Nahawna Afooa

Women on parade

2011-03-12T18:11:00.014-05:00

Tuesday was International Women's Day. The centenary in fact. A day that was largely ignored in Eldoret with the exception of me telling all of the medical students that they should say thank you to all the women they know. And then watching in disbelief as the students went bed to bed to say thank you to the nurses and the women on the ward. My heart sank a little deeper when there was a party for International Kidney Day on 10 March and my ears had been deafened by the silence of International Women's Day.

Then on Saturday, as I was walking to market, there were 20 or so women on parade, big banners and an off-key marching band. Stopping traffic. They circled through the main streets of town grinding the city to a halt. "End gender based violence" "Embrace the new constitution and rights for women" "Stop violence against women." If only the messages from the media had such clarity. A few more headlines, this time taken in the week surrounding International Women's Day. And the last word goes to the president.

E is for Elusive

2011-02-28T20:38:00.014-05:00

E is for elephant. My proverbial hunt for this large yet elusive beast continues. Mt Elgon is equally as well known for its caves as it is for the mountain itself. Famous and infamous can be applied fluidly to the caves: famous for the elephants who mine for salt in their depths and infamous for an ebola outbreak that also originated in their depths.

Tracking the pachyderm into the darkness . . .

Millions of eyes were upon us as we ventured deeper into the hollows . . .

Etchings in the rock from mining with their tusks . . .

Evidence of recent "activity" . . .

There isn't always a pachyderm at the end of every rainbow but sometimes the spectacle is reward enough.

Reaching new heights

2011-02-28T19:58:00.008-05:00

A few posts ago, I was complaining about how colonialists had an outrageous desire to kill big animals in the African savannah on foot culminating in the designation of the big five. I too have my own irrational desire and it is to climb things like walls fashioned to look like mountains ie indoor rock climbing. However, Kenya has an abundance of the real thing, mountains that is, that are relatively easy to climb with no specialised equipment. Or so the guidebook says. As long as you don't mind the trio of palpitations, dizzyness and nausea - otherwise known as altitude sickness - you should reach the summit in a jiffy.

On flat ground with the summit in the distance. Heart rate 100.

Climbed a few foothills, nearing the half way mark. Heart rate 150.

The vertical ascent to the summit. Heart rate 220. The views from 4222m (13 852 feet) were spectacular and well worth the effort. Behind me was Uganda and in front, Kenya.

Hope is a thing with feathers, that perches on the soul . . .

2011-02-22T11:55:00.013-05:00

I was reminded of this poem on a walk through Kakamega Forest. Part of a forest that used to extend around the girth of the continent from West Africa, across the Congo delta to the Indian Ocean. Now an island, the last remaining rainforest in Kenya. Tranquil but aflutter with activity. Hundreds of butterflies like confetti falling from heaven were all around me. Alighting on a leaf before floating skyward, the light dancing on their wings. The hopes of my patients in flight.

Taking pictures of black rhinos in the dark

2011-02-20T12:28:00.014-05:00

I went on my first real safari this weekend. It felt like I was back in girl guides except there were boys. We all piled into the van with travel guides, cameras and keenness. We were off to Lake Nakuru to see the Big Five minus one. I recognise that I'm probably the only person who doesn't know what the Big Five are, but here they are: Lions, Leopards, Elephants, Black Rhinocerus and Cape Buffalos. Apparently these are the most dangerous animals to hunt on foot in Africa. Now, obviously, it's very illegal to hunt endagered species so I went armed with a point and shoot camera wearing flip flops and a flowery top. But for the sake of the story picture me as a swarthy character like Hemingway with a shotgun, moleskine notebook and a flask of rum in my pocket.

So the first of the big five I shot was a black rhino in the dark. I'll be the first to admit that it's not easy to shoot black rhinos in the dark and bring home convincing evidence of your hunting prowess. But here's the shot nonetheless.

There were many white rhinos, but apparently they don't count. Perhaps because they come out in daylight.

The second of the Big Five we saw were lions. In particular two female lions chowing down on their freshly killed breakfast while staring down the encroaching hyenas. Yes, the animals are amazingly camouflaged in the dry grass, but if you use your imagination you can see two lions, a hyena and some fresh meat. One only wants to get so close to a wild animal who is gleefully tearing another wild animal with its claws and teeth.

If you didn't think those were plausible trophy photos, I'd love to hear what you think about this next one.

It's my attempt at being artistic, an impressionistic version of a leopard. I favour Monet over say Degas or Matisse but I could settle for Renoir. My friend kindly gave me a realist version of the same image, shot simultaneously but with better effect.

Last but not least is the Cape Buffalo. (I know that's only four animals but I did say the Big Five minus one. Sadly there are no elephants at Lake Nakuru.) This is probably the least impressive animal on the savannah and the most numerous. Allegedly it's prized because it's behaviour is so unpredictable that it's tough to catch. All I can say is this guy wasn't going anywhere fast.

Luo dancing girls

2011-02-13T12:23:00.002-05:00

One of the nightwatchmen and I prepared a pan-African meal for all of the guards on duty. By that I mean we used local ingredients to try to recreate a typical Ghanaian meal of banku, tilapia and a fresh hot pepper sauce and shito. Of course there were modifications. We used Kenyan ugali instead of banku (both are made from cornflour but ugali is much harder than banku and banku is lightly fermented whereas ugali is not.) The tilapia we got from a Luo lady at the fish market in town. The Luo are a tribe that live on the shores of Lake Victoria and, according to the nightwatchmen, have the best tilapia in the world. The hot pepper sauce was intact but with a fraction of the pepper a Ghanaian would use. There was no shito to be found - shito is a hoooooot pepper paste made of dried baby shrimps and hoooooot peppers.

The guards couldn't stomach the thought of a fresh pepper sauce with plain fried fish so we fried the fish then fried the fish again in the fresh pepper sauce. They reserved a fraction of the fresh pepper sauce to try on the side. All of this was prepared in the communal kitchen while blasting Ghanaian hiplife from my iPhone to create the atmosphere. The overall result was a meal somewhere in between what we would both eat normally but incredibly tasty and fun.

The most enduring part of the meal is the slow-cooker friendship between me and the nightwatchmen. He was orphaned after his family died in a road traffic accident and lived off the kindness of strangers until he started a family of his own. He now has four children plus an orphaned boy he and his wife care for. The stories continued with heroic feats of killing a (?dead) lion, and tragedy after suffering a vicious attack while on duty that literally left him speechless for a year.

A few days after our feast, the nightwatchmen brought me a cd of traditional Luo music and asked if I would come to meet his family at their home in Langas, a slum outside of Eldoret. That weekend we boarded a matatu (local public transport van) with a bag of groceries in hand and took the 15 minute drive to his house. I was greeted by about twenty kids under the age of eight who had come to see the mizungo (foreigner). His wife recreated our panafrican meal, I was soooo touched. After lunch and some hairpulling (the little girls wanted to see if my hair was attached to my head and wanted to keep a strand each as a souvenir) the kids taught me how to dance to traditional Luo music in the street. It's one of the best weekends I've had so far.

A tale of twins

2011-02-10T16:06:00.013-05:00

I have two West African friends, they are sisters. Twins. The first born’s name literally translated means “the first to taste and see the world” while the second born’s name is “the other.”

Yesterday we delivered four sets of twins in four hours. The first were vertex / vertex and delivered vaginally in a multip. Such a common event that nobody thought it was worth my while to attend the delivery.

The second set was a precipitous pre-term breech / breech vaginal delivery in triage in a primip. Neither the woman nor I was aware that she was having twins and the breech was diagnosed as she got on table and the bum was crowning. My internal voice was screaming “God help me I have never done a vaginal breech delivery,” and my outside voice was calling for help, and a line, and oxytocin, and someone to hold the legs, and to push, and to stop pushing, and the head, can I get the head . . . Then all I could hear is mother screaming “Thank you sweet Jesus” when the baby was born. And “Sweet Jesus” again when I told her “watoto mbili.” There are two babies. And help has come. And the babies are rushed to the nursery.

After that there were two more twin breech / breech deliveries. Both C-sections: one in a labouring multip and the other in a pre-eclamptic, anemic primip with O negative blood. Enough to cause palpitations on a regular day but yesterday they seemed like ‘the other.’ I felt traumatized and exhilarated and terrified by the twin breech vaginal delivery. Perhaps the way first twin feels being the first to taste and see the world.

The lifecycle of a Kenyan woman . . . through the headlines

2011-02-06T13:37:00.003-05:00

If the newspapers are a reflection of the views of a community, what do the headlines say about the value of the Kenyan woman in society?

"Three in every 10 teachers think it is wrong to dismiss teachers who have sexual relations with students. At least two in every ten teachers think pupils who are sexually harassed by their teachers or fellow pupil are to blame for the incidents."

"Inspired by an ongoing national campaign against violence targeting girls in primary schools across the country, the study painted a grim picture of schools that still perceive girls as the weaker sex. For example, nearly half of the boys in these primary schools believe it is alright to beat up girls in their class, if only to prove that they 'love' them."

"Today, the world marks the International Day of Zero Tolerance to FGM (female genital mutilation) to highlight the dangers this traditional rite is causing to millions of girls worldwide. But do we really care? Should the welfare of Kenya's girls and women be our collective responsibility?"

"It is expected that as head of family, the man should shoulder the bigger financial burden. But over the last few decades, women have become increasingly empowered economically. Plum jobs with the attendant high perks are going to women because they are deemed to be more efficient as managers. An iron lady who manages 300 people and is used to getting things done her way is a man’s worst nightmare. His pride will force men to avoid this variety because he fears he may be forced to surrender his authority as a man. And, of course, his ego will also not allow him to play second fiddle."

"Women peak at between 21 and 25 years. After that, it’s injury time physically and emotionally as far as romance is concerned. This is the window that make or break women’s entire lives. . . . After 28, suitors disappear and the girl enters the next phase of her life. . . . After 30 years, fear sinks in and with pressure coming from family and friends to settle down, the standards are lowered even further. She starts casting an eye on married men and eventually resigns to being merely ‘the other woman’."

"Dear Fida-Kenya, I voted against the new Constitution during the last referendum because of issues relating to the abortion clause and termination of pregnancy. What does the law really say about it? -Kamau, Nairobi"

"Dear Kamau, . . . What is provided in the article [of the new Constitution] is that everyone has the right to life. . . . However there are instances where abortion may be permitted under the law - when in the opinion of a trained health professional, there is need for emergency treatment of where the life or heath of the mother is in danger. . ."

"After repeated childbirths the pelvic floor muscles tend to slacken. . . . Every woman should know how to do the Kegel exercises, the ones that tone up the pelvic floor by controlled contraction release of the pelvic muscles. . . . An electronic pelvic floor exerciser tones up the pelvic floor muscles without much effort on the woman's part."

Every cloud has a silver lining . . .

2011-01-31T13:57:00.015-05:00

And every lake should have a pink lining, like Lake Bogoria. It's a small body of water in the Rift Valley that is salty and hot. Honestly, it's hooooot. The temperature reached 39C in the shade and was unchartable in the steam of the hot springs. You can boil an egg in 5 minutes flat on the edge of the lake.

Given that description, one would think the lake would be a barren wasteland. But it's not. It's filled with pink flamingos. Millions of them. Apparently they enjoy a slow roast. It was a truely incredible sight.

Since I'm on the topic of animals, here are a few others that I've seen on my short sojurn. If you have delicate sensibilities you may want to avert your gaze. Unfortunately I don't have a super quick camera so there are a lot of animal derrieres as they turn to run from the girl trying to take their picture.

If you were a rock star, I would be a groupie

2011-01-26T21:27:00.001-05:00

Naana to Hillary Mabaye, a gynaecologist who specializes in vesico vaginal fistula repairs. I had seen him do one VVF repair and was in total awe. Then, he came in to help us with a particularly difficult vaginal case and I was blown away. He was completely inspiring: humble, kind and with amazing skill. When I grow up, I want to be a surgeon like him.

Like a bird in the tree tops

2011-01-22T13:37:00.008-05:00

I flew into Nairobi on one of the biggest birds the world has seen: a white breasted, blue backed Boeing 747 that nests in Amsterdam. The next day, I flew to Eldoret in Western Kenya. Upon landing, I discovered that I was higher in the sky than I had ever been. At 2000m above sea level, Eldoret is perched on the edge of the Rift Valley with a view of the history of humanity.

Indeed, humanity in all its depth resides here: from the gentle touch of a nursing sister to a patient dying of cancer in hospital to the torching of 50 people seeking refuge in a church during the 2008 election aftermath to the physicality of the long distance runner. This quiet dustbowl of a town betrays little of its stormy past on the faces of its people. Quiet and reserved unlike my kin the Ghanaians who are boisterous and bold.

One of the night watchmen said that Kenya is like the mother of East Africa who welcomes the children (the refugees, the displaced, the homeless) of her troubled relatives who surround her (Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Sudan, Ethiopia, and Somalia).

It’s hard to know what to expect when one travels somewhere new. Hopefully, I will be welcomed by mother Kenya too.

1/12 th to go

2008-05-01T05:55:00.003-04:00

Today I am 29 and 11/12ths. Most people stop counting their age in months or fractions of years when they turn ten. But I have persisted. And today, I am twenty nine and eleven-twelfths. The significance is this: it is the deciding moment when your age either progresses or remains 29 until you are 92 and have wrinkles deep enough to hide your bubble-gum lip gloss.

Now, I would like to be one of those women who, like my oma at 98, looked in the mirror for the first time in a few years and said, "who is that old woman?" Her self perception of age being a stark contrast to the reality of her longevity. I unfortunately have the opposite problem, being introduced as "une petite fille" to my new patients who are often younger than me and who are referred to as "madame." While I wouldn't want my age to measured by the length of my crow's feet, I would like to at least progress into adolescence for the sake of my professional life.

Well, at least I have one month to decide what my next birthday will yield.

Ex-pats Cry Twice: The Dhaka Club Scene

2008-04-18T15:15:00.004-04:00

Apparently the saying goes: Expats cry twice - once when they are told they have to go to Bangladesh and once when they have to leave. Why? Because Bangladesh is considered the bottom rung of locations to do development work in the world. Africa is at the top, BD at the bottom. This is what I've learned from all the yearning to go to Africa I've heard from the Aid workers here.

Now why do they hate to leave? Because of the clubbing, of course. These aren't clubs in the sense that you may be thinking, like say discotec. No, these are Clubs in the most neo-colonial sense of the word: Country Clubs. And you have to be a citizen of the aforementioned country working with purpose in Bangladesh to become a member. Some only allow membership from the diplomatic community, some based on language but all have restrictions on the number of Bangladeshi's that are allowed in at any given time. Heaven's no, they can't become members, they can only be signed in as guests and only a few at a time because one wouldn't want to sully one's reputation. Once you are a member of one club you have access to all the rest. Except, some clubs (read the American Club) think other clubs (read the BAGHA Club - British Aid Workers Guest House Association Club) are too lenient with the locals and have placed extra restrictions on other club's members.

What's so great about these clubs anyway that everyone is vying for a spot at the membership roster? Well the alcohol and the scantily clad women, of course. These are some of the few places that serve alcohol and where foreign women can wear whatever clothes they want. They hold parties with both of the above present as well as music and dancing. Essentially they are an oasis of the west in Bangladesh. This wouldn't be so bad . . . if it weren't for the racist restrictions. I'm told that everyone tries not to think about that part and just get on with life instead of actually doing something to change it.

On the other hand, maybe it is more representative of the West than I am comfortable to admit.

I am your mother's father

2008-04-15T13:28:00.020-04:00

Apparently "nana" in Bangla refers to your maternal grandfather hence my new role in life as your mother's father. Maybe now I'll get a little more respect. Maybe I'll benefit from a little cultural gerentocracy. But for now I'll have to make due with the fact that I was almost denied entry to a virtually uninhabited hill in Southeast Bangladesh because the army officer thought I had a fake passport. Why did he think I had a fake passport? Well, because the extreme age on my current passport is apparently not congruent with my childlike appearance. Little do they know that je viens de treinte ans shortly.

But that's beside the point. I was eventually allowed to enter this nether region of Bangladesh . . . with three police escorts. Apparently the natives, read Bangladesh's indigenous people, are not to be trusted. A few years back a few Danish tourists, perhaps a diplomat, and a fruity tour guide named Bablu, were kidnapped in the hills. This was an act to draw attention to the systematic marginalisation of indigenous people in Bangladesh. Since then, foreign tourists need government, read military, permission to enter the area. And, in the last couple of years, foreign tourists also must have a police escort for any foray outside of their hotel.

I managed to subvert the police by making forays into the hills at the crack of dawn. I should mention that the police are a bit lazy, well actually very lazy. It was a hiking trip and the police made it clear that they abhored walking, they found the heat unbearable, and they tired after half an hour. God help me if there was any serious threat to my safety because these oafs wouldn't be able to do a thing. In fact the only thing they were capable of is intimidating the tribes people.

Back to my forays into the hills . . . The locals were lovely: peaceful, warm and welcoming. I befriended a Tripura family who own a shop and tea house at the top of the hill close to my hotel. Then I befriended the extended family when they made a visit to the tea house and then the entire village of 15 families when I climbed down into the valley where they live. My point man for the Tripura was Thomas Tripura, a young guy with a young family. He invited me down to the village and talked to me about the Tripura people.

That's me donning a traditional Tripura cloth that was handwoven by one of the village women, whom I met. Sorry, no pics of the locals. I don't post recognizable faces without permission!

My tour guide, Lal Baum, is from, you guessed it, the Baum tribe. I visited several Baum villages, including Lal's village and Lal's home where I met mama Lal and Lal's little sister. The Baum people are known for their handwoven blankets of which I indulged. My favourite is the one made by mama Lal.

One of the points of contention between the Bangladeshi establishment and the tribal people is religion: Bangladeshi's are muslim and the tribal people are predominantly Christian or Buddhist. Another is land: the Chittagong Hill Tracts are sparsely populated with tribal people while the rest of Bangladesh is bursting at the seams. Let's not forget culture as a universally contentious issue: the tribal people have cultural ties to Myanmar, India and even Korea and the customs, dress and food are considerably different then Bengali culture.

A view from a Chakma Buddhist temple. Sadly I couldn't visit the Chakma people because I couldn't get permission to enter the area where they live. I was able to visit a Murong village where I was given a gift of fruit, the texture of papaya, the smell of guava and the taste somewhere in between. How amazing for people with so little to be so generous and for a people who are so marginalised and intimidated to be so welcoming to visitors.

Good Juma-day Holi Krishna

2008-04-09T03:07:00.013-04:00

On Friday, 21 March, the planets aligned (well actually it was the moon) and six major religions shared a holy day:

Good Friday commemorating the crucification of Jesus Christ

Eid al-Mawlid an-Nabawī commemorating the birth of the prophet Mohammed

Guru Purnima commemorating the birth of Krishna

Nowruz the new year celebrated by Zoroastrians, Sufis and the Baha'i

Holi the Hindu festival of colour welcoming the arrival of spring

Purim commemorating the deliverance of the Jewish people from annhilation in Persia

March 21 also happens to be a secular day of special importance to me. It is the international day for the elimination of racial discrimination.

What better way to celebrate the holy day than by visiting the religious landmarks of Bangladesh and what better way to engender harmony amongst the races than by answering, with embelishment, the favourite Bangladeshi question: "Desh kotai?" (Which country are you from?)

Celebrating Krishna's birthday with some new friends.

Buddhist ruins at Moynamati. Now I realise that no Buddhist holy days were mentioned but it is the closest I could get to a Zoroastrian or Baha'i landmark in Bangladesh. Even so, I think it's also in keeping with the anti-discrimination theme. Why should I deny Buddhists a spot on my blog just because 21 March doesn't figure highly for them?

The Sitara (Star) mosque in old Dhaka.

The Armenian church in old Dhaka. Perhaps one of the most peaceful spots in the city (mostly because it is surrounded by a huge wall and you can only be let in if the Hindu caretaker - he is very proud of the fact that a Hindu is the guardian of a Christian church in the centre of a muslim city - thinks you are worthy.)

A mother bestowing a blessing on her daughter at Dhaka's oldest Hindu temple, Deshwana.

Sundarbans: The Human Side

2008-03-18T11:47:00.012-04:00

Although Sundarbans is a National Park and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it is far from an untouched wilderness. The forest supports millions of people with the main industries being fishing, forestry and honey production. The life of the park and the livelihood of the people who depend on it are being jeopardised by hydroelectric dams upstream of Bangladesh in India and China and by overuse of resources by the very people who depend on the park. As with everything in this country, it is a fine balance on a loaded scale.

Canoe ferries across the river. Dozens went by in a matter of minutes carrying everything from produce to people to livestock.

Hauling a load of bricks downstream.

Returning to the mother ship after a day hiking in the mangrove.

On the prowl for tigers . . .

Fisherman's house and traditional boat.

Fisherman setting off in the dense early morning fog.

Shrimp fisherman and saris drying on rooftops.

Sundarbans: Birds and Beasts

2008-03-18T11:14:00.009-04:00

I recently spent a very long and chillaxed weekend in Sundarbans the worlds largest mangrove forest and home of the Bengal tiger. We floated down to the Bay of Bengal on the MV Chhuti, sank to our knees in the mudflats and pretended we were National Geographic on assignment. The tiger alluded us but there were birds and beasts aplenty to distract us from our mission.

Most of the monkeys could be found on the boat but this little rhesus macaque was having a civilised breakfast in the shade of a mangrove tree.

A very rare Ruddy Kingfisher. We also saw a lemon yellow bird and a bright blue bird, some black woodpeckers and different sized white egrets to round out the rainbow coloured birds.

The coy tiger left her tracks (the guide said, by the tracks, she is female. I'm not going on a feminist bender that extends to wildlife.)

A green viper lounging in some branches.

The park rangers' pet wild boar. Don't worry, he's really a pet and not a named potential kebab. 'Tis a muslim nations so no pork to be had in BD.

A kite hunting in our wake.

Match day in Canada has come and gone

2008-03-08T11:08:00.001-05:00

Not much fanfare to report, just me sitting anxiously by a computer with a less than reliable internet connection watching the clock move backwards. The verdict: Toronto.

The news was followed by an explosion of sorts as I developed a 24-hour stomach bug. Thankfully, I recovered. Likely the same cannot be said for the poor women who witnessed my demise on the way to the staff picnic. My sincerest apologies to her and thanks for holding my sawar kameez and scarf out of the loo and the chunder.

Dhaka University

2008-03-02T12:49:00.008-05:00

Birthdays, Books and Bangladesh

2008-03-02T11:44:00.015-05:00

How better to celebrate the birth of a nation than a book fair. Bangladesh's independence from West Pakistan (present day Pakistan) was spurned by the prospect of enforcing Urdu on the predominantly Bangla speaking people of East Pakistan (present day Bangladesh.) This, among other atrocities, was more than the Bangla-speaking people could tolerate. A war was waged and independence was had.

To commemorate the struggle to preserve culture and identity through language (they had after all been lumped into one country by the Brits on the basis of religion alone), Bangladeshi's call their national day not Bangladesh Day nor Independence Day nor Freedom Day but rather National Language Day. And to celebrate, they host a month long book fair on the grounds of the Bangla Academy, the country's centre for Bangla language preservation.

Don't get the wrong ideas. The book fair is no staid event. Humanity is heaped upon itself, bursting the bindings that hold the fragile stalls together. Children wail and weave through the crowds, lovers conceal their caresses in the anonymity of the crowd, the elderly catch thier breath while resting on the bust of the martyred language liberators, and all the while book wallas persistently peddle their glossy wares.

Join me for a turn in the park?

2008-02-28T07:36:00.015-05:00

Gulshan II Park, Dhaka, Bangladesh

CouchSurfing: 7 cities in 7 days

2008-02-20T06:23:00.005-05:00

As some of you know, I have been homeless/vagrant since mid November. Basically I have been depending on the kindness of others for living and lodging. So far this has worked well: December was spent on floors and couches in Toronto with a stint at my mum's place; and January in Houston and then in hospital accommodation in Atikokan with a day here or there with friends in Halifax and Montreal.

Last week, I stretched my friend's kindness and my patience to the limit with a one-week cross-country, trans-border CouchSurfing extravaganza:

Day 1: Atikokan to Thunder Bay with a pit stop at mum's place. Then on to Toronto. Couch: Not even a couch, I've been demoted to the floor chez Hetti.

Day 2: Third rez interview gets 1.5 thumbs up. Couch: Fold out wonder chair at Hetti's mum's place in Scarlem aka Scarberia.

Day 3: Vancouver. Couch: At last, a real couch or as we say in Kanadia, a chesterfield. And this one was spacious. I think it was the fold out variety but I fit quite comfortably in it while folded up.

Day 4 and 5: Fourth and final rez interview gets two thumbs up. Couch: I'm embarassed to say it was a plush double bed.

Day 6 and 7: Thesis defended but no result until the end of May. The agony! Well, actually, not really. I did manage squeeze in a fantastic dinner with all of my Boston peeps to celebrate. Couch: Again, plush double bed and this time in my old pad in Boston

Day 8: Back to Toronto and a repeat of day 2 with the addition of fantastic dim sum.

Day 9: Lookout Dhaka, here I come! Couch: Cattle class seat for an eternity of sleeplessness.

Ricky from the choke's top 5 songs

2008-02-07T21:39:00.000-05:00

The night Chicago died - Paper Lace
The highwaymen - The Highwaymen
My redemption - Gackt
Lost heaven - Soundtrack of Full Metal Alchemist
No hana - Third opening bleach

Five things I luuuuv aboot winter in the Smoke and one thing I hate aboot winter in the Fax

2008-01-28T23:54:00.000-05:00

Let's start with the good:
1. Tears hang upon them. That is the literal translation of eyelashes in Twi, the lingua franca of my Ghanaian peeps. Being an equitorial people, they don't have any words for snow or ice. Too bad, because in Atikokan, Icicles hang upon them. Seriously. Your breath freezes on your eyelashes and then your eyelashes freeze shut when you blink. If you can manage to hold still and not blink for a few seconds before hypothermia sets in, you will be delighted by the frosting on your eyes.

2. Cross country skiing. The Beaten Path Nordic Trails club has let me into their inner circle so to speak (mostly for my own safety . . . or maybe theirs). I joined them for the Sawmill Creek Classic on fantastic loaner skis from the club. Now all I need is a headlamp so I can ski after work, it gets dark fantastically early.

3. Bearded men. There is an abundance of bearded men. Facial hair has not only made a come back, it is triumphant. And I am jealous. I can't even grow a few wispy hairs on my legs let alone a luscious beard. I'd even settle for being part of the revolution to bring back the moo-stache. Why have I become pro-beard? a) Wonderously warm at 20 below, b) wonderously warm at 30 below and c) wonderously warm at 40 below.

4. Plugging in your car. No, it's not some eco friendly wonder car available only in Canada's far north. You need to plug in your car, to say the socket on the outside wall of your house because all houses worth their shingles have outside sockets for this purpose, so that your oil doesn't freeze. Yes, it's soooo cold the oil in your car will freeze and your engine will die a sputtery black smoke death. To prevent this and other catastrophes, all cars come with a personal, electric warmer for the oil. Ingenious!

5. Winter roads. Don't be confused. They are not actually roads: they are rivers and lakes that are frozen solid and people drive on them to get places like say your ice fishing hut or the quincy you dug in the snow in case you wanted to spend the night in the freezing cold. You know, exciting destinations like that.

Now, moving on to the one thing I hate aboot winter in the Fax i.e Hali
1. Whenever it snows or threatens to snow, or rains or threatens to rain, they shut down the airport and I get stranded in Toronto and miss my residency interview Dalh. WaaaWaaawaawaw!

Five things I luuuuv aboot Atikokan

2008-01-23T18:09:00.000-05:00

They only use the last four digits of their phone numbers

They have their own time zone (I'm not sure weather it is official, but everyone uses Atikokan time anyway)

There is a canoe decorating practically every street corner (Apparently there is a canoe factory in town, again possibly rural legend but the folksinger from Saskatchewan who sang as part of the Arts series last week in the high school gym seemed to know all aboot it)

People are intrigued by my exceptional tan for this time of year and ask me if I'm from the one-of-a-handful of African countries that they've heard of either a) on tv or b) because a distant relative once traveled to the aforementioned country. Naturally they are disappointed to hear that I grew up in the place of raging thunder. But I end the conversation on a high by divulging my multiple ancestries. Confusion ensues.

They have a penchant for statues of large bears. Well, this is more of a regional thing than an Atikokan thing. Quirky and endearing nonetheless.

Smokin' Atikokan

2008-01-11T20:14:00.000-05:00

Day 6 in smokin Atikokan and the fun has not let up (nor has the snow.) Where is Atikokan you ask? North of Quetico and a bit west of the Arctic watershed.

Yes, that's the Arctic watershed. So now you have all the coordinates let's run through my week, day by day.

Day 1: Drive to the big smoke. Picture of the Arctic watershed on my brand new digital camera.

Day 2: Tour of the town by the town economic development officer. Highlight of the tour: we got stuck in a snow bank at these remote x-country ski trails and spent the better part of my lifetime trying to push us out / learn to drive standard because I'm not massive enough to push out a car with a 250 lb man in the driver seat. We were finally rescued by a random skidoer who thought the economic development guy had taken me out to this deserted area of the town for hanky panky. NO JOKE!!! That pretty much sums up my first day.

Day 3: Unremarkable.

Day 4: Went curling with the laydeez. The lady from the economic development centre, whom I met after the snowbank incident, said that I should show up at the club on Tuesday or Wednesday night in case a team needs a spare. And I did, I they did! I played a full game, well part 3/4's of a game because we folded because we were losing so badly. But I scored a point! and bonded with the locals. Still can't lift the rock but I sure do know my way around the sheet. All I have to say is curling is a lot harder than it looks.

Day 5: Random muscle ache in my right armpit and left thigh. (Obviously a slow day if that is all I have to report)

Day 6: On call and psyching myself up for race day tomorrow. . .

Afenhyia pa!

2008-01-10T08:28:00.000-05:00

Afe nko mmeto yen bio!

Translation:
Greeting: The year greets you! ie Happy new year!
Response: May the year come round to bite you again. ie May you have health in the new year such that you will be alive next year to receive this greeting or best wishes for the new year!

Tucked, tight. Kill the hill!

2007-12-28T17:54:00.000-05:00

I recently went cross country with some friends in the Bay o' Thunder. One is a killer down hill skiier, the other a never skiier, and me a Jackrabbits alumna. Fun abounded. The first crash by the never skiier was spectacular. Careening down her first hill at a whopping 1km/h, she became clausterphobic of the tracks and aborted the mission. Skis like chopsticks in a piping hot bowl of tangled noodle legs.

Style points: 10
Crowd applause: 9.5
Recovery: spectacular

The killer down hill skiier was also wierded out by the tracks. Who knew two ruts in the snow could be so threatening? Anyway, she freestyled -a combo of classic and skate - the whole way and snapped pix. Very impressed. Sadly no photographic record of the never skiier crash. Very disappointed.

Style points: 10
Pix: Still waiting . . . Grrrrrr ;)

Rotten little apple core

2007-12-24T00:34:00.000-05:00

My macintosh has a rotten core. Or should I say had a rotten core. A few good seeds were successfully extracted from the crunchy inner workings leaving only a facade of wholesome goodness. Needless to say, I was devasted.

When I received the new variety of apple to replace my mac, I hoped to feel like a middle-aged man trading in his faded dumpy wife for the excitement of a sleeker, younger, sexier model. Turns out I'm all hot and bothered by the expensive tastes of my new friend and not so wowed by the prospect of glamming up the reorganization of my world.

20 + 1

2007-12-02T14:26:00.000-05:00

No, it's not my birthday, but yes, that would be my age if it were. 20 + 1 signifies the extra day in Boston given to me by Delta Airlines via an "Act of God." Otherwise known as a snowfall in New York city.

It's sad that a snowfall is only considered a godly event when it disrupts air travel. I'd rather attribute the spirtual connection to the wonderous beauty and power of nature. Not as a means for an airline to squeeze you for some extra cash. They don't cover "Acts of God" - how could they possibly intervene on divine will? - only engine trouble.

In spite of this desecration of the divine, miracles still abound: a few extra hours with friends, a chance to relish a final moment in my old apartment, time for pause and a Monday morning to FedEx a bizillion boxes of stuff to Canada. Maybe it was an "Act of God" afterall.

Fringe Kink

2007-11-29T22:49:00.000-05:00

Fabulous expression. Try it, toss it around. For example:

Grey Cup half-time show butt cleavage, like OMG that's so fringe kink.

Don't get any funky ideas, the butt cleaveage was Lenny's not mine, and there were multiple glimpses into the cavernous depths of the BC. Gratuitous really. Not a big fan of the big C upfront, behind or down low in the toes (perhaps the most offensive.)

Getting back to the root of the expression, courtesy of the Globe and Mail http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20071129.wlgenex29/EmailBNStory/lifeFamily/home:
"What men love is a "lack of embarrassment for any body you have," a fiftysomething Romeo explains. "If you're wearing a tent, it means you are ashamed." Instead, wear body-conscious clothes. Channel the European woman who is elegant and bien dans sa peau. It's a refined cougarishness, minus the claws."

Keep the claws, they're so fringe kink! But ditch the over-the-hill romance novel covergramp. He's killing your fringe kink vibe.

Here's the last word on the word of the week. I'm recently into football, the American kind, not footie, after going to a few Patriot's games. Seeing as I am casting my net northward, I thought I would reconnect with my compatriots and watch the CFL namely the Grey Cup. I tuned in to see, hundreds of women screaming for the "roughriders." Now that's fringe kink.

Renewing my web presence

2007-11-11T22:48:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since my last post. Four months to be exact, but who's counting ;) I think I felt a little overexposed; like all my bits were on display. So, I fashioned a cyber blanket out of the accumulating spam, crawled underneath and hybernated away from the blogosphere. My hibernation isn't quite over yet. I've decided to lumber around with the blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders for a little while before discarding it completely.

In the mean time, I have several happy little countdowns to help pass the time:
1. 5 days to the end of my rotation
2. 7 days to my last set of travel vaccines under the watchful eye of the UHS nurse
3. 8 days until I visit my family Thunder Bay
4. 19 days until I write Step 2
5. 20 days until I move out of Boston for good!

One third life crisis

2007-07-18T22:42:00.000-04:00

I think this qualifies as a one third life crisis because I hope to live a least to ninety. My ultimate goal is to be a feisty old lady (some would say I'm already there) who pops wheelies down the hall of my nursing home in pursuit of the newest arrival to Shady Pines or Pine Crest or Cedar View (It seems old people have a desire to live in places that are named after coniferous trees, or at least young people who create these bastions for the elderly are under that impression. I can't imagine why.)

Anyway, back to my one third life crisis which involves hanging with the juvies at the mall. And not even a good mall. In fact it was half a mall because the other half was under construction. I went to visit a friend and her new baby in Toronto, two bus trips and a short walk away from where I was staying. Bus number 2 dropped me off at the aforementioned half mall where I went avidly in search of a pay phone to call my friend. Let's stop for a historical point: Pay phones are the phones that are attached to the wall and cost 25 cents to use for an unlimited time. I honestly don't think that this needs explaining, but I recieved more than a few quizzical looks. It turns out the half mall doesn't have payphones and if they did, as I was informed by the geriatric salesclerk at Sears, they would cost 50 cents. Yikes!

Passing through the linen section on my way to the nearest exit, I was swarmed by a group of shrieking girls and salivacious boys who had obviously been set free on a day pass. A policeman, their minder or a coincidental encounter, found me paralysed clinging to the display of gaudy cotton-blend beach towels as I waited for the crowd and their lingering body odour to pass. Maybe he would clear a path for me to escape. Oh wait . . . He's coming towards me. . . Oh NO! He almost slugged a kid . . . Woops! Pretend I didn't see that. He's closer. Now speaking to me. . . What was that, officer? I shouldn't be hanging out with kids like this at the mall? You've got to be kidding.

The only good that came of that horrific little encounter, the first of many passing through the half mall, was that I could pass for 15. On second thought, that's not such a great thing after all.

Liver heat and lower back dampness

2007-05-29T18:46:00.000-04:00

Chinglish Chick and I had a zen weekend involving fasting, acupuncture and getting our Chi moving. Dr Dow, a veritable Chinese medicine doctor from Beijing, visits CC's mum's best friend for Buddhist purification rituals twice yearly. He treats practioners and from 7am to 7pm daily on four makeshift acupuncture tables ie the kitchen table covered with holly hobbit bedsheets and a pillow etc. For the fully initiated, the cleansing ceremony consists of five days of acupuncture along with a five-day fast involving drinking only hot water with honey and one red date per day. As novitiates, CC and I didn't quite make it that far.

For the curious here is the weekend in a nutshell:
One bowl of fishball soup from the local noodle joint for Nahawna

One mocha ice cream from JP Licks for Chinglish Chick (it tasted like soya sauce so technically it's still in keeping with the Zen weekend theme)

Two days of acupuncture where the only thing that was flowing faster than our Chi was the cash leaving our pocketbooks into the adept hands of Dr Dow.

Three diagnoses of blocked Chi between the two of us: A weak left side for Chinglish Chick and liver heat and lower back dampness for me.

Five translations required for a conversation between me and the acupuncture practitioner: Mandarin -> Cantonese -> English -> Cantonese -> Mandarin. Needless to say our exchanges were brief.

Eight a lucky number in China. Also the number of days of relentless rain in Boston and the temperature outside.

Thirteen hours of fasting. That's right we didn't last a full day. In fact we only made it down the steps and around the corner from our last treatment before scoffing down a mini hazelnut tart each.

One week til the next prime number

2007-05-25T23:40:00.000-04:00

Last year was a tough year and I'm not sure what to make of it. Many times over the course of the year, in an attempt to boost my spirits, people have fished out the old adage "What ever doesn't kill you will make you stronger." I don't believe it for a minute. I think this year has killed a large part of my spirit and I don't feel any stronger for it. The only thing that I'm certain of is that next year has to be better because it can't possibly be any worse.

In spite of all the nastiness that has plagued me, I have much to be thankful for especially my friends who were angels. I'm also excessively thankful that this will be my last year of school. I always try to be upbeat about still being in school because the end was nowhere in site, but frankly I hate it and have felt that way for a long time. This last year, all family issues aside, personified everything detestable about formal education without even giving a glimmer of the good side of school. Now that I'm almost finished, I don't feel bad saying it out loud. In fact it feels quite good. Anyway here are my lists of the good and bad of the last year and year to come.

Some horrible things about last year . . .
1. Loss
2. Family politics
3. Still being a student

Some fabulous things about the past year . . .
1. A new addition to the family
2. Fabulous, supportive, beautiful friends

Things to look forward to next year . . .
1. Finishing school forever
2. Moving back to Canadia
3. Being able to choose how I spend my time (well only somewhat, but I'll take it)

Sleeping Giants, Rowdy Dwarves

2007-05-15T21:52:00.000-04:00

Okay, so possibly my favourite radio station, CBC Radio 1, is having one of their regular summer competitions. This one is fabulous: selecting the seven wonders of Canada. http://www.cbc.ca/sevenwonders/

Top on my list is the Sleeping Giant, a peninsula that looks like a man lying down in Thunder Bay on Lake Superior. My bias is obvious but it has a good story too. Ojibwe legend has it that Nana Bijou (of no relation to me) lay down in Thunder Bay (the bay on Lake Superior after which the city was named) to protect the silver mines from being cleaned out by the Europeans (in its prime, Silver Islet, was the leading producer of silver.)

Here are my picks for the remaining six wonders, in no particular order:
The Bay of Fundy
The Igloo
Inukshuks
Haida Gwali, Queen Charlotte Islands
Old Quebec City
Singing Sands Beach, PEI

Quote of the month

2007-04-12T22:31:00.000-04:00

This one courtesy of my surgery attending . . .

"Sympathy is between shit and syphilis in the dictionary."

I'm not sure exactly what it means, but OUCH! that hurts.

Wicked fun!

2007-04-10T18:12:00.000-04:00

Boogie down

2007-04-10T18:06:00.000-04:00

The bride wore orange

2007-04-10T17:58:00.000-04:00

Breaking the fast

2007-04-08T00:47:00.000-04:00

For the past fifteen years I have been giving up chocolate for Lent. And each year it remains a struggle. I mean a STRUG-GLE. I've largely abandoned most other obscure Catholic traditions, but this one I cling to like hot wax to a bikini model.

The idea that giving up something so unnecessary as chocolate can cause me so much strife is absurd. And that's the point. I suffer because I go without a luxury item for 49 days when others live happily without even the basic necessities of life, food, shelter, love, family. I realise that these marginalised people don't tangibly benefit from my introspection. But at least for 49 days I am acutely aware of how privileged I am and I am humbled.

Minibreak vacation

2007-04-07T00:31:00.000-04:00

Black, red, white and brown

2007-04-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

Maggoty fish, the Spintex commute, trotro evangelists and Delta airlines

2007-04-03T21:38:00.000-04:00

. . . Just a few of the things that make me want to scream obscenities. You can add to that sleep deprivation for three days (due to numerous flight cancellations) and arriving home to find a broken bed (obviously not my doing since I've been away for five weeks!)

Pardon the rant. Had to let go of a little negative energy. Okay a lot. But it's gone now. Ahhhh!

Trotro adventures parts I through V

2007-03-30T17:49:00.001-04:00

I. The witness.
No I don't want to go to your prayer meeting. And yes, I think blood transfusions are a good thing (especially after seeing all of the lives saved because of transfusion in children's ward at Korle Bu). And no, I don't think Jesus's birthday was on 25 December, but yes I do believe he had a birthday. Just because we don't know exactly when that was it doesn't mean that I can't celebrate my birthday. And frankly, I think it's weird that you won't eat any food that doesn't have a soup.

II. Potholes the depth of a blackhole.
Every morning at 5:45 am I take a trotro to from Tema to Korle Bu. Well, actually, our car to the 18 junction, a trotro to circle and a peugeot from circle to Korle Bu. I don't take the regular circ trotro that uses paved roads because of the traffic: it would take three hours to travel the 25km to work. Instead I take the "circ, bush road" trotro. It has to be at least twice the distance of the paved road but it takes half the time. Basically, the trotro goes into an abyss of barely passable dirt roads that cause the minibus to lurch and heave like the day after eating a bad potato salad at a neighbourhood picnic. On this fine morning, the only morning I needed to be at work on time for a presentation, the driver decided that we should ford the newly formed lake superior that had appeared after last night's monsoon. Half way across, the seafloor parted, the trotro swan-dived into the quagmire with just enough energy to bring it's nose out gasping and chugging for air but leave the derriere a good two feet under. My feet felt strangely wet and my skirt began turning red at the hem as muddy water gushed up through the lacerated underbelly of the beast. That's when we jumped ship, marooned on a patch of grass surrounded by thigh-deep red mud. Wheels spinning, mud flying, onlookers spewing useless advice without a hand to help get us out. Forty minutes later, with some drift wood, a few stones, brute force and a Coca-cola 18 wheeler, we were freed and on our way as though nothing had happened.

III. Stolen cell phones.
Have you ever had that moment where you know you are being robbed? I could feel my bag being tugged as I rushed to get into a trotro at Tema station in downtown Accra. In fact, I turned and looked the thief in the eye as he had one hand in the side pocket of my bag. But what could I do? Yell thief and declare my foreigness garnering no sympathy but instead scorn or worse the slice of a knife? The phone was no gem, a six year old, beat-up, barely functional, two colour screen model. Its the inconvenience of it all. The rub of it all is that my cousin called the pick-pocket who had the audacity to ask for the phone charger because the battery was about to die.

IV. The evangelist.
Sixteen strangers packed like sweaty sardines in a rusty tin can of a minibus with one Patois preacher from Sierra Leone, a driver, and a mate hanging out the window. In this situation, if I asked what do you want me to pray for, I would expect the generic . . . world peace perhaps, no more poverty maybe, a brief encounter with a semi-famous person. I would not expect . . . to find a husband fast, to get my cousin out of the slammer. And then to be probed by the said pastor as to the fatal flaws that have made one middle-aged woman unmarriable, and the grimy details of the alleged crime that landed one female cousin in custody. It begs the question: Is this in the name of god or a tawdry excuse to publicly shame desperate people.

V. Ghana vs Brazil rematch.
Obviously the cell phone incident was not enough of a deterrent to keep me away from Tema station. I decided to return on the day of the Black Stars friendly with Brazil, the first rematch since the world cup. A HUGE event in Ghana where football is an obsession, and the Black Stars are the darling of the nation. Naturally, there was not a trotro in sight. For hours. While all the nation was huddled around TVs dotting the street corners, all hell was breaking loose at the trotro station. For the Spintex road alone, there were three queues each 50 to 100 m long, and the station serves in total around 50 to 60 destinations. At the rare arrival of a trotro in the station, there was a stampede towards the door, fist flying, bodies being plucked from seats and tossed onto the pavement, all manner of cursing and profanity. The trotro, beaten and burdened by the extra bodies desperate to get home, limped feebly out of the station. And I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . it seemed like an eternity but, in fact, it was exactly the length of time for the pregame commentary plus the match.

Quote of the month

2007-03-30T17:46:00.000-04:00

My Auntie to the taxi driver who cut us off . . .
"You are pompous and notorious!"

I loooooove it!

Afen hyia paa!

2007-03-09T14:51:00.001-05:00

That is Happy Birthday in Twi! The birthday girl/boy’s reply is “ Afe nko mmeto yen bio!” Translation “The year sees you well!” and the reply “May the year come to greet us again!”

Afen hyia paa! To all my friends with birthdays in February and March. I haven’t forgotten you! Proper birthday wishes will follow.

Three days in the blazing sun

2007-03-09T14:42:00.000-05:00

My mum has returned to Ghana for the first time since we left in the early 80’s. The country has changed significantly as she so frequently points out. She also has changed significantly as I so frequently point out. There are temper tantrums when there is no running water (longest stretch 4 days, she has only experienced a one day water outage) and when there is no power (every second day). For god’s sake this is Africa! I’m excusing it as jet lag and heat. She has settled down quite a bit and we actually had a nice day today shopping and going to the beach.

We went to visit our old house in Burma Camp, a military base with an affliated hospital where my father used to work. This was the first time that she had been back to the house. The orange tree was still standing in the side garden and the back garden was lined with our mango tree, banana trees and plantain trees. Her old chicken coop was also there too. Even still, the house was much changed and the neighbourhood too. My mum showed me my friend’s house and our escape route during the coup. So many memories. . .

Four wives and a funeral

2007-03-09T14:41:00.000-05:00

My whole family, and by that I mean a few dozen people, went to my father’s village in Eastern Region of Ghana for his funeral. It’s a three day affair with many many rules to be followed, numerous clothing changes and a lot of hand shaking, music and dancing. The whole thing was overwhelming and my grief was lost in duty to the family. I just want a chance to mourn, quietly, without adornment.

Reviving the pesawa . . . and my luggage

2007-03-09T14:39:00.000-05:00

Well, I’m here. Ghana, that is. Sans baggage. As those of you who know me can attest, I travel light. The airlines obviously think that my anorexic bags are more than they can handle because they always leave them behind. This time for five days. Normally I wouldn’t be miffed. It happens everytime I fly. But this time, I was carrying contraband; medicine for a rural clinic some of which needed to be refridgerated. Nor could I slip through customs undetected. Everything was searched by the hypervigilant, exceptionally bored customs agent sitting in the lost bag centre. I mean everything down to my choice of toiletries. One conversation went like this:

“What’s this?”

(He can’t be serious! I cast a glance at the female customs agent to the side.) “A tampon”

Turning to the female customs agent, he asks for confirmation in Twi. He still doesn’t seem to understand.

(Has this man never been with a woman!)

I explain the nitty gritty in detail. He practically launches the tampon across the room. A smidgen of my explosive laughter escapes before I contain myself because I don’t want to be thrown in jail for smuggling. They let me through after doing an ear, nose and throat exam on one of the customs agents and providing ample entertainment with feminine hygiene products.

Dance dance revolution to the extreme

2007-02-19T23:03:00.000-05:00

If one subscribes to a multicultural world, then one has ample opportunities to atone for past failures and start anew, invigorated, refreshed. A second chance at, say, an internal revolution. For example, I largely failed to maintain my few, meagre new year's resolutions. But, not to worry, a new year is upon us again! And I welcomed it with red and gold, squealing pigs and canto pop, dancing lions and dance dance revolutions all celebrated with a toast of bubble tea at midnight squished like sardines basking in the garish glow of fluorescent lights at the mall. I kid you not (and did I mention that I kicked a$$ at the arcade.) Don't worry, I'm not going to bore you with another set of resolutions for the second new year. I learned an important lesson from the first round: if you don't set yourself up for failure, you are on the road to blissful happiness.

A new year and a new life for two dear friends celebrated with dear old friends. The setting distilled my mood of joy. All I have to say is, who can resist fairycakes? They remind me of birthday parties and summer and backyard BBQs with burgers. Somethings never change and somethings are better when they are joined together. Congrats!

Aunty Afooa

2007-02-04T19:38:00.000-05:00

An astute friend and fellow blogger in a flight of fancy noted that the whole world seems to be having babies right now. My friends have been averaging around one newbie per month since October. February and March are poised to be especially prolific. Based on this data, I would conclude that she has to be right.

On 30 January, my family decided to join on the baby bandwagon (which likely takes the form of a stroller.) That's right, I'm an aunty. Aunty Afooa. I'm already in love with Tuesday's child and poised to shower her with hugs, kisses and goodness.

There is one hitch that accompanies the otherwise joyous welcome of the little dears. Along with babies come the baby showers. How does the old poem go . . .

First comes love (well lust at the very least)
Then comes marriage (well sometimes the baby comes first)
Then comes the voracious consumerist baby in a designer carriage

Here's my solution. I own a lot of pink and blue as well as non-gendered yellow and green. I've been seriously tempted to toss my unwanted items into the clothes drier on high heat and reincarnate them as the latest baby fashions. The little ones won't know the difference and besides kids have very sophisticated tastes these days. Just a thought.

Happiness three times per day

2007-01-10T21:01:00.000-05:00

Each night, befort I drift into blissful oblivion, I write down three things that made me happy that day. Yes, another law passed in the parliament of my mind to set things in order for the new year. Today was a particularily good day. Okay, time to spread the jubilation . . .

1. Pictures of my newest friend born to one of my oldest and dearest friends. Feliz cumpleanos!

2. A letter, yes snail mail, from the Eclectic Media Artist enclosed in a hand-made card. Possibly the funniest card I've seen in ages, the thoughtfulness, and the delight in receiving proper mail.

3. Long e-mail from old lab mate in Oz with gorgeous pictures that reminded me of a special time in my life surrounded by beautiful people (and a few cows.)

Festering Eye Infection

2007-01-08T22:42:00.000-05:00

Now, anyone who knows me knows I hate puss exuding eyeballs. What could be more gross?!?!?! For that matter, they don't even need to be puss exuding, a little redness will make me back away. The thought of touching an eyeball is equally horrendous. I nearly pummelled my friendly optometrist when he tried to put contacts in my eyes for the first time - I was 15 and he was taken aback by my lightening reflexes and Herculean strength.

To my supreme dismay, I have a festering eye infection. You can see what a challenge this poses. I can't exactly run away from my own eye. It just stares back at me, a huge, pulsating mass of redness.

I went to bed with perfect eyes on Friday night and woke-up on Saturday morning to find my right eye-socket sporting a large brown golfball instead of my usual orb. Hmmm. There were also two suspicious looking bug bite like things (I'm not kidding).

This could only be:
1. Chagas disease
2. Double spider bites
3. Revenge for a wrong in a past life

Explanation for Chagas disease as my top choice:
1. Minus the fact that I don't live in South America in a thatched roof house and that there are no Reduuvid bugs in Massachusetts, I think this is Chagas disease. Here is why. I went to sleep, perfectly happy as I mentioned. I woke up with two suspicious bug bites and massively swollen eyelids - Romanya's sign - an indisputable sign that I was bitten by a Reduuvid bug and have Chagas disease.
2. Who would be so unlucky to get double spider bites on their eyelid?
3. I couldn't have been that terrible in a previous life.

This morning, I noticed a large swelling in front of my right ear. Very painful too. Then jaw pain at lunch time and neck pain as I did the head-bob while fighting sleep during lecture. The eye infection rages on.

First Day as a Blawger

2007-01-04T23:47:00.000-05:00

A new year a new set of resolutions. Four days in and so far so good. What are they you ask? That's only for me to know. Although one involves not procrasting, which I'm already failing miserably at (uh-hem, blog writing isn't homework last I checked.) Alas, I am human. I resolved to change that too. I'll keep you posted on my progress. Well, as long as I keep up with my resolution to stay better connected with my bezzies. Like, I said, I'm off to a smashing start so no need to worry.

PS I also resolved to find inner peace . . . world peace . . . peace of mind and . . . a piece of cake . . . mmm is anyone else hungry?