The seed that was planted...

  Hello one and all!  I have been silent for about 6 months, but now as I prepare to leave Canada and start my next Mercy Ships adventure, I remember those good 'ol blogging sessions.  Time to warm up my blogging voice (my 'bl-oice'). 
  The other day as I sorted through a dusty box of ancient papers, I fell upon the original article that first sparked my interest in Mercy Ships.  In 2007, Brio Magazine published an article about two girls who lived aboard on of the old Mercy Ships (The Caribbean Mercy).  Their tale of life on this hospital vessel intrigued me, and sparked a desire to one day serve with the ship.  I am so glad that I did hold on to this article.  Now I can share it with all of you.   (I hope that this format is somewhat readable to the average person.) 

Enjoy!

 

 

Some video footage...

I was so excited to hear that 60 minutes is once again broadcasting it's 12 minute clip featuring Mercy Ships.  This segment was originally aired in February, and Mercy Ships has received sooooo much publicity through it.  Overnight, the number of crew volunteer applications shot up sky high.  CBC will be re-broadcasting this clip in the August 4th edition of 60 minutes, 7 pm Pacific standard time.  Check it out online if you haven't already done so. http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=50141230n

Here is another recent video http://vimeo.com/user11299629/thesurgeryship

I caught the Africa Mercy Virus!

 "So what are your plans now that you are back home?" is the question of the month.  Truth be told, I plan to return to the ship.
  I am enjoying my time at home, catching up with friends and family and telling my story, but I don't believe that my time with Mercy Ships is through.  There is a great need for a long-term dental assistant in the clinic to orient new staff as they come, and provide some stability to the team.  I've experienced the successes and trials, the ups and downs of life on the ship and work in the clinic. I know what to expect.
  After much thinking, praying and discussing, I have decided to return to the Africa Mercy to serve as a long term dental assistant.   I will take an 8-week training course in Texas before joining the dental team.   Then, I will begin my two years with the dental team.  What a wonderful adventure awaits!

 As a volunteer, I make no money with the ship.  I also cover my own living expenses and transportation to and from Africa.  To find out how you can be involved in this adventure, please visit:
  http://mercyships.donorpages.com/MERCYGIFTS/AlicePowell/

Baby Steps

  My departure from my time in Africa came in small, baby steps.  Rather than suddenly leaving my life in Africa during the middle of a field service and immediately being transplanted back into Canadian society, I've been slowly weened off of my Mercy Ships experience.  Sniff, sniff.
  Mid May, the dental clinic saw our last patients.  Then began the pack-up process.  Thanks to our team leader's previous experience, we packed everything up quickly and smoothly, cleaned the clinic, handed over the keys, and transported all of our dental equipment to our container.
  Then came our goodbyes to our extended dental 'family,' our lovely local day-workers.  They were an integral part of our team and we would not be able to do the work that we do without them!  This was a sad time for all.
  I took up a new job in the galley slicing vegetables.  This new job was fun, but totally different to what I was used to.  And new co-workers.
  The ship became ocean-proofed, as we packed away and tied down all our cargo.  We slide-proofed the storage shelves in the galley with bungy cords.  Landrovers suddenly appeared parked and tied down to the top deck.
  Friends continued to leave.  About a week before MV Africa Mercy's departure was a mass-exodus to the airport, complete with a convoy of 12(?) landrovers carrying about 60 departing crew.
  Finally came the day that we pushed off from our moorings and chugged out of the port.  Sent off with much love by a crowd of our  port-worker friends.  Our neighbourhood tugboats and pilot boat bid us "adieu."
  Off at sea!  What a treat.  But where is Conakry?  I miss the shore.  Different view from the windows, different job, and not the same neighbourhood.
  Then came the terrifying day that we landed in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria!  Far off shore, as we approached land, the extensive modern infrastructure became visible.  High-rises everywhere in multi-colour combinations.  Rolling hills reaching up out of sight and into the cloud-cover.  What is this place?  I have been used to downtown Conakry, which is flat.  Many of the buildings there are one or two stories tall.  Some 4 story government buildings line the main streets, with a very occasional apartment building transplanted into the low-lying neighbourhood.  But this colourful, shiny new city seemed like something cartoon-like out of a Katy Perry movie.  (Does that even make sense?)
  As our boat reached it's 'parking spot' in the ship-yard, nearly all the crew could be seen eagerly anticipating their first steps on land.  The gangway lowered, crew meeting, and we were free to go.  We let loose a bunch of crazy sailors on Las Palmas.  I was not so eager to venture out.  Firstly, I was still on shift.  Tomatoes, cucumbers and a knife will be my entertainment, not the shopping malls and beach.  When 7pm came around, I used my freedom of choice to stay in my comfortable communal surroundings, rather than venture into the great unknown.
  Another exodus of crew followed the next day.  The ship was abuzz with tales of kiddies at McDonalds, the liberal Spanish clothing style and shopping.  The land was still not calling my name, but I decided to be brave and trek past the monsterous looming ship-trains, and out of the port.  I wanted to get a good dose of culture shock and decided that the mall would be a grand place to start.  Floor after floor of shops, all lined neatly with sparkly, treasures.  I hadn't been in a western 'mall' for 6 months and this proved a lot for my senses to take in.
  The comfort of the ship awaited as shocked and overwhelmed Alice returned.  Different city, different friends, different job, but still the same home.  I would cling on to the familiar for dear life.
  Now that my date of departure stood a few weeks away, I may as well become familiar with my departure portal.  Through a series of adventures, I glimpsed the airport from the highway, drove in a Landrover to drop off departing crew, and then finally, the day before I was to leave, I joined some friends in picking up another Mercy Ship guest at the arrivals gate.  Whew!  Too close for comfort!  But as i said, I took baby steps.
  June 20th came.  Backpack expertly stuffed, I bid "See you later," to my fellow crew friends.  I exited the gangway for the last time, and I didn't get to swipe out with my badge!  Oh no!  Now I am really leaving my lovely white bubble of familiarity!  Into the Landrover I hop, and off we go!  Farewell Africa Mercy, stay safe till I return!

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.