fee, they gave me a small-ish container and filled it beyond overflowing with deliciousness.

Watch (or read?) Brick Lane and dream of curry. Then go buy some vintage clothing and drink an Irish Coffee. (smiles)

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Some gutsy CulturTwining?

As you watch this, think to yourself: What would you do?

I’m really curious and I promise not to judge you: If you’re willing to share your answer to my question (‘what would you do?’) in the comments, I’d love to read your thoughts…

(Oh, you want my answer? I have to be honest, I would definitely hesitate. But then I’d take the seat because I wouldn’t want the poor scary-looking guys to feel like I was prejudiced against them.)

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Making friends at the Chatsworth

“When did you come to the Chatsworth?”

I looked up from the screen of my computer, where I’d been lost in a revision. There was an elderly woman with a cane sitting halfway across the room. Had she spoken to me?

“Are you here at the Chatsworth?” she asked again.

So I replied, saying I’d just come by the hotel for some afternoon coffee.

“I came for New Years. I come here every year, for the last ten or eleven years now. It’s a great place. I met my friend here two years ago walking through the swinging door!” She gestured into the reception area where a white-haired gentleman was chatting with the concierge. “I have my same room, they always put me in the same room. And he has his same room that he always stays in. But we like the same things. Two years ago, I was at my table, my same table as always, Table 4. I also have the same number room, not 4 but a different number. There was a group of people at another table who saw that I was alone at my table and they invited me to join them. I was just going to get up to go to their table, when the staff told me not to. They brought Tom over to sit with me. We like the same things and we’ve been friends since then. This year, he went with me to my daughter’s for Christmas, and then we came here for New Years.”

Then she lowered her voice to an almost-whisper. “He’s a lot younger than me, though, 20 years!” And she smiled a clever smile.

I finally got a word in edgewise to ask her where she lives and discovered she only lives a couple of miles away. Then she started telling a story about a young man she met in Vienna, years ago. He wanted to come to the UK to study English but he couldn’t because the place where he had been accepted told him not to come back because he talked during the cricket match. As she chattered away, I found this little detail ironic. So from when he was 15 until he was 25, he came and spent the holidays every year with her and her family.

Wilhelm, or Willy as she called him, had trouble with his mother. She didn’t want him to marry the woman she loved. So my new friend explained that she had told Willy to say to his mother, “Mother, this is the woman I love. I am going to marry her, and I trust you will grow to love her one day, too.” And Willy followed that advice, and they are eternally grateful to this woman. “And you know who took care of his mother when she was ill? Yes, his wife did.”

She continued to explain that her late husband had wanted to dictate who their children married but she wouldn’t let him. “It is their choice, and it is they who pay the consequences. I told him to remember that we struggled against our parents, too. His mother had someone chosen for him, and my parents had a rich farmboy chosen for me. But we loved each other so we got married. It was our choice, and it was our daughters’ choice.”

As fascinating as this conversation was, my productive streak of revision had been broken, so I took the last sips of my coffee and packed up my laptop to leave. She asked me how old I think she is, that I should guess. I refused to guess - I’m afraid I had no clue whether she was 65, 75, 85 or 95… So she told me her age - definitely near the upper end of that range - and asked me if she looks that old. I had to tell her that she, indeed, does not.

She started telling me about some time she had spent in hospital and that she’d had heart surgery, when Tom walked back in and she introduced us. She was pleased to learn that he and I live in the same city - London. Although Tom quickly realised that we live on opposite sides of the city.

Then she asked my name and I told her. Her name is Kathleen, and she goes by Kate, so we have something in common. “My father was listening to a band playing that song that talks about Kathleen, so that was my name!” She reached out an arm to draw me to her so that she could give me a kiss on either cheek. I told her and Tom that, sincerely, it had been a privilege to meet them, and maybe I’d see them again next year at New Years. I might stop by the Chatsworth on the first of next year just to see if they are there!

Hotel website: http://www.chatsworthworthing.co.uk/

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Now it’s 2012

My ‘Decade of Christmases’ series is over…This year I’m living closer to family than I’ve ever have before. My family is still spread all over the world, but a little less than before. I am hoping this year marks the beginning of something a little less exotic and something a little less emotionally unhealthy. I can’t help but regret, just a tiny bit, the fact that I never got to spend Christmas with the Sisters in the mountains of Timor, or that I won’t be skiing in the Lebanese mountains next week. I miss Christmases by the beach eating summery foods and I hope that there might be another backpacking-in-Damascus Christmas in my future. But I can’t have it all and all of those wonderful experiences came at a high price, a lesson I learned way back in 2003. I’ve continued paying that price for years but maybe it’s time to move on.

I wrote this post back in 2011… now, at the other end of the holidays, I wonder what the new side will look like?

Raising a glass (of tea, by the Nile, in the middle of nowhere Egypt) to a hopeful year to come
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