ExpatW

In Cultural Cock-Ups

Courge. Not courgette.

May 16, 2020 No Comments

In my defence, I have not been sleeping well these last couple of weeks and have perimenopausal brain fog.

Still on my quest for healthy, real whole food eating ingredients (strangely the french don’t seem to buy into the nuts and seeds component of this. They just eat what they produce off the land. With buckets of cream, butter and cheese), I went shopping in one of the bigger supermarkets thinking I might have more luck finding pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds and chia seeds there. Found chia seeds. Nearly mistook poppy seeds for chia seeds. Found sunflower seeds but still in their casing meaning I would have to peel them open. But try as I might, I couldn’t find pumpkin seeds anywhere. I was looking for ”graines de potiron,” potiron being the french word for pumpkin.

Instead all I could find were courgette seeds which looked very similar to pumpkin seeds. These courgette seeds were everywhere, along with the sunflower seeds. But no pumpkin seeds. What is up with the french’s obession with courgette seeds? I asked myself. I’ve never seen any french recipes calling for them. Maybe they’re in moroccan or tunisian cooking?

I gave up and went home with my shopping, including a cut pumpkin (no seeds in it).

The next morning I went to unwrap the pumpkin to roast it for breakfast (yes under the whole foods regime, you eat pumpkin for breakfast. With quinoa). I noticed on the label it said ‘tranche de courge.” Wait up.

Then I realised. Courgettes don’t have seeds. Well not large flat green ones anyway. I’d grown enough of them in NZ, I should have known.

Turns out “courge” means squash. AKA pumpkin. Pumpkin seeds.

In The Bucket List

Camel’s Milk.

May 9, 2020 No Comments

It’s funny what can end up on your bucket list. Being in Mongolia, I had naturally heard of the tradition of drinking fermented mare’s milk as the must-thing to do. So it was on the list of cultural experiences to try.

I communicated my want to our tour guide who deflated me in the one simple sentence of “But you are too early, the season is not until June.” Who knew fermented mare’s milk had a season? Seeing my distress, she helpfully pointed out that if I was after a Mongolian cultural experience, camel’s milk was also pretty popular. I would be in luck as it was often sold in supermarkets. We were leaving that day for Russia so I was very keen to find a supermarket before we left.

The next supermarket we came to, there it was. Camel’s milk. She helped me select a bottle. I inspected the date. “Hmm, is that the date it’s manufactured or the date of expiry?” I asked.

She paused and thought for a minute. “Date of manufacture.”

“You sure?” Pause.

“Yes.”

OK then well, that was ten days earlier and hey, it was still being sold so clearly it was ok. I handed over the money for my precious bucket list purchase. Sitting on the bus to the train station, I took a sip. Hmm. Not bad. Slightly sour. What did people see in this? I shared my bottle around for others to have a try. They basically spat it out. “Enjoy that cultural experience dahl” said one of the Aussies.

Never one to give up, I got through about 3/4 of the bottle before deciding I had experienced enough culturally and tossed the remainder in the bin. Bucket list. Place substitute tick.

Next stage of the journey was the ultimate bucket list item. The Trans-Siberian train journey. Normally 7 days straight from Vladivostok to Moscow we were picking up the train from Ulan Bator which would make it a five day journey. Of course we were hopping on and off the train along the way to spend some time soaking up local russian culture. I was so excited. The Trans-Siberian! We were off! This is it. The dream!

It was only 24 hours to the first stop in Russia. Interestingly, the russians have a quaint habit of closing their loos 15 minutes before each station and 15 minutes after each station. It’s to deter stowaways. There is a no-mans land between Mongolia and Russia, so at the Mongolian border, you are roused from your sleep, and made to leave your cabin while they search for stowaways. You then have to face them so they can see your eyes, state your name and hand over your passport which you then don’t see for another hour and a half. Once you get it back, it’s stamped with your exit stamp. I hoped that was all it was taken for. Half an hour later across no-man’s land, the whole process is repeated again when you hit the russian border.

This would all be fine, had I not come down with a killer headache and a strangely uneasy tummy. Couldn’t think what I had eaten. The food in Mongolia was pretty good, no one else was suffering. I hopped on each leg while trying to say my name clearly to the customs guards. Think I was sweating. Please for the love of God can we get on our way, I desperately need the loo. My stomach was making all sorts of gurgling noises and the dreaded sense of an accident looming was beginning to be felt.

Clearly, it was not the date of manufacture on the camel’s milk. I downed two panadol and took off to the loo. It was still locked. I stood outside hopping and counting trees outside in an effort to distract myself until finally the 15 minutes had passed and the train guard passed to unlock the loo. The relief was palpable. I believe the loo took the entire contents of my colon in that moment.

There were 8 more train station stops before our destination. This meant a total of four hours of the journey with locked loos. 8 hours attempting to sleep. That left a 12 hour window for the loo which I needed approximately every 45 minutes. Turns out my colon hadn’t been completely emptied. One of the tour group happened to be a doctor and she monitored me, keeping me hydrated and feeding me panadol. I had thought to bring some immodium-style sachets from NZ with me so I drank one of these every hour.

While everyone else enjoyed vodka shots I moaned in bed, cursing the rocking motion of the train. At last we arrived in Irkutsk and I ran for the first loo I could find. By this stage we’d come across so many terrible loos that we were running a competition to see which one was the worst. This loo won worst toilet of the entire trip. I did not care. Not one little bit.

Don’t do it. Don’t drink camel’s milk.

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In Covid 19

Day 54: A small taste of freedom

May 9, 2020 1 Comment

The French are not only known for their food and wine but for their exquisite taste in fashion and fabrics.

A new, highly-sought after fashion item has joined the ranks of the season’s must-have accessories: the mask. At work I had been training people in how to put one on and take one off with the minimum of face-touching and a maximum of hand sanitiser. After several sessions, the skin on my hands is complaining loudly. Must stock up on hand cream. Pretty much everyone is wearing them now and they will be compulsory on public transport as of Monday. It is a strange sight.

Like any haute-gamme piece, there are ranges of quality from cheap knock-offs, to tailored cloth, to designer label versions. One of my workmates sported a Tommy Hilfiger mask. My brother is eagerly awaiting his Game of Thrones “Not Today” mask. I tried without success to find a Walking Dead or Contagion mask online. I settled for very fetching black cloth washable ones as finally, finally pharmacies are selling them. The price is daylight robbery – I paid the equivalent of NZ$35 for 4. They are, however, here to stay till at least the end of the year. As our Prime Minister said “We can not stay in lockdown forever, we must learn to live alongside this virus.”

At least we are officially allowed to come out of lockdown, but very gently and very slowly. The country has been divided into green zones and red zones, red being where the virus is still actively circulating and where the hospitals can’t cope with it. I am in a red zone. Sadly this means that little changes for us just yet other than that we get to travel up to 100km without a declaration.

The best news of all is that the markets are allowed to re-open so long as the local mayor sanctions it and social distancing can be observed. I’m praying that my local market will be open next weekend. Parks, gardens and shopping centres more than 40,000m2 are supposed to remain closed in the red zones, but can open in the green zones, again, so long as social distancing can be observed. Schools and creches will re-open in the green zones but not in the red. Businesses can open and shops can refuse entry to anyone not wearing a mask. I’m hoping this means I will be able to find a Sephora.

Evidently my village forgot the bit about not opening parks. While the main park next to the town hall remains closed, the mayor seems to have neglected the one that I discovered the other day. The lawns need a bit of a mow and it could do with some flowers, but open it is and it is lovely to walk around. I have silently made it my mission to see about the lawns and maybe get some flowers going there.

The borders with other european countries remain closed until at least 15 June (more tears, wailing and gnashing of teeth into my pillow at night). But I am going to hire a car next weekend and enjoy my 100km of freedom. Little steps at a time.

All this is to be reviewed on 2 June, where, all going well, we may be able to progress further. This is the time when restaurants, cafes and bars may be able to re-open. I am hoping so, and praying that the locals here have been able to survive. There are some superb little places, including an italian next to my apartment building which I love. The chef would come out to greet everyone during their meals and he would recognise me because I was usually there so much. I hope, I hope he will survive.

Many have lost their jobs, including where I work. So far I have kept mine and, as one of my colleagues who also kept his has said, “We are blessed.” It will be a tough time emotionally to return to the workplace when we are able. There’s an element of survivor guilt dynamics to process. Even though these are job losses and not death, the ability to get permanent work can be extremely difficult and either with long trial periods or a series of temporary contracts first. So for the people (especially immigrants) so close to getting a permanent contract, this can be devastating. The only thing to do really is to help those left through these emotions so they can lead the survivors and the new workforce coming in.

Of course, all this is in the context of continuing reducing numbers of cases and the hospitals being able to cope. We still clap the health workers each night, they really are the heroes in all this. Working long long hours to try and beat this thing, with doctors making ghastly decisions about who gets the last ventilator available.

The freedom is hard won and we will continue to fight against the virus for it. We have the new normal now, masks and 1m distancing. Alongside the virus, life will return.