Be that ship

When I first arrived on the Africa Mercy in January, the ship was already over halfway through its field service in Senegal. I’d joined the crew at the end of the orthopaedic surgeries, so all the little patients that had their bowlegs or windswept legs straightened, had already had their surgeries. The reconstructive surgery and ophthalmic surgery blocks were starting, and I was allocated a few more communication patients from there. All “my” patients were children, with the youngest being 18 months, and the oldest being eleven.

Fatimata (the youngest patient I wrote about) being discharged.

If we’ve ever spoken about the stuff I’ve written over the years, you’ll know that I often become the person I’m writing about “in my head”. I try to imagine myself into their experience or situation. This has seen me take on a whole lot of different characters, albeit for a short amount of time. It can also be quite exhausting. Perhaps that’s why I like to write in solitude… But not to worry folks, so far, it’s always been me (hopefully sometimes a slightly improved version) that has returned from “that” place.

I found writing real-life stories about children to be a little more challenging than writing about an adult – perhaps because I’m not a parent, it’s been a while since I’ve been a kid myself, and I haven’t really hung around that many children as an adult. I would rely on my observations of the patients, as well as interactions and interviews with the medical staff. I would of course also interview the caregiver or parent, and patient (if they could speak) too.

Our day crew translated for me and were very open to helping me understand various cultural nuances. Interviewing across a language barrier takes time, and I tried hard not to ask leading questions, as I really wanted to get to the truth of every individuals story. As the large majority of Senegal is Muslim, their faith was another factor to be considered.

Agnes and I speak with Awa’s husband at the Assembly Point.

The good news is that most often, it was just the first interview that was tough, and after I knew more of each personal story, I was able to ask more thought-through, relevant questions. Still, everyone had to be super patient with me: the translator, the parent, the doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, the kid (who often observed as I interviewed the parent), and sometimes even the photographer. And they were. Patience was in high levels of supply, all around me.

Nonetheless, writing about children is different to writing about adults, and I found myself really wanting to write about just one adult patient, perhaps even a woman, so that I could really relate to her. I had been allocated a patient in the April Women’s Health block and was looking forward to meeting her, but that was still months away.

Aissatou, before her surgery.

At the beginning of March, I was talking to Chris in Admissions, who told me about a patient, around my age, who was scheduled to have cleft lip surgery. I started wondering what it would be like to have lived my life with a cleft lip – something which is a quick fix in a developed country. How would I have grown up? Would I have been teased or mocked? Would I still have the same friends? Gone to university? Ballet? Horseriding? Paragliding? Would people have wanted to speak to me? How would my family have been affected? Would I have ever been kissed? Would people outside my family have loved me?

I started the process of getting all the relevant permissions, when a second lady, also in her forties and with the same birth defect, was suggested to me by the Patient Screening team. I decided to write about both, and I’m so glad that I did, as I got to “live” the experience through two very different personalities.

When I first met both women, I felt the same confusing mix of emotions I have felt with every new deformity or disease or tumour or growth, or burn scars or burn contraction, that this new chapter of my life kept introducing me to. I don’t think I’ve spoken in any depth about this before, but I was constantly taken aback, as to what kind of health conditions people live with. Each silent “Oh my word” led to overwhelming compassion as I began to understand the burdens (social, physical, emotional) that some of these folks struggle with in their daily lives.

And each time an individual’s life was literally about to be changed for the better, I was reminded what a crazy and privileged position I was in. Even though I would not be directly involved in performing that medical miracle, it felt good to be a cog in the Mercy Ships machine.

Awa prepping for surgery.

I learned from both Awa and Aissatou, as well as from Dr Venter (who did their surgeries), that people adapt to living with their deformities in very different ways. They were both born with cleft lips, yet grew up to be like night and day. One is very introverted and initially struggled to make eye contact with me, whereas the other is a fun, bubbly extrovert. For both women, the operations made a huge difference: from a social acceptance point of view, as well as a personal health perspective.

I’ll share more about each of the women’s individual stories another time, but in the days after both their operations, I got to meet some members of their families. Families who thought that they would never see the day, that these women would be healed.

Aissatou and her husband, together again.

When Aissatou’s husband saw her again for the first time, he wept (then he couldn’t stop smiling). She wept. We all wept.

It was so special.

Awa was accompanied to the ship by her aunt, who took care of her gorgeous little baby while she was in surgery, and in recovery. A week later, when Awa was due for a check-up, her husband and brother also travelled to Dakar, to personally say thank you to Mercy Ships.

Awa and her husband, brother, aunt and daughter

These are just two Mercy Ships moments that really brought home that doing one good thing for one person, has a ripple effect, and will touch the lives of people we may never meet or know. 

In a time where nations are in such turmoil, the knowledge that we can contribute to making people a tad happier and lighten their load ever so slightly, makes me feel much more at peace with the world.

If I may, I’d like to challenge you. Right now, in whatever country you are in, imagine what it is like to be someone else, someone who has a little bit less than you do. Is there a way that you can help them right now?

Often, people do not even know that their need can be met, until that ship sails in.

Be that ship.

 

All photographs in this post were taken by John Seddon, photographer onboard the Africa Mercy. 

Everything communicated here reflects my own personal opinion and is neither reviewed nor endorsed by Mercy Ships.

 

I wonder

I wonder why it takes so long to develop a vaccine. I feel very misled by all those blockbusters where the heroes draw blood, rush to the lab in a race against time, find the antibodies and VOILA! a potion is conjured up and used to save lives. And all this before the two-hour movie is up.

I wonder.

I wonder if we’re going to need a COVID-19 vaccine to be able to travel again.

I wonder when we will be able to travel again.

I wonder what will happen to SAA.

I wonder if people are ashamed of the things they say on social media.

I wonder if they know how to delete.

I wonder.

I wonder if the taxi industry is embarrassed about ever mentioning the word shutdown or strike.

I wonder if passengers have really had to share masks.

I wonder what day of the week it is.

I wonder what all the pets think of having a captive audience.

I wonder what world leaders will be remembered as COVID-19 heroes.

I wonder who will play New York Governor Andrew Cuomo in the movie.

I wonder who will play President Ramaphosa in the movie.

I wonder if Trevor Noah is losing his marbles in isolation.

I wonder if he was always so crude, or if that’s a new thing.

I wonder how on earth President Trump still makes it into my newsfeed.

I wonder if I’m overthinking things.

I wonder if our President realises how well leadership suits him.

I wonder how hard the virus will hit South Africa.

I wonder if people in need will ask for help.

I wonder when Vodacom will make data cheaper.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

I wonder if we can ever be prepared enough.

I wonder if it’s okay to clean the house on Good Friday.

I wonder if we will remember the true meaning of Easter this year.

I wonder why I feel so calm.

I wonder.

I wonder what you wonder, silently, in lockdown.

 

Yesterdays

Today I’m officially out of that fourteen day self-quarantine I put myself into after arriving back from Senegal. Now I’m looking forward to at least another two weeks of house arrest…possibly more. Boy, is it going to feel strange when today becomes yesterday, and we’re all allowed to move around freely again!

I’ve been thinking about small companies and SMMEs. After nearly thirteen years, I made my own little CC dormant at the end of the last financial year. Yes, it’s true that this decision was largely motivated by the fact that I felt it was time to do some volunteering. As you know, that ‘career’ change was short-lived. Nonetheless, I want to go back to it, if it’s in God’s plan for me. But the hope and desire to do so, is not the reason that I do not intend to re-start Gerbera, that was, in essence, a successful small business that paid its dues.

The decision to close shop was preceded by a somewhat scary year, during which I was often waiting for payment for work I’d just gone ahead and done. Because that is often what small companies do – they build relationships, and they deliver. The network of smaller companies I worked with also have an amazing work ethic, and are loyal. And they trusted me, not to expose them to unnecessary risk. I never used to worry about covering my third party costs, but those last few months were a little nerve-wracking. In the end everyone paid, and I could end the financial year on a clean slate, including paying my creditors, my VAT, my PAYE and UIF. I like to end things on a clean slate.

I almost wrote that I was grateful to those clients that paid me. And therein lies one off the biggest traps small companies fall into. We are grateful. We deliver a fantastic service – and we are the grateful ones. I wonder why? Is the gratitude expected of us? Or just some warped reaction to the perfectly reasonable expectation of being fully remunerated for your efforts? Please don’t misunderstand me, as I have always been grateful for the opportunities.  

Over the past decade I’ve been part of a team that helped to build a number of small brands, and we’ve been part of some very cool enterprise development initiatives. You know who you are. Working with you was great fun! 

Right now, I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of a small business, anywhere in the world. One that has extended any kind of credit, may be facing loss of income, the prospect of no payment at all. The saddest thing to me, is the fact that small companies can be quick to re-act, and fast to mobilise, when needed. And isn’t that a big contributor to sustainability and growth?

I can’t speak for any small business owners, but I will say this: “I’m really rooting for you!” My appetite for risk is gone, so I’ll focus on just the writing from now on. I’m so very proud of what Gerbera and team achieved. It was good. It was fun. It was real. It was one of my favourite parts of this last decade of yesterdays. 

 

I hope that when all of this is over,  we learn the lessons from the many, many yesterdays our country has experienced, not just the ones we are living in the here and now. And not just in business, but in life, and in caring about the wellbeing of every single one of our fellow countrymen.

I’m a big fan of Herman Mashaba’s… he wrote this column published on News24 today. I don’t agree with everything, but I agree with a lot. I’ll end it off right here, as even unedited, Chrissi will never be able to say it quite like Herman does.

 

Not all Kumbaya or plain sailing, but definitely worth it

One week ago, today, I landed back in Johannesburg, after two short months onboard the Africa Mercy. I don’t want to romanticise my experience, as of course it wasn’t all “Kumbaya” or plain sailing  living in close confines with many others comes with its own set of challenges. Still, I definitely was not ready to leave Senegal when I did. And am sure that this sentiment is shared by many fellow crew members, who left that same week. But the world was changing. More rapidly than we realised.

While I was onboard, I felt a real sense of purpose. Somehow on this ship, many of the puzzle pieces of my heart and soul, were almost fitting into their right places. I’m definitely not ready to sweep that puzzle off the table and into a box yet, and I aim to pick up where we left off. And hopefully in the not too distant future.

As South Africa counts down the final hours to its 21-day lock-down, the ship and its remaining crew are getting ready to set sail, sometime soon. I saw a news piece on Aljazeera a few days back, saying that Mercy Ships was leaving Senegal, with its four-hundred nurses and doctors onboard, at a time when the country needs it most. I was taken aback at this uninformed and incorrect portrayal of the organisation (including the number of medical staff the journalist said were onboard), and thought I’d set the record straight…even if it is just to my friends who read my blog. The below is from the New Zealand Mercy Ships website:

Why can’t the Mercy Ships be deployed to help against Coronavirus Spread? 

Although the Africa Mercy is a hospital ship, it is essentially a surgical specialist unit. The vessel is not suited to take care of patients with a highly contagious respiratory disease.

Mercy Ships relies on a volunteer staffing model using professional medical volunteers from around the world. The current unprecedented situation has presented a unique operational challenge as many of our medical volunteers have been asked to assist with the COVID-19 crisis in their home countries. In addition, the global air transport shutdown has resulted in our inability to continue to operate the hospital facility safely.

Mercy Ships is also evaluating how the organization, given certain operational limitations, can be utilized to assist in the global COVID-19 response.

Earlier today, I found myself wondering, if I should have stayed onboard. Then I considered the prospect of a twenty-one day lock down on land, versus setting sail on rough seas. I’m probably suffering from a bit of FOMO, although I do suspect that given the opportunity, some of those who remain onboard, would have flown home too. I’m quite sure the past ten-odd days have not been easy for them, as they pack up and do the work of many. I’m sure they are tired and I hope and pray that they have a chance to rest soon.

Meanwhile, back in Centurion, while I have a million-and-one things on my to-do list (like learn French; write my Mercy Ships stories; write for as many competitions as I can find; video-con with my mates; possibly edit a Masters for a friend; bake more banana bread; eat; read; sleep and so on), I’m struggling to find that same intuitive sense of purpose that I experienced for nearly eight weeks.

Nonetheless, I’m still aiming to make the next three weeks (and beyond) count, in whatever way may evolve. So many of us just go through the motions, perhaps doing what we love, but so busy self-editing, that we edit our own voices out of our own stories. I’m aiming to drop the self-editing even further, so, if it gets a little awkward, you’re welcome to step away.

In Senegal I discovered a different joy in writing. I was definitely challenged by the language barrier and the fact that I had to rely heavily on our awesome translators to get to the true essence of a story. In the end, I think we definitely got there! It was such an amazing team effort!

Meet Fadel, one of the amazing day crew in Senegal, who speak multiple languages. He, and so many others, facilitated our communication with the patients. Here he is with Satou, who is from the Casamance region of Senegal and spoke only Mandinka.

Many of my stories haven’t been written yet, but I thought I’d share a photograph of a special memory. You met six-year old Satou in one of my very first blogs – she came to the ship with windswept legs. The photograph below was taken not even an hour after her final casts had come off and her legs had been x-rayed and given the all-clear. I wonder what could be going on in that little head of hers, after the hectics months that lay behind her? After her op she spent months with Mercy Ships – in the hospital, in casts; at the Hope Center in casts and with a little zimmer-frame learning to walk again; in the physio tent, in casts. And then finally the casts came off, she could do her final weeks of rehab and then really start enjoying her new legs. She was discharged the day before I left.

Her journey was for sure not all Kumbaya or plain sailing. She probably didn’t understand a lot that was happening around her. Still it was definitely memorable, and worth it. Gone is that little girl, who could not run with the other kids!

And the same goes for a world in lock-down – it is definitely not going to be Kumbaya or plain sailing, but it will be memorable. And it will be worth it, if we do it, to the best of our abilities.

Stay @ home. Let’s flatten the curve.

All photographs in this post were taken by John Seddon, photographer onboard the Africa Mercy. 

Everything communicated here reflects my own personal opinion and is neither reviewed nor endorsed by Mercy Ships.

I’m here

After three flights (Dakar to Bamako, Bamako to Nairobi, Nairobi to Johannesburg) and half an hour from OR Tambo to the house I sold in December, I arrived, safe and sound, on Thursday afternoon. It felt strange walking back into my old home – especially as I had not expected to be back in South Africa until this December.

A week ago the organisation made the difficult decision to wind down the field service in Senegal (I shared the media release earlier this week) and things began happening very quickly. My actual decision to come back was made in a very short amount of time. Call it seven minutes… the time it took me to google a flight back to South Africa, after calling an old friend for advice, and whilst on the phone to a new friend from the SA embassy in Dakar. The airport was due to shut down its operations imminently, and when I saw there were only a few seats left on Kenya Airways at around R8000, and that the next two ticket prices were R23k and R235k respectively, I booked the flight that left in less than twenty-four hours.

I was travelling as far as Nairobi with three fellow crew members. In the Dakar Airport the majority of travellers were wearing masks, and everyone was maintaining a respectful distance. Not being alone was reassuring, and I was glad for the solidarity and company. One of my travel mates had a scare as her onwards flights from Nairobi had been cancelled. We decided to keep moving forward, and sort it out once there. I’m sure that when she finally got home, she must have been emotionally and physically exhausted. 

Seeing Kilimanjaro rising above the clouds as we flew from Nairobi to Jo’burg was a little bit of a spiritual experience…

So yes, I’m back. And who knows for how long – I imagine it will be months, and months. I will return to the ship once COVID-19 is no longer a threat, and the world resets to normal. And when the field service can begin again…

For now, I still have stories to write, and will do whatever writing is required to support the mission. It won’t be a full-time job, so I’m thinking of taking on a few short term projects to earn a little money. I’ll decide what I’m going to do next week.

In the meantime, I’m self-quarantining… I decided that three airports and three flights are too risky for me to see my family or catch up with old mates, even if they were not “hot spots”. I’m now being hosted by an incredibly gracious and supportive friend, who bought my house… At least we have company! And I get to cook and clean for a while again… and sleep in a ‘normal’ bed.

There is a slightly unsettling familiarity about being back here. I can’t believe that it’s actually only been two months that I’ve been away. I want to hold onto the memory of those two months on the ship in Senegal. Thank goodness I saved so many stories, thinking I’d have to stretch them out over the many months ahead, just in case I ran out of material.

For now, like everyone else, I’m going to responsibly adjust to the new normal. Tomorrow I’m having coffee and cake with the family, via Group FaceTime – mom and dad from about two kilometres away; Vera & Thorsten, from about five kilometres away; and Annette and Marcel, who are thousands of kilometres away in Switzerland.

And I’ll see what I can bake for the occasion. There are so many new things happening at the moment, that me actually trying to bake something doesn’t sound too far-fetched, does it?

Everything communicated here reflects my own personal opinion and is neither reviewed nor endorsed by Mercy Ships.

Broadening my horizons

Last weekend I had a fabulously restful two nights and two days off ship. I spent it at the home of a lovely couple, Petra and Fred, from the Dakar German Embassy. They have been in the city for a year-and-a-half of their intended four and it’s been really interesting to see Dakar through their eyes. I also gained a little insight into what embassies do and have come to the conclusion that this would have been an interesting career path for me… if only I’d known or thought about pursuing it before.

For two whole nights I had an entire bedroom and bathroom to myself! It did feel a little too roomy initially, and I think I may have suffered a short bout of withdrawal from the Africa Mercy’s night noises, until I fell asleep…to be awoken hours later by singing birds! (I actually made a recording of my local early birds and Poppy purring before I left South Africa but decided not to torture myself by listening to those just yet.)

Saturday was a lovely lazy day spent on the terrace or by the pool, with some delicious home cooking thrown in… On Sunday we went to a church service at a monastery (Keur Moussa), which was mainly in French or Wolof, so I didn’t understand much. It was beautiful, peaceful and harmonious, and the murals inside the church and the wooden carvings were beautiful too. And after the service all the parishioners went straight to the little shop that sells local produce (dried fruit, fruit juices, nuts, fresh produce etc) made by the monastery. And, so did we!

           

We then set off to have some lunch at Le Simone, a little seaside resort, that is quite popular with tourists. I totally owned the tourist label and kept asking that we stop so that I could take photographs… of donkey carts, baobabs, street art… I continued owning the label when we got to the restaurant… and was especially thrilled to see a South African table.

     

I was dropped off back at the ship after a dinner of German sausages, gherkins and some fine red wine, and a promise that I would come visit again and prepare a meal for Petra and Fred – something with a slight South African twist…

Having this short break and some real alone time when my hosts were out on Saturday morning was very precious. and I came back to the ship refuelled, although to be honest, it did take me a day or two to get back into life onboard.

In spite of this being a relatively contained and comfortable environment, I still think that during my short time here my horizons are constantly being broadened. In some ways I almost feel as though my world before was smaller. Which seems like the strangest thing to say, being that I’ve always felt my life has been full and eventful. Perhaps this is something I will explore in more depth another time.

In terms of the last two work weeks, they have raced by and are a bit of a blur. I’m constantly amazed as to how much we manage to fit into a day here. My alarm goes off at just after six, and I make it to the 06H15 gym class, to shower and change, have breakfast and get to my desk often well before eight. Often, it’s possible to research and/or interviews people onboard the ship or on the dock, although this week I did go off ship on Tuesday and Thursday for two of Mercy Ships medical capacity building programmes and mentorship here in Dakar. It’s easy to pop downstairs to the hospital to visit patients, or chat to the nurses or the physios in the rehab tent. I definitely haven’t worked past six in the evening as well, so am enjoying the luxury of doing other stuff after hours (mostly reading or just hanging around and chatting). Today I even dyed my hair, as currently there is no hairdresser on board, but I hear that someone is on their way…

And as there is crew who have volunteered to work in the galley and in the dining room, we don’t have to prepare our own meals or wash our own dishes (although there is a crew galley if you wanted to cook etc.) The food is generally pretty good, we’ve even had prawns once!

As I’ve mentioned before there are also a host of meetings during the week, and this past Wednesday we had a community meeting specifically about COVID-19. I think there have been four cases in Dakar thus far, and I think that big get togethers have been cancelled – it’s all in the news and easily available via google.

Here on the ship the atmosphere is pretty calm onboard. Since I’ve been here there has been a chickenpox and an influenza outbreak which was well contained. Mercy Ships crisis management team is planning for all various scenarios and in the meantime, we are sticking to our already intense disinfecting / hand washing protocols and all the other guidelines the rest of the world are following. There are many of us who are now working especially hard at unlearning touching our T-zone…

I’m hoping COVID-19 doesn’t scupper too many travel plans, and that airlines won’t have to cancel too many flights, and in fact, that they survive. My next flight is booked for 3 June to Zurich, from Dakar, via Madrid. I’m holding off booking my Texas flight for a bit to see what happens with regards to international travel. I guess we’re all watching this space…

Stay safe and healthy xxx

 

A lecture and a home visit

Today is a ship holiday. We have a long weekend every six weeks, and this is my first, so I’m excited to have a little extra downtime. I decided to blog today, so that I can spend the weekend really relaxing, maybe visit some patients on deck 3, maybe go to the beach, maybe do some laundry, maybe read a book. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I like the sound of that.

It’s been a short, but eventful, week that included some more of the usual heart-string tugging moments, a lecture on Wednesday night, and a post-cataract-op visit to a young seven-year old boy.

Every Wednesday evening on the Africa Mercy there is an hour-long medical presentation, during which one of the doctors on the ship talks about what it is that they do in the OR. This past Wednesday Mark Shrime, one of the maxillofacial surgeons onboard, presented some research findings from the Guinea field service.

In short (and to save you googling) maxillofacial surgery treats diseases, injuries, abnormalities and cancers of the mouth, jaws and face. If left untreated this is often a life-threatening condition for both adults and children. It often includes the removal of a lump or tumour, that has been untreated for many years and sometime has grown to an unimaginable size – as in the case of Sambany from Madagascar.

But back to the research… Mercy Ships is funding some research that amongst other things looks at how effective the organisation is; what the barriers of access to safe surgery are; and how they can be overcome. The entire presentation was fascinating, but what really stood out for me is that an unplanned expense of ten per cent of your annual income can result in financial ruin, regardless of where you live in the world (the terms he used were more eloquent, but I think this sums it up).

So, in our context here, having access to safe surgery is great, but there are still barriers – an example of an unplanned expense is having to pay for the transportation to the ship. A person can be given a date to come to the ship for surgery, but if they are, for example 600kms away, it is unlikely that they can afford to get themselves there, to take up the opportunity of free surgery.

Mercy Ships has been looking at various ways of funding the actual transport, from up-country locations, to the Ports at which the ship docks, to make it easier for the population to access the free surgery onboard. Sometimes there are patients that can afford to make the trip, but in such a poor part of the world, I can only imagine that it is never without some sacrifice.

Which is a great lead into my home visit story…

Yesterday Lara (photographer), Micah (videographer), Amadou (translator) and I went to visit a seven-year old boy (who had cataract surgery a few weeks back). We had visited him and his mom prior to his surgery (that was my first ever home visit). They are currently staying with family on the outskirts of Dakar. The little boy would normally stay with his grandmother in a village, a twelve-hour ferry trip away from the Port of Dakar. Mom works in another region of Senegal, also a substantial distance away. They have been in the capital for the past two months or so, and I can only imagine it’s been a real treat to be able to spend some good quality time together. Nonetheless, I would guess that an additional cost to the family is time away from home and work.

We’ve gotten to know the little boy and his mom quite well these past few weeks, with our language barrier being beautifully bridged by the many  day crew who translate for us. Mom and her hubby have five children, two boys and three girls. The eldest son was also born with cataracts, but he was unfortunately too old to have surgery on the Africa Mercy, as it would not have made any difference to his eyesight.

As it’s customary to bring a gift, that the family can share with their community, with when we visit, we bought some rice and soap just after setting off. We also had a gift for the young boy. We wanted to bring him something that would stimulate his eye-brain communication, as kids who are born with cataracts haven’t experienced natural development of sight, so it can take them a little while to figure things out. I guess I’d been expecting a ‘miraculous’ result after the operation, so was a bit despondent initially and wanted to make sure we did everything we could, while we still had easy contact. The Eye Screening department were incredibly helpful, and gave me a boccia ball set, with little bells in it, that was in a Sight Box donated by an organisation affiliated to Rotary.

We weren’t sure what to expect, as we hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, but boy, were we hoping that he could see better than the last time we’d seen him at his first check-up. We weren’t disappointed, there was a definite improvement!

While Lara and Micah were getting footage and photos to document his journey, I found myself put in charge of distracting an extended family of children. I thought I’d try teach them how to play boccia ball, however, my experience of entertaining and playing with children is rather limited. Add the language barrier and the children’s energetic enthusiasm, and it wasn’t long before the wheels came off. Lara found me a little while later with a courtyard of children doing cartwheels and handstands, or running around with their shirts over their heads,. When Amadou joined us shortly after, we were able to successfully explain the game to mom and the kids, and to my amazement our young patient’s ball skills are pretty amazing.

His are the blue ones!

After we had exhausted the kids, we started packing up all the equipment. Meanwhile Micah was in charge of getting the Mercy Ships vehicle out of the deep soft sand we’d managed to get it stuck in earlier… That little adventure just added to the post-home-visit high we were on in the car on the way back to the Africa Mercy.

A really special moment of this visit for me was when the family gifted me with a traditional Senegalese dress. I’ll be wearing it next Tuesday, when my friends come to the dock for the Celebration of Sight event (will see if I can get one of the photographers to take a good pic of us!). It is an event attended by all the little cataract patients and Mossane will be there too. We’ll be visiting her at home in the next few weeks and I’m sure there’ll be a good story there too!

I think I must have one of the best jobs onboard – apart from maybe being a doctor, or a nurse. I get to experience the whole journey with a handful of patients. I feel the depth of their appreciation, and see the potential impact on their lives. I get to know more about them and their circumstances. I get to hear all the thank you’s and “God bless Mercy Ships” during almost every patient interaction. I really need to find a way to effectively communicate and share this incredible gratitude with the rest of the Africa Mercy family.

If you’d like to, or are able to support me during my time with Mercy Ships, in any way, please visit my supporters page here.

Everything communicated here reflects my own personal opinion and is neither reviewed nor endorsed by Mercy Ships.

 

Dusty Dakar during Harmattan

Dusty. This is a good way to describe Dakar. And dry. It’s Harmattan season here in West Africa, which is characterised by dry and dusty winds coming from the Sahara. The city has been wearing a cloak of dust, even before I arrived in mid-January. The visibility has also been quite poor, although, there have been a few days that saw the haze lift to reveal Gorée Island and silhouettes of tall buildings (some still under construction) in the city.

      

The dust and dry air aren’t great for contact-lenses, asthma sufferers or those with sensitive sinuses. Or those who suffer from dry skin, lips, scalps, or other dusty and dry climate ‘stuff’. In a way it’s a little like late winter (August) in Gauteng/NW, except that it isn’t. It doesn’t get very cold here at night – in fact I’ve been sleeping on top of my blanket most evenings (although that’s probably me just warming up the space between me and the ceiling quickly).

I also haven’t experienced the strong winds we have during season change back home, but I’ve heard that before I arrived a windstorm of note ripped through Dakar, resulting in a middle-of-the-night “all deck-hands report to your positions” tannoy announcement. Apparently, the storm left quite a lot of destruction in its wake, including uprooting a gazebo from the dock. The diving team found it during their routine clean-up of the ship’s underbelly, still fully assembled and well preserved in the salty sea.

There are a cluster of seven or eight tents on the dock in front of Africa Mercy. They include two waiting areas, a hand-washing/locker tent, an outpatient tent, eye screening, rehabilitation, and I forget what the other one is… The white tent-tops are a shade of dust. The top of the orange canopies on the lifeboats too. It covers everything that remains stationery and conceals the original colours of cars left parked for more than a few days.

If you walk through the port, into town, along the coastal road or through the markets, you’ll be treading on dust. It’s a soft kind of dust. The kind that lifts up in the lightest of winds. I’ve driven through the outskirts of Dakar in the early morning and have wondered if street sweepers have been through the streets – they looked so clean. But perhaps it’s the wind?

Binta with her son Zackaria (he had eye surgery on board Africa Mercy recently)

Often the general view is muted by this filter, but splashes of beautiful Senegalese fabrics, bags, clothing or art break the monotone. Or, it’s cracked by a beautiful smile, or the sound of a child laughing. Or by the bright scrubs the healthcare teams wear on a Friday. Or the neon casts the kids sport after their ortho surgeries. Or by the balloons above almost every bed in the wards, or those given to the kids as rewards for an extra hard work-out in the rehab tent.

This weekend I started reading Ships of Mercy, which tells the story of the Mercy Ships charity, from the birth of the dream through to 2012. I remember reading an article recently where Don Stephens was quoted as saying his inspiration for the charity was a son, a saint and a ship. In the book, he refers to meeting Mother Teresa about a year after the birth of his third child, who was both mentally and physically challenged. He had gone to Calcutta to see how her team cared for the severely handicapped in one of the world’s most impoverished cities (page 14). The below quote from the book really resonates with me:

“I’d heard that Mother Teresa had instilled in her followers a gift for focusing on each individual as if he or she were the only person in the world receiving such attention and concern. And that, I was about to discover, included me” (page 15)

Being seen and ‘known” is such an important part of being healthy. I think this is relevant for most, but perhaps even more so when you are suffering from a disfiguring ailment or burn scars, or a condition that no one can explain. People who are that ‘different’ are often outcast in society, so if/when they do get some sort of help, it’s often more than physical healing that needs to happen. This may be simplifying things to the extreme, but they also need to experience that “Mother Teresa focus” and someone wiping the dust off their bruised and battered self-esteems.

I think a lot of that dust gets blown off here, and every single patient is encouraged to shine.

Satou, a young orthopedic patient with windswept legs (you met her last week).
Satou, shortly after surgery (she’s still in casts at the moment wobbling around with her little zimmerframe).

Two of my new little friends were discharged this week. Fatimata, who had her cleft-lip fixed, and five-year-old Malick, who had his bowlegs straightened. Both of their moms couldn’t wait to go home, to introduce the “transformed” versions of their children to a society that used to mock them. In fact, Malick’s mom hasn’t told people back home that his legs are straight now… They’ve been gone from their village for well over two months and have kept it a secret. Just imagine that homecoming!

Speaking of homecomings… there is a lot of warmth, kindness and joy here, but of course I’m missing my family and friends and the feeling of being “known”. I’ve put in my leave for December this year, and will be coming to visit from Monrovia in Liberia, where the ship will be from August 2020. You heard it here first 😉

 

Settle in, this is a long one…

I’d planned to write something deep about the various ‘bubbles’ of reality that are currently part of my new life, but I want to back my bubbles up with some photographs, that I don’t have yet… Hopefully I’ll have what I want by next week, or the week after.

Before I look back on my week, I’ll start by answering some questions I’ve been asked by one, or more of you.

How long is Africa Mercy (AFM) in Senegal?
AFM has been moored in the Port of Dakar since mid-August 2019 and will be here till sometime in June 2020. It’s the second time Mercy Ships has been to Senegal. The ship will sail to Las Palmas in June where she will be in the shipyard for a few weeks of maintenance to ensure she is fit and ready for the next field service. We’re not sure yet where exactly that will be, but I’ll let you know as soon as I know for sure.

Where are you when the ship is in the shipyard?
Some of the crew stay onboard, or book accommodation if their budget allows. I’m not sure if the ship will come out of the water for this year’s maintenance. I think that changes things for people living on board as well and will find out more about that closer to the time. It won’t really affect me this year though, as I have to go to Texas for some training (called onboarding) that starts on 14 June 2020.

How come you’re going to Texas?
The training lasts for about five weeks and is supposed to help prepare me for life on the ship and living in community. In terms of exactly what topics are covered, I’m not quite sure, but it will include insight into the Mercy Ship’s mission as well as faith foundations, personal and interpersonal development (one of mine is that I’d like to learn French).

Ideally this training should have happened before I started my time onboard, as it’s a requirement one has to fulfil if one has committed to more than a year with the ship. I think there may be some fun activities too, like learning how to fight a fire and other skills that can help me contribute to my AFM village.

As an aside, the ship has a dive team that ‘cleans the underbelly of the ship’ every two weeks, and I could kick myself for not doing my refresher dives to get current last December when I had the opportunity… Not all is lost though, as there is a dive centre in Dakar, and I’ve just emailed them to find out about getting my dive status to current. Exciting, right!?

Okay, let’s get started on my week… 

Monday is the day where there are a lot of meetings. Each Monday starts with a 07h45 operations meeting in the International Lounge. We’re told about what’s happening in the week ahead, such as what operations are taking place in the hospital, if there are any media trips, or VIP visitors, feedback on any other operational ‘stuff’ – for example, we’re hoping to find out where the ship is in the next field service tomorrow… This will be breaking and long-awaited news!

There are two more Communication Department meetings on Monday’s – one where the team on board gets together to discuss the week ahead, and another later in the day in the form of video conference with Texas, during which we mainly discuss content, patient stories and deadlines.

Still with me? 

 

Highlights this past week included some interactions with patients that I’m writing about. If you’re Facebook friends with me, you’ll probably have noticed that I shared two Mercy Ships posts – one about Satou (windswept legs) and another about Mossane (cataracts). I’ll only be sharing the stories that I’m personally involved in writing, so if you see me share something on Facebook, you’ll know it’s one of my little friends. I say ‘little’ friends as I am currently only writing about children – the youngest is one-and-a-half (Fatimata) and the oldest is 11 (Dieynaba). By the end of our field service here in Senegal I will have written a full-length story about all of ‘my’ patients, but the publication dates may fall later in the year. As soon as I’m allowed, I’ll publish my stories on my blog. I’m excited for you to read them.

Other highlights of my week included making a few new German friends, one of whom left the ship yesterday. Jörg worked in an IT capacity on board, and though I’m sure he was very generous with his Germany efficiency and directness, I think an incredibly interesting aspect to his story is that he’s about to set off on his bike ‘through Africa’. Okay, not quite through Africa, but across a few borders and to Ghana.

Through him I also met a German couple who works at the German Embassy Dakar (my first official land-based friends) as well as an independent film maker who is involved with another NGO that was started by two Lufthansa airhostesses here in Dakar (it’s a good story so have a look here if you’re curious: beta.sagehospital.org).

I also met the young Swiss lass who bakes our bread onboard and recently blessed us with some cheesecake (high up in the 101 on how to keep Chrissi happy). Turns out she is from a place not far from where my sister stays in Bern, Switzerland! And then, while queuing to pay for my loo roll and washing powder at the ship shop, I started chatting to a doctor, who is here for three months, and also comes from Bern. She’s also visited South Africa often, so there was a lot to talk about! Unfortunately, I had to dash, as we have to book specific times in the laundry, and if you snooze, you lose i.e. if you are late, someone may grab your machine, and you have to book another spot.

A few hours ago, while I was making a toastie in the dining room, I got chatting to two of our day-crew who work in the galley. The ship’s day-crew all hail from Senegal (mainly the capital) and don’t live onboard i.e. this is a day job for them. I’m not sure how many AFM employs, but they are really key to our being able to function properly here, as many work as translators in the hospital wards and admissions. The majority of them are post graduate students, either studying their masters or even PHDs – law, languages, diplomacy, history…intimidating stuff! One of them smilingly said to me that it’s a bit of a competition here, i.e. who can attain the highest level of education. I think there’s a good story there, and I’m hoping to write it soon.

My weekly health check? Apart from feeling like I’ve under performed on the education front, I do feel that this current chapter at the university of life is going to be a great one. I’m excited for the week ahead, and everything new that it will bring.

If you’d like to, or are able to support me in any way, please visit my supporters page here.

 

Where does the time go?

It feels as though this week went by in a flash, and so much has happened – more new people, new places, and a visit to the beach yesterday with a lovely Dutch family also volunteering on board. I also got bitten (by a mosquito?) in the crease of my right eye – I mean really?! Who would put Tabard or Peaceful Sleep that close to their eyes?

There are currently six South African’s onboard. One of them is plastic surgeon, Dr Tertius Venter, who is doing reconstructive surgery (for burn survivors and orofacial clefts). He has a fascinating story and also volunteers for other organisations. There is a lot of information available about him on the internet if you’d like to know more.

Unfortunately the hospital is off limits for the blog, so I can’t take you down there. However, there are a number of videos and story features on the Mercy Ships website that you can watch. If you’re keen to see more on the remarkable healthcare that is happening on board, click on ‘remarkable healthcare’ a few words back.

Today I’ll be taking you on a picture tour of the ship, to give you an idea of the communal areas on board. I got up extra early for today’s blog, as I wanted to capture the areas without people in them. It’s not usually this quiet, but I thought it may be awkward if I pop someone on my blog, who’d rather not be there. It’s kind of a clumsy layout, but I’m sure that you’ll get some of the picture.

Let’s start with Madiba…

 

 

 

I’m not sure when late President Nelson Mandela visited Africa Mercy, but I love the photograph to the left of his, where Gracia Machel is looking back at his photograph. These photographs are on Deck 4, one level down from reception, and I see it every day after I ‘knock off’ from work.
This is the reception area. To the left of the TV is the door to the office I share with two Media Liaisons and Andrea, who has been doing all the writing work since the beginning of this field service in Senegal.
There are a lot of stairs in the ship… the blue ones are at the back of the ship (aft) and the red ones are at the front (forward)

 

This is one of the library rooms – I think you’ll get why I like it here.
This is the cafe area. On the right hand side of the counter you’ll see some pastries. Some of the volunteers raise money towards their crew fees by baking pastries, so there are treats available to buy most days, even when Starbucks is closed.
This is one side of the cafe area where a lot of volunteers have lunch or meetings, or make calls back home. There is a piano under the stairs, and I heard someone playing today. It was lovely!
This is the dining room, where we have three meals Monday to Friday, and breakfast and dinner on weekends. They put out lunch stuff for us to put away on Saturday and Sundays.
This is the buffet. For lunch and dinner there is always a cooked meal (meat, veg and starch) and salads available. For breakfast it’s a broad selection of hot and cold.
This is the International Lounge where the bigger get togethers take place, including Operations Meeting on a Monday morning, a medical lecture on Wednesdays and a church service on Sunday evenings.
This is an area called “Midships” which where a lot of people hang out and chill. There is also a TV and a small ‘internet cafe’ area. Remember the stairs going up from the cafe area? Well that’s where they lead. That corner is where I mostly have my breakfast… yes, it’s still dark outside 🙂

 

And finally, my weekly mental health check: I’m feeling more and more settled and at home, and less like a visitor. I’m also getting much better at performing the top-bunk entrance and exit manoeuvres, and have not hit my head on the fire sprinkler mounted to the ceiling this week. That’s real progress!

A week of firsts

People have been asking what motivated my decision to come here, and I’m not sure there is a simple answer to this. My getting here feels part of a natural progression and after a week in the Port of Dakar*, I’m already feeling strangely settled. If pushed I would probably respond that I felt the need to be a part of something that is having a significant impact (on an individual basis) but is also working towards a sustainable impact on a broader level. Mercy Ships also do medical capacity building in the countries they serve – and I’m excited to learn more about this.

I found out about Mercy Ships about two years back, from a guy from New Zealand. He had just finished a year on board as an electrician and was doing a paragliding course in South Africa. I was visiting friends, and Nathan spoke about Mercy Ships at the B&Bs breakfast table. I was really fascinated, especially by the fact that I could use my skill as a writer to become involved in this level of humanitarian work. It took me another year to do some more committed research, and when I applied, it was for the role of writer in the communications department.

Last week’s blog may have painted a “Chrissi’s on a cruise” picture in your minds, but I know that most people are aware that this is a hospital ship, that mainly serves the countries in West Africa. The best way to describe the eight deck Africa Mercy is that she is a village on the water. And located on deck 3 is the fully-fledged hospital in which the volunteer surgeons and nursing staff come to work their magic – on board and on land. In my mind, all of us other volunteers, are here to support or enable the ship’s healthcare goals.

I first visited the hospital this past Monday and have since returned to the wards daily. A few more patient-related firsts included me familiarising myself with the admissions process, the first visit to the rehab tent on the dock, as well as a first patient home visit on Friday (the little guy is being admitted on Monday for his cataract op). The communications department utilises various programmes and tools to track stories, so I’ve also been getting on top of the technology. I’ve done my first load of washing on board, and I’ve met just about a gazillion people for the very first time this week too.

I imagine that while the surgeries are underway, the ship’s weekly rhythm is similar week-in and week-out – it is just the type of procedures that rotate. This past week the surgeries (that I’m aware of) have been plastic reconstructive (burn contractures) and eyes (mainly cataracts). I will soon be writing about two young cataract patients as well as an eleven-year old girl who fell into hot oil as a toddler. Her arm and hand were severely burned and disfigured. She was operated on mid-week and has been resting and sleeping since.

At the beginning of January there were also a number of orthopaedic surgeries, and I’ll be writing about a five-year-old girl who had windswept legs. She is currently wearing brightly coloured casts on both legs and has managed to wrap the entire communications team around her little finger. She was discharged from the hospital today, and will be staying at the Hope Centre, a Mercy Ships facility for patients who are from further afield, and cannot travel to and from the ship between appointments.

I’m still figuring out what I’m allowed to share on my blog, in terms of patient stories and photographs, especially before the organisation uses them. I’m hoping to share a photograph of the little girl who had her cataract operation. She was discharged wearing funky little pink sunglasses and will be back in a week for a check-up, and then again in six weeks for her Celebration of Sight Day. What this event looks like, I’m not sure yet, but I’m hoping that at that stage she will have substantial sight – apparently, if children are blind pretty much from birth, it takes their brains a little while to figure things out (this statement is my interpretation of a medical fact… so please don’t take it as gospel).  At that stage I’ll also know what exactly I’m allowed to use for my blog. In the meantime, here’s a photograph of my nest… and up top one of Africa Mercy’s funnel.

My top-bunk nest, being guarded by my Mercy Sheep

There is really so much to talk and write about, and so much happening on and off board. I may just have material for thirty months, or so…

In terms of a quick emotional health check, I’m doing good. I’m calm, and a lot more familiar with the ins and outs, and what my role here entails. The cabin is still teeny tiny, but on Friday evening, after returning from my first patient home visit, I crawled into my little nest, and was lulled to sleep by the ship’s engine and occasional other squawks from the vac system.

It will still take some getting used. But in general, it is well with my soul.

*This week I learned that when I’m on the ship, I’m actually on Malta. Another first for me!

PS: If you have any specific questions about ship, the hospital, the volunteers, or anything else, please ask me in the comment section, or send me a WhatsApp. I’d be very happy to tailor write a blog just for you 🙂

I’m here

After three flights (Joburg to Dubai, Dubai to Conakry, Conakry to Dakar) and three hours in traffic from airport to ship, I arrived on Friday night, safe and sound. It felt strange walking up Africa Mercy’s gangway – especially as I have seen it featured in many of the videos that I’ve watched these past few months.

 After a quick welcome and photograph, I was given my ID card and shown to my cabin – which is a four berth, with a small bathroom and communal area. It’s pretty tiny and will take some getting used to but luckily, as I discovered on my tour this morning, there are a lot of places on the ship to find a little quiet time.

I took my time unpacking and making my nest, as I want to be sure I’ll find whatever I need to, quickly. Even small places can become bottomless pits of mystery when there is no order (yes, that is the German version of me speaking). The person who was here before me left a lot of hangers in the cupboard, and after hanging up my super-downsized wardrobe, I’m still left with many. I doubt I’ll be needing them, so will take these to the ship boutique next week (sounds grand doesn’t it. I’ll let you know more after my visit).

At the moment I’m sitting in the library, which I think may just become one of my favourite places – it’s so quiet and peaceful, you wouldn’t think there are about three-hundred odd volunteers milling around somewhere on board. The most ‘congestion’ I’ve experienced so far is in the dining room at mealtimes, but it’s early days. There is a café area, a Starbucks and a ship shop, all of which I’ll share more about once I use these facilities.

There is also a gym downstairs, as well as a pool on deck 8, which I’ll probably visit for an occasional dip when it gets really hot, even though the air-conditioned ship feels rather pleasant. I’m taking doxycycline as a malaria prophylaxis, and apparently it makes your skin more sensitive to the sun, so another reason not to sunbathe. If this is the only side-effect I have to contend with, I’ll be over the moon! It’s still early days, so for more on that developing story, you’ll have to journey with me a little while longer!

During my 24-hour journey I was able to reflect on ‘things’ in a different way than before. I know exactly where and what I’ve come from, and of course I’m sad to have left so much behind. The future holds a large element of the unknown and I think it’s only human to be a wee bit daunted. My Mercy Ships knowledge is based on the communication materials put out by the organisation, the research I’ve done and the conversations I’ve had with only a handful of crew members. Now it’s finally time to form opinions based on personal experience, and I’m looking forward to writing from this new perspective.

It’s an exciting time, but yesterday, when I couldn’t remember my mercyships.org email password, I had a moment of “What have I done!?” Then my password came back to me and I opened my emails to find a story lead from my new boss. The doubt disappeared.

Everything else may be new to me but writing…that I think I can do!

 

Change

I began writing this short piece at a coffee shop on Friday January 3rd with the intention of producing something light-hearted about the cats. Or about the fact that, for the foreseeable future, I will not be experiencing life in quite the same way and that I will need to adjust my comfort levels.

My hands were poised above the keyboard, and then the phone rang.

ADT operator: “Ma’am, we’ve received an alarm activation at…”. 

I thought perhaps it’s the cats but asked them to send a response vehicle out anyway.

Minutes later, the phone rang again.

My neighbour: “Chrissi. They’ve broken into your house. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way,” I say, as I hastily pack up my laptop and indicate to the waitress that I need to pay.

I send my city group a quick voice message, and debate calling my parents or sister. I decide not to, why stress them out? Off I go. I’m twenty minutes away, and that’s an awful lot of time to think about things, when you’re not sure what to expect.

I think of what could have been taken. I remember my pretty-darn-nearly-new iMac elegantly sitting on the dining room table. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing. Except that of course my whole life is packed up, ready for the next chapter, and could very easily be carted away – on wheels nogal.

I wonder about the randomness of these break-ins. Or not. Why now? Why just two weeks before I’m set to go? Maybe I should have mowed the lawn.

Then. Oh no (hysteria rising). My laptop! The precious book that I’ve been working. Oh no (hysteria ebbing). It’s next to me on the passenger seat. I decide to just breathe.

I pull up outside my property, and it looks like I’m hosting a party. The security guard from ADT accompanies me through the broken gate to the kitchen door, where it looks like someone was very angry with me. The security gate has been crowbarred off and out of the wall.

In we go, and it doesn’t look as bad as I expected. Two big pictures torn off walls, in the hopes of the discovery of a non-existent safe. I think they went upstairs, to the master bedroom, first. Unfortunately, they helped themselves to a box of jewellery I’d put together to take to my mom’s for safekeeping. Other than that, nothing has been taken. And my iMac is still lazily squatting on the dining room table. I guess I should count myself lucky.

There are so many things that I would change about South Africa, but the sense of community and the support I got, was pretty much ‘up there’.

ADT did a sterling job. Representatives from my community policing forum were right there, and nothing was too much trouble for them (including putting the word of a missing cat out). My closest neighbour was like a guardian angel, standing ready with a massive security chain and Thor’s hammer to put what he could back together again. He was out of the starting blocks, the second the police gave us the go-ahead, and restored a lot of my peace of mind. I owe him, big time.

I found Poppy in the laundry cupboard, but Manito was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, but his going AWOL was worse for me, than anything else. Once the crowds had left, I cried myself a headache that he was missing. I cried myself another headache when he reappeared as jittery as I’d never seen him before. I cried myself another headache when he disappeared again, and again, and again. Eventually he stuck around, but I’m sad that two weeks into his being here, when things were going so well, his perfect little bubble was burst. Change has become far more traumatic than it needed to be.

Please, no more storms in the home run to boarding the Africa Mercy.

The alarm and the cat connection reminded me of a blog I’d written a few years back Living in Gauteng. I reread it, and had to smile at life, and how full mine has been in Poppy’s Palace. I’m sad to go, but at the same time anticipating incredible growth as well as a total re-evaluation of what’s really important.                    

 

Poppy’s Palace

My soon-not-to-be home is also known as Poppy’s Palace. She adopted me as a kitten and has, for the last ten odd years, peacefully and unchallenged been the Queen here. Apart from ten days, a few years back, during which I kitten-sat little Maya for a friend.

To be honest, that did not go well. Maya was fine, but every evening I would have to fetch my sulking and miserable cat from under the carport and bring her back inside. Life went back to normal, once Maya went back home.

When I put my house up for sale in October one of my biggest concerns was Poppy i.e. I would either need to rehome her, or, first prize, whoever bought my house would fall in love with her too… Long story short, I won the prize! And Poppy gets to keep her Palace!

The only catch is that she won’t be the only feline roaming these quarters anymore. She certainly won’t be thrilled, but I’m hoping to make it easier for her, by having her new bro move in while I’m still here.

Anyway, I did some research and I’ll be ‘supervising’ introductions over the next few weeks. Hopefully by the time I leave in mid-January they will at least tolerate one another.

Manito is currently occupying the master bedroom, while Poppy and I live in the rest of the house. I’m sure right now Manito is feeling a tad stressed, while Poppy is downstairs, chilling on an armchair, oblivious…

I myself haven’t felt quite this relaxed in as long as I can remember. I’m also feeling quite inspired to write, so will be sharing this potentially antagonist experience here. Please feel free to offer any advice, I’d really like to make this relationship work!

Poppy chilling downstairs.
Manito, chilling in his old home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Africa Mercy: My next chapter

Tomorrow in a month, I will be hopping on an aeroplane to Dakar, Senegal where I will begin serving as a writer on board the Africa Mercy, the world’s largest civilian hospital ship that is part of an incredible humanitarian initiative operating in West Africa.

 

“Mercy Ships is an over forty-year-old global humanitarian organisation that uses hospital ships to deliver free, world-class health care services, capacity building and sustainable development to those without access in the developing world: nearly 50% of people in Africa have no access to a hospital or doctor.”

More information on the wonderful work and the type of medical care that Mercy Ships and its volunteers provide, can be read or viewed here https://www.mercyships.org/all-stories/ and/or here https://www.youtube.com/user/mercyshipsvideos

Thirty months

I’ve committed to thirty months. This may seem like a strange length of time to press pause on “normal” life, but just like everything else about my decision to join the Mercy Ships crew, two-and-a-half years just felt right.

My life as a writer has been full of rich experiences and adventures, including meeting many interesting and inspiring people, visiting new places (often outside of my comfort zone) and gathering a lot of food for thought. I know that my time with Mercy Ships will be serving all of this up in abundance too. And, as of January, my “working life” will be all about shining a spotlight on the lives that are touched by the Mercy Ships message of hope and healing.

How can one not be excited at the prospect of being a part of that? 

A Better Business Bureau accredited charity

Mercy Ships, a Better Business Bureau accredited charity, is fully funded by donations from private and corporate citizens around the world. Crew members also contribute a monthly crew fee, which goes towards room and board. Every year an incredible amount of people – from surgeons, dentists and nurses who perform the medical procedures; through to technicians, cooks, teachers, administrators and people like me – volunteer for Mercy Ships.

I have undertaken, as far as possible, to self-fund my stay on board, while still honouring my commitments back home. A large part of the experience is living with less, and I was recently asked to prepare a budget within Mercy Ships’ suggested minimum budget guidelines. 

Would you support me?

There are a number of overheads I will need to cover. These include monthly crew fees, my health insurance, immunisations, travel to and from the ship (including to and from Texas for training in June 2020) and personal expenses. My minimum monthly budget works out to around $700. Or $8,400 per year. Or an amount for thirty months that I’m too afraid to put in as a fundraising goal, so have only set my target for year one.

If you are able to contribute to lightening my financial load in any way, you’ll also be enabling me to focus a hundred percent of my creative energy on writing the Mercy Ships stories. Mercy Ships has facilitated setting up this fundraising page for me, or you can contact me directly if you’d like to contribute in another way: chrissi @ what-is-your-story.co.za … just remove the spaces before and after the @.

If you are not able to support me financially, I would really value your prayer and/or some moral support by hearing from you every once in a while.

Africa Mercy

I will be joining Africa Mercy halfway through her ten-month stay in Dakar. She will then be based in Monrovia, Liberia from August 2020 through to June 2021. The country for the year after has not yet been announced.

Once on board, and once I’ve found my feet, I’ll be updating my blog and writing a monthly newsletter to share my experience as well as sharing links to Mercy Ship stories.

I hope you’ll stay in touch and accompany me on my next chapter, on board the Africa Mercy.

 

I used to be…

There are in fact many things that I used to be … probably as many things as I still am and as I will be. The fact that I no longer fly, doesn’t make my life any less rich. The real friendships I’ve made through flying have survived my divorce from this pursuit, and I do love catching up with people on a mountain. I’m probably one of the best recovery drivers you’d be lucky enough to have, however getting my nose out of a book and looking at a GPS may be a challenge. My name is Chrissi, and I used to be…

I used to be the SAHPA Chairperson. I lasted one year, after which I walked away. With the wisdom of hindsight, I must admit that I really admire people who put themselves forward to serve on the committee, particularly people who serve for longer than a year.

It was without a doubt the worst year of my life (let’s name it “The Small Depression”) and one which I embarked on voluntarily despite being pre-warned by a prior chairperson that it had been an incredible tough tenure for him. As they say: pride comes before a fall. I didn’t realise at what cost the delivery of this voluntary position would come. I don’t really think that much can prepare you for the total onslaught of new experiences (few of which are pleasant) that accompany serving SAHPA. My personal life suffered. My business suffered. My health suffered.

That year started with a bang, when a few weeks in a judge in Cape Town ruled (on an almost decade long case) that tandem paragliding for reward was illegal. After a few visits to our lawyers, we were advised to ground tandem operations (unsuccessfully) until we had lodged our appeal. It was a confusing time for many – unfortunately I was the one in the firing line. I had no prior exposure to the land of law, never mind the reams of the law of the air. There were key individuals who tried hard to support me, however, I needed knowledge to make decisions, so was playing catch up a large part of the time. Add to that the different voices and many warnings against various individuals and their “dubious ulterior motives”, and it was all a stark reminder of why I had left the corporate world to pursue freelancing.

Things may have changed, but like I said, I used to be… Back then an imbalance or tension had always existed between commercial and private within the ARO (Aviation Recreation Organisation). At one stage it seemed that the only solution to ensuring that commercial tandems were legal (as many people’s livelihoods depended on being able to fly tandems) was to make our ARO the ATO (Aviation Training Organisation). I came so close to taking this step, when a casual remark by a CIA representative, about how much responsibility this entailed, stopped me in my tracks. I decided it was a good idea to understand exactly what he meant, and to my horror discovered that as a director (voluntary or not) of a non-profit, and as SAHPA Chairperson, I would ultimately be responsible for all activities that occurred under the ATO. This was the one thing that no one had whispered in my naïve ears, and it was quite a wakeup call. In addition to a few more sleepless nights, I tried my best, together with the committee, to come up with ways in which we could ensure that we met our duty of care as directors of the ARO. One of a number of initiatives that came out of that chaotic time, was the In the Loop newsletter – and I can’t say that a little part of me isn’t flattered that it has been resurrected as a communication tool.

Other things I struggled with during the “The Small Depression” was that I could not understand why many tandem operators across the country were not interested in creating a sustainable platform for their businesses. Other challenges included getting our MOP rewritten into an acceptable format, then getting it approved by the members and then by RAASA. My committee and a few stand-up members were instrumental in getting this process going, however, the MOP was only signed off by RAASA in the following year thanks to Jon and his committee.

In terms of people, there were some real diamonds who got me through, both from within the organisation, as well as from outside. To be honest, I didn’t really struggle with any of the personalities or characters in and around the sport, but I did observe a lot of unnecessary, sometimes ugly disputes.

I struggled with making the time to run my business, as well as trying to meet my minimum standards of quality (in both my “jobs”). I really prayed hard that there would be no major injuries or fatalities during my time as Chairperson. Unfortunately, this was not to be, and the sport claimed two PPG pilots, and a young PG pilot.

Did I make a difference? Was it possible to even make a difference in a year? I don’t think so, and I do not really know. What I do know is, if faced with the choice of being SAHPA Chairperson for a year versus jumping out of a balloon, the prospect of 365 consecutive roll overs wins hands down.

I used to fly. And overall, I must admit that I loved it. It was the place I could escape to, a place to feel free, to just be and to lose time without wasting it. I’m not talking about the time lost sitting on the mountain waiting for the wind to be just perfect (which it seldom is). I’m talking about the time between take-off and landing where I wasn’t really conscious of my surroundings other than my fellow pilots, Mother Nature and staying up for as long as I could. It was a time I would be free from “real life” problems like deadlines, load shedding, infrastructure decay, work challenges, politics, relationship issues, poverty, racism, land reclamation … It was a time during which I chose to enjoy the privilege of free flight.

While I was still an active pilot, I tried to fly as much as I could, however, I have always considered myself to be a bit of a hobbyist who attended as many competitions as possible to make use of the infrastructure, and to increase the circle of flying friends. I was fortunate to travel quite a bit, have flown at a number of beautiful sites and met some great people in near and faraway places. Paragliding opened up an entire new world to me, including one where injury and death was a relatively common occurrence.

Sometimes I would surprise myself (and probably a few others) with a great flight, and there was a time I was more confident, especially while I was very current. I believe a bit of talent and some intuition, rather than the clever use of any science, got me from place to place. There were times that I was perfectly content in the air, and times that I was extremely anxious – more so about the conditions I was in, than the fact that I needed to find lift. There were times I would thank God for the incredible experience, and other times that I would promise Him that I would do or give up anything if he would just guarantee my safe return to Earth.

I used to be a licenced member of SAHPA. I say used to, because I neglected to let the thing be the thing. My flying wasn’t about flying anymore and there were too many distractions. It had become about serving the community, helping to organise competitions, raise sponsorship, write things, organise charity events, do this … do that … and my crippling sense of duty literally crippled my love of the activity and I walked away.

Notwithstanding I have and cherish some amazing flying memories. Maybe those are enough to see me through to retirement. Maybe they are not. Only God knows.

Note: This was written for the SAHPA March 2019 newsletter ‘In the Loop’. It is an unusually sombre (for me) piece of writing, so if you’d like to read a bit more about fun and real flying there are three articles here that may be more appealing.

 

 

 

Flying High

I was moving furniture on the Friday morning before the Monday evening flight, when I over-committed to a heavy couch. One loud pop and a burning sensation later, and I was unable to carry much more than a feather. How inconvenient, I thought, and decided to continue doing the things I normally do, albeit much more slowly.

By Sunday evening, I could hardly walk. The Transact Patch and over-the-counter drugs were not having the desired effect, and I became concerned as to how I was going to go on holiday if I couldn’t even stand up? In a panic I called a good friend, who took desperate me to the hospital A&E.

The staff were welcoming and so sweet. We completed the forms. We waited for a while, and I tried to keep the melodrama in check. I didn’t want to sit down, as it was a mission getting up again, so stayed upright.

We waited for a while longer, and I decided it was time to lie down. My friend, whom one could describe as somewhat of a back-injury expert, gave me some personal training on how to ‘alight’ from a bed when compromised. Knees over, roll over, that hand for support there, and up you go.

A physical examination, an injection in the buttock and two little pills later, I wobbled out of the A&E clutching a prescription and the number of a Wonder-Physio, who would make me flying fit. It was past midnight and there was slim chance of bumping into anyone that I know. This is good, as I had already boarded, and was by now floating above the clouds. Sleep claimed me the second before my head hit the pillow, and I was awake very early on Monday morning. There was a lot to do.

My trip to the physio did wonders, and I began to hope that my flight would not be the most torturous experience ever. I was slow but mobile and got a lot done, as one must the day before going on vacation.

By the time I was on my way to the airport my back was reminding me, that all is not well. Two little pills and an hour later and I was checked in, through passport control, and making friends in the departure lounge. I don’t remember ever having such a stress-free lead up to claiming my seat in an AirBus.

If you’ve read any of my previous blogs, you’ll now I’m a great fan of flying – “Escapism at Cloudbase” and “At least seven hours are necessary” if you’d like to recap 🙂

Well, this flight just reinforced how wonderful the economy experience is. I dipped in and out of a very contented and comfortable state, feeling safe, warm and cocooned. I do not know how this may have appeared to my fellow passengers, but I fear I may have been guilty of the exact behaviour I have previously been disdainful of. Never-mind, I got my seven hours and there is a slim chance of bumping into them again.

One thing …

I’m currently working on a magazine, and we usually try to work to a theme, to tie our stories together. To try and establish what the theme will be, I’ve been asking people I interview what their ‘one thing’ is. The ‘one thing ‘that motivates them, and the ‘one thing’ they feel is essential to their success.

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To motivation, surprisingly (or not?) not many people have answered with ‘money’. Most people have told me that they are motivated by a specific person – a mother, a child, a partner. A few have answered God, others are motivated by growth, or visible progress.

The answers to ‘the one thing’ essential for success have been more diverse, also depending on where on their career path I’m catching them.  I’ve had responses ranging from external (such as opportunity and environment) to factors such as wisdom, commitment, honesty, integrity, keeping things simple, staying focused, being bold, and so on.

Until yesterday, no-one had thrown my questions back at me, and I must say, that I was quite surprised. What does motivate me? I’m not entirely sure, but I think it could in part be my natural curiosity. I’m going to have to think about that one. And while I do, what’s your ‘one thing’?

Confessions and sweet memories

As kids we had a little routine every Sunday post the church service. We would spend some of our pocket money on a treat at Checkers while my mom bought the Sunday newspaper. We’d then lounge around at home, snacking on our sugary purchases while reading the Sunday Times’ comics or with our noses buried deep in a book.

I would go hell for leather on my stash. My younger sister would make hers last for the day, whereas Vera, the first born, would stretch her supply for longer than I perceived humanly possible. I’m talking the kind of self control that sees the Easter Bunny’s bottom half still hanging around in August.

If one considers the degree of my sweet tooth, the fact that I still have all of my own teeth is a minor miracle. Fortunately my metabolism also dealt relatively well with the potential effect on my weight, although what the sugar did to my personality was quite another story. The youngest in the house (it’s always easiest to pick on them, isn’t it?) was often quite traumatised by my mood swings. Admittedly this memory of me as an ogre on a sugar-high or low, is one we can laugh at over lunch nowadays, but I’m sure at the time it could not have been pretty.

Speaking of meals, the many conversation topics covered over today’s family lunch, included the fact that Nephew A only experiences growth pains in his legs, and not in his upper body. This reminded me of another lunch time conversation, where both now teenage nephews confessed that as under tens they would fake an ache or growing pain in order to obtain what they described as a very tasty banana Panado from Vera. They would exchange a knowing wink as they passed one another in the passage – one clasping a banana Panado in his sweaty paw, the other armed with a compelling reason to be awarded one too.

I don’t think these Panados were around when I was a kid. In fact, I don’t remember medicine ever tasting that good that I would have faked an ailment for it.  If I was going to fake it, my eye was on a much bigger prize – there had to be at least a day off school in it for me. And then there was of course always the option to self-medicate with treats. But I digress.

I recently wrote some copy for a superbly talented friend of mine, who owns a company called bite-size eatery. The name was inspired by her young nephew’s response to the baked edibles and food she prepared. Basically he would demolish the edibles in one go (sound familiar?), and she explained to him that food, especially food prepared with love and reverence, should be enjoyed slowly, one bite at a time. Wise words, even for us adults!

And there you have it – my pearl of wisdom.

Though I’m very happy to report that the chance of a delicious sugary purchase surviving for more than 48-hours is still very slim, as I grew older, a certain level of self-control and discernment did begin to develop.

Another confession. Not too many of today’s Easter Bunnies bottom halves made it past lunch. Mine is still untouched, but I very much doubt it will make it as far as August …

Coasting along

Do you remember when we used to go on those crazy rollercoaster rides, scream with delight and want to go on them again and again and again. And again? We would stand in queues as long as those on voting day, just to embark on a crazy sixty seconds worth of weightless terror, laced with boot-in-the-chest gravity forces. 

We’d then breathlessly disembark, huge grins on our faces, feeling as though we had defied death. Adrenalin would pump through our bodies preparing us for the next big upside-down adventure. “Bring it on!” we’d breathlessly say, beating our chests to the rhythm of the shrieks and squeals echoing across the theme park. We even ventured into those horrendous haunted houses of horrors, where to be honest, I was never quite sure that my heart would survive.

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I remember feeling amazingly alive at the time, and sleeping (albeit dehydrated, stiff, sunburnt and bruised) like a baby, on nights after days like that. I don’t remember ever feeling ill, or witnessing anyone that I rode with losing their candy-floss, toffee-apples or hot-dogs in the air. I’m sure it must have come close once or twice, but boy was it exhilarating!

At some stage conquering my fears became less of a priority, and scaring myself stopped being quite so much fun. It just happened. While I wasn’t quite ready to downgrade to the lazy river ride, I did begin feeling a little more squeamish with each loop. Then the pesky little stage-whisper in my head began planting the seeds of doubt. “What if … the wheels come off … or it stops when you’re suspended in mid-air … or even worse, what if the whole structure just collapses …” 

Eventually I made the call. I didn’t want to be the first ‘young’ person to die of a heart attack while facing my Nemesis, so I started looking for other, more sensible things to challenge myself with. Every now and again, a flutter of bravery would find its way into my little heart, and I’d do something that pushed me outside of my comfort zone. I managed two static-line skydiver rides and a balloon roll-over before that gene went dormant again. 

Then, a few Decembers back, some of the family spent a day at the Valley of the Waves in Sun City. My two nephews and niece thought the 30-metre sheer drop slide was great fun, and kept encouraging me to join them. I ticked off the possible scenarios in my head: it looked well-maintained. Yes. There was a lot of activity and others were surviving. Check. There were repeat offenders present. Check. Eventually, wanting to maintain the ‘cool-aunt’ image, I weakened and agreed to this little adventure. 

No biggie you may think, but as I stood on the edge of the precipice, I still wondered how I could walk away with my dignity intact. This, while standing amidst a small group of people whose average age I’d just brought up to about 12. 

I decided I would cling onto my pride, and off over the edge I went. My sister and niece heard my screams from about a kilometre away, whilst my youngest nephew, who was waiting to receive me at the bottom, thought my show had been hilarious. And once I’d managed to extricate my bikini bottom from my throat, I must say that a tiny tinge of the old adrenalin began coursing through my veins … it was however never going to reach the fist-pumping, chest-beating, I-just-have-to-repeat-this level.

Way back I seemed to have the stomach for it. Now, when the next rollercoaster pulls in and people look at me expectantly, I hope I will say thanks, but no. I don’t want to be the one that arrives back after having re-served my breakfast. From now on I’ll join the queue for the much tamer river ride, or hop onto a sedate sun-set cruise … I’ll be the one wearing a hat, sunblock and carrying a bottle of water.

 

Who made your cheese?

It was high time for me to escape for a while, so I Jet-Jane’d it out of there post voting on the third of August. I’m now safely ensconced in the Swiss mountains, occasionally dipping into a news channel to see how coalition talks are going. Of course we don’t do things simply in the republic – there’s always got to be a bit of “it’s complicated”. A coalition between any of the contenders should, in my mind, be very interesting.

But back to me… or as the title indicated, back to the cheese….

I’m lucky to have a family member who spends his summers in the Swiss mountains making traditional alpine cheese. My sister’s partner has been making cheese for the last thirteen years, so he knows his stuff. All the cheese-making action happens in this mountain hut that the cheese-maker and his peaceful herd of cows inhabit for about eight weeks during the summer. The cow barn forms part of the wooden structure which also includes a kitchen area (where the cheese cauldron lives), a cheese cellar, a pantry, a ‘Stube’ (sleeping/living room), and a dormitory style attic, to accommodate visitors.

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As magnificent as the surroundings are up here, working life is definitely not as fairy-tale as it may seem to the uninitiated. I’ve watched parts of the production process over the past week, and can bear witness to the fact that a combination of muscle, a strict daily routine, patience at the cauldron and good alpine milk yields the desired cheese quality.

The day starts around five-thirty. The cows, after spending the night eating the delicious alpine grass, come in around seven-thirty. They are milked twice a day. First in the morning and again in the evening, after they have spent the day in the straw, chewing their cud, licking salt, sipping water, pooping (a lot) and generally going about their cow-chilling-in-the-barn business.

In the lead up to lunch the previous evening’s and that morning’s batches of milk are magic’d, over an open fire, into a beautiful wheel (or two) of cheese. The cauldron is cleaned, a quick bite to eat, some chores, the cheese is turned. After the evening’s milking, the cows wander off to eat more of that succulent alpine meadow that makes their milk so good and plentiful. Then, the stable is cleaned, more wood is chopped, more chores, dinner and finally some R&R before it starts all over again.

The days are full, yet time moves at a more leisurely pace up here. I admire this age-old Swiss custom, and that, in spite of the fact that we live in an era of processed foods, this organic production continues. It’s refreshing to witness something that doesn’t entail mass production, and where there is such an intense focus on quality. There is something almost hypnotic about the ringing cowbells, announcing the arrival, departure or presence of these gentle herbivores. They also don’t seem to have a care in the world, apart from sticking with their family, and sticking to their routine.

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I feel like I should come up with some profound and philosophical insight into how this whole experience translates into my ‘real life’. Maybe along the lines of the best-selling Who moved my cheese by Spencer Johnson. But we’re not mice. We don’t all like the same cheese. Some of us don’t like cheese at all, and some poor folk are lactose intolerant. And why shift the focus to the moving, and not the making?

I’ve decided to liken the alpine cheese-making process to a labour of love, and its outcome as a gift or a blessing. I hope I bring a little of this peace back, focus on what’s important, and apply some of these principles to the cheese I magic up at home.

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You could look at cheese-making from a capitalist perspective – but no-one’s getting rich up here. A socialist point of view – equal amounts of cheese for everyone? A modernist may say that its time to move on, no more touchy feely traditions. A traditionalist may fight for the status quo? Or maybe a coalition of some of the above?

Today, you get to make the profound connections.

Weight control

She looked at the ever-widening berth of her once streamlined cat. That’s it! As of tomorrow, it’s nothing but diet pellets for her.

The next day at the cat food bowl.

Honestly?! Diet pellets? Is she trying to kill me? First she has me sterilised so that I don’t “grow the family even more”, and now that we’re reaping the weight consequences she wants me to eat that? She may not have wanted to “grow the family”, but why was I not consulted? It’s my body, and to be honest, at least one litter would have been nice. And I’m pretty! She tells me that all the time. I would have made beautiful kittens! And now this. Food for sterilised cats. I think I’m going to throw up. This stuff tastes like cardboard, and it’s not helping with the hair balls either. I mean, I spend up to 18 hours a day grooming, and now I have to suffer the indignity of foraging for greenery in the bitter cold to help shift these hairballs. It’s just not fair. Human, we need to talk.

 

Empty Promises, Pride, Prejudice and Fears

Today’s blog entry comes with a disclaimer, as it is highly probable that I have no idea what I am talking about. Let’s say it’s based on a knee-jerk reaction coupled with a little research and some wandering thoughts. If you decide to read on, just take it from whence it cometh. 

On Friday morning I woke up to hear that Great Britain would be BREXITing. The emphatic response and reactions to this news, from across the globe, made me think that this was real bad. Naturally I headed straight to Google to try and make up my own mind about things, and unsurprisingly I was not the first to hit the search engines with my questions. In fact, I was almost half a day behind the many (thousands?) of United Kingdom citizens who had searched “What is the EU” and “What is BREXIT” after the referendum event. Yes, you read right. After.

How does one vote on something, when one does not really know what one is voting for? I guess part of the explanation could be down to successful campaigning. Of course I wanted to know what compelling arguments made people tick the “Yes, we want out” box, and from what I can gather a large part of the Leave campaign came down to three things. Promises, Prejudice and Fear. 

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Informed Voter by Joe Heller, Green Bay Press Gazette

The Pro-Leavers knew exactly where to aim, and it seems at first glance that they aimed below the belt. The promise that the apparent 350-million Pounds a week that goes to the EU would be channeled into the National Health Insurance (NHS) has already been debunked. That shockingly empty promise is never going to be realised. It also seems that a large part of the motivation for the leave campaign was securing Britain from the influx of migrants and refugees.

You may be thinking that as a South African, I should rather be focusing on what’s happening in my own back yard, and why on earth I feel compelled to write this. You would have had to be hiding in a hole for the last century if you did not know about South Africa’s chequered, colonial and unpalatable past. Our struggles are far from over, however, prejudice and racism is not something unique to the country I live in. Radical racism seems to be raising its ugly head on a regular basis, in more places and countries than ever before. In my simple little mind, I’d like to think the majority of humans are after the same things. Liberty and Security. And yet, when we do have the privilege of having them, we guard them jealously, not  always willing to share. 

I believe that, no matter who we are, there is a little (or a lot) of prejudice in each one of our hearts – be it in the form of racism, classism, sexism, ageism, homophobia and so forth. It is a battle we humans fight daily, and one from which we do not always emerge from as the victor. In fact many just roll over and concede defeat without trying. Thanks to social media the spread of ‘evidence’ of this intolerance has been efficiently streamlined – straight from ‘prejudiced’ lips to the eyes and ears of millions, all just waiting for their turn to be the next ones to pass down judgement.  We have grown so hyper-sensitive that sometimes we are even spotting leopards behind bushes, where there are none. However, make no mistake, there are many spotted critters roaming our global streets. 

During my little BREXIT educational online outing I watched a segment of Last Week Tonight, which is an American show hosted by Englishman John Oliver. This particular segment was aired outside of the UK a week before the referendum,  however was only allowed in the UK after the referendum. If you can overlook the crudeness and cussing and silly song at the end, it’s interesting, left-wing, viewing. It also reveals a few prize leopards lurking in clear view (and if you’re into reading comments on social media, it’s open season if you scroll down). 

I needed to even the scales a little and find out more about the other side, so watched a few interviews with pro-leavers as well as a Q&A on ITV where both Nigel Farage and David Cameron participated in an audience Q&A. A few things sprung out at me – the Leavers felt that the influx of immigrants was a disaster for the UK, but ethnic minorities (UK citizens) seemed to feel marginalised by those promoting the exit. The remain side seemed reasonable, however it did appear that the hard-working class felt threatened by the prospect of remaining in the EU. I had to rewind when Nigel Farage told a woman who asked a question relating to sex-related crimes to calm down. I don’t know much about the man, but good luck ladies of the UK if he becomes one of your leaders. (Did you see how neatly I managed to pass down judgement there?)

Apparently many many experts warned that it would be an economic disaster to leave the EU. A fact that was poo-poo-ed by the Leave campaign. Forgive my paragliding comparison here, but I have often flown with people way more experienced than I – let’s call them the paragliding experts. On the few occasions that I have decided to fly my own line, and veered off the routes the experts have chosen, I have more often than not found myself on the ground…kicking myself for my stupidity. Obviously when I started out, I always hoped that somehow I would gleefully claim victory over the sky-gods – but alas, it’s just never panned out for me. 

A more relevant comparison is perhaps our government’s determination to steadfastly follow their own path. Despite expert advice and evidence to the contrary, they often put the ANC above what is best for our country, and inevitably there are casualties – more often than not, those casualties are the normal people on the ground. Isn’t it mostly the working class that suffers? I guess we still take the cake here in SA, in that the decision of one man last December saw the Rand crash to a record low… it took many millions of BREXIT referendum votes to do that to the Pound. 

Right now I feel a little sorry for the people of the United Kingdom – and as a proud nation I’m sure that’s the last thing they want from me. It must be quite scary to the person on the street coming to terms with the immediate consequences that surely must have left most of them reeling. I haven’t got a cooking clue what happens now, but I do hope that it somehow ends well for everyone involved.

We’re just over a month away from municipal elections, and though elections in South Africa may not feel as momentous as the BREXIT referendum to most people, it’s a pretty big deal right now in the history of our country. It’s probably the first time where voting communities are expressing strong opinions and displeasure at being fed a diet of empty promises or lip service. I truly hope we all know what we are voting for, because the consequences of not really knowing could change the course of our world.

Today’s blog entry comes with a disclaimer, as it is highly probable that I have no idea what I am talking about. Let’s say it’s based on a knee-jerk reaction coupled with a little research and some wandering thoughts. If you read on, I hope you took it from whence it cameth. 

Nothing but love

Last week there was a wedding in the United Kingdom. Alright, so there were probably numerous weddings around the world on that particular day, but this one was extra special. Here’s my version of this romantic tale…

A man, twice divorced, disillusioned, a little bitter, and who had vowed he would never walk down the aisle again during this lifetime, donned his bell bottoms last Tuesday, in preparation for the giant I-do leap. Resigned to his fate of having and holding, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, for etcetera etcetera, he visited the restroom for a last peak at himself in the mirror as a single man. He slapped on some aftershave, took a deep breath, and prayed that everyone would forever hold their peace when asked. Yes, he was ready!

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His betrothed, now wife, is known for being able to keep her cool in a crisis, and as far as I am aware there was none. There were no foxes to be rescued, no felines to fix, no animals to heal, no horses to heed. Tuesday was all about tying the knot. She even wore heels! The groom getting stuck in the mud was a snag easily overcome, and the two managed to get to the Ceremony Room on time. They said I do, he kissed the bride, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I’m far from being an expert on the matter of marriage, but that doesn’t stop me from being a great believer in the institution. Obviously one does need to be a little discerning about who one is going to meet at the church T-junction, but being an extreme romantic, I think everyone in love should get hitched. 

Two of my South African girl friends will be walking down the aisle this September. I must say that wedding planning definitely sounds stressful, in particular when (in addition to finalising the guest list, the venue, the seating, how to involve each family, the dress, the food, and and and) the negotiation of lobola forms part of the pre-union proceedings. I’m not familiar with all the intricacies involved in this custom, but I admire the deep level of respect for family and culture that is being observed. This, in spite of the process being drawn out, which must have been very frustrating for this couple.

What I have noticed in those relationships around me that seem to be working, is that the partners find one another interesting and fascinating, take the time to talk, love and respect each other, and have their spouses backs. And this last sentence pretty much sums up why I believe that the wedding in the UK last Tuesday is extra special.

Oh yes… if any of my other friends who’re in love are reading this, just thought I’d mention that I have more than two dresses that haven’t seen the light of day in a while… and that I love dancing, and champagne, and witnessing I do’s…

I have nothing

It’s the tail end of the week and I am pooped. Everything that I’d like to write about seems too upbeat and frivolous when one reviews the week that was in South Africa. Wait. Make that the week that was in the world. Hold on. Make that the week before… and the week before… and the one before that too. It’s been an incredibly tough year out there for some, and tonight I’d like to get few things off my blessed chest. 

To everyone who recently lost anyone, especially through an act of violence – my heart bleeds for you, and my thoughts are with you. I pray that one day soon you may find peace again.

To those who are struggling to make ends meet, I hope that someone will see your plight. And I hope that you’re not too proud to accept that help.

To the drug-pushers and the drug-users – if you were to swop lives for just one day, I wonder how that would pan out. 

To the trash-speaking woman in the video currently on the news. I understand that being the victim of a crime will make one feel vulnerable, ever so angry, and wanting to lash out. However, the smash-and-grabber just meant to steal what was on the seat. Material possessions can be replaced. Losing your cool? Your dignity? Sadly, you gave that away for free. And whilst your words throw a poor light on you, you certainly do not speak for me.

To the voices of hope and reason, that are sometimes so difficult to hear above the cacophony, please don’t be disheartened. Don’t stop talking and reminding us, that there are good things in the world, much progress and many achievements to be celebrated. 

Today it’s the tail end of this week and I have nothing… Nothing upbeat. Nothing frivolous. 

But I promise that I’ll be back, and it won’t be empty-handed.

Today’s Eureka moment

Earlier I was in the Vitamin aisle of a South African retailer, confronted with hundreds of choices… I went in to buy some Vitamin B, but the overwhelming selection of things-we-can-swallow-to-support-our-general-health that faced me, was simply astounding. 

I stood and stared and processed until I located what I was looking for. Another two to three minutes to compare which is the best-priced option, and, as I’m sure I must have at least three bottles of fatigue and stress in me, I settle for the three-for-the-price-of-two option.

Unable to tear myself away from the aisle that promises health and longevity just yet, I peruse the shelves a little longer. Suddenly it dawns on me. All the containers are sorted alphabetically! How did I not notice that before?! I check my new found theory, starting at A, through to G, H, I… While still digesting the revelation that there is order in what I assumed was vast chaos, I pick up a box of something-starting-with-a-V. 

A store attendant pops her face in front of mine – can she assist me? A bit taken aback I mutter something about my alphabetical discovery, and with a slightly odd look she explains that she’s in charge of this aisle, and that it really annoys her when people mess with the system. Not wanting to enrage her, I guiltily pop the box of something-starting-with-a-V in my basket, and casually stroll off in the direction of the tills.

Before I decided to admit to the world at large that a supposedly intelligent woman did not know that vitamins in stores are sorted alphabetically, I asked two of my MOST intelligent friends if they knew this? My female friend laughed at me outright, whereas my male friend was just as surprised as I had been! Granted, I have not spotted many males in the vitamin aisles… but my short survey filled me with enough confidence to spill the beans.

I seem to be capable of finding my way around a bookstore, or through an airport. Enough trips to the food markets have gotten me intuitively finding my way around them too. But clothing stores, in particular the large department stores, have me confused (and I do pray that I never manage to make sense of that vast chaos). Why are the undies hidden in the furthest corner? Is it because we all need underwear and as we make our way to the privates department we suddenly become bashful and filled with the desire to cover ourselves? And when faced with an entire store of options to cover ourselves, does science dictate that we will not leave empty handed? 

I just don’t know, as I have walked out of shops often, just because there has been too great a selection. Why do we need to have so many choices? Isn’t life complicated enough without the total onslaught of things-we-could-have, things-we-should-have, things-we-must-have… and please don’t tell me that they’ve parked the underwear in the corner for modesty’s sake – have you watched reality TV lately?

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Anyhoo… while I consider becoming a mall recluse versus the potential outcomes of my making sense of THAT chaos, I thoughtfully sip on a cup of herbal tea made of a root beginning with a V… it’s not really something I wanted or needed, but it has found its way into my recently decluttered home, and now it must be consumed. Please don’t judge me…

What are the chances!?!

Have you ever experienced an event or set of events, that are quite uncanny and your first thought is “What are the chances!?!” While you’re thinking about it, here are a few of my ‘strange coincidences’.

After I finished my degree I spent some time in Germany where I juggled a few jobs to pay my way. In addition to waitressing in an Irish pub I was working an early shift in a galvanising plant in North Rhine-Westphalia, where my task was to pop a plastic cork on the tip of each screwdriver, before it was hot dipped. It was here that I befriended a petite Eastern European woman who was seeking asylum in Germany. 

My shift buddy and I sat side-by-side, in our mandatory steel-capped work boots, puffing away, popping corks and putting the world to rights. She shared her fears for her future, and that of her two children who were back home with a relative. She expressed her hopes of finding a German husband, and told me how she yearned to be able to offer her children something that resembled long-term security. We were about the same age, but in terms of life experience, she was way more mature than I. We lost touch after I moved to Munich to start my short career as a hostess at Lufthansa.

That same year, I was on duty and our first leg had been to Dusseldorf airport. We had finished prepping the cabin for a flight to Kiev and ‘as usual’ I was all dollied up, shirt ironed, every hair in place and waiting for our passengers to board. There was a bit of a buzz as my purser told the crew that border control was deporting someone on our flight, and that they may be in handcuffs. Handcuffs…goodness, deportation sounded like something bad. 

I was fully expecting a tall, tattooed, toothless male in chains when my shift buddy, in cuffs, rounded the corner into the cabin ahead of a man in uniform. She immediately recognised me and threw herself towards me, sobbing… I was at a total loss for words. On my flight! What were the chances!?! The policeman firmly but kindly moved her along to the back of the plane, where they were seated away from the other passengers. I spoke with her as much as I was allowed to, but what could I say that would make a difference to her anguish?

Maybe five years later my fiancé and I had a terrible disagreement on our way to a wedding. So bad in fact, that we ended up sitting on opposite sides of the church. Of course I was right and he was wrong…

As the beautiful bride swept past me I dabbed at a tear – as you do when the bride looks breathtaking…or perhaps it was self pity. A little more dabbing as the two launched into their self-penned vows, and I thought “Wow! That! That! That is exactly what I wish for in a relationship!”. 

Sadly, that marriage did not last long. Similarly my fiancé and I didn’t either. Today, he and she (yes, that bride) are happily married with children. What were the chances!?! I can imagine you on the edge of your seats now, wanting a bit of drama… alas there was none. She and I became friends, and she is a truly amazing woman. 

Next weekend I’m attending a joint fiftieth birthday celebration. My friends, a couple with children, were not only born within hours of one another, but they were also.. wait for it… born in the exact same hospital! In other words they were within metres of one another, within ‘minutes’ of taking their first breaths… what are the chances! I can’t wait to celebrate this half century with them!

It took about a quarter of a century for my sister and her hubby (who celebrates his birthday today… Happy Happy Thorsten!) to connect. Both our families came over to South Africa from Germany on the very same ship, albeit a year apart. Imagine if we’d all been aboard the vessel in the same year – now that would have been quite something! But even a year apart, being on the same ship is still quite a remarkable thing.

Speaking of birthdays, there are a lot of folks I know having birthdays this month, and I’d like to wish a very Happy Birthday to all of them out there! May babies rock! And I’m a May baby too. What are the chances!?!

Same place, same time

This morning, just like every other day this week, I could not look him in the eye. It wasn’t as though he had done anything to me personally or had caused me even the slightest bit of harm. No, it was just the burden of expectation that hung thick in the air between us, leaving me heavy with guilt. The guilt of privilege? The guilt of good fortune? Whatever it was, I resented the feeling. I resented the fact that he, just by being there, was chipping away at my peace of mind.

The light changed to green just before he drew parallel to me, and I expelled the breathe of air I hadn’t even realised I had been holding. I was relieved to be able to move on, towards my freedom and away from the stifling and unwanted emotions I was feeling whilst seated in the comfort and warmth of my car. 

He had appeared about a week ago and had, on a daily basis, been assuming the same place at the traffic lights on my route to work. I’m not sure why his presence seemed to unsettle me so much, I have seen and passed more beggars and vagrants on our streets than I care to recall. He certainly looked the part – unkempt, probably unruly, and while I’m heaping stereotypes and generalisation on the pile, I was sure that he was a drunkard too. I found myself trying to imagine his story, the circumstances that had led to this person being just another South African statistic, standing by the side of the road. To my shame I did not conjure up a good backdrop for his journey, yet something didn’t quite fit… Shaking my head to get rid of these thoughts, I focused on the traffic, and the day ahead.

I saw her drive past, just like she had every day this week since I had arrived here. She did not make eye contact, but her distaste for this beggar on the side of the road was as palpable as if she had shouted the words out loud. 

Last night I had been late getting home – it had been a long journey, made even more difficult by the fact that  once again I was nearly empty handed. I’d woken up at three this morning, cold and unable to sleep as the burden of failure hung thick in the air of the make-shift shack I was sharing with others I’d met on the street. I felt heavy with guilt, not really understanding why, but the emotion weighed like a boot on my chest almost suffocating me. How long would this feeling last? 

Resentment had tasted like bile in my mouth, but once again, I had swallowed my pride and set out, hoping that the day might bring the slightest of reprieves. A smile? An act of kindness? Something, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant that would free me, even for a brief moment, from the indignity that was steadily chipping away at my humanity. Like every day for the past week I hoped that today would be different. I briefly wondered if it would get any easier, or if my emotions would eventually become so dulled that I no longer cared?

That evening after work, a few of us got together for drinks and to unwind. I casually mentioned that there were way too many impoverished people standing on the sides of our roads, and questioned whether it wasn’t time our government started caring for these individuals, and cleaning up our streets? The heated discussion that followed was bursting with many diverse viewpoints, preconceptions, blame-passing, stories of begging cartels, human rights abuses, dramatics, play acting and public nuisances that I started to feel a little dizzy… or perhaps it was that second glass of the Burgundy I was nursing? In the haze it did however dawn on me that while we were all pointing fingers at someone else, no one seemed to be able to pinpoint whose responsibility it was to do something about what we all did agree on was a sad state of affairs. I abandoned that train of thought at the restaurant, and sped home to my warm, comfortable bed to grab as many hours of quality rest as I could squeeze in.

I have had worse days than today, but at least tonight I would go ‘home’ with something to show for the 16 hours I have been away. I’d been struggling with dizziness all day – probably because I hadn’t eaten much and the water I’d just finished was only the second drink I’d had in as many days. Standing in the unforgiving midday winter sun, hands extended in the hope of being the recipient of a charitable gesture, can be exhausting at the best of times. 

On the street, I am an outsider briefly looking in on the life of others as they pass me by. People in a rush, people on the phone, people who look straight through you, people who shame you for being the loser that you so evidently must be. People who judge you for wearing the same clothes day in, day out. People who think you must be a retard, or at the very least a drunk. People who think you have no feelings. People who do not see the man you are… or were. People not willing to make eye contact with poverty.

I remembered a recent trip to New York where I had first come across the Red Cross slogan “the greatest tragedy is indifference”. Right now, as a victim of the enemy of indifference I was able to attest to this. My train of thought was interrupted as I noticed a scuffle across the intersection where the young man who performs the same little repetitive ritual as if on a loop, was having a scuffle with the ‘crazy’ lady who was moving in on his patch. I went across to see if I could diffuse the situation.

I’d woken up feeling rested and well. It looked like a cold start to the day, so I dressed warmly and made a second cup of coffee to drink on my way. I turned up the volume and the heat, and as I neared the traffic light I spotted him again. He was wearing the same shirt as yesterday, and I could just make out part of the wording on his shirt – …tragedy is in… – as the rest was covered by his grubby jumper. I wondered how he had landed up here. Panic set in when I suddenly realised that the traffic light had just turned orange, leaving me exposed and stationary right next to HIM. I turned to look at the man who was now standing next to my window, conscious of how incredibly awkward I felt.

Despite feeling like a hare in the lights I remembered my upbringing and smiled vaguely, hopefully not too encouragingly, and looked up. As we made eye contact I was struck by how unusual and kind his eyes were, and how incredibly weary they looked. Without thinking I wound down the window, smiled a little more encouragingly and handed him my three-quarter-full coffee mug saying “I’ll get the cup back from you tomorrow, same place, same time?” He nodded, seemingly at a loss for words, and off I went, a little breathless and taken aback at what had just transpired.

Now that was a surprise! I gratefully sipped the warm liquid and for a brief time was transported back to a time, not very long ago when I had coffee on demand, a fridge full of food, a house, a car, a warm bed… I had not realised how many times I would want to walk away, from this experiment but we had agreed that for one month only, I would taste life on the streets, immerse myself and cut all ties to my former life. 

I started looking forward to seeing him in the mornings, and we got into a habit of exchanging a few pleasantries as I passed a coffee, a banana or a sandwich out of the window. I now knew that he had a family he loved and was very proud of. As I got to know him a little bit better, my desire to flee from any encounter with him had disappeared and I was almost disappointed if I didn’t have the opportunity to engage with him a little. And every day as I drove off, one of us would utter “See you tomorrow – same place, same time”.

As she drove off, I thought of my family and how, when we had started looking for ways to make a real difference I had volunteered a month of my life, saying that come hell or high water, I would live on the street and not throw in the towel prematurely. I’m not sure my family believed that I had what it takes, as I had not really demonstrated commitment to many things in the past. After New York we had discussed that we needed to understand this side of South Africa in order to be able to address the challenges and have a chance of making a sustainable difference. For me, this had meant walking away from a life of luxury, warm drinks and a full belly. A life of being served, sleeping in a soft bed, a cupboard full of clothes to choose from… Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how difficult it would be to stay, when I knew what creature comforts were waiting me back home. 

As the month had gone by every day had grown more difficult but I had remained inspired and motivated by the real people of the streets, no matter how demeaned and desperate we found ourselves. Every day I felt an inner shift in my priorities as I became more and more desperate for the plight of my fellow countrymen standing on street corners across South Africa.

Today was to be my last day in this guise and when she uttered “Tomorrow? Same place, same time?” I knew that, though I would probably never see her again, the compassion she and a handful of others had extended me, had kept me going. I smiled back at her, knowing that there was great untapped potential in South Africa – the potential to overcome indifference, one of our country’s greatest enemies. A seed that had been sown in New York, was starting to blossom. I knew what I had to do.

It was strange how, over the past month, he had become such a large part of my morning, and how I now looked forward to seeing him every day. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and that morning in particular, I must admit that I was disappointed to miss him. His presence had motivated me to do what I was about to do, and today was a big day for me! I had a job interview to go to and my head was filled with thoughts on how I would do, as I really wanted this job. Was I qualified enough? Probably not. Did I have the relevant experience? Unlikely, but the job advertisement had indicated that they would consider candidates without experience too. 

I reported to reception and rode up the elevator to the fifth floor offices. As I was sitting on the plush sofa  waiting my turn, I sipped a coffee and found myself humming the upbeat elevator tune whilst looking at the framed photographs on the walls. They depicted a series of beautifully taken yet sad and moving street scenes showing the poorer side of city life. One in particular stood out – it was an advertisement for the American Red Cross, with what must have been their slogan, “Our greatest enemy is indifference”, in big bold letters under the image.

I was still quite amazed but unbelievably proud that I had stuck it through. The last month had changed me, and I was relieved to be moving on to the next step of my plan. My family had kept their side of the bargain – they were helping me to establish a foundation and I was excited at the infinite possibilities! I thought briefly of the young lady I had encountered daily and how to a large extent her kindness, once the ice had been broken, had been such a massive encouragement to me. I could see the impact that both she, and I, and so many others like her, could have using our capacity to reach out in kindness and compassion to the people on the ground, the forgotten citizens of a nation desperate for healing. 

As I went out to collect the next interviewee I stopped, and leaned back against the door frame waiting for her to look up. Our eyes met, as they had for the first time three short weeks ago. Our faces broke into broad smiles of recognition, and I simply said “I’ll see you tomorrow – same place, same time?”

“Same place, same time” was written for the Woman & Home short story writing competition (with the theme of “The Spirit of Revival”).

How old is too old?

This weekend I’ve been painting chairs again, and somehow this activity seems to turn my mind to politics. Go figure?!? Firstly, I doubt any royal or powerful behinds will be sitting on my dining room chairs any time soon. Secondly, I do hope that this will be my last post touching on politics for a while. It’s all getting a bit long in the tooth, and I say roll on municipal elections. Roll on 3 August 2016. Roll on change.

Our president is 74 years old. Zimbabwe’s president is 92. Tunisia’s president is 89. “The average age of the ten oldest African leaders is 78.5, compared to 52 for the world’s ten most-developed economies. Arguably, compared to other continents, Africa has a very small proportion of younger leaders between 35 and 55. Paradoxically, the continent has the youngest population in the world, with a median age of 19.5 years according to the U.N.” (read David E Kiwuwa’s entire article on CNN’s website here)

Google tells me that the average age of an American president is 54 years and 11-months, and that the youngest president to assume American office was Teddy Roosevelt, at 42. Obama is now 54. Trump is 69 years old. Hilary is 68. 

I believe that the average age of retirement in South Africa is somewhere between 60 – 63, and apparently ‘older’ people (over fifties?) struggle to find new jobs. This may be hear-say, but a number of friends and acquaintances have said that they are worried about leaving a job they are not happy in, largely due to the fact that they fear they are unemployable based on their age. 

So how old is too old? “For what?” you should say.

I finished painting the chairs before I came to any conclusions, but I must admit that I’m a bit confused. Never mind any of the many other reasons why someone may not be fit for the chair at the head of the table. How come it’s okay for someone, way-way past retirement age, to ‘run’ a country, anywhere in the world? 

On the upside, these thoughts do give me hope that I can still achieve many things in the years to come. And yes, I’m excited at the prospects.

Just this week I interviewed a businessman who is retiring after 45 years in the work place. He said: “It’s time to move on and let the younger generation take over.  I’ve taught them all I know, add that to what they have learned along the way, and they are far more experienced and capable than I am.”

Roll on a new generation of leadership. Roll on change. 

half full. half empty.

Recently a few people have asked me if I earn any money from blogging. One of them was my dad, possibly concerned that his daughter’s distraction with this frivolous pursuit may mean a more regular guest at the dinner table? To my mom’s absolute horror I responded by sharing my plans to sell my house and move right back in with them to cut back on my living expenses …  This was of course more of a throwaway remark aimed at our economic climate, than an actual threat, but my mom’s reaction put paid to any thoughts I may subconsciously have been entertaining of recapturing my youth in my childhood home. Never mind. My cup is still full. 

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But back to blogging. No. No money for it. Yes, it does serve a purpose, beyond frivolous fun.

In 2013 I went on a writing retreat in Franschoek with the intention of finding my own writing voice. The theory being that if you constantly write for specific audiences or try to capture the tone or personality of the individual or brand you are writing for, it is entirely possible that you will forget what you sound like as yourself. So I went seeking. With a cup, that in my mind, was half empty.

I was surprised how resistant I was to writing ‘just’ as me, and how, easily distracted, I would fall back into a familiar tone or persona. Sounds a little unstable doesn’t it? However, looking back I think (read I know) I was just being lazy, and opting for an easy way out. If one really wants a result, one needs to keep knocking, and not softly-softly air-tapping at that door. After accepting that it wasn’t an easy win I managed to write a number of ‘my things’ – some published, many not. I even managed to (motivated by my good friend Cornè) write my first short story Same Place. Same Time. 

Sometimes I have a lot of things to say. Often I run out of ideas, am tired after a full day’s work, or am so over everyday material that I can’t think of an original thing to say. Then, just as Poppy and I are settling in for the night a random idea pops into my head, and I have to act fast, as it will be gone by daylight. 

This can result in a late night of sweating it out as I string words together, watched by my disgruntled cat. She will of course wake me up early in the morning, first softly-softly, then more bullishly. Subtle she’s not, but she’ll get a result as I will concede and traipse into the kitchen to inspect the contents of her food bowl. And like every morning it will be “Well look at that, it’s still half full, but here’s a little more.”

If I don’t exercise I can get quite crabby. It’s quite addictive when those endorphins link their little arms and steadily increase the pace of their can-can. The more I exercise the creative side that fuels and manages my voice, the more fun writing becomes. The more I practice, the easier it gets. It’s even become a way of reminding myself that my glass is full. How do you see yours?

halffull

 

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