Expat Trouble

I stare at my funky self in the mirror. What to do? Screaming is hard work, so I decide to be Zen about it. It is what it is. Hair will grow back.

Here she was, a lapsed Lutheran female in a smelly animal market trying to buy a sheep from a long-robed male Muslim trader. Oh, the things you learn!

Straight out if the movies: Four good-looking, rugged guys on camels with meters of cloth wrapped around their heads to protect against sand and sun — dusty, dirty and starving. Dutch and American, they show their true colors when looking for food.

A loud barrage of furious words slammed me in the back. It was shocking! The language being unknown to me, I did not understand what precisely was being hurled at me. However, since the vitriol originated from the toilet lady’s oral cavity, the message was clear.

My store of expat life patience is exhausted. It’s not only the chicken, the water, the electricity, the tiny fridge, the heat, the dull knife, the lack of kitchen drawers, the dead rat in the garden this morning, but . . .