Heart of Darkness - expat stylie

It's a common tale in Dubai - Western men with live-in girlfriends and secret wives and children back home... the old adage that whatever happens beyond the borders of your native country can't come back to haunt you.

I’ve been reading Obama’s Dreams From My Father and was quite interested in the bit where he mentions Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

“The book teaches me things,” he says.

“[It’s] not really about Africa. Or black people. It’s about the man who wrote it. The European. The American. A particular way of looking at the world… It’s all there, in what’s said and what’s left unsaid.”

I’ve always thought that last page in Heart of Darkness is one of the most poignant endings of any book ever written. Years later I also realise that it’s also quite a fitting passage for describing some aspects of the general expat experience.

So the narrator Marlow is describing Kurtz’s death in Africa to his wife back home in England (I probably have a few details wrong here)… And of course Kurtz, by the time of his death was a seasoned ‘expat’ with a long-term lover and not a passing thought about trivialities like a wife back home. In this case, the fact that Kurtz was less a modern-day expat and more a raging colonialist is just a slight change in circumstance that makes the novel more of its time…

However, his story echoes things you hear all the time in Dubai – Western guys with girlfriends/fiancés and often unbeknown to friends out here, a secret wife and child back home. I guess it’s also an indication of the world view of the respective guys – how big or small the world seems to their eyes. So people with maybe less of a world view will feel like they are light years away from home and that no one could ever find out about what they get up to out here.

So Kurtz’s wife, who is completely oblivious to the fact that she was barely a footnote in her hubby’s life, begs the narrator to tell her his last words (“the horror, the horror”).

And the narrator looks at her rather pityingly and tells her that his last words were her name.

`` `Repeat them,' she murmured in a heart-broken tone. `I want -- I want -- something -- something -- to -- to live with.'

``I was on the point of crying at her, `Don't you hear them?' The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. `The horror! The horror!'

`` `His last word -- to live with,' she insisted. `Don't you understand I loved him -- I loved him -- I loved him!'

``I pulled myself together and spoke slowly. ``'The last word he pronounced was -- your name.'

``I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain.

`I knew it -- I was sure!'

She knew. She was sure.

I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn't he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark -- too dark altogether... ''

Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. ``We have lost the first of the ebb,'' said the Director suddenly.

I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky -- seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

A Woman In Berlin

"One of them grabs my wrists and jerks me along the corridor. Then the other is pulling as well, his hand on my throat so I can no longer scream. I no longer want to scream, for fear of being strangled. They're both tearing away at me, instantly I'm on the floor..."

Another great blog entry from Joseph Pearson's Berlin Memory Blog – this time about Eine Frau In Berlin (A Woman in Berlin) – the diaries that I named my blog after! :)

There are a million interesting quotes in this book that I'd like to post. Unfortunately I had to give my books away when I left Berlin so don't have any to hand (nomads travel light! lol)

I couldn't see any good quotes online but I'll try to dig some more snippets out from somewhere soon! :)

Note to budding journalists

I recently wrote an arts feature and sent it to over 30 newspapers.

It was a good story, or so I thought, about the 'selling out' of Berlin's sub culture and the closure of the squat-turned art house Tacheles. I had a very interesting interview from the art house, an interview with the bank who were getting the place closed down and an interview with the mayor's office who wanted the art house to stay.

Several people I know read the story and said they found it really interesting. Okay, I know that friends have to say that, but as a journalist with more than 10 years experience, I really thought it was a good story.

As the number of emails in my sent box steadily grew, I was left scratching my head as to what could have possibly gone wrong. Granted, this was my first contact with a lot of these papers, but come on folks, from the 30 newspapers from England, Ireland, Australia, US, Canada... surely someone must like it! No?

After spending copious amounts of hard cash ringing the respective newspapers on my mobile to ask if they liked my story proposal, a few told me they only use their one correspondent for that particular city. This struck me as a shame to lose out on stories because of a loyalty to just one journalist. Wouldn't this put a dent in the whole freedom of press ideal?

In the end I was forced to shrug my shoulders and admit that this is simply the nature of journalism in the year 2010. With local papers around the UK closing at an alarming rate and nationals cutting back on staff, I know that there are many more journalists like me doing the rounds with more than interesting stories, just looking for someone, anyone, to take them.

I have more than 10 years experience as a journalist but much of that time has consisted of me working for free – for the sheer privilege of getting my name into print. My many work experience stints early on in my career, consisted of me moonlighting as a bar maid by night and going to work the following morning for a full days slog for me, and some nice free labour for the newspaper.

To find myself turning once again to the student journalism circuit to keep my CV ticking over, is a sad day indeed. And yet every year thousands of fresh faced hopeful journalists enter the job market, eager for a slice of the exciting career of their dreams.

If I could dish out any words of wisdom, I'd have to say 'fly far, young journalists' and a very general, 'don't do it!' True, I love what I do, but journalism can be a cut throat, soul destroying profession full of rejections and let downs.

On top of that you need to be rich... very rich to see your career take off. Speaking for myself, those first few years spent working for free left me massively in debt – a debt which at the age of 30, I've only just managed to repay.

Being one of the many journalists who was recently made redundant, I now find myself back in the 'I'll do anything for free' type of mindset. This time around I'm fortunate to have the support of an understanding boyfriend who wants to see me succeed but without this cushion I'd have been back behind the bar long ago.

Journalism is steadily becoming a profession only the wealthy can afford to indulge in. It takes a whole lot of money to give your time for free. And if you don't know of anyone living in the places you need to be like London, you will need to fork out for rent on top of living expenses. For me at least, the only way to pay for these things was often with many a credit card.

It seems sad to witness the nation's press being slowly taken over by society's most privileged. What will the ramifications of this be for freedom of the press that democracy so tentatively hinges on?

Journalism certainly isn't a career where the saying applies that if you really, really want something, then if you work really, really hard and have a deep passion for what you do, you will succeed. This just isn't the case in the field of journalism. In this profession, if you really, really want something, you need to be really, really rich, own a home in London, have friends in high places, an uber-resilient spirit and the ability to shrug your shoulder when after 10 years of floundering, you're right back to square one.

I'm turning into a Ruski

It's official. I'm turning into a Ruski and there's not a thing I can do about it.

Where clothes are concerned, if it sparkles and glitters, I have to have it! Sparkly, glittery and dangly earrings, golden belts, lacy mini-dresses, snakeskin stilettos... There's a strong chance that in six months I'll be walking around in diamond-encrusted jeans and too tight halter neck tops (the quintessential uniform of Russian women in Dubai).

I guess you can't help what you love and a few days ago I bought these amazing snakeskin stiletto sandals. It was a battle of wills and my boyfriend actually left the shoe shop in a strop about them.

“They're hideous,” he told me, in no uncertain terms. “If you buy these shoes, we're getting a divorce.”

And yet as I pranced about in front of the mirror in these wonderfully glamorous shoes, I knew I had to have them.

My decision was helped by another customer, a Russian lady, who pointed at my feet and said, “those are NICE!”

“I know,” I sighed, and the decision was made.

When I first came to Dubai for my interview at the local newspaper as a fresh-faced 26-year-old, I was surprised when in just one day, several people asked if I was Russian.

The first was during a trip to the beach. I had just two days before flying back home, so my theory was that I should try and experience everything that Dubai has to offer – just in case I didn't get the job and wouldn't be coming back. So I headed off for the beach (I seemed to be the only woman there) and proceeded to go for a lovely swim all by myself.

Well as I dried myself off and walked off down the beach, a young kid of maybe 16 came running after me.

“Are you Russian?” he asked me.

“Russian? No. Sorry.”

This didn't seem to deter him and he kept up his pace beside me, asking me a few more times if I really might be Russian after all.

I got to the road, my hair still wet, and hailed a taxi to take me to one of the old market souqs for a few hours of shopping.

Well it was a bit of a weird taxi ride and thankfully I've never experienced anything like that since.

So the taxi driver starts asking me if I was Russian and by this stage I'm quite amused and thinking there must be someone in Russia who looks just like me.

He then tells me that he doesn't want to take me to the souq but wants to show me a quiet beach that he thinks I might like. Errrrr, how about NO!? Lol

He refuses to believe that I'm not Russian and also refuses to believe that I'm in Dubai for a job interview with a newspaper.

“Tell me where I'm from,” he asks me.

I reel off a few places – all of them wrong, and he tells me that unless I can guess where he is from, I am clearly a fake and couldn't be a “proper” journalist. The fact that up to that stage in my career I'd cut my teeth as an arts journalist didn't seem to matter.

Eventually he tells me he's from Afghanistan and shows me a picture of his wife – a beautiful, heavily made up but rather miserable looking woman who looked like she was about to burst into tears. He tells me he recently gave a lift to a German couple who were in Dubai on holiday and had a child but weren't married – God forbid! He asks me what I think about this, so of course I raise my eyebrows and say I think it is terrible... By this stage I'd figured there was a line of thought that was best not crossed.

By now I'm starting to get a sinister feeling from the guy who is still driving around the back roads and insisting on taking me to random places, so I raise my voice in a rather unladylike manner and say 'take me to the flipping souq or experience my wrath', or something along those lines.

As I hand him my taxi fare, he examines it closely and looks at me quizzically.

“Is this even real, or is it fake like you?” he asks me.

I raise my eyebrows and quickly jump out of the car – and boy was I relieved to be out of there!

Well it didn't put me off Dubai and I've never again had a taxi journey like that. Only when I got the job and moved to Dubai a couple of months later did my colleagues enlighten me that many Russian women in Dubai are prostitutes.

Ahhhhh, so that explained a few things.

I guess my going for a swim alone, and walking around with wet hair had raised a few eyebrows (even though I was wearing long sleeved baggy clothes). But Ruski, I wasn't... at least then.

Well I'm definitely not a hooker now either, but I am borrowing a few things from the glitz and glam of the Ruski persona.

What can I say, I'm a magpie at heart. Anything glittery and sparkly will be mine by hook or by crook!

From Paradise Lost to Paradise Found

“Hello and welcome to hell.”

This was the greeting my other half and I received as we arrived at the beautiful Seychelles in the heart of the Indian Ocean. It wasn't exactly said in those words but it wasn't far off.

“Oh, it's your birthday today,” said the guy who welcomed us to the hotel as he filled out our passport details. His eyes lit up at the thought.

“You are the same age as my little brother,” he told me.

“Oh... nice,” I replied with a smile.

“He died two months ago.”

“Oh.”

How are you supposed to answer a comment like that!? Well of course we were suitably apologetic which encouraged the concierge to sit down with us and tell us about his family tragedy and the disappointments of life on the Seychelles – all within 30 minutes of arriving.

His brother, it turned out, had left behind three children and encountered many problems in life. As for the concierge, he was desperate to leave the Seychelles and return to England where he had lived for many happy years previously. In fact, it turned out that he and I lived just down the road from each other in Manchester.

I'm not sure what it is about me that makes people want to tell me their life tragedies within minutes of meeting. Maybe I just look like an understanding kind of person. I guess I am. Even in primary school, I was always the designated counsellor – the person that people would come to, to talk about their problems. In my family life, I was always a negotiator, levelling out arguments and trying to make everyone get along. Even in work situations, I've always been the peace maker – the one who stands at the sideline of arguments trying to appease anyone and everyone – usually at my own expense.

Well anyway, it wasn't long before our concierge told us in no uncertain terms that we had quite literally arrived in hell.

“People in England used to ask me why on earth I would move from a place like the Seychelles to England,” he said. “They say this is paradise. But I love England – even with the rain. There is so much to do there.”

He frowns for a moment before continuing.

“Here, there's nothing to do,” he says. “Yes, people say it's a paradise, but paradise can very quickly turn into hell.”

“Hmm,” we both agree sympathetically.

“All you can do here is swim in the sea,” he says. “But what do I want to swim in the sea for? I haven't been to the beach in 16 years!”

By this stage I was half sympathetic and half amused at the words of doom being dished out by a designated holiday rep. At the same time I recognised his sentiment from my years in Dubai – a life that often sounds very picture perfect to outsiders, but as many expats quickly discover, paradise rarely measures up to the pictures in the guide books. Sooner or later you crave a whole lot more to life than the luxury of a dip in the sea or a pool in your back yard. In a place like Dubai, luxury soon becomes the nostalgia of grotty dive bars, rainy days, a hint of sunshine through smoke coloured clouds and the familiar faces of long lost friends.

Changing the conversation he asked us what we planned to do on our holiday.

“Well we'd quite like to do some snorkelling,” we said.

“Oh no, the sea is far too rough right now. Unless you want to drown.”

“Hmmm... Well we would love to do some nature walks. Do you have any info about trails?”

“It's been raining for the past couple of days. It's far too slippery to go walking right now. Besides, you need a guide and he's off at the moment.”

By this stage my other half and I were looking at each other with worried expressions. Two of the reasons came here were already seemingly crossed off the list.

“Well we were thinking of hiring a car and exploring the island,” we said. “Can we hire a car at the hotel?”

“Oh no! Have you seen the roads here!? The way people drive here is very dangerous. It's far too dangerous to drive in the Seychelles.”

By this stage, the word alarm about our holiday prospects – or lack of – was putting it mildly. We were grateful to be told our room was ready.

Anyway, we did all of those things and had a brilliant holiday. We didn't drown, fall down a mountain, or die in a car crash, so all in all I'd say we were on a roll! And for a holiday at least, I'd definitely recommend the Seychelles. To our inexperienced eyes it really was paradise on earth! :)

Little Britain's moving on up in the world

“What is better, England or Dubai?” asks a bright young Indian man who has come to repair a broken window in my Dubai apartment. “I want to live in England but I was asked to leave the country and can't get back in again because my visa expired.”

I ponder the dilemma and tell him that a good way back into the country might be with a student visa.

He nods enthusiastically.

“England is a very rich country,” he says. “Veeery rich.”

I laugh and shake my head.

“There's a lot of poverty in England,” I tell him. “A lot of homeless people living in cardboard boxes. It's not a rich country for everyone.”

He discounts my words and repeats that England is a very rich place.

I am reminded that for many people, Europe represents a promised land, a protected bubble with healthcare and benefits for the poor – a wonderland that everyone wants to be a part of.

Immigration was a hot topic of conversation during the UK's last general election with millions of Britons basing their vote on the conviction of the respective party leaders' political stances on the matter.

“I don't go clubbing any more because the clubs are filled with little foreign men,” a former colleague of mine once told me.

I laughed before realising that she was deadly serious.

The England I grew up in is a very different place to the one I return to today. But while many Brits lament the loss of old-world England, I can't help but be anything than grateful for the benefits that immigration has brought to the place.

The small town I grew up in - once a very lacklustre, and very 'white English' place - is now filled with interesting people from around the world. Previously barren streets are lined with cafes and restaurants and the place seems more alive than I ever remember it being as a child.

I got a tiny taste of anti foreign sentiment as a half English, half German girl growing up in small town England.

At primary school, kids would run up to me and ask if it was really true that I was half German. If I answered yes, they would visibly recoil in horror. I can only presume that their mothers had heard my mum's accent at the school gate and given their kids a good talking to about the Germans after school that evening.

A religious friend of mine once told my rather surprised mother, “I really love the Germans because Jesus said to love your enemies.”

“Oh... that's nice sweety,” my mum replied.

By middle school I'd learned my lesson and flat out denied it if anyone asked me about my secret half nationality.

My mother's 'otherness' and the rather provincial nature of the small town I grew up in meant that anyone of 'difference' often became good friends. Close family friends growing up included French, Spanish, Egyptian, Nigerian, Saudi and of course German people.

Today my parents provide rooms for young language students from the local language school. Usually these students stay a while – often for a couple of years or more. The last few such students have come from Saudi Arabia – young men and women full of life who are eager to learn the language and customs of England.

One such youngster, who has lived with my parents for a couple of years and now counts himself as a family friend, rang my mother from a pilgrimage to Mecca.

“I am giving thanks to important people in my life and I want to thank you for everything you have done for me,” he told her over the phone.

It was a gesture beyond the realms of anything my mother has ever experienced from a European student and she recently came to the conclusion that she prefers students from the Middle East because she finds them so much more respectful and willing to integrate.

On a recent inspection of the house by the language school to check that everything was up to spec, the woman from the school let her in on a secret.

“You know, most people in this town say that they don't want to house people from the Middle East,” she told my shocked mother.

Facebook is a great way to have a nosey at the lives of people you went to school with. I look at the profiles of some of the kids who were so staunchly British at school – many of whom are now mothers with children who never left the town we grew up in.

By fate of accident I met the husband of one such girl – a taxi driver who drove me back from the airport on a return trip from Dubai. I told him that I had lived in Dubai and was about to move to Berlin, and then we got talking about where we were from and it turned out he was married to this rather anti-German school friend of mine.

On our journey back from the airport he lamented the fact that he'd never lived overseas.

“I've always wanted to do something like that,” he told me.

“Well it's never too late,” I said.

“Nah,” he replied rather sadly. “You can't do something like that when you have a family.”

I look at the differences between our home town then and now and wonder if their kids will have more of a chance to appreciate different cultures than they did.

Certainly living in a place with people from all over the world right on your doorstep has to go some way towards expanding the mindsets of tomorrow's kids. Surely that can only be good.