Be prepared to cry

Dear readers,

I know, some of you have been dying to learn what on earth made me move with my family to a remote place like Cape Verde. The answer is certainly a mix of different reasons but in short it boils down to one word: sun.

Now, I am experienced (read: old) enough to realise that sunshine alone won’t make me happy in the long run. Why do you think did I bring my family, dummies?!

But seriously, there are other aspects that made husband and me take the leap and leave two perfectly normal, bourgeois lives behind for the time being: We don’t particularly care for normal. We wanted to try something else. We wanted to live our dream.

Which of course can turn out to be a sizeable nightmare, to be sure. But that’s another day’s post. Today I would like you to be jealous, very jealous. Of the sunny sides of live on Sal island.

Santa Maria beach. Atrocious, I know.
This is a 3-minute walk from where I live and about 3 seconds from where I work.

Picturesque, isn’t it?

Fishing from the pier

Dinner? Definitely!

Sunday, beach day with the family

Just hanging out

Water sports

This beats winter in Europe by a loooooong margin!

Next time on islandmonkeys: How to cope with power outages, water cuts, limited supplies, broken appliances and other niceties. Just so that you don’t get too green in the face.

Of Recycling, Rubbish and Rethinking

Before Christmas I have posted pictures of our town’s recycled Christmas tree. Strolling through Santa Maria, I noticed that there seems to be quite the recycling theme going on this year. So on my next visit to town (we live a few walking minutes outside) I took my camera and caught some of the awesome ideas:

Wine bags as a garland

Probably my favourite: Flowers made from the top bits of plastic bottles

Stars made from the bottom of plastic bottles

More recycled bottles

Christmas trees made from egg cartons

The other night, we went to the Christmas party that my little monster’s day nursery had organised. They also had a large display of artificial Christmas trees, hand-made by the kids and not few of them from recycled materials:

I love the one in the front, made from flotsam and jetsam – including bits of plastic fishing nets

Toilet roll leftover recycling

As Linda of one of my favourite blogs Rangewriter said in a comment, “For now that’s a lovely way to squeeze extra life out of all that silly plastic.” I agree, and I am just glad they are teaching the kids here the value of resources and creative recycling. Linda continues “But what happens at the end of the year?” Very true, and I only hope that one day they will do away with all the single-use plastic water bottles altogether and go over to a reusable scheme.

2012 has actually seen an island-wide campaign to get rid of plastic bags. More effort than England can claim as I complained about in another era. Unfortunately, the plastic bag ban here seems to be working only in theory. I generally have to fend off the plastic bags that I am given when shopping, even though I am usually there with the little monkey’s pram and its generous basket underneath, plus waving around my cloth shopping bag with the Berlin motive. Sigh.

The going argument is that people here, in a developing country, have more basic problems to worry about than a bit of plastic spoiling the landscape. Really? A nation that increasingly relies on tourism as an income source can afford to have foreign guests disgusted with litter-strewn beaches?

The other day I was watching a team of workers, without doubt paid by the municipality, cleaning the salt pans, one of the attractions of Santa Maria. The relentless wind here carries all kinds of garbage around, and the little salty lakes are first-class collecting basins:

Would you like to use this sea salt to season your food?

Not very attractive. My hope is that the young generation is learning now that avoiding rubbish is cheaper in the long run than cleaning it up. The rethinking is probably not going to happen in 2013 but one day…

To all of you a very happy and successful new year with lots of adventures, friends, love and laughs.

From Island To Island

Dear readers,

My life has changed. Not only did we have another baby, we have also moved to Cape Verde, an island nation in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. What made us move here is a story for another day. For now I wanted to explore the options of this blog.

I have neglected writing for a while, if for a good reason. I mean, apart from this baby business, moving to a different country has shifted my focus somewhat. So life in the UK and the quirks of the Brits suddenly didn’t seem all that important to me anymore – no offence.

But then I love writing. Okay, I’m not a bored housewife anymore, so I won’t be able to produce anything too regular. However, after only a few days here on our new island I feel the urge to put my experiences into words.

I briefly considered starting a new blog, but then I am also an attention whore, so forfeiting a faithful, hard-earned WordPress followership of, believe it or not, 51 was absolutely out of the question. Plus, we do live on an island again, don’t we? So I have decided to highjack my own blog name and re-dedicate it to my new adventures on the island of Sal. I know I will have to adjust my About page and the mission statement but bear with me, there are only 24 hours in my day.

For today, I will leave you with an impression of what Christmas in a tropical developing country looks like. Cape Verde is an up-and-coming tourist destination but one of the many sustainability problems that needs to be resolved before long is rubbish. Here is a creative and very Capeverdean way of recycling:

Building a Christmas tree

Getting there

The finished artwork in all its splendour

Happy Christmas to all of you. May you get to spend some quality time with your families and friends and may the quantity of presents only play a minor role in measuring your happiness.

Tap dance

Ok, this one has been bugging me for a long time. Who on earth thinks of a design like that? I mean, look at it. Notice anything strange?

Faulty design through and through

It’s in need of a clean? Yeah, I knew you were gonna say that. I’ll get to it as soon as this post is published, promised. After all, a girl needs to get her priorities straight. Anything else?

The taps (what my American readers might know as faucets) are too short? Definitely! They do not combine well with my little monster’s short arms. Or my big hands, for that matter.

The handle design doesn’t exactly lend itself to opening the taps with soapy/sticky hands? Oh yes, but that is not a typically British issue. Unfortunately.

No, what I am really peeved about is the fact that there are separate taps for hot and cold water. A standard here on the island. And I can’t help but wonder WHY?!

Sure, my basins at home are all equipped with a plug, so I could mix the water in the basin. Which is absolutely fine when I want to fill my bath tub to take a bath. But who takes the time to fill the basin for a quick hand wash? Especially one as shallow as this one that needs to be almost overflowing to give you enough depth to submerge your hands?

Apart from my little monster, of course, whose arms are too short to reach the taps anyway.

So why don’t island monkeys do mixer taps? They are so much more convenient!!! And faster. And in a public toilet pretty much the only way to wash your hands with warm water without adding more germs than there are on them to start with.

Honestly, when I see a construction like that, I wonder why they even bothered putting in a second tap for the hot water. What a waste of material! Especially when the basin in question does not possess the added amenity of a plug. What, am I expected to open both taps and then alternately let cold and hot water run into my cupped hands until the temperature is right? How does that work with the dinky little hands of a three-year old? And how do I then close the taps again while I clean my hands with soap?

Oh yeah, I forgot, I can’t close them because it’s impossible to re-open them with soapy hands.

So, cold water it is then. I swear, since I have moved to the UK roughly three years ago I have never washed my hands with warm water!

The sad thing is, it’s not like mixer taps aren’t available in this country. You can buy them at any DIY store. People here just don’t. It’s a mystery. If there is anyone out there who can explain this to me, please do. Much obliged.

When you hear “crisp”, do you think of lettuce?

Dear readers! I have to apologise. When I started this blog in November last year I did so with the unexpressed but underlying intention of updating it on a more or less regular basis with hilarious or outrageous stories from my life among Brits. These efforts have of late been severely thwarted by a lady thing. I am pregnant.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is a joyous time in my life. I get to study every nook and cranny of the four toilet bowls in our house (and some outside our house, too) intensively, wear bras double the size of my usual cups, get loads of exercise running to the loo every 15 minutes and my little monster lifts up my shirt in public, proudly announcing to complete strangers “There is a baby!”. At the same time I have to battle with a few adversities though such as being forced to take an afternoon nap every day, comb through more and more hair every morning or eat healthily. Seriously, judging by what the little parasite in me has me crave, he/she seems to be wanting to become a vegetarian.

Which finally brings me back to the topic of this post – food choices.

Before anyone is tempted to pigeonhole me, I am NOT a health food fanatic, vegetarian or otherwise exceedingly conscious of what is ending up in my stomach. My BMI which has traditionally hovered somewhere around the upper limits of “normal” will vouch for that. Although I have to admit that raising a child and cooking for him and myself on a regular basis has certainly made me more aware of what’s out there – and how simple things can markedly improve his and my good food vs. bad food balance. Granted, wading the shallows of preservatives, additives, organic, bio, processed or – god forbid – genetically engineered food can be intimidating and time-consuming. However, it is not rocket science to know that an apple trumps a chocolate muffin.

A pack of Walkers Salt & Vinegar potato crisps. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For some reason, this subcategory of common sense doesn’t seem to be overly developed here on the island. It simply boggles my mind how often I see toddlers and children in the park around lunch time, snacking away on a bag of crisps*. I mean, how much harder is it to wash a few grapes or cut up two peaches and put them into a resealable plastic container before you leave for the playground with your little ones instead of pocketing a bag of crisps?!

Unfortunately, crisps seem to be a main staple of the British diet. They almost always come in these handy 80g packages (sold individually or, much cheaper, in wholesale amounts, i.e. huge bags that compete in size with my 3-year old – I kid you not!). And you will struggle to find a set meal outside a sit-down restaurant that doesn’t include a packet of crisps.

How about a carrot instead?

A traditional English meal of fish and chips, with beer, tartar sauce, and salt and vinegar crisps. (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Note that even this artery-clogging meal contains crisps on top of everything else!

 

Make them organic, hand-made, from 100% British potatoes, whatever; it doesn’t change the fact that crisps are junk food, period. Including them in your (or worse, your kids’) meals on a daily basis will play havoc with your and their health. The fact that the UK is leading the obesity statistics in Europe in nearly every demographic should suffice as proof. Although British dietary mainstays like pies (I’m talking the pasty, greasy, meat-derivative filled variety), sausage rolls (Don’t ask! – If you have to know, google it) or the traditional fish and chips might have a good chunk of complicity in this sad record.

The funny thing is that, where I come from, you can’t even buy chips in snack-sized bags. Which obviously is a positive thing not just from a waste avoidance point of view. If I really want to treat my child to some potato chips (maybe because I am craving them and don’t want him to have to leave the room) I can always give him some from a big bag. Or cut up a watermelon instead. Of course this approach would require a modicum of self-control and a basic knowledge of what’s desirable in food choices.

But then, what do I expect from a country that has to mark fruit and vegetables with a specifically designed logo for people to know that these are the healthy options and how much of them to consume? Whenever I see the “5 a day” sign on a punnet of strawberries I always imagine some nitwit scrutinising a packet of crisps, wondering why on earth it doesn’t count as one of his “5 a day”, seeing that they are made from potatoes.

Thanks for telling me that tomatoes are ok to consume. I’d hate to die in ignorance.

 

 

* For my confused non-British readers: crisps are what the rest of the world calls chips, whereas chips over here are fries elsewhere. Easy, or not?

Someone save me from Health and Safety!

Brits are a very safety-conscious people. Security is their lifeblood. I think they invented the phrase ‘play it safe’. Incidentally, it’s an English phrase, so chances are I’m right.

I’ll never get over all the little things here that are designed to minimise the risk in peoples’ lives. Like the neon-coloured high visibility safety vests that every cyclist and professional driver is wearing, along with gardeners, rubbish pick-uppers, supermarket cashiers and loads of ordinary people just walking down the street. Sure, if I was a lollipop lady I might want to don one of these, too, but leaving the house early in the morning when it’s still dark doesn’t mean you are automatically hit by a car without your high-viz vest. Unless, of course, you can’t wait for green before crossing the street.

And what’s with all the warning signs? You know, I was under the impression we Germans were the world champions of ridiculous, superfluent danger notices à la ‘Don’t go too close to the drop-off, you might fall down’. Look at this one here:

I mean, isn't this just the peak of covering your arse?!

 

Sorry, the little monster wasn’t even half that age when he confidently strode towards said tower. At first, I had to help out a little by holding my hand under his bottom when he climbed up the ladder with rungs at intervals more than half the length of himself. But soon he’d just monkey all the way up and come down the really long slide on his own.

It was quite an accomplishment for him, and he was accordingly proud. Who am I to thwart such enthusiasm by pointing out that he had to wait another 2 1/2 years plus? Only so that the zoo could not get sued if anything ever happened to a less-than-5-year old!

This kind of disclaimer is unfortunately all-too common around here. When friends of mine from Germany visited last year, we had to make it almost a sport to find a place that would microwave the baby food jar for their youngest. It normally took several attempts, and the usual response (especially at but not restricted to chains like Subway or Burger King) was “Sorry, management doesn’t allow me to do it because they could get sued if I heat it up too much and your baby burns his tongue”. Really?! Which parent would 1. not check the temperature before feeding something someone else has warmed up to their little one and 2. sue the helpful soul that had mercy on their hungry toddler?

I also think the island monkeys might have invented helicopter parenting. If you so much as sit down on a bench at the playground and let your toddler run around and explore on his own you get shot dirty looks. The other day the little monster threw a tantrum (it’s known to happen with 2-year olds, you know) on the way home from the shops, and because I couldn’t be asked to drag a screaming, wriggling rugrat along I just kept walking slowly, confident he would follow me eventually as he does. Two minutes later I was shouted at by a complete stranger who deemed the distance of about 30 metres between him and me too large to be safe. For whatever reason, because this is a section of the pavement that is actually separated from the road by a fence. I suppose I should have put a leash on my little monster, that would have taught him!

Just like that day when we went to a pantomime with him. OK, one could argue why I have to take a not-yet-3-year old to a theatre, but then, despite my general awesomeness, I have by bad-mom moments like everyone else I guess. Plus, my mother-in-law had been raving about how much fun the kids have at these Christmas shows with singing along and dancing in the aisles. Except that no-one was allowed in the aisles. For health-and-safety reasons. Of course. God forbid someone trip over him or he fall down the stairs!

Newsflash, people: Kids need to run around on their own, bump their heads or fall down a climbing frame every now and then. It’s called adventure and an integral part of growing up. More often than not they will not even hurt themselves (much) because their bones and ligaments are still super flexible. And it will teach them valuable life skills. Like risk assessment, or finding out where their limits are. Pushing those limits in order to succeed. Trust in their own abilities and ask for help when they feel they can’t succeed on their own. I am convinced they come out better people when you don’t constantly mollycoddle them.

And please, don’t continually try to decide for me, too, what’s too dangerous and what’s not. It will only bring out my rebellious side and I will end up taking risks that I wouldn’t have taken if it weren’t forbidden.

 

Note: I am probably not as bad a mother as I make myself sound. My little monster is actually allowed to play risk-free games, I do comfort him when he hurts himself and I (dare I say it?) cringe when he runs, climbs or does other risky stuff at insane speeds and with his seemingly uncoordinated movements. I just don’t stop him all the time.

Man, are they ugg-ly!

I might have mentioned on one or two occasions how disgusted I am by ugg boots.

Granted, technically I am not qualified to pass judgement on fashion-related topics, seeing that I am not exactly a style icon. I do, however, have a little something called ‘common sense’ at my command. That, and the decency not to assault my fellow human beings with unnecessary lapses of taste.

Unfortunately, not few female island monkeys don’t have this kind of consideration. Quite the contrary actually, the sheer amount of ugg-wearers in this country frankly boggles my mind.

I concede that this density of bad taste could be partly owed to the fact that I am here in Essex, the proverbial home of the British chav.

Yes, I do understand that it’s winter and cold and you want to keep warm and all. But why then do I see the uggliest boots in the history of footwear so often coupled with black leggings instead of proper trousers?

So you don’t believe me? You think I am exaggerating? Think again. I have compiled irrefutable evidence. Be warned though, it is not a pretty sight.

 

 

Here is an example to get used to the heinousness. The jeans are alright, so is the rest of the attire.

But these boots! Aren’t they just pug-uggly? A disgrace for an otherwise absolutely acceptable outfit?

I will admit that her funny feet probably have caused the boots to take this funny shape and not vice versa. But isn’t that all the more reason to wear sensible shoes?

Granted, the ones in the picture are not ‘real’ UGGs, so one could make the argument that the inferior quality is to blame for the shaplessness and general failure to function as proper footwear. But then…

 

 

 

But then, these here ARE the real deal. And this lady’s feet are leaning inward just as elegantly.

Not to mention that she manages to spruce up her accoutrement with a baggy pair of red trousers to match her friend’s coat. Nice!

Note: Wearing uggs in the colour black does not make them look less appalling.

 

 

 

 

 

An observation that this person unfortunately corroborates.

This exceptionally hideous ensemble also gets across a simple message pretty convincingly: Ugg wearers are generally inflicted by a severe lack of taste. I am sorry but it had to be said.

This is hands down the worst thing I’ve seen so far. And to think that she is raising kids…

*shudder*

 

 

 

However, even if worn in the more traditional ‘tan boots plus black leggings’ combination, uggs are somehow sub-stunning.

This picture also illustrates one of the main issues I have with uggs: Unless your legs are exceedingly skinny these boots make them look downright elephantine.

I know, I know, what’s looking pretty compared to being comfortable? Blah-blah. Two things:

1. There are comfy, warm and not-budget-blowing boot models around that don’t make you look like you are 13 months pregnant and struggling majorly with water retention.

2. If uggs are so cushy, why then do most women not stand or walk IN them but NEXT to them?!

 

This one here documents the extent of the problem. I am literally surrounded by uggliness when I dare the high street these days.

It also supports my theory that ugg wearers are fundamentally challenged when it comes to appropriateness. Why else would so many of them feel entitled to combine them with leggings worn as trouser replacement? With just a longish shirt over them to barely cover those ginormous butt cheaks!

Makes me desperately hope for the next gust to wait until they are out of eyeshot.

 

This lady here could probably pull off the ugg look, seeing that she is one of the rare cases in which the boots don’t end at the widest part of the calf, thus making her look like a rhino on a stampede.

She also proves that it is not impossible to actually walk on top of rather than alongside the sole. That can’t be easy in boots with this little support.

Still, I can’t put my finger on it but doesn’t her posture seem somehow… warped to you?

 

 

Ok, ready for my favourite? Want to sit down first?

 

 

This one brilliantly sums up the whole misery. It was like a car wreck, I just had to stare.

Honestly, don’t you have to agree that uggs should just be prohibited?

The absolute worst thing about this? See the guy walking just ahead of her? He was actually the one being adequately dressed for the mild, springy 16 °C on that day. In other words, not even the fact that springtide is slowly rolling in is very likely to stop the abomination that are uggs. British girls are known to wear their dearest ‘fashion’ accessory in literally every weather. Urgh!

 

 

I read the other day that the microclimate inside the sheepskin is particularly conducive to the development of some nasty microbes. I mean, if these ladies don’t even care about the outside appearance of their footwear, how much less will they be interested in the inner life (forgive the pun)?

And aren’t there any studies around on the long-term effects of boots without any foot support? Flat feet with ensuing knee and hip problems don’t sound extremely far-fetched to me.

 

What do you think? Are uggs the holy grail of comfort or just a crime against good taste and sense?