As if relying on taxis for all my transport in Doo wasn't frustrating and expensive enough, I was greatly amused this week to receive an email at work that completed a long battle with the hospital bus service.
All staff who live on hospital compounds are entitled to a free bus service to and from work, unless of course you're one of the not-so-fair sex and have a vehicle in which to drive yourself to work.
Since moving to our large new compound a few months ago, the bus service has been terrible. The bus either leaves early or late on every occasion. The buses don't cover the entire 24 period which is essential when providing for hospital staff who work 24 hours a day....so many are forced to catch the hospital taxis and pay approx A$10 one way.
There have been numerous complaints and some screaming arguments with the transportation department about their inconsistency of service and their seeming inability to meet the demands of our contract. One of my friends even rang the department and demanded that they call her boss to explain why she was late to work for the third time in one week, considering that this is an offence worthy of termination at our hospital!
Then the email came. The email stated that the new contract with the bus company had been signed and the new timetable would be implemented in 4 weeks time. There would be no discussions, no arguments, no additional services to be added as the timetable was final. It then went on to say that if employees working hours were not covered by the service, their superiors should consider altering their working hours to the bus timetable. I kid you not. Of course there are no buses between 7:30am and 1pm during which time all the staff who start shifts at 9, 10 & 11am and 12pm will presumably have to fund taxis themselves.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Another English Student & Another Wedding
I recently started teaching another Doo English student. Manal is a 21yo University student who is in her third year of an English degree. Her English is much better than my other students, but her conversational and colloquial English requires practice so she sought me as a tutor. Last week I learn the difference between an idiom and a cliché, and then tried to explain it! I am enjoying studying commonly used idioms – it’s interesting how often I know the meaning of one in context but have difficulty explaining the meaning to an English student.
Manal’s Mother is from a very conservative part of Doo which I was immediately aware of on meeting her, as she kept her hair covered even while meeting me. Manal and her sisters all wear full-face veils and gloves to cover their hands, one of the most conservative styles of dress here in Coo, but certainly not uncommon. In their home, they remove their abayas and other coverings but remain conservatively dressed. I asked if I could remove mine when I teach (simply due to the 44 degree temperature) and Manal said that her Mother wouldn’t like it. So it stayed on. My other Doo friends and students found this quite extreme.
Manal’s older sister was married a few months ago and the family didn’t have the time to hold the normal wedding party (similar to the one described in my previous wedding post). So after meeting Mum and three of the sisters twice, I was very kindly invited to attend a small gathering last night to celebrate the elder sister’s recent nuptials. After being slightly embarrassed at my last wedding for wearing black and feeling under-dressed, I chose a sparkly full-length blue skirt and black top to wear. I chose to take my short-sleeve cardigan in case I felt uncomfortable in my boob tube.
When I arrived, at about 10:30pm I was greeted by another sister who I had not met, quickly greeted the family members I knew and was escorted into a large rectangular room. The cushioned bench seats around the edge were full with female family members and a few friends, and everyone was very conservatively dressed. Full-length sleeves and full-length skirts. Most were free-flowing. Most women were wearing make-up, but it didn’t seem as if they’d visited beauty parlours or had their hair dressed. An enormous contrast to the last wedding I attended. Some women still had their hair covered while in the room.
I was taken to sit with the two other foreigners and was delighted to discover that they both work at my hospital in home healthcare and have known the family for years. One had arrived in a long green dress with long sleeves and informed me that she’d been asked by a woman to cover up because her ankles were on display. There was very little mingling going on, but I made an effort to use my sparse Arabic to greet and introduce myself to some of the family. Most had a few words of English and even those that didn’t spoke quickly in Arabic to me and I tried to keep up. It was the first time I’ve felt really comfortable smiling at everyone and recognizing how powerful a smile is even if one can’t communicate in the same language.
The meal was ready just after midnight and we were escorted to another room that had enough food to feed 500 women, not the 80 or so that were present. We were seated opposite Manal’s grandmother (the Matriarch of the family who reportedly rules with an iron fist). I was enjoying the delicious food (lots of traditional Doo dishes including qabsa, a hot and spicy foul medamme mix, different salads and lots of lamb) but couldn’t take my eyes off the grandmother who ate the lamb from the bone like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Most women use a combination of hands and spoons to eat, but I think she had decided the tools would slow her down. Her hands had been painted with henna and her eyes were heavy with kohl but she grinned every time she caught my eye, meat hanging from her hands and mouth. Most guests had come and gone from the dinner table and grandmother kept going. I felt rude departing the table while was still eating but I reluctantly moved when Manal called.
The remainder of the evening was more fun than the earlier part. The Doo women developed confidence in talking with me and the other two foreigners and we were surrounded by women wanting to know if we thought they were beautiful, what we thought of the party and were we bored without music or dancing. I had numerous requests for English lessons and couple of offers for Arabic teaching. I may follow through with those offers given the expense of my current lessons.
Like the other wedding, most people began to drift out immediately after the meal. We stayed another hours or so, and spent about 40 minutes trying to get from the door to the gate, kissing and farewelling all the family members. I have been here 7 months and I have still not figured out when I should kiss once on the left, twice on the left, twice both sides or thrice both sides. I laugh every time because I always seem to get it wrong and either get pulled in for another kiss or pushed away with a look of curiosity ☺. I’ve enquired about the rules, but it seems there aren’t any. I should just know.
Manal’s Mother is from a very conservative part of Doo which I was immediately aware of on meeting her, as she kept her hair covered even while meeting me. Manal and her sisters all wear full-face veils and gloves to cover their hands, one of the most conservative styles of dress here in Coo, but certainly not uncommon. In their home, they remove their abayas and other coverings but remain conservatively dressed. I asked if I could remove mine when I teach (simply due to the 44 degree temperature) and Manal said that her Mother wouldn’t like it. So it stayed on. My other Doo friends and students found this quite extreme.
Manal’s older sister was married a few months ago and the family didn’t have the time to hold the normal wedding party (similar to the one described in my previous wedding post). So after meeting Mum and three of the sisters twice, I was very kindly invited to attend a small gathering last night to celebrate the elder sister’s recent nuptials. After being slightly embarrassed at my last wedding for wearing black and feeling under-dressed, I chose a sparkly full-length blue skirt and black top to wear. I chose to take my short-sleeve cardigan in case I felt uncomfortable in my boob tube.
When I arrived, at about 10:30pm I was greeted by another sister who I had not met, quickly greeted the family members I knew and was escorted into a large rectangular room. The cushioned bench seats around the edge were full with female family members and a few friends, and everyone was very conservatively dressed. Full-length sleeves and full-length skirts. Most were free-flowing. Most women were wearing make-up, but it didn’t seem as if they’d visited beauty parlours or had their hair dressed. An enormous contrast to the last wedding I attended. Some women still had their hair covered while in the room.
I was taken to sit with the two other foreigners and was delighted to discover that they both work at my hospital in home healthcare and have known the family for years. One had arrived in a long green dress with long sleeves and informed me that she’d been asked by a woman to cover up because her ankles were on display. There was very little mingling going on, but I made an effort to use my sparse Arabic to greet and introduce myself to some of the family. Most had a few words of English and even those that didn’t spoke quickly in Arabic to me and I tried to keep up. It was the first time I’ve felt really comfortable smiling at everyone and recognizing how powerful a smile is even if one can’t communicate in the same language.
The meal was ready just after midnight and we were escorted to another room that had enough food to feed 500 women, not the 80 or so that were present. We were seated opposite Manal’s grandmother (the Matriarch of the family who reportedly rules with an iron fist). I was enjoying the delicious food (lots of traditional Doo dishes including qabsa, a hot and spicy foul medamme mix, different salads and lots of lamb) but couldn’t take my eyes off the grandmother who ate the lamb from the bone like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Most women use a combination of hands and spoons to eat, but I think she had decided the tools would slow her down. Her hands had been painted with henna and her eyes were heavy with kohl but she grinned every time she caught my eye, meat hanging from her hands and mouth. Most guests had come and gone from the dinner table and grandmother kept going. I felt rude departing the table while was still eating but I reluctantly moved when Manal called.
The remainder of the evening was more fun than the earlier part. The Doo women developed confidence in talking with me and the other two foreigners and we were surrounded by women wanting to know if we thought they were beautiful, what we thought of the party and were we bored without music or dancing. I had numerous requests for English lessons and couple of offers for Arabic teaching. I may follow through with those offers given the expense of my current lessons.
Like the other wedding, most people began to drift out immediately after the meal. We stayed another hours or so, and spent about 40 minutes trying to get from the door to the gate, kissing and farewelling all the family members. I have been here 7 months and I have still not figured out when I should kiss once on the left, twice on the left, twice both sides or thrice both sides. I laugh every time because I always seem to get it wrong and either get pulled in for another kiss or pushed away with a look of curiosity ☺. I’ve enquired about the rules, but it seems there aren’t any. I should just know.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Perpetual Hobby Trialler
I’ve been navel-gazing rather pointlessly about my ability to commit to hobbies and pondering what my inability to commit means.
It all started with an “off-night” at Salsa dancing once evening. Salsa in Coo is a privilege. It’s one of the few activities that can be done safely in mixed company because it’s held on a Western compound without any local participants. I’ve been attending weekly for two or three months and absolutely loved it, right from the start. Then, two weeks ago, I was dancing away and feeling very self-conscious about not being able to do a particular turn without taking out the chin of my partner. I was slipping and sliding in my very inappropriate shoes, and eventually due to frustration, I sat down in a huff and watched until the end of the class. Not particularly fair given the 3 males to every female in the class!
During my sulk on the sidelines, it occurred to me that I suddenly didn’t enjoy Salsa anymore, and my thoughts even went so far as to accuse the poor dance of being boring and soul-less. It was at this moment when I berated myself for being unkind to a dance just because of my bad mood that I realized I was in the midst of a pattern of behavior.
I always start a new hobby with great enthusiasm and convince myself quickly that I’ve finally found my niche. I’ve done it with piano, clarinet, bass guitar, classical guitar and tuba lessons (yes, tuba), tennis, ballet, badminton, Sea Cadets, indoor netball, swimming, taekwondo, gymnastics, indoor soccer, rowing, running, quilting, knitting, paper recycling, sewing clothes, pretending I could paint, and various other activities that I can’t remember right now. I can look back on the early days of each hobby and recall the feeling of thinking I’d found something that I might be good at AND enjoy.
So, what happens when I decide I don’t want to attend / participate anymore? Is it because I’m easily bored, because I’ve realized I’m not going to be a world-renowned tuba player or a black belt in taekwondo, because I have the attention span of a flea, because I’m a borderline third-culture kid, or because I feel the need to try every activity possible and secretly understand that I can’t do all things at once? I’m really not sure. Maybe there are other reasons that I haven’t even thought of.
I know I can commit to some things. I’m committed to various relationships, committed to many faith-related groups, and I’ve stayed on top of the research in my field of employment when required. I’m committed to learning Arabic despite my very slow progress and committed to paying off my debt, despite the almost non-existent progress. So I feel comfortable that I’m not commitment phobic. There’s definitely part of me that wants to try every activity that I can, and there’s also a part of me that wants to be really good at something. I presume that everyone feels that way at some point in his or her life. Have I just written 500 words about something that everyone does and is perfectly normal?
It all started with an “off-night” at Salsa dancing once evening. Salsa in Coo is a privilege. It’s one of the few activities that can be done safely in mixed company because it’s held on a Western compound without any local participants. I’ve been attending weekly for two or three months and absolutely loved it, right from the start. Then, two weeks ago, I was dancing away and feeling very self-conscious about not being able to do a particular turn without taking out the chin of my partner. I was slipping and sliding in my very inappropriate shoes, and eventually due to frustration, I sat down in a huff and watched until the end of the class. Not particularly fair given the 3 males to every female in the class!
During my sulk on the sidelines, it occurred to me that I suddenly didn’t enjoy Salsa anymore, and my thoughts even went so far as to accuse the poor dance of being boring and soul-less. It was at this moment when I berated myself for being unkind to a dance just because of my bad mood that I realized I was in the midst of a pattern of behavior.
I always start a new hobby with great enthusiasm and convince myself quickly that I’ve finally found my niche. I’ve done it with piano, clarinet, bass guitar, classical guitar and tuba lessons (yes, tuba), tennis, ballet, badminton, Sea Cadets, indoor netball, swimming, taekwondo, gymnastics, indoor soccer, rowing, running, quilting, knitting, paper recycling, sewing clothes, pretending I could paint, and various other activities that I can’t remember right now. I can look back on the early days of each hobby and recall the feeling of thinking I’d found something that I might be good at AND enjoy.
So, what happens when I decide I don’t want to attend / participate anymore? Is it because I’m easily bored, because I’ve realized I’m not going to be a world-renowned tuba player or a black belt in taekwondo, because I have the attention span of a flea, because I’m a borderline third-culture kid, or because I feel the need to try every activity possible and secretly understand that I can’t do all things at once? I’m really not sure. Maybe there are other reasons that I haven’t even thought of.
I know I can commit to some things. I’m committed to various relationships, committed to many faith-related groups, and I’ve stayed on top of the research in my field of employment when required. I’m committed to learning Arabic despite my very slow progress and committed to paying off my debt, despite the almost non-existent progress. So I feel comfortable that I’m not commitment phobic. There’s definitely part of me that wants to try every activity that I can, and there’s also a part of me that wants to be really good at something. I presume that everyone feels that way at some point in his or her life. Have I just written 500 words about something that everyone does and is perfectly normal?
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