Wednesday, May 4, 2016

The Cable Guy

I'm under the impression that moving to a new post and setting up "home," no matter how many times we do it, is going to be a perplexing and complicated endeavor.

A few days after we arrived in Kathmandu I scheduled a visit from the cable man. Stuck at home with a jet-lagged toddler and no internet was the worst. I wanted to Skype my mom and get lost in the deep dark corners of Facebook for the few moments of baby nap time I was granted. The cable company assured me that a technician would be there around 10 am.

At 3 pm I got a call: "I am at the temple," the man on the other end told me. In Nepali.*

I walked to our neighborhood temple and started looking for a technician. There was a nice man in a polo shirt on a motorcycle. "Internet?" I asked him. "होइन," he responded. No.
I stood and waited. Another man on a motorcycle pulled up. He was wearing normal clothes, but I figured I'd ask. "Internet?" He just stared at me. And then kept staring. I slowly backed away.

The neighborhood temple
Suddenly I heard a rustling behind me and the shabbily dressed man who had been sleeping, curled in a ball at the base of the temple, amidst the tikka and the trash, jumped up: "I am internet!" Oh, God.

"But, where are all of your things?" I asked him. He assured me they were on their way.

As we slowly started to walk towards my house I thought of ways to test the theory that he was an actual cable man and not a bum who saw that I was looking for a cable man. I texted Mr. Kate and told him that if he came home and I was dead he needed to look for the sleepy bum under the temple.

Moments later, we were joined by another shabbily dressed man on a bike that had some black cord wrapped around the seat. They asked where I lived and as I indicated the way, the second guy set his bike down, grabbed an end of the cord, and climbed up the closest telephone pole.

As they wrapped the cord around each subsequent telephone pole, we got closer and closer to home. I was salivating. I could smell the Facebook in my immediate future. We got to the house. "Which room?" they asked. I pointed to a corner room, and the guy with the cable scaled the side of my house while the first cable guy followed me inside. When we got to the room, he got upset. "There is no hole! How will we get the cable inside?," he yelled at me.

I responded: "You are the cable man! You came with no tools! Don't you have this problem EVERY SINGLE TIME?!?!?!"

Except, since it was in Nepali, it probably sounded more like: "You cable man. You have no presents. Very, very EVERY PROBLEM, isn't it?!?!?"

After coming up with a reasonable solution that did not involve breaking a window (as they originally suggested), the internet cable was in the house. They spent a few minutes pressing buttons on the computer and determined that the internet would not work. They said they would come back the next day, with a new bike-cable and re-do everything. They also said I should give them $300 immediately. After I was done laughing, I walked them out. 

The next day, they came and set up the rest of the internet. As I gave them the money for our cable bill, I asked for a receipt. It was their turn to laugh. "No" was all they said. So I told him to hold up the money and I snapped a picture while he was still laughing. Homie don't play that.

Just in case he's a modest cable man.
Internet fame can be tough.

*Huge shout out to FSI's language training program! Without you, I probably still wouldn't have internet!

Monday, February 2, 2015

Safari in Pendjari

I know, I know, it's been awhile. For the next few weeks I'll finish and post all the blog posts I started but never finished. And at the end of this one you'll understand the delay...

Last November we went to Pendjari Wildlife Reserve in Benin with two of our very good friends. Although I didn't feel well, we went and had a wonderful time. It was the wet season, so it was hard to see a ton of animals through all the brush. Nevertheless, we saw 5 cheetahs relaxing in the sun-- amazing!

As we got home, Mr. Kate ran to the supermarket to get some food for dinner. I ran to the bedroom to do some investigations and upload our pictures. Here are the life changing, "best of" pictures I shared with Mr. Kate when he got back from the store...

So there it is: the reason I didn't have much time for blogging anymore. I needed a lot more time for morning sickness...

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

You know you live in Togo when...

A few weeks ago a friend of mine posted a comment on Facebook hilariously lamenting the things that are no longer strange to you after living in Togo. This sparked a comment frenzy which I followed intently, laughing as each member suggested something new and unique to our lives in West Africa. A few times I typed in an additional comment, but then wavered before hitting the send button with a lingering thought in the back of my head: What if nobody likes it? WHAT IF NOBODY THINKS I'M FUNNY? So, I remained silent.

Several weeks later, I finally found my contribution. But it would have been weird and kind of stalker-esque to dig through her profile and re-initiate the thread, so I decided to blog about it instead. I only Facebook stalk with subtlety, thank you.

A few weeks before Christmas we took a trip with a couple of our good friends to Ghana. Our itinerary was fairly lax, with plans to meet at the hotel around sunset on Friday and to visit a monkey sanctuary the next day.

Through a series of awesome events (leading a bar full of drunk Ghanaian men in a few cheers for Chelsea while searching for more milk stout supplies for the weekend, meeting a random guy on the side of the road who lived in Massachusetts, teaching him how to spotlight, and getting a tree frog tangled in my hair) we were a little late to the hotel. Lucky for us, we have good friends who like beer and frogs, so we started at a not-too-early hour the next morning.

We made it to the monkey sanctuary just before lunch. The guide handed us a few bananas and lead us into the forest. After walking a few kilometers, we heard a rustling in the trees and looked up to find ourselves surrounded by a large troop of Mona monkeys.

What's that?
To facilitate their interest, Mr. Kate put a banana on top of his head and continued to walk, enticing the monkeys to come down from the higher branches, closer to us.

In the moments that followed, we were suddenly inundated by monkeys. They surrounded us from each branch and descended to the forest floor, circling us. "Give us those bananas!" their beady little eyes screamed at us.  In an instant, monkeys were jumping through the air, from branch to branch, trying to snag the bananas from our hands as we walked. Occasionally, one would land on our heads, arms, or shoulders, confidently take the fruit, and sit there and eat it, knowing the other monkeys were too scared to follow suit.

Eventually we ran out of simian bait, and the monkeys quickly retreated back into the dense foliage, leaving us empty handed, flea ridden and stinky.

We walked back to the car and I got in the back seat. To avoid the lovely aroma of monkey permeating our car for the rest of our time here in Togo, we rode back with the windows open. I grabbed my hoodie and wrapped up for the ride back to our hotel, since it was starting to get cooler outside.

Stinky monkey

When we returned home from our weekend trip, my nanny nicely gathered all of our dirty clothes and washed them. When she came across my sweater, she must have thought that it had accidentally fallen out of the closet-- there was no way I would need to wear a hoodie in West Africa! So she nicely hung it back up.

Several weeks later, on my way home to America for our R&R trip, I took my seat in the airplane, wrapped myself up in my sweater in preparation for the blazing air conditioners and greeted the man who sat next to me. As we spoke I thought "My god. This man smells like a monkey's ass. DISGUSTING." I cut our conversation short, turned my head as though I was incredibly interested in what was happening outside the window, as we were flying over the Indian Ocean. At night. Seriously. Take a shower, dude.

Sitting in my seat waiting for the rest of the plane to board for my next flight, I was relieved to see a man in a suit heading towards the seat next to me. Usually people in suits don't tend to stink quite as bad. He sat down and we greeted each other. We busily put our things away, and I pulled out my sweater. As I wrapped it around myself I once again smelled an obscene odor. I looked at the man next to me, and as I tried to figure out how a homeless man got such a nice suit, the dots slowly connected in my head. It was not he who stunk, but me. It was the same sweater I had worn after letting the monkeys crawl all over me at the sanctuary. And it had not been washed. I ripped my sweater off, disgusted and distraught. I started itching-- how long do fleas live? I wrapped the sweater in a plastic bag and quickly got up to stow it in the overhead bin where, I swear, I still smelled it for the rest of the flight. I also may have given fleas to several people's carry-on suitcases.

So here is my contribution: You know you live in West Africa when you can not only recognize the unique smell of a monkey's ass, but you can recognize that the smell is coming from you.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Lessons from a Marine Ball

Last night we were excited to attend our first-ever Marine Ball! It was a beautiful event, held outside in downtown Lome, with streamers and lights covering the entire venue. Along with great food, good wine and fantastic company, the night was an appropriate time and setting to learn a few new lessons.

1. No matter how pretty you are when you leave the house, or how fancy the event is, when you arrive you will still be outside in Africa. The second you step from the safety and comfort of your air-conditioned car, the sweating starts, the buzzing begins and the bat guano starts falling from the trees. Mosquitoes, bats and humidity are apparently oblivious to glorious radiance, perfect hair, beautifully applied make-up and modesty.

2. The Marines actually cut the cake with a sword! And contrary to some widely-held beliefs, it's not an appropriate time to laugh. Or offer to lick the frosting off. Or turn to Mr. Kate, hold up your butter knife and challenge him to a duel. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

3. The table with the single place setting, sitting off by itself is not simply a table set for one.  It is the table to commemorate MIA soldiers-- and therefore NOT an appropriate place to set down your wine glass and camera for just a moment while you run to the restroom to apply more bug spray. Can we hang a sign or something next year?

4. Everyone knows how to do the Gangham Style Dance. EVERYONE. Except me.

So, now that I've discovered all the Marine Ball faux-pas (and potentially ruined Mr. Kate's career... again), I'm aware of certain behaviors I can work on for next year. I'll obviously start by locking myself in the house and finding a way to stream MTV so I can brush up on my mad dancing skills for the next time someone wants to dance to a mash-up of the Harlem Shake and Gangham Style.

Happy Birthday, Marines. Thank you for a great evening!

Friday, November 1, 2013

Akateza Festival

A few weeks ago we were lucky enough to attend another local festival. This festival, Fete d'Akateza, began 10 years prior as an excuse for all the villages in the area to come together and celebrate their successes and rejoice in their brotherhood. During the festival there were speeches and performances, but what stood out in comparison to most other festivals we had attended was the recognition of the top students (both male and female) in all the villages.

It was nice to see a new tradition in the works-- one that encouraged brotherhood, community and education!

Here are a few pictures from the event:

A group of hunters from a local village chant over a water filled vase that has been filled by a priest.
The vase and water represent the solidarity between their communities.
"Nous sommes ensemble"

Another hunter, surveying the crowd.

A group of women, adorned in paints and flowers, dance for the crowd.

An enthusiastic onlooker.

Babies dancing. It never stops being cute.

This kid took over the entire village performance.

So many beads.
Waiting to dance.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Cockroach Karma

Last month I was looking through my large desk calendar, counting down the days until Christmas, making lists of things my siblings should buy me and wondering how I could get Satan* to leave me the Christmas Tree dishes in her will, when I had a rare moment of clarity. Next month is Halloween. Amazon is going to have all sorts of awesomely gross stuff!! 

My joyous, unclouded moment was quickly followed by a fugue state and a lost afternoon that ultimately resulted in multiple packages showing up in the mail room full of face paints, mohawk headbands, doggy costumes, zombie-arm candle holders, and of course, a package of plastic cockroaches... the perfect revenge for my cockroach-hating, mask-scaring husband.
For weeks I carried the package of plastic cockroaches around in my purse, waiting for exactly the right moment to scare Mr. Kate in front of everyone. Several times, I had a cockroach in hand, ready to strike when I would realize-- No, now is not the time. Soon, it will come.

Last night we went to a new restaurant in town. Surrounded by about 15 of our friends, I knew-- this was the moment I had been waiting for. Halfway through dinner a friend called down the table to Mr. Kate. "Bla bla bla, something about work," he said. I didn't really care. All I knew was that in this moment, I had my chance.

I pulled the cockroach out of my back pocket, slipped it over his arm and under the rim of his plate, with just the antennae sticking out.

He saw me leaning over. "What are you doing?" he asked me.

"Just stealing a bite of your food!" I quickly responded as I jumped back, looking away quickly so he wouldn't see the gleeful, evil laugh forming in my throat.

Mr. Kate never noticed the cockroach that hid under his plate during dinner.

After dinner, as soon as his plate was lifted and the cockroach reared it's ugly head, both Mr. Kate and the server jumped and let out small gasps. It was so subtle, no one noticed.

I was devastated.

Worse, the server was mortified. He looked like he was about to cry and quickly scooped up the cockroach. "No!" I called out. "It's just a toy!" I quickly grabbed the cockroach back from him, held it up to my mouth, bit down on it and pretended to gnaw on it's head, to prove my point. "Look!" I exclaimed as I pulled the unharmed plastic cockroach out of my mouth and presented it to him."C'est plastique!"

I realize that while I was trying to assure the staff that the bug was actually a safe, fun non-disease carrying toy, all they saw was a foreigner with a potentially incomprehensible accent ("what is she trying to say?"), eating a cockroach and trying to convince everyone it was delicious.

In retrospect, it might not have been the best way to get my point across. The server turned and ran away, almost taking out one of our friends in the process. He never came back.


That night, as we were sleeping, I was awakened by Mr. Kate. "No. NO. NONONO!" he screamed.

I immediately woke up and panicked. "WHAT!?" I yelled.

"Right there! Get it! Right next to your head!!" He kept yelling over and over again and motioning to the headboard on my side of the bed.

Since it was dark in the room, I clearly thought one of the guards I had victimized by wearing the mask and jumping in front of the peep-holes had finally snapped, or that my neighbor had finally found out who was terrorizing his turkeys by chasing them up and down the street gobbling. I started screaming. "I'M SO SORRY!"

Mr. Kate jumped out of bed, ran to the door, flipped on the lights and then ran back to the bed, pulling all the sheets and covers off the bed, searching frantically for something. "Get it! It was right here, next to you!"

I sat in the middle of the bed, screaming and crying, covers piled around me, still searching the room for my assassin, when Mr. Kate found what he was looking for-- my iPhone. He proceeded to frantically bat at it, sending it flying. Next he chased and, finally, trapped my phone.

As the fluorescent lights in our room became brighter and Mr. Kate became more coherent, I was able to piece together the dream he was currently having-- one in which I had been hiding a giant West African scorpion behind my pillow that I was going to drop on him in the middle of the night.

Sweet dreams are made of these.
Moments later, Mr. Kate was back asleep and I lay awake, wondering if I had won this round of scare-war since I had so obviously gotten into his head with my prank. But as the night drew on and I couldn't sleep for fear of giant insects and retributive neighbors, I began to doubt it. 

*I've assured my mother not to worry and that I'm actually pronouncing it Sah-Tahn. It's a cute nickname that has nothing to do with the fact that she makes babies cry for fun.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

West African Beauty Tips

As a way to keep our spirits up given the uncertainty of our jobs (and paychecks), the men in our embassy have banded together and decided not to shave until the budget has passed. I've affectionately termed the effort "Beards for Budget."

A few times I've joked that I, too, will contribute to the facial hair morale booster, by not waxing my mustache. In response, I received mostly half-hearted laughs and a quick change of subject. After my third offer, when the recipient of the joke squinted his eyes and zoomed in on my upper lip, I realized why people weren't laughing. You can't laugh if it's true.

Living in Africa isn't great for beauty maintenance and let's be honest--it's not like I put much effort into it even before moving to Togo, back when it was easy to go over and see my friend Joni who would wax anything and everything. My God. There's hair there?

After my encounter with a nail salon in Guinea, I decided that while in Africa, it would be better to stick to simple things I was capable of doing, like cutting my toenails and shaving my legs. Everything else could wait until I made it back to the US.

A Guinean Pedicure.
However, after my realization that people were actually considering buying me a mustache grooming kit and a membership to The Handlebar Club for Christmas, I came to the conclusion that maybe I should make an effort. Just this once.

I gathered nail files, nail polish and wax strips. I was ready to have a day full of manicures, pedicures and hair removal. I started with my nails. I cut them down, did the cuticle thing (ouch!) and then rubbed the square-sponge-file thing on them, not because it does anything, but because I've seen them do it before. What is that thing, really?

Next, I went for the wax strips. I warmed one up, shmeared it on my upper lip and asked Mr. Kate to pull it off as fast as possible. After I realized the gross excess of pleasure he derived from ripping hair off my face I decided that even though it would be incredibly difficult and painful, I would bear through the pain and do it my self next time, for my own best interest. I would basically be like that guy who had to cut his arm off to get out from under the rock, except I'd be a chick with a mustache.

Then, since I was at it, I moved on to my eyebrows. I cut the strips so they would fit under my eyebrows. I looked up and used both eyes as I was pasting them on my face to be sure I was doing it correctly-- if you think I'm bad at beauty maintenance, you should see me with make-up. There is no chance at me surviving in a world where I need to draw on eyebrows.

After I was sure the strips were on correctly, I looked in the mirror and braced myself. Ready, set, RIP! I looked down at the wax strip. Wow. I had a lot of straggler hairs floating around under my eyebrows! Where did those come from? My eyebrows don't look that different! I stared at my eyebrows for a moment, trying to understand.

Suddenly, I felt a throbbing on my eye. I shifted my focus downward. Most of the eyelashes on  my right eye were gone. A lone, hairless eyelid remained.

So, here I am, two days later, hoping that eyelashes grow back quickly and that nobody notices my perpetual downward stare, which I hope makes my bald eyelid stand out less.

My West African beauty tips you ask? Simple. Embrace hairiness. Stay away from wax-your-own-anything kits. IT'S NOT WORTH THE RISK.

That Handlebar Club membership is actually starting to sound like a great Christmas present...