history

Moscow – a blip in time, part 1

It had been a difficult two weeks. My uncle, Gerome, was going home in a coffin. It was days away from his 61stbirthday. I was in shock. I had no idea what to do. Luckily the US Embassy in Moscow knew exactly what to do. They made all the arrangements and because he was a diplomat, many corners were cut. I knew I had to get a small packet out and figured the best way to do that was to have it on his person. It was harrowing to sneak it into the coffin, but I was able to bribe a Marine (who knew you could do that!) and accomplished the mission. It didn’t help my nerves, though. I pretty much held my breath from embassy to airport to airplane to landing. I had been on a steep learning curve ever since arriving in Moscow one year earlier.

I find it hard to write about my time in Russia. I try to block it out most of the time. I don’t want to remember. I start to write and my mind drifts. A slide show of all the people and moments of being very uncomfortable. Moments of anxiety. But I need to tell you my story. I think it is important.

My uncle, Gerome, was a career State Department Employee on his final assignment in Moscow, Russia. Not sure why that was his final gig. It seemed to me if you had been doing it for as long as he had, they would have rewarded him with a spot in Paris or Fiji. But Moscow it was. Maybe because it was the 1990’s and Moscow was the place to be. The Soviet Union had fallen apart at the end of 1991 and Russia was wide open. History in the making. Anything was possible. 

Gerome was my father’s oldest brother. Even though they were ten years apart, they were still close. Growing up on a farm in Iowa, they were comfortable with having guns around and shooting. As a teen Gerome shot rabbits and sold their pelts for a penny or two. His mother often sent him out to kill a chicken for dinner. I never saw him eat chicken. He started driving and delivering fresh milk at fourteen. He didn’t drink milk either. He always dreamed of traveling. Getting away. He was quiet and introspective. A loner. Hard to pin down. Easy to get along with. Levelheaded. But friendly none the less. And smart. Tall and thin, dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Nice looking. Never married. Not gay. More of a ladies’ man. He had causal relationships. Although he was a career diplomat, he was not a manager or a director. His career seemed to stall along the way. He didn’t really rise through the ranks, he just kind of floated along at the same level. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to be happy with what he was doing. Whatever that was. It was always kind of vague. He had lived all over the world. 

This was his second assignment to Russia/Soviet Union. He was fluent in Russian. Posted to Moscow in the 70’s, he never talked about those days other than to say, “things have changed but things have not changed”. It was his favorite phrase. 

I was wasting away at a dead-end government job working for the National Furniture Center in Washington, DC. We were shipping desks to military personnel in Iraq. I needed a change. I talked Gerome into getting me a visa for three months so I could go soak up a new culture, a new world. I was dreaming of launching my new writing career. I figured if nothing else, it would give me something to write about. I don’t think he was thrilled at the prospect of having a thirty-two-year-old taking up space around him. A girl who didn’t speak a word of Russian. He must of have been nuts to agree to it. But he did. 

I had visited him when he was living in Africa and then I had done some traveling on my own so I wasn’t completely green. I had some international experience and spoke Spanish and French. I just needed to catch up on my Russian language and history. How hard could it be? I was very naïve and presumptuous. Had I known what was in store for me, I might have thought twice about the whole thing. 

The plan was to arrive in time for Gerome’s 60th birthday. I would help him celebrate and hopefully give him something to think about other than his aging self. Of course, I didn’t know him very well. Turns out he had plenty to think about.

I arrived in mid-June 1993. It was hot. I don’t really sweat much, but I was evolving. My clothes were sticking to me. All my bulges were showing through my cotton shirt. My pants were wet. My hair was sticking out. Wet. Ugh. How does it get so hot? This wasn’t Africa. This wasn’t the jungle. This was an un-airconditioned airport in Europe. Well, kind of in Europe. And it was awful.

I slogged past surly looking customs officials through the double doors where I was greeted by Gerome, and his car and driver. After a harrowing ride with all windows wide open we arrived at the security gate in front of Gerome’s apartment building. The Soviets provided compounds for foreigners. There was a gate with a security official who checked everybody into the parking lot. These were mostly for diplomats, but they included journalists as well. The apartment buildings were built in blocks. Each block had several entrances. Big, tall concrete prefab monstrosities. Ugly.

Gerome had been assigned a two-bedroom apartment that was fairly nice. It wasn’t horrible. It was adequate. At least I had my own room. It was small, though. And hot. The windows that actually opened were small and had no screens. The heat just lingered. No movement. My only consolation was that we were on the 55th parallel north in latitude and more or less even with Vancouver, Canada so I imagined it couldn’t possibly stay this hot for long. In fact, I sat in the kitchen two weeks later and watched it briefly snow.  Welcome to Russia.

This is a work of fiction based on my time in Russia in the 1990’s.
Check out my memoir, Echoes of a Global Life.

Nadi, Fiji

I arrived on time in Los Angeles. Picked up my bag. It was 2 pm. My flight to Fiji left at midnight. I couldn’t check in until 8 pm. No place to sit in the Departure area. Why are airports like that? Masses of people sitting on the floor waiting for check in to start. Couldn’t they just put in a bench of seats? Is that asking too much? I went downstairs to Arrivals. Lots of seats down there. Go figure.

After waiting in long lines, got to check in. Found the gate. My traveling companion’s flight was delayed. No sign of her. Final boarding call. I’m in line to board the plane. She showed up at the last minute. Whew!

We were flying Fiji Air. Flight was 9.5 hours. For some reason it was brutal. The food was not good. The service was great. Nice staff. Arrived in Fiji at 6 am. We time traveled. It was all of a sudden two days later. Or something like that. It took a while to figure out what day it was. Checked into the hotel, napped, watched the sunset, ate dinner, crashed.

The next day was Fiji Day. Who knew? Activities all day long. Dancers in the morning. More dancing and singing in the evening. Along with fireworks.

Signed up for a tour. First stop was the Hindu Temple. The largest one in the southern hemisphere. Women cannot go in with pants or shorts on so we all had to wrap cloth around us. They had a big pile at the entrance so you could take your pick. The temple was beautifully decorated.

We spent some time in the downtown shopping area. Mostly tourist shops.

Next stop was a village on the coast. We learned that cannibalism was common on the island and the European sailors originally called Fiji the Cannibal Isles. The sailors avoided disembarking there. Thomas Baker, a missionary, was killed and eaten in 1867. The soles of his leather sandals, which were also cooked by the cannibal tribe, are preserved at the Fiji Museum in Suva. The story goes that later missionaries arrived laden with all kinds of food in order to avoid being eaten. The small village was lovely and very well kept. There was a church at one end of a small square. Several women were selling trinkets on the way back to the car.

From there we went to the Garden of the Sleeping Giant at the bottom of the tallest mountain on the island. The garden was originally set up by Raymond Burr of Perry Mason fame. He apparently had a home on the island and loved orchids. It is famous for its extensive collection of orchids. 

A lot of time in Fiji was spent by the pool. Totally awesome.

Oaxaca – Tombs

View from the tomb site.

At Zaachila there is an archeological site where two metal doors cover the steps going into underground tombs. There are two other tombs at the site but they are too damaged and cannot be entered. The ones we saw were of Zapotec royalty. The day we were there we shared the area with about thirty, first graders on a field trip.

In the first tomb you could still see the red paint on the entrance to the tomb.

This tomb was built for Lord 9 Flower, a direct descendant of the famous Zapotec king Cocijoeza, who was famous for battles against the Aztecs. Also inside the tomb was the resting place of Donaji, the last known Zapotec princess.

We were not allowed to enter past the door so photos are best possible…

It was very cool.

Oaxaca – Museums

Oaxacan Museum of the Cultures – Regional History and Culture
The building itself was worth the visit.

The Oaxaca Textile Museum

San Bartolo Coyotepec Popular Art Center

Community Museum, Teotitlan del Valle

Teotitlán del Valle is a town of about 4,000 people. Most of them are weavers and belong to a weaving cooperative. They use all natural dyes to color their fabrics.

Books

Reading Roundup

I just read a memoir – Aftershocks by Nadia Owusu. She is a Third Culture Kid and grew up with a lot of trauma. Her mother was Armenian American and her father was Ghanaian. Growing up she lived in Tanzania, Italy, England, Ethiopia and Uganda and spent summers in Ghana. There were wars going on when she was in Ethiopia and Uganda. That is a lot to unpack but on top of that she had ongoing personal family issues to deal with. It is really not so much a memoir as a poem. A poem of self discovery. Who is she. Where is her home. How do the people around her influence her sense of self. How does the outside world influence her sense of self. It is a beautifully written introspective.

Speaking of Ghana. I read a fun murder mystery by a Ghanaian. Wife of the Gods by Kwei Quartey. I also read Dune for the first time. The Sci-Fi novel, Dune, was written in 1965 by Frank Herbert. The second part of the latest movie iteration just came out. After reading the book I watched both movies. It was a good plan. Read the book first.

And just to round things out, I’m currently reading Massacre in Minnesota: The Dakota War of 1862, the Most Violent Ethnic Conflict in American History by Gary Clayton Anderson. What a horrible thing that is. Ugh. I can only read a little at a time. Even though I have been reading about US History for many years, I am still shocked and disgusted by it. The unbelievable corruption and greed. In many ways it still carries over to the present day. Sad sad sad.

Another book I read recently was The American Adventuress: A Novel by CW Gortner. It is based on the life of Jennie Jerome, an American from New York, who married Randolph Churchill and was Winston Churchill’s mother. It explains a lot. She was a real character. In her later years she married a man Winston’s age. Mostly just because she could.

Next on my list: Burma Sahib by Paul Theroux. It is a novel based on George Orwell’s time in Burma as a servant of the British Empire. I am looking forward to it. George Orwell also wrote a book about his days in Burma – Burmese Days – which I read many many moons ago. I read someplace recently that many of his books were based on Burma and his time there. It influenced him heavily. 

If you are interested in more books specifically about expats and TCKs, see my TCK/Expats Films and Books page.

Random Thought

When I was very little I had a recurring dream about Babylonians waging war all around me.

In my 20’s I had a recurring dream about being in a big city running through alleyways evading bullets and bombs. 

Is that what life is? One big foxhole?

Sometimes I wonder.

Winter no Winter and other TCK musings

Minnesota usually looks something like this in winter. Not this winter. It didn’t get cold, it didn’t snow. Not to speak of, anyway. The year we didn’t have winter followed the year we had the most snow ever. We are living on a merry-go-round. What is next?

I learned the other day that the Andrews Sisters were from Minnesota. One of their biggest hits was Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy during World War II. They were child performers and won their first talent contest when the youngest was 12. The only Minnesotan who has outsold them was Prince.

Just a little tidbit to file away in your trivia drawer.

I put a slide show on my screen saver for my Apple TV that shows pictures of my recent trip to South America. It really seems kind of unreal. Was I really there? Did I really go to Easter Island? It is all kind of dreamlike. It is weird how you can have all these memories of traveling to places all over the world and be sitting in a room in front of a computer thinking about taking out the garbage and going grocery shopping and putting gas in the car. All my life I have dreamed about going to places and seeing things I have read about or studied. For example, I was always fascinated with ancient history and Egypt in particular. It was a place I knew a lot about and when I finally went there, it all came back to me. All those things I had learned all those many years ago. It was so magical. And it was just a blip. I was there and then I was back, going to work, doing laundry, cooking. Planning the next trip. When you grow up living and traveling around the world it is hard to stop, to stay in one place.

I was thinking again about my recent trip and one thing I realized was that growing up all over the world created an environment for me to experience all kinds of spontaneous cultural interactions. For example this tour had organized several “events” for the group to interact with local people in their homes. Living overseas, of course I had lots of “local” friends and often went to people’s homes. But beyond that, I traveled around the countryside and stumbled through villages and met people who invited me into their homes. A few of my friends and I would go hiking in Nigeria and end up sitting in a mud hut drinking palm wine, or on somebody’s porch eating fish stew. I never thought anything of it at the time. They were just things that happened. This recent trip made me realize how unique that was. How most people don’t have those kinds of opportunities. I just took them for granted. Silly me.

Excerpt from my book, Expat Alien: On one of our outings in Nigeria, at the end of the day, we stopped in a small village for some refreshment. There was no restaurant or store but, after having asked around, we found a house where the people were willing to sell us some beer. We sat on their porch and drank beer and the entire village came out to watch us. We bought the grandfather of the house a special drink (ogogoro – gin distilled from palm wine) from somebody down the street and we found one young boy who spoke some English to be our translator. Pretty soon the family brought out dinner for us to share (fish curry and yam paste). Francis looked like he would be sick if he had to eat any of it. I tried some of the yam paste but left the very hot curry to the others. Everybody was getting quite drunk.

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The middle of the ocean

Easter Island or otherwise known as RapaNui is a five hour flight west of Santiago, Chile. It is actually part of Chile and everybody speaks Spanish.

As we approached the island I was pretty amazed anybody could find this little spec in the middle of the ocean. It is about the size of two Manhattan Islands. And the runway goes from the ocean to the ocean. I was glad the breaks worked. There is one flight in and one flight out to and from Santiago each day.

Today there are about 8000 people living on Rapa Nui and about 60% are native. They are Polynesian and originally populated from other islands in the South Pacific. The closest neighbor it has is over 2000 miles away.

It is known for its Moai. The large heads sticking out of the ground. There are over 1000 of them on the island. There was a large archeological effort in the 1980’s to excavate and restore them. Those are the ones seen today. There are also many Moai in museums around the world thanks to the usual looting – the British Museum, the Smithsonian, and various others. Two have been repatriated.

Here is a sampling. The Maoi are made of volcanic rock. There are many dormant volcanoes on the island but three main ones are Terevaka, Poike, and Rano Kau.

Rano Kau is the oldest volcano – 3 million years old. Avocados and Pineapples and other fruits grow inside the crater. people hike down into it to pick fruit and some go swimming. I hear the water is cold.

The view from up there was amazing.

We had lunch at a restaurant right in the ocean that happened to be just at the end of the runway. it came in practically on top of us.

Next up a walk by the ocean.

Bridges and Towers

The last covered bridge in Minnesota is in Zumbrota, south of the Twin Cities. The bridge was originally built in 1869, to span the Zumbro River and is 120 feet long. It served as a stagecoach route between St Paul, Minnesota and Dubuque, Iowa. It was later restored and moved to its present site in the 1990’s. It still spans the Zumbro River and is now attached to a large city park.

This cute statue was outside the Public Library in Zumbrota. In the 1800’s the settlers of Zumbrota formed a Literary Society and Library Association. In 1877, it became the first public library in Minnesota supported by taxpayers. In 1908, the library received a grant form Andrew Carnegie and became the smallest Carnegie Library in the state. in 1995, it moved to its current location next to the covered bridge.

If you continue south on Highway 52, you will arrive in Rochester, Minnesota. There you will find the Ear of Corn Water Tower, standing 151 feet tall. It was built in 1931, to provide water for the Reid, Murdoch, and Company food cannery. The tower was illuminated by 10 spotlights and from the 1930’s to the 1960’s it was used by the Army Air Corps and Air Force to find a nearby airfield. The cannery changed hands several times and the tower was eventually bought by the county and fully restored in 2021.

An English Woman in India

An Englishwoman in India, The Memoirs of Harriet Tytler 1828-1858
Edited by Anthony Sattin

Harriet wrote her memoirs when she was in her late 70’s.  She was a Victorian woman and represented her class and period well.

Her grandfather and uncle were prisoner’s of war in France under Napoleon.  Her grandmother and mother lived nearby for 15 years so the family could be together.   After the battle of Waterloo, they were released and returned to England.  That is where her mother met her father while he was on furlough from India.

Harriet was born in 1828 to a British military family in India.  At 11 years old, as was common practice at the time, she was shipped off to England with two younger siblings to continue her education.  When they landing in England, their clothes were so outdated everybody laughed at them.  Her brother was immediately sent on to boarding school where two older brothers were waiting for him.  She and her sister lived with a family they had never met before for about a year, until her aunt came to collect them.  Her aunt was strict and cruel and Harriet hated every minute of her time there.

At seventeen she started her journey back to India to be reunited with her parents who she had not seen for 6 years.  She traveled by steamer and by land until she reached Aden just off the Red Sea.  The group traveling with her were friendly and she had a happy time.  At Aden she received a letter from her brother-in-law in India and feared her sister was sick.  It was worse, her father was dead.  When she finally reached Calcutta, there was nobody to meet her.  She saw her mother two weeks later only to discover that she was on her way back to England with the younger children.  Harriet was to stay with another aunt and uncle who was serving the in Punjab Campaign.  

At 19, she met and married Robert Tytler, a Captain in the British Army who was also a widower with two children.

This woman did not have an easy life.

On May 11, 1857, she was living in Delhi, eight months pregnant with two small children at home.  That was the day of the Great Sepoy Mutiny.  The “Sepoy” was the Indian soldier serving in the British Army.   

Harriet writes:

“It is wonderful to think how unanimous they were, Hindus and Mohammedans, in the one object of exterminating the hateful Christian in India.  On this occasion the Mohammedans and Hindus were one, their bitter antagonism to each other, which had always been our safeguard so far, was for the time overcome.  The gullible Hindus, two to one in each regiment, firmly believed Prithee Rai’s raj would return and then they would be masters of India.  The wily Mohammedans, who were using these poor deluded men as a cat’s paw, encouraged the belief, knowing all along that they would soon find their mistake, for the Mohammedan meant to reign by the edge of his sword, which would also be used to proselytize the poor idol worshippers.”

However Philip Mason notes in the Introduction: “Harriet, of course, like everyone else, has heard of the cartridges (smeared with pork and beef fat) but does not seem to have known that the original offensive cartridges were withdrawn (therefore confirming that the rumor was true).  Like every other young wife in India at the time, she thinks that the Mutiny was a deep-laid plot, instigated by the sons of the king and spread by wicked Muslims who played on the fears of the simple gullible Hindus.”

Harriet ran for her life that day.  She, pregnant, with her two children, 2 and 4 years old, eventually loaded themselves onto an already overloaded carriage and rode hard out of town.  Her husband riding back and forth checking on other people.  The carriage broke to pieces.  They found another one, it also broke down.  They ended up walking to the next outpost where luckily there was no uprising.  

Eventually the British took back Delhi.  Harriet bore 10 children, 8 of whom lived, and spent the rest of her life and expat in India.

What a great story!