Limbo

No, not the dance contest where people try to bend backwards and pass underneath a pole without falling or knocking the pole down, but rather the state of my life. 

I'm trying to embrace limbo. But it's extraordinarily difficult. 

You may have guessed from this post, or this one, that I didn't love living in Geneva. Let me clarify that there isn't anything wrong with Geneva. Plenty of people live there and they love it. My problem with Geneva was that it wasn't South Africa which obviously it could never be.

My time in Geneva was comprised of a) thinking b) crying c) running in the park or as we like to say in Geneva, parc and d) drinking cappuccinos excessively. That is until I realized they were making me fat and I had to switch to tea. 

Note, here is the point in this post where I tried for over an hour to insert a photo from Geneva but none of my photos would load which maybe is a sign that it's not "meant to be."

Strangely, Geneva was also a positive experience. Kind of like the way someone might describe being stranded on a deserted island as a positive experience. Not pleasant in the day to day but once rescued you enjoy more clarity in life. In Geneva I found clarity for which I am grateful. I found it in the beautiful Parc de Bertrand where I ran, walked, sat, laid in the grass, dodged scooters, watched the leaves turn and pondered my life until clarity finally arrived. Even though I couldn't wait to escape Geneva, I find myself missing Parc de Bertrand and wondering what it looks like now covered in snow.

It was in Geneva that I made the decision to return to live and work in South Africa.  

We have all met people who have a serious love for the color purple (the color not the movie.) You don't meet people who love red, green or blue the way some people love purple. Why this is I don't know. I have google searched this purple loving phenomenon but haven't found anything. I think it's the same for those of us who love Africa, we love it so deeply that we are in love with it. Just as it seems odd to us non purple lovers that someone would want to dress from head to toe in purple, paint a room purple or drive a purple car, those of us who love Africa feel there is no such thing as too much Africa.

It's not just that I love Africa, or more specifically South Africa, it's that I loved the me who lived in South Africa. It's where I became the best version of myself. If you've been reading this blog for a while, I don't think you find this surprising. 

To that end, I decided that I not only wanted to return but wanted to figure out a way to work there combining my years of experience working for a non-profit organization with one of the things that I loved doing most of all when I was there, helping kids to improve their English literacy.

You would think, as I certainly did at the time, that living in Geneva and feeling so directionless was the hard part.  Or, you might think the hardest part must have been talking to Mr. Deep about going back to Africa alone. There was also the difficulty of figuring out how to get back to Africa because we as humans aren't just free to roam the earth to live and work where ever we want whenever we want. There are rules and visas and paperwork to be attended to.

With the help of many people including Mr. Deep and a South African lawyer I was able to figure it out and on February 2 I submitted paperwork to the Department of Home Affairs in South Africa, which once approved, would allow me to return there to live and work. 

Which brings us to right now, which it turns out, is the hardest part. You have no idea how much I wish I was a person who had faith. I wish I believed all the things that other people tell me such as "if it's meant to be it will happen." 

It's not that I don't think that the paperwork will be processed or that I will receive eventual approval to return, but the process will likely take months and months. A minimum of eight months my lawyer told me, until she told me it was a minimum of ten.  

This must be what it feels like for people who want to adopt a child. First, they make the hard decision to do so, then they spend a lot of money and time working with lawyers and proving their worthiness, and then they wait. They wake up each day wondering if it's the day they will receive what they so badly want and then, around 4:00 p.m., they realize that it's not going to happen that day. Maybe they spend time preparing and buying baby stuff or maybe they don't because they are so afraid that it will never come to be. It's an unusual circumstance to make such a big, important, life changing decision only to find yourself solely at the mercy of others facing a timeline you can't control or even impact. 

Tom Petty, who I've listened to and loved since I was fifteen years old passed away while we were living in Geneva. Yes, on top of everything I had to cope with Tom Petty's death while there...but Tom said it best....

"The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part" - Tom Petty

And so I wait it out in America. Trying to embrace my limbo by spending meaningful time with people I love while I wait and wait and wait. 

Scoot This

Maybe I'm just cranky. 

If you didn't like this post, then bad news for you, you're not going to like this one as it's a continuation of the same rant. I think I've discovered something more annoying and disruptive than bounce houses. There is a scooter epidemic in Geneva. These two wheeled contraptions are choking the streets, sidewalks and parks and let's just say I'm not a fan.

In Joburg everyone likes to complain endlessly about the mini bus taxis. Taxi drivers wreak havoc on the streets breaking every traffic law within a five minute time period. If you are driving and you see a taxi you must assume the driver is going to cut across three lanes of traffic and then stop without warning. The difference between the taxis and these scooters is that at least taxis serve an important purpose. Without the taxis, millions of people would have no transportation and the South African economy would collapse. Scooters however serve absolutely no purpose, they are simply a toy and a most annoying one at that.

Since I'm not sure if the scooter scourge is a worldwide issue or not, let me show you a photo of the type of scooter I'm referring to. 

I haven't taken a formal survey, but my informal research tells me that every child in Geneva owns one of these. 

When faced with a puzzling mystery, one first must ask why. So I have asked myself why do kids (I won't even get started on adults) need scooters? Some quick research on Google indicates that humans have been walking upright for 1.9 million years. Why the sudden need to scoot? Is it that parents think their kids don't walk fast enough? Is it just a phase or a craze? I can't come up with an answer that satisfies. 

Don't think that these scooters are just for older kids either. Yesterday in the park I saw a kid with a pacifier in his mouth riding a scooter. Surely if you are still using a pacifier you don't need your own set of wheels. Your first order of business should be weaning yourself off sucking a plastic nipple when you go out in public. I also saw a parent pushing an empty stroller while the kid scooted up ahead. This situation says just one thing, this parent doesn't want his kid to have to walk, he can either be pushed or he can scoot but walking is frowned upon. 

There is a reason that kids don't drive cars and can't get licenses until they are older. It's because they can't steer. I can't tell you how many times I've been running in the park only to have a near miss collision with a four year old scooting uncontrollably. The parents don't even seem to notice that I've had to jump off the path and into a shrub to save myself from being taken out by their kid. The parents are too busy smoking and chatting away on their cell phones to concern themselves with my safety.

I sometimes like to play a little game of chicken with these scooting kids as I run. I will run toward them and not get out of the way until the last possible minute. While it may seem mean I am trying to teach them an important life lesson which is sometimes you need to %$&!%^ing move. 

But I know the real reason these scooters bother me so much and it's not because I am almost maimed daily or am simply mean. It's because I'm still dealing with culture shock having moved to fancy pants Geneva from South Africa. While there are plenty of wealthy kids living a plush (and bouncing castle filled) life in South Africa there were also a lot of kids who didn't own any toys. Anyone who has visited a township like Diepsloot or Soweto has seen kids playing outside using rocks, string and trash as makeshift toys. Once you've seen that, you don't forget that image easily.

One day Mr. Deep and I witnessed a temper tantrum which took place outside our apartment. A child and his mother were standing on the street corner and clearly the kid was having a meltdown. He threw his scooter into the street while screaming. The mother, calmly bent down and retrieved it. 

Had I been that parent, that moment would have been the last time that child ever touched that scooter. That scooter would have been boxed up and on it's way to Africa before that kid could ask "has anyone seen my scooter?" It would have been on its way to a needy and appreciative child who could ride it the 5km each way that he has to walk to and from school each day. 

Maybe I'm just cranky. 

Sugar and Fat

It's not all bad.

In re-reading my past few posts, I have been a bit critical of Geneva and on a grander scale, the whole of the Northern Hemisphere. Geneva is not a bad place, it just takes some getting used to. 

There are some things about Geneva that I do like. The first, as I've mentioned is being able to walk everywhere and utilize the fantastic and reliable bus system. Second, there is a beautiful park right near where we live and I love going there to run, walk or work out. Granted soon this park will be covered in ice but for now, I love it. Third, Geneva is brimming with stunning bread, pastry and sweet shops. Boulangerie (bakery), patisserie (pastry) and confiserie (confectionery), these are the only French words that I need to know. 

As a person who tries to eat carefully at first I enjoyed these shops only because they are so visually pleasing. I would visit them but would only order coffee and would admire the beautiful displays from afar. But then, on my birthday, I ate a chocolate eclair and since then the floodgates have opened and now I'm a raging out of control pastry eater and guess what, I don't even care. If I've found something about Geneva that I enjoy I figure I need to embrace it. 

The eclair that started it all. 

Recently, I decided to make a day of pastry eating. I thought it would be a delicious endeavor and would make for a good blog post. My thought was that I'd walk around the city visiting multiple establishments and enjoy a sweet treat at each one. I could visit about five or six of these lovely shops within close walking distance to where we live, but I thought if I could combine a fair amount of walking into the agenda, I might burn a few calories while at the same time consuming thousands of empty ones.

To begin my pastry eating marathon, I walked down by the lake, but strangely I found myself in an area of town that seemed to have no bakeries/pastry shops. I walked, walked and walked finally becoming so hungry that I contemplated scrapping the whole idea and just eating pizza, as I did pass numerous pizza shops. Eventually I found a place called Globus. 

Globus is a department store which contains a big food hall filled with all kinds of edibles. I found a pastry counter and ordered the most beautiful, glistening plum tart I've ever laid eyes on. 

After enjoying my treat, I was so full that I couldn't continue my plan of pastry crawling so I decided to take a new direction and spread my pastry eating out over a longer time period to ensure maximum enjoyment. 

One Sunday, I asked Mr. Deep if he would like to join me in my pastry eating quest. He agreed and so we walked to a nearby shop. The case was full of gorgeous pastries, chocolates, breads and sandwiches. Mr. Deep then decided he wanted to order a ham sandwich instead of a pastry. Seriously?! But while he ate a proper lunch, I enjoyed some kind of almond flavored crispy horn filled with a caramel custard that was to die for. 

Clearly Mr. Deep missed the point of the exercise.

I'm looking forward to continuing to eat my way around the city. 

A Pig's Ear

On Saturday night Mr. Deep and I were invited out to dinner. We declined the invite at first because we were feeling tired and it was raining but my friend insisted we join her and her husband at a Portuguese restaurant in Plainpalais, an area of Geneva. I would love to tell you the name of the restaurant but when I tried to google it or find it on a map it seems not to exist at all.  And when I asked my friend said she also doesn't know the name of it.

Similar to grocery shopping, going out for a meal in Geneva can be a bit of a downer as the prices are ridiculously expensive. But my friend promised that the Portuguese restaurant was priced reasonably, had a great vibe and good wine. What more does a person need to know? I should add that my friend's husband is Portuguese. So if he thinks the food is good then it must be.

The restaurant is small with football (soccer) scarves from various teams covering the walls and the ceiling throughout. There are only a few tables, a bar and some kind of large orange gambling machines. I'm not exactly how they work but they were quite popular. As soon as one person would leave a machine another would come up and begin to use it. 

When we arrived and were seated the food began coming out immediately. From what I could tell we didn't order anything except drinks. Later my friend told me that the servers just bring food based on the number of people at the table and that there is no menu. First there were various starters such as fish croquettes and some kind of fried, half moon shaped meat pies. Next, a huge salad followed by three large platters of food served family style. The staff treated us like we had been there a bunch of times, and I do think my friend and her husband are regulars but it seemed like the kind of place that you might be treated that way regardless. 

Soccer scarves line the walls and ceiling. 

Not a great photo but you can see the size of the platter and also the large orange gambling machines in the background.

Pig's ear

Another not great photo, I think because the light was so low in the restaurant. These are the gambling machines. 

Much of the food was delicious but the pig platter definitely contained some parts of the animal that we are not used to eating. Including the hoof (complete with nails) and ears. I know firsthand about the ears because when I asked Mr. Deep to put some meat on my plate he chose something that looked very strange, almost like a fish fin. When I protested he got annoyed and told me that I had requested a piece of meat and now I had to eat the one that he gave me. It was then that I was informed that the piece on my plate was an ear. I didn't want to taste it but by now everyone was watching and encouraging me to try it. So I did. I didn't like it and I don't recommend it. It was chewy and a little slimy just like you would imagine, but remember I'm brave so I wanted to give it a chance. After my one bite I gave it to someone else to eat. 

In true European form the meal the meal lasted well after the food had been eaten. After we had been digesting a while, the waiter brought out a large metal "silo" and some shot glasses. The beverage was meant to be sipped. It tasted very strong so I only had a sip or two. I love how there is a ladder on the "silo" almost like a miniature person climbs up to the stop to stir the contents. 

I'm still not sure what the name of this place is but if you are in Geneva and looking for a fun, relaxed atmosphere and don't mind eating some unusual pig parts, then check this place out, it's right near the Lady Godiva pub. Look for the scarves. 

Quirks

Over the course of the one month that I've lived in Geneva I've observed a few things which I find unique and unusual. Maybe what I've noticed is common place in Europe? I'm not sure.

As I mentioned in my last post, living in safe, condensed city allows me the opportunity to walk quite a bit. We don't own a car, I'm still figuring out the buses and trams and it's summer which all equate to me walking a lot. This brings me to my first observation. It seems the Swiss won't or don't walk across a street unless they have a green indication that it's safe to do so. Even if there is no oncoming traffic in sight pedestrians will patiently wait until they have been given the "green light" to cross. 

You could chalk my first observation up to a culture of rule following but the second thing I've noticed seems to indicate a lack of order and adherence to rules and makes my Virgo self shudder. It appears drivers have no problem parking on the street with their cars facing any way they choose. This is especially concerning if like me you have just moved here from a country where people drive on the left and you are never quite sure which way traffic will be coming from. Normally, I would check to see which way the parked cars were facing to remind myself but when they are parked like this that strategy doesn't work. 

How is this o.k.? 

And back to crosswalks for a moment....often times I will come across an intersection that has three cross walks but four directions from which it is possible to cross. Why is there no cross walk the fourth way? Am I expected to cross three ways when I could easily cross one? And while I'm on the subject many cross walks have a button for pedestrians to push indicating they wish to cross but some do not and instead have a box for blind people to touch which vibrates when it is safe to walk. Why do some cross walks have the button and why others the box? What's the logic? 

Why can I only cross 3 out of 4 ways?

And my final observation which is really a complaint very poorly masked as an observation is when ordering a glass of wine in this country what is the story with the minuscule amount of wine that is poured into the glass? Are bartenders using eyedroppers? When I get my glass of wine my first thought is where is the rest of it? To prove my point visually, I went out at 2:00 p.m. today to order a glass of wine so I could include a picture with this post. The things I won't do for my readers. Sadly, this glass didn't really prove my point as it was fairly full. It cost 6 Swiss Francs which equals $6.00 and ZAR80 and the glass itself is tiny so... 

Inked

It has been two months and two days since I published my last blog post. Many times during the hiatus I have considered writing but I always quickly seemed to find an excuse not to. The excuses ranged from being too busy handling the many tasks involved with leaving Joburg to being too sad to put into words the pain that leaving was causing me. Then, as with anything you haven't done in a while (think working out) it just became easier not to, than to take the plunge and start again. 

I've now been living in Geneva for 22 days which feels more like forever. As full as my life was in Joburg with my various activities, groups and friendships, it is now pretty empty. The optimist in me would prefer to describe life in Geneva as a blank canvas rather than a vast wasteland of never ending boredom and so in the short time I've been here I've made great efforts to try to create a life. I've joined a boxing gym, begun French lessons, started running in the park and joined the International Women's Club. I even made a new friend who I have met several times for coffee and wine. Mr. Deep and I have made weekend trips to Lyon, France and Zurich and we have another trip planned for this coming weekend. On paper I have done all the right things so I wonder when will I actually start being happy living here? When will I stop missing South Africa? What if I never do? 

Geneva could not be more different than Joburg. If my life were high school, Geneva is a size 00 French speaking prom queen who remains a size zero even though she eats a chocolate croissant every morning and drinks French wine every night. She has an extremely rich father, drives a Porsche and her hair is shinier, blonder and more beautiful than Marsha Brady on her best day. Joburg on the other hand is the handsome guy who dropped out of school six months ago but still hangs out near the bleachers smoking cigarettes. 

Geneva is French, clean, safe, refined and fancy. It is full of old architecture, parks adorned with sculptures and streets named for famous dead Swiss people. It has a large beautiful lake with a giant fountain in the middle spewing water 140 meters into the air, two rivers and lots of big, old trees. Joburg is strewn with litter and the streets are gutted with potholes, there is no body of water to be found anywhere and many people don't even have running water in their homes. Nothing in Joburg is old unless you count the Cradle of Humankind. In Geneva you can walk around at all hours without fear of taking a wrong turn and being robbed at gunpoint. In Joburg white people generally don't walk anywhere and walking around aimlessly exploring is definitely discouraged due to the aforementioned chance of being robbed at gunpoint or worse.   

Another blogger whom I admire greatly named Joburg Expat, recently published a link to the post that I wrote questioning the lack of an expat departure handbook. Her Facebook post received numerous comments from readers who wrote such things as "South Africa does get in your blood" and "in my blood and soul forever."  In my blood, under my skin and in my soul are interesting ways to describe a place. I've lived many places that I enjoyed and retain special memories of but South Africa is the place that will remain in my blood, under my skin and in my soul. 

Now, South Africa will remain in my blood both literally and figuratively forever. On 23 June I got a special tattoo to remind me of my time here. 

No it's not backwards, it's just the photo taken in the mirror.

My tattoo wasn't a drunken whim. Instead it was a premeditated, carefully considered and deliberate decision. I talked about my plans for the tattoo for months before actually proceeding. I asked Justice to create a design for me on which my tattoo is based. 

Original Justice design

Despite all of this, Mr. Deep and other friends were shocked when I scheduled the appointment to get the tattoo. Side note, I wonder why people don't take me seriously sometimes? 

I was compelled to get the tattoo because I need to have a piece of Africa with me at all times. My hope is that the image, now permanently a part of my body, will keep me calm and grounded. It's a similar gesture as putting a photo of your favorite beach or mountain retreat on your desk at work to help remind you there is more to life than the office problem or problems of the day. I needed something permanent as my time in Africa was only temporary and far too short. I never want to forget my many varied and rich experiences, from my charmed expat life of luxury, my mansion, the numerous ridiculous and frustrating tests of patience, the constant view of a heartbreaking reality of lives filled with real suffering and struggle, the stunning sunsets and breathtaking wildlife sightings, the sounds of varied languages being spoken none of which I could understand at all, the bright Joburg sunshine and all of the smiling people. I carry these memories with me as my inked body and I aimlessly and freely walk the clean streets of Geneva. 

Tanzania

"The less I seek my source for some definitive 
The closer I am to fine" - Indigo Girls

Before Mr. Deep took off for Geneva leaving me in Joburg to manage the mother of all Ops assignments, our departure, we went to Tanzania. I will get to Tanzania in a minute. I promise. I'm as tired of talking about our move from Joburg as you are of reading about it. But I do have an important update to share. The situation that I was cranky about, the job that I thought was taking us to America, St. Louis to be exact, isn't happening. Instead, the plan is for us to spend the remainder of 2017 in Geneva, Switzerland where Mr. Deep is overseeing a project. 

When I talk about our future, I sound like a journalist. I say, "the plan for us" the way a reporter might say "the alleged attacker. " I do this because I think we might end up moving to St. Louis one day. So I'm not going to go on and on about how relieved I am not to be going. Doing so would be like telling your best friend you don't like her boyfriend only to find later they are getting married. It's better to say very little and to secretly celebrate if they break up.

And now, Tanzania. 

As you read the word do you pronounce it Tan Zan Knee Uh? Or Tan Zany Uh? Mr. Deep and I always pronounced it Tan Zan Knee Uh and then we noticed that many people here say Tan Zany Uh, a pronunciation which annoyed Mr. Deep greatly. Turns out both are wrong as the locals pronounce it Tan Zon Ya the last part almost rhyming with lasagna. 

Africa is huge.  It's 30.3 million square kilometres. In comparison the USA is 9.8. Globes are fictitious representations of scale. I know how big Africa is because when we fly to Joburg from New York we reach the coast of Africa in eight hours but it takes another eight of flying time to cross almost the entire length of the continent.  Although Mr. Deep and I have done an amazing job of visiting Southern Africa, having been to seven out of ten Southern African countries, this was our first visit to East Africa and let me tell you it's another world. 

I remember when Mr. Deep and I flew to South Africa for the very first time. I was sitting in coach and he was in business class. No, that's not the point of the story but it bares repeating that it occurred. Anyway, the man I was sitting next to told me that South Africa isn't really Africa. Funny enough today in Joburg I spoke with a Spanish lady and she  informed me that Geneva isn't really Europe. Anyway, it is true that South Africa is different from other parts of Africa and so if it's real Africa that you seek, I think Tanzania fits the bill. 

We started off with a midnight flight to Nairobi, Kenya, a four hour flight from Joburg, and then flew to Kilimanjaro Airport in Tanzania. As luck would have it we were seated on the wrong side of the plane when we flew over Kili so I don't have a photo to share with you of the mountain from the air. We were picked up at the airport and driven 1.5 hours to Arusha where we stayed at Arusha Coffee Lodge for one night before going to the Serengeti.

My first impressions of Tanzania are that people drive very slowly on long two lane roads, similar to Lesotho. Also, so many men drive motorcycles. It was almost like being in Asia (not that I've been but I imagine lots of Japanese made bikes.)  Our driver told us there are so many scooter accidents that the hospital had to build a wing dedicated to treating scooter injuries. 

Not the best photo quality but you can see the bikes and I love how every man in this pic is looking at the woman. 

Coffee beans. 

The next morning, we flew back to Kilimanjaro on a small plane. This time it was too cloudy to see the mountain. We then flew to Lake Manyara and then finally to the Serengeti. It was similar to our trip to Botswana where the plane stopped multiple times and different passengers came and went. 

As we walked down the steps of the plane, we met Justice our Serengeti guide. He took us out to the parking lot and advised us he had to file our park permit paperwork and that we should wait for him. Everyone else appeared to be in the same situation as it seems the park doesn't allow the guides file until the guests arrive. Justice had set up a lovely table for us with lunch and he showed us where the cold drinks were. 

When he returned he told us that we'd spend the rest of the afternoon doing a game drive and then we'd return to camp. It was only about noon and we'd never been given the opportunity to do such a long game drive before. We were thrilled at the prospect. He also showed us a map of the park and a paper showing us the type of birds we might see. I told him that Mr. Deep loves birds and Justice said he also loves birds so I knew we were in for some birding excitement (oxymoron.) Our pilot, Gareth, also joined us for a portion of the game drive. He wasn't scheduled to fly back until the next day and was spending the night at our camp. He rode with us for a bit until another guy from the camp came and collected him.

The purpose of visiting Tanzania in May was to witness the great migration, an annual natural phenomenon in which nearly two million antelope, wildebeest and zebras travel about 2000 miles in search of better grazing. The trip is dangerous and many animals are killed by predators such as lions and crocodiles (during river crossings) as they migrate.

Viewing the migration is challenging because the animals don't follow a strict schedule meaning you can't count on them to arrive in one area on a certain day or a certain week. This is understandable as they are animals searching for nice grass, not putting on a show for humans. In order to ensure that we maximized our one chance to see the migration we booked our trip with And Beyond safari company and stayed in a mobile camp, meaning the camp moves throughout the year to put itself close to the migration. More on this camp in a future post. 

From the moment we left the airstrip, the animal sightings were incredible. We have never seen such large herds of zebras and wildebeest at one time and we had never before seen lions in trees. 

These poor zebras were so nervous, they would go in the water, drink for a few seconds, get spooked and run and then repeat over and over. It's not easy to be the hunted. 

Photo credit to Mr. Deep for possibly the best picture taken during our entire time in Africa. Bravo! 

More to come on Tanzania....