Lifestyles of the Far-flung Expat

Life as an expat in a far away land can be so varied, so many diverse experiences await you. But the one thing you are pretty likely to have in common with every other expat is the annual trip home.

You will be sitting with your desk calendar months in advance, plotting and planning and marking the potential dates… then you wait. You get on with your own reality for the time being.

But then, before you know it, time will have eaten itself in silence and you will notice the penned circle on your desk calendar, pinpointing a number which is approaching with speed. The blue ink swirls, a reminder that you aren’t prepared!

You will find yourself, a few weeks before the annual departure date, stealing time at the office, scouring TripAdvisor and cheapcarrental.com and booking the many flights…
oh the flights. Because there will no doubt be more than one place, one family, one set of friends to visit… not to mention the dentist appointments and drivers' license renewals! As an expat, your holidays are not your own. You know there will be time juggling ahead, and that despite your best efforts to spread yourself as thin as possible on those limited days… there will always be someone slighted, an old friend or aunt that feels hurt that you didn’t make that call, arrange that afternoon for tea. Sigh…

And there are the self-inflicted expectations… Afterall, you live in a tropical hothouse and hence you can’t very well return home, pasty - looking as if you haven’t been outside in months. So despite it being the rainy season in your adoptive home country (when you are lucky to see the sun poke it’s shining face through the wall of clouds for a few minutes in any given day), you wake on those last few Sunday mornings before the departure date, praying to various gods, just to allow you one hour to bake a bit, to tease out a slight bronze from your milky depths… to no avail. But you push this to the level of embarrassment, by donning a bikini, gauzy cover-up, and flip-flops, packing up your big beach towel and favourite book and heading down to the pool. You pass security guards and grounds staff in their winter’s finest – toques and windbreakers, and nod a quick hello. You lie, like the underbelly of a fish, a greyish white, on the recliners, chilled by the prickly breeze. You might be defiant, but you are betrayed by your skin - like a plucked raw chicken, you shiver - you are laughed at by the thick storm clouds above. Eventually you retreat in total defeat and pass the same staff, chuckling inwardly they must be, at the habits of these silly Obrunis**.

The last Saturdays hold their own pressures. You will suddenly start to appreciate the rich culture around you, the artifacts and beautiful fabrics, you will see all the vibrant colours and you will be thinking… gifts! Who recently had a baby, who will be celebrating their birthday while you are visiting, who would appreciate that special something that doesn’t come from a generic chain store at a western shopping mall? So therein follows the mad last minute panic shopping. And then you get all this nic-nacky stuff home, spread it out on your bed, beside the battered suitcase, and you wonder… does anyone really want all this stuff? Sigh…

You will realise that the beauty that these artifacts represent, is not in the items themselves, but in the boisterous sellers, in the jovial banter of the bargaining process. The beauty of the colours is reflected in the sun and the smells and the culture that they are a part of. And once removed from their environs, wrapped in your case and carefully unraveled on the other side, it is only your stories that accompany the gifts, that will breathe life into their fascinating charm. You can try to describe the lady, with the sleeping baby strapped to her back with a soft, worn wrapper tucked so carefully; her headload towering two feet above her small frame, who took the time to indulge you, who laughed and joked with you, and gave you a good price... Deep down you will know, sitting in a western living room, observing the glazed eyes around you – there will never be enough words to describe what constitutes your daily life, back home in expat-land.

There will be no words to cover the vastness of the open markets, where you were bumped and jostled along, loving every minute of the hustle and bustle, the voices, the cargo, the cloth, the charm, where you did your final shopping.

You will never be able to convey your ecstasy last week, at finding Cheddar flavoured Sun Chips (what?! In Ghana?! OMG!), on display out front of a random roadside shop, so excited in fact, that you almost caused an accident with a trotro and a traffic savvy goat, just to pull into the lot to buy them. Not to mention the cavernous open gutter you narrowly missed being engulfed in, to get there… and then to think to yourself, “Oh no, I’m supposed to be on diet this week, so I don’t look like such an elephant in my swim gear at the poolside barbeques back home”, and “now that I’m traveling, I could get Sun Chips every day!” Sigh…

But you will have fought the airport crowds and discomforts of the day long journey, and you will be home. To the familiar faces and smiles and the laughter that doesn’t forget you and invites you back in every time. As the partial observer you are, even of your own culture, you will notice the flaws and the beauty of those who will always love you, and who despite all your running away in life, you know you will always love in return. The time will be fleeting and the days will melt together, and before you know it, you will be back in expat-land to your alternate reality. And you will feel absolutely exhausted, and at the same time ‘at home’.

Walking in My Shoes - a trip and a loss.

Right now, in a tiny fishing village on South Africa’s arid West Coast called Doringbaai, my favourite shoes are living an entirely new life.

With the affection others reserve for beloved pets, loyal and by your side through thick and thin, I regarded my little black flats. They have literally toured the world with me. I confess that I can’t remember what country I bought them in originally, but I quickly discovered that they were more comfortable than slippers, yet worked in almost any scenario. And being flat and pliable, they packed so well too!

I have always had a difficult relationship with shoes. My wide feet and painful hereditary bunions (what a word), (thanks for that mom), have always meant that I’ve had to respect function before fashion. Most heels are excruciating and dainty shoes with thin straps across the foot are OUT in my world.

Then I found THE SHOES. Made by Nike – but never to be found again, despite searching in every mall ever since – they were crafted from real soft leather, flat, chinese slipper style, with a solid, athletic hidden sole. They were my saviour in so many situations. My comfort on long walks, in shopping malls, on rough trails, on my feet for hours at trade shows, dinners, cocktails, long plane rides across continents, office hours, party hours, market jaunts across Africa. How many shoes can say the same?!

So naturally I took them along (as always) on my latest trip – a meeting in Johannesburg, followed by a tack-on, sanity restoring, leisurely holiday to Cape Town.



We decided once in Cape Town, that having toured most of the Southern Cape, it would be a new adventure to travel northward up the west coast. It was a great trip. Unlike the touristy garden route and numerous wine routes, the west coast is dotted with genuine, hard working fishing villages.

The roads out to the coast from the main highway, branch like spindles on a spiders web, each country road opening up to the raging waves of the Atlantic, with a small settlement at each, clinging to the history of fishing that has been their livelihood and defined them all forever. It was quaint, and sometimes beautiful. It was small wooden brightly painted boats and toothless smiles. It was Afrikaans signposts and tiny galleries, small local restaurants and a persistent mist that blanketed the area each evening by 5.




We walked and walked, we shivered basked in the sun, and investigated all the corners we could. We met some great locals. We ate some fresh calamari. We saw the sets of seasonal campers from local inland towns, come to the coast for their seaside holidays.
My little black flats accompanied us everywhere (there they were below, on one of our last days together).



And then we came to Strandfontein.



The northern most stop on our trip, before the 5 hour journey back down the main highway to Cape Town. It was a sterile little town, built up a sloping hill, populated by a mosaic of modern guest houses and holiday retreats. The beach was long and flat and gorgeous. We knocked on some doors, inquired about accommodation for one night, found a friendly flat manager and booked in to a full little apartment.

We asked of restaurants and discovered there were none. We were told that 5km down the road, in the ‘coloured village’ of Doringbaai, there was a great little seafood place, run by an Afrikaans ‘tannie’ (aunty) and we should head over to book. We took a drive over to have a look. It was a tiny, non-descript village, built on the small fishing industry, and teeming with workers from the next town.


South Africa’s history, as we all know, is uncomfortable to say the least, when it comes to races and race relations. All over the Cape, there are coloured towns and villages. These people are truly a mixed group, each carrying blood from the original Kung San, Afrikaans whites, Malay, Indian, black and others. Despite the fact that the wide mixes mean that everyone looks so different, they are a distinct group with a certain accent, culture and community. They refer to themselves as coloured, so I had to overcome my North American hesitation, given the history of the word on our side of the world!

The fact is, that the coloured communities remain relatively poor, despite apartheid ending close to two decades ago. Laws can change overnight, but societies take a lot longer!

The small, majority coloured community of Doringbaai, are mostly fishermen and many work as domestics in the houses down the road in Strandfontein.

As we arrived for check-in, we met two of them. Both were maids, taking a no doubt well deserved break, after a day of cleaning. We greeted them, put down our things and headed out. The next morning we saw them padding along the road to start work as we left, and waved. Little did I know I’d left a piece of myself behind in that bedroom, that would link us forever. My favourite shoes.

I’m of course assuming here, that anyone would want my old beaten up shoes, as people’s forgotten gems are surely part of the job perks of being a maid in Strandfontein. I can only hope that they were in fact discovered, scooped up and brought home, the 5km stretch down the dirt road, to a little block house, full of life and chatter, and that someone has their soft reassurance under foot, even now.

My shoes will never see another continent again. They will not tread long arrival halls in Toronto or Dubai. They will not find themselves tucked into a suitcase, off on another adventure, ready to hit the streets of a new city somewhere else.

They are home forever in South Africa’s West Coast. They will see harder times and more work, will be filled with sand and the scent of the ocean, and hopefully they will be a soft comfort.

They live in Doringbaai now.

Eat your way across the sea - Cruising with MSC

Swept away / rainbow coloured cocktails with party umbrellas / sea mist / decadence / a pampered getaway….

All these images creep up into our imaginations when someone mentions ‘Mediterranean Cruise’… so exotic, so indulgent.

Cut to reality. Yes, it’s cheap at about $1000 per person. Yes the food is all inclusive – sort of.

We booked a Med Cruise, on the MSC Splendida last month, despite our sincere misgivings about this type of holiday. JW and I are partial to the kind of adventure that involves flying to a destination, renting a car, testing out our GPS and heading out blindly.

A cruise couldn’t be further from this. It’s a seabound luxury hotel, with planned activities and seating arrangements. It is a highly organized, grand scale production line of tourists, with chaperoned excursions and rigid timelines. People move in droves – like swarms of bees, on and off the massive vessel / into the dining rooms at the set times /and flock to the sunbeds around the extravagant pool area every afternoon.

And this being an Italian ship – there were ample opportunities to join the conga line or practice your tango with the grandmas and preschoolers, all to the multi-lingual incessant counting of the activities coordinator over the omipresent loudspeakers.

A cruise holiday means arriving in the largest ports – some of them highly industrial and not remotely scenic. It means you never spend more than 8 hours docked anywhere, and every evening you are at sea, moving from your assigned table in the ships’ massive restaurants, to the substandard entertainment in the gargantuan onboard theater. They have you trapped every night.

It means that you spend the same limited hours in Marseille – which is a dull, industrial port, as Barcelona – which was lively and promising (a place I’d definitely like to go back and actually visit!).

A cruise holiday means sailing for 24 hours straight to arrive on the north shores of Africa in Tunisia, only to have 3 hours to explore the place!!!

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that the holiday wasn’t luxurious – the main lobby boasted Swarovski-esque crystals in the thousands, built right into each step of the spiraling staircases. And the center piano boasted it’s own tediously bejeweled diamond surface as well. It was a great hit with the under 10’s who all jumped on and around it, trying to scratch off the diamonds between jumping over sofas, while their parents tried to enjoy a drink amidst the dense crowds.



There were 5000 of us on board, so there was no area of peace or solace. The logistics on such a moving city must be mind boggling. No wonder they forced us to eat at the same time and place every night!

Speaking of eating… it’s pretty much the focus of a cruise trip. EAT. The food is free after all. The buffet for breakfast and lunch is served in the Bora Bora, a smorgasbord of gastronomy that spanned 4 football fields. And the plates were closer to troughs – huge oval depositories of glut.

Supper comprised of a 4 to 5 course meal every night – which was followed -by the truly insane – by a midnight buffet, complete with food art on display. From 3 foot tall butter mermaids to intricate eagles made from melons and pumpkins.

Drinks on the other hand were not free. By a long shot. A coke would run you about 3Euro or over $4. And the absolute tedium of it all. On embarkation, you are bombarded with ‘offers’ from the united nations of happy faced boat personnel. These range from ‘water package’ to ‘wine package’ and consist of an insulting little paper tear away booklet of coupons that you must use over the duration of your cruise. GRRRRR

So, would we do it again? Well yes. On a much smaller boat, somewhere like the Greek Isles, where the boat would stop for a day or two and allow you out to explore.

Cruising has it’s merits. It means being able to check off many countries as visited, in a short span of time. It is the perfect chance for the less adventurous to get out into the world,

AND it’s a great remedy if you’ve been feeling a bit on the thin side….

Jordan - another world altogether...

Promise a follow up post on the ancient beauty and wonders of Jordan - but had to share this...

Mud on my face, a big disgrace

Seems I've disappeared without a trace....




Here I am bathing in the healing mud of the dead sea!

Actually I've been to Beirut and Jordan too. Wow. No time to post today, but I promise profound observations of the beauty of the Middle East!!!

What does a black metal tree say about Christmas?

What does your Christmas tree say about you? Apparently it’s a tool for deep psychological analysis. I came across quite a few websites polarizing people based on the tree they choose. Here's some examples:

White Lights: You ask houseguests to remove their shoes.
Multicolored Lights: You're an extrovert.
Blinking Lights: You have attention deficit disorder.
Homemade Ornaments: You have lots of children.
Strung Popcorn: You have too much time on your hands.
Red balls only: You wish you lived in a department store.

Only none of these apply to me. What does my Christmas tree say about me?

Well, the fact that my boys, JW the ever non traditional and Q the teen boy, almost stopped me from putting it up altogether should say something.

We’re sort of ‘stuck’ in Ghana this year. This means we’ve all flown so much during the year that we couldn’t be bothered to plan and execute a family holiday half way across the world. So here we are.

We decided with friends to head down the coast for the few days over Christmas. No tradition, just beach, barbeques, vegging out.

BUT as the days grew closer I felt the inexplicable tug, that voice that says, ‘Put something up!”, “make it look a bit like Christmas around here!” So I voiced it. God forbid! I got attacked on two sides.

“Why? We won’t even BE here! We have no presents this year, remember we agreed!”

“You’ve become your mother.”

No offense Mom, but when it comes to Christmas you’re a hard act at follow. Ever since I can remember our house was decked out – from the designer wreath at the front door, to vines up the banister. Christmas scene in the living room bay window, candle clusters with holly, and a tree out of a designer mag for sure. Martha Stewart has nothing on my mom. One year, she saw a magnificent tree in a shop, decorated completely in white and gold. It was fully lit. People stopped to marvel at it. She then approached the store manager, made an offer, and ended up carting off the whole tree, wrapped in cellophane, fully decorated and lit. (No serious work THAT year!) And since this year my sister and her little family have taken over the family house, the tradition will carry on.

Then there’s me – the black sheep. Spent most Christmases over the past 13 years in Africa, or as a guest. Never made a Christmas turkey, never decked the halls, never had a designer tree.

This year takes the award for the least effort made in a Christmas tree erection.
I gave in though to the little voice, and dragged out the black wrought iron tree. It’s about 2 feet tall and has little spots for tea lights, but JW pointed out that it looks more like an orange seller’s stand in Ghana. It just might be the origin of our little tree, come to think of it!



I bought some hand casted Ghanaian glass stars at a sale and hung them with ribbon from our sad black tree. Added a few left over ornaments from unremembered Christmases past, and voila! My attempt at 2009 Christmas decorations.

Now what would the experts say about that? My tree isn’t real or fake. It’s metal! There are no white OR multicoloured lights. There just might be candles. There are no designer or homemade decorations, just a few Ghanaian made stars and some old leftovers.

But I’ve got my loved ones around me. And lots of vodka, wine and chocolate.
I might even make some Christmas chocolate squares… or I might drink more vodka and eat all the raw ingredients.

Merry Christmas Holli style ☺

The Streets of Ghana today - Ramadan Kareem!

Today was a public holiday in Ghana. In fact it was a dual holiday - on the one hand (the Muslim one), Ghana celebrated the end of Ramadan with the Eid ul-Fitr end of fasting celebrations. Ghana's Muslim population makes up about 45 percent of the population of about 22 million. And on the other hand (the political one), Ghana celebrated Kwame Nkrumah's (Ghana's first president at the time of independence from Colonialism) Birthday.

We headed off to enjoy the holiday for neither purpose really, but figured we'd head down to a friend's beach house all the same.

What we encountered however was a traffic jam like no other... Apparently the mosque had just let out and we turned down the wrong (or right!) road.

While JW cooled his heels in the stop-start traffic for about 45 minutes along a 500 metre stretch of road, I snapped happily away with my versatile iPhone...

Accra's Muslim community were out in full force in killer outfits.

Below - some of the scenes of the day:

A lady stops to buy some fresh paw paw (papaye) from a roadside seller.


Someone is watching me too!


This lady is dressed to kill! Great shades and earrings!


The guys move in groups...


And the ladies too!


Even the little girls are all dolled up for the day. Looking lovely.


A senior lady in some gorgeous cloth...


And new moms dressed up with baby in tow!


This young guy was all dressed up and had his prayer mat ready.


And finally - as we started to move and the throngs of people thinned - this truck drove by with a 'humbling' message...

Ramadan Kareem Ghana!

A Day in the Life... puberty initiation ceremonies, power outages, electrical fires and garden showers...

Having just returned from a well appreciated mini-holiday in Germany with a one day Dubai shopping stopover, I returned back ‘home’ to Ghana over the weekend. Back to the ‘expat life’.

Sunday morning we headed off to Somanya, a village about 90km out of Accra that holds a series of annual female puberty initiation rites ceremonies – called Dipo. (A more culturally sensitive and detailed post with photos to follow). My good friend had gotten us an official ‘obruni’ invitation to come and observe.

So the day started in true Ghanaian style, dodging church traffic and hawkers, through a maze of roads, avoiding road construction and trotro drop offs – and this was a Sunday!

Armed with full bottles of Voltic water, we were all set and arrived in the village just in time to realise we all needed to pee. Uh oh. This is not a desired state to be in, arriving as an obruni in a village in Ghana. You can’t just straddle the gutter unnoticed as others can... and the chances of finding an actual flushing toilet with – gasp – toilet paper - were slim. Luckily one of us had been here before and knew a trustworthy ‘spot’ (Ghanaian roadside restaurant). This one was indoors, WITH a toilet AND toilet paper. No flowing water though, but two outta three ain’t bad. We ‘dashed’ the waitress a tip for saving our butts literally, and headed to the ceremony.

It was about a million degrees in a tight little dilapitated compound, writhing with about 20 times the bodies safe for such a space, and we pushed our way in.
We emerged three hours later, after having offended half the village TWICE through some daft and semi-serious cultural faux pas, having nearly passed out from heat and over-crowding, and having witnessed quite a spectacle – shot gun salutes and all!
And with that we headed back to Accra, conscious not to be caught on the roads after dark...

As we came into the city we realised the entire spanse of Accra was bathed in darkness. ‘Light off’ is the affectionate term... A few spots of light here and there, accompanied by the deafening din of diesel generators led our way.

At home we followed the usual procedure, flashlights in hand, switching over to the generator. Only this time the lights danced and whirred and flashed and the
generator answered with a few gasps and sighs. And then in a millisecond the flames had lashed out and jumped fast – one of our trusted voltage regulators in the socket had turned into a hot orange melting fire block. JW calmly shouted orders, “Bring me a wet cloth, quick!”, and “Bring me a broom! Quick!”. And Q and I did as we were told. And within a minute the fire was out. The computer room had been reduced to a smoky, stinking grey cell, with a blanket of black ashes everywhere. The white wall, now mostly black, branching out in a fan pattern from above the socket.

We spent the next hour testing what had caused the generator to ‘misbehave’, and then started cleaning away the evidence of the fire. With all the windows and doors open, the smoke had cleared and everything was now in order, apart from the bloodthirsty swarm of mosquitos that had come in, taking advantage of our vulnerable position...

Then Q wanted his hair done – this involves a straightening chemical treatment from a box that I smear on his head every couple months, in the name of his vanity...this treatment tames his wild locks, and we’ve got it down to a science, but as the chemicals involved are actually quite serious, it must be rinsed out at just the right time or... or I just wouldn’t want to know. Visions of hair clumps and singed scalp come to mind.

So as Q headed up the stairs to get the gunk out, the generator started playing it’s tricks again and after a few coughs and spurts it died. And there was Q – up in the shower, in the dark, water having stopped (being powered through a pump it’s dependant on the electricity). Panic. Plan B was put into motion immediately. I instructed him to squeeze his eyes shut and get a towel. Marched him down the stairs, through the darkness and out the front door. We have a water tap that runs out in the garden, under the mango tree and mess of bouganvillia that is not dependant on the power from the house. He crawled under the trees, turned the tap on full blast and proceeded to rinse and rinse, down on all fours, knees in the dirt, the white chemical mixing with the mud, making a greyish sludge out of the garden. With the moonlight as our guide, I passed the special shampoo and conditioner down, one by one, until the job was done. Emergency averted.



Just then the power came back and the neighborhood came to light and to life. Great.
Exhausted I headed up to bed, stopping for a well needed shower. But on entering the bathroom, four – yes four – giant cockroaches decided to peek out from under the dark dank hole they occupy under the tub. Instead of my usual scream and evacuation, I decided they needed to simply be dealt with. It was that kind of day. I calmly got my weapon – RAID (Fast Acting) and let them have it. Half a can of it. I left the room feeling quite satisfied with myself and came back soon after to find them writhing uselessly on their greasy brown backs, limbs jerking wildly from the nerve toxins I’d subjected them to.

Another day in the life was over. The next day, Monday – back to work. With the memories of the crisp cool air, German perfectionism and view of the Alps in the distance fading faster than my cockroaches would succumb to their punishment...