Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sri NO Ka (Part 1)
Below are some images (pre-camera dying) from a recent, brief excursion with friends to the tropical island-nation of Sri Lanka. It is a beautiful land, of which I only saw a very small piece. We stayed near the old Dutch colonial town of Fort Galle in the south, which is still enclosed within the Fort's ramparts. Most of the images below are from our day around the Fort, itself. "Sri NO ka" became our catch phrase after running into several snags, as any good adventure would. We say it fondly now, of course...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Medical Camp 2009
Some more images from the day: over 200 families served in one village. The team of national and non-nationals worked tirelessly all day, in extremely hot, unventilated "cubbies." Several families from the operation I was a part of back in December live in this village, which is an hour from the nearest hospital/clinic- one reason it was selected for the camp. The other main reason, however, is our desire to improve community relations for our clients as they reintegrate into free society.
The Girl Child
My sister is expecting! You wouldn’t know it though-even with her preggo belly, she’s still about half my size. It’s slightly awkward telling people “she’s pregnant” when I show them her picture, because I feel as though I’m insulting their intelligence...but really, on her, you can’t tell!! So, come mid-October, or somewhere thereabouts, my parent’s first grandchild should grace us with his presence. I cannot wait to meet “Peanut,” as he is affectionately referred to for the time being. Yes, Peanut is a boy...
[One of his earlier ultrasounds!]
When I share the news of my sister's pregnancy with folks back home, I can usually expect to hear the question: “Is she having a boy or girl?” Parents-to-be can elect to know the sex of their unborn child ahead of time in the U.S. Some prefer to be surprised, but others would like to choose a name, prepare a nursery, or begin a wardrobe deemed gender-appropriate (whatever that may mean).
Here, however, that is not the case. To be more accurate, that is simply not an option. Parents are not allowed to know the sex of their child before it is born; there are laws against it. Labs performing ultrasound scans, for example, are forbidden to reveal any details as to the sex of a fetus. The reason behind such a law is rather sobering.
Female infanticide is a problem of epic proportions, especially in this state. Despite the laws that are currently in place, bribes are still paid to lab technicians. In cases where abortions due to pre-determination are not possible, midwives may be paid to provide “female deselection” services (where the baby’s spine is snapped after birth), or female babies are blatantly murdered in infancy, through neglect, poisoning, or other torturous abuse.
Economic, cultural, and religious factors have resulted in a son being valued over a daughter. In many communities, a bride’s family is expected to provide a dowry* to the groom’s family, leading to a great economic burden for her parents. Extremely poor families may sell their daughters to local temples as Devadasi, or "brides to the gods" (which essentially means they will be used by the temple priests as a means to make money through prostitution...a fate any girls born to the Devadasi are doomed to share) to avoid the debt of paying her dowry later in life. Another blow to the parents of girls is that the bride leaves her family, along with her dowry, and joins her husband’s. As a result, his parents are guaranteed caretakers later in life, while the bride’s parents are not. His parents gain capable hands, which can help with the household chores. Her parents are down a labourer. The familial line passes through the male, where a man is known as “the son of so-and-so” and the female is either “the daughter of so-and-so” (her father) or “the wife of so-and-so.” In the Hindu religion, certain rites (such as the lighting of his parents’ funeral pyre) can only be performed by a son, again making a boy child preferred over a girl. In some cases, women have reported seeing their lives as so invaluable, that they see killing a baby girl as doing the child a favour. If the girl child survives infancy, she may still be at risk of abandonment. Orphanages in the region are overflowing with young girls. A friend here is starting a non-profit to raise awareness about female infanticide, and to raise funds for the few local organizations that are already trying to combat the issue. It is a disturbing phenomenon, and a sad, sad reality.
Recently, I read an article in the paper here about a village in a northern state, where there is a shortage of brides; so the men have built a road to ease the travel of women from other villages into their own. Now, I don’t really know the cause of this “shortage” of women, but I certainly have a guess...there are frightening statistics highlighting the overall imbalance between genders country-wide.
Watch out, Peanut! I may be bringing a girl cousin home for you...make that five girl cousins...okay, not really. Well, maybe....
*There are also laws banning the giving of/expectation of dowry, but in many rural, very traditional communities, the practice continues. Female infanticide and Devadasi are just two of the many issues that stem from the giving of a dowry. Another is when a groom’s family demands more from the bride’s family. The bride will often suffer beatings, burnings, and other forms of torture until her family is able to meet those demands...
The pictures below are of some girls in a nearby village, where we recently held a medical "camp" (a day of free medical services)-it was my second since arriving last October. I just can't fathom the idea that these darlings could be viewed as worthless by some...
[One of his earlier ultrasounds!]
When I share the news of my sister's pregnancy with folks back home, I can usually expect to hear the question: “Is she having a boy or girl?” Parents-to-be can elect to know the sex of their unborn child ahead of time in the U.S. Some prefer to be surprised, but others would like to choose a name, prepare a nursery, or begin a wardrobe deemed gender-appropriate (whatever that may mean).
Here, however, that is not the case. To be more accurate, that is simply not an option. Parents are not allowed to know the sex of their child before it is born; there are laws against it. Labs performing ultrasound scans, for example, are forbidden to reveal any details as to the sex of a fetus. The reason behind such a law is rather sobering.
Female infanticide is a problem of epic proportions, especially in this state. Despite the laws that are currently in place, bribes are still paid to lab technicians. In cases where abortions due to pre-determination are not possible, midwives may be paid to provide “female deselection” services (where the baby’s spine is snapped after birth), or female babies are blatantly murdered in infancy, through neglect, poisoning, or other torturous abuse.
Economic, cultural, and religious factors have resulted in a son being valued over a daughter. In many communities, a bride’s family is expected to provide a dowry* to the groom’s family, leading to a great economic burden for her parents. Extremely poor families may sell their daughters to local temples as Devadasi, or "brides to the gods" (which essentially means they will be used by the temple priests as a means to make money through prostitution...a fate any girls born to the Devadasi are doomed to share) to avoid the debt of paying her dowry later in life. Another blow to the parents of girls is that the bride leaves her family, along with her dowry, and joins her husband’s. As a result, his parents are guaranteed caretakers later in life, while the bride’s parents are not. His parents gain capable hands, which can help with the household chores. Her parents are down a labourer. The familial line passes through the male, where a man is known as “the son of so-and-so” and the female is either “the daughter of so-and-so” (her father) or “the wife of so-and-so.” In the Hindu religion, certain rites (such as the lighting of his parents’ funeral pyre) can only be performed by a son, again making a boy child preferred over a girl. In some cases, women have reported seeing their lives as so invaluable, that they see killing a baby girl as doing the child a favour. If the girl child survives infancy, she may still be at risk of abandonment. Orphanages in the region are overflowing with young girls. A friend here is starting a non-profit to raise awareness about female infanticide, and to raise funds for the few local organizations that are already trying to combat the issue. It is a disturbing phenomenon, and a sad, sad reality.
Recently, I read an article in the paper here about a village in a northern state, where there is a shortage of brides; so the men have built a road to ease the travel of women from other villages into their own. Now, I don’t really know the cause of this “shortage” of women, but I certainly have a guess...there are frightening statistics highlighting the overall imbalance between genders country-wide.
Watch out, Peanut! I may be bringing a girl cousin home for you...make that five girl cousins...okay, not really. Well, maybe....
*There are also laws banning the giving of/expectation of dowry, but in many rural, very traditional communities, the practice continues. Female infanticide and Devadasi are just two of the many issues that stem from the giving of a dowry. Another is when a groom’s family demands more from the bride’s family. The bride will often suffer beatings, burnings, and other forms of torture until her family is able to meet those demands...
The pictures below are of some girls in a nearby village, where we recently held a medical "camp" (a day of free medical services)-it was my second since arriving last October. I just can't fathom the idea that these darlings could be viewed as worthless by some...
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Namesake
As a result of our recent wave of rescue operations, we had five straight days of Freedom Trainings. Despite the long, hot days, it was a great week. After several days of dancing with kids during our downtime; having them explain their drawings to me (in a language I could not understand, mind you....it’s poor social work, but amazing how a simple “oh?” or “wow, super!” can satisfy the desires of the child showing off his/her work...just to be acknowledged seems to speak a million words to the children); carrying various toddlers (who reached for ME to hold them!!) on our trek to the local farmhouse; and listening to the endless giggles of all ages as they watched a Disney film, I’ve decided that perhaps I should rethink my career and become a pre-school teacher? My arm was pleasantly sore for several days from all the child holding. It was divine.
The week held many stories and highlights, but for the sake of time (and your sanity), I will share just one: about a ten-year-old boy, M., rescued from a rock quarry. When asked to draw pictures of life in the quarry, the children drew themselves carrying heavy boulders over their heads. During an early session with the kids, M. claimed he had no desire to go back to school (having dropped out in the third grade).
Later that same day, one of our social work graduate student interns led a session on the importance of education. This particular group of kids was so attentive that she quickly got through her material; and had time to work with each child individually. It turned out that M., the oldest child in this group, had never learned to write his name! So, D., the intern, spent several minutes teaching him how to write the characters that make up his name in his native tongue.
After his first time drawing the entire sequence of characters on his own, we all clapped for him (including M. himself!). He was so pleased with his accomplishment that he continued to practice and practice until he could draw it all from memory. Every time he finished his name, he would smile broadly and clap for himself...until we’d all join in and celebrate with him. He even learned to write his sister’s name that afternoon.
The kids were called away from our room, after awhile, to join their parents for family activities. Since they all seemed so intent on practicing their writing, we let them each keep one marker for the night. Once the room had been cleaned up, I walked outside to observe the game-playing. Instead, I saw the kids face down over their papers scribbling away on the edge of the field. When M. caught sight of me, he snatched up his work and ran over to show it off. He pointed out his carefully crafted characters, and pronounced each one clearly. We cheered together over his feat, and then he whipped around to hurry back to his spot on the ground.
But, with his back to me, he suddenly froze. I saw him pat his back pocket with sharp, frantic movements. Then, as I watched, he sighed deeply and, looking over his shoulder, he flashed a relieved smile as he held his marker up for me to see. He had not lost his new prize. All was well. The pen was tucked away in that pocket, once again, as we laughed together about his near-tragedy. Again he turned away, and again, he jolted to a stop. I observed the same hesitation, the quick check of the back pocket, and the deep breath of assurance that yes, his marker STILL remained safe in his pocket, before he finally walked away.
In social work, there is a theory that if we can help our clients succeed in one area (for example, in the therapeutic school setting, if a teen who is struggling with staying in a classroom for longer than five minutes manages to stay in a room for ten minutes, he or she might be “rewarded” and that extra five minutes in a room would be considered a success), they will learn that they are able to do something they had previously thought impossible or see themselves as "capable." The theory continues that this will encourage the client to continue working towards further success. Now, I’ve worked in the therapeutic school setting, and this is a slowwwwwww process. To see this theory play out in a span of less than two days, with M. realizing his ability to learn, floored me!
The following day, he could not stop talking about school and how he wanted to become a teacher, just like the gentleman we have leading a majority of the children’s sessions, J. If only words could truly convey M.’s excitement over his achievement...Watching how he cared for his newest tool on the grassy field was such a sweet moment. No matter how tiring the week, witnessing M.’s experience alone would have been worth it all.
Puppet shows used during discussion on child sexual abuse. Amazingly, there were no tears this time (puppets can be scary sometimes! I remember being afraid of Chuck E. Cheese...that was one BIG mouse...it just made no sense!).
A child working on the "touching rules" workbook.
One of the piggies at the farm. We also saw geese, turkey, love birds, cows, and flowers. But mostly pigs. It smelled niiiice.
Running to catch up with the group-we'd been distracted by a peacock sighting! And then there were the deer...eventually we caught up to the group making its way to the farm.
The week held many stories and highlights, but for the sake of time (and your sanity), I will share just one: about a ten-year-old boy, M., rescued from a rock quarry. When asked to draw pictures of life in the quarry, the children drew themselves carrying heavy boulders over their heads. During an early session with the kids, M. claimed he had no desire to go back to school (having dropped out in the third grade).
Later that same day, one of our social work graduate student interns led a session on the importance of education. This particular group of kids was so attentive that she quickly got through her material; and had time to work with each child individually. It turned out that M., the oldest child in this group, had never learned to write his name! So, D., the intern, spent several minutes teaching him how to write the characters that make up his name in his native tongue.
After his first time drawing the entire sequence of characters on his own, we all clapped for him (including M. himself!). He was so pleased with his accomplishment that he continued to practice and practice until he could draw it all from memory. Every time he finished his name, he would smile broadly and clap for himself...until we’d all join in and celebrate with him. He even learned to write his sister’s name that afternoon.
The kids were called away from our room, after awhile, to join their parents for family activities. Since they all seemed so intent on practicing their writing, we let them each keep one marker for the night. Once the room had been cleaned up, I walked outside to observe the game-playing. Instead, I saw the kids face down over their papers scribbling away on the edge of the field. When M. caught sight of me, he snatched up his work and ran over to show it off. He pointed out his carefully crafted characters, and pronounced each one clearly. We cheered together over his feat, and then he whipped around to hurry back to his spot on the ground.
But, with his back to me, he suddenly froze. I saw him pat his back pocket with sharp, frantic movements. Then, as I watched, he sighed deeply and, looking over his shoulder, he flashed a relieved smile as he held his marker up for me to see. He had not lost his new prize. All was well. The pen was tucked away in that pocket, once again, as we laughed together about his near-tragedy. Again he turned away, and again, he jolted to a stop. I observed the same hesitation, the quick check of the back pocket, and the deep breath of assurance that yes, his marker STILL remained safe in his pocket, before he finally walked away.
In social work, there is a theory that if we can help our clients succeed in one area (for example, in the therapeutic school setting, if a teen who is struggling with staying in a classroom for longer than five minutes manages to stay in a room for ten minutes, he or she might be “rewarded” and that extra five minutes in a room would be considered a success), they will learn that they are able to do something they had previously thought impossible or see themselves as "capable." The theory continues that this will encourage the client to continue working towards further success. Now, I’ve worked in the therapeutic school setting, and this is a slowwwwwww process. To see this theory play out in a span of less than two days, with M. realizing his ability to learn, floored me!
The following day, he could not stop talking about school and how he wanted to become a teacher, just like the gentleman we have leading a majority of the children’s sessions, J. If only words could truly convey M.’s excitement over his achievement...Watching how he cared for his newest tool on the grassy field was such a sweet moment. No matter how tiring the week, witnessing M.’s experience alone would have been worth it all.
Puppet shows used during discussion on child sexual abuse. Amazingly, there were no tears this time (puppets can be scary sometimes! I remember being afraid of Chuck E. Cheese...that was one BIG mouse...it just made no sense!).
A child working on the "touching rules" workbook.
One of the piggies at the farm. We also saw geese, turkey, love birds, cows, and flowers. But mostly pigs. It smelled niiiice.
Running to catch up with the group-we'd been distracted by a peacock sighting! And then there were the deer...eventually we caught up to the group making its way to the farm.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Culture Shock: Chennasty Days
Culture shock can be depicted as a curve, much like a “u.” Imagine, coming into a new culture. At first, you are in the “honeymoon stage” of oohs and aahs...everything is cool and interesting. That’s the left-side top of the “U.” After a bit, the differences between your home culture and this new culture start to become more apparent, and tolerance for these differences begins to wear thin. When one is at his/her lowest, or at the bottom of the “U,” he/she may prefer to be alone and seclude him/herself; or view everything in a negative light. As time wears on, one typically will begin to understand the new culture better or become more comfortable with the differences and begin to climb out of the “U.” The theory goes on to explain that once an individual reaches the right-side top of the “U,” he/she has successfully adjusted to the new culture.
This is not to say that there is only one “u” for an individual to overcome. They come and they go. When living in community, it is important to remember that people experience the highs and lows of culture shock at varying points. To assist our little community of transients in staying aware of when one of us is experiencing a high or low, we have had t-shirts made sporting the terms “Chennice” (for good days here) and “Chennasty” (for days when we’ve just about had it, and people would be wise to steer clear).
Until recently, I cannot remember a day where I felt like I had reached the depths of the cultural “U” enough to sport my “Chennasty” shirt. During this period of shifting, however, I have had more days wishing I had a closet FULL of that particular shirt than I would like to admit.
Let us all praise God that my friends and co-workers made it through this time. I am happy to report that the shirt has been officially tucked back down to the bottom of my clothes pile. May it rest there in peace for the next four and a half months.
[Sometimes the crowds on the streets can just be too much...other times, it's kinda fun. This image from T. depicts the shopping district preferred by locals, which a friend of ours/local yoga instructor took us recently.]
[Waiting on the cows/water buffalo/whatever to cross the road can lead to explosions of anger on your more Chennasty of days...other times, it just looks like a great photo op!]
This is not to say that there is only one “u” for an individual to overcome. They come and they go. When living in community, it is important to remember that people experience the highs and lows of culture shock at varying points. To assist our little community of transients in staying aware of when one of us is experiencing a high or low, we have had t-shirts made sporting the terms “Chennice” (for good days here) and “Chennasty” (for days when we’ve just about had it, and people would be wise to steer clear).
Until recently, I cannot remember a day where I felt like I had reached the depths of the cultural “U” enough to sport my “Chennasty” shirt. During this period of shifting, however, I have had more days wishing I had a closet FULL of that particular shirt than I would like to admit.
Let us all praise God that my friends and co-workers made it through this time. I am happy to report that the shirt has been officially tucked back down to the bottom of my clothes pile. May it rest there in peace for the next four and a half months.
[Sometimes the crowds on the streets can just be too much...other times, it's kinda fun. This image from T. depicts the shopping district preferred by locals, which a friend of ours/local yoga instructor took us recently.]
[Waiting on the cows/water buffalo/whatever to cross the road can lead to explosions of anger on your more Chennasty of days...other times, it just looks like a great photo op!]
Shifting Spaces: Part 2...
MOVING IN:
[T. and N. had mattresses delivered to their new, unfurnished flat...this was the priceless shot T. caught of the "delivery truck"! Can you imagine?? I can barely stay balanced on my cycle, let alone maneuvering this awkwardness through our city's streets!! I guess he DOES have a tiny trailer for it to balance on-but still!]
Renting here is a curious thing. I will spare you the details of our prolonged search for a new place. Once found, it took a number of weeks to negotiate our lease and fees. As mentioned before, there is the matter of 10 months deposit. Then, there is also an agent to pay. I have had to pay an agent’s fee for a rental in Boston. That agent actually found a place for us to look at and handled all the negotiations with our landlord. While it was painful to pay that fee, it was at least understood that some work had been involved on the part of the agent.
In our case here, we found a place online, dealt solely with the owner of the property ourselves, and literally made one phone call to the agent. And for that, it is generally accepted that he receive one month’s rent as payment! Please note: this is TWICE what some of our staff, who put their lives on the line, are paid for a month of arduous work. HUH?!
Then, we are dealing with a lease that uses phrases even our staff attorneys could not make sense of...so, after a week of back and forth on our lease, an agreement is finally signed. We moved our stuff via auto (4 trips back and forth), and despite its already having been “thoroughly cleaned,” we began a thorough cleaning of our own (things were still growing in the fridge and counters were extremely sticky).
Overall, the new flat is fabulous! It is such a relief to no longer be in transition. We have a playground below our window, which is always full of neighbourhood kids. We have plenty of tacky 70s looking velour seating at our disposal. We are, once again, the only non-nationals living in the complex. I realized this when I dropped off ironing with the man who lives next to his work station in our parking lot...I told him I’d pick it up the following evening, but instead, he unexpectedly dropped it off right to our door as soon as he’d finished (I hadn’t told him where I lived).
So, as is the norm, we are still dealing with setting up our “already set-up” internet service. In one day, we had four people come by the apartment. One of the four was at the wrong apartment (he was there to “disconnect” someone’s modem...”No, sir. Please CONNECT.” “Disconnect?” “NO sir, please CONNECT”), which was eventually discovered when I realized we were not going to fully understand each other and sagely called a friend to translate. After this day of being told “I will go, and come” and being met by a completely new individual several times, we have now seen a new face every day, and yet, still do not have internet.
Part of me thinks that it is not purely incompetence on the part of the company that no one seems to come to our house prepared for the work that is expected and required. Perhaps it is more the curiosity of its staff, who simply want to see the weird western women that live on their own? I’m sure it’s neither, but it’s interesting to learn where I need God to teach me patience...the internet, of all things? Really??
[The temporary flat is the top floor of this lovely home. Auntie and Uncle lived right below-they are the sweet landlords, who had many words of advice for us. So cute.]
[T. and N. had mattresses delivered to their new, unfurnished flat...this was the priceless shot T. caught of the "delivery truck"! Can you imagine?? I can barely stay balanced on my cycle, let alone maneuvering this awkwardness through our city's streets!! I guess he DOES have a tiny trailer for it to balance on-but still!]
Renting here is a curious thing. I will spare you the details of our prolonged search for a new place. Once found, it took a number of weeks to negotiate our lease and fees. As mentioned before, there is the matter of 10 months deposit. Then, there is also an agent to pay. I have had to pay an agent’s fee for a rental in Boston. That agent actually found a place for us to look at and handled all the negotiations with our landlord. While it was painful to pay that fee, it was at least understood that some work had been involved on the part of the agent.
In our case here, we found a place online, dealt solely with the owner of the property ourselves, and literally made one phone call to the agent. And for that, it is generally accepted that he receive one month’s rent as payment! Please note: this is TWICE what some of our staff, who put their lives on the line, are paid for a month of arduous work. HUH?!
Then, we are dealing with a lease that uses phrases even our staff attorneys could not make sense of...so, after a week of back and forth on our lease, an agreement is finally signed. We moved our stuff via auto (4 trips back and forth), and despite its already having been “thoroughly cleaned,” we began a thorough cleaning of our own (things were still growing in the fridge and counters were extremely sticky).
Overall, the new flat is fabulous! It is such a relief to no longer be in transition. We have a playground below our window, which is always full of neighbourhood kids. We have plenty of tacky 70s looking velour seating at our disposal. We are, once again, the only non-nationals living in the complex. I realized this when I dropped off ironing with the man who lives next to his work station in our parking lot...I told him I’d pick it up the following evening, but instead, he unexpectedly dropped it off right to our door as soon as he’d finished (I hadn’t told him where I lived).
So, as is the norm, we are still dealing with setting up our “already set-up” internet service. In one day, we had four people come by the apartment. One of the four was at the wrong apartment (he was there to “disconnect” someone’s modem...”No, sir. Please CONNECT.” “Disconnect?” “NO sir, please CONNECT”), which was eventually discovered when I realized we were not going to fully understand each other and sagely called a friend to translate. After this day of being told “I will go, and come” and being met by a completely new individual several times, we have now seen a new face every day, and yet, still do not have internet.
Part of me thinks that it is not purely incompetence on the part of the company that no one seems to come to our house prepared for the work that is expected and required. Perhaps it is more the curiosity of its staff, who simply want to see the weird western women that live on their own? I’m sure it’s neither, but it’s interesting to learn where I need God to teach me patience...the internet, of all things? Really??
[The temporary flat is the top floor of this lovely home. Auntie and Uncle lived right below-they are the sweet landlords, who had many words of advice for us. So cute.]
Shifting Spaces: Part 1...
MOVING OUT:
The past month and a half has been spent “shifting flats” (moving from one apartment to another). Our lease ended May 31st, and we were all too ready to say goodbye to the wilful termites, overabundance of cockroaches, and Superman, our unstable landlord (to put it nicely). Before we could shift, we had to prepare our current flat for its final inspection by Superman. This meant repairing fixtures (that, for all I know, may or may not have worked when we moved in) and learning that our A/C WAS truly broken-and therefore needed repairing itself. The A/C had, in fact, been leaking gas (which may explain some of the difficulty I had in waking each morning...hmmm...).
Why must we go to the trouble? Because local housing rules demand that tenants pay a deposit worth 10 MONTHS RENT before moving in. Yes, ten (10) months. All at once. In addition to actually paying rent. Considering how difficult this is for us to front, it is apparent how such a system discriminates against any but the wealthiest of citizens.
The catch? Oh, yes, it is not that simple, folks. There is NO guarantee that the landlord will pay the deposit back; especially a landlord as slippery as Superman. It was our fear that if the flat was not absolutely perfect upon his final inspection, he would keep our entire deposit. The weeks leading up to this inspection were wrought with headaches.
For example: We called daily about having someone come inspect the A/C and fix the wiring to one light socket. The daily response from both inquiries was that someone would be by later that day. One of us would wait at home later, and be sorely disappointed. Calls the next day would receive explanations such as “oh, the electrician had to attend a funeral unexpectedly” (totally understandable, but a call informing us that no one would show might have been appreciated!) or “oh, yes, he could not come” (no, really?! Well, glad that explains things). And then we would be reassured that someone would come that night, “by 8:00, Ma’am.” Uh, huh. This went on for at least a week. Finally, the A/C guys showed up (we never saw the electrician-a story for another post*). After diagnosing the problem we were told someone would come to retrieve the A/C the next morning. Fine.
This was one week before our inspection/the last day of the month. By this point, we had already been repairing things around the apartment for almost a month. These were just the final touches. Of course, no one showed up the next morning, despite my roommate skipping work for the morning to handle the issue; no one thought to “give a call” and inform us that he would not make it. The next day, my roommate got a call: “Half hour, Madame. Someone is coming in half hour.” Two hours later, someone showed up and took the A/C, explaining that it would take two days to repair and return. Two days later, no A/C and no one would answer our calls regarding its status. Three days later, we called again.
It was a Saturday (most people work Saturdays here; children even attend school). The man asked for one more day, “I will bring Monday.” Okay, that’s actually two more days, but who’s counting? In any other circumstance we would nod and shake our heads knowingly. Unfortunately, we were supposed to have our inspection on Sunday, and be out of the flat by Monday. In other words, we needed it that day. “Okay, Madame, we will bring tonight by 8:00.” Innocently, we believed the man. My roommate sacrificially stayed home, skipping out on an intern/fellows event at our office director’s house. As should have been expected, no one came that night. Instead, the man turned his phone off. Until Monday.
Luckily for us, Superman also turned his phone off on Sunday, and didn’t come to inspect until Monday night. Oi. In the end, my flatmate who handled all Superman interactions for the rest of us ended up crying (which she never does); speaking very angrily with him; and breaking her phone in a moment of total frustration before he finally agreed to return our deposit to us. This was after he berated her for having such a temper, of course, and asked her, incredulously, how she ever expected to get married, speaking to a man in such a manner. Oh, poor Mrs. Superman.
Mind you: this was just the moving out.
[V. and a friend of his helped us move N. and T. into their new flat-N. is in her third year here, and has had MANY items bequeathed from past interns/fellows/friends. Luckily, V. had a friend with a truck, and luckily, they both had muscles to spare! This pic shows me and V. goofing around with T.'s stylish hats on the last, and smallest, haul of the day. Holding items in the truck on the short drive wasn't as uncomfortable as it may have looked. It was a loooong, hot day for moving...and it was only the first of many! 1) We moved OUT of "the Penthouse" May 31; 2) T. and N. moved IN to their new flat the same day; 3) I moved into T.'s old room for a week while J., B. and I waited for our new flat to become available/lease to be finalized; 4) J., B., and I moved out of temporary housing (see photo below) and into our latest, greatest abode!]
[The temporary flat was on the top floor of this lovely home. Auntie and Uncle lived right below-they are the sweet landlords, who had many words of advice for us. So cute.]
The past month and a half has been spent “shifting flats” (moving from one apartment to another). Our lease ended May 31st, and we were all too ready to say goodbye to the wilful termites, overabundance of cockroaches, and Superman, our unstable landlord (to put it nicely). Before we could shift, we had to prepare our current flat for its final inspection by Superman. This meant repairing fixtures (that, for all I know, may or may not have worked when we moved in) and learning that our A/C WAS truly broken-and therefore needed repairing itself. The A/C had, in fact, been leaking gas (which may explain some of the difficulty I had in waking each morning...hmmm...).
Why must we go to the trouble? Because local housing rules demand that tenants pay a deposit worth 10 MONTHS RENT before moving in. Yes, ten (10) months. All at once. In addition to actually paying rent. Considering how difficult this is for us to front, it is apparent how such a system discriminates against any but the wealthiest of citizens.
The catch? Oh, yes, it is not that simple, folks. There is NO guarantee that the landlord will pay the deposit back; especially a landlord as slippery as Superman. It was our fear that if the flat was not absolutely perfect upon his final inspection, he would keep our entire deposit. The weeks leading up to this inspection were wrought with headaches.
For example: We called daily about having someone come inspect the A/C and fix the wiring to one light socket. The daily response from both inquiries was that someone would be by later that day. One of us would wait at home later, and be sorely disappointed. Calls the next day would receive explanations such as “oh, the electrician had to attend a funeral unexpectedly” (totally understandable, but a call informing us that no one would show might have been appreciated!) or “oh, yes, he could not come” (no, really?! Well, glad that explains things). And then we would be reassured that someone would come that night, “by 8:00, Ma’am.” Uh, huh. This went on for at least a week. Finally, the A/C guys showed up (we never saw the electrician-a story for another post*). After diagnosing the problem we were told someone would come to retrieve the A/C the next morning. Fine.
This was one week before our inspection/the last day of the month. By this point, we had already been repairing things around the apartment for almost a month. These were just the final touches. Of course, no one showed up the next morning, despite my roommate skipping work for the morning to handle the issue; no one thought to “give a call” and inform us that he would not make it. The next day, my roommate got a call: “Half hour, Madame. Someone is coming in half hour.” Two hours later, someone showed up and took the A/C, explaining that it would take two days to repair and return. Two days later, no A/C and no one would answer our calls regarding its status. Three days later, we called again.
It was a Saturday (most people work Saturdays here; children even attend school). The man asked for one more day, “I will bring Monday.” Okay, that’s actually two more days, but who’s counting? In any other circumstance we would nod and shake our heads knowingly. Unfortunately, we were supposed to have our inspection on Sunday, and be out of the flat by Monday. In other words, we needed it that day. “Okay, Madame, we will bring tonight by 8:00.” Innocently, we believed the man. My roommate sacrificially stayed home, skipping out on an intern/fellows event at our office director’s house. As should have been expected, no one came that night. Instead, the man turned his phone off. Until Monday.
Luckily for us, Superman also turned his phone off on Sunday, and didn’t come to inspect until Monday night. Oi. In the end, my flatmate who handled all Superman interactions for the rest of us ended up crying (which she never does); speaking very angrily with him; and breaking her phone in a moment of total frustration before he finally agreed to return our deposit to us. This was after he berated her for having such a temper, of course, and asked her, incredulously, how she ever expected to get married, speaking to a man in such a manner. Oh, poor Mrs. Superman.
Mind you: this was just the moving out.
[V. and a friend of his helped us move N. and T. into their new flat-N. is in her third year here, and has had MANY items bequeathed from past interns/fellows/friends. Luckily, V. had a friend with a truck, and luckily, they both had muscles to spare! This pic shows me and V. goofing around with T.'s stylish hats on the last, and smallest, haul of the day. Holding items in the truck on the short drive wasn't as uncomfortable as it may have looked. It was a loooong, hot day for moving...and it was only the first of many! 1) We moved OUT of "the Penthouse" May 31; 2) T. and N. moved IN to their new flat the same day; 3) I moved into T.'s old room for a week while J., B. and I waited for our new flat to become available/lease to be finalized; 4) J., B., and I moved out of temporary housing (see photo below) and into our latest, greatest abode!]
[The temporary flat was on the top floor of this lovely home. Auntie and Uncle lived right below-they are the sweet landlords, who had many words of advice for us. So cute.]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)