Good things come to those who wait and wait…? (part 1)

I like to have a plan, maybe not with all the details sorted, but at least some idea of the direction in which I will be heading.  And yes, a plan B as well, just in case things go pear-shaped.  I accept I may have to make some tweaks and adjustments, if not totally change course – life happens.  But it helps me to sleep at night.

So with the ink on my latest contract for another year in China barely dry, I started plotting my next destination.  Vietnam, or Thailand perhaps…  I was certainly very  much taken with Bangkok last summer.  Working abroad within the parameters of local employment laws for foreigners often requires meticulous preparation and mountains of paperwork and  I was determined to make good use of my unexpected and enforced return to Europe.

Most countries, including Vietnam,  expect the foreign English teachers to be graduates and as these days degrees can easily be photo-shopped and bought  rather than earned, most countries ask for official documents, such as degree certificates, to be legalised…  This had not been necessary for my last employment visa for China, nor for India, but rumblings on the Expat rumour mill indicated that even in China the mood may be changing and legalisation will be introduced from  April 2017 onward..…  And speaking as a real graduate, with a real degree, I can only support this.

I had looked into legalisation before – last year when I happened to be in Belgium – as documents need to be legalised in the country of their origin.  Of course, I have a host of  postgraduate qualifications obtained in the UK (I am British after all..), but the one that everyone seems to want to check is your Bachelors or Masters Degree.  Although my first attempts to get to the bottom of ‘legalisation’ had failed – well, I did not really need it last year – this time, I was more tenacious and the internet suggested a trip to Brussels to the Legalisation Division of the Federal Public Service Foreign Affairs (FPSF) was involved.  I booked my flight to Belgium, allowing plenty of time for a trip to Brussels on Monday and booked the appointment…

It was only when scrolling down the confirmation email that I realised things were a little more complicated..  In Belgium, being the country that it is, consisting of two (or should I say three) autonomous regions speaking distinctly different languages, my appointment at the ‘Federal’ office had to be preceded by another visit to the ‘Flemish Community’ in Brussels after getting a certified copy of my degree from my Alma Mater…  ‘No problem,’ I thought, ‘I can fit in Leuven on my way from the airport on Friday… Hop  on the train, before visiting my family..’   only to find on my arrival in Leuven that the university admin office was closed on a Friday afternoon…

With my Monday appointment at the FPSF booked for 11 am, it was going to be a tall order to travel to two different cities and three different offices to collect all the necessary stamps and signatures…  But Belgium is not exactly a big country, so distances are relative.  Thanks to the efficiency of Belgian trains, the Brussels metro network, and of course Google Maps to fill in the blanks, I succeeded with even the slightest whisker of time to spare and some leniency on the part of the officials at the FPSF!!  Plus I learnt that my humble degree is now recognised as a Master’s Degree..  I suddenly felt so much more intelligent!!

For good measure, I asked for two copies of my degree to be legalised…  you never knew when this might come in handy.  At least I would be able to skip this first part of the legalisation next time around.  Not sure which country I would choose next, I left visiting a foreign embassy to complete the process of legalisation for a later date…

Before leaving China in January, I handed all the necessary documents  (I was aware of) to my new agent, so he could apply for the Foreign Expert Certificate and my work permit whilst I squeezed in some European travel before handing my passport to the Chinese authorities in the UK for my new visa..  Throughout January I had implored the agent to double check the requirements, to make sure no sudden surprises would be sprung…  ‘Of course,’ he put me at ease, ‘You go and enjoy yourself…  I will let you know when I have the work permit…’

I travelled to Italy whilst China was waking up after the New Year festivities and long national holiday, and my agent returned from his home town…   ‘I have had some feedback,’ his email read. ‘They need one more document from you…’ Suddenly it transpired that the ‘Foreigner Affairs Office’ insisted on a legalised copy of my Masters degree.    ‘Masters Degree?’ I questioned…  Since when had a Masters Degree been one of the demands for getting a Z-Visa for teaching English…???  And legalisation was not meant to take effect in Hangzhou until April…

‘I am sorry not let you know before [sic],’ he apologised, ‘for the new policy is just beginning from this year.  Everyone who want [sic] teaching in China need [sic] this document from this year.’   And had the Chinese authorities kept this a well-guarded secret? Or just decided to implement this without giving anyone due notice to be able to comply??  I wondered…   Or did the agent just not bother to check in advance when the impending changes would come into effect…  Or did only expats have knowledge of the new legislation, rather than the agents whose job it is to prepare the visa application paperwork…

‘They need you to go to the China Embassy of British [sic] to make your diploma to certificating authority [sic]. can you understand that? It is easy to get from the Embassy,’ he continued.  ‘Not so simple,’ I retorted. ‘A Belgian degree means a visit to the Chinese Embassy in Belgium…’  I had only been a stone’s throw from the correct Chinese Embassy when I was in Brussels less than a week before…  At least I did not have to start from scratch…

Flights  to Brussels at short notice were quite expensive… so expensive that I got a much better deal booking a city break in Brussels staying in a plush hotel…   Of course, even using the express service at the Chinese Consulate I would only be able to pick up my duly legalised degree the next day…  I secured my flight and hotel, scheduled to leave  Heathrow  on Thursday morning at 7 am to arrive in Brussels at 9am, with plenty of time to make it to the consulate before closing time at 11.30, or so I thought… (to be continued)

Food, glorious food…

I love food and even more than eating it, I love cooking food. So I came prepared with my ‘Best Ever Indian Cookbook’ as a companion. It is filled to the brim with meat and vegetarian recipes using the finest of Indian ingredients, giving both imperial and metric measurements… but only uses the English names for all the spices and vegetables required. Whereas this is not so much of an issue for the vegetables, let’s face it a tomato is a tomato and a cauliflower looks like a cauliflower wherever you go, spices is a whole different kettle of fish… Luckily the English language is so pervasive here that many of the spices bear the English names as well as names in local language, but I bless my cotton socks that I have spent many years dabbling with Indian cooking so I can recognise most spices by sight and smell. However, the difference between mild, normal/medium and hot chilli powder seems rather vague, so having bought a packet stating ‘less pungency’, I just hope that this means less spicy and not just less smelly.

Apart from the abundance of spices, the vast array of dals (lentils and chickpeas etc) is rather overwhelming – or maybe not, it is just that I do not know which ones are which and it was not helpful to be told that a bag of mung beans were green lentils, which in ‘English speak’ refers to the French Puy lentils… Plus, in England most pulses come nicely ready in tins, so working out quantities of dried lentils to put to soak is rather a case of hit and miss which has so far meant I have had to eat mung beans (in various guises) for the last three days – It is amazing how versatile these beans can be… with potatoes, rice or chapattis..

Although I was determined to join the vegetarians in India, after only three days I have an urge for some decent protein. The occasional egg, milk on my porridge and the pulses feel like a poor substitute in the absence of cheese… But at least those were ‘easy’ to find: pulses are everywhere, eggs and milk are stocked in the vegetable shop (unless you settle for the powdered milk variety), and butter is available from the baker’s … But as meat seems rather elusive, I asked the owner of the bakery, who speaks reasonable English, and he reassured me that chicken was available from a place behind his shop. On closer inspection of this place, I may have to take eating meat back off the agenda – I am not quite ready to eat chicken that has been freshly slaughtered in my presence. Maybe I will start with adding fish to my diet having this afternoon discovered the fish market – at least the fish are already dead by the time they are being sold…

When in Rome, do as the Romans do…

Wearing Western clothes may be a bit of an issue after all… I felt fairly secure that in the confines of my own accommodation, going Western would have been wholly acceptable, but may have to revise the situation, unless I keep all doors and windows closed and only receive visitors by appointment.

There I was in the kitchen minding my own business and brewing a well-needed cup of tea when suddenly a face appeared through the window. Although I am always careful to dress appropriately when going out, I do not apply the same amount of care in my own house, so I was not exactly dressed for friendly people making conversation through kitchen windows. Conversation in this instance is clearly an exaggeration as my Malayalam is non-existent and the milkman’s English has reached the same level of proficiency. I do not think that standing in the kitchen scantily dressed in very short shorts and a strappy t-shirt without bra is the dress code expected for women in India and it may have been because of this that the milkman was more than persistent in trying to explain that he was there to milk the cows – in all the confusion and gestures I offered him a cup of water thinking that he was a poor man without a home who was thirsty… What was clearly body language for ‘milking cow’ looked very much like ‘hoisting a heavy bucket of water from a well’… The things that get lost in translation…

Anyway, I only found out that the face at the kitchen window belonged to the milkman, because I got caught out again on the same day… Having ignored my doorbell on numerous occasions before and left neighbours and workmen unattended – in my defence, I did not realise that the chirpy bird sound I occasionally heard was the sound of my doorbell – I felt it would be very impolite not to answer… I was still wearing the garments described above; as it was well past supper time, I did not expect anyone and it might have been a friendly female neighbour coming for a chat. In the event, it was Anundu, a local boy who came with a welcome offering of flowers and promises of help with chores and shopping (for a not yet discussed or agreed payment…). How could I not invite him in for a chat and a cup of Indian Darjeeling tea (brewed as only a ‘foreign visitor to India without a teapot’ would do it: using two cups and a strainer!)? I am not sure whether I should have politely made my excuses and withdrawn to the bedroom to find a big shawl to cover my upper body and possibly a towel to tie around my waist, but I sat through the experience and tried not to think of the poor boy’s mother who would probably have been mortified at the thought of her son being in the company of a ‘woman of loose morals’. I wonder what the locals will be saying about me, because even wearing the appropriate clothes I do get stares, so maybe for now I should be grateful that I do not yet understand a word of Malayalam and am spared any gossip….

By the way, it was Anandu who shed light on the appearance of the milkman at the kitchen window – he comes twice a day to milk the cows. This is clearly a small town where everyone knows everyone, so maybe I should just cover up to be on the safe side as after all some of the town’s children are at the school where I teach. Well, I shall definitely don a bra from now on….