Now that I am back in my freezing native land, the week I spent in Jo’Burg is a bit of a blur. I have made the comment more than once upon returning that I cannot believe I pulled that little jaunt off. I spent part of the week working on a report of the Anti-Apartheid movement in Canada. This reminded me of school and I enjoyed doing it. I hated writing papers in my undergrad but for some reason, loved it in grad school.
Now to retrace to the last blog posting…When my luggage finally surfaced Tuesday evening, I was surprised at how happy I was to see old familiar clothing. I recall lying in bed that night, going over the contents of my luggage when it suddenly dawned on me that Jill’s cell phone was missing from my luggage. It had been the cell phone we had used during the summer of our Internship. I offered to take the phone back with me to see if would charge up - and now we’ll never know. It is the first and hopefully the last thing I will ever have stolen from my luggage….although technically it was not mine. So I guess this means I still have a clean record of having nothing stolen – or perhaps nothing worth stealing.
The rest of my time was spent working on the Madiba Materials database. I was able to meet and spend time with Peter, the NMF’s database guy, and this proved to be time well spent and I was able to get quite a bit of the Canadian content relating to Madiba archival materials entered.
This time around, I ended up spending quite a bit of time with Heather, for which I was grateful. As mentioned previously, she took me shopping, we went out for dinner, and she also had me over to her house for supper one evening. I enjoyed all her stories and am glad for the time I was able to spend with her. I also had an enjoyable evening out with Verne and Shadrack. We walked all over Melville looking for a place to eat but it being Valentines Day, it proved easier said than done to find a place that wasn’t fully booked. We ended up at an Indian restaurant. The more gin that was consumed, the more freely the stories flowed, and it helped us to realize that an hour had passed with no food being served. The longer we waited, the more we drank, and the crazier the whole scenario became. Looking around, Verne suddenly realized that it seemed nobody at the restaurant had food. I can’t remember when I laughed so much or enjoyed Valentines Day so much – probably because I forgot it was Valentines Day. Or perhaps it was Verne’s cursing and sarcastic remarks about Valentines and Valentine’s couples that I found comforting.
By Thursday of that week, the jet lag got the better of me. I was going to bed by 11pm, waking up circa 3-3:30am and not sleeping anymore than that. By noon on Thursday, I was nearly bonkers. I felt like I was going to be sick, or faint, or do something I really did not want to do in front of the NMF staff. Then I got weepy, and because I am not a crier by nature, this freaked me out. I was too tired to walk back to the guest house, too hungry to walk to the nearest shop for lunch and the tears felt so near. I simply put my head on my desk and literally died. I am sure I slept for at least 45 minutes, only to be awoken to laughter and screaming. Knowing that Celine Dion was scheduled to visit the Foundation that day, I recall groggily waking up and thinking, “Is Celine Dion here?” Which was quickly followed by “I really don’t care because I need to sleep more.” Celine Dion did come and visit Madiba, and some staff went up to witness the big photo shoot in front of the NMF. I managed to sleep through the entire thing. I awoke though to find a rose sitting on my desk. Instead of wondering who put it there, my first thought was “ Was I snoring when they brought it? Was I drooling?” The next day I found out the rose had come from Yase – the funny man himself.
That was it. Peter – the database guy- and I shared a shuttle to the airport Friday afternoon as he was flying back to Cape Town. The shuttle driver was late picking us up as he thought he was to pick us up at the guest house, and then he didn’t know where the NMF was….yadda yadda yadda. I asked to be taken to the airport an hour early so I could shop. Besides tearing to the Shell station (down the street from the NMF) to get Jill’s Tumbles (candy) Friday morning, I had no chance to shop. Strolling through the “Out of Africa” shop at the Airport, I saw all the items I and bought from all over South Africa and Swaziland in this one shop. It was like Wal-Mart – one stop shopping. In addition to buying souvenirs for family, I needed to buy something for co-workers who ended up having to do stuff for me while I was away. In that hour, I managed to buy 20-25 of the smallest items imaginable – much to the dismay of the cashier.
On the way over, I flew Washington to Jo’Burg direct – 14.5 hours. What was not indicated on my itinerary was then the return trip differed slightly. It wasn’t until I boarded the plane and saw that the flight was destined for Dakar did I realize that I was flying Jo’Burg to Senegal (8 hours) and then Senegal to Washington (9 hours). The only thing I know about Dakar is its infamous Dakar Rally. I now know that that if you fly into Senegal - and if the plane is destined for the USA, the plane must first be searched by Senegal airport security and the inside of the plane sprayed - with some sort of mystical and pleasant smelling spray - becasue of malaria. I therefore regret that my first visit to Senegal consisted of sitting for two hours on the tarmac.
This is the first time I have flown internationally though the US since 1996. I was therefore surprised that although I was in transit to Canada, I still had to go through US Customs and Immigration and re-check my checked luggage. What a pain the proverbial ass. There was over 100 of us “Non-US citizens” in line and only two Customs officers working. It took forever. After being cooped up in airplane for so long, we were all nearly nuts, but of course nobody said anything, myself included. This delay meant I missed my connecting flight to Toronto and had to spend an additional 4 hours in the Washington airport. After the fact, this was probably a good thing because if I had returned to Toronto on Saturday morning as planned, I would probably have gone to bed and therefore messed up my sleeping schedule. Not getting back to TO until Saturday afternoon meant I napped in the airport and ended up going to sleep at a normal hour Saturday night. Mind you, I slept for 14 hours.
I am once again reminded, however, that everything does happen for a reason - including encounters with slow and cranky US Customs Officers.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
A return to Johannesburg
The day I left Toronto it was -10 degrees. Needless to say I jumped at the chance to return to Johannesburg in the middle of a Canadian winter. Even though there were thundershowers in Johannesburg this afternoon, it has only made the countryside more green and lush. As I write, the window is open, a fresh breeze is blowing in, and the birds are abundant in the garden outside my window. If I was in Toronto, I would just be getting home from work at this time, my feet would be frozen and the window certainly would not be open – even if it was, I would be looking into an alley way – not a beautiful garden like I am this evening.
I have only been here in Jo’Burg for two days and already the funny occurrences have begun. The last time I flew to SA, I flew through London and had a day long stopover. This time around, I flew through Washington. Due to high winds at the Dulles airport, my flight leaving Toronto was delayed. With only an hour and a half initially scheduled between my arrival and connecting flight in Washington, I realized that with the delay there stood a huge chance of me missing my connecting flight. As the United flight pulled into the loading dock in Washington, I looked out the window and to my disbelief there was a South African Airways plane parked immediately to the right of our plane. I then realized I stood a pretty good chance of catching my connecting flight. Tearing through the airport, I got to the gate and saw that the doors were already closed and thought, “Okay, get ready to cry,” but I didn’t have to. The South African Airways staff was brilliant and in lightening speed, I was checked in, people were unlocking doors (they actually had to unlock three sets of doors to get me to the plane) and there I was the very last person to get on that plane. I am one of those geeks who usually arrive hours before any scheduled flight so let’s just say it was an interesting experience being on the other end of the spectrum.
The flight was only half full but when I found my seat, I discovered that someone was already sitting there. The young man expressed that he did not want to sit in the bulk head seats (the row at the very front of the plane). I thought, “Are you kidding me?” In all my trips to and from Japan the bulk head were the coveted seats as they provide the most leg room and freedom one can possibly get on a plane. I told him to stay put and that I would gladly trade seats with him. There was no one sitting in any of the four bulk head seats so I thought I was going to be able to stretch out, until an old American fart came along, squatted and dashed my hopes of a semi-normal sleep. But boy did I have leg room and with it being a 14.5 hour flight, it was bloody fantastic.
I watched George Clooney in Michael Clayton, which was so-so, but quickly, if not surprisingly fell fast sleep. I actually managed to get quite a bit of sleep, despite the usual baby crying in the seat behind me and the man snoring loudly in the seat behind him. What was strange was that every time I did wake up, I saw the same older woman going to the bathroom. I realize that most airlines suggest increasing the amount of water you drink on long flights, but I do the direct opposite. Public washrooms are sometimes gross but it has been my experience that airplane washrooms are always gross. This of course means I get off the plane completely dehydrated - but after a 14 hour flight, one never gets off a plane looking anything but like complete and utter crap.
I finally got to Jo’Burg but my luggage did not. All I had is my carry on, which means I had nothing – no toiletries, no change of clothes, but the jet lag was so bad, I really did’t care. There was a shuttle service waiting for me, but I took so long to get through the line at the “Missing Baggage” counter, the poor chauffeur was pacing and Shadrack and Heather (from the NMF) have already called him a few times. I wasn’t sure if I was going directly to the guest house or to the NMF so I asked the chauffeur where he was taking me, to which he replied, “This is the Oliver Tambo International Airport.” Thus the fun began.
I finally figure out that he is taking me to the guest house. He is a good driver and navigates his way through the insane Jo’Burg traffic with ease. The closer we got to Sandton/Abbotsford, his confidence fades, however, as I slowly realize he does not know where the guest house is and can’t find it. So here I am in Jo’Burg, with nothing to my name, wanting to burn the clothes I am in, and the man that is supposed to deliver me to my guest house is lost. Again, I realize that jet lag is a wonderful thing because did I get upset? Nope – I was simply too tired to care – and I also knew that the NMF staff would take care of me.
When Shadrack called and I told him I had no luggage, first there was silence and then I hear “shit.” Knowing I would need to go and buy clothes and all those feminine items that men are clueless about, he wisely turned to Heather who came to the rescue. Meeting me at the guest house, she whisked me away to a local mall where we tore into Woolworths and within approximately eight minutes, she had helped me purchase two blouses, two tank tops, some black socks, and a nightie – no, wait – two nighties off the sale rack (two for the price of one, both of which featured variations of Snoopy with a Santa Clause hat). Oh yes, the socks were listed as fitting woman’s 4-7 shoe. I had forgotten that women having a size 10 shoe is unheard of, and again, jet lag resulted in me not caring. I gratefully grabbed the “cotton rich” socks and ran.
After a good nights rest and two showers, I felt ready for combat this morning. I had to put the same lotion on my face that I did on my feet and I hoped for the best. I had no gel for my hair, or deodorant, which resulted in another trip to the mall today with my personal shopper Heather. I was only too happy to return to the familiar Rosebank Mall and like a lot of women my age, willing shelled out some mulla for some make up hoping this was transform my zombie like appearance.
It is great to be back at the NMF and see all the familiar faces. I got caught up with Verne and Shadrack and my funny man Yase. It was all very surreal as none of the physical surroundings had changed much at all. I was given my first task and after drowning 4 cups of coffee and 2 diet cokes, I managed to get through the day with a whole lot of shaking and no sleeping. Mission accomplished.
So I am back at the guest house. I just called the airport and my luggage arrived this afternoon on the flight from Washington. Shadrack called immediately after that and coming to my rescue again, he took me to the airport to pick up said baggage. What would I do without my friends here in SA?
I just tried the TV and it is now up and running – just in time for the SABC evening news. Tomorrow it is going to be 25 degrees. Life is good.
I have only been here in Jo’Burg for two days and already the funny occurrences have begun. The last time I flew to SA, I flew through London and had a day long stopover. This time around, I flew through Washington. Due to high winds at the Dulles airport, my flight leaving Toronto was delayed. With only an hour and a half initially scheduled between my arrival and connecting flight in Washington, I realized that with the delay there stood a huge chance of me missing my connecting flight. As the United flight pulled into the loading dock in Washington, I looked out the window and to my disbelief there was a South African Airways plane parked immediately to the right of our plane. I then realized I stood a pretty good chance of catching my connecting flight. Tearing through the airport, I got to the gate and saw that the doors were already closed and thought, “Okay, get ready to cry,” but I didn’t have to. The South African Airways staff was brilliant and in lightening speed, I was checked in, people were unlocking doors (they actually had to unlock three sets of doors to get me to the plane) and there I was the very last person to get on that plane. I am one of those geeks who usually arrive hours before any scheduled flight so let’s just say it was an interesting experience being on the other end of the spectrum.
The flight was only half full but when I found my seat, I discovered that someone was already sitting there. The young man expressed that he did not want to sit in the bulk head seats (the row at the very front of the plane). I thought, “Are you kidding me?” In all my trips to and from Japan the bulk head were the coveted seats as they provide the most leg room and freedom one can possibly get on a plane. I told him to stay put and that I would gladly trade seats with him. There was no one sitting in any of the four bulk head seats so I thought I was going to be able to stretch out, until an old American fart came along, squatted and dashed my hopes of a semi-normal sleep. But boy did I have leg room and with it being a 14.5 hour flight, it was bloody fantastic.
I watched George Clooney in Michael Clayton, which was so-so, but quickly, if not surprisingly fell fast sleep. I actually managed to get quite a bit of sleep, despite the usual baby crying in the seat behind me and the man snoring loudly in the seat behind him. What was strange was that every time I did wake up, I saw the same older woman going to the bathroom. I realize that most airlines suggest increasing the amount of water you drink on long flights, but I do the direct opposite. Public washrooms are sometimes gross but it has been my experience that airplane washrooms are always gross. This of course means I get off the plane completely dehydrated - but after a 14 hour flight, one never gets off a plane looking anything but like complete and utter crap.
I finally got to Jo’Burg but my luggage did not. All I had is my carry on, which means I had nothing – no toiletries, no change of clothes, but the jet lag was so bad, I really did’t care. There was a shuttle service waiting for me, but I took so long to get through the line at the “Missing Baggage” counter, the poor chauffeur was pacing and Shadrack and Heather (from the NMF) have already called him a few times. I wasn’t sure if I was going directly to the guest house or to the NMF so I asked the chauffeur where he was taking me, to which he replied, “This is the Oliver Tambo International Airport.” Thus the fun began.
I finally figure out that he is taking me to the guest house. He is a good driver and navigates his way through the insane Jo’Burg traffic with ease. The closer we got to Sandton/Abbotsford, his confidence fades, however, as I slowly realize he does not know where the guest house is and can’t find it. So here I am in Jo’Burg, with nothing to my name, wanting to burn the clothes I am in, and the man that is supposed to deliver me to my guest house is lost. Again, I realize that jet lag is a wonderful thing because did I get upset? Nope – I was simply too tired to care – and I also knew that the NMF staff would take care of me.
When Shadrack called and I told him I had no luggage, first there was silence and then I hear “shit.” Knowing I would need to go and buy clothes and all those feminine items that men are clueless about, he wisely turned to Heather who came to the rescue. Meeting me at the guest house, she whisked me away to a local mall where we tore into Woolworths and within approximately eight minutes, she had helped me purchase two blouses, two tank tops, some black socks, and a nightie – no, wait – two nighties off the sale rack (two for the price of one, both of which featured variations of Snoopy with a Santa Clause hat). Oh yes, the socks were listed as fitting woman’s 4-7 shoe. I had forgotten that women having a size 10 shoe is unheard of, and again, jet lag resulted in me not caring. I gratefully grabbed the “cotton rich” socks and ran.
After a good nights rest and two showers, I felt ready for combat this morning. I had to put the same lotion on my face that I did on my feet and I hoped for the best. I had no gel for my hair, or deodorant, which resulted in another trip to the mall today with my personal shopper Heather. I was only too happy to return to the familiar Rosebank Mall and like a lot of women my age, willing shelled out some mulla for some make up hoping this was transform my zombie like appearance.
It is great to be back at the NMF and see all the familiar faces. I got caught up with Verne and Shadrack and my funny man Yase. It was all very surreal as none of the physical surroundings had changed much at all. I was given my first task and after drowning 4 cups of coffee and 2 diet cokes, I managed to get through the day with a whole lot of shaking and no sleeping. Mission accomplished.
So I am back at the guest house. I just called the airport and my luggage arrived this afternoon on the flight from Washington. Shadrack called immediately after that and coming to my rescue again, he took me to the airport to pick up said baggage. What would I do without my friends here in SA?
I just tried the TV and it is now up and running – just in time for the SABC evening news. Tomorrow it is going to be 25 degrees. Life is good.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Trying on shoes
Last weekend I watched Babel starring Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett. I thought it was a really good movie and liked how the story wove together the lives of individuals living on different countries on different continents. It aptly showed the reality of how small the world has really become.
Watching Cate Blanchett’s character suffer from a gun shot wound in a rural Moroccan village made me cringe. It was one of those situations that you would never want to find yourself in. I have done a lot of travelling and have been fortunate in the fact that nothing traumatic has ever really happened to me – with the exception of a plane slamming on its brakes prior to taking off on a runway in Guam! I have flown both Air China and Aeroflot domestically and lived to tell the tale. I took a train through Yugoslavia two weeks before they literally shut down the trains and all forms of public transport in February of 1992. That isn’t to say that things have not happened to those travelling with me.
One of my most eventful trips was a trek I did through South East Asia with Sarah and Michele in the spring of 1998. We were all teaching in Japan and I believe it was the Golden Week Holidays that we used to facilitate our trip. We got a great deal on tickets through a travel agent in California that organized tours and packages for teachers on the Jet Program. We didn’t go on a tour, but rather bought tickets that enabled us to hop around Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore and the Philippines rather cheaply for two weeks. The final leg of this journey was a stop in Manila. We had planned to use this short stop in the Philippines to buy the customary Omiyage (souvenirs) that were expected by our co-workers back in Tottori (where we lived in Japan).
It was a Friday afternoon. We were shopping in a mall and had split up, agreeing to meet up at a designated spot at 2pm. Now, we knew that the crime in Manila was bad – bad bad. We had been warned about the pick pocketers and had taken all the necessary precautions. But it was the last day of our trip, and hey, we were concentrating on the shopping. Michele had a fanny pack on and bending over to try a pair of shoes on, she turned her fanny pack around to her back….blam, it was gone within seconds: her wallet, that had tucked in it her passport, airplane ticket, and of course, all her money. When Sarah found me and told me what happened I couldn’t believe it. Finding Michele and seeing her burst into tears confirmed it.
Sarah and I immediately went into damage control. It was Friday afternoon, 2pm. Our flight was at 6am the next morning. We decided our first stop was to be the American Embassy – which proved to be the easiest aspect in what became a long process of document recovery. While Michele wiped the tears away, and had her picture taken, Sarah and I filled out the paperwork and paid for her new passport. The Diplomat who helped us was a former JET himself and he was a great help. Within half an hour, she had a new passport.
The next stop was at the Philippine Airlines office. They would not replace her ticket because we had not gone through the proper channels of filing a police report. We were given directions to a police station, got in a cab, and seemed to sit in rush hour traffic forever. Getting to the police station, there were men walking around with BIG GUNS – and none of these men LOOKED like policemen. We were given seats within arms reach of cells - that had people/prisoners in them. A policeman got out his typewriter and carbon paper, and using two fingers he proceed to type up the report. We then headed back to the airline office only to be told by another employer that we had gone (or rather been told to go) to the wrong police station. Back we went to another police station and pretty much relived the first experience.
By this time, it was after 5pm and the airline office had closed. We decided to head to the International airport to try our luck there. Traffic in Manila is insane and we spent a hell of a lot of time riding around sitting in cabs in heavy traffic. It was dark by the time we got to the airport and NOTHING was open. We managed to find the one greasy spoon of a restaurant open so we went there and sat with 3 other foreigners also waiting out the night at the airport. I can’t remember how we found out, or who came up with the idea, but we decided to go to the domestic airport back in the city to see if we could get Michele’s ticket replaced there. Leaving the International airport, I remember walking by a closed restaurant that had a light on inside: and I couldn’t count the mice that were running around the floor. We stared in momentary disbelief, but were not surprised.
We get to the domestic airport in the early morning and in sharp contrast to the International airport, the place was hoping. We went to the Philippine Air desk, explained what had happened and poof, within minutes they re-issued Michele another ticket. They were so nice and we couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Back to the International Airport we went.
So, at 5am we are in line to get our packs checked and get our boarding passes. Michele went ahead of us and after some discussion she turned around, looked at us, and shook her head. By this time, none of us had slept, or eaten and we were, of course nearly bonkers. I stormed up to the desk and asked what the problem was: She had her passport. She had her ticket – what more could they want? Well, they wanted to see the stamp in her passport telling them when she had entered the country. We explained this was impossible because the passport had been stolen. I said that the airport / customs would have to have a record of when she came in. The airline staff said that it would, but they were uncertain as to when that office opened. Luckily, someone came and opened the Customs/Immigration office at 5:30am. They found the necessary documentation, gave Michele her ticket and we ran – and I mean ran to the plane. We were exhausted. It was the only time in my life I fell asleep before the plane actually took off – and we managed to get on the plane with five minutes to spare.
Prior to leaving on this trip, we had made plans to meet our friend Gwen at Osaka Kuko (airport) when we returned. Her parents had flown in to Japan for a visit and were leaving for the US the day we got back. We got to the airport and sure enough, there was Gwen waiting for us. We all go into a tirade of what had transpired in the last 24 hours. After blabbering on forever, we then remembered to ask how her visit had been with her parents. At that point Gwen proceed to tell us that her father had dropped dead of a heart attack on an Island off Hiroshima that week and had died. Her Mom was on her way back to the US with the cremated remains. We just stood there in disbelief. Then of course we all stood and bawled.
So ya, that is probably my worst travel story ever. Nothing bad actually happened to me, but when tragic events and difficult circumstances affect your friends and those close to you, it might as well be happening to you. Moral of the story:
Watching Cate Blanchett’s character suffer from a gun shot wound in a rural Moroccan village made me cringe. It was one of those situations that you would never want to find yourself in. I have done a lot of travelling and have been fortunate in the fact that nothing traumatic has ever really happened to me – with the exception of a plane slamming on its brakes prior to taking off on a runway in Guam! I have flown both Air China and Aeroflot domestically and lived to tell the tale. I took a train through Yugoslavia two weeks before they literally shut down the trains and all forms of public transport in February of 1992. That isn’t to say that things have not happened to those travelling with me.
One of my most eventful trips was a trek I did through South East Asia with Sarah and Michele in the spring of 1998. We were all teaching in Japan and I believe it was the Golden Week Holidays that we used to facilitate our trip. We got a great deal on tickets through a travel agent in California that organized tours and packages for teachers on the Jet Program. We didn’t go on a tour, but rather bought tickets that enabled us to hop around Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore and the Philippines rather cheaply for two weeks. The final leg of this journey was a stop in Manila. We had planned to use this short stop in the Philippines to buy the customary Omiyage (souvenirs) that were expected by our co-workers back in Tottori (where we lived in Japan).
It was a Friday afternoon. We were shopping in a mall and had split up, agreeing to meet up at a designated spot at 2pm. Now, we knew that the crime in Manila was bad – bad bad. We had been warned about the pick pocketers and had taken all the necessary precautions. But it was the last day of our trip, and hey, we were concentrating on the shopping. Michele had a fanny pack on and bending over to try a pair of shoes on, she turned her fanny pack around to her back….blam, it was gone within seconds: her wallet, that had tucked in it her passport, airplane ticket, and of course, all her money. When Sarah found me and told me what happened I couldn’t believe it. Finding Michele and seeing her burst into tears confirmed it.
Sarah and I immediately went into damage control. It was Friday afternoon, 2pm. Our flight was at 6am the next morning. We decided our first stop was to be the American Embassy – which proved to be the easiest aspect in what became a long process of document recovery. While Michele wiped the tears away, and had her picture taken, Sarah and I filled out the paperwork and paid for her new passport. The Diplomat who helped us was a former JET himself and he was a great help. Within half an hour, she had a new passport.
The next stop was at the Philippine Airlines office. They would not replace her ticket because we had not gone through the proper channels of filing a police report. We were given directions to a police station, got in a cab, and seemed to sit in rush hour traffic forever. Getting to the police station, there were men walking around with BIG GUNS – and none of these men LOOKED like policemen. We were given seats within arms reach of cells - that had people/prisoners in them. A policeman got out his typewriter and carbon paper, and using two fingers he proceed to type up the report. We then headed back to the airline office only to be told by another employer that we had gone (or rather been told to go) to the wrong police station. Back we went to another police station and pretty much relived the first experience.
By this time, it was after 5pm and the airline office had closed. We decided to head to the International airport to try our luck there. Traffic in Manila is insane and we spent a hell of a lot of time riding around sitting in cabs in heavy traffic. It was dark by the time we got to the airport and NOTHING was open. We managed to find the one greasy spoon of a restaurant open so we went there and sat with 3 other foreigners also waiting out the night at the airport. I can’t remember how we found out, or who came up with the idea, but we decided to go to the domestic airport back in the city to see if we could get Michele’s ticket replaced there. Leaving the International airport, I remember walking by a closed restaurant that had a light on inside: and I couldn’t count the mice that were running around the floor. We stared in momentary disbelief, but were not surprised.
We get to the domestic airport in the early morning and in sharp contrast to the International airport, the place was hoping. We went to the Philippine Air desk, explained what had happened and poof, within minutes they re-issued Michele another ticket. They were so nice and we couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Back to the International Airport we went.
So, at 5am we are in line to get our packs checked and get our boarding passes. Michele went ahead of us and after some discussion she turned around, looked at us, and shook her head. By this time, none of us had slept, or eaten and we were, of course nearly bonkers. I stormed up to the desk and asked what the problem was: She had her passport. She had her ticket – what more could they want? Well, they wanted to see the stamp in her passport telling them when she had entered the country. We explained this was impossible because the passport had been stolen. I said that the airport / customs would have to have a record of when she came in. The airline staff said that it would, but they were uncertain as to when that office opened. Luckily, someone came and opened the Customs/Immigration office at 5:30am. They found the necessary documentation, gave Michele her ticket and we ran – and I mean ran to the plane. We were exhausted. It was the only time in my life I fell asleep before the plane actually took off – and we managed to get on the plane with five minutes to spare.
Prior to leaving on this trip, we had made plans to meet our friend Gwen at Osaka Kuko (airport) when we returned. Her parents had flown in to Japan for a visit and were leaving for the US the day we got back. We got to the airport and sure enough, there was Gwen waiting for us. We all go into a tirade of what had transpired in the last 24 hours. After blabbering on forever, we then remembered to ask how her visit had been with her parents. At that point Gwen proceed to tell us that her father had dropped dead of a heart attack on an Island off Hiroshima that week and had died. Her Mom was on her way back to the US with the cremated remains. We just stood there in disbelief. Then of course we all stood and bawled.
So ya, that is probably my worst travel story ever. Nothing bad actually happened to me, but when tragic events and difficult circumstances affect your friends and those close to you, it might as well be happening to you. Moral of the story:
- Don’t try on shoes in the Philippines. Bad things happen when you do.
- Avoid police stations in Manila if at all possible.
- Don’t eat at any of the restaurants in Manila's International airport.
- If you need to replace an International airline ticket in the Philippines – do it at the domestic airport.
- The easiest thing in the world to replace is a passport.
- It took the death of our friend’s Dad to snap us back in reality and make us realize very quickly how easy our so called ‘tragedy” had been.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
An olympic move
I have moved again.
This past weekend, I moved and obtained my fifteenth different address in eighteen years. Besides my three year stint in Japan, I have basically made some sort of move or another once a year, for every year of my adult life. I am so bloody sick of moving it is not funny. Fifteen different addresses. Four difference provinces. Four different countries. Three different continents.
Perhaps that is why this move did not phase me. I would have been happier not to do it, but it was pretty uneventful - with the exception of my box of Swaziland glass bouncing down the stairs into my basement apartment. This was quickly followed by the thought, "You fool." I had moved that box myself because I was sure it would get killed by the movers. Surprisingly enough, the contents went unharmed and my elephant lived to see another day.
This Ngwenya Glass factory in Swaziland was one of the most interesting places I visited in southern Africa last summer.
This past weekend, I moved and obtained my fifteenth different address in eighteen years. Besides my three year stint in Japan, I have basically made some sort of move or another once a year, for every year of my adult life. I am so bloody sick of moving it is not funny. Fifteen different addresses. Four difference provinces. Four different countries. Three different continents.
Perhaps that is why this move did not phase me. I would have been happier not to do it, but it was pretty uneventful - with the exception of my box of Swaziland glass bouncing down the stairs into my basement apartment. This was quickly followed by the thought, "You fool." I had moved that box myself because I was sure it would get killed by the movers. Surprisingly enough, the contents went unharmed and my elephant lived to see another day.
This Ngwenya Glass factory in Swaziland was one of the most interesting places I visited in southern Africa last summer.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Teeth and knees
To explain more about the last post...
Okay, I should admit that I didn't shatter my knee when "Ayr Bay Cora" knocked me down. Basically the cow figured out pretty quickly that I did not have a clue what I was doing. After leaving the show ring with Cora (and our third place ribbon), she abruptly stopped, whirled her head back and sent me flying. The next thing I knew I was on the ground and all I saw were hoofs. I looked up to see my father staring down at me saying, "Get up, you're okay." I recall thinking, "Okay? All I see are hoofs. I'm going to die." What I didn't know is that my brother had given me the oldest, slowest cow in the barn to show. Cora just stood there and waited for somebody who knew what they doing to take the reins. I was glad to give them up - that and my third place ribbon, which I gave to my little cousin Ellen from Calgary who still has it hanging on her bulletin board. Although I gave my knee a good wack, it didn't shatter...only my ego took a beating that day.
Speaking of shattering, I managed to crack a tooth on Thanksgiving weekend. Last night I had trip number two of three to my new dentist. I put absolutely no thought or research into picking out my Toronto dentist. I walked down to the Danforth and walked into the first clinic I found. I love my new dentist and his clinic. He took pictures of my tooth and then brought it right up on a computer. There are TVs attached to the ceiling so I could watch Ellen and then the news during my 1.5 hour appointment.
Last night the dentist took impressions for both my temporary and permanent crown. After taking the impressions, the dental assistant handed me a warm packaged wipe and a mirror. I thought "What is this for?" A quick look in the mirror made me burst into laughter: my cheek and chin were covered in the white plaster like substance that had been used to take the impression. With my face frozen, I would never have noticed. The proceeding to 'rinse and spit', I merely managed to drool all over myself. One has to laugh at oneself otherwise it would just be pathetic.
Okay, I should admit that I didn't shatter my knee when "Ayr Bay Cora" knocked me down. Basically the cow figured out pretty quickly that I did not have a clue what I was doing. After leaving the show ring with Cora (and our third place ribbon), she abruptly stopped, whirled her head back and sent me flying. The next thing I knew I was on the ground and all I saw were hoofs. I looked up to see my father staring down at me saying, "Get up, you're okay." I recall thinking, "Okay? All I see are hoofs. I'm going to die." What I didn't know is that my brother had given me the oldest, slowest cow in the barn to show. Cora just stood there and waited for somebody who knew what they doing to take the reins. I was glad to give them up - that and my third place ribbon, which I gave to my little cousin Ellen from Calgary who still has it hanging on her bulletin board. Although I gave my knee a good wack, it didn't shatter...only my ego took a beating that day.
Speaking of shattering, I managed to crack a tooth on Thanksgiving weekend. Last night I had trip number two of three to my new dentist. I put absolutely no thought or research into picking out my Toronto dentist. I walked down to the Danforth and walked into the first clinic I found. I love my new dentist and his clinic. He took pictures of my tooth and then brought it right up on a computer. There are TVs attached to the ceiling so I could watch Ellen and then the news during my 1.5 hour appointment.
Last night the dentist took impressions for both my temporary and permanent crown. After taking the impressions, the dental assistant handed me a warm packaged wipe and a mirror. I thought "What is this for?" A quick look in the mirror made me burst into laughter: my cheek and chin were covered in the white plaster like substance that had been used to take the impression. With my face frozen, I would never have noticed. The proceeding to 'rinse and spit', I merely managed to drool all over myself. One has to laugh at oneself otherwise it would just be pathetic.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Ayr Bay Farm
My father inherited his farm from his uncle Harold and the name came with it: Ayr Bay Farms. "Ayr" becasue of the Ayrshire cows that made up the majority of the cows in the herd and "Bay" because of St. Peters Bay, the bay of water on which the farm borders. For many years, my father has taken our cows to show at local fairs such as the Dundas Ploughing Match or the Provincial Old Home Week fair in Charlottetown. Showing cattle is no easy feat and many people over the years have told me what a good good showman Dad was. I showed the grand total of 1 cow, which knocked me down, shattered my ego and left knee, but that is another post.
My younger brother has taken over the farm and is continuing the tradition of showing cattle. This year was probably the best showing our farm has had both at Old Home Week and at the Atlantic Winter Fair in Halifax. The pictures above display some of the winnings from Charlottetown. My Mom is pictured with the trophies, which is kinda funny as she has never shown a cow in her life. The other picture shows all the ribbons on display and if I can count correctly I see at least 5 red ribbons. I am glad my bed is serving a purpose in my absence.
The boys also did well enough to make it on the cover of Ayrshire Canada this quarter.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Headlines
I have been processing a collection of film at work. Here are some of the more interesting headlines I have come across:
- Bucky the deer eats with cows
- Norwich Bride and Groom receive Tractor
- Piano Smashing to Raise Money
- Western Fair Hurdy Gurdy man with Monkey
- St. Thomas’ Miss “Hot Pants” contest
- Port Rowan Frog Jumping Contest
- Aylmer chickens have five toes on each foot
- Goderich dog receives death sentence for biting boy
- Two bicycles collide in London
- Annual convention of the Canadian Pigeon Union held in London
- Dog rescued from ice
- Port Stanley lake freezes and boats and a loon are rescued
- Santa visits Dorchester by truck
- Mute swans released at Long Point replace dead swan
- Boy scratched by unidentified cat will undergo rabies shots
- 10 millionth car in the market parking lot
- Tillsonburg’s St. John’s Anglican Church “Jumping for Jesus” trampoline fund raiser
- Two young Prince Edward Islanders visit Controller Frank Flitton at London’s City Hall
- East London couple wins a live cow Your Future’s in the Suds: Psychic Reader Beverly Smith reads beer suds
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Piano Man's Daughter
Timothy Findley
The Piano Man’s Daughter
Thursday, August 23, 2007
And beyond all that, outside, unseen, the beach in the darkness, the sand cool on top but keeping still the day’s warmth underneath, and the long lines of white waves breaking on the bias, lit from inside themselves somehow, and over everything the night, silent, secret, and intent.
John Banville
The Sea
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Dante’s Prayer
by
Loreena McKennitt
Loreena McKennitt
When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone
I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
By the deep well of desireFrom the mountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
How fragile is the heartOh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We’ll rise above these earthly cares
Cast your soul to the seaWhen the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
“The Book of Secrets” (1997)
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Thomas
John David Thomas, 1951-2007
After meeting randomly on the fourth floor of the BAC, it was Krista (Blaikie) Hughes who introduced me to the inner workings of the Acadia History Society and to John Thomas. Not knowing who he was, or much about him at all, I initially thought his first name was “Thomas,” which subsequently provided fodder for teasing over the years. He was henceforth christened “Thomas” and I was awarded (or allowed) sole custody of addressing him in such a manner.
Along with Aaron, Jennifer, Pearl, I took three courses with Thomas while at Acadia. He was also the faculty supervisor of the history society so for two years, I was under his direction when it came to the planning and carrying out of the history society’s participation in the annual homecoming parade. By “participation,” I mean: Thomas would come up with a theme. I would go to the drama department to borrow costumes. I would then beg, threaten and produce tears if necessary to convince my friends and fellow students to go on the float. By “float,” I mean a flatbed trailer that a local farmer out of the goodness of his heart would volunteer and then use his tractor to pull through the main, and only street in Wolfville.
Along with Aaron, Jennifer, Pearl, I took three courses with Thomas while at Acadia. He was also the faculty supervisor of the history society so for two years, I was under his direction when it came to the planning and carrying out of the history society’s participation in the annual homecoming parade. By “participation,” I mean: Thomas would come up with a theme. I would go to the drama department to borrow costumes. I would then beg, threaten and produce tears if necessary to convince my friends and fellow students to go on the float. By “float,” I mean a flatbed trailer that a local farmer out of the goodness of his heart would volunteer and then use his tractor to pull through the main, and only street in Wolfville.
Acadia History Society Floats, 1995 and 1996
The sad thing is that Thomas had so much to do with all those floats and there are few if any photos to document his participation as he took all the photos! I can see him now, wearing his red sweatshirt, blue ball cap and khaki pants, running alongside the float as it was paraded through Wolfville, with a minimum of at least three cameras around his neck (usually mine, his and Kristas)! If it wasn’t for him, nothing would have been undertaken – or documented. Nobody fell off, the history society won first prize for best float three years in a row and I now realize I would never have undertaken such a feat without the direction, encouragement and orders from Thomas. Thank you Krista for starting me down that path.
Acadia is a small campus, with a small student population, set in Nova Scotia’s picturesque Annapolis Valley. Having grown up in rural PEI, this atmosphere was not completely foreign to me: but the university environment was. I am a first generation university graduate in my family. The university atmosphere was therefore initially a completely foreign, at times bewildering, and sometimes a lonely place for me. Thomas sensed this and he gave me a lot of guidance. He used to give me lists of movies to watch, lists of books to read, and endless, endless advice. He knew I needed it. That was the beauty of Acadia. Small classes meant you got to known your Professors. He was one of the few professors who came to our graduation ceremony, sat there beaming as we crossed the stage to get our degrees, met our parents at the reception afterwards and had pictures taken with us.
I spent a lot of time in his office on the fourth floor of the BAC chatting, laughing and exchanging stories – especially in my fourth year when I was procrastinating in writing my thesis. He always seemed to have an indefinite amount of time – for all of us. He loved nothing more than a good story and you knew when you delivered a good one when he did the characteristic slap on the knee, always followed by heartfelt laughter.
Over the years I kept in touch with Thomas via letters, email, Christmas cards, the odd telephone call. In the fall of 2005, I moved to Toronto and for the first time in almost ten years, we finally had a reunion. Thomas had relocated back to Toronto to teach at Upper Canada College (UCC). That fall, Jason Crowtz (fellow Acadia Hist. Hons ’96 grad) and I had two sessions with Thomas, both of which consisted of a beer swilling, knee slapping and laughter-filled stroll down memory lane. We planned to get together early in the New Year and I very much looked forward to such future sessions. Sadly, it never happened.
On the 20 December 2005, Thomas was diagnosed with cancer – on his tongue. After successful (but invasive) surgery, Thomas underwent chemo, radiation, as well as speech therapy. He was not able to have visitors so Jason and I wrote letters and emails, often accompanied by an original Jason cartoon depicting some of the sadder facets of our mundane lives. It made him laugh and that seemed to be all he wanted.
I was away all last summer so I did not get to see Thomas until this past fall. Once again, it was Krista who brought us together. A visit from Krista and Tammy prompted another reunion. Thomas was thinner and visibly altered from his year long battle, but it was still the same old Thomas – and it was great to see him. Sadly it would be the last. In November doctors confirmed that his cancer had returned. He waited until after the holidays and on the 2nd of January emailed us to tell us his condition was terminal. On the 14 March 2007, he died peacefully in his sleep at his parent’s home; sixteen days shy of his 56th birthday.
Before he died, Thomas decided he did not want the traditional wake and funeral. Instead, he opted for an old fashioned variety show, “when laughter came easily.” Amazingly enough, he organized the entire show himself in the last months of his life. He asked Tammy, Krista and I in February if we would contribute a short presentation on the antics surrounding the history society’s homecoming floats. On the 18th of May, family, friends, students and colleagues of Thomas gathered at UCC in Toronto for the variety show in his memory. We were one of over twenty acts that day that featured every facet of his life. Presentations were made by family, including one by John’s brother Steve that included childhood and college photos of Thomas that few of us had ever seen. Other chapters of his life represented in the presentations included memories from his camp counseling days, the baseball team he played with, UCC students, UCC colleagues with hilarious stories from Thomas’ involvement with the football team, as well as college friends and colleagues. I laughed a lot more then I thought I would and I think Thomas would have been pleased with how the day unfolded. The variety show was followed by a buffet meal and drinks – all on John. It was a chance for all of us, from various aspects of his life, to come together and share stories, as well as make and renew old friendships.
Acadia history grads:
Tammy Windsor ('94), Julia Kinnear ('93), Krista Hughes ('94), Juanita Rossiter ('96) and Jason Crowtz ('96)
The history gang with Professor Rob Morrison, now at Queen's University, but a good friend and colleague of John's while at Acadia.
Next week, I will be walking across the stage of convocation hall at U of T and I will be thinking about Thomas. Although it was now over ten years ago, I can see him sitting there at Acadia’s UHall, like it was yesterday, one familiar face among all the academic robes, smiling, camera in hand. There is hardly a day passes that I don’t think about him and the impact that he has had on my life. I miss him, but most of all, I am grateful for having known him. He was a great teacher. He was my friend.
Acadia History Grads 1996
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Thesis Year madness - rewind - 1996
The original: a Pre-Raphaelite print on a card. I once remarked to Jason resembled the various stages of me in the writing of my thesis in 1995-1996:
Jason's photoshoped rendition, highlighting aspects of life for myself, Jas, Ken and Kim that year:
Friday, February 23, 2007
Shodo
During the three years I was in Japan, I studied shodo at the high school I taught at (Tottori Higashi koko) in Japan. During the first month of school, I was "urged" to attend classes once a week with Shubayama sensei. I was later told that I could probably never afford to take classes with Shubayama sensei and I was lucky to be getting the lessons for free. This did not mean much to me as I spent the majority of my time that first year in frustration and really not enjoying the free lessons very much at all.
Then something clicked and I can't really put my finer on it, but blam: suddenly the squiggly abstract lines made sense to me and I began to enjoy it. Shubayama sensei didn't speak a word of English and I barely spoke Japanese, but it was a friendship that surpassed language and culture. Oddly enough, the fact that we could barely communicate did not impede us becoming great friends at all.
The print on the left means "Success" and it was the last drawing I did in 1999. To give you an idea of the size, the photos below it are in 5x7 frames. It is probably the best shodo I have done, but it is not my favorite. The drawing on the right means "Ocean" I did this my first semester in Japan, in the Fall of 1996 and it is still my favorite. I grew up on an Island, have always swam in and loved the ocean and I am also a water sign. Shybayama sensei did not know any of this but still picked the perfect character for me to draw during my first few months in Japan.
Tottori Higashi High school, Tottori, Japan
Grammie's mat
This is the first mat I hooked by myself, which was completed in 2004. I bought the stamped mat on PEI, used wool from MacAusland's woolen mill in Bloomfield, PEI., and hooked it with my great-grandmother's (Sarah Lewis) hook. I had recently returned from a trip to the Magdalene Islands and had been inspired by the colorful houses I saw there. The white car represents my very first car (1995 olds achieva) and the blue car is my second car (2000 buick century). Upon completion, I gave the mat to my grandmother.
Roddie Steele's fiddle
This is one of my most treasured possessions - my great grandfather, Roddie Steele's fiddle. I have taken lessons, but nearly enough....let's just say it is hard to "pick up" an instrument at my age. I will always be indebted to Mel MacPhee for giving me this fiddle and returning it to our family, and to Timothy Chaisson for trying to teach someone to play who does not have "an ear."
Namibian needlework
There were two aspects of these pillow cases that attracted me. First was the use of color. I love the combination and presence of orange, red and yellow. I also liked the folksy feeling the images provoked.
Penduka is a community-focused women’s project in Katutura district of Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. Women with disabilities and women living in the Katutura, Windhoek district, plagued by poverty work for Penduka. In addition to this women from the agricultural region around Windhoek are involved in embroidery projects in Penduka.
More about Penduka:
Penduka is a community-focused women’s project in Katutura district of Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. Women with disabilities and women living in the Katutura, Windhoek district, plagued by poverty work for Penduka. In addition to this women from the agricultural region around Windhoek are involved in embroidery projects in Penduka.
The project runs a handicraft shop, cloth printing workshop, embroidery and sewing activities, a restaurant and a cottage hostel for backpack travellers. About 400 women are working for Penduka. Some of the women are full-time workers while others participate in projects.
Almost all the woman in the embroidery projects is a single mother, making the earnings from the projects critical for the survival of the families. Together with other income sources and the food supplies from farming it is enough to make a living.
Besides income Penduka is offering other prospects for the women. It is considered positive to work together with other women and learn new skills. Sharing their skills with the women of the community is important.
Women can take care of the children while working at home. There is a gathering in Penduka once a week where the products are collected. In each three embroidery groups there is a quality controller and a leader.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Some African souvenirs
I love my souvenirs and now have quite the assorted mix of "stuff" from the various places I have visited. Below are some things I purchased while in South and southern Africa this summer. The art I purchased in Johannesburg. I had a nice long chat with the artist and I liked the pinks in the painting. The ladies in the picture are "Anna" and "Sarah." I also bought a mask in each country I visited with the exception of Lesotho. From left to right, the masks were bought in South Africa, Swaziland, Namibia and Botswana.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Homemade
I made Cole and Chase each a small afgahan for Christmas...
Chase's favorite colors are pink and purple.
Cole loves his superheros - so in honour of Spiderman and Batman.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
A PEI Christmas
There IS no place like home for the holidays. I always spend Christmas on PEI with my family. Even the three years I was in Japan, I came home every year. It just would not be the same anywhere else.
This is the view from my parent’s living room taken Christmas day.
My bother Peter with Owen - the latest addition to my mom's side of the family.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Lillian's garden
From 1996 to 1999, I taught at Tottori Higashi high school in Tottori, Japan, on the JET program. During those three years, I participated in clubs with my students. I studied Shodo (Japanese caligraphy) with Shubiyama sensi for three years, and I also studied Ikebana, Japanese flower arrangement for two years. Ikebana arrangements are simple, yet beautiful. Returning to PEI, I can't remember how or why, but I began helping my neighbor and cousin, Lillian, with weekly flower arrangments for our church. Then I began helping her with flowers for local weddings. I loved it. I spent many hours in Lillian's garden throughout the past two summers. Lillian taught me the direct opposite of what I had learned in Japan: that in order for arrangements to show up on an altar of an old country church that seats 500 comfortably, they had to be big!
Below are photos of arrangments I did for Rita MacAulay's wedding in August of 2005 - from Lillian's garden.
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