It's time to evacuate

If you've watched the news recently you've probably caught glimpses of those who have fled. Thousands of people trying to cross a boarder in a scramble for safety. There's the reunion scenes at airports, husbands hugging wives for longer than usual, families re-united. Ever wondered what it's like to be evacuated? When we arrived in Jakarta eleven years ago, the riots and subsequent evacuations that followed were still fresh in people's minds. I asked a friend if I could share her story.

When I looked out of our apartment window, the view had changed dramatically, what was usually a stunning view of glimmering lights over a city skyline, was now burning buildings with the sounds of fire trucks and ambulances. Instead of the usual bustle of taxis, bajaj and cars below, there were now tanks on the street and I could hear gun fire. We'd been told the office would call with details of what was going to happen next, when they rang, my husband wrote down the details of our meeting point. He said initially it was just women and children being evacuated, the men were to stay behind. When will you come? What do I take? Do you think we'll come back? I was pregnant, this wasn't in the plan.

Some of the women were crying as they got on the bus, consoling children who were asking why their Fathers weren't coming with them. They told us the men would come if the situation got worse, we were all thinking the same thing. How could it get any worse? It didn't feel real. We hardly said a word on our way to the airport, it was almost a stunned silence as we looked through the bus windows, spot fires everywhere, it wasn't the city we knew. 


When we arrived at the airport there were soldiers standing next to tanks with guns. The Occupational Health and Safety guy was waiting for us, we all knew him, he was the funny guy, the one that made the jokes at the beginning of the defensive driving training, told you to put smoke detectors in your house and made sure you reverse parked. This time it was different, there were no jokes, he was making sure we had passports, medical documents. He told us the company had secured a plane to Singapore, stick together, follow me.


It was chaotic inside the airport, we were shoulder to shoulder, people were desperate to get out of the country, they were asking how much and then offering to pay more. The rules were being broken, people were pushing, I kept my hands over my pregnant belly and just prayed we were going to get on that plane.


Can you imagine?

In every location we've lived in, there has been some sort of hiccup that has made us consider packing up and heading home. When there isn't the backup of family or lifelong friends nearby, you start to ask yourself where you'd go if you had to get away quickly.

When it comes to evacuations you don't always have to be based in a country that begins with the phrase "war torn" or ends with "stan" to find yourself in trouble. Ask those who felt safe in New Orleans just before being hit by Hurricane Katrina, who then found themselves in a city that looked more chaotic than the Gaza Strip on a good day.

Remember the quarantined Canadians and those who were based in Asia when the world was talking about SARS or Avian Flu. Perhaps you were in Mexico around the time of H1N1? Whatever the case, when it happens it usually happens quickly.

For a friend of mine, it happened this week in Libya. Her world changed dramatically in 24 hours. Her Facebook page went from a reassuring almost don't be silly "we're all fine, nothing happening here" to "the children and I got the last flight out before the airport shut down, we're in Malta, but my husband is still there". For three days we heard snippets of what was happening "he can hear machine guns firing throughout the night" and then finally, thankfully, "he's on the Tarmac, he may have to go to Gatwick, but he's safe".

Sadly, when you ask an expat to describe the feeling of evacuating there's a common sentiment that runs with every story. They'll talk about the exhilaration of getting home, but also the guilt, the constant thoughts of those they left behind.

Libya

When running through our geographical resume, it's always the same country that evokes the most interest. When people ask where we were before Qatar, it's the same spiel "we moved to Perth, then Jakarta, then Kuala Lumpur then Libya..." this is when the conversation is always interrupted with a piqued interest, "Libya, what was THAT like?" 

I think all expats leave a piece of their heart in each of their locations, you can't help it. We look back and remember the milestones, the birthdays, the corner store, the time the pipe burst and boiling water was shooting out of the wall. The time the enormous rat casually walked past us on its way to its fully furnished home inside our clothes dryer pipe. We think of the house that became a home, seeds that were planted in a garden. Did they grow? We think of the people we left behind. The teary goodbyes. The final trip to the airport.

When you arrive in Libya, it's highly likely the first thing you will see is Gaddafi.  He's on billboards,  murals, photographs, he is absolutely everywhere. It's law that he appear in every shop at every reception desk. He's looking down at you from every corner, he watches you pay for your groceries, go to the bank, drink a coffee. There's no doubt on who's running the show. With a timeline of over 40 years  there is a huge variety of ages and stages. The early years, just after the bloodless coup of King Idris in 1969, shows an extremely handsome Gadaffi, he's thin, usually in uniform with aviator glasses, it's his time as the Colonel. He stands out in a crowd of his peers, perhaps how he convinced his fellow coup participants that he should be the team captain. 

As the pictures continue through time it's a different story, he starts to add a few kilos, the uniform disappears, along come the costumes. My personal favourite is the camouflage safari suit with matching hat. The hair is questionably real, it's long, as are his jowls. He's highly conscious of the jowls, speak to anyone who has shared a room with Gaddafi and they'll tell you how he quickly he can find a camera pointed in his direction, he'll often turn his chin sideways and towards the sky for a better shot, giving you his 'best angle'.

When people think of Libya they usually think of the headlines. The Berlin bombing, the subsequent attack by Reagan, Lockerbie, US embargoes, a home for a hiding terrorist, the occasional weapon of mass destruction. They're all part of Gadaffi's repertoire. 

It wasn't the Libya I experienced. 

The Libya I experienced was a school bus driver who would notice my child had fallen asleep on the trip home and insist on carrying her inside to the couch. It was a the man at the corner shop who gave our children free sweets on every visit and chased my parents half way down the street because they had forgotten their 5 cents in change. It is the people at the Medina who didn't know me at all, but when I didn't have enough money to pay for something said "just bring it next time you come", they never questioned that they didn't have my address or phone number.

Then there's the untold stories of these people. The stories that are whispered and only shared after true friendships have been made. The School bus driver didn't see his father for 14 years after he went to work one morning and never came back. After 14 years when they told him he could go home, he wasn't given a reason for either the arrest or the release.  The man at the corner store, he too was waiting patiently to see members of his family that had disappeared. When I asked why they were in jail, I was told "They said too much".

You have to acquire patience when moving to Libya. The power goes out, the phone stops working, the internet is a distant memory. Just remain patient, try not to think too much about it. Don't start asking questions. Don't start doing the math. Don't think about the fact that Libya has huge oil reserves. Don't make the comparisons, that Libya has more oil than any other country in Africa, more oil than the US or China. 

Don't think about the fact that Libya has serious wealth.

So why are there potholes all over the road? Where are the street lights?  Why does every building look like it needs a new coat of paint? Why is it such a mess? Where's the infrastructure?  Where has the money gone? 

How long will you be patient?

When I look around Qatar I can't help but think about how Libya might have been. Qatar is a country rich in resources and full of promise for its people. Universities have been built, Film Festivals are held, Museums, world class sporting venues, cultural villages, TED events, conferences. Major sporting events have been held and there's more to come. Sure, there's been hiccups and I'm sure they'll be more, but there is no denying that Qatar is developing at a rapid speed.

In the past 24 hours I've been unable to contact friends in Libya. It's been reported that Facebook and Twitter have been shut down. It appears that no one is entirely sure of Gadaffi's plans or how far the protesters have traveled.  Gadaffi has never been a fan of the press and it's not often they get invited for a visit. You can hear the frustration in the voices of those at Al Jazeera and the BBC as they speak to yet another person who shouts at them over the phone. We wait for the next update.

Patiently.

Here's a clip of Gadaffi at the 2009 UN General Assembly. It appears that the Botox may be leaking in to his brain. What do you think?

Losing your dignity in Doha

It was a day of performances. The first performance involved G and I sitting in the front row of the elementary school music room. With grins from ear to ear, we watched the second little traveler play Grandma in Little Red Riding Hood. She was fantastic. She was particularly fantastic because she suffers from incredible stage fright.

G and I had both raised an eyebrow weeks ago when she mentioned signing up. In the weeks leading up to the event there had been many "I'm not sure" conversations. As she stood in front of us I could see her shaking. As the narrator introduced the characters she looked up and smiled, we all smiled back. She stood front and centre, she belted out her lines with feeling. I was in awe.

The second performance involved me, also looking like Grandma. In a room full of hip and cool young Doha tweeters, there was I, sitting on a chair, my foot wrapped in an ice pack, my leg elevated and a borrowed pashmina over my knees. All I needed was my knitting and a warm cup of cocoa and I would have pulled it off perfectly.

I'd been making jokes all day about my age. I was really excited about speaking at the Doha Tweetups event, but I was aware that I might be, ahem, a few years older than the average young tweeter.  I mean, I'm not that old, it's not like I'm Helen Mirren or Dame Judy Dench old, but I'm afraid when you're 20 you become Helena Christensen or Kylie Minogue old.

The venue was gorgeous, a mix of old and new, a Middle Eastern feel with people smoking Sheesha while tapping away on ipads.  I looked around the room, at the diversity in the crowd, it had everything I love about living in Qatar, a feeling of optimism.

I began to recognize a few faces, avatars were falling in to place. People smiled, a few people waved. "This is cool" I said to G "It's going to be a good night". After a quick chat with one of the organizers (who thankfully doubles as a Doctor in her spare time), we organized what time I'd go on, "the microphone will be here, you'll stand there". I smiled, I wasn't feeling old, I was nervous but hey, I was a little bit cool, a little bit hip, I was happening.

I was flying.

No, really, I was flying. Through the air. Upon reentering the room I'd lost my footing. Did I elegantly stumble to the ground? Nope. I made a noise, a really weird noise, a kind of primal noise that someone would make if they'd just been pushed off a cliff. Actually, there were a few noises in those few seconds, my primal scream, the sound of bones in my foot crunching and then finally the sound of me face planting on the cold hard dusty tiles. I landed in the form of one those yellow outlines you see on crime shows, legs spread, arms out, face down. I wasn't so cool anymore.

"Oh my God" I heard someone shriek. I imagined security speaking in to their  Walkie Talkies "code red, code red, Grandma had a fall". People looked at me in horror. Maybe the expat wife had a few to many gins before she left home? If only I could use that as an excuse. I looked up at G, he looked confused, he'd been walking ahead of me. When I asked him later at the hospital what he thought had happened, he said (as only a man could) "I thought you must have dropped something, that you were down on the ground looking for it".

Yes, that would be my dignity, I was face down on the tiles searching desperately for my dignity.

The next hour is a bit of a blur, I was helped on to a chair, my foot was wrapped in ice, people looked at me with puppy dog eyes, poor old lady. My foot got bigger and bigger, great, its not only my thighs I have to worry about now. I quickly covered the chipped red nail polish on my toes.

My foot began to throb, it was getting worse by the minute. "I need to get this speech done and find a way to the car" I said to G, he very cleverly took it as an instruction rather than an observation and started making plans.

The speech wasn't my finest hour, I lost my way, I got confused, at one stage I said I had 20 kids, 4 blogs and a suitcase, can you imagine.....only one suitcase?

After making my way through the crowd, shoeless and hopping with dust on my bum, G somehow lifted me on to the back of a golf buggy and off we went to the hospital. I giggled as G made rude jokes about getting my ankles elevated and how he'd have to give me sponge baths. I thought about the Little Travelers and how much excitement the cast and the crutches would bring. I thought about the other Grandma, my second Little Traveler, did I mention she was fantastic? Next time I'll be as good as her.





*The MC of Doha tweet ups last night was a fantastic comedian called Bilal Randeree. I thought you might like to see a quick clip of Bilal and some of Qatars other comedians and tweeters (particularly our first Qatari female comedian)...

The Traveling Tampon

Have you ever stood in a supermarket line with a years supply of tampons? Ever had to declare your tampons at customs? Or perhaps you've stood in a crowded foreign airport (using a mixture of broken English and sign language) explaining what you do with your tampons and why you're currently carrying hundreds of them? If the answer is yes, chances are you've been away from home for an extended, ahem....period.

I think most traveling women have learnt how to strategically pack 10 boxes of tampons in their suitcase, (they make great shoe-fillers), it brings a whole new meaning to "fill your boots".

It wasn't until I started traveling that I realized women differed so dramatically in their choices. All of us, at different ends of the globe, have been given different information, usually handed down by the women in our life. As young women we listened and followed the customs of our surroundings.

If you're Asian it's possible you may have been told using a tampon was the same as losing your virginity. If you're an American, after being deemed old enough for a tampon, you may have only seen a tampon with an applicator. In my country town by the river, as a girl who swam every day, I think we skipped past the pad and on to the tampon stage very quickly. My mother was a practical woman, it was a brief conversation "if you want to swim in the carnival this weekend you'll need to use these". Done. No need for a long discussion, actually, we really didn't discuss "it" at all.

As a new expat, within my first few months in Jakarta I soon learnt tampons weren't for everyone. My Indonesian teacher warned me it was unnatural for anything other than my husband to go "in there".  I'm sure she didn't speak for the entire Indonesian population but it was definitely the belief of a lot of women I met. Even though tampons were taboo, the subject of Aunty Flow coming to visit was one to be shared with everyone. Lets discuss it at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, lets discuss it at the office, lets just talk about it all day long. "I'm sorry, I wont be at work today, I've got my menstruation". Okay, thanks for that, I'll see you and your menstruation tomorrow.

A girlfriend of mine who was working as a journalist in Jakarta, got more than she bargained for on a trip to interview the President. On passing through security an entire discussion was had about her tampons. With no idea of what they were holding up to the light, an intense conversation developed. What sort of weapon was she carrying? Was this to be an assassination by tampon?

While living in the US, I made a mercy dash to a pharmacist late on a Sunday evening, I found myself standing alone at a stark white counter. As I handed over my box of little white friends, the assistant made a sideways glance to check the coast was clear, and asked in a hushed tone "what are they like"? It took me awhile to register what she was talking about. Surely she didn't mean the tampons? She was in her early twenties. "Ummm, good?" I nervously responded through fear of being on hidden camera. "I've seen people buy them before, but I'm not sure if I could".

I realize now, she meant the applicators, or lack thereof. Primarily, the applicator has been the preferred option in the US, although having read a recent article in the Huffington Post regarding OB brand (no applicators) being hard to find and now on the black market, it appears there may be a shift in trend?

For Australian women, there is only one brand of applicator tampon and I think it may just be our American friends that are buying them. I'm afraid I have to agree with this clever woman who described the use of an applicator as "feeling a bit like someone else putting your glasses on".

There is one common theme though, no matter where you live, those patronizing television commercials stay the same. It doesn't matter where you are in the world. I was so pleased to find this one. Have you seen it?






So, are you brave enough to share how it works in your part of the world? Tampons, pads, moon cups. What are you packing?

The Expat Orange.

We take our fruit seriously where I come from. We've even built a 'Big Orange' as a tourist attraction (that's it on the left). Growing up, everyone around me seemed to be connected by fruit. You either grew it, packed it, picked it or distributed it. My father worked for a Co-operative that sold and marketed it, my mother for an engineering firm that made the machinery to label and pack it. If the growers weren't making any money, we all felt it. We had 'Orange Week' in Spring, I was so desperate to be an 'Orange Girl', handing out souvenirs to the visitors, yes, I had big dreams. Those who lived on fruit blocks were envied by the 'townies' for their week off school for Harvest Week, in December. 

As a child I heard the frustration and concern in my father's voice as he talked about imported fruit with disdain. Turkish apricots, Californian oranges and raisins flooding our Aussie markets. They were the enemy. Never to be eaten. Never to be trusted. The day the Turkish apricots showed up on our local supermarket shelves was a dark day in our household. 

My sister and I had cut apricots every summer for as long as I can remember, knife in hand, as fast as we could go (she was always better) cut, flick, place, cut, flick, place. It was often over 40 degrees, standing in a hot tin shed, cut, flick, place. Cut the apricot in half, flick the stone in the tin, place the apricots on the tray to dry.

When I made my parents particularly proud, and dropped out of University to come home and spend quality time with my boofhead footballer boyfriend, I went back to working with fruit, but this time it was full time.

My sister and I both worked in the factory together. We sorted moldy apricots (she was better at it), we packed oranges (she was faster), when you became really good, you made it off the line and in to quality control (she did, I didn't), you were given a different coloured apron to mark your seniority (she had one, I didn't). 

It was mostly women in the factory. There were a few men to drive the forklifts and do the heavy lifting but the women were in the majority. Bev, Tina, Lorraine, Shirley..... I can see them all sitting around the laminated table in the lunch room. My sister and I in fits of giggles as one of the women told us about her husband coming home from the pub, wanting a bit more than a cuddle "it just goes on and on and on...bloody hell, hurry up will ya". 

We'd play cassette tapes in our Walkmans (remember them) hoping the batteries wouldn't run flat. As we worked on the line, to make time go faster, we'd plan how we were going to spend the money we were about to win at Lotto. Naturally we'd all quit our jobs. "I've just planted my entire garden" someone would say during the break, "I've completely redecorated my dream house" another would say. I was young, I was just thinking about going out that night.

When we packed citrus for the export market there were rules. New Zealand couldn't have something called Mealy bug, it showed up with a black sooty appearance in the navel oranges. They were sorted carefully, pushed on to different conveyor belts. I realized I was starting to go a little batty when I found myself talking to the oranges, sometimes with concern "sorry sweetie, you can't go to New Zealand with that mark on your tummy", or with great excitement "Yay, look at you, you get to go to New Zealand!"

Consequently, I'm one of those people you see at the supermarket studying the fruit and vegetables for  just a little bit too long. In our travels, each country, every city, has meant a trip to the markets to decipher and discover where everything is coming from.  

Our time in Jakarta and Kuala Lumpur provided a lot of warm fuzzies for a girl from Australia, familiar labels and boxes to be found everywhere. This definitely wasn't the case in Libya. Arriving in August in the height of summer, I went back in time to a world where all produce was seasonal and it was slim pickings. As I stood at a vegetable stand on the side of the road (no Carrefour, Safeway or Coles in Tripoli) the carrots were the size of my little finger, they were too small to peel. 

When we finally found a house I learnt the rituals of the "vegetable man".  A few times a week he'd drive past my house with a truck full of seasonal supplies. The women would come out of their houses and with a mixture of broken english and sign language, they would explain to me what I should and shouldn't buy. They'd scold him when he tried to charge me too much or sell me something old or unripe. G and I were the healthiest we'd ever been. A world of seasonal vegetables and no processed food. There were no happy meals, no home delivery. Heaven.

In North America, I stood perplexed at how far the fruit and vegetables had traveled. In the land of "Cheese Wizz" no one questioned why strawberries and cherries appeared in the height of winter. I think it may be similar in Australia these days.

Here in Qatar, I marvel at my desert options. Often the Little Travelers will go with their father to the markets on the weekend, but at the supermarket, they become my little helpers. Yesterday I asked number 3 to find some carrots, "do you want Indian, Chinese or Australian? he asked. I asked him which ones looked yummier and he began singing Waltzing Matilda. When it comes to mandarins, our choices are Argentina, Lebanon, Turkey or Pakistan, all different colours, sizes and prices. The oranges are Spanish and Egyptian, the avocado's are from Saudi and Kenya. 

I have a feeling the person who packed the mandarins in Turkey, may be working under very different conditions and circumstances to the factory worker in Australia. Does the union representative visit? Have they set up their enterprise bargaining agreement? How about Occupational Health and Safety?

Is there a woman in Turkey right now, standing at a conveyor belt, chatting away to herself....."you can go to Qatar, sorry Sweetie, you can't".