I never thought I'd become a teacher. I wasn't particularly hardworking at school — I'd say I was a lazy boy. Studying was definitely not my priority. I didn't start taking things seriously until I was around 15, and even then, only the things I actually enjoyed. Before that, I played football and lived by the motto “let's see what happens.” As kids, we'd sometimes talk about what we'd do when we grew up, but those conversations were really about games, television, and just enjoying life.

My father spent several years teaching sailing at a naval school, and you can't do that without mathematical calculations. My mother was a housewife, but her favourite subject at school was mathematics. My sister earned her first money tutoring in mathematics, and my brother taught the subject at school. My two children are both engineers. There's something there — possibly even in the genes.

Towards the end of my teens, I decided to pursue mathematics. It was the only subject at school that I genuinely liked. I also enjoyed chemistry, but not as much. And physical education — no doubts there. However, I was clearly not good enough for a sports career.

I enrolled at the University of Lisbon without any particular plan. In the 1980s in Portugal, there was no Master's degree in mathematics — my Bachelor programme was five years long. In the third year, you had to choose a specialization. I was drawn to mathematics as a way of thinking rather than as a tool, so I spent the final two years studying algebra. After graduating, I applied for a teaching assistant position, got the job, and stayed in this line of work till now, and had no ideas of changing.

I grew up in Lisbon and spent most of my life there. In Portugal, people tend to stay close to family. It's a beautiful city with lots of hills, a pleasant climate, and just by the river. Winters drop to around 8–10 degrees, and summers can reach 40.

As a child, I almost never saw tourists in the streets. Maybe at upscale beaches or fancy hotels, but that was it. Everything changed after Portugal joined the European Union. The Erasmus exchange programme was launched, and students started travelling to the United Kingdom, Germany, Switzerland, among others. I went abroad only during my PhD — my supervisor was in Scotland, so I followed him there.

I did my Bachelor's at the University of Lisbon and then started my career at NOVA University (Universidade Nova de Lisboa). Both were in Lisbon, but very different. The university where I studied was nearly a hundred years old, deeply traditional, fundamentals-first. The one where I began my career was only 11 years old — modern, applied, full of new ideas.

When we were hired as assistants, we were immediately put in charge of problem-solving sessions — three or four groups, around nine hours a week. We worked directly with students, somehow independently of the professors. Two years later, I completed my public defence and moved up to the next level. I started my PhD in 1988 and finished in 1992.

Things changed gradually. Office hours became mandatory — students could come to you with questions. Back in that time, that was new to me. As a student, I would never have dreamed of knocking on a professor's door. If I had a question, I asked it in class.

When I started teaching, I tried to speak the students' language and to use examples from their own fields. At some places, they called me by my first name. I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

In 2008, the global financial crisis hit. The university where I worked came close to shutting down — or at least that's how it felt. Salaries were being delayed, so I decided to look for work abroad.

At the time, I had no experience teaching in English. When an offer came from the Bahamas, I accepted it. That opened doors — suddenly, my CV showed that I knew the subject and could teach in English.

The Bahamas is a wonderful place to visit, but an expensive place to live. As soon as I found another position, I left. First Kazakhstan, then Oman. I hadn't planned to travel the world, but that's how things unfolded.

Kazakhstan was hard to adjust to. I lived in Astana from 2015 to 2017 — two years in total. No smartphone, no Google Maps. I remember buying a tin that I thought was mushrooms. It turned out to be pâté. I couldn't read the label, so I went by the picture.

I lived on campus at Nazarbayev University. Each building had a reception desk, and the staff there spoke excellent English. One of them would call me a taxi and write my destination in Russian on a piece of paper. That's how we managed — with a piece of paper.

The university was already losing its popularity by then — you could feel it. Things were shifting, budgets were being redistributed differently. I decided to look elsewhere.

After that, an offer came from a university in India. We went as a family — partly as tourists, partly to see whether it was somewhere we could live. After three or four days, we decided against it. Too crowded, too noisy, too hot and humid. I can't handle spicy food. My wife felt the same.

Oman made me a good offer — a better position and a step up career-wise. I lived there for six years. Then, in 2020, Sultan Qaboos bin Said died, and his successor had different ideas. Things changed significantly.

I came home from that meeting and told my wife I was going to start applying again.

I still hear stories from friends who stayed, and they frighten me. I'm glad I left when I did, although I really enjoyed living there.

That same day, I opened my weekly job listings newsletter, and I saw New Uzbekistan University. I'd enjoyed working with Kazakh students very much. I hadn't heard anything about Uzbek students, but I figured they probably weren't worse. I decided to give it a try. Things went very well in the hiring process and I moved to Tashkent.

My wife has always joined me, and coming to Uzbekistan was an obvious decision. She wants to feel useful and everywhere we lived abroad she has been a volunteer in a Library. In Tashkent she is very happy to help one day a week at the Nationwide Children's Library.

I was advised to exchange money at the airport. I had around $400 with me. When I got the soums back, I couldn't believe my eyes — I was holding this enormous stack of notes! Millions! Now, I always advise newcomers to bring an envelope, since the wallet will not be enough. I had no idea people carried so much cash. I got used to it eventually.

After arriving, I was told which courses I'd be teaching and given the freedom to design the syllabus. I got to know my colleagues. One of them, Professor Alisher Ikramov, was incredibly kind to me and to the other new staff. For several days, he took us to different restaurants for lunch, explained what plov and samsa were, showed us where to find a pharmacy, and set up Yandex Maps for me to replace Google Maps. None of that was his job. But he seemed to understand that we were completely lost — and he helped.

On my first Sunday, I decided to go to the Catholic Church — the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I didn't know which bus to take or where to board it, so I walked for a whole hour. Now I use public transport regularly. Mostly the bus. I don't like the metro — too crowded, and I don't enjoy being underground.

The people in Tashkent are friendly — everyone will tell you that. The city is green, clean, and a pleasant place to live. But walking can be genuinely dangerous. I've fallen a couple of times already. There are potholes everywhere — you have to watch your feet constantly. Sometimes, new things get built, and a year later, it's already falling apart. There's a bridge near the university where they laid tiles and planted flowers. It looked lovely. Then summer passed, and it was all broken. You are throwing money away. If you want people to come here and not break their legs, the state of the pavements can't be ignored.

The other thing I've noticed is about pharmacies and how they operate. In Portugal, there's a national pharmacy association and a well-organised system. You walk in with a prescription — either they have it, or they order it and it arrives the next day.

On top of that, some staff will say "no" the moment they realise you don't speak Uzbek or Russian — without even looking up. My friend Professor Alisher saves me in those moments — he sends me links to specific pharmacies in the navigation app. Without him, I'd be in trouble.

The language barrier is part of a broader issue. Coming from Oman, where everyone speaks English, it's especially noticeable here. Outside Tashkent, it can be very difficult indeed. And yet I walk past language schools packed with young people. The situation is changing — just not everywhere yet. English matters if the country wants to develop tourism.

I remember one funny moment. A colleague and I were sitting in a restaurant. When the waiter spoke to us, my colleague went quiet and paused for a moment. I asked what had happened. He laughed and explained that he'd been listening to the waiter in Uzbek, translating it into Russian for himself, and then into English — a third language — for me. That says it all.

I'm considered a strict professor — sometimes too strict. But even with high expectations, I have students who score 100% on my exams. I teach two Calculus courses to first-year students and demand what I believe should be demanded.

There are good students, and there are exceptional ones — the kind who are every teacher's dream: clever, hard-working, capable. Only the latter deserve the highest grades. Out of 300 students, perhaps five will earn top marks — those who know the material at 93% or above. On the opposite extreme, there are others who do nothing but cheat. What strikes me is how naturally they do it. You look them in the eye and see no shame, no apology whatsoever.

I'll admit I'm probably stricter than average, though not as strict as people say. My wife will tell you I can be quite soft when marking — I set high expectations and try to balance that out. But we don't want graduates going to an employer who says, “Where did you study? You know nothing.” That's a disaster for a university. It's better to put 100 well-prepared professionals than 200, half of whom can't do the job.

At New Uzbekistan University, my official working hours are nine to six. Since this is academic work, there's some flexibility. If nothing is scheduled in the late afternoon, I can leave earlier. If my first class is at noon, I might go to the pool in the morning and arrive by half past ten. The important thing is doing your job. In Europe, we call this academic freedom.

Academics regularly work on the weekends — what they need is the freedom to manage their own time. I understand this is a different country and change takes time, but giving people some flexibility with their schedule is already a meaningful step in the right direction. New Uzbekistan University leaders understand that and are applying these practices as much as possible.

For students, too, there's something important here. From the age of 17 or 18, they're surrounded by people from different countries and cultures. They're learning about life. The first generation of Portuguese students who did Erasmus — they're in their forties and fifties now — they understand the world far better than I did. Students here get a similar experience, and earlier. They can travel through exchange programmes to the UAE and China, and we want to expand that list. But it takes time and requires а good reputation. You can't build everything at once.

At the university, I feel integrated. In the city, I'm still a foreigner. You notice it in small things.

Uzbekistan has taught me patience. A new institution brings a lot of challenges — rules to be written, processes to be built. You have to be patient when things don't happen on time. Instead of getting angry, I've learned to wait and reflect deeply before reacting. Age probably helps with that too. I'm likely one of the oldest members of staff here. I value youth enormously — but some roles require experience. A few more ‘white hairs’ wouldn't go amiss.

In ten years, I probably won't be here. I'll have retired, and my wife will want to go home. And I want to be there for my grandchildren — I don't want to miss their early years. But for now, while I'm here, I believe I can make a real difference.

— The first Uzbek word you learned?

— Rahmat. Thank you.

— Your favourite Uzbek dish?

— Mastava, or plov — especially Andijan plov. I tried it for the first time at the Navruz celebration cooked by students here at the New Uzbekistan University. The dark rice was delicious.

— The dish you still haven't got used to?

— I enjoy Uzbek food in general, but I can't get used to how much oil sometimes goes into the plov. It genuinely makes me feel ill.

— The place you'd take every visitor to Tashkent?

— The Square of Memory and Honour at Mustaqillik metro station. It may not be the most beautiful spot, but it's the most powerful — the books with the names of those who died in the war, the sculpture of the Grieving Mother. It's deeply moving. And of course, the Alisher Navoi Opera and Ballet Theatre. I'm a big fan of opera, and Theatre Square is somewhere I always enjoy.