From time to time I write about things that have some relation to Foreign Service life but are not necessarily things you would consider part of this journey. Moving around the world with no idea where you will first be assigned presents challenges and changes that you cannot imagine when you first see the email telling you you have been selected to join the Foreign Service. I guess life is a revolving process in general and Foreign Service life is no exception.
Today I delved into a project I have been avoiding for months. You know what I mean; everyone out there has a drawer or a room or a stack of something sitting in a corner that they keep meaning to get to but somehow never seem to find the time. Actually we all know the answer to why those things don't get done but we would rather not face the truth: that there are so many more fun and interesting things we would rather do with our time. Putting these tasks off only makes things worse and makes it all the easier to avoid; after all, we have created lots of practice avoiding those chores and now we are good at it. Well, for me, that task is unpacking the three large wardrobe boxes in the hall of my apartment. Now, I have lived here for 16 months and those boxes have been there the whole time. Luckily for me they are in the hallway leading to my bedrooms, so my guests have not had to witness my laziness directly. Nonetheless, it hit me the other day that in just a little over 8 months I will be packing to leave here and there is no good reason those boxes should not be unpacked by now.
So onward I went to dive into clothes I had not seen since I packed out of Austin in March 2008. What a revelation! It was as though looking through all those old clothes, I could see my life flashing before me in a wardrobe sort of scene setter. I guess I was trying to find myself for the past few years because some of those clothing choices were really ugly to be honest. For instance, I had several blouses that were orange. I don't even look good in orange. And what about clothing with color names that don't make sense? There was a cozy corduroy shirt that can only be described as the color salmon--definitely a color for a dead fish and not for me. And what about that day-glow lime green Polo sweater? Even though it was on sale, what was I thinking? You could see me coming down the road a mile away in the dark in that thing. There was some good news. I realized that most of my clothing was Ann Taylor and Polo and Gap--fairly decent brand names, so I have had decent taste even if I don't always get the color right. I purchased most of those clothes on sale or at the outlet mall because I well remember how poor I was during that time, but nevertheless I managed to look ok, despite a very tiny clothing budget. Another bit of good news was the clothing sizes I found in the boxes. Literally everything was too big for me. I tried on a couple of pairs of pants--sort of hoping I might be able to retain them and increase my wardrobe here in shopping-deprived Sierra Leone, but every single item was too large. I am happy to relate that all those miles of running have paid off because I am definitely a slimmer me than I was 18 months ago. Then there were the nostalgia items: Ryan's high school graduation robe complete with Valedictorian metals and National Honor Society sash. I had two lovely gowns; one from Allison's wedding and the periwinkle blue formal from Angela's wedding. Somehow the movers packed Laura's prom dress in my boxes and at a size 3/4 it's definitely too small for me. I found my grandmothers pink sweater that I gave her just before she died, my other grandmothers christening dress from 1905, several German dresses from Bavaria and even my old bowling shirt circa 1980. (did you know that I have bowled several 200 games and even a 600 series?) All those memories had been waiting for me and all I had to do was unpack them. To celebrate the big mess of hangers and stacks of clothes I have ready to give away, I happened to notice a wad of something in the pocket of that hideous orange stripped shirt I mentioned earlier. Guess what? I found $60.00! So to all of you out there who are avoiding that area of your life that needs doing, maybe you should think about tackling that project; you just mind find more rewards than you anticipated.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
My Friend Joan
This story actually begins in 1999. Some of you may be shaking your heads and wondering what event could have possibly occurred in 1999 that might have any relevance to Foreign Service life; much less an event that happened 10 years ago. Well, life has many twists and turns and sometimes those connections reveal themselves many years later. Such is the case in this story.
Some of you know that in 1999, I moved back to the U.S. after having lived the past two years in Germany. At that time the following events took place simultaneously: my marriage ended, my oldest daughter returned to college at A&M, my middle child started college in Pennsylvania, my youngest child started her third year of high school, I started college, and I was working full time trying to make ends meet. Needless to say, I was a bit stressed out. I read some physiological chart a while back that has you identify key events that cause stress in your life and after you list your "life changes" it tallies your score in the stress department. My score was so high I probably should have checked into Shoal Creek Healthcare Facility, or given it all up to eat bon bons on the sofa. I did neither, and it was at this time that I met Joan. I'm a fairly regular church goer (I remain Catholic despite all the people from my generation who gave up their religion long ago), and one Sunday Joan noticed me and came up to say hello. In all fairness to the story, Joan came up to me not only to say hello, but also something like, "Are you alright?" She said this because I had been crying. With all the changes going on in my life, I tried to be strong for everyone else, but church was the one place I allowed myself to break down and fall apart. Maybe I thought God would not mind if I showed my true feelings; feelings of despair and anxiety and fear. I think Joan saw this in me and walked over to say hello. I'm sure she got a lot more for her hello than she bargained for, but I was glad for the company. I felt totally alone at that point in my life and she reached out to me in a way that I knew at least one person noticed my struggle and cared about me. She gave me her phone number but I must confess I was too shy with all my troubles to call her. We saw each other at church and each week she asked how I was. I felt so glad for those meetings. Nine years later when I left Austin to take this job with the Foreign Service, Joan and I exchanged emails and promised to keep in touch. Eventually I gave her the address for this Blog, and she follows it faithfully--even emailing me her comments from time to time.
About a month ago, I got an email from Joan. She knew someone who was coming to Sierra Leone and she asked if it might be possible for us to meet. I said yes immediately and she gave me the email for "Erin." It turns out that Erin is the best friend of Joan's daughter, Sarah. Erin and I exchanged details and I offered to have her stay with me while she was in Freetown. She arrived Thursday evening and went upcountry (the term for "up to the primitive areas") for the next two days. On Saturday afternoon, she came to my house and we met for the first time. She was really nice and we got along great. We went running on the beach, and then came back for a shower. She said it was the first hot shower she had had in two weeks; as she had spent the past 10 days on a mission trip with Young Life in Liberia. I took her to an Embassy Happy Hour that evening and she met people from all over the world. The next morning I made waffles and fresh coffee and we sat around the table like family. Later on, I took her to the Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary and she got to see the chimps and all the good work that Bala is doing. On the way home we stopped for fresh bread and she shopped for trinkets on the side of the road. We had a great time and she made me realize something very important; that this really is my home now. Seeing Freetown through Erin's tourist eyes made me understand how comfortable I have become here. I have a pretty good command of the Krio language and I can talk to the local people in their own dialect. I know how to drive in this crazy place. I know where to find the good bread. I'm not afraid to walk the streets and I can bargain shop with the best of them. I really like living here, experiencing the rich culture of Freetown and being with Erin reminded me of this. She kept thanking me for all I have done for her, but really I wanted to thank her for showing me how far I've come.
So thank you Joan for being my friend when I really needed one. (And I hope you didn't mind that I told your story here). Thank you Erin for trusting some random acquaintance of your best friends Mom (me) because it was great meeting you. Thank you God for the experience of being in Sierra Leone.
Life is what you make it. Make it good.
Some of you know that in 1999, I moved back to the U.S. after having lived the past two years in Germany. At that time the following events took place simultaneously: my marriage ended, my oldest daughter returned to college at A&M, my middle child started college in Pennsylvania, my youngest child started her third year of high school, I started college, and I was working full time trying to make ends meet. Needless to say, I was a bit stressed out. I read some physiological chart a while back that has you identify key events that cause stress in your life and after you list your "life changes" it tallies your score in the stress department. My score was so high I probably should have checked into Shoal Creek Healthcare Facility, or given it all up to eat bon bons on the sofa. I did neither, and it was at this time that I met Joan. I'm a fairly regular church goer (I remain Catholic despite all the people from my generation who gave up their religion long ago), and one Sunday Joan noticed me and came up to say hello. In all fairness to the story, Joan came up to me not only to say hello, but also something like, "Are you alright?" She said this because I had been crying. With all the changes going on in my life, I tried to be strong for everyone else, but church was the one place I allowed myself to break down and fall apart. Maybe I thought God would not mind if I showed my true feelings; feelings of despair and anxiety and fear. I think Joan saw this in me and walked over to say hello. I'm sure she got a lot more for her hello than she bargained for, but I was glad for the company. I felt totally alone at that point in my life and she reached out to me in a way that I knew at least one person noticed my struggle and cared about me. She gave me her phone number but I must confess I was too shy with all my troubles to call her. We saw each other at church and each week she asked how I was. I felt so glad for those meetings. Nine years later when I left Austin to take this job with the Foreign Service, Joan and I exchanged emails and promised to keep in touch. Eventually I gave her the address for this Blog, and she follows it faithfully--even emailing me her comments from time to time.
About a month ago, I got an email from Joan. She knew someone who was coming to Sierra Leone and she asked if it might be possible for us to meet. I said yes immediately and she gave me the email for "Erin." It turns out that Erin is the best friend of Joan's daughter, Sarah. Erin and I exchanged details and I offered to have her stay with me while she was in Freetown. She arrived Thursday evening and went upcountry (the term for "up to the primitive areas") for the next two days. On Saturday afternoon, she came to my house and we met for the first time. She was really nice and we got along great. We went running on the beach, and then came back for a shower. She said it was the first hot shower she had had in two weeks; as she had spent the past 10 days on a mission trip with Young Life in Liberia. I took her to an Embassy Happy Hour that evening and she met people from all over the world. The next morning I made waffles and fresh coffee and we sat around the table like family. Later on, I took her to the Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary and she got to see the chimps and all the good work that Bala is doing. On the way home we stopped for fresh bread and she shopped for trinkets on the side of the road. We had a great time and she made me realize something very important; that this really is my home now. Seeing Freetown through Erin's tourist eyes made me understand how comfortable I have become here. I have a pretty good command of the Krio language and I can talk to the local people in their own dialect. I know how to drive in this crazy place. I know where to find the good bread. I'm not afraid to walk the streets and I can bargain shop with the best of them. I really like living here, experiencing the rich culture of Freetown and being with Erin reminded me of this. She kept thanking me for all I have done for her, but really I wanted to thank her for showing me how far I've come.
So thank you Joan for being my friend when I really needed one. (And I hope you didn't mind that I told your story here). Thank you Erin for trusting some random acquaintance of your best friends Mom (me) because it was great meeting you. Thank you God for the experience of being in Sierra Leone.
Life is what you make it. Make it good.
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Art of Saying Good-Bye
Life in the foreign service presents many challenges, but one thing I did not consider was all the good byes you have to face. I have been at post for over a year now, and people I know well are starting to leave. Some of them only had 1-year assignments and are now leaving for their next adventure. I only knew a few people in this category, such as the Canadian journalist who I met on a Hash run last October. She and I fell into step together and even though she was a full six inches shorter than me, we ran in the exact same rhythm. We ran into each other a lot socially over the next six months. I learned how very inquisitive journalists can be and more than once I had to refer her questions to the Political Affairs Officer at the Embassy, rather than try to answer them myself. That's another important lesson I learned this year; life at an Embassy can be a political minefield. Don't answer any questions related to the Embassy with your opinion or conjecture. Be sure you have the facts and be sure those fact are allowed to be released to the public. If you are unsure about something, err on the side of caution and don't say anything. Believe me, I got to the point where when something big happened to the U.S. in the news or in Freetown, I would make a point of calling the Public Affairs Officer and asking her what things I could say about the topic. It's much safer than to be cornered by a journalist and have to think on your feet. Welcome to diplomacy. But I'm off topic.
My best friend at the Embassy, Lynn, is Sierra Leonean. She and I bonded a while back because she is a wonderful person, a true professional at her job and because by some strange concidence, her entire family lives in my home town in Minnesota! (her family left many years ago but she stayed to finish school) Her family met my family twice when she went back to the U.S. to visit. (No it is not lost on me that she has been back twice to the U.S. to visit her family and I have not been back at all in almost two years....but she has worked for the Embassy for 5 years and has a lot more vacation time than I have.) They met at my favorite restaurant and had margaritas, took photos and talked about me. Again, I'm off topic; this time I think it was mention of margaritas that did it. Anyway, Lynn was recently accepted into the PhD program at St. Could State University. She starts classes in August. With little more than two weeks notice, I have to say good bye to my closest Sierra Leonean friend. While I wish her all the best, as she has worked so hard for this opportunity, I will really miss her genuine friendship. We have plans to meet again at Christmas when I come home on R&R to Minnesota.
My other best friend, Stephanie, has decided to leave her post at UNICEF and go back to Canada. She is tired of living the nomad life and wants to settle down and be closer to her family. She and I bonded quickly (as this life makes you do) and she plans to leave a month after Lynn. Stephanie and I shared many lazy afternoons at the beach, we ran together, attended each others birthday bashes, and had the best girls night sleep over with pizza and M&M's that one could ever imagine in a third world country. I will miss her a lot.
Most of our Embassy staff is leaving in the next 8 months. Daren, who started the same day as I, will depart for language training in November with an onward assignment to Monglia. Lindsay and Sean, who were my sponsors when I arrived, are leaving for their next assignment in Canada a little earlier than planned because Lindsay will have their first baby in December, which I'm pretty sure was planned. I leave sometime next spring-probably May or June- with 30 days of Home Leave before my next assigment. No, I don't know where I'm going yet, but we did receive our Bid List last Monday and I have been researching where to go next. I will write another post on that later. Our bids are due August 28 and we find out our assignments sometime in October. Wow, I can't believe I'm over half way through my first tour!
There is one other person who deserves mention here regarding difficult good byes. Some things are just too difficult to write about so I will save that for anther time too. Suffice it to say that this life makes you appreciate every single second of the good times and makes you miss them with complete and utter clarity when they are gone. We all have but one life to live and I plan to make the most of mine. "I'm all in" as they say.
Make it good.
My best friend at the Embassy, Lynn, is Sierra Leonean. She and I bonded a while back because she is a wonderful person, a true professional at her job and because by some strange concidence, her entire family lives in my home town in Minnesota! (her family left many years ago but she stayed to finish school) Her family met my family twice when she went back to the U.S. to visit. (No it is not lost on me that she has been back twice to the U.S. to visit her family and I have not been back at all in almost two years....but she has worked for the Embassy for 5 years and has a lot more vacation time than I have.) They met at my favorite restaurant and had margaritas, took photos and talked about me. Again, I'm off topic; this time I think it was mention of margaritas that did it. Anyway, Lynn was recently accepted into the PhD program at St. Could State University. She starts classes in August. With little more than two weeks notice, I have to say good bye to my closest Sierra Leonean friend. While I wish her all the best, as she has worked so hard for this opportunity, I will really miss her genuine friendship. We have plans to meet again at Christmas when I come home on R&R to Minnesota.
My other best friend, Stephanie, has decided to leave her post at UNICEF and go back to Canada. She is tired of living the nomad life and wants to settle down and be closer to her family. She and I bonded quickly (as this life makes you do) and she plans to leave a month after Lynn. Stephanie and I shared many lazy afternoons at the beach, we ran together, attended each others birthday bashes, and had the best girls night sleep over with pizza and M&M's that one could ever imagine in a third world country. I will miss her a lot.
Most of our Embassy staff is leaving in the next 8 months. Daren, who started the same day as I, will depart for language training in November with an onward assignment to Monglia. Lindsay and Sean, who were my sponsors when I arrived, are leaving for their next assignment in Canada a little earlier than planned because Lindsay will have their first baby in December, which I'm pretty sure was planned. I leave sometime next spring-probably May or June- with 30 days of Home Leave before my next assigment. No, I don't know where I'm going yet, but we did receive our Bid List last Monday and I have been researching where to go next. I will write another post on that later. Our bids are due August 28 and we find out our assignments sometime in October. Wow, I can't believe I'm over half way through my first tour!
There is one other person who deserves mention here regarding difficult good byes. Some things are just too difficult to write about so I will save that for anther time too. Suffice it to say that this life makes you appreciate every single second of the good times and makes you miss them with complete and utter clarity when they are gone. We all have but one life to live and I plan to make the most of mine. "I'm all in" as they say.
Make it good.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Hash Run and Sunday Run
For those of you who are wondering, yes, I am still running. Not as often as I would like, but still in the habit. Ever since my first experiment with a 10-k race in Austin for the Austin American Statesman in 2007, (where I was joined by 30,000 other runners) I have considered running an integral part of my life. If I don't run, I don't feel like myself. It helps me exercise, stay fit, and I work out all sorts of problems by running and thinking about things. It's a way to clear my head and let off some stress. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to find balance in their life. When I first started running, I could not run to the end of my street, so don't have to have any experience to run. I started out slow and I'm still not a fast runner, but I have built up a lot of endurance and stamina over the past two and a half years. If you want a new challenge--try running.
There is a Monday running group called the "Hash House Harriers" and about 50-60 people (both Ex-pats and Sierra Leoneans) run together each week. They have silly traditions after the run and they even drink beer when they get back (which I was initially appalled at but soon got the hang of ....). We set trails, we arrange special runs on the weekends, and do other social activities. It's a great group of people. After 10 runs, you get a Hash name. The group chooses for you. I am now officially called "Pink Lady" and it's official because the group voted on my name and then poured beer all over me. Not what I would have liked as an official ceremony, but it's tradition. A couple of weeks ago, it was my turn to set a trail. We choose a location, mark the trail with shredded paper and the next day the whole group goes on the run by following the paper. I hope you can follow this! Anyway as I was setting the trail with two other guys, I was initiated into the group of people I call "real runners." By this I mean that I got hurt. A real runner is dedicated, trains hard, and eventually gets hurt. I had gone two plus years without so much as an injury. I had been lucky, but that Saturday my luck ran out. I was running down a steep hill that was covered in lava rocks. I set my foot down in the wrong place and as soon as I tried to move it to take the next step, my foot jammed in the rocks and I went down like a ton of bricks. Falling is strange; it's in s-l-o-w motion and you can do nothing to stop it even though you can see the fall coming for seconds that feel like minutes. You know it's going to hurt and there is not a damrn thing you can do to avoid it. I fell on my left arm and hand. I fell hard enough to know I should try and keep myself from crying in front of the guys. Luckily, they were far ahead of me and didn't actually witness the fall, or they probably would have died laughing. So, there I was smashed on the rocks and rolling around trying to stop the motion of hitting any more of my soft body parts on the hard rocks. My shoulder and hand got the worst of it. Both my knees were cut and bleeding but that sting had not hit me yet. I got up as quickly as I could, brushed off the dirt and my bruised ego and scampered down to join the guys. As soon as they saw me, they were worried. Because we were by the ocean, they took me right in the water and washed off the blood. It was then that I noticed that my left hand had a bruise the size of a golf ball. Oh oh, that didn't look good. There was no ice near by (only lots of bright sunshine) so I toughed it out and contined to set the trail. My hand was throbbing but I tried to ignore it since there was nothing I could do. I did run the trail the next day with the group, but my heart was really not in it. I have to tell you that the bruises on my arms lasted a full two weeks. If anyone tried to give me a hug and happened to touch my arms; wow, pure pain. My knees were scabbed over and ugly for the same two weeks, which is particularly bad when you wear dresses to work a lot. But the worst part was the golf ball sized-bruise on my left hand. The bump finally went away but in it's place was a black bruise that made me look like an i.v. drug or heroin user. It was so painful that even typing the first week was difficult. Did I get an x-ray? No. Even if I had, the clinics here probably would not have read the x-ray correctly. I just took ibuprofen a couple of times and waited it out. I still have slight pain in that hand and I think I probably broke a small bone. Welcome to the world of "real runners."
Tonight I went for a typical Sunday run at the beach. It was about 5:00 pm and it had finally stopped raining--which it had been doing for the past two days, since it's rainy season now. I arrived at the beach to park my car and the very first thing that happened, irritate me. Welcome to Sierra Leone--third world country. I was still inside the car, turning off the radio, taking off my jewelry (no need to draw any attention to yourself here), and hiding my purse in the back seat. I looked out my drivers window and there was the source of my irritation. An African mom was standing there with her three little children and one infant tied to her back in the traditional African way. I had not even gotten out of my truck and I was already being accosted by people begging for money. People beg for money all the time here. If you give money to everyone, you will have no money left for yourself. I don't mind giving sometimes, but today I just wanted to enjoy my time alone on the beach and not be confronted by the needy women who seemed to exploit her children for the soul purpose of playing on my sympathy. How could I not give her something? I would have to answer to God and her children; not to mention that I could not even exit my car with her standing there. I reached into my purse and gave her some money and wished for the 100th time that the government of this country would do something more to help it's people so mothers with lots of children can find a decent way to earn money besides preying on white people who run on a Sunday.
Running here in Sierra Leone is much different than running in the U.S. Try to imagine that you are a white person and almost everyone around you is black. You might say you 'stand out.' When I run, people notice me; and it's not for my quick speed. Add to that, the fact that most black people here do not run; they have far too many other back-breaking things to do with their bodies to incorporate running into their routine. So a person who runs is is already somewhat of an oddity. Someone running for fun? What in the world for? So here is me running along the beach. Some of the young black men make comments when I run past....comments like "thanks." I wonder what that means. Does it mean they are thanking me for being cute as I run past? I hope so. Does it mean thanks for saving us from boredom? Probably more likely. Some people say "run faster." To those people I want to turn around and say, "why don't you try running and see how fast you go!" Some people say "white man" or "white woman" (like they can't tell the difference?) and I guess I'm glad at least they know their colors. In Austin, no one would call out the color of my skin as I ran past.
As I drove home, I saw a little girl about two or three years old standing very near the road as cars whizzed past about 30 miles per hour. Not a parent or adult or even another child was anywhere nearby. I used to be surprised by such a sight, but not anymore. Children are often left alone here--its common--but it still upset me that a child that small had no one at that moment to care for her. Next I saw a couple of starving dogs searching endlessly for food. You can see the ribs of the dogs, the skin diseases eating away their furry coats, and the fleas that drive them crazy enough to scratch themselves even in the middle of the road. I have written about starving dogs before, but I never get used to it. The dogs in the U.S. are so pampered. Here we are sometimes glad when a dog dies because it does not have to suffer anymore.
The last stop of my running Sunday was buying bread from a small stand on the side of the road from Abu and his wife Awa. I have been getting bread from them for a couple of months now. They always smile and greet me like a friend and I like ending my day seeing then and having fresh bread for dinner. There are bright spots here in Sierra Leone, you just have to look for them. I will pray for all the people who don't have bread tonight, for all the dogs who don't have food and I hope that the money I gave that woman and her children will help feed them dinner. When you look at the food on your dinner table tonight, be thankful that you have enough to eat. Many people in the world do not. I see it every day here.
There is a Monday running group called the "Hash House Harriers" and about 50-60 people (both Ex-pats and Sierra Leoneans) run together each week. They have silly traditions after the run and they even drink beer when they get back (which I was initially appalled at but soon got the hang of ....). We set trails, we arrange special runs on the weekends, and do other social activities. It's a great group of people. After 10 runs, you get a Hash name. The group chooses for you. I am now officially called "Pink Lady" and it's official because the group voted on my name and then poured beer all over me. Not what I would have liked as an official ceremony, but it's tradition. A couple of weeks ago, it was my turn to set a trail. We choose a location, mark the trail with shredded paper and the next day the whole group goes on the run by following the paper. I hope you can follow this! Anyway as I was setting the trail with two other guys, I was initiated into the group of people I call "real runners." By this I mean that I got hurt. A real runner is dedicated, trains hard, and eventually gets hurt. I had gone two plus years without so much as an injury. I had been lucky, but that Saturday my luck ran out. I was running down a steep hill that was covered in lava rocks. I set my foot down in the wrong place and as soon as I tried to move it to take the next step, my foot jammed in the rocks and I went down like a ton of bricks. Falling is strange; it's in s-l-o-w motion and you can do nothing to stop it even though you can see the fall coming for seconds that feel like minutes. You know it's going to hurt and there is not a damrn thing you can do to avoid it. I fell on my left arm and hand. I fell hard enough to know I should try and keep myself from crying in front of the guys. Luckily, they were far ahead of me and didn't actually witness the fall, or they probably would have died laughing. So, there I was smashed on the rocks and rolling around trying to stop the motion of hitting any more of my soft body parts on the hard rocks. My shoulder and hand got the worst of it. Both my knees were cut and bleeding but that sting had not hit me yet. I got up as quickly as I could, brushed off the dirt and my bruised ego and scampered down to join the guys. As soon as they saw me, they were worried. Because we were by the ocean, they took me right in the water and washed off the blood. It was then that I noticed that my left hand had a bruise the size of a golf ball. Oh oh, that didn't look good. There was no ice near by (only lots of bright sunshine) so I toughed it out and contined to set the trail. My hand was throbbing but I tried to ignore it since there was nothing I could do. I did run the trail the next day with the group, but my heart was really not in it. I have to tell you that the bruises on my arms lasted a full two weeks. If anyone tried to give me a hug and happened to touch my arms; wow, pure pain. My knees were scabbed over and ugly for the same two weeks, which is particularly bad when you wear dresses to work a lot. But the worst part was the golf ball sized-bruise on my left hand. The bump finally went away but in it's place was a black bruise that made me look like an i.v. drug or heroin user. It was so painful that even typing the first week was difficult. Did I get an x-ray? No. Even if I had, the clinics here probably would not have read the x-ray correctly. I just took ibuprofen a couple of times and waited it out. I still have slight pain in that hand and I think I probably broke a small bone. Welcome to the world of "real runners."
Tonight I went for a typical Sunday run at the beach. It was about 5:00 pm and it had finally stopped raining--which it had been doing for the past two days, since it's rainy season now. I arrived at the beach to park my car and the very first thing that happened, irritate me. Welcome to Sierra Leone--third world country. I was still inside the car, turning off the radio, taking off my jewelry (no need to draw any attention to yourself here), and hiding my purse in the back seat. I looked out my drivers window and there was the source of my irritation. An African mom was standing there with her three little children and one infant tied to her back in the traditional African way. I had not even gotten out of my truck and I was already being accosted by people begging for money. People beg for money all the time here. If you give money to everyone, you will have no money left for yourself. I don't mind giving sometimes, but today I just wanted to enjoy my time alone on the beach and not be confronted by the needy women who seemed to exploit her children for the soul purpose of playing on my sympathy. How could I not give her something? I would have to answer to God and her children; not to mention that I could not even exit my car with her standing there. I reached into my purse and gave her some money and wished for the 100th time that the government of this country would do something more to help it's people so mothers with lots of children can find a decent way to earn money besides preying on white people who run on a Sunday.
Running here in Sierra Leone is much different than running in the U.S. Try to imagine that you are a white person and almost everyone around you is black. You might say you 'stand out.' When I run, people notice me; and it's not for my quick speed. Add to that, the fact that most black people here do not run; they have far too many other back-breaking things to do with their bodies to incorporate running into their routine. So a person who runs is is already somewhat of an oddity. Someone running for fun? What in the world for? So here is me running along the beach. Some of the young black men make comments when I run past....comments like "thanks." I wonder what that means. Does it mean they are thanking me for being cute as I run past? I hope so. Does it mean thanks for saving us from boredom? Probably more likely. Some people say "run faster." To those people I want to turn around and say, "why don't you try running and see how fast you go!" Some people say "white man" or "white woman" (like they can't tell the difference?) and I guess I'm glad at least they know their colors. In Austin, no one would call out the color of my skin as I ran past.
As I drove home, I saw a little girl about two or three years old standing very near the road as cars whizzed past about 30 miles per hour. Not a parent or adult or even another child was anywhere nearby. I used to be surprised by such a sight, but not anymore. Children are often left alone here--its common--but it still upset me that a child that small had no one at that moment to care for her. Next I saw a couple of starving dogs searching endlessly for food. You can see the ribs of the dogs, the skin diseases eating away their furry coats, and the fleas that drive them crazy enough to scratch themselves even in the middle of the road. I have written about starving dogs before, but I never get used to it. The dogs in the U.S. are so pampered. Here we are sometimes glad when a dog dies because it does not have to suffer anymore.
The last stop of my running Sunday was buying bread from a small stand on the side of the road from Abu and his wife Awa. I have been getting bread from them for a couple of months now. They always smile and greet me like a friend and I like ending my day seeing then and having fresh bread for dinner. There are bright spots here in Sierra Leone, you just have to look for them. I will pray for all the people who don't have bread tonight, for all the dogs who don't have food and I hope that the money I gave that woman and her children will help feed them dinner. When you look at the food on your dinner table tonight, be thankful that you have enough to eat. Many people in the world do not. I see it every day here.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Mani/Pedi in Freetown
Ok, if that title made no sense to you, then you might want to stop reading here because you won't care. If you can raise your hand because you've had a manicure or pedicure before, then this might be somewhat entertaining for you.
Fridays we work a half day at Embassy Freetown, so we get off work around 1pm. Don't worry, we still work a 40 hour week because we work a little longer each of the other four days. Anyway, I digress. Today after work I decided to treat myself to a mani/pedi. It had been two weeks since the last one and it was time to look pretty again. I have a girl, Mary, and she comes to my house when I call her. She is Sierra Leonean (about 30 years old) and she learned the trade by working for a Lebanese lady at a local hotel. The hotel closed, the lady went back to Lebanon and Mary took her tools and trade on the road. She is very nice, does a professional job and it's pure pampering to have this service at home. The first time she came, I had a glass of wine (for her not me), lit a candle, played the music I liked and she totally made me feel beautiful. She has been coming every couple of weeks since then. Today I sent her a text message to see if she could come over (text messaging is the main way everyone her communicates; calling is more expensive and takes more time and is only done if absolutely necessary). I got a polite text back saying no, she could not come today because she had just been admitted to the hospital. Now, in the U.S. if someone said that you would be alarmed. Here; it's a fact of life. People get sick all the time and go to the hospital. There is not really any other form of health care. People die all the time too, so someone as young as Mary could be so sick that I might not see her again. I hope that's not the case, but I have learned here how often death strikes. It's appalling and you never get used to it. Anyway, Mary was not coming so I needed to make other arrangements.
Plan B was to drive downtown and find a salon. A friend recommended a place that I could not find, but I stumbled upon another place that looked ok. Now, looking "ok" means that they appear to have some manicure equipment around, probably have some towels and probably have a basket of polish somewhere. They had all that so I went in. The place inside was so dirty that any of you probably would have gotten on the phone to the health department ASAP, but here, that's the norm. After living here a while, you get used to filthy conditions. Imagine this: next to me in the chair is a woman getting some sort of hair extensions put in--and the girl doing it is about 9 months pregnant and she is literally sewing fake hair into the head of the woman she is working on. I had never seen that done before and I was fascinated. First, she had to braid this woman's hair really tight to her head in all these neat little rows and then she sewed fake rows of hair into the braids. I thought she looked better with the braids, but it's all a matter of style, isn't it? This process took about 2 hours and she was not quite finished when I left. Across the room was a woman eating food out of a bowl with her hands. I was hoping she was not going to be the one working on me. Eating with your hands is a common practice here--the woman was eating some sort of rice and vegetables. It's ok with me to eat with your hands....as long as you do it at home and not at the nail salon. Another woman was soaking her feet in some sort of murky brown water that smelled funny. She called a vendor off the street and ordered some sort of food item. The vendor was a middle aged woman with a huge basket on her head filled with something that smelled like greasy chicken. Now add that to the rice/vegetable dish that the first woman was eating and you have quite a mix of smelly food. Well, at least for a while, it overpowered the smell of the brown water.
Back to me. The girl working on me got the foot tub ready for me to soak my feet in. The machine was one of those foot baths that you plug in and it vibrates and makes bubbles. In this case, there was no electricity, so the water was still. The water...get this. She poured hot water from a thermos (like something you make coffee in) because of course--there was no electricity to make hot water. She made the water so hot that when I put my feet in it started burning! So she went out back and got a pitcher of cold water and added that and we were ready to go. At this point, I have to tell you that I forgot one very important element of a pedicure; the use of pointed objects. Oh boy. She took out this tool that is supposed to be used to trim cuticles. Right. The tool is so sharp that pretty soon she's hurting me and I'm trying not to say anything so I don't cause either of us any embarrassment. But I realize she is doing more damage than good and I just hope she finishes with the torture soon. After my feet are clean of all cuticles, she takes out the scrubbing lotion. This stuff has little bits of sand in it and it's green in color. I have had this treatment before, so I'm not really worried. But I have not had this treatment in Africa. Right. She gets that tool that looks like a cheese grater with a handle that is supposed to remove the dead skin and 'goes to town' on my foot. By that I mean, she scrapes and scrapes my skin over and over. The tool is meant for the bottom of the foot where dead skin grows and callouses grow and this tool helps remove all that stuff. But she does not stop there; oh no. She scrapes that metal thing across the top of my foot where the skin is thin and delicate. She does this over and over which leads me to believe that she really has no idea what Beauty School is about. I'm wincing and trying not to show it and still she keeps going. I realize I still have the other foot to go and I'm hoping against hope that she does not try this on my hands. She finishes with my feet and I breathe a sigh of relief. Next come the hands. She does the same pointy tool cuticle treatment to my delicate fingers and I watch as a few of my cuticles start to bleed. I try to be blasé, but then remember that I'm in Africa where sanitation is at a minimum and I'm worried--I went for an innocent manicure only to be infected with some deadly virus I try to push that out of my mind. Oh, I forgot one very important point. While I'm waiting for the hands and feet treatment, she has me soaking in something. It's a mixture of something that smells like Pine Sol. Now, my hands were in this stuff for over 20 minutes; until they were white and wrinkled and I took them out myself. I have to tell you, that smell stayed on my hands the whole rest of the evening! Imagine your hands smelling line kitchen floor cleaner--not especially romantic or pretty-feeling. Anyway, the polish was another dilemma. I asked for clear polish with some designs on it--to be subtle. She starts painting my nails a bright pink and when I object, she says that the clear polish only looks good on black African women and that the pink will look great on me. Well, so much for my choice. She finishes my hands and feet in neon pink and then proceeds to paint a couple of artistic white stripes on each nail . It would have been beautiful except the stripes didn't match and I looked more like a candy cane than someone with an elegant manicure. Even though I didn't care much for the outcome, all the African ladies in the shop said I looked "really great" and I tried to believe them as I left the shop. The one great thing in all this is that I managed to purchase those little flip flops they put on your feet as the polish dries. They call those things "slippers" and I bought them for 5000 Le; which is about $1.60. Money well spent, since the manicure/pedicure cost 50,000, or about $16.00. If any of you can write me that you spent less than $2 on flip flops and less than $18 on a manicure and pedicure--let me know. I will let you know the status of any infections and I will try to look at my nails and not see candy canes.
Cheers everyone and appreciate civilization and sterilization,
Becky
Fridays we work a half day at Embassy Freetown, so we get off work around 1pm. Don't worry, we still work a 40 hour week because we work a little longer each of the other four days. Anyway, I digress. Today after work I decided to treat myself to a mani/pedi. It had been two weeks since the last one and it was time to look pretty again. I have a girl, Mary, and she comes to my house when I call her. She is Sierra Leonean (about 30 years old) and she learned the trade by working for a Lebanese lady at a local hotel. The hotel closed, the lady went back to Lebanon and Mary took her tools and trade on the road. She is very nice, does a professional job and it's pure pampering to have this service at home. The first time she came, I had a glass of wine (for her not me), lit a candle, played the music I liked and she totally made me feel beautiful. She has been coming every couple of weeks since then. Today I sent her a text message to see if she could come over (text messaging is the main way everyone her communicates; calling is more expensive and takes more time and is only done if absolutely necessary). I got a polite text back saying no, she could not come today because she had just been admitted to the hospital. Now, in the U.S. if someone said that you would be alarmed. Here; it's a fact of life. People get sick all the time and go to the hospital. There is not really any other form of health care. People die all the time too, so someone as young as Mary could be so sick that I might not see her again. I hope that's not the case, but I have learned here how often death strikes. It's appalling and you never get used to it. Anyway, Mary was not coming so I needed to make other arrangements.
Plan B was to drive downtown and find a salon. A friend recommended a place that I could not find, but I stumbled upon another place that looked ok. Now, looking "ok" means that they appear to have some manicure equipment around, probably have some towels and probably have a basket of polish somewhere. They had all that so I went in. The place inside was so dirty that any of you probably would have gotten on the phone to the health department ASAP, but here, that's the norm. After living here a while, you get used to filthy conditions. Imagine this: next to me in the chair is a woman getting some sort of hair extensions put in--and the girl doing it is about 9 months pregnant and she is literally sewing fake hair into the head of the woman she is working on. I had never seen that done before and I was fascinated. First, she had to braid this woman's hair really tight to her head in all these neat little rows and then she sewed fake rows of hair into the braids. I thought she looked better with the braids, but it's all a matter of style, isn't it? This process took about 2 hours and she was not quite finished when I left. Across the room was a woman eating food out of a bowl with her hands. I was hoping she was not going to be the one working on me. Eating with your hands is a common practice here--the woman was eating some sort of rice and vegetables. It's ok with me to eat with your hands....as long as you do it at home and not at the nail salon. Another woman was soaking her feet in some sort of murky brown water that smelled funny. She called a vendor off the street and ordered some sort of food item. The vendor was a middle aged woman with a huge basket on her head filled with something that smelled like greasy chicken. Now add that to the rice/vegetable dish that the first woman was eating and you have quite a mix of smelly food. Well, at least for a while, it overpowered the smell of the brown water.
Back to me. The girl working on me got the foot tub ready for me to soak my feet in. The machine was one of those foot baths that you plug in and it vibrates and makes bubbles. In this case, there was no electricity, so the water was still. The water...get this. She poured hot water from a thermos (like something you make coffee in) because of course--there was no electricity to make hot water. She made the water so hot that when I put my feet in it started burning! So she went out back and got a pitcher of cold water and added that and we were ready to go. At this point, I have to tell you that I forgot one very important element of a pedicure; the use of pointed objects. Oh boy. She took out this tool that is supposed to be used to trim cuticles. Right. The tool is so sharp that pretty soon she's hurting me and I'm trying not to say anything so I don't cause either of us any embarrassment. But I realize she is doing more damage than good and I just hope she finishes with the torture soon. After my feet are clean of all cuticles, she takes out the scrubbing lotion. This stuff has little bits of sand in it and it's green in color. I have had this treatment before, so I'm not really worried. But I have not had this treatment in Africa. Right. She gets that tool that looks like a cheese grater with a handle that is supposed to remove the dead skin and 'goes to town' on my foot. By that I mean, she scrapes and scrapes my skin over and over. The tool is meant for the bottom of the foot where dead skin grows and callouses grow and this tool helps remove all that stuff. But she does not stop there; oh no. She scrapes that metal thing across the top of my foot where the skin is thin and delicate. She does this over and over which leads me to believe that she really has no idea what Beauty School is about. I'm wincing and trying not to show it and still she keeps going. I realize I still have the other foot to go and I'm hoping against hope that she does not try this on my hands. She finishes with my feet and I breathe a sigh of relief. Next come the hands. She does the same pointy tool cuticle treatment to my delicate fingers and I watch as a few of my cuticles start to bleed. I try to be blasé, but then remember that I'm in Africa where sanitation is at a minimum and I'm worried--I went for an innocent manicure only to be infected with some deadly virus I try to push that out of my mind. Oh, I forgot one very important point. While I'm waiting for the hands and feet treatment, she has me soaking in something. It's a mixture of something that smells like Pine Sol. Now, my hands were in this stuff for over 20 minutes; until they were white and wrinkled and I took them out myself. I have to tell you, that smell stayed on my hands the whole rest of the evening! Imagine your hands smelling line kitchen floor cleaner--not especially romantic or pretty-feeling. Anyway, the polish was another dilemma. I asked for clear polish with some designs on it--to be subtle. She starts painting my nails a bright pink and when I object, she says that the clear polish only looks good on black African women and that the pink will look great on me. Well, so much for my choice. She finishes my hands and feet in neon pink and then proceeds to paint a couple of artistic white stripes on each nail . It would have been beautiful except the stripes didn't match and I looked more like a candy cane than someone with an elegant manicure. Even though I didn't care much for the outcome, all the African ladies in the shop said I looked "really great" and I tried to believe them as I left the shop. The one great thing in all this is that I managed to purchase those little flip flops they put on your feet as the polish dries. They call those things "slippers" and I bought them for 5000 Le; which is about $1.60. Money well spent, since the manicure/pedicure cost 50,000, or about $16.00. If any of you can write me that you spent less than $2 on flip flops and less than $18 on a manicure and pedicure--let me know. I will let you know the status of any infections and I will try to look at my nails and not see candy canes.
Cheers everyone and appreciate civilization and sterilization,
Becky
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Thailand Update
I have had many requests to write more regularly...so I will try and honor those requests. My own parents even mentioned that they had gone to the site to check for updates....and if my parents are wondering what I'm up to then I better feel guilty enough to take the time to write.
Thailand was fantastic! I would definitely recommend it and go back there. Almost everyone we met had been there before, so obviously there is a charm to this place. A couple of things to know if you visit: 1. Toilet paper is non-existant, so plan ahead ladies! They do have these little gadgets that look suspiciously like kitchen-sink sprayers installed next to the toilet. I guess you are supposed to 'spray yourself clean' but as Laura so aptly pointed out, that still leaves you 'wet.' Hmmmmm. We never quite got used to that practice, so we stuffed bits of Kleenex into our pockets and wondered how the Thai women managed. 2. Everywhere you go, you take off your shoes/sandals and leave them at the door. This is pretty easy when you wear flip flops everywhere. Imagine going into a shop or a restaurant and seeing a pile of random flip flops at the entrance. You simply kick off your flip flops and enter like everyone else. The floors are immaculately clean, so no worries there. No one steals your shoes (this is NOT Africa) and they are waiting for you when you return; although sometimes you have to find them in the pile. One bonus of this custom--when you return to your rented Bungalow and you notice your son's size 10 flip flops outside the door, you know he is inside waiting for you even though you have not even seen him yet; his footwear leaves a clear calling card! 3. Thai taxi drivers will always try and take you to the famous custom clothing shops or the jewelry shops--whether you want to go there or not. They suspiciously stop there on the way to the famous sites of Standing Buddha or Reclining Buddha, so that you will buy something--they get a cut of the proceeds from the shop owners. You must be FIRM and say no, or all your vacation time will be spent in these places. 4. Thai open- taxi drivers may claim to know where you want to go (even when you give them a printed business card of your hotel with attached map!) but they will inevitably NOT really know and drop you off in a strange place where you have to find your own way back. Laura and I spent one evening walking the dangerous streets of Bangkok under just such circumstances. When I started to notice gang graffiti on the walls of the alley, I knew we had to risk hiring another taxi to get us out of there. Laura was pretty upset (and we were both tired of walking), but even as I kept my cool, I felt angry and vulnerable at being in a city I didn't know. Simple Freetown, with it's 3 major streets was starting to look pretty good. 5. Thai New Year: a very interesting custom. I think the date was April 12 or 13. Basically, it's a National Holiday involving lots and lots of well-wishers throwing water on you for good luck. Hmmmm. It actually felt pretty good because it's very hot in Thailand. But this custom does have it's drawbacks if you are a tourist. During the day, everyone is making merriment and you expect the dousing of water as you walk or drive by a native Thai person. But as night wears on, you sort of forget about the holiday. Laura and I took the motor scooter into town in the evening to do some last minute shopping. We were driving on a sort of dark side street and I noticed this man standing in the middle of the street. Laura was driving and I thought to myself; what is that man doing--standing in the middle of the road when he can clearly see a motor scooter coming right at him? Too late I remembered the Thai New Year and just at that moment he threw a huge bucket of cold water on us--drenching us both! Imagine being completely surprised, soaking wet, at night, riding a motor scooter and then going shopping. I'm sure we were a sight; two wet white girls wandering the streets of Tungsala with our clothing sticking to us. I was relieved I was not wearing a white shirt; as I had long before abandoned the practice of wearing lingerie in Thailand--just too darn hot!
For everyone worried about the violence that occurred while we were there; we missed it completely-thank God. The day we left Bangkok for Koh Phan Ghan, there were protesters lining the streets of downtown Bangkok. It looked like a sea of red shirts snaking along like a caterpillar from our view on the upper deck of the freeway. Unfortunately because the protesters had taken over the city streets, the traffic was that much worse on the freeway and we missed the first plane to Koh Phan Ghan. As Laura and I bickered our way through the five hour wait at the airport for the next plane, we had no idea what was happening downtown. We boarded the plane for the hour-long flight to the southern islands and were happily ignorant of all the violence in Bangkok. It wasn't until we read the newspapers the next day, that we realized how bad things were. We stayed in Koh Phan Ghan for the next week and by the time we returned to Bangkok, things were relatively calm. There were policemen in riot gear posted at every corner on the streets near our hotel. That mistake was actually ours; we didn't realize that the charming hotel we booked was only a couple of blocks from the State House--where all the violence had occurred. We were ok and the hotel--Shanti Lodge--was really quaint. All part of the adventure, our family is known to muse.
Well, I'm back in Freetown now and since it's Sunday, it might be time to hit the beach. For two weeks in Thailand, I saw the ocean almost every single day. I loved hearing the roar of the surf and once at night, I even dared go for a midnight swim. Life is what you make it. Make it good.
Becky
Thailand was fantastic! I would definitely recommend it and go back there. Almost everyone we met had been there before, so obviously there is a charm to this place. A couple of things to know if you visit: 1. Toilet paper is non-existant, so plan ahead ladies! They do have these little gadgets that look suspiciously like kitchen-sink sprayers installed next to the toilet. I guess you are supposed to 'spray yourself clean' but as Laura so aptly pointed out, that still leaves you 'wet.' Hmmmmm. We never quite got used to that practice, so we stuffed bits of Kleenex into our pockets and wondered how the Thai women managed. 2. Everywhere you go, you take off your shoes/sandals and leave them at the door. This is pretty easy when you wear flip flops everywhere. Imagine going into a shop or a restaurant and seeing a pile of random flip flops at the entrance. You simply kick off your flip flops and enter like everyone else. The floors are immaculately clean, so no worries there. No one steals your shoes (this is NOT Africa) and they are waiting for you when you return; although sometimes you have to find them in the pile. One bonus of this custom--when you return to your rented Bungalow and you notice your son's size 10 flip flops outside the door, you know he is inside waiting for you even though you have not even seen him yet; his footwear leaves a clear calling card! 3. Thai taxi drivers will always try and take you to the famous custom clothing shops or the jewelry shops--whether you want to go there or not. They suspiciously stop there on the way to the famous sites of Standing Buddha or Reclining Buddha, so that you will buy something--they get a cut of the proceeds from the shop owners. You must be FIRM and say no, or all your vacation time will be spent in these places. 4. Thai open- taxi drivers may claim to know where you want to go (even when you give them a printed business card of your hotel with attached map!) but they will inevitably NOT really know and drop you off in a strange place where you have to find your own way back. Laura and I spent one evening walking the dangerous streets of Bangkok under just such circumstances. When I started to notice gang graffiti on the walls of the alley, I knew we had to risk hiring another taxi to get us out of there. Laura was pretty upset (and we were both tired of walking), but even as I kept my cool, I felt angry and vulnerable at being in a city I didn't know. Simple Freetown, with it's 3 major streets was starting to look pretty good. 5. Thai New Year: a very interesting custom. I think the date was April 12 or 13. Basically, it's a National Holiday involving lots and lots of well-wishers throwing water on you for good luck. Hmmmm. It actually felt pretty good because it's very hot in Thailand. But this custom does have it's drawbacks if you are a tourist. During the day, everyone is making merriment and you expect the dousing of water as you walk or drive by a native Thai person. But as night wears on, you sort of forget about the holiday. Laura and I took the motor scooter into town in the evening to do some last minute shopping. We were driving on a sort of dark side street and I noticed this man standing in the middle of the street. Laura was driving and I thought to myself; what is that man doing--standing in the middle of the road when he can clearly see a motor scooter coming right at him? Too late I remembered the Thai New Year and just at that moment he threw a huge bucket of cold water on us--drenching us both! Imagine being completely surprised, soaking wet, at night, riding a motor scooter and then going shopping. I'm sure we were a sight; two wet white girls wandering the streets of Tungsala with our clothing sticking to us. I was relieved I was not wearing a white shirt; as I had long before abandoned the practice of wearing lingerie in Thailand--just too darn hot!
For everyone worried about the violence that occurred while we were there; we missed it completely-thank God. The day we left Bangkok for Koh Phan Ghan, there were protesters lining the streets of downtown Bangkok. It looked like a sea of red shirts snaking along like a caterpillar from our view on the upper deck of the freeway. Unfortunately because the protesters had taken over the city streets, the traffic was that much worse on the freeway and we missed the first plane to Koh Phan Ghan. As Laura and I bickered our way through the five hour wait at the airport for the next plane, we had no idea what was happening downtown. We boarded the plane for the hour-long flight to the southern islands and were happily ignorant of all the violence in Bangkok. It wasn't until we read the newspapers the next day, that we realized how bad things were. We stayed in Koh Phan Ghan for the next week and by the time we returned to Bangkok, things were relatively calm. There were policemen in riot gear posted at every corner on the streets near our hotel. That mistake was actually ours; we didn't realize that the charming hotel we booked was only a couple of blocks from the State House--where all the violence had occurred. We were ok and the hotel--Shanti Lodge--was really quaint. All part of the adventure, our family is known to muse.
Well, I'm back in Freetown now and since it's Sunday, it might be time to hit the beach. For two weeks in Thailand, I saw the ocean almost every single day. I loved hearing the roar of the surf and once at night, I even dared go for a midnight swim. Life is what you make it. Make it good.
Becky
Thursday, April 2, 2009
My First Vacation!
Well, I've been at US Embassy Freetown for almost 11 months now and it's really time for a vacation. I will be on R&R from April 3-19. I am going to Thailand to visit Ryan, who is staying there for a couple months. Laura will join me from New York. We really wanted Angela to come as well, but she is busy writing her dissertation and teaching at UC Boulder. I hope and pray she will come to see me in Africa this summer. The plane flight to Bangkok looks something like this: 4 hour drive to the airport from Freetown; 11 hour flight from Freetown to Nairobi, layover in Nairobi from 5:30am to midnight; then fly to Bangkok and arrive around noon in Bangkok. Should be interesting! Basically I leave Freetown at 11am tomorrow morning (Friday) and arrive in Bangkok at 1:00 in the afternoon on Sunday. I will take lots of photos and try to post them when I return. Take care everyone! Becky
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