A professional volunteer (such as yours truly) goes to a lot of "events." Fundraisers mostly, these gatherings are in lovely homes, around pools, in galleries. They sometimes support a charity. Sometimes they are related to a cause. Other times it's about a person.
For me, it's about the food.
I've always been about bite-sized bits. Love 'em. Since learning that not all restaurants serve the entres wrapped in paper and their drinks in paper cups with plastic lids, I discovered the meals that could be made out of the appetizer section of the menu. Later in life, I learned I was into what those in Spain call "tapas." Who knew I was so cross cultural while chowing down at Fridays?
So party food hits me square on the palate. Take the napkin and fill it with the array of tiny morsels wrapped in wontons, tidied up with tarts, rolled to perfection, or dipped for your dining pleasure.
I feel therefore it's my duty to report a recent trend.
Two events less than 24 hours apart netted me a bounty of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto.
While keeping you posted on culinary trends might add a few pounds to my ever widening hips, I know an obligation when I see one and I'm ready to take one for the team (as long as it's not softball, see below).
And though I've come a few miles from Greenfield and now wear a cocktail dress and make small talk with the best of them, I must confess a fact. Every time I see that asparagus and realize its cost as well as that of the upscale ham that hugs it so tightly, I can't help but think of Grandmother. She used to pull to the side of the country roads so we could stop and pick the wild asparagus that grew freely there. She'd then come home and add some Campbells Cream of Something and top it with some cheddar and Saltines and voila! we had ourselves some asparagus casserole. The ham was reserved for biscuits the next morning.
Gotta tell you ... might have traveled a few miles but if she were here right now and set one of her kitchen treasures before me, I'd eat every last bite.
Bite-sized bliss comes in many forms.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
I Was Supposed To Be the Bench Warmer
What's the best medicine for feeling ignorant and inept? Why, softball of course!
As I mentioned earlier, I've been on a learning curve that gives the Cyclone a run for its roller coaster money. Yesterday proved to be no exception with a few successes but at the end of the day a nice tidy screw up to heap on the humility pile.
I'm fuming at myself for omitting a critical piece of information that my boss had to track down as I'm driving to Friday night's supposed diversion -- a softball game.
I haven't played softball in 20 years. And when I did, I was there strictly to round out the team so they wouldn't have to forfeit. I know the positions that person plays -- catcher or right field. I have no delusions of grandeur. I breathe, I can squat or stand with no problem, and I like to have fun.
Silly me! Who knew I was joining the Cutthroat League? I do have the satisfaction of knowing that I won the first game for them. If I and another woman (who wanted to be there slightly more than me but that was only because she was married to one of the guys) hadn't been there they wouldn't have been able to get the forfeit from the team that didn't have enough women.
My MIS (man-I'm-seeing, because at our ages, he's not my boyfriend) is the pitcher and he's seriously into playing this game. He's also the sort of coach, though another guy has the title. AND THAT GUY PUT ME ON SECOND!!!
People like me do not play the infield! I was actually heading to right when he said, "You're at second."
Aghast, I looked at him questioningly. He returned with the look of "I'm in charge, don't question me." So I headed to second -- which of course was wrong.
My MIS pointed to the spot away from second that I was to be stationed. He then assured me that the team would "look out for me" and then I heard the chatter as the men and women at first, short and third began to plot how they would compensate for the hole (that would be me).
The forfeiting team wanted to scrimmage and wound up being lots more fun than my team. I'm told that it was because they were so good and winning that they were laughing and teasing me. I think the beer they'd smuggled in might have had something to do with it.
My team wasn't evil. They were just focused. They "coached" each other after a bad play. They kicked at themselves after a bad play. Most of them shared "one of the main things you need to remember about softball" with me and of course, none of those things were the same. I was being told when to hang back, when to move left, when to move right, what base to over run, what base I couldn't, where to hold my bat and hundred other things.
I also got yelled at. Seems standing in the way of a center fielder who's barreling a ball at several miles per hour in your direction when he really means to be getting it to short is not a good idea.
Neither is catching with you bare hand but I'd done that by this time so what more could I lose? (By the way, the term "softball" is a mistake. It's not and I have the bruise to prove it.)
By the time the third inning of the real game we played came around I had determined I was experiencing the levels of hell, that the 7th inning stretch would have a whole new meaning to me as I recalled my own experience with Dante's Inferno.
By the fourth inning I was trying not to tear up as the MIS asked me yet again if I was ok. Deciding his pleasure at playing this so-called game was greater than my pain, I informed him my hand hurt and that I was enduring the experience but I didn't go into any details. Didn't have to. He saw the tears forming.
Eventually my nightmare ended. Only after, though, the final inning when it had been announced we could still win if we got four runs. Two were already accomplished by the time I was warming up. The guy ahead of me was a hotshot and I was silently chanting/praying/whatever to the powers that be that he not show off and make an out (which would have been the second). BUT NOOOOOOOOO! He stayed true to form, got out and I walked to the plate knowing I'd be the third.
I did not disappoint.
Later, the MIS remarked that I did great, they were grateful for me coming, and I would REALLY enjoy it next time.
That's when I informed him there would be no next time.
I know sports are a joy for some. But unless I'm laughing at myself (which I couldn't do with this crowd) sports has never been my joy spot.
Still isn't.
I wonder if there's a competitive laughing team I can get on?
As I mentioned earlier, I've been on a learning curve that gives the Cyclone a run for its roller coaster money. Yesterday proved to be no exception with a few successes but at the end of the day a nice tidy screw up to heap on the humility pile.
I'm fuming at myself for omitting a critical piece of information that my boss had to track down as I'm driving to Friday night's supposed diversion -- a softball game.
I haven't played softball in 20 years. And when I did, I was there strictly to round out the team so they wouldn't have to forfeit. I know the positions that person plays -- catcher or right field. I have no delusions of grandeur. I breathe, I can squat or stand with no problem, and I like to have fun.
Silly me! Who knew I was joining the Cutthroat League? I do have the satisfaction of knowing that I won the first game for them. If I and another woman (who wanted to be there slightly more than me but that was only because she was married to one of the guys) hadn't been there they wouldn't have been able to get the forfeit from the team that didn't have enough women.
My MIS (man-I'm-seeing, because at our ages, he's not my boyfriend) is the pitcher and he's seriously into playing this game. He's also the sort of coach, though another guy has the title. AND THAT GUY PUT ME ON SECOND!!!
People like me do not play the infield! I was actually heading to right when he said, "You're at second."
Aghast, I looked at him questioningly. He returned with the look of "I'm in charge, don't question me." So I headed to second -- which of course was wrong.
My MIS pointed to the spot away from second that I was to be stationed. He then assured me that the team would "look out for me" and then I heard the chatter as the men and women at first, short and third began to plot how they would compensate for the hole (that would be me).
The forfeiting team wanted to scrimmage and wound up being lots more fun than my team. I'm told that it was because they were so good and winning that they were laughing and teasing me. I think the beer they'd smuggled in might have had something to do with it.
My team wasn't evil. They were just focused. They "coached" each other after a bad play. They kicked at themselves after a bad play. Most of them shared "one of the main things you need to remember about softball" with me and of course, none of those things were the same. I was being told when to hang back, when to move left, when to move right, what base to over run, what base I couldn't, where to hold my bat and hundred other things.
I also got yelled at. Seems standing in the way of a center fielder who's barreling a ball at several miles per hour in your direction when he really means to be getting it to short is not a good idea.
Neither is catching with you bare hand but I'd done that by this time so what more could I lose? (By the way, the term "softball" is a mistake. It's not and I have the bruise to prove it.)
By the time the third inning of the real game we played came around I had determined I was experiencing the levels of hell, that the 7th inning stretch would have a whole new meaning to me as I recalled my own experience with Dante's Inferno.
By the fourth inning I was trying not to tear up as the MIS asked me yet again if I was ok. Deciding his pleasure at playing this so-called game was greater than my pain, I informed him my hand hurt and that I was enduring the experience but I didn't go into any details. Didn't have to. He saw the tears forming.
Eventually my nightmare ended. Only after, though, the final inning when it had been announced we could still win if we got four runs. Two were already accomplished by the time I was warming up. The guy ahead of me was a hotshot and I was silently chanting/praying/whatever to the powers that be that he not show off and make an out (which would have been the second). BUT NOOOOOOOOO! He stayed true to form, got out and I walked to the plate knowing I'd be the third.
I did not disappoint.
Later, the MIS remarked that I did great, they were grateful for me coming, and I would REALLY enjoy it next time.
That's when I informed him there would be no next time.
I know sports are a joy for some. But unless I'm laughing at myself (which I couldn't do with this crowd) sports has never been my joy spot.
Still isn't.
I wonder if there's a competitive laughing team I can get on?
Friday, May 16, 2008
Two Months of Feelings. . .
I've spent the past couple of months feeling ignorant. Note that I did not say stupid, however. I know things. I just didn't know the kind of things I needed to know to be the kind of worker I wanted to be.
So for two months, I've dug in. I listened, asked questions, made tons of mistakes, listened some more, tried and tried again.
Today I feel more aware of how much I depended upon people who do the kinds of things I've been learning. People like Tish, Linda, Sharon and many, many more were the people I gave things to and then miraculously saw the idea that had been in my head become a reality. Mail merges, labels, printing and a plethora of other assignments took place while I went on to the next task.
Today I feel grateful.
I also feel ready to no longer feel so ignorant. I can copy a column in Excel now, sort data, create labels and no longer cringe when the online database is mentioned as our go-to source for something. But I'm no expert. I still have more questions than answers. But as of this week, I also have help. Two interns are taking on a load of the work that for two months fell solely on my desk.
Like I said, today I feel grateful.
So for two months, I've dug in. I listened, asked questions, made tons of mistakes, listened some more, tried and tried again.
Today I feel more aware of how much I depended upon people who do the kinds of things I've been learning. People like Tish, Linda, Sharon and many, many more were the people I gave things to and then miraculously saw the idea that had been in my head become a reality. Mail merges, labels, printing and a plethora of other assignments took place while I went on to the next task.
Today I feel grateful.
I also feel ready to no longer feel so ignorant. I can copy a column in Excel now, sort data, create labels and no longer cringe when the online database is mentioned as our go-to source for something. But I'm no expert. I still have more questions than answers. But as of this week, I also have help. Two interns are taking on a load of the work that for two months fell solely on my desk.
Like I said, today I feel grateful.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Kites
The beautiful young man standing before me was physically strong and soul weary. I could tell as soon as I asked the standard, "How ya doin?" His "fine" was of the "not-so-great" variety.
We aren't friends. I've only met him a couple of times and both of those were at professional functions. But he's standing there, waiting. So I go deeper.
Sure enough, he's ready to unload. A few minutes later, I've learned the job that has us both scrambling at the moment was a distraction. He went to school for architecture. He then got into a political science class and with his personality found himself the target of recruiting by candidates. Several campaigns later, he's ready to return to the classroom and build something other than ideas. (Though his ideas for buildings still include using materials and financing that will help the "little guy.")
I enjoyed listening. I felt no need to fix him. And after spending a few minutes with his returned dream, he was energized once again. That's when it felt ok to tell him my favorite metaphor.
When I was just out of school, I had the privilege of starting fast and furious on the ladder climb. I had the personality to propel me. And, I soon learned that folks love to look at the flying kite, colorful and bright, darting in and out, taking risks along the treetops and not just surviving but sometimes taking your breath away with its daring and the brillance of the sun behind it.
The thing was -- and at least I knew then as well as now -- the kite is only as good as whoever holds the string. She/he is the strategist, the real risk-taker (and if you've read The Kite Runner you know how strategic the role really is). And though the attention is never on them, without them, there's no flying.
"I'm aware now, in the new roles I'm exploring, that I no longer am the kite. That's for folks like you or the two we're helping get into office," I told him. "I'm happy to hold the string."
"That's good!" his face beamed as he affirmed the metaphor's usefulness. And then more to himself than to me, "Yeah, that's really good."
I thought so.
We aren't friends. I've only met him a couple of times and both of those were at professional functions. But he's standing there, waiting. So I go deeper.
Sure enough, he's ready to unload. A few minutes later, I've learned the job that has us both scrambling at the moment was a distraction. He went to school for architecture. He then got into a political science class and with his personality found himself the target of recruiting by candidates. Several campaigns later, he's ready to return to the classroom and build something other than ideas. (Though his ideas for buildings still include using materials and financing that will help the "little guy.")
I enjoyed listening. I felt no need to fix him. And after spending a few minutes with his returned dream, he was energized once again. That's when it felt ok to tell him my favorite metaphor.
When I was just out of school, I had the privilege of starting fast and furious on the ladder climb. I had the personality to propel me. And, I soon learned that folks love to look at the flying kite, colorful and bright, darting in and out, taking risks along the treetops and not just surviving but sometimes taking your breath away with its daring and the brillance of the sun behind it.
The thing was -- and at least I knew then as well as now -- the kite is only as good as whoever holds the string. She/he is the strategist, the real risk-taker (and if you've read The Kite Runner you know how strategic the role really is). And though the attention is never on them, without them, there's no flying.
"I'm aware now, in the new roles I'm exploring, that I no longer am the kite. That's for folks like you or the two we're helping get into office," I told him. "I'm happy to hold the string."
"That's good!" his face beamed as he affirmed the metaphor's usefulness. And then more to himself than to me, "Yeah, that's really good."
I thought so.
Ahhh . . . Whew . . .
That's the sound of me breathing. Two months of two jobs and life on a futon and I'm finally at a computer again for something other than lesson plans or databases.
Don't know if anyone is still out there, but if so, here goes.
Don't know if anyone is still out there, but if so, here goes.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Volunteer Update
As of April, I will move from having no paying positions to having two!
I'm still not making the kind of money I once did, but as I told an acquaintance recently, I made the choice for having less and doing more when I left the career I'd invested 23 years in.
I'm not complaining! By all accounts, these last six months have been every thing I thought they'd be and maybe even a few things I didn't fathom were possible!
I'm still not making the kind of money I once did, but as I told an acquaintance recently, I made the choice for having less and doing more when I left the career I'd invested 23 years in.
I'm not complaining! By all accounts, these last six months have been every thing I thought they'd be and maybe even a few things I didn't fathom were possible!
Will Volunteer for Food
Asked what I was up to this weekend, I replied:
As soon as I leave my volunteer position with the campaign, I'm heading to the theater to serve as a volunteer usher and then will wake up on Saturday to volunteer at the AIDS hospice after which I'll go to the rodeo where I was a volunteer in order to now be getting in free.
My thought later ... I may not make a lot of money but I have a lot of fun!
As soon as I leave my volunteer position with the campaign, I'm heading to the theater to serve as a volunteer usher and then will wake up on Saturday to volunteer at the AIDS hospice after which I'll go to the rodeo where I was a volunteer in order to now be getting in free.
My thought later ... I may not make a lot of money but I have a lot of fun!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
60 Miles from Crazy and Driving Below the Limit
I have a new "job."
My buddy asked me yesterday if this was like my other jobs with the theaters where I usher for free, and Bering Omega where I work at a hospice for free, and the rodeo where I speak for free and Africa where I did my communications stuff for free.
So if you're wondering if that's what the quotation marks are about, then yes, it is.
Still, I feel I'm going to be employed. And, in fact, I may eventually make a few dollars. But the point of this year is to gain experience more than income (and I can happily report that part of the journey has been tremendously successful).
So Monday morning I'll report to my new office -- running the campaign headquarters of my state representative.
I'm thrilled.
First, I really respect the candidate. She won her first term a couple of years ago and has proven herself over and over to be beyond the barriers of party lines and about education, health, and things I hold dear. Plus her right hand woman is a good friend of mine and soon to be my boss.
I told the rep during the interview that I took this year off to do the things I could have never done in my old position. I explained that in Africa, I had regained the passion that I had once held dear whenever I helped a person live into a passion that drove their every step. And I readily admitted that I was clueless about most things political.
Still she "hired" me. I think her only reluctance was the thought that my church background might make me a tad sensitive to what she described as her irreverence.
Is that laughter I hear coming through the Internet???? Yeah, I laughed too.
My friend/and now boss is beginning to send me emails for my to do list on Monday. Today she asked if she was driving me crazy.
"We're 60 miles from Crazy and driving below the limit at this point. No worries," I replied. And, frankly, it's true. I'm sure it's going to get strange, wild and maybe even hectic.
I plan on enjoying every minute of the ride!
My buddy asked me yesterday if this was like my other jobs with the theaters where I usher for free, and Bering Omega where I work at a hospice for free, and the rodeo where I speak for free and Africa where I did my communications stuff for free.
So if you're wondering if that's what the quotation marks are about, then yes, it is.
Still, I feel I'm going to be employed. And, in fact, I may eventually make a few dollars. But the point of this year is to gain experience more than income (and I can happily report that part of the journey has been tremendously successful).
So Monday morning I'll report to my new office -- running the campaign headquarters of my state representative.
I'm thrilled.
First, I really respect the candidate. She won her first term a couple of years ago and has proven herself over and over to be beyond the barriers of party lines and about education, health, and things I hold dear. Plus her right hand woman is a good friend of mine and soon to be my boss.
I told the rep during the interview that I took this year off to do the things I could have never done in my old position. I explained that in Africa, I had regained the passion that I had once held dear whenever I helped a person live into a passion that drove their every step. And I readily admitted that I was clueless about most things political.
Still she "hired" me. I think her only reluctance was the thought that my church background might make me a tad sensitive to what she described as her irreverence.
Is that laughter I hear coming through the Internet???? Yeah, I laughed too.
My friend/and now boss is beginning to send me emails for my to do list on Monday. Today she asked if she was driving me crazy.
"We're 60 miles from Crazy and driving below the limit at this point. No worries," I replied. And, frankly, it's true. I'm sure it's going to get strange, wild and maybe even hectic.
I plan on enjoying every minute of the ride!
Sweet Life Is the Sweetest Revenge
Some of you may remember the car dealer who "traded up" last year (my phrase) by dumping me for a woman who he felt would help him make needed connections for his business.
I saw him Tuesday night.
My girlfriend and I were at the rodeo and, I have to say, looking the part. We hadn't crossed the line into cowgirl costuming (this year's trend seems to be mini-skirts with boots and/or short shorts that make the hot pants of the 70s look like Scout uniforms). We weren't trying (as many implanted and tucked psuedo-blondes our age) to pull off younger or hip or anything other than comfortable.
Jeans and good living were are only adornments as we checked out the scene. A quick survey of the second gathering point netted me my prey. After a year of tsk-tsking his behavior and knowing that no matter what his choices did to his bottom line, he was the one who would come up empty, I saw him standing three feet away.
Now, at this point, I could have walked away. He didn't see me. But where would be the fun in that?
I called his name . . . He didn't hear me. . . I added his last. He looked up.
Nothing. I didn't register. And then . . .
He almost gasped. I smiled ... actually, I beamed. He was at least 20 pounds heavier and showing wear and tear. I was . . . as I said . . . totally comfortable and happy with the moment and me.
He stared then and took in every inch. I knew that the longer hair, the post-Africa glow, and the cowgirl confidence was making thinking a bit difficult on his part.
He asked how I'd been, checked on my dating status, introduced me to his friends (which I did as well), told me about his rodeo involvement, asked more questions. I answered, offered up juicy bits like the whole "I-quit-my-job-have-been-traveling-and-just-spent-six-weeks-in-Africa" line that elicited the now all too familiar "holy shit" look.
In the midst of the interview, he stopped short to add parenthetically, "My God, you look fantastic!"
I merely patted his arm and complimented him on the fact that his taste had only improved.
Two minutes into it, I realized that living well is the sweetest revenge when someone somehow thought you didn't live up to what they needed. Less than five minutes into it, I knew all I needed to know.
I suggested he might want to get back to his friends as I had merely wanted to say hi. He hung on a bit longer and finally, complied.
Later I realized that I had actually used the "shoo fly" motion as I directed his attention back to them.
The music that night was adequate. Our energy fell short before really getting to enjoy the dance floor. But nevertheless the wild, wild west was alive and well on Tuesday at the rodeo. Sweet life indeed . . .
I saw him Tuesday night.
My girlfriend and I were at the rodeo and, I have to say, looking the part. We hadn't crossed the line into cowgirl costuming (this year's trend seems to be mini-skirts with boots and/or short shorts that make the hot pants of the 70s look like Scout uniforms). We weren't trying (as many implanted and tucked psuedo-blondes our age) to pull off younger or hip or anything other than comfortable.
Jeans and good living were are only adornments as we checked out the scene. A quick survey of the second gathering point netted me my prey. After a year of tsk-tsking his behavior and knowing that no matter what his choices did to his bottom line, he was the one who would come up empty, I saw him standing three feet away.
Now, at this point, I could have walked away. He didn't see me. But where would be the fun in that?
I called his name . . . He didn't hear me. . . I added his last. He looked up.
Nothing. I didn't register. And then . . .
He almost gasped. I smiled ... actually, I beamed. He was at least 20 pounds heavier and showing wear and tear. I was . . . as I said . . . totally comfortable and happy with the moment and me.
He stared then and took in every inch. I knew that the longer hair, the post-Africa glow, and the cowgirl confidence was making thinking a bit difficult on his part.
He asked how I'd been, checked on my dating status, introduced me to his friends (which I did as well), told me about his rodeo involvement, asked more questions. I answered, offered up juicy bits like the whole "I-quit-my-job-have-been-traveling-and-just-spent-six-weeks-in-Africa" line that elicited the now all too familiar "holy shit" look.
In the midst of the interview, he stopped short to add parenthetically, "My God, you look fantastic!"
I merely patted his arm and complimented him on the fact that his taste had only improved.
Two minutes into it, I realized that living well is the sweetest revenge when someone somehow thought you didn't live up to what they needed. Less than five minutes into it, I knew all I needed to know.
I suggested he might want to get back to his friends as I had merely wanted to say hi. He hung on a bit longer and finally, complied.
Later I realized that I had actually used the "shoo fly" motion as I directed his attention back to them.
The music that night was adequate. Our energy fell short before really getting to enjoy the dance floor. But nevertheless the wild, wild west was alive and well on Tuesday at the rodeo. Sweet life indeed . . .
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Since Landing on Thursday (And Now It's Saturday)
My hairdresser and good friend was able to fit me in and I got a cut and color before anyone other than the MIS (man I'm seeing) had a chance to explore the wonders of my roots becoming the dominant feature on my head!
I ate the first Mexican food I've had in over six weeks.
I drove my VW once again.
My feet are now actually clean . . . and the nails are nicely polished, thank you!
I attended my first ever BBQ cookoff and when I put a piece of chicken, a couple of slices of sausage, and some brisket on my plate I realized that was more meat than I'd eaten in the last six weeks.
I danced until my newly colored hair was soaking wet.
I dressed as a rodeo clown and mingled among the special needs kids who were on hand to see the parade of horses that signals the start of the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. And then I ran the parade. Please note that I said "ran." We were behind a float on wheels rather than hooves and were supposed to keep up with it. So instead of the leisurely stroll I anticipated we booked the entire parade route. I did a rodeo clown version of wrestlers' high fiving the crowd to at least engage a bit. I also sweat some more!
I planned a party with Roger to do some show and tell related to the trip on Sunday.
I fought the urge to say "asante" and "pole sana" on numerous occasions and went with "thank you" and "I'm sorry" instead.
And I thought of the hills of Karatu and the people I left behind every other hour.
I ate the first Mexican food I've had in over six weeks.
I drove my VW once again.
My feet are now actually clean . . . and the nails are nicely polished, thank you!
I attended my first ever BBQ cookoff and when I put a piece of chicken, a couple of slices of sausage, and some brisket on my plate I realized that was more meat than I'd eaten in the last six weeks.
I danced until my newly colored hair was soaking wet.
I dressed as a rodeo clown and mingled among the special needs kids who were on hand to see the parade of horses that signals the start of the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. And then I ran the parade. Please note that I said "ran." We were behind a float on wheels rather than hooves and were supposed to keep up with it. So instead of the leisurely stroll I anticipated we booked the entire parade route. I did a rodeo clown version of wrestlers' high fiving the crowd to at least engage a bit. I also sweat some more!
I planned a party with Roger to do some show and tell related to the trip on Sunday.
I fought the urge to say "asante" and "pole sana" on numerous occasions and went with "thank you" and "I'm sorry" instead.
And I thought of the hills of Karatu and the people I left behind every other hour.
Don't Want to Lose This Moment
On one of my last days in the office in Karatu, the director was chatting with her staff and when one of them offered to take care of a certain task, she inquired with a joking tone to her voice (because hey, she's the director!), "Promise?"
They said yes. And then as almost an afterthought, she asked, "By the way, what's the Swahili word for 'promise'?"
They paused. You could almost imagine the sound of shuffling feet coming from the room. She asked again.
One woman replied, "Well, you see that's a problem. . . . There is no word for 'promise'."
"Aha!" the director exclaimed. "That could explain a lot of things!"
Yep . . . it does.
They said yes. And then as almost an afterthought, she asked, "By the way, what's the Swahili word for 'promise'?"
They paused. You could almost imagine the sound of shuffling feet coming from the room. She asked again.
One woman replied, "Well, you see that's a problem. . . . There is no word for 'promise'."
"Aha!" the director exclaimed. "That could explain a lot of things!"
Yep . . . it does.
Friday, February 29, 2008
I'm Baaaaack
When it takes 25 hours to make it home, you're bound to encounter a tad bit of drama. Nothing serious, actually, more like comedy but still entertaining.
First, before we even get to the from airport-to-airport-25, the story of the trip to the airport -- Jolene and I headed for Kilimanjaro a bit after noon. We made some stops in Arusha for Chinese food, one last minute coffee purchase and one last stab at Azam ice cream (though alas, they didn't have our favorite and I left the country without that tasty treat on my tongue ... guess I'll just have to go back!). We decided to give one last chance to the ever so shy mountain that I had tried to see FIVE times previously, so we went in that direction (also the direction of the airport named for said mountain). You'd think that one of the largest mountains in the world might actually be visible. But, no, I had yet to see it ... even at its base!!!! As we approach, I finally note the ridge going upward and then on the other side .... far, far away is the ridge going down. This is more than I've seen thus far and I'm ready to be satisfied with that when .... Jolene sees it! The patch of snow is undeniable! I'm seeing the top of Kilimanjaro!! Wooohooo! Mission accomplished!
Now to accomplish this mission was no small feat given that our vehicle also gave me one last true Tanzanian experience -- a flat! We were soooo very fortunate. We were on the road to the airport (a better than average road) and less than a mile from a gas station when it happened. Though the vehicle was sans some of the proper tools for fixing flats on it, the guys made do with what they had and Jolene tipped generously.
At the airport and after a tearful goodbye that made me know I had lived well and deeply in these six weeks, I entertained myself with Solitaire. The cards attracted a bit of attention and that was pleasant as Tanzanians passed by quietly to observe what I was doing. Then in the holding area for our plane I found a table and kept going. Soon a band of Italian men came in and I assumed they were some sports team. One plopped himself beside my table and began watching. Intently. Very. And even corrected one of my moves with a very vocal, "No!" I laughed. He laughed and I discovered he knew "no" but not much more English. He continued watching and I asked a couple of questions. Took a while but I learned that he had just climbed Kili and that he liked cards. So I taught him Blackjack. Then with more hand gestures and mime, he taught me an Italian card game that was a comedy in the making given that ... remember he knows NO English. The first few hands I was just tossing cards down like he was doing, totally clueless as to the point! Eventually, though, I won! Lewis (I eventually learned his name) made a date with me for more cards later but that was not to be due to seating arrangements but it was a cool moment.
Hour 21 of the trip home was my breaking point. I thought I was going to have to rush the upstairs first class section and demand a TV of my own with something more entertaining than the small screen of Rush Hour 3 that was playing a full 10 feet away and behind the luggage rack. Instead, I opted for walking around. I wound up in conversation with a man from Trinidad now living in the Middle East but also with a home in Houston. He was fascinating and we exchanged travel stories and cultural observations for well over an hour. He asked about what had brought me to Tanzania and I told him. I also told him about a few other volunteer endeavors I'm into and he bombarded me with questions and a need for details. Seems he's at a point of wanting to give back after having just lost a sister to cancer. When we were finally having more pauses in the conversation than we'd started with, he said he thought he should go get an hour's sleep but before he left he said, "You have been a medicine to me ... a medicine to my soul."
I was surprised, pleased and reminded that healing comes in many forms. While I may not have a great realization to share at the moment about my time in Africa, I do know a few things. I'm a healthier woman for having been there. I'm a better student of humanity for having experienced life from outside the role of pure tourist. And I totally understand how a person . . . or even a group of people ranging from students to about to be medical doctors to a staff of complex and diverse personalities to an incredibly gifted country director can all serve as "medicine to my soul."
I'm glad to be back. But that comes from being most certainly glad to have been away.
First, before we even get to the from airport-to-airport-25, the story of the trip to the airport -- Jolene and I headed for Kilimanjaro a bit after noon. We made some stops in Arusha for Chinese food, one last minute coffee purchase and one last stab at Azam ice cream (though alas, they didn't have our favorite and I left the country without that tasty treat on my tongue ... guess I'll just have to go back!). We decided to give one last chance to the ever so shy mountain that I had tried to see FIVE times previously, so we went in that direction (also the direction of the airport named for said mountain). You'd think that one of the largest mountains in the world might actually be visible. But, no, I had yet to see it ... even at its base!!!! As we approach, I finally note the ridge going upward and then on the other side .... far, far away is the ridge going down. This is more than I've seen thus far and I'm ready to be satisfied with that when .... Jolene sees it! The patch of snow is undeniable! I'm seeing the top of Kilimanjaro!! Wooohooo! Mission accomplished!
Now to accomplish this mission was no small feat given that our vehicle also gave me one last true Tanzanian experience -- a flat! We were soooo very fortunate. We were on the road to the airport (a better than average road) and less than a mile from a gas station when it happened. Though the vehicle was sans some of the proper tools for fixing flats on it, the guys made do with what they had and Jolene tipped generously.
At the airport and after a tearful goodbye that made me know I had lived well and deeply in these six weeks, I entertained myself with Solitaire. The cards attracted a bit of attention and that was pleasant as Tanzanians passed by quietly to observe what I was doing. Then in the holding area for our plane I found a table and kept going. Soon a band of Italian men came in and I assumed they were some sports team. One plopped himself beside my table and began watching. Intently. Very. And even corrected one of my moves with a very vocal, "No!" I laughed. He laughed and I discovered he knew "no" but not much more English. He continued watching and I asked a couple of questions. Took a while but I learned that he had just climbed Kili and that he liked cards. So I taught him Blackjack. Then with more hand gestures and mime, he taught me an Italian card game that was a comedy in the making given that ... remember he knows NO English. The first few hands I was just tossing cards down like he was doing, totally clueless as to the point! Eventually, though, I won! Lewis (I eventually learned his name) made a date with me for more cards later but that was not to be due to seating arrangements but it was a cool moment.
Hour 21 of the trip home was my breaking point. I thought I was going to have to rush the upstairs first class section and demand a TV of my own with something more entertaining than the small screen of Rush Hour 3 that was playing a full 10 feet away and behind the luggage rack. Instead, I opted for walking around. I wound up in conversation with a man from Trinidad now living in the Middle East but also with a home in Houston. He was fascinating and we exchanged travel stories and cultural observations for well over an hour. He asked about what had brought me to Tanzania and I told him. I also told him about a few other volunteer endeavors I'm into and he bombarded me with questions and a need for details. Seems he's at a point of wanting to give back after having just lost a sister to cancer. When we were finally having more pauses in the conversation than we'd started with, he said he thought he should go get an hour's sleep but before he left he said, "You have been a medicine to me ... a medicine to my soul."
I was surprised, pleased and reminded that healing comes in many forms. While I may not have a great realization to share at the moment about my time in Africa, I do know a few things. I'm a healthier woman for having been there. I'm a better student of humanity for having experienced life from outside the role of pure tourist. And I totally understand how a person . . . or even a group of people ranging from students to about to be medical doctors to a staff of complex and diverse personalities to an incredibly gifted country director can all serve as "medicine to my soul."
I'm glad to be back. But that comes from being most certainly glad to have been away.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
For those of you who thought I was just trying to photograph giraffes . . .
Summary Report of Six Weeks of Volunteering
Karen Campbell
February 26, 2008
When I arrived in Tanzania, I first noted the darkness. No street lights. Very little traffic at such a late hour. As I conclude my stay, I must note that I have indeed “seen the light” . . . in the form of a dedicated project director and a staff working towards awareness of survival of mothers and their children.
Though the five-year project focuses on health (and we all know I'm NOT a doctor), as a communicator and educator, I easily found a role. Over the course of the six weeks I served with Minnesota International Health Volunteers I:
Tutored one young woman on writing and another two on intensive Powerpoint training. Worked with four others on some aspects of Powerpoint
Presented two presentations to staff – one on planning and one on Powerpoint
Scanned and created Powerpoints (so we could print out slides as flip charts) on Safe Motherhood and Home-Based Life-Saving Skills. Helped do some laminating of what will be 85 sets of 67 pages.
Created Powerpoint presentations and suggested learning activities for MAISHA and Drug Shop Keeper training
Working with doctors, developed a picture-based simplified partograph for TBAs to use on the field
Wrote two news features and two press releases
Consulted with communication staff on marathon preparation & planning
Designed logo for health communication plan and accompanying interpretive presentation
Tweaked and developed logo for marathon t-shirt
Consulted with project management in weeklong appointments with nationally-based business leaders seeking marathon sponsorship
Proposed potential curriculum outline for volunteer orientation
Developed series of templates for MIHV presentations
Compiled file of teaching pictures for use in later presentations
Blogged regularly
Here’s hoping that the light that this relatively small group of people shines forth extends even further and brighter in the future. They have already surpassed one five-year goal in that rather than train 90 village health workers in five years, they’ve already certified more than 150! Their education efforts have translated into an almost complete reversal of the dispensing of dangerous (though profitable) half dosages out of some tested drug shops. And they are planning on raising awareness of malaria with a first-ever-in-this-district-half marathon! Add a three week training that will offer home-based life-saving skills and a strategy for multiplying that learning across not just the district but the country and well . . . even in rainy season, you’ll need shades.
For those of you reading this blog post who have heeded my pleas for funds in the past, I hope you’ve stayed with me long enough to pay attention one more time. If you make a donation to a group this small you add immediately and significantly to their incredible impact. To give some financial support, make donations to Minnesota International Health Volunteers, 122 West Franklin Ave., Suite 510, Minneapolis, MN 55404 (and note on the check that it's for Tanzania). Or check out their website for needs you might turn into volunteer opportunities (they could use office support, documentary filmmakers, trainers, writers, computer experts, and more!) at www.mihv.org.
My plane leaves tomorrow at 9:30 p.m. About 24 hours later, but around 1:30 p.m. Thursday, I land in Houston with enough warmth in my soul to illuminate anyone who cares to listen, to see a few photos, and to catch up. Until then, I close with a phrase I've employed continuously since arriving, "Asante sana." To whoever is paying attention, "thank you very much".
Karen Campbell
February 26, 2008
When I arrived in Tanzania, I first noted the darkness. No street lights. Very little traffic at such a late hour. As I conclude my stay, I must note that I have indeed “seen the light” . . . in the form of a dedicated project director and a staff working towards awareness of survival of mothers and their children.
Though the five-year project focuses on health (and we all know I'm NOT a doctor), as a communicator and educator, I easily found a role. Over the course of the six weeks I served with Minnesota International Health Volunteers I:
Tutored one young woman on writing and another two on intensive Powerpoint training. Worked with four others on some aspects of Powerpoint
Presented two presentations to staff – one on planning and one on Powerpoint
Scanned and created Powerpoints (so we could print out slides as flip charts) on Safe Motherhood and Home-Based Life-Saving Skills. Helped do some laminating of what will be 85 sets of 67 pages.
Created Powerpoint presentations and suggested learning activities for MAISHA and Drug Shop Keeper training
Working with doctors, developed a picture-based simplified partograph for TBAs to use on the field
Wrote two news features and two press releases
Consulted with communication staff on marathon preparation & planning
Designed logo for health communication plan and accompanying interpretive presentation
Tweaked and developed logo for marathon t-shirt
Consulted with project management in weeklong appointments with nationally-based business leaders seeking marathon sponsorship
Proposed potential curriculum outline for volunteer orientation
Developed series of templates for MIHV presentations
Compiled file of teaching pictures for use in later presentations
Blogged regularly
Here’s hoping that the light that this relatively small group of people shines forth extends even further and brighter in the future. They have already surpassed one five-year goal in that rather than train 90 village health workers in five years, they’ve already certified more than 150! Their education efforts have translated into an almost complete reversal of the dispensing of dangerous (though profitable) half dosages out of some tested drug shops. And they are planning on raising awareness of malaria with a first-ever-in-this-district-half marathon! Add a three week training that will offer home-based life-saving skills and a strategy for multiplying that learning across not just the district but the country and well . . . even in rainy season, you’ll need shades.
For those of you reading this blog post who have heeded my pleas for funds in the past, I hope you’ve stayed with me long enough to pay attention one more time. If you make a donation to a group this small you add immediately and significantly to their incredible impact. To give some financial support, make donations to Minnesota International Health Volunteers, 122 West Franklin Ave., Suite 510, Minneapolis, MN 55404 (and note on the check that it's for Tanzania). Or check out their website for needs you might turn into volunteer opportunities (they could use office support, documentary filmmakers, trainers, writers, computer experts, and more!) at www.mihv.org.
My plane leaves tomorrow at 9:30 p.m. About 24 hours later, but around 1:30 p.m. Thursday, I land in Houston with enough warmth in my soul to illuminate anyone who cares to listen, to see a few photos, and to catch up. Until then, I close with a phrase I've employed continuously since arriving, "Asante sana." To whoever is paying attention, "thank you very much".
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Didn't Think I Had It In Me
Masai markets are common in these parts. Roadside stands with the outside walls serving as easels for numerous large and brightly colored paintings of women carrying baskets on their heads, men and women dancing, etc. pop up frequently along the route to the major tourist attractions.
I hate shopping but this trip I felt some souvenirs were in order so I dug deep to what resolve I could and we headed to the nearby city’s Masai market.
We drive in and I immediately think of Santa Fe, New Mexico where Native American women (usually) are seated around the square with their blankets of silver before them. Here it’s Masai women with beaded everything displayed shukas (Masai cloth).
Once again the stall architecture (a la our food market) is employed to show off the kinds of things I often see at Cost Plus back home – statues of wildlife, masks, “ebony” carvings, batiks and more. And every vendor has a young man (usually) eagerly suggesting I check out what’s in his stall.
I have a few things in mind and we head where we see those items (which, of course, I can’t name here or it would ruin the surprise of those who will receive them). The man quotes a price comparable to what I’d find in the hotel/lodge gift shops – about three to four times what he’d sell it for if he knew me and maybe ten times more what he’d ask of a fellow Tanzanian (except they wouldn’t be buying this stuff to begin with!).
Suddenly, I’m overcome. I know he’s jacked up the price. I know it’s what he’s supposed to do in this setting and I know that my usual response is just to give in. But this time ... this time ... I haggle.
I cut his price in half. He says he’s going to lose all profit. I say, “But that’s what I have to give.” He tells me his hardship story and that he needs to do better. I tell him that I know I look like a rich “mzungu” but I am a volunteer, working for no money and that I have a limited amount to spend on my friends and family. He says, “Give me just a little more.” And I reply, “That’s what I’m offering and it’s ok if you don’t want it because I’m thinking any one of those guys standing in front of all those other booths will take this price.”
They gave me what I offered every time.
Except … for one woman and I’m glad because I love what I got instead. And one elderly gentleman whose teeth were brown and one seemed ready to fall out. He had EXACTLY what I wanted to get a very special man in my life and when I asked “bei gani?” (how much?) he quoted me the fairest price I’ve been offered by anyone in this country for anything! I was so shocked I didn’t bargain at all. In fact, I found something else to buy.
And finally, I had been looking for a requested item since I arrived. My friend, Beth, wanted some fabric and had given me some suggestions and even the cash with which to make the purchase. We had been less than thrilled with what we’d been seeing the few times we had a chance to look so my director, Jolene, had kind of taken this on as her special project. We still hadn’t found it.
The men at the end of the first line of stalls began their onslaught of me and already knew I knew a few words of Swahili. They greeted me enthusiastically and I didn’t even lie. “I’m not mzuri (good)!” I exclaimed as I feigned almost fainting. Suddenly, they dropped the hard sale.
“Pole sana, madam,” they offered a quick apology and then inquired about what it was I was searching for. I explained and rather than dig into their stuff to show me yet more “almost-but-not-really” possibilities, one guy became the spokesperson.
“You’re not going to find that here but in town . . . “ and he continued with directions. I was shocked.
Jolene brought me out of my shopping shock and stupor to tell me she had at least found an example of the pattern we were looking for and the woman she had been talking to unfurled a hand-painted, modern take on African art. The thing, I think, was EXACTLY what I think Beth will like. So I asked the woman how much.
I’ve not seen such honest, worn, resolution as I did on that woman’s face as she folded the cloth and said with absolutely no enthusiasm, “Fifteen thousand.” And you could tell she was about as eager to bargain with me as I was with her.
“That’s absolutely perfect,” I said and dug in my purse for the bills. She looked up. She smiled and she gave me the cloth as Jolene said, “See you did get a first purchase of the day!”
I found out that Jolene had liked some key chains she was selling but had declined once she determined the coins dangling were Kenyan and not Tanzanian. The woman must have had her hopes dashed slightly and I got to redeem the sale!
I walked away quite pleased with my purchases but especially with my performance. I don’t like the idea of haggling. I rarely do it and consequently usually bring home very few sounvenirs. I don’t like the system that has built up around tourism and the bad name some of us give others as we bully our way to what we want. Neither do I like the fact that because of my complexion, I’m a target for gouging.
But I love fairness. And so I treated it as I knew I should – fairly.
I told Jolene later that I have no intention of trying to cheat these folks out of what they need. Enough people from all sides do that to them on a regular basis. But I don’t want to be cheated either so I love it when the price I’m offered is a good one. I then asked if Jolene would sign an affidavit indicating she had actually witnessed my bargaining. A few of my previous fellow travelers are simply not going to believe it without proof!
I hate shopping but this trip I felt some souvenirs were in order so I dug deep to what resolve I could and we headed to the nearby city’s Masai market.
We drive in and I immediately think of Santa Fe, New Mexico where Native American women (usually) are seated around the square with their blankets of silver before them. Here it’s Masai women with beaded everything displayed shukas (Masai cloth).
Once again the stall architecture (a la our food market) is employed to show off the kinds of things I often see at Cost Plus back home – statues of wildlife, masks, “ebony” carvings, batiks and more. And every vendor has a young man (usually) eagerly suggesting I check out what’s in his stall.
I have a few things in mind and we head where we see those items (which, of course, I can’t name here or it would ruin the surprise of those who will receive them). The man quotes a price comparable to what I’d find in the hotel/lodge gift shops – about three to four times what he’d sell it for if he knew me and maybe ten times more what he’d ask of a fellow Tanzanian (except they wouldn’t be buying this stuff to begin with!).
Suddenly, I’m overcome. I know he’s jacked up the price. I know it’s what he’s supposed to do in this setting and I know that my usual response is just to give in. But this time ... this time ... I haggle.
I cut his price in half. He says he’s going to lose all profit. I say, “But that’s what I have to give.” He tells me his hardship story and that he needs to do better. I tell him that I know I look like a rich “mzungu” but I am a volunteer, working for no money and that I have a limited amount to spend on my friends and family. He says, “Give me just a little more.” And I reply, “That’s what I’m offering and it’s ok if you don’t want it because I’m thinking any one of those guys standing in front of all those other booths will take this price.”
They gave me what I offered every time.
Except … for one woman and I’m glad because I love what I got instead. And one elderly gentleman whose teeth were brown and one seemed ready to fall out. He had EXACTLY what I wanted to get a very special man in my life and when I asked “bei gani?” (how much?) he quoted me the fairest price I’ve been offered by anyone in this country for anything! I was so shocked I didn’t bargain at all. In fact, I found something else to buy.
And finally, I had been looking for a requested item since I arrived. My friend, Beth, wanted some fabric and had given me some suggestions and even the cash with which to make the purchase. We had been less than thrilled with what we’d been seeing the few times we had a chance to look so my director, Jolene, had kind of taken this on as her special project. We still hadn’t found it.
The men at the end of the first line of stalls began their onslaught of me and already knew I knew a few words of Swahili. They greeted me enthusiastically and I didn’t even lie. “I’m not mzuri (good)!” I exclaimed as I feigned almost fainting. Suddenly, they dropped the hard sale.
“Pole sana, madam,” they offered a quick apology and then inquired about what it was I was searching for. I explained and rather than dig into their stuff to show me yet more “almost-but-not-really” possibilities, one guy became the spokesperson.
“You’re not going to find that here but in town . . . “ and he continued with directions. I was shocked.
Jolene brought me out of my shopping shock and stupor to tell me she had at least found an example of the pattern we were looking for and the woman she had been talking to unfurled a hand-painted, modern take on African art. The thing, I think, was EXACTLY what I think Beth will like. So I asked the woman how much.
I’ve not seen such honest, worn, resolution as I did on that woman’s face as she folded the cloth and said with absolutely no enthusiasm, “Fifteen thousand.” And you could tell she was about as eager to bargain with me as I was with her.
“That’s absolutely perfect,” I said and dug in my purse for the bills. She looked up. She smiled and she gave me the cloth as Jolene said, “See you did get a first purchase of the day!”
I found out that Jolene had liked some key chains she was selling but had declined once she determined the coins dangling were Kenyan and not Tanzanian. The woman must have had her hopes dashed slightly and I got to redeem the sale!
I walked away quite pleased with my purchases but especially with my performance. I don’t like the idea of haggling. I rarely do it and consequently usually bring home very few sounvenirs. I don’t like the system that has built up around tourism and the bad name some of us give others as we bully our way to what we want. Neither do I like the fact that because of my complexion, I’m a target for gouging.
But I love fairness. And so I treated it as I knew I should – fairly.
I told Jolene later that I have no intention of trying to cheat these folks out of what they need. Enough people from all sides do that to them on a regular basis. But I don’t want to be cheated either so I love it when the price I’m offered is a good one. I then asked if Jolene would sign an affidavit indicating she had actually witnessed my bargaining. A few of my previous fellow travelers are simply not going to believe it without proof!
Walgreens ... EAST
We’ve decided I probably am deficient in a needed vitamin or two. My gums are bleeding. So yesterday after we did our first presentation (of what will no doubt be many to sway the thinking in what is definitely an outside the box arena) of a tool for the Traditional Birth Attendants to the area government medical politicos, we stopped in at a drug shop.
Amy, the fourth year med student and our resident Swahili translator, greeted the young female clerk with enough “hello, how are you, how’s your work” to satisfy the social graces. She then moved into the fact that we needed multivitamins. The young woman quickly and easily pulled the bottle off the shelf to count out our 15. And THEN . . .
She pulled out a square yard of brown paper (of cheap paper sack quality) and then pulled out the scissors. With origami-like precision (and I know that true origami doesn’t use scissors) she sheared and folded and glued until she had formed the perfect little envelope in which to put those 15 pills and taped the container shut.
I marveled and couldn’t help but wonder what my sister, the pharmacist, would say should she have to do the same on a day when she was filling 400 “scripts” at Walgreens.
Oh, one more thing, my big purchase cost all of 300 tshillings which isn’t 30 cents total.
Amy, the fourth year med student and our resident Swahili translator, greeted the young female clerk with enough “hello, how are you, how’s your work” to satisfy the social graces. She then moved into the fact that we needed multivitamins. The young woman quickly and easily pulled the bottle off the shelf to count out our 15. And THEN . . .
She pulled out a square yard of brown paper (of cheap paper sack quality) and then pulled out the scissors. With origami-like precision (and I know that true origami doesn’t use scissors) she sheared and folded and glued until she had formed the perfect little envelope in which to put those 15 pills and taped the container shut.
I marveled and couldn’t help but wonder what my sister, the pharmacist, would say should she have to do the same on a day when she was filling 400 “scripts” at Walgreens.
Oh, one more thing, my big purchase cost all of 300 tshillings which isn’t 30 cents total.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
For those who've been waiting . . .
If you knew what it took to upload these, you would gladly just turn your computer so that you can see them correctly!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Sampling the Serengeti
For those of you who know it, think west Texas without the windmills and with giraffes. (Someone needs to help me understand why wide expanses of land feel the need to populate their plains with tall, thin creatures reaching toward the sky! Gives a whole new flavor to my childhood song of deep and wide!)
The Serengeti elicited various emotions from our safari band of volunteers (two fourth year med students, a soon-to-be med student who is a recent Yale grad, and me). They rode quietly in awe of the "endless plains" as the name translates. I remembered my recent trip across my homeland, shifted in the seat numerous times during the hours-long trek and wished I could have seen more animals.
We did see giraffes and I fell in love with them just as I did the zebras on my earlier excursion. What's not to love? They are dressed for a party, always eating and travel with a crowd -- my kind of creatures!!
The driver and guide were wonderful and given that we managed to finagle (or really, our office manager pulled all the strings) this trip that costs most people somewhere around $1000 to get there and back for around $300.
"Getting there" was an experience though. Landrovers are the transportation of choice for the roads you must travel. And our vehicle this time had more scrapes, bangs and tears than a 9-year-old boy on summer vacation. But we traveled safe ...
And silently. Because even if you have seen west Texas, you can still harbor a sense of awe and between bumps, I did.
The Serengeti elicited various emotions from our safari band of volunteers (two fourth year med students, a soon-to-be med student who is a recent Yale grad, and me). They rode quietly in awe of the "endless plains" as the name translates. I remembered my recent trip across my homeland, shifted in the seat numerous times during the hours-long trek and wished I could have seen more animals.
We did see giraffes and I fell in love with them just as I did the zebras on my earlier excursion. What's not to love? They are dressed for a party, always eating and travel with a crowd -- my kind of creatures!!
The driver and guide were wonderful and given that we managed to finagle (or really, our office manager pulled all the strings) this trip that costs most people somewhere around $1000 to get there and back for around $300.
"Getting there" was an experience though. Landrovers are the transportation of choice for the roads you must travel. And our vehicle this time had more scrapes, bangs and tears than a 9-year-old boy on summer vacation. But we traveled safe ...
And silently. Because even if you have seen west Texas, you can still harbor a sense of awe and between bumps, I did.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Powerpoint Princess
I sort of made a name for myself when I first started my old job a decade ago as the go-to person regarding Powerpoint. I really wasn't that technically inclined but I intuitively knew how it worked because it was really based on the idea of strip posters and animation. Through the years, I was often seen crouched over the computer screen creating and recreating presentation that we would be using in leadership training the next day (or sometimes the next hour).
Today, I reclaimed my role as the Powerpoint Princess. I taught a beginner's class in the morning and an advanced class this afternoon. We went from "this is a text box where you put the words" to animating slides to the point of video quality (ok, I'm a princess I can exaggerate a bit!).
For all of you reading this who have suffered through and/or enjoyed my Powerpoint prowess, you were on my mind today.
Today, I reclaimed my role as the Powerpoint Princess. I taught a beginner's class in the morning and an advanced class this afternoon. We went from "this is a text box where you put the words" to animating slides to the point of video quality (ok, I'm a princess I can exaggerate a bit!).
For all of you reading this who have suffered through and/or enjoyed my Powerpoint prowess, you were on my mind today.
My Yuck Lasted Less Time than Houston's
I had food poisoning on Monday night and recovered all day Tuesday. By Wednesday I was back at the office, helping out with powerpoints, and teaching little communication tips to all that asked. (And at this point, more folks trust me and are asking!)
I heard today that one friend in Houston is still not recovered from whatever hit the city about the time I left, another got better and then got hit again, and still another has a new sore throat due to the on again off again yucky weather H-town is currently enduring.
Who would have thought I would have been healthier in Tanzania than at home?
I heard today that one friend in Houston is still not recovered from whatever hit the city about the time I left, another got better and then got hit again, and still another has a new sore throat due to the on again off again yucky weather H-town is currently enduring.
Who would have thought I would have been healthier in Tanzania than at home?
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