Balancing Act

Life as an evacuee is a balancing act.

I have a life here. But it isn't my real life, the one from which I was torn away so abruptly. I don't even know if I'll be allowed to return to that life. State Department regulations state that evacuees who are scheduled to leave post within a certain time frame (90 days, 6 months, I'm not sure of the specifics; reports vary) won't be allowed to return to post. If it's a 6-month rule, I'm already within the limits, and the powers-that-be won't send me back. If it's a 90-day rule, I'm only a few weeks away from the limits. There is some question of whether that rule will be waived in this case. There also is some question of whether the rule allows us to return if we pay for our own airline tickets, rather than being reimbursed by the Department. But more importantly, there is some question as to whether the evacuation order will be lifted before we're scheduled to leave anyway, making the rule a moot point.

But back to the balancing act. Alexa and I are in limbo. We are experiencing what our lives would have been if we hadn't moved away from my hometown, or at least something resembling it. I'm being a stay-at-home mom, but the home where I'm staying is my mother's house, not my own. I'm attending a small, close-knit church where everyone knows and cares about each other--and they've been very supportive of me and Alexa--but I don't know anyone. I'm driving in my SUV (Jeep Grand Cherokee--very nice!) to my nephews' basketball games and birthday parties, but the SUV is a rental and when I get to those basketball games and birthday parties, I don't know anyone other than my own relatives. I've been living away from this area, coming back only to visit, long enough that I don't have any friends here anymore, so my time is spent with my mother and her friends, or with my siblings or sister-in-law. The highlight of my days is talking--or better yet, skyping--with Jeff.

The bottom line is that I don't belong here right now. If I'd made different decisions in the past, I could have belonged here. Depending on the choices I make going forward, I could belong here in the future. But right now, at this moment, I don't belong here. I belong in Egypt, with my husband, living the life that we've created together.

But if I'm not allowed to go back to Egypt, I'll be here until September, other than a few short trips to DC for processing or to other states to visit other relatives. (Our plan has been to spend most of the summer here on home leave between posts.) That'll be seven months total. Over half a year. Long enough that I should try to belong here. Long enough to make it worthwhile to rent a furnished apartment, find a playdate group, join a Bible study. Settle in a little and act like I live here.

But if I am allowed to go back, it will be sudden. If I go back under Department orders, with them covering the expenses, I'll have three days from the time the announcement is made until I have to be on a plane. That's three calendar days, not even three business days. If I'm in a furnished apartment, my understanding is that they'll pay the fees associated with breaking a lease, but have you tried to make those arrangements suddenly over a weekend? I haven't, and I don't want to. If the order were lifted today, I could call the travel agent, pack our bags, and be on a plane first thing tomorrow morning. If I settle in here more, that would be much more difficult.

It's the uncertainty. Some who were evacuated, especially those with school-aged children, made the decision from the start that they wouldn't return to Egypt, or they wouldn't return until the end of the school year. Their families, their children, need that stability. I need stability too, but much less than those families. So I haven't made that decision, and I won't make that decision, because what I need more than stability is to get back to my life in Egypt, to wrap it up the way it should be wrapped up before I leave for good.

There's so much still to do in Egypt. I haven't even started sorting and purging for our move to our next post. I haven't bought any of those beautiful alabaster lamps with the copper accents. I haven't even taken a tour of Coptic Cairo! And I haven't said good-bye. To my friends, to my church, to the guards who worked so diligently to protect us. To Road 9, the Khan, the drivers who won't stop so I can cross the street unless I step out in front of them. The taxis whose horns create a cacophony of beeps, honks, and out-of-place melodies. The women on the metro who wouldn't offer me a seat when I was pregnant and wearing short sleeves, but who insisted that I sit when I was holding a baby and wearing culturally appropriate clothing. To all the sights, sounds, and smells of a huge city in a developing country. I need to say good-bye, to all these things, in my own way.

I so hope to go back. I so need to go back. But in the meantime, I'll go on with my balancing act. Fitting in enough to stay occupied, to provide the stability that Alexa needs, to use this time to allow relationships to develop between Alexa and her extended family. But not enough to create problems if I do get that call, that email, that notification that we have three days to board that plane. I'll continue to tell myself that we're going back.

Because I just can't bring myself to accept that my life in Egypt is over.

Familiar Yet Strange: Adapting to America(!?) and Egypt (Again)

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Far be it from me not to give credit where credit is due: This post was inspired by Susie's post, "On Being Normal," over at Susie's Big Adventure.
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Familiarity is a strange thing. I have commented to my husband, back when we were long-distance daters, how strange traveling often made me feel. When I was out West, attending school, my life there was familiar and normal. When I traveled to the East Coast to visit him, it was as if my normal life was a dream, and all that existed was my life with him. When I returned to school, everything felt familiar yet strange, as if I didn't belong there, for a day or two, until I settled back into my life. I hadn't thought of those feelings of blended familiarity and unfamiliarity, normality and strangeness, for years . . . at least not until my recent trip home to the United States.

I expected to feel a little strange when I left the airport on my way to my mother-in-law's home. After all, we'd been traveling for around 23 hours, with only an hour or two of sleep on the plane. But by the next day, I anticipated that I'd be back to normal, other than jet lag. Imagine my surprise when "normal" just didn't happen! At first, it seemed fine--when Jeff and I went to Target the day after our arrival, I commented gleefully that I hadn't even noticed the woman wearing shorts and a spaghetti-strap shirt, until I noticed that I didn't get angry at the sight of her. (When I see Westerners dressed that revealingly here, it makes me angry, because it contributes to the perception that all Westerners are immodest, easy, and disrespectful of the culture, thereby making life a little more difficult for all expats.) We cruised around Target, oohing and aahing over the variety of merchandise available, the attractive presentation of said merchandise, and the orderly way that people moved their shopping carts while following commonly accepted "rules of the road."

But as time went on, I noticed more and more how things just didn't feel normal to me. It was little things. Jeff and I gloated over how well-behaved drivers were--but every time I saw the cars all lined up in their lanes at the stop light, I had a momentary thought of how strange they looked. Didn't they understand that, in a four- or five-lane road, they could fit an additional two or three cars at the line? And why were they just sitting there anyway, when no one was coming on the other road? It seemed such a waste for them to sit there, waiting patiently, even when there was no oncoming traffic. It just didn't seem right. And the single-family homes were so big, with so much yard around them. I have no problem with large homes and big gardens yards (they're called gardens here; even my language isn't cooperating!), but it just seemed so strange, almost surreal, compared to the reality of close-set apartment buildings and walled villas.

I should have expected that normal, everyday life in America would feel different to me after almost a year in Egypt. My first clue came before I even left, when I was deciding what clothing to take with me. I never even considered taking my short-sleeved shirts, other than the ones I use while exercising (I had good intentions to exercise while on the trip, although it didn't happen). I just feel more comfortable now when I'm more covered than that. I prefer loose shirts with 3/4-length or long sleeves, and if the shirt itself is long, too, so much the better. A year ago, as soon as the weather heated up, I'd pull out my sleeveless shirts and wear them until it got cold again. Now, it just feels too revealing to wear anything that hits significantly above the elbow. So the only clothing I wanted to wear in the United States was clothing that I would wear publicly in Egypt. That should have been a clue!

Most of my behavior while at home didn't reflect these unreal feelings of disconnectedness from my own culture. Usually it was just internal reflections and feelings of strangeness. There were some questions about my clothing, especially when, on a hot day, I would wear one of the shirts I bought at the Khan el Khalili. These tunics are long, long-sleeved, loose, and very comfortable in all weather conditions, even in the heat. On one such day, my sister took one look at me and said, "What are you wearing?" She didn't believe me when I told her how comfortable it was. I think she even doubted my sister-in-law, who was wearing one that she had received for her birthday and who defended the comfort and coolness of the shirt. But other than my clothing choices, I don't think there was much evidence that any of my perceptions had changed . . . until, of course, I was introduced to two men.

I first was introduced to the husband of one of my high school roommates. It had been years since I had seen Tina; I had attended her wedding but not the reception, so I hadn't met her husband at all. We arranged to meet them at a restaurant to catch up. I hugged Tina enthusiastically, but when she introduced her husband, I'm pretty sure I didn't even shake his hand. I smiled, I greeted him, I made eye contact but not a whole lot of it, and I did not approach him or extend my hand. I think at the end of our meal, when everyone was saying good-bye, we may have exchanged hugs; I'm not certain. But when I first met him, my instinct was to treat him like I treat Egyptian men who I meet for the first time: Be polite, be pleasant and to some degree friendly, but above all, be distant. Don't touch them; don't allow them to touch you.

Something similar happened when I met one of my husband's male friends. We were introduced, and he stuck his hand out for a handshake. Common enough in America. But it felt so strange and unexpected to me! I think I responded quickly enough to mask it, but my first reaction was surprise. It felt like I just stood there and stared at his hand for a moment, not comprehending that I was supposed to reach out and take it, although no one behaved as if I had acted strangely.

So it was the little things. Overall, I was fine. I certainly felt comfortable shopping in the many malls we visited (although there was a distinct difference in how I treated the male and female sales attendants), dining at our favorite restaurants, hanging out in the home in which I grew up, visiting my husband's family, seeing old friends . . . but I wouldn't wear short sleeves, my instinct was to maintain distance between myself and any men with whom I wasn't already familiar, and the traffic and the houses, stores, and other buildings just seemed . . . strange, too spread out, not as crowded as would have been "normal" to me.

I didn't drive while I was home--mostly due to exhaustion from jet lag and a busy schedule--but now I'm wishing that I had. Would I have driven like I used to, like the other Americans? Or would my husband have had to remind me where I was? Would I have been more confident than I used to be? I consider myself a mediocre driver, and I always was nervous in traffic. Here, it doesn't bother me, because the habits that made me a not-so-great driver in the States fit right in here. So would I have been confident, even too confident, or would my old caution have returned? I guess I'll have to wait until next year to find out.

Now that I've returned to Egypt, things feel strange again. At first, on the way home from the airport, I looked out the window and felt the difference from the only other time I've made that trip. The buildings, the dust, the children playing, even the pickup trucks piled cab-high with stuff--they were all familiar and comforting. The traffic that had me squeezing Jeff's hand in fear last time didn't raise an eyebrow this time.

But then I got to the compound, and I greeted the guard in English. He responded in Arabic, because that's our usual language of interaction, at least for common greetings and phrases that I know. I responded appropriately in Arabic, but . . . I had first spoken to him in English. It's been months since I did that. The next day, as I drove to the commissary, I felt reckless. I drove the same way I always do, for the most part--there was that big bus that I bullied out of my way, which is still not all that common for me. But I felt reckless just driving down the wide, mostly empty street, because I ignored lanes while swerving to avoid potholes, slow drivers, and inattentive pedestrians. I got a little nervous when I approached a busy intersection--those intersections haven't bothered me for a long time. And everything just seemed so loud and so dirty!

My time in the States hasn't completely undone the progress I had made in adapting to life in Egypt, but there definitely is some ground that will have to be regained. I mostly expected that. But what I still can't get over is how strange it felt to be back home. And this is after having been gone for not even a full year! What will it be like next year, I wonder? What will it be like--what will I be like--if we make the Department of State and various overseas postings our life for the next 20 years? It's a daunting thought . . . but I am an adventurer at heart, so I must admit to looking forward to answering that very question.

Maadi Christmas Pictures

Back in the States, I'm accustomed to seeing red and green everywhere in December, as malls, homes, and businesses all decorate for Christmas. Here in Maadi . . . not quite so much. There were some places that were decorated: Maadi House, Condetti, and of course the insides of expats' homes. I didn't take pictures inside other people's homes--I didn't have my camera, and I'm not sure they'd want me posting pictures of their homes online anyway. Of course I didn't take my camera whenever we went to Maadi House or Condetti, so I can't share pictures of those decorations, pretty as they were, but I can share the pictures I took around the housing compound and out on Road 9. Enjoy!

First are some pictures of the inside of my apartment. This is the first year we decorated for Christmas, since it's the first year we actually stayed put for it. I wasn't sure last year how much space we'd have for decorations, so I didn't buy much. It turns out that it was a wise decision.



The tree was decorated only on the top half--and even then, we kept hearing rustling in the tree, a clink as the shatterproof ornament fell to the floor, and then certain adventurous kitties batting their bright and shiny ball around the floor. The kittens also are why the angel on top looks like she's about to fall off . . .






I had two strands of garland, which we used on top of the china cabinet and on the buffet. The stockings went on the china cabinet, along with a poinsettia from our neighbors. Unfortunately, my black thumb meant that we didn't get to enjoy the poinsettia on Christmas, but it was pretty while it lasted. (I promise, I did put up the bins you see beside the cabinet . . . I have got to start cleaning up before I take pictures . . .)





I put the Nativity Scene on the buffet. Baby Jesus and Joseph's lamp both enjoyed Christmas Day on display. That night, they both went back into protective custody in the drawer. They haven't made an appearance since. The kittens enjoy them too much.







My brother gave this University of Kentucky Santa to my husband, a UK alum, for Christmas . . . last year? Maybe the year before. Either way, my husband loves it, so it was displayed on our end table.






I used my Garagos plate to display some candles I bought here in Egypt. The set was displayed on my coffee table, although you can see that it got a little crowded . . . (and I say again, I really need to learn to clean up before I take pictures!)





I also put a fabric wreath on the door. It was purchased here in Egypt, at one of the Maadi Women's Guild meetings, from the Deaf Unit. The Deaf Unit is a charity that runs a vocational training center, where deaf people are taught to work with wood, metal, and sewing to make some very beautiful, high-quality furniture and home decor.







There also were some decorations outside around the compound. A few others put up wreaths, and someone put up a large inflatable snowman! There also was a poinsettia or two sitting outside doors.








Also, the housing office or the guards or someone decided to wish us all a Merry Christmas as we came off the elevators.






Out on Road 9, there weren't really decorations up for Christmas. However, there were a couple of shops that were selling Christmas trees and other decorations. Here are some trees that were available . . .





and here are a few more, as well as some garland strands.








I really wish I'd gotten pictures of Maadi House and Condetti. Maadi House was decorated nicely, and Condetti was beautiful. Oh, well, you've gotten to see a little bit of how it looks at Christmas in Maadi!

The Joy of Water

Cleo has discovered the joys of running water.

She loves to hop up on the counter by the sink, get in the sink, play with the running water in the sink . . . I can't stop her. For a while, I squirted her with the water bottle every time she got on the counter or in the sink. Sometimes she'd jump down, sometimes she'd hide behind the microwave oven, and sometimes she'd attack the water bottle. Okay, if she wants escalation . . . I started turning the water on while she was in the sink, often when she was directly under the faucet. She'd hop out, groom herself for about 30 seconds, and hop back in. She also likes to stand on the ledge in between me and the bathroom sink when I brush my teeth. There have been times I've had to pick her up out of the sink so I could spit without getting toothpaste on her.

Cleo taught Isis about the joys of running water. Of course, Isis isn't quite so sure about water of any kind. If I shake the water bottle at her, she jumps down and runs into the living room. I turned the water on once while both Isis and Cleo were in the sink. Isis hasn't come near the sink since. But, still, Cleo is a problem.

So we ordered a Drinkwell pet fountain. It arrived yesterday (thanks for forwarding it, Mom). The cats were enthralled before we even set it up. Cleo was soaking wet from getting on the table where I was unpacking it--the water bottle strikes there, too, not that it much matters to her. She'll hop up on the table, counter, or wherever she wants to be, even if she's already dripping. When I put the fountain on the floor, Isis got in on it. I put it in its spot and filled it with water using a cup. Isis sniffed around the bowl, backing off when I approached with water--apparently you never know what I'm going to do with water--but quickly returning once it was clear that the water was going in the bowl and wasn't splashing back up. Cleo followed me to and from the kitchen. When I filled the cup, she stood on the counter by the sink, stretched out over it, with one paw exerting pressure on the cup. I'm not sure if she was trying to pull it to her or tip it over. When I left the sink, she hopped down and followed me to the fountain.

You should have seen them when we turned the fountain on! Isis ran away at first, before coming to sit about a foot away and watch. Cleo stuck her paw in the water stream, then yanked it back out, shook it, and looked at it as if to say "Why is it wet?" Then she did it again. Yep, Cleo, water is still wet. She drank some, splashed some, had a good ole time. Isis eventually approached. First she drank out of the bowl. Then she stuck her paw in the stream. Then she drank some.

I didn't get my camera out soon enough. I wish I'd had it out when we first turned the fountain on; there would have been some really fun video. However, you'll have to be content with the pictures I got once they had settled down enough for me to stop laughing and think of the camera. I got one video of Cleo playing some with the water, but she kept stopping to look at the camera. I turned it off when she walked away from the fountain and started rubbing against my ankles. Anyway, here's the video I got:




I haven't caught Cleo in the sink since we plugged the fountain in . . .

And These Little Kitties Came Home

Introducing the two newest members of our family: Isis and Cleo (short for Cleopatra)! Cleo is the one who's all gray; Isis has the white paws and belly.



They're named after two figures in ancient Egyptian history: Isis the the mother of all pharoahs, and Cleopatra the last pharoah. The best estimate we have for Cleo's and Isis's age is around 6 weeks. They're littermates, two little sisters.

Isis and Cleo were adopted from the shelter run by S.P.A.R.E. (the Society of Protecting Animal Rights in Egypt). They, along with their sister, brother, and mother, were dropped off at the shelter by a man who paid for one night's boarding, left a false name, address, and phone number, and disappeared. This is a common way in which pets are abandoned at the shelter when their owners no longer want them. They were fortunate to have been taken to a shelter; there are countless feral cats all over Cairo, and many more cats are simply put on the street than are taken to shelters. The cats at the shelter are fed, sterilized, vaccinated, and adopted out whenever possible, often to families in the United States or Europe. They have much longer and healthier lives than do the feral cats.

Cleo and Isis did not have a good day yesterday. We picked them up from the shelter with their brand new carrying case, complete with two toys and a travel water bowl. We put a little water in the bowl, enough that they could drink it but not enough that it would slosh out, even on Cairo's bumpy streets. But although the water would have survived the bumps just fine, it did not survive getting in the cab.

The driver "helped" Jeff put the carrier in the backseat a little too exuberantly. The travel bowl of water landed on Isis's head. Isis was a wet and miserable kitty for the 20-minute ride back to Maadi. She mewled pitifully, sticking her paws and nose out of the carrier, begging to be let out and dried off.

I thought Cleo was handling the ride better. She was sitting calmly in the carrier, braced against the swerves, jostles, and bumps. She looked a little tense, scared even, but that was to be expected, so she was doing well enough, I thought. Then I realized why she was sitting so quietly -- she was motion sick. The new little mouse toy ended up in the trash when we got home, along with the soft bathmat we had put in the bottom of the carrier.

Things improved once we got them home. We put them in the storage room off the hall; we had prepared it for them beforehand with a litter box, food and water bowls, a scratching post, a few toys, and a cardboard box with a door cut into it. The kittens came out of the carrier quickly at first, then went back inside just as quickly, even though it was wet in there. This strange new place was not their cage back at the shelter, and they weren't certain that they liked it.

Eventually they both came back out. They found the cardboard box and decided it was a good place for a nap; at least Cleo did. While Cleo slept, Isis sat there awake and staring.

After naptime, they showed their personalities quickly. Cleo is adventurous; she started exploring and playing with the toys quickly. Isis was much more timid. She eventually explored and played some, but even today, she prefers playing with Cleo over playing with the toys. But for a while, they were both actively exploring and playing.

They were doing so well that we let them out of the storage room for a while. Cleo was great with this; she wanted to explore the whole apartment. Isis saw her reflection in the entryway mirror, then hid under the chest in the entry. We eventually pulled her out and put both of them back in the storage room. Even though Cleo is ready to come out, Isis isn't, and Isis also isn't ready to be in the storage room alone unless she's asleep, so Cleo will have to wait.

A little neighbor girl has been excited about the kittens, so she came over to see them last night. She was fine; she was soft-spoken and gentle, understanding that the kittens were scared. Unfortunately, the friend who came with her was not quite so fine. Think squeals and attempts to pet a cat who's frantically clawing her way up my shoulder to get away. Our neighbors reined her in before she went too far, but the kittens definitely were afraid of her. Luckily, Isis missed most of this. She had disappeared sleepily into the box just before the girls got here, so I opened the top of the box to let them see her but didn't take her out. Cleo got to go explore the living room a little bit, with the girls in tow. It was during this time that Cleo started to decide that Jeff and I aren't so bad, and we're pretty good places to go for protection.

After the girls and their chaperons left, Cleo joined Isis in sleep. They slept until around 3:30 this morning, when Jeff and I awoke to mewling. I told him to go back to sleep since he had to go to work today, and I went in there with them. At first, they just wanted me in there periodically. I'd go in, say hi, then go out to the couch and lie down. They'd let me sleep for 15 or 20 minutes while they played before mewling again, when I'd go back.

Then Isis got sleepy again. Apparently Isis has decided that I'm okay; in fact, I'm her substitute mommy (which is what we had hoped for). Apparently Isis also is a lap kitty. This means that when she gets sleepy, she wants to be in my lap. (Cleo also will get on my lap, but only if she's trying to use me as a ladder to get over the table we turned sideways to block the door.) I want to encourage her in this, but I don't want to sit on the floor in the storage room holding her all day while she sleeps. So I tried to bring her with me back out to the couch. Nope. As soon as I got one step from the storage room door, she was mewling loudly, claws out and gripping my arm through my sleeve, straining back toward her "safe room." So I took her back into the storage room and held her for a while. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore; I laid down on the floor and used their blanket as a pillow. At that point, Isis couldn't sit in my lap, and beside me wasn't working for her, so she went back into the box to sleep. So I went back to the couch.

Then Cleo decided that it was time for my training to begin. She'd mewl; I'd come back; she'd stop mewling and look at me until I told her that it was okay, I was here. She didn't want to be held, petted, or touched; her food and water were fine, and her litter box was clean. She proceeded to ignore me. I'd go away. Five to 10 minutes later, the process would repeat. Eventually Cleo went to sleep too, so I was able to check email and get a shower. Then they woke up, and the whole process, including my training, repeated again for a couple of hours. Now they're asleep again.

So I'd say the kittens are adjusting. We're establishing the rules. They call me; I come running. They pounce on my toes; they get sprayed with the water bottle. I think these are rules we can live with.

Home Sweet Home

Today -- the long-awaited post about our apartment here in Maadi. We live in an access-controlled compound owned by the U. S. government. There is parking on the ground level, as well as a playground. All the apartments are on floors 1 and above. (Floor numbering here is not the same as in the States; the ground floor here is Ground. Floor 1 is the first floor above ground level, what in the States would be the second floor.)

They set up the compound very well for privacy and sound insulation. There is an open-air (but covered) walkway on each floor. The walkway is a big square, with apartments on each side. But the apartments don't actually touch each other--there's open space, balconies overlooking the courtyard in the middle of the compound or the street outside, in between the walls of each unit. The picture probably shows what I'm talking about better than I can explain. It looks like two separate buildings connected by a railing; those actually are two neighboring apartments. So even though I'm in an apartment building, I don't share walls with any neighbor. I have neighbors above and below me, but none on any side. So it's incredibly quiet. I hear horns honking outside, but they're muted, and it would be impossible to escape them altogether with Cairo's traffic.


This apartment is huge. We have plenty of space for ourselves and for visitors. I don't know the square footage, but it has three bedrooms, two baths, a large combination living room/dining room, and a nice kitchen. It also has a laundry room, a storage room, two linen closets, a coat closet, two walk-in closets in the master, and large closets in each of the other two bedrooms. After we had been here for a week or so, we learned that there also is a storage unit downstairs that we can claim -- we figure we'll put boxes in there that we want available for the next move, but we haven't gotten around to accessing it yet. It's a bit of a hassle, because we have to buy a lock for the unit itself, make a sign for the unit door, and then get the guards to let us into the room where all the storage units are.

One really nice thing here in Cairo is that there are lots of furniture options, and we can swap out any furniture we don't want for something else. At some posts, there isn't storage for excess furniture, so you get what you get and that's it. Here, there are tons of options for upholstery and rugs, and they'll swap out the wood furniture to the extent that their supply allows. I'm going this afternoon to look at upholstery samples because I don't like my couch/love seat. I'll also see about swapping the rugs in my living and dining rooms, because they're red (yuck!). We're also going to swap out the twin beds in the guest room for a queen bed, and all the furniture in the third bedroom, which will be converted to a den.

We also have the option of painting the walls. We've picked the colors for the bedroom (blue, with one darker blue accent wall). We haven't picked colors for the living/dining area or for the soon-to-be-den because we want to see what furniture is available first. The color in the guest room will depend to some extent on what bedspread we choose. Jeff has informed me that painting must be completed by the time our HHE arrives, so I have a couple of months.

Okay, so this blog hasn't really told you that much about the apartment itself, but I have pictures for that. They're available here.

Electricity Update

Just a quick update on the electrical situation. On Monday, the same two electricians, plus their supervisor, showed up at my door to fix the outlets in my kitchen. I think the supervisor showed up because the work order that Jeff submitted included the fact that they had stood me up twice; that usually gets a supervisor to hover and make sure you're completely satisfied when they do show up bright and early the next day (still without letting you know they're coming, though, which is why they had to wait for an hour or so for me to get home). They took all the outlets off the wall again and moved my dishwasher (and also my stove and refrigerator this time). They never got near the fuse box. When they cut three of the live wires, I couldn't take it anymore. I went to the living room and read a book. After 30 or 40 minutes, one of them came in and asked if they could take a lamp from the living room to the kitchen. I told him to go ahead. A few minutes later, they called me into the kitchen and proved to me that all the 220V outlets worked by plugging the lamp into each and every one of them in turn. They proved that the 110V outlets worked by plugging in our tester and showing me that the lights lit up. Jeff told me later that those lights working means there is some electricity there, but not necessarily 110 volts. I haven't pushed it; we don't have our 110V appliances right now anyway, so I'm ready for the electricity saga to be over.

Adventures with Electricity: The Story

I am not an electrician or anything approximating an electrician, so bear with the technical generalities and please forgive any mistakes, but there is a story I just have to tell. There are technical details regarding electricity that have a bearing on the story, so the previous entry provides those details. This entry tells the story. I divided it like this to make it easier for people who aren’t interested in the technical stuff, or who already know it, to skip to the story.

When we first arrived here, there were four transformers in our apartment for use with any American electrical devices we brought with us. Because most people bring small kitchen appliances from the United States, and also electric toothbrushes or razors, there are 110V outlets available in the kitchen and bathrooms. Throughout the rest of the apartment, there are 220V outlets. That’s where the transformers are to be used. The problem is that the 220V outlets in our apartment are shaped differently from the outlets in the other apartments in the compound (our apartment was recently remodeled) and from the outlets used throughout Egypt. So although the transformers had a grounding mechanism that would work just fine for most outlets, that mechanism couldn’t access the ground in our outlets. So my story begins because we had to have maintenance come and change out our outlets, give us new transformers, or change the plugs on our transformers. We also had two other problems that needed to be fixed: One of our 110V outlets in the kitchen was not wired properly, according to the tester we brought with us, and the faceplate on a light switch in our bedroom had the habit of delivering a mild shock when you touched it (but you could only feel the shock if you were barefoot on the tile in the bathroom reaching around the corner to turn on the bedroom light, because the carpet in the bedroom provided insulation, keeping you from being grounded, which according to my husband basically means it keeps the electricity from trying to go through you).

When maintenance showed up, it was in the form of two Egyptian men, both of whom speak at least some English. Both were friendly and seemed eager to do what was needed. They immediately set about switching out the plugs on our transformers. It didn’t take long. When they finished, I tested all four of them with our little tester. All four now had good grounds: Three were perfectly functional, but one was wired improperly. I told them this. They seemed confused and said that they were all the same. So I showed them the lights on the tester and explained that the pattern that showed up for these three transformers meant “good” and any other pattern, like the one that showed up on this transformer, meant “not good.” They looked slightly awed and asked if I am an electrician. “No, but my husband is. All I know is what he told me—this means good, and anything else means not good.” I tried to explain that the key on the tester indicated that the particular “not good” pattern we saw meant that the hot and neutral were reversed, but this information meant about as much to them as it did to me—nothing. They wanted to argue a little, but then I told them that if I used that transformer, something may catch fire. I quickly realized that I had discovered the magic word. They heard “fire” and decided that that transformer was bad; they would swap it out for a different one. This was fine by me, so we moved on to the other problems.

The 110V outlet in the kitchen was “good” according to them, just like the others in the kitchen. I pulled out my tester, showed them the lights, and again used my new favorite word—“fire.” They thought for a couple of seconds and then asked if another 110V outlet was good. I tested it and said that it was. They promptly pulled both the good and the bad outlets from the wall and examined the wiring in both. One went into the room with the fuse box, presumably to turn off the power to that outlet, and then they reconfigured the wires in the bad outlet to match those in the good outlet. They turned the fuse back on, asked me for the tester, showed me the lights and waited for approval. I was surprised that these embassy-employed electricians had had to look at one of the other outlets to see how to wire it properly, but they fixed it, so that’s okay. I tried telling them that the bad transformer had exactly the same problem as the outlet, so they could fix the transformer in the same way as they had fixed the outlet, but they didn’t like that idea, so I let it go.

Then we went to the bedroom. When I explained the problem, their eyes lit up and they smiled and nodded. “Yes, we can fix this.” They took the faceplate off and poked around in there until they found a random wire, carrying electricity, not attached to anything at all. It was just hanging out in there electrocuting everything. They attached it to something, put the faceplate back on, took off their shoes, stood in the bathroom, reached around the corner, touched the faceplate, and said “Is good.” They looked to me for approval. So I slipped off my shoes, stood in the bathroom, reached around the corner, touched the faceplate, smiled, and said “It’s good.” (Notice that there were no fuses turned off for this process.) They left happily, promising to swap out the transformer the next day, which they did.

But the story goes on. That afternoon, I plugged our laptop into a 110V outlet in the kitchen to charge. I did not plug it into the same outlet they had fixed, but a different one, one that had been used successfully a couple of days before. The laptop did not charge. When Jeff got home, I told him about it. He pulled out some device that measures electrical voltage and pronounced that the outlet was dead—no power to speak of. So he submitted a work request the following day, and on the day after that, the same two guys show up at my door.

I explain the problem to them. I point out the outlet that isn’t working. I assume they will pull out something like the device that Jeff used to measure the voltage, but they don’t. They do something odd. They stick a screwdriver into the outlet. That’s right, a screwdriver—a metal rod—is inserted into the electrical outlet. They must believe me that it’s dead, right? But wait, there’s more: They then go to another outlet on the same wall, one that has not been tested but that is presumed to be working, and they stick the screwdriver into that one too! One of them then goes around the kitchen, sticking the screwdriver into most of my outlets. I have visions of Tom and Jerry, you know, the cartoon, the cat and the mouse—they were always sticking tails, fingers, or forks into outlets, and then they’d freeze spread eagle in the air and you’d see their whole skeleton as they fried.

Oh, and while the one guy is sticking the screwdriver into all my outlets, the other has noticed that the oven wobbles, and he’s fixing that for me, which I appreciate, but really, his partner is about to electrocute himself; why is he messing with the oven? Then he notices that the top of it can be lifted up (I’m not sure whether or not it’s designed that way), so he fiddles with that too. All while the other guy is sticking the screwdriver into electrical outlets.

The next thing I know, all of my outlets have been pulled off the wall—including both the 110V and 220V outlets. The faceplates are hanging by the electrical cords. The connections or something, I’m not sure what, are getting tapped routinely with the screwdriver while the men converse animatedly in Arabic. Then my dishwasher is pulled out from the wall and slid across the floor out of the way—I start mentally cataloging the dishes that are in there in case I hear any “unusual” sounds—and one of the men is under the counter doing who knows what. They continue an animated discussion in Arabic.

After about 20 minutes, I hesitantly interrupt: I have a meeting. I have to leave in 10 minutes. I hesitate to tell them so, because I’m kicking them out before the problem is fixed, and I want it fixed and I hate to kick them out and make them come back later, especially if that means they will again stick screwdrivers into my outlets, but at the same time, they were supposed to call and make an appointment with me, and they didn’t, so it isn’t unreasonable for me to have plans and have to leave. So I tell them that I have to go. They do something under the counter, replace my dishwasher, and re-attach all my outlets to the wall.

Before they leave, they promise to come back the next day. They don’t. The day after they were supposed to come back, they do drop by, apologize, and promise to come on Sunday. They don't. I think Jeff is going to submit another work order today.

In the meantime, we’ve discovered something else: About half the outlets in our kitchen no longer work. We discovered this when I tried to use the toaster on Friday. My husband is convinced that when they fixed the first 110V outlet, they broke the second one, and when they tried (unsuccessfully) to fix the second one, they broke all of the 110V and 220V outlets that currently don’t work. At least they left us a functional outlet for our coffee maker—it would count as an emergency if we didn’t have that.

Eventually all of the outlets in our kitchen will work . . . inshallah.

Updates as events warrant.

Adventures with Electricity: The Technical Details

I am not an electrician or anything approximating an electrician, so bear with the technical generalities and please forgive any mistakes, but there is a story I just have to tell. There are technical details regarding electricity that have a bearing on the story, so this entry provides those details. The next entry tells the story. I divided it like this to make it easier for people who aren’t interested in the technical stuff, or who already know it, to skip to the story.

Back in the United States, we use 110V/60Hz electricity. In Egypt, they use 220V/50Hz. The relevant part is the 110V-220V distinction. This means that Egyptian electricity has twice the power of American electricity. If you plug an Egyptian hair dryer, toaster, or microwave oven into an American outlet, there will not be enough power for it to run. If you plug an American hair dryer, toaster, or microwave oven into an Egyptian outlet, it may catch fire, or at the very least, it will “release the magic smoke” (a euphemism used by my husband) and never work again. To use an American device in Egypt, you must use a transformer, a device that takes a 220V power supply and converts it to 110V electricity, minus some overhead losses to heat.

Another technical detail: In America, we generally use a ground with our 110V electricity—the third pin, the round one, on a plug, if it’s there, is the grounding pin. While for most low-power devices (i.e., hair dryer or toaster) this isn’t absolutely needed, it’s a good safety measure, so that if something in the device breaks and electricity is going places it shouldn’t—like into you if you’re touching it—it will be diverted down the grounding pin instead. High-power applications (i.e., ovens, computers, and transformers) need a good ground in order to function correctly, and in some cases won’t operate at all if the ground connection isn’t present or isn’t good. In Egypt, there is not always an understanding of the importance of a good ground, since many of their appliances don’t use it, and electrical safety in general tends to fall under the “Inshallah” principle (basically “if Allah wills it” or “whatever happens is Allah’s will”; in some cases, this means “if Allah wills it, I’ll survive”). [Okay, I admit it, Jeff just wrote most of that paragraph because all I know is this: The ground is important.]

In America, most of our plugs are designed so they only fit in the holes one way. Not so in Egypt. This matters when it comes to the transformer. If something is plugged in backwards, the 110V outlet’s wiring will be reversed. In Egypt, it doesn’t matter because the 220V outlets are designed to work either way. However, when plugging in transformers, it matters a great deal—friends here have destroyed expensive computer equipment because they plugged the transformer into the wall and the computer into the transformer without checking for correct wiring. Turns out they had plugged the transformer into the wall backward, the wiring was reversed, and the magic smoke was released. So we bought a little tester thing that will tell us if all the wires are connected properly; it also tells us if there’s a good ground. It tells us this by the pattern of lights that light up when it’s plugged in. There are three lights: one red and two yellow. The only correct pattern is the red not lit and both yellows lit. If any other pattern occurs, this is bad. Plugging in an American electrical device could release the magic smoke and may cause a fire.

I think that’s it for the technical details. See the next post for the story.