Ebola Swim

The day dawned bright and sunny. It always does here, but it still makes a good start to a story. My wife and I grabbed our bags, sunglasses, and 20 pounds of collapsed cardboard boxes, and headed out the door. The boxes had nothing to do with swimming, FYI. We had them along so we could wrap furniture after my swim. That's another story.

We marched down to the corner, hailed a taxi, argued over the price, stuffed the boxes into the trunk, and off we went. On arrival we dug the boxes out of the trunk and marched into the school with them tucked safely under our arms. To their credit, the guards at the school doors said absolutely nothing about our stacks of dirty banana boxes.

The preparations had taken longer than expected, as did walking halfway across the school campus with 20 pounds of banana boxes, and by the time we got to the pool it was already 10 minutes to 9:00. I dropped my boxes, ran to the bathroom, and then did a quick run around the nearby track so I could at get my heart rate up a tiny bit while my wife filled in the paperwork for me (she's a great wife!).

Then I made my way to the pool. It was a four-lane pool. In the middle lanes were two girls with swim caps; I guessed they might know what they were doing. I was in lane 1. I have to admit that I thought "But lane 1 is the SLOW lane." Then I realized that I probably WAS the slow one and got over it.

The bell rang- a literal bell- and off we went. I had a beautiful start off the block. I figured that even if they rest of the swim was dismal I should at least make a good show of the start. The first couple of lengths felt great. Nice, easy swimming just like I used to do. When I came out of my third flip turn I was leading everyone else in the pool but I began to realize that breathing every 5 was not going to be enough. I tried breathing every 4, then every 3. As I started my third lap I realized that my arms were feeling very weak and heavy. I could feel my swim trunks dragging me down. My wife had sewn the pockets shut the night before (did I mention that she is a great wife?) but there was still a lot of fabric billowing around my midsection.

I tried breathing every other stroke but that much twisting made me start to feel a little bit nauseous.  And my arms still felt dead. I needed more oxygen. So I flipped over onto my back and swam 75 yards backstroke. That felt much better. I got enough oxygen. But backstroke is definitely not my strongest stroke. I flipped back over and tried freestyle for another 25. I quickly hit oxygen debt, fatigue, and general BLAH feeling. This was only about 5 minutes into the swim.

I wasn't sure what to do. So I did what came naturally- I rolled onto my back and kicked my way down the lane in "recovery" position. I figured if nothing else I could just keep doing that for the next 10 minutes.

After 25 yards of recovery I felt a lot better, though. I tried breaststroke, which felt fine. I was getting plenty of oxygen and most of the work was being done by my legs, which are in much better shape than my arms. I swam a good 100 yards of breaststroke. But breast stroke is not the fastest way to swim, especially when you are anchored down by swim trunks. So I decided to try freestyle again.

I don't remember how far I got. Probably 50 yards. And then I was feeling weak and weary and strange again. I tried flipping into backstroke but I couldn't swim straight. I kept bumping into the wall and the lane line. So I went back to breaststroke.

I did breaststroke for several minutes, occasionally switching to front crawl when I felt like I had the strength. Every time I got to her end of the pool, my wife held her fingers down into the water to tell me how many minutes were remaining (she's a great wife, remember?). When she held out three fingers I considered switching into freestyle. But I was feeling weak and I didn't want to hurt myself. I kept doing breaststroke. Then on the last lap she yelled out "half a minute" and I couldn't resist the temptation to give it a try. I didn't know whether "half a minute" meant 45 seconds or 25 seconds but I thought that if I swam an extremely fast 50 I might make it. It turns out I had 35 seconds and no, I didn't make it. My wife says I was 3/4 of the way back when time ran out. Considering the swim trunks and the fatigue, I think that was a pretty good finish.

I felt gross when I got out of the pool. It took a good 15 minutes for my heart rate, head, and tummy to all settle down to normal. Fortunately there were some shade trees nearby so I just walked around under them until I felt okay.

Then, as I sat down to put my clothing back on, I made a fascinating discovery; I had a clothes peg in the pocket of my swim suit! So there you go, my excuse for not making 14 laps is that I was weighed down by a clothes peg.

And that was about it, other than wrapping all of our furniture in cardboard. But as I said, that's another story. I was a bit sore last night, especially in my hips. I haven't done the breaststroke kick in more than a decade. Today my shoulders are a bit sore. But other than that I'm feeling great.

Between friends here, friends back home, and a matching gift from the organization that sponsored the swim, we raised $555.50. Thank you so much, and praise God!

Ebola Fundraiser

I have spontaneously decided to do a fundraiser swim for Ebola this Saturday. Other than the occasional splash in a lake or ocean, I haven't swam in about 5 years-- so this should be fun!

The event is being organized by a local women's group to raise money for Médecins Sans Frontières, also known as Doctors Without Borders. You've probably read about them in the news recently because they are on the front line fighting Ebola.

So what have I signed myself up for? I have 15 minutes to swim as many laps as I can. I am guessing, based on the satellite image on Google maps, that this is a 25 yard pool. It may be 25 meters, but it doesn't really look that long. And it's warm. I swam in it once a couple of years ago and I remember it feeling like a bathtub. I've signed up to swim at 9 AM, so hopefully it will be a bit cooler this time (it's an outdoor pool).

Back when I was in shape I could swim 20+ laps in 15 minutes. Now I'm out of shape, wearing a baggy pair of swim shorts, and hoping my goggles will hold together with string. How many laps do you think I can do?

If you would like to unofficially sponsor me, just decide now how much money per lap you would like to give. I'll write a post next week saying how far I got, and based on that you can go to the website yourself and donate online. Here's the site:

http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/our-work/medical-issues/ebola

If you would prefer to donate to an explicitly Christian organization, here are links to three missions which are doing specific Ebola work:

SIM

Catholic Relief Services

Samaritan's Purse

Of course you don't have to wait for me to swim in order to give; please feel free to donate to any these groups at any time.

And please don't forget to keep praying for the countries which are struggling with Ebola!

Fixed Greetings

Today was a long day at work. As I walked home I met one of my local friends and we launched into the standard set of greetings. He asked me how I was, how my wife was, and then how work was. Each of these questions has an expected answer, or at least an expected type of answer. You are required to say that the you are doing well, that your wife is doing well, and that work is going well.

The correct response to the question, "How is work?" literally means "I'm on top of it." But tonight when my friend asked about work, I changed one of the vowels in the phrase in order to say "It's on top of me." My friend didn't notice, or else assumed that I had made a simple beginner's mistake, and continued with the greetings. Then he asked again how work was and I replied, "I'm tired." He rebuked me sternly (but with a smile on his face) and listed for me the possible correct responses to his question: "I'm on top of it", "it's going okay", or "I'm working hard."

He then added, as if he had to pull it out of his distant memory, another possible response to the question: "I'm praising God," followed by "It will be good." Okay, I could go with that. So I repeated it back to him. He had me repeat it a couple of times to make sure that I got it right. Then he asked me no less than half a dozen times if I was "at peace." When at last he had been sufficiently assured that I was at peace, he bid me farewell.

The moral of the story: don't deviate from the standard greetings!

Polyglot in the making

Yesterday as I was walking home from work a guy greeted me with the often-used "Hey, foreigner!" I responded with "Peace to you" in the local language. He then began asking me the normal greeting questions in the normal language to see how much of it I actually knew. When I succeeded in responding appropriately, he asked me where I was from. I said America.

He told me he had a brother in Miami (I was surprised he didn't say New York; everybody has a brother in New York). He continued by saying, in impressively clear English, that he didn't speak very good English. I asked him basically the same questions in English that he had asked me in the local language and he answered them with moderate success.

This whole exchange took place as we walked about 50 yards. We were coming to a T and it was evident that I was turning right and he was going to turn left. So as we started to split off in our separate directions he said to me, "You are quite impressive. You speak English, French, and the local language. But you know, you really need to learn to speak Tubar*."

Well, it just so happens that my wife and I were in a Tubar-speaking village two weeks ago. So I greeted him in Tubar. At that he stopped dead in his tracks and his jaw just about hit the sand. He asked me another question or two in Tubar and I tried my best to answer correctly even though I wasn't really sure what he said. "Where did you learn that?!" he demanded. I gave him the name of the village, which he obviously had never heard of, and then gave the name of a larger town nearby. "Oh," said. "Well, I'm from up North. We speak the real Tubar up there." There are three different dialects of Tubar spoken in the country and they are each quite proud of their language.

He then said that he worked just down the road, so hopefully we would see each other again. We said farewell and went our separate ways.

Believe it or not, this interaction was not unusual for me. As soon as I step out the door, I never know who I'm going to end up chatting with.

*name changed

Projectile Watermellon

We bought a watermelon, thinking it would be a nice treat. We carefully selected one that looked ready and sounded hollow. Once home we bleached it, as we do with all of our fruit. Then we set it on the dining room table so we could admire it until we had a chance to eat it.

The next day we were surprised to see bubbles coming out of a small hole in the rind. Where did that hole come from? And what was making the watermelon bubble? Was there a worm inside? Or did the farmer accidentally gouge it somehow? I put a piece of tape over the hole and ignored it for another day. The following afternoon. we noticed that the watermelon was still bubbling despite the tape. I removed the tape but didn't have time to cut up the melon, so we let it sit some more as we went off to another event. Later that night we were sitting in the living room when a significant CLUNK! resonated from the kitchen. My wife arrived just in time to see the watermelon rolling across the floor, bubbling furiously. It had managed to roll itself clean off the table!

That performance finally pushed me to action. My wife dug a large knife out of the kitchen drawer and I plunged it into the watermelon. As soon as the knife plunged through the skin, the watermelon began venting like a deflating hot air balloon. I smelled sweet alcohol. Aha! I should have guessed. I refrained from investigating any further. I picked up the watermelon, which hissed and gurgled in protest, and dragged it downstairs to the garbage pile.

My wife was discouraged that our money had been wasted but I told her that all things considered, I think we got our money's worth. It's not everybody who can say they've built a watermelon rocket!

Nigeria Free- Praise God!

Today Nigeria has been declared free of the Ebola virus. I believe it is a fitting time to share with you something I noticed a couple of weeks ago when Nigeria was unofficially declared Ebola-free.

Most of the Ebola cases in Nigeria were people in the city of Lagos who had contact with Mr. Sawyer, who collapsed at the airport shortly after his arrival in the country. However, one of the last Nigerians to die from Ebola was a doctor in another city who treated one of those who had been in contact with Mr. Sawyer.

On September 3rd Reuters released an article about this doctor. It said that he had seen some 60 patients and also a large number of family members during the period of time between when he was first potentially contagious and when he was hospitalized, and that when he was on his sickbed, "members of his church visited him in the hospital in the oil hub Port Harcourt and performed a healing ceremony 'said to involve the laying on of hands.'" The article went on to lament, "Given these multiple high-risk exposure opportunities, the outbreak of Ebola virus disease in Port Harcourt has the potential to grow larger and spread faster than the one in Lagos."

My heart sank when I read that article. "Even the church is spreading this thing," I thought. I believe in praying for the  sick. But laying hands on an Ebola victim? That's presumptuous. That's leaping off the pinnacle of the temple and expecting the angels to catch you. I was frustrated, but I've read many frustrating things in recent months and I soon forgot about it. I forgot, until I read another article.

On Monday, September 22 Reuters carried an article titled "Ebola outbreak 'pretty much contained' in Senegal and Nigeria." In the article I discovered that several hundred people who had been in contact with this doctor had been put under surveillance, but not a single one of them had died. His wife and sister were the only ones to catch it from him and they both recovered. The terrible outbreak in Port Harcourt never happened. What's more, one month after that doctor died the entire country of Nigeria was unofficially declared free of ebola.

I don't know whether God really told that church to lay hands on an Ebola victim, or whether they acted foolishly and God extended grace. What I do know is that God moved in power, and I want to make sure that He gets the credit. Despite a large number of contacts that could have led to sickness and death, God halted the disease. If I understand correctly, this man was the last Ebola death in Nigeria*. The rest of the country was spared.

Praise God that Nigeria is Ebola-free, at least for them moment. Pray that it stays that way, and pray for the countries that are still fighting this beast.



*There may have been one other death after his. I read various online sources but couldn't figure it out for sure.

Village Trip

This past weekend we took a little trip (but it was not down the mighty Mississipi). It was six hours there and seven hours back. We took a bush taxi down and a bus back up, which is the reason for the difference; the bus couldn't swerve around the potholes as quickly.

Yes, we were in a village, and we had a wonderful time. They killed a chicken for us on our first night, and normally a chicken is only killed for an important event or holiday. They then proceeded to feed us way too much for the next two days until we headed back home. On our last day we had four meals and two snacks before 4 PM (which was when we left). We could have had a fifth meal but we declined it.

The people were super friendly. They were amazed that we had traveled all of the way from the big city just to visit them. Both my wife and I have visited villages before, but we always had a particular purpose or goal for being there, and the people knew it. They were very eager to help us with our research or our projects or whatever it was that we were doing, but they also understood that we were primarily there for our project and not for them.

This time we had no purpose and no project; we just wanted to meet them. And their reaction was like nothing we had ever experienced. The father of the house nearly broke into tears. We were told again and again how privileged they felt to have us there. Not because we were doing anything; we did nothing for three days but sit around and eat their food! Just because we cared enough to go and meet them and enter into their world. In two and a half days we had a couple of conversations that I'm not sure we ever thought we would have with locals here- and certainly not with locals we barely knew. We never realized how powerful it can be to just BE.

Praise God for an amazing weekend. May He show us how to follow up with this family, and may He teach us to BE with people more often!

Wonderful Always

My wife lost her comb a couple of weeks ago, and she had a hard time finding a new one. She finally saw a guy walking through the market near our house, but when she asked how much his combs were, he said $6. It's expected that you will haggle for a better price, but with a starting quote like that there's not really any point in trying.

Today we went into a boutique just down the road and, as we were buying milk powder and white beans and butter, we saw that they were also selling massive combs for $.75. Now that's more like it! After we bought it we looked closer at the nifty little bag it was sold in and found this memorable slogan:

"YOUR CHOICE MAKES YOU WONDERFUL ALWAYS"

With a guarantee like that, you know you can't go wrong!

Great People, Episode 2

Yesterday I had to go down to the local police station to get an official paper. When I arrived the lady at the desk handed me a blank sheet of paper and informed me that I need to write an official letter of request.

I wandered back to the front door in somewhat of a fuddle. I am terrible at writing things in normal French, to say nothing of formal French. I had no model to copy, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to write, and I didn't even have a pen! It was at this moment, standing forlornly before the front door of the police station, that I met a great guy.

One of the officers behind the front desk, a good-looking young guy, called out to me and asked if I had been running. I replied that yes, I had been running a little (I had been afraid that I would be late to the police station, so I had run a good portion of the journey and was still sweating profusely). He then asked me what I needed, since I was standing so aimless in front of the door. I held up the blank sheet of paper, now containing a couple of wet spots where my sweat had landed, and told him that I had to write a letter of request and had no idea how to do so. 

He motioned me to come around behind the desk with him. When I got there he layed the piece of paper on the desk and began motioning to various parts of it.
"Put your name and address up here," he said, "And the date here." And here write, 'To Madame the blah blah blah blah' and here write, 'please receive, madame, my most sincere greetings' and then sign your name here."

He looked up and discovered a rather overwhelmed look on my face. He found a pen and said, "Right, what's your name?" He then proceeded to write the entire letter for me, asking for the pertinent details. When he finished he said, "Right, sign here." I signed it, and I was good to go. I walked back into the office, handed in "my" letter, and that was that. Talk about helpful guy!

Great People

There are some great people here. One of them is the guy in charge of the corner shop downstairs.

Tonight when I tried to make supper I couldn't get the stove to light. A quick check verified my suspicion- our gas bottle had run empty. Like most people here, we use 5 liter gas bottles on an exchange system. When your bottle runs out you go to the nearest place that sells gas and exchange it for a full one. We are amazingly fortunate in our apartment because our nearest place to exchange bottles is the corner shop downstairs.

I unscrewed the bottle from the stove and carried it downstairs to the shop. The guy in charge of the shop wasn't there- it was just his assistant running the place. When he saw that I had an empty bottle he said, "I hope we've got a replacement." He looked through two stacks of bottles leaning against the wall but they were all empties. Then he went into the back room. He emerged with a bottle that looked like it had been dragged behind a truck for a couple of miles. But it was full, and that was what mattered.

I payed him for the gas and started back up the stairs, carefully holding the bottle out in front of me so I wouldn't get grimy marks all over my shorts and T-shirt. I've had this T-shirt since 2001 so it would be a shame to mess it up now!

Unfortunately a bottle full of gas is a lot more heavy than an empty bottle. I was doing my best to appear manly and strong as I struggled to navigate the twisty staircase with my awkward burden, but I still had a slight grimace on my face.

I came around a corner halfway up the stairwell and met the shop manager, who was coming down. He saw me before I had a chance to wipe all signs of the grimace from my face and promptly insisted on carrying the bottle up the stairs for me. I refused, but before I could say anything more he grabbed the bottle, wheeled around, and marched up the stairs ahead of me. When we got to the top of the stairs he plunked the bottle next to our front door, duffed his hat (in my imagination- he didn't have a hat in real life) and trotted back down the steps. I tried to say "thank you" in his language but I messed it up. He got a kick out of it anyway and I heard his laughter echo up the stairwell. What a great guy.

Passport photos

I am lazy, though my definition of laziness is a bit strange.

I need to re-apply for my national identity card, and in order to do that I need to have three professionally-made passport photos. Most people go downtown to a special photo shop to have them made, but I'm too lazy (and cheap) to go downtown.

Instead I moved a couch so I could move a bookshelf so I could put a chair against our white living room wall in the exact spot where the sunlight was hitting it. Then I borrowed the lamp from our flatmate's bedroom (the one and only lamp in the apartment) and stuck it on the bookshelf, hoping it would provide a satisfactory amount of "fill" lighting. I had to figure out what to put my camera on while I sat in the chair and smiled. I finally settled on the clothes hamper I haven't been using. Sounds "professionally-made" so far, doesn't it?

I took some pictures with our handy little camera, uploaded them to my computer, and used the GIMP to make it look like I had used a real fill light instead of a pathetic desk lamp. After some research online I edited the photos down to 35mm x 45mm and emailed them to myself.

I then went in to work, where we have a color printer and some photo paper that has been sitting on the shelf since possibly the turn of the century. Before printing my "for real" photos, I did some test runs on a regular piece of paper. There was far too much yellow and not enough blue, so I had to tinker with the printer settings a bit. I also noticed that the printer was streaking a bit, but there wasn't anything I could do about that.

Then I said a quick prayer, carefully lined up my vintage photo paper, and clicked "print." When it came out, I saw that the first row of photos contained a very obvious purple streak across my hair where the yellow ink cartridge had apparently failed to work. How many people do you know who are such hardcore Vikings fans that they would streak their hair purple for their passport photo?

Fortunately I had anticipated trouble and printed several rows of photos at once. The rest of the pictures came out okay.

I grabbed the paper cutter and presto! 3 professionally-made passport photos. I'm a professional, right? I'm a professional at something anyway, even if I'm not quite sure what.

I probably need to get a real hobby, but this kind of thing is just so much fun!

Sleepovers

Rainy season has finally hit, and that means sleepovers! Last night we were playing games at a friend's house when the power went out. We found some candles and began telling stories been candlelight.
My wife was telling a very strange story (because she wanted  it to rhyme) when suddenly the wind whipped up and started slamming doors shut all over the building. We "battened down the hatches" just in time for the first blast of rain.

The rain was heavy for a good while. We couldn't see much outside because of the power cut, but we figured there was probably a good deal of flooding going on. There probably wasn't much point in trying to get home through the flooded streets, so we set about making sleeping arrangements. My wife and I got the guest bed, which was a pretty sweet deal. Guest beds are a great invention, especially during rainy season.

The fantastic thing about last night was that we had toothbrushes along, even though we hadn't been expecting to spend the night. My wife had two spare toothbrushes in her purse because we had to stay overnight at another house two weeks ago when a similar storm hit during the evening. It's the little things that make a big difference!

Ready... Set... Not Ready? Too bad, Go!

When I was back home I got myself psyched up for the idea of building close friendships with guys here. And shortly after I got back, I went to visit some of my friends. And then, well, life set in. I like having local friends, but I like having them on my terms. Seeing them once a month is often enough for me. It takes a lot of mental energy to visit them because here you don't visit just one person; you visit their entire family. Their entire family will be speaking a language you don't understand very well and following centuries of cultural norms and expectations that you know little about. Trying to navigate these cultural elements and nonverbal communication methods requires an intense amount of concentration.

It also requires physical energy because transportation here is primarily on foot, and when you visit somebody's "family" that often includes their parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and possibly a few close friends- most of whom don't live in the same house and possibly not even the same neighborhood.

So, like I said, once a month is sufficient for me. But that isn't often enough to really build a deep friendship. I think I knew that, but I also wasn't motivated enough to change it.

And so, two weeks ago God brought somebody knew into my life. He was walking along behind my wife and I as we were chatting away in English. When I paused for a moment he greeted me in the local language and then switched into choppy English. We had a nice chat, partly in English and partly in French, and when we had to part ways he explained that he wis hoping to go to a conference in Oregon in September and he needs a lot of practice speaking English. So I gave him my phone number.

Since then he has called me at least every other day. We've met up three times, once for half a day. He is a really nice guy and a lot of fun, and he is assertive. He isn't pushy, but he also has his heart set on becoming great friends with me in a short period of time. Sometimes I feel a bit intimidated, but then I realize that I think he is exactly what I needed. Thank you, God, for pushing me out of my comfort zone again.

A Real Storm

We've finally had some real rain here! Last week we had a good downpour that got everything soaked, including me. I was with a friend trying to walk across town. Every time it let up we started walking again, and then when the clouds re-opened we had to duck under the nearest roof and chat with the others huddled around.

Last night was the first time we had a really wild storm. My wife and I had just settled into a board game with a couple of friends when we noticed the sky turning an ominous shade of brown and yellow. We got up to close the windows, but before we had them all closed the dust hit.

It is hard to describe a dust storm. Imagine a tornado in a sand pit, except that instead of forming a funnel the wind just whips around in wild squiggles going every which direction. It would have enough energy to do serious damage if only it could make up its mind which way it wanted to go. Doors and windows that aren't latched bang open and then slam shut again. A bucket tumbles end-over-end down the street. A television antenna on the apartment across the street bends over as if there were a pole vaulter hanging off the end.

The air is so thick with dust that it's like wearing yellow sunglasses. If you stand looking into the wind it feels like you're taking a shower, but grittier. If you turn around and look at where the wind is going, you can actually see the wind currents flowing around buildings and billowing up into the air. Every detail of the wind's movement is highlighted in yellow sand.

Before the sand had completely blown over, the rain fell. The fine layer of dust that coated every building, tree and person in sight quickly turned to mud and then began to disappear, as if it were melting.

The rain began somewhat gently but then got into the swing of things. Soon it was pelting down enough rain to qualify as a genuine storm. But it had more in store.

After the initial excitement with the dust and rain, we sat back down to play our game. It took us a little while to wipe all the dust off of the board, cards, and table (we had left the door open so the whole room was coated in dust). Just as we restarted play, there was a fantastic blaze of light. We had the lights on in the house but it was still clearly visible. After a pause, there came one of the loudest claps of thunder I have ever heard. Then came another flash, followed by a rumble that lasted nearly 10 seconds. We were very glad to be in a low house right next several tall apartment buildings, all of them with tall television antennas.

The rain carried on for a while and then calmed to a drizzle, which it persisted in maintaining for the next three hours. All in all, it was a very satisfactory storm.

The Apple of Your Eye

So it turns out that the very latest in fashionable fabric design is... the Apple logo. That's right, bitten-into apples are no longer just a symbol of Mac enthusiasm. They are high fashion in our corner of the world. We found a set of massive, ceiling-to-floor curtains in white and a rich shade of maroon, complete with frilly ruffles at intervals along their length. They were striped, and on the white stripes they had alternating maroon and silver Mac logos. 

Keep your eyes peeled. They could be arriving soon in a Wal-Mart near you. But I wouldn't count on it.

I also saw a glittery, plastic-jewel-encrusted handbag with the word "Perfect" and a giant apple in white and gold plastic jewels. I thought it was the Mac logo again but my wife pointed out that it couldn't be because there wasn't a bite missing. If it were a bit larger I'd be tempted to buy it for my computer anyway. I'm sure it would finally convince my brother-in-law that Macs are superior to PCs.

The Washing Machine

One of our colleagues was trying to get rid of a washing machine. It was a beautiful machine with a two-tone color scheme (the plastic bits were faded to off-white while the metal stayed white) and it even worked -- at least on one setting. It took three hours to wash a load and when it finally got done it gave a 120 volt shock to anyone who opened the door, unless they were wearing shoes. 

The front of the machine boasted "800 cycles." I did the math and discovered that, at a rate of 1 cycle per week, this machine should have lasted 15 years. In other words, it should have died half a decade ago. But then I took into account the bachelor who had owned it, re-worked my calculations, and concluded that it should be good for another 14 years or so. In fact, it may still be under warranty.

The machine also boasts an "automatically variable capacity." I have witnessed this spectacle with my own eyes. When the machine contains a largish load it shakes and quivers and convulses to make sure that the clothes are properly scrubbed together. It's called the "Cha-Cha Overdrive." 

Such a quality device is always assured a place of love in someone's home, and such was the case for this one. Another of our colleagues agreed to adopt it, and I believe some money may have even been exchanged on the deal, though I'm not sure which direction the money went.

I, because of my magnanimous character, agreed to help move this machine. I also felt somewhat responsible for it because I had used it for some time. If you look deep into the annals of my blog you discover an incident in which a washing machine installation project nearly flooded our bathroom. That was this same glorious machine.

I already helped move one washing machine out of this same apartment building, and it had been more excitement than I cared for. I ended up riding it down the stairs like a angry bull and only narrowly escaped serious bodily harm. So this time I took necessary precaution- I got my colleague to take the dangerous end. 

We maneuvered the machine down the stairs, out the door, and into the bed of a pickup truck with surprisingly little hassle. We did snag an electrical cord on the tailgate, but the odds are 5/6 that it was for one of the cycles that doesn't work anyway.

However, we realized that the clunker was going to be a beast to carry up three floors in the stairway that I described in a post last week. So when we arrived we asked around for help, and we happily found a third guy to help us out. However, before we had ascended two stairs we realized that there wasn't room for three guys and a washing machine in the stairwell. So the new guy took the bottom, I took the top, and up the stairs we went. One step at a time, all three floors, without stopping.

 I would have loved to stop but I wasn't sure I would be able to pick it up again. After half a flight of stairs the bungee strap (elastic band) that was holding various components in place popped off, and that had been my handle. I was left with nothing to hold onto but the metal itself, and my sweaty hands were sliding at a rate of 1/2 inch per second. I had to keep re-grabbing so the machine it didn't slide out of my hands and cause another toboggan-run-down-the-stairwell event. I wouldn't have been the driver this time, but I didn't want to be a bystander either.

We eventually got the machine into the apartment upstairs. That's when we realized that it was two wide to slide between the sink and the toilet in the bathroom. We finally decided to tilt it 45˚ on it's face and slide it that way. We pinned my colleague in the corner so he had to hop over the toilet, gave another shove, and PRESTO! it was in place. Only then did we realize that the door of the washing machine was too close to the toilet and there was no way to open it.  

So we wiggled it around, tipped it back on its face, my colleague hurdled over the toilet again, we pushed it out, spun it around 90˚, tilted it on its side, just managed to squeeze it between the toilet and the sink, pinned my colleague in the corner again so he had to hurdle the toilet one last time, wiggled some more, and finally it was in place. 

Then we realized that somebody needs to come in and drill some holes for the plumbing behind this thing anyway. Odds are, we'll need to move it again.

A Bubu of My Very Own

I got dragged to a clothing market recently and came out with 3 meters of green fabric. That's how clothing starts around here- as fabric. And then I got dragged back into the market with my newly-acquired fabric so that it could be magically transformed into something wearable. I guess I could have theoretically turned the bolt of fabric into a toga, but that is neither here nor there. Nor anywhere else near here or there, for that matter. But I digress...

So we (I and 3 women, whom everyone assumed were my wives when in fact only one of them was) payed a visit to a local tailor in the middle of the market. While I tried to describe the outfit that I had in mind, the ladies looked through his stack of magazines displaying the latest in local fashion. Eventually they found a picture of a guy wearing a very spiffy-looking shirt. It was better than what I had in mind, so I told the tailor to just go ahead and make that, with a couple of modifications. We'll see what he comes up with. Getting something made here is always exciting. It never comes out exactly how you expected (or probably how you requested) but it usually looks good anyway.

Once we had a pattern selected it was pretty straightforward. He measured me with his tape, we haggled over a price, I gave him enough money to buy the necessary extra materials, and we were good to go.

This is the third shirt that I have had made here but this is the first time that I will have matching trousers to go with it. At last I will have a full local outfit that is actually my size!

Grandma

My Grandmother died on Thursday morning. I haven't really known what to write. To be honest I've had so many things going on I've barely had time to think about it, much less write. So now it's Saturday and in between epic trips across town, I'm thinking. And writing.

I wish the Western world knew how to talk about death. I have no idea what to say to someone when they lose a loved one. I also have no idea how to tell anyone else when someone I love has died.

And I wish I could be there with my family right now. But I'm glad that I was there recently and that I was able to somewhat say farewell to Grandma, though at the time I doubt she knew who I was. Then, as now, I had to say farewell in my heart and trust that in heaven she would understand, even if she didn't on earth. Heaven is more important anyway.

Homeward We Go

I just had a typical ride home from visiting a local friend, so I thought I'd write about it.

My friend lives 6 1/2 miles from my apartment. When we left his house at 7:10, we started by walking 3/4 mile to the bus stop. Along the way we stopped several times to greet various friends, relatives, or important members of the community who were sitting outside their houses along the road.

When we got to the bus stop there were two empty buses and nobody waiting to get on. This is not an ideal situation because each bus holds somewhere between 60 and 80 passengers and it won't leave until it is full. We didn't really want to pay for a taxi though, so we climbed on and waited.

Fortunately it was only about 15 minutes before the bus was full and wheezed to life. We started rolling out of the bus stop. Then we stopped. The bus driver got out and examined the back wheel right below my seat, while scooters zipped around him and the cars behind us on the road honked furiously. He climbed back in, drove another 100 yards, and stopped again. Then he got out and called to two other guys, who came running with a hand-operated tire pump. They worked on the tire for a couple of minutes, he paid them, and then we were on our way. 

We drove about half a mile and then pulled into a gas station. I said a quick anti-spark prayer as the attendant plunged the gas hose into the still-running bus. I'm told that diesel is less explosive than gasoline, which always gives me comfort in these situations- unless I'm in a taxi. Anyway, we put in 6 liters of diesel and then chugged back onto the road. 

Traffic was amazingly light today, the result of a major holiday that sent most people out of the city, so we made it to our destination unusually quickly. Even so, by the time I got off the bus it was dark. When we left my friend's house 5 1/2 miles away the sun had still been well above the horizon.

I then had to catch a smaller public transport van to get from that part of town to my neighborhood. We only had to wait a minute before two appeared, but both were full so they didn't stop. We walked up to the bus stop nearby, thinking I might need to catch the bus instead. But because the buses don't have any fixed schedule it was impossible to know when the next one would be. So we went back to the place where the transport vans stop, and got there just as one was pulling in. I hopped on, and away we went. I looked around and noticed that half of the passengers were young children. Across from me sat two boys. On looked like he was 12 and the other about 6. Next to them sat a girl who looked like she was 10. In the next seats over sat a couple of older women and three small children who were obviously with the 10 year old girl because she kept talking to them.

 I was trying to figure out which of the woman was the mother of which children, when the 10 year old announced that she wanted to get off. There aren't any buttons like in a European or American bus, so you just yell when it's your stop. To my surprise, the 10 year old girl and the three little children all got off together. None of the women were the mother; that little girl was in charge!  I then eyed up the boys across from me. The 12-year-old had the fare money (a coin) in his mouth. Were they on their own also? It turns out they were, because at one point all of the women got off and left the boys behind.

As for me, it was a pretty simple ride. I hopped off where I wanted to, made my way towards our apartment building, greeted a few neighbors as I went past, and soon I was home sweet home. 

Journey time: just over 1 1/2 hours

Average speed: 4.4 miles per hour

And that's totally fine, because it's not about speed or efficiency, it's about spending time with friends!

Snail Mail

If you want to send us a Christmas card, make sure you send it  before Thanksgiving. Mail from back home often takes nearly a month to get here. Sometimes it's fun to get things a couple of weeks after an event or holiday. It makes the festive seasons longer! 

On the other hand, sometimes it creates a major headache. Today I received a letter from the IRS saying that I owed them some money. The due date to pay it was today. 

I also received some insurance information today that I needed to receive a week and a half ago in order to avoid paying a double insurance premium for the month of August.

I can't wait until I get my time machine built.

Volleyball!

Everyone was very excited to see us at church today. Well, not everyone. Just the ones who remembered us, which was a fair number. But the church is largely students from other countries, so a lot of people I hung out with are gone now.

This afternoon was a sports day so we were reunited with the volleyball team. I'm pretty rusty but it was a load of fun whacking the ball around again.

Pizza For the Go

I have experienced many pizzas in my life. Sausage, Pepperoni, Supreme, "The Works." British variations on the theme including broccoli and other vegetables. French variations made with moldy cheese. All kinds of things. But this week I experienced something new.

Our friend lives right above a pizza place. He has all of the normal French-ish pizzas, most of which focus on olives and really good cheese. He has an AMAZING pizza featuring ground hamburger and a white sauce. And then he has the monstrosity that we ordered only because I knew that you would want to know about it. Well, that and I have a quirky sense of adventure.

The pizza starts normal enough; a medium-thickness crust, basic tomato sauce, and standard French cheese blend.

Then, all of the sudden, it takes on a 4th-grade-snack-time theme. Half-buried under the cheese are large, plump prunes. Complete with pits, as I found out the "hard" way.  Over the top of the cheese is a generous sprinkling of almonds.

But do not fear, the obligatory black olives still feature prominently at regular intervals around the circumference.

Biting into this pizza could best be described as potluckicious. It reminded me of what happens when your plate is knocked halfway off your lap and the plumb-carrot blend becomes one with your triple-cheese lasagna. It's not a disagreeable flavor as long as you know it's coming.

Fluid Dynamics

It hasn't rained here yet this year.

My wife and I have visited two very wet countries in a row. The first one had the wettest winter most folks could remember (I counted 2 days without rain in a 6 week period). The second had the wettest June on record. And now we are in a place that hasn't seen rain since last October. I guess they had a heavy dew twice last month, but no real rain.

It's a bit strange. It's also hot. Not that the temperature is especially miserable but the humidity is high. Most days it feels as if there is no point in showering because you'll just be sweaty again within half an hour -- or sooner if you do anything besides sit down.

So I'm trying to find ways to maximize the fans in our apartment. Air movement is still somewhat of a mystery to me. I understand the general concepts of high pressure and low pressure, but the quirks in an odd-shaped space like our apartment baffle me. When I was a freshman engineering student, the upper class students liked to moan and groan about a class called "Fluid Dynamics." I wish I had stayed in the engineering program long enough to take that class. Unlike most of them, I could apply it to my real life!

And please pray that rain will come. The crops need it badly!

The Fun Continues

After the great bookshelf adventure we ate lunch and then began unpacking a whole new pile of stuff that had arrived along with the bookshelf. We had no idea that we possessed so much wonderful junk. I was relieved to find a collection of T-shirts because I only brought one from back home. Unfortunately they, and all of the rest of the clothes that we had packed, smelled a bit musty. So I decided to wash them. We don't have a washing machine here so I got two big tubs, filled them in the shower, and squished and squarshed by hand. Then my lovely assistant took them up to the roof so they could bask in the mildew-killing ultraviolet rays.

After that we took public transportation across town. You'd have to live here to understand that experience. The most noteworthy event was a dispute with the fare-taker guy because he charged us twice the normal rate and insisted it was correct. Our friend refused to get off until she received the proper change, which got the entire vanload of people in an uproar. Normally I would get involved in such things but I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and I couldn't remember all of the necessary vocabulary in the local language, so I just stood and watched it all with some amusement.

After our abrupt exit from the public transportation we arrived at our destination; a farewell party for my former flatmate. There were loads of people there and all of them wanted to say hello to us. It was great to see everyone again and catch up. Also somewhat exhausting catching up with all of them in the course of an hour or less.

After the party we drove home the long way so we could see the ocean. Ate supper, took an hour or so to convert my budget worksheets to the local currency, and went to bed at 11:30.

That's about it.

A Shelf For Books

What did day 1 in our new place consist of?

As I said, we woke up at 10 AM. We ate breakfast, and then I suddenly felt sleepy again. I laid down. When I woke up it was 12:30 and my friend needed help moving a bookshelf up the stairs. My wife looked at my dopey just-woke-up expression and suggested that I wait before helping with the bookshelf because "it is going to require some brains." But I was sort of awake so stumbled down to help.

This was a doozy of a bookshelf; seven feet high and four feet wide. And the stairwell in our apartment is a doozy of a stairwell. I'm pretty sure the builders didn't have a blueprint. They just built the first story, then built another on top of that, then built half a story on top of that, then built another half slight higher, then another story on top of that, then a little room on the roof. When you walk up the inside, you could easily imagine the outside looking like something drawn by Dr. Seuss. Every turn of the stairwell is a different size, shape, and dimension. The stairs themselves vary in height, from 7 inches to nearly 13. The ceiling above the stairs wiggles and waggles, some places 10 feet high and then in one place only 6 (a real head-banger!). Only one thing is consistent the whole height of the stairwell: it is only about 4 feet wide.

You can understand, then, how daunting of a task it was to get this bookshelf up the five flights of stairs to the apartment. The maneuvers could be described thus:

- flip the shelf on it's side
- hip-check the door
- rotate the bookshelf 45˚ on the z axis between two doorways while standing in a shower (why do we have a shower at the bottom of our stairwell, anyway?)
- wiggle the bookshelf back out of the shower and around the corner
- grunt and groan around the y axis while ascending a 46 degree incline
- lower the bookshelf onto it's face while slowly rotating it around a corner
- ease it back onto its side while continuing rotation
- lift bookshelf above heads to clear neighbor's table sitting in the middle of the stairway.
- rotate bookshelf 90 degrees while flipping it onto its face and lowering it to a horizontal elevation
- wedge it hopelessly into a corner
- After consultation with the females, we decide to lower the bookshelf to a vertical position (or as close as we can get it) and try to lift it straight up the middle of the stairwell, as if it were some kind of elevator shaft.
- Wife voices concern about the paint getting scraped off of the wall.
- I do my best impression of Hercules while my friend lets go of the bottom of the shelf and scrambles to the steps above me.
- We take off some more paint
- At last we are able to lift the bookshelf out of the abyss, flip it on it's back, rotate it 90˚, flip it onto it's side, hip check another door, rotate it 45˚ to diagonal, wiggle it through a doorway in minute increments, turn it another 90˚, slide it around the corner, trip over the pile of books that will eventually go on the shelf, and VIOLA! All done. Nothing to it.

That was the start of the day… part 2 to follow

We're Here!

After 29 hours of travel, we arrived safely "chez nous." It was a very boring trip on the whole, which is exactly how we like it. Here is a brief overview:

8:00 shuttle to the airport
8:30 Got our tickets from a rather helter-skelter agent at the airport and watched our bags being dumped on the conveyor to baggageland.
8:45 Stopped in security because my wife was trying to sneak out of the country with one of those gel-filled wrist support things in her hand luggage. For shame!
9:00 Found our gate, then went to find my cousin's fiancée. She works in one of the vendor booths at the airport. It was a slow morning so we managed to monopolize most of an hour.
12:00 boarded the plane to stop #1
2:40 Landed at stop #1
3:00 found our next gate, then walked from one end of the terminal to the other and back again in search of a sandwich that cost less than $7. Finally found Subway, which was faithfully selling $5 Footlongs. Hurray!
4:40 Just settling into our seats on the next flight when we heard an announcement that something on the plane broke and they were calling mechanics to fix it.
6:30ish finally underway.
1:15 AM 2 movies and a couple hours of restless sleep later, we landed at stop #2
1:30 got through security more quickly because this time my wife put her deadly and volatile wrist support in a separate tray
6:00 after a slight delay, we boarded our last flight
11:00 Landed at our destination
11:30 got through security
12:30 finally completed the visa process and retrieved our luggage
12:45 colleague drove us to our apartment
And so, after 29 hours of travel, we arrived. We had supper, unpacked most of our bags, sent a quick email, and finally went to bed at about 5:00 (10 PM local time).

When we woke up, the fun began...

Moon of Honey

That's right! I'm only about 4 months behind on my life. So here, mostly in pictures, is our honeymoon:

Our cozy little cottage on the hill:

What a view!

The lowest of the Dolgoch Falls:

Footpath above the falls:

Treeline on Penygader:

The Valley below Penygader:

From the summit of Cadair Idris, highest peak of Penygader:

Sunset over Penygader:

Lake below Penygader:

Castel y Bere, the ruins of a Welsh castle:

Hills around Castel y Bere:

Caernarfon Castle:

Looking across the battlements:

Conwy castle and city walls in a torrential downpour:

Ruins of a Roman hill fort, now a sheep pasture!

Mount Snowdon, covered in clouds.

Valley behind Mount Snowdon:

Welsh Ruins at the foot of Mount Snowdon:

Shakespeare's birthplace: