It is glorious to see imagination take off and be untethered in 2 ½ year-old Bodie. He will happily spend an hour with a small rubber rhinoceros in one hand and his crocodile friend in the other inventing conversations (he always lowers his voice when doing the voices -- “how are you?” “fine” “where are you going” “to the barn over there” “can I come?” “ok”) and they’ll fly on a magazine-turned-rocket ship, or eat apples from a chair leg-turned-tree, or swim across yellow plastic table turned into a deep blue ocean.
The other day, he grabbed two curtain hooks – simple pieces of metal wire bent into a U-shape – and quickly named them each Boopie. The Boopies swam and flew and ate and played with animals. They became real enough that when getting in the car, and one Boopie was dropped, Bodie cried out to go rescue the Boopie. The Boopies played with Bodie for a few hours, were put in his pocket when he played a drum and then drew pictures, and came out to play some more.
As movies or work often serve as the fodder for dreams for adults, it is sometimes easy to see the building blocks of his imaginative games. A day at the beach invariably causes Boopies or animals to swim and splash. Yet some things just emerge seemingly from nowhere.
When Hillary comes home from work each evening, we sit on the floor in the living room, and follow Bodie’s lead as his imagination spins scenarios of talking whales, swimming lions, welcoming planets and adventuring Boopies. Bodie becomes a dog or fish or crocodile. The broom becomes a horse to ride; Play-Doh becomes an elaborate meal, and a chair becomes a full service restaurant with Bodie serving (“we don’t have hummus today”). I envy his ability to craft stories and worlds with such ease. Until I’m gainfully working, I’m trying to take a page from Bodie and imagine myself being essential and called into important meetings (“where are you going?” “over to the office to make an important decision…”)
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Year of Living Socially
Last weekend was aberrant, even bizarre for us. Used to weekends in Takoma Park filled with groceries to be shopped, clothes to be taken to the cleaners, broken house things to be fixed, dogs to be walked, assorted errands to be done and occasional exercise squeezed in, this weekend, in a new place where we knew no one two months ago, was socially active throughout.
There is a confluence of good people toting toddlers involved in social change work eager to welcome new people to their ranks. And the funny thing is, my basic misanthropic tendencies don’t seem to be a deterrent.
Bodie is now our little ticket into society here. All his life he has been a taker – wanting food, wailing for something to drink, wanting a diaper changed – but at two-and-half now, he is finally contributing and proving invaluable as our little social networker.
On Friday we hosted baby group/happy hour. The weekly meeting was launched as a baby group, but has morphed into more of an end-of-week happy hour, and oh by the way there are some little kids crawling around the garden. Ten people were over drinking wine and beer, snacking, cocktail partying with no kids reported injured or lost. Somehow the shared circumstances – being in Dar, usually one non-working spouse desperate for conversation, most people involved in some social change work – allows a sense of community to develop quickly.
Saturday evening was spent at a dinner party at Julia and Cory’s home. It was one of those unexpected evenings that everyone there gelled. Coincidentally one of the guys who worked at USAID had been on a conference call with Hillary earlier in the week. The other couple had lived in Mount Pleasant in D.C. All were completely irreverent, continually raising the bar on outrageous stories, bottle after bottle. Cory is a bit of a renaissance man – gourmet chef and collector of African antiquities – and created an amazing meal. Julia had spent her youth in Dar and promised herself she’d be back. It took her thirty years, but she is posted with USAID here. Their 12-year-old daughter is now at the International School, where Julia went at the same age.
On Sunday, we met Teal, Nat and their daughter, Clara, at the beach. Small world is everywhere here – Teal is from DC, they both had Maine connections, Nat’s family is from Princeton, NJ (where Hillary grew up) and Nat knows some friends at home from his work at the World Bank. They had picked up croissants and coffee at the French bakery for an utterly civilized breakfast.
At the next banda hut down the beach, a Canadian couple we know, Michael and Cam (who works at SIDA, Canada’s version of USAID) and their 2-year-old, Adler, showed up with Jenny, Trond (SAIS graduate) and their son, August. Mie and George (the Jane Goodall Institute) were there with their son, Kanto; and Mason and Marion (GTZ) and their 4-month-old son, Arlo.
Most everyone ended sitting in shallow Indian Ocean water, lifting kids as swells rolled in, lounging and chatting. It was like we had summer camp with kids, but without the cliques and counselors.
In the states, to pull together this many people would have required weeks of planning. Everyone’s schedule is so packed and planned. Here, with few places to go, gatherings happen automatically. We invariably run into someone at one of the three shopping centers that ex-pats frequent. Maybe we haven’t been here long enough to sense the undercurrents and dysfunctions that generally come with this sort of small group interaction. At this point, ignorance, and lounging in azure water, is bliss.
There is a confluence of good people toting toddlers involved in social change work eager to welcome new people to their ranks. And the funny thing is, my basic misanthropic tendencies don’t seem to be a deterrent.
Bodie is now our little ticket into society here. All his life he has been a taker – wanting food, wailing for something to drink, wanting a diaper changed – but at two-and-half now, he is finally contributing and proving invaluable as our little social networker.
On Friday we hosted baby group/happy hour. The weekly meeting was launched as a baby group, but has morphed into more of an end-of-week happy hour, and oh by the way there are some little kids crawling around the garden. Ten people were over drinking wine and beer, snacking, cocktail partying with no kids reported injured or lost. Somehow the shared circumstances – being in Dar, usually one non-working spouse desperate for conversation, most people involved in some social change work – allows a sense of community to develop quickly.
Saturday evening was spent at a dinner party at Julia and Cory’s home. It was one of those unexpected evenings that everyone there gelled. Coincidentally one of the guys who worked at USAID had been on a conference call with Hillary earlier in the week. The other couple had lived in Mount Pleasant in D.C. All were completely irreverent, continually raising the bar on outrageous stories, bottle after bottle. Cory is a bit of a renaissance man – gourmet chef and collector of African antiquities – and created an amazing meal. Julia had spent her youth in Dar and promised herself she’d be back. It took her thirty years, but she is posted with USAID here. Their 12-year-old daughter is now at the International School, where Julia went at the same age.
On Sunday, we met Teal, Nat and their daughter, Clara, at the beach. Small world is everywhere here – Teal is from DC, they both had Maine connections, Nat’s family is from Princeton, NJ (where Hillary grew up) and Nat knows some friends at home from his work at the World Bank. They had picked up croissants and coffee at the French bakery for an utterly civilized breakfast.
At the next banda hut down the beach, a Canadian couple we know, Michael and Cam (who works at SIDA, Canada’s version of USAID) and their 2-year-old, Adler, showed up with Jenny, Trond (SAIS graduate) and their son, August. Mie and George (the Jane Goodall Institute) were there with their son, Kanto; and Mason and Marion (GTZ) and their 4-month-old son, Arlo.
Most everyone ended sitting in shallow Indian Ocean water, lifting kids as swells rolled in, lounging and chatting. It was like we had summer camp with kids, but without the cliques and counselors.
In the states, to pull together this many people would have required weeks of planning. Everyone’s schedule is so packed and planned. Here, with few places to go, gatherings happen automatically. We invariably run into someone at one of the three shopping centers that ex-pats frequent. Maybe we haven’t been here long enough to sense the undercurrents and dysfunctions that generally come with this sort of small group interaction. At this point, ignorance, and lounging in azure water, is bliss.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Meat
Recently, Dexter, our Rhodesian Ridgeback and elder son, started turning his nose up at the Pedigree food he was being served. Dexter is not picky. He’ll wolf down anything and seems as happy with a fresh bone as old scraps excavated from under a rock. Yet somehow Pedigree, the only dog food we’ve seen on shelves in Dar es Salaam, didn’t meet his exceedingly liberal standards. So we decided to make (rather, have made) real homemade food for Dexter. Hillary went online and found a trove of dog food recipes, a count even surpassing the number of vegetarian Passover recipes I had scoured a few weeks ago. (No comparison of, say, gefilte fish and dog food even remotely intended.)
We learned that the food should be 40% meat, 30% vegetables and 30% starch. Being the wimpy vegetarian that I am, I asked Judith, our wonderful housekeeper, to accompany me to a butcher. We went to Namanga, a part of town near us crowded with small stores where locals shop. Namanga is far less expensive than the mzungu-serving shops in our neighborhood.
Hillary tried to make the case that buying meat would be less expensive than manufactured dog food. Her assertion sounded familiar, and I somehow remembered her logical argument that “expensive Italian shoes” that would last were also a sound investment.
At the butcher, rather than the myriad choices that I expected to be bewildered by – shoulder or flank, sirloin or ribs, chuck or brisket -- two options were presented. Judith pointed to one window, with hunks of carcass speared on huge hooks, and said “cow”, and pointed to another window with smaller red glistening carcasses, and said “goat”. There seemed to be more flies swarming the cow window, so I took that as some sort of Zagat’s guide and picked beef.
The butcher pulled a carcass chunk off a hook, put it on a tree stump in the corner of the store, and cleaved a chunk off. He put it on the scale and it tipped 2 kilos, the amount Judith had specified. As he tried to charge us more, Judith, fully in command, directed him to cut a bit off and made sure it was from the less desirable end.
I, as have many friends living in a nice urban Whole Foods-served region, have railed against the separation in our daily life from our basic food sources. Our food is typically shrink wrapped and prettified so we have no idea of what it once was. As the cleaver was hammering down, with three dull thuds, through the side of beef, I truly appreciated the beauty of the shrink-wrap machine.
Judith roasted the meat with potatoes and carrots. Dexter, always eternally loyal just to me, now won’t leave her side.
We learned that the food should be 40% meat, 30% vegetables and 30% starch. Being the wimpy vegetarian that I am, I asked Judith, our wonderful housekeeper, to accompany me to a butcher. We went to Namanga, a part of town near us crowded with small stores where locals shop. Namanga is far less expensive than the mzungu-serving shops in our neighborhood.
Hillary tried to make the case that buying meat would be less expensive than manufactured dog food. Her assertion sounded familiar, and I somehow remembered her logical argument that “expensive Italian shoes” that would last were also a sound investment.
At the butcher, rather than the myriad choices that I expected to be bewildered by – shoulder or flank, sirloin or ribs, chuck or brisket -- two options were presented. Judith pointed to one window, with hunks of carcass speared on huge hooks, and said “cow”, and pointed to another window with smaller red glistening carcasses, and said “goat”. There seemed to be more flies swarming the cow window, so I took that as some sort of Zagat’s guide and picked beef.
The butcher pulled a carcass chunk off a hook, put it on a tree stump in the corner of the store, and cleaved a chunk off. He put it on the scale and it tipped 2 kilos, the amount Judith had specified. As he tried to charge us more, Judith, fully in command, directed him to cut a bit off and made sure it was from the less desirable end.
I, as have many friends living in a nice urban Whole Foods-served region, have railed against the separation in our daily life from our basic food sources. Our food is typically shrink wrapped and prettified so we have no idea of what it once was. As the cleaver was hammering down, with three dull thuds, through the side of beef, I truly appreciated the beauty of the shrink-wrap machine.
Judith roasted the meat with potatoes and carrots. Dexter, always eternally loyal just to me, now won’t leave her side.
Friday, April 25, 2008
SolarAid
After a phone conversation with the Executive Director and head of programs at Solar Aid, Nick and John, they were eager to engage me initially as a volunteer to help them get a program up and going in Tanzania. The timing seems fortuitous as they have a sizable proposal pending for a project here. They forwarded a number of documents for me to review – a strategic plan, a proposal, a consultant’s report on their work in Malawi, a budget, and list of things they thought I could help with immediately, mostly administrative set-up - identifying costs of office space, understanding legal registration in the country, etc…
I spent a few days reviewing all the documents and, rather than dig into what they wanted, I couldn’t overcome my inner-consultant. I drafted a four-page memo challenging some of the key tenants in the their business model and offered some alternative models to consider. I asked them to clarify their aspirations, and laid out a few implications of how that could drive their business model. Needless to say, I couldn’t help myself and included a Venn diagram to show my consulting credentials (I always imagine my 9th grade geometry teacher saying “pay attention, if, and only if, you ever want to be a consultant, you’ll need to understand overlapping circles.”) Previously, with any client at CWV, I was generally delicate, but aspired to be direct. In this case, I was a little less delicate and very direct.
I expected a strong negative reaction, a “you don’t understand what we’re doing at all.” Instead, they wrote and said their model is evolving and that my thinking was very much in line with where they were interested in taking the organization. I even got a “spot on”.
The challenge they face, as does anyone in renewable energy, is not the need, which is clear and present here, but figuring out a business model to sell, service and support what is, initially, an expensive product to a market without money.
I’ll help them get registered and see if I can work with them to refine their model. The opportunity to scale renewable energy here may be most appropriate for an NGO. Most research and investment on solar is focused on a utility-based approach, so designed for large systems that already cover and service a population (i.e. U.S. and Europe). Current technology – photovoltaic - is applicable to people who can pay up front and wait for a 10 year return-on-investment. The subsidy that an NGO can provide may be the only way to make it possible reach to the poor, rural market in a country like Tanzania.
I spent a few days reviewing all the documents and, rather than dig into what they wanted, I couldn’t overcome my inner-consultant. I drafted a four-page memo challenging some of the key tenants in the their business model and offered some alternative models to consider. I asked them to clarify their aspirations, and laid out a few implications of how that could drive their business model. Needless to say, I couldn’t help myself and included a Venn diagram to show my consulting credentials (I always imagine my 9th grade geometry teacher saying “pay attention, if, and only if, you ever want to be a consultant, you’ll need to understand overlapping circles.”) Previously, with any client at CWV, I was generally delicate, but aspired to be direct. In this case, I was a little less delicate and very direct.
I expected a strong negative reaction, a “you don’t understand what we’re doing at all.” Instead, they wrote and said their model is evolving and that my thinking was very much in line with where they were interested in taking the organization. I even got a “spot on”.
The challenge they face, as does anyone in renewable energy, is not the need, which is clear and present here, but figuring out a business model to sell, service and support what is, initially, an expensive product to a market without money.
I’ll help them get registered and see if I can work with them to refine their model. The opportunity to scale renewable energy here may be most appropriate for an NGO. Most research and investment on solar is focused on a utility-based approach, so designed for large systems that already cover and service a population (i.e. U.S. and Europe). Current technology – photovoltaic - is applicable to people who can pay up front and wait for a 10 year return-on-investment. The subsidy that an NGO can provide may be the only way to make it possible reach to the poor, rural market in a country like Tanzania.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Seder Success
Seder One required a few crucial elements:
1) A foray to the Dar Fish Market – The market is teeming with every imaginable type of swimming creature. It is overwhelming – fish-covered men chase you waving silver glinting fish, prawns, and squid at you. Stall after stall, stacked with with large mahi mahi to small bait fish, stretch for fifty yards. Hundreds of people bustle about, carrying fish, cleaning fish, filleting fish, washing fish guts down the sidewalks, walking barefoot through the fish guts washi
ng down the sidewalks…. The only thing we knew to do was check for non-cloudy eyes as a sign of freshness. We emerged with a fresh snapper and a type of salmon, which we had cleaned out of site of a newly-squeamish Hillary.
2) A visit from our friend Laura Frederick from Kampala. In typical Laura fashion, she came directly here from having been on the road all week, bearing wine, food from Kenya and remarkable cheer.
3) Amazing new friends. One family, Cory, Julia and Alia, have access to the regular embassy pouch. With matzah farfel – a key ingredient for matzah ball soup – being unavailable in Tanzania, they had some pouched over. They showed up with a huge pot of matzah ball soup to serve fourteen
. It may well have been the only matzah ball soup being served in Tanzania.
4) A supportive and innovative wife who can source things like no one else. We don’t have the accoutrements to entertain yet, so Hillary ran out on Saturday. in a matter of a few hours, she had a tablecloth made, found a long sea-shell embroidered runner, some carved serving dishes, Shabbat candlesticks, a long candle holder carved from old dhow wood, and a Masai water gourd, to use for the ritual hand-washing.
Bodie found the hidden afikomen, wrapped in a blue and white khanga, under the sofa cushion. The next day, Hillary was wearing that khanga on her head and Bodie asked if she had the afikomen on her head.
1) A foray to the Dar Fish Market – The market is teeming with every imaginable type of swimming creature. It is overwhelming – fish-covered men chase you waving silver glinting fish, prawns, and squid at you. Stall after stall, stacked with with large mahi mahi to small bait fish, stretch for fifty yards. Hundreds of people bustle about, carrying fish, cleaning fish, filleting fish, washing fish guts down the sidewalks, walking barefoot through the fish guts washi
ng down the sidewalks…. The only thing we knew to do was check for non-cloudy eyes as a sign of freshness. We emerged with a fresh snapper and a type of salmon, which we had cleaned out of site of a newly-squeamish Hillary.
2) A visit from our friend Laura Frederick from Kampala. In typical Laura fashion, she came directly here from having been on the road all week, bearing wine, food from Kenya and remarkable cheer.
3) Amazing new friends. One family, Cory, Julia and Alia, have access to the regular embassy pouch. With matzah farfel – a key ingredient for matzah ball soup – being unavailable in Tanzania, they had some pouched over. They showed up with a huge pot of matzah ball soup to serve fourteen
. It may well have been the only matzah ball soup being served in Tanzania.
4) A supportive and innovative wife who can source things like no one else. We don’t have the accoutrements to entertain yet, so Hillary ran out on Saturday. in a matter of a few hours, she had a tablecloth made, found a long sea-shell embroidered runner, some carved serving dishes, Shabbat candlesticks, a long candle holder carved from old dhow wood, and a Masai water gourd, to use for the ritual hand-washing.
Bodie found the hidden afikomen, wrapped in a blue and white khanga, under the sofa cushion. The next day, Hillary was wearing that khanga on her head and Bodie asked if she had the afikomen on her head.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Preparing for a Tanzanian Sedar – Part Two
Thinking of the weeks of preparation that go into my mom’s seder, I’m very nervous about actually cooking. I envision her kitchen – pots boiling, pans baking in the oven, dishes put in the freezer weeks ahead of time -- and I feel paralyzed. To try to break through this culinary version of writer’s block, I knew I needed to take it slowly. Today I hardboiled an egg. We need one egg for the sedar plate, and I thought this was an effective start.
Egg? Check!
Tomorrow, I’ll really cook some things.
Egg? Check!
Tomorrow, I’ll really cook some things.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Preparing for a Tanzanian Seder
Passover is approaching, and I now realize that holding a Seder is something I’ve delegated for my entire life. I have wonderful memories of Seders growing up at my parents. (I can’t forget my youngest sister, Deborah at 2-years-old, shouting Dayanu two beats after everyone else at the table. For reasons she can’t fathom, I need to remind her of this every year. I think Bodie is now about that age, and, next year, Deborah’s son will the late shouter.) I then found friends, namely Monica, who sedered like it was nobody’s business. But now, it is time for Hillary and I to prepare our first Seder. And running to the local Judaica store in Dar for a quick training doesn’t seem to be an option.
So I’ve spent a few days surfing Jewish websites, a dilettante’s approach to Talmudic study. First I learned that the word Seder means “order”, so that, while there are over 3,000 Haggadahs in print, they all follow the same table of contents. I also learned that we Jews are very internet focused, with a fair number of haggadot available for download, some free, some via Paypal purchase.
I recall reading, many years ago, a book called The Jew in the Lotus. In it, Buddhism meets Judaism when eight rabbis travel to Dharamsala, India for a meeting with the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama asks the rabbis why Judaism has thrived for over 5,000 years. They respond that one of the primary reasons is the tradition of the Seder being held for thousands of years in households across the world. The service is designed to repeat the story of Exodus as a lesson for children. It is a bittersweet holiday – on one hand, Jews recall enslavement in a foreign land, but there is also the celebration of liberation and freedom.
It is also multi-layered. The story of Exodus from Egypt is on a basic level, but there is also a call to social action and tikkun-olam, making the world whole; one element holds a mirror for us to think of our own roles as oppressors as well; and there is a self-reflective element to understand one’s personally imposed limitations. At the first level, the service is very kid-focused with singing, and, until this year at our house, notable for wonderful food.
We are hosting 11 adults and five kids. The criteria for coming is not overly exclusive: everyone has attested to either being Jewish, knowing someone who is Jewish, having tried out an old Jewish person accent, or seen a Woody Allen movie. With four of the kids under age three, we are not anticipating it to be either a long Seder or one with a tremendous theological debate.
To prepare, I’ve been assembling a Haggadah. Online options range from the Orthodox to Liberal to Reconstructionist to Pure Kitsch (a Chocolate-focused haggadah). I am realizing how little I knew about the structure and all the rituals. The process of creating a Haggadah is enjoyable – after this trial run, it should be something we use for many years.
I’ll next go searching for some basics for the Seder plate. While you could probably trip over a shank bone in Dar, I’m worried about finding horseradish, apples for charoset, much less Matzah (although part of me imagines standing outside with Judith, our housekeeper, trying to use Exodus as a cookbook and pound and bake matzahs in the sun.)
We have a Haggadah ready – it has been plagiarized, pirated, portions appropriated and bowdlerized, and is ready to go (and emailable if anyone would like it.)
I realize that I’m becoming my mother, but I only have five days now to plan the meal….
So I’ve spent a few days surfing Jewish websites, a dilettante’s approach to Talmudic study. First I learned that the word Seder means “order”, so that, while there are over 3,000 Haggadahs in print, they all follow the same table of contents. I also learned that we Jews are very internet focused, with a fair number of haggadot available for download, some free, some via Paypal purchase.
I recall reading, many years ago, a book called The Jew in the Lotus. In it, Buddhism meets Judaism when eight rabbis travel to Dharamsala, India for a meeting with the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama asks the rabbis why Judaism has thrived for over 5,000 years. They respond that one of the primary reasons is the tradition of the Seder being held for thousands of years in households across the world. The service is designed to repeat the story of Exodus as a lesson for children. It is a bittersweet holiday – on one hand, Jews recall enslavement in a foreign land, but there is also the celebration of liberation and freedom.
It is also multi-layered. The story of Exodus from Egypt is on a basic level, but there is also a call to social action and tikkun-olam, making the world whole; one element holds a mirror for us to think of our own roles as oppressors as well; and there is a self-reflective element to understand one’s personally imposed limitations. At the first level, the service is very kid-focused with singing, and, until this year at our house, notable for wonderful food.
We are hosting 11 adults and five kids. The criteria for coming is not overly exclusive: everyone has attested to either being Jewish, knowing someone who is Jewish, having tried out an old Jewish person accent, or seen a Woody Allen movie. With four of the kids under age three, we are not anticipating it to be either a long Seder or one with a tremendous theological debate.
To prepare, I’ve been assembling a Haggadah. Online options range from the Orthodox to Liberal to Reconstructionist to Pure Kitsch (a Chocolate-focused haggadah). I am realizing how little I knew about the structure and all the rituals. The process of creating a Haggadah is enjoyable – after this trial run, it should be something we use for many years.
I’ll next go searching for some basics for the Seder plate. While you could probably trip over a shank bone in Dar, I’m worried about finding horseradish, apples for charoset, much less Matzah (although part of me imagines standing outside with Judith, our housekeeper, trying to use Exodus as a cookbook and pound and bake matzahs in the sun.)
We have a Haggadah ready – it has been plagiarized, pirated, portions appropriated and bowdlerized, and is ready to go (and emailable if anyone would like it.)
I realize that I’m becoming my mother, but I only have five days now to plan the meal….
Monday, April 14, 2008
Banking
We need to open a bank account here. Try as we might, electronic life doesn’t cover that much in a cash-based society. Trying to be a loyal Citibank customer, I inquired about a local account. They responded:
Thank you for your recent message regarding Financial Centers located in your area. The branches we have in Africa are located in Egypt in several different areas. Theses locations are Azarita, Dokki, Garden City, Giza, Heliopolis, Maadi, Mohandessin, and Zamalek. You would need to go to theses branches to further discuss opening an account with them…
While indeed on the same continent, Tanzania to Egypt is about 2,600 miles. Citibank must not incorporate geography in its customer service training.
To open an account at Barclays, we needed a letter of reference attesting to our character and residency visas. I wrote a glowing character reference (something like “uniquely gifted and outstandingly honest”), emailed it to Hillary, who had one of her subordinates sign it, attesting to her boss’s character.
We just received the residency visas. A quick aside – Hillary is treading lightly on asking me to do any shopping or errands during the day as she knows that my ego is a little housewifely-precarious right now. I took Hillary’s work visa and my visa to the bank. The Ministry, however, cares nothing for my ego. My visa has handwritten across the bottom in big block letters, “DEPENDENT HUSBAND”.
Even though it is Barclays, the branch here is a very old fashioned operation. One needs to see the teller for virtually all transactions. We go to Angela to deposit checks. We go to Angela to pay our water bill, to put money into our bar tab at the Yacht Club, and to move money from the dollars account to the shillings account. Angela is often busy talking to her colleagues and I feel badly having to interrupt, sometimes clearing my throat five or six times, before she acknowledges me. Sometimes she’ll get up in the middle of a transaction, suddenly seeming to remember an urgent matter in the back of the office.
I’ll admit my ego is indeed fragile right now. One saving grace is that I don’t have to worry about troubling Angela with yet another task, something burdensome like having to deal with a second monthly paycheck for us.
Thank you for your recent message regarding Financial Centers located in your area. The branches we have in Africa are located in Egypt in several different areas. Theses locations are Azarita, Dokki, Garden City, Giza, Heliopolis, Maadi, Mohandessin, and Zamalek. You would need to go to theses branches to further discuss opening an account with them…
While indeed on the same continent, Tanzania to Egypt is about 2,600 miles. Citibank must not incorporate geography in its customer service training.
To open an account at Barclays, we needed a letter of reference attesting to our character and residency visas. I wrote a glowing character reference (something like “uniquely gifted and outstandingly honest”), emailed it to Hillary, who had one of her subordinates sign it, attesting to her boss’s character.
We just received the residency visas. A quick aside – Hillary is treading lightly on asking me to do any shopping or errands during the day as she knows that my ego is a little housewifely-precarious right now. I took Hillary’s work visa and my visa to the bank. The Ministry, however, cares nothing for my ego. My visa has handwritten across the bottom in big block letters, “DEPENDENT HUSBAND”.
Even though it is Barclays, the branch here is a very old fashioned operation. One needs to see the teller for virtually all transactions. We go to Angela to deposit checks. We go to Angela to pay our water bill, to put money into our bar tab at the Yacht Club, and to move money from the dollars account to the shillings account. Angela is often busy talking to her colleagues and I feel badly having to interrupt, sometimes clearing my throat five or six times, before she acknowledges me. Sometimes she’ll get up in the middle of a transaction, suddenly seeming to remember an urgent matter in the back of the office.
I’ll admit my ego is indeed fragile right now. One saving grace is that I don’t have to worry about troubling Angela with yet another task, something burdensome like having to deal with a second monthly paycheck for us.
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