Alfred, Ste's colleague, was in a pretty serious cycling accident 2 months ago. But he managed to get back on his feet (plus two crutches) for his wedding last weekend and was spectacular on the dance floor! Congratulations again to Alfred and Simone Lederhuber ;0)
Roshini nagged me on Facebook this morning. Her precise words were, "Eh, can you please update your blog! I know you're bored of revising your thesis ..."
To quote the wise words of the phenomenally successful Budweiser Whassup?! ad campaign - true, true. So here is my feeble attempt at an update.
Having been rather uninspired of late, I decided to let this little midday SMS exchange between the Altorfer-Ongs do all the talking. A closer reading and a dash of literary prac crit (a la Ms. Nathan's class) will reveal all the subtle elements of daily life in merry Minervastrasse 27.
Ste: wie war deutsch test?
Me: booje booje boo boom shakalaka boom
Ste: meaning? just boochie boochie boo or also shakkalakka?
Me: it was ok - i convinced them quite effortlessly that i'm an ideal candidate for the beginners' course
Ste: am sure you'll make quick progress. really appreciate you are doing this
Me: i also bought bread and toilet paper - life's essentials. and also butter, one of life's little luxuries
Ste: am proud of you indeed. thanks for buying all the stuff. am looking forward to my next dump, then :-)
Me: i'm sure the UBS loo will appreciate that generously-sized deposit
Ste: ... makes me wonder who's the smart ass here :-)
Being married to a Swiss man has its perks. He has a sense of general hygiene and will wash, wash up after Himself, and sort out His own ironing. He is handy in the kitchen and well applied around the house, having attended technical course ... and knitting class ... at school. All this, while being ecologically sound as well, phwoar!
Now, living in Zurich and being married to a Swiss man definitely has its perks (note: the photo is of Solothurn, though). New arrivals, like me, can register for the 'Integration Course for Women' which is run by the City in TEN languages this term, reflecting the demand and diversity amongst foreigners here - Albanian, Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Thai and Turkish.
This morning we had a 'soft' session, Lesson 2: Swiss folklore and traditions. Here is a taster from the hand-out - it's pretty interesting from an anthropological point of view:
The Silvesterklause tradition is confined to the area surrounding the village of Urnasch. Groups of men in elaborate costume go from farmhouse to farmouse, where they sing and greet the inhabitants for the New Year. The so-called 'forest' or 'nature' Klause wear pine-cone masks and dress in foliage. Like the other kinds of Klause - the 'beautiful' and the 'ugly' ones, they also wear bells, which they clank as loudly as possible when they finish their performance. The Klause who lead and end the procession wear round bells, while the others wear flat cow bells. This custom takes place on January 13th, the date of the New Year according to the Julian calendar.
I guess foliage is always a safe bet when it comes to festive fashion. Honestly though, I'm not entirely convinced about the bells, which to a Sylvesterklause amateur like myself, would probably only herald in a ringing headache. And so the pamphlet continues ...
Bern's onion market, held on the fourth Monday in November, is one of the biggest annual markets in Switzerland and draws thousands of visitors. On sale are onions braided into strings and made into items of all kinds. Visitors throw confetti at each other and drape strings of luridly coloured sweets round their necks. Children -and not only children- hit passers-by with squeaking plastic hammers.
One cannot help but be impressed by the ingenuity of the Bernese - after all, not just anyone can come up with a variety of ingenious renditions of the humble onion! Notwithstanding, I reserve (mature, adult) comment on the squeaky plastic hammers. Perhaps that's more Ste's scene, though I can't say for sure - the topic has never come up in day-to-day conversation.
Unique to Zurich is Sechseluuten, which Ste attended but I unfortunately missed, in April ...
the culmination of the day's festivities is the burning of the winter effigy, the Boogg. The Boogg, looking like a snowman and stuffed with firecrackers, stands on a huge woodpile which is lit when the cathedral bells ring out 6 o'clock. The moment when the Boogg's head explodes marks the official end of winter. And the faster this happens, the longer and hotter the summer is meant to be.
I hope, for my sake, that the poor sod's head detonated at the stroke of 6. The weather's been beautiful the past week; as far as I'm concerned, summer has begun!
A tiny, almost-tossed-out memento from one of my daladala rides: I boarded at Hugo House on Kinondoni Road and alighted at the Orthodox Church just before Maktaba Street. Cost: 200 Shillings
And this, a somewhat less rosy -but more permanently emblazened- memory of my Dar days, thanks to the territorial sun.
Evidently the zebras weren't the only ones sporting stripes.
Ali insisted on walking me to Posta, the central daladala stop. It wasn't far from his flat, just 15 minutes at an easy trot, but I felt bad because he had already extended me a great courtesy.
I had rung him on his mobile the day before, completely out of the blue, brandishing all the shiny telemarketing hooks (1. Researcher from the LSE; 2. Singaporean living in Switzerland; 3. Articulate yet harmless female with well-meaning questions and no previous record of badgering her subjects) to win myself a piece of his time.
It was a case that I had pleaded with other interviewees before, an argument which doesn't get any easier with practice - "Please meet me for a chat ... it will be of no discernible benefit to you but might potentially revolutionise my doctoral research and save my sorry little behind ..."
There was a long pause (1001 ... 1002 ... 1003 ... 1004 ...) and then a meandering umm. At that point, I cast away any remaining scruples and foisted myself shamelessly on the poor soul, offering to postpone my impending departure date if he would see me. He quaked ... and I heaved a sigh of relief. Then I promptly did what I always do before an important meeting - gnaw away anxiously at my right thumb. For luck.
Ali appeared where he said he would, when he said he would, and suggested that we talk in his family home. It was a modest and tidy third-floor flat and he passed someone some Shillings to get me a Coke. We sat in the armchairs by the window. Two young children climbed onto his lap, arching their backs ever so often to keep the visitor in sight. He cleared his throat and began,
"你如果要研究 中国和坦赞尼亚的外交， 那你应该先研究中国的历史， 而你必须了解那个社会里的矛盾 ..." (something to that effect anyway, but with better grammar and more flourish)
Ali grew up in China - he had attended a local school and graduated with two degrees from Chinese colleges. And so the conversation flowed: halting questions in English (yours truly) and expansive replies in fluent Mandarin (from him). Whatever the case, we had created a two-way street.
When the time came for me to leave, he offered to send me off. I thanked him profusely, for his time, his family's time and ... well, for having agreed to see me in the first place. Ali smiled good-naturedly and brushed my embarrassment aside, "I have often been the recipient of much kindness from strangers ... so don't thank me. This is something small I can give back."
I'm back from Tanzania. It wasn't a long trip -all of 7 weeks- but plenty happened in that time. The 10 days preceding my safari home were a dream, jampacked with the most incredible interviews and encounters.
There were too many lessons, there is far too much to write: relevant information, conflicting emotions, vivid poetry, contemporary analysis, lurid imagery, oral history, jubilant ululation ... and all that tongue-basting ugali ...
I am humbled by how little I will ever know about the questions I am purportedly interested in. In the words of a special Mzee, "There are certainly some benefits to having been born earlier." And I missed that boat, The Glory Days, by a clean decade.
So here is my Pesambili's worth for now ... an intimate primate moment en route to Ngorongoro Crater -
As I see it, the main trouble with doing research -apart from having to think- is the isolation. I work from home (in the study, which is all of 2 paces from the bedroom) and can get through pretty much the entire day not having uttered a word ... save for a cuss under the breath when I've stubbed my little toe. Even that exclaimation is economised, barely escaping my cracked lips as a "FFFffff ..."
This solitude runs plainly against the grain of my personality. I'm certain I've complained about this before but -heck- just for the record, I'm gonna play it again, Sam.
As you well know, I have an exceedingly high dependence on human interaction. And I don't mean the five-sen, ten-sen occasional small talk with random neighbour in the cellar (where the washing machines are chained) or Coop cashier, well meaning though they may be.
But rather a rich and succulent rump of high quality, unadulterated free-ranging conversation which means something. With people who mean a lot.
So thank heavens for instant messaging. And for all the people on it who help sustain me through the days of silence!
Fat, warm, soggy
Waves rolling down from the sky
In a crushing embrace
Plastering down my hair
Flooding my ears
Making my pinafore cling
I run out to play
Swimming on land
Knowing I will not drown
Then the instinctive drive to
Puddle-pounce, arms out and
Head bent upwards to the sky
Raindrops mix with drool
As I splatter and squeal
With delight at the reaffirmation
That in some crude,
Sophisticated or scientific way
-But surely surely-
Someone has pulled out all the stops
And loves me still
Wow. Those Oscars are really something. Quite an event, especially for an unplugged, non-film buff, non-telly owning bore (boor?) like meself. Managed to watch it all the way through in my parents' living room though ... because, heck, they are actually 'with' the times and have a telly.
I was surprised. In spite of having zero moolah riding on the results (was dead broke after handing out all those New Year hongbaos, lost the remaining pennies to ruthless cousins over Black Jack), the spirit was still rather infectious.
My personal highlights were (1) the choir which clicked, whooshed and hummed the Soundtrack of Daily Life most magnificently; (2) the acrobatic troupe and their enigmatic shadow-posing which moved even the most avant garde wayang kulit maestro; (3) Nicole Kidman's lipstick red gown ... and her well-matched statuesque frame; (4) that Scottish guy who played the doctor in The Last King of Scotland (hurrah, one movie that I DID watch!).
Apart from the annoying woman who kept gushing over Martin Scorsese (I suppose she's someone rather famous to be seated next to him ... wife? Rabid and uncontrollable fan?), the flubbing announcement which claimed Infernal Affairs for
I texted Michelle to see if she was tuned in. Ste and I were at her
But film is never far from her heart.
So I would like to take this opportunity to rouse the loyalist cause amongst those of us who know her, to set things in motion.
As Ste celebrated his birthday solo in Zuerich, I was out with the girls for a Valentine's drink ... apologies to my favourite mammal!
We walked along the beach behind Bhupi's house this afternoon. The tide had brought in a bumper serving of jellyfish, each and every one a menacing tyre of translucent rubber grounded in the sand.
About halfway down the stretch of beach, we came across a small pavilion tended to by a friendly masseuse. While Gamma and I took turns getting our feet expertly pummelled by the hefty therapist, Bhups seized the opportunity to sink into his signature pensive state.
Quite possibly mulling over complex strategies for increasing people's choices through expanding their opportunity sets. Or some other similarly Sen-esque notion.
We continued the stroll after dinner, this time ambling animatedly down memory lane, poring over photos of the DESTIN days which were saved in my Little Rocket (the new laptop).
A shot of 'Then', at Justin's in Tenbury Wells, in the summer of 2003. And 'Now', as wizened but no less spirited 30-somethings.
Tentative plans have already been tabled for the next reunion, hopefully in summer, at another special place.
Day 2 of Phuket retreat:
- Woke up in time to join Gamma for yoga in the garden, pursued the lotus and overstretched my muscles to the therapeutic and tempering sound of waves breaking gently on the sand. Met the gardener, who was without balaclava (usually his accessory of choice when tending to the lawn, or so I've been told - we're still trying to figure that one out).
- Enlightening conversation with Bhupi about Indian politics ... while G very adroitly whipped up a mouthwatering lunch. Cooed about how heavenly the meal was.
- B took us on a driving tour of some nearby beaches, a vantage point overlooking the bays and an elephant safari park with a young trainee elephant named Tong and a capricious gibbon called Charlie.
- Parked ourselves on the beach. Relaxed, read and napped. Watched the sun set behind an obstructive islet and practiced our chit chatting skills till it got dark.
- Overate at Nature Restaurant, while a pair of gobbing goldfish gazed at as through the telly. The restaurant is decked out in recycled/recyclable items as decor features.
- Adjourned to a local club with a lively band and good music. They played a mix of Thai pop and English pop classics/hits. Boogied on down till nearly 2am, which I hadn't done in ages!
This reunion was first hatched by Gamma and Bhupi on Yahoo! IM. It was too good to miss, particularly as I was planning to be in the region en route to Singapore for Chinese New Year. Therefore unbypassable!
Here we are now, a month after the idea was first mooted -how's that for efficiency?- having arrived from our respective locations in Bishkek and Zuerich to convene merrily at Bhupi's spacious pad.
Gamma's photographs (thanks!) say it best: Day 1 in Phuket ...
Yes, of course I'm excited! I have a date with Gamma and Bhupi in heavenly Phuket on Friday ... and then will travel onward to meet my folks on Monday, in Singapore. It will be really wonderful to celebrate Chinese New Year with the extended family after having been away the past 4+ years.
The flipside to this is, that for a task-oriented, schedule-making, routine-loving person like me, constant change can be exacting on the nerves and energy. I am not the spring chicken that I once was. Resilient, yes, but not invincible. It only occured to me a couple of days ago, when I sat down and thought things through (rationally, as one does) that I have been away at least once every month since last April.
April (Switzerland), May (France, USA), June (Singapore), July (China), August (India, Oman), September (Switzerland, Cyprus), October (moved to Switzerland, Tanzania), November (Tanzania), December (Tanzania), January (UK).
I have many wonderful memories, but this year I'll also have to figure out a healthy balance that will allow me to grow some roots right where I am. To be a part of a community. With Ste, in Switzerland. I would hate to miss out on living Life.
Selena once told me that anyone who can read, can cook. The simple logic being that following a recipe requires the bare minimum of innate culinary flair. Though it would, undeniably, be a boon. To the partakers of the meal most of all.
In (a somewhat limp) defence of my own appalling cooking skills, I should state for the record that I passed Home Economics class in Lower Secondary School. Scoring more respectably in the sections on blanket stitching, nutrition and 'feminine health' in the exam no doubt, but securing an overall pass nonetheless.
I am thus suitably capable of mending my stockings, prescribing prune juice to constipated friends and IDing fallopian tubes in an anatomical chart of the female body. But not boil an egg.
So imagine our good fortune when Abhilasha and Munish came to stay: we have relished every hot, home-cooked meal since their arrival, always a mouthwatering spread ... let me just say that talented friends really up the quality (and flavour) of day-to-day life!
There is a thread on the English Forum (for English-speaking expats living in Switzerland) titled "Ikea - more trusted than the church". The post mentions a survey done in Sweden on how much people trust various institutions. Ikea, surprisingly ... or not, some might say, emerged head, shoulders, and then some, ahead of the church. A whole 14 notches, it is claimed.
That has spawned a growing list of responses - hilarious on one hand, if you're a not-even-Sunday (or feast day) Catholic like me, and perhaps a slightly (but only ever-so-) disturbing snapshot of the evolution of paradigms on the other. Borrowing from one of the Team Ikea entries, 8 weeks isn't too long to wait for a delivery ... versus pretty much eternity for deliverance.
Being rather clueless first-time furniture buyers, the first Ikea sofa Ste and I set our hearts on at Spreitenbach had a 6 week wait for home delivery. I was in Dar when the sofa was due and was devasted when Ste called to say that it couldn't fit through the front door. It wasn't so much the doorway but the dastardly narrow entry corridor which stood between us and the desired Kramfors.
So wait we did, another 6 weeks, for The Second Coming of the Smaller Settee.
And I am pleased to announce that it arrived this afternoon, in all its glory and split leather radiance, ascending to our fourth floor abode in the safe carriage of two deliverymen.
