Expat Woman: is it in the Blood?

Two women talking at Muqattam, 1948 http://vintageegypt.tumblr.com/

Mateo and I were in the elevator this morning and a neighbour came on board. She asked where we are from and my immediate response was “Australia”. She smiled but seemed unsatisfied with my answer, my accent wasn’t enough. She’s was right, in addition I should have said “my roots are from Egypt hence our dark skin and oriental features, oh and, Mateo’s father is Swiss and…(stay with me now). But we reached ground floor before I could give her a true description of our intercultural family: quasi-Australian-Egyptian-Swiss, hold on there’s a nation missing - British.

You see I’m not the first expat woman in my family. My British Grandmother was a pioneer of the “modern international woman” in the first half of the 20th Century.

In her late 20’s Grandma was lured by Egypt’s magnetic attraction. An allure that was distinctly exotic but an attraction no doubt that began when she was a little girl when her mother used to take her to the British Museum to see the magnificent relics of Ancient Egypt. While growing up she was overwhelmed with an insatiable appetite to travel to Egypt.

Like the thousands of privileged tourists who flocked to Egypt during British occupation, Grandma was stirred by the city’s physical beauty, its jewel of the Nile, its grand temples, its fine restaurants and sidewalk cafes, its seductive music, and its lively and sometimes even decadent nightlife.

The Golden Age of Egypt in late 1940’s was glamorous, and so was she. I imagine her as a leading lady in Agatha Christy murder mystery novel Death on the Nile: a beautiful, confident, intelligent, slightly wicked, Gin swilling, carefree woman.

What I admire most about her is that she chose to use her freedoms in search for her own identity - a relatively new concept for women’s rights in her day. She was a self-exile who chose to leave a homeland, a depressing Post War London that she may have considered intellectually, politically, racially, or sexually limiting or even oppressive.

Unlike more casual visitors, Grandma worked, married a dapper, el macho Egyptian man and settled down with two children in Cairo for nearly 20 years. And when British occupation was ousted from Egypt, she did not return to England with the family, instead they migrated to Australia where my Mum met my Dad (a fellow expat Egyptian) and they say the rest is history.

This year my Grandmother celebrated her 90th birthday but sadly lost her husband - they were married for 60 years. Even though she’s quite mysterious about her past, it’s her entanglement with Egyptian culture that has the strongest impression and is of most interest to me. In her cockney English accent she can ramble off perfect fluent Arabic. She never speaks of her experience of The Blitz during WWII but loves talking about Kingdoms of Ancient Egypt like a true historian. I can’t remember her ever baking an English pie but she made a mean Molokhia!

And now that I am an expat mum in the Middle East, I have so many questions to ask her: How did she blend into her new world? Was it easy? I suspect not! Did Grandad’s family welcome her with open arms? How quickly did she learn to speak Arabic? How comfortable was she in her second-skin as a Cairean? Did she feel alienated from family and friends back in England? How did she cope with tough times?

No matter the answers, one thing is for certain she lived her dream with full gusto, regardless of her hardships. I am sure she nostalgically looks back at her life in Egypt and can fondly laugh at her language disasters, power cuts for days, cold showers, blocked pipes, and recollect silly wives-tales for treating mysterious illness’ (which also doubled for warding off the ‘evil eye’).

There she was, in one of the most ancient cities of the world creating not just a new history, but her future – and my future. As Elanor Roosevelt said “ the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams”. My Grandmother taught me to live my dreams. It’s her part of my heritage that loves being an international nomad. This inherited “itchy feet” feeling is a bit like a virus, which lives on in the blood regardless of place or circumstance.

I’ve followed in her footsteps in many ways. I began travelling solo in my 20s, finding my independence was extremely important and liberating. When Grandma graduated from university at the age of 70, she gave me the drive to pursue my academic interests. However I got one up on her, I got my driver's license (hehehe).

When I met Mikey, I knew he also had the travel bug in his blood and we amicably agreed that travelling would be factored into our future together. When the opportunity in Beirut came up, we were both incredibly excided about hitting the road; a piece of family nostalgia for me to return to the Middle East and new exciting experience for us as family, although I never imagined we would travel before Mateo’s first birthday.

But our world is a lot smaller than in my Grandmother’s day with the internet, skype, facebook, email, blogging etc. I feel I am in constant communication with friends and family back home.  Yet, it hasn’t been all smooth sailing and I haven’t been shielded from the stresses of adapting to life in a foreign culture.

Daily tasks can feel one hundred times more difficult to accomplish than back home and sometimes life feels anything but easy and carefree. I regularly wonder what on earth possessed me to give up my identity, support network, career! And as I sat at home sick for weeks on end (another virus hit me hard after my chicken pox) I felt incredibly lonely and helpless not being able to meet other women.

It crossed my mind, should we pack up and go home? This is not the expat life I had imagined! What would Grandma have done? But as I watched Mikey and Mateo adapt to their new lifestyle like a fish takes to water I just had to accept things for what they were and ride it out. And after several quiet weeks, finally I met up with a fellow expat mum and all of a sudden, I feel normal again (hello Daniela).

It all has to do with connectivity. Even though we are from different parts of the world, I met a woman who didn’t gasp when I told her about our reason for moving to Beirut, who didn’t think it was strange to live in a different country for a few years, and who had common stories of trials, tribulations and joys of bringing up a child in new surroundings.

I’ve come to realise that I belong to a tribe, a common throng of women who travel the world, many working or trailing behind their spouses, offering support and encouragement, bringing up children, finding their own way through the newness of each location.

Will I belong to this tribe forever? Maybe, possibly, hopefully. As long as my Grandmother’s adventurous spirit lives on inside of me.
 

Grandma, thankyou for leading the way. love you xxx

Laughter is the Best Medicine

I remember when I was young I desperately wanted to get chickenpox, I wanted those days off school real bad. I was jealous of every kid lucky enough to have the “varicella vacation” in the middle of school term. As the years went on, one by one, they bragged about it in the schoolyard “calamine lotion, oatmeal baths, lollypops, Atari” I cursed under my breath, why-oh-why not me?

Not in million-gazillion years could I imagine my time would finally come three decades later in blistering hot Beirut. Cheers. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry! I’m spotty, itchy, and bitchy. My suitable misery is however the source of good humour, I’m actually the last casualty in a line of infirmity which has plagued our household. They say bad luck comes in threes…

It all began when I started searching for a local pediatrician for “just-in-case”. Being an expat mum requires a bit of forward thinking, if a problem should strike you don’t want to be without one, right? When I went to ask at the local clinic for the name of a children’s doctor I was promptly given a phone number on a piece of paper. “Let’s hope you don’t need to call him inshalla” the receptionist thoughtfully wishes.

That afternoon little Mateo comes home from the nursery feverish and cranky. I’m thinking it’s nothing more than signs of teething but then he develops a rash overnight. "That’s odd, you’ve never had heat rash before" I inspect. Of course being a mum means you’re instantly an expert in skin diseases.

By end of the day his spots turn to blisters. I do a Google search and realise his symptoms are beginning to look more like chickenpox. I go to ask a pharmacist but he thinks it’s a heat rash “common this time of year” he says loading me up with lotions - just in case.

I’m now breaking a sweat feeling nervous about my own fate “what if it is chickenpox? Mikey is immune but what will happen to me?” My sudden bout of itching seems to jump all over my body.

Not taking any chances, I call the doctor. My voice is quivering, suffuse with panic. In 30 seconds I made my own diagnoses starting with a benign case of chickenpox and ending in leprosy. The doctor whispers in calm voice “it’s probably a heat rash but come to my clinic tomorrow - just in case. I’m currently supervising my student’s last medical exam for the year.”

WHAT? red with embarrassment I apologise profusely for calling him on his private mobile (I later learned calling doctors on their mobile is normal custom here how brilliant!). To relieve my anxiety I read up on people’s experiences of chickenpox on forums. Bad move. For young children it’s considered a rite of passage, they even throw parties for the occasion, but no one on this ENTIRE planet has a good thing to say about adult chickenpox. Period.

Surely I was vaccinated? I call mum to confirm but she has no record. Going back to Google, again it brings me no luck - vaccination in Australia wasn’t introduced till 2001. Now I’m having heart palpitations “search HEART ATTACK”.

At the doctor's clinic, I’m hearing the words “highly contagious”, “isolation for a week”, “no nursery for Mateo” and “pray you don’t get it”. I'm nervously thinking about our impending lock-down at home with a hyperactive child. It’s not looking good.

Sure enough, the following week at home was insane. Cooped up in the house, Mateo was like a bull in a china shop. Mikey would return from work to an unrecognisable home. Bewildered he assess’ the damage, collecting debris along the way: child intact ‘good’, mother seething ‘bad’.

Day 1. Mateo sorting the laundry "now you see it, now you don't"

Thankfully Mateo’s virus was very mild and after one week his few spots healed over. To celebrate his speedy recovery we eat out for Sunday brunch along the Corniche. Feasting on a banquet of different BBQ meats, salads and raw kibbeh (raw mince), everything was well again.

Scoffing down the kibbeh Mikey makes an insightful remark “Imagine getting food poisoning from raw mince, I recon it would be horrible, like really H O R R I B L E” licking his fingers.

The next day he comes home from work complaining of a migraine. I seem to remember hearing words like “hot”, “dizzy” and “cold sweat”. And then I hear horrible barfing noises coming from the loo, honestly it sounded like he was murdering a donkey. Acute food poisoning smacks Mikey flat for the rest of the week. Great. Another week in the house nursing casualty No.2.

Few days go by and just when I thought I got away with my fatal illness, I feel an itch in the back of my neck. Thinking it’s a mosquito bite I ignore it until the hot itch had spread to my chest. Looking in the bathroom mirror I cried in slow motion “NOOOO” seeing those dreaded pink spots.

Racing over to Michael still sprawled on the sofa moaning, “you’re going to the doctor with me, like, now.”

“Okay, I’m, coming…” he musters a slow vocal death as he’s peeling himself off the sofa.

By the time I actually made it to the medical clinic I was riddled with spots. The doctor makes a joke at my expense for being no “spring chicken” to be getting the pox (you can laugh too, haha). But when we were done with the small talk he moved onto serious words like “pneumonia”, “swelling of the brain” and even “death”. Yikes adult chickenpox is no laughing matter.

The good news is, because I acted quickly in getting a diagnosis (with 24hours of the spots appearing) antiviral medication will substantially lessen the shelf-life of the virus (yay) however there’s no consolation for another week of isolation (booo).

On our way out of the doctor’s office, the doc turns to Mikey and asks if he’s okay “you’re looking a little pale” he observes. Mikey manages to fumble a few words together “food, poisoning”. Doctor is laughing again, realising there’s good fodder for another joke “Can’t handle Lebanese food hey?! Maalesh it’s common for new comers - I recommend you stay away from kebbeh for example, raw meat - terrible!” Jovially slapping Mikey on the back.

So there you have it, three illnesses in three weeks, although it’s too easy to say it’s been a “poxy” start to summer. In time the queasy stomach will subside, the itch will recede and the spots will fade, however in years to come our tribulations will be remembered as another one of those funny travel stories.

Thank goodness I’m now at the end of my infection and came through remarkably unscathed. At least I can now say loud and proud “I got chickenpox and I survived!” Plus it’s never to late to feel you’ve made that ‘rite of passage.’  Best of all I want to say “thank you” universe for making everything happen EXACTLY as it’s meant to. If the three of us never got sick and laid up at home together Mikey and I may have missed a momentous milestone - seeing Mateo take his first steps. What could be a sweeter memory?!