Astana, Kazakhstan: Working Mom, Will Travel (Kid-Free)–Part Six

   

                       

After fifty flights with children, I sit down on my first solo flight in over two years–from Almaty to Astana on a Wednesday afternoon.

This morning as I thought about packing, I felt giddy. It didn’t matter that the two dresses I threw into the suitcase for this week’s presentations are still pregnancy work clothes. I wasn’t phased about needing to deliver a presentation in the morning on aligning energy security goals in Central Asia with global climate change directives—a subject I know far too little about. All I could think about was how I would use these precious 60 hours of kid-free, weekday, work time to recharge my depleted batteries. Would I linger in the Mac store at the airport, getting a make over, and updating my stash of mascara and eyeliners? Might I finally get a leisurely pedicure in a massage chair that doesn’t get ruined as I jam my toes in closed- toed shoes when I race home to let the baby sitter go? Liberated from changing diapers, nursing a baby, and trying to navigate Santi’s moods, I wondered what I would do with my time on the plane: watch Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, or Kazakh movies? Fill out my Russian workbook, make new notecards of the 1000 different ways they say, “to go?” or sleep? It didn’t matter. I was about to take my first flight without a child, have my first overnight trip, baby free, alone, in two-and-a-half years. I couldn’t help notice a single mom wrestle her baby a few rows ahead of me nor the hands-on father trying to calm his crying toddler.  I silently chuckled as I put on my head phones, empathizing with them, and yet ready to enjoy my good fortune.

Wednesday Night, 10:00 p.m., in the hotel room.

I miss Zadie. What is a year or even three or five without sleep?  I can’t believe I am not sleeping with her tonight and feeding her all night. Go home now. I don’t even know what the decarbonization and carbon markets situation in Central Asia really is or should be.  I do know that our lives would be different had Al Gore become president. I can’t believe they put a crib in my room.  This bed sucks.  It is raining.  I am cold.  I need a massage.

Friday 4:00 p.m.  Flying home.

Smuggling 70 ounces of milk through Kazakh security, in a hardly concealed plastic hotel laundry bag filled with ice and Medella zip locks, I sharpened my elbows and prepared to fight the female security guard. “You can only bring one, 100-milliliter container of liquid through security,” she said stoically. Raising my voice, I declared, “I am a working mother who travels, my babies need this milk. If you want me to give the next seventy people in this line baggies of milk to carry through, we can do that.”

I felt especially motivated knowing that Zadie had in fact guzzled the last drop of liquid gold and had just downed four ounces of formula. Zadie needed this milk. When I asked Mary how the stash was holding up at home she had explained, “She drank 30 ounces the first night.  The supply won’t last until you get home. As you know, Whole Foods isn’t coming to Almaty until 2062 so I had to go to the local pharmacy and choose between a Russian language Nestle product and a Chinese brand of formula. Baby Center advises against not mixing formula and breast milk, because it only lasts for an hour. I preventatively gave Zadie a formula-filled bottle before we ran out of milk to see if she would take it. She did.”

My heart pounded realizing that my baby had had her first drop of formula. My mind flashed to the boatloads of milk I had donated, that I could never have transported to Kazakhstan from Colombia and I let me dream of exclusively breast feeding my babies die. In my very next thought, I imagined Mary and myself on a week long vacation in Thailand with one of you staying home giving Zadie bottles of formula while we do a yoga vacation on the beach. I mean really, what is this purist streak really about anyway? Many of my best friends gave their babies formula, women I respect at work grew up on formula, why the taboo? I came back to the conversation and asked Mary, “Are Zadie’s eyes twitching, does she still say kaboom, does she look less alert?”  “She is fine. Don’t forget to pick Santi up from school and to reschedule his dentist appointment that we missed today,” she responded.  Mary really was doing the heaving lifting this week bathing Santi while keeping one eye on Zadie in the exercauser, picking up a doctor’s note for Santi and shuffling him into school past the every-watchful eye of the doctor who guards the preschool door, stopping by my office to pick up the last two bags of milk.

My mind flashed back to the auditorium I had spent the morning in listening to the Kazakh President deliver his address to 1000s of economists about the transformation his country has gone through over the last 20 years of independence. The jumbo screen showed videos of internationally famous climbers, hiking in Kazakh Mountains, championing its world-class place peaks. Just like the short films they show on the Air Astana flights where professional athletes help make the case for the 2022 Winter Olympics in Almaty, 74-year-old President Nazarbayev, an ambitious man who consistently aims to place this 17 million person country on the world stage by hosting flashy events and inviting the world to come take a look. In fact, the morning panel was hosted by Linda Yueh, the BBC business news correspondent, who was so polished I found myself taking notes on her rather than the content of the speeches.  Scribbling on paper with pen, my newly polished blue sparkly finger tips moved the blue ink across the page.  “Make up–flawless, annunciates every syllable as a speech coach would advise–clearly, slowly, calmly. Out fit–ironed, flattering, fitted.” As Mary listed the domestic chores that awaited me, my mind wondered back to LindaYueh. Does she have small children?  Was she going to be smuggling milk home past these same relentless guards?  Did she too have a battery powered, double sided, breast pump on the floor by her feet that doubled as their purse?  My mind continued on this spin, how many years did it take her to get her professional game back on after her break to have children?  How long does it take most women in that auditorium to have their work wardrobe, well packed professional purse, and conference A-game back on again after surviving the baby years?

I mean, I can still hold my own with a new born, up all night, breastfeeding on demand, wearing that little munchkin front and back as she grows, helping her transition to solid foods, and teaching her to use sign language, the potty, and a spoon like the best of them, but at some point, doesn’t this season come to an end, and your purse no longer holds breast pads, milk stained note-pads, and back up manual pumps?  This has to be a short term chapter of life, my mind offered.  I guess the decision is mine, another part of my brain spoke up. “Do I want this season to last four or seven years? Is it time to put another baby in the oven on 350 and let her cook? Will Zadie be the last and the youngest? I interrupted my own thoughts and answered Mary, “Sure babe, I will pick up Santi and see you at 6. Fill Zadie up on your homemade pumpkin, potatoe mash please, milk is on its way.”

I re-centered myself in the airport and meandered towards the snack shop for dinner wondering when Whole Foods would reach Astana and I could pick up a salad to go from the hot bar of pumpkin, spinach, and tofu and and skip the horse sandwich. In 2062, I will be 89-years-old, likely visiting 47-year-old Zadie who will be in the throws of her career, pondering what kind of childcare she wants for her children. If Nazurbayv has his way, Kazakhstan will have reached its goal of being one of the top fifty economies in the world; The Chinese will be shipping consumer goods on high-speed trains across this massive land mass to Western Europe, and Both ISIL will be defeated and Afghanistan will be a stable country.

My mind changed channels as I boarded the plane and I recalled how my democratic roots had propelled me to pepper my Kazakh and Uzbek friends with questions the night before “What are the local dynamics at play for a transition of power, an opposition party, an alternative to the 20+ year president,”I inquired. They didn’t bite. “Amy, yesterday on FB, a list went around saying you know you are from Kazakhstan if 1. You have one Korean friend, 2. You have an Agashka and 3. Every conversation about politics ends with this statement, “Let Nazurbayev live for another 100 years.” She went on to explain, “We are prosperous and peaceful. We don’t want a change. We don’t take stability for granted.”

We had huddled last night in a dive bar called “Chilli Peppers” to celebrate my birthday with a few rounds of Karaoke. After a moving rendition of Jive Talking and Kiss, I popped my own fantasy of finally learning a few Kazakh rock songs when we all agreed that the second hand smoke was too toxic to stay in the bar. We transferred to a second pub with live music and continued the conversation over the buzz of a remarkable female accordion player who pounded out Pink Floyd’s The Wall crushing my stereotype of the accordian being reserved for 60+ year-old-men with large bellies and suspenders playing at the VFW. We all complained about how Astana’s pretentious, over-priced, attempt to be something special had resulted in a bar scene that drove most people to celebrate their birthday’s at home. “I can’t believe the Artist demanded a 12,000 tenge per person cover,” she exclaimed, “I have celebrated all 46 of my birthdays at home and wish Astana would overcome its false sense of self. We can’t afford to go out here.” Nazurbayav’s attempt to make Astana the Dubai of central Asia seemed to be working from the sheer number of space age buildings he had built, and the relative increase in GDP he had obtained compared to it’s neighbors. It was hard to have a geopolitical conversation when the music was so good. We all hung over the railing of our second floor pub booth and took in her musical prowess. “We will go if the next song isn’t good,” Sveta proposed. Opening and closing the accordion, she slowly pounded out the Eagles classic, Hotel California, and we all sung along understanding that we weren’t ready to leave. “On a dark desert high way.” I couldn’t remember the last time I had been out past 10:00 p.m.

As the plane touched down in Astana at 5:20 p.m., just in time for me to pick Santi up from daycare I named the facts.  42 turned out to be a great birthday. I got to treat myself to a massage and manicure in a remote Soviet era retro hotel, Zadie got to try formula, further demonstrating that there is nothing she can’t do, and Mary teased me about how easy the nights are for the breastfeeding parent who only had to roll over and feed the baby versus her work of heating the milk, checking the temperature, and giving Zadie multiple bottles. I will take it.  And now back to the rigamarole.

Dubai and Istanbul: Working Mom, Will Travel–Part Five

I turn 42 this week.  I have two kids, ages two and under.  I haven’t ruled out a third child and wonder what the world would feel like with three kids under the age of five. I work in international development and am based in Almaty, Kazakhstan, although, the job is regional and has me traveling to capitals in every direction.  In the next month, I will travel to Astana, Tashkent, Dushanbe, Ashgabat, and Bangkok.  Having put my foot down, I will send surrogates to Bishkek and Shymkent–declaring that enough is enough. Who can find those cities on a map without asking the precocious fourth-grader in the house who is currently studying geography to find them?

Five months into this assignment, we have come to realize that Central Asia feels like the last stop on planet earth.  We often ask ourselves if there is a less known, less visited, less on-the-way-part of the world, where would it be.  Many friends and colleagues have traveled to all corners of Africa, China, New Zealand, the tip of Chile, the innards of Afghanistan, and even out to the tail of Alaska and yet never considered a visit to the heart of Turkmenistan. The contender is likely Antarctica.

This post is part five of what I have learned from traveling so much as a working mother, with an unconventional home set-up.  That is code for I don’t have a stay-at-home partner who joyfully manages all childcare and doctor’s visits while putting her career on hold for five to seven years while the children grow their way into day-long kindergarden.  I have a supportive partner, a day time nanny, a night time nanny, a housekeeper, and daycare which I juggle while each week in a new location and often with an on-location, sight-unseen, nanny who works out of the hotel. We have all become expert travelers with four separate frequent flyer numbers on Air Astana–the remarkable local airline.

Recently, we traveled to Dubai and Istanbul for work.  We bombed one trip and aced the next.  Sadly, it was impossible to hire childcare in Dubai–literally impossible.  I canvassed my 900+ Facebook friends for leads.  Although many friends had lived there or had friends still stationed there, no one knew of an available baby sitter.  Next, I tried the U.S. Embassy Community Liaison Office, which everywhere else I have traveled has been my one-stop-shop for finding childcare vetted and recommended by other American families.  I got a grim email from them stating, “We offer no assistance in finding childcare.” I should have known right then, that I was setting myself up for failure.  This is an outlier and it was the first red flag.

When we arrived in Dubai, we visited all the must see sights: the tallest building in the world, the aquarium, and the beach.  I asked the concierge for childcare, they had none–second red flag.  I was finally given the contact for a local agency that could assist for rates that were quadruple what I have paid anywhere else.  They sent me a scale with different prices for each nationality.  I opted to keep searching.  I went to the salon at the hotel and asked the manicurists who represented Vietnam, Philippines, and India if any of them had a friend, cousin, or sister looking for a two-day job babysitting out of my hotel room.  Not one, had a single friend or relative available to work part-time–third red flag.

I slowly came to understand, that no one comes to Dubai without a job.  Each person working in Dubai came with an agency from their home country with a job and a visa tied to that job.  They all worked six days a week and didn’t know a soul who didn’t.  Finally, feeling sorry for me, the ladies in the salon recommended a woman, who lived in staff housing behind the hotel who could care for Santi and Zadie in her apartment along with their kids, although I might not be able to enter the complex to inspect the premises.  My stomach turned in knots.  I said thank you, but then, no thank you.

Finally, a sweet, compassionate, kid-crazy Vietnamese woman named Queen offered to help us out on her day off and my partner took both kids to the beach on the second day of my conference.  She has a full time job as well, so this wasn’t ideal, in fact, we consider our attempt to wing it in Dubai, as working women who travel, a reminder to never take the band again on a work trip.  But really, who can leave them behind?  Not me, at least not yet.

We did get a bit smarter for our Istanbul work trip.  Thankfully, the U.S. Embassy offered a long list of names, with references to call on.  We found a nanny, whose main family was on vacation for the dates we were in town.  We were able to each work during the day, while the nanny took care of the kiddos in the room.  We had her come early enough so we could each hit the gym, both knowing that self-care is the key to sanity.  We also protected our couple time by building in a day-time date for us to roam the markets without two kids hanging from our back and chest, we each got a new primary color pair of knock-off city walking shoes and a trip to the Hammam.  Sometimes, it all comes together and it clicks.  Childcare is nothing less than everything when both adults work and one job requires constant travel.  I know, I know, wrong job when I have small kids.

On the brighter side, Zadie has visited nine countries in nine months.  Santi loved the Bosphorus tour, and we gobbled up all the Turkish delight, halva, and baklava in sight.

This week, I am turning a page in this book and taking my first trip to Astana on my own.  This will be the first night in my life as a mother that I don’t see one or both of my kids.  I am ready for it and am grateful for what just might be the perfect birthday–a night alone, a full night’s sleep, and a trip to the gym in the morning that doesn’t involve pumping, translating my requests into Russian, and that constant worry that something could be wrong.