Cultivation and Personal Growth

I’m not really one for resolutions, but I am one for pretty regular self-examination. So, one of the things I am working on for this year is remembering to (1) be myself and (2) be true to myself. I was recently reading Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project (a really, really good book that I highly recommend – even if you’re already happy) and she found that in honoring and accepting yourself as you truly are you can be happier. She gives the example that she really wants to be the type of person who enjoys Jazz clubs, but she just isn’t. So, she just says, “You know, I’m just not that into Jazz clubs.” It’s not that you don’t try to make personal improvements; it’s just that you accept yourself a bit more. This makes sense I think.

I’ve applied this to myself in the realm of my garden. I have always really wanted a vegetable garden. I absolutely love getting fresh veggies from the garden. My whole life – from my early childhood in Indiana to driving through the Texas Hill Country in our pre-FS life to just about every international adventure - has been punctuated with stops at roadside stands to load up on just-from-the-garden goodies.

But, here I have to confess, despite the joy I get from seeing fresh veggies and herbs begin to pop up from the soil, I have no real desire to tend my own garden. I don’t mind dirt and I love being outdoors, but I just do not have the skills or patience to manage the earth and the seeds and the watering and the sunning on my own. I wish I did. I really wish I did. Besides the fact that I would get the tasty, healthy pay-off, I have this romantic notion that a woman who tends a garden with dirty hands, a smudge of soil on her nose and a floppy hat must be very sexy…in a rustic, Little House on the Prairie sort of way.

So, anyway, I'm practicing being true to myself…and I hired a gardener. His name is Arthur and he works every morning. It’s autumn here (and the dry season) so he rakes the leaves and waters the plants. He also turned my empty, but perfect garden space into a true garden. And, he made these wonderful little signs! This little plot of land with its little green beans starting to pop up makes me really happy.  Having a reliable, kind and honest person to help it grow makes it that much better.

The garden spot - pre-Arthur

Green Beans!

Carrots

Chinese cabbage...not sure what I'm going to do with it.

The view of our house from the garden

Fourteen months later - Madagascar!

What a break that was, huh?! Yes, fourteen months ago I was not especially feeling bloggy. In fact, I was feeling rather overwhelmed with the arrival of the end of our first Foreign Service tour. In all honesty, perhaps blogging is exactly what I should have been doing, but I didn’t feel my heart was in it and I just kept feeling like I was running out of things to say. But, as the last several months have left me with a running mental list of blog posts, I figure now is as good a time as any to get back into it.

So, here goes.

But, first things first. What in the world have I been doing for the last 14 months? And, why am I getting back to For Lack of Tacos now?

Well, here it is, the last year in 100 words:

Last beach trips in the Dominican Republic.
Last days of work with Peace Corps.
Saying goodbye to DR friends.
Crazy stuff happening in Santo Domingo.
Pack out.
Mommy/Daddy trip to New York in October.
End of my first-trimester (yep, that’s right – there are 5 of us now…and the dog!).
Oakwood.
Our oldest started kindergarten.
French…November - March.
April – baby girl arrives! Joy!
Minor freak out about moving half-way across the world with a newborn.
Pack out.
Hard times saying goodbye again. Sniff sniff.
Two days in Paris.
Madagascar.
Great welcome.
Hints of feeling a new home beginning here.

So, it’s no haiku, but I think that sums it up.

Now, onto the interesting stuff! We are here – in Madagascar! Madagascar!! This is largely the reason I just can’t resist getting back to writing. This is, quite seriously, like no place else on Earth. And, while For Lack of Tacos has long since stopped being a “food blog” per se, I still love food and holy cow, do they have good food here! If I’m not careful I’m going to be leaving here with two doughy thighs that will look a lot like the baguettes with which I religiously stuff my face.

But, as always, it’s not just about food around here. As you can tell from my summary up there, this transition has been seriously intense. Moving to Santo Domingo was not without its challenges, but moving here, with our two oldest children now 6 and 4 and a brand new (seriously adorable and precious) baby girl in tow has brought me face to face with the question, “Why do we do this again?” And yet, day after day, I see why we do this. No, there still aren’t any tacos stands, but that is still okay.

So, I’m back here. Making grocery lists again. Trying to feed our family. Trying to turn the simplest ingredients into yummy treats and hoping I do it all at least a little gracefully and with at least a tiny bit of humor…and wine. And, I just keep praying we don’t stop finding ways to make it all make sense and learn our lessons – because, you know, it really is a great adventure. Yay!

As always, thanks for reading. Stay tuned…

Life Goes On...and On...and On

Wow…I had such plans for blogging. And, I pretty much have been, but not here. We have a family blog and somehow right now that seems to be where my energies are. Life in the Foreign Service starts to seem so normal I wonder if there’s much to write about. Then, I see all the stuff that is definitely NOT normal…or that I never envisioned I would consider to be normal…and I think there’s just too much to write about.

I went through a phase this spring of feeling like my life was not in my hands. I’ve spent time abroad before, but never this long; and although I love it here, this was a phase of culture shock I had not anticipated. I realize now that it’s not just the living abroad, the feeling of being mildly left out of the decisions of my own life is Foreign Service Culture Shock. I worked as a social worker with immigrant children in the States and I remember drawing out the culture shock cycle on a piece of scratch paper for them. I would explain that the fact that they were young, couldn’t speak the language and, often, undocumented made their culture shock all the more complicated. I should have remembered this for myself….not that I’m any of those things, but you know what I mean. Culture shock is a guide – each individual, crazy life changes the cycle. In the end, it’s not much a cycle at all…more like your sh** just dumped randomly out of your suitcase.

Anyway, I needed time for reflection…and time to assess what was and was not within my power.

Work stress? Definitely within my power – it was time to reevaluate my priorities. I feel I did so successfully and things are much more under control.

Learning French? What the hell - I’ll learn it or I won’t, but I will give it my best shot – AFTER my huge work event ends in early June.

Firing the guy who does a really bad job of cleaning our pool? Well, here’s where I have a hard time with the pity party I throw for myself…because…well…we have a pool. But, you know what, if I can’t hang my own pictures on the wall or call whomever I want to fix my leaky faucet, then I am damn sure going to fire that guy and figure out the freakin’ pool by myself. So, through a bit of insanity…and, I won’t deny tears, I got the pool ungreen, learned how to prime the pump and test for and add chemicals. Seriously, I am almost as proud of this as I am of the fact that my kids are polite 80% of the time.

And, the list goes on. It was a crazy spring. I spent my week in the US feeling like I was in a total bubble. By the last few days I felt like the break from Santo Domingo had been good. By the time we got back I was ready to be home…this home – here.

And, now we are five months from D-Day. We have put up a calendar on the wall where we mark our plans – the beaches still left to visit and the normal every day things that must get done in the midst of it….that might include blogging here…it might not. I guess we’ll see.

The Final Quarter Begins...almost...but first some tacos

It’s after 10:00 PM, I’m exhausted and yet I feel like I just cannot let another day pass without blogging. We have been so, so busy, it’s difficult to find even a few minutes to get things down. We’ve had the normal busy stuff – a visit from the in-laws, a three-year-old with a broken arm (with two boys and an accident prone husband, such injuries can be categorized as “normal” for us) and loads of work (I am organizing a national conference and my husband has just moved to his final rotation – American Citizens Services).

Plus, we’re now within days of officially entering our final 6 months. This has hit me in ways I hadn’t expected. For instances, if something is frustrating at work, it’s hard to focus – I see myself almost out the door. And, if I find myself in a meeting with the super amazing local professionals on my conference planning committee I think, “How can I leave this?” Then, I see the boys whizzing away with their amazing Spanish and I think about how they’re going to lose it in a sea of French and Malagasy. I imagine a few years from now saying, “When we left the DR they were fluent in Spanish.” We’re seeing new friends make their way here and “old” ones prepare to leave. Our closest friends from the 144th will be heading off to China and El Salvador – to me this seems like a guaranteed minimum two-year separation. That makes me sad. And then again, what a reunion we will all have for a few months in DC!

All this has left me feeling emotional and reflective and sometimes anxious and other times really impatient to get on with the show. On a daily basis I have found myself feeling alternately more in love with my island than ever and seriously frustrated. This weekend I finally just gave myself a good kick in the ass and decided to get over it. The goodbyes will suck. They will suck now and next year and the next and the next. But, they will get easier and I believe a million times over that it’s better to live an adventurous life with the crappy moments than a dull one of perfect ease. And nothing can change the incredible experiences we have had here – the ways in which we have grown, our boys have grown and the way a small decade-long dream has turned into a reality. We still pinch ourselves.

Of course, all this mushy happiness doesn’t change the fact that I am giddy with excitement of spending Semana Santa in Austin! In just a few short days we will be touching down. I am already eating every meal here knowing that these old beans and rice have nothing on my Austin food heaven. I have figured up that we will be spending approximately 187 hours in Austin over the next week. How much can I eat in that span of time? WHAT can I eat in that time frame?

Admittedly, we probably eat better here – more basic food, closer to the Earth. We have both slimmed down quite a bit. We eat out less. It’s good for us, BUT man do I get sick of it. Sometimes I look down at a plate of roasted chicken and white rice and I dream of a huge plate of Indian or Thai or Ethiopian or, of course, Tex-Mex. Sometimes I just want a dinner of chips and salsa and beer – GOOD chips and salsa and beer. It’s food for the soul and I’m eagerly awaiting the recharge.

I’m not really one to stuff myself, but I can fill every moment with my favorite food and drink with absolutely no problem. So, if you have ever wondered what one person could eat in Austin within 187 hours (‘cause I’m sure you have, right?), stay tuned. I’m gonna’ food diary our trip. ETA four days. Stay tuned.

Best Disguised FS Couch

Well, I guess I’m in on the contest. Fantastic FS blogger Zoe, over at Something Edited This Way Comes, has initiated this contest to help us celebrate one of the most consistent aspects of FS life – ugly couches.

So – I’m in. But…don’t hate me…we don’t have to disguise our couch. It’s nice. Like, actually nice. I would buy it for my own home.

Some how, somewhere we ended up with this new edition of the FS couch. I have not seen it in any other home here (from the almost tippy-tippy top of the totem poll to the very, very newest of the most not-senior FSO).

Would you believe it’s the first thing people comment on when they come to our house for the first time? They ask us if we brought it from home. Or, they simply launch into, “How did you get that couch!?” I have seen many a manager (or manager’s spouse) swoon over our sofa/loveseat pair. It’s couch envy. To mark it as ours (at least until we leave) I have jazzed it up with that nice $5 Ikea blanket.

Níspero - Another Crazy Fruit

That looks like a ball of dirt, right? Well, it is not. It is a delicious fruit called a níspero. Some of you might remember my efforts to fall in love with the decidedly ugly zapote …twice.

I really, really wanted to give the zapote a chance, but our love was just not meant to be. Fortunately, the DR is one of those places where wild, delicious, tropical fruit literally falls out of the sky, lands at our feet and says, “Go ahead, enjoy!”

That’s how I learned about the níspero. There is a níspero tree at my office. Every day one of my colleagues will try to collect up the fallen ones before they get squished by the vehicles coming in for the day. Then, at lunch, we cut them open and enjoy.

I really thought that these must be related to a zapote. Despite the difference in size and shape, they both have a light brown, sandpaper-like exterior. And the seeds are also very similar. The níspero has more seeds and, of course, they’re smaller, but they look a lot alike.

However, where the differ is the taste. Níspero taste like cinnamon and vanilla and almost just like an oatmeal cookie. I promise! The texture is a bit like a cross between a pear and a plum. They’re super sweet and almost remind me of a fig in their richness – like one of those fruits that makes you feel like you’re indulging in a delectable dessert.

A bit of wikipedia research reveals that they are indeed related to the zapote. And, they’re also common in India and other parts of Latin America. In other Spanish speaking countries there are also called Sapodilla. The scientific name is Manilkara zapote.

Of course, I have been getting my fill of níspero for free up until this point, but I was on a work-related trip on Friday and decided to stop at a roadside stand and pick up some to take home. I really had (and have) no idea how much they should cost. A banana is 5 pesos at a fruit stand – I figure that price is pretty constant and can serve as a my guide. When I asked the guy how much for the níspero he said 150 pesos per dozen. That seemed a bit high for me. Bargaining is the norm here so I counter-offered. I thought maybe 10 pesos would be more reasonable – the fruit are seasonal and rarer than bananas and the poor guy was the last stand after several and probably wasn’t going to get much business. “120 for a dozen,” I said. He agreed. I did my bargaining. I got my níspero. That all felt pretty good.

But, today I saw this article in the New York Times. For those of you who travel – or live – abroad, this has some good tips on how to bargain and still help the poor fruit seller, trinket hawker or odds-and-ends dealer when you’re in an economically struggling country. Although I try to keep these things in mind anyway and, of course, you can’t expect to ever do this perfectly (there’s always a grey area), it’s good to have someone else’s perspective and a bit of a reminder about where our dollars, pesos and rupees go. Next time I’ll pay the 150 and ask him to give me 15 of these tasty níspero.

Fuego!

It has crossed my mind that one of the worst possible things here would be to need emergency services of some sort – police, fire department, ambulance. Sometimes as I sit in traffic bumper-to-bumper, door-to-door, three lanes easily turning into five and I hear an ambulance behind me and I think, “Good god I hope that person isn’t really in need of urgent care.” Of course, there is a fad here of buying car horns that makes a police, fire engine or ambulance sound – presumably to get people out of your way. Those people are marketing to the wrong country. Even if drivers want to move out of the way – it ain’t happenin’.

Unfortunately, I had first-hand experience with a high-speed ambulance transport about a year ago. Thank goodness for us it was 10:00 PM – the roads were practically empty.

Today, I got the first-hand introduction to the Santo Domingo bomberos (fire fighters). My boys’ school caught on fire. It was early – only a few children were there and they were quickly evacuated. Then, the teachers and parents and neighbors and rubber-neckers waited outside until the fire trucks arrived. As we were pulling up, the section of the school that was burning (a small gym on the side of the school) was down to the metal braces (I’m guessing it had been a good 20 minutes from spark to bonfire). About ten minutes later a fire truck finally inched its way through the traffic to check out the scene. Fortunately, the school maintenance man had bravely climbed up on the building with a garden hose to have a go at the flames, so it appears the bomberos* were mostly on check-out-the-scene duty. They opened some windows and sprayed some water…I think…I’m actually not sure about that part. It was a bit chaotic. Then another fire truck came.

This is where I just want to say – I love it here, but AGGGHHHH! It’s a SCHOOL! It’s on FIRE! DANGER! To top it off, I feel I am getting way too used to this type of thing. While I was deeply concerned by the delay in the fire fighters and despite my little thirteen word outburst above, I really felt very little true frustration. It was more like, “No way! This sucks! How sad. Oh well, no school today. Load up boys.” My husband is a little more freaked out. I get it. I mean, jeez, it is crazy.

Then, after I was moving on and heading to work, I (well, our car) got hit by a carro público driver (carro públicos are like tin cans pretending to be taxis that run like buses on fixed routes)! Did I freak out? Cry? Worry? No, not really, I got out, attempted to examine the damage. Watched in dismay as the carro driver jumped out of his car, hopped into traffic, ran up the block and then returned with my hubcap. He popped it back on and smiled. I said, (translated from the Spanish obviously) “Good for you it wasn’t worse than that.” He said “Yep.” I said, “Have a good one.” He said, “Same to you,” and then we were on our way. No harm. No foul.

I recognize on the one hand that this might be ideal Foreign Service adaptation behavior. When in Rome, right? Imagine if you got upset every time things like this happened in Pretoria, Dhaka, Kuala Lumpur or San Salvador? You’d be screwed. You would be one frustrated and exhausted human being.

But, I do fear that this sets me up for a life of expecting very little if/when we’re ever posted to the States. “Ms. H, your child broke his arm today. He’s waiting it out on the playground. We gave him a sucker. I’m sure he’s fine.” Or “I am sorry to inform you that you will no longer be receiving electricity. The State of Virginia has decided to ration such services. We’re at your service. Please feel free to call…Monday through Friday noon to three.” Or perhaps, “I’m so sorry, we don’t sell milk or bread anymore.” I imagine myself kind of shrugging and walking away, only to be told by my non-FS friends that this type of thing is actually not acceptable in the United States. Hmmmm, that must be what home leave is for. Re-adaptation. A chance to remember to have standards….any standards. Good. I’ll need it.

* No Dominican fire fighters are being blamed by me for the delayed response. They are paid a shameful $120 per month to attempt to respond to fires. I am sure they dream of quick and efficient rescues that elude them on a regular basis.