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Just some fun stuff today …

A short film my niece made, and a couple of photos Gay took the other day while snorkeling:
coral©2008GMonins

Sea turtle©2008GMonins

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That pesky thing called life is getting in the way of my blogging at the moment, but I’ll try today to incorporate a bit of one into the other in a way someone other than my mother might find interesting enough to follow through a couple of paragraphs.

Visual aides always help, so there will be photos, too.

First, I would like to thank everyone sending congratulatory messages and lovely thoughts in response to my Answers.com writing challenge win. All are much appreciated, and I’m very touched by how many people are dropping by to read Sweet Polska. I think I’m just about caught up on the emails, but if I’ve not responded yet please be patient.

We’ve been preparing for a big milestone that we hit today. This morning, Sam took his first step on the educational trail he’ll most likely be treading for the next thirteen or fourteen years: He’s now a student at The International School Seychelles.

This is where he will carry on learning all the way through A Levels, after which he’ll have to go abroad for university … a step Mark and I can’t stand the thought of, but know will be upon us about next week with the way time is flying.

It is a brand new Early Childhood Section building that saw today’s influx, so all of the kids were on equal footing as far as the facility goes, and that fact had Sam feeling quite comfortable. There were not only no tears, but a palpable excitement in him, and a confidence even his teacher, well occupied with attempts at organizing the part of the hoard that was to be her class, noted and commented upon amidst the throng.

The International School year actually began in September, but we kept Sam in the local school in our village, the gov’t school schedule runs January to December, for the extra months to finish the year with his friends. Not only were we putting off the commute … it takes at least 45 minutes to get into town where the International School is … we also feel it’s important that his Creole be good and rooted in his brain in hopes that the language will stick with him even when he isn’t speaking it as a matter of course throughout the day.

Because the completion of the new section of the school was scheduled for this month, a second intake has Sam starting at the same time as about a quarter of the total of young kids, with the rest returning, but to the new digs, after the Christmas break.

This was his first day wearing a school uniform, and, man-oh-man!, he is very cool in his. I don’t know how prepared he was to see all the other kids dressed the same, but he did seem to fit right in, and as time came to line up … oh! the ubiquitous lining up … he jumped right to it and started the queue.

He is so ready to learn, and expects to start that process today. (I’ve warned his teacher, explaining that he has all the Harry Potter books lined up to read and wants to get that show on the road! We tried to do the same when he started creche, as his thought then was that school was where he was going to learn about how the dinosaurs became extinct. He’s still miffed that that wasn’t part of the curriculum.)

The summary dismissal his father and I received as he headed up the line and led the class through the door … Watch out for wet paint! … had us both blinking back the tears that never fail to spring when we’re confronted with how much, and how quickly, our boy is growing up.

You’ll notice in the photos that ethnicity is not an issue here, and the mix at the International School is actually much more a fact than in the local schools. At the creche, Sam was one of only a handful of non-black kids, where at the new school all races are represented more evenly.

He is the only Cambodian-born child, and will be until his sister and the three other Cam-born kids in Seychelles start school, and very likely the only internationally adopted child … unless there is an adoptive family amongst the expats here on contract for a couple of years … as it appears he was the first in the country. His teacher and I will be working together to address these issues, but since the kids in the school come from so many different countries and backgrounds and religions and ethnic groups, the focus does tend to be more on the similarities, and I suspect he will have an easier time than transracially adopted kids in other parts of the world experience.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll post some photos, then go hug Cj … maybe tightly enough to keep her tiny just a little bit longer?

First day of school
Sam’s 1st day at school

Sam’s anxious to learn
He’s anxious to learn

The brand new school section
The brand new school

And just for fun, this cool rock at the beach we call … Ready for it? … Fish Rock. Like pirates, we’re not too good on thinking up names. (I have a brother named Larry … )
Fish Rock

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Being a Tuesday and all, I’m thinking it’s time I published a post my mother will read. This is, after all, still my personal blog, and I’ve been ignoring readers who don’t happen to live and breathe adoption and its related issues, but rather think my little kids … who just happen to be adopted … are adorable and worth spending time gazing over in cute holiday shots, and who like hearing about what’s happening in my life.

Those who couldn’t care less about me, my life or my family are excused from today’s blog.

Mom gets some bragging rights, as I was informed yesterday that I won First Place in the Answers.com Creating Writing Challenge. This was the third time I’d participated in what has been a fun practice in brain flexing, and coming in First has me right chuffed. I was pleased with what came from the list of “must use” words, and am happy enough that someone agreed that it was good. So happy, in fact, that the “I Won” badge will be a sidebar feature for some time to come. Besting what must have been thousands of entries, you won’t catch me … or my mom … sneezing at this acknowledgment.

I’d recently read Irene Nemirovsky’s “Suite Française”, and that elegant tale of the horrors of occupied France obviously inspired “Sweet Polska”. (I write on adoption out of passion, but fiction is all love.)

With the holidays over, it’s time to post those photos I’ve been promising, so here are a few from Christmas and New Year Eve.

Sam and Cj Christmas Eve with the tree in the background …
Sam Cj and Tree

Checking out the gifts … notice that small rip in the wrapping paper?
checking gifts

Cj’s not happy about being discovered in the process of peeking …
Busted

Some of our Christmas Eve open house guests …
Guests

Kids on Christmas Eve
guest’s kids

Our youngest guest …
The youngest

Mark had a good time!
Mark laughs

Sam served tea …
Tea

New Year’s Eve. Me with my friend, Michael …
Me and Michael

Cj holding hands with Daddy
Daddy’s hand

Sliding into the new year!
slide kids

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It may be Christmas night where you are as I write, but here in Seychelles it’s already Boxing Day. Like in the States, Boxing Day is not a legal holiday, so Mark is at work and, fortunately, my housekeeper is beginning to make a dent in the mess the last couple of days have created in my kitchen.

Being that I live in a tropical island paradise, Internet access has been cut off for the past day and a half, so please forgive me if I’ve not been quick to return contact. (There are good and bad aspects to paradise living, and given the behavior of some readers of this blog and others over the past weeks, no Internet could be considered a blessing … although a marked lack of comment has followed information that apparently gave some pause for thought. Too bad that didn’t happen first! The thought, I mean. I’m hoping a few of the cruel and nasty are considering reparations as a New Year’s resolution. )

Our Christmas Eve open house was, as always, very pleasant. Over the course of the evening, we had people from eleven different countries … Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, and those with little if any persuasion at all … ranging in age from 80+ years to 6 months … and one still in the tummy not due to make an appearance until May … all celebrating the season of peace.

Christmas Day was lovely. The kids did the kid thing enthusiastically here at home, and then again at Gay’s house later, with gift wrap and what it’s wrapping, and they are happy with the new bounty. I did the turkey thing, and it turned out beautifully, as did Gay’s duck, pork and fish dish, so that bounty pleased, as well.

The atmosphere was thick with love and friendship, and with more children in attendance than usual the day felt even more festive. Since three little girls between the ages of 2.75 and 4 were all in full Fairy Princess gear, there was more than the normal touch of magic about, too.

Of course, I can’t help but spend some time focusing on who is missing from the mix I would give a lot to have together, but living half a world away from so many I love I am so grateful to everyone I do have with me.

I hope you, too, have had a wonderful time.

(More photos will follow, but I have to share Cj’s ensemble. Her brother’s too-small CIA t-shirt was apparently required to complete the look.)

Sam and Princess Cj of the CIA

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It’s the 11th of December … ack! … and it might as well be July for all the festive, criscringle, deck-dos-halls-itis I don’t have even a touch of.

Just the thought of digging out my three-foot-tall, rotating, fake Christmas tree sends my mood south and pins me to my office chair while visions of “later, maybe” dance in my head.

With the month starting off with a nasty cow canning my ass from my blog job, refusing to give any reason whatsoever, and then scurrying into her dim little hidey-hole to keep from having to account for her actions, then learning that my darling of a foster son will soon be moving far beyond any observable distance, my mood isn’t exactly in sync with any jingling bells on bob tails ringing.

(And, yes, I’m still bitter and angry over the treatment I got from Brandy and her masters at Adoption.com. If you miss reading me there … or if you’d simply like to annoy her … here’s an email address where you can mention my name, and call her a few if you like: 4802865086@cingularme.com)

Not that I have really been overcome with Christmas cheer since moving to the tropics; temperatures in the upper 80s just aren’t conducive to conjuring a feeling of walking in a winter wonderland.

It’s amazingly hard to build happy holiday traditions and memories in this heat and glaring sunshine for Sam and Cj … I have to accept that their ho-ho-hos will be all about barefoot Santas and tinsel on coconut trees … when the holiday is so loaded with me missing my other kids and the rest of my family.

I can almost capture the smell of freshly cut pine, my mother’s kitchen and the smoky frigid air of the Northern California December … well, right up until the time that I need to crank up the aircon in my office to keep the sweat pouring from my fingers from freezing up my laptop.

Like most holidays in Seychelles, for a big part of the population this one is about drinking to excess and hanging around. Attempts at wrangling up Christmas spirit are weak, at best, and I can’t help but think I’d handle the holiday a bit better with fewer stabs at decking the halls. (See photos.)

I have twelve days to pump myself up for the holiday, but quite a few less to begin, middle and finish the prep that needs doing.

Yikes! What am I doing sitting here kvetching. I need to get in gear, order some gifts for family in the US, break out the tree, find some wrapping paper somewhere on this island, put together a menu for our obligatory Christmas Eve open house, and on and on and on.

This will be a great time for Sam and Cj, and I will enjoy the holiday through their eyes. I will, however, still be glad when it’s over.

Sam with the village Christmas decor … sigh
The village Christmas decor

A local shop in full Christmas mode. Yep. That’s it. Isn’t the razor wire a nice touch?
A shop decorated for the holidays … sigh, again

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I have so much I need to write about today, but so little time. We’ve had power cut … AGAIN … and this one lasted all bloody day. The impact of this sort of inconvenience is the blog equivalent of a twelve-hour snow storm when the only plow driver is plowed; by the time he sobers up, stuff is piled high as the rafters and it’s going to take days to dig out.

In an attempt at fairness to Marley of Bastard Nation, I need to spend some time on the site to check out her assertion that the group is not anti-adoption, but rather simply proponents of open records. I’m suspecting I’ll find that to be the case, and I may have to admit that jumping on that bandwagon in yesterday’s post could have been a move inspired by her general grumpiness toward children altogether witnessed often on AltAdopt and other places she gleefully casts little ones as the immature life form they can be.

I’ll get back to y’all on this over the next couple of days.

There are so many more topics for the day, but I’ll leave you with just this one out of the UK about a couple that just won a case in The European Court of Human Rights.

The British Home Office was taken to court to claim damages when a murder serving time and his wife, met and married while he’s been in jail, were not allowed to do the AI dance … a pas de deux possible from different counties.

They turned to the European Court of Human Rights, claiming a violation of their “right to respect for private and family life” and “right to marry and found a family”, both guaranteed by the Human Rights Convention.

Anyone else thinking this “rights” business can go a bit far?

That’s it for today. Fingers are crossed for tomorrow to be a day of electricity … and I ain’t talking thrills, just a dim bulb or two and enough juice to get fruit bat in charge back to cranking the Internet connection.

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They’re doing well, Dinah’s puppies, and growing so fast I can almost see the size increase as it happens, especially around the belly. Dinah is a good mom and has been very attentive, but now that her brood is approaching 3 weeks of age she’s spending more and more time away from them.

Can’t say that I blame her! Eight pups latched on and sucking for all they’re worth has to be draining in more ways than lactation can account for. There’s nothing subtle about a bottomless pit o’ pup, and there are a lot of those here, and a few hours of peace and quiet in the garden or a friendly romp with another adult dog must feel like a little bit of heaven to a mother of eight.

(I know I could sound so much more professional about all this dog and breeding stuff if I referred to Dinah as a bitch, but I just can’t bring myself to do that. She’s such a sweet girl.)

Voracious as these guys are, solid food is already relished as you can see, and because of that, I’m guessing, their mother is less interested in cleaning up after them. (Can you blame her? I am SO glad we humans don’t have to tidy our children the same way other animals do. Sure, it would save on wipes, but … blech!) With proliferating piles of puppy poop plopping on my porch, we’re moving the whole family down to the kennel today. It won’t be as easy to schmooze a pooch when they’re not right under foot, but having them elsewhere will freshen the air up here considerably and provide me with a good excuse to take a longer break more often.

I’ve taken some shots this morning, but they’re not great. The pups are almost more than a handful now, so it’s a lot harder to get a decent photo of them.

A good mom
Dinah and pups

Eyes open, but is anybody home?
Eyes open

A handful, and with big feet
Handful

Solid food!
Solid food

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Ahhhh, Saturday. The weekend. The break between one work week and the next. A chance to … to … to what?

Around here, it’s a chance to play a game of Scrabble with Gay while the kids hang with dad in the garden, pitching in with the yard work … or pretending to … while a relaxed and quiet atmosphere prevails.

Or not.

Today, not only did we have the now-constant racket of puppies a-whinin’ and a-howlin’ and perpetually-hungerin’ loud enough to beat the band somewhere in the upper octaves, these often ear-splitting wails were accompanied by the whine-whirl, vroom-vroom of weed-wacker, the deeper bass growl of chain saw, with assorted power tool embellishments.

Yes, it was men-doing-stuff day, and in my world that means NOISE.

From eight o’clock this morning until about fifteen minutes ago I could, almost literally, not hear myself think. Three men doing stuff … cutting the grass, building something, propping up the banana trees, getting the kennel ready for the puppies to move off the verandah … can make my Saturdays a practice in concentration, a day-long search for a quiet moment, wistful wishing that I still owned a mouth guard so I could take some measure to keep my teeth from rattling out of my head.

Our house is a work in progress, so some Saturdays include carpentry work. Our garden is over an acre of lush growth, so the grass needs cutting and shrubs need pruning and coconuts need picking up. Mark’s list of chores never seems to get any shorter, so there’s always something that needs doing, and just about everything requires some piece of equipment with a motor attached to do it.

There’s an hour lull for lunch … Didn’t I just clean this kitchen? … when the machines are switched off and the mouths on. With the conversation completely in Creole, I don’t spend any time trying to listen in, not that I’d need to strain my ears. Three Seychellois men munching down fried mackerel and baked breadfruit somehow manage to carry on conversation without pause and seem to crank up the volume with every bite. The talk must be engrossing, as there’s not even a second’s let up, but whenever I ask Mark what all the yack was about, like an evasive teen his answer is always, “Nothing.”

Lunch over, it’s vroom, growl, whine all over again, and seeming even louder for the absence.

Knowing that think time would be limited, I opted to clean the shelves in my kitchen, so instead of something deep and interesting for the last NaBloPoMo Saturday post, you get this.

A thought, though, before I go …

If women worked with power tools more than men did, do you think we’d make them quieter?

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My house sits on some of the oldest dirt on the planet.

Yep.

I’m not talking about the grit behind my fridge; although that has been there a while, it’s nothing compared to the soil, pebbles and boulders that make up the island of Mahé and the 39 or so other inner islands of Seychelles.

Mahé, Praslin, LaDigue, and other smaller lumps are the oldest ocean islands in the world, and our dirt here is so old that we don’t even have fossils. Can’t, because at the time what is now our little country formed there was nothing living anywhere — no plants or animals, no single-celled pre-living thing. Nothing. There was sky. There was sea. There was here. That was it.

Unlike islands people think of when tropical beaches come to mind, this island and her close neighbors have never seen a volcano. Our ground is granite … ancient, strong and lovely granite, the only mid-ocean granite islands in the world … and to geologists, granite means nothing less than continent.

There’s not much left to see now … Mahé is, after all, only 17 miles long and 4 miles wide … but where I sit writing this blog is the vestigial remains of Pangea, the super-continent of all super-continents, the one that started it all.

The soil in my garden was here before Gondwanaland decided to be its own chunk, and that was about 520 million years ago. Before dinosaurs roamed, before the places dinosaurs roamed were even places, the rocks I train my alamanda to grow over were warming in the sun and shedding rain.

These are rocks worth celebrating, wouldn’t you say? As ancient as the planet itself, slowly decomposing as granite does over the millennia, tiny residual land masses sinking a fraction of an inch every 1000 years, what else could signify Earth as well as these islands?

Apparently, the answer to that question would be: Well, a whole bunch of trendy hotels that are guaranteed to be out-of-date white elephants within little more than a decade should do the trick.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s blog, these islands are being hacked and hewn at a rate that provides a horrifying example of the destruction humans worship.

Our rocks? Blown to bits by dynamite over and over again, as my house shakes with each blast and I jump out of my skin as the booms sneak up and bite another piece of beautiful granite and reduce it to rubble. And now the hotel construction devils … proudly making the way for environmentally sensitive tourists to stroll manicured gardens and swim in temperature-controlled pools … are employing a silent destroyer of venerable rock — a chemical that gets poured down a jackhammered hole, expands overnight, and cracks and splits what has for millions of years held its form.

Yesterday I was mad as hell. Today, I’m still mad, and totally sick about it.

Sam on rock

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People are so strange. It takes just one look at the stats page for this blog to see how true a statement that is — here are some search terms entered that ended up bringing people to this site yesterday:

plastic boobs
top ten things in a good man
big honkin tits
adopt as an expat
nurses cleavage
things women want in men
the meaning of pre occupied
green thanksgiving jello

Okay, I get how it works, but can’t for anything imagine someone Googling “nurses cleavage”.

Anyway, on to what’s on my mind today …

Rape and pillage and plunder. Yep, that’s it. Not in the sense of ancient Vandals who found such methods conducive to compliance with their expansionist goals … well, not literally in that sense … but rather having to do with hotels doing what amounts to the same thing.

It’s land and lifestyles being raped and pillaged and plundered around here right now, and today provides quite the good example of how this works.

Please keep in mind that hotels in Seychelles will try to pass themselves off as all environmentally aware and culturally sensitive. Bollocks!

The new Four Seasons Hotel project that has been reducing nature to rubble in my backyard for the past couple of years is getting ready to move into another phase of destruction that involves an area yet untouched that will eventually be covered in ‘executive villas’ … multi-million dollar holiday homes for obscenely rich Saudis and Russians.

The first step in ruining this part of the island for anyone but rich Saudis and Russians is to get rid of the road that runs down to Anse Soleil Beach. Never mind that there is already a small, locally-owned hotel there, not to mention my in-laws’ house, the home of Mark’s grandmother, uncle and family, and a restaurant, because they apparently count for nothing. The plan is to build a parking area a good half-mile-plus of hell hill away and let the people that live down there, and the people who support the hotel and the restaurant, walk.

The arrogance of this is beyond belief.

Mark’s grandmother is 86. Mark’s dad is 67. The walk, even in good weather, is long and tough; in the rain it’s slick and treacherous. PLUS, it’s a public road there to provide access to people that need to get back and forth from the beach to the village.

I won’t even go into the mess they’re making of one of the world’s most beautiful bays, how the construction waste is taking a fatal toll on fish, sea turtles and corals. (In the environmental impact assessment required before permission was given to build this horror, a big deal was made about the “low impact lighting” they would have so as not to bother nesting sea turtles!)

We’re set to get 60 more of these hotel projects over the next few years … 60 … none of which will be built where the white elephants of past trends stuggle to keep afloat with 10% occupancy are rotting away. And all will be just as arrogant, just as much a disaster as this Four Seasons project. Tourists will come and go, see only the artificial and groomed corpse of what once was and figure they’re getting their money’s worth, while the super-rich will stop by as long as it’s trendy to stop by here, then will move along to the next victim.

In the meantime, the people living here will watch the bits and pieces of this beautiful body of land as they’re bloodily hacked away, and try their best not to be shoved out of the way with the rest of what belongs here.

Today it’s my in-laws fighting for the continuation of the right to drive to their own home. Tomorrow, it will be something else as this island is turned from paradise to playground, and like everywhere else in the world this has already happened, it will be ruined forever.

How long ago did Joni Mitchell sing the song?

I am so damned mad!

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