“How Can I NOT Help You?”
Today I was steamed. I don’t get really steamed often, but man, I was red hot steamed. It is my last week here. I have been focused on family business, but now it is time to scurry, to take care of business.
I remembered that the battery on the Apples around the time when I bought my Mac laptop has been recalled, so I went, first thing this morning, to CompUSA nearby. There isn’t a customer in the store. A guy asks if he can help me and I tell him I need to know if my computer should have a new battery. He blah blahs saying I need to contact Apple. He takes me to the customer service guy. He says blah blah I need to contact Apple. He also says there is an Apple tech at the other CompUSA, three miles away.
I know where it is – that’s where I bought it. So I drive the three miles and the Apple tech says blah blah blah you have to contact Apple.
EXPLETIVE DELETED.
I could have contacted Apple from Kuwait! I bought the computer in THAT store, but now it’s all “go away, we can’t help you.” I remember when you bought Apples at Apple stores and they always knew what you were talking about when you walked in and they could fix anything.
Rant. Rant. Rant.
But it’s a good reminder. We always complain about indifferent customer service in Europe and Kuwait. It’s nice to be reminded that we also have great customer indifference here, too. (sarcasm, in case you don’t recognize it because I use it so rarely. I really am still steamed.)
Hiking with Robin Pope in Zambia (3)
There’s a lot of world to see, and we never intended to repeat a trip. The Robin Pope camps are so exceptional that – we made an exception. The very next year, we are back in Zambia, and eager – we are going hiking with Robin Pope himself.
Who is Robin Pope? He is a native African, and a staunch Zambian. He knows so much about wildlife that he probably doesn’t even know how much he knows. He is quietly and dryly funny. He started guiding as a very young man, and then, together with his wife Jo, began building a very particular kind of tourist experience. When you reach the Robin Pope camps, Nkwali, Nsefu and Tena Tena, you become like family. Well, family who live very luxuriously – the cabins are large and spacious, and beautifully appointed, with fine linens, mosquito netting, shelves, toiletries, all the comforts – a million miles from anywhere.
Each camp holds only a very limited number of campers, supported by enthusiastic and knowledgeable staff. They grow their own vegetables, or buy from local farmers. They employ people from the nearby villages. Black and white people work together equally.
One of the things we were able to do was to visit Kawazaa village, to visit the schools re-built and supplied by Robin Pope Safaris, to visit the local clinic, to visit with local villagers. We can’t wait to go back. The second trip, we bring one big suitcase full of school supplies – calculators, books, paper, pens, pencils . . . it was fun for us to find these things, having met the students who would use them, and the teachers who would benefit by having resources. Everywhere we go, we have to sign a book – the villagers get specific monetary credits for every visitor they entertain.
There are six of us who will trek with Robin Pope, and we meet in the Land Rover that picks us up at Mfuwe International Airport. I love that name – don’t you just see big jets flying in and out? In reality, it is a tiny little airport, handling only small planes. There is one small arrivals gate and one equally small departures gate. Because it also gets an occasional flight from Malawi, it can call itself “international.” We arrive at Nkwali, enchanted once again to find the hippo pod right under our window.
Lunch – how do they do it? Fish cakes with lemon mayonnaise, leek quiche, potato salad, avocado salad, green salad, cheesy corn rolls and butter, finishing with coffee and tea.
On our game drive the next morning, Jacob takes us out to see Thornicroft giraffe, and we see lots of elephants and baby elephants, and a herd of over 300 buffalo. After lunch, it is hot and we fall into a dead sleep, awakening in time for our afternoon game drive which starts with a boat ride across the river.
And what a boat ride! The hippos have spread out, and we THINK we are safely past when one of them lunges at the boat, missing us by a thread.
Thank God, it is hot for another hour, as we are all totally soaked, but also energized by the huge jolt of adreneline shooting through our veins at escaping unhurt from that lunging hippo. On our drive, we see leopard, genet cats, civet cats and a great big lumbering porcupine.
We have dinner down by the river, under the stars, with napkins folded like guinea fowl. It starts with spinach soup, and then there is pork tenderloin, pumpkin, mange-tout peas, cauliflower with a cheese sauce, lentils and for dessert, butterscotch pie. Somehow, we manage not to gain weight – we can’t figure out how.
Some Things Just Don’t Translate
Three sets of eyes looked at me with disbelief, mixed with horror. I was explaining to my three students that I was having a group of American university students at my house for Halloween. We would all welcome the Hallowe’en trick-or-treaters as they came around in our compound. We expected hundreds – children from far and wide throughout the city came to trick-or-treat where the westerners lived. Even if the children didn’t “get” Halloween, they liked the costumes and the candy.
It wasn’t the trick-or-treating my students didn’t get. It was that I had said we would all be dressed as pirates. We would have patches and capes and bandannas, some would have hooks, others would have swords. We would say things like “Ay matey!” and “Aaargh” and “Pieces of eight.”
They didn’t know what pirates were. They had never seen Peter Pan with Captain Hook, they hadn’t seen Johnny Depp in his fey performance as Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. I started off with enthusiasm.
“Oh, pirates lived a long time ago. Hmmm, no actually, there are still pirates today. They sail old ships, and then they stop and capture ships on the high seas and like hold people for ransom. They sing songs and drink grog and some of them have peg legs, or hooks for hands . . .” even I could see that this was not going well.
“No no!” one cried. “Why would you want to be a pirate?”
“hmmm, well you’re right, REAL pirates weren’t very nice, I guess. They raped and stole from others, but for some reason we just dress up and PRETEND to be pirates. . .”
Now, it’s even starting to sound lame to me.
“There were some good pirates, too. . .”
“What did they do, khalti?”
(I am totally blank. I have an image of a deer in the headlights; the deer is me with no where to run.)
I don’t know. Were there any good pirates? Why do we think pirates are so much fun? Is it the costumes? As kids we would make each other walk the plank, and swashbuckle around, it was a good break from cowboys and Indians. Seeing it through my students’ eyes, though, it just wasn’t working.
Some things just don’t translate.
Hiking With Robin Pope in Zambia (2)
The days pass too quickly. Our bags catch up with us on the third day – one day to get from J-burg to Lusaka, one day to get from Lusaka to Mfuwe, and one day to get to the camp at Nkwali. We never had a moment’s concern; they kept us informed every step along the way.
Here is what the day looks like – early early you hear a knock on the door and someone says “Good morning!” and you struggle out of bed. It is still the middle of winter below the equator, so it is cold. You jump into your clothing and head for the campfire, where breakfast is served. Toast is being heated on the grill, there is hot cereal and cold cereal, and some mornings there is even bacon. There is always hot coffee and hot tea. You can socialize or not, as your morning nature indicates, then grab your gear and load up. Usually it is you and your traveling partner, maybe another couple, and the guide. Every day you take off to a new area, sometimes for the whole day so you can see outlying areas, and sometimes just for three to five hours.
There is never a game drive where you don’t see something. Most of the people who show up at the Robin Pope camps are good safari travelers – good at spotting movement, as excited to see a bat eared fox as another lion, people who will sit and watch giraffe, or hippos, or storks . . . people who know when not to talk, and people who are considerate of one another when shooting photos or movies.
We move on to Nsefu, where the cabins are round! There is a big outdoor BBQ that night, lots of fun, down by the marsh where there is always something happening. We saw a huge Pell’s Fishing Owl, a great thrill, and several varieties of eagle. Watching the raptors is a huge thrill.
And then – our favorite camp – Tena Tena. They put us in the very end cabin, and oh, we like that very much. Tena Tena is rebuilt every year – you get there by boat. Tent-cabins are rebuilt once the rains stop and the floodwaters recede. The cabins are fabulous – during the day, they are totally open to the outdoors. Big huge king sized beds, flat woven carpeting with pile carpet accents, a large dressing area with shelves so you can really unpack and move in, and a huge outdoor shower and toilet and sink area to be shared with the stars and moon shining down on you. At night, the tents are closed, and an electrified fence prevents too much chance of invasion. The marsh area in front of the camp teems with life – after dinner one night, we have to wait until the leopard leaves before the guide will take us to our tent.
On our very favorite game drive at Tena Tena, we were out on the night of a full moon, and came across a pride of lions hunting. We spent nearly an hour just watching breathlessly as the lions tracked their victims, spreading out, sharing the responsibilities in the pack. There is no ambient light at all, so the sky is black as ink, and the stars are sparkling brighter than the finest diamonds. The moon casts a ghostly glow on the surroundings – enough light I can shoot photos without a flash. It is magical, and unforgettable.
My husband tells this story of Tena Tena:
“One night, I heard a loud sound and I couldn’t figure out what it was. I opened the tent flap and not two feet away was a hippo, eating a bush, and it was the loud chewing that I heard. What a thrill! The hippo was huge! I watched spellbound; I woke my wife. . .it was awesome. Two feet away! And then, the second night, he was back. What a thrill – he chews so loudly! The third night he was back again – ‘that damn hippo! I can’t sleep!’”
“We Don’t Judge You By Our Standards”
It’s never a good thing when a sentence starts with “we don’t judge you by our standards.” You know that whatever comes next isn’t going to be good.
It was our favorite time during Arabic studies. We were sitting around in the majlis room, sprawled against the cushions. We had finished all the lessons of the day, practiced new verbs, done all the dialogues to death, and we had a few minutes left before classes ended. Our teachers were really special women, and during these last minutes it was always question time, when we could ask them anything, anything, and they would answer, even if sometimes to laugh and tell us it was none of our business. We had so many questions!
“When we go downtown, ” I had started, “we have a good time. We laugh and we talk and chat among ourselves as we shop. But when we see local women shopping, we see you in groups, but you aren’t laughing or chatting. Is there some prohibition against it?”
There was a long silence. I really liked this teacher, and she really liked me. I knew, as the silence dragged on, she was seeking for a way to be kind. Finally, she spoke.
“You know, we understand you have other ways, not our ways. We don’t judge you by our standards. . .” and she gave a little sigh.
“In our culture, for a woman to laugh out loud in public . . .it would be taken as lack of self control. People could criticize. It could keep a young woman from making a good marriage.”
You could hear the collective gasp. Although it was said with great kindness, it was a serious blow.
When you are first learning a new language, and a new culture, it can be intimidating, but mostly, if it is well taught, it is fun, exciting, and stimulating to be mastering a new skill. The women at this language center went to a lot of trouble to insure that we were entertained while we were learning. They taught us Ramadan customs, they prepared an Iftar supper for us, they brought in all their jewelry and produced a bride. They henna’d our hands, and poured us tiny cups of qa’wa and chai with milk and spices. They took us on field trips. They treated us like sisters, or daughters. They were so kind, and babied us along as we struggled with the new language.
I give this teacher a lot of credit. She could have finessed the question, but she didn’t. She considered her answer, she knew it could offend us. And she chose to answer us honestly, trusting we would deal with it.
I had a physical reaction. I wanted so badly to “get” Arabic, to understand all the customs . . . but to give up laughter? I went through all the stages of grief, staying longest with denial and anger. I thought of all the times I headed for the souks in a gaggle of laughing women, and I felt ignorant, and ashamed, and also angry. It was a real struggle for me, a blow to my pride, an embarrassment. I felt sick to my stomach, and stayed depressed for a couple weeks. I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to have to give up laughter.
And then one day, somehow, it stopped mattering so much. Time did its work. Life went on. The teacher kept teaching, we kept learning. I no longer go downtown in groups of more than three, and we keep our voices down. We’re still our loud, noisy selves most of the time, among ourselves, but in public – we don’t want to be thought of as women who lack self-control.
Hiking with Robin Pope in Zambia (One)
Today it is rainy and cold, and I have “miles to go before I sleep.” In my mind, I fly back to a happier time, and today I choose to be back in Zambia.
We fell in love with Zambia our first time there. We flew in to Lusaka, and our bags didn’t make it. We called frantically from the Holiday Inn and got a different answer every time we called. First we heard that our bags would be in on a later flight that day – which was what we wanted to hear, as we were leaving early the next morning. Later, the harried British Air office told us with clear annoyance in her voice that there were no more flights from Johannesburg, and our bags would catch up with us . . . Catch up with us? We were off to the bush for two weeks!
I was in a skirt. It was cold in the bush, and we had nothing with us but our camera equipment (Thank God!) and a change of underwear. We looked at each other and said “Holy smokes. We’re screwed. What do we do now?”
It was five o’clock at night. We grabbed a taxi and asked him to take us to a place with stores with clothing. He took us to a small strip mall, and waited for us while we ran in and searched desperately for socks, pants, sweatshirts and spare underwear. It was . . .fun! Almost everything we found was from China, but we managed to find it all pretty much in green. The underwear was really cheap stuff and wouldn’t wear well, but it just had to last until our bags caught up with us. Part of what was fun was that we had read Lusaka was dangerous at night, but at least here in the shops area there seemed to be plenty of security and the shops took Visa cards. Within an hour, we had jeans, sweatshirts, socks and enough to live on until the bags came.
At five the next morning we headed back to the airport and out to Nkwali, the first stop in the Robin Pope series of camps. Our large cabin at Nkwali overlooked a huge pod of hippos, and all night we could hear them talking to one another, and occasionally having a huge, very noisy family argument. The food at Nkwali was delicious, and we loved getting to see the kitchen and meet the people who prepared the foods. They grow a lot of their own produce, and have agreements with local farmers to supply much of what they cook up for the guests.
At Nkwali, they provided beautiful linen bathrobes for us to wear after our showers in our enclosed outdoor shower, and kikoy, a multi-purpose shawl/wrap thing in wonderful colors that you can use as headgear, neck gear, wet down to keep cool in the heat of the afternoon, as a wrap – they are both big – maybe 150 cm long by 110 cm wide – and lightweight, very flexible.
Nkwali is such a cool camp. Every detail is managed. The camp manager visited us and assured us they were in contact with British Air, and our bags would reach us the next day. Relieved of that worry, we went out on our first game drive, saw leopard and lion and a million gorgeous birds, and had drinks at sundown overlooking a field full of wildlife action. After dinner, we went to bed to the sound of the soft grunting sounds of the hippo. Paradise, here on earth.
Fantasy Dubai Skyscrapers
My very cool nephew who works at Google sent me an e-mail this morning telling me to look at these photos. One of these days I will figure out how to link, but meanwhile, cut and paste to see these fantastic images of Dubai skyscrapers soaring above the fog – looks like a science fiction set or fairy tale city.
“Somebody posted these on Digg.com, thought you might enjoy looking at them. Very cool photos of Dubai skyscrapers piercing a layer of fog.”
http://www.flickr.com/photos/our_dubai_property_investment/sets/1531412/
Indian Workers
In most Western newspapers, this would be a huge story. Here, they don’t even name the company who has created this problem! (?)
Here is what the Dubai Press said:
Indian workers refuse to release colleague’s body
Saturday, 14 October , 2006, 13:27
Dubai: Rebellious workers are refusing to release the body of an Indian, who died in a squalid camp housing 1,300 labourers held captive by an influential contracting company in Kuwait.
Bino Stephen died on Friday in the desert camp where men hailing from India, the Philippines and Egypt are being held.
No government action has been forthcoming despite media reports on the appalling living conditions in the camp.
”We want to find a solution to our dreadful situation by having our living conditions improved or have us repatriated back home,” said Mohammed, one of the workers.
Four other inmates have been ill since last week because of suspected malaria and the water supply is unfit for human consumption.
An official of the Ministry of Social Affairs and Labour told the Kuwait Times that the death of one person in the camp could not be termed ‘disaster’.
He said if there is a complaint, it has to be registered, and the complainant should come personally to do so in order to take action.
When asked whether the ministry would send an inspector to the camp to check the conditions there, the official said he cannot take the risk in case the inspector falls sick or gets infected.
Here is what the Kuwait Times says:
Ray of hope for workers
By Nawara Fattahova
KUWAIT: The condition of a group of workers who protested against unfair living conditions in their camp has improved after Kuwait Times published reports about their plight over the weekend. The workers received promise from their employer that they will be shifted from the camp by the beginning of November after one of the workers died early this week. Also four sick workers were taken by ambulance to get medical treatment.
The workers were recently shifted to a camp in the desert and they refused to stay there and went on strike. They were then imprisoned at the camp, and later a worker died and four others fell sick. The workers sought help, and it was difficult. Then one of the workers got advice to call the emergency number 777. “After calling the emergency, they sent an ambulance, which took the four sick workers to the hospital,” said Mohammed, one of the workers at the camp.
“After we got the promise to be shifted from this place, and saving the sick workers, we decided to go back to work. Although we don’t trust the employer, we hope he will fulfil his promise and let us live in a normal place,” he added.
The Kuwait Times will be following this case, and will inform the readers whether the workers left the camp or are still living in the hard and terrible conditions.
The Fraud Syndrome
When I finally got to graduate school, I was in shock. There was me, one other woman, and a classroom full of men. It might sound like heaven, but it was testosterone-city. We were studying national security affairs, a sub-group of International Relations, and most of my classmates were in different branches of the military.
My professor, a former military intelligence colonel, was knowledgable, and good at presenting his lessons. He was very professional, very businesslike. Not exactly cold, but neither was he collegial.
In any graduate courses, there is a whole new vocabulary to master. I felt like I had grabbed onto a train that was leaving the station; I was holding on for dear life. I read all my assignments, made sure I copies all my notes, and . . . never said a word in class for the first two weeks. I was too scared. All the guys were blah blah blah and I just hoped they wouldn’t figure out that I barely had a clue.
One of my fellow students came up to me on break. He was nice. He asked if I had seen a recent article in the paper on The Fraud Syndrome, and I said “no” that I hadn’t. He just happened to have a copy of it with him, which he gave to me.
Here is what Wikipedia has to say about the Fraud Syndrome:
The Impostor Syndrome, or Impostor Phenomenon, sometimes called Fraud Syndrome, is not an officially recognized psychological disorder, but has been the subject of a number of books and articles by psychologists and educators. Individuals experiencing this syndrome seem unable to internalize their accomplishments. Regardless of what level of success they may have achieved in their chosen field of work or study, or what external proof they may have of their competence, they remain convinced internally that they do not deserve the success they have achieved and are really frauds. Proofs of success are dismissed as luck, timing, or otherwise having deceived others into thinking they were more intelligent and competent than they believe themselves to be. This syndrome is thought to be particularly common among women, particularly women who are successful in careers typically associated with men, and among academics.
When time came to take our first test, I studied and studied. I knew I wasn’t getting any credit for participating in class, so I really needed a good grade on the test. I did my best. I hoped to pass.
When the professor gave us back our tests, he put the scale on the board. The lowest grade was a C-. I had passed! Even if I got the C-, I had passed! Then he started talking about all the mistakes, including one really bad one – a person who had used a quote, and the quote was not accurate.
My heart fell. I had quoted George Kennan on deterrence, quote marks and everything. I thought I had it word perfect, but I must have screwed it up. I was so embarrassed.
One paper, he said, had no red marks on it. He said he has never had a paper before on which he didn’t make a single correction, that this was a first in his history of teaching. I barely paid attention – I had passed, even if I blew the Kennan quote.
Yeh – the paper with NO red marks was mine. I thought there must have been some mistake, but the professor held me after class, and told me that for my next homework, he wanted me to speak up in class. And he congratulated me on the test. Only one guy guessed it was my paper with no corrections – the same guy who had told me about the fraud syndrome. Through our two years in grad school, we became good friends, and would share notes with one another if one of us had to be out of town on assignments.
It was October. I remember there was fog on the road, and a great big full round white moon glowing through the fog on my drive home. I had so much adreneline pumping through me that I howled “Wooooooooo Hoooooooooo!” at the moon that night.
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