Checking in on that ´helping out´goal...

 I´m helping to build a school. Well, actually, we´re adding on to an existing school. I´m working in tandem with the orgnizations Mano a Mano and Sustainable Bolivia. Mano a Mano builds schools and clinics all over Bolivia, the country that has the highest dropout rate in South America, especially among girls, because many kids have a  4 hour commute to school. Mano a Mano makes it their mission to build schools (and clinics) that are excessible to remote places. They built a school in the village of Apote, outside of Cochabamba, years ago, and attendance rates have gone up so much, they need to add on. We are at the foundation level of what will, in 4 months, be 12 new classrooms.
I have spent months staring at Mexican contruction sites wondering what they could possibly be building out of a bunch of randomly cobbled together wood. Now, I am randomly cobbling wood eveyday. The construction process is much slower when you don´t have proper lumber. You just use what´s there. That means finding old ladders and pulling the nails out of them one by one. Or carrying tree trunks to the work site. You make the size piece you need. You make the plumes. It looks like a mess. There is order, but it certainly doesn´t come together like a shopping list at Home Depot.
The other volunteer from Sustainable Bolivia that I am working with is French guy named Bruce. Our common langauge is Spanish. Our boss, a Bolivian named Renee, is about 5 feet tall, works in rubber sandals, and climbs around the worksite like a monkey. His boss is a fat guy, also in sandals, that chews coca constantly and has the final word on every leveling question.
Bruce and I spend a lot of time painfully constructing sentences the other one doesn´t understand. There is a lot of ´No Entiendo´and a lot of laughter. Laughter must be good for something, even on a building site.  Renee either thinks its funny or annoying that we don´t understand eachother and barely understand him. I´m leaning towards the latter.
We are raising and leveling rebar columns and the project is visibly coming along, which is rewarding. It is as safe as you would imagine a worksite where most of the workers wear rubber sandals and are climbing ten feet into the air on homemade cobbled structures over uneven gravel pits. But so far, the biggest injury is sunburn.

Coca "Chew-In"

On Wednesday, there were hundreds of people on the Plaza Principal in Cochabamba chewing coca leaf. This was part of a nation-wide movement to amend a UN drugs treaty that bans the chewing of coca leaf and treats it on par with heroine and cocaine. The largest "chew-in" was in front of the US Embassy in La Paz.
Chewing coca leaves is an ancient tradition in the Andes. The proposed amendment would still treat coca as a controlled substance, just relieve the ban.
Guess who is stopping Andean countries from amending the ban? The United States: world's largest consumer of cocaine!  The US position is that coca needs to be banned because it is the raw material used for making cocaine, and lifting the ban would weaken the oh-so-important, and oh-so-effective "War on Drugs."
I just have one question: when the US banned the consumption of alcohol, did they also ban eating corn and potatoes?
Watching the US meddle with impunity in the governing and culture of smaller, weaker countries reminds me painfully of their four-star work in Haiti over the past centuries.  This is one of those times that it is really handy socially that most people don't know Alaska is in the United States.

Things I take for Granted

This is a list of things that Latin America makes me miss. These notes are Bolivia-specific, but I have seen this stuff elsewhere, feel free to add your own comments.

*Even sidewalks. Seriously, you need All-Terrain shoes to get around here. In one block, the path with go from dirt, to concrete, to gravel, to cobblestones, and back to concrete.

*Trash Collection. I don't mean that a service needs to come to your house to collect trash, we don't have that in Homer. I just mean "collection", as in gather in a specific area, rather than just strewn around everywhere.

*Good Coffee. Oh, Nescafe, how I hate you.

*Bus Stops. Though hurtling yourself into the street and madly waving your arms when you see the bus you want is fun, I now really appreciate the advantages of scheduled stops.

*Ashtrays. Local motto: "Why use one when the floor's right there?"

*Change for $10 (or equivalent) at businesses.  If you run a store, or a restaurant and only do transactions in cash, it stands to reason that if I make a 18B purchase and only have a 50B bill ($1US=7B), you should be able to give me change. But, I am always wrong about this. And, I always get a look as if I, the customer, have just thrown raw eggs on the front door when I ask for change.

*Hair gel's place in the 80s. I can't say I exactly miss the facial hair of Homer, but I would like to see a guy without half a tub of LA Looks in his hair.

*No marketing via megaphone. The Blues Brothers proved this is effective, but it's really annoying when a guy pushes a cart down the street every morning screaming about fruit through a blown-out drive-thru speaker.

 Post ethno-centric rant, I will clear my conscience by saying that there is a little flower here that I don't know the name of, but the smell is heaven. I would trade the privilege of wearing flip flops everyday combined with that smell for a lot of comforts and conveniences.

They still have food and drink outside your comfort zone

I'm in Cochabamba, which besides being fun to say, is Bolivia's third largest city. I've been here less than a week, but things are coming together. I'm exploring the local markets, meeting lots of people, and, despite everyone's warnings, not getting killed.  I am involved with an organization called Sustainable Bolivia, which provides services for volunteers to multiple local organizations.
My goals here are simple: 1:learn some Spanish, 2: do some good, and, as always, 3:have some fun.
So far, goals 1& 3 are getting the most attention. I am taking Spanish classes every day for two hours. It feels like what I would imagine waterboarding to be. But that's not enough torture; to stretch even farther outside my comfort zone, I decided to live with a host family. I now have a Bolivian "mom," "brother," "sister," and 3-year-old "niece."  I may not learn Spanish, but no one can say I didn't try. I am improving bit by bit, but in the last week, I threatened to hit a busdriver (note to self: "pAgar"='to pay'; "pEgar"=to hit); and, when my 'brother' asked if I was married, I answered, "A little bit" (note to self: "casada"=married; "cansada"=tired).

The toughest thing about living with the host family is the food. Bolivians eat a lot-- five meals a day. And, it is marginally rude to not eat what they have given you. Well, my family feeds me as if I am in training as a sumo wrestler. When I slow down, the mom encourages me: "Comi! Comi!" I feel like Cool Hand Luke, just not as cool.
This week I am supposed to start work with Habitat for Humanity, which will fulfill goal number two and hopefully give me the chance to dodge out on a few meals.

In interest of  goal three, I took off yesterday to explore one of the surrounding villages. The advantage of being a minority foreigner in a friendly country is that people include you in their parties like you are honored guests, rather than backpackers scarfing free alcohol. On the cobbled streets of Tarata, I heard loud music playing behind a closed door.  For some reason, I thought I had every right to open that door and stick my head in. Apparently, I did. The senior citizens in the courtyard beyond waved me in, shared the 'Chicha' (a fermented corn drink) they were drinking, handed me a handkerchief, and asked me to dance with them. It was someone's 50th anniversary and they were all too glad we joined the party. Luckily, they weren't serving any food.

Don't Cry for me Argentina... I'll see you somewhere soon

I've left Argentina, so I'd better tell you what I thought, as being in a new place takes you by the feet and shakes you upside down trying to get the old place out. At least that's how it seems sometimes. Someplaces are harder to shake out than others: Like that place you call 'home', or the places of 'firsts', or where you were when your brother threw a lit sparkler in your hair... but I digress.

I was only in Argentina for 3 weeks, so really I only know that it is HUGE and 3 weeks is not enough. My poor American geography is showing, but I just had no idea how big Argentina was. I went on multiple 20 hour bus rides and didn't cover a third of the country. Granted, I am counting some breakdown time in one of those buses just to give myself extra credit hours.

I'm impressed that a country in our continually globalized world can hold the hours that Argentina does. These people do not negotiate on their siestas. And, they eat dinner at 11 at night-- as a family-- kids and all. And, it seems to work. As long as you get used to the idea that everything will be closed between 1 and 5pm. It makes the days seem long, but also nice and slow.

Speaking of 'closed' that is the word I use to describe Mendoza. I spent two long weekends there, and many things also remain closed on the weekends. What would Americans do if they couldn't work or shop on the weekends? Argentinians go to the park and have picnics. Or play in the local creek or aqueduct ditch. We went horseback riding.

The closed-ness of Mendoza was probably accentuated for me, as I went there expecting a Napa Valley experience in the Malbec mecca.  Argentinian wineries just don't work that way. You call and make a reservation. Then you show up and go on an hour long tour. Then they give you a taste (maybe two) of their most basic wines. Then you spend an hour driving around looking for the next winery. Walking or biking from tasting table to tasting table being assaulted by a waterfall of wonderful vintages is logistically not an option. And, after you have had one hour-long winery tour conducted in your third language, you've had enough. The Malbecs and the Torrentes here are great, but wine bars or restaurants are the place to have them.

Roadtripping through the Central Andes and the desert was spectacular, as I've mentioned. Then I spent my last week in the country in Salta, far in the Northwest. Salta is a beautiful, european-esque city and home to a active and fun couchsurfing population. Couchsurfing has pretty much replaced hostelling for me: not only do you get to meet other travelers, but you get to meet locals as well, and you don't have to get bedbugs in the process.


 I wanted to see Patagonia, but haven't yet. From Mendoza, which is kind of in the middle, I had to choose: go North or South? I chose the North road. Another traveler I met asked, "well can't you go back and go 'South' after seeing Salta, and places 'North'? Technically, the answer is 'yes', but I have learned that "way leads on to way" and once we choose a direction, we may never find that particular fork in the road again.

Through the couchsurfers in Salta and the vineyards in Mendoza, I was taken on a triumphant parade of what this late-night meat-eating, early-morning drinking country has to offer. These people eat a lot of meat. Delicious Asados (BBQs). It is not uncommon for a dinner plate to just have a large slab of meat on it, and nothing else. Nothing else until you eat that slab of meat and they put another one down to replace it. And with that meat comes a fast running salt shaker. This is a salty place. Or sweet. Dulche de Leche (a caramel-like spread) steps into any meal where salt might not apply. I didn't ever have meat and dulche de leche together, but, like I said, I was only there 3 weeks.


P.S. I got that yellow fever shot. Out of a 85 degree box, in a run-down government building in Salta. The Bolivian immigration officials didn't even ask to see the stamp. I haven't died yet though.

Speaking of Scavenger Hunts and Charades...

In beautiful Salta, Argentina, where everything is decorated with llamas, and somehow, those llamas look really nice.

Argentina is nice and all, but pretty much everyone knows where it is. This is one of the reasons I recently bought a ticket to Bolivia.
Only after making the purchase, did I bother to look at visa requirements. Thanks to what, I am sure, is stupid US policy, I need one. I looked up the location of the Bolivian embassy in Salta. It is listed at Avenida San Martin 124. I found Ave. San Martin 128 and I found Ave. San Martin 122, but 124 must be located in the same place as the train platform for Hogwarts.
I also need proof of a yellow fever vaccination. During siesta, I contemplated faking the vaccination stamp in my documents. But then I logically recalled that Tarzan's Jane died of yellow fever. I think. So I got out of my bed to see what I could do.
Most people wouldn't get up from a nap in a country where they have a severe language handicap, and barely have a clue about the government, let alone the healthcare system, and decide to go get a yellow fever shot. 'Most people' are probably on to something.
It's a good thing I spent Christmas playing Cranium with my family, as I was a dead ringer for "I need a Yellow Fever vaccination" charades at multiple pharmacies and at a clinic.  I struggled with directions, because "derecho" is 'straight' and "derecha" is 'right,' and I think we can agree that those are cruelly similar words.
Eventually, I found my way to a hospital, avoided the "Emergencia" door (this is not that, Thank God), and re-performed my perfected charade at an "Informacia" desk. (Most people would have had the first pharmacist write it down, but then, we're back to 'most people.')  The information woman must have sensed my 'derecho/a' handicap, because she took my arm and led me down the hall.
This was the only hospital I've even been in that smelled overwhelmingly like diesel fuel. Once I was being led down the final hall to the needle, I started getting nervous about the shot. I blame this on Anna, who has been instilling a fear of sharp objects in me since the first high school blood drive. I regretted my siesta-time snack of crackers, because I suddenly wanted to throw them up.
Informacia Lady deposited me in front of a door that read "VACUNAR," knocked twice, and left me there.
I leaned against the wall next to the door and let my stomach twist itself around my nerves. I flexed my biceps to fend off needles. I know you are thinking: "Steph! You are an EMT!" I am. I have taught classes on inserting naso-pharangeal airways. But, here is my next confession: even typing the words "naso-pharangeal" kind of makes me want to throw up.
I waited for the Vacunar door to open. I shifted my weight and looked at the white tile wall I was leaning on.  It was smeared with dried blood. I moved to the middle of the hallway and tried not to touch anything. I paced nervously, but didn't want to stray to far from the door, so I pivoted and paced with just one foot. This spinning didn't help the nausea.
A girl who was really hurt, and clearly in a lot of pain limped down the hall. She looked at me sympathetically. I probably looked like I was about to cry. I realized that this spinning around maneuver was not very cool, so I stopped and looked at the door, which was in the same state of closed. Of the 89 words on the door (I counted while I was trying to stand still), I understood 5 of them, not counting the "and"s and the "the"s.  I tried opening the door. It didn't budge.
A line began forming behind me and the people asked me how long I had been waiting. Mercifully, I understood this question. However, I am still struggling with the difference between 'fourteen' and 'forty,' so I settled on replying 'a half hour,' which was in the neighborhood just shy of true.
After waiting an hour, and successfully not vomiting, I turned and walked out.
On the steps of the hospital, I put my head down and caught my breath. I straightened up and promised my inner child that no one was going to put a needle in her arm today. I also promised her ice cream. I walked down the steps and promptly got lost.
I eventually found a cafe and ordered "helado sabor americano," because I wanted to know what American-flavored ice cream would taste like. It's vanilla. My inner child was disappointed.

Cultural Decorum

At our final stop, in the Mendocino winery-laden village of Maipu, Susy and I somehow got our hands on an educational reference book: Argentinian Customs and Culture.
One piece of advice that someone bothered to type up and print in this book is: 'It is rude for a foreignor to criticize Argentinian government or politics. Let Argentinians talk about their own government problems, do not offer your opinion.'
We laughed. Duh. Of course that is rude. Everyone knows you shouldn't discuss politics or religion with strangers, but then I paused...
It seems that everywhere I have ever traveled, people have offered their opinion on American politics as soon as they hear my accent. For the past two years I have been fielding non-stop inquiries on Sarah Palin. Can someone please put in a book that this taboo also applies to Americans?
Currently, I am skating by on the fact that a lot of people don't know that Alaska is part of the USA, or whether Alaskans speak English or German (the only thing I have demonstrated with any competency is that Alaskans probably don't speak Spanish).

"Palm to Palm is Holy Palmer's Kiss" -Shakespeare

Central Andes/ Argentine Sierras:

Mendoza-Punta del Inca-Uspallata-Valle de Calingasta-San José de Jáchal-Rodeo-San Augustín de Valle Fértil-San Juan

I have hiked into the Grand Canyon, I have been wowed by Capitol Reef, Bryce, Arches and the dry spots in Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona. I have stood on a precipice at Zion and might still swear it was the most spectacular vantage point in the world.  I have seen the so-called “Big Sky” that is immortalized by A.B. Guthrie. 

Australia’s Uluru and Olgas are amazing, as are the hundreds of miles of surrounding desert and rock formations through which I have fought flies and chased camels.

In the last week, I have driven thousands of kilometers through Central Argentina. The terrain changes every 50 kilometers. Every color of the rainbow paints the scenery. A Cineplex worth of popcorn clouds fill the sky as far as I can see; the carpet is red and white sand, as soft and fine as silk. And the rocks…  rocks, rocks, rocks… mountains of them, piles of them, weird balancing acts of them. So much vast landscape you know that only God has touched each and every piece.  This desert makes the American Southwest and the Australian Outback look like the places that God practiced on while he was getting ready to make Argentina.

 

I have a confession to make. Ever since reading Into Thin Air I have judged climbers fairly critically. I have mostly viewed the activity as self-serving and foolish. This week, I changed my mind. I found a desire to reach out and be a part of this beautiful landscape. I realized that every time you touch a far-flung stone, out-of-reach of anyone else, it is being palm to palm with the Creator. 

Language Problems

The Spanish speaking world needs to get together. I have recently discovered that in Argentina (and in Uruguay, for that matter) the "LL" that Spanish speakers love to sprinkle generously through their words does not make the same sound as it does in the rest of the Spanish-speaking world. I learned in Mexico that when you see 2 'L's, you make a 'y' sound. Why? I don't know. That's the way it is. But not here.
Here, you make a "j" sound, as in "'J'ust a minute, I have to relearn how to pronounce this word."

Let's say you make the "y" sound, like I do. Do people realize it's just a different dialect and give you the benefit of the doubt? NO. They look at you like you are a Martian.
I know this Martian look well, as I have been getting it a lot lately. Another situation I can't get comfortable with involves restaurants. It is popular here to not have menus. They don't even have a chalkboard with specials. The waitress just comes to your table and asks what you want.
You say, 'I don't know, what do you have?' and she says, 'whatever you want.'
Really? Mac & Cheese and a Peanut Butter sandwich? No. Now, if I had enough cultural experience to have any idea what would be on a normal Argentine menu, this wouldn't be so difficult. But, I can't even make the correct sounds when the letters arrive on my tongue, so I stare blankly at the waitress, shrug my shoulders, and point vaguely at another table. She brings whatever they serve Martians in this country.

Feliz Año Nuevo!

In Mendoza, Argentina with Susy:

The owner of the inn we are staying at invited us to join his big family party for New Years. We accepted. The rest of his family canceled. We had one of the best steaks I have ever eaten and all the Malbec we could drink with this guy and his parents (who live with him). We arrived at 10:30pm, which was way too early for dinner, so we were having a glass of wine and he says, 'it's kind of odd that both my parents live with me, because they are divorced.'  We rang in 2011 at a small table on a porch while a violent thunderstorm raged outside. The language barrier, for once, helped make things less awkward: since we couldn't talk much, it made the fact that two adults at the table were intentionally ignoring each other a little less obvious. A little.

After dashing in and out of the rain to watch over an hour of fireworks, we went to "Willy's Bar" at about 1:30am with Toto, our host. The bar was so far from being set up that it was basically closed.

Outside of Discovery Channel nature shows, I have never before realized the NEED for time-lapse photography. Nothing could have better captured our New Years Eve.  If only we had been appropriately equipped, you would get to watch something like this:

1:35am: Toto got us 'Fernet' & coke... the local drink, which smells and tastes like Coke mixed with Ricola cough drops. The bartender has a fauxhawk and a spiked belt barely holding his jeans above his thighs.

1:37am: A tumbleweed rolls through the echoing red and black painted room accompanied by complete silence.

1:47am: We watched the DJ move all his equipment inside, which included moving, and breaking the feet off of, a pool table. 

1:53am: Two girls arrive. Short hair, parted asymmetrically.  Short, flowered dresses: eighties print.

2:13am: More hipsters trickle in. Average age is 22, but there are some older lecherous boyfriends. Girls are in short skirts and short boots and loads of perfume. Boys are in truckee hats and tight jeans.

2:24: We talk about how old we are.

2:28am: It stops raining. 
2:34am: The DJ moves all his equipment back to a tent outside.
2:46am: 8 hipsters, two with mullets and one with silver pants, fall asleep on a white leather couch, waiting for the party to start.
2:48am: Fauxhawk bartender opens up his laptop and plays Michael Jackson's extended version of "Thriller."  We dance... just like they do on the video.
2:53am: Toto asks if I'm on Facebook. I say, "What's 'Facebook'?" I have had enough Fernet to think this is the funniest joke of the night. 
3:01am: A guy walks in a red t-shirt and Dick Tracy hat. He's with two girls in striped shirts they stole from the set of "Growing Pains".
3:24am: The DJ finally starts playing in his outdoor tent. He starts with breakbeats (Susy is shocked) and works his way into "Indigenous techno".
3:38am: There are two pairs of silver pants on the mud dance floor. 
3:46am:The stars above the "danceyard" are bright. Toto points out a 'special Argentine' constellation of "a shopping cart". It's Orion's belt.
3:53am: There is a line at the gate to get in and the bouncers are charging admission. 
4:14am: the danceyard is full. We are among the best dancers there, a rank accomplished with minimal foot and arm movement.
4:18am: There is a deep crowd around the bar, clamoring for Fernet and Coke. 
4:35am: We tell Toto we want to leave. He is appalled. 'Things are just getting started!'
4:38am: The three of us leave the hipsters to their dance moves and climb into Toto's 1966 Ford pickup truck.
4:57am: We laugh ourselves to sleep, visions of mullets dancing in our heads.

Back Under the Southern Kite

I delayed a month and half, but have finally gotten back on the international travel circuit.
It seems I'm a bit rusty, as they nearly didn't let me board the plane in Charlotte due to visa issues. I was certain that I didn't need a visa and the gate agent disagreed. First, they argued that I couldn't land in Brazil without a visa, and then that I couldn't go to Argentina on a one way ticket. They eventually agreed to let me board, but not without looking me in the eye, giving a head shake, and saying, "This is BAD business."  Bad business? Like sub-prime mortgages or working for the mob? You'd think I was boarding the plane to Buenos Aires in Nuremberg, rather than North Carolina.
My language skills also need work. I learned most of my foreign language skills as an adult. Thus, rather than compartmentalizing each language and being able to switch back and forth fluidly, I just opened up a drawer in my brain and started shoveling foreign words in. So, when I am in a situation where I recognize the foreign language being spoken, I open up that drawer that is mashed full of German and Spanish. What comes out of my mouth is a mildly unintelligible thing I call 'Germ-ish'.  When I don't understand the language being spoken, what comes out of my mouth is just a high-pitched mumble/whine.  I mumbled/whined my way through 10 hours at the Potuguese-speaking Rio de Janeiro airport (can't leave the airport because I don't have a visa), but more than a day after I began, I arrived in Argentina.
My only plans are to meet up with Couchsurfing friends and see where the days take me. My credit card expires in March, so I guess I'll have to make my way back to Alaska by then.
A long day of travel is the small inconvenience we pay for the privilege of buying a one-way ticket, having limited language skills, being alone in a big city, watching strange buildings fly by, and picking out the tiny Southern Cross through the smog in the night sky. Feels so acutely like life.

Make it, or Die

I went into a strip mall coffee shop to have a cappucino while I waited for the liquor store to open. This says something about me, I guess... that I was at the liquor store so early on a Wednesday that it wasn't open. My shining moment was deciding to go into the coffee shop rather than just standing with my nose pressed against the glass staring at the bottles of vodka for 13 minutes... but who's counting?
Anyway, the barista was a good-looking, middle-aged guy, not on his best day. He cheerfully explained that he was hungover, over-worked, and still hadn't finished Christmas shopping for his teen-aged daughters.  Even though he was behind the counter at a coffee shop, he couldn't quite have enough cups to fully wake up. He was having a bad day at work.
I sat down with my coffee by the window where I could see the door of the liquor store. I looked at the twinkling Christmas lights and thought about bad days at work.
My worst days at my current job are burned into my memory. In the winter of 2007, I got caught in a fast-moving blizzard after picking up a skier. I had to ask my passenger to help me navigate safely home through the blinding snow and wind.  In the summer of 2008, I picked up a crew of fishermen in Bristol Bay, loaded to max with them, gear and fish. We were nearly forced to the ground by fog on the Alaska Peninsula and I had to scud over the tundra, navigating by valleys and the few weather reports of other pilots. Last summer, driving rain pushed the visibility and me down onto a remote lake in Katmai, where I taxied to shallow water, got out in my hip-waders and acted as a live mooring buoy for the plane, mostly so I wouldn't have to be in the cabin with barfing tourists.
Those days were my worst. I came very close to not making it. Just a little worse weather, or one wrong decision...  They were all Uncle Ole's imfamous: "Make it or die" days. But, halfway to fully caffieinated and mesmerized by the  blinking lights, I think I'd also count them as my best days. Because they weren't a little worse. And then the thought follows, how lucky am I, that I have a job where my worst days are also my best? Where just doing my job makes the lines a little clearer, and the sunset a little prettier, and the coffee taste a little better...  Or am I just a little crazy?
Not sure. But the liquor store's open.

Rejoining Forces

Steph and Anna linked back up in the Carolinas of all places. (Specifically, we were in both states, but it sounds more Northern to speak of them as if their differences are indiscernible.)

We ghost-toured in Charleston with a guide named Dan that wanted to be a golf pro. He gave us those sensors that the Ghostbusters carry. They are activated by electrical wires and by paranormal activity. They were going crazy on almost the whole walk.  We didn't see any ghosts, but we did see a cat, which Dan said was carrying either a witch or a demon. He has only been guiding these tours since July, so didn't have enough experience to ascertain the sex of the feline's passenger.

 Apparently a man from one of the many ghost tours photographed a ghost in the cemetery at St. Philip's church. Kodak, the FBI, and NASA could not explain it. St. Philips had to post a sign to clear things up. Anna, with 12 years of Catholic education under her belt, explained why the Church might be offended by the photographers claims: Ghosts do not officially exist. Unless they appear in the form of Mary, Jesus, or one of the Saints. Then they do. Why? Because an in-between place is not allotted for in Scripture--except in the above three forms, in which cases pilgrimage is called for.  The girl knows her spectral catechism.

The latest Wikileak

In the last week, I have spent 1300 miles on America's Interstate system which means that I know the words to every popular country song.  I also accidentally ran a half-marathon, and was spit up on twice.
I have visited with a diverse group of friends and family, and learned something that did not make it onto Wikileaks:  My dangerously single friends told me to watch out for "Trick Dates." Apparently, besides Internet dating, the great new way to ask someone out is to pretend you are not asking them out, but you are just arranging a meeting. Then when they show up at the appointed time and place, you go ahead with typical 'first date' behavior and see how it goes.  After witnessing one such event unfold at an adjacent table in Washington, DC, it seems that the warning should not go unheeded.
Also newly revealed in the Nation's capitol: another dimension. I refused to see a movie at a museum because it was advertised as "4-D." Does the Tea Party know about this? What's the fourth D anyway? A friend told me it was "time." Time? Isn't that inescapable? Wouldn't it be more interesting if they found a way to show a movie outside the time-space continuum?
There's lots to be learned schlepping around this seaboard, if you can handle repeat views of box stores and love multi-lane freeways. I have seen dozens of people who don't make it to Alaska often, and enjoyed spending time with them and meeting their new offspring.
In the in-between times, I rake. North Carolina has an infinite supply of leaves. Even though all the trees look bare, more appear on the ground every day. In my effort to corral them, I have broken two rakes. Replacing the first rake, a metal relic of a bygone era, I checked into everyone's favorite box store, Target. I was informed there that rakes are a seasonal item. Not this season. Not the season with the unending leaf deluge. No, no. It is snow shovel season at Target. I lived in North Carolina for four years and never saw a shovel-able piece of snow. Super secret documents have shown, the season of winter wonderland exists here, just only in the confines of your local Target store.
Because I have so much to learn from classified documents and classy friends, and because, right now, the leaves are winning,  I have made a decision. I am certain this decision was influenced by those country songs blaring out of my borrowed Volkswagen's radio as I barrel down I-85:
"You're gonna miss this! You're gonna want this back!"
I bought a ticket to South America, but I won't leave until December 27th. My grandmother is thrilled and the leaves are terrified that I am staying in the Southeast until Christmas.

Ages and Prices: Just Numbers

Grandmutti told me yesterday that she and my grandfather had been married for years before she found out his real birthday. Why? He lied. She was baking a cake for a birthday celebration and his sister commented, "I can't believe Ed is 40." He's not, Grandmutti replied, he's 37.  They argued, his sister was quite certain, and when grandpa came home from work, he had to fess up.
Laughing, I asked how long they had been married when she figured this out. Grandmutti replied she'd had two kids. But, she had a confession of her own. She stayed 21 for many years until her oldest son commented that he was 13 and it seemed unlikely that his mother only had 8 years on him. She then jumped to 39 and settled in there for a couple decades.
Great Aunt Myrt had to work 3 years past retirement age because she had lied about her age to seem young when applying for the job.
Age is just a number. I can't tell you what number, when it comes to my grandmother, as printing such a thing on the Internet would get me written out of the will, and I have had my eye on a set of Grandmutti's colored plastic plates since I was about 10. She said she would put them in my Hope Chest, but she might be losing hope, as she now says they're in her will.
In effort to stay in her good graces, I helped Grandmutti peel 10 pounds of potatoes. At Harris Teeter, a 4 lb bag of potatoes costs 99¢.  I think that is amazing. Potatoes are full of carbohydrates and have more vitamin C than oranges.... a virtual superfood. FOUR POUNDS of potatoes... for the change you could find under the seat of your car. I don't know whether to rejoice for how fortunate we are or weep for the fact the people anywhere are starving.
But the solution isn't buying the hungry world all the potatoes at Harris Teeter.  However, when the cash in your wallet could fill a kiddie pool with spuds, it's hard not to feel some conviction or take some responsibility. I don't know how that responsibility should manifest itself. For now, I think I'll just etch the price and availability of potatoes in my country into the side of my mind's storage compartment. Tomorrow, I'll hold hands with my family, give thanks, and help eat a pile of potatoes.

"Why waste your money looking up your family tree? Just go into politics and your opponents will do it for you." -- Mark Twain

I'm in North Carolina, at my grandmother's house. She's wonderful: smart and sweet... unless you tell her you might not come for Christmas, then she's just smart.
She's the oldest of eight and one of her younger sisters took decades compiling the family's genealogy. There are some famous people hanging on the branches, way back in the 1400s and 1700s, but, last night we were examining those closer to our part of the trunk. Great Great Grandpa Jesse spend quite a bit of time in jail for being a 'Tippler'... which was the 1800s Kentucky Foothills word for 'Drunk'. Great Grandpa Harvey was a school teacher, but in his spare time he charmed warts. What? Yes, he charmed warts off of people. What a handy skill.
I asked Grandmutti (a name resulting from the only word my dad learned in high school German) about the other side of the family tree: Her husband's. She said Grandpa Ed looked into it once, but stopped when he got to a horse thief.
As expected, I come from quality stock. Apparently, what the British didn't send to Australia, the rest of Europe packed off to America.
Right now, Grandmutti is cheating at TV. She's borrowing every phone in sight to stuff the "Dancing with the Stars" ballot box. Not for Bristol Palin..."because she's not that good of a dancer, it's just that all the Tea Partiers are voting for her."
You can't blame Grandmutti for cheating, it's probably in her blood. It is comforting to know that my family bears transgressions and oddities well. Let's just hope they keep this spirit in mind as I negotiate going abroad for Christmas.

Broomball Global Championships 2010

We went all the way to Minnesota to learn that there is a "Mercy Rule" in broomball... who knew?
Duggans Pub Traveling Broomball Team is now officially either the worst team on the Globe, or the 4th best co-ed team on the Globe... glass empty or full-- you decide... as long as it's Grainbelt Premium.

Chili con Carnival Results

The 4th annual Chili Cookoff took place on an October Sunday in Kachemak City. The garage was packed with almost 100 connoisseurs ready to taste Crockpot creations.



As per usual, three judges were needed, but one of the highly trained regulars was not available. Chosen to join sitting judges, Wes and Terry, was Dana Stabenow, local author. 

 The judges selected a 1st place chili and awarded the golden Crockpot. For the second year in a row, it went to Jess and Frog for their "Stackfire Chili."

The masses democratically choose (via secret ballot in the shape of horse stickers) the People's Choice Golden Ladle, which this year went to Amber Nieber for her Spicy Green Chicken Chili. Amber also swept up the "Spiciest Chili" award.

Because I am not accused of great sportsmanship or humility, I nominated myself for the "Best Presentation" award for my in-phone-booth Tequila Booth. I'll never have a chance at the award next time Randy enters with homemade individual bread bowls, so I feel justified taking it now.






One of the biggest hits of the night was Jim Eschenhower with his "Beer Viewing" blind beer taste-off. The big winner was Sam Adams lager... over an Olde English 40 and 2 of Homer Brewings local growlers.

The Latest Project

I was so excited to put the plane on wheels. It was going to be a mechanical adventure with the new steed. A chance to learn how to best take care of her and a chance to get her ready for another chapter of life as an Alaska Bush Plane. I sold my four-wheeler to pay for a big bush wheel nose fork that I was told I could not fly without.

When the Landis nose fork arrived in Homer, the UPS man called me on my cell phone (I think when you live in a small town, the guys in brown have everyone’s cell phone number), “Steph, we’ve got something really expensive for you and don’t want to leave it anywhere you aren’t.” Usually they just drop stuff inside the garage or on the step at my work, but apparently UPS stickers boxes that cost more than people could really afford to pay.

After doing an excited inventory of my pricey delivery, I ran inside to pick out my best work clothes for the big project. Seriously? Like I am on the way to my first day of kindergarten? Well, just short of my mom braiding ribbons into my hair, that’s how I was acting. I chose faded Levis speckled with paint, a long sleeved t-shirt, a hoody splashed with the name of some sports team I’m on, and then stuffed a handkerchief in my pocket for good measure. A pair of gloves and rubber boots and I was ready for work.

I called the highly-recommended mechanic that I would assist with the gear change, and he was eating an omelet. He’d be ready in an hour “or so.”

I was anxiously waiting at the airport when he pulled up. Bob is his name, he’s probably in his late sixties, has a slight lisp, and has done gear changes on approximately one million planes since he became an A&P mechanic, which chronologically speaking was, “long before you had heard of Alaska, or had even been born, Missy.”  Bob estimated the floats-to-wheels transition would take us five hours, once we got the plane out of the water. Bob works on an hourly rate.

So, first step… get the plane out of Beluga Lake. We tried to hook up Mark’s trailer, only to find the hitch rusted beyond release. Bob knew where another float trailer was located, and we appropriated it under the “Ask Forgiveness, not Permission Act.”

Bob instructed me to back the trailer into the lake, but grew quickly frustrated with my backing skills, or lack thereof.  To his credit, last time I drove someone else’s trailer, I jackknifed it into that someone else’s truck.  Bob and I switched spots and I ran down the road to get the plane.

I unlashed the lines from the dock and started Beryl up.  As I taxied her down the lake for the last time this year, I resisted the temptation to take one last lap around the pattern, in my excitement to get to the project at hand, and because I figured Bob probably backed up trailers faster than I and had made it down the ramp before I even got in the plane.

Engine killed, I bumped the floats against the deck of the trailer and hopped out.

We stood in the water and muscled the aircraft back and forth to get her centered on the trailer, knowing that balance would be very important to keep her there on the drive over to the airport. The water felt like freeze up was only days away, even through my boots.  I emptied the floats of all the lines I keep stored there and we tied one to every possible point. I was trained in the “if you can’t tie a knot, tie a lot” school of knot tying, and probably got close to twenty knots in on my side of the aircraft alone.

“Are we ready to take her up the hill?” Bob asked. I looked at the steep bank between trees that was our path out of the lake and tied ten more knots.

Bob told me that he had never pulled a plane with wing extensions like Beryl has out of the lake. It might be tight. We started up the hill and I ran back and forth in front of the truck, pointing excitedly back and forth, directing him to dodge the wingtips around trees.

With my Subaru as the flag car, I pulled out into the road to stop any lakeshore traffic. We got the plane around the corner and found that large pine branches blocked the right wingtip. I climbed up the first pine tree, rubber boots kicking for purchase on the sappy truck and lunged for the offending branch. Swinging from the branch, my weight held the limb just low enough for the wing to pass by. I dropped to the ground and ran to the next tree. In this way, we made it up to FAA drive, the road to the airport.

The Dept of Transportation provided an escort for our merry parade to cross the runway and we parked the 206 in a red hanger on the south side of the field to get to work. My feet were still frozen from their time in the lake, but I was still thrilled: it was noon; in five hours I would have a plane on wheels to cruise around until spring.

We lashed Beryl to a chain hoist and raised her off the trailer, and then we set to work on the bolts that lashed on the floats. The floats hadn’t come off since the previous owner purchased them in 2006. Everything was really stiff. But two set of hands helped. I could just mimic what Bob was doing on the opposite side of the aircraft. One dry bolt held in place despite all our efforts though. No matter how we changed the gravity and weight of the plane, we couldn’t get the final lynchpin loose. So, at three o’clock we broke for lunch.

Hours later, the bolt was still stuck. Greasing, bashing, wing-rocking, and pleading used up, Bob drew out his secret weapon: cursing and throwing stuff. It worked. At seven PM, the floats were freed from the fuselage. I was freezing in the unheated hangar. Bob said we would finish up tomorrow morning.

I thought back to my days at Liberty Creek on my drive home: “Every project takes three times as long and costs twice as much as estimated.”  I had a couple more days of work in the cold hangar ahead. So, I recalled another Liberty Creek lesson: “Always dress like you have to walk out.”

On day two, I wore wool, which “Keeps you warm and dry, even when you’re cold and wet”(another liberty creek lesson). I managed to stay warm all morning. I learned some lessons about Bob. He works really slowly. He works even slower if you talk to him. So, in silence, I did my best as a mechanic’s helper. I usually was working too fast to stay continuously useful, and would use my waiting-for-Bob time to clean the airplane. When someone would wander down to the hangar to see what was going on, as people at airports do, Bob would stop working to talk to them. I would give them mean looks until they left or at least backed up out of earshot.

It wasn’t too hard to get the main gear in place (that’s the left and right tires). We bolted them in, checked the tension and moved to the real project: the nose gear.

My silent treatment policy didn’t work perfectly on Bob. While we were muscling the nose gear into place, he asked me: “Are you married?” No “Have a boyfriend?” No. “Kids?” No. “Ever been married?” No. He looked at me hopefully, “Any pets?” Still no. The hope turned to pity: “How old are you? 30? 32?” 31. Then Bob delivered his sage advice: “You only have about eight good years left.” He paused, looked at the nose gear, then back at me: “I have a pug you can have if you want.”

After offering me a small, ugly dog to solve my social life, Bob realized that we needed a machine shop to switch out the shaft for the new expensive nose fork.  This observation easily could have been made two days ago, but the other lesson I learned about Bob is that he doesn’t consider a problem until he is upon it.  I headed to Homer’s single machine shop before it closed and Bob began packing up his tools. Somehow the sun had snuck through the southern sky and we still had one whole wheel assembly to go. I was freezing cold.

On day three, I wore more wool, and long underwear, and flannel-lined Carhartts. I could hardly put my arms down as I waddled into the hangar and shimmied back under the plane. I worked all the tubes into the tires with the aide of baby powder, after Bob made a point of showing me, the old maid, how to use baby powder. I had all the tires together before the nose gear assembly was completed at the machine shop.  Bob still didn’t have the float brackets freed from where the nose gear needed to attach.

I refused to break for lunch; foolishly believing the end was in sight. When Bob put the wrong bracket up into the nose gear assembly first, and the whole thing became more tightly locked up than that float bolt on day one, I said, “I’ve gotta be somewhere at six-thirty.” He looked at me accusingly, “Well, if you have to leave, we are never going to get this done today.” It was six o’clock. Bob never works past the sun. We had one hour to overcome the trickiest Rubik’s cube we had seen all week. “We’re not going to finish today Bob even if some pixies show up and magically unstick the nose gear. I’ll see you in the morning.” I left for evening Nordic ski practice, only mildly chilled. The only obvious progress made all day was that the tires were inflated to their appropriate pressures.

Before I bundled up for Day Four, I cancelled a weekend trip to Tok, knowing that I couldn’t count on having the plane ready to go by tomorrow morning. I had already had to cancel a trip to Egegik on Day Three, because I had only allotted one extra day for getting this project done. Pity, as the weather all week was clear and beautiful.

Bob must have taken his time on his omelet because he figured we had so little left to do, there was no reason to get an early start. I was hovering at the hangar at eleven, waiting for this master mechanic to do his thing. He started swearing and throwing and eventually, he had the piece he had accidentally jammed into the nose gear assembly removed. It was afternoon.  We put together the nose wheel again, this time in the correct order, pumped the strut full of hydraulic fluid, and began reassembling the aircraft.

My cousin, Solveig, drove down from Anchorage at 4pm. I figured this would be a sign to Bob that we needed to hurry and finish up. Stupid me. It was a chance to talk. We finished the test flight after 6pm.  I was glad to see that I remembered how to land a wheel plane, as that is an important part of each flight.

When we pushed Beryl into the hangar, she looked great on her new wheels. I still had to find a water source to finish her end-of-the-season cleaning. But, luckily, I know the guy that runs the airport fire truck.

Bob had worked his presto-chango ‘millionth’ float change in a mere TWENTY-SEVEN hours. And that’s not counting paperwork. He gets to log the hours he spends signing off the weight and balance as well. I guess the Liberty Creek time/cost formula doesn’t work on airplanes. But at the end of day four, I was still warm. It only took four days for me to re-learn to dress for outdoor work in Alaska.

What Next?

I've had my wetsuit on twice this week and surfed none. I feel like a fish out of water. But that feeling might be a hold over from still floating from Oktoberfest beer. I do feel a bit out of my element. T minus 30 days until I leave Homer... I'm not sure where to or for how long.
On my last night in Munich, I sat with Rob and Marty and talked about Haiti. When I talk about it now, it is less detail and more philosophy because I've drawn some conclusions since then. I won't bother with them here. They are reserved for eye-contact conversations... preferably in evening beer gardens while Maroni shells fall on your head.
The one thing I will repeat in writing is that I am going back. Maybe not to Haiti, but to where ever I can find that God needs me to do something. And I'll do it. Hopefully soon.
Oktoberfest was all I could ask: a weekend with great friends where the beer could never hurt your head as much as the laughter hurt your stomach. We came by train, plane, autobahn and foot. And joined forces, linked arms, and had an international friend and family reunion.  Prior, I felt a little guilty wondering if it was worth crossing the world for. It was.
On this side of that (a place I always find myself), I must choose what to do next. The only for sure at the moment is I'll pack a small bag and my book. I'll play broomball and visit family and then do something else... Suggestions are encouraged.