Knock, knock! Is anybody home?

Yes indeed, there is somebody home.  In my blog absence, life has been full of interesting adventures.  Looking back over my blog posts, I realize that they have been rather sporadic and event specific, but they may leave the reader with questions of the overall picture.  Let me give a recap of the last 5 months.  It is a rather long report, but I want to cover all the happenings.

Garden Valley, Texas 

"Gumby survival suit"

To begin my journey, on January 24th, I flew to Mercy Ships International Operations Center in Garden Valley Texas (near Tyler, Lindale and Van) to participate in a 5 week training course geared towards Mercy Ship's long-term volunteers.  I also participated in a Basic Safety training program where I dragged a 220+ pound dummy from a smoking cargo container, fought a blazing fire, saved the life of a plastic head through C.P.R. as well as overturning an inflated rescue raft in the water wearing a “Gumby survival suit!”

Impfondo, Congo

Discovering my lack of strength

Battling the rusticles

On March 4^th, a team of 7 of us flew to Impfondo, Congo (a town in North Congo along the Ubangi River).  We came to this remote city to serve the staff of Pioneer Christian Hospital.  Our major project was to revive an old playground that lay dilapidated in the grass.  Seesaw’s without seats, swing-sets without swings and a slide whose chute threatened to break away from the frame were our friendly greeting.  Through long hours of hand-sanding the rust off of the metal framework, priming and painting, digging holes, mixing cement, laying gravel and hanging fence, we aimed to provide a safe area where the families living at the hospital could play.  Aside from the physical work giving our muscles a challenge, we were able to practice living together in community in less than ideal conditions, limited food selections and no personal space.  But those challenges only made us stronger and our team bonded in a way that I would not trade.  Other than toiling in the heat, I also made rounds with Sarah, a wound-care nurse who visits different lepers in their homes and treats the after-effects of this disease.  With a small bag full of bandages, iodine and gauze, we cycle through the outskirts of town to clean the feet of those who can not feel the infection eating away at them.  So gracious and humble, visiting the outcasts of society, Sarah really is living as Jesus did. 

Pointe Noire, Congo

  On March 22^nd, we bid farewell to the smiling faces of new friends and the bright new playground and flew to Pointe Noire where we joined the Africa Mercy.  Home sweet home.  

Very handy stackable moving crates - thanks to Dr. Mark

Two days later, I returned to my work in the Mercy Ships dental team.  A few friendly faces from before, and many new faces, the dental team immediately welcomed me in.  There were many differences in patient need in Guinea to that of Congo.  There is more wealth in Congo, and we found that many more of the patients had had access to dental care at some point already.   We did not see     the "bombed out" mouths here- where we’d have to extract all the teeth in one quadrant.  There was still a need for dental care, but not as extreme.  

  Mid-May, we began to 
disassemble the clinic, and pack it all away in a container to be taken to our next country of service, Benin, where we will reassemble it once again. 

 "Dolphins on the bow, dolphins on the bow."

Somewhere along Africa's west coast  

We sailed out of the Congo and began our two week luxury cruise to the Canary islands.  The memorable voyage included crossing the equator at the prime meridian, pods of dolphins frolicking in the waves off the bow, as well as the start of my new career –  more on that in a moment.   

Las Palmas, Gran Canaria

We arrived on the Island of Gran Canaria at ‘Port du la Luz’ in Las Palmas, on the northeast corner of the Island.  Seeing as our dental clinic is packed away in a 40 foot container, I'm not much use as a dental assistant right now, so I decided to take up engineering!  Drastically different from the pristine halls of the hospital, this engineering experience has opened my eyes to so many technical things that have to happen behind the scenes during the dry-dock period, in order for the hospital to function throughout the field service. 

The ship now sits in dry-dock, grossly dissected and running on limited power.  The rudders,
propellers and bow-thrusters have been removed for maintenance, and a team of technical crew are bringing in new equipment and replacing the second half of the hospital floors (The first half of this project was completed last summer.)  As the plumbing is being improved, we have the adventure of intermittent fresh water outages – which means no water for drinking, plumbing or laundry.  Our air conditioning will also be turned off until the ship is back in the water.                

At these times, we pretend that we are staying at the Africa Mercy campground.  Walking down the gangway and across the parking lot to use the washroom is not the most convenient thing, but the bed I sleep in sure beats any mattress that camping every offered!

I will continue to explore the fascinating world of marine engineering for 3 more weeks.  During this time, I invite you along on my adventures - to see the ship in a whole new light.  To you marine buffs - these entries may bore you to tears, but to all you regular folk, you may be just as fascinated as I was to watch the dismantling of the Africa Mercy.  

Stay tuned...

 

An ironic twist to philanthropy

  I slip off my comfy new pair of shoes and curl up in my chair.  These shoes have a bittersweet ring to them.  I do not feel like they are rightfully mine...  

  To anyone who has ever bought a pair of "TOMS" shoes, you will know their motto printed on the insole of each shoe:  "With every pair you purchase TOMS will give a pair of new shoes to a child in need.  One for One."  The intended charitable donation strategy has taken a slight detour...

  Carmen and I yet again set out to the Grande Marche, this time in search of TOMS shoes.  Learning of the availability of such highly prized footwear, it is Carmen's mission to find and purchase 4 pairs of these sneakers for herself and fellow crew mates at a drastically reduced 'street market' cost.   I marvel in disbelief that such a specific brand of shoes could be found in a sprawling marketplace like the Grande Marche.  But as other Mercy Shippers can attest, they are available, if you have the nose to sniff them out.

  In and out of shops we trudge.  Carmen retrieves one green TOMS shoe from her bag, holds it to the shopkeeper's face and points to the TOMS label with a questioning arch of her eyebrow.  "Est-ce que vous avez le chaussures comme ca?"  I ask.  He takes the shoe in his hand and thoughtfully inspects it.  Carmen once again points to the TOMS label, matter-of-factly.  "Non." He regretfully admits.  He tries his luck by holding out a non-comparable shoe to temp us.  "Non, non.  Où peux-je acheter des chaussures?"  He shrugs his shoulders.  

  We begin to make our way to the next shop, when suddenly the shopkeeper yells at us, signalling  that he may have a lead on the shoes - his buddy apparently knows where they are sold.   This guy who works in the market everyday would know better than we do.  So we follow him, weaving through the tightly packed alley ways, out onto the main drag.  A few streets over, we duck into yet another hopeful-looking shop.  Our guide seems pleased with himself.  Carmen holds up the shoe.  I ask the question.  Same deal.  No match.  Our guides smile fades, as he realises that we did not find what we were after.  We thank him for his help, and move on.

  After half a dozen or so shops, our quest finally begins to look promising.   At the sight of Carmen's green sample shoe, a vendor's eyes perk as he turns on his heel and leads us over to a pristine pair of smoky-blue TOMS shoes.  Unfortunately, he only has the one pair - and not the in Carmen's size.  A near miss.  So close!   As we turn to exit, we spot a display of shoes just across the corridor - with both a pair of grey and red TOMS on display.  Finally we have found them!  But no, Carmen has very specific taste - she wants red and white stripes on her TOMS.  So alas, these TOMS still will not suffice.  
  
  My attention is drawn to a collection of shoes on the floor in the far back corner.  A small pile of petite TOMS in both white and red with black detail wait patiently to be noticed.   The largest pair available are just my size.  The rest of the bunch were obviously made for smaller people.  Like children.  Hmmm, where have I heard about TOMS shoes and children?  GASP!  "With every pair you purchase TOMS will give a pair of new shoes to a child in need."  The child in need!  Could it be?  Could the pallets of TOMS shoes leaving the American distribution centers, destined for children in far-off impoverished nations actually be finishing their journey here, in the street markets of Africa?  I've heard that anything of value can be sold at the market.  I know that there is much corruption in the world when it comes to the distribution of donated goods, so it would not surprize me if this pair of shoes was actually a pair that was meant to be donated to a child in need.  There is no way to know the answer to these questions.  I decide the purchase will at least benefit someone.  

  Carmen's legendary bartering skills are now in demand.  The shop-owner begins his asking price at 40, 000 CFA's - the approximate equivalent of $80.  Huh!  Not a chance!  That price is even questionable back home.  Carmen shows her disagreement with him and examines the shoe for a while, turning it over in her hands.  "Miseur, no 40,000.  Better price?"  He thinks only briefly and comes back "35,000."    "No."   She doesn't speak for what seems like an exaggeratedly long time, as if to make a point.  "It's OK, I know what I'm doing." She assures me.  He pulls out his phone and they begin to barter on the calculator.  She starts at 3000 - a pittance in comparison to his asking price, but Carmen was told by the other Mercy Shippers not to pay more that 4000 for the shoes.  As the shopkeeper continued to lower his price, Carmen raised to 4000.  I began to put on my own shoes and shift uneasily on the bench.   "5000.  Final offer," Carmen stated, brashly and full of determination.   The shopkeeper shook his head but a smile began to appear.  He realised that he was dealing with a very smart Mandelli.  She was not to be played with.  This girl knew a fraud when she saw one.  As we stood up to leave, Carmen stated "right then, 5000 it is."  His head turned away, his head nodded ever so slightly in agreement.  His sales tactics had been out-witted by the crazy white shopper.  He took my money and packaged up my purchase.  Hoping to sell them for more, he had to let them go at 5000 CFA, about $10.  This price would be unheard of in the western market, but as these shoes had likely originated as a donation, he likely had not payed too much at all to add them to his stock. 

The offenders in question

 
  So what about these shoes?  Is it ethical that I should be participating in the wrongly-intended distribution of donations?  When a donation is made, how does that work?   Who ships it?  What quality control do these companies have on the ground in the developing world?  Are they aware of the corruption that goes on?  Do they actually believe that their shoes are making it to the feet of little African children?  Well, somewhere along the way, the donation fell into the hands of the wrong person, and the shoes became a commodity to bring in cash flow.  Whether the shipment was seized by a group of thieves or if African families did receive the shoes but decided to sell them to the market sellers to get money instead, nobody knows.
  I can take solace in that I contributed to the local economy.  I may have only paid $10, but that money helped to feed some family, so I guess in the end, TOMS' goal of helping people less fortunate did become a reality, just not in their intended way.   
  But it does make me stop to think - just where did these shoes come from? 

 

Trois Mendelli dans la Grande Marche

 Carmen, my accomplice in mischief, and myself have planned an intrepid foray into the bowels of the local marketplace.  Hannah, a young dutch dentist, rounds out our trio.  Only having been in Africa for a week, she is eager to experience the market's bombardment of the senses.  Through the sand covered port we trek, and out to the mini-bus stand.

"Grande Marche?" 
"Oui"  

  A nearly-full mini bus eagerly waits to fill it's seats and head in the direction of the mayhem.  We add three to the collection of snuggly packed sardines awaiting takeoff.  Our driver reaches below the floorboards behind the driver's seat and pulls a cord of sorts.  Our aluminum can roars to life and chortles out stale exhaust.   A few hundred meters down the road we slink up to the roadside. 

"Trois mendelli, trois mendelli!" our money-collector's shout carries on the breeze.
  Did he say what I think he said?  The Congolese "Mendelli" is the equivalent of the Guinean "Fote" or "white person."  The passengers continue to pile in.  In the seat behind me, Hannah's eyes grow wide as a "full" bus takes on a new meaning.   19 bodies in total packed into a mini-van.  As we zoom down the road, the driver hollers "trois mendelli, trois mendelli!" to all who will listen.  I come to appreciate that he is proud to be hauling three white women in his bus.  Have we become sort of advertising attraction for him?  "Ride in my bus and share a seat with a white woman"?  I just laughed.  Two can play this game.  I spot an expat couple out of our windshield.  Without missing a beat I pipe up "deux mendelli, deux mendelli!"  Somewhat horrified that I understood what he had been saying, the driver gave me a sheepish grin in the rear-view mirror. 

  Perched on the seat between me and the sliding door, the money collector decides to try his luck with the mendelli.  He casually pulls out his phone and asks for my phone number.  "Non, je n'ai pas de telephone."   The time has come to reveal my new prop.   I flash him the metal band that I have slipped on my ring ringer.  A well-known tactic of single female travelers, the 'wedding band' works wonders to keep unwanted attention away.   Initially rather flattering, the regular marriage proposals in the street loose their charm rather swiftly.   As expected, my neighbour nods his head respectfully, turns away, and doesn't talk to me for the rest of the journey.

The Grande Marche

  The minibus spits us out in the middle of the hustle and bustle.  The market's foundation of cinder block shops barely visible though the patchwork of beach-umbrella covered stalls.  A tarp spread out on the ground marking the portable confines of a shoe shop.  Young men carrying blingy chains and earrings pass by exhibiting their wares.  We turn from the relative openness of the main road onto a closed-in alley of tightly packed shops.  As we begin our shimmy past other shoppers, we latch on to each other to create a human snake.  Streams of bodies collide past one another as they flow in all different directions.  There is no method to the madness.  Him that takes a step forward into the crowd will reach his goal, whereas he that politely stands back and waits for a gap will still be standing in the same spot as the sun sets.  I step out into the mob and push headlong towards my destination.

  Carmen, in search of the 'dead animal' section pulls us deeper into the labyrinth.   A fascinating land of crocodile heads and half antelopes awaits in the belly of the boucherie.  Covered by a patchwork of fabric and tarps, the series of winding earth paths is warm and stifling.   The pungent aroma of unrefrigerated animal flesh wafts past my nose, signalling our approach to the meat stalls.   We pass by neatly piled collections of entrails ready for purchase.  Intestines, kidney, liver, colon.   Browsing past a chopping table, a knife slices through the silence of the air, coming down with a loud crunch, splitting the carcass of a plucked chicken.  Juices spray forth, but my skin does not detect the splatter.    Unable to spot the crocodiles, and unwilling to put up with the threats of a queezy stomach, we continue on to a more colourful, pleasant section of market: the fabric.

  I pour through the multi-coloured, patterned fabric panels hanging on the wall overlapping like rainbow roof tiles.  Overwhelming to the eyes, one's focus must be very intentional in order to search through the massive selection.  Each one of the boldly patterned panels bathed in a vibrant splashes of colour compete for Most Beautiful Fabric award.  The result is a kaleidoscope too gaudy to look at. But I have learned through the experience of past visual frustration that one's search must persist past the craziness in order to see the beauty within.  Each individual panel is so rich in detail and colour.  There truly is beauty to behold.  Today, my goal is clear.  I am in search of a specific fabric that has sentimental meaning.  Because I know exactly which pattern I am looking for, I am able to sift past the hundreds of designs that threaten to drown out each other.   My eyes are ripe for the searching but still I cannot find it.  I decide to enlist the help of the shopkeeper.

 "Je veux une partie avec les poulets.  Le père, la mère et les enfants.  Les couleurs bleu, violet, jaune et blanc."

  His eyebrows raise.  A family of chickens in blue, purple, yellow and white is quite a specific request to be sure, but it's worth a try.  He finds two panels with similar chicken characters, but not the pattern or colours that I had hoped for.   In Impfondo I had spotted a woman robed in this material, and only a week ago one of the patients in the dental chair also wore a blue and pink version of the original design.   This had given me hope that the material might exist in a Congolese market.  
  As is the case with fabric, specific designs can be difficult to spot.   Today I did not find my illusive chicken fabric.  The search has not ended.  If it is in existence, I will sniff it out.   But that is for another day and another adventure.
  

The illusive chicken fabric

  
Photo credits: Mercy Ships crew

What an auspicious beginning...

"Welcome home!" the phrase rings through my ears continuously.  I have returned to my home away from home, the Africa Mercy.  Same 'house' and family, new neighbourhood.  This time I find myself in the port of Pointe Noire, Republic of Congo.  I hadn't been on board more than a few hours when I had already found myself a security posting for the upcoming presidential visit.  I have friends in high places and this gets me into a whole lot of fun! All this dental stuff I've been talking about, it is just a cover-up.  My main reason on the ship is undercover security.  Whoops, I guess I shouldn't have said that...

 I've always wanted to play security dress-up.  I almost lost my chance due to a wardrobe mishap, but thanks to  few safety pins I was soon on my way.  Most of the ship was off limits to the general crew, and I was among the few lucky ones who were able to access the action.  The president and his entourage arrived amidst marching bands and
paparazzi, high security prepped days in advance.  I was stationed at the door next to Starbucks on the port side - my orders: do not let any crew enter the area or any of the guests leave.  I must keep people in their places.  Really, who am I kidding?  I can't keep a straight face!  Enter my bubble and crack a goofy face and my attempt at a stern exterior crumbles.  But the perception of toughness is what counts here, never mind the reality.  Stand tall, shoulders back, chin up, snatch a meatball from the tray as it hovers past...  Great fun.  My only glimpse of the president came as he ascended the gangway.  Unfortunately special security postings don't afford special guest appearances, but c'est la vie.  I felt like I was part of the royal security team despite the fact that I was not given maritime security epilets to wear or a radio to hold.

  Now that my duty was completed and the president had safely exited the ship, it was time to enter my dental world.
  Adrenaline still pumping through my veins from my time spent in Impfondo, North Congo combined with non-stop reunions and social catch-up made for quite a restless weekend.  My brain had obviously not received the memo that I was now aboard the Africa Mercy and I would no longer be woken up at 6 am from the roosters, cats and crickets outside my window.  I survived my first few ship days on a minimally acceptable amount of shut-eye.  Monday morning rolled around, and my brain had made a unanimous decision for the rest of my body that this would be the morning that it would allow for an extended reprieve of sleep.


Knock, knock, knock!

"Ah! Why is someone knocking at our door?  My alarm clock has not yet rung so obviously it is still early morning and someone is making a racket!"

 Knock, knock, knock!  Pause.  Knock, knock, knock!

"Arg!  How rude!  Doesn't that person realize some of us are trying to sleep?"
I rolled over and pulled my pillow over my head.  About 30 second later...

Ring, ring!  

"Seriously people, give us a break!"  

Ring, ring!

"Oh.  Maybe the knock on the door and the phone ring are related?"

Ring, ring!

"Why are my other cabin-mates not answering the phone?"

  I stumble down my ladder, down the hall towards the phone, and just then, the noise stops abruptly leaving a faint ring in my ears.  I turn my head to the right and I am startled to see all empty beds, my cabin vacant. 
  I sharply inhale a startled breath as my eyes grow wide and I rush to my alarm clock.  It is 8:38am and indeed not before 6:30.
"Nooooooooooooo!"  This seems almost too predictable of a scenario to happen to me.  I can't believe it.  I slept in on my first day of work, how epic!  I almost couldn't have planned a better mistake.  Within minutes I had donned a uniform, ate breakfast (my welcome cookies), and dashed up to the gangway, out of breath.
"Oh, Alice, are you not going to the dental clinic today?  They've already left." Greets my security guard.  Of course.  Classic move Al. 
  So far, I had been on wonderful terms with my dental team, and I was not concerned of a backlash of lecturing, but I did owe it to them to try to find my way to the clinic.  Luckily for me, the Hope Center (Mercy Ship's off ship patient care) is located beside the dental clinic and Mercy Ship's  Landrovers shuttle back and forth between that location and the ship many times a day.  I ran around sheepishly telling my story of hilarity hoping to find a M.S. driver headed out that way.  Simultaneously I wished to be stranded on the ship for the day and catch up on a few extra zzzz's.  As it happened, a ride did show up, and I got my first daylight glimpse of Pointe Noire as we wove our way through the maze of streets.
 

  At the clinic a few of the team members whom
I had never met were oblivious to my absence, some had been concerned for my safety when I had not shown up or answered my door or phone, and still some friends had accurately concluded that my tardiness was due to a fatigue/alarm clock issue.   In any case, here I stood - back in the middle of "the toughest job you will ever learn to love."  The suffering and relief, shame and validation, fear and comfort.  "Here I am, send me..."

The illusive winter followed me to east Texas

(Wednesday Feb 12th, 2014)

  So I am beginning to realise that if my goal is to become more Canadian, I might as well stay here in Texas.  At the moment, Texas is competing to be it's own Canadian city.

  Coldness.  Ice.  Dare I say snow?  Giddy to see the white stuff, I venture outside to experience the cold that evaded my winter thus far.  (I experienced one snow day in Victoria this year.  Only about 1/2 inch actually stuck to the ground.)  Well Texas is making a good effort to compete. 

  




  A dusting of snow has settled on the forest floor.  It meanders over the curvature of pine cones.  Patches of crunchy frostiness cover the grass.  Persistent cycles of freeze - warm - drip - freeze - warm - drip have shaped unreal icicles.   They dangle from the eves-troughs like tinsel on a tree.  A few decorative pansies that bring vibrant colour to the landscape have frozen solid - pigmentation sealed in a shellac of ice.  

How has Texas trained me to become more Canadian?

• As long as the east Texas weather remains icy, I can acclimatize to a cold winter location (as opposed to sub-tropical Victoria).  As a Canadian, I am expected to have an impermeable skin that does not feel the cold.   I need to work on that...

• Grade school french classes have decomposed in my brain.  Here in the great state of Texas I have discovered 'duolingo' french lessons and I am embracing my bilingual heritage.

   

• I have a severe lack of winter sports skill.   I lack the talent of balance.  Skating, skiing, snowboarding all require the ability to stand on the white stuff for longer than 5 seconds.   As I grew up in Victoria where snow is mostly a myth, I did not have the luxury of a permanent frozen pond in my backyard.  My house was not situated on the side of a ski hill.  The snow and ice didn't come to Victoria to play with me, so I didn't bother seeking them out.   Thus the winter sport skills didn't develop.   If this Texas winter weather keeps up, we could see some ice accumulation.  The 'parking rinks' will provide a much needed location to cultivate balance and find my winter feet. 

Yes, I think by the time the month is up, I should be a true Canadian bilingual winter Olympian.   Perhaps I should take up 'skeleton'?  We have the perfect track right outside our door.  Let's just hope the cars keep away...

I am Canadian!!!

 Two weeks ago,  I flew out of Canada my plane touched down in Texas, USA.  (A strange, foreign land.)  How did I know that I had landed in America?  

• As we wait to exit the plane cabin, a voice can be heard above the bustle of passenger movement.  With sincere gratitude a man honours his plane neighbour of the past 3.5 hours, “Well thank you kind sir for your service to our country.” For whatever reason, I have never heard this sentiment spoken between strangers in a public venue in Canada, unless it is to a veteran on Rememberance Day.  

• Waiting for my connecting flight in the Dallas Fort Worth airport, I appear to be a ‘homeless’ traveler as my flight has not yet been assigned a boarding gate.  Any stretch of wall will do.   I hunker down next to my bags for a few hours with a subway sandwich, ready to people-watch.  And people-listen. 

  My ears perk up as the intercom comes alive with some foreign dialect that I have not been exposed to before.  Oh wait – it’s just English.  So the rumours are true – this is in fact the way a percentage of the population articulates my language!  The exaggerated southern drawls stretch out like a mound of pulled taffy.  “A-tay-an-shun play-as.   Laaaaaa-feeeeeee-eeeeeehtd naaa-ow ba-owr-daaaaing.”  It is amazing how diverse one language can be!  If the exchange students that live at my parent's house have a difficult time understanding the fast pace of the English language, they would be in for a real dose of confusion if you threw a North Carolina accent into the mix.  (No, I am not in North Carolina, but so far that is the accent which has seemed to be the farthest from my 'normal.')  

• The words “sweet-tea” and “soda” mean nothing to me.  I find my foreign language skills improving as I make the mental leap to “iced tea” and “pop.”

• Gun culture.  Hot-pink rifles for sale at Walmart.  Totally normal.  The opinion of gun usage ranges from person to person.  Some have an uncomfortable hesitation to exercise the legal right to be armed, while others confidently embrace the gun as a means to protect their family and belongings.  Some of these views are bizarre to me, but I have kept my mouth shut in order to gain an understanding of this place that I find myself in.  After listening to many conversations, I am beginning to see some reason behind these mammoth cultural differences. 

   We are all unique - that is for sure.   Such a diverse group of personalities, cultures and lifestyles.  I'd love to speak up and make it known to the masses that West Coast Canadians do things the 'right' way, speak with the 'correct' accent and have the 'best' ideas; but, if I stop and just listen to other people's stories and try to understand where they are coming from, I begin to learn about the complexities of life, and how they can shape us as humans.  In the end, no one way is the correct way to speak.  There is no one perfect way to cook an egg.  My preferred lifestyle may not be appealing to others, just as I may not share their preferences.  I may not be used to the gun-toting culture and the values that surround it, but I am trying to understand my fellow humans, and try to get a glimpse of their perspective. 

      
       -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  As the token Canadian in my class, I feel the entire reputation of Canada resting on my shoulders. 

So far I do not represent well.

• I have not been caught saying "Eh," or "aboot."  
• I do not yet speak fulent French.  
• I come from the only area in Canada that basically never spends it's winter months in a snowy deep-freeze.  
• I do not play the all-Canadian game of ice hockey.

   The other day, I found a way to redeem myself.  Along with the mid-morning break came a crystal serving dish of glazed donut-holes.  Eureka, I found it!  Even though it was break-time, I began to teach a lesson on Canadian cuisine.  "In Canada, we call these 'Tim Bits.'"  "Ten bits?" "Tam Bats?" "Oh.  In America we just call them 'Donut Holes.'" I'm informed.
  Oh, such a rich culture you miss!  I launched into a verbal serenade of the history of this donut chain.  "It is like a Canadian version of a toned-down Starbucks.  Tim Horton, the founder of this iconic donut shop used to be a professional hockey player..."  But these are the only facts that flowed from my memory.  Nothing else to share with the class.   As much as I had wanted to impart a touch of Canadiana, I actually don't know too much about my own Tim Hortons!  Ce la vie.

  I have discovered a healthy addiction.   "Duolingo.com"   This language-teaching website is somehow managing to refresh my brain in the french department, and I feel as though the games have become addictive.  Just as I would spend hours playing tetris, so these games keep my focus glued to le Francais!  Perhaps, if I continue to feed this addiction, I could become a more well-rounded ambassador of Canada - a bi-lingual citizen.  Well, there is a goal to shoot for.  (He shoots he scores!!!) 

Better late than never...

  My blogging aspirations had grown quite drastically over the last month as I said goodbye to my own little corner of B.C.  Armed with a stack of personal 'business cards,' I distributed my blog page and other contact info with the fervent promise that I would keep a better blogging track record than my last stint aboard the AFM.  
  These communication goals were genuine to begin with, they just had a few hiccups.   Throughout my flights from Victoria to Texas, several interesting characters crossed my path and many iconic blog entry ideas flooded my brain.  With so much accumulated in my brain, by the time I reached my final destination in Texas, I had a very real need to spew it all out onto my blog.  Problem was, it was 10:30 pm, no one else appeared to be awake in the lodge, and I had no clue as to the WIFI password.  Awww drat!  Can't communicate tonight!
  Next morning, rise and shine!  Excitement from meeting new people, sharing stories and experiences and finding out more of what these next few weeks would entail.  But of course my biggest question was how to connect to the internet.  You see, I was thinking very much of you fine folk.  But alas, the computer (which is supposed to be such a helpful gadget to simplify life) turns out to be a menace once again.  Firewall/internet trouble.  Don't ask.  This problem persisted until Tuesday night, despite the constant problem solving efforts of the tech support staff.

  Saturday with no internet?   Fine by me.  I have been cramming so many social opportunities into my schedule prior to leaving, that a hermit vacation would be welcomed.  Sunday rolls around.  Still no internet, but I spend a good chunk of time out in nature and exploring my new home.  Then Monday comes.  By now, I just want to feel a touch of normalcy.  Unfortunately the solution would be to communicate via the internet.  I just want to be able to use my computer, with my photos and my preferences and in my room.  None of this sharing business.   So my proverbial porcupine quills began to stand up as I grudgingly accepted each new day that I had to wade through without my connection to the outside world.
via the internet.  In class, we begin to learn about a bunch of cool resources that are available to us to learn french and connect to Mercy Ship's intra-net.  This all sounds wonderful except I can't connect to the internet.  I find out that there are classroom computers that I can use, and since they are hard-wired, they do have internet available, but I really just want to be able to use
  So humorous.  This really just was to test my patience, or to improve my lack thereof.  I also feel foolish and childish that I would let such a small issue as internet access spoil my days.   This morning the internet came back to life and so of course now I can write to you.  The only problem is all of that enthusiasm from my first few days in Texas has faded some.  I have much to write, but I need my sleep now.  A demain...