Power Point to the Rescue!

I just got back from a ten-day government training course, which licenses me to, among other things: 1. Start home-based Internet businesses 2. Inform people whether or not they may bring their pets in an evacuation 3. Distinguish between the varying types of Power Point presentations.

If anything, this conference cemented my hatred of Power Point. Why prepare a coherent, intelligent speech when you can play with ClipArt and bullet points? I spent way too much time being read to off a Power Point. In fact, here are my (progressively less coherent) notes from one particular guest session speaker:

• Why do all cartoon people on slides look angry?
• Buy bread crumbs.
• I'm sweating like a pig. Maybe it's hot flashes. We've been sitting here for 20 years, and now I'm going through menopause. Jesus. Hot flashes at 28.
• Am I the only person not learning anything? Oh, wait, the person next to me is drawing an enormous spiral doodle.
• If it were physically possible to die of boredom, I would have done so twice already.
• If fluency in English is a requirement of my job, why am I being read to?

I have to admit the training wasn't all bad. In fact, much of it was very good. I met people with the same job as me from all over the world. If I ever drop by Laos or Turkmenistan, I have friends to look up. I even got a certificate on high-quality paper.

I went out every single night, saw friends, ate untold amounts of Thai food, bought a year's supply of long-sleeve t-shirts, stocked up on Altoids and liquid soap, drank Starbucks coffee every day, and shook off some of the dreariness of Sarajevo. And that's worth a few Power Points.

PS- Sarajevo's airport had reopened by the time I returned yesterday. I didn't, unfortunately, notice any Velcro on the runway.

A Festival of Random

Long Live Yugoland!

http://news.yahoo.com/s/csm/20050815/wl_csm/oyugoland_1

This article tells you everything you ever needed to know about the Balkans.

But it did get me thinking. Every retro nation should be an amusement park! Wouldn't you visit Upper Volta Land, or Ottoman Empire World? Ceylonville? Siamtown? Soviet Unionville?

Sarajevo has its own low-rent international amusement park. We go there to shop. The military base just outside of town has a small PX (or commissary) from different NATO countries. The American PX (AmericaWorld) is the largest and tackiest, and sells Tommy Hilfiger clothing, convenience foods, and Burger King. NorwayLand sells outdoor equipment at outrageous prices. Franceland has wine, cheese and silk scarves. Italyland has pasta. GermanyWorld is the most disturbing: it's full of beer and fetish porn.

Maybe boiling a country down to its most basic aspects is a bad idea. After all, Yugoland has been described as "some dirt and a hill." And I'm sure Germany has made more contributions to society than fetish porn and beer. Sometimes a little complexity goes a long way.

However, I still want to pay $3 and become a citizen of Yugoland. Maybe they would even give me a passport. It would totally nuke my security clearance, but the reaction would almost be worth it.

Me: "Well, I'm a tri-national...US, Australia....and Yugoland!"
Investigator: "Yes, Mrs. Johnson." (backs away slowly)

Budapest Notes

Ever road tripped in Europe? Matt and I drove to Budapest over the long weekend. With a decent map and good driving, you can get there in 8 or 9 hours (it took us more than 12).

Budapest was lovely. It offered everything we needed to see: museums, cathedrals, castles, and commerce. After living in a country with a 40% unemployment rate, it was nice to be somewhere with actual stores...that had actual things to buy! And people buying stuff!

It also offered the best eavesdropping ever. It being August, Budapest was overrun with backpackers and tourists. This was an unusual experience after Bogota and Sarajevo, which receive a combined 17 or so tourists a year. I especially enjoyed the following backpacker exchange:

British Backpack Dude: "I must say Budapest is more cosmopolitan than Praaaague."
American Backpack Kid: "I've heard Tallinn is really cool. It's in, like, Estonia."
British Backpack Dude: "The beaches in Tanzania are really awesome, but there's just too many Americans there."

I just love the fact that nothing they said had any relation to what the other person said. It was just a game of "I'll see you Prague, and raise you Estonia!" "Yeah, well, Estonia sucks. Tanzania, dammit!" Sigh. Silly backpackers. The Middle American Jet Set, Gap Year and all those 19-year-olds with $5,000 limit credit cards will be the death of us all. It's a great privilege to travel, and should count for more than bragging rights.

Finally, remember how I couldn't figure out my washer settings (Celsius Cauliflower, Santa Hat, and so forth)? Well, I think those same artists create international road signs. Matt and I even made a game of trying to guess what all the road signs were. Exploding Schools Ahead, Beware of Amish, 2000 Deer Ahead, No Gay Cars Allowed, Thar Be Giants, and Passengers Must Shovel Roadway. Some were disturbing: Flat Top Breasts Ahead, and Penis Caught in Door come to mind.

One Man With a Dream, a Trowel and a Bucket Can Change the World

I'm scheduled to leave Sarajevo on September 2 and fly to DC for a work conference. However, I just heard today that Sarajevo's airport will be closed September 2-9. I haven't heard why yet. Maybe repairs. Eggroll and I decided that one guy with a bucket and a trowel will be repaving the runway. He'll also be taking frequent coffee breaks.

The upshot of all this is that I might have to leave Sarajevo on September 1. My other option is slightly less appealing: a six-hour bus ride to Tuzla. Because nothing is better than a long bus ride in August, with creaky seats and bumpy roads.

So, as it stands now, I'm in DC from September 2-18, but that will probably change at least once.

Par-Tay in the Year-Round Winter Wonderland

After nearly three months at post, Matt and I have finally unpacked and sorted out the apartment. We employed a trick well known to Foreign Service families: as soon as all the boxes and clutter started taking on an air of permanence, we invited everyone we knew to come over for Sunday afternoon cocktails. Nothing forces you to clear the cobwebs like having 20 of your colleagues stop by for punch and cookies.

Even a minor fest is a major effort in Bosnia. First, we had to devise a menu. So much for basic crudites and dip...the only crunchy vegetables on the market were red peppers. Then we had to find the one market in all of Sarajevo that had raspberries for the punch (everything is in season here for one or two weeks at a time, then they're gone forever). The worst part was buying ice. I cannot think of another country in the world where bags of ice would be so difficult to find. On Sunday morning, Matt had to go from cafe to cafe with a cooler on his shoulders, buying ice from waiters. (Our other option had been the 30-minute drive to the American PX in Butmir. There are only two large grocery stores in Sarajevo, and neither carries ice.)

However, the party went swimmingly well. We'd scheduled it from 2-5 pm, and the last guests left at precisely 4:59. This was a big change from our Bogota parties, where the last guests were forcibly shoved out the door at 4:59...in the morning. Matt and I munched on leftovers, played two rounds of Simpsons Monopoly, then listlessly wandered around the house with an air of "....now what?"

I will say that Sunday afternoon parties are awesome if you need to restock your bar. Everyone still brings a bottle of wine, but sips iced tea instead. We now have enough booze to last the rest of our tour.

In other news, I've been doing ferocious battle with Sarajevo's weather. It's unpredictable and harsh, and we're just finishing up a summer cold snap. Yes, you heard me right. A cold snap. In summer. I wore a sweater, scarf and peacoat to work on Friday. It rained for four days straight. No one seems to have noticed the fact that it's August. Not October. Not March. It's freakin' August. According to the locals, it has snowed in August before (and, in fact, it snowed at higher altitudes back in June).

Every morning for the last week I have woken Matt up with a poke in the ribs and a peevish, "What the hell kind of country is this? Why did you bring me here? Couldn't we have gotten posted somewhere more pleasant, like Siberia? I'm not going to work today. I'm not going to work tomorrow. It's winter. In August. And the only place that's an OK statement is Australia. Where's the coffee?" Matt's response has been subdued and pleasant, but if the cold lasts much longer he'll probably chuck me out the window. (By the way, doesn't this last bit make every last one of you wish you were married to me? Among my many charms is my sunny disposition in the morning.)

So that's about it for this week. Day after tomorrow Matt and I drive to Budapest for a long weekend (for those of you who watch the Amazing Race, that's Budapest....HUNGARY!) Then I've got a whole bunch of work stuff to do, as my co-CLO is going on maternity leave at the end of the month and I leave on September 2 for DC. I'll be in DC until Sunday, September 18 for a training conference. So if I start flaking out on blog entries, at least you'll know it's nothing personal.

How Security Makes Me Stupid

Part of an Occasional Series: The Things I Do for Love

Right now I am being investigated for a Top Secret security clearance. No, this does not mean that I know if there are any space people, or who killed JFK, or anything of the sort. You’ll practically die of boredom when I tell you why I need this clearance: to sit in on a few meetings at work. Right now I have a preliminary clearance, but a full investigation has to be done to make it permanent.

It’s a long process. You really can’t be too careful these days. And, truth be told, it’s been pretty painless so far. I had to fill out a form listing everywhere I’ve lived and worked in the last decade, who my friends and associates are, if I have any offshore business holdings, and whether I am a member of any militia or radical groups (answer: no). Then a bunch of investigators fanned out across the United States and began interviewing my friends, my in-laws' friends, former employers, etc. Today was my interview. I sat down with a very nice investigator, and answered one question after another for 30 minutes. And what was that like?

It was like going to the most confusing job interview of your life. The investigator’s job is to cover any aspect of my personal history that may cause embarrassment to the U.S. government, or render me unfit for my job. They aren’t digging up dirt just to be mean. It all starts pretty tamely, with us going over the form I originally turned in. Then the questions start. They went a little, but not exactly, like this:

Have I ever been critical of the US government? Yes, I’m a Democrat.
Do you have any gambling debt? No.
Have you ever been arrested? No.

Then the questions get a little repetitive. Maybe that catches people in a lie, or wears you down until you can’t lie.

Have you ever been arrested?
Have you ever been arrested for….(interminable list of sins)?
Have you ever been arrested for an illegal sex act?
Have you ever had an addiction to sex?
Are you an alcoholic?
Have you ever had a romantic relationship with a foreign national?
If so, what nationality?
Did he pick up the check at dinner or did you go Dutch?
Have any of your friends or associates been arrested?
Have any of your friends or associates done things for which they could have been arrested?
Have you done illegal drugs?
Have you done illegal drugs while driving?
Have you been arrested for doing illegal drugs while driving?
Have you while driving arrested anyone for doing illegal drugs?
Have you while doing illegal drugs arrested anyone for driving?

At this point, truthfully, you’re a little confused. I might have made up the last few questions. In fact, I probably made them all up. I had to stop the interview in a couple places and say, “Hey, didn’t you just ask me that?” Then the questions become much longer and more drawn out. By the time you get to the end of the question, you’ve forgotten what the beginning was all about.

Do you have any offshore business holdings or financial investments in other countries which should have been taxed in the United States but you haven’t paid because you’re a very, very bad boy or girl who is loyal to other countries and perhaps student radical groups?

By the end of the interview, I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I was a blob of quivery, slimy human Jell-O. It was kind of hilarious. But simply being asked about my nonexistent illegal sex activities and offshore holdings made me want to crawl under my desk. Afterwards, I wondered if I had squandered my youth by working and paying taxes, rather than developing offshore corporations and romancing a string of foreign nationals.

But I guess that’s the point. If I really was an anarchist, slimeball, sex freak, or embezzler, I probably wouldn’t have been able to keep my “story” straight. So, I’ll end this on an up note: hooray for America! USA! USA!

ClipArt crusade update: I am ClipArt, hear me roar! I just tried to find some business ClipArt, and there were 12 sharp, successful looking ClipArt businessmen. Briefcases tucked under the arm, sleek suits, ready to climb the corporate ladder (corporate ladder can be found in separate folder). Meanwhile, there was only one forlorn businesswoman. Frizzy hair, frumpy suit, sad expression. So I guess the message there is, don’t get a career girls, or the boys won’t ask you out! Sigh.

The ClipArt Menace, or Texlahoma Lives

I don't have anything deep to say. Let's get weird.

I'm famous for my little crusades. My enemies list is broad and unique. At last check, it included: the cart guy at Ikea, the online ordering department at Sears, IHOP, the airport in Vienna, the Euro, Cafe Odeon in Dupont Circle, tequila, New Big Wong in Chinatown, Continental Airlines, and a few gypsy cabs. Unfortunately, Sarajevo doesn't have much in the way of consumer culture or pugnacity, so I don't really have much to assault. Instead, I've decided to focus my efforts on the evils of ClipArt.

In my office, we have a massive book and 16-disc set of Clip Art called Art Explosion. While it's fairly recent software, it has very 1950s notions of the world. Today, I was trying to find a health-oriented picture for a newsletter article I was working on. All of the doctors were male (except for one, a gynecologist no less). All of the nurses were female, and wore those quaint uniforms with the tricornered hats. So, out of curiousity (...as to how much I can get away with while being paid by the hour), I flipped back to the Index. The listings for women include Woman and Baby, Woman Cooking, Woman Teaching, and Woman Shopping. And then, these are the index listings for men: Man on Raft, Man on Motorcycle, Man on Construction Site, Man Driving, Man Traveling...I could go on and on. In the world of ClipArt midgets, the menfolk conquer the world while the womenfolk stand in front of chalkboards and ovens.

But Art Explosion is afraid of more than just progress. These ClipArt cartoon people live in a horrifically bleak, menacing world. It looks like one of those post-apocalyptic action films I've had to watch with at least half a dozen former boyfriends. All of the Health and Medical photos feature crutches, giant syringes, bruises, blue-green tongues, astoundingly large thermometers (which go you-know-where), pallid pregnant women, and wounded children with head bandages. I count six ClipArts of forceps alone. There are four ClipArts of cartoon men being chased by giant, menacing syringes. Worst of all, there is a ClipArt of a man encased in a giant condom. Lord knows spermicide inhalation would be a long, horrible death. There are no ClipArts depicting healthy lifestyles or positive health professionals of any kind.

The Art Explosion terror spreads to every facet of life. There is an entire folder devoted to cartoon car accidents. ClipArt people are stranded in airports, their wallets are stolen, their barbecues explode, and their hands are ripped apart by fireworks. The guy who chews tobacco sports a mullet. Motorcycle guys cruise around without helmets. Slackjawed children gape at their math homework. It's like the ClipArt universe resides somewhere in Texlahoma (in Douglas Coupland's novel Generation X, characters tell stories about Texlahoma, an asteroid orbiting the earth where it is perpetually 1974 and everyone keeps getting fired from the Woolworth's perfume counter).

So how do I battle the ClipArt menace? Write nasty letters? Irate phone calls? Suggestions are welcome.

Two for the Price of One

I felt so guilty about not updating for a while that I decided to give you two essays for the price of one.

Your Sin Dollars At Work

I just wanted to report that Indian gambling is the greatest thing to come out in the last fifty years. (Runners-up include the expressions “baby momma” and “baby daddy”, hair texturizer, and the “under $30 sale” section on Nordstrom’s webpage.)

My dad started having chest pains while visiting his brother in Cherokee. He moved forthwith to a hospital, got a four-way bypass, and is now recuperating in Asheville. Amazingly, heart surgery has improved so much in the last 11 years that he was in the hospital for less than a week (last time around, when I was in high school, was a completely different story). Today he moves to an elder care center in Cherokee, and then afterwards will live in a small house on the reservation. The best part? The Eastern Cherokees are paying for all of this with casino proceeds. Thanks to the legions of fat, baseball-capped tourists who drive all the way to the mountains to play video poker and eat lukewarm buffet lasagna, I can continue to be one of those horrid selfish children that does not have any elderly parents living with her.

Instead, Dad can hang with the assortment of wacky relatives we have in the area. For the record, if you ever hear about a guy in western North Carolina waving a shotgun out of the window and saying, “You’ll never take me alive!”… it’s probably my Uncle Joe. There’s also a wide assortment of cousins – this being the mountains, everyone is related to everyone else – and plenty of people to visit.

So, keep on dropping your rent money into the slot machines, America! This semi-Cherokee thanks you for your financial irresponsibility.

Bureaucrat, Diplomat…What’s the Difference?

I’ve found the strangest thing about my new life isn’t the constant moving or the culture shock. It’s the assumption that I have “married rich.” Four people said this to me at my high school reunion in the first hour alone. I’m a little fed up with being indirectly called a gold digger – if that had been my intention, hell, I’m cute enough to marry some actual money.

Speculating on someone else’s finances is natural, but usually the speculation is dead wrong. Sorry, guys, but diplomats are still bureaucrats, and we’re as a rule not very wealthy. My clothes come from H&M and Old Navy, and maybe a few clearance items from Ann Taylor. We took nice holidays in Colombia because nobody visits Colombia, and all the tourist attractions are therefore dirt cheap. I have the luxury of working part time because housing is free while we are abroad.

I guess it’s so weird to me because I’ve never thought of myself as financially well-off. Mainly because I’ve always been so damn broke. Most people think diplomacy and envision nice houses, long black cars, and immaculately uniformed maids. Nobody sees the long-distance coach class flights, the hideous State Department-issued furniture, and the trip to four different grocers to find green peppers. I haven’t been to a fancy cocktail party in a year, and in fact find them excruciating.

So, no, I didn’t “marry rich,” I “married well” in a non-financial sense. And that’s much more interesting than fancy parties and chauffeurs.

A Decade Late and a Dollar Short

I just wanted to ask everyone to take a moment and remember Srebrenica, as today is the ten-year anniversary of the massacre there. Matt is there today, herding various American functionaries on and off helicopters and making sure everyone has their Evian water and foot lotion. (Much like Ashlee Simpson, traveling diplomats have detailed riders listing their needs when they travel.)

I've been living here two months and don't understand what happened at Srebrenica. I don't understand on an emotional level, and even the facts themselves are pretty murky. Bear in mind this is a country with a three-member rotating presidency, a semiautonomous Serb republic, and multiple competing police forces. You could be a Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim), Bosnian Croat (a Bosnian of Croatian ancestry) or a Bosnian Serb (a Bosnian of Serb ancestry), or a Croat, or a Serb. There is not a single aspect to the region that does not give me a headache. Some days I feel like I need a master's degree in political science just to hail a cab.

Maybe Srebrenica can't really be explained, anyway. The short version is that Serb elite troops, called the Scorpions, invaded the region, which was supposed to be a UN "safe area"...but only protected by a handful of severely overmatched Dutch peacekeepers who had been instructed to fire only in self-defense. This is much like keeping a toy poodle as a guard dog, and being astounded when all your stereo equipment disappears out the back window. The Dutch begged for help, but none ever came (part of a larger problem: as far as I can tell, the international community spent much of the war tripping over itself). The Scorpions tossed the peacekeepers aside, then systematically murdered 8,000 Muslim men and boys and chucked their bodies into mass graves.

Until last month, a majority of Serbs did not believe the massacre had actually occurred. Everyone received asylum in the US, they said. Or they ran into the hills. It's just more slander to heap upon the Serbs, who have suffered enough already. Then the videotape came to light, and it's been airing nonstop all around the world. Several Scorpions videotaped themselves murdering six Muslim men, and made copies for souvenirs (some facts are too ghoulish to wonder about...souvenirs?) The tape, which I've seen parts of, is gruesome and leaves no doubt about what happened. The tape had been dug up by a Serb activist, and she's been getting death threats ever since.

Today, Srebrenica is a part of the Republika Srpska, a semiautonomous, mostly Bosnian Serb region. Technically, it's part of Bosnia-Herzegovina. However, the RS is notoriously fractious: this is where the war criminals hide, the signs are in Cyrillic (Sarajevo uses the Latin alphabet), the police have different uniforms, and no one is quite sure what country they belong to. Again, even a basic understanding of this region requires years of practice.

So, even if you don't understand Srebrenica, please try to. We're a decade late, a dollar short, and hopelessly ignorant. It's the least we can do.