All posts filed under: Expat Living

on optimism

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I’ve been catching myself, lately, noticing thoughts or comments that betray frustration, negativity, disappointment, a lack of confidence. I see it, I hear it, and I don’t like it. Not liking it, of course, only furthers me down the road aways, and gives me another reason to be annoyed. The ugliness might be expected, considering the circumstances, but it’s not really acceptable, considering the circumstances. That is to say, perspective is key. The thing to admire about expats–and I use the word broadly, to include anyone who willingly lives outside their land of origin, and usually those who do so unwillingly as well–is that they’re a crafty bunch. They tend to be Make-Do Royalty, fully initiated in how to go about Doing Things Differently, Other Than Expected, or As Totally Unforeseen. They pivot, they wiggle, they patch and sew, they may squirm a bit. But their Go With The Flowabilities are unmatched by most. Ingenuity, creativity, and flexibility mark the expats I know, regardless of how close to perfection they otherwise come. They are scrappy, and I mean that …

on the colors of bazin

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Bazin, in all its sartorial glory: billowing swaths of starchy, stiff fabric, to make any regular person seem instantly regal (and, in the hot season, suspiciously insulated). Bazin is an Instant-Royalty sort of trick that nudges the back of your mind with thoughts like “Where’s he going?” “Who could she be?” and “What a handsome couple they make!” I hadn’t been to a bazin atelier previously, though I’d seen the flags of fabric clipped to clotheslines and flapping in the breeze from afar. A friend asked me to take a few family photos at just such a spot; It was a brilliant idea, and played beautifully in photographs. Here are a a few, mostly from the “B-roll.” Bazin is a Malian specialty, and ateliers pop up throughout the city and on its edges, inside markets, in back alleys, and in cramped residential neighborhoods. The women who dye work hard, bent at the waist over buckets of dark liquid, creating something akin to the most impressive tie-dye job you’ve ever seen, yielding a dignified stretch of fabric with haute …

what’s to eat: a christmas repas in west africa

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I spent Christmas Eve and day in Bandiagara, some 65 kilometers outside Mopti, in Mali’s eastern pocket. I was stuck somewhere between wanting to Christmas (ahem, I verbed that word) and wanting to avoid it altogether. Regardless, the night sky insisted I be at least grateful for family, friends, and good fortune, even if I felt momentarily far from all three. I recently read a few words on the magic of Christmas Eve, beyond religion, and this was the spirit I kept with me through the chilly night and the frosty beers. In the morning (well, more like lunchtime) the eating options in Bandiagara were scarce. All the brochette ladies were sold out; no one’s rice had come in yet. In the Christmas spirit of hasty mangers and serendipity, we made do at a small boutique with a front porch and a picnic table. Fresh baguette, omelette for three, and the kind of fried, canned meat whose mystery should remain just that. Actually, this was some sort of pressed chicken, although the Malians in my company insisted that all meat …

on upheaval

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A good friend used to console me with the words of her father: The only thing constant is change. There are people who crave change, and others who crave consistency, and then people like me who want both, and neither. If change is on the horizon, I cower in fear; if the status quo is all I see for miles around, I become antsy to the point of agitated. That is to say, i’m not especially adept at riding the Waves of Life. I prefer to be out there on my life raft, hand on one hip in a panic, trying to boss around the tides. As you can imagine, i don’t regularly get my way. Leaving a destructive job is a big step; doing so in a foreign land with no back-up plan is a bit outrageous. Leaving a long-term relationship is a life-changing choice; going solo in a foreign land is, quite, literally, life-altering. Doing both in the space of one week is….let’s call it bold, shall we? Bold seems appropriately kind-spirited. The biggest urge during moments of …

on the patiences

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Question: if good things come to those who wait, does patience come as well? A new variety of patience has made itself known during the process of Growing Up. It’s distinct from Waiting Patience, as in waiting in line, waiting for dessert, waiting for a promotion, or waiting for things to come together. I call it Watching Patience, and it’s much messier and more confusing, although possibly more rewarding. It’s the patience that accompanies growth and change when they take months, years, even decades. Waiting Patience has a discernible end; Watching Patience discerns little in advance, only you imagine you’ll recognize the fruits of the process when you see them. The most striking difference between these two Patiences is the way they proceed. With Waiting Patience, you can break down the steps and be confident in your progress. Each bite of vegetables brings me closer to dessert… each step forward brings me closer to completing a marathon… each course brings me closer to a degree, and so on. But Watching Patience requires a near-impossible level …

on lately

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Rounds (and rounds) of pizzas … Seed deliveries to far-off villages with names like Sanambele, Tiakadougou-Dialakoro, and Sanankoro-Djitoumou. We have cats and data, and data and cats; trainings, plantings, hard work, and lots of hope in bare fields, and sometimes in bare feet.