Byers Without Borders

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travel overseas

Kigali Transport

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Kigali is a city of 1 million spread out over a handful of steep hills. Unlike some of our other homes abroad, it is not feasible to navigate the city on foot. As such we’ve been forced to educate ourselves on the varied modes of Kigali city transport.

At 5000 Rwandan Francs (RWF) for a cross-town ride, taxis occupy the top spot in the food chain of transport. No real difference from those at home, assuming your stateside taxi has mirrors held on by zip ties and worn springs that bottom the car out on every bump. Jen normally takes the front seat because of her superior French, however, most of the drivers only speak Kinyarwanda, so the ride often devolves into frustrated pointing at a phone map.

If 5000 RWF is too much the moto-taxi is an exhilarating option. For 1000 RWF (helmet included) you can hop on the back of one of these motorcycle taxis and zip across town, weaving in and out of traffic, in an affront to local traffic laws and every nuanced clause of your travel insurance policy. Arriving at your destination vibrating from adrenaline and itching from the community helmet are just part of the experience.

Cheap, scenic and likely a bit more safe than Moto-taxis are the bicycle taxis. It’s just what it sounds like, a padded seat behind your driver pumping the pedals. By far these are my favorite because no one can look serious riding shotgun on the back of a bike, legs held out to the sides in a tin-man pose. It’s like trying to look mad while sipping out of a straw.

Finally, there is the city bus. At 100-200 RWF, this is the cheapest way to get across town. Overcrowded, smelly, with cryptic routes and stops that change like the stairs of Hogwarts, the kids refuse to take the bus with me. The rugby scrum getting on and off is intimidating.

 

Plus, a family motorcycle race across town is loads more fun.

Asian Aftertaste

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Imagine you’re lucky enough to snag a table at The French Laundry, the chef’s tasting menu, multiple courses with wine pairings, ingredients locally sourced and Michelin-level prepared by Thomas Keller himself, and after swallowing the last morsel of dessert perfection you pop up and rush to the restroom to brush your teeth. Unthinkable! No! An experience like that warrants time on the palate, time for savoring. Those exquisite and complex flavors need a chance to imprint themselves. They should be allowed to fade slowly.

Our re-entry to the west is always like this. It takes us a few weeks to allow the recent experience to fade. Time to process, to reorient, to recalibrate to this cultural baseline.

Our last port of call in Asia was Singapore. We had the good fortune to stay with our friends Kim and Tom. Not only did they store a mountain of cold-weather gear for us, while we played in Indonesia, they acted as wonderful hosts and guides in a town that now ranks in our personal top 3 Asian cities.

Everyone has heard how clean Singapore is (yes, it is against the law to chew gum in public) but really, it is insanely clean. My mother’s housekeeping standards are based on the magazine layouts of Southern Living. As a kid she made me vacuum my way backward out of rooms so I wouldn’t walk over the sweeper lines in the carpet’s nap. Even she would be impressed with Singapore. Add in its tropical flora, and it’s understandable why the kids kept saying “I feel like we’re at Busch Gardens”.

Somehow Singapore has found a way to blend English, Chinese, South Indian, and Maylay cultures without watering down any one of them. The best place to see this is in the food hawker centers. Tiny mom and pop owned food stalls specialize in the authentic cuisine of the owner’s heritage. By picking multiple stalls our mealtimes often resembled a buffet at the U.N.  Satay and coconut rice, saag paneer and tandoori baked naan, chili crab and buns, even a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, all laid out on long communal tables and washed down with bottles of Tiger Beer.

Singapore is famous among foodies and was even featured on an episode of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown. The celebrity chef called Singapore the most food-centric place on the planet, and our host Kim made sure it lived up to the hype. I had a religious experience with soup dumplings, Jen spent an afternoon sipping authentic Singapore Slings, and the kids discovered the little-known Singaporean Ice Cream Sandwich.

Even food expert Bourdain missed that one. An inch thick slab of ice cream slapped on a slice of psychedelic colored sandwich bread, eaten taco style. It

sounds ridiculous, but the lines at these carts attest that it is ridiculously good. The texture of the bread makes the whole encounter reminiscent of a strawberry shortcake.

Savoring Ice Cream Sandwiches with friends

 

 

 

 

 

 

The food, the mix of cultures, the clean streets, a crime rate that is conducive to 10 year olds taking the subway unaccompanied, Singapore left a taste we wanted to savor.

Even departing Singapore was pleasant. Smiling immigration officers stuffed the kid’s pockets with candy. In contrast, their kevlar-clad U.S. counterparts welcomed us home with scowls and the news of the latest school shooting.

Culture shock makes sense. You’re in a foreign environment, so obviously you should feel a bit off balance. But reverse culture shock, the struggle to feel at home when you’re at home, is much more distressing. You’re in an environment that should feel comfortable and normal, and yet things still feel alien. There are too many cereals to pick from at the grocery store and not enough smiles to help soothe your indecision.

Rob & Sharon’s pet bear/dog Hagrid

For the past month, this has been our little struggle. We’ve felt out of step and misunderstood. Fortunately, we returned to New Haven for another month of work at Yale. Hearing Arabic or Russian on the bus is nothing special in New Haven, and 90% of the kid’s friends here have passports. Also, we have been able to connect with some of our HVO-Bhutan-volunteer buddies. We had

Having fun with Hagrid

dinner in Avon with surgeons Rob and Sharon, and their giant Newfie Hagrid. Charlie and Carolyn had us over for cocktails in Branford. And

Sunset on the beach with the Mizes.

Jen and the kids spent the better part of a week in Maine at Betsy and Randall’s camp. Spending time with these people, friends who understand why we go and how we feel when returning, has helped pull our heads out of the sand. We’re all feeling a bit more at ease. The kids no longer balk at brushing their teeth with tap water.

With Betsy at her and Randy’s camp in Maine.

So we’re back to normal. Or at least as normal as Byerswithoutborders can ever be, which means… moving day!

My month-long contract at Yale is over. It’s time to hit the road again.

”We’re like birds. Wherever we land we build a nest” Given

 

Bhutan Basics

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Bhutan basics:

National Bird- Raven

Favorite Food- Anything with chilies 

Fridge settings-Winter, Summer, Monsoon

Toilets- squat (bring paper unless adept at the Asian bidet, water bucket and a scoop)

They drive on the left, so step off a curb and look RIGHT not left (that lesson comes quickly).

At day 23, life here is starting to feel normal. Everyone is settled into a pleasant routine. 

With only three sets of clothes each (one for wearing, one for washing, and one backup) Jen’s day usually starts with some laundry. You have to hang it out early, so it will dry before the afternoon weather rolls in (cold fingers hanging up wet clothes in 30 degree temps). Our little washer is on the balcony with the clothes line. It took some practice figuring out what the “fuzzy” cycle was about. Also, to power the washer Jen has to unplug the microwave, and run the extension cord from the electric blanket through an open kitchen window, but the chore no longer produces the profanity it did early on. 

On teaching days her and the kids bundle into a taxi and head across town to the school where they teach English Literacy and Yoga. 

Without the rush to make morning assembly, they usually choose to walk back home, picking up ingredients for the evening’s dinner on their meandering. Back at the apartment, Jen is still the teacher, and it is time for the girls to do their own schoolwork. 

On non-teaching days, the girls all head straight to the pine forest above the apartment. Schoolwork is still on their schedule, only now their classroom comes with a view. They always seem to negotiate time to build a fort or play among the prayer flags at the end of their lessons. After, it’s back down into the valley for the day’s shopping, a visit to the telecom office, or perhaps a coffee with another volunteer. 

I normally catch up with the gang around 3:00. After snacks and snuggles, we try to go out on some adventure together in town. A trip to the National Library, Tashi Dzong, the archery grounds, or just a taxi ride up to the telecom reflector tower. 

Evenings… the same dinner, bath, hair-combing, teeth-brushing routine as home. Except it is Indian cable that provides the background chatter instead of DirecTV. Occasionally a power outage triggers some flashlight games. And a game of Uno is never far from reach. 

We certainly are lacking many of the comforts of home here. We’re cold a lot, and we haven’t yet found a decent slice of bread. But there is something to the simple life here. It’s like the difference between those diabetic desserts and those made with real sugar and lard. One is richer and more satisfying.

Lunch with Lamas

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The snows held off. This past weekend we finally made it out of Thimphu, our guide, OR nurse Sonam. 

I couldn’t be more proud of the girls. They stoically endured hours of vomit inducing mountain roads (Jen and Lily were the only ones to avoid a purge) in a tiny car that smelled oddly of lemon Pledge. 

In Phobjika valley, winter migration grounds for the blacked neck crane, the kids politely sat on the floor of a farmhouse and ate red rice, fried fresh cheese, and pork belly. While they didn’t clean their plates, they also did not balk or turn up their noses to our host’s meager offerings. 

In Punakha we visited the city’s Dzong (a mixture fortress, monastery, government offices, and court house). The Lama of the Dzong was impressed that we made the children wear Kira as a sign of respect. So he invited us to celebrate one of his junior monk’s recognition as master mandala maker. Mandalas are the highly symbolic art pieces that are painted on buildings, and canvas throughout the Buddhist world. In some ceremonies, the artists spend weeks creating mandalas of colored sand only to sweep it away in an acknowledgment of the impermanence of reality. 

photo by worldreligionnews.com

For our hosts, the party we joined was bit like an office event, celebrating a promotion. The celebrant’s family was present, and naturally, they insisted we partake of the food. Again, the girls rose to the occasion. Taking cues from the monks, they balled up rice and ate with their hands, in local fashion. They sipped at tea I know they dislike, and Lily sampled an egg of unknown vintage that even I avoided. If diplomacy can survive our current administration, my girls may have a future in it. 

Shangri-La 2.0

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In Dzongkha, Druk Yul is the name Bhutanese give their country. It translates to Land of the Thunder  Dragon. They should call it Land of the Thunder Dog. Packs of stray dogs infest Thimphu. To my torment, they sleep all day and bark all night. The four that camp out at our apartment entrance have become de facto pets for the girls. Gi-gi, Noodles, Grumpy Dog, and Russell. 

Despite difficulties sleeping, Bhutan continues to confound and delight us. In Delhi, Bangkok, Tokyo, or Hong Kong it was easy to find a 7-11, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or Starbucks. Not so here. There are no chain stores, no billboards (other than pictures of the king), and no 6-lane highways. So we buy our produce at the weekend market, fast food is a street vendor selling Tibetan Momos (steamed dumplings), and our coffee is the instant crystal type.  

Unlike other Asian countries we have visited, Bhutan is not rushing headlong into the modern/globalized world. They’ve seen the result such actions have taken on neighboring countries (deforestation, pollution, urban sprawl, crime) and politely said no thank you. Bhutan chooses to enter the modern age in its own time. 

And so, as recent as 60 years ago there were no paved roads connecting this landlocked country with the outside world. The first television signals were not received until the late 90’s. In 1989, as a way to preserve Bhutanese traditions, the government began actively promoting Driglam Namzha, a code of conduct that specifies how to behave like a civilized Bhutanese. The most visible sign of this commitment is the requirement to wear traditional dress (Gho for men, Kira for women) at school, in the office, or when visiting temples. 

The ethos of mindful-modernization permeates the entire culture. As part of its constitution, Bhutan maintains 60% of its land under forest cover. New construction must conform to traditional Bhutanese design. Even traffic lights are an object of scrutiny. When one was installed in the capital, the residents of Thimphu complained that it was too impersonal. After it was dismantled their city became the only world capital without traffic lights, leaving us to decode the movements of their traffic police. 

In tourist brochures and travel shows, Bhutan is often compared to Shangri-La, that fictional Himalayan paradise first described in the 1933 book Lost Horizon. Having seen maroon clad monks with smart phones, in a country that jealously guards its forests despite their economical potential, Shangri-La 2.0 is a more apt description. 

Springtime Snow

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We had planned a weekend excursion to Punakha, the former capital of Bhutan. But the Himalayas had other plans, and surprised us with a spring snow. With the 10,000 foot Dochu La pass to Punakha closed, we bundled up and headed out for the girls first ever snowball fight. 

This was actually the first snowfall of the year in the Thimphu valley, and a national holiday was declared by the King. Early in the day the streets were packed with merrymakers, all wishing us a “happy snowfall”. Groups of Bhutanese, young and old, faced off on opposite sides of the road and pelted each other with snowballs. At home I would be concerned that Stella might get caught up in the crossfire as we made our way through town. But with typical Bhutanese politeness, every group we passed would ask “would you like to play?” before targeting us. Taxies with snowmen frozen to their roofs roamed by, occasionally launching a snowball from an open window. 

Even the memorial Chorten, normally a site of solemn prayer and meditation, got caught up in the playful antics. 

I’ve never seen such a festive and happy celebration of a snowfall. It’s as if the entire city spontaneously reverted to 8 year old  children, free from school on a snow day. 

Please click the link if you would like to make a donation in serving the people of Bhutan.