tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23114163016460861272024-02-19T08:12:39.324+00:00Tales of an Armchair TravelerReturning to my own country as a foreignerVickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-89799136202454370612008-03-19T13:31:00.002+00:002008-03-19T13:56:53.470+00:00Profile of a TEFL TeacherThey´re a strange bunch of people, TEFL Teachers. Adopting a lifestyle which, to many, is incomprehensible, and finding the alternatives impossible. The job matches the personality so perfectly... it´s difficult to say which came first. Was this social misfit simply lucky to fall into a profession which suited their character so well? Or did they grow into their job and eventually find themselves incapable of working in any other sector?<br /><br />Instability of contracts is often an issue, particularly in Portugal and Spain. But the TEFL teachers were breaking into cold sweats at having to sign a 9-month contract. What if we don´t like it? What if we want to leave? The sign of security is insecurity, the backpack being the ultimate symbol of liberation and independence. If it all goes wrong, you stuff all your clothes and Hemingway novels into the backpack and go. Leave. Walk off into the sunset...<br /><br />No-one ever came here on purpose. TEFL teachers are required to have graduated from university, but no subject is specified. And no-one studies TEFL at uni. There are linguists, mathematicians, qualified lawyers, literature graduates, fine artists, actors and musicians. There are philosophers, communication experts, International Business specialists and computer programmers. And here we all are, teaching our mother tongue to the masses, and wondering how we ever got into this. Few jobs can be done by so many. Yet it is not the job itself that is the challenge, it is the uprooting and change, foreign language, food and culture, finding a house when you don´t even know how to ask for a coffee, wiping the slate clean and reinventing yourself every 12 months.<br /><br />No-one knows how they ended up here. At the end of the day you simply have to put your finger on the map and say "there". You try working in an office and get claustrophobic. You try teaching in a primary school and hate the admin. You try working in a bank and hate the suit-wearing corporate culture. TEFL is... different. Because it´s not a real job. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" the teachers ask each other playfully. We´re only half-joking.<br /><br />Many are teachers for a year, enjoy themselves, have a laugh and return to "the real world". The problem is when this period is extended, it stops being a holiday, and the lines of "the real world" start to blur. Home feels as surreal as away, being surrounded by your native language is depressing (Oh my God! People really just talk about TV!) and you have no idea what your family and friends are talking about (music, TV, politics, sudoku), and they don´t understand why. Culture shock is expected and "part of the Experience". Reverse culture shock is disorienting, unexpected, and somehow wrong.<br /><br />The idea of packing the backpack and moving to Indonesia or Mexico is easier to deal with than the idea of returning "home". For everyone back home, this action is "brave". For anyone with the snail-like habit of carrying their life on their backs, this action is cowardly, evading once again the return to one´s own country. We don´t want to grow up. "Next year", you mumble, "next year I´ll go back. Maybe..." And the Dungeons and Dragons-style game continues, you´re heading home, you´re on the path. The only obstacle is your own lack of willpower. You know you´ll make it back some day, you think you will, but not yet, no, not just yet...Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-42273443505224007582008-03-09T11:29:00.003+00:002008-03-09T12:21:03.963+00:00Meaningful Vacationeering ADVENTURE!Many frustrating hours have been spent recently raking through website after website offering "Authentic and Worthwhile Experiences!!!" in Brazil, Ecuador and Colombia.<br />Following a fascinating, educational and somewhat life-changing spell volunteering with a very small Foundation based in the Ecuadorian Coastal Rainforest last summer, I decided that I would indeed like to do something as inspiring during my long summer holiday this year.<br /><br />The whole research experience has, frankly, left a hideously bitter taste in my mouth. The "Vacationeering" industry is growing at a such a rate that the number of potential volunteers now appears to exceed the number of placements. Gap-year students and those taking a career-break are expected to pay vast sums of money (between 1000-3000 euros) for a two to four week stay with a host family or in puropse-built accommodation in a developing country, while they carry out this voluntary work. Where this money goes, in many cases, is about as clear as mud: "includes programme fee, accommodation, airport transfers, guidance, support, volunteer manual, Certificate of Participation at the end of the placement..."<br />"Not included: food, snacks, transport to, from or around the country, insurance, equipment..."<br /><br />Hmmm. Given that 1000 euros is probably a decent annual salary in some of these countries, it seems rather a lot to be spending on a bed for the night. Airport transfers would probably set you back about a fiver in a taxi, and what on earth is the programme fee? The "registration fee" is also to be paid separately, another 200-300 dollars, to cover "administration and processing of the application."<br /><br />But the sickest operations have the flashiest websites. "Help in an orphanage for three days, then experience the trek of a lifetime!!!" they roar. "Have a worthwhile adventure!!!" glitters across the screen. "Perfect for someone who wants a meaningful holiday near one of the most beautiful beaches in the world!!!" - cue photo of blond girl cradling a black child under a palm tree. These are inevitably the ones with the most prohibitive "programme fees", and the ones with a non-existent selection process. "No Spanish necessary!!!" "No experience needed" "Anyone can help!".<br /><br />Do these organisations work in cold countries? In little known cities, far from the beach or the rain forest? Do they tackle the less glamorous problems of AIDS victims, the elderly, those maimed during conflict or by land mines? Hm. It would seem not. Instead, bear-tracking, tree-planting and street kids are the preferred options.<br /><br />Shuffling and sorting through the online maze, I post a few well-placed questions and am pushed in the direction of tinier, un-Googleable operations. They don´t advertise volunteer placements. Websites are informative, not flashy. One or two catch my eye. I write emails, listing my qualifications and experience, they write back requesting my CV. There is no programme fee because there is no programme. One slum-based children´s shelter says that funding has dried up, and the project can no longer functions. "But please come, the kids are still around, we can organise it..."<br /><br />No-one is interested in these places because they don´t offer "meaningful adverntures". The websites may be in Spanish or Portuguese, alienating another portion of would-be volunteers. There is no accommodation, no airport transfers, no "manual". Thay do not promise you "the trip of the lifetime". But I bet that for anyone bold enough to reach out and rise to the challenge, that is what they would get.Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-30513248370564649412008-03-06T16:42:00.005+00:002008-03-06T17:05:14.160+00:00O céu de Lisboa<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5TOl4l6oTL7J27Dxy9NQ26nn8Q-2T4bLbNJjQ3DY0LbZZs8xbzM5piV0zt5ucef-QR9XrjwaArFnmPPCyezUd_zZp_LUp9gWDWemlHAwH7AQ8hjlv17RvcZ8wxqEeUqeC_pZkvdCchyphenhyphennb/s1600-h/IMG_2625.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174671918590949426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5TOl4l6oTL7J27Dxy9NQ26nn8Q-2T4bLbNJjQ3DY0LbZZs8xbzM5piV0zt5ucef-QR9XrjwaArFnmPPCyezUd_zZp_LUp9gWDWemlHAwH7AQ8hjlv17RvcZ8wxqEeUqeC_pZkvdCchyphenhyphennb/s320/IMG_2625.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The sky in Lisbon today was the colour that children use when they paint skies. A shade of Blue which can´t be described with words. <em>Mmmmmm...</em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174674371017275458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdpSNOgX4ADyW8MnEbVbz2srb78TClHTb6w_5EEK8Bpc0Sp9f3mh5TgXdLZ5x1IjzJOlzLlwH8RThURSvtma2Hkoczl0dbigPz6TK254lJ6KCv_UNYsTd_iZy5dfBG0kOhICn2rzydvAFu/s320/sky_blue.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><br /><br></br><br /><div><em></em></div>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-19208932105288210972008-02-23T17:13:00.004+00:002008-02-23T17:27:11.602+00:00The tony fitch gitterned with a flump (Part II)<p>To all those who thought you knew how to speak English:<br /><br />1. <strong>Flocky:</strong> In flakes<br /><em>“What deliciously flocky pastry” said his aunt<br /></em><br />2. <strong>Sice:</strong> The number six, when on a dice<br /><em>Jimmy rolled again, and, to his joy, scored a sice</em><br /><br />3. <strong>Tony:</strong> stylish, fashionable<br /><em>Cheryl still hasn´t realised that shoulder pads just aren´t tony<br /></em><br />4. <strong>Bumbledom:</strong> Ostentatiousness, vanity<br /><em>Wayne´s bumbledom was his most unappealing trait</em><br /><br />5. <strong>Twitting:</strong> A reprimand, rebuke or reproach<br /><em>Adrian received a harsh twitting for wearing an unironed shirt</em><br /><br />6. <strong>Trig:</strong> Elegant, well-dressed, tidy<br /><em>Nigel didn´t get past the first interview as he wasn´t sufficiently trig<br /></em><br />7. <strong>Gittern:</strong> To play the zither<br /><em>Mr Fanshaw went weak at the knees as he listened to Eleanor´s masterful gitterning</em><br /><br />8. <strong>Flump:</strong> Noise caused by something being tossed to the floor<br /><em>Gerald kicked off his slippers with a dull flump<br /></em><br />9. <strong>Jib:</strong> To refuse to walk (an animal)<br /><em>The camel jibbed and we were stranded out in the sandstorm<br /></em><br />10. <strong>Sot:</strong> Inebriated<br /><em>Five pints of Snakebite and Black left Gregory completely sot<br /><br /></em>And <strong>fitch</strong>? What on earth is a <strong>fitch</strong>?<br />Well, of course, it is a polecat, or the hair thereof:<br /><em>The Gucci fitch scarf is this season´s must-have item</em></p>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-56577685455563937862008-02-21T17:32:00.001+00:002008-02-23T17:28:40.219+00:00The tony fitch gitterned with a flump (Part I)Bizarrely enough, the Portuguese´s astonishing language abilities do not extend as far as their dictionaries.<br /><br />In the staffroom at work recently, I was fortunate enough to be shown what has become one of my favourite Portuguese items, guaranteed to put more than a mere grin on my face during even the toughest of working days. An English-Portuguese dictionary, old enough for the front and back covers and several pages to be missing, but legible nonetheless. I flicked through, and discovered that on each page there were several English words which, to put it bluntly, were <em>not</em> English words. A merry afternoon was spent passing the dicitionary round the room to see who could come up with the best new words, and by the end of the day, my stomach muscles were truly aching. It was like Douglas Adams´ <a href="http://folk.uio.no/alied/TMoL.html">The Meaning of Liff</a>, only somehow funnier, as we imagined the hordes of unsuspecting Portuguese proudly testing these words on sniggering English speaking friends and colleagues.<br /><br />While studying the other day I noticed that my own dictionary contained some particularly suspicious-looking vocabulary, and decided that, for the amusement of my readers, it was only fair to share some of these little <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jabberwocky">Jabberwocky</a>-style gems*.<br /><br />Can you guess the true definition of any of these words? (and no, none of them are rude)<br /><ol><li>Flocky <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(adj)</span></em></li><li>Sice <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(noun)</span></em></li><li>Tony <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(adj)</span></em></li><li>Bumbledom <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(noun)</span></em></li><li>Twitting <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(noun)</span></em></li><li>Trig <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(adj)</span></em></li><li>Gittern <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(verb)</span></em></li><li>Flump <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(noun)</span></em></li><li>Jib <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(verb)</span></em></li><li>Sot <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(adj)</em></span></li></ol><p>No? Not figured them out yet? Aww... twist my arm and you might just convince me to tell you...</p><p>* <span style="font-size:85%;">To maintain the integrity of this blog I guess it´s only fair to mention that I cross-checked these words on an <a href="http://www.wordreference.com/">online dictionary</a> and, sadly, some of them <em>are</em> genuine. But they are still so damn obscure and funny-sounding that they are all still worthy of mention.</span></p>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-13587790876232623842008-02-19T11:37:00.000+00:002008-02-19T13:47:31.459+00:00Pois...In the very early days of learning a new language, "getting by" is almost entirely based on blagging, faking, and downright bluffing. I´m no linguist, but after nearly five years of simultaneous language learning and teaching, I like to think I´ve learned one or two interesting things. Someone with a high level of English who looks permanently bemused and even traumatised because they don´t understand every single word you say is a much less appealing conversation partner than one who possibly only comprehends the merest smattering of what comes out of your mouth, but who does their best to respond in an appropriate, enthusiastic way, complete with exaggerated facial expressions and wildly flailing hand gestures.<br /><br />Needless to say, I have always strived to be the second of the two, mainly because I love nothing more than blathering on for hours, even if, as is frequently the case in a foreign country, I really don´t have a clue what I´m talking about, and also because once my partner realises how bad my grasp of their language is they will either a) politely excuse themselves and walk off (or maybe just walk off if they are Spanish), or b) attempt to repeat everything they have just said in English, thus spoiling the whole point of the exercise. A big round of applause to the Portuguese for their astonishing linguistic abilities, but it really does make it hard to learn their language.<br /><br />My first few months in Andalucia were therefore the language equivalent of learning to swim by being hurled into a swimming pool with a shark. I was on my own, skint, and the only way I could find work was by pasting hand-drawn posters all over town, advertising English classes. Soon, my new Spanish phone began to ring. And I had to answer it.<br /><br />The first thing I developed was an immensely acute bullshit filter. Sevillanos just love to talk. Not content with telling me they would like classes at such and such a time on Wednesdays, they preferred to entertain me with their entire language learning history, starting way back in the dictatorship when Franco promoted French, so they never studied English at school, right up to how they employed an English-speaking Ukranian nanny for their kids so that they wouldn´t have to suffer in the same way. They would then repeat the story with various additions and tweaked details once I turned up at their posh apartment for each lesson with little Juanito.<br /><br />And so I learned the art of Spanish conversation. It is emphatic, excited, and crucially, requires one person to speak at full volume until they are interrupted by someone who is able to speak louder and more forcefully than them. This means there is virtually no possibility of being dragged into a conversation in which you would be way out of your depth, and provides endless opportunity for study and listening. All that is required is the odd "Sí?" or "No!" uttered with the appropriate intonation as fuel for the speaker.<br /><br />Thus the conversation proceeds in this way:<br />Loud Spanish Housewife (LSH): <em>Rapid, deep, unintelligible Spanish</em><br />Vicki:<em> (frowning deeply, visibly concerned)</em> <strong>¿Sí?</strong><br />LSH:<em> Raised pitch, increase in speed of hand gestures</em><br />Vicki:<em> (Raised eyebrows, mock horror)</em> <strong>¡¡¡No!!!</strong><br />LSH:<em> Look of complicity, slightly reduced velocity</em><br />Vicki:<em> (Nodding in feigned comprehension and compassion)</em> <strong>Sííííí....</strong><br />LSH:<em> Varied intonation, short, sharp hand movements, looking to the sky</em><br />Vicki:<em> (Really getting into this now, reaching Andaluz volume)</em> <strong>¡¡¿NO?!!</strong><br />LSH:<em> Stops dead. Stares at Vicki, incomprehension. Repeats:</em> <strong>¡¡¿NO?!!</strong><br />Vicki: <em>(Realising she has got it wrong. Stuttering)</em> <strong>Err... ¿Sí?</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Conversation ends, Loud Spanish Housewife highly offended, having realised that Vicki has not actually followed any of what has been said for the last quarter of an hour, Vicki making excuses about going to the bathroom. Game over.<br /><br />So imagine my joy upon finding that Portuguese, while infinitely harder to understand than Spanish, has this nice little get-out clause in the form of one little four-letter word: <em>Pois</em>.<br /><br /><em>Pois</em> means <em>Yes</em> or <em>No</em>. It means <em>Really?</em> It means <em>Hmm</em>. It means <em>Seriously!</em> or <em>I get you</em> or <em>Exactly</em>. It is gold dust for foreigners. The Russian Roulette days of <em>¡Sí!</em> and <em>¿No? </em>are over. I´ve learned all the Portuguese I need to for now.<br /><br /><em>Pois?</em>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-65287000144808700772008-01-24T19:10:00.000+00:002008-01-24T19:49:24.142+00:00In the Olden DaysAs much as I often grumble about being a TEFL teacher, it has allowed me to meet the strangest selection of characters, and discuss some pretty curious topics, on a level that, as a regular tourist, I would never be able to do.<br />The subject of yesterday´s lesson, for example, was technology. As a warmer, I invited the class to brainstorm objects or services which we take for granted today, but which, 30 or 40 years ago, simply did not exist.<br /><br />All the usual suspects were there - Internet, mobile phones, laptops... but there were some particularly eye-opening suggestions to add to the list this time.<br />Here is a brief summary:<br /><br /><ul><li><strong>Cars</strong></li></ul><p>Considered a luxury item during the Salazar dictatorship, in 1980 there were just <a href="http://www.youthxchange.net/main/b273_using_cars-c.asp">one in ten </a>people who owned a car in 1980. Now there are around four times as many cars per head.</p><p></p><ul><li><strong>Roads</strong></li></ul><p>Another surprise entry, until you know the information above. Portugal used to have just 30km of motorway. Being fully aware of Portuguese drivers´ preferred velocity, this was probably covered in roughly ten minutes, end to end.</p><p>And while there are now plenty of roads and motorways for the Portuguese to accelerate across, the original roads in the small towns are still lacking pavements, in memory of the good ol´days of horses and carts.</p><p></p><ul><li><strong>Central Heating</strong></li></ul><p>I laughed when my students told me this. not because I couldn´t believe that the Portuguese used to live without central heating, but because it is a luxury on the Iberian Peninsular that <a href="http://vickielizabeth.blogspot.com/2007/11/how-to-wash-in-third-world-country.html">even I had stoppped taking for granted a long time ago</a>. Hence me writing this with frostbitten hands, three pairs of socks and two hoodies. Under a blanket.</p><p></p><ul><li><strong>Running water</strong></li></ul><p>Ok, ok, there has always been running water in Portugal. It´s just that, until recently, it used to be running from a small fountain out in the street, where the villagers would have to go and collect it in their tin buckets. Now they are lucky enough to have taps in their very own kitchens and bathrooms. Though don´t go counting on the hot one...</p>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-58029899841104812442008-01-24T18:42:00.001+00:002008-01-24T19:09:24.671+00:00They hurt me the shouldersRather than a bit of gentle stretching and meditation in today´s yoga class, we were instructed, somewhat directly, to "put your leg behind your head", followed by "balance on your hands. Now take your right hand off the floor..." Seriously, it just wasn´t going to happen.<br /><br />Stretching and wincing and bending and gasping through the bizarrest and most comical postures imaginable, I pondered, as means of distracting myself from the pain emanating from regions I never knew I had, how fortunate it was that I had just been studying how to say "It hurts!!!" in Portuguese.<br /><br />I was now able to growl at my smiley yoga teacher exactly which bits of me would be unable to function normally for at least the next three weeks.<br /><br /><br />So here´s a list of my sore bits:<br /><br /><em>Dóem-me as pernas</em> (legs)<br /><em>Dóem-me os ombros</em> (shoulders)<br /><em>Dóe-me o pescoço</em> (neck)<br /><em>Dóem-me as costas</em> (back. Of which I have <strong>two</strong> in Portugese)<br /><em>Doém-me os dedos</em> (fingers and toes)<br /><em>Dóem-me os pés</em> (feet)<br /><em>Dóem-me os mãos</em> (hands)<br /><em>Dóem-me as coxas</em> (thighs)<br /><em>Dóem-me os joelhos</em> (knees)<br /><em>Dóem-me as costelas</em> (ribs)<br /><br />This is not an exhaustive list, but it goes some way to describing my pain.Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-51077266795580519392007-12-26T17:43:00.000+00:002007-12-28T00:30:37.651+00:00I just like plantain.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Strolling through the shady district of Martim Moniz the other day on the way to work, I couldn't help stopping to sniff, squeeze and shake the exotic selection of fruit and veg that Lisbon's resident African population has brought with it from the ex-colonies of Angola, Mozambique and Cabo Verde.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Some particularly tasty-looking plantain caught my eye (black, yellow <em>and</em> green!) and I couldn't resist picking up a few sweet ones to fry up as crispy <a href="http://www.pacificfruit.jp/plantain_en.html">patacones</a>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As I apporached the till, a beaming black man came up behind me, showing off all his discoloured teeth as he grinned.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Plantain!" He gasped in muffled African Portuguese. "You're taking home plantain!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Sim. Eu gosto muito das bananas." I replied in slightly more muffled Spanish Portuguese.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Without hesitation the smiley guy said "<em>You like plantain</em>! Es africana?!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Uh?" I must have misheard.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Are you African? You're buying plantain!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Um, no" (I'm giggling a bit now) "I just like plantain..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148344753857339026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cL_FbKoI9TzgryKW8nYete1eGRQMtt1I1KAQm6lQIA3NdOCvHw9HDwb_rK-6ZWq8T_sxW-ZkU8cIiPNVesQtmvxHpNBCLTvpQupyBD50Brl8M5fk35fuHGAYavkqapdSU88MMm51CiJR/s320/plantain.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So this got me pondering, as many things do, about what it is that defines us as being from one place or another. As far as I'm concerned, I look about as English as you can get, though since moving to Portugal my tell-tale lisp and habit of saying "sabes?" or "vale?" at the end of every sentence has meant that on several occasions, and in spite of my clear lack of Latina colouring (or bottom), I have been mistaken for a Spaniard.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In Lisbon it is amusingly easy to spot the main immigrant nationalities. The Brazilians always wear beachwear, even on the chilliest December morning (hey, if you've got an authentic pair of Havaianas, you might as well show them off) while the Africans simply refuse to take off their enormous black quilted coats, even while the rest of the city swelters in the Mediterranean heat and humidity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But what is it <em>really</em> that defines us as being where we are from? I know ex-pats who have lived in their adopted country for longer than in their native land, married foreigners, changed their passports. They've had foreign babies whose first words are not English, and have subsequently grown up to be fully fledged foreign adults. But these ex-pats always seem to be the most exceedingly English people you could ever hope to meet, as if they wish to compensate for their self-imposed exile with an excess of patriotic beaviour. I know people who were born and raised in one country by foreign parents, whose nationality they still claim to feel closer to than their own. And then there are the swarms of 20-30-something nomads, who have spent a few years roaming the planet, lose touch, need a couple of days' practice before feeling fully comfortable using their own language again, and yet have not managed to adopt any other nationality as their own and are now stuck in some kind of limbo. It's a fabulous, exciting, curious state to experiment with for a while, but when does it start to become draining, confusing, unsatisfying?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">We don't choose where we are from. We choose where we are. We choose what we eat, what we wear, where we shop. So maybe a plantain, catching my eye in Martim Moniz, is just as good a clue as any other as to who I am.</span></p>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-82151809378467607942007-12-18T14:46:00.000+00:002007-12-27T23:44:55.614+00:00Science, maths and just a little bit of chocolateYou know that theory that if you eat a stick of celery you actaully burn more calories chewing it than you gain from the nutritionally-challenged vegetable itself? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw_1g8FM8u3q2btJtZIl2fJ_vUDlRXKirITjtWlh6kcbrdX-q2tI58He40nfcrHd_qWUMGjDsSOEddyvZ8uebGLqXsb_5TnIj6XpOVi0FesPnqQw4gg8EvyiJBI3vdP8AKu9UxqtF_cpl/s1600-h/sonhos_de_natal.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148802197939134114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 181px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 158px" height="202" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw_1g8FM8u3q2btJtZIl2fJ_vUDlRXKirITjtWlh6kcbrdX-q2tI58He40nfcrHd_qWUMGjDsSOEddyvZ8uebGLqXsb_5TnIj6XpOVi0FesPnqQw4gg8EvyiJBI3vdP8AKu9UxqtF_cpl/s320/sonhos_de_natal.bmp" width="222" border="0" /></a><br />Well, I have developed my own, slightly more indulgent version of this, involving a hell of a lot more sugar and fat... and pleasure.<br />I live on the third floor of an old building, which therefore has no lift. My reasoning is that by descending three flights of stairs, speed-walking to the bakery at the end of the street, and dashing back up to the flat, I have actually burned more calories than I will gain from whatever cream-filled and chocolate-coated piece of yumminess I choose to buy from the bakery.<br />This means that, in theory, this activity could be repeated endlessly throughout the day, with no increase in calories whatsoever, and a damn good pair of thighs at the end of it.<br />Isn´t that the perfect solution to winter blues?!Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-25501359857544799052007-12-05T23:01:00.000+00:002007-12-28T00:24:27.280+00:00And where are YOU from?<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Where are you from?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Are you from England?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"¿De dónde eres?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Are you Spanish?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">"De ónde és?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Origin, for anyone venturing outside of their own country, is a hot topic. How many days can go by without me being asked at least one of the above questions? My nationality ranks above my job, my marital status, my education and my ambitions in the list of Top Ten Questions To Ask A New Person. It´s a conversation starter, when confronted by so many new faces on such a regular basis. It´s a conversation filler, when the new face turns out to be a bit short of small-talk. If you´re from the same place - well, hey! Wow! That´s something to talk about then, isn´t it!? What a coincidence! If you´re from different places - cool! What´s it like there? How´s the weather? The beaches? The food?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">"Where are you from?" has become one of the most detested questions amongst seasoned nomads. It reeks of unoriginality, boredom, desperation. You´ve reeled off the answer so many times, with catchy little soundbytes devised for your village/region/country/continent, depending on the distance of the questioner´s own origin, and level of geographical comprehension. Thus, in London, I am from Kent. In Portugal, I am from London. In the States, I am British, though the closer I edge inland, the more I become European. In Chile I was, as the most recognised point of reference, from Spain. In Ecuador I was from some where so incomprehensibly distant that it simply became Not Ecuador.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The soundbytes themselves are lame attempts at either self-deprecation, humour, or patriotism, a trait rarely witnessed within England but which is forced to flourish once abroad. A typical soundbyte about my village will also depend, once again, on the other player´s own origin. It could be as follows:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Slough: "Yeah, Kent. Just this crappy little village in the middle of nowhere with one poxy bus an hour to the nearest town. An you only go there if you fancy getting bottled by a couple of orange girls with thongs sticking out above their miniskirts."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Spain: "It´s sort of between London and France. So it´s not as cold as the North. And the food is really ok, no, honestly, you should have a Sunday roast at my grandma´s sometime. No, the beef doesn´t have mad cow disease..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">USA: "It´s this pretty little village with one pub serving traditional pints of Kentish ale, yeah, surrounded by forest and farmland, and at the bottom of the hill, past this really old church, there´s this iron-age burial site with STONES..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Ecuador: "We have lots of trees in my village too but we have these things called, er, <em>seasons</em>, and, uh, the leaves fall off the trees... yeah, it´s totally weird, and we have glass in our windows cos it´s quite cold, and, um, that´s why we can´t wash our clothes in the river. Well, actually, <em>machines</em> do our washing. Magic."</span>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-20348988484560889762007-11-25T13:04:00.000+00:002007-11-25T13:31:25.359+00:00How to Wash in a Third World Country<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Slightly hysterical after a week of on-off hot water drama, I relise I need to get the situation under control and come up with a solution. What would bruce Parry do? What would Ray Mears do?</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hm. Not having quite enough time before class to sit and rub two sticks together and heat the tin bucket of freshly collected spring water, I start to think about what <em><strong>I</strong></em> would do, and indeed did, when forced to live not only without hot water, but without running water, way down in the tropics.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So I adapted my technique for colder climes and came up with the following:</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1) Fill kettle, boil kettle, pour water into washing up bowl.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2) Repeat step one at least three times.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">3) Fill large tupperware bowl with water and heat in microwave.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">4) Add tupperware bowl water to washing up bowl.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">5) Create elaborate network of extension leads, allowing the heater to be placed in freezing bathroom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">6) EXTREMELY IMPORTANT: Do NOT switch on heater while kettle and microwave are in use as this will result in power cut in ridiculously low powered Portuguese flats, thus leaving one with no hot water, no heat and no light. This is not the desired outcome.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">7) Place steaming washing up bowl of water into bath(with water still in bowl), switch on heater, wait for bathroom to resemble sauna</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">8) Place self in tub, and enjoy burning oneself with boiling water, liberally applied with sponge.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">9) For added heat, place feet in washing up bowl.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">10) You are now clean, AND warm. Yay!</span>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-22703508050112891482007-11-22T19:51:00.001+00:002007-11-22T20:50:44.073+00:00The mystery of those we just love to live with<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Finding myself once again on the move, I have been forced to consider the curious conundrum of HOUSEMATES. Why is it that, while a good three-quarters of the folk you meet everyday (and trust me, travelling and teaching brings me into contact with a pretty wide selection of new faces on a pretty much weekly basis) are what can be broadly termed as "normal", while a freakishly high percentage (´scuse the pun) of those who we should be proud enough to address as our Housemates are, well... losing screws, marbles and toothpaste lids all over the place.<br />I realise of course that on first contact, one´s own personal quirks, habits, fetishes and fads are not usually on display to the whole world, and that living with someone can draw attention to the bizarrest of traits. Four years at Art college introduced me to some pretty odd characters (creativity manifests itself in many ways, maaan), though this would generally entice you to know them better, and enjoy spending time around those who had broken from the sterile concept or "normality" and the fear of "what will people THINK???"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now, I have no desire to name and shame here, that´s not the point of this blog. But I do feel that a few examples would help to flesh out this theory, and clarify my point. So here´s a small selection of the characters I have been blessed with over the last eight years of shared homes.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><ul><li><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The paranoid-schizophrenic anorexic who pulled her hair out.</span></strong></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Way back in the hazy days of my first ever student flat and still dazed by all the possibilities that were open to me now that I didn´t live with mummy and daddy, I was presented with the scary housemate to scare off all other housemates and was forced to sleep with a locked door, until one day she disappeared, just like that.</span></p><ul><li><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The depressed Sicilian who folded plastic bags</span></strong></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I never actually saw the bags being folded, they just appeared in neat, tiny little triangles in the kitchen drawer.</span></p><ul><li><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The nymphomaniac Argentinian musician</span></strong></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Despite having a rather gorgeous model as a long-term girlfriend, this lovely young chap decided he was man enough to take up the challenge of shagging his way round the capital, and I was regularly introduced (or, not, if they were in a particularly randy mood) to nymph-like cellists, nurses, and, more memorably, the baker from across the road.<br />The problem was that the Housemate would leave early for work, and I would always double lock the door on my way out, resulting, on more than one occasion, in said cellist/nurse/baker (especially the baker - she started work<em> early)</em> being locked into the flat and having to find ways of breaking out. Extra evil housemate points for the all-night house parties, allowing me not a wink of sleep, then running away the next morning leaving me, on the verge of collapse, to deal with fuming neighbours.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So I start my latest hunt optimistically enough - Mission: Find a nice house, within budget. Avoid: Total freaks. <strong>SO</strong> simple. Surely the odds are on my side?</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I rock up at the door of the first flat, hopping from foot to foot with anticipation (it´s a beautiful old building! It has balconies! I has views!) and the door slowly opens to reveal... a female drag queen. Sigh.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">To be fair, (s)he was pretty sweet, her dogs (<em>dogs??!)</em> were friendly and she even said that me being a Gemini made us compatible as housemates. Her own brightly coloured paintings covered the walls. If I could just have seen past the spangly turquoise eye make-up and pink-and-platinum wig, we may have been the perfect match. I guess I´ll never know.</span></p>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-21573925163586583062007-09-23T11:45:00.000+01:002007-12-27T23:53:33.607+00:00A Little Bit about my New Home<div>Lisbon is a very likeable city. It´s quaint. It´s quiet. It has trams. It´s cheap. It has all the benefits of a modern capital (efficient metro, modern art galleries, thriving nightlife) but none of the bustle, the stress, the pollution, the ugliness. It´s a half hour drive to the middle of nowhere. It´s a half hour drive to the beach.<br /><br />Portugal is exceptionally poor. I remember being disgusted to learn that the mimum wage in Spain is just 570 euros a month (the government is aiming for a whopping 600). Just before jumping on the plane to Lisbon, I discovered that Portugal´s minimum wage is 380 euros. I was stunned. Part of Lisbon´s beauty is its antiquity. The vast majority of the buildings are old, low rise houses, either painted in sunny colours or tiled from top to bottom with signature Portuguese patterned tiles - <em>azulejos</em>. But many of the tiles are damaged, cracked, faded, or have simply fallen off the façade. </div><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrhJ78W5pBdfsH6wZkscJCH-R-rk5zeBbkeztCRhpMTde-5-h-RxxpAOzOmMbWeSil2O81tJ9bo-HxTnUmidPyStaEm4yb437TXiWunetozi9N1fVk9b16P1plXfbOcykvi96hwcy3ZGQ/s1600-h/crumbling.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148803718357556914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="292" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrhJ78W5pBdfsH6wZkscJCH-R-rk5zeBbkeztCRhpMTde-5-h-RxxpAOzOmMbWeSil2O81tJ9bo-HxTnUmidPyStaEm4yb437TXiWunetozi9N1fVk9b16P1plXfbOcykvi96hwcy3ZGQ/s320/crumbling.jpg" width="200" border="0" /></a></p><br /><div>A much-loved façade can be transformed into a true tapestry of mismatched azulejos, abstract patterns competing with floral swirls, powder blue backed up against sea green. But more commonly the space is left exposed to the elements, each rare rainstorm washing away the crumbling layers, the wind blowing away dusty cement. Pigeons wedge their way into the cracks and scratch away firmer footholds. Here and there an unsurpressable plant pushes its way through the layers, tearing the building apart from within.<br /><br />It is beautiful, but also sad. Romantic as these scenes are, the lives of those who live there are surely not so rose-tinted. A short drive out of the city takes you past shanty towns, crumbling colonies taking advantage of the country´s empty spaces and escaping the city´s inflated rent. "What´s that?" I ask innocently as we drive north past a strange looking settlement, adjusting my sunglasses, ready for the beach.<br />"Slums" is the unforgiving reply.<br />If the Portuguese struggle, the immigrants really have to claw their way to survival. With former Portuguese colonies such as Angola, Mozambique and Cape Verde, there is no shortage of tenants for these impoverished kingdoms, exposed to the elements and the hatred of their native neighbours. If they pass thish harsh initiation, they will be rewarded with houses from the Portuguese government. Imagine the horror of the 380 euro a month Portuguese worker.<br /><br />Back in the city the evening sun is low behind the Golden Gate-style bridge, spanning the river Tejo. Everything is golden. The city looks like it´s on fire, the sparkling azulejos catching the sunset and reflecting it back out like an enormous mirror ball with a million tiles. The Sao Jorge castle presides over this golden treasure; across the river Christ stretches out his arms to embrace the glowing city. And everything is forgiven.</div><div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148804895178596034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="266" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDS5EbPZBEGtN0t6vi1-ETyL-4i1BnawiWWDNyyqh5KKxPQ7xog6k2CAafbE7Uw3aLTUWljCSvfmB9JVcjaXlXPkt49LWXKt_vxUKk8aN0O9eJhT5GrVwnQfNHOz-mHpGUxVkspo8yv3T/s320/Vista_Lisboa.jpg" width="213" border="0" />Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-73044337212630144212007-07-20T23:49:00.000+01:002007-07-23T23:17:06.111+01:005000 Miles away in Brixton<span style="font-family:georgia;">Having broken free of nice, shiny Summertown suburbia - for a whole 24 hours! - I found myself playing at being a traveler. The babble of foreign languages and music and stalls of unrecognisable fruit and veg and enormous pigs' trotters and fish in clear plastic bags made me feel like I was five thousand miles from home again. It was magic. I strode through Brixton market with a swing in my step and a barely disguised grin creeping its way across my face. So much to see and smell and hear and be amazed by - it was everything I loved about being abroad. And in my grounded state, someone had brought it all to me here in England! I felt like I was about to burst with excitement.<br /><br />I poked and prodded and inhaled until I found the perfect mini papayas, and bought a bag of lychees for a pound. I discovered what breadfruit look like, though not what one is supposed to do with it. I even caught a glimpse of the elusive pomelo, an exotic fruit I was fed as a child, somewhere between a giant grapefruit and a melon, which I was consistently accused of having invented, due to the lack of any remaining physical evidence to show disbelieving friends.<br /><br />Then, just to make the "traveling" experience even more authentic, I got proposed to. Ha!<br /><br />He was a little fishmonger who had already made a couple of suggestive comments as I had strolled past, and as I turned to pace back again he called out: "You want to marry me, lady?" I couldn't place his accent, and being surrounded by so many nationalities and races and cultures, I was curious to find out where at least one of these facinating people came from. So, with my inquisitive traveler spirit still bouncign around inside me, I asked.<br /><br />"Oh, I come from very bad country" replied the little fishmonger, his smile still intact. "My country not good place." Despite the grin, I could tell he was being serious.<br /><br />"Where?" I insisted, saddened that anyone should have to feel such shame over their origin.<br /><br />"Afghanistan" he replied.<br /><br />"Oh" I said, dumbly.<br /><br />Fortunately I was spared having to find a suitable response as the Afghan fishmonger took the opportunity to ask where I was from. I have been asked this question many, many times over the past few years, but never, <em>never</em> in my own country. It made me smile.<br /><br />"I'm from here" I said, "England."<br /><br />The little fishmonger's face lit up. "I want marry English lady" he said.<br /><br />I had my polite declination planned. "I'm sorry, I'm already married." I apologised, tucking my left hand out of sight so that the lack of ring was not glaringly obvious. But we continued to grin at each other, the jovial atmosphere unspoiled.<br /><br />As I turned to walk away, the optimistic little Afghan fishmonger called out: "Maybe I find another English lady to marry."<br /><br />Maybe he will.</span>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2311416301646086127.post-41230078701727912342007-07-20T21:39:00.000+01:002007-07-23T23:18:29.165+01:00Hurled Back to Life in the 21st century<span style="font-family:georgia;">A lot of strange things have happened in England since I've been away. There is no bell rung in the pub at ten to eleven. Tony Blair is no longer Prime Minister. And people have been replaced by robots.<br /><br />Yes, robots.<br /><br />I innocently walk into the local Co-op on my first weekend back in Britain, a very posh supermarket in the classy Oxford suburb of Summertown which tellingly sells red split lentils, unpronounceable fruit juices and organic wholemeal couscous. All those things which are cheap, staple foods in third world countries, but which in England are the most fashionable of fashionable foods - ridiculously overpriced, exotic-sounding AND healthy!<br /><br />Finally back in Blighty, I'm quite excited about the prospect of being able to buy a copy of the Guardian and some coconut macaroons, but my plan to just nip in and out is thwarted by massively long checkout queues. Until I spot a suspiciously short little queue at the far end, and smugly stroll over, wondering why no-one else has done the same. Then I realise.<br /><br />BECAUSE THE CASHIER IS A ROBOT.<br /><br />Christ. Terrifying. I clutch my newspaper and scoot back into line behind three enormous trolleys.<br /><br />The following week, having grabbed a carton of cranberry juice to enjoy with my Saturday paper, I discover, to my horror, that due to the Co-op's abnormally empty state, there are no cashiers. Except the Robot. Oh God.<br /><br />I shuffle over and touch the screen. A friendly female voice greets me and instructs me to scan my items. I make it go beep. "Please place the item in the bag" says Robot Lady. I frown. I don't want a bag. I put my macaroons NEXT to the bag, to one side.<br /><br />"Please select your payment option" I stick my card into the slot and am requested to wait. So I pick up the Guardian to glance at the headlines.<br /><br />"Please place the item BACK in the bag" growls Robot Lady. What?! <em>How the hell does she know???!!</em><br /><br />I give the screen a filthy glare, knotting my brow as much as possible. Robot Lady does not seem fased by this death-defying scowl. I sheepishly place my paper back next to the plastic bags. The hideous piece of technology pretends not to care.<br /><br />The transaction complete, I tuck the cranberry juice and Guardian under my arm, give the screen one last evil grimace, and flounce out of the store with my purchases.</span>Vickihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618810501909931701noreply@blogger.com0