Culinary Musings...

  I have a retraction to make from my last post.  I get 2.5 hours of break per shift, not 1.5.  Today I found out that I definitely do have to work hard in the galley.  I spent most of the morning in the dish pit, lugging heavy machinery from one sink to the next.  I am going to get me some muscles yet.  What objects of torture these machines must be for the poor vegetables, I can only imagine!  Laying out on a cold, metal surface, they sit shivering in terror as they scan their alien surroundings.  They glance up just in time to see the razor-sharp metal knife come crashing down on their friend.  Is it not enough to eat them, without first peeling their skin off, dismembering them chunk by chunk, mashing them and dunking them in scalding oil?  Come on, have a little compassion.  Vegetables have feelings too!  I can definitely say that contrary to Mercy Ship's mission statement, I am not bringing hope and healing to the tomatoes of Guinea.  I am slaughtering them!

  My first work-related injury came today.  I found out the reason why God gave us finger-nails.  I found myself lugging clean dishes back to their respective homes and in the process of attempting to nest one super solid metal cauldron inside of another, I managed to squash the side of my left thumb between their brims.  OUUUCH!  I didn't make any noise, but jumped around, clutching my thumb.  (Don't worry food safety people, I took the correct measures to clean up my hand and protect it and the food from each other.)  I found myself once again back with the tomatoes.  My competitive streak began to show, as I secretly tried to fill my pan with chopped tomatoes faster than my co-worker next to me.  Hmmm, maybe that wasn't such a good idea.  I felt the knife come down and ping off my thumb.  The finger-nail completely protected me, and I didn't even slice through the glove, but I can see what a close call that could have been.  Slow down Alice! Mom, just to warn you, I may not come home with all of my digits still intact.  Just saying.
  Galley is not all work, we play too.  I learned a new sport.  Kitchen curling!  First, the slosh of soapy water is released onto the tile surface and begins to flow down towards it's target.  Next, the broomsman follows behind vigorously scrubbing the floor, moving the water along, and welcoming the dirt that has joined in along the way.  Finally, the squeegy-men follow with a broom-sized squeegies, picking up the slack that the broomsman has left.  In the end the goal is accomplished.  I'm not too sure that there is a scoring system for this activity.  But in the curler's off season, this job would be excellent practice!

So, I decided to switch careers...

  The Mercy Ships dental clinic in Conakry is no more.  Throughout the past weeks, we have seen our last patients of the field service, packed up the whole office, cleaned the building, and packed our dental container.  Yesterday we had a goodbye lunch with our day-workers which officially closed the dental chapter of this mission.

  Today, at 8 am, I began my new career working in the galley.  We work 11 hour days (but 1.5 hours of break spread throughout the day), but we only work 2 days on two days off and every other weekend.  So we've got a sweet deal.  I sliced cucumbers and diced tomatoes.  Then I made a graham cracker crust for our vanilla pudding.  A group of us new galley recruits worked on our dessert so lovingly, spreading the whipped cream on top just so.  I placed one completed pan on the trolley, ready to go.  Moments later, I here "Hey!"  And there was my pan of banana pudding all over the floor.  Good thing we made 10 other pans of it.  Unfortunately the floor had just been cleaned, so that had to be redone.  Oops!
  My first day in the galley and I nearly had a heart attack!  There I was, minding my own business, putting the finishing touches on the banana pudding, when I hear a blood-curdling shriek coming from over by the deep fryers.  My eyes took a moment to find where the noise was coming from, then I saw my co-worker clutching her head, arched way back, almost writhing.  "EMERGENCY!" my brain yelled.  "She has been scalded by hot oil, and she's going to get 10th degree burns!" (If there was such a thing.)  It reminded me of a scene from "Dante's Peak" (Pierce Broznan) when the family is floating in the boat, through the lake of sulphuric acid.  The grandmother jumps out of the boat to push it to shore, and in the process, begins to be eaten by the acid.  That scene of agony had quite an impact on me, and I almost thought that I was re-watching it.
  The truth is, my coworker was not burning.  She was not even in pain.  She had just been doused with a bucket of cold water (an age-old galley tradition for people on their last day).  She was merely in shock.  Then the next thing I knew, she came sprinting up the hall, with a hose, to spray her friend.  Whew!  OK, no emergency after all.
  My new galley crew are awesome to work with.  The work is not hard, in fact it is relaxing.  It is a looooooong day though, and it is difficult to finish.  I am totally surprised that I even mustered the energy to tell you all about it.  Tomorrow I do it all over again.  I think I'll sleep well tonight.

Exploration Knows No Bounds

  My neighbourhood strolls invigorate the senses.  So many layers of detail to notice.  Along a familiar route, I routinely notice the pedestrian goats out for some exercise, the little half-dressed toddlers yelling "Fote, fote" ("white person, white person") as we pass, roadside cooking in huge metal cauldrons, and a collage of vendors set up on the sidewalk.  Rarely do I notice the fence behind this layer, neither do I notice what is past the fence.  A few weeks ago, along a very familiar route, such an event occurred.  It was early evening and all of the vendors had packed up for the night.  As I walked along the sidewalk through the sparse activity, I noticed for the first time, the tops of grave markers rising up from behind the fence.  I had a sudden curiosity to visit this cemetery one day, to see yet another facet to Conakry.  Thankfully my friend Andrea (who enjoys quirky adventures just as much as I do) jumped at the opportunity of exploration.  Not knowing if the locals approve of random cemetery visits, we decided that it would be best to take our walk earlier in the morning to avoid as little human contact outside the cemetery as possible.

   No such luck.  8:30 on a Saturday morning and the neighbourhood is already a commotion of woman washing their clothes, children playing in the street, and all the road-side vendors open for business.  We walked up non-chalantly to the gate which was slightly ajar, and stepped through.   No one human in site, but the open work shed alludes to the presence of the caretaker.  I take in the scene before me.  The cemetery spreads out before us like a patchwork quilt, shrub-lined gravel paths criss-crossing grave markers of all shapes and sizes.  Randomly placed baobab trees sprout out from the ground, stretching high, reaching out their leafy branches into a lush and canopy.  The sun that has found an opening in this green roof, streams down to cast a warm glow on the stone monument below.  The gravel paths have been cleared of all the dried leaves and there is not an empty water bag to be seen.

  In a far corner, a dozen or more vultures gather for an outing.  Padding about on the crunchy carpet of leaves, or standing guard on the monuments, these massive birds seem to enjoy a group atmosphere.  One lone vulture stares down from high above in the baobab branch.  Deciding group socializing can be beneficial, he hops off and takes flight.  His impressive wingspan is exposed as he soars down and lands on the tip of a  cross.

   We begin our inspection of row on row.  Unlike home, very few tombstone inscriptions bear the names or dates of the deceased.  Although we did find a detailed epitaph of a Frenchman who died in Conakry in 2010, the majority of tombstones seem to remain anonymous.  After years exposed to the elements, the weathered monuments sit streaked with grime and fine layers of moss.  Beheaded crosses lay on the ground propped up against the respective graves, like ancient ruins.  Other monuments tilt at an awkward angle, pushed up from underneath by the extensive baobab root system.  

  The monotony of gravel was suddenly interspersed with every imaginable colour.  Yards of fabric (lain out on the path by a busy laundress) try to sun themselves in the few penetrating sun beams.  We carefully calculate our footsteps to avoid soiling her the freshly washed linens.  As our attention has been drawn towards the ground, we began to notice little red bugs all around us, also negotiating their way over individual pebbles.  I can't help but feel phantom tickles as if they had ascended my leg.  

  We head to the base of a spectacular baobab.  Roots emerging out of the soil snaking across the ground to converge into folds of the magnificent trunk.  Studded with prickly thorns as if it did not wish to be touched, this tree climbers dream is off limits.

   Our first human contact, a colourfully dressed, cheery little man has followed us into the graveyard and now joins us at the base of the tree.  He makes a hand gesture to motion for food.  Unfortunately we didn't carry any food or money with us.  Only a little disappointed at our lack of charity he heads out on his merry way.

  Moments later, we spot a second man, somewhat dishevelled in a black and burgundy outfit, peering at us from behind a distant hedge.  His stern face and furrowed brow give a hint that we may not be as welcomed here as we had thought.  We continue our exploration further into the cemetery, ready to call it a day if we receive a personal reprimand from this caretaker.  Following closer, strait faced, he approaches us and questions, "C'est fini?"  I begin to complement the nature of his lovely cemetery.  My hand motions mimic the vast network of branches floating over us.  I take a photo to demonstrate my enthusiasm.  His face remains straight and rigid, he does not even arch his brow.  "C'est fini?" he repeats.  I once again attempt to butter him with complements as I explain how I am enjoying the fruit of his labour.  Same face.  "C'est fini?"  By this point we sense that we were being told that it is time for us to leave.  We make our way back up the path with caretaker in tow.  As we exit through the gate we bid farewell, "Merci monsieur, au revoir."  The little man pays no more attention to us, but padlocks the cemetery gate and returns to his post at the entrance, arms crossed and face as straight as ever.





 

Tippyatou

  Tippyatou lies curled up, paws tucked into chest, chin resting on top of paws, bathing in the warm glow of a lone street light.  Her home, the pavement sidewalk in front of an inconspicuous office building is quiet tonight.
  Just hours earlier, cars sat wedged together along the roadside - like tetis blocks.  Water bag sellers and coffee carts rolled by.  Coffee thick with sugar oozes from cup to cup.  A constant stream of taxis pulling in and out from the curb fitting just one more character into their already jam-packed ride.  Amidst the commotion, Tippyatou seeks reprieve from the hot sun underneath a car.    A semi-peeled orange, sucked dry of it's juice lands on the ground just feet from Tippyatou's face.  Jackpot.  Another meal.

  I first met Tippyatou just days before Tippy Powell left this earth on January 18th, 2013.  Similar colour to Tippy, she is a typical brown street mutt as seen everywhere in Conakry.  She first caught my attention as she was crippled.  Her hind left leg permanently bent straight back and her front right leg lame, unable to take any weight, she hobbled around on her two decent legs.  Shockingly pathetic looking.  Not much meat on her, her ribs distinctly visible.  I could tell that she had been nursing a litter recently.  She has a growth about the size of a fist sticking out of her rear - possibly a tumour, or as a friend suggested, a prolapsed uterus.  My heart went out to her and I wanted to take her back to the ship to have one of our expert surgeons operate on her leg.  I left her with a sad heart in the street that night.


 As my tales of the crippled dog flowed to my coworkers and other crew mates, I soon realized that many have also noticed this same mutt.  I returned on multiple occasions to this same street corner and realized that this is her home.  Sleeping under the cars during the day and bathing in the street lamp at night.  I decided that rather than call her "the crippled dog," I should give her a name.  Naturally I favoured the name Tippy.  The "atou" was added for African effect.

 
 Surely she must die soon.  How can she survive?  How can she support her puppies?


  One day, after the major traffic had left the streets but before the sun went down, I set out on a walk and came across Tippyatou scavenging through the trash, finding bits and pieces to nibble.  She washed her meal down with a drink from the roadside puddle.  Even though she does a pretty good job of surviving on her own, she likely has friends that give her food out of pity.  Still alive since the first time I noticed her 3 months ago, she must be ingesting enough nutrients for her needs.  (After all, lying about all day doesn't require the largest amount of energy.)

  Tippyatou's story does not end here.  As she continues to live, I will keep all of you updated on my new friend.  Just in case you were wondering, no, I have never touched her.  Even thought I spent $170 X 3 for my beloved rabies shots, I still would prefer not to venture near that territory.  Tippyatou will remain at a safe distance.  I do not want to forever mar my loving image of dogs.

                                                               
                                                   R.I.P. Tippy

On the other side of the window...

     In a quaint little medical compound on the edge of downtown Conakry, lies the Mercy Ships dental clinic.  Directly adjacent to this compound is a school for deaf children - about 200 of them.  Each morning at 10:00, my attention is drawn away from the mouths of the dental patients in our ground-floor dental clinic, to the other side of the window, where the wee ones come out to play.  Dozens of gingham-dressed little girls and khaki suited boys flood the courtyard between their school, and the medical compound.  Crumpled-up paper balls are furiously tossed at the newly restored basket-ball hoop, up-and-coming break-dance sensations practice in sync to an in-audible beat.  An older girl wearing a rainbow shirt under her blue-gingham gown and her shorter friend (whose skirt is too short to be Conakry-appropriate), ogle daily through the glass panes as we go about our work of drilling, filling and pulling.  They tap at the window and flirt shamelessly with the male dental staff.  Amidst the hoopla of juvenile energy, the friendships and the rivalries, barely a sound is muttered.  Instead, hands are waving furiously as conversations occur through sign-language.  Aside from enthusiastic hollers, this is the quietest playground I've ever seen.  "How odd," I muse "that a children's school would be built next to a medical compound where the wails of women in labour and currently the shrieks of nervous dental patients can be heard.  We don't want to traumatize the children."  And then the obvious hits me:  This school is brilliantly placed.  The children cannot hear!   No opportunity to be scarred for life from the noises next door.  

    On Friday mornings, an extra element of interest is added to the courtyard as a number of crew from the ship come to play with the children during their break.  My friend Papanie makes a regular habit of tapping on the glass and flashing a smile as he turns the jump rope with the kids.  I fondly muse back to my childhood - brightly coloured plastic nylon ropes flowing under my feet as I jump in time to the plastic's rhythm.  How I would like to venture out to the courtyard and play with the kids and the other Mercy-shippers; but alas this weekly play session only takes place on Friday mornings while I work.

    Good Friday has come and I have the day off of work.  I decide to take advantage of my only opportunity to visit the school next door.  I eagerly place my name on the sign-up list and await the jump-rope fun.  In order to maximize our patient treatment, a couple of the dentists and translators are working next door in the clinic regardless of the holiday.  Their extra effort is commendable; however, I will not feel guilty about playing while they work.

    I walk past the classrooms where little genius's battle with Jenga blocks and simple friendship bracelets flow from cardboard looms.  To the courtyard, jump ropes in hand we flock, familiar gingham and khaki bundles of energy escorting the way.

    I take in the surroundings on this side of the window.  Painted concrete walls of buildings reaching up to the sky on all sides, broken bits of pottery on ground.  Fearless girls have shed their flip flops in return for the control of bare feet.  They are ready to play.  Bring on the ropes!

    They argue over whose turns it is to jump.  Vigorously tapping each others shoulders for attention, they scold each other with hand motions.  One boy catches my eye, motions at his angry friend, makes the international gesture for "he's crazy" and shrugs with a smile.  Even I can understand this communication.  I chuckle with a grin but decide not to mimic this sign in case the meaning is actually offensive.

    One particularly keen little athlete (with a smile too big for his face), attempts to inconspicuously squeeze to the front of the group.  His all-observant peers will not stand for this breach in order, and the hands fly in reprimand as he is escorted to the back of the line.

    The expert jumpers of the courtyard now take the stage.  Two girls jump in unison, simultaneously circling each-other within the rope's spinning circumference.  Against this display of athleticism, my own lack of coordination sticks out like a sore thumb.  Who ever thought that it would be so difficult to follow the lead of a friend and turn a rope?  Around and around my arm turned, but alas, keeping a continuous rhythm was not coming easily.  The beat of feet constantly halted by eager junior jumpers getting caught up in the rope.  I watched my friend's facial expressions for a hint of when he would swing the rope, but I couldn't detect the prompt I was looking for.  I inevitably would either swing too early or too late.  After a bit of frustration in the matter, I had a brilliant thought - why not use my words to communicate?  My other crew mates and I  are completely capable of verbal communication, so why am I relying on facial gestures to stay in sync rather than using  words?  As I had been relating to the kids with only my hands, I had forgotten that speech is a method of communication available to me.

    Turning a jump rope is just like riding a bike.  You pick it back up very quickly, no matter how rusty your skills.  Soon enough, with the help of words, we were swinging the rope in unison.  As the rope soared upwards to the clear blue sky and then dove back downwards to an unwelcoming concrete, it reached out and grabbed a souvenir.  Jealous that it didn't get to learn in school, the rope has retrieved from the ground a tattered piece of paper, notes from yesterday's lesson scrawled across it.  Unmotivated by the lesson, the rope releases the paper, and it soars lightly back down to the ground, only to be trampled underfoot.

   The junior students have returned to their classes, and the older kids now emerge.  I see a familiar face. My rainbow shirted friend from the clinic window has come to join the jump rope frenzy.  Her smaller friend with the Conakry-inappropriate skirt isn't insight.  As I catch rainbow-girl's gaze, I motion towards the dental clinic window and then point to myself and mimic myself assisting the dentist.  Her eyes lit up in recognition we laughed.

    Now it is my turn to scurry up to the streaky window and surprise my work-mates.  I peer in and catch the gaze of a patient looking right back at me in surprise from her dental chair.  No longer distractedly looking passed the patient to the children outside, I now view her face to face.  My tap on the glass takes my coworker by surprise.  He gives a smile and waves.  I return to my rope-turning - just like one of the little girls, minus the gingham dress.

Audience particpation

So, my brain is a blank slate when it comes to blog writing.  I know that this seems silly when I am in Africa surrounded by all kinds of wonderful new things, but at the moment I don't know what you guys want to hear about.  So it would be much appreciated if you would leave a comment with suggestions of what you would like to read on this blog.  (This also includes my junior readers A.G. and J.G.)  I believe that you can comment without having a gmail account.   Thanks.  Maybe this will solve my writer's block...

Retraction of "Long Term Syndrome"

I hereby wish to retract the following statement:

"For this reason, many of the long-term crew members - whether consciously or sub-consciously have somewhat shut themselves off from the short-term crew.  They self-preserve by grouping together - sharing life with those who will be in their life for a longer period."

It has been brought to my atttention that this indeed is a gross generalization.  The above statement should not have been attributed to long-term crew as a whole.  When I wrote the above entry, I was thinking of only a few specific individuals.  True, there may be many crew members that I do not socialize with, but that has nothing to do with whether or not they are long term.  Many of my friends who have been with the ship for an extended period of time are just as happy to hang out with a newbie as a Mercy Ship veteran.

I think the point of my previous blog post was to say that I am not sure how much emotional energy I am willing to invest.  I feel tempted to become a hermit.  (Note: I am NOT saying that long term crew are hermits.  Only me.)

Ok, now to get off this machine and go be social...