Writing Around the World with Judy M

Medevac

2010-10-11T21:08:00.000-07:00

Although the doctors on board the ship are very good, there are limits to what they can do, in large part because of the lack of sophisticated diagnostic and surgical equipment. When we were on the fifth day of our northern Pacific crossing, the captain announced that we would be changing course, heading towards Kodiak, Alaska, where we would meet up with a US Coast Guard helicopter to evacuate a passenger for medical reasons.

Naturally, there was much discussion among the passengers. It had been a long passage, and even with all the programs offered, including, of course, writing classes and book club, many passengers were restless or bored. The captain had not told us who the ill person was, or what sort of illness required this urgent transfer to a better medical facility, and everyone assumed, naturally, that the person was elderly and probably suffering from a heart attack or respiratory illness.

Only a few people knew otherwise, and I was one of them, because the person in question was Sasha, one of Melissa's closest friends on board, and the godson of Sidney Mobell, a well-known jeweler and amazing artist with precious metals and stone.

This is Sasha, with Melissa and Sidney.

Sasha's family is from the Ukraine, and they lived close to Chernobyl. When Sasha was five, the family moved to the US, where Sasha's father became close friends with Sidney. The father died of cancer at age 44, when Sasha was 19, no doubt due to the radiation caused by the Chernobyl reactor's meltdown. Sidney, who took his responsibilities as godfather seriously, gave Sasha many opportunities, and offered his home, too, when Sasha needed a place to stay. Sasha came on the cruise as Sidney's guest, a chance to travel and see something more of the world.

During the Pacific crossing, Sasha became suddenly very ill, and Sidney spent a night awake with him, helping him as best he could. When there was no improvement the next morning, Sidney took him to the medical center, where the doctors worked with him. They closed the doors to anything other than emergencies, which I later learned they'd done when they worked on resetting my dislocated ankle. They do this because even three doctors and two nurses are not enough to handle some emergencies and other patients as well.

Sasha was in a great deal of pain, but they were able to help him, and that evening he went back to the cabin. The next morning, though, he was worse, and returned to the doctors. When even the highest dose of morphine they could give him could no longer help him enough, they sedated him and, realizing they could do no more without diagnosing exactly what was wrong, and that they couldn't diagnose with the equipment on board, they informed the captain there was a medical emergency.

All this, of course, was very hard on Sidney, who'd just celebrated his 84th birthday on board, and on Sasha's friends. Over the few hours it took to reach the rendezvous point where the Coast Guard would meet the ship, some passengers learned that the patient was a young person. Given the scarcity of young people on board, other than the crew, and everyone knew this patient was not a crew member, and given the amazingly effective rumour mill on board, soon many people knew who it was that was so ill. And, of course, everyone had a theory of what was medically wrong, and was convinced that they knew all the facts. I have no idea how this sort of thing happens, but as we all know, rumours, however they begin, take on a life of their own. No one really knew what was wrong, but the doctors suspected Sasha's gall bladder was causing at least some of the extreme pain.

Melissa, needless to say, was very distraught. She could be brave with Sidney, but spent a lot of time alone, or with me and Stryker, her other close friend. The doctors had let her in during the day, and she said Sasha was very pale and weak. Now, as we reached the rendezvous point, she pleaded with the doctors to let her see Sasha before he left. They refused.

Two helicopters and a small airplane arrived. Both were painted in bright orange and white, for visibility, I assume. The seas were rough, and once the ship stopped, it was tossed about by the choppy waves. The transfer was to take place on the bow deck, which is the front section of deck four. The captain asked that everyone stay well away from the area, including away from the hallways leading to the bow deck. The plan was for one helicopter to lower a stretcher. Sasha would be strapped onto this, and then lifted into the helicopter. A doctor and nurse were on hand to oversee his care while the helicopter returned to Kodiak, where the hospital was waiting. No one else could go with them, for there was no room. Sidney very badly wanted to stay with his godson, but the doctors promised that he would get email as soon as they knew anything, and he had to be content with that.

Since the ship was moving so much, the Coast Guard decided to do a dry run, to make sure the transfer could be done safely. As well as the rough ocean, there were patches of thick fog, small patches, but very dense.

It had been a long passage, as I said, and a lot of people were very interested in what was happening. As it was cold out, the best place to observe what was happening was the Crow's Nest bar, on deck 9, and although I wasn't there, I was told it was very crowded. A few hardy people braved the weather and went outside on the decks that had a view of the bow.

I was in the library, my usual hangout, and while I was interested in how the transfer would take place, I refused to make Sasha's ordeal into an entertainment, and stayed where I was. Melissa also couldn't watch. She went back down after the dry run, and the doctors did let her see Sasha as they wheeled him on a gurney out of the medical centre. He was awake, she told me when she rejoined me, and actually looked much better than he had before, so she felt somewhat better.

The dry run took a while to complete. In the library, some people pressed themselves against the large windows, and offered a commentary on what they could see, which was a part of the bow deck. The fog patches seemed to come at the worst moments, just as the helicopter was trying to stay in a stable still position over the bow, and the ship's motion made lowering the stretcher difficult. The plane, which I think someone said was a C30, (there were several air force vets aboard). circled the ship the entire time. As the time dragged on, people began to speculate why the plane was there. The best guess was that it would pick up anyone who fell in the water, but that makes no sense, since a helicopter would be a much more manoeverable source of help. But, I don't know much about flying and moving people over open water.

There was some question of whether there was only one helicopter or two, but later we learned that the actual evacuation was filmed, because it appeared on the Coast Guard's website, so the second one probably was there for the cameraman.

After what seemed a very long time, at least an hour, I think, we heard that the Coast Guard and ship's crew decided to go ahead with the transfer. Sasha was wheeled outside, and lifted successfully into the helicopter. The aircraft them took off, and we resumed forward motion, moving back toward our original course.

Melissa and I learned later that while many of the people who watched the whole thing were respectful of both Sasha and the process, some saw it as a special entertainment just for them. A couple of overheard comments: A man, unhappy at how long the dry run had taken, complained while Sasha was being strapped onto the gurney, "I wish they'd hurry up, or we're going to miss dinner." One woman, after Sasha disappeared into the helicopter turned to her husband and said, sounding annoyed, "I thought he'd wave to us while he was going up. I wanted to get a picture."

Fortunately, these people were in the minority, and Sasha's friends never learned who they were.

Sasha made it to Kodiak, and was later transferred to Anchorage. In Anchorage, he was put in the ICU and his condition was upgraded to critical but stable. That last word, stable, meant a lot to all of us.

Meanwhile, life on board went on. Sidney received a lot of support from passengers and crew, which helped him a great deal. People began to joke, in a nice way, that Stryker had better be careful, because bad things happen in threes, and two of Melissa's three closest people on board, Sasha, myself, and Stryker, had had bad things happen. (I think she was a little relieved when the end of the cruise arrived and Stryker was still healthy.)

Sasha's mother flew up to be with her son. Sidney had a hard time because the hospital would no longer give him updates on Sasha's condition, since he was not immediate family. Sasha's sister, though, helped out by sending emailed reports to both Sidney and Melissa.

Sasha slowly improved, and he is now home in California, having made a complete recovery.

Cruise Ship People - Troon Sul

2010-07-03T15:42:00.001-07:00

Troon, and I’m not sure if that’s how he spells his name in English letters, is a Korean man in his seventies. He was born in Beijing, and lived there for a number of years. He told me today about his former addictions, alcohol and gambling, and the one he hasn’t been able to give up, smoking, although he is down to five cigarettes a day.

He started smoking when he was in the army. An officer came out to see the new recruits, and stopped in from of Troon. “Do you smoke?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

The officer pulled out a pack of cigarettes and, taking one, put it in Troon’s breast pocket. “There,” he said. “Smoke, and you’ll be a real soldier.”

Troon married a few years later, and started drinking and gambling. One day, years later, he came home late (to California) from Las Vegas. When he opened his front door, he found his wife. She’d pulled a chair to directly face the door, and she was sitting there, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He decided then that he had lost his wife’s respect. Respect, and the idea it has to be earned, was taught him by his mother, and he determined to do whatever it took to gain it back. He said it took him 14 years, during which she could never truly trust him or anything he said, but now, a long time later, he feels like a good man and a good husband again, even though he still has those few cigarettes a day.

I told him he deserves a lot of respect for being able to give up the two addictions. It started me thinking, later, about how that marriage had held together. I suspect his wife didn’t see leaving him as an option. Although they got married in 1967, I suspect their culture was not one of ‘free love’ as it was in parts of North America. I respect Troon, but I respect his wife even more. She is on board, but I haven’t met her. Troon is the only other person who ever sits in the green chairs, that I describe in another post. We don’t always feel the need to talk, both happy to read or otherwise occupy ourselves, but we are getting to know each other. Today we were talking about the difference between an actor and a writer, both of whom create characters. We probably got into this because the remake movie of Fun With Dick and Jane was on a couple of nights ago, and Bob Morrisey, the acting teacher on board, has a role in it which, while not huge, is still definitely part of the movie.

Troon wondered if actors become different people when they portray a character, and then maybe find it difficult to become themselves in between roles. Bob, though, during his classes, tells the students to figure out the situation and what the character wants, and then think about how they, the person they are, would react and do that.

I’ve always thought that if I acted, I would become the character, and that it would be liberating, in a way, to become someone else. Bob teased me, when I was attending his classes regularly B.A. (before ankle) that I was too nice, too sweet. He’d give me an angry scene to do, and ask what do I do when I’m angry. I don’t usually let anger out, though, which perhaps is why I suffer from depression. (Someone once told me that depression is anger turned inward, and for some reason that concept has stuck. But maybe it’s true.) But I guess I have gotten angry and had arguments or fights with some people, so I tried to draw on that. But in the class, I found it easier to just think that I had become this other person who did express anger, and my portrayal was better that way. (I hope Bob never reads this. He’ll be shattered.)

Anyway, back to Troon. We had an interesting discussion that moved to creating characters in a movie, which is a combination of the writer’s words, the individual actor, the director, and probably all sorts of things how the actor is lit and what music plays during the scene, and camera angles, and all sorts of stuff that Bob knows about and I don’t. But when I create a character, I do it all by myself. Complete creative control. And I told Troon that I write, in part, to become people I’m not and have experiences that I never have had and never will. I don’t write about myself, although something of me must be in everything I write, since it comes from me.

It was an interesting conversation, and then I told him that my background is in psychology, and right away he shifted back in his chair, and said that he had to be careful what he said. I could tell that he was genuinely uncomfortable, and I said the usual things that I used to say about how I am unable to learn secret things about people just from looking at them and that I’m essentially just like anyone else when it comes to those subconscious assumptions we are always making about others. I talked about how we all reveal ourselves through body language and facial expressions as well as what we say, and that we are social animals, so we all can read these cues.

He went away at that point, and I felt terrible, even though, while I sometimes used to get this reaction from strangers back when I was an undergrad at McGill, nobody’s really seemed concerned about since the mid-‘70s.

A few minutes later I saw him going up the stairs to deck five, and since I know he drinks coffee, I called to him and asked if he’d bring me a steamed milk with strawberry syrup in it. He did so, then went back upstairs for his coffee, and so I apologized profusely for making him go up twice, even though he takes the stairs nimbly and quickly compared to a lot of the other elderly people on board. And when he came back, and we talked some more, and any fear about psychologists had vanished.

T little bit of my brain that still knows anything about psychology wondered if my asking him to do me a favour had given him a sense of control over the relationship we have, and so he felt more comfortable, but then I decided that was all nonsense.

And then he told me that when he was in the army, not only had his commanding officer given him that first cigarette, but the Red Cross regularly handed out packages which were sampler packs of different cigarette brands. And that freaked me out more than anything else.

I look forward to our next conversation.

The Fragility of Bones

2010-06-04T18:18:00.000-07:00

Our skeleton is all that holds us up, at least when we are trying to ignore the pull of gravity. Muscles, of course, need to be strong, too, but without the bones, we have no way to stand tall.
My bones are healing, and I no longer wear a cast. I am using a cane, so I can teach my ankle and foot how to walk, without experiencing too much pain. I can walk on my own with my right foot at a more-than 45 degree outwards angle, but I don't want to lurch from step to step in that way forever, and so am seeing a physiotherapist and using the cane in the way she has shown me.
    I haven't used painkillers since a couple of weeks after the surgery, but she warned me to use some before each appointment, as she has to move my foot and ankle to positions they haven't experienced in three months. The bones, muscles, and ligaments are happy with the new position they assumed during the time since my injury, and are resistant to change, even though the new positions, which really are the old positions, will be healthier. It's okay, I am willing to deal with the pain, since I know it will bring me to a healthier place.
We have bones, muscles, and ligaments in the non-body parts of our lives, too. When Carl left me, I succumbed to gravity and became a puddle, something with no skeleton, no shape. I was just a raw pool of grief and poor self-esteem, that sought the lowest level. Just as water always follows gravity, I sank, unable to rise up and chart my own course.
But over time, my bones have once again begun to give me a shape. It's been painful, even more painful than what I'm experiencing as my ankle once again learns to function. Still, I've risen against the pull of gravity, found ways to move into new positions.
It's not a completed process yet. A surgeon here told me my ankle will probably always be a little stiff. My physiotherapist said my ankle will never be as thin as it was, because the healing bones build up more thickly, to better cover the breaks. I can understand than my mental injuries may well need a thicker protective coat to keep those parts of me strong enough to function.
It's silly, when I was quite young, I read a novel in which a boy didn't like a girl because she had thick ankles. Because of this, I've always been proud of having thin ones. My right ankle is still very swollen, enough that it's difficult to even get a sock on, never mind a shoe. I'm not sure how it will look once the swelling is gone and all the healing that can take place is complete. I'm beginning to realize that it doesn't matter. I may have a thick ankle, and the scar from the surgery will always show. It's okay, though. They are there because of things I've gone through. There's no sense in pretending these things didn't happen, and if I meet a person who can't like me because I have a thick ankle, well, I don't want to like that person anyway. I am who I am because all these things have happened to me, and I want to be loved not despite them, but because they are part of me.
Even more important, I am learning to have compassion for myself. For the person who tripped and fell, who was too concerned with not making a mess and so didn't fall well. But also for the person who married a man who loved her more than anything, but whose love changed so quickly after the marriage, who was often cruel, critical, and controlling, but who also could make her laugh. Who, in the last years of the marriage, was more supportive, was a good partner, but who I now know was less happy because I was more happy and more independent. Who destroyed me in many ways, but I stayed anyway.
I can never heal without finding new positions. And it is painful, thinking about why I stayed for so long when I knew doing so was dangerous. It's been tempting, to see myself in the role of victim. All the therapists I've seen, during the marriage and after, have told me he was abusive and that I should leave. Why didn't I? Was I truly so weak? I know that women with abusive partners often feel they don't deserve to find happiness, and don't have the strength to handle the new life that could be theirs. It's frightening to look change in the eye. It's easier to keep trying, and I can't blame anyone for feeling that way. Trying is a strength, a gift, in many ways. But there comes a time when we realize that what we are losing, what is being taken from us, is more important, more deadly.
   I didn't have the strength to leave. He left me. Now, more than a year later, I can realize just how beaten down I was. When he told told me he was leaving, I made a bitter comment about how his first wife, who left him after only a few years, must have known things that I wish I did. He got angry with me, said it was because I said things like that he was leaving, and so I immediately felt guilty and apologized. That was what my reality was back then, I was always wrong, and I had no idea life could be different. I don't have it in me, not yet, to thank him for finally ending the marriage, but I do need to forgive myself for not leaving.
    I have to find ways to feel compassion for the person I was, and to welcome the pain now as I push myself into new positions, a new life, a new way to stand up and resist the pull of gravity. It hurts, maybe it always will, but I am doing my best to work through the pain to what it will give me.
Bones are both strong and fragile. I've only broken a bone once before, and that was two toes. It happened because of the one crime I've committed. It was a long time ago, when I was around twenty. I was at an all-night party, and at around 4:00 a.m., some of us decided to go out and steal signs. I wanted a Dead End sign, I'm not sure why, but we found one, we got it off of its pole, and I took it home.
When I reached home, I parked my car near my apartment, and carried the sign across the lawn towards the building. I was with my friend Ruth, who was too drunk to get home, so she was going to stay with me. As I walked, the sign slipped out of my hands ( it was surprisingly heavy.) It was a diamond shape, I was holding it by its upper corner, and its full weight landed on my foot through the bottom corner. I was wearing those suede-topped clogs that were so popular then, and they offered no protection at all.
I picked up the sign and limped into my apartment, My foot hurt, more than anything I'd ever experienced, and the big toe's nail was rapidly turning black. Now, I'm someone who once, when I was a kid at camp, stuck my foot under the end of a canoe that had just slipped out of my hands, because I'd been told to never let the canoe stand in the sand. That had hurt, and the camp councillor told me it would have been okay to let the canoe fall in the sand. Back then, as in so much of my life, it's been difficult to put my own needs ahead of others'. But this hurt more, and Ruth and I evenutally decided I should go to the hospital.
I have only ever driven a standard transmission car. Ruth was still too drunk to drive (I've never been drunk.) So I drove, using my hurt left foot on the clutch. When we arrived, the ER wasn't very busy, so we were shown into a cubicle right away. Ruth promptly climbed on the bed and went to sleep. I sat in the chair and smiled at her.
I was so glad she was there with me. She made me laugh turning what could have been a bad experience, into a good one. I could have been angry at myself for my carelessness and stupidity, I could have seen what happened as punishment for stealing. Instead it was an experience that made me feel I was alive. I was an individual, a person who made mistakes, just as we all did. The pain would go away, I would heal, and I would remember this time with laughter, because of my friend. It turned out two toes were broken. The nurse told me the pain would ease if she could remove the pressure of the blood behind my toenail.
This was surprisingly low-tech. She unbent a paperclip, held it in a bunsen burner flame, and put the tip against my nail. This hurt a lot, more than the bones did, and at one point I couldn't help it, I jerked my foot away. Embarrassed to show such weakness, I muttered, "Oh, I am such a coward."
The nurse stopped what she was doing at that point, lifted her head from where she concentrating on my foot, and looked straight at me. "No, you are not," she said. And something about how she said it, so directly, as if saying it was the most important thing she could ever do, changed something for me.
She returned to what she was doing, and I don't remember her name, but I will always remember her with gratitude. My upbringing up to that point, and my marriage that was to come, tried to shape me into someone who was weak, who was always at fault. What that nurse told me that night was the first type of therapy I encountered that showed me I am not those things. I am strong, and that's why my marriage became so difficult. I couldn't be the weak pliable person I appeared to be when Carl met me. That's what he wanted, and I couldn't do it. I've been working against gravity for a long time.
Breaking bones hurts, but it results in stronger bones and newly built muscle. I laugh now when I think of breaking my toes. I wish I still had that sign, with its warning that was so appropriate. I gave it away when I left Kingston, to someone who really wanted it. I hope it has brought laughter to him.
And so I'm dealing with pain still, but know that it's there for a reason. I'm moving into new positions. Someday soon, my foot will point straight ahead, instead of to the side. I'll move ahead, and up, resisting gravity, so I can find compassion for the person I was, and learn just how strong my bones truly are. We are all fragile, and we are all stronger than we know.

A Whine

2010-05-31T15:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, since I got home my life has become ever more chaotic. Actually, it's mostly the house's fault. I've been okay with everything until today, and so you get the whine and hopefully I can go back to being okay.
I came back and got the cast off, which was good, so now I can kind of hobble around, even without the crutches on good days, and I can drive the car, which is also good. I hobble to the car, take the walking cast boot thing off, drive, put the boot back on, and get groceries or whatever. It's a sign of how housebound I was feeling, that I actually want to go grocery shopping.
We've been having a lot of rain here, which is unusual but seems to be part of the overall weather changes that are happening all over the planet. Since the basement has been leaking for the last few years, it is continuing to flood, only with more water than before.
. We'd tried smaller fixes in the past, making sure the land of all sides of the house sloped away, taking up the patio and getting someone in to put more sand and a water barrier in before putting the bricks back. These things helped some, but not completely.
Jesse was getting the water out while I was away, but he went to Toronto for ten days, and it rained almost the whole time. The whole room down there, the new basement, for those of you who've been here, (The original basement, from 1912, has never had any problems.) was full of water to about two or three inches deep. Since I can't haul buckets of water, I found some big containers, those tubs you can get for storage. I found some waterproof boots that probably belong to Jesse, sat on the couch, watched several episodes of House and used a mop to move water from the floor to the tubs.    I moved a lot of water, but when I reached to point where my arms hurt, I couldn't tell that I'd done anything.
   So I got smart and looked in the yellow pages under Flood. I discovered there are a lot of 'didaster' companies, that will come in and take care of the problem from start to finish, acting as a contractor to bring in people with the different skills and areas of expertise that are needed.
I've had pretty good luck choosing services out of the phone book, and I'm very happy with the people who are here now. I chose the ad that included the word 'smile' in it. These guys are great and knowledgeable. The only problem, in fact, is that they are getting things going too quickly.
They brought in a carpet cleaning truck to suck out the water. They left a dehumidifier running, and vented it out the small basement window. They brought in a mould guy, who showed me all the areas with mould. They tracked down possible suspects for how and why the water is getting in. And after just a couple of days, they started tearing out the drywall in the basement. I knew it was going to have to come out, since there has to be damage back there. Even I could figure out that the water was coming in along the back of the house, going down mostly inside the wall, although sometimes along the floor above a little way and then dripping from the basement ceiling.
I wish I'd brought in these people years ago, when the problems first started. I didn't, in part because it made sense to try the smaller, cheaper fixes first, and part because I trusted Carl when he said everything was fine, there was no need to do expensive work. In the past when he was still here, we took water out, and sanded and painted over stains. This, though, has become a much more serious problem, and the mould could well be a major component of the many allergies and other health problems we've experienced over the last few years.
Anyway, while trust, and lack of trust, is an issue I'd like to whine about, I won't. But it turns out that the walls, part of the ceiling, and probably my lovely tile floor are going to have to come out so the mould can be removed. Riley, the mould guy, takes this seriously, and has put up good plastic barriers, several layers in places, so dust and mould won't spread to other parts of the house. He tells me the spores, if they spread, could grow if they find moisture in other areas.
   It rained again over the weekend, and so there is more water. It was actually kind of nice to go downstairs and see the water and know I didn't have to deal with it, at least I don't as long as I don't think about all these things contributing to the final bill I'll have to pay. The dehumidifier quit working Saturday night, though, and I thought, with my tiny bit of elctrical knowledge that there'd probably been a short because the unit was now sitting in water, and that the water might be dangerous.
I wasn't brave, or stupid, enough to find out for myself, and I started worrying that the guys, when they arrived to work on Monday morning, might get electrocuted. I know this is silly, that they know far more than I do about all this, and they have a lot of experience, but I couldn't help it. Since they might arrive early, before I got up, I wrote them a note. They were very polite about it when I did talk to them, didn't snicker at all, but were totally not worried about being electrocuted.
Anyway, this has resulted in lots of chaos, because everything in the new basement had to come out. Riley took the couch away to clean and dry, and he said he'd tell me if he thinks it's worth keeping. One end of it is falling off, and I was thinking about replacing it, but that will depend on how much all this costs. The guys put all the books and dvds in boxes and extra strong huge plastic bags, which was great because packing and moving stuff is another thing my ankle prevents me doing. all teh Tv boxes, dvd player, VCR, speakers, etc, also came up. I know I have to pay for their time, but I'm trying to look at how great it is to have these good-looking guys around doing stuff for me, instead of worrying about money. The shelving unit for the dvds had to come out and can't be salvaged. The pink bookshelf, a relic from when Melissa was very young and actually liked pink, is also a write-off for the base is rotting from being wet some often.
Some of the this stuff could be put into the old basement, but it is already pretty full, because I cleared out my office and bedroom, and the third floor before I left for the cruise, to make room for the renters, and most of that stuff is down there. So, lots of stuff came upstairs and is in my quilt room and office.
I've always lived in a bit of chaos. My desk is never neat, and usually there are piles of stuff on the floor. It's organized chaos, though, and I can find things. As I've grown older, I find I have less tolerance for too much stuff, and right now, with some piles blocking space between rooms and growing almost as tall as I am, I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed.
Then yesterday, the phone stopped working. I have a cell phone, and so this wasn't a big issue, but I guess it was the first last straw. There were others, though. Anupama had invited friends over for dinner, which was fine, but the table in the solarium was the only one that could reasonable be big enough, and it was covered with stuff. I was invited for dinner, too, and so while she cooked a wonderful Indian meal, I moved it all into my quilt room and office, building piles upon piles. She was able to use my cell to call people who needed to reach her and give them my number, and the dinner party went well, although, Monster, for some reason, has taken a dislike to all men and barks and growls at them nonstop unless you get very forceful with him. Even then, he growls out of the side of his mouth when he thinks you're not looking. He's fine with women. The three women guests arrived first, and he was very cute. When the two men arrived, well I guess he was still cute, he can't not be cute, but he was very noisy. It's almost as if he's afraid of men, and with the work guys coming and going, he's finding plenty of opportunities to demonstrate his fight or flight impulses.
Anyway, I called about the phone, and spent time as directed by the phone guy I spoke to on my cell. Anupama helped, which was good, as we had to unplug all the phones and then plug them in one at a time and then I had to find the phone modem in the basement. This was tricky because I knew about two boxes down there, but they are both internet related. Fortunately the phone company had a note saying the phone box is near the electrical panel and thanks to the phone guy describing it, I found it.
All of this was complicated by my ankle, and by the fact Anupama hurt her back a week ago, lifting something heavy in her lab. So she can't bend over or lift, and I can't crawl around to find cords. We'd been joking about how useless we are are, even before all this began.
Anyway, all this plugging and unplugging helped the phone guy on the phone figure out someone needed to come to the house. He came today, and learned that the phone had shorted out from the water, which makes sense, I guess, although I didn't think any of its wires were low enough to get wet.
The phone now works, but the work guys told me they need to take out the wall beneath the window in the solarium. This means that everything in there has to be moved out, or at least well back, so they can put up the plastic barriers and give themselves enough room to work. I was also shown how the tile floor along the base of that wall is beginning to crack, because of water. Sigh.
I've been doing pretty well dealing with all this, in fact I was pleased with how calm I've been. I figured that as long as I could keep a pathway to my desk, to my sewing machine, and to my bedroom, I was okay.
But, and this is a big but, tomorrow night Melissa and her friend Sarah arrive to stay, and her fiance Matt will be joining us in a few days, after his conference in Regina. We will then have six people in the house, with no basement, no solarium, and with the usual room that Melissa uses, on the third floor, inhabited by Anupama.
This is why way up near the beginning of this post I said it was bad that the guys were doing the work so quickly. Still, I suppose no one would have appreciated sleeping in the basement if it meant having a snorkel handy, and I am glad that this problem will finally be taken care of.
But today I am not calm. I'm overwhelmed and stressed and I've been walking around in my cast without the crutches more than usual so it hurts, only it doesn't really because with my high pain tolerance I'm aware of pain but it doesn't bother me, but I always worry that I'm making things worse becasue Itlon't stop doing whatever is making it hurt becasue it doesn't bother me.
Apparently I'm overwhelmed enough that I write run-on sentences, too.
So, that's what I'm whining about. I actually feel better, now that I've whined. If my ankle wasn't a problem, I could also lie down and kick and scream, which would probably help, too, but I guess the whining is it for now.

Quilting While Cruising

2010-05-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that everyone thought I was insane for bringing a sewing machine on the cruise, I was not the only one who did so. There were several quilters on board and at least one of them also brought her machine. And none of them thought I was nuts.
I brought my older Bernina, bought in 1983, because it is built like a tank and has a good hard shell case. I meant to bring it onto the plane as carry on, but in the beginning of January, when I flew to Florida to meet the ship, no one flying into the US was allowed any carry on. Not even my laptop bag made it, and I had to grovel and whine in order to bring on a book, so I'd have something to read during the flights. Once through security, the gates were full of people clutching naked laptops to their chests.
I told the airline that the sewing machine was fragile, and they stuck one of those broken wine glass stickers on the case. I think those stickers are seen by airline baggage handlers as an instruction, as in, "This should be broken so it matches the picture." Even though it was treated as normal luggage, and so did the conveyor belts with their associated drops, the Bernina survived perfectly. The case was even cracked open on one corner, but the machine worked perfectly all during the cruise.
To get it home, I took if off the ship in Vancouver, and it is returning here by bus. I assume teh bus ride will be gentler than the flights.
That machine does only seven stitches, but I knew I'd have very little room to spread out while sewing, and so I brought only projects that were simple, those involving squares and rectangles, nothing more. I brought fabric for three tops. One was the red and black log cabin I'm making for Melissa's future grandmother-in-law, and I picked out the fabric just before I left Saskatoon. The other two were kits I bought years ago, when I first started quilting.

When I did the first cutting for a project, I took the fabric, my mat, and rotary cutter up to the Lido, and used this round table near the back. Through the windows behind me you can see the aft deck, which is outside on Deck 8.

For smaller cutting jobs, those that needed to be done while sewing, such as cutting apart chain-pieced block sections or trimming, I used the cabin. Before I broke my ankle, I knelt at my bed.

There was a small moveable table in the cabin, and I put a towel over it and it became my ironing board. The chair at the front of the picture is at the desk, and I used it while sewing, so you can see tht no area was very far from any other.

And here I am, sewing.

After I broke my ankle, I became much more efficient.

I finished two tops, which still need borders, but here they are.

Working in my cabin wasn't ideal, since the cabin, being low and right in the bow, showed clearly whenever the ship pitched while underway. I could have taken the machine up to the library or the Lido, but there were only a few plugs near tables, and it would have been difficult to carry everything in one trip. I need one of those rolling sewing machine carts, with lots of pockets! But I could sew when the ship was in port, and when we were in calm water. I started the third top, but it isn't ready to be photographed.
I also got a pair of socks knitted, which I gave to Sidney Mobell. I'll be doing a post on him soon.

I didn't sew the items in the following pictures. Some of the quilters on board did a little show and tell, and I just love what these two quilters are doing and so had to share them with you. Unfortunately, I didn't get anyone's name.

These are all clothing, and for the top two, the quilter began with a man's while business shirt. She cut the white fabric away under the applique pieces, so that there would be no extra bulk. Aren't these pieces amazing?

Standing on My Own Two Feet

2010-05-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

On May 5th, exactly two months after the fall that broke my ankle, I stood on both my feet, with the weight distributed equally between them. This was a Big Deal!
I can't put any more weight than that on the right foot, but it is progress. The cast came off on May 3rd, which was a Very Welcome event. I have a walking boot now, which is something like a ski book that goes up to my knee. I can take it off at night, and whenever I am sitting for a while. I do stretches and circles with the ankle, which currently has very limited motion. It is slowly improving, though, which I guess is the best I can hope for.
I am home now, but I still have more things to post about the cruise. And, since I now don't have to pay for Internet by the minute, I can upload more photos. So stay tuned to this spot!
I seem to be in a mood to use Capital Letters and exclamation marks!

Hangouts On Board

2010-04-23T23:47:00.000-07:00

We are crossing the northern Pacific, leaving Russia in the Bering Sea, and passing by the Aleutian Islands. I am not getting about to take pictures as much as I’d like, but they are very beautiful. They rise starkly from the water, dark brown in the distance, streaked vertically with the clear white of snow and ice.

Today is the fourth day of the passage, with three more to go. For the last three days, and tomorrow, we lose the hour between two p.m. and three. Two days before the passage, we lost two hours, one in the afternoon, one at night. Everyone is very tired, feeling stretched thin. I would honestly choose jet lag, changing eight or twelve hours all at once, over this changing the clock gradually. Every night I get to sleep an hour later. Last night it was five a.m. I get up in the late morning, but I’m still always tired.

Usually during the cruise, since I normally go to sleep between one and two a.m., the library is inhabited by very few people. There are the jigsaw puzzle ladies, and one or two people who are reading or on the Internet. Recently, though, it is more crowded, because more and more people are finding it difficult to sleep. The casino, also, is busier late at night.

I like the jigsaw puzzle ladies. Most people, over a long cruise, find their favorite place to hang out. It’s a big ship, and there are several sorts of places, which is good.

(I intend to add some pictures to this post, but in case I don’t or they aren’t very good, and you are curious, go to the Holland America website and look at the ship named ms Amsterdam. Their photos make everything look fabulous and classy, which I suppose it is, but it’s also just the ship I’ve been living on for almost four months. Kind of like living in a mobile hotel.)

Decks one and two are cabins only. Below deck one are decks A, B, and C. These are crew quarters, although some crew are on passenger decks – officers, heads of departments, entertainers who are brought in for one or two performances.

Deck three is the one that has an outside deck running all around the ship. It’s the promenade deck, since that’s where you go to promenade, but on this ship the deck is called the Lower Promenade.

Near the center of the ship is the atrium, which is a large vaguely round area that rises three storeys. All the cruise ships I’ve been on have an atrium, and each one has a large piece of art or something rising through the center. This one has a fancy clock. Our atrium starts on deck three. The various heads of departments, hotel manager, cruise director, and others have offices around this space, and in the center are desks that are used mostly by travel agency representatives. Many guests book through Cruise Specialists International or another agency like that, as they can get good group rates for cabins, and usually organize social events and shore excursions especially for their group.

Deck four, called the Promenade deck, holds the lower level of the large theatre where the evening shows take place, in the bow. In the stern is the lower level of the main dining room. In between, in the atrium, is the front desk, which handles just about everything the guests need. It’s like the front desk in a hotel, which essentially, is what the ship is. There’s also the smaller theatre, which is where movies are shown, and where classes like mine, and lectures are held. And the photo gallery. Every cruise ship has photographers wandering around taking pictures, and also taking formal posed shots on formal nights. All the photos are set out in the gallery, where you can go and look through a very large number of pictures of people who, like you were when the picture was taken, were leaning on the stern rail on the Lido deck. If you’re persistent or lucky, and they don’t all start to blur because they all look alike, you’ll find the one of you. If you like it, you can spend what seems like a large amount of money for a photo, and take it home. You can also take your own pictures and take a tech class on deck five, to learn how to do marvelous things with them. Each Holland America ship has a Microsoft trained employee, who teaches people how to use Microsoft software to edit photos.

Deck five, the Upper Promenade deck, is where the library is. In the bow and stern are the upper levels of the large theatre and dining room. The Ocean bar is on one side of the atrium, the area in which a band plays dance music starting at four in the afternoon, and continuing as long as there are dancers. This is one place the dance hosts work. They are enrichment staff, like me, but work more hours, four or five a day. They are here to dance with women who don’t have a partner, and as there are more women than men at the age level of most guests, and on board, they keep busy.

There are three shops on deck five, also. One sells jewelry, and it is larger than both other stores put together. They constantly bring out new things, so that there is always a reason to go in – to see what’s new. Oh, I forgot, there is a fourth shop, also a jewelry store. It is smaller, and sells only very expensive stuff. It has a curtain across its entrance, which is drawn when someone requests a private viewing of a Faberge egg or something equally valuable.

One of the other stores sells clothing, most with the Holland America logo on it, and also hats, bags, and other Holland America stuff. The smallest store sells liquor, but also has some drug store items, such as toothpaste and aspirin. That is where my books are on sale, along with CDs and DVDs from assorted entertainers.

Further back, there is the piano bar and Explorers Lounge on one side, and the library on the other. The piano bar, known as the Rembrandt Lounge, is Stryker’s bar. It isn’t a traditional piano bar, it doesn’t have the piano in the middle and people sit around it and chat with and confide in Stryker. The piano is on a platform at one end of the room, and people sit in chairs with little tables scattered around, to listen. As in all the bars on board, there is alcohol available, for a fee, but no one feels uncomfortable if they sit there and don’t drink.

Stryker has become one of Melissa’s closest friends on board. He’s had an interesting life, working for a time as an actor. He needed a stage name at one point, and chose Stryker, and that’s what he goes by now. For those of you who are X-Men movie fans, the Colonel Stryker in those movies is named after him.

He can’t read music, but can play anything. He is well valued by Holland America, because he is an excellent entertainer, singing as well as playing. He is good at interacting with his audience, and has introduced Name That Tune games this year which I really enjoy, especially because when I play with Tony, who’s from Calgary, our team usually wins. After the daily humiliation at the regular trivia game, it’s nice to win, even if the prize is yet another Holland America key chain or luggage tag.

The casino is on this deck, and sitting in the library I hear assorted dings and clangs, as people play the slot machines. Once in a while I hear a slot machine release a surge of coins, but that doesn’t happen often. There are tables, too, for poker, roulette, and blackjack, and a cashier who is barricaded behind wood and glass.

There’s also a sports bar, with a flat screen TV tuned to, what else, sports. There’s usually no one there.

At the front end of the library is a room full of card table-sized tables, usually the haunt of bridge players. Then there is the library proper, with bookshelves and lots of books. Along the outside wall are large windows and the leather chairs with footrests that I like so much. This area is usually crowded, and noisy. It’s rather odd, but people who want a quiet place to read tend to go across the ship to the Explorers Lounge. If I can’t get a leather chair, and there are only five of them, I’ve discovered a little area on deck four, where there’s a space about ten feet by ten, which isn’t really useful in any way. There’s a storage area on one side and a wheelchair washroom on the other. It’s a very narrow washroom, as I’ve discovered, too narrow to turn a wheelchair around in. The one time I tried I got wedged between the sink and the garbage bin, which is set in the wall and so can’t be moved. I wondered how long it would take for someone to discover me, and wished I’d brought a book in with me, but after much wriggling of the chair, I did get out. Now, I back straight out.

One other wheelchair washroom, while I’m on the subject, on the Lido deck, for some reason has its own speaker and so the canned music playing at a subtle volume out in the restaurant, is ferociously loud it there. Plus, it’s always freezing in there, too. But, they do have push buttons to open and close the door, and rails to hold on to, and a sink at a lower, more-reachable-from-a-chair height, so they’re all good.

Anyway, back to this area of deck four. Someone has thoughtfully placed two green chairs there which, although they aren’t as comfortable as the ones in the library, have footrests. There’s rarely anyone there, so it’s a good place for me to settle to read or write or do email.

Just aft of the book part of the library, is an area with two large tables. This is jigsaw puzzle territory, and as such, it is well guarded from anyone who might want to do something else with the tables. Puzzles are worked on by groups, and at assorted times, but every night, beginning around midnight, three or four of them arrive, and they are often still at it when I leave at two a.m.

They are older ladies, and they get quite rowdy as they put pieces in place. The ship has a lot of puzzles on hand, and the librarian even kept one hidden, so that they’d have something new to work on during this crossing. Rose is the puzzle lady I know best, although I first met her when I was sitting out on the promenade deck (which also has deck chairs) and she approached me out of the blue and wanted to show me some photographs she’d taken. I was happy enough to look, and although she was a little uncertain of how to bring up the pictures she wanted to show, or how to zoom in to the part she wanted, she was so enthusiastic about them, and told me about assorted people in some of them, it was all interesting. She showed a lot of concern when I broke my ankle, and always stops to chat when she arrives in the library. She’s a widow, still misses her husband a great deal, but is determined to continue traveling and have new experiences whenever she can. She wears large glasses of a type that distort the eyes, so she often looks vague, but she’s not.

Behind the puzzle room is another room with some computers and comfortable chairs. At the back is a large table whose top is all inlaid in different colours of stone. There are a couple of electric plugs back there, and so laptop users tend to congregate there.

In the evening, while Stryker is playing, there is a violinist and pianist in the Explorer’s Lounge, and I can hear them play when I sit in the library. They are very good, and play a wide variety of music. There’s also usually a small chocolate buffet set up there at night, but I pretend I don’t know that.

During the day, the bars and lounges are used for assorted events. There is a kind of Olympics going on, in which people hit small balls with large hockey sticks through traffic cones, or toss rings into hula hoops. All participants win Dam Dollars, which can be exchanged for assorted Holland America clothing and cups and things. These games sometimes take place in the Ocean Bar, which is where I teach my off-program but regular writing classes. The book club is in Stryker’s bar. My on-program writing classes are in the movie theatre. Most spaces are busy most of the day.

Deck six, the Verandah deck, is where the verandah cabins are, cabins that the same size as most, but have a small balcony. Deck seven, the Navigation deck, has the suites, double-sized cabins with bigger balconies. That deck has its own lounge, which has its own concierge as well as other staff. There’s also a business center there, with Internet hook ups. I guess for what those people pay, they deserve a few extra perks. The bridge is near the bow of deck seven.

Deck eight, called the Lido deck, has one swimming pool near the bow. It has a retractable roof and deck chairs all around it, and is a popular place. I’m not sure why, as it tends to be stuffy and smell like chlorine, but especially when we were in warmer places, it was filled with bodies, most of which overflowed their bathing suits by a considerable amount, lying in the sun if the roof was open, and in the humidity if it wasn’t. (Speaking of bathing suits, one of comedian performers did a hilarious bit about how guys above a certain age should not be allowed to wear Speedos.)

Deck eight also has the cafeteria style restaurant, and then there’s an outside deck at the back, which also has a pool. It’s a nice place to sit, as there is shade if you want it, and lots of tables for people who want to eat outside, as well as lots of deck chairs.

Deck eight has the gym, where the treadmills are right along the front, in front of tall windows, and the spa, where you can get everything – waxings, massages, facials, mud wraps, acupuncture, and so on.

Deck nine only exists in the front third of so of the ship. It’s called the Sports Deck, and as a volleyball court, a basketball court, (both with netting as walls and ceiling so balls don’t end up in the ocean), and a short running track. When we’re moving, it tends to be very windy, so runners tend to go very slowly for half the lap, and very fast for the rest. There’s also an area for teens to hang out, and a day care area, where little kids, who are very rare on long cruises, can paint and play. The ship has a childcare person. She spent the first three months with one five-year old, but currently I think there are three or four little kids. She does many other jobs, too, helping out as needed.

Also on deck nine, right in the front, is another bar called the Crow’s Nest. This is the party place. While the music there for much of the evening is dance music for ballroom style, like the Ocean Bar, and this is the other place the dance hosts keep busy, after about eleven or so there’s a DJ who, when he gets tired, lets people plug in their iPods to the sound system to they can dance to rock and roll or whatever the current popular music is called. He plays this style of music, too.

Each formal night there’s a party up there, and as the formal nights on this ship are all themed, there are appropriate decorations and drinks, and people come dressed appropriately. Most recently we had a Prohibition theme, and everyone who went to dinner in the dining room was given either a fedora hat or a feather boa. Bullet hole stickers and signs saying things like “Bathtub Gin Joint” were common. Other themes have included pirates, garden gnomes, and the tropics.

The Crow’s Nest is the favorite place with the few younger people on board who find each other there. Some older folks hang out with them, too. I find it amazing how comfortable people are these days with people much older or younger than themselves. I would no more have sat around with one of my parents’ friends than I would have agreed to go to a high school class wearing a beanie cap. And I never called any of them by their first names. It’s different now, and better, I think. (OMG, I sound so old!)

Cruise Ship People - Dr. and Mrs. Rosenberg

2010-04-23T22:36:00.000-07:00

They are the couple that everyone is referring to when they talk about how it’s so wonderful to see such old people enjoying life on a cruise ship, but really, some people should recognize when they’re just too old.

They are both in their nineties. He was an army surgeon, and then, I assume, had a practice. I don’t know very much about her. I only know about him because today, I was sitting in a green chair, and the other one was empty. For some reason he sat down in the other one and told me a story about when he was an army surgeon in these waters, the northern Pacific along the Alaska coast.

I’ll get to the story in a moment, but I want to think about why people feel the couple is too old to be on this long a cruise, or maybe on any cruise. She is definitely suffering from some level of Alzheimer’s, although she is often quite lucid. During the early weeks, not just days but weeks, she had problems remembering which cabin was hers. This wasn’t a problem only for her, as the hallways run the length of the ship, and all the doors look the same. Still, a number of people ended up memorizing her cabin number, so they could help her find it. She is very trusting when she is confused, and turns to the nearest person for help, so the others in cabins near hers were her first helpers. She also had problems early on figuring out the taps in the washrooms, some of which turn on automatically, and some of which have handles to turn. She normally wears baggy track suits, comfortable and easy to put on and take off. Her hair is curly and, while thin, is long enough to stand up from her head and wave gently in any breeze, looking like milkweed pods in flight.

She is very dependent on her husband, and he is not as patient as he might be, although I know it is very difficult being a caregiver for someone with Alzheimer’s. Still, he speaks harshly to her, often, and she cries. At first a lot of women on board spent time comforting her and were angry with him, but I think we all have a more balanced idea now of what’s going on. Sometimes, though, she singles me out from everyone else in the library and wants to talk. Often she’s sitting at some distance from where I am, and I can’t always hear well enough to understand, as she never speaks loudly, but I enjoy seeing the animation in her face. And I smile and nod, and sometimes ask a question based on what I have pieced together, and that’s all she requires. She has one of the most wrinkled faces I’ve ever seen, and the loveliest smile, and her eyes are blurred with age but that just makes them look soft and sweet.

Today, for the first time, I had a little time with him. He sat in the empty green chair and told me about how, during the war, (WW II, I assume) he was the surgeon on ships that carried upwards of two thousand soldiers up and down the coast of Alaska. He said they got their pay every month, but given the sparse population along the coast of Alaska at the time, there was nowhere to spend it. So, they started gambling with it, and craps became the most popular game.

One time, everyone on board was playing craps. “There was a group of about thirty guys over here,” he said, gesturing with a hand, “and another thirty over there.” As people lost, the groups got smaller, and they merged. “Eventually, there were about twenty guys who had all the money, and they got together and decided to keep playing until one man had it all. And after a while, there were two guys, and they each had $70,000.” His glasses are slightly tinted, and his eyes are still sharp. He glanced up at me from time to time to make sure I was getting the points he wanted to make, but most of the time his gaze was slanted down, and inward.

“They weren’t sure what to do at that point, a lot of money would be riding on the next throws, so someone went and got the chaplain. He found a brand new pair of dice, so no one could say they were loaded, and he stood right there while they threw.”

I don’t know much about how to play craps, but Dr. Rosenberg told me the different numbers that came up, and I gathered that the two men were tied for a while. Then came the throw that wasn’t a tie, and one man won it all. Everyone was very civilized about it, and the chaplain took the money and put it in the ship’s safe. And everyone else wondered what it would be like when their tour ended and the ship took them to whatever port was their home base in the States, but the guy never said much, so no one knew.

And then, when the tour was over, and the ship reached the home port, the first people aboard from the shore were two Military Police, and they marched right up to the man who’d won all the money, arrested him, and took him away.

And none of the other men could ever find out what happened to all the money that was in the ship’s safe.

Near the end of his telling me this, his wife came by, looking very lovely in a beige suit, jacket and skirt, and a matching cloche hat, her hair wisping out beneath it. She tapped him on the shoulder and said they needed to get going. He ignored her for a little while, and so as I wanted to hear the end of the story, and since I could tell he was approaching the finale, I asked her if they could wait a couple of minutes. And he twisted in his chair to where she stood just behind him, with her hand on his shoulder, and in the gentlest way said he’d be ready in a moment, and she smiled and stood quietly while he finished talking to me. And then he rose, she put her hand through his arm, and they went off to do whatever it was that had got her to dress up so nicely, looking like a couple who’d lived together forever, which I guess they have. And I though with envy of the couples on board who know each other’s flaws well, and are sometimes brought to anger or tears because of them, but who know at the deepest parts of their hearts that they still want to be with that person more than anyone or anything else in the whole world.

2010-04-19T01:46:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid that after all the excitement about finally having the x-ray, I don't have any news. The doctors sent the x-rays to a lab where someone of the orthopedic persuasion will look at them. They wanted to know how quickly I will be able to see an orthopedic surgeon once I get home, so I will try to find out. The fact that this question was asked makes me a little nervous, but I think it's because the doctors here are ER doctors, and so don't know as much about long term care for an injury like mine. I pleaded for a walking cast, but they want to wait to hear what the x-ray reviewer says. They also seemed reluctant to let me fly home without using the wheelchair. So things might change, but they might not. But I am getting stronger with using the wheelchair. One doctor also suggested I might be able to use a walking case with a walker, but I think I prefer the wheelchair to that.
Anyway, my spirits are good, and I continue to get more writing done that if I was more mobile, so it's not all bad. I'm still letting people help me more than I used to, which seems to make them feel good, so it makes me feel good, too. And since we are crossing the Pacific now, I'm not missing any ports.
Russia was the last port, and we reach Vancouver on the 25th. We stop in Seattle the next day, then have two sea days to Los Angeles, which we reach on the 29th. I get home around midnight that day.
We cross the Date Line tonight, which is kind of cool.

Ankle, Take 2

2010-04-18T04:35:00.000-07:00

As I write this, it's almost midnight, April 18th. Tomorrow, the first April 19th for us, is more or less six weeks since I had the surgery on my ankle. And tomorrow I will have a x-ray, to see if things have healed enough for me to graduate to more mobility. I don't know what all the possibilities are, but a walking cast, even with a cane, would be heaven. Keep you fingers crossed for me!

Wheelchair World

2010-04-17T06:01:00.000-07:00

I’ve been using a wheelchair for six weeks now. And if I thought before this that I had an understanding of what it’s like for people who use them, I was way out of line.

In the wonderful comic strip For Better or For Worse, there is a teacher who uses a wheelchair. She meets a man, falls in love, and plans to get married. When one of her students asks her how she knew this was the right man for her, she says that when they first met, he sat down to talk to her.

I so get that now. I have sometimes wondered if my dogs, very small ones, get sore necks from looking up at people all the time. I don’t know if they do or not, but I do know that my neck gets a workout.

Lots of people stop to chat, which is great. It’s nice to know people care. Sometimes they just want a quick update on how I’m doing, sometimes they have time for a bit of conversation. I usually enjoy the attention, and most of them are interesting people to talk to. Some of them have boarded the ship more recently, and they often ask me what happened. Sometimes this seems a bit intrusive, but usually they are genuinely curious, in a good way. The way they ask sometimes reminds me of when I was pregnant, and complete strangers would feel perfectly comfortable asking me about it and even touching my big belly. I guess when someone is different in a way, but not too different, people feel less of a barrier exists between private and public. I’m not sure, but it’s interesting.

The world looks different from this lower level. It reminds me a bit of being a child, or of a museum exhibit I once saw in which furniture and other common household items were all huge. Climbing on to a chair and sitting with my feet dnagling, because they didn’t reach the floor, was fun, helping visitors to rediscover the child within.

In a wheelchair, though, it isn’t always fun. My feet do reach the ground, but when I go to the cafeteria restaurant I am not high enough to see what food is available. When I go in a store, on board or on shore, the display cases are too high for me to get more than a sideways look at what’s in them, which usually isn’t enough to tell what anything is. Some aisles or sidewalks are too narrow, and some sidewalks don’t have ramps at the corners. I can’t reach some things, clothes hanging on hooks, some light switches, books on a higher shelf in the library. My ankle has improved enough that I can often stand up on one foot to see or reach things, but it’s still a special effort.

And maybe being short adds to how everyone seems to believe that I am totally incapable of doing anything for myself. I know that for the most part, people genuinely want to be helpful, but I’d rather wheel myself than have someone I don’t know well push me somewhere. I know how far a normal chair has to be for me to comfortably and safely get myself from wheelchair to it, and which brake to set on the wheelchair so I’ll be able to reach it when I need to get moving again. The one thing I can’t do is carry a plate of food or a drink to a table, and the stewards who work in the various restaurants are always ready to help. Why, though, if I wheel myself into the dining room, does one of the servers, or even the maitre’d feel that they must push me to my table?

There are dangers, too, caused by the inattention of others, although this is rarely deliberate. I’d never noticed before how often people step backwards while talking to someone, without looking behind them. Or they stretch out their legs under a table and, since my bad leg still doesn’t bend well at the knee, kick my bad foot. Or they are walking down the middle of a hall, and don’t think to move to one side to make room for my chair, which is wider than I am. And the number of people who text while walking through a crowd, without looking at all where they are going, is phenomenal, and common in every port I’ve been in since breaking my ankle. And, even if people are looking where they are going, they are looking at their face level, not down lower. All this is perfectly normal behavior, but it takes on a whole new facet from a wheelchair.

I’ve encountered, in the past, a person in a wheelchair who became annoyed when I asked if she wanted me to hold a door open for her. At the time I was a little offended. Now, I understand.

Using a wheelchair removes so much independence and control from your life. I want to hang on to every little bit I can. I’ve worked at wheeling myself around, and while my triceps are still not at the level where I can wheel laps to get an actual workout, they now rarely begin to ache when I wheel myself around the ship. And even if they do begin to hurt, I’d still rather push myself, to make them stronger.

The wheelchair is my friend, because I can get around the ship, and some places on shore, with it. It’s faster than using a walker, and crutches are still considered by the doctors to be unsafe. I can still teach writing, do my own writing, come up with discussion questions for the book club, sew, feed myself, take a shower, etc. So, of course, I start feeling horribly guilty when I whine about the limitations I experience, and about what I have to miss at the ports we visit. There are many people on board who use wheelchairs or motorized scooters. They have been and will be, in their chairs for months and years. I will use mine for only a few weeks.

There’s a fraternity of wheelchair users, too. We always smile at each other, or nod in passing. Sometimes we stop to speak. We notice each other, and I suspect that most of them don’t get noticed by many mobile people. I’m a bit of a different type of user, since so many people saw my fall or heard about it. My leg is obviously in a cast, and I work on board, so lots of people know me, or know about me. Through the book club and the writing classes I’ve worked with at least a couple hundred people, and even if I don’t remember all their names or faces, they know me. I suspect, though, that most people in wheelchairs do not get asked how they are doing, or even if they are enjoying the cruise or what they did on the last shore day, which is what most people ask each other all the time.

Maybe mobile people feel uncomfortable with people in wheelchairs, or people with any sort of disability. Maybe, like me, they feel guilty for what they have that the other person doesn’t. Maybe, just because the person in the chair isn’t at face level, the mobile person honestly doesn’t see them. I think most people know in principle that a person who uses a wheelchair is still a person, but it’s difficult to treat them as if they’re no different.

I’m the same person still. I know this, even if others don’t treat me the same. I understand, I really do. Having been on both sides of the wheelchair issue, I am lucky, because once I can leave my chair behind (and not attached to my behind) I hope that I can use my newfound understanding to continue to realize that people are people, no matter how different they might appear.

Postscript

I wrote the above yesterday. Today I decided to do an experiment, and accept help whenever it was offered. I allowed my trivia team to move my chair to where they thought was the best place for me to get into it, and to watch while I transferred from the place I usually sit during the game into the chair, because they worry that if I make the transfer with no one around, I could fall and reinjure my ankle. Usually I explain that I’m trying to be as independent as possible, and so tell them I prefer to do it all myself.

While seated in the library, reading, one of the book club members asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. Normally I would have said I didn’t need anything, but I actually was a bit hungry, so she went to check out the snack place in the library, told me what there was, and carried a plate to me.

After book club, one of the members stopped to chat with me. When we finished talking, it looked as if I could be trapped inside the circle of chairs we’d used for the group discussion. I thought I could get through, but I might have had to push one or two of the chairs aside for the wheelchair to fit through the gap. I waited while the person I’d been talking to moved several chairs, so that there was plenty of space.

I went for supper alone, as Melissa was otherwise occupied, and as soon as the stewards in the cafeteria restaurant spotted me, I permitted three of them to help, one to push me past the foods so I could see what there was, and he even read out the little signs for me, so I’d know what there was and the signs, while they actually aren’t to high for me to see them, could have been. He then asked what I wanted and wheeled me to a table. He joked about it being the best table in the house, but it was by the window, and not the first and easiest table to reach. Two other stewards then brought my food and a glass of water.

And you know what? It actually felt kind of good that all these people wanted to help me. Yes, it does make me feel more helpless than I’d like to feel, but accepting help from other people is not something that comes easily to me. Trust doesn’t often come easily to me, either. Letting down my guard today resulted in a positive experience. I felt a little less alone and more a part of the human community. And it’s kind of nice to know that just as I can give to others, it can feel good to allow others to give something to me.

The Darker Side

2010-04-16T03:45:00.001-07:00

Four months is a long time for any community, especially one made up of primarily older people. Life is lived to its fullest on board a cruise ship, at least by most, although there are some who complain of being bored. But just as life is lived, so too it ends. I was going to call this post “Life Goes On”, which seems a rather dark joke, because I am going to talk about illness and death, but perhaps it would be an apt title, because death is part of life.

It’s a part that we don’t seem to want to think about very often. In a couple of the books the book club has read, there have been references to days in which the dead are celebrated. The Day of the Dead in Mexico, the Ancestors’ Festival in China, these are days when the dead are remembered and bonds with them are renewed. One question I raised for discussion was why Americans and Canadians have no such festivals.

No one had much to say, which interested me because it appeared that our culture’s reluctance to think about death extended to not wanting to even discuss the possibility that we might take a regular time, even if only once a year, to think about it. North Americans are focused on the future. We think about where we are going, and not about where we came from. While some cultures consider the connections from the past to be of paramount importance, because they have shaped who they are today and the life they continue to lead, North Americans wish to shake off the bonds of the past. It’s what is new that is important, ways in which we can change, grow, and become more than we are today. As countries formed primarily by immigrants, with the exception of the First Nations people, our lives are, by definition, shaped by a desire for change and a hope for something better. Remembering the past has no role to play in this.

There are always several deaths on a cruise ship. I don’t know the exact number, but I’m told on a world cruise there are usually up to a dozen. The first occurred only three days after we left Florida, where the cruise began. There are also medical debarkations at pretty well every port, people whose illnesses need more than what the doctors and their facility on board can do. Sometimes the people come back. Sometimes they go home. Sometimes they do neither.

I’d met the woman who died three days into the cruise. She was a very large woman in a wheelchair, happy to be on board, eager to meet lots of people. I knew the wife of one of the men who died. He felt ill, the doctors wanted him to go to a hospital, he insisted he felt fine, but agreed to get off. He died two days later. His wife hadn’t packed anything, as she and her husband were expecting to get back on board at the next port. Her friends packed for her, and shipped the luggage to her home. How does one deal with a loved one dying so far from home, in a strange place, with no friends or family close by?

Today one of the watercolour teachers, the equipment manager, as the aides, such as she and Melissa, are laughingly called, learned that her husband, at home in Florida, died of a heart attack yesterday. This woman, Jane, had accompanied Carol, the main watercolour teacher, two years ago, but didn’t come last year because her family didn’t want her to be away for so long, again. Her children are grown and married, and this year she persuaded them all to do without her for the four months so she could come on the cruise again. Her husband had heart problems for a number of years, and has had surgery for it. Yesterday, he called 911 when he felt the chest pain, was taken to the hospital, was treated, but died.

Maybe it’s because I was at a birthday party last night, at which most people were Jewish, and we talked about Jewish guilt and Catholic guilt, but what is mostly in my mind now is how guilty Jane must be feeling. Even though it sounds as if there is little that she, or anyone could have done for him, she must wonder. Jane is a wonderful person, always smiling, upbeat, and energetic. As one friend said, if they are on a tour together, and the tour is boring or tiring or a dud, Jane still always makes it fun. I didn’t know her well, but I always enjoyed spending time with her.

Her husband died at home, in a familiar place, with friends and family close by. It is Jane who is alone and in a strange place. Did she, or anyone else here, think that when they get home, someone they looked forward to seeing might not be there?

And so I’m thinking of all the people who were on the ship, and who now aren’t, who aren’t anywhere. They came on board expecting to spend four months on board, making new friends, and seeing new sights. They spent time reading, or listening to music, seeing the shows, going to the movies, eating good food, playing cards, or whatever they liked to do. Did they think, when they boarded, that they might die during the cruise?

And yet, despite the sorrow, I admire them. Many of the people on board are not healthy. You can tell, just from looking at them, listening to their harsh breaths, seeing the flushed faces, observing how little energy they have and how difficult the slightest things can be for them. They chose to come anyway, instead of sitting at home, waiting for what is to come.

There was an elderly man on board last year. He was called ‘the skeleton’ by others, because he was clearly very ill and was wasting away. Most people assumed he had cancer, but no one knew him well enough to ask. He was traveling alone, and one thing people did learn was that when he was younger, he had been a famous singer, giving concerts in clubs and later on stage. One night there was a talent show for the ship’s guests, and he received permission to get on stage, not to sing, because he didn’t have the breath, but to play one of his recordings and lip synch to it. He did this, and everyone applauded him. After the show, he returned to his cabin, went to bed, and died, discovered the next day by his cabin stewards.

I love this story, and it has been corroborated as being true, unlike some of the stories I’ve been told. He relived his glory days, and then let go. Other people are here doing something they love, maybe experiencing the dream of a lifetime. Maybe they continue to travel to carry on learning and growing as human beings. Or maybe they just want to be with people they like, in a setting they like. Whatever it is, they are living their lives in the way in which they want to. Death comes anyway. It is never welcome, but the knowledge it is coming cannot prevent you, or those you love, from living.

I don’t know what Jane is thinking. Yesterday she’d gone to Tokyo with some friends, and so no one knew how to reach her. She learned about her husband when she returned in the late afternoon. Today is a sea day, and so she will fly home tomorrow. Today, she insisted on playing trivia, which Melissa and I also do every sea day. We call it our daily dose of humility. Jane isn’t on our team, and her team sits at a distance from ours, so I didn’t see her. She played because she always does and her teammates have become friends. I like to think, though, that there’s a deeper reason why that game should have been her final social event on the ship. So much of our lives is made up of trivia, the small but quirky, interesting, surprising, and unusual pieces that fill our existence. I hope Jane continues to value the small elements of her life, even when they are overwhelmed by a larger event. I hope her husband did, too.

Hulang Bay, Vietnam

2010-04-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

Our second stop in Vietnam was this lovely area. I've always wanted to see the South China Sea, with it's outcrops of rock sticking up above the water, each one wearing a wig of greenery. I wasn't able to get about here, but luckily my kids took some great pictures.

This is the sort of thing I mean. Isn't it beautiful?

These rocks are known as the kissing rocks, because they lean towards each other without quite touching.

This photo is a little blurry to give them some privacy. Here they are again, from a different angle.

And here it is again, serving as backdrop for my two equally beautiful children.

The tour they went on included a boat ride through this area, and a stop on an island which held a cave. The above sign was in the cave. Here are a couple of pictures of it.

The kids told me it was very beautiful, but also very crowded. The only way to get to the cave way by boat, and this tour, cruise and cave, was very popular.

All of the boats jammed in together here are tourist boats.

Other than boat tours, there were many other things to see in Vietnam. A couple of my friends, instead of taking a regular organized tour, hired a taxi, which is most cases was a motorcycle. Riding around on the back of a bike is a good way to see things, because the driver knows the area and can take you to the sorts of things you want to see, or take you to his favorite place. Motorcycle taxis were common in Cambodia and India, too.

Since he was on a boat, Jesse had to be piratical. Here he is, with the equally piratical Sasha, one of Melissa's good friends from the cruise.

Pirates are supposed to climb masts with knives held in their teeth. Jesse didn't have a knife, but he did climb. Melissa also attempted to climb but, while no one noticed Jesse, her climb did catch the eye of someone official, and so she had to come down without reaching the top.

Sorry, this seems to be more a family album than a travel piece, but Sasha took some very good pictures. Here is one of my piratical children.

Phu My, Vietnam

2010-04-09T05:29:00.000-07:00

In Phu My, we'd arranged a tour to visit the tunnels that were used by the forces fighting against the Americans during the Vietnam war. For obvious reasons, I was unable to go, and so the photos were taken by Melissa. My son Jesse joined his sister and me on the ship between Singapore and Hong Kong, and it was really great to see him. His presence has made me miss my 'real' life even more, although this isn't necessarily a bad thing, as the cruise is drawing to an end. And, I hope to get my cast off while we're in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on one of the two April 19ths we will have.

Ok -First, market pictures, because Melissa knows I like taking pictures of markets.

Now, the tunnels. Here is the guide demonstrating how quickly and easily he could disappear into the jungle.

Note in the first picture of the above series how small the opening is. The Vietnamese are mostly small people.

This is Adam. He's from Calgary, and is one of the few young people on board. He is not very tall, but he is stocky and heavily-muscled. At this point in the process, his feet were still dangling above the floor below him, but he was stock.
Melissa was on a tour in South Korea with Adam and his Dad, Tony. They told me there was a group of school kids at the same place. The girls were very taken with Adam. We've noticed that Asians are very interested in people who are different. People often want to touch Melissa's hair, for example. The local people usually want the pictures taken with foreigners, too, but the school girls were fascinated with Adam, reaching to touch his beard stubble and feel the muscles in his arms. I guess in an area where most men are small-boned, and have very little body hair, foreigners can seem very different.

Jesse and Melissa did manage to get through.

Some entrances were more obvious, either because they were in safer areas, or to lure enemies into the tunnels. Melissa said it was very interesting seeing this aspect of the war. The people wanted to show their side of the experience, but were calm and non-confrontational, which would have taken some doing, because I suspect many of the Americans on the cruise still have a lot of anger and hurt pride. There are Vietnam vets on board, but many of the cruisers chose not to get off in Vietnam (in part because of the dirt, garbage, and being forced to see poverty in action), or to take tours that took them to only shrines or shopping districts. When asked, the Vietnamese guide said that the vast majority of people in his country don't want to think about the war or have no hard feelings. Most people, of course, were born after it, and there was almost the impression given that the war hasn't made such a large imprint on the Vietnamese psyche as it has in the States.

These men are dressed as the soldiers did during the war. Below is a ventilation opening to the tunnel system.

Here is a demonstration of making some traditional foods, the rice sheets in which other foods, meat and vegatables, would be rolled.

Below are some pictures of the area.

Cambodia

2010-04-04T08:48:00.000-07:00

I guess I have already written some impressions of Cambodia in my last post. Here are some pictures.

Most of the businesses along the streets were in a smallish building that had a larger space in front. The space had no side walls, but was shaded by either a corrugated metal roof or a tarpaulin or awning. Most of the business dealings took place in the front area, which would be much cooler than inside the building.

I am not sure what the local language was called, but its text was beautiful, as you can see.
You also see that this is a cell phone store. In every town we've been in, big or small, there are always a great many mobile phone stores. It's obviously big business.

Another common sight in most Asian countries is the large number of motorcycles in use. This makes sense, as with the climate you can use a bike all year. They are cheaper to run, and are faster and more flexible on the road. As another common thing in these countries is the terrifying way people drive, as things like lane markings and traffic lights are seen to be suggestions rather than laws, motorcycles zig and zag and so can get you to your destination faster. As there seem to be no helmet laws, or if there are they, too, are taken as suggestions only, we heard that there are frequent accidents, but the people we saw tended to be good at getting around, even if their driving was, by our standards, insane.

There were no sidewalks in this downtown, and being a pedestrian was either exciting, stimulating, or terrifying. In the wheelchair, being pushed, it seemed even more frightening, as I couldn't make a quick move towards safety. People drove all around, coming off any paved or dirt area that happened to be beside the road whenever they felt like it. Vehicles cut off other vehicles all the time, drove onto roads at odd angles, and basically it was every driver for himself.

The vehicle shown above is a tuktuk. They are taxis, but seemed to be used mostly for tourists.

Despite the litter and garbage everywhere, the extreme poverty as demonstrated by the constant beggars, the slapped-together shacks that many people lived in, the dust, and the crowds, there was beauty to be found. I'm glad I had a chance to see Sihanoukville, for it was the first place where I felt I had the chance to see the real life instead of the sanitized fantasy many places concoct for tourists.

Musings in Harbours - Shanghai

2010-04-04T02:57:00.000-07:00

I’m now sitting in the same chair in the ship’s library, a leather chair that’s very comfortable and has a footrest that’s the perfect height for my leg. There are five of these chairs, all in front of the big windows, but only one is located near an electric socket. I write here as well as doing internet and email, and so it’s helpful to be able to plug in my computer.

It’s night, not quite as late as when I wrote the above in Hong Kong, but it’s equally dark outside.

Shanghai is a very modern city of about 20 million. At the moment the many tall buildings, some of which appear as if a science fiction fan designed the architecture, are lit up, in bright colours, some of which sparkle on and off. I use the word ‘modern’ intentionally, for everything I see appeared in the last couple of decades. China opened up to outside investment in 1989, and in 1988, the largest buildings in the area I can see from my chair were three storeys high, and they were farm houses.

Shanghai is now the most popular city to live in, here in China, and so is also expensive. I didn’t get out today, usually on our overnight stays in cities, Melissa scouts out places I can go during the first day, and then we go out together the second day.

There is a noisy group of people next to me. I know some of them, and they are nice people, but at present they are watching the brightly lit smaller ships going by and making cracks about them. The ships are either harbour tour boats, dinner cruises, or gambling boats, and they all are beautifully lit up, each one quite different from the others. One appears to be a three-masted junk, with no sails up, but the lights run as if they are rigging, and it’s lovely. Another has short runs of lights along the hull on each side, and they are slightly curved, and the rows of short curves look just like gentle waves lit up by the city.

The boats all have Chinese characters in large neon lights, and to me they add to the beauty. It’s a tacky beauty, in a sense, dependent on bright colours and very bright lights, but somehow instead of being overwhelming as Las Vegas neon is, each ship is fun and lovely. This is probably because I can only see one or two at a time, so there isn’t too much neon all at the same time.

Anyway, this group next to me is having fun joking that each ship’s writing says something like “Chop Suey” or “Mao Tse Tung.” A boat with a paddle wheel at the back just went by, decorated to look something like a Mississippi paddleboat, and someone joked that there are really Chinese people sitting at the back, paddling, since the labour here is so cheap.

I’m am very tired tonight. I’ve not been sleeping well, as it’s difficult to find a position where my ankle is comfortable at the same time as the rest of me. And I’m a night owl, wired to wake up at ten p.m., even when I’m tired. I’ve tried various things, melatonin, Benadryl, but nothing helps. And, of course, I can’t go to the gym and do a hard workout, something that often does help when I have insomnia. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but the jokes from the people next to me really bother me. I don’t like to see anyone acting so smugly superior. I’ve also heard this same group, complaining about our ports in Cambodia and Vietnam because, and this is a direct quote, “It was impossible to avoid seeing the poverty.”

It’s true, in South America there was a shuttle bus at each port that did not allow pedestrians in the port itself, due to the danger caused by cranes and front-end loaders, and these buses always took us to a ritzy shopping area. Sometimes we drove through a poorer neighbourhood, but most people didn’t look outside the bus that much. And in Africa, the smaller towns in Namibia were quiet with little street life, but there weren’t the beggars we see in Asia. In Cambodia, though, as you’ll see when I post that blog (or maybe I already have, I tend to wait for a time when the internet access is fast, as it is often slow, before uploading photographs), the shuttle bus took us to a market place downtown, but it was impossible to avoid seeing the dirt, the constant litter we’ve seen in every country since India, and the poverty. Beggars, many missing limbs or horribly disfigured, were everywhere. All the people trying to sell us something, or offer us a ride in their tuktuk, a motorized or bicycle-driven open-sided taxi, were very aggressive, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. I know that last bothers people, but this is still part of our experience of this country. I can’t sympathize with people who wish to think every place we go is a little part of paradise, and that everybody there is delighted to see us. Plus, so many of these very wealthy cruise guests still haggle when buying something, happy if they can save themselves a dollar or two that would probably mean another meal to the vendor. Haggling is a game, and can be fun, but I get the impression that many cruisers are very afraid of somehow being conned into paying too much for something. I’m not the best judge of how to handle bargaining in a poor country, because I do not have to worry about every last dollar. I often feel, if a price seems fair to me for what I’m getting, and most things in these countries are amazingly cheap compared to what they’d cost at home, I will pay that price. I’m not trying to show myself as some special angel, just that I wish wealthy people could share more. Either that, or I’m just very grouchy right now.

To be fair, I did hear many people, after Cambodia, talking about how hard the tuktuk drivers worked for them, especially those people who used bicycle vehicles, and how they were happy to pay the ten dollars or whatever was asked for a two-hour tour. Not everyone wants to hide from reality, in order to feel they are above it all.

I guess I am a little grouchy this evening. The group next to me speaks so loudly that everyone in the library can hear them. This is actually rare. While the library is a hangout area, most people speak quietly to others near by. I actually took a strong dislike to one of the men in this group, for he, while being mobile, was rather rude when I once asked, back when my foot was still painful and needed to be raised all the time, if he would mind moving to a different leather chair so I could use the plug. He had every right to say no, of course, but he was rather nasty about it, and said he might want to use the plug, but he never does. He was rude on another occasion, when I wanted to sit in the chair beside him, and he wouldn’t move his foot, even when asked, which meant I couldn’t get myself into the chair. He asked why I wanted to sit down, and I said because my ankle was broken, and he said it looked as if I was already sitting. Which I was, in my wheelchair, but I still got very upset.

My first impulse on that occasion was to run away and sit somewhere else. I get this impulse whenever I feel unwanted, run away so as to no inflict myself on anyone. I was a bullied child until I was 13, and so was unwanted a lot, and sticking around usually meant more unpleasantness.. Anyway, I am a grownup now, and am trying to change this rather futile behavior, and so after I went away, I returned. He had moved his foot a bit, and so I sat next to him. He started talking to me, asking me about my foot and what I did on the ship, since he could see from my name tag that I do something here. He was actually quite pleasant, and even apologized for his earlier behavior.

So he’s not a bad person, I actually quite enjoy one on one conversations with him. He just likes having a court of other people around him with whom to laugh and joke. He’s even interested in writing, and shyly asked me about “a friend’ who was writing a novel. I suspected he was talking about himself, but I answered his question about what I, as a teacher and editor, would expect to find, strengths and weaknesses in such a first novel, and he must have found it helpful, because he started coming to the writing class. He’s been very pleasant since, even brought me a book by John Lescroart. Lescroart’s a thriller writer, and his first book has just been rereleased, after his 20th was published. He did a fair amount of revision on that first book, before this new edition, and he wrote a very interesting forward about what he changed and why. The cruise guest brought me the book because he thought I’d be interested in reading that forward, which I was, especially since most of the things Lescroart changed are because of things he’s learned that are also things I teach in my beginner classes.

Anyway, I suppose everyone has their own prejudices. I must, too, I know. It doesn’t mean I have to like sitting and listening to other people making fun of what is different than themselves.

Okay, enough grouchiness.

Musings in Harbours - Hong Kong

2010-04-04T02:55:00.001-07:00

I’m sitting in the library, my usual place these days, other than the cabin, during this time of reduced mobility. We left Hong Kong at night, late, around eleven. From the library windows I can see the lights of the city pass by. We’re traveling so smoothly, and slowly, as we leave the area, that the lights along the shoreline and up the mountains seem to float past, like a gentle stream. The lights go on and on, sometimes big buildings with names like Olympus and Toshiba lit up in enormous neon letters, sometimes smaller clusters of lights, or apartment buildings, or a brief dark patch, perhaps a park.

Hong Kong is very big, very beautiful, very smoggy, and the harbour is always busy. I expected the harbour to look like it does in the movies, filled with junks with their red or brown sails fully out, but of course that’s ridiculous. There’s no reason for a sailboat to have its sails unfurled this close to shore, in fact it would be dangerous. There still was a great variety of ships, though, ferries, which were painted in bright colours and patterns; tugs, often pulling a barge of some sort. Actually, for a while earlier today, there was a parade of tugs pulling barges that each had a big crane on it. There are small power boats, fishing boats, tour boats, modern sailboats, and lots I didn’t recognize. It was an engaging vista during the day, as I sat on the back deck on deck 8, always changing, never boring. No junks, though.

Now we’ve left the bay. The water is becoming rougher, her in unsheltered waters. I can see an occasional shoreline far off, wearing its necklace of lights, but other than that there is only black. I’m reflected in the window, the bottom of my cast, my other leg bent to support my laptop. My eyes in the window look tired.

I went off the ship today, which was good. I have more or less adapted to the fact I can’t do all the activities I’d planned for Asia, although at times thinking of what I’m missing makes me sad. Most areas are too crowded, or there are many stairs, or it’s just too difficult for Melissa to push my chair because the street surface is too rough.

We went to a mall that is attached to the cruise ship terminal. A very large, over 700 stores, very upscale, and very expensive mall. Hong Kong, like Singapore, is an expensive place to live. There is clearly a great deal of wealth in both cities, and they are said to both be wonderful places to live. I assume that last comes with a caveat – wonderful if you can afford to live there.

I still get overwhelmed and over-stimulated way too easily. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m lower down since I’m sitting in the wheelchair, or that I feel vulnerable since my foot with the cast is usually held out in front of me, since I still can’t easily bend the knee, and so it’s easy for other people, who are usually texting on their cell phones and so aren’t looking where they’re going, to bump into it. Or that I have no control, usually someone is pushing me, although I am beginning to build up my triceps and so can wheel myself for longer stretches.

Melissa thinks my body gets overwhelmed because I get tired quickly, since most of my energy is going into healing. I don’t see why my leg can’t take care of the healing while the rest of me does other things, but the fact remains that I can get very stressed much more easily than usual. And I’ve never been a person who deals with crowds, noise, and lots of stimulation particularly well.

Blog readers have sometimes asked me if I am really as upbeat as I appear in my posts. I guess the answer is – usually. I don’t tend to post when I’m too tired or depressed, and so those moods don’t always transfer to the readers. But even before breaking my ankle, there were down times. Sometimes I get tired of having to be so cheerful and perky when I’m around guests, even though most of them are wonderful people. There have been a large number of segment people on board recently, people who aren’t doing the whole world tour but are on board for maybe ten days. They are different, it’s actually very interesting, as they are typical of people I’ve seen on shorter cruises. They tend to be heavier, and spend a lot more time in the casino and bars. They are also often louder, and much less pleasant.

On the whole, the round-the-world people are different, as I think I mentioned in an earlier post. They are friendlier, because they tend to regard the ship as their home community for the four months. They are kinder and more considerate. There’s a sense of connection. It’s not perfect, no group or time spent with strangers ever is, but it’s been pretty darn good. There are, though, always people who like to find something to complain about.

Back to my upbeat mood – I truly do love what I’m doing. The writing students are enthusiastic and they write interesting material and ask great questions. And the book club has been a big hit. It’s sometimes tough coming up with enough discussion questions, since most questions I find at the back of the book or online assume everyone has finished the book before discussing it. The club readers all read at varying rates, and so I divide them into groups according to how much they’ve read, and come up with questions for the sections of the book they have finished. But the discussions are always lively, and I tend to move from group to group, eavesdropping, adding a question of comment if the talk seems to be flagging, but it rarely is. Sometimes fewer people than usual attend a meeting, and then we can discuss in one big group, which I really enjoy, because even though it’s more difficult to make sure everyone, even the quieter ones, get a chance to speak, I get to fully participate in the discussion.

So yes, even with the limited mobility and the missed activities on shore, I am upbeat. Most people are great, and they show their appreciation for what I do, which makes me very happy. I think I’m doing a good job, but it sure helps to get outside affirmation.

Tala Part 2

2010-03-29T08:07:00.000-07:00

Next on the agenda - rhinos!

There are two kinds of rhinoceroses, black and white. These, I believe, are the white. Their jaws are wide, as they are grazing animals. The black rhinos, which are endangered, have a thinner jaw ending in prehensile lips, as they eat leaves and plants that they need to pluck from branches.

Here you can see the wider jaw.

We also saw many different species of deer and/or antelope. I don't remember what each was called, and I haven't been able to find the little book in which I took notes during these trips. When I went to the hospital for my surgery, we had to pack up our cabin, and we tended to just toss things into suitcases, as we had enough other things to deal with. We are slowly organizing everything, but the key word is slowly. When I find my notes, or when someone who knows more than I do helps me, I will add the information.

Here are some birds. As with the deer, I can't remember what's what. Sorry.

Actually, I do remember the one above. It's an Egyptian goose, called this because the black markings around its eyes look like the kohl eyeliner used in ancient Egyptian art.

And this, possibly, could be a cormorant, spending time with his or her turtle friend.

Below is the most I got to see of a hippopotamus. We were there during the afternoon. Apparently, in the evening, around 6:30, they come out of the water and they make noise. They roar, and they do it loudly. I wish I could have heard them. In both game reserves, there was accomodation, cabins or rooms. I hope someday to come back and stay a few days, because I'd love to see the animals at dawn (yes, I'd wake up early for something like this. Really.) And there are nocturnal animals, too, so it would be wonderful to go out at night.

A last look at Africa:

Tala Game Reserve

2010-03-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

Tala reserve is about an hour bus ride outside the South African town of Port Elizabeth. It is larger than Addo, and it was apparent from when we first arrived, it has more money. Buildings were fancier, and more spacious. There were more people working there, and in a larger variety of jobs.
The important thing, though, is that the wildlife in both parks were thriving.

This is an acacia tree. It has lots of leaves, but also a lot of thorns. It is the favorite food of:

Girafffe lips are prehensile. And, they contain no nerve endings. Weird, but apparently true, as this enables the giraffes to eat their prickly food without suffering constant pain.

Mmmmm, yummy!

This is a vervet monkey.

An ostrich in the wild. And now, I did not get to sit on him.

South Africa has buffalo and wildebeest. I think these are wildebeest, but am open to being corrected.

Zebras are beautiful, and each one's stripe pattern is unique.

What, haven't you seen a zebra crossing before?

More wildlife coming soon . . .

Writing while Cruising

2010-03-26T09:25:00.001-07:00

I’ve always been a writer who could write only when the circumstances were right. No distractions at all, no music, nobody talking, no radio or TV in the background. If necessary, I could handle classical music, or any music without words, but it was still a strain.

It’s interesting – words as a distraction makes sense. If I’m trying to find my own words, other words around me will interfere. I didn’t understand, though, why music, even without words, is also a problem, until I read an article a year or so ago. It talked about how, in people who begin music in early childhood, the parts of the brain that handle language are also involved in music. For people who have little to do with music, or who don’t become involved with it until later in life, the music section of the brain is separate from the language part.

The above is probably a gross simplification of the research findings of the article, but it’s interesting to think about. Music has its own language, and language has music. Different languages have different music. I do know that the area of the brain that handles other languages is set up so that all the languages are interconnected. When I was in Norway and Sweden, unable to understand anything I heard, I started thinking in French. When I was in Spain, or South America, trying to speak my rudimentary Spanish, sometimes if I didn’t know a word I wanted to say right away, I would hear myself say the French word. It’s weird, and amazing all at the same time.

Anyway, back to requirements for writing. I’ve known writers who have no problems with distractions. One friend could write and listen to CBC radio at the same time. At the end of a few hours, she’d have pages written and could tell you what talk shows had been on the radio and what had been discussed. Not me.

Another thing I’ve needed is unbroken time. I’m a spurt writer, and so usually can be productive for one and a half to two hours before I run dry and need to do something else for a while. But I always wanted at least a two hour stretch, just so I didn’t feel rushed or that I’d have to cram in material in too great a hurry.

I was pretty rigid, wasn’t I. Happily, since coming on the cruise, all that has changed. I can now write in the library on board, which unlike libraries on land, is a major social hotspot, and so is often filled with loud conversations and laughter. And I hope none of my writing students or book club members are reading this, but there have been times when writing students are working on a writing exercise in class, or the book club members are having lively discussions all on their own and so don’t need me, and I’ve spent five or ten minutes working on a new scene, setting something up, or finishing something I started at another time.

This is fun and exciting, and I am getting lots written, but I do wonder why things have changed so drastically. It’s not as if I couldn’t arrange a distraction-free couple of hours. There are quiet places to be, and my schedule is not exactly jam packed.

So I’m not sure why I’ve experienced this change. It could be that after living on board for so long, I’ve adapted to this environment. Or, it could be the type of novel I’m writing now, one that’s very different from anything I’ve done before.

I’m working on a retelling of Pride and Prejudice from the point of view of Caroline Bingley. She’s a minor character, although she is an important and memorable one. Since she is not present during much of the developing romance between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, I’ve developed a new plot line just for her. This is fun, because it enables me to further explore one of Jane Austen’s themes, the position in society of educated, ambitious women who were unable to use their education and energy in any fulfilling way. Caroline is one such woman who, because of her position in society and her need to maintain it, cannot shape her life in the way she’d like to. The only way she can better her life, in her mind, is to become wealthier and the only way she can do that is to marry well.

I won’t go into a lot of detail, as I don’t want to bore you and I don’t want to write about the book instead of writing the book. But it’s a fun project, and challenging, too, in ways I haven’t encountered before. It’s easier in a way, because I don’t have to create a story world, or a structure, except for my new storyline. I am trying to stay as true as possible to Austen’s style, use of language, and characters. Where I can, I use the dialogue in she wrote. At the same time, the reader will view my story through different eyes. Each of us perceives the world through our individual filters, our senses and the way our life experiences have shaped our world view. Caroline is not a pleasant character in the original book, but I don’t want readers to dislike spending time in her head. I am trying to show why she is the way she is, show her weaknesses and follies, and that she has many of the same needs for love and attention and security that we all do. I’ve created new scenes, new characters, and revealed some other parts of the society Austen wrote about. By using this point of view, the story will change and I have to make sure it’s new and interesting while also being believable within Austen’s context.

The other possible reason I am writing so well under different circumstances may be excitement. Once Carl left, I had no energy for anything. Over much time, as I was able to pick up some pieces of my life, writing remained out of my grasp. I thought about the novel I had been working on. It had been going well, was interesting, I liked things that were happening in it, but I just couldn’t find any creative energy. Then I got the idea for this Pride and Prejudice book. There are many rewrites of that book, some modernized, some told from the point of view of Mr. Darcy, some sequels. I haven’t seen one from Caroline’s point of view. While there is a definite market for books that relate to Jane Austen’s novels, I have no idea if this one will lead to anything. For the first time in almost a year, though, I was excited about writing again. This was a major boost to my life, a big step in my recovery. I’d been frustrated that I couldn’t be creative, and had wondered if I’d ever find that part of myself again. Now, it’s here.

Probably my change in writing habits is fed by all the above reasons, and some others I haven’t thought of. Whatever the source, though, I am very grateful. Writing has always been hard work, especially when I worry about markets and editors but now it’s fun, as I am just writing for its own sake.

And really, that’s the only reason to write.

Addo Elephant Park

2010-03-24T10:49:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to feel anything but optimistic about Africa when you're in the bush and see all the vibrant life that is there. I was fortunate tov visit two game parks, one near Capetown, the other near Port Elizabeth.
Addo Elephant Park is 13,500 hectares. It started smaller and there are plans to increase the park by buying adjoining farmlands. It's about a one and a half hour drive from Capetown. There are several private game parks, also, and it was a little strange to be driving along in our bus, look out and see fenced fields, not that different from those at home with cows in them, only these had grazing zebras.
While the elephants are the focus of the park, given its name, there are many other animals there, also. Here is a sampling:

First, this is what the terrain looked like in this park. We were there during the dry season, but there were a couple of water holes.
The second picture is the first animal we saw, and large tortoise who did not look overjoyed to see us, but it also did not let our appearance interrupt its meal. Tortoises of various sizes were all around the open areas of the park.

These are weaver bird nests and are quite interesting. The male bird builds a nest, hoping to attract a female. Once it is complete, he hangs out in front, flapping his wings until a female comes over to look over the nest. If she approves, she moves in. If she doesn't, she picks the nest apart, and the male has to begin all over again. Don't feel too sorry for him, though, for once a female moves in, he starts the whole process over again, building a new nest to attract another female.

The nests are cleverly costructed to keep the eggs safe from the birds' main predator, snakes. There are two rooms, a front and a back one, and the eggs are laid and kept in the back. A snake that wants a meal has to coil itself around the branch the nest hangs from, lower itself, enter through the opening the birds use as the front door, and then it has to get through the front room and into the back. As our guide put it, snakes don't have a very strong ability to concentrate, and often by the time they are attempting the third step, the entry into the back, they have forgotten what the first step was, and so they let go of the branch and fall. Some birds have learned to build their nests on branches hanging over flowing water because then, when the snake falls, it is swept away and so can't climb back up to try again.

These are three young lions, clearly the best of friends, soaking up the sun.

Ok, next on the list are elephants. Lots of elephants. This whole herd came down to drink.

The big fellow behind the baby was by far the largest elephant in the herd. He was called John-Paul, and you will see him again.

African elephants have much bigger ears than Indian elephants. When they feel threatened, they surround the babies and spread their ears wide, to make themselves look larger. The three shown here were always near each other, so I think they were a mother and two of her babies, born in different years.

John-Paul again. He's big.

Real big. To make matters more interesting, he's in must. This means he;s in season, ready, willing, and able to mate. When a bull elephant is in must, a gland that runs on each side of his face roughly from ear to eye becomes obvious. It looked at least a couple of inches wide, and reddish. Also, he can't control his urine, so his back legs are always wet. As one woman in my landrover asked, "Why would a female want to mate with a guy who's always peeing?" I guess femal elephants have different priorities.
A male in must can be unpredictable, and aggressive. When J-P wandered into the parking area, our guide warned us to be very quiet. The lady in the blue car kept her window open, making a video. A moment after I took this picture, though, J-P started sniffing and feeling the car door handle with his trunk. She kept filming, and when he started investigating her, she quickly closed the window.

Next he decided to investigate one of the landrovers. The people inside were half-thrilled, half-afraid. He moved his trunk over the outside of the vehicle, seemingly more interested in it than in the people inside. He was merely curious, our guide told us. And eventually he got bored and wandered off.
The rest of the herd had left the waterhole, but they waited on the other side of the parking lot for him. Elephants are very family oriented, and like to be together. I was told that when a close family member dies, they grieve. Another guide told me that he'd been following a herd in which the oldest matriarch was becoming weak. As she followed the herd, she kept wobbling, and then falling. The others waited for her. After a time, though, it became apparent that she was suffering. At that point, two males came to where she lay on the ground and stabbed her with their trunks. The guide said this was a act of mercy, to end her suffering. I have no idea what to believe, but seeing how the herd treated the young ones in their midst, I can believe I saw affection and even love.

Now for something completely different - some of the other wildlife I saw:

Dung beetles.

And a warthog and her baby.

I never thought I'd use the words 'warthog' and 'cute' in the same sentence, but this baby was adorable.

One last elephant.

Adventures with Ankles - Part 5 The End of the Adventure

2010-03-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

The trip back to the ship

Melissa and I had no visas for India, but we very much wanted to meet the ship there, because if we didn’t, there were four sea days before it reached Malaysia, its next port. I had heard that in India, red tape is tangled around everything, and it’s true. Melissa spent days, the surgeon who is Indian made several phone calls on our behalf, the hospital administrator spent several hours each day helping us, (and it took three days of concentrated effort), Faiz drove Melissa from place to place, and we were still lucky to get the In Transit visa on time.

Melissa told me the steps she took were full of paper she needed to pick up from one place which closed five minutes after she was told she needed that paper, and then the place that needed the paper assured her nothing more was required, but the next day needed another form signed which she had to pick up somewhere else, and take to get stamped in another place before she signed it and returned it, and, well, you get the idea.

Even with my surgeon, and two other doctors who also made calls on our behalf, and all the other people helping, it still took her at least eight trips to the consulate to get the visas done.

Finally, though, we handed over our passports, the visas were attached, and we were ready to leave.

We’d hoped to reach Mumbai in time to reboard the ship there, but due to full flights (we couldn’t book until we had the visas) and scheduling, we could only reach the city after the ship left, and so needed to fly to the ship’s next and last port in India – Goa. It turned out that flying from Male to Goa required three separate flights.

The Maldives is a chain of over 1,000 islands, some so small that they can support only a single palm tree – your typical desert island. About 120 are large enough for people to live on. The highest point on any island is only 2.4 meters above sea level, and the average height is 1.5 meters. Given that scientists are predicting that climate change could result in a rise in sea level of up to one meter, the people here are very concerned about their future.

The airport is situated a close water taxi ride from Male. It actually consists of three islands, with the area between them build up with landfill. During the drive from the hospital to the water taxi, I saw a bit of the town. Narrow alleys, busy streets with many motorcycles and some cars. Driving was chaotic, and they told me in the hospital that there are frequent injuries of pedestrians and passengers, especially at night when many of the young men like to race down the narrow alleys. Some roads were two lanes in each direction, but people treated the lane marks as guidelines.

All the women I saw outside wore a hijab and long pants and shirts, and some wore full body robes. In general among the people I saw, only maybe 15 to 20% were women. Sometimes a woman was a passenger on a motorcycle, but I never saw a woman driving one.

Again, remember that I saw only a few minutes worth of the town, and so my observations might not be valid for the larger population.

Getting from the car to the water taxi involved going up a large step, a smaller step onto a sidewalk, and then the same in reverse onto the other side. Much to the befuddlement of the people around, I did this on my butt, which was the only way I could see would work. Other people helped hand the suitcase to people on the boat, and it all went smoothly. When we arrived at the airport, I rode for a while on a luggage cart, until someone there brought me a wheelchair.

During the whole trip, men were upset when I or Melissa wouldn’t let them help, as we were two women traveling alone and so were supposed to need men to help us. I quickly learned, though, that the men who wanted to help didn’t always know how to push a wheelchair without bumping my foot into things or steering so that other people rushing by didn’t brush it. During the trip it got jostled a lot, and so became very sensitive. Melissa and I decided, after I’d been jammed into an elevator too small to take me with my leg held out straight (due to the break below my knee, I can’t bend the knee very much at all), that at each time a new situation arose, we would insist on stopping to assess and then make our own decision about what was best. This meant my doing all stairs on my butt, but that was fine.

We’d let the airlines know that I couldn’t bend my knee and so couldn’t sit in an economy class seat. I’d tried to book business class, but was told all the flights were full. I was told at check in that I’d get a bulkhead row.

I was wheeled to the first flight, and asked how I’d get on the plane, because I could see that there were no jetways here. The man pushing me smiled and said there was a special truck. Sure enough, there was big truck that looked like a panel truck. It had a platform on the back that I was wheeled onto, which rose until I could enter the truck bed, which was a room with enough space for at least eight wheelchairs. This whole thing now rose until it was level with the plane’s door. I asked if this truck was usually used to transfer food or something needed in the passenger area of the plane, but was told this was its sole purpose.

If you ever get the chance to fly SriLankan air, do it. This is the most comfortable and pleasant airline I’ve been on. The chief flight attendant, called the purser for some reason on some airlines, met me when I boarded, ready to bring out the special wheelchair they keep on board that is narrow enough to fit in the aisle between seats, but it was easy for me to hop along with the seat backs to hold on to. He was unhappy when he saw where I was seated, said he had something better, and showed me to the row of seats in the center of the plane, right behind business class. This was a big plane, with two seats on either side and four in the middle. Sitting on the end of the four, the business class aisle connected to the one next to me and, as it was wider, I could place my leg out straight. The foot was in the business class area, but that wasn’t a problem, and once Melissa piled pillows they brought us, I could rest the leg quite comfortably.

The other flight attendants were all female, and they wore saris that had ruffles added to them to look like aprons.

The whole four seats were empty, and the purser told me that they always tried to keep them unbooked, because they got injured people on the flight fairly regularly. He was a lovely person, interesting to talk to, and he made sure we were comfortable during the whole flight.

He was worried about us for the next flight, also SriLankan, because it was a smaller plane and so didn’t have the sort of seat I was in. From what I could see of business class, there was enough leg room there, and he kindly phoned to see if there was a seat available. There were two in fact, but again the red tape, because since I’d booked that section on economy class, he couldn’t make me a reservation. I could change my ticket in the airport, though.

The next stop was Columbo, Sri Lanka. We asked about upgrading and were told the flight was full. I knew it wasn’t, though, and couldn’t figure out what was going on. It was only after much time, when I realized that the airline thought I wanted a free upgrade, that I mentioned I would pay for the upgrade. After that, everything was arranged quickly and easily. I’m a bit surprised, though, that even though they knew I couldn’t bend my knee, they wouldn’t offer the upgrade for free, given my situation. Anyway, things worked out.

At each airport I was met by a person with a wheelchair. The first flight had a jetway for me to get off, but there were only stairs to get on and off the other two flights. Each also required a shuttle bus, and I did my butt thing to get on and off the bus. When we arrived at each plane, some men were there expecting to carry me in my wheel chair up the stairs to the plane, but I insisted on doing it my way, which worked fine.

To give you another idea of how male dominant the society in both the Maldives and India were, in Mumbai airport there was an immigration area that listed the usual categories, you know, crew, citizens, internationals . One desk, though, was labeled ‘Unaccompanied Minors and Ladies.’   Melissa and I had to be insistent to be allowed to do things the ways we knew would work best, but other than that, everyone was very helpful. One wheelchair pusher even arranged for us to spent the wait between flights in the fancy lounge, which we were entitled to once we were business class, but hadn’t thought about .

We had to book the flight to Goa once we arrived in Mumbai, but we received help there, too. We did tip most of the people who pushed the chair and assisted us, but I think that, with one exception, they would have been as helpful without.

We left Male at six in the evening, and arrived at the ship around ten the next morning. We didn’t sleep at all during the trip, and were very happy to see the ship, as you can imagine.

So now I’m back, and the foot continues to improve a little more each day.. All is well, or as well as can be expected. I’m actually feeling good enough to feel frustrated at my dependence and lack of mobility. I’ve started doing laps on the Promenade deck to build up my arm strength and get some exercise. While in port, I will also practice with the crutches, so I can become comfortable enough with them and not need the wheelchair so much.

Melissa continues to be a great assistant and, as some passengers have pointed out, this is her great opportunity to push me around. I’m writing this last bit on Thursday, the 18th, and have given one writing class and run two book club meetings. They have gone well, and so life is becoming as normal as possible.

Thank you for following this adventure along with me. I hope you appreciate the lengths to which I’ve gone to have something interesting to blog about! And now that this is done, I can get back to the really interesting stuff – the wildlife I saw in Africa.

Adventures with Ankles - Part 4 Surgery and After

2010-03-16T08:46:00.000-07:00

For the surgery I had an epidural and so was awake. I warned the anesthesiologist, as I always do, that I needed a stronger dose than he would expect and, as usual, I assumed he didn’t believe me. I am unusual, in that I am female and yet have an insanely high pain tolerance and this high tolerance to drugs. No one ever believes me. I’d had an epidural once before, when Jesse was born, given to me after 40-odd hours of labour, when it appeared I might need a c-section. (I didn’t.) It’s supposed to paralyze you from the entry point on the spine down, but after it was administered I could still feel my legs and move them. I was nervous about the idea of being paralyzed, though, and so didn’t ask for more of the drug, since I’d had enough to take the edge off the contractions and the eventual use of forceps.

This time, though, I did not want to be able to feel anything. I’m not usually afraid of pain, probably because it’s usually not very bad, but I was terrified twice during this experience, when I knew the joint had to be put back in place and about the surgery. Fortunately either the anesthesiologist did listen to me or what he used was more potent than what I received 28 years ago, because sure enough, I was paralyzed.

He chose vertebrae about halfway up my ribs. I’m not sure what he based his decision on, but he spent some time feeling my spine before choosing. He used a local anesthetic first

This was very strange. I could think about my legs, think about moving them, feel the command go to them, but was aware they didn’t move. This was scary. And strangest of all, I was convinced that both of my legs were in the following position: right next to each other, knees bent, feet flat on the table, even when I lifted my head and could see my right foot in a totally different place. And when the epidural wore off, I felt my knees gradually unbend until each leg lay straight, just as it truly did.

The surgery was to reposition two bone fragments, strengthen the ankle with assorted bits of hardware and, as the surgeon said, clean things up a bit.

I couldn’t see much, which is kind of too bad, as I think it would have been interesting, but since I didn’t have my glasses, I wouldn’t have seen much anyway. From what I heard, it involved a lot of hammering, sawing, and the use of chisels. I learned later that while the drill was a power tool, the other tools weren’t. Indian music was playing, and at times I quite got into it, especially when one or more of the doctors was singing along.

I must have dozed or drifted at times, because the surgery took two hours, but it didn’t seem that long.

After all the drama about the bed, I received some pain medication and figured I’d just go to sleep. The surgery had ended at 10 p.m., and by now it was close to midnight. Feiz had helped Melissa find a hotel ($35 a night) and so I told her to go get some sleep. She has been a rock all through this, and dealing with most of the stress of being in a strange place and all the logistics.

A little while later I had to pee, and told one of the nurses. There seemed to be only two on for the night, and the ward was still stuffed with patients and assorted visitors.

I’d used the washroom during the day. There were only two stalls for everyone to use, men and women, patients and visitors. The floor was always wet, although we later figured out that the people here use water to clean themselves after using the toilet, instead of toilet paper. Still, it seemed less than sanitary, and made the floor slippery, which was a problem for me. During the day, Melissa helped me into a wheelchair, wheeled me over to the corner where the washroom door was, get me as close to a stall as possible, and then support me while I hopped to the toilet.

I was told after the surgery that I should use a bedpan and not get out of bed. I was told several things, though, that were later contradicted by things other people told me, and so I was never sure what to believe. I tended to just trust whatever the latest person told me. And while I was told that I should stay flat on my back for 24 hours after the epidural or I’d get a bad headache, I was shortly after told that I could sit up a bit. And I was never told about the risk of paralysis that can occur if there is stress on the spine after a spinal injection, which is the real reason I was supposed to stay flat. Anyway, when the nurses showed up with a wheelchair, I was glad not to see a bedpan and figured that they knew that a chair would be ok.

Fortunately, I did not suffer any ill effects after moving about. What did happen, though, was that the nurses did not know how to support a patient with a mobility problem. When I stood on one foot to get out of the chair, a nurse held out her arm, so I rested my hand on it. As soon as I’d put some weight on it, in an effort to balance on my one foot, she dropped her arm, and I fell onto my just-repaired foot.

I didn’t fall to the floor, though, and I hopped over to the stall and did what I needed to. I then got myself back in the wheelchair and back to the bed.

After about fifteen minutes, my ankle started to hurt, and hurt bad. It was bad enough that I writhed about on the bed and made enough noise that people visiting areas nearby became concerned. The pain was as bad as after the original injury before the joint was reduced. I had to call out for a nurse, as even if one walked past my area to a neighbouring one, they ignored me. I finally got one to come over and told her I thought my ankle was again dislocated. She was very skeptical, but agreed after some urging on my part, to get the doctor on call to see if I could have some more pain medication. The doctor came eventually, but told me that as my ankle had just been repaired with a pin, it couldn’t have become dislocated again. I should have thought to ask her why, if that was the case, I had a cast on and was told to stay off that foot, but of course we never think of the right things to say at the time. Anyway, she agreed to give me more pain medication, but it didn’t come for over an hour.

It was now past 3 a.m. Visiting hours were still going strong, a radio blared, cell phones rang constantly, people talked everywhere, out in the center of the room, in the curtained areas. The people next to me, in my old bed without the curtains, pushed my partition over to make more room, but I couldn’t find the energy to care. I was crying by then, something I don’t do often. I didn’t cry with my gall bladder attack, or when I first hurt my ankle, but I cried for that whole hour waiting for the pain medication. A young man, in a nearby area became very concerned. I saw him walk by several times, each time coming a bit closer and looking in at me. I finally spoke to him, since it was clear he wanted to see if he could help but was shy to speak. I told him I was waiting for the pain med and he went off, presumably to speak to one of the nurses. After another fifteen minutes or so, it finally came.

They don’t give me enough pain med here, and I had to fight to be given anything at all, since I had received an injection earlier and so couldn’t possibly be experiencing pain. This new one, even though it wasn’t strong enough, did take the edge off, and when the young man returned, I was able to smile at him and thank him. He was there with his very pregnant wife. I’d heard a fetal heart monitor coming from their area, and I sure hope the delivery went smoothly. In that whole ward, he was the only one who paid any attention to me or seemed to care.

I must hasten to say that other than this one incident, people here have been wonderful, especially once I was transferred out of the ward and into a private room. The on call doctor must have written in my chart that I thought my ankle was dislocated again, because when the surgeon came by the next morning, he was furious. More X-rays showed that sure enough, one of the loose pieces of bone had moved away from where it was supposed to be, and others had shifted. He didn’t want to subject me to another surgery and decided to try a manual adjustment, which basically involved him pulling down and manipulating the ankle while two nurses wrapped their hands around my calf and pulled the other way. He filled my foot with local anesthetic but despite the fact it wasn’t very effective, I finally decided to grit my teeth and bear it. It was not fun. Melissa later told me she cried, too, but she bullied them into letting her be present and she held my hand the whole time. We were both so exhausted and overwhelmed and just had no resources left to draw upon.

I’m crying now, just thinking of it. But writing all this is probably good for me, and as I probably will post it on the blog, I am sorry if it is distressing for you.

After the manipulation, the bone piece was closer to where it should be, but not exactly in place. The surgeon decided to see how things went, saying that I might recover well enough and then, if I wished, I could see a doctor either later on during the cruise or back in Canada. I am recovering, and the pain is a little less each day.

Anyway, they took me back to the ward, but I now had the surgeon demanding that I be moved. The first room available was the Executive Suite, the single most expensive room in the hospital. I do believe this was true, they weren’t just trying to milk more money out of me. As I said, the people here have been wonderful, going well out of their way to help us.

Moving here was wonderful. I decided that no matter what the cost, I needed to be somewhere quiet so I could rest. During the previous night I’d tried to relax my leg, knowing that tense muscles would only add to the problem, but it was so noisy I just couldn’t. As soon as I was situated in my bed in this room, and it was a bed, not a gurney, I started to relax.

It’s a nice room, with its own bathroom, and a comfortable couch that Melissa can sleep on. I know she felt terrible for not being with me during the night, but before I told her what had happened, I told her that it was I who had insisted she go to the hotel to get some rest.

I haven’t been allowed to use the bathroom, of course, as I’m still not supposed to get out of bed, and so have become acquainted with bedpans. Other than that, though, things have been as pleasant as I could hope for.

The nurses here are much better and the room is cleaned twice a day, the sheets changed every day. I feel somewhat guilty, the white person who apparently needs only the best, and so gets special treatment. Most people here can’t afford this room, but there had been someone in it when I first arrived, so it does get used by local people. And Melissa pointed out that most people in the ward were not all that sick. I still feel bad, but also very grateful that I am receiving what I need to recover.

The nurses have been very respectful and careful. Only once has someone brought up what happened. A woman, a nursing supervisor I assumed, came to tell me that her nurses wouldn’t have done anything wrong. At first she said that I had been told not to get out of bed, but Melissa, who is much more diplomatic than I am, pointed out that I had no reason to mistrust them when they brought the wheelchair. She then wavered, clearly hoping that I would say it was fine, no harm done, but I didn’t. I did say that it appeared they hadn’t bothered to read my chart and so didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to get out of bed, and she seemed to accept that.

In reality, my problem wasn’t caused by my getting out of bed but by these nurses not knowing how to properly support a patient with mobility problems. But with the language problem making all communication difficult, because while most people working here know some English, most can’t seem to understand things that they don’t normally discuss in that language, I decided to let it go. The fact is, though, that this incident caused me an enormous amount of pain and greatly reduced any chance I might have had of being able to put weight on that foot and so move to a walking cast in anything less than a month to six weeks.

My guilt in moving to this room, though, isn’t helped by my realization that the people who are in the ward clearly receive care that is of a lower standard than that received by those who can afford to pay more. Those of you in the US probably find nothing unusual in this, although I’m curious to hear what you think, as I have no experience with health care in the States, other than an occasional visit to a doctor for one of the kids’ ear infections or something small like that. In Canada, I’ve noticed no difference at all in the quality of care based on the type of room one is in. The only difference there I have noticed is between hospitals in Saskatoon, when Jesse was in for issues relating to his Crohn’s. RUH, which is the teaching hospital and has a good reputation, had too many patients and too few staff on its pediatric ward, while City Hospital was relaxed and fabulous, but he was old enough then to be on an adult ward. I don’t know if this was a timing issue or what, as Jesse’s other visits to RUH, when he was first diagnosed and during his early years with the disease, were good.

The surgeon talked to us about what we should do when we leave here. He thought I should return to Canada, but I realized, even before leaving the ship to come here, that there is no better place to convalesce than a cruise ship. Since most guests are elderly, there are always some in wheelchairs, and the whole ship is designed for easy movement from one area to another. As I told the surgeon, at home there are a lot of stairs and no room service. On the ship, I can get into the cabin washroom with my walker, as I did before, and use the wheelchair to get to my favorite places, such as the promenade deck and the library. I can rent movies to watch in the cabin, or I can go to the move theatre when it’s playing something I want to see, as it has areas for wheelchairs. And room service runs 24 hours a day.

Plus, I can continue to teach my writing classes and run the book club. After the outpouring of love and support I got from so many guests, I feel a need to give back to them. I know they don’t all take my programs, and would be horrified at the thought that I would risk anything at all for them, but I do know that many of them love the programs and what I can offer. And there is no reason why I can’t teach a class or run a book discussion from my wheelchair. Plus, there are those wonderful doctors and nurses on board, and if anything should happen, I can be looked after and return home if necessary. Frankly, I think the long trip home to Saskatchewan from here would be a far greater danger to me than the relatively shorter flights to India where I can meet the ship.

I assured both surgeon and ship that I would not return unless the surgeon felt it would be all right, and he has agreed. Melissa will not permit me, at least for the first few days, to get into or out of the wheelchair or move about in it without her being there, and I have agreed to this. On occasion I can be sensible. We can order room service for supper and watch a video in our cabin. Sometimes she can deposit me in one of the very comfortable library chairs, leather with footrests, that I discovered before were perfect for someone with an ankle injury. I hope that soon she will feel safe to leave me, because I want her to do the things she did before, spend time with friends, go swimming, dance. She’s been coming to my programs all along, and has been a big help, and so she’ll continue doing that, writing on the flipchart or passing things out, but really, my programs are not very strenuous physically. My main regret is that I had been going to the gym and now won’t be able to. I’ll miss those endorphins, but I started thinking about all those fit wheelchair athletes, and Melissa thought that maybe I can start pushing myself around the promenade deck. Once she decides I’m ready, of course.

Adventures with Ankles - Part 3 The Ward

2010-03-16T03:07:00.000-07:00

The Ward

I have been in hospital wards in Canada, a couple of times, after giving birth, and after a small surgery when I was 12 that needed an overnight stay. The most beds I’ve encountered in one is six, and the maternity wards held only four. The wards were quiet, each bed had a curtain for privacy, and there was plenty of space inside the curtain for the bed, a night table, a chair for visitors, and for medical procedures. Nurses and the limited numbers of visitors spoke quietly. I don’t know if I was just lucky, but the one here is very different.

Disclaimer – my generalizations and overall view of my experience are based on a very small sample, since I haven’t been out of the hospital and so have seen only some of the people here. This means my view might be skewed.

The ward here is a happenin’ place. There are at least fifteen beds , actually gurneys, most of which have curtains. My bed didn’t. My space was about 6 feet by 8 feet. None of the others were much bigger, maybe some approached 8 by 10.

Family and community are clearly very important here, and the bonds are strong. Most of the curtained areas were filled with visitors. For a while Melissa and I thought we’d been put in the maternity ward, because several women and newborns arrived over the day, but we later learned it was the general ward and that people were there with a variety of ailments.

All of the doctors I’ve seen are from India, as are many of the nurses. The doctors here don’t wear white coats. Some of the women wore beautiful saris, the men wore shirts and slacks. The nurses wore outfits similar to what we see in Canada, top and pants both in the same colour. The patients appeared to be all local, and I don’t think I saw more than two or three women who were not wearing hijabs, which are scarves used to cover the hair.

I saw people outside of the ward only when I was wheeled to and from the ward for various procedures and usually I was flat on my back then. I did, though, see that the halls were always full of people, and there were women, in the full body robes. More usually, though, the women wore long dresses or the Indian style loose trousers with a long tunic on top, plus their hijab. As far as I know, Melissa and I were the only white patients at the hospital, although I learned that tourists are there sometimes.

Dr. Rao was sometimes followed by a med student from Denmark. He was even more different than we were from the people here, because he must be at least 6 foot 6, and the people here are tiny. They all have thick black hair and beautiful dark eyes. Many men are shorter than my 5 foot 5, and some women are smaller still. Many of the women are incredibly lovely, almond eyes, small bones so they are very slim, smooth skin in varying shades from café latte to dark brown.

A few of the people who work here also wear the hijab. A woman who I assume is the hospital administrator, and who has been incredibly generous with her time in helping us get Indian visas so I can fly there to meet the Amsterdam, wears one. There seems to be no dissention between those who wear it and those who don’t, but I worried that Melissa and I would somehow offend everyone, especially since we had no curtain to block us from everyone wandering about. I was wearing shorts and a t-short, Melissa had on a tank top and capris. I realize my attitude was not liberated, but I was new here, dependent on the people here, and while I might not agree with a religious custom, I have no right to enforce my views on them any more than they would have in forcing me to wear a scarf.

Nobody seemed bothered by us and after a while I was glad to have no curtain, since it meant I could watch what was going on. There were several children about, perhaps siblings of the new babies, and the smaller ones sometimes toddled about on their own, secure that any person they met would be a friend. And everyone was a friend. I don’t know if this is a small enough community that people do know each other. The island holds 40,000, although Melissa says another source said 12,000, people, and it’s not very big. More likely, though, is the sense of community that exists here, whether you’ve met someone before or not.

The toddlers had apparently never seen anyone like us, because they would stop dead when they caught sight of us and stare. They were immensely curious, but didn’t seem frightened. Melissa and I would smile and wave, and eventually an adult would appear, smile at us, the only time anyone did interact with us, and take the child away.

Visitors came and went, often bringing coolers or picnic baskets. Radios blared, many voices filled the air, the swirl of different clothing styles showed me a fabric store’s worth of colours and textures. Twice I saw men wearing what looked like a square or rectangular piece of rough woven cotton wrapped about their waists to make a skirt down to the floor. With this they wore what looked like a modern style shirt.

There are tourists here, and so most people must be used to people who look different and wear different clothing. While I was on the ward, most people ignored us, not in a bad way, but simply because they were there for people other than us.

The local people speak their own language, which is a blend of Indian and Arabic, with some English thrown in. The islands have been Muslim for centuries, although the people are clearly closely related to Indians. The doctors and others from India speak Hindi, and often English is the best common language to use when they speak to their local patients.

Although I enjoyed all the activity, I soon realized the ward would lose its charm after I had the surgery. I was in a lot more pain by early evening, and was exhausted. Our space was next to one in a corner, and its curtain ran parallel to my bed. For some reason the visitors there, and it got more than anyone else, didn’t enter the space at the curtain end by my feet. Instead, they walked through my space to the curtain end by my head to go in.

When Melissa met me in the hall right after the surgery, I told her I couldn’t go back to that bed. I was frantic, probably appeared irrational. We were told that I would be taken back there and then would be moved once a room became available, but when we were about to enter the ward I grabbed the doorframe on either side of me and wouldn’t let go, even when someone assured me that the visitors wouldn’t be a problem any more. After much irritation on the part of the people working on the ward, they decided that the next bed over, which did have some portable partitions, was free, and so I let go of the doorframe, probably having to pry my fingers out from where they were embedded in the wood, and went to that bed.

Adventures with Ankles - Part 2

2010-03-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

The island/town of Male is a tender port for a cruise ship. This means that we cannot tie up to a dock, but have to drop anchor and use a couple of the life boats as tenders, essentially water taxis that ferry the passengers between the ship and the shore. Getting onto the tender from the ship always involves several stairs, and if the sea is anything other than completely calm, the tender bobs up and down against the platform on the ship which, since the ship is much bigger and heavier, is relatively more stable but not necessarily unmoving.

I couldn’t put any weight or pressure on my ankle at all. Due to the dislocation, all the ligaments were torn or stretched, and so there wasn’t much holding the joint in place other than the temporary cast and tensor bandages. I spent the days at sea quite happily stoned on Vicodin, using a walker to get around in my cabin. A walker is much more stable than crutches would be, especially when there is much wave motion. Four feet are better than two, just as my dogs have been trying to tell me. The infirmary had a wheelchair for me, also, and once I felt somewhat recovered, or at least less dizzy and weak, I used it move about the ship, Melissa proving a very able chauffeur.

Since I fell in front of a small group of people, probably no more than one or two percent of the people on board, naturally almost everyone knew what had happened within a short time. Some called the cabin later on the day I fell, which was Friday, others apparently besieged the front desk or called the infirmary. Some wrote notes, which were delivered to my cabin. Once my condition was under control, Melissa sent out emails to some friends on board, so they could pass on the news.

I was overwhelmed, and in fact am tearing up now as I write this, by the amazing love and support people gave me. I truly had not realized I had so many friends on board. Despite my introvert qualities, I have met many people, writing students, book club members, crew members, people on my trivia team, some who’d just seen me around and so knew of my existence.

I’m going to shed more tears during this next paragraph, I can tell, but this meant so much not only because I realized I was part of a community here, and not alone, but also because of what it showed me of myself. My self-esteem, never high to begin with, and continually stomped on by my situation in the marriage, was totally crushed when Carl left me. But if all these people care so much, I must be a good person, at least in some ways. And that is something worth knowing, even if it took a broken ankle to find it out.

I have good friends at home, too, and I don’t want you to think I don’t value all that you’ve given me over the past year and more. You have been my lifeline for many years, and will continue to be. I know that, at my deepest level, how much you all mean to me. I’ve never had a lot of friends, but those I do have are very special and very important to me. In this case, I think it was the sheer volume of love I’ve been given on the ship, because of my injury, that finally reached critical mass and so was able to penetrate my silly and fearful brain. I am a very lucky person to have found all of you, on ship and on shore, and I can only hope that I can and do give you enough in return.

Okay, brief pause to blow my nose.

Back to the tender. There were discussions about how best to get me on the smaller boat. Carrying me, carrying me in my wheelchair, lowering me in a bosun’s chair (this last was my suggestion, as I thought this might be fun,, but for some reason no one took it seriously. A bosun’s chair was originally a sort of sling used to hoist the bosun, who was in charge of rigging, when for whatever reason he couldn’t climb the rigging. Today a harness is used, and all four of us in my immediate family have been hoisted up Arioso’s mast, for fun, or to repair one of the instruments at the top of the mast. The mast is 60 feet high, so the view is wonderful. ) were all suggested, but I decided that the best thing would be for me to be wheeled to the platform outside the Amsterdam, where I would be helped to sit on the floor. I would then go down the stair on my butt, holding my injured leg out in front of me (just think of the strong thigh muscles I’m going to have!). At the bottom, people would help me stand and I could be passed, hopping as best I could, onto the tender. Fortunately the sea was quite calm that day, and this all worked fine.

At the other end, on shore, there were more stairs, so we did the same routine in reverse and it worked well. There was an ambulance to meet me, which seemed a little like overkill, but I guess taking a taxi might have been a problem, since as well as not putting weight on the ankle, I can’t bend my knee much. This is due to the other break higher up, which no one knew about yet, since on board the ship, since all my pain was in the ankle, we didn’t worry about anything else.

So I was lifted onto a gurney, tied on with a belt across my chest and rolled inside the ambulance. I’d never been in one before. Unfortunately there weren’t any of the good-looking EMTs that are so common on shows like ER and Grey’s Anatomy, looking after all the tubes that would have been there but taking time to flash a dimple as they smiled reassuringly at me. Also, there were no tubes. I did have company, though, Melissa and one of the ship’s doctors who accompanied me until I was handed over to the hospital.

I received care very quickly. Lots of X-rays were taken even though we’d brought the ones taken on board, because the ship’s machine is much smaller and so doesn’t have as good resolution. The surgeon somehow suspected the other break, because I was soon taken back to the X-ray room and had a couple more taken, higher up on my legs. (I later learned that the sort of breaks in my ankle is unusual, and is often associated with the fibula break. The doctors on board mentioned this once I returned, and were a little embarrassed, but also very interested in the opportunity to learn. They mentioned a name, something syndrome or whatever, and the name started with M, but I don't remember what it is.) Dr. Rao, the surgeon, spent quite a bit of time with me, showing me the pictures and discussing what needed to be done. At first he hoped to do the surgery that afternoon, but because of some more serious cases, it was put off until the evening. I didn’t mind waiting, because after all, I had waited three days and nothing had grown worse.

HollandAmerica’s port agent had assigned a guide to us, something Melissa knew about. His name is Feiz, probably not the right spelling, but it rhymes with ‘dice’ only the final ‘s’ sounds a little like a ‘z’. He has been a very great help. His English isn’t great, but he and Melissa have learned to communicate pretty well.

At first he worked to get me settled somewhere while I waited for the surgery. I was pretty sure my insurance covered a semi-private room but somehow in all the frenzy of leaving the ship, no one knew where the forms Bud had had faxed to us from the insurer had ended up. Feiz told us that the ward cost $38 a night, other rooms were $115, and a private was $250. The hospital was willing for me to pay up front, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Making decisions has been difficult since all this began, and I’m lucky and grateful that Melissa stepped into the breach so ably. As it turned out, no decision was needed as all the rooms were full so I went to a ward.

Adventures with Ankles - Part 1

2010-03-12T01:48:00.000-08:00

On the island of Male (pronounced Malay, as there should be an accent over the ‘e’ but I can’t find the way to get my computer to do this), which is one of the Maldives, most women are considered immodest if they don’t cover their hair and their arms and legs. And here I am, wearing nothing but an open-backed hospital gown.

A few days ago, I tripped and fell. I was carrying a full plate of stirfry, and when I felt myself going down, the only thing I thought about was keeping the plate level so it wouldn’t break and the food wouldn’t spill. This wasn’t out of any concern about losing the food, because there is always more than enough on a cruise ship, it was simply my innate Canadian need to be neat and tidy. I succeeded in that goal, only a couple of pieces of green pepper ended up on the floor, but because of my keeping my upper body straight up, I fell badly, landed on the outside of my right ankle, dislocated it and broke two ankle bones and, for some strange reason, the upper part of my fibula, just under my knee.

The medical staff on the ship is wonderful. That’s an understatement. The guests, too, were there for me. After I fell and looked at my ankle, I knew something was seriously wrong, because there was a large bulge where there hadn’t been one before, but it didn’t hurt much yet. I became very dizzy and nauseous, and lay down on the deck. Our silly brains, or mine, at least, after worrying about something spilling, my only concern at this time was that I was going to be sick and I didn’t want to do it in front of everyone, especially since they were just about to have lunch.

Someone crouched beside me, probably saying something, but I suddenly remembered that Melissa was waiting for me at a table and I asked if she could be told what had happened. The watching crowd became a Greek chorus, repeating, “Her daughter is nearby, go and tell her.”

I might have blacked out for a moment, but I became aware of Paul, one of the book club members, standing by me, holding my hand. I looked up along the line of my arm to where our linked hands were, and the line shone bright and golden. (I know, this is rather cliché, but that’s what I saw.) The human contact was a lifeline keeping me from sinking, our two arms joined together.

I then don’t remember the next couple of minutes until I heard a voice, telling me there was a wheel chair and I had to get up. I lifted my head but felt dizzy and told him about my fear of grossing out all the other people and asked for a bowl. I’m pretty sure I heard exasperation in his voice, but he kindly got me a towel, said I could use it, and told me that I needed to get to the infirmary if I wanted help, and I did need help, so I should get to the infirmary. I thought about this, decided it made sense, and sat up enough for people to lift me into the chair.

When we reached the elevator, a couple of other people were about to get in, but the person pushing me gestured towards me, and they stepped back. Wow, I thought, a staff person taking precedence over guests. I worried for a moment about this, but then forgot about it. Melissa had joined me by then, but I gave up on being aware of anything, choosing to bend down over my knees, towel clutched on my lap.

Things happened fast. We got to the infirmary, I was lifted onto a table. Someone asked if there should be photos, I saw some flashes go off, and then an X-ray machine appeared.

The ship has three doctors and two nurses on board, and the clinic can do basic medicine, but no surgery, mainly due to the lack of an anesthesiologist and the necessary surgeons. Still, the level of care I experienced was astonishing. At least one doctor, the only one I asked, has a lot of experience in Emergency Medicine, which is probably good preparation for working on a ship, because they see a wide variety of problems, as do doctors working in the ER of any hospital. The clinic seems bigger inside than it does from the outside, and holds several consultation rooms, offices, a reception area, storage rooms, and other mysterious places.

My ankle by now had let me know it was unhappy, and I was told I’d get pain medicine as soon as possible. I warned them that I needed higher doses of drugs, my body just needs more to feel the effect. To emphasize this, I said I’d never been able to drink enough to get drunk, and the nurse, Bud, (who’d been the voice telling me to get in the wheelchair), gave me his sympathy. I’ve discovered that no one ever believes me about this need for higher doses, but they did do what was needed. I ended up with something whose name I can’t remember, maybe Thorazine, then 10 mg of morphine and then, since I could still feel the pain, just less so, and I was frightened of how bad it would get when they put the joint back in place, they gave me something more. This was apparently risky, as I could, and actually did, stop breathing, but they were prepared and it helped me get through the reduction. I am forever grateful to them for listening to me. I might have a high pain tolerance, but I’m a wimp when it comes to severe pain. As I suppose just about everyone is. (I’m not sure why putting a joint back in place is called a reduction, but it probably has something to do with the big bulge I saw when I first fell, and how much smaller my ankle was after the procedure.)

I was able to move in and out of consciousness while they worked on the ankle. By now they knew about the breaks in the ankle, which made the reduction much more difficult, but they pulled it off.

Disclaimer - my medical knowledge is very limited plus I wasn’t at my best during all this, so don’t believe anything I say about the practice of medicine. Especially - kids, don’t try this at home.

I remember being nagged, someone kept telling me to breathe. I got quite indignant, because obviously I was breathing, but the nagging worked, because here I am. One doctor told me he’d slap my foot if I didn’t breathe, and since the lightest touch was awful, that threat was effective. Clearly they had different bedside manners, nagging and threats, but it all worked out. The doctor who threatened to slap my foot is the one I’ve since found out laughs the most during practically any type of dire moment, which lightens the whole atmosphere.

Anyway, I shook off the effects of the third drug, and the pain was much less. I could begin to look around and take an interest in what was happening. Melissa was with me most of the time, although she went off at times to provide necessary information. I remembered that I had bought extra medical insurance before leaving Canada, something I always do when leaving the country. I had no idea what I’d done with the little card they gave me, but I did remember I’d got it through my Visa card. I told her where the card might be in the cabin, but thought it might also be on my desk at home, which meant it was somewhere in a box in the basement, since I’d cleared off my desk so one of the renters could use it. Melissa was just a wee bit stressed at this point, and couldn’t find it, and didn’t want to spend more time away from me searching, but she went on line to find the number to use so we could call the insurer, and then Bud made the call.

Bud is Canadian, the Chief Medical Officer on the ship. One of the doctors is also Canadian, living in Halifax. Come to think of it, I don’t think that any of us once mentioned the Olympic hockey game. Amazing.

I spent several hours in the infirmary, most of which passed in a reasonably comfortable drug haze. Eventually it was explained to me that I was most likely going to need surgery on my ankle, and that as we were currently in the middle of the Indian Ocean, the next port, the Maldive Islands, was three days away. India was another three days from there. India is known for the excellence of its education system, and in particular, its medical education and quality, but Bud had done some research and learned that there was a hospital in Male, our stop in the Islands, that was very highly rated, and there was also an orthopedic surgeon there who was supposed to be very good.

Thus, my stay in this mostly Muslim city, and the hospital gown.

Another disclaimer – Please forgive me for not letting any of you know about my injury until now. Melissa was able to phone Jesse and Matt from the ship, but we decided to wait until we saw the surgeon before sending out a mass email, so that you didn’t have to wait and worry until we could tell you more. And once we arrived and saw the doctor, we had no internet access. So I am writing this from my hospital bed, and will send it once I’m back on the ship.

2010-03-02T12:31:00.000-08:00

Yup, that's me sitting on an ostrich. A little weird, I admit it, but I'm never one to pass up an opportunity to try something new. These birds are strong and fast.

Ostriches are wild in South Africa, but they are also farmed, and I sent on a tour to visit a farm.

Ostriches, as you provably know, are the planet's biggest bird. The smallest egg in the picture above is a hen's egg, the kind you eat for breakfast. The largest one is an ostrich egg. These eggs are very strong. The shards I saw were at least half a centimetre thick.

The babies that come out of these eggs are pretty big for baby birds, but tiny next to the adults.

Ostriches can't fly, but they can run very fast, and they use their clawed feet to protect themselves. An ostrich kick can be lethal. They are also very curious, and came to see us when we stood by the fence.

Male ostriches are black, and females are grey. In the wild, they both help keep the eggs warm. The female sits on the nest during the day, when her lighter plumage helps reflect the sun's heat, and provides camouflage. The male takes over at night, when his black feathers make him harder to see, and it also helps keep him warm.

Ostriches have very small brains, as you can probably tell, but they do not bury their heads in the sand. When frightened, they run. They spread out their small but feathery wings and bounce across the land.

After the tour, we returned to Capetown, and spent some time wandering around the waterfront. This is a very pleasant area, filled with tourists and locals enjoying the many outdoor cafes.

This being a tourist area, there are of course many shops, many carrying local crafts. Creating dolls and sculptures out of beads is popular here. This elephant is made completely out of beads and wire.

Capetown's most famous natural formation is Table Mountain.

It is, as you can see, flat, thus the name. There is a curious weather phenomenon here, which is that even when the sky is completely clear of clouds, there often are clouds on top of the table. They are called the tablecloth, as often the clouds spread over the top and down the sides.

While in the area, we visited the local aquarium. I love aquariums, especially when they have jellyfish.

These are not jellyfish.

Neither is this. It is Melissa being a frog.

It's difficult to take pictures of tanks full of water, at least I find it so. This isn't a good picture, but it's kind of surreal, so I like it.

Faces of Africa

2010-02-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

Africa has many faces. It is a place of exquisite beauty and of horrific ugliness. The two contrasting faces of Janus are everywhere – enormous wealth and poverty more squalid than anything you can imagine. People with hope and those who know that nothing will ever change.

In South Africa, there have been changes, but not enough. The book club read Cry, the Beloved Country, a book published in 1948 and set in 1946, shortly before apartheid, which was basically in place already, became law. The book does a masterful job of showing the comingling of joy and desperation that represents the contrasting faces of life in this country. All lives, I suppose, contain these different faces, but in South Africa they are forced into stark contrast, light and shadow as harsh as the difference between a desert’s night and day.

The book is amazing in its prescience. The upheavals and cracks in community and larger society are still present in the 62 years since it was published. Given the understanding that men like Alan Paton, its author, and many others had at that time of the country’s wounds and what was needed to heal them, it is unutterably sad that things are not as different as they’d hoped. And, to highlight this tragedy, the one place the book fails in its predictions of the future is the optimism with which it ends, an optimism that now seems naïve.

Not everything now is gloomy. Apartheid has long been gone from the law books. The soccer World Cup will be played here later in the year, and this has meant new jobs as stadiums are built, and will mean a huge inflow of tourists and money. Talk of the event, and energetic discussions of which team is likely to win the cup are common, and everyone has an opinion. Most of the locals, though, cannot afford to buy tickets to the games.

One friend here visited a township she last saw seven years ago when she lived in Africa, and said that while it is still a shanty town, without services North Americans take for granted, there is joy and optimism there. Another face is shown, though, by another friend’s visit to one of Port Elizabeth’s townships. He was horrified. The people there, blacks who were moved out of the city during apartheid, and their descendants, still have no real building materials and so their homes are slapped together with whatever they can find. There is no garbage pickup, and garbage is everywhere. Water is communal, and has to be fetched in whatever containers are available. One man in my friend’s group started taking pictures, and my friend had to bite his tongue not to ask how such poverty and suffering could be seen as grist for a tourist’s mill, something to be shown at home and tut-tutted over.

I’ve visited two towns in Namibia and three cities in South Africa. I realize I’ve spent far too little time here to claim any sort of understanding of this complex area. But I have been affected by its beauty and by its sadness, and am struggling, as so many have and will, to understand.

The ports the ship has stopped in are constantly busy. Everywhere you look, there are huge containers piled on top of each other. Most of them are the usual container size, which is one railway car or semi load. Huge cranes, looking like George Lucas’ inspiration for some of the mechanical war machines in his Star Wars movies, squat along each area where concrete meets water. Ships as long as the cruise ship line up along the walls, waiting to have containers taken off or put on. It’s meticulous work, as containers are loaded or unloaded one at a time.

There is commerce, obviously, which is good for the country. This activity makes it dangerous to walk from the ship to the port’s gates, so shuttle buses are available to take passengers to a selected area of the city in protected safety. The area is usually a luxurious shopping area, often set along beaches or other waterfront property. Those passengers who wish it will be able to think that everything in Africa is comfortable and safe.

Those who wish to look further, though, soon realize it isn’t. Half a block away from expensive clothing boutiques are signs of decay. People, mostly young men, stand around idly, dressed in torn jeans and ratty t-shirts. Buildings are falling apart, paint peels from those still in use, windows are broken or boarded over. The unemployment rate in the cities is unthinkably, to North Americans, high. In Durban, I was told by one person that the unemployment rate overall is 68%. I don’t know if this is correct, but it would help explain the number of young black men standing around on almost every corner.

Crime, too, is sky high. Barbed wire atop high walls is common, as are cars and trucks bearing various logos that all say, “Armed Response.” People live in fear here. We are warned not to wear any jewelry when we go into town, to hang on to cameras and purses, to wear backpacks backwards, so the pack is on your chest , not your back. We are told stories of watches ripped from wrists, earrings torn off leaving bloody earlobes, purse and backpack straps cut. If we are this afraid during our one or two day visit, how much worse must it be for those who live here? Gated communities, armed watchmen, and multiple locks can offer only facades of protection.

But mixed in with the desperation is the joy, too. Market places are crowded and busy. People talk to each other, and laugh together. Children run and shout and play just as they do everywhere.

And yet, everywhere I’ve been, businesses have small signs in their windows, that say, “We reserve the right to refuse admittance.” And ‘we’, the other ‘we’, the visitors, know as well as anyone living here who the ones are who will be refused entry.

Africa is achingly beautiful. Why is it that an overwhelming beauty can make your chest hurt? My heart aches when I see the sweep of sand dunes in the desert, or watch two baby giraffes run together. Acacia tress stand along a ridge, silhouetted against a sky so much bigger than any in North America, bigger even than in Saskatchewan, that land of living skies.

Beauty makes the heart hurt. As anyone who’s been to a wedding knows, we are moved to tears during moments of joy. But as the two faces of Janus remind us, there is always another side, another view, another face to see, and it will also cause the heart to break.

A Dream Come True

2010-02-25T13:28:00.000-08:00

What woman my age, heck, any age, wouldn't like to be serenaded by four cute young guys? It happened to me, and on stage during a show, no less. The guys are a group called The Unexpected Boys, and if you ever get a chance to hear them, go. The mostly do a Frankie Vallie (I don't know how to spell his name) and the Four Seasons/Jersey Boys tribute show, but they are also New York Broadway actors, and they did a second show of Broadway tunes. No one got taken on stage during the second show, though.

As one woman in the audience said to me as we were all leaving after the show, "I had a hot flash for you!"
They sang two or three different songs to me, but the only one I can remember is "Only You"
I was a celebrity the next day, people kept stopping me to talk about it. The nice thing is lots of them told me that I was great, because I did play along and joked with them and even added a line of dialogue.
And now there's only memories and photographs. Sigh.

Mid-Cruise Doldrums

2010-02-25T09:21:00.000-08:00

When I first got on board Bruce, the Cruise Director, held a meeting of all the enrichment staff. One thing he told us was that there are three stages to the cruise. ‘Right,’ I thought, ‘South America, Africa, and Asia.” That wasn’t what he meant though. He talked about how the middle of a cruise this long is often a more difficult time. At first, everyone is excited about being here and all the places we’ll see. Near the end, everyone become aware that it’s almost over and they want to cram in as much as they can. During the middle, though, people can get tired, bored, less energetic, and down-in-the-dumps. He said we’d have to work even harder to keep the guests and happy and energized.

I’ve actually observed this, not just in the guests but in myself, too. This morning I could not decide what to wear, and I discovered that I am completely bored with all the clothes I brought. I don’t want to buy more things, as I don’t need them, and this became an enormous dilemma, taking way too much time and energy. Sometimes I walk around the ship and realize I don’t want to smile at everyone, which is as grouchy as I can allow myself to become. I do smile, especially at the ones who are the keenest writing students or book club members, but as I’m not always sure if someone smiling at me is in the book group (it has forty plus members and they don’t all come to every meeting) I smile anyway. And, I’ve learned that sometimes smiling can change my mood in a positive way.

In general, the guests are showing signs of cruise fatigue, also. Many are pairing up, to find some other sources of entertainment and exercise. Not me, alas. For those who’ve asked what happened to my crush, I discovered that with my former unerring instinct, I chose the man with the single biggest ego on the ship. Fortunately I was able to divest myself of any yearning emotions rather easily, which I guess means I have matured at least a little bit since I was a teenager.

Other guests are getting testy. There are some chronic complainers on any cruise, but they seem to be upping both quantity and volume when they express their displeasure. Since the cruise line wants everyone to be happy, often complainers will be give a free glass of wine, bottle of champagne, or some other perk. I hadn’t realized this, but it would explain why some people complain about things that seem perfectly fine. Also, people are arguing more in public. I have no idea how many people fight with their cabin mates when in the cabin, but there are definite signs of friction. Even Melissa and I, who get along amazingly well, have had our little differences.

Not everyone is exhibiting signs of trouble, of course. There are some people who have a seemingly endless source of energy and joy. I wish I could be like them. And the cruise continues to offer great activities, shows, food, and places to explore. But I find this psychological pattern interesting.

In a way, the mid-cruise doldrums are like writing a novel. Most novels, and movies, have a three-act structure. I won’t get into details, but Act 2 is usually the longest and most difficult to write. Writers, and editors, speak of ‘sagging middles’. It’s hard to come up with enough conflict and tension to keep a reader turning the pages of something that can be several hundred pages long. In Act 1, you are showing character, introducing goals and opposition, and setting an atmosphere, among other things. In Act 3, events are rushing towards the climax. In Act 2, though, you have to keep the characters striving to accomplish their goals or solve their problems, in believable and interesting ways. When writing romance, for example, you have to find a way to keep two people, who are attracted to each other, apart in a way that is realistic and interesting, and do it while their attraction, in physical and in other ways, is growing.

Actually, I'm not sure if novel structure and a four-month cruise are are similar. All I know is that middles can be difficult. And keeping mine from growing when there is so much wonderful food on the ship, is the biggest challenge of all.

Cruise Ship People - Bobbie Cohen

2010-02-23T14:24:00.000-08:00

When I first told people about my getting the cruise job, many of them spoke enviously about all the interesting people I'd meet. I hadn't really thought about this much, being a usually anti-social introvert. It's true, though. The people on this ship are fascinating. Mostly older, many have traveled extensively. Some have had successful careers and financial success, but others save for months or years to be able to come on the round-the-world cruise. They have had all sorts of experiences and are often very happy to share.

Bobbie Cohen’s husband, Jerry, has been collecting clowns for a very long time. “Now,” she says, her grin lighting up her eyes, “I’m the biggest clown in his collection.”

Bobbie has been a clown for 12 years. She’s a caring clown, as compared to a show clown. She visits hospitals and nursing homes, and entertains the people there.

Bobbie got into clowning through her volunteer work with the Retired Senior Volunteer Program in New York city She and Jerry had volunteered for years with their local theatres.   A community association that worked with seniors asked Jerry if he wanted to join their work and be a clown, and he asked Bobbie to come with him. By the end of the meeting, Jerry decided not to take part, because he’d had bad experiences in hospitals and so didn’t want to spend time there, but Bobbie was hooked.

There is an application process to be a clown, and a certificate is earned after a specified number of hours of class?

A Clown Alley is a place where a group of clowns share and learn together. She joined one and, when she and Jerry moved to Florida six years ago, she searched and found one in Delray Beach. Bobbie loves the work and the friends she makes. When she first started working in the hospitals, she’d get home and Jerry would wonder who got more out of the experience, the patients, or Bobbie.

In hospitals, she focuses on adults, especially those who are in for a long time, and who don’t have frequent visitors. With a partner, she knocks on a patient’s door and asks permission to come in. When this is granted, the two clowns do a little schtick, and spend time talking with the patient.    Listening is big part of being a caring clown. Bobbie relates especially to the seniors. “They appreciate your time and they want to tell you their stories.”

In nursing homes and assisted living buildings, the clowns usually do a 45 minute show. Former professional jugglers and magicians join the clowns, to produce a variety show with acts and skits.

There are strong connections in the clown community, and many people continue clowning into old age and through illnesses and disabilities. Bobbie spoke of one man with a bad heart condition, and a woman with leukemia. Clowning helps them stay involved with life and with other people. Many clowns she’s known were in their late 80s and early 90s, and didn’t want to stop. One elderly woman asked that, when she died, everyone come in costume to her funeral.

On this round-the-world cruise Jerry is the ship’s dentist, and Bobbie is a clown ambassador. Her letter of appointment, from Clowns of America International, states that she is “commissioned to spread the joy of clowning as you visit Costa Rica, Panama, Peru, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, South Africa, India, Singapore, Cambodia, Vietnam, China, Korea, Japan, Russia, and wherever your travels may take you. Be sure to share not only the joy, but the smiles, the laughter, the many traditions and history of our performing art with all of the people you meet.”

When Bobbie speaks of clowning her face, even though it’s bare of clown makeup, shows the humour, the wide-eyed examination of the world, and the innocent observations that are the hallmarks of the clown. She’s knows how to live in the world and be part of all that exists, even in different places with different cultures. Clowns know no nationality. They belong to all of humanity, and they do this by reflecting back to us all that makes us human – the emotions, the weaknesses, the joys and the sadness – the things that bind us together. She shows us ourselves, and then laughs, not at us, but with us.

It is funny being us. When a clown shows us something about ourselves, but does it without implying otherness or superiority, we see the humour, too. And we all love to laugh, don’t we. Life isn’t always easy, but laughter can help get us through the rough spots. And realizing we are all funny helps, too, by showing us that we are not alone. We are all fools at times, we all hurt sometimes, we all make mistakes, we all want things we can’t have. We all dream. When we laugh together, we more deeply root ourselves into the garden that contains all that makes us.

Bobbie lent me an issue of a clown magazine. In it was an ad that said:

Come to Mooseburger Camp, and people will laugh at you the rest of your life –

-               and wouldn’t that be great??

Yes, I think it would be great.

Bobbie is one of my writing students, working on travel pieces and thinking about the report she will write for Clowns of America International when she returns to Florida.

Jerry and I started to walk into the town of Puerto Limom. This was a delightful street that was only for pedestrians. There were vendors on both sides of the streets with their colorful carts.

So much to see, but what was this before me?   I could not believe my eyes. It was a tall all-dressed-up clown and he was making balloon animals.

Oh, I was excited. I was not dressed in clown, but I had my nose, balloons, balloon pump, and clown sketches with me. Jerry and I walked over to the clown. I pulled out my balloon pump and positioned my red nose as I greeted the jovial artist. When he saw me, he gave me a filled but unstructured balloon. I made him a dog and he made me an even fancier dog. We could not communicate verbally, but we were friends immediately.

He started to put a number of balloons together at once, creating Daffy Duck. It was a magnificent feat. His friend spoke a little English and he kept telling me what my new friend was doing. Jerry took video and photos of the two of us together.

What a joy. What a pleasure. The clown gave Daffy to a passing child. I took a snapshot of the child and his present. This was the most exciting experience of the day as far as I was concerned.   To travel all this way to a different country and find something and someone to make me feel so comfortable, and a part of this culture as well.

We bid the clown farewell and Jerry and I proceeded on our walk. On our way back, the clown spotted us again. He told us his clown name, but I did not have a pen or paper with me, so I couldn’t write it down. I did give him one of my clown cards. This pleased him very much.

Once again we parted with smiles on our faces. It is such a good feeling to know that wherever you go, you have the opportunity to somehow communicate and relate to another person. If you look for the similarities and friendships out there, I believe you can always find them.

Africa - the Namib Desert

2010-02-23T14:17:00.000-08:00

As soon as we, in our Landrovers, drove out of the town of Walvis Bat, Namibia, I began to understand why people love Africa, in a way that other continents rarely inspire. It's the landscape. It's beautiful, and big, and old. The landscape is so overwhelmingly what it is, and it's difficult to picture anything, other than time, managing to change it. Unfortunately, human beings can and do change it. The Namib desert is a protected area, but uranium mining has been allowed in parts, and I can only imagine what would happen if oil, or another resource that someone can get rich off, was discovered.
But for now the desert is here, in all it's subtle beauty. It's odd to call it subtle, since it is so huge, but it is subtle, in its colours, its shapes, and most of all, in its life.
The desert is an eco-system, and during my trip there, I learned about the life forms that live and thrive and interact there. Without Tommy, our guide, though, I would have thought nothing lived there except a few scrubby plants.
First we visited Dune 7, which is the largest dune in the world. There are others that are higher, but apparently for sheer number of sand grains, this one is biggest. Melissa climbed to the top, and I went part way. It's s hard climb. The sand is fine and soft, and so every step sinks in and also slides down, so climbing is two steps up for every step climbed. The bottom of my calves became sore quite quickly. The dune became steeper the higher you went, and Melissa needed to use her hands near the top, since she had to lean forward to keep her balance.
A man from Michigan informed me that there is a much bigger sand dune in northern Michigan. I just smiled and nodded.
Walking back down is rather fun, though. It's like skiing, as each step glides down as the foot sinks in the sand.

Here is what the road looked like just before we left the pavement and entered the desert. Once we did so, the drivers got out and let air out of the tires, to have better traction in the soft sand. While the routes through the desert and well known by the drivers, and are supposed to be the only places vehicles are allowed, the sands shift and so each day new drifts might appear or dunes move over, covering an area that was previously clear.

I've always wanted to see a desert, a real desert with a lot of sand and only sand. I got my wish here.
Here is my first step, followed by Melissa, who having made a snow angel on the ship's deck, had to make a sand angel.

The sand was rippled in this spot, but a few meters over it was totally different. Here are some glimpses of what we saw here. This desert is mostly quartz. The white areas of made up of larger grains which, being heavier, are sorted by the wind. The black is magnetite.

Okay, finally we get to the life forms. I took a very large number of photos of the landscapes, though, even though they can't portray the sheer size of the area, and how the shapes and colours changed as you moved through it. You can breathe a sigh of relief, though, as I am not going to show you too many of them.
Tge life. The above is a head-stand beetle. It's a picture of a picture because, although Tommy had brought several beetles in a jar, he couldn't show what it's like when they get to drink. This area gets between 3 and 15 millimetres of rain a year. Yes, milimetres. It's within 15 kilometers of the coast, and so even though it gets so little rain, there is often fog, which is an important part of the ecosystem.
This beetle gets all it's water from the rain. People here talk about 100 milllimeter rain and what they mean isn't the total depth, but the distance between rain drops. The beetle fortunate enough to be rained on will drink the entire drop, which for something of its size is like one of us drinking seven litres at a time. Its shell is waxy which helps keep the water inside its body. The beetle provides a travel mug for other creatures.

Above is the doorway to the home of the dancing white spider. It's called that because when alarmed it will stand up, four legs up in the air, four legs on the ground. It can also form itself into a ball and roll down dunes, which is how it escapes its worst predator, a wasp.
The spider can dig only a few centimeters in two hours, but it's tunnel is half a meter long. WHile digging, the spider uses its web material to stick the sand grains together, so its tunnel doesn't collapse. Unfortunately the wasp is able to enter the tunnel. When the two meet, they fight. If the spider wins, it eats the wasp. It the wasp wins, it stings the spider into unconsciousness because it needs it alive. The wasp lays an egg and the resulting larva eats the spider as it grows.

Tommy was very careful to dig the spider out at the end of its tunnel, so he didn't destroy all its work. He also kept a hand over it to shade it at all time, and when we were finished looking at it and he'd got it to roll down a dune a couple of times, he put it in a jar in his landrover. The spider is nocturnal, and direct sun can quickly kill it. He does a night tour in the desert also, and he returns it to its burrow then.

Next we looked for sign of the sand-diving lizard. This little guy can dig into the sand until he is entirely covered in no more than a couple of seconds. As you can see, he has a strong jaw, too.

While we looked at the lizard, and Tommy tried to get it to hang from my earlobe as a sort of living earring, one of the other drivers found this.

Tommy told us it was a baby black mamba, and once several people had hastily stepped back, confessed it was a skink, a legless lizard.

Next we looked for signs of this gecko. It was easy, kind of, once we knew what to look for.

Yeah, right.

Unearthing the gecko was hard work as this creature, unlike the spider, can dig and burrow very quickly.

But Tommy succeeded at last. He was a great guide. He so obviously loves the desert and all that lives there, and he has a great deal of respect for all the creatures we saw.

Many creature live underground because during the day the temperature is cooler and at night it is warmer.

He had even more respect for the next creature we found.

Yup, this is a sidewinder snake. During the day they hide in the shade of the few plants, but often move from one plant to another, leaving a track in the sand.

This snake is venemous, and can be fatal. It does move sideways, keeping itself in a sinuous 's' shape. It can move very fast, and only fifty percent of its body touches the hot sand at any one time, which enables it to move during the day. Our tour began early in the morning, and the sand was pleasantly warm, but later in the day it gets hot enough to literarlly fry an egg.

Here is last creature Tommy found for us. He's a chameleon who spends the day hiding in the cool shade of a plant. He happily ate some of the head-stand beetles in Tommy's jar, and also some meal worms. His tongue is very long and very fast. I tried several times to photograph it in action, but was never fast enough. The chameleon spent a lot of time examining the beetle or worm Tommy put out for him. His eyes are on turrets and can move independently. He'd study the beetle and us and the sky, before making his move. When in the bush, he is dark, but on the sand, he grew paler.

As you can tell from the length of this post, I loved the desert. I wish I could have had more time there, especially enough to do a night tour. That's the nature of cruising, though. You get a taste of many different places, enough to entice you and help you decide that someday you must return. Africa is one place I must return to, and I've decided that after visiting only the one place. We have several more stops here.

Before I close, I want to tell you a little about the joys and fears of driving through the desert. Many of the approved routes moved beside the length of a dune, but in places we went up, over, and down. The dunes are steep, especially the higher flanks, and often we were on a sideways angle as well.

We traveled in four vehicles and two of the others got stuck. My driver, who didn't get stuck, found his friends' misadventures hilarious, although he cheerfully admitted that everyone gets stuck sometimes, and that the next day would probably be his turn. In a way, driving here is like driving in heavy snow. Spinning your wheels digs you in deeper, and you need to rock to get out or back up, if you can, and try again. It's snow, though, that covers quicksand, as there is no pavement under the sand to keep you from digging even deeper.

The above is an effort to show you how steep the dunes are. The shot is straight through the front windshield. The landrover shown has just come down the side of a dune, and we have just come over the top. At times it seemed as if we shifted 180 degrees as we went up, over the sharp edged top and down. It was like a rollercoaster, but without any smooth curves on the track. We bounced, ricocheted off the side doors and off each other. Sometimes we felt as if we were lying down on our backs, sometimes we felt we'd soon be standing on our heads. At times it was scary, and one person asked our driver if the landrovers ever rolled. He said no, and I believed him. He knew just when to shift gears, when to go fast to gain momentum and when to slow down to get more traction. Toomy's company does three tours a day, so the drivers have a lot of time to practice. They also come out often to check on the routes and make alternate plans in case a dune has shifted enough to make a section too dangerous.

They all clearly love the desert, and I can understand why. Three tours a day might get boring, I didn't ask, but since what you see is ever-changing, and what you look for is hidden, everytime could be see as an adventure.

Mid-Atlantic

2010-02-14T15:37:00.000-08:00

Here we are, in the middle of nowhere. The water out here is a rich blue, clean and clear and deep. Internet is a little less reliable and often slower, which doesn't make sense, because we aren't any farther from the satellite. And, even more surprising, there are no satellite TV dishes anywhere, which means we can't watch Olympics! I'm sure you are all feeling deep sympathy for me.
The trip is a third over, and I'm already thinking of what it will be like when I get home, and if I want fruit salad, I not only have to go shopping for the fruit, I have to chop it myself. We really do get pampered here.
Today was the fifth day of the eight day passage between South America and Namibia. The time is going quite fast, because there are so many things to do on board. Out of the five days, we've moved our clocks ahead one hour on three of them, and will do so again tomorrow. No change today, I guess someone decided we should get a break on Valentine's Day. Going this direction is unusual, the cruises usually go the other way, so the ships gain time instead of losing it. Someone said we're doing it this way so we can arrive in Japan during cherry blossom time which, if true, makes all the jet lag, or rather ship lag fatigue worth while. And we'll experience a full day twice, I think it's April 19th, when we cross the date line.

On Kissing Gauchos

2010-02-14T15:30:00.000-08:00

The ship stayed two days in Buenos Aires, and on the second day I went to a ranch outside the city, to learn about the life, both traditional and contemporary, of gauchos. The ranch had belonged to an Irish family, who did raised horses and cattle. They had five children, and one of them now owns the ranch and lives elsewhere on the property. The family home is a museum, showing life as it was, and there were some lovely old ponchos and other weavings. And, not in the museum, but on the property, are a lot of pretty horses.

And, this being a tourist destination, there were also tango dancers and musicians who performed some of the traditional gaucho songs.

Gauchos are cowboys. The picture below shows a man dancing using his bola, which is a hunting weapon. Accurately thrown, they can be deadly.

The next photo shows a typical belt, which for a reason I didn't learn, was made of old coins. Perhaps it's how they kept their money, before the days of banks.

The next picture is of the family chapel, to give you an idea of the architecture.

We went riding, as you can see, and the gauchos then showed us how they herd horses and cattle.

It's lovely here, and in many ways, similar to the Canadian prairies.

Different flora, though.

The gauchos brought in a herd of horses, and then divided them into groups by colour.

I love this next photo because the horse looks so annoyed and the other one seems to be comforting him.

Okay, finally I'll get to the kissing gauchos part. After the herding, they showed us a game of skill they play. A tiny ring, and inch and a half in diameter, is hung from the bottom of a strap hanging from a wooden frame. The gaucho holds a small stick, not much bigger than a chop stick, rides his horse at full gallop under the frame, and tried to snatch the ring on his stick. If he succeeds, he gives the ring to a woman watching, in return for a kiss. Their skill was impressive, and after the first couple of rings had been given, I decided I wanted one. I surprised myself, because when the next guy got a ring, I stepped up beside the field and waved at him. And over he rode! I don't think of myself as being quite so brazen, and it made me think of how, for centuries, women have watched me perform athletic feats and offered kisses and more to the winners. It was strange to see myself as part of this long-time form of interaction between the sexes. I did wonder if there are ever any women gauchos, and some of the men in the audience were joking that they'd been ripped off, since they didn't get to kiss anyone. It was fun, though, and impressive to watch. And if watching set my little female heart to fluttering, well, I'm not the first to react that way.

Hopefully you can see the little stick in the above picture. The rings are hanging from the three straps, but they're so small they were hard to see.

Here's my guy, about to get his kiss. It's impressive how far down they can lean and still remain in the saddle. And besides, he's cute, isn't he.

And here are the triumphant warriors. They all got their rings far more often than they missed.

The hats that look like berets are the traditional gaucho hat.

I took a lot of pictures, so here are some more, some last views of this lovely place.

Buenos Aires

2010-02-12T17:02:00.000-08:00

Buenos Aires is a lovely city, and I wish I'd had more time there. It's a city of contrasts, and there are many different areas and types of people living there. It was raining heavily my day there, and so I didn't see as much as I'd hoped, but I'll show you what I did see. One person there told me that one of the contrasts is that there are areas where the people don't have enough money to live, and there is one area where they spend a lot after they die.

The area where they spend a lot is the Cementeria Recoleto.

It's a beautiful place, a big like a maze as so many mausoleums have been built that the passages between the 'streets' are very narrow.

The cemetery first opened in 1821, and has been enlarged a couple of times, but it's pretty full. Families spend a lot of money to build their own mausoleum, and then they have to spend more for regular upkeep, but people in South America have much stronger connections to their dead than we do in Canada and the US. The Day of the Dead is an important holiday there, and in Mexico. The Lacunal, a new novel by Barbara Kingsolver, which we just finished reading in the book club here, and is set partly in Mexico, has a character saying that she can't imagine the US celebrating the Day of the Dead. This is interesting to think about, and I think it's because Americans have always been much more focused on the future than on their past. The attitude towards the past does more to shape a country's personality than I'd realized before. I won't go into detail here about this issue, but we had some good discussions based on the book.

The rainy, misty day suited the cemetery, adding an eerie, other-worldly atmosphere. I've always loved cemeteries, love the peace that they all have, and reading the stories told my the headstones. Eva Peron is buried in this one.

The balcony above the entry is, I was told by several people, where Madonna stood to sing Don't Cry for Me, Argentine, when she was filming the movie Evita.

The above is from an area called La Boca, which means 'mouth'. That refers to a river mouth. The area used to be very poor. When people wanted to fix up their homes a little, they couldn't afford to get a whole can of paint, so they would find paint cans that were almost empty, and use the bits of paint. This gave their homes a patchwork look.

The current locals have kept this colourful tradition, and the area is now trendy and touristy. There are lots of local artists and artisans, which I always enjoy, outdoor cafes, and buskers dancing tango and showing off traditional clothing.

The picture above the dancers is of a butterfly, mariposa in Spanish, that landed on one of an artist's paintings. It seemed a fitting image for La Boca

Bits and Pieces

2010-02-11T16:54:00.001-08:00

Cruising around the world is not for the faint of heart, or the weak of stomach. We weren’t able to stop at the Falkland Islands because of a major storm there. Winds were Gale Force 11, with gusts at times up to 12, which is hurricane force, or 70 knots an hour. Waves were over 30 feet. While this might have been interesting to see, (but not experience) the captain prudently decided against stopping there. As always, he said the safety of passengers and crew is his first concern but he also mentioned, as all captains do, the risk to his ship. So we detoured away from the storm, but there were still high winds and big waves, making for an uncomfortable ride. Most people, though, seem to take the rougher days all in stride. I suppose I don’t see the ones who are unhappy, because they stay in their cabins.

The captain speaks to us over the loudspeaker every day at 12:45, to tell us about what sort of weather and sea conditions to expect over the next 24 hours. He also gives us our course and the current bearing. While in the Antarctic, the furthest south we went was 66 degrees, which is not quite in the Antarctic circle, but is further south than I’ve been north. He introduces himself each day, and for the first month it was usually in the same way: “A very good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. (Pause) This is Olav (another pause) your Captain (in case we’ve forgotten who he is.) He has a Dutch accent, like all the HollandAmerica captains I’ve sailed with. (It’s funny, it’s still called sailing with, even though there are no sails). People have told me about another captain they’ve sailed with, with a stronger accent, who always introduced himself by saying, “This is Keptin speaking,” in such a strong voice that they had to keep themselves from jumping up and saluting.

Olav is a very good captain, good at keeping the ship moving in the desired direction and good with the guests. Tomorrow Melissa and I get to take a tour of the bridge, so I’ll have more info available for you.

When I leave the dining room in the evening after dinner, which begins at 8:00, I pass through an interesting itinerary of music. First is the Explorer’s Lounge, where a violin and piano play. They cover just about any and all forms of music, from classical to Broadway to pop, and guests sit and enjoy a post-prandial drink as they relax and enjoy. The violinist in energetic, and he jumps and dances and sometimes sings, too. Then, as I move away from that area, I come to the Rembrandt Lounge, where piano man Stryker plays and sings. Often there is a music game going on there, like Name That Tune or a singalong during which guests get up to the mike and sing either acapella or with Stryker. Then, as I keep moving, that fades as the music from the Ocean Bar gets louder. This is where the dance hosts reign, and the band there plays rhumbas and waltzes and other forms of more formal dance music. I enjoy passing through this medley, it’s like going from port to port, and the bars are spaced just exactly right so the music from one area doesn’t interfere with any of the others.

The Ship is Noisy Tonight

2010-02-04T19:41:00.000-08:00

The ship is a noisy place tonight. In part it’s because the water became very wild as soon as we left the shelter of the Antarctic channel we were in. The wind can be heard from some locations, a low howl, sometimes rising to a shriek. In my cabin I can hear the bangs and pounds as waves hit the bow, and everywhere the ship creaks and rattles and thumps.

But the inhabitants are noisy, too. The library is one of my favorite places, mid-ship, mid-height on Deck 5, a good place to be in rough weather. It has the most comfortable chairs on board, leather with footrests. From where I sit, I can see the waves, most tipped with whitecaps, rising and falling, racing at an angle to our course. The wind whips spray high into the air, so the windows are drenched and I see thick flights of it fly past.

Usually at night the library is quiet, a few people like me reading, a few others on computers, doing internet, I assume. Tonight, though, there is much coming a going. Three men and a woman settle into a seating area on the other side of the room from me. They speak Spanish, and are clearly having a good time, their conversation active and enthusiastic, but they speak so loudly it’s difficult to concentrate on my book. People walk through, talking about the show they just saw, a comedian who was apparently very energetic, or about the band and who they danced with. Crew members going off shift wander by, laughing but clearly ready for sleep, with perhaps a drink first at the crew bar. As it gets later, other crew members come by, the night shift, cleaning and polishing the room, running vacuums, washing windows. They’re always quiet, but four men arrive, guests, and sit at a table just behind me, ready to play cards, arguing good-naturedly about who should sit where.

I give up on the library and move to my next-favourite spot, two chairs sitting all by themselves in an area by the midship stairway and elevators. Usually there’s no one there, and tonight is the same, no one sitting there, but the flow of people seems greater than usual. Or maybe I’m just more in need of solitude. Crew members go in and out of a door marked Staff Only, which clearly leads to the kitchen, because they wheel carts piled high with plastic boxes that lean from side to side with the roll of the ship, or with used coffee and tea sets rattling their china clinks. There’s a pretty high metal ridge on the floor just where the door opens, probably covering the joining of the inside and outside carpets. Each time the person or persons wheeling the carts have to reach down, sometimes at the same time as they’re reaching up to steady the load, so they can lift the wheels over the bump. Guests wander by, seeking their cabins after the evening’s entertainment. A couple walks by, shoulders rigid. They stand around the corner from me, waiting for an elevator, and continue a fight they’ve been having. The woman yells she won’t get an elevator with him, that he hit her with his watch, and that he’ll get to the cabin ten minutes after her. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but I consider leaving as his voice, which starts low enough that I can’t hear what he’s saying, rises in volume. She’s getting more upset about going in the elevator, and I hope they don’t come back and see me sitting there, knowing I would have heard them. Fortunately, he somehow gets her to enter the elevator, although I can still hear her voice, decreasing in volume, as the elevator rises or falls.

Two crewmen go by with a cart piled high with boxes. One sings, a song I almost recognize, and the other joins in with a high falsetto. They don’t notice me.

Another crewman goes into the door, then comes out, nods and smiles at me. He returns a little later and we chat, about how he has been to Antarctica two years ago on the Rotterdam and how it’s my first time. (I’ve discovered that since I wear a name badge, the crew are much more likely to talk to me. I’m not exactly one of them, but I’m close. ) He’s on night shift now, does this two weeks on and two weeks off. We talk about penguins, and where I’m from. He is surprised to hear I’m traveling with my daughter, he thought I’d be traveling alone. He has warm eyes and a nice smile, is just starting his shift at 11:30 p.m., is relaxed and alert, ready to do his work, but happy to stand and talk for a while.

More people come and go, most don’t notice me, a few do. Most who do ignore me, which is unusual, because on this ship usually everyone smiles and says hello to everyone they meet. It’s late, though, and the ship is rolling, which means everyone dances a bit as they walk the hall, sashaying from side to side, sometimes catching themselves on the wall, sometimes scowling with fierce concentration as they work hard to keep themselves moving in a straight line.

I return to my cabin where the ship’s motion is more evident. Melissa is out somewhere, and it’s blessedly quiet. I lie on the couch and try to pretend that the ship’s motion is soothing me.

Playing in the Snow

2010-02-03T18:43:00.000-08:00

When we first arrived in Antarctica, the ship announced that there'd be the equivalent of a Polar Bear swim, a Penguin Swim, I guess. Melissa, of course, was determined to do this. I'm still shaking off the last of my cold, so decided I'd take pictures instead. We assumed that the water in the outdoor pool would be actual Antarctic water, but steam rose from its surface, and it was quite warm. I guess no one wanted the shock to anyone's body to be too great. It was cold out on deck, though, although not very cold for us tough Canadians.

Melissa enjoyed her swim so much that she decided to do it again, and the day it snowed was perfect. Some friends decided to join her.

In the above picture you can see how much the ship was rolling. At one point there was what we all thought was a rogue wave, one much bigger than the rest, because a good proportion of the pools water ended up on deck. The Captain came on the loudspeaker, though, to tell us he'd had to make a sudden turn to avoid an iceberg. Visibility at this point was almost nil, due to heavy fog. I noticed after that, the ship slowed down.

Ah, my maternal heart swells to show you this image of my little snow angel.

Antarctica

2010-02-03T18:20:00.000-08:00

We were very lucky with weather in Antarctica. The first day was sunny with calm seas, the second was overcast and a little misty, which made everything look ethereal. The third day was typical summer weather here, heavy fog, a snow storm (see Playing in the Snow) and rough water.
Antarctica is amazing, and I actually don't have the words to describe it. I've been to Alaska and saw icebergs in Newfoundland, but neither comes close to the sheer overpowering nature of this southern part of the planet. Even photos don't really show it, but they're the best I have. Here goes:

It's hard for you to tell the scale in the pictures, so I though this might help. It looks as if the ship is about to ram to shore, but we're actually at least a half mile off, here.

Icebergs are frequent and come in all shapes and sizes. Often they carry passengers, seals and penguins. There was one that looked a lot like a cruise ship, and there were penguins standing out on all the decks and balconies. I wondered how the passengers got on board the bergs. Did they swim to them, or were they standing on what they thought was solid land which then broke off?

This is a penguin colony. I can't remember what type of penguins these are, but will fill in that info later.

Cape Horn

2010-02-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

In the past, rounding Cape Horn was something sailors thought about with dread. Known for high winds and rough seas, it was one of the most dangerous passages a sailing ship could do.

The winds and waves were in evidence when the Amsterdam cruised by. Cape Horn showed herself in all of her mercurial moods, in sunshine,

and shrouded in gray.

It even snowed for a while, and this is summer here. And then, shortly before we headed further south on the way to Antarctica, and while I thought about the old square-rigged boats heeling to one side as they battled the wind and prayed to survive, Cape Horn showed us one last facet of her personality. A rainbow.

Canadian Beavers at the End of the World

2010-01-30T18:44:00.000-08:00

Canadian beavers at the end of the world? I guess the south latitude here is equivalent to the northern one in Canada where they live, but, alas, the grand plansfor a fur trade on Terra del Fuego didn’t work out.

Ushaia, pronounced you-sh-why-ah, is in Argentine Patagonia. There is a populated place a little further south, but its population is smaller than Ushaia’s 70,000, so while it might be the most southern town in the world, Ushaia lays claim to being the most southern city.

Back during the days of the Canadian fur trade, someone thought that bringing beavers here from Canada would provide a welcome new source of income for this part of Argentinian Patagonia. Unfortunately, the winters here are not nearly as cold as are those in Canada. The temperatures here vary from minus 5 in the city to maybe minus 20 in the mountains. The beavers did what life forms everywhere do. Instead of putting resources into growing thick long fur, they produced shorter fur which, while it is silkier than that of our beavers, is thin and so was not much in demand in the fur market. The energy they saved from growing thick fur went into dam construction and having fun swimming.

Like many introduced species, the beavers did very well , to the detriment of the local environment. They produce eight young a year, and there are no predators, no wolves, coyotes, or bears. Just people, and while the Chilean government pays a $50 bounty for a dead beaver, Argentina’s government pays only $20.

The beavers spend their time building dams. That’s what you do if you’re a beaver, chew trees to keep your teeth from growing too long, and using said trees to build things. They don’t need to build the elaborate lodges used in the colder Canadian climate. I have never seen such large dams as the ones I passed while hiking in a valley surrounded by mountains.

The dams cause flooding which, while the water is appreciated by some bird species, kills trees.

In the larger scheme of things, though, that isn’t too bad. Most introduced species wreak far worse havoc on their new homes. I guess the beavers, being Canadian, realized they had to be polite and not push themselves on the world the way, say, an American species would if brought hereIt’s sad to realize, though, that our national animal, the beaver, is such a poor ambassador. At least it’s not as hated as is the Canada goose, known and reviled for producing way too much fertilizer in places where it’s not needed.

The hike was lovely, and we walked through many different terrains. Everyone was given a pair of rubber boots to wear, which was a good thing, as the peat bog we passed through was very boggy.

I was the first to fall, caused when my boot decided to stay in the mud while the rest of me kept moving forward. I was holding my camera and had the presence of mind to hold it up as I went down. I kept it dry and the fall was harmless, as mud makes for a soft landing.

Fast-flowing streams, springy moss tufts that were foot-sized islands in a sea of brownish water, and boot-sucking mud made the walk an adventure. We also went through a lovely forest, and scrambled down rock shelves.

Ushaia reminds me of Whitehorse and towns in Alaska. There's an energy here, a can-do optimism. Young people, and talented artisans abound. It's a place where things are happening and are going to happen. I'd love to return, to see what the results are.

These are orchids, the only ones I've seen that grow in a harsh, non-tropical environment. They symbolize the people here, the way a harsh environment can produce great beauty.

Penguins and Llamas and Sheep, Oh My

2010-01-29T18:22:00.000-08:00

The penguins were everywhere. Smallish, knee-high birds with long-thin flippers that they sometimes used to hug each other or walk arm-in-arm,

they waddled with an intensity that was probably more just a matter of having to move their feet fast enough so they didn’t fall over forwards.

They leaned their bodies forward when they walked, and when they came up out the burrows they’d dug in the seaside soil.

Penguin paths worn through the long wiry glass took them from their burrow to the stony beach.

Like all penguins, awkward on land, once in the water they bobbed and swam with such grace, it was like watching a dance.

The air was full of feathers, swirling like huge flakes of snow. The babies, big and fat at three months old, had yet to go in the water, but right now they are preparing by molting their baby fluff feathers and developing their adult waterproof coat.

They spent a lot of time preening, actually all the birds did. They spent a lot time, too, posing for the many cameras clicking away. They’d walk, and then suddenly freeze, although it wasn’t out of fear, because they showed no notice of all the people walking by. They have few predators, sea lions in the water, and the occasional fox on land.

Patagonia is the southern-most part of South America. Both Chile and Argentina have area here, although the people tend to think of themselves as Patagonian first and their nationality second. Grasslands and lots of wind. Sound familiar, those of you in the prairies? It very hilly, though, and so is different.

We then went to a sheep farm. Sheep are known as range maggots in the United Kingdom, but I didn’t hear any such derogatory term here. Chilean Patagonia is largely agricultural, and farms tend to be big. A small one is 5000 acres, and the largest one in the area was 70,000, although that was two separate pieces of land.

Most farms focus on sheep, and some cattle. We were treated to a demonstration of sheep-herding, by a man on a horse and two very happy dogs.

We also watched a sheep get sheared the old fashioned way, with hand-shears. A good shearer can shear 200 to 250 sheep a day.

The farm was lovely and interesting, and the experience was made slightly surreal by the sudden sight of a herd of baby llamas. Unpenned, they roamed the large area freely. They'd appear out of nowhere, running down a road, or across a field, or from behind our parked bus. They were only four months old and so, while they are approaching their adult height, they are thin and leggy, mostly because they haven’t yet put on their adult hair. It was difficult to take photos of them, because their appearance was always unexpected, and they can run fast.

Chilean Fjords

2010-01-29T17:38:00.000-08:00

And now for something completely different, a local market.

Isla Robinson Crusoe

2010-01-28T17:54:00.000-08:00

In 1848, a group of Latter Day Saints decided to travel from New York to California, not by wagon train across the continent but by ship. No Panama Canal then so they sailed down the east coast of North and South America. Rounding the Horn, never an easy passage, was especially harrowing. Unable to continue directly up South America’s west coast to California, they stopped at the first place they could find, the tiny island from which Alexander Selkirk was rescued in 1708, after spending four years and four months marooned there. In the years since his ordeal, which inspired the book Robinson Crusoe, people had set up a small community there, and these people took in the Latter Day Saints. They looked after the travelers, providing medical care, and food and water so they could continue on to California. To show their gratitude to the islanders, every year a group of Latter Day Saints spends four months on the island, working to improve the people’s lives.

The group was there when we spent a day, working to complete a house which was already fully framed. The population of the island is around 660 people, so the cruise ship’s arrival more than doubled the number of people there.

(The above picture is not the house they were working on. It's a house made entirely of bottles. My new technical expertise doesn't appear to include knowing how to move a picture from one place to another.)

The island is very steep, and while some houses and most businesses – a couple of tourist-type shops, a small general store, and a pub/discoteque – are on the flatter area along the short of a sheltered bay, most homes cling to the mountainside. There’s a hike to Selkirk’s Mirador, his viewing point located mid-island, on its highest point, from where he watched the sea, hoping to see a ship. The cave he lived in was further, and most of us tourists found the hike, even if we went only part-way up, daunting enough, causing shortness of breath and aching legs.

It was a lovely stop. No organized tours, few cars. Most people go around on motor-bikes or ATVs. Or by horseback. Lots of dogs live there, happy and healthy, and very friendly. The local people ignored the influx of tourists for the most part, going about their business. Some higher up were pleased to see us, greeting us with big smiles, their arms around small children who stared curiously at these puffing people walking up past their homes.

As I walked about, I thought often of Selkirk. This must have been an inhospitable place when he first arrived. He was a Scottish sailor, and was concerned about the seaworthiness of the ship on which he served. He’d apparently complained about many things during that particular voyage, and so the captain put him onto the island. This was a good thing, actually, because the ship later foundered, and only seven men survived.

The island, though, would have been difficult. Selkirk expected a ship would come by soon to take him off. He’d also expected other ship-mates to decide to join him, but none did, so he was alone. The island is a harsh environment, but he would have been able to find fruit and fish to live on.

Photos!

2010-01-23T18:08:00.000-08:00

Hurrah, I have finally figured it out. I'ce added one to the Costa Rica post. I will add others over time. Look for them!

On a Personal Note

2010-01-23T17:58:00.000-08:00

     During this cruise, I’m following an itinerary other than the one that lists the countries we visit and the scenic vistas we see. It’ s journey into my future and into my past.
     I was married for almost 30 years, and now I’ve been not married for almost one. The itinerary of the past year was one of pain, grief, betrayal, and flickers of a new fire lighting the way. I have reached a point on this particular journey where I am sadder, but also stronger, more confident, and often happier. I am looking at the itinerary into my future with optimism.
     But it’s also a journey back, to the time before I was married. This cruise is the first time I’m meeting new people in a social situation, as a single woman. I knew that at some point I’d be again interested in other people, men, too. I thought, though, that I’d go through a time of wanting to be wanted, more than me wanting anyone else.
     I’ve had a crush, though, for several days, on someone, and it’s this that takes me back to my young woman days. The emotions are as surprising as they are familiar. Thinking about him a lot, that inner lift when I see him, especially when he smiles at me. The self-consciousness whenever I’m around him.
     It’s weird! I’d like to think I’ve learned something during all those married years, all those years of life experience since I was twenty-two. I guess I have gained some cynicism. I can say things like, I think about him, way too much. Or that it’s silly to be self-conscious. I know my body isn’t twenty-two any more, hasn’t been for a long time. But the basic emotions are there, and not much different.
Do we ever grow up?

Cruise Ship LIfe - Daily Program

2010-01-23T17:38:00.000-08:00

Every evening a daily program for the following day is delivered to each cabin, or stateroom as they’re supposed to be called. Here is what tomorrow, January 24th, 2010, holds.
The program first offers a brief bio of Thomas Grindlay, the Dining Room Manager. We learn he’s from Canada, living near Huntsville, Ontario. He worked in the hospitality industry in Toronto, and then at the Banff Springs Hotel. Realizing he was bored with the hotel industry, he came to work for HollandAmerica as Maitre’d, “and the rest, as they say, is history. He supervises a staff of nearly 90 hard-working professionals who are dedicated to making sure you have the finest service on the high seas.”
There’s a paragraph from the navigator every day, telling us the bearing and planned course, although today it’s a discussion of how you can use your watch as a compass. If you hold your watch horizontally and point the hour hand toward the sun, south will be at a point approximately midway between the centre of 12 and the hour hand. I’m not sure, though, if this applies only in the southern hemisphere. Anyone know?
There’s a half-hour set aside for guest to have a photo taken with the Captain.
The dress code is formal, meaning for the ladies, gowns, cocktail dresses or elegant pantsuits, for the men, jacket and tie are required, dark suit or tuxedo suggested, cultural formal wear such as Asian style is also acceptable. It also says, “In order to compliment your fellow guests, please observe the dress code throughout the entire evening in the indoor bars, the La Fontaine dining room, and the Pinnacle Grill.” For those guests who don’t want to dress up, there’s the Lido restaurant, a cafeteria self-serve place.
Here is “Today at a Glance.”
7:30 a.m. Sit and Be Fit in the Queen’s Lounge
8:00 a.m. Catholic Mass Wajang Theatre
Walk a Mile Meet at Lifeboat 6 Deck 3
9:00 a.m. Tai Chi
Dance Class A: Cuban Mambo Crow’s Nest
Watercolour Class A
Protestant Sunday Worship
Daily Quiz Available, 9:00 – 3:00 (This includes a trivia sheet on a selected topic, plus a Sudoku puzzle, and maybe other things, I don’t know.)
Sports Equipment Available, 9:00 – 6:00 (Ping Pong, Paddle Tennis, Shuffleboard, Volleyball, Basketball, maybe more.)
9:30 a.m. Onboard Sports: Target Toss
Culinary Question and Answer (no topic listed, which is unusual)
Morning Coffee is served, 9:30 – 10:00 (I’m not sure why this is here, as you can get coffee any time you wish)
10:00 Seminar: One of a Kind: The Jewelled Creations of Sidney Mobell
Digital Workshop: Put Your Best Face Forward:Editing Your Cruise Photos
Beginner Bridge Lecture in the Hudson Room
Bridge Lecture in the Wajang Theatre
Fitness Class: Pathway to Yoga $12.00 in the Greenhouse Spa
Paddle Tennis Players meet
10:30 Wii Bowling
Favaro Collection Unveiling & Prize Giveaway in the Signature Shop (sells jewelry)
11:00 Explorations Speaker Series with John Palmisano (one of several speakers, I can’t remember if he’s the language expert or South American history, no topic listed)
Techspert Time with Jeff (he’s does workshops on photos, blogs, etc, and this is time to ask him questions or seek individual help)
Sidney Mobell book signing
Gems of South America in the Mirabella Luxury Boutique (the higher-priced jewelry store)
Spa Seminar: Burn Fat Fast (maybe I’ll go to this)
11:15 Fruit and Vegetable Carving
12 noon The ‘Brain’ Super Team Trivia (I do this, although the questions on this cruise are way more difficult than on others, but I guess we all need a reminder of how much we don’t know)
Singles and Solos meet for lunch (I’ve never been to one of these)
Blackjack Tournament in the Casino
Lunchtime Music on the Lido Deck
Voice from the Bridge Announcement (the Captain comes on, speaks about where we’re going, what weather we might expect, sometimes has maritime trivia or information)
1:00 Watercolour class B (some classes are popular enough, and in too small a space, so they do the class twice.
Art History at Sea
Opera Appreciation with Rabbi Mintz
Arthritis Relief with Acupuncture
1:30 Texas Hold ‘Em Tournament (all cruise ships I’ve been on have a casino)
2:00 Exploration Speaker Series with Ron Barasch
Creative Writing (that’s me!)
Digital Workshop: Your Away from Home Movie
Basketball players meet on the Sports Deck
Party Bridge (this is supposed to be like social bridge, non-competitive as compared to the Duplicate Bridge) in the Hudson room
Duplicate Bridge in the dining room
2:30 Arts & Crafts
Onboard sports: Hole-in-One Golf Challenge, in the Atrium
3:00 Dance Class B
Photography Lovers meet
3:15 – 4:00 Afternoon Tea
4:00 Bonus Card Snowball Jackpot Bingo (costs money)
Amsterdam Book Club meets (me again. In between I’ll have office hours, which is regular thing but is never in the program. It’s time for fledgeling critique groups and people who want one-on-one time with me)
Techspert Time with Jeff
Friends of Bill W. meet (AA meeting)
Volleyball players meet
5:30 Early Seating dining Antarctic Orange Dinner (this means that as well as dressing formally, we should wear orange. The only orange I have is a mola t-shirt and orange nail polish. The last themed formal night was black and white, which was much easier. Melissa got an orange scarf)
7:00 Cocktails with Stryker (a band which plays older dance tunes. There will be dancing, partner style, and the dance hosts will keep busy.)
8:00 Early Seating Showtime
Main Seating dining Arctic Orange Dinner (this is when I eat. My table mates are great which means I usually go to the dining room, even though eating there can take an hour and a half or more, which is time I could be using to write, read, or sew)
9:00 Broadway to Hollywood in the Rembrandt Lounge (there’s a very good pianist in this lounge,a nd he usually has a theme for each evening. Sometimes it’s Guess That Tune, which is fun)
10:00 Main Seating Showtime
11:00 All Request Night with Your Dj in the Crow’s Nest (this is music from the 60s on, and you can dance alone or in a group if you wish.)

The show is Elliot Finkel, Piano Entertainer Extroadinaire (other shows have included a soprano singer, a comedic magician, high-energy dancers, Las Vegas style shows, stand-up comedian, etc. etc.
The movie is Like Water for Chocolate
The rest of the program shows the hours for each bar and restaurant, the spa, the photogallery, pools and hot tubs, a Q and A (today’s is Are the Height of the Waves Related to the Distance Between the Waves?,, where you can find alcohol to drink, and hours and where to reach the doctor, art director, shore excursions desk, future cruise consultant, travel guide, and assorted other people and services. Room Service is availavle 24 hours a day

Chile and Big Waves

2010-01-22T18:13:00.000-08:00

A short post this time - it's Gale Force 8, and big ship or not, the motion is definitely felt on board. The dining room was sparsely populated this evening, and boxes of barf bags have discreetly appeared around the ship. I went out on deck three, which is about four storeys above the water. At least normally it's that high, but tonight waves are breaking on the deck two windows, and spry is flying as high as deck 6. Outside, one side of the ship was very wet, but other was dry. It was exhilarating to stand in that wind, which on the Beaufort Scale is around 62-74 km an hour, but the actual wind speed is higher because we are heading into it at 22 knots per hour. This is the most comfortable heading, the waves break on the bow, whihc causes pitching, rocking from front to back, which isn't as nausea-inducing as rolling, which is side-to-side motion that happens when the waves come at you from the side. After crossing the North Sea in Gale Force 5, in a 40-foot sailboat, nothing on this ship bothers me very much.
We've been in Chile for the last few days. I've had a bad cold and so didn't get off the ship for the first two ports, but did go for a walk today in Valparaiso. Tomorrow we are supposed to stop at Isla Robinson Crusoe, which is where the man who inspired the novel, whose name was not Robinson Crusoe, was marooned. He lived in a cave for four years and four months before being rescued, and the plan for tomorrow is to hike to the cave. If the water is too rough, though, we won't be able to stop, as the ship needs to anchor, not dock, and so we need to use tenders, which in their other guise are life boats, to get to shore. If it's too rough the ride is too uncomfortable and dangerous for most passengers, and so we won't be able to visit.
I'll write more about Chile, when my computer stops weaving about on my lap. I think it's had too much to drink, just as all the passengers who walk by, also swerving and reeling, must have had.

Peru - Swimming with Sea Lions

2010-01-17T19:34:00.000-08:00

Peru is wonderful. We spent two days here, in Callao/Lima. I saw penguins in the wild for the first time. I hadn’t realized penguins lived so far north. We’re still not that far south of the equator, but Humboldt penguins live here.
I know this picture is not of penguins, but I don't like any of the pictures I took of them. So here are other birds that I saw.

There are also lots of sea lions on the islands just off Callao. Callao is a port city, and used to be separate from Lima but, as cities tend to do, they both grew and so are now one large metropolitan area.

One thing you do not want to be is a male sea lion. The dominant bulls tend to have harems of about ten females. They know the young males are potential competition, and so often kill male pups once they reach the age of about two. The females take their male pups over to a nearby island, so they won’t be killed, and there the males live on their bachelor island. Once in a while one of them decides to swim over to the larger island where the bulls, females and younger pups live, to challenge one of the older bulls, but success is difficult. Most of the males live with the other males for their who lives.
We went by boat to see the islands, and were offered the chance to jump overboard and swim. Out of two boats and about 60 people, only Melissa, me, and one man decided to do this. It was the high point of the day. You need to swim backwards towards the sea lions, as they are afraid if they see your eyes. Once you reach an area near the island, which was very rocky, where there’s a group of them swimming, you can turn around. They get afraid, but they are also intensely curious animals. Their eyes are huge and liquid and show such a gentleness that even though they are so big, especially the bulls, 1000 pounds or more, I was never afraid. They are funny, too, because being both curious and afraid, they tended to look at you, then duck underwater, then come up again to keep looking.

The people on our boat were very impressed that we did swim. One man told us we were his heroes. This surprised me a bit because, while we were swimming, they all had to sit on the boat which was going up and down on the Pacific swells, getting seasick. But they were really thrilled that two women from their boat did it.
For the quilters and knitters among you, Peru has some fabulous weaving, knitting, and felting. Lima has a big artisan’s market, and the prices are so cheap that most of the time I haven’t bothered to haggle, even though I enjoy doing that. I just figure that these people have so little money and material objects compared to me, and since the prices are good, I pay them. The weavings are either done with fine yarn and are used for table runners or wall hangings, or are done with coarser yarns for rugs. Ponchos are woven or knitted, and all are beautiful. They use a lot of alpaca yarn, so the items are soft and drape well.
Today we walked around with Bob Morrisey, who’s on board to teach the other new program, acting. He’s been in a lot of movies and TV shows, as well as acting and directing on stage. When he was younger he was in Cats and other Broadway musicals. Like most actors, he’s very entertaining to talk to. He was in one scene of the Katherine Heigl movie The Ugly Truth, which happened to play in the ship’s theatre last night. He hadn’t seen it, and so we went to watch with him, determined to do our best to embarrass him. When his scene came on we cheered and clapped. Today a man who had also been there watching it said that we obviously must have enjoyed the movie very much, since we applauded in the middle. It’s actually an ok movie, not great, so we explained the situation to him. When the move was over I asked Bob for his autograph, and he must have detected sarcasm, for he refused.
We had a good time walking around today. We went to a museum which has a lot of gold artifacts dating from over 2000 years ago. They are kept in a room that has a vault door that makes most bank vaults look easy to break into. Later we walked along the cliffs along the shore. Dozens of parasailers kept drifting overhead, creating a sense of a gentle stream, only in the air instead of the ground. We followed them to their source, noticing that each one had two people, and discovered that for fifty dollars you could go up for a ride. We were keen to do this but unfortunately there was quite a line up and we didn’t have enough time before we had to be back on the ship.
I’m having technical difficulties getting photographs onto my blog. I’ll keep trying, but if I can’t I’ll post them on Flickr and Facebook so you can see them.

Writing Class

2010-01-12T20:55:00.003-08:00

Today was my first writing class. It was good, the students seemed very happy. I covered the first part of the creative process, in which I discuss the differences between our right and left brains, and the wonderful subconscious. We did exercises to help us learn how to shut off our left brains and access the right. It sounds a little silly to talk about turning off half our heads, but each side has a role to play in the creative process, and each has to allow the other side to do its job.
(If anyone is interested in learning more about how to write and what I cover when I teach, let me know and I’ll do a blog on that.)
Being an incredibly giving and dedicated teacher, or a glutton for punishment, I told the students that I’d be formally scheduled to teach only every other sea day, which means about 30 one hour classes over the whole cruise. When asked if they’d like to meet more often, most said yes, and so I’ve arranged for us to meet in the Explorers lounge, one of the many sitting areas which is a bar only in the evening. I’ll be there at 4:00p.m. on the days I’m not on the schedule and will hold a class, although I’ll have to keep the more exuberant exercises for the days we’re in the theatre, because they can get noisy and people often use the Explorations Lounge as a quiet place to read, since it’s across from the library. And on 4:00 p.m. on the days I am scheduled to teach, as well as the class at 2:00, I’ll have office hours, a chance for people to give me things to read, which I’ll comment on during the next office hour. I also find many people want to come and just talk, about writing but often about other things. I’ve learned that as a writing instructor, I become a confidante in many ways. Since writing, even if it’s not autobiographical, reveals something about the writer, people want to share, to receive affirmation and explore their thoughts and ideas. Three people came by today, which is impressive considering the writing class wasn’t advertised ahead of time, and so they couldn’t have known to bring stuff. So I have three things to read.
One person who brought me a story was concerned that I was taking on too much, which I thought was very considerate of him. I’ve learned over my years of teaching to set limits on the time and energy I give. I limit any submission for detailed comments to no more than ten or twenty pages, depending on how many people are in a class. I learned to do this after someone gave me a 300-page novel.
I like to be available to my students and I want to teach more than every other sea day. It’s why I’m here, and I want to do the best job I can. And I still have lots of time to do other things. No teaching on any port days, for example. And I’ll still be doing only two hours a day on sea days. The book club will add another hour on sea days, although I don’t know yet how often we’ll meet for that.
It’s a perfect combination of travel, teaching and interaction with students, and time to do the things I want to do. So far the things I’m spending time doing are writing, sewing, downtime to read or whatever, exercise, and some socialization. I play the trivia game every sea day, and really enjoy the people at my dinner table. I haven’t gone dancing any evening yet, but hope to soon. I plan to take the drama class, and want to start attending the watercolour class. I could also do play bridge, take dance classes, attend lectures, take arts & crafts, play paddle tennis, which is kind of like racquet ball with a tennis ball, only slower, play chess, play ping pong, watch movies in the theatre or on the DVD player in my cabin, swim in one of the two pools and sit in one of the the hot tubs, have my hair cut, get a massage, have acupuncture or a mud bath or any of several spa treatments, take yoga or aerobics classes, lift weights and go on the treadmill (which I have started doing), attend cooking and bar tending classes, or just sit and eat for twelve hours a day. And those are just the things I can remember right now.

Panama

2010-01-12T20:36:00.003-08:00

The Panama Canal is amazing, it really is, especially when you think about the technology available when it was constructed. It’s being widened now, so that larger ships can pass through. The current locks are 110 feet wide and 1000 long, which means this cruise ship, and it’s a smallish one, is about 106 feet wide, and a little less than 1000 feet long.
Panama held a referendum of all its citizens to decide if the widening should take place. Apparently, of the money the canal makes from charging fees for ships passing through, a quarter goes to salaries (there are about 9000 people employed, a quarter goes to maintenance, a quarter to researching new technologies that can improve operations, and a quarter goes to government revenue to be used to benefit the people. About 30% voted against the changes, apparently out of concerns about environmental impact. So the work is underway, and is supposed to finish in 2014, which will mark 100 years since the Canal was inaugurated. And to assuage environmental concerns, new technology is being used so that the water used in the new bigger locks will be saved and reused.
Melissa and I went on a tour called Monkey Island Adventure while we were in Fuerte Amador. It was fun, we saw monkeys in the wild, howlers and white-faced capuchins. The capuchins are among the most intelligent monkeys, and are often seen in movies and other situations where trained monkeys are needed. If you’ve seen the movie Outbreak, the monkey is a white-faced capuchin. We stopped at the side of a river in the canal, where a family of capuchins observed us, posed so we could take pictures, and a couple jumped onto the boat to receive a piece of banana.
A river in the canal? There are three sets of locks in the Canal, and the rest is a wide waterway which in places widens to become a lake filled with islands. Much of the area is very beautiful, although the widening work is apparent in many places. Hills are being lowered, areas are cleared of all vegetation, and dredging, and is underway to place explosives to remove rock.
Some facts:
During the 34 year construction, which included a disastrous French first attempt and then a 10 year American involvement, the two countries spent $639 billion.
The Canal is 48 miles long and saves ships a distance of 7,872 miles. The average transit is 9 hours.
Container ships are charged $80 per container, and many of them have 3 or 4 thousand of them. Once the expansion is finished, ships will be able to have two and a half times bigger capacity.
Cruise ships are charged by the number of beds. I’m not sure of the fee per bed, but they pay fees approaching half a million dollars.
In 1928, a man names Richard Halliburton swam through the canal. He paid a toll of 36 cents.

Costa Rica

2010-01-10T20:53:00.001-08:00

Sloths are adorable. Really. See? (Can you tell which one is the sloth?) Sorry, Melissa)

We stopped in Puerto Limon in Costa Rica, and I went on a trip to a local sloth sanctuary. It currently has over one hundred sloths, most of which are brought to them by people who find them or rescue them from awful situations. Babies are hand fed and usually need to spend their lives at the sanctuary, as they don’t learn how to live in the wild, but adults, once they’ve recovered from their injuries, are set free to live in the protected forest of the sanctuary.

Sloths are slow, and apparently this is because they don’t get a lot of energy from their diet. It can take them a week to digest a meal of leaves. They are not stupid, though, and are very well adapted to their forest homes. Being slow, they’re easy targets for kids who throw stones at them to knock them out of their trees. People often capture them to be pets, and then decide they don’t want them after all. With deforestation, the sloths have to find new territories, and crossing a road to reach new trees doesn’t work well if you’re slow and awkward on the ground.

We walked through the sanctuary forest and saw many sloths up in trees. They come down only to urinate and defecate, although, surprisingly, they are good swimmers. We then saw some of the sloths who live in the sanctuary buildings. The babies are soooooo cute. They each live with a stuffed animal, since they have a need to cling to something, ideally their mothers, but something else soft will do. One baby was sucking on his front claws (which are about three inches long,) and this, of course, reduced everyone to puddles of goo.

We then went on a canoe ride along a jungle river. I realize I’m using the words ‘forest’ and ‘jungle’, but both mean rainforest. I’d hoped we’d get to paddle our canoes, but there were six tourists in each boat, and one young man in the back with one paddle to propel us. The jungle is a confusing place, filled with green growing things of assorted shapes and sizes. The paddlers have amazing eyes, and they would point out birds, lizards, and snakes to us, manoevering the canoe to the river bank so we could get a closer look. Even with him pointing out the animal, we often had a hard time spotting it. I guess living in that environment helps a person become observant, especially since Costa Rica has five of the most poisonous snakes in the world.

My first writing class is the day after tomorrow. I can’t remember if I mentioned this in a previous post, but my classes with alternate with the drama class, so I’ll teach only every other sea day. This is good because I want to take the drama classes, but I want to teach more than that, and some of the people who came to my sneak peek are very keen. I tried convincing the cruise director to let me use another space on the drama days, but he claims there is nowhere that will work. I’ve realized that as Enrichment staff, I’m pretty well at the bottom of the totem pole of all the entertainers and activity people he has to deal with, and as a new program, Bob Morrisey, the drama teacher, and I are at the bottom of the Enrichment staff pole. At the urging of some of my soon to be students, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. I’ve found a couple of places that might work for us to meet, and so on drama days, I’ll hold an impromptu class in the library or in one of the quieter lounges. The cruise director won’t list my impromptu classes in the daily program, but hopefully the students will know and will come. I suspect this will need flexibility and some tweaking, but that’s the plan for now.

Today we crossed through the Panama Canal and are anchored just off Puerto Fuente, which is across a body of water from Panama City. Tomorrow I go on a trip to a place called Monkey Island, and then I want to shop for molas.

La Difference

2010-01-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

I’m being boring, or misguided, or dedicated tonight, your choice, because instead of going the hear Doc Severinson play for tonight’s show, I’m working on my current novel. I also cut fabric into strips earlier today, for a quilt I’m making for Melissa’s future grandmother-in-law. I’m pleased to be so productive.

Doc Severinson, and I didn't know this before, was Johnny Carson's band leader.

The Sneak Peek for my writing program went well. It’s funny, I had a dream that hardly any people showed up, and they got bored while I was speaking and so loudly chatted amongst themselves before leaving en masse. Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

The students appear keen and well motivated, and the actually are hoping for classes more often than the regular schedule includes. Scheduling is difficult on the ship, as there are a lot of different programs and a limited number of spaces, and so there’s no way to add regularly scheduled classes. As it is, the drama teacher and I are supposed to alternate days, which is why the writing students feel they won’t get enough writing time. I’ve decided that I will hold a regular session on the aft part of the Lido deck. This deck has two small swimming pools and the cafeteria-style restaurant. On the back deck there’s a shaded area with many tables, and so that should work well. I haven’t had a chance to propose this to the students yet, but will see if this idea will work for them.

I’ve only been on board two days, but already I’m seeing a lot of differences between this cruise and the regular one or two week ones I’ve been on before. This one is the crown jewel of what are called Grand Voyages, which tend to be longer, usually a couple of months. Everything is at a higher level. In part I suppose this is because the passengers are paying much more than the usual one-week cruisers do. Here are some of this things I’ve observed.

There is a legally mandated lifeboat drill on every cruise. On shorter cruises it’s always about an hour after the ship sails. Everyone has to put on their life jacket and assemble at their assigned life boat. On this cruise, the captain delayed the drill by a day, because he felt everyone was probably too tired after travelling to get to the ship. Also, while everyone did have to go the their lifeboat, we didn’t have to put on our bulky and uncomfortable life jackets.

The captain refers to himself by his first name, thus seeming much more approachable than the more formal captains on the shorter cruises.

The passengers, guests, I have to remember to call them guests, are much friendlier right from the start. Many of them do the world tour every year, and so know each other and are happy to see their friends again. The sense is that this ship is a small town for the next four months, that this isn’t a holiday away from real life, but is real life for that length of time.

The guests in general are fitter and more active on this cruise. I think this is because this is a more adventurous itinerary, and so the people who choose to do this trip are the sorts of people who want adventure and challenges.

The crew, entertainers, and other staff are top notch. Cruises in general are known for pampering their guests, but this one goes beyond the others. And the stewards, waiters, and other people directly involved with the guests seem to genuinely enjoy both their jobs and the guests. And I can hear the string quartet from where I'm sitting in the library, and they are amazingly good. Previous string quartets and not bad, but not of this quality.

Tomorrow we stop in Costa Rica. Melissa and I are going to visit sloths and other animals, and paddle a jungle canoe.

On Board the Amsterdam

2010-01-07T20:34:00.000-08:00

We boarded yesterday, Melissa and me. It was interesting, as we didn't have to go through the passenger line ups but could board with the crew. This took less time, and meant we didn't have to pose for an embarkation photo. These are taken for every cruise, and are supposed to show how excited and happy you are about your cruise, but usually show how tired and grubby you are after traveling to where you board the ship But it's a tradition, and is one of many pictures the ship's photographers take of everyone during the cruise. It's not a problem, as there's no obligation to buy, and you don't even have to go to the photo gallery to look for the pictures of you if you don't want to. Finding the photos is another thing - imagine searching for one picture among hundreds that all have the same background and people in the same pose.
Anyway, Melissa and I are here and unpacked and mostly settled in. We have an inside cabin, which is a disappointment, but we will cope. Our cabin is in the very front of the ship, which means we feel the motion more than do people in the ship's centre, but at least we know we are on water, even though we can't see outside. Being inside is mainly an issue in the morning, because there's no way of telling what time it is when you wake up, as it's always dark unless I turn on a light. But, enough whining. And I can spend all my time outside of the cabin other than when I'm asleep.
There was a meeting yesterday for all the enrichment staff. Actually, I'm not sure what I am. My contract says Enrichment Staff, my cabin keycard says Service Staff, and elsewhere I've been referred to as Support Staff. The other people present included teachers of watercolour, arts and crafts, tai chi, bridge, dance, and drama. There were also six men who used to be called dance hosts but are now called social hosts. And a Catholic priest, Protestant minister, and a rabbi. Many of these people have done the world tour cruise before, and there were many joyful reunions.
I was told that only top flight people get to work the World cruise, which makes me feel good, but also a little intrigued, since the only interview I had was back in May when I had an interview with HollandAmerica's texecutive in charge of hiring, who happened to be on the disastrous Panama Canal cruise I did then with Melissa and MAtt (her fiance). (If you want to know more about the disastrous cruise, ask and I'll do a post on it.) He struck me at the time as a very decisive person, but we only spent about fifteen minutes together, during which I babbled something about what I could offer as a creative writing teacher. I assumed I'd have another interview by the person in Seattle who is in charge of hiring entertainers, and that she'd want references and so on, but I guess my assessment of his decisiveness was correct.
By the way, for those of you who know how much waiting for information I did between May and now, I'm told that this isperfetly neormal. For those of you who don't know about the waiting, I only learned I had the job at the beginning of december, got my contract a week before the cruise began, and was told my flights the day before I left.
Tomorrow I do a Sneak Peek of my program which is an opportunity for guests who are interested to learn what it's all about. I went to peeks today for watercolour and arts and crafts and they both look great. Arts & crafts, by the way, is taught by two women with PhDs who teach art at university, and took great pains to tell us they are both professors. I guess a & c cann seem chintzy, so they want to show it's about art, not making those plastic lace bracelets.
I was glad to see that the teachers appear to be very good, and their styles are similar in many ways to mine. I also got some ideas of how to do things tomorrow during my own sneak peek. The drama and creative writing programs are both new ones for the cruise, so I was glad that the experienced people went today.
Melissa is enrichment/service/staff too. I planned to introduce her has my gofer, but she pointed out that what we call gophers in Saskatchewan are actually prairie dogs, or maybe ground squirrels. I guess she can be a prairie dog.

The Delights of Air Travel

2010-01-05T22:57:00.000-08:00

The first sign of the new world of flying is all the people, in the area of the airport for people flying to the US, clutching laptops. Not in bags, the computers are hugged protectively to chests or tucked under arms. No carry-on bags are allowed, you see, other than something small. A purse, perhaps, but not a backpack nor, in my case, a laptop-sized bag. I could take valuables on, but they had to be carried separately My camera bag was allowed, but I also carried a book, a magazine, my Gameboy, two ziplock bags of jewelry and one containing medication, a small purse, and my laptop.
I'd heard that there are stringent new security measures in place for anyone flying to the US, and that I should get to the airport three hours early. Being an obedient air traveler, I did so. Fifteen minutes later, after emptying the laptop bag and giving it to my kind friend Terri, who'd driven me to the airport, I was at the gate, somewhat amazed at how quickly and smoothly everything had gone. I later went through security again, because I'd left my phone in the laptop bag, and Terri was kind enough to make another trip to the airport to bring it to me. (Thank you, thank you, Terri). The second time through was as easy as the first, and they even let me put most of the items I was carrying in a plastic bag from the Relay store, which made life much easier since I no longer had to keep stooping to pick up things that I'd dropped.
But then, (cue the ominous music) came the second round of security. Several earnest-looking people set up a table in front of the door through which we had to pass to get to the plane, We were directed into two lines, one for men, the other for women, At the front of the line, we were each patted down. It was a little strange, standing there in front of everyone, arms held out to the side, while a stranger ran her hands up the inside of my legs and over my chest. The female patter was very pleasant, though, joking about how strong her thighs are getting since for each person she starts with the front, then squats to reach the ankles and lower legs, then stands again to get the back.
Everyone's carry-on items were examined again, even though the first security people had done a thorough job. We were then directed into a hall lined with chairs on both sides, and told to sit and wait.
A friendly security guy, directing traffic in the hall, told us that all flights into the US are required to do this extra level of security. The costs are all borne by the country in which the flight originates, and not by the US. I saw at least eight extra security people involved patting, searching, and keeping people moving.
Most pattees, or passengers who are supposedly being welcomed to the friendly skies, took this all with good humour, doing no more than shrugging or rolling their eyes at each other. We were told that we wouldn't have to go through this again when we returned to Canada, or for our connecting flights within the US.
I have to confess I'm skeptical about the value of all this. It often seems that security measures brought in after an attack or a near tragedy such as the one that sparked this latest round of security measures, are put in place so it seems that the airlines are keeping us safe, rather than actually doing anything useful. The patting, to everyone's relief, didn't actually reach the area in which the would-be terrorist had hidden his explosives.
The frendly security guy also told me that he suspects the airlines will not return to the old rules for carry-on bags. He said that allowing big bags again would be signaling terrorists that it is open season on airplanes. I don't quite get that, but his additional remarks did make sense - that carry-ons have been getting larger and heavier to the point where many people bring bags of up to fifty pounds and get upset when there isn't room for all of them in the overhead bins. Distribution of weight is an important factor on planes (I've been on a couple of sparesely populated flights in which passengers were asked to move to different seats in order to better distribute weight.) It's better for the airlines to have luggage in the cargo holds than in overhead bins.
I don't know if this man's information is valid or not, but it is interesting. Some people said airlines are going to lose passengers if air travel continues to become more uncomfortable and passengers are made to feel even more like cattle. It is the best way, though, to get somewhere that is distant, and to do so quickly. Someone else said that airlines make much of their profit from business travel, and that large corporations may decide that it's more efficient to invest in private airliners. If any of you are more knowledgeable about any of this, I'd love to learn more.
In any event, I made it to my hotel in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The other people in the shuttle from the airport were also headed for the same cruise as me. There was a couple from Wales who'd been traveling forty-eight hours, and a young man from Seattle, a jazz guitarist, who plays with assorted bands on the ship.
One last thing before I close - a confession. I brought a lot of luggage. Two suitcases, one duffle bag, and a sewing machine. The couple from Wales have done several long cruises, and they each had one suitcase and a small bag. Of course, they probably their suitcases probably weren't crammed full with books and fabric.

Getting Ready

2010-01-04T20:08:00.000-08:00

I'm going to need a cruise vacation to recover from getting ready for this trip. Packing for four months is complicated. I've often though, when I go away for a week or two, that surely the amount of stuff I take then would be enough for any length of time. After all, there are laundry machines. But four months require a greater variety of things. I suppose I could get by with the two weeks worth of clothes, but the thought of wearing the same two dresses for the two formal nights a week for sixteen weeks is simply not appealing at all. I'm not exactly a fashion plate, in fact I very rarely wear makeup and any thoughts I have about clothes concern whether an item makes me look even fatter or not. (Menopause and body image, a whole other topic.) But I do want some choice of what to wear while I'm away, some variety so I don't get bored and so the people who have to look at me don't begin to not see me because they know what to expect and so don't really bother to see.
Plus I have to pack for warm weather. This will be first time I cross the equator, and the season is summer in the southern hemisphere. And I have to pack for cold weather, unless the Antarctic is more affected by global warming than I think. I hope it isn't unduly affected or changing, simply because it is unique in the world. I'm not usually good at going along with rules unless I understand why they exist and that reason makes sense to me. We won't be able to set foot on any Antarctic territory but I do understand the concerns of a thousand people per ship tromping around and so I have no problem with this rule. Simply seeing it will be a thrill. And seeing penguins will be the icing on the cake, or rather the ice on the frozen dessert.
So I've ben sorting clothes into piles - stuff I want to take, stuff I definitely won't take, stuff that's a maybe, and stuff I have to try on. I've kept pretty well every piece of clothing I've ever earned. I even found a shirt I wore during the 70s, with sleeves that puff out from shoulder to elbow, and then again from elbow to wrist. Anyone remember that style? Then after I decided what I wanted to take, I had to cut it down by at least half so it would fit not only in two suitcases, but so it will fit in the cabin. There's a fair amount of storage space but the cabins are not big.
Then there are books to read and books I like to have when I teach certain topics. Books to read isn't really an issue, as there is a good library on board the ship, but my to-be-read shelf is turning into to-be-read shelves, and so I want to whittle it down somewhat. The teaching books ended up not coming along. I'll just have to wing it.
This whole teaching experience will be an exercise in flexibility. I'll have hour-long sessions instead of the two or three hours I'm used to. I'll be covering all genres instead of designing a course to cover a particular one. I'll have larger groups than I'm used to, although I have experienced this in the past. There was one school up north I went to. They'd asked how big a group I wanted to work with, and I said no more than twenty-five, but when I arrived a found they'd been so excited about having a writer come visit that they wanted to whole school to participate, about one hundred kids. I managed. Flexibility and the ability to think fast on your feet, those are real assets for teaching writing. Probably for lots of other things, too.
Anyway, I am packed. I have clothes, books, puzzle magazines, quilting stuff, personal items. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but that's the way it always works. Four months is just a little long to do without something important, but probably I can find the item or make do with something else.
Flexibility. I guess that's my mantra for this trip.

Intro

2010-01-03T17:23:00.000-08:00

I was going to name this How I Went Round the World and Ended Up in the Same Place as I Began. But then it occurred to me that after this experience, even if I do end up in the same physical space as I began, it won't really be the same place because I'll be different. We all change and grow as we have experiences. I suspect I've changed a lot during the past year, actually I know I have. I'm stronger, more confident, and more who I am. For a long time I didn't know who I was, because I'd learned to be a chameleon, changing to be whatever a person, someone who mattered in my life, wanted me to be. For the first time that's over, and I am discovering who I am.
Anyway, getting back to the coming four months: I am going to be designing and running a creative writing program during Holland America's World Tour cruise. To see the intinerary, clock on this:
http://www.hollandamerica.com/find-cruise-vacation/CruiseDetails.action?webItineraryIdForAudit=WW0114&noOfFlexibleMonths=1&shipCodeSearch=AM&flexibleMonths=false&pageNumber=2&voyageCode=A010
Or, if clicking doesn't work, copy it and paste it into your browser's address space.
I will have a lot of new experiences, seeing places I haven't been, cultures that are unfamiliar, meeting people both on the ship and on shore who will be interesting in all sorts of ways. I'll teach some of them how to put ideas in their heads onto paper, and they will teach me in ways I probably can't even imagine yet.
In this blog I plan to share my experiences, and those of the people I meet, if they agree. There will be photographs, too, lots of photos.
Please let me know your experiences, too, especially if any of them relate to or are caused by, this blog. Writers need to observe and experience, we never stop opening ourselves to the world. You are part of my world, and I welcome you.