Poo Detective...

I admit: I have one of the best jobs in the world. What other job allows you to spend the majority of your time colouring, dancing, laughing and playing?

When I arrive to my classes in the morning there is a small stampede of 2-4 year olds yelling my name and throwing themselves at my legs. Crouching down to greet them is a health hazard and not recommended for those who would like to escape unscathed.

I am pretty sure no one else gets a greeting that epic when they arrive at their workplace. Unless of course they work with dogs or monkeys, which I assume would be comparable.

If I am away for a few days, they miss me, well, sometimes I think the younger ones actually forget who I am, but the older ones, they miss me.

Working with children makes you realize how guileless we started out. They don't pretend to like you if they don't, they don't pretend to listen if they're not, if you suggest something that they don't want to do they'll just say 'no'. They are also completely unashamed, they'll pick their nose in front of you, tell you exactly what they are going to do in the bathroom and break wind during a conversation without so much as a blink. Somewhere along the line as we grow up these things become (thankfully) inappropriate.

But, they are not all sunshine and lollipops.

Enter, the poo detective.

What is a poo detective one may ask. Well, let me clarify. Sometimes when you are doing said colouring, you catch a whiff of something, it's faint and unpleasant, but unmistakable. Realization dawns on you and now you must identify the perpetrator. But which child is it? And how do you figure it out?

Well, you have to smell it out. This consists of feigning interest in a child's artwork as you casually smell them for clues. Once you discover the culprit, you have to wait a moment and then smell again, because at this point you may just be a flatulence detective. And if there is one thing that is worse than being a poo detective it's realizing that you are intentionally inhaling someone else's fart.

Children are usually pretty good at potty training after 2 1/2 years, which is around when they start at preschool, but every now and again if they are stressed out or overly excited - say when it snows - there are calamities.

The worse case yet ended up with some in his hair.

How?!?

So when people tell me they are so jealous of my job and wish they could be a kindergarten teacher, I just smile, because they clearly don't know the half of it.

Smoking, Beer and Dogs

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship going on with Czech pubs.

Love, because first and for most beers generally cost between $1.30 to $1.80 - and good beer at that. This is a country known for their beer, and with good reason, their first brewery opened in 1118, so they have had time to perfect the art.

There's even a microbrewery in Prague that doubles as a monastery. Documentation of the monks of Strahovský Klášter brewing their own beer have cropped up since as early as the turn of the 13th and 14th centuries when there were actually two breweries in the monastery. Although the tradition stopped in 1907, it was restored and reopened in 2000. As far as I understand it is no longer the monks doing the brewing, none the less it's still pretty uniquely European to enjoy a pint at a Monastic Brewery.

So you can understand why the Czech Republic has the highest beer consumption per capita in the world. The annual average per person is 158.6 liters, to put that in to perspective that's 27.5 liters higher than Ireland. Who knew that ANYONE could drink more than the Irish?

The next best thing about Czech pubs? Fried Cheese.

Fried Cheese can be purchased and eaten as a meal without facing judgement from calorie counting waitresses. Wer'e not even talking mozza sticks, but more along the lines of an entire block of cheese, breaded and fried and then served with some variation of potatoes. Which I am not gonna lie is pretty magnificent.

Czech food isn't exactly unrivaled, with not a lot of variation from meat (most often pork) and dumplings with a pile of cabbage forever looming on the side of each plate. Traditional Czech food is centered around meat and starch, with vegetables being a very secondary concern. In fact, I think Fried Cheese may be the only vegetarian option on most Czech menus. I once ordered a tomato salad and literally received a bowl full of tomatoes, nothing else, just tomatoes. A well balanced meal is of little concern over here. But they do have a few scrumptious meals, which I may even miss once I leave including Bramborák (potato pancakes) and Svíčková (marinated beef sirloin served with a vegetable sauce, dumplings, cream and a small dollop of cranberry sauce).

To top it all off, most pubs and restaurants are dog friendly. How great is that? And there doesn't even appear to be a size restriction. My friend's Weimaraner, a dog that rivals me in size, has tagged along with us to various posh establishments.

So how can one hate these pubs? They offer great beer for a ridiculously cheap fare, while your dog lounges at your feet and you munch away on an entire block of cheese. Well the answer lies in the cigarettes.

Now I suppose if you are a smoker this may seem great, as the world quickly decreases the amount of countries which allow smoking in public places. But for non smokers, the dark murkiness dominating Czech bars is offensive at best.

Without fail I leave smelling like a chain smoker and wake up with a sore throat to match. And in a country that seems to have politely ignored the invention of the dryer, the only option is to either hang your clothes somewhere where fresh air will pass through them for at least a day or to spray them with artificial chemical scents.

The only regulation on smoking in restaurants, pubs and bars is a sticker on the front door, indicating that they are one of three options: A non smoking bar (about as rare as a sensible Herman Cain quote). A smoking bar (read smoking den where identifying people at other tables is an issue because of the haze) or they have separate areas for smoking or non smoking, which is rather pointless without physical barriers so it's more of an imaginary separation.

The Czech Republic is a far way off from having a proper smoking ban. In fact as far as I can tell though many European countries claim publicly to have smoking bans it's about as ridiculous as the countries that claim to be democratic by adding the word Democratic to their name...(Democratic People's Republic of Korea, Democratic Republic of Congo...the list goes on.)

So to get that delicious beer at a Czech pub you've just got to suck it up, quite literally. Because the prospect of change is a gloomy one when it comes to smoking laws.

Saint Mikuláš (like Santa if he went to jail first)

First, imagine Santa if he stopped eating all those cookies and chose skim over whole milk, wore a red bishop hat and robes, walked with a staff and hung out with an angel and the devil.

Now imagine, his job instead of flying around in a magical little sleigh judging children was to instead rock up in person at said children's houses and schools, with much graver consequences to a not so good year than a couple lumps of coal, like say, being put in a bag and taken to Hell with the devil. Wait. What?

I present to you, Saint Mikuláš (pronounced Mikulaash), the beloved saint celebrated on December 5th.

Now, according to a few of my Czech friends, in their parent's era Mikuláš did in fact pass off the bad kids to his buddy the devil who promptly put them in a bag and pretended he was going to take them to hell or mildly beat them.

Well, I don't know about you but I know that would have been a way more efficient bedtime story for me as a child than the whole Santa Claus bit. 'Be good or some old man will leave you coal in the living room' versus 'Be good or we'll let the devil take you without ransom'. Ours is clearly lacking the fear element.

But alas things have progressed, and with the prospect of putting children in bags to be carted off to Hell being looked down on as a somewhat cruel practice, the devil now only gives you a stern talking to and shakes his chains. Slightly anti-climactic if you ask me, though still more fear inducing than Santa.

The Czechs aren't the only ones who let people cart off their children, apparently the Dutch Sinterklaas had a somewhat similar gig although your final destination was Spain as a slave as opposed to Hell. And Sinterklaas comes with reinforcement, Zwarte Pieten, a group of black men, now called 'helpers' but formerly referred to as 'slaves', a tradition that is only now starting to be questioned with concerns about the racist content.

So if this all happens at the beginning of December, then who brings the gifts on Christmas? Surely not your parents. I found the answer to this question last year from a conversation with one of the 5 year olds at the kindergarten, Tomáš, he was playing with a new toy and I had asked him passingly who had given it to him, mum? Dad? Grandparents, maybe?

None of the above.

'Ježíšek.' Translate: Baby Jesus.

Come again?

The absurdity of this is not even that a baby somehow navigates his way around the world dropping off gifts (which clearly an old man in a flying sled led by migratory mammals could reasonably achieve), but that the good people of the Czech Republic are getting gifts from a religious icon that they don't believe in. They proudly boast to anyone who will listen that they are the least religious country in Europe.

So are they duplicitous or are they simply being advantageous?

The picture above was taken at the kindergarten during last year's Mikuláš celebration (2010).

Climbing Nut (August 2009)

'What are some traditional ways to celebrate Indonesian Independence Day?' I asked my students.
 

I was teaching an IELTS preparation class, (IELTS is an exam that allows universities and colleges to confirm that all international students have adequate English skills to succeed in their courses prior to acceptance), though most of these students could read and write effortlessly they were ordinarily too shy to speak so we often spent at least half an hour discussing random topics using comfortable subjects for them and with Indonesian Independence Day coming up I figured it could double as a lesson for me on traditional ways to celebrate.
 

I leaned back against the board expecting answers along the lines of: 'We spend time with family' or 'We eat traditional foods and sing songs'. So when one student answered:

'We climb up a palm tree to get prizes from the top.' I stared blankly. I thought maybe I had misheard him, but he went on, 'they grease the trunk and put prizes at the top.'

I couldn't help it, I was intrigued. 'What kind of prizes...?'

'Big stuff, like....televisions!'

'And bicycles!', added another eager student.

'And refrigerators', put in one of the quieter ones.

'Wait. What? No...'
 

I started to shake my head, this couldn't be right, I was sure something was being lost in translation. I mean how on earth would one get a refrigerator UP a palm tree, let alone balance it there? Not to mention that climbing a palm tree seemed hard enough without lubricating the trunk of it.

But they all nodded while I continued to stare at them perplexed. I slowly turned to the board and drew a picture of a palm tree, it wasn't a very good one, more like something a 4 year old would draw, but it was obvious enough and they all nodded that yes that was in fact a palm tree. These weren't children, these were adults, adults who spoke English better than some native English speakers, of course that's not saying a lot when you consider how some native speakers mutilate the language. But still. Greased up trees with fridges at the top?
 

'But without the leaves.' They suggested examining my poor illustration.
 

So I turned back to the board and rubbed the leaves off with my hand and drew a bike at the top. They snickered a bit but they continued nodding. I had the sneaking suspicion that they were pulling one over on me. It didn't seem plausible to expect people to shimmy up booby trapped tree to retrieve prizes, even if it was a bike. But then images of Japanese and American game shows played in my mind and I came to the conclusion that people the world over will do daft things for very little incentive.
 

After class I decided to google this supposed tradition and as it turns out as absurd as it sounds, it's real. “Panjat Pinang” is the official name and the literal translation is 'Climbing Nut', which makes sense in more ways than one, since you are voluntarily climbing a greasy tree to remove heavy objects and that said tree just so happens to be a nut tree.
 

The tradition has controversial roots since it was started by the Dutch during colonial times, when they would erect greased up poles with food or clothes atop them in villages and laugh at the impoverished locals as they tried to climb up to retrieve the goods.
 

But it seems the Indonesians have managed to change a demeaning practice in to a community building game. Since it is virtually impossible for one person to complete the task alone a group of men work together like an all male cheerleading team forming human pyramids while a boy climbs to the top to remove the objects which are shared amongst the participants. The boy part makes sense in that he is not heavy, but very little sense when you try to imagine a child lifting a fridge. Maybe not the most well thought out plan. I wonder what the fatality rate is from falling appliances?

Perhaps a new way to celebrate Canada Day? Though I am still not sure of the logistics of a communal fridge...

I apparently value my life at or around $100 (March 2010)

The price difference had it been North America, would have been nothing. If we had been living outside of this bizarre cheap realm of backpackers we would have laughed at our pettiness. But when you are a backpacker every dollar counts. A dollar in SE Asia could mean a meal or half of your nights accommodation. A dollar at home doesn't even get you something from a dollar store. And so to save around $100 we risked our lives on a bus journey from Sapa, Vietnam to Luang Prabang, Laos.

Day 1 (6am-ish)

We were told to meet at the travel agency, where we had purchased our tickets, at 6am. Brittany was running late, so Janet and I had gone for breakfast and were waiting for her at the travel agency. She showed up around 615 and there was still no sign of a bus. Eventually a man on a motorcycle appeared to take us down to the bus stop (this was news since we thought we were at the bus stop. I am not blessed with the skill of estimating distances, so I will just say we were about 5km away and potentially be incredibly incorrect). This seemed like an interesting twist to the plot and I was trying to determine how exactly one man on a small motorbike was going to get three woman AND their bags anywhere, but my question was quickly answered as I realized we were to be ferried one by one on the back of the bike, without helmets clinging to our bags down the windy, hilly streets of Sapa to where our bus would eventually rock up to take us to the border. The bus took it's sweet time in arriving and every time anything resembling a bus approached we would look at the motorcycle driver (who luckily hadn't abandoned us yet) expectantly as locals would pile on and wait for a signal. He spoke minimal English and us even less Vietnamese so the entire operation was run in over exaggerated body movements that made it look like we were part of an ill advised dance group with no music.

 

Eventually a rusty, dirty looking bus crowded with locals in full hill tribe getup and regular street clothes alike, pulled up. He gave us a smile and a nod and our bags were tossed in the compartment below while we were herded in to the bus with some chickens and one other foreigner.

 

Our bus bumped and slid along a 'road' (for lack of a better term), teetering on some very steep ledges while locals literally jumped on and off the bus. South East Asians seem to have a knack for jumping in and out of moving vehicles, in all my many bus rides the driver seemed to do no more than slow down to allow for people to jump off along the way, unless it's lunchtime or the final destination, then and only then will they come to a complete stop. It's like a hop on, hop off system, where you are actually required to have hopping skills, more commonly referred to as 'Tuck and Roll'.

 

Around noon we stopped for lunch and a squat break at a, I would say restaurant, but you would picture something completely wrong. Imagine a dirt floor, some plastic chairs, a menacing gang of flies and about 4 mystery choices for lunch behind unrefrigerated glass. That's probably a more accurate portrayal. The squat was potentially the most vile smelling outhouse I have ever entered, and so I will spare you the details.

 

After lunch we were hustled back on to the bus and continued our journey towards the border town of Dien Bien Phu.

 

We arrived after dinner sometime and along with Jared, an American, and a British couple we had picked up along the way, we began our search for accommodation. Eventually we found one that was inconveniently equipped with a lot of stairs. A sadistic amount of stairs. You try carrying a bag that weighs the same amount as an obese midget and you will understand our dislike of inclines and stairs alike.

 

The couple were clearly given the honeymoon suite, though it was never officially stated it was evident in the romantic decor, literally decorated with hearts, provocatively placed mirrors and a picture of a scantily clad man and woman with a caption that read “Get Well Soon”.

 

Day 2 (530am-ish)

Another dark early morning spent heading to a bus station. There wasn't any time to buy snacks for the ride but we were told that we would be stopping for lunch around noon and besides most buses stop every few hours for necessary things like toilet breaks and fuel, which is retrospect, I have no idea where they got gas from since we never stopped for either gas or toilets, unless you count the toilets at the prison (more on that later).

 

The 'bus' was a 15 person van smaller than whatever the PC word is now for a short bus, and it was definitely already full when the 6 of us came trotting up with our tickets in hand. In fact it already looked MORE than full, with people squeezed uncomfortably between seats, bodies and bags.

Backpacks were piled high on top of the van making it about the size of a really big wooly mammoth, if wooly mammoths were as tall as they are in my head, not scientifically speaking. Our backpacks wouldn't fit on top of the van so they were ceremoniously shoved through open windows (think Winnie the Pooh post honey binge) on to unsuspecting passengers heads and then dropped on to the floor where people without seats perched on top of them like a group of hens warming their eggs.

Slowly but surely everyone was piled in to the van. Until I stepped forward. I was the last one up to the door and the man running the show looked at me and said 'No room' and then pointed at the roof.

Um, not likely.

 

I looked at him defiantly, there was no bloody way in hell I was going to ride precariously perched on top of this disaster through the Laos highlands. I paid for a seat and since it didn't look like I would be having what you would traditionally refer to as a seat, I would at least be riding inside of this death trap. 'You' I said and pointed at the roof then pushed past him and in to the bus. Apparently a lack of food and the suggestion of making me pay to ride on the exterior of a vehicle was enough to bring out the rude in me. You really do learn your boundaries while travelling.

I found a small space between the drivers seat and the first row of seats and made my best effort to be comfortable while assuming a position similar to a groundhog checking for his shadow. At some point the woman next to me fell asleep with her head of my shoulder.

And so Day 2 began with 30 passengers. 15 people over capacity.

 

30 people inside of a small bus is hot, even with the windows open, which they weren't on this bus because of the dust on the non-road that we were taking, even with pretend air-conditioner, which no one could feel. But add to that we stopped every couple of kilometers to pick up more passengers and it gets even hotter.

 

By the time we were a couple kilometers from the border we were up to 36 people. A comfortable 21 people over capacity. Food and water were running scarce and we had yet to have a pee/food break. The bus ground to a halt and they asked us all to kindly remove ourselves and walk the remaining couple of kilometers to the Laos checkpoint because the road was too bad to take the van.

 

Don't ask me how the bus/van got over the border, it simply disappeared on one side and reappeared on the other. We, however marched in sandals, over jagged rocks and dusty potholes in 35+ degree weather like a group of refugees looking for a settlement.

 

The Laos checkpoint was a small cinder block building in the middle of nowhere. Literally. The. Middle. Of. Nowhere. There was absolutely nothing on either side. Just dust, trees and a few stray dogs. The only reason we knew we were there is because there was a sign.

 

Approximately 2 hours after we were marched over the border and left to bake in the sun we were again reloaded on to the bus, this time, with two MORE people. There was a collective protest from all the passengers to no avail. Our count was now up to a very intimate 38 people.

 

As we were leaving the border sometime around noon, we inquired as to how much longer we would need to suffer without some form of food, he responded convincingly that it would only be about 'half an hour, maybe', which tamed us only a little. An hour later we stopped, but not for lunch. We stopped because there was 'road' construction, I suppose that means that one day there will really be a road? I would say it's a pretty preemptive title at this point.

 

We were told that we would have to wait 'Two hours' before we would be able to pass (the 'road' that we were on was only 'one lane' wide, the other 'lane' a sharp drop off, so we literally had no choice but to wait). TWO HOURS? What were we going to do here for two hours? There wasn't even any shade! We sat in the dust and accepted our fate, our will being broken down slowly but surely, and were thankfully loaded back in the bus less than an hour later.

 

Another hour passed and people were really taking on the sad, desperate look of third world prisoners. People shared the last of their biscuits and water with what this morning were strangers but were now cellmates in our small prison van, our throats all dry from dust and complaining, and our stomachs empty and protesting.

 

Later (not sure how much later)

More road construction. Again, we were told '2 hours' and everyone piled out. At least this time there was shade. In fact this time there was more than shade, there was a building! A building with a toilet! And where there's a toilet there may be a food vendor! It turns out that there was no food vendor because the building turned out to be a rehab center for meth addicts/prison, hidden away in a very remote part of the Laos highlands. But beggars can't be choosers, and so we quite happily used the prison squats and hid in the shaded eating area (what do they eat? grass?), avoiding the unhappy stares that came through barred windows, what an odd sight we must have been for them, a group of foreigners and locals alike stopping to use prison toilets and chill on the patio, until around 45 minutes later when we were called back to the bus, leaving the real prison for our metaphorical one.

Two of the passengers, an American woman and a Canadian man, had decided to walk ahead of the bus. They only had small day packs with them so they took those with them for supplies. The plan was that they would walk along the road until the bus came by and picked them up. Well, we drove and we drove, but we never saw either the man or the woman, ever again. For all I know they are still wandering the Laos highlands.

 

And then we were 36 again and quietly a little bit happy about the extra room. That's where we were. We were in to offing people to make room for our legs.

 

Sometime after 6pm, more than 12 hours after we originally set off.

We finally stopped for food. There was no toilet but that was ok because few people had to relieve themselves since we were all extremely dehydrated by that point, none of us having prepared to pass an entire day without stopping to drink, pee or eat.

 

We were at what I would call a shop, though I am still to this day not sure whether it was a shop or this woman's home where we literally bought her food supply for the village from her in her candle lit (because there is no power in small rural villages) house. But we bought nearly all of it, dry raman noodles, stale shrimp chips and flat expired pops, and piled back in the bus for the last leg of the journey.

 

A couple hours later, time unknown

A couple of locals had hopped out using their tuck and roll skills to make quick exits in small villages along the way, so we were down to a more reasonable 32 by the time we reached either a flooded road or potentially a river. The bus stopped and they told us all to get out. Once again a collective protest came from the prisoners of the evil bus. Our tickets were supposed to get us all the way to there. Not to the edge of some shite river in the dark about half an hour away from our actual destination. Besides the bus driver had managed to drive through at least 2 rivers that day, what's one more?

 

Once again our whining got us nowhere and we were forced to topple in to small unbalanced boats that took us across what I am assuming was a flooded street. Of course this came at a cost.

Upon arrival on the other side of the river/street we were taken in small pickups, at another additional cost, to Udomxai. I am not sure how it happened but I ended up squeezed in the cab of the truck with about 6 locals, while the remainder of the foreigners rode on the bed of the truck. Everyone was freezing. The mix of cold night air and wind had us all shivering (they kept the window open in the cab of the truck so we weren't exempt from the cold) for the entire ride. Roast during the day and then freeze at night. Lovely.

 

(somewhere around 10pm-11pm-ish)

We finally arrived in Udomxai, shockingly still alive though about 5 pounds lighter each through loss of fluids and lack of food, but considering the journey people were in relatively good moods, survivors triumph I suppose.

 

The following morning we would embark on yet another bus journey in order to get to Luang Prabang.

 

Day 3

We woke up and headed to the bus station early where we saw the most glorious sight. A proper bus, with real seats and air-conditioning. Even though this bus was only going to be about two hours we all stocked up on extra provisions for our trip like we were planning for Armageddon and ate huge filling meals from the food carts. Of course since we were prepared this time, our bus was nothing short of fantastic, we even left and arrived on time.

 

All to save a little bit of money. At least we made it, at least we aren't those two people potentially still wandering the Laos highlands.

 

*the first image is our bus from Dien Bien Phu, taken by Jared Boone, the second image is from the first 'road closure' where Janet shared her meager rationings with me, taken by Janet Foo*

Pregnant and Trashy in the Czech Republic (Feb 2011)

I woke up 10 minutes before I had to leave the house, well I suppose I woke up 25 minutes before, but I continued to hit snooze until there was physically no way I could get ready in less time and be socially acceptable. I move relatively quickly in the morning, and 10 minutes is just enough to get the basics done: dress, brush teeth, deodorant, hair up, no makeup, hat, gloves, scarf, boots, and pathetic run to the bus. Most days I at least manage mascara but I figured that the only people who were really going to see me were children and none of them are going to judge me if I don't bring my A-game.
After my first class, I sat with the kids while they ate their breakfast, out of pure laziness really, plus their breakfast looked delightful, some sort of bread with apples and cinnamon in it. Each kid that was expected to be there had a place set for them at the table, two kids had yet to show. I had already eaten breakfast but was hoping that at least one of the kids was sick so I could eat theirs. As luck would have it, one boy was absent, so I happily ate his breakfast.
The other kid showed up around the end of breakfast with her mum who chatted away with Petra, one of the Czech teachers. They looked at me and I smiled, cheeks full of delicious bread, I can't speak Czech and essentially only know words which are not appropriate in mentally sound conversations (sit, stay, poo etc.), so I tend to smile a lot and have the distinct impression that some people think I am dim, I imagine this comes from smiling at the wrong times and saying yes to things that are not yes or no questions. In any case the conversation turned to me, which is always an unsettling experience when you are apart of a conversation where you have no idea what is going on.
Petra said that the aforementioned mum had a question for me, she explained that the mum owned a shop and was wondering if I could model some clothes for her after work. The question caught me off guard, to be honest I didn't even know that mothers name, let alone her profession, plus I looked like I had been hit by a bus on my way to work, but in any case to refrain from being rude I said yes. Petra told her I would do it and then turned back to me and explained that I would be modelling pajamas. I don't know about you, but I think that sounds like the grounds for a cheap backroom porno and I was suddenly very hesitant as to what I had gotten myself in to. The mother was now gesturing towards my chest with a look of disdain, a shocking charade I could understand even through the language barrier. Petra continued her translation and nonchalantly explained that the mother would like to know if I had a push up bra, a very odd question to ask your child's Kindergarten teacher one would think, I shook my head apologetically. The only plus to this question was that a bra would evidently be required which was definitely a step in the right direction.
I managed to coax Lisa in to coming with me. Lisa has been working in the Czech Republic for two years and has been dating a Czech guy nearly the entire time she has been here, so she can understand quite a bit of Czech and has the ability to at least speak somewhat coherently as opposed to my demented child blabber.
So after work we wandered down to what turned out to be a tacky photo shop, decorated beautifully with framed photos of topless and scantily clad women. I was once again overcome with the feeling that I had been cast in something much more scandalous than is within the realm of appropriate for a Kindergarten teacher. Lisa and I shyly walked in not wanting to comment in fear that someone may understand English, we later discovered this was an empty fear and were able to speak to each other quite candidly throughout the entire loss of my dignity, if the other two girls (actual models, not just random teachers) spoke English they did a fabulous job of hiding it.
I was abruptly told to take off my shirt and jeans, and was handed a strap on maternity belly and a pair of maternity pants. I stared at them in shock, this was not exactly the welcome I had been expecting. I suddenly realized this may actually be worse than a backroom porno. I looked at Lisa who looked to be very thankful that she had not been the teacher stealing absent children's breakfasts that morning.
There's no turning back now I thought as I stared at the nude coloured lumpy fabric in my hand. Now call me a prude if you will, but I am not generally in the habit of hanging out in my bra and panties in front of complete strangers so I asked if there was a bathroom and was hastily pointed in the right direction. I went in a 25 year old woman and came out looking like a knocked up teen from Alabama.
For around an hour I was subjected to modeling maternity shirts in cheesy department store catalogue poses in front of a tie dye background while Lisa translated directions given to me in Czech ('Turn to the other side, touch your hair' 'But it's in a ponytail!?' '...act normal...' 'Normal? How am I supposed to act normal with a fake baby strapped to my stomach?' at which point she would laugh the dodged bullet laugh of someone simply observing the spooky situation instead of actively participating). Surprisingly the shirts were for the most part actually quite nice and I figured that Petra must have been wrong about the type of clothes. I counted to Lisa the amount of shirts left in the pile, signifying how long until we could get out of this outlandish situation and home for some much deserved dinner.
Just when we thought it was about to end they opened a new bag and I discovered where they had been hiding the much dreaded pajamas. The bag was approximately the same size as a hockey bag, and if you don't know how big that is, imagine a hockey player in a bag, about that big. And it was full of hideousness. I mean Full. To. The. Brim. with white trash pajamas. Things that would have been considered cute in the early 90's when nothing that we wore should have been considered cute were hiding in this bag eager to reemerge in to the world after laying dormant for nearly 20 years. And I was about to be not only photographed wearing these monstrous outfits with a maternity belly strapped to me, but these photos were going to make their way to the most unforgiving place in the world. The internet. A place where nothing is lost forever, least of all incriminating photos. Good thing I am not considering a career in politics, because the opposition would have a hay day with these glamourous shots.
I stared in utter disbelief at humungous t-shirt nighties with cartoon animals and hearts printed on them and realized that in the backroom of a creepy photo shop in the Czech Republic was where pajamas and my dignity had come to simultaneously die. Lisa literally could not look at me without having to stifle a laugh. I looked about 5 months pregnant and was wearing a giant grey t-shirt with Dalmatians printed on it, I had on no makeup and had a messy ponytail, I looked straight at her and said 'It looks like I should have a bottle of cheap vodka in my hand' 'And a cigarette', she added, 'and a dirty child clinging on to my leg.' We both laughed. The mum looked up and through some misunderstanding I was then offered a shot of alcohol. I was pretty sure I would need half the bottle and felt trashy enough without actually adding a shot of cheap booze, so I politely declined.
Through some stroke of evil, things got worse. The nighties now had buttons down the front for breastfeeding, and I was expected to then unbutton the top and put my hands on my breast while looking in to my top pretending that my nipple was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen. This was definitely a new low. This had to end and soon.
After three painful hours, Lisa and I were finally able to communicate through broken Czech and hand gestures that we had to leave. I was handed the equivalent of about $30CDN, apparently the worth of my dignity, and sent merrily on my way. We made it approximately 5 steps from the closed doors of the creepy photo shop before we both burst out laughing. 'What the fuck just happened?' I shrieked. 'I have no idea.' she responded, laughing. 'My God. I need a beer.'
And thus my weirdest day in the Czech Republic came to a close with a well earned beer, a schnitzel and a very bizarre story.

You're moving where? Honestly. I don't know. (Oct 2010)

Well I suppose it's update time since when I left no one knew how long I was going for or for that matter where I was going - honestly I didn't even know...in fact I didn't know anything until Tuesday - as in yesterday. Before that I was very much on the brink of coming home, but alas randomness was (and probably still is) in my favour and so I will stay in Europe, but not even close to where I thought I was potentially going. And so the (lengthy) story goes...

What I really wanted was to live in the UK, which clearly the world did not want, from the moment I sent out my application for an Ancestry Visa, all hell broke loose. I had to make a trip to Vancouver, postpone my flight, have my fingerprints taken, assemble 1000 documents, train a monkey to do kung fu and pay ridiculous sums of money only to be rejected on the basis of applying with the 'wrong birth certificates'. Not that I sent someone elses, because that would be odd, but in Canada we (apparently) have two different birth certificates, a short form (the card that can't be laminated so mine is wrapped in Saran Wrap and Scotch Tape) and an elusive long form birth ceritifate that no one tells you about until you really need it. So I applied for mine and sent an appeal to the UK Border Agency.

Unsure of how long this would take, I rang up the Appeal Centre to get an estimate, the response?

'6 to 8 months.'

REALLY? 6-8 months? I could have a premature baby in that time. Clearly this entire operation is being run by the Government, because who else would take the gestation period of a reindeer to look at a piece of paper and determine that THEY had in fact issued it. To top it all off Visa Services doesn't have a phone number. Not just they are unlisted. They simply do not have a phone. Apparently they are operating in some sort of pre-Alexander Bell era where it is ok to only respond via telegraphs and carrier pigeons.

So my choices were: postpone my flight until an undetermined date and not make my goal of reaching 25 countries by the time I turned 25 (which at this point was a week and a half away and I only needed 2 more countries to make it) and pay an additional £100 or I could say stuff it and go, reach my goal and see what happened.

My decision was made on Thursday and Monday I set off for Seattle. Upon arrival in the UK I was detained at Immigration and put in a little roped off square of shame which was mostly filled with refugees, criminals...and me, all because of my as of yet failed application for a UK visa, when they finally let me go, 2 hours later, I had to run to the train and then to the bus, which I very nearly missed, to get to Leeds where I would visit my friend Charlie & her family.

My week in Leeds was fabulous, Charlie's family was wonderful, I got to go to a wedding, visit York and eat at a Jamie Oliver restaurant. The only downfalls during that week were that my visa card was 'comprimised' and then cancelled, followed by the buttons on my phone refusing to work (which ultimately means I am carrying around a phone to look cool...one step further than Visa Services I might add).

A couple days in to my England trip I received an email from my mum saying that Visa Services had overturned the decision on my appeal and just needed me to send my passport to Ottawa...well that was all well and good except I needed it to fly to Denmark so I could go to Sweden (where I would stay with another friend and visit both Denmark and Sweden completing my 25 by 25 goal), and so I assumed (wrongly) that I would just send my passport back to Canada after I arrived in Sweden, they'd put the pretty little visa in it and then I'd be off to the UK to work.

I was separated from my passport for exactly one month.

At some point during that month they decided to tell me (which was very kind of them since they didn't find it in their interest to correspond with me very often) that I couldn't have the visa because I was outside of Canada.

Fine. Whatever. I give up, just send me my passport back.

But due to the fact that they operate with the speed and efficiency that one can only expect from a government agency I did not hear back about my passport until Monday morning. As in Monday October 19th (I sent it to them on September 22).

At this point I couldn't find a country where I could get a visa without returning to Canada and I was quickly running out of money because Sweden is expensive, like $21 for a dish towel expensive. So I decided that it was time to get over it and go home.

But, life had different plans for me....

Last Thursday I got an email in my junk box about a job in the Czech Republic teaching Kindergarden (I had signed up months ago to receive updates regarding job postings for Europe, but as of yet, none that I could actually apply for) so I figured 'why not?' and sent in my resume.

The next day I got an email saying that I was one of their favourite applicants (they actually wrote that. Favourite.)  so if I could please complete a two page application form and make a small (humiliating) video clip of me introducing vocabulary to children (that I don't have) and post it on YouTube (where the whole world could view it) they would set me up for an interview via skype.

I did everything they asked and sent it all Monday morning. Interviewed with them Monday afternoon and was offered a job on Tuesday. They asked me to start ASAP so my mum FedExed my passport to me and booked my flight (I couldn't because of the whole visa card drama. She's pretty great like that.) So I fly Friday morning for Prague! What? Seriously. I know. I am moving to a city called Liberec (which I had never heard of until yesterday) but it has a hockey team and I'll be working at a Kindergarten.

And so this next part of what can only be described as an adventure begins! It will probably take me awhile to motivate myself to sit down and write a long update such as this one...and half of you probably didn't even make it to the end because it is closer to a short novel than an appropriated lengthed update...but a sequel will come eventually.

The end of my Jakarta life ( Dec 2009)

One year that I have lived in this crazy country How on earth do I sum it up?

I think I will actually miss "the big durian" (guide books tell you that this is a nickname for Jakarta, though I have never heard it used, it fits...and anyone who knows what a Durian smells like has an idea of just how lovely Jakarta is to the nasal senses...a mixture of rotting garbage, smokey satay and fried foods, plus the added unidentifiable but powerful smells which emit from the river on hot days (which is every day), mix that together with the fumes from the bajaj's and millions upon millions of motorcycles and you have a very unique smell....unique is perhaps a euphemism). But smell aside, durians are an acquired taste like Jakarta, something you either love or you hate. I honestly think they taste like rotting garbage where others consume such products as durian ice cream and durian creme-brulee of their own freewill... In any case it's an intriguing and obtrusive fruit that could double as a medieval weapon.

What better way to roughly sum up a year in this city than the good, the bad and the ugly:

The good:

• The people are incredibly nice and very helpful, if you look lost for even a minute you can be sure that someone will try to help you, whether or not their directions are correct is another matter in itself...but the thought is there.
• The food is yummy and cheap; luckily for me one of the teachers I work with is married to a very sweet Indonesian woman who has taught me how to make varied dishes so that I can continue to eat the food, even if wherever I am next doesn't have an Indonesian restaurant (or any Indonesians for that matter).
• The language is actually quite beautiful and not at all like a typical Asian language in that it is written in the latin alphabet, I have managed to learn a small amount and can carry simple conversations without sounding like an asylum escapee.
• The storms! There are tons of storms with lightning, thunder and monsoons! Especially during the rainy season (which is literally half the year)...I refer to it as: 'rain like in the movies!' And I don't care how many floods it causes, I still want to twirl an umbrella and hang off lamp posts when it happens, although the rats swimming by quickly deter you from spending too much time in it.
• The geckos, because they eat mosquitoes and make funny noises.
• 'Hey Mister'...depending on my mood. It will definitely be nice to walk down the street anonymously again, but I will miss being a celebrity. I suppose I would feel more strongly about this one if I had any complexes about my appearance...the suggestion that you are male is merely a misunderstanding as opposed to a reference to any androgynous features you may or may not have. I hope...
• Being told I am beautiful by strangers even when I look like a hobo or have recently been run over by a car. This is the place for Westerners in need of an ego boost. The line is thin though, they can also be very blunt and will make comments like "Your nose... It's like Pinocchio" (said to a fellow teacher) and "Miss, you look dirty" (when I came back from holiday with a tan). But Westerners like to look 'dirty' while Indonesians like to use creams that give them complexions comparable to Michael Jackson's ethnic transition stage.

The bad and the ugly....as I was writing these I realized that they fit together:

• The litter, the pollution, the over packaging of every single thing that you buy. They literally give you your drink at a fast food restaurant in a plastic bag. That's right , the one in a cup with a lid that accidentally pops off all the time...the one that is designed like that because it is consumed right away and doesn't NEED a bag. This place is Al Gore's worst nightmare.
• The taxi drivers that have no idea where anything is, even within a six block radius. In London, taxi drivers have to pass 'the Intelligence' to be able to drive people around, here you just need to steal a car and demand money from strangers for getting them lost.
• The people that try to rip you off because they assume that you are rich because you are white...although sometimes it's fun to pretend to be rich and try on designer clothes and jewellery...why yes, of course I can afford this $20,000 necklace...
• The cockroaches!!! All of them, the ones outside that chase you down the street, the ones in the cutlery drawer, the ones in the bathroom in the middle of the night that run at your feet, the one under my bed wielding a knife, the ones that I have to catch strategically with a bowl and a piece of paper, because I still can't bring myself to kill them, the ones that fly....I hate them all. Passionately.
• The rats!!! Why are they the same size as the cats??....and for that matter, why don't the cats have tails, where are their tails?? Why do the rats practice the Olympics within my walls? I also won't miss the potential of them getting in the house (or showing up unannounced in the kitchen, which has happened twice)...And I won't miss the bizarre bird-like noises that they make when I am trying to sleep.
• The mosquitoes...not only are there entire colonies of these miniature demons living in my house but there is also the added fun of potentially getting something exciting like Dengue Fever from them.
• The traffic - a distance of a few kilometers can often take an hour to get through. This even with all their strict traffic laws (HA!)...all Indonesian laws are more like guidelines (except their drug smuggling laws, for that they kill you. Literally.)...it depends on how much money you have as to which ones will apply to you.
• And forget walking because between the pollution and the large gaps in the sidewalk that drop in to open sewer, the sidewalk is as dangerous as swimming with hippopotamuses (which sounds fun till you read the stats. Hippos. Not as jolly as you would expect.)
• The corruption. Until I arrived here I had never been forced to pay a cop for no good reason. Scratch that. I had never bribed a cop, period. Though in saying that corruption has it's upside, I was able to score a goal in the national football stadium when it was closed and rode on the back of a police motorcycle with no helmet on just so that I could score points in a scavengar hunt. Try doing that in a country where you can't pay the police...
• The shoe marks on the toilet seat from people that stand on the toilets.
• The water all over the bathroom because someone was spastically using what I refer to as 'the bum spray'...I am sure there is a technical name for this device, but bum spray probably gives you a better visual. Think the spray tap you use to wash dishes but not for dishes...
• 'Indonesian time'...in short this means, slow and never on time. Unless of course you use a bribe...
• Indoor flooding! You can almost pretend you are outside on a rainy day with the leaks that have come through the roof...And outdoor flooding for that matter, a rat literally swam by our front door once...lovely.

But even with all it's craziness I still must admit that I love Indonesia, in fact that is what I love about Indonesia. I even hold a special little spot in my heart for Jakarta. I will definitely miss this country and of course it's people, who really make it what it is. I rant, but it is a special and very unique place and I am lucky to have had the chance to live here (even if it did cut a few years off my life and give me a voice that sounds like I am channeling Louis Armstrong).