Tulipgirl goes London

Africa for Obama

2009-02-03T13:09:00.005Z

Tuesday 20 January 2009

About 67 million people actually cast a ballot for him but for hundreds of millions more today is a historic day. He may have been voted President of the United States of America only but over here in Tanzania it certainly feels like Barack Obama has been anointed the leader of the united nations of Africa too. I can only imagine what it must be like in neighbouring Kenya but over here the Obama-mania is thick enough to cut with a knife. Everywhere you look you can see Obama bumper stickers, Obama shirts and shawls, and buses decorated with "yes, we can".

It is hard not to be swept away by all the enthusiasm and I too of course recognise the significance of this day. Rather than watch the inauguration ceremony all alone on CNN in my hotel room, I decide to join the crowds in the bar. Although there is still almost an hour to go before the supreme moment, it is already very crowded. I suddenly find myself wedged on a sofa between an American woman and her Tanzanian companion. The three of us each represent a different continent and we each have our own reasons to be excited by this moment but the feeling is equally intense in all of us. Together we watch the moment when Barack Obama is sworn in as the 44th president of the USA. Together we briefly draw our breath when it seems he stumbles over the most momentous words of his life. It is not until the next day—away from the bar clamour—that I learn the mistake was not his but was prompted by the bumbling Chief Justice. It does not matter. All this crowd cares about is that as of this moment Barack Obama is the new president; not just America's but Africa's too.

Return to the light

2009-02-03T10:59:00.006Z

Monday 19 January 2009

December is not my month. Call it holiday blues, call it winter depression, call it whatever you like but December just really is not my month. All I want to do is fast-forward the year to its inevitable conclusion and start fresh. January is better. Maybe it is the illusion of the blank slate, maybe it is the slow lengthening of the days but January inspires me to look forward rather than backward. Before me now is a new adventure: two weeks of field work in Tanzania. Over the next 14 days I will be working both in Dar es Salaam and in the Northern parts of the country.

I have been to Dar before—less than half a year ago—so naturally my arrival here has had a slight déjà-vu feel to it: the prerogative of the returning traveller. I am even staying at the same hotel I did last time and recognise some of the faces of people working here. The temperature is equally familiar. So near to the equator defining seasons as "winter" or "summer" is pointless. Strictly speaking I have moved from the European winter to an African summer but I can't really tell the difference with my last visit here when the situation was reversed. It was hot then as it is hot now.

After a productive first working day, I fall back into a routine I established during my previous visit and wash away the city dust in the hotel pool. After weeks of darkness and inactivity, I feel reinvigorated by the light and excitement. The new year is off to a good start.

Resuscitation

2009-02-03T10:30:00.005Z

For a variety of reasons this blog has been in deep hibernation for a while. In fact, I had every intention of letting it sleep all together after two years of service. However, over the last weeks and months several people have lamented this decision and have urged me to reconsider. It is for them that I will attempt to breathe some life into the old girl once more. Forgive her for waking up a bit groggy still.

Plenty of things have changed since my last post; even more things haven't. I am still living and working in Amsterdam though that situation is set to change before winter's end. Over the holiday season my suitcase has been sharing shelf space with this blog. The arrival of the new year, however, has had me dust it off to pack for Tanzania again. Although—as we say in Dutch—this might come a bit as "mustard after the meal", over the next few days I will attempt to share some of my experiences there with you in words and images.

We have a pulse...

My city secret

2008-11-10T19:47:00.005Z

My dear friend MyYear has tagged me through her blog to share my Amsterdam "city secrets" with the world. I have been thinking long and hard about this and have found it is not easy for me to come up with something.

When is a secret really a secret? It took me years of living in Amsterdam before I discovered that the nearby Park Frankendael is in fact a lovely place for a Sunday stroll. Most likely this was not a secret to all the other people in the Oost-Watergraafsmeer area but it was to me. I have not yet had a chance to eat there but the glass house based restaurant in the park was high on the list of potential party places for my thesis defense. Too bad that it would have shattered the glass ceiling on my budget. Is it a secret if that cute little Italian restaurant I like is often so full that there is barely a table available? And how could the country's most famous movie theatre qualify as a secret? No, many of my favourite places are no secrets.

The best places in this city for me are the best not by their virtue of being a secret but because of the memories I have there: that first-date café with a name that will certainly trip up anybody non-Dutch or non-sober, the dinner-and-a-movie place where my dad and I sat and talked for hours, the restaurant where a multi-national group of us played multi-lingual scrabble and of which I sadly was unable to commit the name to memory. None of these are secrets in the sense that they are little known must-go-to places. They are just part of the mosaic of my life in Amsterdam, the city I hold so dear. And that is no secret.

The Village Petstore and Charcoal Grill

2008-10-12T11:30:00.003+01:00

Guerilla artist Banksy strikes again with a wonderfully hilarious rendition of the relationship between animals and humans. A fake petshop in the Village in New York is full of weird "animals", such as fish fingers in a bowl, little baby chicken nuggets, and a family of hotdogs. Who knew a sausage could look so cute!

This little white rabbit is one of my favourites:

eXtremely dangerous

2008-10-10T08:04:00.003+01:00

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.

Lady of the Lake

2008-10-06T14:50:00.003+01:00

In a week's time I experienced the two extremes of the hospitality spectrum. On the one hand there was the Moscovian hotel that treated us like annoying nuisances with silly requests such as clean bedding and less than Arctic room temperatures. On the other hand there was the amazing service offered at last week's equally priced but far more comfortable Genevois hotel where WiFi, travel adaptors and even umbrellas were provided courtesy of the hotel. I was on a pelgrimage to this Mecca of global health for a project meeting. The wonderful hospitality was a great introduction to the city but hospitality alone is of course not enough. Geneva gets measured by a different yardstick. That is, the yardstick of "could-I-live-here?".

I was prepared to be a little depressed by Geneva. Several of my colleagues have lived there and had warned me that although "great for families with kids" the city is on the dull side. Fortunately, I found that although it may not have the buzz of London or Amsterdam, there is a lot to be said for this city. After having lived in London, the obvious pricyness of Geneva does not really scare me so much anymore. It is not just the hotel staff that is friendly and helpful either. It has been a while since I was anywhere where motorists stop to let a pedestrian cross without even an authorised crossing in sight! Sure, there are no canals but that lake is pretty impressive too! Cheese fondue is high on my list of favourite things to eat and best of all of course: o those mountains! As a self-professed snow-aholic the sight of snow on the mountains gets me pretty psyched up. It has been far too long since I have been able to take a holiday and enjoy the slopes so the idea of living somewhere where that can be done as a weekend break is exciting.

So the verdict on the question of "could-I-live-here?"? Well, it's not Amsterdam and it never will be but yes, I think I could. That is, provided of course that the city is not the first to get sucked into that black hole.

Stairway to heaven

2008-09-30T17:39:00.004+01:00

Other than the friends I left behind in the UK, there are not that many things that I really miss about my life in London. That does, however, not mean that there are not a few areas where I have always felt the Dutch could stand to learn a lesson or two from their overseas neighbours. Escalator etiquette is one of those things. Anyone who has tried public transport commuting in the Netherlands and who has had to dash for that connecting train will know what I mean. We Dutch just like to stand all over the place, dead set on thwarting all those who try to survive in the fast lane. The simple concept of "walk left, stand right" is lost on us. Until now...

Yesterday morning I arrived at the station of my native Amersfoort. To my surprise I found the escalators there had been decorated with bright green and red footprints, teaching us silly Dutch how to behave on an escalator! Apparently it is part of a 'pilot project' and Amersfoort has been lucky enough to get the premiere. Believe it or not but it even came with a crash course in elevator walking. It seems we are just THAT stupid. Well, I hope it works. What's next? Allow me to make a suggestion: could we please send the Amsterdam taxi drivers to learn from their London black cab colleagues?

Good bye Lenin!

2008-09-29T22:36:00.011+01:00

For the last week I have been in Russia once again. The whole trip had a significant déja-vu feel as essentially it involved the same people and places as it did last time. The Red Square and Kremlin are still impressive the second time around but at the risk of sounding a bit blasé: been there - done that. Even the weather greeted me like an old friend as the familiar rains poured down once more on Saturday. Fortunately I had allowed myself one extra day at the end of my stay and on Sunday the Indian Summer showed itself, even if it was shy. It gave me the opportunity for ticking off some of the boxes left on my what-to-see-when-in-Moscow list.

First up was the New Tretyakov gallery, the big brother to the other Tretyakov gallery I had visited last time. The New Tretyakov houses 20th century Russian art and in all fairness was far more to my liking than the icons and classic Russian paintings on display at its sibling. Particularly the avant garde paintings of artists such as Aristarkh Lentulov or Kazimir Malevich were in my opinion highly worth seeing. The collection of socialist art, full of propagandist glorification of peasants and labourers, was also quite interesting. Unfortunately about half of the museum was closed for renovations but since I had already been marvelling around for close to two hours by the time I reached those sections, I could not really be too disappointed.

Just outside the museum is another little gem: the Sculpture Park. Once apparently known as the "Park of Fallen Heroes", it is home to a collection of statues that in Soviet times adorned the city's squares and monuments. After the fall of communism the countless busts of Lenin, Stalin and the likes were relocated to this park where they now share the limelight with a more colourful collection of somewhat random sculptures. Especially powerful -particularly due to its juxtaposition to a life sized figure of Stalin- was an installation composed of dozens of sculpted faces packed behind barbed wire, thus remembering the victims of Stalin's labour camps.

After this trip my Moscow-to-do list has gotten another bit shorter. Of course there is always plenty left but frankly, I hope next time they'll send me to St. Petersburg instead!

All pictures

Raise the red lantern

2008-09-17T11:57:00.008+01:00

When 2 of my favourite cities meet, THIS is what you get?! O dear... so much for me ranting about how Amsterdam is more than just the red light district.

Art in the glow of Amsterdam red lights
Gallery hopes 'canal of the whores' will connect with more traditional works

By: Charlotte Higgins
The Guardian, Wednesday September 17 2008

Never have its gracious enfilades and echoing halls witnessed anything like it: the National Gallery, repository of the nation's finest Old Masters, is to re-create a red-light district, complete with scantily clad prostitutes, sinister alleyways and shop windows filled with human wares. This walkthrough installation is Ed and Nancy Kienholz's work Hoerengracht - Dutch for "whores' canal" - which will take its place in the gallery next autumn.

The idea is to make connections with the Dutch 17th-century paintings in the gallery's collection, which, despite their appearance of gentility, are set in the brothels for which Amsterdam is famous. Paintings such as Jan Steen's Interior of an Inn, Schalcken's A Man Offering Gold and Coins to a Girl and De Hooch's Musical Party in a Courtyard will be hung near the entrance to the installation, which the Kienholzes created in the 1980s.

The New York Times has described the effect of Hoerengracht thus: "In excruciating detail, a woman washes herself at a grungy sink; another, more scantily clad, sits in a chair scanning a magazine amid the kitschy trappings of her cubicle ... Still another professional, in leopardskin pants, high boots and a sequiny top, stands poised in a doorway behind an iron grille, mouth open in a sexy pout, fingers holding a cigarette."

Asked whether the installation would carry a warning for families, Colin Wiggins, the National Gallery's head of education, said: "In the paintings of De Hooch there are dodgy things going on, but we don't put warnings outside our Dutch 17th-century rooms. "Our aim is to stop people in their tracks and make them think, 'Crikey, this is unprecedented for the National Gallery.' Would you warn your child against it? Well, it depends who you are. Sarah Palin would probably warn her children. But we have Soho just down the road where you can see young ladies in leopardskin miniskirts."

Read more
(Picture: 'Hoerengracht' (detail of street corner with photo montage and mannequin), 1984-88 by Ed and Nancy Kienholz)

Healthy world

2008-09-06T10:31:00.005+01:00

I must admit I haven't used my constitutional right to vote in a while. I suppose you could say that I have been hiding my voter apathy behind the rather flimsy excuse of living abroad. On top of that, the Dutch political landscape is just so depressing these days with parties such as the ominously titled "Trots op Nederland" (Proud of the Netherlands) and "Partij voor de Vrijheid" (Party for Freedom) that I'd rather run for the hills than participate in this sham. Not the way to go, I know. I'll try to do better in future. You've got to practice what you preach after all, and I'm certainly no stranger to a bit of political preaching. One of my former flatmates once sighed in desperation "Are all you Dutch so political?!".

A lot of my preaching takes places in the international rather than the domestic arena, probably in part the result of my line of work these days. Like so many across the world, I have been keeping a very close eye on the US presidential elections. And like so many outside of the US, I have had no trouble picking my favourite. Of course, healthcare is a topic close to my heart in this election. The American healthcare system represents both some of the best and worst in the world. Top class medicine for some but unattainable for many. In international aid and development on health, the Americans have also imposed an at times rather controversial agenda. It is interesting to see where the candidates stand on these issues. If I hadn't made up my mind already, this article just published in The Lancet might have done it for me:

Obama vs McCain on global health
by: Nellie Bristol
The Lancet (2008), 372:9638, p.521-522

In the run-up to the presidential election, US health care continues to dominate the debate. But where do the candidates stand on global-health issues? Nellie Bristol reviews Obama and McCain's pledges in this area, including their views on HIV/AIDS and international development.

When asked by a reporter last year if he supported the spending of US tax dollars on contraceptives in Africa to slow the spread of HIV/AIDS, John McCain, the Republican US presidential hopeful, seemed unsure and confused. "I haven't thought about it before", he said. "Before I give you an answer, let me think about it a little bit because I never got a question about it before. I don't know if I would use taxpayer money for it."

The scene illustrates what global-health experts say is the key difference between McCain and Democratic contender Barack Obama in the area of global health: that of particular investment in the issue. "Obama has a personal knowledge and interest that is not insignificant", said J Stephen Morrison, executive director of the HIV/AIDS task force and of the Africa programme for the Center for Strategic & International Studies, based in Washington, DC. "He made sure he was smart around the issues of global health." Morrison cited Obama's Kenyan father and his August, 2006, visit to Africa where Obama and his wife Michelle were publicly tested for HIV/AIDS in an attempt to reduce stigma attached to the procedure. "I do not think McCain is indifferent, but I do not think he has the same level of personal knowledge or passion", Morrison said. "[McCain has] said much less both about development issues and global health so it's hard to infer from silence", said Ruth Levine, vice president for programmes and operations and senior fellow at the Center for Global Development (CGD). "It does not feel like a core part of the agenda he would bring in."

That difference is evident in the candidates' campaign literature and in their statements about global health. Although McCain is a vocal supporter of the US global AIDS programme—the President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR)—and has pledged to combat malaria in Africa, his campaign documents are thin on the subject of global health. Meanwhile, Obama's campaign promotes proposals to confront HIV/AIDS globally and has a multiple page list of sweeping reforms in international development. "He is really reading the play book of many of the strongest voices in development and in global health", Levine commented. Obama supports and calls for changes in PEPFAR, including an additional $1 billion over 5 years to fight the epidemic in southeast Asia, India, and eastern Europe. He also calls for increasing the capacity of health systems to deliver HIV/AIDS treatment. In a move likely to cost him support among pharmaceutical manufacturers, Obama also pledges to "break the stranglehold that a few big drug and insurance companies have" on HIV/AIDS drugs. "Obama supports the rights of sovereign nations to access quality-assured low-cost generic medication to meet their pressing public health needs", his campaign literature says.

Although supporting US bilateral HIV/AIDS efforts, Obama also advocates more US funding for multilateral programmes and the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria. US support for the Fund has been a partisan issue; some conservatives are concerned that the organisation does not reflect US policies on issues like sexual abstinence and needle exchange. Obama also pledges US support to meet the UN Millennium Development Goals. In 2005, he cosponsored the International Cooperation to Meet the Millennium Development Goals Act.
Some Americans view the UN suspiciously, and even hostilely, claiming its aim is to usurp US power and channel money to corrupt dictators. The USA is behind in its payments to the organisation and many, including Obama, are pushing for UN reforms. Nonetheless, development experts say his endorsement of the goals and of other multilateral efforts is substantial, indicating a change from the go-it alone strategy now used by the USA. "It is quite a profound departure from what we have seen up to this point", said Levine. "I think it will really bring US development policy into alignment with where Canada and the Europeans have been."

Another key piece of Obama's development platform is his Health Infrastructure 2020 plan. "Barack Obama will take the lead at the G8 working with and leveraging the engagement of the private sector and private philanthropy, to launch…a global effort to work with developing countries to invest in the full range of infrastructure needed to improve and protect both American and global health", campaign documents say. Among issues addressed by the plan is the migration of health-care workers from developing to rich countries. Obama also advances sweeping reforms for US foreign assistance—a move favoured by the development community and some members of Congress. He advocates doubling yearly foreign assistance to $50 billion by 2012 and endorses a $2 billion fund to support primary education globally. He also calls for 100% debt cancellation for the world's heavily indebted poor countries and programmes to advance commerce and democracy in struggling countries.

Add it all up and the dream plan of Obama's development experts costs a substantial amount of money, so much so that some question its feasibility. "It is not entirely clear to me that everyone has done their homework on how this could possibly be paid for in what is sure to be a real food fight around priorities in a tight economy", said CGD's Levine. In addition to fiscal constraints, because he is so engaged with the global development community in the USA, Obama is also likely to be buffeted by the tensions that exist within it, Morrison added. One major point of contention is the degree to which PEPFAR will become the whole of the USA's global-health policy for the foreseeable future. "What he [Obama] has is a very active and divided debate" with one side arguing that PEPFAR has had "hugely distorting impact on development commitment", he said. Those advocates will be "arguing for a rebalancing" against the constituency that believes PEPFAR can be tweaked sufficiently to serve a broader purpose. "I would anticipate that early in an Obama administration you are going to have some serious battles around these issues", Morrison commented.

Nils Daulaire, president of the Global Health Council, although a strong PEPFAR supporter, is among those who think that the USA should widen its focus. "The reality is that HIV/AIDS is a large, but by no means the predominate piece of the global-health puzzle", he said. The Global Health Council and others, he said, are "really focused on getting the next Presidential Administration and the next Congress to look at the larger issues of global-health infrastructure and basic health services and, in particular, bring back attention to the pretty severely neglected areas of maternal and child health and family planning."

Although global-health experts call for increased access to primary health care, specific diseases still tend to attract the most attention from candidates. On Malaria Awareness Day, McCain pledged as President to "end malaria in Africa". He said that the USA will spend $1 billion a year on the disease in the next few years and added, "I call upon the private sector to meet its obligation to serve a cause greater than its self-interest by matching the federal commitment dollar for dollar". Laurie Rubiner, executive director of the Malaria No More Policy Center, said eliminating deaths from malaria in Africa, would cost an estimated $2·2 billion a year over 5 years. The disease currently kills more children in Africa than AIDS and tuberculosis combined, she added. McCain's malaria pledge illustrates his commitment to "soft power" in US foreign policy, Rubiner commented. Another example of that approach is McCain's proposed "League of Democracies", which he refers to as "the core of an international order of peace based on freedom". In explaining the proposal, McCain said, "Our great power does not mean we can do whatever we want whenever we want, nor should we assume we have all the wisdom, knowledge, and resources necessary to succeed". He added: "We need to listen to the views and respect the collective will of our democratic allies."

Experts agree that both candidates support a more collaborative relationship with other countries, which could be a boon for global health generally. "Both Obama and McCain from quite different perspectives have an appreciation for the US in the broader context of the world", said Daulaire. "I think this is the most internationally savvy pair of candidates that we have ever had running for president."

Going Dutch

2008-09-06T09:22:00.005+01:00

It's not been quite a week yet but steadily I am beginning to get settled back in into my Amsterdam life. So many things are still the same that at times it is as if I have never left. The shops I knew are all still there, I even recognise plenty of faces in the neighbourhood and much of Amsterdam is still in its by now familiar construction chaos. Still, there are a few things in my own habits and behaviour that are subtle reminders that I have been away for quite a while. I need to learn to look the other way again when crossing a street. I need to remember again to say my own name first when answering the phone. I need to go back again to using the magnetic strip on my bank card rather than the chip. I need to use a strippenkaart again, not an Oyster card. I need to start yelling at cyclists who nearly run me down again, instead of saying "Pardon me". I need to become that cyclist again, not the silly pedestrian. In short, I have to work on my 'inburgering'.

There is one change in the neighbourhood, however, that suddenly made me feel that perhaps I have taken a piece of the UK with me to Amsterdam. The squatted house around the corner suggests Banksy has gone Amsterdam too:

The eagle has landed

2008-09-02T22:09:00.003+01:00

Here I am: back in Amsterdam! It has been a long couple of days. On Saturday I went to meet my mother in Dover to drive to London together. It actually took me leaving the UK to travel beyond the confines of the M25 [with slight exceptions for trips to Oxford and Cambridge]. Sunday was a particularly long day. My London apartment was situated on the third floor and unfortunately did not come with a lift so we had to carry all those boxes down those 60-something steps. With a fully loaded car we then spent about 9,5 hours on the road, travelling all the way back to the Netherlands. Three cheers for my brave mother for doing all this for me: hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!!

I was quite anxious to see my apartment again and to see how it had weathered out the storms of 2 years of tenancy. It turned out to be more Gustav than Katrina. There is no major damage of any kind, just the usual wear and tear that comes with habitation. Two years of alien occupation have, however, left their fair share of grease and grime everywhere. For the last two days we have been working on giving the place the deep clean it desperately needs, removing the mould from the fridge, busting the grime from the shower tiles and vacuuming up the smelly cigarette buds behind the bed. Slowly but steadily the place I know and love is starting to shimmer through again.

Not all my boxes are unpacked yet. In fact, not all boxes are retrieved from storage yet. Since I will be working from home for the next few months I intend to convert the guest room into a proper study (though guests will still be welcome and need not worry about having to sleep on the floor!). This means some serious reshuffling of furniture; moving the desk, shelves and bookcases around. As soon as that is done I will collect and unpack the rest of my stuff and will well and truly put my house in order. My only slight concern at this point? That I may have to do all this again in a few months time... sorry mum!

A picture is worth a thousand words

2008-08-29T18:38:00.002+01:00

The fairly wobbly (and massively overpriced) internet connection at my Tanzanian hotel meant that I had not yet had a chance to upload all my pictures. For those of you who want to see more of the Zanzibari sunset, the Tanzanian tingatinga art, or Africa's pick for the American presidency, you can now have a look here:

Tanzania 14-26 Aug 2007

It's the final countdown

2008-08-28T18:06:00.004+01:00

Barely back from Tanzania I am preparing once again to pack my bags. Or rather, to pack my moving boxes. In 3 days from now I will be back in the country where the trains are yellow, the cows black and white and the royals Orange.

Since my arrival here almost two years ago, the original collection of my local belongings has expanded from a single suitcase to a room full. Getting everything to the other side of the Channel proved either a logistical or financial nightmare or both. Carrying things with me by plane was a definite no-no. Too much stuff, not enough luggage allowance. Going through a shipping company was no option either. Too expensive. Royal Mail might be cheaper but errr... let's say I value my belongings too much and I'd like to see them again. This decade preferably. Fortunately there is always super-mom to the rescue! She has graciously offered to drive all the way here to London to collect me and my belongings. Of course I suspect she just wants to make sure I really do come back so she'll do whatever it takes but still...

I am quite looking forward to being back. It will be wonderful to be closer again to some people I have seen too little of these last 23 months. But I will miss London too. Moving closer to some friends means moving away further from others. Not that I will stay away from London very long anyway though. Less than a fortnight after arriving in Amsterdam I am due back in London for a few days for some meetings. I dread to think of my carbon footprint these days. At least in Amsterdam I will be greenly pedal-powered again. Only, the bike I left behind has since collapsed and died. I don't suppose any of you has a bike for sale?

Scintillating Zanzibar

2008-08-24T20:35:00.010+01:00

Of course there are also times when I simply have the best job in the world. This weekend a 2-hour ferry trip transported me to another world all together. I've had the opportunity to spend time in the island that put the zan in Tanzania: Zanzibar.

The old part of Zanzibar city, Stone Town, is completely unlike Dar es-Salaam. It's Lion King meets Aladdin. Having been ruled by Omanian sultans and as a once focal point for the slave trade between East Africa and the Middle East, Zanzibar has a unique character heavily mixing Arab influences with Swahili culture. The Arab influences are most clearly visible in the local architecture, in particular the town's famous carved doors. Stone Town itself is a maze of little streets in which you will inevitable get lost. Not that that matters as each alley way brings its own charm and sooner or later you are bound to end up somewhere familiar again. To be fair, it is quite touristy here and at times it feels like the whole town is just one big curio shop but the atmosphere is wonderful nonetheless. The fact that it is right on the deep blue waters of the Indian Ocean certainly does not do it any harm either.

Doors of Stone Town, Zanzibar

To my sheer unadulterated pleasure my hotel was also one of the cutest little boutique hotels I have ever had the good fortune of staying in. No insomnia this time in a beautiful 4-poster bed surrounded by netting and lush pillows. Mixed with a wonderful dinner and the sun on my face I have had an unbelievably relaxing weekend. Zanzibar also has some magnificent sandy beaches and reputedly is a paradise for water enthusiasts. I wish I could give you a firsthand account of all that too but a weekend is simply not enough to experience all the island has to offer. Tanzania on the whole is too big and interesting a country to be done in weekends and forgotten hours. It is a good thing then that I will have to come back here. If I can manage at all at any point I will certainly try to add on some holidays.

International Wait

2008-08-22T08:29:00.007+01:00

Don't get me wrong, I love getting the chance to work in places such as Ghana, Russia or Tanzania, but it does come with a few downsides too. The part of the job that really clashes with my fairly gung-ho nature is the endless waiting and excruciating slowness of everything. My idea of a useful visit is to go in, do my thing as efficiently as possible, maybe relax a bit and come out. The reality is more go in, wait a while, do a little bit, wait some more, do another bit, wait again and finally agree to "follow up soon". Especially where procedures and bureaucracy are involved it is just the nature of the game called International Aid (IA). Since I work in academia still rather than directly for an NGO, I know I have even only experienced the tip of the iceberg. Many NGOs are renowned for their syrupy procedures and tortoise-like velocity.

You may think that waiting is not such a bad thing if you get to spend time in exotic places but unfortunately that is not quite how it works. Since you never know when things suddenly will kick into action you have to remain on standby, pretty much confining you to the hotel. Perhaps that is why IA workers tend to be found in the most expensive hotels in town. Giles Bolton in his book Poor Story refers to this group somewhat cynically as the "345ers", for their:

3 course meals
4 wheel drives
5 star hotels

It's not entirely fair of course as it suggests that IA people are pampered out-of-touch little princes and princesses but neither is it wholly untrue. As those of you who know me will be aware, the 3 course meal is hardly my thing anyway and though my current hotel has a pool, it does not exactly qualify as 5 star. I did, however, yesterday have dinner in what is easily the fanciest hotel in town and, for sure, there they were: the IA conference delegates rubbing shoulders with attendees of the ministerial meeting next door. The 4-wheel drives on the other hand are spot on even for me. So far, in almost all places I have been, I find myself being picked up by these high-wheeled monsters with all sorts of important looking logos encrusted on their doors.

So here I am again: waiting in my hotel room for the 4-wheel drive to come and pick me up to do my bit for today. Bit by tiny little bit we are moving forwards but by now it is already clear that I will have to come back here pretty soon to do that infamous follow-up. By the looks of things, I may not get to spend much time in that longed for Amsterdam apartment of mine after all!

Time out in Tanzania

2008-08-17T18:50:00.004+01:00

Just like I had hoped I have been able to recharge my batteries very nicely this weekend. Although I worked a bit in the mornings, I have had the afternoons and evenings to relax and enjoy. In the end I did not go to the beaches, which proved a bit more difficult to reach in a limited space of time, but I certainly managed to take full advantage of the hotel swimming pool. Ocean view lunches and tasty dinners are definitely not a bad way to spend time either. My, it's a hard life!

The mystery of Dar Es-Salaam's apparent well-off state is beginning to unravel a bit. As I suspected, the neighbourhoods we have come through are not entirely representative. Dar is a rather schizophrenic place. Along the ocean front there are some very, very posh looking villas. These mainly belong to diplomats and other well-to-do expats. Then there is the old colonial part of town which is around where I am staying. Here the streets are all paved and surprisingly clean. Much cleaner than your run of the mill London street in fact. Houses are decently looking and often brightly coloured. Aside from the frequent power outages and water shortages it strikes me as really not such a bad place to be. This part of town and the neighbouring areas are not populated by African Tanzanians either though. This is little India. Eastern Africa has a fairly large population of Indians, mostly as a result of the former British colonial rule. The Indians are in general far better off than their African counterparts. They are the entrepreneurs running the corner shops and small businesses.

The African part of town is clearly less developed although visibly new buildings have sprouted up left and right. You can see the direction the town is headed but there is still a long way to go. The upshoot of new middle-class type houses does, however, make you wonder what happened to the people who used to live in these areas. Given that Tanzania is still a very poor country it is unlikely that the once poor have en masse joined the middle classes. Rather, the poor have been pushed further out of the centre to the slum parts of town, out of sight.

Despite these large discrepencies I still think Dar has a fairly pleasant feel to it. Unfortunately, it is also rather dull. Compared to the chaos in Accra, Dar is incredibly sleepy. In the evenings the roads are deserted and it doesn't feel like there is much to do around. This may be the capital but there is not much more going on than in most European country side villages. Tomorrow I will be travelling for the day into one of the nearby districts. I suspect this may give me a truer flavour of what the country is really like. So much for the relaxation; tomorrow works starts again!

Karibu!

2008-08-15T15:16:00.005+01:00

On Sunday I was still breathing in the fresh Norwegian mountain air. Today I am inhaling diesel fumes in Dar Es-Salaam. I’ve arrived early this morning after an exhausting overnight flight. I seem to have picked up a touch of insomnia lately and my body is protesting in all sorts of ways against the less than 2 hours of sleep it has been getting in the last 48 hours. Especially since I already started working within hours after stepping off the plane. My interview techniques were definitely a bit blunted today by sleep deprivation so it is a good thing I will have all weekend to recover and prepare.

First impressions of Tanzania then… Not as hot as I was expecting at all. In fact, it has been raining down quite spectacularly for part of today. Day temperatures are pleasantly below 30 degrees. I may not have seen quite enough of the town to fully warrant this judgment but so far Dar Es-Salaam strikes me as a bit more modernised than Accra. Buildings look newer and cleaner, traffic is still chaotic but somewhat less suicidal, and poverty is not as blatantly in your face. Then again, according to the Economist’s latest figures for the Human Development Index Tanzania is worse off than Ghana so probably my comparison applies to the respective capitals only. Also, I may just have seen the better parts of town so far.

I have already glimpsed the ocean but have not really seen a beach. For that you need to get a little bit further out of town. I might try to drag myself over there this weekend. I haven’t read my guidebook well enough yet to map out exactly how I want to spend my free time. For next weekend though I am considering making the crossing to Zanzibar. It is not that far and it sounds like it is definitely worth the trip. I really wish I had time to go further land inwards where the big game reserves and national parks are as well. My guidebook has mouth watering pictures of all there is to see and do there and it’s a crying shame I will not be able to do any of that as I need to be back in London before the end of the month. Perhaps next time my boss ships me off to Tanzania (a by no means hypothetical scenario in fact!) I will be able to get in a few days to roam wild. But before I visit any other countries I am dying to visit that most exotic of places: Dreamland.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

2008-08-07T11:08:00.004+01:00

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [from: Romeo & Juliet, W. Shakespeare]

Up until a week or two ago I had mostly just been excited about the prospect of moving back home soon. However, although I am still just under a month away from leaving behind the Big Smoke, my hectic travel itinerary for August means that I effectively have only a handful of days left in London, and thus I have had to start saying my goodbyes to a lot of people with a heavy heart.

Over the last two weeks I have said auf wiedersehen to a number of dear friends at occasions that more often than not involved bottles of champagne. Unfortunately, the relative suddenness with which everything has unfolded has meant that I haven't even been able to wave adieu at everybody in person. I hope to be able to make this up by visiting London soon again. Even at work I have yesterday packed up my desk, handed in my key card and said my so longs . The office is in fact getting very empty as the ripple effect from my boss' decision has been a mass migration to greener pastures. Come September there will only be a handful of people left.

I have arrived in Norway late last night and will be enjoying a short holiday here for a few days. As we are moving further up North this evening I will actually find myself completely cut off from work, unable to answer any emails. Given the flurry of those that I sent and received in the last few days, trying to get all my ducks in a row, that will be unnerving and cathartic at the same time. Time to let go, at least for a couple of days.

The Dark Knight

2008-07-30T00:00:00.011+01:00

Whilst we are on the topic of childhood favourites, let me share another one of mine with you: Batman, the series. I was absolutely glued to the tv every day when the caped crusader and boy wonder took on those bad guys; the joker, the riddler, the penguin, catwoman. Lots of cheesy one-liners and even cheesier fight scenes:

I really took that voice-over at the end very literally: "Tune in tomorrow — same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!". Not long ago I realised one of our channels here is running re-runs of this 60's show. It was already an old show when I watched it but boy, that series really hasn't stood the test of time! It's so hilariously amateurish that I couldn't bring myself to watch it and thus ruin a dear memory.

As far as I am concerned, the Batman movies of the 80's and 90's were hit and miss. I really liked the dark style of Tim Burton and thought Michael Keaton actually worked surprisingly well in the roll of the tormented playboy-by-day, vigilante-by-night but then the movies went hopelessly of track with Batman & Robin the absolute low point, though I didn't much care for Batman Forever either (com'on, Val Kilmer?!) And then it went quiet for a while around my favourite superhero...

But Batman is back with a vengeance! Batman Begins was simply a great movie, harrowing and dark and striking a great balance between the surreal comic book effect and realistic suspense with an über-scary villain. Christopher Nolan's latest creation The Dark Knight has just hit the cinemas and has created quite a buzz, not in the least owing to the performance of the recently deceased Heath Ledger. When I wanted to see it this weekend it was sold out clean. Tonight I managed to catch a showing though. So, is it really as good as the reviews say it is? Absolutely. Heath Ledger is indeed very strong in his role of the Joker, a far more creepy and credible rendition than Jack Nicholson's earlier take on the role.

(source)

In all the hype Christian Bale has been a bit overlooked but he certainly gives great depth to the lonely Batman character, whilst easily pulling off a great Bruce Wayne. My only problem with the movie is that it is a tad too long. It wouldn't have hurt to cut the movie short by about half an hour, especially since the last bit carries enough potential to kick off another movie. At any rate this is a warmly recommended movie and one that might well give me some trouble sleeping tonight.

Around the world in 80 days

2008-07-24T21:40:00.006+01:00

"The world has grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. ... you can go round it in three months"

"In eighty days," interrupted Phileas Fogg.

Around the world in 80 days was one of my childhood favourites. That and the Travels of Marco Polo. Both books tell the most incredulous, marvellous travel stories my child's imagination could fathom. I devoured these stories of Phileas Fogg in the Indian jungle and Marco Polo visiting the Kublai Khan. Great stuff to dream away by on a rainy day in dreary Holland. The times of the Mongol empire and of trans-Atlantic steamers are long gone -and with them a sense of adventure- but at least in the amount of kilometres I will be getting in these next few months I am starting to emulate my childhood heroes!

Early August will first see me jetting off to the North for a few days of holiday. There I intend to fill my lungs with the fresh air of the great outdoors, my belly with yummy goodies, and my liver with some tasty red wine, all in the company of my dear friend MyYear. With barely enough time to do my laundry and to repack for warmer climates, I am then headed far South for two weeks of work. It's a very exciting assignment and one I really look forward to. It should be a great opportunity to put some of our theoretical work of the last few months to the test in a real field situation. It's a pity though that I won't be able to tag a few days at the end for some touristic wanderings through this country that has so much to offer in terms of natural beauty but I need to be back in London on time to pack my moving boxes. Hopping slightly to the East I then cross the Channel to settle back into my own apartment. I can't get too comfortable though as, before another month is out, I am expected to head back further East to follow-up on my last journey.

Travelling seems to be part of my new life and career. So far I am loving the opportunities it is giving me. At this point in my life, where I can easily hop on a plane at a moment's notice, I am going to take full advantage of it. But by taking full advantage I also mean making sure I don't end up like this guy:

Tulipgirl leaves London

2008-07-15T20:50:00.005+01:00

A friend of mine runs the following quote on his blog:

You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. (Samuel Johnson)

I am by no means tired of life but I was beginning to get a bit tired of London. Maybe there is in London all that life can afford but the quote neglects to point out that you also need some serious money to afford it all. The cost of living here is just too high to do it for long.

I had been considering my options for leaving London for a while now, but suddenly things have picked up lightning speed. A few weeks back my boss made a startling announcement. He has accepted a major job at a very interesting organisation. That is of course great news for him. But it is also good news for me... it looks like I will be following him to the land of chocolate and mountains in a few months time, doing just the sort of work I have been working towards all these months! There are still a million blanks to fill in about the what, where, when and how much but it is a very exciting opportunity for me that I take with both hands.

For those of you back in the Netherlands who miss me a bit there is more good news. My boss' departure from London means that, from September onwards, there will be no real need for me to stay here either until the new job takes shape. With an internet connection and cheap flights I can be based basically anywhere and that includes Amsterdam. Yes people, I will be coming home soon! It may not be for very long since already I know I will be moving abroad again but pretty soon I will be setting up camp in my own apartment. See you there?

Decrypting

2008-07-09T20:12:00.007+01:00

Although Moscow as a city did not feel that alien at all, there was something about being there that made me feel rather out of touch. It was the first time I found myself in a country where I was -for most intents and purposes- illiterate. In all other countries I had been to so far I had at least been able to read the language, if not to translate it. The cyrillic script was a whole new experience. At first it looks like complete gibberish but pretty soon things start to make some sense. Two high school years of struggling with ancient Greek (and many years of mathematical formulas full of Greek symbols) really helped as the alphabet contains a whole range of familiar symbols:

Others only begin to make sense in a certain context:

The real eye-opener was the moment when the symbols fell into place enough to form words oddly familiar to these Dutch ears and eyes. For legal advice you go to an адвокат; your medicine is bought right here:

and the most disturbing moment was when somebody announced it was time for кафе пауза, which may not look very Dutch but sure sounds it! Easy stuff, this Russian.

The wet wanderer

2008-07-07T19:13:00.012+01:00

As a Dutch girl living in London I am certainly no stranger to a bit of rain. Normally I try to stay away from the wet weather if I can though, hiding in the warm and dry comforts of my house. Hiding out in a hotel room on my only free weekend in Moscow, however, seemed like a silly idea. After all, it is not every day that I get to play tourist in a city like this. So despite my trepidation to go out in the absolute pouring rain, this weekend I wandered through the wet streets of Moscow.

Saturday was pleasantly spent in the company of a Moscovite friend. It sure is nice to be able to travel to an unknown city and have your own personal tour guide! We spent the morning in the State Tretyakov Gallery, admiring the portraits of some of Russia's finest as well as the collection of golden shiny icons. The St Basil's cathedral proved as crazy on the inside as it is on the outside, full of twists and turns. In the afternoon I strolled down to the controversial hate-it-or-love-it skyline defining Cathedral of Christ the Saviour . This mammoth was blasted into a million marble pieces by Stalin and eventually replaced by world's largest swimming pool. After the fall of communism, however, the church was rebuilt on the same site. The debris from the original church has been incorporated into the Kropotkinskaya metro station. The Moscow metro system is an attraction itself. Completely unlike the drab stations here in London, the Moscovian stations are gorgeous spacious halls filled with statues, mosaics and marble. It certainly gives an artistic twist to your daily commute!

On Sunday the weather was even more miserable than the day before, with relentless rain and thunder storms. Hoping to wait out the rain I treated myself to breakfast at ГҮМ shopping centre that is guaranteed to blast any thoughts of the communist days straight into the past. It did, however, not obliterate the rain. Soaking in my shoes I then squished through the Kremlin grounds to gawk at the Assumption Cathedral , the Archangel Cathedral , the Ivan the Great Bell Tower and more. This time I skipped a visit to the Armoury and Diamond Fund rooms for lack of time. I took a quick stroll through the State Historical Museum, more to get a chance to dry up than anything else as the all-Russian signs in this Red Square situated museum are distinctly tourist unfriendly.

There is so much more to do in Moscow that I did not get around to. I would have loved to visit the Sculpture Park, a resting place for many of the statues of Russia's fallen heroes. The modern art collection at the New Tretyakov Gallery is also still on my wish list, as is a visit to the famous Bolshoi theatre . And although I still think it is a bit creepy, I should perhaps take a peek at Lenin before they finally lay him to rest. I guess I will just have to come back here some time. Hopefully it will be dry then.

Moscow 3 July - 6 July 2008

The end of a nightmare

2008-07-03T07:48:00.005+01:00

Now that I am back in a place where I can access the internet I quickly checked the news this morning, something I have not been able to do much for the past couple of days as all the TV stations here are in Russian only. What I just saw there has completely made my day and nearly brought tears to my eyes: Ingrid Betancourt - the Colombian politician about whom I have written here repeatedly- has been freed! This is absolutely wonderful news. News that I doubted would ever come. Now that it has, I am delighted to be able to wish her and her family much happiness for the future.

Reporting from Moscow

2008-07-02T08:39:00.012+01:00

Sorry for not being able to keep you up-to-date better these last couple of days but I have had very limited access to the internet. There is an interesting irony in the fact that during my trip in Ghana a few months ago WiFi signals were ubiquitous but that here in Russia -the first country to conquer space- internet is proving far more difficult. Now I am back in Moscow though and hopefully will be able to send you a few more reports.

We have returned a few days ahead of schedule as the work in the field was essentially finished. I must confess I am rather glad to be back. Moscow is a far more interesting city to explore and I am excited that the change in schedule will allow me more time to do so. Bizarrely enough I even find myself with a rather full social agenda as it turns out a number of my friends/ acquaintances/ colleagues are here at the moment as well!

Work has been an interesting challenge these last few days. In particular, interviewing people through a translator is something I have never done before. At times it is like that movie "Lost in translation". The person I am interviewing will be giving a minutes long reply, only for it to come back to me in 2 or 3 summarised sentences! Fortunately, I am in the possession of a brand new voice recorder so this time I will be able to play back all the interviews and even get them translated in full later on. My interviews have taken place in some rather odd places, ranging from park benches to a tiny little bedroom where 5 people sleep together. Work sure is different from those days in the lab purifying proteins!

Now that I am back in Moscow I will spend the remaining time transcribing and analysing these interviews. And of course: seeing those Moscow sights because I think you will agree that - although pretty- sights like these just are not quite in the same league!

From Russia with love

2008-06-26T12:36:00.003+01:00

I still need to pinch myself to check if it’s true but yes: I really, really did make it to Moscow! The journey itself was surprisingly hassle-free. My place of departure had me a bit worried about possible loss of luggage –and I was already mentally rehearsing my best Naomi impression- but it seems they have at last figured out how to run an airport without having to reroute the luggage through Italy first. The customer officers on the Russian end also seemed not the least bit fazed by my double visa and so before I knew it, I found myself standing on the Red Square.

My first impressions of Moscow are on balance very positive. The outskirts of the city that we passed through on the way from the airport frankly look drab: filled with big blocks of communist-era concrete without even the faintest glimmer of joy; ugly, grey, multi-storey monsters that symbolise that infamous Soviet building style. But downtown Moscow is a whole different story. The tiny bit of it I have seen so far is colourful, bright and beautiful. For some reason it feels very… European. It reminds me a bit of places like Vienna with these pastel tinted buildings. The Red Square, however, is unmistakably Russian. The St Basil’s basilica, popular backdrop for many news reports, is so over-the top colourful that it is hard to believe it is not some bizarre form of Russian humour. The Kremlin walls, on the other hand, are deadly serious. The tragic-comic Lenin mausoleum somehow hovers between those two extremes. I hope I will have time to explore all further later on.

I will be working here in Moscow until tomorrow. Then we leave for a week for a city south of Moscow, nearer the Ukraine border. I will be back in Moscow by the weekend after that so look forward to spending that time discovering some of the wonders Moscow has to offer.

До скорой встречи!

Moscow 25 June 2008

Behind enemy lines

2008-06-21T22:10:00.004+01:00

O dear, that was not how it was supposed to go. Like the rest of the Dutch I too had been somewhat gripped by Orange fever. I am hardly a football fan, and to be honest I had never even heard of half the players on the team, but it was too contagious not to be infected. And now it's over... The hard part for me will be that, starting Wednesday, I will have to endure the ridicule from behind enemy lines. I think I have no choice but to realign my loyalties with the team of our national traitor no. 1: go Guus!

Holland - Russia: 1-1

2008-06-19T22:07:00.002+01:00

It really does look like three is a charm. This time around I have the visa (with the correct dates), I have the flights (non-refundable) and so far nobody has cancelled anything! Fingers crossed that it stays that way. So -if all goes well- by this time next week I will actually be in Russia. I just hope they will still let me in after we kick their behinds this Saturday!

Plot twist

2008-06-02T19:18:00.005+01:00

Yes, you are correct. That is indeed a copy of the shiny Russian visa that as of this afternoon brightens up the pages of my passport! So how come I won't be in Russia within 2 days from now you might well wonder.

In a bizarre twist of events now that the visa is ready, the rest of my arrangements have fallen through. The confirmation of my visa arrived at a time this afternoon that in Moscow fell after working hours. By that time the Russians had already postponed all interviews and cancelled all other bookings. As it turns out, at such short notice it was impossible to arrange everything. So... we have rescheduled. Now -if all goes well- I should be in Russia by the last week of June instead. But who can spot the catch on my visa?

Aaaaaargh

2008-05-30T15:05:00.002+01:00

Well, yesterday's question of who was right remains unresolved as today the agency wasn't even able to get my application INTO the embassy at all! Without the required form they wouldn't take it in with their other applications afraid that it might damage their reputation with the embassy. Instead, they sent a courier to go stand in the regular queue for mere mortals. The same 25 metre long queue that was my reason for asking them to do it for me in the first place indeed. I don't know if I should be reassured by the fact that evidently I am not the only one stuck on the wrong side of the iron gate or not but the result is that I still do not have a visa. We'll give it one more try on Monday but if that doesn't work the whole trip is off. Again. To be continued...

Catch 22

2008-05-29T19:01:00.006+01:00

After all of the delays, postponements and cancellations last year it is still a bit hard to believe but, if all goes well, by this time next week I will be in Russia. If all goes well, I will at last be walking the streets of Moscow. If all goes well...

"Why so gloomy", you ask? That would be because so far nothing about this has been straightforward. Of course there was all of last year's trouble. Then this year things again got pushed back from April to May to June. However, in the last couple of weeks the project finally picked up some momentum. Dates were fixed for the second week of June. Enthusiastically I set about getting everything sorted and armed with my paperwork I showed up at the Russian embassy. Unfortunately I wasn't the only one with that idea. The queue covered a good 25 metres of the pavement and at 12:00 the iron gates shut mercilessly. Luckily the university recruits an agency that, for a fee, takes over this tedious process sparing me second trip.

This morning I came into the office fully expecting to be all sorted by the end of the day. I ordered my tickets and a courier to get my documents to the visa handling agency. So far, so good. And then the call from Russia comes... apparently my trip would have coincided with a public holiday shutting down office life for a week. Oops. The big shock, however, was that instead of pushing the dates back, this time they were pushed forward! A quick call learned that the flights had not yet been confirmed so we could still move those. Of course the visa application form had to be revised though. An hour later we were back on track. And then the call from the agency comes... one of my forms is not correct and they need an official letter from the Ministry confirming my invitation. The problem there is, the letter does not exist. The confirmation was given over the phone and there is nothing in writing. The agency is certain the Russians will not approve my application without it, my host organisation is equally certain there will be no problem. I will find out who is right tomorrow.

So by this time next week I should be in Russia. If all goes well...

The coping cycle

2008-05-21T00:05:00.005+01:00

Phase I: DENIAL

No, it cannot be... not so soon already? But didn't I only just graduate? Surely this cannot be right. Somebody has made a mistake, it has to be. Check those dates again!

Phase II: ANGER

No mistake, you say? Well, now that just isn't fair. What did I do to deserve this? I'd like to have a word or two with whoever decided that! It is just totally unacceptable.

Phase III: BARGAINING

But can't I stay 29 just one more year? Six months? I promise I will seize every day of it. Come on now... please?

Phase IV: DEPRESSION

That's it then. It's all downhill from here on now. I can see the wrinkles already. Go away, leave me alone.

Phase V: ACCEPTANCE

Not that bad, you say? Honestly, you promise? Well, in that case:


Birthday Party 2008

After all, a girl only turns 29 twice, right?

The final one

2008-05-14T23:42:00.008+01:00

It already feels such a long time ago that I reinvented myself by enrolling in business school. I submitted my thesis eight months ago and have had my results for quite some time as well. The only thing I hadn't done yet was graduate. However, as of today, I am officially an alumna of 3 different universities, all vying for my donations and my loyalty (but mostly my donations).

Each of my graduations has been unique in some way. The MSc chemistry was fun for its small scale and personal touch. The PhD...well, that's just such a special day the way we do it in the Netherlands, nothing can top that. And now this one: the most pompous of them all. Never before have I shared my graduation with several hundreds of people. Never before have I had an orchestra present. Never before have I had a little old tailor help me into my never-before worn robes.

The black robes and the purple hood in the back (which you can't see very well in this picture) are the official colours for MSc degrees at Imperial College. The pink V-shaped bit in front is characteristic of the business school. It all looks and feels very Harry Potteresque, minus the wand.

The day was good fun even though the actual ceremony gets very tedious after the first two hundred graduants or so. At least I got to walk across that stage of the Royal Albert Hall, had my name horribly mangled by the announcer and stood attention to God Save the Queen. But that's it. I have done this in all forms and varieties now. There is nothing more to try. Besides, I'll need to start making a lot more money before I can afford to become alumna of any more institutions!

Graduation 17 May 2008

The art of conflict resolution

2008-05-11T12:25:00.005+01:00

The year 1978 marked an important turning point in the field of public health. No, the fact that it also happens to be the year I was born has nothing to do with that. While my mum was changing my nappies back in Holland, somewhere in the former USSR some of the world's public health leaders were gathered at a major international conference to produce what was to be known as the "Alma Ata Declaration". In a nutshell, this declaration urged all governments to work towards "health for all" by setting up and strengthening systems of primary health care.

Now why am I telling you all this? The fact is that ever since then a debate has been going on between proponents of this primary care based strategy and people who believe in the strength of so-called vertical approaches. To understand what is meant by that, picture for instance a dedicated polio immunization campaign or a malaria eradication programme. Such approaches are dedicated to only one purpose; they have their own health care workers, their own funding, their own priorities. There are some obvious advantages. Vertical programmes tend to be much simpler to manage, there is a clear link between action and effect and somebody can take the credit. The trouble is that having a number of these isolated pillars of care in a country can become very inefficient and drain the general health services of resources. Furthermore, the priorities of all these programmes may not be in line with national ones, particularly when external donors are involved.

And so the debate has continued for the past 30 years. The strange thing about this debate is that it seems to be a lot of rhetorics and emotion but very little evidence. So, the reason I have been working my a*#e off lately is that this week a number of bigwigs in the field are gathering to discuss how we can move beyond this deadlock and start having a more productive dialogue. My job was to help supply the evidence and analyse which approaches have been most successful under particular conditions. As you can imagine it's a fairly high profile piece of work and I am very pleased to have been able to chip in. I really hope to get my hands on more assignments like this. I just hope that the deadlines can be a bit more ... healthy.

And then there was light

2008-05-10T11:28:00.003+01:00

Helloooo? Is there anybody out there?

I wouldn't blame you if you have all abandoned me by now for I sure have been pretty negligent of you. What can I say? I'm sorry. For the last couple of weeks I have been buried alive. Buried under a mountain of work so high that I am surprised it didn't crush me all together. Working days of 10 hours gradually slipped into 11 hour days, then 12 hour ones and this week I one day even left the office at 10pm! The building takes on a whole new appearance at that time of the evening, let me tell you. For weeks my world became smaller and smaller until I reached complete tunnel vision. My dreams were filled with paragraphs and tables and that was on good nights. Falling asleep when your brain cannot switch off anymore can be tricky.

But now I have reached the light at the end of the tunnel. Squinting I step into the bright real world. I am alive again. Hello world, remember me? So now what do I do...?

Tulip fever

2008-04-27T11:14:00.008+01:00

I really, really meant it last year when I said "Next year I will definitely try to be there again" but things don't always work out the way you want them to. Fenced in by non-negotiable deadlines, I will once again spend Queen's Day in laborious London instead of anarchic Amsterdam. So, like last year, yesterday I once more dug that orange top out from under a pile of more frequently worn clothes to join the London version of Queen's day. We in London have to celebrate it a few days early though, as unfortunately over here we can't get the day off for it.

At least it looks like this year London had one up on Amsterdam. The weather yesterday here was gorgeous. It was the first real Spring day we've had in months, blessed with sunshine and warm temperatures. The forecast suggests that you guys back in the Motherland may not be so lucky this year. So basking in the sun we sat, surrounded by the other orange people, listening to Andre Hazes' songs and eating a patatje met. For one day a year I am not ashamed to set free my inner Dutch girl. Something true for many of us Cheese Heads in London apparently as once again I ran into some familiar faces! London can sometimes suddenly be very small.

The walk afterwards -by sheer coincidence- let us straight into a magnificent tulip garden. It wasn't part of the celebrations and I didn't even know it was there but it certainly was an appropriate find. The fitting ending to such a delightfully Dutch day of course was dinner at the local Pancake house with a starter of bitterballen. Stuffed beyond belief on this healthy diet of saturated fats, I look back on a great day but not without some secret hope that maybe next year...

Queen's Day in London 2008

Run like the wind

2008-04-12T13:14:00.007+01:00

My new flat is practically on the doorstep of Battersea Park. As one of the biggest (and most beautiful) parks in London this is prime running territory. For weeks now the park has seen ever swelling numbers of sweaty sports maniacs congregating for their obligatory laps. Some suffer alone, others travel in packs. At first I thought it was just the spring weather that had urged these people to dust off their running shoes. It is more than that though. This weekend running is London's number 1 religion as thousands of fanatics take over the streets for the London marathon.

I must admit, I don't really get marathons. A number of my friends have done them or intend to do them but, although I admire their tenacity, I do secretly think they are a bit loopy. Let's not forget: the man accredited for first accomplishing this feat did not live to collect any medal. It is unnatural, unhealthy. Why anybody would deliberately put their body through this pain is beyond me. Then again, I am a real couch potato these days so who am I to judge?

There are 6 men in London right now who seem not the least bit impressed by those 42.195 kilometres. After all, there are no lions. Did I just say "no lions"? Indeed. Amongst the participants will be 6 Maasai warriors who intend to run and dance their way to Buckingham Palace wearing full warrior gear and traditional footwear. Used to running and hunting for days on end a little marathon poses no challenge to them. They are doing this to raise money for their village and to bring fresh water to their families. Of course I do still think they are loopy but their cause is a worthy one. I wish them happy hunting.

Brown paper packages

2008-04-06T12:16:00.009+01:00

Even when they are not tied up with string, they are still amongst my favourite things. There is nothing like coming home after yet another 10 hour working day to find one of these little gems waiting for you, especially if they contain one of my other favourite things: books. Although most of the time I prefer getting lost between the shelves of my local Waterstones, occasionally I allow myself to get lost between virtual bookshelves instead. Study books and books that are hard to come by tend to appear on my doorstep in those beige wrappings.

I had just started reading Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh when my parcel arrived. This is a book that I picked up at the Spui book market before I even moved to London but which has been sitting on my shelf ever since. I have been a bit wary about it as I have read Rushdie before to mixed effect. Midnight's children I still found somewhat enjoyable although very difficult but Fury put me off Rushdie for a very long time. The only reason I finished it was sheer determination not to be defeated by a book! Then last year, amidst raving reviews, I decided to give Rushdie one last shot with Shalimar the Clown. I don't know if Rushdie is like an expensive whiskey that you only learn to appreciate over time or if my own grasp of literature has improved but I absolutely loved this book. Rushdie uses language not merely as a tool for telling a story but uses words and sentences like a painter uses colour. It is not the individual images that matter but the painting as a whole. What before had seemed like endless digressions and pointless ramblings suddenly all connected. Enough reason to give Rushdie another chance. But now he has been temporarily suspended by the arrival of my brown paper package.

One of my new acquisitions is Nina Siegal's A little trouble with the facts which I read cover to cover in a single day. It's a wonderfully witty story about once high-flying Style reporter Valerie Vane who tries to redeem herself as a serious journalist by investigating the murder of a well-known graffiti artist. You will probably not have heard of Nina Siegal yet as this is her debut novel. I didn't just stumble upon her book either. Nina moved to Amsterdam around the same time I moved away from there and nearly ended up living in my apartment. She is still living in Amsterdam, working on her second novel. If she manages to capture Amsterdam in the same way she did the world of journalism she has definitely got a new fan.

Two other of my more recent reads that deserve mention come in the direct aftermath of my Ghana trip. My trip to Elmina prompted several of you to recommend Arthur Japin's De zwarte met het witte hart. I have just finished it and wish I had read it before going to Ghana. It's a poignant tale, based on a true story, about two Ashanti princes uprooted from their familiar world to be educated in the Netherlands. The two boys respond very differently to this new and often unwelcoming environment. Reading it made me feel much the same way as I did walking around Elmina castle. Embarrassed about a past that isn't quite mine yet somehow also is.

The other book is Giles Bolton's Poor Story. Working for the same organisation that was the reason for my own trip, Bolton explores why Africa keeps getting shortchanged in the global economy and why our aid money is not being used in the most effective way. The latter issue is particularly interesting to me as it reverberates with one of the projects I am currently working on. In the mean time, the one bookcase that occupies my shoe box has become so full that even double parking my books is no longer a solution. I better go easy on those brown paper packages for a while.

Easter snooze

2008-03-25T10:08:00.004Z

Sorry I dropped off the radar (read: RSS feed) there for a bit but I do have a really good excuse. That is, I have been not busy enough. Uh? Not busy enough? Indeed. I have been too lazy rather than too busy.

To my pleasant surprise my employer has been generous enough to add on two more days to what was already a blissfully long Easter weekend. I haven't set foot in the office since last Wednesday and don't have to go back until tomorrow. Don't get me wrong -I like my job- but after weeks of 10 hour days and deadlines that are somehow always yesterday it is really nice to have a break.

My initial thoughts were that I should make the most of this time by getting out of London. Prohibitive flight prices quickly put an end to that notion. Then I figured I should explore London further; walk around, maybe see a museum or two, stimulate my cultural side. The miserable weather has been my perfect excuse not to do any of that. Instead I have spent many happy hours on my bed, watching lowbrow movies such as Shrek 3 and Harry Potter V, sipping tea and eating chocolate. Comfortable in my cocoon while outside the watery snow flakes dance.

Tomorrow I'll return to my deadlines and long days but today I celebrate the third day of Easter. Now where is my egg?

Hidden treasures

2008-03-16T11:43:00.007Z

Enough of politics for a little bit, entertaining as it is. It cannot always be about tickling the left side of the brain; the right side needs stimulation too.

Last weekend I ran into a marvelous little treasure in the most unexpected of places. As a surprise for my grandfather's 97th (indeed: 97!) birthday I had flown back to the Netherlands and spent a weekend in my native Amersfoort. I cannot say I feel a lot of kinship with the city but it is undeniably a pretty town. Just how pretty it can be I discovered under the attic beams of the local cobbler! My shoes needed desperate mending and, it being the only pair of shoes I had brought with me, the cobbler was kind enough to fix them for me while I waited. Amazingly, I then learned that he and his twin brother are well-known local artists with a gallery above the store. In socked feet I browsed through their beautiful paintings of an Amersfoort as I have never seen it. Snow covered and idyllic, these paintings evoke images of a time long gone, yet feel as true a reflection of the city as can be. Beautiful colours, wonderful lines.

I'll bet your cobbler can't do that!

Criminal minds

2008-03-14T20:16:00.011Z

My office operates an open floor plan. On the busiest of days we have about 12 people sharing that space, yet for all those big brains churning it is usually quiet like a crypt, safe for the sound of fingers rattling on keyboards. I don’t particularly like working in dead silence so I do what a lot of us do: I plug in to the radio. To keep my mind properly confused that is usually Dutch radio; staying in touch with what is going on back in the motherland I guess. Most of what I hear only fleetingly passes through my brain and doesn’t stick but today I heard a Postbus 51 commercial that had me lift those fingers of the keyboard and take notice:

"In the Netherlands we are working together to prevent people from developing terrorist thoughts. See what you can do at Nederlandtegenterrorisme.nl."

Please do me a favour and read that again. Notice anything odd? That is right: it doesn’t warn for terrorist actions; it doesn’t even urge you to be watchful for terrorist activity; it says you should be aware of terrorist thoughts. Welcome to the world of the Orwellian Thought Police. I can just imagine the red phones ringing hot with dutiful citizens reporting their neighbours for saying scary things like Allah Akbar or for buying fertiliser, bleach and a kitchen knife. In addition to a debate over freedom of speech, it now seems we also need a debate about freedom of thought.

I wonder what the logical extension of this is. Under what law would we prosecute people for harbouring terrorist thoughts? Perhaps even more importantly: what exactly IS a terrorist thought? Am I having a terrorist thought wondering what it would take to blow up the White House? Or perhaps if I publicly expressed my sympathy for certain undesirable causes? I am considering putting in an order for the Anarchist's Cookbook just to see what happens.

Would it be a coincidence that this message hits the airwaves just as paranoia is reaching uncharted heights? A penny for your thoughts.

Nothing to fear but fear itself

2008-03-02T12:43:00.008Z

... the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.
Franklin D. Roosevelt, Inaugural address, 1933

As with many famous quotes this one too has taken on a life of its own to brake free from its context. President Roosevelt uttered these words to persuade the American people that the power to overcome the Great Depression was within them, if only they stopped being paralysed by fear of the Depression. It is essentially the circular reasoning of a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you stop being afraid, that what you are afraid of will go away. Economic theory holds that there is something to be said for Roosevelt's call to confidence. Recession and economic downturn are very much dependent on the mood of the day and much less so on cold, hard facts and figures. The question is if it holds true in other sectors as well.

Michael Moore built an interesting, albeit somewhat oversimplified, case in his award-winning documentary Bowling for Columbine that fear is what is driving American society over the edge: people have guns because they are afraid of people who have guns who are afraid of ... and so on and so on. A self-reinforcing spiral of fear. Fear is also what is gripping the Netherlands these days. Everybody is holding their breath to see what will happen when Geert Wilders' movie Fitna will be released. Nobody really knows yet what this movie is about but it is expected to be a heavy-handed accusation against the Quran and Islam. It is feared that this will incite reactions in the Islamic world similar to that provoked by the Danish cartoons in 2005. There is fear that Dutch embassies in Islamic countries will find themselves under attack, that Dutch business abroad will suffer and that the country itself has a bullseye for terrorist attack painted on its back.

I am not naive. I know there are people out there crazed and outraged enough to cross the line between lawful, proportionate opposition and unlawful, disproportionate action. I lived a mere 5 minute walk away from where Theo van Gogh got his throat slit and had a note pinned to his chest warning Ayaan Hirsi Ali that she would be next. One of my former colleagues was startled to learn she had been teaching chemistry to terror suspect Samir A. shortly before his (second) arrest. All this is very real. Still, I cannot help but wonder if we are building our own self-fulfilling prophecy with this mass hysteria. The message it seems to be sending is that this movie is apparently such a big deal that it calls for a likewise response.

I am a firm believer in freedom of speech so if Wilders wants to make his movie, that is fine by me. I am, on the other hand, also a firm believer in the freedom to ignore that speech. Can't we all just shrug our shoulders over this and agree everybody is entitled to their opinion even if we don't agree? If only we could all stop being so afraid of each other...

Another year goes by

2008-02-23T00:26:00.004Z

A year ago today I used this blog to draw attention to the kidnapping of Ingrid Betancourt, a Colombian presidential candidate fighting for a better future for her country. One year on she is still being held somewhere in the Colombian jungle. Her campaign manager and friend Clara Rojas was recently released after a much publicised intervention by the Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez. This has sparked renewed hope that Ingrid Betacourt too might be released soon. The truth, however, is that the two women were separated by the FARC a long time ago and nothing is known about the current whereabouts of Betancourt. Footage released some time last year shows her looking gaunt and severely worn down by the now 6 years of captivity she has had to endure but at least it showed she is still alive.

It s difficult to imagine what her family and that of all the other hostages are going through. We can only hope that by the time another year has gone by, Ingrid Betancourt and all the others will have been reunited with their families.

Home sweet home?

2008-02-21T17:08:00.003Z

Well, that's it. I'm back in grey London which feels markedly colder than when I left it almost two weeks ago. I am still feeling a bit shell-shocked to be back here, having only so recently been sweating it out under the sub-Saharan sun. I spent yesterday paying one last tribute to Accra by visiting the 'tourist attractions'. It does give you a good feel for how far behind the local tourist industry still is that I managed to do all this in just about three hours and that was on foot.

The National Arts Centre is a highly inflated name for what is basically an open craft market where you can buy wood carvings, beadwork and above all kente. I had no intention of buying but wondered around a bit nonetheless. Although window shopping alone is of course not much appreciated by the local stall holders, I was surprised how easily they gave up when I made it clear I was only looking. The Istanbul Bazaar was much harder to navigate. I paid tribute to Ghana's founding father at the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial and tried to get close to Osu Castle. Unfortunately, the presence of a certain someone in Ghana made it impossible to navigate this part of the city with police patrolling everywhere. The Ghana National Museum, finally, turned out to be a rather odd assembly of Ghanaian artefacts mixed with random replicas of Greek statues. Much as I encourage you all to visit Ghana, I would recommend you aim to spend not too much time just in Accra.

And now I am home. At least, I am back in London. It's a bit strange to call it home for I have actually spent more nights in my Accra hotel than I have in my current room so far! And there I had a nice shower and WiFi access, two things that are still lacking where I live. At the current weak dollar it is even cheaper. Still though, I cannot deny that I am quite happy to be back in the land of plenty.

The End of a Journey

2008-02-20T08:22:00.003Z

It is my last day here in Ghana. I have finished my interviews, which means I am a free woman today. My flight is a redeye so I don’t have to be at the airport until late this evening. My hotel, on the other hand, is kicking me out by noon so I will have much time left to explore Accra one more time before I head back to cooler climates. Having meandered my way through the city for over a week I feel I have seen much of what there is to see. Even my souvenir shopping is largely done already as I am not inclined to stuff my –shoebox sized– room any further with wood carvings and also, Accra is not exactly the Walhalla of shopping. I will probably head over to visit some of the last things on my must-see list.

During my time here, I have shared much of what I saw with you but the number of impressions exceeded what I could keep up with in this blog. Just to give you a flavour of the things I was not able to write about:

• The first time somebody makes that hissing ssshh sound at you, you find it offensive. Soon enough though you realise it is simply the Ghanaian way of saying ‘hey’ to get your attention.

• Ghanaians drive Dutch cars. I don’t mean Dutch brands (are there any?) but vans that actually still have the Dutch advertisements printed on them: Verse vis van Vishandel Smit or Loodgietersbedrijf Jansen, een vertrouwde naam. It turns out there is a lively trade in second-hand vehicles between the Netherlands and Ghana!

• A smoking ban would not meet with any resistance here. In fact, it would go practically unnoticed: Ghanaians just don’t smoke. Even drinking appears to be uncommon. Given the sheer number of homeless people I have seen, it is remarkable to see so few drunks or druggies. Every country has its own set of problems I suppose.

• Coca-Cola rules the world. Even in the tiniest of villages along the road, stalls are still covered in those red-and-white advertisements. On the local TV I saw a villager in the North of Ghana being interviewed about the draught there. He shrugged and answered they always still had Coca-Cola and, if necessary, he would wash himself with it. That’s the power of marketing for you.

I could go on but basically I think you should come experience it for yourselves. I have found Ghana, at least the part of it I have visited, to be very accessible and welcoming to strangers. Even for a woman travelling on her own, Ghana feels quite safe. Unfortunately I have not had a chance to see the fabled beaches further east but I have been told they are breathtaking and worth a visit in itself. Ghana does not yet have the developed tourist industry of, for instance, Thailand but it makes up for that in authenticity if that is what you are after. The current government has committed itself to making Ghana a middle-income country by 2015. Having seen some of the country for myself I don’t consider that a very realistic target but one that certainly deserves a try. Tourism is perhaps one way of helping it get there.

O ye of little faith

2008-02-18T20:48:00.005Z

It is probably true for many parts of Africa but from my limited experience I can assure you that, at least in Ghana, the missionaries of the old days have succeeded astonishingly well in their attempts to bring The Book to the ‘dark continent’. Although the Northern part of Ghana is chiefly Muslim, the more southern parts are dominated by Christianity and my, these are some very Christian people indeed! Many of the cars, and in particular the tro-tros, aptly carry slogans such as “Go with God” and “Trust in Jesus”. Perhaps sound advice given the state of most of these vehicles.

Being driven around in taxis a lot means I get to strike up some interesting conversations with the drivers. Aside from the obvious “where are you from”, “how long are you in Ghana” and let’s not forget the infamous “do you have a husband” (so far I have only been proposed to twice but then again: I often lie to that question), three times now I have been asked what church I attend. I will invent a fake husband if I need to but this is a question I feel compelled to answer honestly. In the eyes of many Ghanaians though I am telling them the unthinkable when I explain that I do not belief in God at all. The looks of disbelief I receive are quite amusing. They cannot understand that I choose to live a life without God. I have tried explaining that my whole family and many of my friends feel the same way but this only widens the gap between us further. One of them even offered to bring me to his own church, so desperate was he to point out to me the error of my ways.

Most taxi drivers are very friendly and I have a small collection of phone numbers of these guys who insist I call them if I want somebody to show me around Accra; a kind offer but one I am likely to decline. Somewhere in this city though I now know there will be three people praying for the redemption of my damned atheist soul.

Bush people

2008-02-18T09:41:00.007Z

I sure did pick an interesting time to be in Ghana! My visit here touches the CAN2008 on one end and George Bush' African Five-Nation Tour on the other. He is scheduled to arrive in Ghana tomorrow for an official state visit. As I think goes without further explanation, I will not be part of the cheering crowds that seem to be following him on this tour so far. Not only has he been messing up the world in a major way, he is now also messing up my schedule!

The emphasis of the Five-Nation Tour is on health care issues in Africa so given the obvious overlap between my job here and his, Mr Bush has been stealing away people from my interview list. I found myself rebuffed this morning by the Director General of one of Ghana's principal Health Services because he was scheduled at a meeting in preparation of the Tour. I still have a long way to go before I take priority over the U.S. President I guess.

One of the main issues under discussion is further support for programmes to fight three of the most destructive diseases in the world, particularly in Africa: tuberculosis, malaria and HIV/AIDS. Bush' own pet project is the PEPFAR, a snappy acronym for the "President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief". In itself it is difficult to be against any plan that aims to combat HIV/AIDS. The problem lies, however, in the strategy with which it tries to do so. The Bush Plan is based on the so-called ABC strategy: Abstinence, Be faithful, Condoms. It is a message that rings incredibly naive to me. HIV/AIDS is not a disease of bad morals; it is a serious public health issue that needs a much wider array of weapons to fight it. The reason I am in Ghana is that we are trying to support a programme that will hopefully increase access to essential medicines for those too poor to afford them. Let's hope that message does not get snowed under in the chorus of those that preach abstinence is the way.

The Evil Trade

2008-02-17T18:04:00.005Z

After a 3 hour bus ride I have returned to Accra. Thanks to one of my well-connected new-found friends here I was able to escape the city for the weekend to go to Elmina. I had several reasons for wanting to visit this fishermen’s village west of Accra. The first was that Accra is no more Ghana than Amsterdam is the Netherlands or London is England. At least by going to Elmina I was able to see a bit more of the country, if only a tiny bit. The other reason I felt I had to see Elmina is because of what it is and because of what I am.

As a Dutch traveller you sometimes find yourself confronted by something only the British, the Portuguese, the Spanish and to some extent the French and Belgians can probably relate to: the confrontation with the darker side of your nation’s past. The Dutch history in Ghana is one of the darkest chapters in our history. Elmina castle was once the focal point of the most evil of all trades: the slave trade.

Between 1637 and 1872 the Dutch occupied this massive 4 story slave fortress in which at any time over a thousand Africans would be held in dark dungeons, waiting either to die right there or to be shipped to the plantations of the Americas. In the roughly 300 years this destructive trade plagued the African continent over 12 million people were stripped of their humanity and treated as a commodity like any other. A very profitable commodity if they survived the ocean voyage.

Visiting this castle together with descendents of those that passed through the Door of No Return was a humbling and moving experience. You can visit the dungeons as well as the officer quarters. The castle is now a World Heritage Monument, a status it fully deserves and which should hopefully allow it to be maintained in the amazing condition it still is more than 500 years after it was built.

The horrors inflicted here are not forgotten and should never be. Next to the cell for condemned slaves the people of Ghana have fixed a memorial plaque that says it all:

In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We the living vow to uphold this.

Abroni on the move

2008-02-15T08:24:00.004Z

Yesterday I finally had a chance to wonder around Accra since I had only one afternoon interview scheduled. I have been studying my guidebook well and knew that Accra does not have all that much to offer in terms of tourist attractions. It is not exactly Rome or London around here. Ghana on the whole does not have the same appeal to tourists who come to see wildlife as for instance Kenya or Tanzania, although at the moment it is certainly a lot safer than the former. The CAN2008 will certainly have helped put Ghana on the tourist maps but overall it is still relatively untouched by the tourist industry. I would not go so far as to call it unspoilt as I feel that Ghana could probably benefit from some more of the tourist dollars. There are plenty of abroni’s like me in my hotel (including a group of Dutch girls all with blond corn rows) but somehow you don’t really see them anymore once you venture into downtown Accra. Probably they are all at the beaches.

I started the day in Jamestown, a fishermen’s village part of Accra that my guidebook euphemistically calls ‘atmospheric’. I would not have been surprised to see the word ‘authentic’ there instead. By authentic I mean that there is no layer of veneer slapped on it at all. The fishing boats laying on the beach all look extremely worn and there is a putrid smell of fish and open sewer everywhere. It is fascinating to see how different other people’s lives can be from your own, even if you don’t envy them theirs. As the only white person for miles around, and a woman at that, I attract quite a lot of stares. The nice thing about Accra though –and here I agree with my guidebook– is that it is perfectly safe for me to do this. I did not get harassed once and certainly never felt in any way threatened. Sure, there are an awful lot of random people asking me how I am doing but where is the harm in that? I wouldn’t recommend trying this at night but then, I also would not recommend that for certain areas of London.

My next stop rang a familiar bell as I found myself standing in ‘Oxford Street’, a nickname given by the locals to a street in the Osu district which is well known for its many restaurants. Don’t picture anything even approximating the London version though. We are talking mainly street stalls here and the selection of goods is fairly monotonous. At the moment it is mainly football shirts and Valentine’s gifts. I also passed by the N’kruma monument and the Independence Square so after just one morning I can already tick off many of the must-see-while-in-Accra check boxes. On the list still are Osu Castle, Makola Market and of course the beach.

If only I still had my camera I could show you pictures of all that I see. Instead, you will get my thousand words.

To give or not to give

2008-02-14T09:22:00.003Z

Ghanaians are friendly people. They smile a lot and in general are very helpful. Behind the smiles though lurks an undeniable and pretty ugly truth. That is that Ghana really is a very poor country. I have been to developing world countries before but never have I felt it so much in my face as now. Maybe it is because the places I have been are a bit away from the tourist spots but I get the impression it is the same everywhere. I have seen some very miserable looking shantytowns along the road with open sewers running through. One of the most difficult things I have encountered here is the begging.

Given that traffic for most of the day is hopelessly stuck anyway, all the main roads are filled with beggars and street vendors, slaloming between the stationary cars. The vendors sell the oddest collection of things you have ever seen. The ice water bags and plantain chips I get but who buys exercise equipment, kitschy cuckoo clocks or foam rubber puzzles of the human body through their car window? The mismatch between supply and demand is enormous. So many people are selling but so few people are buying. Even more heart breaking than those vendors balancing their merchandise on their heads are the beggars. I have literally seen old ladies in wheelchairs being shoved in front of the –fortunately very slow driving– cars, begging for money. I have been approached by a young guy on crutches for the second time in two days asking me for money to eat. He may not remember me but I do remember seeing him the day before on that same spot. As do I remember the old man with the blind, hollow eyes being lead by the hand by his grandson. He too sits there every day in the scorching sun.

I don’t know how to react to all this. There are so many of them that I feel there would be no end to it. So instead of forking out some small change, which even on my modest salary I could easily afford, I hide behind my sunglasses and look into the distance. I do feel miserable though being this evil witch who does not flinch. Of course I know this is a problem that cannot be solved by my few cedis. On the other hand, all my instincts tell me that nobody has ever been better off without money to buy food than with it. I honestly don’t know what to do. Any thoughts on this?

Tro-tro-trotting around Accra

2008-02-13T10:04:00.004Z

It is my third real day in Accra and slowly I am beginning to see a bit more of the city, although I am yet to catch my first glimpse of the ocean. Work has been keeping me so busy I even end up skipping lunch, racing from one part of the city to the other. All this racing is done by taxi which is the most convenient way to get around. Taxis are pretty much omnipresent. Most of these are rather dingy looking things that look like they have been taped together but they are surprisingly efficient. The even cheaper alternative to using taxis would be to use the local system of tro-tros. These are basically mini-vans that have been converted to transport a horrendous amount of people. The roads are filled with these vans that are –sometimes literally– bursting at the seams stuffed with around 20 people plus all of their luggage. Combine that with the suicidal Ghanaian style of driving and it is no wonder that traffic is one of the major causes of the poor life expectation Ghanaians have.

Most of my trips across town start at my temporarily assigned office. That is right: I have an office! It even has its own door and a phone, which is more than I can say on a normal workday. What makes me feel even more special though is the location of my office. Let me give you a hint: they serve stroopwafels with DE ‘roodmerk’… yes indeed, my office is situated right here. Funnily enough that has nothing to do with my own nationality. The reason is that for particular matters in Ghana the UK is represented through the Dutch Embassy and, without boring you with the details, my work here basically is a consultancy job on behalf of a UK government department.

Classy as it may seem, of course the purpose of my trip is not to sit in the office all day. For that I would not have needed to take a flight all the way to Accra. I am here to meet with people and to listen what they have to say. I do have a schedule of appointments but already that schedule is proving to be a bit of a pain in the neck. Many appointments have not been confirmed or were confirmed at times other than those in my schedule. I find myself chasing people up and down trying to see who I can meet when. Given that I do not know how far any of these places are from each other, getting the logistics right is a challenge. And then even when I manage to be in the right place at the right time, that does not necessarily mean my conversation partner is as well. I hope to be able to talk with at least a fair share of the people on my schedule, particularly as some of them work for organisations I hold in high esteem, but we will have to see how everything works out.

My hotel unfortunately is a bit too far from the centre to just wander off in the evenings. The best view I have had so far of inner-city Accra came when my taxi driver could not find the hotel and plunged us into rush-hour chaos. This weekend I definitely intend to get my time on the beach but for now it’s all work and no play.

Akwaaba!

2008-02-12T11:03:00.000Z

Akwaaba is the first word that greets you when you arrive in Ghana. That and the Africa Cup of Nations. I managed to arrive in Accra on the day of the final of the biggest event of the year and it is obvious. Funnily enough I have done this before. Four years ago I arrived in Lisbon the day after Portugal lost the Eurocup final to Greece. The thing that struck me then was the bountiful flag waving everywhere. It's the same here now. Almost every car, building or shop salutes the Black Stars of Ghana. They didn't win the Cup but that somehow does not seem to matter much.

The other thing that greets you is the heat. I know it is a cliché but it is hard not to notice the oppressive heat that envelopes you as soon as you leave the air-conditioned shelter of the airport. Ghana is still on the northern hemisphere but so close to the equator it really does not make much difference that it is 'winter'. The only relief from time to time comes from the Harmattan which is still blowing.

My work schedule hasn't allowed me much time yet to see the more touristy side of Accra although in a way that has made it more interesting. I find myself in places tourists have no business being and get to see a more rounded picture of the city that way. I do stick out like a sore thumb in many of these places though: an abroni in heels and brandishing a laptop. I have never more wished to be a Chameleon.

During my interviews I am at times still struggling with the Ghanaian flavour of English. As a former British colony, English is the official language of Ghana but it is peppered with many other local languages and pronounced in a tongue quite distinct from my one. The theft of my digital recorder does not help since now I only can listen to everything once. I can't keep asking people to repeat themselves the whole time! It is challenging but the people I speak with all make it quite easy for me as they seem more than happy to meet with me and take time out of their busy schedules. I have my next appointment in a few hours when I am expected at the Ministry of Health. I better start preparing...

The long day

2008-02-11T18:20:00.000Z

[Actually, this is yesterday's post but since I did not yet have a chance to post it, you all get it today! :-) Today's post hopefully tomorrow. Call it the time difference...]

Here I am, sitting in my Accra hotel room. And what a journey it has been. Did you ever have one of those days where you just felt the universe had it in for you? Where you feel like a rag doll tossed about my some invisible hand? Like that little ball in a pinball machine, taking hit after hit after hit? I have, and today was one such day.

My beef with Heathrow airport and British Airlines is not new. There is a reason I avoid these conjoint twins as much as I can. Yet again, they have done nothing to convince me otherwise. As I am still without internet access in my new home I had to check in the old-fashioned way, that is: at the airport. I arrived two hours before my flight and was dealt the first hammer blow of the day when the BA lady with a completely deadpan face informed me the flight was overbooked and she did not have a seat for me. No explanation, no apologies and…no seat! I was referred to the service desk (if ever there was irony in a name) where I found myself surrounded by dozens of others with the same problem. This business of overbooking is a nasty practice and one that I deeply feel should be made illegal. It just will not do that you pay for a flight only to find yourself barred from getting on it. At least misery makes company so I managed to make my first Ghanian friend before even getting to Ghana but still. It was an agonising wait, praying a seat would free up. I have to admit I played it dirty. I pulled the I’m-on-important-business -and-have-to-get-there-now rabbit out of my hat and so managed to get on the priority list. I scraped by by the fingernails when just enough volunteers came off the flight for me to be able to take that last seat. The mad dash through security that followed did not leave me any time to buy lunch, get cash or let alone buy a travel adaptor.

Although I was thankful to have a seat I didn’t exactly win the best seat in the house. I was assigned a place in the row reserved for passengers with small children. That means 9 people in a row of 6 chairs, 3 of whom are under the age of 3. Starting to get the picture? I spent 7 hours seated next to a woman with a 2-month-old baby that was being breast fed for at least three of those hours. The highlight came when his mother happily informed me her son had just peed on her trousers. If karma exists I clearly must have done something really bad at some point in my life because the day spiralled down further from there. Picture white linen trousers and an ill-advised bottle of red wine…. Got it? Now add in sunglasses snapped in half and a camera and voice recorder that have miraculously disappeared from my luggage. Feeling exhausted already? I sure am. Sigh. It has been a long, long day.

But now here I am at last: in Accra. I haven’t seen much more than the airport and the hotel so you will all have to wait before I can tell you anything other than that it is pretty hot. Greetings from Accra!

The tipping point

2008-02-09T14:27:00.000Z

It's the final countdown. In 24 hours from now I will be on a plane on my way to Ghana. My suitcase is packed with a motley assortment of clothes, notebooks and first aid supplies. My passport is nestled safely against my ticket and I have left copies of my important numbers everywhere. Logistically speaking I am all set and ready. Mentally... well, I'm getting there.

This trip is an amazing opportunity. This is why I quit doing what I was doing and moved to London. This is my big moment. And I am a bit nervous. Not about where I am going, I think that will be a wonderful experience. I am nervous because this feels like my 'tipping point'; the moment where words stop being just words and are put into action. Everything I have learned in the last 15 months has led me to this point. Now I have to make it happen; I cannot screw this up. I feel like a stage actress moments before her big premiere. She has studied the lines, she knows her part but when that curtain goes up: rehearsal time is definitely over! Just her and the audience.

I know I can do this and have to trust that if my boss had any doubts about that, he would not have sent me here. Time to stop worrying, pull all my confidence together and simply dive in to enjoy the waters. Wish me luck!

Africa for dummies

2008-01-28T20:16:00.000Z

Well, for beginners is actually what my guidebook has to say about Ghana. Amazingly enough Ghana is one of those countries for which there are hardly any guidebooks. My rummaging through the shelves of the dedicated travel bookshop yielded just a single one. There is no Lonely Planet even. There is one for West Africa all lumped together but just Ghana on its own apparently does not draw enough of an audience. I like the idea of going somewhere that is off the beaten tourist track.

For the sceptics amongst you out there who still think I wasted my money buying yet another guidebook that I will not use: think again. My ticket is booked and I have spent a fair deal of my time this morning getting my visa sorted. Armed with two completed application forms, two identical pictures, two names of referees in Ghana and my passport I showed up at the Ghana High Commission. In the waiting area I was treated to 30 minutes of documentary on the cocao industry. Not very entertaining but it killed time. Once I finally made it to the visa desk I was brusquely rebuffed since my forms were not correct: I had neglected to complete them in CAPITAL letters. Right..., no point in arguing that one so with my tail between my legs I moved away to fill out two new forms. Then of course I had managed to overlook the fact that payments are cash only, something incompatible with my nature as a plastic fantastic girl. Off to the cash point I went and at attempt number three I finally managed to get a stamp on my form. Next week I can pick up my visa.

There is more preparation to a trip to Ghana than just a visa so the afternoon was taken up by a visit to the travel clinic. My poor left arm suffered multiple jabs and I am kitted out with anti-malaria pills and pills to fence off that old traveller's favourite. It is a bit of a mood killer, all these practicalities. I even had to buy some new outfits as my business clothes are all more designed for the British climate than the African one. I can't very well show up for my interviews in a strappy top and sandals, can I?

All this is to stay that I have crossed the point of no return. Twelve days from now I will take off for Accra and will spend 11 days there, interviewing a multitude of people whose names I do not yet know. Assuming I won't have any trouble accessing the internet, I will keep you posted from there. Stay tuned!

Saudade

2008-01-27T18:39:00.000Z

Fortunately London is a place where one doesn't have to stay homeless for long. I have found myself a new apartment and will be moving in next weekend. The new flat is in the same neighbourhood I am living in now so I can stay set in many of my ways. I will miss this place and am somewhat worried about how I am going to fit all my belongings in a room that is clearly a lot smaller but I genuinely like the looks of my new accommodation.

Last week has awoken a feeling in me that had stayed dormant thus far. The feeling is simultaneously fed by my need to move out and the fact that I have just agreed to rent out my Amsterdam apartment for the next 6 months again. Breaking through my emotional surface is a nagging homesickness. Up until now I had been too absorbed by my new life in London to spend much time thinking about the one I left behind. London is a greedy lover, jealously demanding all your time and energy. The city had blinded me to my old love.

Amsterdam is the only city that really makes my heart beat faster. Cycling along the canals on a sunny afternoon makes it skip a beat. I miss the houseboats, miss shopping on the Albert Cuyp and, most of all, miss the feeling of being at home. In London I still feel on the outside. I am merely passing through. The problem is that I will be passing through for at least another 6 months and with my current line of work, it is very possible my next destination will not be Amsterdam. This was my choice and it is a choice that I do not regret. This is what I want to do with my life. But on days like today, my heart sings heavy with saudade.

Foot prints

2008-01-23T19:40:00.000Z

I have written numerous times here about trips I was supposed to be making to unusual and exotic places. Indeed my shelves have filled up with guidebooks I haven't yet had a chance to use. Due to all sorts of funding and logistical trouble everything had been pushed back and then further back. But finally the tides are changing!

Next month I am scheduled to make my first business trip. It is not to Russia, Kyrgyzstan or Uzbekistan. No, it is quite a different continent all together. I am scheduled to spend two weeks in February trotting around Accra, Ghana. Before you roll your eyes and think to yourselves "yeah right, we'll see about that": the arrangements have been made and I have my letter of invitation personally signed by a delegate of the Dutch consulate in Ghana already. What I need now is my visa and my shots. O yes, and some idea of what I am supposed to be doing there...

I will be travelling alone which is something I have not done on this scale before. I will be met at the airport (I assume!) but, after some initial introductions, it will be just me and the city. Of course I am very excited but I cannot deny I am also a bit scared. It's not a very tangible fear as I know next to nothing about Ghana, nothing either good or bad. I don't know if I am afraid to get lost, robbed or to simply find myself out of my depth. Whatever it is, I better get over it as this will not be my last trip alone. The next one has been scheduled as well.

In April or May I will at long last get to travel to Russia and then again in June. Astute readers may have picked up that by then the original 6 months that I had mapped out for this job will have long since passed. It took a while for the really good stuff to materialise but now that it is happening, I am not about to jump ship just yet. This is too good an opportunity to pass up on. I want my passport to look like this:

Dodgy degrees

2008-01-08T19:36:00.000Z

O in these quadrangles where Wisdom honours herself
Does the original stone merely echo that praise
Shallowly, or utter a bland hymn of comfort,
The founder's equivocal blessing
On all who worship Success?

Oxford - W.H. Auden

Universities are not what they used to be. Once they were noble institutions of learning, filled with scholarly students drinking from the cup of Wisdom. Well, maybe a few other cups here and there as well but you get the picture. But then universities had to become market focussed, profit oriented, competitive. Students these days are selected more for their financial than their intellectual capacity. It is hidden behind phrases like "investing in your own future" but basically you need deep pockets to do advanced degrees unless you are one of the lucky few eligible for sponsorship. My own university celebrated its centenary by upping the tuition fees even further. Especially business degrees have become the cash cow of the academic system. At least at this university, however, you get value for your money. The degree is an expensive key unlocking many doors. Enter the world of dodgy degrees...

Anybody with a Gmail account out there may know what I am talking about. After the first email you send talking about your thesis, the ads on the site of your screen flash out at you 'Buy Your Degree Online'. I cannot say I have been tempted to take this shortcut but it makes you wonder how many people have. It's a scam but the scam is being played only on employers silly enough not to check the credentials of their applicants. The students are wholly complicit in this deceit.

Far worse is the story shown on the BBC today. It shows bogus universities preying on unsuspecting overseas students. Students get lured in with a flashy website, imaginary accreditation and even a graduation ceremony in Oxford or Cambridge. The Irish International University was exposed as an organisation accredited only by the Quality Assurance Commission UK, a body set up by... the director of the IIU himself! The honorary chancellor is a man who bought himself a baron title and who readily admits "the whole thing is dodgy" when caught on hidden camera. It is disgusting to see how poor students are taken advantage of. Their degrees will be next to worthless when applying for a job at any serious company. Unless maybe they try applying at a dummy corporation?

Happy New Year

2008-01-07T19:12:00.000Z

I know, I know, the 6th of January has passed and the window on New Year's wishes has officially closed. The discarded Christmas trees are floral road kill lining the Chelsea streets and the oliebollen have gone stale. My ears have even stopped ringing from the €20,000 fireworks one of the neighbours set off, sending the cat into near hysteria. But I will not be bullied by petty, small-minded conventions. If I want to wish my friends a Happy New Year on the 7th of January I will just do so. I will not let this yearly opportunity of sounding like a Hallmark evangelist pass me by. So to all of you my dear friends and family, may 2008 bring you:

generous laughter
stimulating discussions
plenty of relaxation
a sun-filled summer
a snow-filled winter
rewarding jobs
brilliant theses
deep, requited love
the fulfillment of your old dreams
the sprouting of new dreams &
health and happiness to you and all those near to you

Wishing you all a very happy 2008!

I'll be home for Christmas

2007-12-22T11:01:00.001Z

Today is the day I have been bracing myself for all week. Today I am plunging myself into every expat's nightmare: the airport on the weekend before Christmas. I personally know at least five other -unrelated- people boarding a plane today and at an expected 1.2 million passengers pouring through Heathrow airport over the next week that is just the tip of the iceberg. I have chilling visions of queues meandering all the way from Gatwick to Croydon and anticipate a long, long day.

Last year I got stuck at Gatwick for 9 hours after my flight was cancelled due to fog. Of those nine hours I spent about 4 queuing with nothing to eat or drink and no way to get out and buy some without losing my spot in the queue. I will not let that happen to me this year. My carry-on luggage is stuffed with high-energy snacks and water. Things aren't looking all that promising this year either. Yesterday more flights were cancelled, again courtesy of the English mists. On top of that airport staff has been threatening to go on strike over the Christmas period. That threat has now been pushed back until two days after my return to the Big Smoke but with people cruel enough to entertain the thought of striking over Christmas, you just never know.

Why o why do we submit ourselves to this annual horror? I am actually not that keen on Christmas at all and wouldn't be too put out by just pretending it isn't there. My mum would strangle me though, I fear, if I didn't make the effort. Like most families we'll sit through the obligatory Christmas dinner and stuff ourselves. It's the season to be jelly. So here I am, with my bags packed and a heart filled with dread at the day ahead of me, ready to cross the puddle.

See you on the other side!

Workaholic

2007-12-19T21:15:00.001Z

My first flatmate in London was a real workaholic. We didn't share a house for very long but in those few weeks I lived there I hardly ever saw him. He would come home from the office really late and lived on take-out meals and cigarettes. It didn't seem a very healthy way to live. It is the way a lot of people in London live though. This city is known for the long hours people work. Before I came here, I was never even aware of the existence of the European Working Time Directive, which forbids employers from making their employees work more than 48 hours a week. That is of course, unless you sign an 'opt-out', something which many large companies here enforce.

I work at the university and academia is not generally a place where people are being worked to death. It is not that PhD students don't work hard. Often times they work really hard but it mostly is on a semi-voluntary basis, as in: sooner or later that thesis needs to be finished. I have worked the occasional weekend or evening in those days as well, but it certainly was not the rule. Our group now though is a bit of a chimera of academia and business. The work we do is definitely research based but many of our projects are commissioned and that means we have to work to the client's deadlines. This time of year is the worst. Everybody is trying to get things finished 'before the holidays'. I had two projects with major deadlines on it this week. One of them in particular has kept me working weekends and evenings. I haven't slept properly in days. My eyes are bloodshot and my muscles tight like the strings on a violin.

But the work is done! I managed to deliver to my deadlines, in part because London is 5 hours ahead of Washington where our client is based. I am pleased to have managed but am exhausted to my very core. I have now snuggled up on the sofa under the duvet, for the first time in days doing something other than work on my laptop. As soon as I type the last sentence I will go brush my teeth and surrender to Morpheus' sweet embrace.

Zzzzzz.....

The ivory tower

2007-12-09T18:10:00.000Z

Most of my working life I have had the same job title: researcher. Research to most people conjures up images of people in scruffy white labcoats or stuffy book-filled attics. And these cliche images exist for a reason. For five years I worked in a lab, fiddling with pipets and coloured solutions, although in all fairness I only ever wore a labcoat to keep me from shivering in the 'cold room'. My work was far divorced from a tangible reality. The lab was a playground where we did not often consider the outside world.

My job title may still be the same but my new job has hurled me out of the confines of the ivory tower and smack-bang into the real world. What a brave new world it is! It is a world of meetings, focus groups and consultation events. I have spent the last two days in hospitals talking to people on the receiving end of all that we brew up in our scientific pressure cooker: the patients. Sat on hospital beds talking to patients with a dozen tubes running in and out of their bodies. Listened to tales of woe from people who suffered medical errors or hospital bugs.

It is inspiring and illuminating to deal with the people on the ground. In the ivory tower you can loose sight of the purpose of what you are doing. Words become increasingly complex and bogged down in jargon. When you go back to the patient you find you no longer speak the same language. We even need to have our documents and questions 'Plain English-ed' before we can take them out. In chemistry the jargon is so outlandish that you don't expect people outside of the field to understand phrases like isotope labeled medium or beta-mercaptoethanol. In management and social studies it is more subtle. That makes the risks only bigger though. You think you talk like a normal person and instead you find you may as well have been talking Greek, which in some cases might even have been more helpful.

Welcome to the real world!

And then it was over

2007-11-24T12:07:00.000Z

It's official: I am no longer a student. Yesterday I received my final results and I am pleased and proud to inform you that I have mastered my degree. I am even more pleased and proud to tell you that I did so with distinction! Forgive me for bragging but I am really happy about it. I wasn't expecting it as my results throughout the year, though good, were not straight A's. It was my thesis that tipped the balance in my favour. I am particularly pleased at this as my thesis was what I was most eager to get right. My thesis supervisor is my current boss as well so it mattered a great deal to me to impress him.

Getting my results does not mean I have officially been bestowed my title yet. For the graduation ceremony I will -bizarrely enough- have to wait until 14 May 2008. Of course nothing can ever top receiving my PhD degree. Academically that will always be the most special day in my career. But receiving this degree will be special in its own way as well. In true Anglo-Saxon style the whole affair will be Cap & Gown. For somebody coming out of the Dutch academic system that is quite a change. The venue is another special touch. Our graduation ceremony will take place in The Royal Albert Hall (pictured above)! I was gutted when I first found out that, due to renovations, my PhD defense would not take place in Leiden's beautiful Academiegebouw but I think graduating in the Albert Hall sweetens that bitter pill somewhat.

It will not be the personal affair that my other graduations have been. This is mass production. All the postgraduates from Imperial College graduate on that same day so it's one looooong procession of gowns streaming over the podium. My family will also have to pay for tickets if they want to attend! A lot of my classmates were not from the UK or even Europe and I expect a lot of people will not bother to travel all the way back for this overpriced mass production event. I personally have decided that I most definitely want to be there though. I have worked hard enough for it!

Who's that girl

2007-11-19T20:05:00.000Z

There is a stranger in my bedroom. She is looking at me through eyes that are just like mine but are framed by blacker lashes. She is me and yet she is not. The girl looking back at me is a version of me: Office Girl. Five days a week I wake up and begin my transformation into OG. I wave my mascara wand and do my hair. OG's costume includes ironed blouses and heels. All dressed up and ready for a day at the office.

I actually enjoy this game of adult dress-up that we all play. By putting on a suit or a skirt we assume that aura of professionalism. It doesn't matter that we barely know what we are doing, the clothes make us look like we do. It is a cloak of invincibility. But the cloak is not that thick. As the hours in the office pass the mascara gets smudged, the hair tossled and the blouse wrinkled. And it is not very comfortable either...

As soon as OG walks back into the house at the end of another day, the butterfly metamorphs back in her cocoon. Before anything else, the shoes are banned to the corner. Then the make-up comes off and the clothes are replaced by comfy PJs and fleece. Time to snuggle up on the sofa with a cuppa tea. Office girl becomes Tulipgirl again.

The Mogwai

2007-11-13T11:47:00.000Z

My instruction manual is fairly simple but there is 1 golden rule:

NEVER, and I do mean NEVER, talk to me before I've had my breakfast.

I am not a morning person. For the first 30 minutes of every day I am in fact barely a person. When the golden rule is broken I turn into a Gremlin as a poor flatmate of mine once experienced after an accidental early morning wake-up call. I think she still has nightmares of the death threats I snarled at her. Don't ask me how I slept; don't tell me what the weather looks like; just DON'T talk to me. Then, if I am left in peace and quiet, I usually become human again within an hour or so.

In winter time it's worse. Waking up in the dark is insufferable. It takes sunlight to drive out my gremlin. But now I have a new toy. This weekend I got an alarm clock that works with light. Over a period of 30 minutes it slowly increases its light emission to gently wane me off my sleep. Apparently this decreases the levels of sleep-inducing melatonin and increases cortison production. Naturally, as a (ex-)biochemist this concept instinctively appeals to me. The product specifications promise me I will wake up a brighter, nicer, more energetic person. More Gizmo than Stripe.

So, does it work? Well, it's only been one night so far and as all you scientists know the validity of a result is in the reproducibility of the experiment. It was definitely a smoother waking up this morning though. Of course that might also have had something to do with the fact I have been working from home today and could sleep in for an additional half hour. It will take some more time before I can tell you if the days of the Gremlin are gone. Until then best not to feed me after midnight.

Fragile

2007-11-10T01:24:00.000Z

Promises are like glass. They are easily shattered and once broken, you can never quite put them back together again. Breaking promises is as walking through broken glass. No matter how carefully you tread, sooner or later you will step on a shard that digs into your foot and nestles itself under your skin from where it sends up shooting pains as you walk on. Although the sting is painful at first, the longer you trample over the shards the finer they are ground. Eventually they will have been reduced to mere grains and walking across them becomes as painless as a stroll on the beach.

We all break promises. Sometimes we know from the onset that the words that just rolled off our tongues are meaningless but we say them anyway. Most of the time though we set out with the best of intentions. Life just gets in the way. Yes, I really intended to complete that report by next week. Yes, I really did mean to email back that friend soon. It just... didn't happen.

This blog is one of my glass splinters. Although never explicitly stated there was an implied promise between you, my readers, and myself. I would write regularly and in return you would come here to read it. Lately I have been breaking my end of the deal. Life got in the way in the form of a fulltime job. Every time I turn on my computer I feel the sharp splinter in my flesh and every time I then later turn it off, without having posted yet again, the splinter punishes me with pangs of guilt. I have broken our pact. You, on the other hand, keep returning to me, forgiving, like wide-eyed puppies pleading for comfort with the very same person who just kicked them. I don't know if I deserve such loyalty from you. My workload is not about to diminish and at the same time the well of my inspiration is drying up. We may soon have to renegotiate the terms of our silent contract. But first I will try to earn back your trust. I promise.

Of silver and gold

2007-10-27T23:28:00.002+01:00

When I was a child, I had a song book called Sing around the campfire. Riddled with songs like Michael row your boat and Kumbaya, I have no idea how it ended up in my distinctly secular home yet somehow it did. It came with a casette which I played over and over until the tape wore thin. To this day I can still sing along to the mournful sounds of Nobody knows. There is one song in particular of which the refrain dug itself into my memory:

make new friends
but keep the old
one is silver
and the other gold

As I child you think friendships are forever. Nothing or nobody can drive you and your friend apart. You share the good, the bad, the secrets and giggles. You solemnly promise each other in your poesiealbums that you will be best friends forever. But then one day you go to different schools, different universities, different lives. You try to keep in touch but eventually they become people you once used to know.

As you get older the duration of friendships tends to decrease. Very few people nowadays work in the same place for more than a couple of years and we change countries almost as easily as we do underwear. My friends live in half a dozen different countries or so. It is difficult to keep friendships alive when you live far apart. Even when neither of you has really changed since the days of your friendship, everything else has. You don't know the same people anymore and don't share the same present so instead you fall back on your shared past. Friends for old times' sake. It is heartbreaking to realise sometimes that time has eroded the foundations of your friendship. Keeping the golden glow on old friendships takes a lot of dedicated polishing.

New friendships can also be fragile. Over the last year I have met many new people some of whom I would now consider friends. But already I have lost some as well. For a year we have worked together day in-day out but when the final term ended we all went our separate ways again. Sure, we can send each other emails and virtual Facebook presents but experience has taught me that we are more likely to remain friendly acquaintances than friends. Only the alchemy of friendship can turn silver into gold. Whenever it does we should cherish it for the rare treasure it is.

Ingeburgerd

2007-10-21T22:19:00.000+01:00

Inburgeren: "to get accustomed to a new place of residence"
(van Dale Dutch dictionary)

More commonly interpreted as knowing and respecting the habits of your new country after emigration. Well, it's been 12 months and 19 days since I arrived so it is a time to take tally of how well I have been ingeburgerd into British society. A quick summary on some key indicators:

Five out of ten ..., not a very good score. Then again, inburgering doesn't dictate adoption of foreign habits, merely understanding and respect for them. That, for the most part, I can do. I don't think I'll ever stop being amazed about carpet in the toilet or separate faucets for hot and cold running water but it is such peculiar differences that make it interesting to live abroad.

It's hard to say here in London whether or not you have been accepted by the English. The truth is there hardly are any around. Almost everybody is a foreigner. I have met more Chinese, Germans and French than I have English. My accent, for one, still does not fool anybody into thinking I'm English though lately I have been getting "Canadian?" a lot . I'll consider that a step in the right direction from earlier accusations of sounding American.

This weekend was a clear reminder that I am far from being assimilated. Those of you Dutch like me may not know this but for the English this was a BIG weekend. It was the final of the Rugby Worldcup and England was in it. I watched the match in a pub full of rowdy fans looking at a scrum of rugged looking men having absolutely no clue what was going on on the field. Out of a sense of solidarity, mixed with an instinct for self-preservation, I decided to side with England. They lost and now the English are in mourning. I, on the other hand, am completely indifferent. My support for England was only skin deep. Maybe that is the true touchstone of inburgering.

Growing pains

2007-10-14T11:55:00.000+01:00

When I grow up I want to be
The little girl dreamt
An interpreter for the UN
To help the whole world understand

When I grow up I want to be
The teenager then pondered
A doctor, a psychiatrist maybe
Or perhaps a GP, she wondered

When I grow up I want to be
The student then resolved
A researcher of biochemistry
Deduct how life on Earth evolved

When I grow up I want to be
The PhD envisioned
Working for the vulnerable and sick
In countries far and near to which I'll be commissioned

When I grow up I want to be
The woman suddenly thought small
Mumbling softly so no one would hear
Do I have to grow up at all?

Lost in translation

2007-10-09T19:29:00.001+01:00

O my, will I indeed be looking forward to that weekend! Only two days into the week and already I am feeling knackered. It's been a while since I was a nine-to-fiver, let alone a 8.30-6.30er. It's tough, getting back into the rhythm.

My supervisor clearly does not belief in easing into the job either. I have had to hit the ground running and running fast at that. I shouldn't be surprised as this is the man who once told me we "could not afford to be average". It is what makes working in this group both a wonderful opportunity and a daunting challenge.

My first project is immediately a meaty one. It is my job to take inventory of the different so-called performance measures for healthcare in no less than 42 countries. Draft results to be deposited on my supervisor's desk by the end of the month, please! I am not sure whether this is an acid test of my abilities or simply business-as-usual. I am inclined to believe it is the latter. As if the scope of the work wasn't testing enough in itself, the work comes with a substantial catch. Performance measures are usually set by some sort of governmental or professional qualifications body and, as such, they are not to be found in the standard scientific literature. Instead, I have to dig through websites and policy papers. Naturally these papers are written in the language of its target audiences. Well, with 42 different countries you might see why that could be a bit of a problem.

I am rather pleased to find that, despite my schoolgirl detest of German, I can still understand a fair bit of the German, Austrian and Swiss papers. After all, qualitätsindikatoren is not that hard to comprehend. Also the indicateurs de qualité I can still more or less handle. And for once even knowing Dutch comes in good use! The difficulties begin with the literature on kvalitetsindikatorer and indicadores de calidad.

So here I ask you, my wonderful international group of friends: those of you proficient in Danish, Estonian, Finnish, Greek, Hungarian, Icelandic, Italian, Latvian, Lithuanian, Norwegian, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Slovenian, Spanish, Swedish, Japanese, Chinese, or Arabic: may I perhaps invoke your services?

Leaving limbo

2007-10-05T07:48:00.001+01:00

The vast majority of people will have gotten up this morning thinking to themselves "aaah, it's Friday. Only one more day of work and then it's weekend!". I, on the other hand, woke up thinking "aaah, finally I get to go to work!". After weeks of sitting at home I have at long last started my job at the university.

At first suddenly having no deadline hanging over my head was a welcome relief. Then it became a nice opportunity to catch up on my reading, correspondence and ailing social life. Another week later it turned into a maddening nothingness. A big empty void of days with no purpose other than beating random strangers at online scrabble. I would make one desperate housewife!

Thankfully as of yesterday I am put out of my unemployed misery. I have rejoined the ranks of the working masses to become a good little worker bee. A poorly paid worker bee without a desk to call her own that is. It doesn't matter. I am just so pleased to be spending my days usefully again. Soon I might even start to longingly look forward to weekends again for at least I will have earned them.

The London overdose

2007-09-29T20:48:00.001+01:00

I lived in Amsterdam for a good eight years. In all that time I have not been to the Anne Frank House once, nor to the Rijksmuseum, the Allard Pierson museum, the Tropenmuseum or even the Sex museum. I have not visited Carré, de Kleine Komedie or the Stadsschouwburg.

Twelve months have I been in London now. In that whole year I had not been to the British Museum, the Science Museum, the Victoria&Albert Museum or the National Portrait Gallery. I haven't seen a West End show nor have I gone up in the London Eye. I have barely glimpsed the Tower or Big Ben. You just don't get to do a lot of these things when you live somewhere. Part of 'going native' means snubbing the clichés, even if that means missing out on some interesting experiences.

By far the best motivation to get off our sorry native butts is to have guests over. This week my mum came to visit me. In five days time we have shuffled past the Chinese Terracotta Warriors and the Egyptian mummies at the British Museum. We have been baffled by the suspended tube lights and even black canvasses that pass for art at the Tate Modern. We have sipped champagne cocktails at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. We have looked at everything from 16th century locks and keys to Vivian Westwood dresses at the V&A.

In a city like London you are never done. There is always more to see, more to do, more to experience. At least this week I have been giving it my best. I need some time to recover from this cultural overdose. That is, until the next guests come knocking at the door...

Blow the bank

2007-09-24T11:21:00.000+01:00

I hate banks. No, this is not a literary hyperbole. I really do hate banks. They are the most customer unfriendly type of business I have ever come across. They lure you in with nice offers and wide smiles but as soon as they have your business the masks come off and the smiles are replaced by passive 'sorry-but-I-can't-help-you' faces at best and evil smirks at worst.

I have easily spent a year of my life arguing with my Dutch bank. I have been given the run-around so many times I must have talked to every single employee. The only reason I still bank there is the introduction of online banking. Taking out the people factor has in this case been a blessing. No more arbitrary decisions where things can be done one day but not the next. I control my money when I want, how I want.

London may be the financial capital of Europe but, if anything, my banking experience here is even worse. The whole system is archaic. Since I did not have a job this year I have had to settle for opening a student account. As a student you are the lowest of the lowliest. You're not likely to have any money to spend and for that reason banks despise you. Credit? Ha, you must be joking. Service? Why on Earth? Online banking? Funny. Seriously, I can not do anything with my account without physically going to my bank branch; not even change my address. Everything takes forms, people and mostly...time.

All I wanted to do today was pay my rent and deposit. The money had to go from my UK account to another UK account with a different bank. Obviously I had to go to the bank. My annoyance at this was only surpassed by stunned disbelief when I found out they wanted to charge me 23 pounds for this simple transaction! The only way to do this free of charge was to withdraw the money from my account and walk 5 minutes to a branch of this other bank and deposit it again. They've gone mad. From now on I just might have to start keeping my money in a shoebox under the bed again.

Danse macabre

2007-09-20T09:49:00.000+01:00

My university is located on exhibition road, so named because it houses three of the main London musea. One of these is the Natural History Museum. Normally this magnificent building radiates a stately tranquility, but not this week... something eerie is going on there.

The liveless skeletons that are the museum's regular tenants have had to relinquish the limelight to other, slightly more lively, skeletons. Outside these grimfaced carcasses rattle their bones dressed in the pelts and feathers of the dead ones inside. Up and down they walk, looking without seeing.

This week the NHM has been hosting London Fashion Week. All over the papers are images of walking sticks disguised as humans wearing dresses no real person can ever fit. Unlike their Italian counterparts the organisers of LFW have refused to ban the so-called 'size 0' models. Instead, they have introduced compulsory health checks for models. Although I am by no means trying to ridicule the seriousness of eating disorders, I can't help but wonder who we are really trying to protect here... In a country where underweight people aren't exactly the biggest problem, the whole debate seems a bit skewed. Maybe the rationale is that, instead of getting the fatties to slim down, it's easier to pick on the skinny girls so they won't make us feel so bad about ourselves?

Moving day

2007-09-17T14:34:00.000+01:00

Just one. One suitcase, that was all I had with me when I got on that plane a year ago. Granted, it merited a "heavy luggage! Lift with care" label but still... it was only one suitcase. When I moved house again three weeks later that single suitcase had sprouted a little offspring but nothing I couldn't carry by myself. So how can it be that just a year later it took me 9 runs with two suitcases on each to carry all my stuff into my new apartment?!

The studybooks and lecture notes I have accumulated this year are already worth a full two suitcases. Then there is my cursed desktop. Why o why did I not just buy a laptop? I arrived with merely some all purpose London-in-the-fall clothes. Throughout the year I have gradually smuggled most of my wardrobe here by filling the excess space in my suitcase every time I went back to Holland. How can I have so many clothes yet find nothing to wear? And there is paperwork, office supplies, trinkets. So much stuff...

Since my new place is only a 7 minute walk up the road from my old one there was no point in using public transport. Nine times I walked back and forth. Forth with a suitcase dragging on my arm so heavily I am almost surprised to find it still attached. Back with an empty one, mentally preparing myself for the next run. To-and-fro, to-and-fro, to-and-fro until then finally it was all done.

I have officially handed in my old keys and am fully installed in my new little piece of heaven. It is even better than I remembered it. I am like a child with a shiny new toy as I walk around, opening cupboards and exploring the rooms. My bedroom is a comfy place where I know I will be at home. I am snug as a bug in a rug, so pleased. All that I need to be perfectly content is a trip to IKEA and somebody to help me set up that darn wireless router!

My place

E=MSc2

2007-09-12T00:31:00.001+01:00

Today it is exactly one year since I heard the words 'Hora est' and was told that I should carry my new doctoral title with honour but should never forget the responsibilities it brings towards science and country. Big words to live up to.

As for carrying the title with honour, I try not to flash it around wantonly. Here in the UK though it seems academic titles carry a lot more weight than they do back home. I was advised quickly after I arrived that I should use it in official dealings whenever possible. On that advice I added the Dr. to my name when I applied for a bank account. I fear to think how banks treat people otherwise but that is a different matter. The unintended side effect is that the title appears on all of my bank statements and even gets printed on the receipt every time I pay for anything with my card.

Soon after I moved I also applied for a student travel card. In a frivolous moment I ticked that box marked "Dr.". I had just gotten my title a few weeks before and I suppose I was just trying it on for size. A silly impulse. Once, at the station, I presented my card at the ticket window to top up my credit. The guy there took a long hard look at the card, then at me, and back again at the card. Then suddenly he hollered to his colleague in the next window "hey, look: we have a real doctor here!". My cheeks flushed a bright red and I thought I would die of humiliation right there. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed about a title I worked so hard to get but I do feel that there is a time and a place for it. The ticket window and the check-out counter, however, are definitely not it.

The Anglo-Saxons on the other hand sure do like to show off their titles. They have a wide range of them and they’re not ashamed to use them. It is not like the Dutch system where there is essentially a succession of titles and as you get a new one, you drop the old one. Here you keep them all, stacking them up like Lego blocks. And it is not just the MSc or PhD titles; they have some very specific ones too. My project supervisor, for instance, carries the impressive epithet "MBBS MBA DIC MFPH FRCGP". Now that I have handed in my thesis I will soon also be allowed to add the letters DIC to my name: short for Degree of Imperial College. Of course the main title I have earned myself this year is MSc, but I already have one of those in my collection. So what shall I do: MSc² DIC PhD?

Barnes to Fulham... to Battersea

2007-09-09T11:27:00.000+01:00

Almost 12 months have I been here now. I am about to move to my third address in this city and know that I will see the coming and going of another winter. I might as well face it: London is where I live now. In recognition of this I have decided to make an effort to get to know the city better. Since the best way, the only way, to do this is on foot, I have treated myself to a book with 50 walking tours of London. Yesterday I picked my first one.

I start at Barnes Bridge Station. Although strictly speaking a part of London, Barnes is essentially one at those many little river towns that got swallowed up by the city but has managed to retain some of its small town feel. It looks prosperous and is full of families with young children. Apparently it is also rather full of Dutch people as several times I pass families warning their bike-riding children to be 'voorzichtig' or to stop 'zeuren'. Barnes is also where the famous Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race finishes.

The route continues along Putney which, for its sheer number of boat houses, reminds me of the sea-side villages I spent my childhood holidays in. This is rowing central. At the end of the route lies Fulham Palace, the former summer house of the Bishops of London. Although I have been to Fulham many times before I have somehow managed to completely miss noticing this. London is so full of history mixed in with the present that you develop a blind spot for it.

Barnes to Battersea

According to my guide book this is where the route finishes after a walk of two hours straight. In a reckless over-estimation of my own fitness I decide that, since I made it this far, I might as well continue walking all the way home. All I need to do is follow the Thames for another few twists and turns. A pleasant surprise is that I am kept company by hundreds of boats on the river participating in the Great River Race. Less pleasant is that in the last stretch my knee joints decide it has been enough and go on strike. I hobble the last 15 minutes home like an old arthritic woman. Sitting at home all these weeks, writing my thesis, has clearly not done my shape much good. Three and a half hours after I got off the train I stumble through my door. Home.

One down, forty-nine to go.

Kill your darlings

2007-09-05T16:59:00.000+01:00

Almost there. I have written all I had to say, entered all my references and did the formatting. Version 1 was sent off to my supervisor yesterday who promptly returned it to me two hours later with relevant suggestions and a general nod of approval. All should be well then with nine more days on the clock. Except that I am 1,000 words over my allowed word count of 8,000. I need to cut.

Easier said then done. I have spent so much time giving birth to these words; how can I kill them now? They are my children, my darlings. How can I choose between them? But like Sophie, I too have to make my choice. This is no time to be soft-hearted. Chop chop. Off with the adjectives. Bang bang. Another paraphrase mortally wounded. Like dominos they fall, hapless victims of a brutal verbacide. I am judge, jury and executioner.

Here the fallen lay
never will they be read
a thousand silenced words
some good, some plain, some bad

The unbearable lightness of being

2007-09-04T00:04:00.001+01:00

Soon I will be changing my address. For most people that is a big deal. The hungry databases of departments, institutions, companies, governmental bodies, and charities all demand to be fed the information of your new whereabouts. And even after you have surrendered that information to everything and everyone, the lesser remnants of your mail are still likely to haunt the new residents for many years after your departure. Not for me, not this time.

I lead a shadow life in London. Almost nobody knows I am here. As far as the city of Amsterdam is concerned, Oost is where they still believe I lay my hat. The English government and the city of London are blissfully unaware I walk amongst them. The only ones who know where to find me are the bank and the university. Here I have no subscriptions, no bills, no taxes, no ties. I can disappear quietly into the night.

At the moment a significant part of my life is taking place on this almost etherical level. My new tenancy agreement is written in the pale-hued ink of good faith, at least until the estate agent becomes aware of the changes in the household. My job offer is a mere spoken promise, figuring no figures, dating no dates. All I can do is have faith as I walk into my new life across this bridge built from promises and cemented by trust.

Exodus

2007-09-02T16:37:00.001+01:00

And so it begins. Like Jews out of Egypt, my flatmates and I are marching out of the house and into our respective promised lands.

In a wholly coincidental, yet magnificent display of unison all five of us have chosen September as the month to move out. It secretly gives me great pleasure to think of the distress this will have caused my landlords. They and I have not always been on the best of terms. In general I think it is fair to say the feelings amongst us flatmates are not unlike those of the Jews towards the Pharaoh. There is a definite taste of revenge in this miniature Exodus.

Unfortunately, unlike in the biblical story, it seems some of the seven plagues are not being visited upon our landlords but on us, poor tenants. First there was the river. Although it did not turn to blood, it definitely turned into sewage forcing its way into the flat. Then came darkness. One by one the lights have started to go bust. But the most recent plague is one we indeed brought onto ourselves: locusts. Swarms of hopeful prospects have descended on the house to view our rooms. Day after day they come and chirp noisily. Soon hopefully they will have eaten everything and the sounds will quiet down again.

The first of us has already crossed the sea and over the course of the next few weeks the rest of us will follow. Off to our lands of milk and honey.

Tiger stripes

2007-08-31T09:24:00.001+01:00

The explorer wanders through the jungle
Unhurried for he feels safe
He knows the beast is far away

He marvels at the tangled vastness
He catalogues, collects
Naïve to her approach

Slowly, steadily she sneaks near
One soft foot before another
Till underneath a branch snaps

Frightened he takes flight
Fast as his feet will carry
Dashing through the green

He turns, feels her hungry breath upon him
Through the trees he sees the deathly lines
Deadlines

My thesis is due in 14 days.

Innuendo

2007-08-29T00:02:00.001+01:00

Imperial College has seen its share of celebrities pass through the doors, from scientific powerhouses to royalty. Not so long ago, for instance, IC celebrated the centenary and new-found independence from the University of London by inviting HMQ over. A few weeks ago I walked into the building only to run into a photo shoot for another sort of Royal. Queen guitarist Brian May was having his picture taken.

I stuck around for a few minutes trying to figure out what was going on. The reason for the shoot was unclear. There was another guy in the picture as well and they seemed to be passing what looked like a thesis between them. I jumped to conclusions. Either the other guy had written some thesis on Queen or worse: May was being awarded some nonsensical honorary doctorate. The impudence! The arrogant scientist in me fumed with indignant outrage. Blood, sweat and tears had I poured into my thesis and here they were bestowing this precious title on some... some rock star?! How dare they! Then last week my eye fell on a news headline:

"Brian May completes doctoral thesis in astrophysics: Radial Velocities in the Zodiacal Dust Cloud."

Right... I'll very humbly be shutting up now.

Carnaval des animaux

2007-08-28T09:57:00.000+01:00

Saturday afternoon I am strolling through Hyde Park when from a distance a low sound starts to pound on my eardrums. Intrigued I follow it to its origin. As I come closer the sound becomes richer and swells in intensity. At the source I find hundreds of steel drum players. About a dozen steel bands are battling it out in the Park as a prelude to London's biggest annual street festival: The Notting Hill Carnival.

Notting Hill Carnival is held on the August Bank Holiday weekend with the climax on Monday. It's something you should at the very least see once when you live in London. The feeling I got there was oddly enough very much that of a Queen's day celebration though with a touch of Gay Parade. It's essentially a Caribbean Carnival so the costumes are colourful and exotic. Somewhat less so are its participants. In the true spirit of the multicultural society a very substantial part of the dancers is white to the point of being transparent. It's a weird sight: the sparrow dressed up like a peacock.

The more exotic birds are for the most part no long-legged flamingos either. This may be Notting Hill but the ladies sure do not look like Julia Roberts. Down here, 'big is beautiful' appears to be the credo as the excess flesh is shaking and gyrating to the music.

The weather was sunny and dry and yet it somehow felt too quiet on the streets. You could still walk around normally and the festival seemed confined to a fairly small area. The organisation proudly says the festival is the second biggest street party in the world, first being the Rio carnival, but I wonder if they have ever been to Amsterdam on Queen's Day.

More pics

Too-early bird - The reprise

2007-08-23T10:01:00.000+01:00

I may not believe in Heaven or Hell but I have just found Paradise...and I'm moving there!

Last week I looked at a really nice apartment close to where I live now. It was love at first sight. The apartment is on the waterfront, as close to living in Chelsea as one can get without having to pay Chelsea prices. It has a cosy bedroom, a gigantic living room, a really nice kitchen and a clean bathroom. There is a communal garden and a balcony with view over the river. In short, I loved it. Unfortunately the current tenant also had a friend who was interested and naturally friendship obliges. I was very disappointed to hear the friend had decided to take it and consequently I could not.

This morning I got a phone call. The friend has had to decline after all and the room is mine if I want it! I am deliriously happy. It really is excellent value for money. Of course it can never compete with my flat back home which is my true home and has all my beloved belongings but it is as good an alternative as I could dare hope for. I can't wait to move.

Too-early bird

2007-08-22T09:14:00.000+01:00

The early bird catches the worm, or so at least the saying goes. Lately though I have been finding this misses a crucial point. It is not about being early. It is being timely that counts.

I have given notice to my landlords a couple of weeks ago already since my contract with them requires I give them about two months notice. I did not think that was terribly unreasonable. I have a similar arrangement with the tenant renting my apartment back in Amsterdam. Leaving sufficient notice allows the other party to find a new tenant. But here in London there is something strange going on.

Ever since I gave my notice I have been scanning the flatshare websites for a new place to call home. There are, however, surprisingly few ads that are worth responding to. That is not because the flats on offer themselves are not interesting. It is because they are all available NOW. Everything is done on such short notice. You essentially don't start looking for a place until after your moving boxes are already packed. Another example of that famous high-paced life in the city I suppose.

I have a few more weeks left on my contract so there is no point in taking a new place before that. Paying double rent is not something my budget allows for. Nonetheless, I have looked at a couple of flats in the past two weeks: exceptions to the rule. They included some lovely places that I would have been very happy to live in. Unfortunately there were more birds pecking for the same worms and I bit nothing but the dust. Apparently I will need to wait patiently for the rest of the worms to come out.

Bright lights, big city

2007-08-20T11:31:00.000+01:00

The engines roar and once the plane is in the air the view from the window bathes in green. Even here, over the coast and close to the city, Sweden reveals itself as a green and spacious country. Underneath the colours glow intensely as the sun slowly sets over Scandinavia.

I have spent the weekend in Sweden to join in the wedding celebrations of one of my eldest friends. The man of her dreams is a Swede and several years ago she followed him there. As the scene for their happy day they had chosen an island about an hour away from their home town Göteborg. This island epitomizes Sweden: green, quiet, picturesque. It is great to get away from the city to a place like this every once in a while. The air you breath is salty and fresh and nobody is in a hurry. Here stress falls away like water off a duck's back.

But imagine you live there every day... I could not do it. I am too much of a city girl at heart. In the city, the air might be thick and greasy and everybody is always rushing to get somewhere where they are not, but there is something magnetic about life in the city. Cities are about possibilities, about choices. I have not been to a theatre in months, true, nor have I been to a concert since I moved to London. But I have the possibility to go whenever I feel like it, as well as the choice not to if I don't. All options are open. The decision is entirely my own.

As the plane approaches London the city is hidden from view by a thick cotton-candy layer of clouds. You can tell the days have started to shorten again as it is only nine o'clock but already dark. Then suddenly the plane dips below the clouds, revealing a breathtaking sight. The city stretches as far as the eye can see and is ablaze with thousands of lights. My pulse picks up speed, resynchronizing itself to the familiar rhythm of the city. Yes, I am a city girl.

Packed and ready

2007-08-16T23:36:00.000+01:00

Alright, let's see... Clean socks and underwear, my festive dress and matching shoes. Ouch, my feet already hurt just looking at those. Well, that's the price you pay for beauty.

Something warm to wear, just in case. You never know with these scandinavian summers. What else? Make-up, toilettries and toothbrush. Check, check and double check.

The present for the happy couple? Yes, that's save in my pack. Did I get the card too? I'm sure I did. Something to read for on the plane ofcourse. Ooh, I should not forget my iPod. My own in-flight entertainment. And where is my camera? Damn it, I know it is around here somewhere... okay, found it. Phone and half a dozen chargers, bank cards. Yes, all there. I think that's it. I believe I am ready. Sweden here I come!

O wait... my passport.

Generation O

2007-08-14T10:55:00.003+01:00

The UK holds a sad record: according to statistics it is the country with the highest rate of obesity in Europe. It's not hard to believe. I see it with my own eyes every day; people so big they take up two seats on the bus, men and women who haven't seen their toes wiggle in years.

Seeing what people eat around here explains a lot. Fish & chips are never far away. At college I myself have picked up a nasty lunch habit. Our cantine is fairly small and does not serve much that takes my fancy (yes, how surprising) so when I can't be bothered to head over to the larger and slightly better main cantine I sometimes lunch British style: with a pack of crisps. It's a terrible habit and I can't believe I'm doing it but when in Rome... . It is also known as the "Heathrow diet": new arrivals are said to start putting on the pounds as soon as they set foot on British soil. I don't have any scales to test this hypothesis for myself but the overly snug fit of my trousers suggests there is an element of truth in it.

The real tragedy is that a lot of the obese people here are only teenagers, sometimes not even. Of the generation that is growing up now already 1 in about 5 children is considered obese. Unless something dramatically changes soon that number is not likely to decrease. Jamie Oliver for one has been waging his legendary war on fa(s)t food on the battle grounds of the school cantines. It is of course a start but in the era where Wii is considered sports and a crisp sandwich a wholesome lunch I fear the worst. This island seems doomed to slowly sink into the sea, unable to carry its weight.

The Big Issue

2007-08-12T00:08:00.000+01:00

I first met Yevgeni outside the supermarket. I guessed him to be in his fifties though his unkempt grey beard and tired eyes made his face hard to read. He could have been much younger for all I knew, but life had weighted down his years. He wore a faded green army jacket and a warm, friendly smile. Yevgeni sold the homeless newspaper.

Every other week I would buy his latest issue and sometimes we would share a brief chat. Yevgeni took pride in his job. He was not very comfortable accepting charity and rather had that you bought his paper than gave him money. In our conversations Yevgeni told me in his rudimentary Dutch that he was originally from Belarus. I also learned he was plagued by back pains but that he did not belief in doctors. Some days I looked forward to seeing him, other days -when I was too tired or too cranky for small talk- I secretly hoped he wouldn't be there. Then one day he was gone. I never found out why he had come to the Netherlands or why he lived on the streets. I do know that in his own country Yevgeni would very possibly have had tuberculosis.

Once thought a disease of the past, TB is now rampant again throughout large parts of Eastern Europe and the former Soviet states. Especially homeless people, addicts and prisoners are at high risk of infection by this horrible disease. Thousands of people needlessly die of TB each year. Needlessly because the drugs to fight TB have been around for decades. The big problem is that patients have to take a handful of pills, several times a week and for months on end. Any interruption of this strenuous regime can lead to a recurrence of the disease and most alarmingly: to the appearance of drug-resistance. Ironically, those patients most likely to contract TB are also those most likely to default from their treatment; that is, they are for a variety of reasons unable to keep up with their medication.

My thesis centres on this problem with so-called treatment adherence. We are looking at why patients stop taking their medication and what can be done to help them stay on their treatment. One way of doing this is to offer them incentives. There have been examples in the US where patients receive a small sum of money or some grocery coupons to entice them to attend their clinic appointments. In the countries my thesis focuses on food support is an inherent part of most anti-TB programmes. At the moment most of these programmes are run by organisations like the Red Cross. For the long-term, however, it is important that countries absorb this sort of care into their own healthcare systems. The work we are doing will hopefully help towards understanding how TB care can best be organised to help those people most vulnerable. People like Yevgeni.

Fruit of knowledge

2007-08-09T10:41:00.000+01:00

This I know - that I know nothing. -- Socrates

If all goes well, in just a few weeks time I will have handed in my thesis and, assuming it meets the standards, I will then have successfully added another academic degree to my substantial collection. I don't have the exact numbers but I am pretty sure that in terms of formal education that puts me somewhere in the highest percentages globally. And yet, all it has done is make me realise how little I really know.

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. -- William Shakespeare

Especially writing my dissertation and preparing for the defense of it, made me very aware of just how small the box we think in is. The thought of having to answer questions even just slightly off-topic scared the living daylights out of me. I remember many years ago a friend of mine, a social scientist herself, wanted to know what as an exact scientist were my thoughts on Big Bang Theory. I replied her with stunned silence. More frequently I have had to answer questions concerning genetic engineering, stem cell research and such. I feel slightly more equipped to handle those types of questions though my approach is usually that of the objective scientist and not that of the opiniated ethicist.

The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves. -- Oscar Wilde

I often find it hard to publicly defend an opinion on something that lies outside my comfort zone. That is not to say I have no opinions. In fact, opiniated and argumentative are words that have both been used on me frequently. My problem is that I don't remember sources very well. I am the uncrowned queen of the statement "I recall reading somewhere...". I did read it somewhere and usually in a credible source but I tend to forget where exactly the 'somewhere' was, thus undermining my own credibility. It makes me too easily blown out of the water by people less hesitant to bluff their way out of an argument. Fiction can sound like fact if said with enough conviction. Internet is a great help. At least it will retrospectively tell me what the real facts of the matter were. But of course by that time it is too late to save face in the discussion.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool then to speak out and remove all doubt. -- Abraham Lincoln

Imagine

2007-08-06T14:45:00.002+01:00

The doorbell rings. I walk downstairs to open the door, expecting some delivery. Instead, I find two ladies caressing a book.
"Goodmorning, we are here to talk to our neighbours".
These ladies have not come to borrow a cup of sugar. They are not that kind of neighbours. My house is only a few doors down the road from the City Mission. This is indeed not the first time I have had them come knocking on my door. They have come to the wrong house though. I am not one to be converted.

My family has a long standing tradition of atheism, going at least three generations back. I would not even know for sure which exact flavour of Christianity predates atheism in my family. I myself was raised on a healthy diet of cynicism and realism. My atheism is as much the result of that upbringing as it is of my own trust in science and the faculties of reason. As Richard Dawkins explains it: I have no need for the 'God hypothesis'.

Of course even as an atheist I am not entirely immune to rituals and superstition. I can occassionally be found to cross my fingers or to knock on wood in an attempt to thwart bad luck. But do I really believe these little acts of superstition make any difference on the way life rolls the dice? Absolutely not. They are ritualised habits, ceremonial rather than meaningful, to feign control over an uncontrollable situation. When my father had just been diagnosed with cancer, for instance, I temporarily developed a habit of stepping over the cracks between the paving stones. I told myself that if I did that the tumour would be operable. No part of me ever seriously thought that I could magically revert cell division by the placement of my foot. I just needed something to stop me feeling so powerless.

Despite these small digressions into superstition, I am perfectly comfortable in my atheism. I find no particular solace in the idea of an afterlife. It is difficult enough to just live for today and I'd rather focus on that. The idea of an omniscient overseer is chilling more than anything. I value my privacy too much. My moral compass does not need to be calibrated to any particular religion to show me how to lead my life. I set my own course.

Of course I did not think there was any point in explaining all this to these devout ladies. I merely told them that I was very busy and closed the door.

Travelling without moving

2007-08-04T11:48:00.000+01:00

Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Russia... in my mind I have travelled thousands of miles already, visiting new and exciting places. In reality I am still sitting in my room looking out over the familiar skies of London. For weeks, months now, my travel plans have bounced around like a restless pingpong ball. I have been moved like a pawn over an invisible chessboard drawn across the map of EurAsia.

My original project was to be in Central Asia. Then, just weeks before it was about to start we had to reconsider. The twinned stars of science and funding had not yet lined up and until they did, the project was at a standstill. Kyrgyzstan transformed into Russia. The contacts had been made, the plan was drawn up and the research done. Suddenly, for reasons still shrouded in mystery, the Russians dropped off the radar and went incommunicado. A mild panic started to grip me by the throat. Only seven more weeks until the thesis is due and the rug gets pulled out from under my project! More back-up plans were dreamed up, like rabbits pulled out of a hat. Turkey, Moldova, Bulgaria. What country east of Hungary wasn't suggested?

Then cosmic intervention. The stars have finally started to align. Kyrgyzstan has come back into focus. Not for the orginal plan but for an improvised patchwork formed of the original and the new project. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I am excited but by now won't actually believe anything anymore until I land at Bishkek airport and the custom officers let me in.

Thesis blues

2007-08-02T13:51:00.000+01:00

i know exactly where to go
but how it is
i am to get there,
that, alas, i do not know

i see the sentences before me clear as day

but when i reach to grab

and pin them down

they turn shy and slip away

i try to catch them with my butterfly net

but every time i take a swing

the thoughts dissolve before my eyes

and hollow air is all i get

i have all the puzzle's pieces

but can not make them fit

there is no picture on this box

to help compose my thesis

Life in limbo

2007-07-31T10:52:00.000+01:00

The alarm clock by my bed shrilly informs me it is 9 o'clock. Still half asleep I punch its buttons and set it forward by 20 minutes. I roll over on my side again. This process repeats itself two more times before I finally feel ready enough to get up and face the world. It is not a weekend. It's just a Tuesday morning and yet I don't get up before 10 o'clock. This is starting to become routine. What is wrong with me?

Ever since I stopped having lectures I have slipped into this disturbing nocturnal rhythm. I sit at the computer or read my book until deep into the night. My flatmates have been asleep for hours. Only my light is still shining out into the hall through the cracks above and beneath the door. I am leading the life of the unattached and unemployed. I stay up late and get up only when the working masses are already on their morning coffee break. I feel guilty, feel unproductive.

My thesis is not moving along very fast. I mostly sit at the computer and gloss over the countless articles but without mentally processing much of what I read. I allow myself to be distracted by anything. I check my email every 5 minutes. A pointless effort since if I really do have new messages they will announce themselves both visibly and audibly. Every unknown word I come across in my papers can send me on an hours long quest over the internet. I can not find the inspiration. All I have are chapter headings. Is there such a thing as scientists block?

Kew Gardens

2007-07-28T19:31:00.001+01:00

It is Saturday and although I am not exactly living a normal 5-day working week these days I feel like doing something special with the day. I could scavenge the sales on High Street Kensington before they finish but I could also go for a more memorable option. The weather is dry for now and who knows how long that will last. Consumerism can wait.

My grandfather lived in London once, a lifetime ago. For the last year, every time I have seen him he has asked me if I have been to Kew Gardens yet. Every time I have had to disappoint him. He is not well and I do want to be able to tell him I have been and so I find myself on a train to Richmond. From here I take the route suggested by my thus far unused guide book. It quickly leads me away from the busy high street and past the local common, where people are having a picknick and playing cricket. I don't know the first thing about cricket but even I can see this lot isn't any good. While passing them, I keep the guide book half-hidden under the jacket I hold casually slung over my arm. Why is it that we are so embarrassed to be identified as tourists? I memorise the next few lines of the route, then quickly stow the book away in my bag.

My route leads past beautiful Tudor houses, down to the river. From here I don't need directions anymore; I simply follow the old tow path. The Dutch girl in me feels right at home here amidst the houseboats on the river and the cyclists on the path. It is scenic and quiet by the Thames, which here seems a meek shadow of the swift flowing river that runs by my house, with only the oars of rowers splashing on the water. The path leads all the way up to Kew Gardens. The entrance fee is steep, even with my student discount, but the grounds are vast. I start with the greenhouses and look at towering palms, exotic flowers and suggestively phallic cacti. I smell the fragrant lavender and the roses. In the gardens I find ancient trees bent under the weight of their own history. Many will have already been here when my grandfather visited.

The grounds of Kew Gardens are speckled with countless benches, dedicated in loving memory to husbands & wives, fathers & mothers, sons & daughters now gone. Wooden tombstones without graves. Most benches are empty -it is not busy here today- except for the ones by the waterfront. I sit down on one dedicated to a man who died the same year my father did. The sun is shining now and is reflecting off the water. I close my eyes and sit in the sun for a while. Every other minute the serene silence is shattered by airplanes moaning overhead. Heathrow airport is not far. Eventually I get up and walk back through the bamboo gardens. I have a strong feeling I will be back here. On my way out I stop by the giftshop to buy a postcard for my grandfather.

Richmond & Kew Gardens - London

Panta rhei

2007-07-24T07:54:00.000+01:00

Everything flows and nothing is left unchanged. (Heraclitus)

Change. A choice to do away with the old and let in the new. To cast away that what we know and to embrace that which we do not.

Change. Change takes courage. It opposes our instinctive need for safety. Stability and routine bring safety, change brings chaos and uncertainty. Rather we hold on to the status quo, with all its imperfections, than be swept away by the currents of change.

Change. A decision to move on. Literally. Figuratively. Change can bring great things. It can lead us to new and exciting places. It can also rip us away from that which we cherish or find comfort in.

Change. We can try to fight it; hold on to false beacons of stability in a turbulent sea of unrest, but no matter how hard we resist, everywhere around us change rushes by. Continuously and irresistibly, until we surrender to it.

Today I have given my landlord notice that I will be moving out. It is time for Change. Panta rhei.

The midnight train

2007-07-22T18:34:00.000+01:00

Bowler hats, Beefeaters, Burberry. Such cliché images have nothing to do with real London life. For a true glimpse of what makes people in this city tick, you should get on an innercity tube train on a Saturday night. It makes for an entertaining, yet potentially stomic turning, ride. It's not all humanity's finest specimens that gather here. Despite the fact that since last year pubs can apply for a late license, many have passed up on this opportunity and so between the hours of eleven and twelve the inebriated populace of London spills onto the streets and into the tube, crawling and falling its way back home.

Last night.
After a Brick Lane curry dinner, I am on the tube home from Liverpool street. Standing next to me is a young guy, early twenties or so I suppose. He oozes a sickly sour smell and is struggling to hold himself upright. With every turn in the track he sways dangerously in my direction. When a seat opens up I jump at the opportunity to put some distance between myself and him before he can vomit on my feet. The guy now sitting next to me is trying to soak up the alcohol in his blood with a helping of sweet&sour pork. His motor skills have already fallen victim to his drinking. The food that was intended for his mouth lands on his T-shirt instead. Unfazed he simply redirects his fork to his shirt and continues eating from there.

Two men, each with their heads leaning against the glass in perfect symmetry, riding the train all the way to the land of Dreams. Giggling girls with bosoms overflowing from their glitzy tops. A woman in a dress so frigid that it would have made her look Amish if she hadn't at the same been holding a bottle of Corona. An elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit with a pocket watch on a gold chain and eyebrows turned towards the heavens like Dali's mustache.

As long as you're sober enough to take a good look around you, the midnight train shows a wonderful and hilarious cross section of London life. Mind the smell.

When the floods come in

2007-07-20T15:22:00.000+01:00

"Torrential downpour". It sounds poetic enough when they forecast it but it doesn't really mean anything to me. So it rains...big deal. This is the UK after all. Well, it does become a big deal when the water starts to come into your house! And not from above but upwards from below.

I'm sitting at home, recovering from yesterday, when a loud bubbly noise comes from the loo downstairs. Water is being pushed up through the toilet! I try to fight the water back by closing the lid but to no avail. Within minutes the water goes from bubbling to gushing and soon water is starting to come into the hall. A look outside into the pouring rain shows that the sewer can't get rid of all the water quickly enough and has started to overflow. The force of the water has pushed the sewer lid clean off giving way to a violent fountain of water.

How do you fight back the water without sandbags or even a bucket? My DIY solution involved a salad bowl and a dinner plate. And in my PJ's since those are the only shorts I have here and I wasn't about to go mucking through the water in my nice trousers! The nice thing about when disaster strikes it that you finally get to meet the neighbours. Nothing better for some neighbourly bonding than disaster tourism. Everybody is a photo journalist these days. The scene outside my house was indeed impressive enough to attract people from everywhere. Cars were stuck in the road, about to get swept away by the current, while the fire brigade had to rescue the poor/stupid drivers from their vehicles.

It's stopped raining now and the sun has even come out, trying to pretend it never happened. I have the smelly proof in my house that it did. As in many British houses our toilet is -very hygienically- outfitted with carpet on the floor and both the toilet and the hall are drenched in liters of sewage water! I've called the landlords hours ago but they have not returned my call at all and are taking off on their holiday this weekend. Great timing.

I've turned up the heating everywhere hoping this will help to dry up the place a bit but I think the best thing to do is rip out all of the carpet. I just beg the skies will stay blue.

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