only half the story

As it turns out, all that business about mould and termites was only half the story. The real disappointment, the thing that launched the weekend straight past plain bad and into the realm of the absolutely miserable, was what didn't manage to make it onto the container: the keys - the only set of keys - to the motorbike.

It is difficult to capture the intense despair this final assault cast down upon us, particularly T. While the movers continued to bring in more boxes and I tried to comprehend the true breadth of the mould proliferation, T, all alone in the back room, frantically tore open boxes in search of the second half of the only thing he'd really been waiting for the last few months: the motorbike and, of course, its key. But alas, with each box he unpacked it became less and less likely that he would find it. Every few minutes I would hear a crash and a thud as another box was dumped onto the floor and then thrown against the wall. As time wore on, a corresponding groan joined each chorus. Partly to escape the sight of mould, I eventually retreated to the back room to join T in his search. Within moments I knew it was hopeless. Everything worth looking through was already unpacked. Still, to appear helpful and hopeful, I began sifting through the wreckage.

"I've already looked through all of that," he snapped with an irritation not meant for me.

"Well, I packed that box before I left. The key's not inside," I lashed back with an irritation not meant for him.

He looked about the room for another box and settled on the only one still taped up.

"I packed that one too. Don't bother."

"Yes, but maybe..."

"No. You used the bike after I left and I packed these before I left. It can't be in there."

"Fine." He stomped off to the next room, to the last of the unopened boxes.

"That's the printer," I said dryly from the doorway. Crouched motionless over the box, T stared at the photograph of a printer covering its side as though it were mocking him. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned to me, stood up, and slid his hands down the sides of an anguished face, his mouth dropped in a silent cry of despair and disgust.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. The movers trudged back and forth through heaps of mouldy cardboard. I fluttered about, dizzy and overwhelmed. T sat in the corner of the living room, next to the termite infested lion couch and the mouldy TV stand, stupefied by the horror of it all. And then, suddenly, the movers and their cardboard were gone and we were alone.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it will turn up. Once I start cleaning and going through everything I'll find it," I found myself saying, stupidly.

But we both knew it was hopeless. Our only chance was to try to have a new set of keys made, a task so daunting, T didn't even believe it possible. If you've ever tried to have anything fixed in this region of the world you know that any attempt to find a skilled craftsman generally ends in an unbearable test of patience and the irreversible maiming of your property. Needless to say, we were none-too-pleased at the thought of unleashing a Guinean locksmith on the bike, but without a choice we called Ousmane, T's driver, to help us find one.

I'm still astonished to report that the locksmith Ousmane found was alarmingly good at his work. He arrived with a blank key and a set of files and managed to pry open the lock to the fuel tank in less than five minutes. This was impressively convenient at the time, if not a tad disconcerting upon later reflection. (When asked how he'd done it, the locksmith merely grinned and shook his head.)

At any rate, the original key had worked on both the fuel tank and the ignition so our prospects were looking hopeful. We returned to the locksmith's humble workshop with the cap to the fuel tank in tow so that he could disassemble the locking mechanism and make a proper key for us. Just as we were beginning to think that the price we had agreed to pay was far too much for an half hour of work, it became clear that the finer details of key making were slightly more complicated and time consuming than the magic we'd witnessed with the blank key. We spent the better part of the afternoon loitering about the down-town street the locksmith called home, trying our best not to draw attention from the street vendors and beggars, the most persistent of whom was a man who, at his best, stood no higher than my belly button and was surely accustomed to a warmer reception from tourists than the one he was presently getting from us, seasoned residents and frequent recipients of shameless demands for un cadeau.

Finally, the key was finished. Reassembling the locking mechanism, however, proved too complicated for the man who had hours ago disassembled it. More than three quarters of an hour must have passed while the locksmith fiddled with this task. T had long ago slipped back into the morning's stupor and hadn't seemed to notice. I, on the other hand, had noticed and was just nearing the end of my wits when the locksmith finally gave up in the hope that we wouldn't discover the fuel cap's deficiencies until it was too late. Panicked, I roused T from his meditative cocoon so that he could intervene. Within minutes the cap was functioning properly and we were returning to the bike to try the key in the ignition. The key was so close to working that it was dangerous to the nerves. With the application of an unreasonable degree of violence it almost worked. Almost, but not quite. Another key would have to be fashioned. The ignition switch would have to be removed from the bike. A mechanic, a term used so loosely here we might as well ask for a professional clown, would have to be called in.

I'm ashamed to say that at this point I could handle no more. That was it, I was done. No more motorbike madness for me. Back to my mould I went, leaving T to face the imminent destruction of his bike alone. I spent the next few hours scrubbing mould off the furniture, wondering what atrocities I had narrowly escaped witnessing.

T came home that night looking defeated and deflated, like a helium birthday balloon two weeks past the festivities, limply hovering inches from the floor. The key was not finished. Another long day awaited him. Another day of incompetence, of mechanics without tools, of pointed fingers and harsh words, of narrow escapes. In short, another day of horrors.

like a poisoned apple

The container carrying all of our stuff arrived last Friday, full of promise. After two months of the extreme minimalist lifestyle, we welcomed the arrival of our possessions with glee. Unfortunately the joy was short-lived. Once we started opening the boxes and tearing the cardboard off the furniture it became clear that we had got more than we'd bargained for.

What we got was MOULD. Everywhere mould. Growing on the furniture, the clothes, the pots, pans and dishes, the pillows, the bedsheets, the mossie net, the computer, the books... the list goes on and on. The damn stuff followed us from Benin. After four days of solid scrubbing, there's still mould left to contend with. I HATE mould.

In a fit of determination to see the bright side of things, we turned our attention to the famed lion couch, which I had not yet seen fully materialised (for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, it's an over-the-top piece of custom furniture we had commissioned - but there'll be more on that in a future post, surely). Lo and behold, TERMITES! No kidding. Luckily there isn't too much visible damage, just a couple of small holes in an inconspicuous place. Hopefully we can find someone here who can deal with them.

alone in the dark

Last weekend was my first weekend home alone in Guinea (T was in Sierra Leone on business) and I had been bracing myself for something unexpected. Maybe it was the ominous sky we'd had the night before.

Maybe it was the fact that the scary things always happen when T's away. Maybe I was just bored and hoping for something dramatic... But the doors and windows were locked tight each night.

In Le Résidence, our apartment is just one little anonymous cubicle in one of six, eight-story buildings. As I sat around, waiting for something unexpected to happen, I got to thinking about how many very strange people must live above, below and beside me in a curious mix of expatriates and rich Guineans.

And curious is the word, because once these people start talking about their lives past and present, I can't seem to pull myself away. Red Cross workers driving Czech Tatra 8-wheelers into the depths of the Congo to perform emergency surgery on rebels. Kidnap victims who shrug their shoulders and say it was only 36 hours. Lawyers working to free prisoners held for years after the papers were signed granting their release. People who've been spied on by third-world governments. Others who can't say why they're here because it's classified. In short, people living life on the edge.

There, alone in the dark, reflecting on all this, I got to realizing how very far from the edge I am in comparison, safely tucked away in the apartment, one little ant in the farm. I got to realizing how very in the dark I actually am, and probably always will be when this realization wins the prize for the most unexpected event of my weekend.

Ready? Drum Roll Please...

So finally, here they are: the promised photos, sure to disappoint, but posted nevertheless. The movers still haven't shown, but things are nearly in order now because I broke down and moved all the stuff they were supposed to pick up into what we charitably call the dining room. It's not as though we'll be eating there any time soon anyway; we have no table. Maybe, if we're lucky, we can snag one from someone who's leaving in September.

-

But back to the stuff you really want to know. We'll start with the view from the balcony:

As you can see, we've got lots of palm trees. The thing about palm trees is that even when the wind is hardly blowing their tops swing back and forth outside your bedroom window with such ferocity that it gives you the impression that there's a hurricane in the making. I suspect this might just be my personal bias though, as most of the palm trees I've seen in my life, until now, have been on Weather Channel special news reports. Now, if you look closely you can make out a few of our neighbours in between the palm trees (click on the photos to get to larger versions).

This is the living room, followed by the bedroom and the study. Got to love the bars on the windows. If the wall surrounding the building (can be seen in views from balcony) complete with guards didn't already do it, this last finishing touch really drives home the prison analogy. The really funny thing though, is that none of those windows or the sliding door are ever locked. Ah, the appearance of safety. I also like how the bars reflect onto the framed lion photograph hanging above the bed to make it look like a zoo animal.

-

As you can see, our place is a bit empty at the moment and would benefit greatly from some real artwork. Not that I don't love the lion (a leftover from the former tenant), I just think he's better suited for a game room or a bar than above my bed. I'm hoping that maybe I can convince my artist sister to send me some of her paintings. I'll have to do it fast though. Judging by the way her work is starting to sell I won't be able to afford it before long.

-

Well, I should go now. The water isn't working so I've got to call the plombier. Too bad that's the only plumbing-related word of French I know. This should be interesting...

Dog Plays Dead in "Living" Room

So I had my camera out in preparation for finally taking some photos tonight - though it looks like it'll be tomorrow now... sorry - and I remembered that I had a few pictures that I took when I was State-side last that still needed to be uploaded. This was one of them. There is, indeed, a reason for posting this photo (other than the fact that I love my dog and can never have enough photos of her). It's a tribute to my Keene NH home, to which, I've just recently learned, my parents will - for sure now - be saying their farewells.

The above photo, taken just a few minutes before I left for the airport, was one of my last glances at what will no longer be my parents' living room. Next time I come "home" this is what I'll see instead (with a few additions, as in a house, I hope!):

Goodbye Keene; hello Westmoreland!

A Place for Everything, and Everything in Its Place

The guys left again last night, this time for a week in South Africa. T's colleague will be flying straight home to Denmark from there, so from now on it will be just us. It was, as always, a sad parting; Elisabeth was nearly in tears after saying her final goodbyes. For the record, tears make me uncomfortable. Tears from people I don't know very well yet make me very uncomfortable. But it was also a relief as now we're free to settle into our own, new routine. And I fully intend to do so.

And I fully intend to start by rearranging the flat. With T gone until Saturday, Elisabeth and I are more than keeping busy moving things from here to there, and then back, and then from here to over there, and so on. One of the first places to get the major overhaul is the kitchen. "Complete lack of storage space" pretty much sums up the situation in there. Actually, maybe if you added the phrase "ant infestation" to that it would be a more comprehensive description. We're going to have to buy some tight sealing Tupperware.

But getting this flat in order is going to be more than a one day project. In fact, it will probably be September before everything is in place. We have no dining table or chairs, no guest bed, nothing on the walls, no plants, etc. What we do have, and in abundance, is empty space. Photographs of said empty space will be posted tomorrow, when the junk heaps growing in every corner have been redistributed evenly across all rooms.

So why am I wasting my time blogging? you ask. Simple, at the moment we're knee-deep in a case of "we can't to this until that is done first". And, in this case, "that" means waiting for the movers to come and pick up T's colleague's stuff. But every once in a while the plumber shows up to give us a quote on fixing the kitchen sink, or some such thing, to break up the monotony.

On My Own... Well, Almost

T and his colleague left for a trip through Niger this morning. They'll be gone until Sunday evening, so I thought I'd be on my own for the next few days, something I felt both sad and a little relieved about. Now I'd be able to really focus on learning French without the mandatory 2 hour lunch break from 13.00 to 15.00 when the guys come home, a relic from Benin's communist past. And I'd have the flat totally to myself in the evenings, a welcomed opportunity to get comfortable here and start feeling at home by sprawling out on the living room couch and watching chick flicks.

But it turns out that this isn't exactly the case. Instead, I spent the day with the wife of another man at the office, C. Actually, she works there too but has taken the next few days as holiday. C and her husband ate dinner with us last night (we had the Danish-style roast pork Elisabeth makes and that we've been hearing so much about), and she invited me to spend today with her. First we took a walk around the neighbourhood. After having lunch at her place we went for a drive around the city and she took me to two of the best stores in town for getting general household items. I got myself a pillow. This was the triumph of the day. The pillows we've been using are overstuffed so that they are at least twice as full as they should be and as dense and hard as a sack of pebbles. And C knows a man who makes shoes. Custom. She's clearly a good person to know ;)

Elisabeth is also still here. She is wonderful. It's very, very strange having someone wait on you and clean the house while you're still there. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing my best to get used to it and we're working out a good friendship/business balance in our relationship. And I know at least one French lady who will be very happy to know that she's helping me learn French. As soon as I have enough of the basics down (hopefully about 2 weeks from now) she will speak only French to me as often as we can afford to not totally understand one another. She helped the man who lived here before us in this way and is very enthusiastic about it. And she's given me some educational materials and has offered to help read them to me so that I get the pronunciation down. If I manage to pull off a life down here, it will be in large part due to her.

I've been plugging away at the few Pimsleur tapes I bought and I know enough now to say hello, thank you, goodbye and tell people that I can't understand them. Hardly enough to really even get by, but I've just found another good resource, free FSI French developed by the U.S. government from http://www.fsi-language-courses.com/French.aspx. They also have courses for a whole bunch of other languages if you're interested and I've heard they are really effective, if a little dry. I plan to finish the Pimsleur introduction and then combine the FSI course and the free online Rosetta Stone course offered by the Keene Public Library for my self study. Four to six hours of that every day combined with practising with Elisabeth and maybe two hours of private lessons a week with a qualified teacher here and I ought to be able to do this. I will do this.

Goodbye Wonderful Copenhagen

It's my last day in Denmark and it's been raining all day. Wonderful, dreary, Copenhagen. But I'll miss it. And I'll definitely miss all the people I've met here. Most of them are moving on to new things (or will be within a year) so that makes it just a little easier to leave. I know that if I stayed it wouldn't be the same without them. And someday, when I move back to Copenhagen, it won't be the same then either, just like it wasn't the same the first time I returned. It will be a foreign city all over again. It's true, the people make the place.

The strange thing is that I know I am going to miss this place I've called home for the past two years and the friends I have made here, but I don't actually feel very sad about leaving. I guess "goodbye" gets easier every time you say it. Or maybe it's easier because in today's world of skype, cheap flights and email, goodbye really doesn't mean what it used to. At least, I like to think that's the case.

Then again, maybe I've just burned myself out on goodbyes. Take, for example, my recent visit home. My family dog is on her last leg (almost literally). She's 15 years old, or 105 in dog time, so I've been saying my last farewell to her every visit home I've made in the last 3 to 4 years. And my parents are planning to sell their house within the next year - the house my sisters and I grew up in. Now, my parents have been talking about selling the house for years and every time I used to think about it I felt a little bit of sadness and regret that I didn't take a proper look around before I left the last time I was home. But this time I made sure to clean out the things I had been storing at my parent's place these last few years, throwing away old mementos and bad photographs, and when I was bringing my bags out to the car and my mother reminded me to say goodbye to my childhood home I half-heartedly strolled through the rooms, surprised at my own indifference. I gave my dog a hug and told her that I loved her, but for the first time with totally dry eyes. It's not that I wasn't sad, it's just that I wasn't heart-broken by it any more.

And that seems to be how I am dealing with all my goodbyes right now - without the heartbreak. Is it because I've said goodbye so many times that I have no more whole pieces left to break? Am I shallow, cold and unfeeling? Or is it that all the goodbyes have taught me that the story doesn't end just because you've said goodbye, that I am a strong enough person to go through life without the heartbreak. At a goodbye-dinner last night, a good friend who has been to Africa before told me that I'm bound to see people in situations that would break your heart, and see them everyday. I know she's right. And then she told me that she thought I was strong enough to handle it. I hope she's right.

And now I'm off to say a few more goodbyes, so farewell.

It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood... won't you be my neighbour?

Last night T and I moved back into the kollegium as the flat's been sold and we're basically homeless until we reach Benin. While this is just a temporary residence, I already miss sleeping on a properly-sized bed (two people on a 90 x 200 isn't so fun... how did we do that for two months???) and having my own kitchen. There will be no more eating breakfast in my pyjamas, experimental cooking I would never try in front of someone else, or making a dozen brownies that last more than 5 minutes. I understand Gondul's longing for her old life in Frederiksberg in a whole new light now.

But at the same time, it's kind of nice to be back amongst all my friends during my last few days in Denmark. And the school is only a 5 minute walk away, meaning that I might actually get some work done. Besides, it just feels right to be back here again, ending this whole experience where it began. There's something about moving back into Grønjords that has made it really hit home that I'm going to be leaving this all behind, saying goodbye to all the people that have made the last two years special - well, all except for one, of course. And I miss everyone already. But I guess I shouldn't be too melancholy; it sounds like I've talked many of them into coming to visit :-) See you tonight at Tivoli!