Suzanne Kamata is the editor of Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering. This is a thought-provoking anthology written by mothers from across the world (including me!) which I reviewed on this blog in May.
Suzanne is a fascinating person. She lives in rural Japan with her Japanese husband and bicultural twins and writes to “keep herself sane”. On her blog, Gaijin Mama, you can read about her every day struggles to comply with the rigors of Japanese life.
The Weekly Telegraph asked me to interview Suzanne and the feature is published this week. I asked Suzanne about the concept of “home”, her reasons for blogging and whether her Japanese in-laws approved of her first novel...
“Raising a mixed-race family in Japan can be hard” – Expat Telegraph
Showing posts with label International Perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label International Perspective. Show all posts
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Save the Children
Like all households we get a lot of mail shots pushed through the door; advertisements for carpet cleaning, conservatories and pleas for money from various charities. I am guilty of gathering it all up and shoving it in the recycling bin. I have no compunction about the conservatories but I’m sure that some of the charities deserve more attention.
This morning one caught my eye. As always it was by chance. The leaflet was in a corner of the kitchen, on top off the stack of papers waiting to be filed in the recycling bag. Drinking a cup of tea I saw a picture of a baby with the phrase “the first time she got sick, there was nothing I could do”. I turned the page and saw a little boy up to his knees in grey water surrounded by rotting rubbish. He was smiling and sailing a homemade boat. This was Kroo Bay in Sierra Leone and the leaflet told me that 1 in 4 children won’t make it to their fifth birthday. They die of malaria, pneumonia and diarrhoea because they go to the toilet in the river they must drink from. When the river floods, sewage pours into their homes. There is one clinic for 6000 people and they have to pay for every bit of their care, right down to the needles.
Drinking my tea in my waterproof house with electricity and three healthy children I suddenly felt very guilty. How could I look at those pictures, read those facts then put it in the recycling bin and carry on as if it didn’t matter?
The leaflet was from Save the Children. I usually avoid giving to large charities because I fear my small donation will get lost in administration. I feel helpless, an individual against such a huge problem, and tell myself what I send won’t make much difference or solve the situation so what’s the point. But this time I feel compelled to help, thinking that surely the result of lots of little bits of help has to be change.
This mail shot caught me at a vulnerable moment and made me remember the miserable conditions so many people live in. What can we do? Be aware? Donate if we can? Appreciate what we have and ensure we don’t waste the resources, like food, that we have. Living in Kyrgyzstan taught me what an incredible standard of living most of us have in the UK and to never take things like the NHS for granted, however imperfect we might sometimes consider it to be.
I know there will always be inequality but I’m not sure I feel happy carrying on in my comfortable life knowing the extent of the gulf between my children and the children in Sierra Leone.
Earlier this year Save the Children launched a global campaign to help children in Kroo Bay. The leaflet was asking for £3 a month but on-line there are innovative ways to encourage us to help, such as sending texts to make small specific contributions. The cynical part of me has to wonder how they can administratively ensure their promise that if I text “NET” to a certain number they “will deliver a mosquito net straight to a child at risk of catching malaria”. But today I’m of the attitude that if we don’t try, things will never change.
This morning one caught my eye. As always it was by chance. The leaflet was in a corner of the kitchen, on top off the stack of papers waiting to be filed in the recycling bag. Drinking a cup of tea I saw a picture of a baby with the phrase “the first time she got sick, there was nothing I could do”. I turned the page and saw a little boy up to his knees in grey water surrounded by rotting rubbish. He was smiling and sailing a homemade boat. This was Kroo Bay in Sierra Leone and the leaflet told me that 1 in 4 children won’t make it to their fifth birthday. They die of malaria, pneumonia and diarrhoea because they go to the toilet in the river they must drink from. When the river floods, sewage pours into their homes. There is one clinic for 6000 people and they have to pay for every bit of their care, right down to the needles.
Drinking my tea in my waterproof house with electricity and three healthy children I suddenly felt very guilty. How could I look at those pictures, read those facts then put it in the recycling bin and carry on as if it didn’t matter?
The leaflet was from Save the Children. I usually avoid giving to large charities because I fear my small donation will get lost in administration. I feel helpless, an individual against such a huge problem, and tell myself what I send won’t make much difference or solve the situation so what’s the point. But this time I feel compelled to help, thinking that surely the result of lots of little bits of help has to be change.
This mail shot caught me at a vulnerable moment and made me remember the miserable conditions so many people live in. What can we do? Be aware? Donate if we can? Appreciate what we have and ensure we don’t waste the resources, like food, that we have. Living in Kyrgyzstan taught me what an incredible standard of living most of us have in the UK and to never take things like the NHS for granted, however imperfect we might sometimes consider it to be.
I know there will always be inequality but I’m not sure I feel happy carrying on in my comfortable life knowing the extent of the gulf between my children and the children in Sierra Leone.
Earlier this year Save the Children launched a global campaign to help children in Kroo Bay. The leaflet was asking for £3 a month but on-line there are innovative ways to encourage us to help, such as sending texts to make small specific contributions. The cynical part of me has to wonder how they can administratively ensure their promise that if I text “NET” to a certain number they “will deliver a mosquito net straight to a child at risk of catching malaria”. But today I’m of the attitude that if we don’t try, things will never change.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
England Football Fan Shot in Kyrgyzstan
Sweating on the cross trainer in the gym I noticed a headline about Kyrgyzstan scrolling across the bottom of the Sky News screen. Sadly it was not a positive one; an England football fan had been shot in the leg. Great, I thought, now news channels will be negative about Kyrgyzstan.
Having lived there for three years I know Kyrgyzstan to be a refreshingly remote country of vast and beautiful mountains and wonderfully hospitable people. Where else could you turn up at a remote yurt (felt tent) in the dead of night and be welcomed in to drink fermented mare's milk, eat cold sheep fat and sleep in a squashed but cosy huddle with the family?
Back home I went on line to the Sky News site to find out more - apparently this is the second most clicked story on Sky today.
Click here for story.
Reading the piece I felt relieved - in my opinion the England football fan came off with the negative publicity, not Kyrgyzstan. He and four others had been chanting in a bar in the capital, Bishkek, and had refused to stop when a local asked them to. So one was shot. Okay, this is not normal, sociable behaviour that I should condone - but then neither is obnoxiously chanting football slogans in someone else's country.
I read that the fan had the bullet removed in a local hospital - that will have been punishment enough as Kyrgyz hospitals are archaic with no modern equipment and little sanitation.
For most people, visiting Kyrgyzstan is pure pleasure. With little tourist infrastructure every day is an adventure but you are rewarded by being able to explore in isolation, your route free from tour party coaches, your view unmarred by hoards of other people.
I would recommend Kyrgyzstan to any traveller keen to see an unspoilt part of the world. If you want to stand in a bar and chant football slogans, go elsewhere. For everyone else, the only shot you'll get will be vodka.
If you'd like to read about my three year adventure in Kyrgyzstan, which included a revolution and many visits to local hospitals, you might be interested in my book Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan. You can find out more at my website http://www.saffiafarr.com/
Having lived there for three years I know Kyrgyzstan to be a refreshingly remote country of vast and beautiful mountains and wonderfully hospitable people. Where else could you turn up at a remote yurt (felt tent) in the dead of night and be welcomed in to drink fermented mare's milk, eat cold sheep fat and sleep in a squashed but cosy huddle with the family?
Back home I went on line to the Sky News site to find out more - apparently this is the second most clicked story on Sky today.
Click here for story.
Reading the piece I felt relieved - in my opinion the England football fan came off with the negative publicity, not Kyrgyzstan. He and four others had been chanting in a bar in the capital, Bishkek, and had refused to stop when a local asked them to. So one was shot. Okay, this is not normal, sociable behaviour that I should condone - but then neither is obnoxiously chanting football slogans in someone else's country.
I read that the fan had the bullet removed in a local hospital - that will have been punishment enough as Kyrgyz hospitals are archaic with no modern equipment and little sanitation.
For most people, visiting Kyrgyzstan is pure pleasure. With little tourist infrastructure every day is an adventure but you are rewarded by being able to explore in isolation, your route free from tour party coaches, your view unmarred by hoards of other people.
I would recommend Kyrgyzstan to any traveller keen to see an unspoilt part of the world. If you want to stand in a bar and chant football slogans, go elsewhere. For everyone else, the only shot you'll get will be vodka.
If you'd like to read about my three year adventure in Kyrgyzstan, which included a revolution and many visits to local hospitals, you might be interested in my book Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan. You can find out more at my website http://www.saffiafarr.com/
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Book Awards
I was very excited to learn that Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering, in which I have a chapter, has won recognition at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. It has been named winner in the Parenting and Anthology categories and is third place Grand Prize winner in the nonfiction category. This is an exciting achievement for all the authors and the editor, Suzanne Kamata.
http://www.indiebookawards.com/2009_winners_and_finalists.php
I can recommend it as a very touching and thought-provoking book. If you are interested you can buy it on Amazon
http://www.indiebookawards.com/2009_winners_and_finalists.php
I can recommend it as a very touching and thought-provoking book. If you are interested you can buy it on Amazon
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Call Me Okaasan
When Revolution Baby was published I worked hard at marketing, thinking, naively, I could get it all done before Baby 3 was born. I hadn’t appreciated the effect of momentum and how one feature would lead to another. This is how I’ve been introduced to some fantastic projects, and ended up writing much more often than I’d expected with a new baby.
I was very flattered to be asked to contribute to an anthology about multi-cultural mothering. Feeling slightly unqualified I wrote about my experiences of ante-natal care when abroad, sent it off and didn’t think much more of it.
Last week the book arrived with the postman – Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering, edited by Suzanne Kamata. I started to read it and was engrossed.
The main marketing quote is “Whether through intercultural marriage, international adoption or peripatetic lifestyles, families these days are increasingly multicultural. In this collection, women around the world ponder the unique joys and challenges of raising children across two or more cultures.”
I have found it to be a very interesting commentary on motherhood. Written from alternative perspectives it allows you to see everyday issues from different angles. Some of the essays I enjoyed because I could particularly relate to the sentiments, some are thought provoking, some are beautifully and lyrically written, some expose the rawest emotions of motherhood and some show how the simplest issues can become complicated.
I think it’s a really special book about alternative family lifestyles. I have been touched by it and feel very honoured to have been involved.
You can buy it on Amazon or find out more at Suzanne’s website, http://www.suzannekamata.com/.
I was very flattered to be asked to contribute to an anthology about multi-cultural mothering. Feeling slightly unqualified I wrote about my experiences of ante-natal care when abroad, sent it off and didn’t think much more of it.
Last week the book arrived with the postman – Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering, edited by Suzanne Kamata. I started to read it and was engrossed.
The main marketing quote is “Whether through intercultural marriage, international adoption or peripatetic lifestyles, families these days are increasingly multicultural. In this collection, women around the world ponder the unique joys and challenges of raising children across two or more cultures.”
I have found it to be a very interesting commentary on motherhood. Written from alternative perspectives it allows you to see everyday issues from different angles. Some of the essays I enjoyed because I could particularly relate to the sentiments, some are thought provoking, some are beautifully and lyrically written, some expose the rawest emotions of motherhood and some show how the simplest issues can become complicated.
I think it’s a really special book about alternative family lifestyles. I have been touched by it and feel very honoured to have been involved.
You can buy it on Amazon or find out more at Suzanne’s website, http://www.suzannekamata.com/.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Food for Thought
I was supposed to go to the gym this evening but instead felt I had to stay in and write this blog. I’m sure you’re thinking “yeah right, good excuse for being lazy”. But there is a reason deeper than lethargy.
This afternoon I had tea with Bishop Alphonse and his wife Evelyne from Nebbi Diocese in northern Uganda. I have a link with Nebbi Diocese because I lived there for four months after law school. I stayed with the then Bishop and his family. He’s now Archbishop of Uganda, Henry Luke Orombi, who you may have seen in western media due to his controversial thoughts on homosexuality.
I warmed immediately to Bishop Alphonse. He is a gentle man, softly spoken, wise words drifting from his lips if you listened above the tumult of children and afternoon tea. The cadence of his voice took me back to my days in Nebbi when I listened to the tribal language Alur and smelt the smoke of cooking fires. Bishop Aphonse told me I would see changes if I went back. “Food is now short” he said simply. He explained that due to lack of rain the crops have failed and people are hungry. “We have nothing; our supermarkets are our gardens. People eat one meal of porridge a day after long hours of work. Mothers stay in the garden so they can’t hear their babies crying.” Can we help? I asked, can we send some bags of rice or maize flour? “But that will only help very few for a short time,” he said wisely “and will cause problems with those we cannot help.”
I couldn’t eat my sandwich. Neither could I go to the gym. I felt it was wrong to go and burn calories from excess food when I’d heard about true hunger. So I’ve stayed at home to pass out this message.
We sometimes say we’re hungry but we know nothing of hunger. I recently read an essay by Katherine Barrett*, a Canadian currently living in South Africa. She describes how what she’s seen in South Africa has caused her to “recalibrate her scale of hardship”. She writes about her daily struggles of bringing up three small children, then shows how she’s learnt what real struggles are – camping in temporary shelters; worrying about xenophobic violence; scraping together enough food for a family enhanced by orphans taken in through selfless kindness.
I’m not sure what we can do, maybe understanding and trying to appreciate the cliché of how lucky we are is a good start. Bishop Alphonse said they hope to have crops by July. Until then, he was not sure what would happen to his flock, hoping, vaguely, that the government would help.
Today it’s raining and we’re complaining it’s cool for May. But people in Nebbi are starving because it’s not rained enough on them. When I lived with Archbishop Henry he told me that rain was a blessing. Now I’m starting to understand why.
* Carrying On by Katherine Barrett is featured in the recently published Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering edited by Suzanne Kamata. It’s a wonderful and thought provoking book which I will be reviewing on this blog as soon as I’ve finished it!
This afternoon I had tea with Bishop Alphonse and his wife Evelyne from Nebbi Diocese in northern Uganda. I have a link with Nebbi Diocese because I lived there for four months after law school. I stayed with the then Bishop and his family. He’s now Archbishop of Uganda, Henry Luke Orombi, who you may have seen in western media due to his controversial thoughts on homosexuality.
I warmed immediately to Bishop Alphonse. He is a gentle man, softly spoken, wise words drifting from his lips if you listened above the tumult of children and afternoon tea. The cadence of his voice took me back to my days in Nebbi when I listened to the tribal language Alur and smelt the smoke of cooking fires. Bishop Aphonse told me I would see changes if I went back. “Food is now short” he said simply. He explained that due to lack of rain the crops have failed and people are hungry. “We have nothing; our supermarkets are our gardens. People eat one meal of porridge a day after long hours of work. Mothers stay in the garden so they can’t hear their babies crying.” Can we help? I asked, can we send some bags of rice or maize flour? “But that will only help very few for a short time,” he said wisely “and will cause problems with those we cannot help.”
I couldn’t eat my sandwich. Neither could I go to the gym. I felt it was wrong to go and burn calories from excess food when I’d heard about true hunger. So I’ve stayed at home to pass out this message.
We sometimes say we’re hungry but we know nothing of hunger. I recently read an essay by Katherine Barrett*, a Canadian currently living in South Africa. She describes how what she’s seen in South Africa has caused her to “recalibrate her scale of hardship”. She writes about her daily struggles of bringing up three small children, then shows how she’s learnt what real struggles are – camping in temporary shelters; worrying about xenophobic violence; scraping together enough food for a family enhanced by orphans taken in through selfless kindness.
I’m not sure what we can do, maybe understanding and trying to appreciate the cliché of how lucky we are is a good start. Bishop Alphonse said they hope to have crops by July. Until then, he was not sure what would happen to his flock, hoping, vaguely, that the government would help.
Today it’s raining and we’re complaining it’s cool for May. But people in Nebbi are starving because it’s not rained enough on them. When I lived with Archbishop Henry he told me that rain was a blessing. Now I’m starting to understand why.
* Carrying On by Katherine Barrett is featured in the recently published Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering edited by Suzanne Kamata. It’s a wonderful and thought provoking book which I will be reviewing on this blog as soon as I’ve finished it!
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Tough life?
There are days when you feel life is tough. I think I've been having a tough time lately. My husband is working away for three weeks so I'm at home alone with the three children. The boys seem to be permanently antagonistic and aggressive, there's always one shouting, crying, pushing, thumping, hurt. Neither the carrot or stick methods of dealing with them are working and I don't quite know what to do next.
There is a "catastrophic"* leak in our plumbing so I've not had any central heating or hot water for ten days. Various experts have been through to help me but so far all they've achieved is pulling up the wooden floor in the sitting room leaving me with a shelving unit in the middle of the room and lots of books, toys and bottles piled up on the floor. I get up in the night to keep our wood burner stoked for warmth and have been relying on the immersion heater for hot water.
Tonight the immersion heater stopped working. The two boys were in bed yelling and crying. I sat at the kitchen table and felt numb and light headed. I didn't quite know what to do. So I phoned my husband. It's 2am where he is but I stubbornly kept pressing redial because I wasn't sure what else to do. He's talked me through re-wiring the switch for the immersion heater. I felt overwhelmed and tearful, scared by the rainbow of wires and little holes I had to wedge them into.
It's working again now, the socket hanging precariously off the wall. Like me it just has to limp through the week, to literally hang in there until Matthew is back on Friday, for practical, if not moral support.
But I feel ashamed for my distress. Am I a weak person or are these extraordinary circumstances? In the DRC people are fleeing for their lives. What hardship is my faulty plumbing compared to that? We don't really know what a tough life is in this country, all we really suffer are inconveniences to the standard of life we consider a right. When I start to feel sorry for myself I try to remember this and think of those who really have it tough.
*plumber's word not mine
There is a "catastrophic"* leak in our plumbing so I've not had any central heating or hot water for ten days. Various experts have been through to help me but so far all they've achieved is pulling up the wooden floor in the sitting room leaving me with a shelving unit in the middle of the room and lots of books, toys and bottles piled up on the floor. I get up in the night to keep our wood burner stoked for warmth and have been relying on the immersion heater for hot water.
Tonight the immersion heater stopped working. The two boys were in bed yelling and crying. I sat at the kitchen table and felt numb and light headed. I didn't quite know what to do. So I phoned my husband. It's 2am where he is but I stubbornly kept pressing redial because I wasn't sure what else to do. He's talked me through re-wiring the switch for the immersion heater. I felt overwhelmed and tearful, scared by the rainbow of wires and little holes I had to wedge them into.
It's working again now, the socket hanging precariously off the wall. Like me it just has to limp through the week, to literally hang in there until Matthew is back on Friday, for practical, if not moral support.
But I feel ashamed for my distress. Am I a weak person or are these extraordinary circumstances? In the DRC people are fleeing for their lives. What hardship is my faulty plumbing compared to that? We don't really know what a tough life is in this country, all we really suffer are inconveniences to the standard of life we consider a right. When I start to feel sorry for myself I try to remember this and think of those who really have it tough.
*plumber's word not mine
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Travelling with Children
I've just returned from a holiday in The Gambia, West Africa, with my two children (aged 4 and 2). "Are you mad?" I hear you gasp, "travelling with children!"
Actually, it's very rewarding.
I never expected that I would ever take a child abroad - I didn't fly until I was twelve and there's nothing wrong with Cornwall. But since I gave up my career to travel with my husband I've learnt that nothing is ever as expected. Therefore, I was quite calm when I found myself checking in for a ten hour flight to Kyrgyzstan with a three-month old baby. Now it seems perfectly normal for me to travel with my children and it's surprisingly easy - they love it.
Children are more adaptable and capable that we give them credit for. Take malaria pills for example. I'm sure I'm blacklisted as an irresponsible mother at my local health centre, being the only person they've ever encountered who has taken her family to a malarial area. However, the nurse consented to give me malaria pills and I wondered how I would ever get two children to take the disgusting things.
On the first morning I fussed around trying to dissolve the pills in orange juice and hide them in food. Not successful. Feeling desperate I decided the next day to just hand a pill to the four year old and tell him to swallow it. He put it on his tongue, took a drink and proudly told me "it's gone." The two year old wanted to try so I thought why not. He put the pill between his teeth and I could only see aggravation ahead. But before I had time to fuss he took a drink and looked up at me. "Gone!" he announced, flinging his arms wide with pleasure. We are still on the course - you have to take them for a week after you return - and it's their favourite part of breakfast. I'm now worrying about what entertainment I can create when the pills run out.
They are just as relaxed about the aeroplane. I've realised that when you're a child, everything about airports and planes is completely exciting, even taking your shoes off at the security check. They love being involved in the process, handing their passports over at the desk, looking out for the bags. And my four-year old is the only person who ever reads the safety card. This time he studied it carefully, asking intelligent questions about when the oxygen masks would drop down and whether he could see his lifejacket under his seat.
I no longer bother weighing us down with toys; the greatest entertainment are the gadgets. The two-year old spent many happy minutes switching the light on and off - and intermittently summoning a harassed air hostess. They both enjoyed their headphones, choosing music channels and dancing in their seats, fun for them and the amused passengers around us.
I could bore you with tips - take lollies to help ease the pressure as you land; check if blankets are provided if it's a night flight; get them to wee just before you get on board as the “fasten seatbelt” sign stays on longer than you’d think - but the greatest tip in enjoying travelling with children is for yourself. I've learnt that to succeed you have to go with the correct mindset.
For the first few days in The Gambia I felt frustrated: the sun was shining, we were by a pool or on a beach and yet I was confined to reading The Gruffalo in the shade. Then I had an epiphany - there's no point expecting such a holiday to be relaxing. Going on holiday with children is not relaxing; they don't morph into obedient, quiet angels just because you drive them down the M5 or change countries. But going on holiday with children can be rewarding. I discovered great joy in showing them new things and sharing experiences, wondering how the smells and sights of Africa appeared to a curious four year old. And I realised that if I didn't waste time hankering after holidays of old when I spent days reading on a sun bed, the week was relaxing in its own way.
If you can appreciate the change of scene, new routine, new stimulus and family time you can all come back refreshed and revitalised, if not necessarily relaxed. And it’s amazing how beneficial a small amount of time out can be – unable to spend a week on a sun lounger I felt rejuvenated after ten minutes.
And don’t dismiss the added bonus of how much you all appreciate home and its conveniences on your return.
In summary, I recommend travelling with children. Don't be scared, ignore the disapproving looks of your health visitor and give it a go.
Actually, it's very rewarding.
I never expected that I would ever take a child abroad - I didn't fly until I was twelve and there's nothing wrong with Cornwall. But since I gave up my career to travel with my husband I've learnt that nothing is ever as expected. Therefore, I was quite calm when I found myself checking in for a ten hour flight to Kyrgyzstan with a three-month old baby. Now it seems perfectly normal for me to travel with my children and it's surprisingly easy - they love it.
Children are more adaptable and capable that we give them credit for. Take malaria pills for example. I'm sure I'm blacklisted as an irresponsible mother at my local health centre, being the only person they've ever encountered who has taken her family to a malarial area. However, the nurse consented to give me malaria pills and I wondered how I would ever get two children to take the disgusting things.
On the first morning I fussed around trying to dissolve the pills in orange juice and hide them in food. Not successful. Feeling desperate I decided the next day to just hand a pill to the four year old and tell him to swallow it. He put it on his tongue, took a drink and proudly told me "it's gone." The two year old wanted to try so I thought why not. He put the pill between his teeth and I could only see aggravation ahead. But before I had time to fuss he took a drink and looked up at me. "Gone!" he announced, flinging his arms wide with pleasure. We are still on the course - you have to take them for a week after you return - and it's their favourite part of breakfast. I'm now worrying about what entertainment I can create when the pills run out.
They are just as relaxed about the aeroplane. I've realised that when you're a child, everything about airports and planes is completely exciting, even taking your shoes off at the security check. They love being involved in the process, handing their passports over at the desk, looking out for the bags. And my four-year old is the only person who ever reads the safety card. This time he studied it carefully, asking intelligent questions about when the oxygen masks would drop down and whether he could see his lifejacket under his seat.
I no longer bother weighing us down with toys; the greatest entertainment are the gadgets. The two-year old spent many happy minutes switching the light on and off - and intermittently summoning a harassed air hostess. They both enjoyed their headphones, choosing music channels and dancing in their seats, fun for them and the amused passengers around us.
I could bore you with tips - take lollies to help ease the pressure as you land; check if blankets are provided if it's a night flight; get them to wee just before you get on board as the “fasten seatbelt” sign stays on longer than you’d think - but the greatest tip in enjoying travelling with children is for yourself. I've learnt that to succeed you have to go with the correct mindset.
For the first few days in The Gambia I felt frustrated: the sun was shining, we were by a pool or on a beach and yet I was confined to reading The Gruffalo in the shade. Then I had an epiphany - there's no point expecting such a holiday to be relaxing. Going on holiday with children is not relaxing; they don't morph into obedient, quiet angels just because you drive them down the M5 or change countries. But going on holiday with children can be rewarding. I discovered great joy in showing them new things and sharing experiences, wondering how the smells and sights of Africa appeared to a curious four year old. And I realised that if I didn't waste time hankering after holidays of old when I spent days reading on a sun bed, the week was relaxing in its own way.
If you can appreciate the change of scene, new routine, new stimulus and family time you can all come back refreshed and revitalised, if not necessarily relaxed. And it’s amazing how beneficial a small amount of time out can be – unable to spend a week on a sun lounger I felt rejuvenated after ten minutes.
And don’t dismiss the added bonus of how much you all appreciate home and its conveniences on your return.
In summary, I recommend travelling with children. Don't be scared, ignore the disapproving looks of your health visitor and give it a go.
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Ex-pat goodbyes
Two very good friends have just announced that they are moving abroad to work for a few years. Selfishly, I am devastated. They currently live an hour away and as they have two children the same age as Tom and Ben we see each other often and talk regularly. I feel reassured by their proximity. Whenever Matthew has to go away to work I call them and ask if the boys and I can come and stay. They are my sanctuary, a warm, friendly home where I can go and truly relax. So I feel bereft that they will no longer be there.
On Saturday is my book launch and I’ve realised that I will have to say goodbye to them that evening. I’m wanting to wail and cling on to them for protracted goodbyes but I know that they will just want a quick hug and be gone. I know this because that is how I did it six years ago when we first left to work abroad. When you are leaving all your friends and all your family you become numbed by goodbyes. You just want to get on with your new life and don’t have the time or emotional capacity to weep over everyone.
When we left, Matthew and I and held a party in London. I was so overwhelmed by everyone who came along I wondered why we were leaving them to go where we knew no-one. Friends add colour and depth to life. One of the hardest things about living abroad is missing the weddings of special friends. Momentous things happened to our friends while we were away and I’m sad we weren’t there to share them. But equally important are the new friends made on our postings. The wonderful people we met changed our attitude to and enjoyment of the countries we were in and our shared experiences are valuable memories.
I know that to be a good friend I’m going to have to take a deep breath and say goodbye to this couple without burdening them with my grief. They have enough emotions to deal with, packing up their home and wondering if they’ve made the right decision. We won’t loose touch - email and Skype have softened the isolation of being away. But it wont be the same as having them down the road.
On Saturday is my book launch and I’ve realised that I will have to say goodbye to them that evening. I’m wanting to wail and cling on to them for protracted goodbyes but I know that they will just want a quick hug and be gone. I know this because that is how I did it six years ago when we first left to work abroad. When you are leaving all your friends and all your family you become numbed by goodbyes. You just want to get on with your new life and don’t have the time or emotional capacity to weep over everyone.
When we left, Matthew and I and held a party in London. I was so overwhelmed by everyone who came along I wondered why we were leaving them to go where we knew no-one. Friends add colour and depth to life. One of the hardest things about living abroad is missing the weddings of special friends. Momentous things happened to our friends while we were away and I’m sad we weren’t there to share them. But equally important are the new friends made on our postings. The wonderful people we met changed our attitude to and enjoyment of the countries we were in and our shared experiences are valuable memories.
I know that to be a good friend I’m going to have to take a deep breath and say goodbye to this couple without burdening them with my grief. They have enough emotions to deal with, packing up their home and wondering if they’ve made the right decision. We won’t loose touch - email and Skype have softened the isolation of being away. But it wont be the same as having them down the road.
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Well-behaved children
No, not mine, although I’m only able to write this now because Ben is in bed and Tom playing very nicely on his own with cars, trains and a track.
My title refers to the pre-school children who I talked to about Kyrgyzstan on Wednesday. They sat in a neat semi-circle in silence, possibly a stunned silence because I was wearing my Christmas-Cake-hat outfit, traditional Kyrgyz costume. Photo attached for your amusement. But for whatever reason they sat very quietly and listened attentively. If all my audiences are like this I will be lucky. After I’d told them about mountains, yurts (nomadic felt tents) and kalpaks (Kyrgyz felt hats – see my website for pictures) we had an interesting discussion about why Kyrgyz children don’t go to school. The answer for most is that they are too busy collecting water from rivers or they don’t have shoes. For those unfamiliar with the story of my book Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan, we went to Kyrgyzstan because my husband Matthew, a water engineer, was working on an aid project to get clean drinking water to remote villages. One amazing result of this project is that attendance rates are up at schools because children aren’t spending all day dragging water back from rivers.
But this was a difficult concept for the pre-school children to grasp. When I said they didn’t have shoes, one boy said, “they should go and buy them.” “They don’t have any money,” I explained. And they sat in stunned silence. Not having enough money to buy shoes is an incredibly difficult situation for our children to comprehend when they are surrounded by comfort and commercialism. It was a difficult concept for me to grasp when we first arrived in Kyrgyzstan. People live by rubbish bins so they can eat the waste. Old women collect acorns from the parks so they can boil them to make a porridge. But amidst all this poverty they made us humble with their generosity. On a site visit Matthew was invited into a home to eat bread and drink tea. The “home” was the one-room guard hut at the chlorination plant and bread and tea was all they had to eat. But they shared gladly.
My title refers to the pre-school children who I talked to about Kyrgyzstan on Wednesday. They sat in a neat semi-circle in silence, possibly a stunned silence because I was wearing my Christmas-Cake-hat outfit, traditional Kyrgyz costume. Photo attached for your amusement. But for whatever reason they sat very quietly and listened attentively. If all my audiences are like this I will be lucky. After I’d told them about mountains, yurts (nomadic felt tents) and kalpaks (Kyrgyz felt hats – see my website for pictures) we had an interesting discussion about why Kyrgyz children don’t go to school. The answer for most is that they are too busy collecting water from rivers or they don’t have shoes. For those unfamiliar with the story of my book Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan, we went to Kyrgyzstan because my husband Matthew, a water engineer, was working on an aid project to get clean drinking water to remote villages. One amazing result of this project is that attendance rates are up at schools because children aren’t spending all day dragging water back from rivers.
But this was a difficult concept for the pre-school children to grasp. When I said they didn’t have shoes, one boy said, “they should go and buy them.” “They don’t have any money,” I explained. And they sat in stunned silence. Not having enough money to buy shoes is an incredibly difficult situation for our children to comprehend when they are surrounded by comfort and commercialism. It was a difficult concept for me to grasp when we first arrived in Kyrgyzstan. People live by rubbish bins so they can eat the waste. Old women collect acorns from the parks so they can boil them to make a porridge. But amidst all this poverty they made us humble with their generosity. On a site visit Matthew was invited into a home to eat bread and drink tea. The “home” was the one-room guard hut at the chlorination plant and bread and tea was all they had to eat. But they shared gladly.
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