Not quite butlins.....

Well despite the fact there was only 1 pledge to the aid worker respite fund, and that the money never materialised anyway never mind me claiming ‘gift aid’, I have just returned from my weekend retreat.

Now I don’t know what you sat looking at eating breakfast this morning but I think my view may have beaten most of yours!

Table on the beach, bare feet in the warm sand. Almost as nice as sitting there the night before, watching the sunset, eating freshly caught lobster………

So as I said I would, I took myself off on holiday this weekend to Sussex – its right by Kent and err… York!

I had already decided to go here when I noticed an advert for a beach yoga session at the very same place, and given the fact that my only athletic ability is in fact ‘bending’, I thought I would join in. I wasn’t too bad at the yoga I did about 5 years ago and so I thought it an excellent way to do some exercise, make some friends and also continue the theme of my pampering R&R weekend.

Unfortunately my driver had other ideas. My driver decided to take a detour to the beach (which is only 30 mins from my apartment) to avoid some heavy traffic. This detour took 2 hours through the mountains!! Not only that but my driver, who quote “of course” knew the beach – didn’t know the beach. It was amusing to see that African males have the same pride as European males when it comes to winding down the window and asking for directions. I actually felt pity for the man who was forced to do so 3 times - it was almost like watching his manhood shrivelling up and dying in front of me. He visibly withered.

 Needless to say I missed my yoga class and was not feeling very R’d by the time I arrived. However I also think my driver has some bizarre instinct which meets my needs. It was he who chose to take me to the exact supermarket which turned out to be sole stockist of Pepsi max, I just asked him to show me a different shop. And when I eventually arrived yesterday the ‘gentle yoga class’ was in full swing with 9 perfectly tanned, toned 20-something 'babes 'in positions that I don’t think are legal and certainly can’t be good for you. A far cry from the yoga I did those years back which involved mostly middle age women lying down a lot and breathing.

Well, I took one look at them and went straight to the bar and got me a beer – that was no place for the likes of me!!

So the weekend was nice and only spoiled by one thing really – other ex-pats.

Now so far have noticed 2 types of breed. The first lot are quite young – in their mid to late 20’s and have the confident air of the cool kids in town. Most of them work for NGO’s/charity sector.  I get the impression that they were all very bright at school, were actively involved in clubs at Uni (or alpha beta delta whatever’s for the US brigade) and all quite middle class. They appear to play hard and always talking about the next party coming up or nights in the casino or camping on the beach.

 Then there are the other group who have been in the game 20-odd years, either working in NGO’s and more often in diplomat/embassy positions. These people come in family groups, the partner and it seems always 2 kids (don’t ask me why). This group appear to have very high expectations/needs when  living overseas such as requiring housekeepers, cooks,  nanny’s, private education for their children, caretakers, gardeners, cars etc. etc. Someone made a very poignant observation to me about the older group of NGO workers.  He proposed that the standard of living they have in a developing country is way above what they could achieve if they returned with their families to their native country and so maybe this is why they don’t.  Makes you think eh?

I haven’t yet found the group for the untrendy, wobbly, cynical, sceptical, politically ignorant 30-something’s who chose a career change to international development because they like eating foreign food.

And while we’re on my favourite subject I have a confession. I have started feeding people. When I say people, I’m not talking just random people on the street – yet. It started with my guards, and then I had to give drivers a little something, then obviously I couldn’t leave the cleaner out. Oh and I’m now giving her my clothes too.

Now before any of you think that this is some kind of reaction to seeing the extreme poverty (and I did get a reality check when one of the drivers stopped to pick up something from his home this week and I found he lives on the edge of a slum), I don’t think this is the case. Now let’s look at this objectively, how many of you reading this have I not tried to force feed at some point during our acquaintance? Biscuits at work meetings.  5 course dinner parties. Some poor buggers amongst you were not only fed past bursting but you were then sent home with enough food to feed you for a week. I think I may have a disorder. I am certainly my wonderful mothers daughter I know that –my best friends lasting memory of their first visit to our house was the plentiful food offered(forced) into them (I am so going to get in trouble for writing that…err love you Mum?!!!)

 But tell me, at what point will we know it’s got out of control??!!

On that note it’s time for dinner….. Guard, …guard, here guard…

xXxXx