Hurray for holidays!

Easter is nearly upon us and so the Littles are on their school holidays and we are escaping Angola for a week and heading to Cape Town. The excitement in the Foley household is palpable. In all honesty we could be going anywhere and still be high on the thought of getting out. I am giddy with fantasies of being able to stroll safely down the street, go to restaurants where I shan’t be fleeced for a deeply disappointing meal that takes hours to appear, buy fresh milk, not have to pick weevils out of pasta and run somewhere where my sweat can evaporate and not fill my running shoes to the point where I squelch the last 5 km.

As I type this my husband is busy making a family sized packed lunch for the plane. We’re flying with Air Namibia and there’s no telling what the food will be like. I m horrible when I m hungry so he feels that the extra kilo of Marmite sandwiches that we’ll have to hump around is well worth it. I’m taking a risk by not overseeing the sandwich making proceedings as he is not a Marmite eater and, in ignorance, tends to spread it like jam – my gums will still be throbbing into next week. We’re stopping over in Windhoek, capital of Namibia, but I m not sure if 1.5 hours in an airport allows us to say that we’ve really visited the place. I’m hoping that it’s a decent plane as my fear of flying continues to put a dampener on any trip by air. Number 2 child (6 years) has an obsession with catastrophes this week and has been busy drawing pictures of planes being hit by either lightning or tornadoes and falling apart and passengers falling out. Just looking at them makes me want to practice my breathing exercises and get into the brace position.

My only reservation about leaving is the fact that it’s the rainy season and we have had an almost unprecedented amount of rainfall. This in itself is not a bad thing, although there has been severe flooding to the south, the problem for us is that our home is like a sieve and every time the heavens open we have to strategically place towels around the house. After the rain we get an influx of creepy crawlies and slugs which can fit through the gaps at the bottom of our exterior doors. The snails would join the party too but their shells prevent them from squeezing through the gap so they just watch through the window. Luckily we have many house lizards which help to remove some of the unwanted guests, I just wish they would stop using my shoes as hideouts.

There is an ominous bulge on the ceiling in the living room and every time it rains it gets a little fatter. It’s like a giant abscess and everyday I have to resist the urge to lance it with a sharpened pencil.

I am in no doubt that once we hit South Africa we will be in such a state of bliss that we wouldn’t care if our Angolan house got so water-logged that it washed down the road and into the sea.

We recently learnt the hard way that it isn’t wise to visit the beach within 48 hours of heavy rain. Our boat taxi pulled up to the shore and as we disembarked into the surf we were forced to navigate our way through a wide variety of rubbish including dirty nappies (diapers) and a very smelly dead dog. Having gone to all the effort of making a picnic and hauling all of our beach equipment there, we were not going to let any amount of human detritus or putrid animals put us off from a fun day at the beach. We consumed our ham sandwiches and built a couple of sandcastles before leaping back into the boat and racing home to thoroughly disinfect ourselves.

The beaches of Cape Town will be a far cry from our local patch of sand and on that note I better go and finish packing…..

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Its been a while……

I m back. I know…. I ve been terribly lax with this blog. I have a long list of plausible excuses, most of which have given me lots of new material to tell you about.

Speaking of which, I d like to take you back to December and to my first reason for my blogging hiatus…… It was 4 days before Christmas and I was just getting off my bike (which for safety reasons is mounted on a trainer in my storage room – thus avoiding the need to ride on the very dangerous roads here). I slipped in a pool of my own sweat and landed, ribs first, onto the crossbar of my bike.  Unable to breathe properly and in excruciating pain (I have given birth to 3 kids drug-free so I m normally pretty good with pain) I managed to call my husband and wheeze at him enough to make him realise that I wasn’t making a prank call and that perhaps he should come home immediately. Meanwhile, I sent number one child to get help on the compound. In a moment of need, there is no better place to be than on a compound full of stay-at-home expat wives. Immediately a couple of neighbours rushed in and an ambulance was called. Close to losing consciousness, I was helped onto the floor, my legs were raised and the company nurse appeared who kindly injected me with something that took the edge off the pain and then something else to stop the subsequent nausea caused by the stuff that took the edge off the pain. An hour and a half later the ambulance appeared and suddenly the house was full of Angolans who quickly popped me onto a stretcher (a hard one, not one of those nice soft ones) and whisked me outside. Ambulances aren’t in abundance here and the ones that are look pretty rough and ready. I wasn’t prepared for the sleek modern vehicle that I was loaded into. Apart from the mosquitos buzzing around inside (great, if I don’t die from internal bleeding then I ll have Malaria by the time we reach the hospital) and the fact that the paramedics (if that was what they were) sat about chatting and laughing in Portuguese, I could have been in any developed country.

Strapped up and ready to go.
Strapped up and ready to go.

As I have explained before, the traffic is terrible in Luanda and the roads are always congested. Even with the sirens and lights flashing, few cars moved out of our way. The driver had to resort to some pretty fancy manoeuvring to get through. I felt every bump in the road and despite the ‘paramedics’  shouting at him to be a little more gentle on the brake he continued to forge a path through the melee.

I think it took around an hour to get to the hospital that was 8 miles away. In my numbed state it was all a bit of a painful blur. I was unloaded and rushed into a small ‘trauma’ room. Crammed into the small space were two unconscious gentlemen who were clearly in a worse state than me. They were hooked up to various machines that made pinging noises and ventilators to keep the oxygen in their bodies. I really wished that there were curtains to give all of us some privacy, instead I distracted myself by staring at the ceiling and counting the dead flies inside the light fitting. A very officious lady doctor appeared and hooked me up to a couple of bags of clear liquids. She explained what they were but when simply trying to ask for a few hundred grammes of ‘your best’ ham is a challenge, I had no hope of navigating medical jargon in Portuguese. After a while another person in a white coat wandered in and told me in very slow Portuguese that the radiographers who would X-ray me were all at lunch but someone would come and get me when they were full and rested. Two hours later I was man-handled off the stretcher and taken for x-rays before being moved to another equally cramped ward. Over the next few hours I lay on my bed surveying the activity around me. There was a big sign on the wall next to me which said that the key to the Ebola quarantine room was in the desk draw. Ebola had not reached Angola at the time but it didn’t stop me from doing another survey of my room mates and wishing that I had some sanitising hand gel.

Some hours later I was discharged with intact ribs but torn muscles in between them. I was instructed to stay in bed for the next couple of days and avoid sneezing, coughing or laughing. I have to say that the health care wasn’t as bad as I had feared and, other than the traffic and language barrier, probably wasn’t too different to the care I might have received using the public health system back in Britain.

Its been 3 months since then and I am happy to report that I am pain free, have full mobility and a non-slip mat under my bike. I have also been given ‘The dumbest accident of 2014’ award by my tri-team coach so it wasn’t all bad.

Service with a ‘look of complete indifference’.

One thing that spending a few years in the USA has given me (apart from an addiction to Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups and better teeth) is an appreciation and expectation of good customer service. Ignoring any government run departments (particularly the social security bunch), the customer service in America is second to none. At the absolute opposite end of the service spectrum lies the customer service I have experienced in Angola. The service can be so bad in so many different places that it is almost impossible to pick the worst. One of my favourite places to go and be treated like someone found me on the bottom of their shoe is our local ‘Shoprite’ supermarket (lovingly renamed ‘Shopwrong’ by anyone who has to go there). The only living things having anything close to a good time in this place are the weevils that have set up home on the shelves of the flour aisle. Empty cupboards had forced me to endure another ‘Shoprite’ experience on Wednesday. It started well when I located some slightly-more-robust-than-normal plastic bags to fill with fruit and veg. Normally, anything rougher than a peach can lacerate these bags sending their contents all over the floor. Halfway through some meticulous apple selecting we had our first power cut. Plunged into darkness we all stood still as our eyes adjusted to the gloom. On the bright side, the inane Christmas pop music had also stopped. A couple of minutes later the electricity supply resumed and, like children playing musical statues, we all sprang back into life and continued our specific shopping activity to the background of Christmas tunes. In Shoprite, and most other supermarkets here, we have to have someone weigh and attach a sticky label to all of our fresh produce before going to the till and unluckily for me I chose the only scales manned by someone who didn’t know any of the codes. Ten or so minutes later he had managed to weigh and correctly identify four of my eight items. I knew it was going to be a long shopping trip and contemplated the idea of telling him not to worry and the Foleys would survive on tinned fruit and veg this week. Having said that, there is only one thing worse than spending two hours in Shoprite and that is tinned vegetables, particularly green beans. I still can’t understand how any manufacturer can justify charging customers for them, they should be free or we should be paid for taking them off their hands. Veg weighed, I sauntered off to find some slimy ham and cracked eggs. After a couple more power cuts I headed to the till. As queuing isn’t as popular here as it is in Great Britain, you have to adopt new strategies to maintain your place at the checkout. I use the method whereby I stand at the front of my shopping trolly and look fierce. It worked today. I said “Bom dia” to the lady sat behind the till, she ignored me and continued to have a conversation with a member of the bakery staff who had wandered over for a chat. She began scanning a few items and then stopped for a bit to carry on her conversation with her floury friend. Out of 15 items, 5 didn’t scan, these included a bag of potatoes (hardly exotic) and several bags of nuts. She shouted “Colega, Colega” several times and a few minutes later a ‘supervisor’ sauntered over who, without speaking, took my carefully selected bag of potatoes and disappeard for some time before making a very slow return journey to the till and dropping a new bag of randomly selected potatoes onto the counter. There was still no familiar ‘bleep’ so the shop assistant just said ‘No’ and put the potatoes and nuts behind her. So that was that, I left with two thirds of what I had hoped for. The cash machines were out of cash and then I couldn’t find my driver in the carpark, none of which was out of the ordinary. We drove to three different banks trying to find one that had some cash and that was in a safe place where I wouldn’t be immediately mugged before I got back in the car.

There is quite a lot of petty crime in our area, mostly muggings. We hear lots of reports of locals taking large sums of cash out of the banks and then being shot as they leave and ‘relieved’ of their cash by men on motorbikes. We all suspect that these are inside jobs where someone working inside the bank is tipping off the criminals. I don’t carry big money around with me anymore as we now have a bank account and a debit card. In addition, most of us don’t wear expensive jewellery of carry designer bags when out and about. I ve swapped my fancy wallet for my 7 year old’s ‘Hello Kitty’ purse and a bag that I won in a raffle. I also carry an old, broken mobile phone as well as my iPhone. In heavy traffic I hide my iPhone and any cash so if we do get held up by muggers the worst that can happen is that I have to explain to my daughter that some bad men stole her wallet.

There are places that we don’t go to in Luanda because of safety concerns, although the same can be said about most big cities. The main problem is that us white expats stand out like a sore thumb and we are guaranteed to be carrying a mobile phone. I lived in London for many years and my basic student grant meant that I had to live in the not-so-salubrious parts of the city. I regularly commuted through the types of neighbourhoods where you kept your head down and didn’t make eye contact. After dark I would take off all my jewellery and stuff it in my mouth until I reached the safety of my hallway. I inadvertently swallowed an earring back once but felt that this was a small price to pay for protecting my valuables.

Right, the cat has appeared at the window and she needs deworming – more on that later…..

A fun time at the orphanage.

The weekend trundled by at its usual pace. When I m in charge I shall give everyone a three day weekend. Saturday brought with it a craft fair at the local International School at which I manned a table of crafts that we’d made to raise money for the orphanage. I say ‘we’, actually I just sell them. The talented ladies and gent (a tailor by trade) on my compound make all the items ranging from bags to angel Christmas decorations made from beer cans. My crafting capabilities are a work in progress. I m still trying to finish my Christmas tree ‘skirt’ that we all began in the Spring as a group craft project. So far I have managed to get someone else to cut out all the pieces and then I folded it up and put it on my ‘to do’ shelf. I m confident that it will be sitting under the tree by Christmas 2016. I have also made, with considerable assistance, a handbag and a ‘sleeve’ for holding plastic bags, both of which are, surprisingly, still intact and fully functional. I ve been advised that, unless I want to risk a serious wardrobe malfunction, I should probably avoid making my own clothing.

A local convention centre hosted our company Christmas party on Saturday night. Its one of those places where, once you’re inside, you wouldn’t know that you’re in a country where most of the population of Luanda live in slums. We ate and drank and watched African dancers and musicians do their thing. I had carelessly sat very close to these African dancers and was one of the volunteers (victims) selected to join them. Four inch heels, a full stomach and Spanx that started at the knee and went all the way to my armpits are not conducive to ‘total body articulation’. I gave it my best shot (hopefully no one filmed it).

Sunday was very lazy (mostly due to the rum-based banana beverage which the waiters were keen on giving me the night before).

Monday means orphanage day. I led todays class on telling time. We ve bought them all watches for Christmas so learning about time is a top priority. Out of 20 kids, 5 of them fell asleep during most of the class. They all sleep in dormitories of maybe 30 children so I expect some of them must have been keeping the others awake. I needed to pee when I got there. In an orphanage of 70/80 kids you can imagine how 6 toilets end up (and 2 of those weren’t working). There is no flush so you have to poor buckets of water down them instead. Having spent much time in developing counties, and on aeroplanes, I have perfected the ‘hover’ whereby I don’t have any contact with the seat. Halfway through I realised that I had a little audience and no cubicle door to hide behind (note to self – must remember to go ‘nil by mouth’ in preceding 2 hours to orphanage visit). I expect the children are now talking about how white women don’t pee the same way that everyone else does.

The children were in a state of high excitement as they will be having their Christmas party on Saturday and we will be attending. Carlitos (one of the kids I sponsor) asked if I would be bringing lots of gifts. He’s a hugger and today, between hugs, he busied himself by placing cartoon stickers on my feet. Him and his little brother, Mingo, have been here for a year. I don’t know their back-story but I do know it for some of the other children. There are a pair of sisters who were thrown out of their home after being accused of witchcraft. Another little boy recently arrived with two broken arms, broken by his stepmother. Unsurprisingly, a lot of them have psychological problems. The key for their future is education. Most of the children’s schooling is paid for by expats. The generosity of some of the expats here warms my heart.

Its Monday, its almost 8.30 which means bedtime. Night night…..

To give or not to give.

Hurray, it’s Friday! Another week gallops by in our corner of Africa. Friday is, in my opinion, probably the best day of the week as it means that a) I won’t be woken at 4am by my husbands alarm clock for two days and b) I also won’t have to drag the three Littles out of bed and have them dressed, fed, watered, bug sprayed and on the school bus by 7.25am. There is one con, however, and that is that the traffic gets worse, especially when it coincides with the last working day of the month. Lots of people get paid today. The police know this and some of them take advantage by pulling over motorists to obtain bribes for any small motoring misdemeanour. This slows the traffic down even more than usual.

Although this does have a detrimental effect on those of us who want to get somewhere in a reasonable amount of time, it does provide a fantastic selling opportunity for street vendors. As we made slow progress through the traffic today it felt like a very long superstore drive-through. You can buy all manner of things from world maps to razor blades, tea towels to dog leads, popcorn to pornography. So far I have only been brave enough to buy phone cards and a bug zapper (a tennis racket-shaped electrocuting device – allows me to commit mosquito murder with a flash of light, a pop and a satisfying smell of roasted mosquito). These vendors take their lives in their hands by walking between lines of traffic, dodging motorbikes and stepping over holes that could swallow a man. Having sat in a lot of traffic jams and contemplated the pros and cons of each item for sale, I ve concluded that popcorn is probably the product I would choose to sell as it’s light and relatively easy to carry, Dumbells would probably be the product at the very bottom of my list (although it would protect against bingo wings).

The reason for sitting in traffic today was that I was meeting a pal (JR) for lunch. JR is the country director for the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). MAG is a charity that removes these unexploded devices. Due to a long and bloody civil war Angola became one of the most landmined countries in the world. There has been peace here since 2002 and since then many people who fled parts of Angola during the conflict have returned to their homelands. The landmines and other unexploded ordnance do not understand a ceasefire and blight the countryside preventing people from using the land for housing, farming or building schools and healthcare centres. She splits her time between Luanda and the provinces. When she is here I like to meet up to hear her stories and, my goodness, my idea of a challenging day is quite different to hers. I am almost too embarrassed to mention my ‘first world problems’ in her presence. Who cares if all the apples were bruised in the supermarket or that the maid was making the bed when I wanted to take a nap, when she is having to deal with a situation where one of her team has been injured in an explosion during a mine clearing exercise. I wholeheartedly admire her and the job she does. If I had my time again I would be working as a doctor for Medicine sans Frontier or similar, although my Mum often points out that I m not good with the sight of blood so I would be more of a hinderance than a help. Instead, I ll do what I can with the orphanage and make sure we put some of our money back into the Angolan economy by hiring people and paying them fairly.

As I arrived back at my compound I saw the homeless man who regularly sleeps on some cardboard under a dirty sheet against our compound wall. He was sitting on the pavement in the shade of a palm tree. I see him regularly walking in the area looking for food. His territory seems to stretch in a 1.5 mile radius around our compound. I have often seen him sifting through the bins outside a restaurant when I m out running. Being homeless in a developed country must be terrible but being destitute in a developing country is a very desperate situation to be in. He has no one looking out for him. There is no national healthcare system, no high profile homeless charities and too many people barely making enough to feed and cloth their own families to worry about anyone else. The worse case scenario is you catch one of the many tropical diseases on offer here, best case scenario is that someone in a charitable mood offers you some money or clothing. Today, I was feeling charitable. I have been collecting mens clothing and shoes for an HIV/TB hospital in Luanda so I had a collection of items that might be suitable for him. I sifted through my pile and found a clean sheet, some t-shirts, a pair of trousers and some old shoes. I stuck them all in a plastic bag and grabbed £70 ($100) in local currency out of the safe to give him. I dashed up to the compound gate in the hope that he was still outside but he had wandered off. Disappointed that my charitable itch would remain unscratched, I popped round to a friend’s house. We discussed plans for the orphanage and she gave me a large children’s puzzle to return to someone who lives a few houses down from me. I put it into the plastic bag along with the homeless man’s supplies and left. As I walked back to my house I spotted the homeless man through the fence. I ran over to the gate and asked the guard to let me out. Approaching the man, I said “Good Afternoon” and “for you…” as I offered him the plastic bag. Without looking at me he pointed to the patch of ground next to him, so I placed the bag down as indicated. Then I held out the money. He took it from me and without saying a word he placed it on the ground next to the bag, his gaze remaining fixed on the passing traffic. Realising that this signalled the end of our exchange and with a twitchy security guard next to me, I turned and the guard escorted me back through the gate onto the ‘safe’ side of the razor wire. The guard relaxed and I sauntered home, not knowing if I had done the right thing or not.

About an hour passed. The Littles arrived home and I was just starting to make dinner when it hit me. I had just accidentally donated the beautiful wooden (and not replaceable in Angola) children’s puzzle to the homeless man! I raced out of the house, shouting to the children not to follow me and I d be back in a mo. I reached the gate and attempted to explain to the guard (with actions) what had happened. He had no idea what I was talking about but opened the gate and followed me out onto the street. The plastic bag was still against the wall where I had left it, but there was no sign of the man or the money. To my relief the puzzle was still in the bag. I grabbed it and went home. I wonder what he must have thought when/if he had opened the bag and seen the ‘shape sorting clock puzzle’.

I wrestle constantly with the question of how to help these people. I know that giving them money doesn’t help in the long-term and may just be fuelling an alcohol or drug problem. They may eat and drink well today but their lives will just return to the way they were before once the money dries up. If I asked him what he would like me to do he wouldn’t hesitate to say “I ll take the money”. My view is that this man is at the bottom of the pile and anything anyone is willing to give him has to be better than pretending that, by giving him stuff, we are making him reliant on handouts. In this place, the handouts are all he has and all he will ever have.

It serves as another reminder, and we are surrounded by them here, of how incredibly lucky we are.

Urgh, it’s Thursday.

Thursday is always my least favorite day of the week for two reasons. Firstly, I have to do my weekly grocery shop and subsequent, seemingly endless, produce disinfection. Secondly, I have to have my weekly portuguese lesson which serves to remind me how crap I am at portuguese.

I spend an inordinate amount of time meticulously soaking and manhandling fruit and vegetables. Everyone seems to have their own method – 50 ml of bleach in a sink full of water and soak for 10 minutes, or 20 ml for 15 minutes. I won’t tell you what I do as it’s too dull to repeat but it does involve the kitchen timer disturbing me at regular intervals to rinse and arrange piles of uninspiring fruit and veg. We don’t get a lot of variety here – one type of lettuce, a couple of different types of apple, avocados with stones so big that there’s hardly any room for the green stuff. At an American Womens Association lunch recently, someone had grown their own rocket (arugula) and made a salad out of it, there was a stampede for it and we re still talking about it now.

I had just added the last piece of broccoli to my mountain of washed produce when my Portuguese teacher arrived for my hour of language tuition. She is a patient teacher and does her best to maintain a straight face as we all get to grips with her mother-tongue. I do my best to distract her from the text book by asking her about the people and culture of Angola. Once we ve exhausted that subject I distract her further by asking her about her mobile phone cover or from where she bought her shoes/earrings/top/pen/car. With practice I can shrink the actual Portuguese bit down to around 10 minutes. On very rare occasions I ve even managed to distract her for an entire hour, therefore not speaking a single word of portuguese. Of course this is a pointless exercise as learning this language would actually be a huge benefit. It just makes my brain ache when I try to recall things like the definite and indefinite object pronouns – I don’t even know what these are in English! I really must try harder – I ll add it to my list of New Year resolutions along with drinking more water and being nicer to my husband.

As I type this I can hear the local nightclub firing up its speakers ready for a night of ‘duff, duff, duff, duff’. The real racket will start in the next hour or so and continue until 5 or 6 in the morning. Sometimes the base is so loud that the pictures on the walls rattle and the glasses move around in the cupboards. Luckily, the air conditioning in our bedroom is old and noisy which helps to drown out the words and some of the base. Sometimes I lie in bed listening to the beat through my pillow and fantasising about hijacking a big yellow JCB from the area next to the club and driving it onto the dance floor and over the speakers.

Loud music isn’t exclusive to this particular nightclub but is enjoyed by Angolans everywhere. From weddings to children’s parties, all the locals seem determined to make themselves and their neighbours stone deaf before they’re 40. After a children’s party once, my daughter told me that she could feel the beat from the Disney tunes ‘in her chest’. I should consider putting ear defenders on my Christmas list. Not only do I really enjoy getting into bed every night (it NEVER gets boring), I also really enjoy silence. With three small children, silence is a luxury and something that seems particularly rare in Angola.

On that note, I better get into my R.E.M stage before they crank up the decibels. Good night Mum.

Lost in translation

It was another hot and sticky day in our corner of Africa today so a swim with my training buddy (H) seemed like a good idea. I rode our school bus to the International School with the kids and deposited everyone at their respective classrooms before hopping onto a different school bus for a ride to another compound to use their pool.

When we first arrived in Angola, in a vague attempt to maintain my swimming fitness, I spent some time looking for swimming pools. Finding suitable swimming facilities in Luanda was and still is challenging. The pool on my own compound is more for recreation and, when the local amphibians aren’t spawning in it, can be a great spot for a refreshing dip if you ignore the spawn and other small pond life. If I swim diagonally I can get a 20 metre length but its not ideal. I ve tried swimming in the 50 m pool that Luanda (surprising) has but its a drive through heavy traffic and, as my maid informed me, has been the sight of lots of drownings as it is deep and people jump in it without knowing how to swim. It was built some time ago and, as with so much in this city, has fallen into disrepair.

The pool that H and I are swimming in today is 25 m long, has no pond life that we can see (although the visibility is terrible) and has so far remained open. Unfortunately the pool tiles and grout are all the same colour which makes it difficult to distinguish where the walls are so we often swim into them. The water level is so low that the filters don’t filter anything. To compensate for this the maintenance men throw lots of strong chemicals in (often just as we are changing into our swimsuits). The smell of chlorine stays in my nostrils for most of the day. I am an (almost) natural brunette when I get in the pool and fully expect to be blonde by the time I ve completed my workout. The most disturbing characteristic of this particular pool, however, is the way that the dilapidated pool lights fall out of the walls and lie face-down on the bottom of the pool with the wires curling back into the sockets from which they fell. I ve never been comfortable with electricity and water in such close proximity so I always let H get in first.

I went for a mooch around the supermarket for a few items on the way back and was greeted by a row of newly stocked soy milk that has been unavailable for months. It was £5 ($8) a carton but when you re desperate for something you ll pay it – although I did see it for £12 ($18) in a shop recently but couldn’t bring myself to pay that much for a 1 litre carton of milk. I immediately claimed 30 cartons and may go back for more. I know it must be hard to understand my elation over soy milk but we all have things that are necessary to our happiness and this is mine. I intend to be reckless with it tomorrow and may  fill my cereal bowl to the brim to celebrate.

This afternoon DT and I had a game of ‘guess what DT is trying to tell me using my broken portuguese and sign language‘. My side of the conversation went like this:

“You have a problem with your face?”

“No? Oh, your eye, you have a problem with your eye”

“You have to go to the doctors tomorrow?, No, oh, now, you have to go to the doctors now”

“The doctor wants to operate? No, the doctor wants to just look at it”

“And you need to get a transfusion??? Oh you mean a prescription?”

This is the abridged version by the way. The actual conversation lasted much longer and I m still not entirely sure what she was saying.

Sometimes I use Google Translate when I feel as though misinterpretation could lead to someone getting hurt or me having to pay someone a lot of money. It’s translation accuracy is not always reliable. Recently, DT told me that one of her family members was sick and did I have any appropriate medication that she could take to them. I felt that it was important to determine the exact nature of the complaint before I rummidged around in the medicines cabinet and prescribed something that might inadvertently kill them. I handed DT the keyboard and she typed in the medication, in portuguese, that she needed. When I pressed ‘translate’ the translation read ‘Drugs for queers’. I paused for a moment and thought about where to go from there. Eventually I explained that the translation said ‘drugs for homosexuals’ at which she got very embarrassed and told me not to worry, she’d try the pharmacist instead. It turns out that her relative had a stomach ulcer and I don’t have anything for those anyway.

Most of the time she just laughs at my portuguese which isn’t very encouraging but I let her off as she spends so much of her time elbow deep in our dirty laundry.

I ll finish here as I want to go and enjoy a glass of my new soy milk.