I am home now, arriving several weeks ago. I completed my final debriefing with Paris, via phone, today and so I am really finished.
And it is good.
The two-legged and four-legged all-male-occupied home, decorated with dust and grime patiently awaiting my return, was good. What else does a time zone challenged woman do at 2 am as she re-adjusts to Mountain Standard Time, but tend to neglected dust bunnies, dog hairs, and strange unidentified smelly things? (With gratitude, I acknowledge the carpets were cleaned the day I arrived. I will never have to know what they were like the day before I arrived.)
I will finish the Abkhazian Adventures blog even though I have mixed feelings about doing so. There are many stories I have not yet told: Eno (hemiplegic stroke patient with a horrific leg wound) has returned home without a leg, but with a life. After the successful amputation we bought her a wheelchair. Her grandson who takes care of her is learning how to use it. The Health Access Program which was planned for closure will continue. I am proud of the work done and thankful for the chance to have done it.
The Abkhazian Adventure was a chance for me to explore many emotions that surfaced over the six months. It was like a good therapist, assisting me to know what I already know, to accept what is true while grappling with the demons and disconnects of life. Meanwhile I got to explore an external world equally confounding and rich.
The departure “goodbyes” with tender moments between me and my Abkhazian friends, with all of their kindness and curiosities, felt good. I did not get to say goodbye to all the patients that have challenged and changed me. I don’t regret that because we are left instead with the simple memories created during a normal days work, not exaggerated farewells of “it has been so wonderful to know you”, “you are so special.”
I have the best of what I could have hoped for from this experience. Love.
I like this quote from a book I am reading, Water Marked by Helen E.Lee,
“Love is the one thing you can multiply by dividing”.
We all know about wine reviews and restaurant reviews …..“rich, complex, blended with irresistible character”, “the long finish a pleasure of its own“ and “this place has the essence of a dusty Mediterranean villa”.
I suppose wine and restaurant reviews are attempts to describe something good, documented so others may enjoy. These Abkhazian “reviews” have been my attempt to share some brief moments of confounding, contradictory, extraordinary moments so you could enjoy. I am thankful for all of you and your interest in my journey.
On my final drive from Sukhumi to Tbilisi, as I drove passed the Black Sea, I was sad and happy. I watched horses rolling in green, green grass, children splashing in mountain streams, grapes vines metastasizing everywhere, ready for harvest soon. I enjoyed the familiar acne-pocked landscape that challenged me to see beyond the surface, to discover the real truth of the land and its strong, independent, beautiful people.
I am left with emotions simmering into a rich,delectable sauce.
I came home early to be with our family to focus on another journey as Ballard’s mom finishes out her long, lovely life. It is time to listen to her stories, and focus my energies on today.
I look forward to face-to-face smiles, chest-to-chest hugs with each of you, before I head out for another adventure. (We have plenty of time, no imminent departures, I will replenish the bank account with paid work for a while, then head out for another adventure.)
I will put pictures together and post them in a few weeks and when I do I will leave a final, final message on this blog……so bye for now and thanks for your support and love.
Genie
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Elaine
My MSF mission will conclude earlier than expected, but at the right time for me.
In my “backyard”, my home, my mother-in-law, the best in the West mother-in-law, is dying of cancer, and it is good, it is right that I depart a bit early and come to sit by her side, to tell her stories, to listen to her stories, of which she has no lack. This is a time of choice for me, and some choices are easy and good.
All of my inner voices say, “Go Home, Be With Your People.”
We have known Elaine’s life-end was out there, maybe a year or two. Now that end is closer , probably weeks, as cancer often surprises us it with its fits and starts then its finality. Cancer for Elaine has been one of those things that she had for several years, now the cancer has her. She and the cancer have traded places in the role of who will lead. Like other aspects of her long life, she has taken charge, and has given her willfulness and her unique “Elaineness” to this burden. She is pragmatic and reasonable. She is direct and resolute. She is an inspiration to many, many of the people that surround her.
I will miss her cranberry jelly, and so I must hurry home to make sure I have the recipe written down correctly. It is a family recipe. It is in her head and hands. There is a copy in my recipe file written by Dolly, Elaine’s mother-in-law, but it is no longer readable having been splattered with the boiling cranberries. The few times I have tried to make it “Like Lanie Does” I always have to repeat, “ how much sugar do I put, and how long should the rolling boil last, stirring all the while?” ( “I recall “stirring all the while” are the exact words on the recipe)
We have traditions to keep, Pritchett and Hillyer, Harper and Wilson legacies that carry onward only if we listen and learn and pass them down to Our People. There are many traditions that Elaine has carried on behalf of her ancestors, both from her family and from her husbands family. She collected precious “treasures“, stories and recipes and memories. Each of us will get to choose in these coming weeks which treasures we want to keep from Elaine. Which gifts I will choose to carry onward from the enormous pile of gifts? Which treasures that I have carried will my children carry onward?.
Some treasures will be kept by Elaine only, they are not ours, they are her special secrets and stories that will join her in eternity. But she will no doubt eagerly and generously give us treasures, if we choose.
I look forward to these days and weeks ahead, the good ones, the tough ones.
I will complete my writings about Abkhazia soon. My journal is full of more stories, more images, more emotions. I’ll share a few more before I close the Abkhazia Adventures.
While I prepare to say “Farewell” to the people who have opened their homes, their lives, to me over these past months, I will savor the best: The Black Sea, the constant that has brought daily nourishment, the little canal with the peach streetlight reflecting into its varying ripples and waves depending on the weather. The clang of the metal door closing as I enter the MSF compound. The oscillation of the fan cooling me at night, the morning birds that awaken me, the moaning water pump that is heard every time the sink faucet turns on, the squeaking pulley on the clothesline, the hustle-bustle at the market……the laughs and grumps of Inga, LaLa and Olga…..the smiles of Shamile and Zurab…and then there is Sveta, I will give her an apron that I had engraved, it says “CHEF SVETA” displayed right in the middle of the breast…..I hope she likes it…… and on and on……..
Thank for listening, for being a reason for me to write, even though you have only read a small portion of what has been written, it is enough, I’m sure.
Till later, genie
In my “backyard”, my home, my mother-in-law, the best in the West mother-in-law, is dying of cancer, and it is good, it is right that I depart a bit early and come to sit by her side, to tell her stories, to listen to her stories, of which she has no lack. This is a time of choice for me, and some choices are easy and good.
All of my inner voices say, “Go Home, Be With Your People.”
We have known Elaine’s life-end was out there, maybe a year or two. Now that end is closer , probably weeks, as cancer often surprises us it with its fits and starts then its finality. Cancer for Elaine has been one of those things that she had for several years, now the cancer has her. She and the cancer have traded places in the role of who will lead. Like other aspects of her long life, she has taken charge, and has given her willfulness and her unique “Elaineness” to this burden. She is pragmatic and reasonable. She is direct and resolute. She is an inspiration to many, many of the people that surround her.
I will miss her cranberry jelly, and so I must hurry home to make sure I have the recipe written down correctly. It is a family recipe. It is in her head and hands. There is a copy in my recipe file written by Dolly, Elaine’s mother-in-law, but it is no longer readable having been splattered with the boiling cranberries. The few times I have tried to make it “Like Lanie Does” I always have to repeat, “ how much sugar do I put, and how long should the rolling boil last, stirring all the while?” ( “I recall “stirring all the while” are the exact words on the recipe)
We have traditions to keep, Pritchett and Hillyer, Harper and Wilson legacies that carry onward only if we listen and learn and pass them down to Our People. There are many traditions that Elaine has carried on behalf of her ancestors, both from her family and from her husbands family. She collected precious “treasures“, stories and recipes and memories. Each of us will get to choose in these coming weeks which treasures we want to keep from Elaine. Which gifts I will choose to carry onward from the enormous pile of gifts? Which treasures that I have carried will my children carry onward?.
Some treasures will be kept by Elaine only, they are not ours, they are her special secrets and stories that will join her in eternity. But she will no doubt eagerly and generously give us treasures, if we choose.
I look forward to these days and weeks ahead, the good ones, the tough ones.
I will complete my writings about Abkhazia soon. My journal is full of more stories, more images, more emotions. I’ll share a few more before I close the Abkhazia Adventures.
While I prepare to say “Farewell” to the people who have opened their homes, their lives, to me over these past months, I will savor the best: The Black Sea, the constant that has brought daily nourishment, the little canal with the peach streetlight reflecting into its varying ripples and waves depending on the weather. The clang of the metal door closing as I enter the MSF compound. The oscillation of the fan cooling me at night, the morning birds that awaken me, the moaning water pump that is heard every time the sink faucet turns on, the squeaking pulley on the clothesline, the hustle-bustle at the market……the laughs and grumps of Inga, LaLa and Olga…..the smiles of Shamile and Zurab…and then there is Sveta, I will give her an apron that I had engraved, it says “CHEF SVETA” displayed right in the middle of the breast…..I hope she likes it…… and on and on……..
Thank for listening, for being a reason for me to write, even though you have only read a small portion of what has been written, it is enough, I’m sure.
Till later, genie
Sunday, August 2, 2009
JOE
Many of you may be thinking, I am going to talk about Joe, Joe Harper, dad. It’s another Joe, the one who has recently been in Tbilisi, Georgia, the Joe that responds to Mr. Vice President.
As you may recall, our Mission office is in Tbilisi, Georgia. It is where the Head of Mission and the team that “call the shots” live and work. The MSF Tbilisi office is in a shabby building two blocks off “the main street”. Rastavelli, the main street has shops and hotels and the Parliament building. As is often the case in many cities, the main street is fancy, and two blocks away the living is distasteful or downright disgusting. So it is with Tbilisi.
Joe was visiting not long ago and he happened to stay at the Marriott on Rastavelli,one block away from our office.
So there was security, meaning blocked streets and extraordinary traffic. No surprises with a visit from a dignitary.
Everyone anticipated some hub-bub, but I understand it was quite an event. Let’s defern the politics until another time.
While Joe and President Sakashvilli are discussing arms and peace with Russia (Ha!) and other such important things, humanitarian aid was in motion.
Weekly on Thursdays we have transfers from Tbilisi to Sukhumi and Sukhumi to Tbilisi. On those transfers we transfer expats, expat’s stuff (if they are coming to the mission or leaving the mission or just going on holiday). We also transfer mail from Tbilisi, because there is no postal service in Abkhazia, and we transfer items from Tbilisi that cannot be purchased in Sukhum. However, most importantly we transfer sputum and pus. Those disgusting body fluids that must be analyzed in order to determine whether and which type of Tuberculosis is alive and well in these particular specimens, as we know it to be alive in well in many, many human species in the Caucasus, some of whom are our patients.
Because we expats and national staff and drivers really don’t want to be infected with Tb while transporting the samples, (and that can happen), we have a rigorous process to protect the sputum and pus( and those that are involved in the transport). We have boxes, “cold boxes”. These are insulated, metallic-lined boxes in which we have placed those blue frozen thingies you put in the freezer then put in your cooler to keep the potato salad and beer cool on the 4th of July….. instead of potato salad and beer, we put sputum and pus in the cold boxes, which are really only cool, not cold.
Anyway, Joe and his entourage were causing quite a ruckus on Rastavelli and the area surrounding the Parliament building, and the humanitarian aid workers just wanted to get the cold box out of the car and into the next box along the “cold chain”. So, what’s a cold chain? It’s a process of moving items that must be kept cold from one place to the next. There are often a series of cold storage devices to make that happen such as freezers and metallic boxes with blue thingies. In our case the S&P had to get from the Tb hospital in Sukhumi to the MSF office and then to the Tbilisi laboratory where further analysis would be conducted to determine whether the sputum has regular Tb or multidrug resistant Tb (it had already been established that Tb was present).
Typically the transfer is quick, efficient, minimizing any mishap which would involve dropping the box and the S&P. As you can imagine there were multiple blocks with traffic and hoy-paloy interfering with an efficient transfer. So, on this otherwise uneventful day, the driver of the transfer vehicle and his passengers were obliged to carry all the transfer items, including the S&P, from the car, now parked many blocks away.
For entertainment value I would like to tell you that there was a grand mishap, that S&P were spilled all over the streets of Tbilisi, that Joe and his entourage are now undergoing testing in the US to determine if they have been exposed to Tb and that there is a wild, embarrassing Tb scandal, but the truth is everything happened as it should have, given the interruption of the traffic and the extra on-foot transport of S&P.
There is no big splash, or emotion, or “awakening” to share with you today. Just a simple recognition that while all of you were listening to news of the day, and perhaps heard that Joe, the VP, was traveling somewhere far away, and a few of you may have even thought, “I have heard of Georgia, it’s the place that’s close to Russia, that’s where Genie is, isn’t it?” The truth is I am not in Georgia, I am in Abkhazia, but the MSF mission headquarters is in Georgia.
But anyway, on Wednesday this week, as on every day there is “THE NEWS” the scandal, the big scoop, and then there is what is happening with the rest of us that never makes the news. Primarily because it isn’t news-worthy.
Sitting at the beach today, it was fun to think about potential events, the unlikely but possible events that turn into screenplays and blockbusters….like Caucasian terrorists who have staged a heist of a humanitarian aid’s transport vehicle, during the chaos of a dignitaries’ arrival, only to find deadly sputum and pus …..!!
Not to worry, I will not be writing it.
it’s bedtime…nighty night….
As you may recall, our Mission office is in Tbilisi, Georgia. It is where the Head of Mission and the team that “call the shots” live and work. The MSF Tbilisi office is in a shabby building two blocks off “the main street”. Rastavelli, the main street has shops and hotels and the Parliament building. As is often the case in many cities, the main street is fancy, and two blocks away the living is distasteful or downright disgusting. So it is with Tbilisi.
Joe was visiting not long ago and he happened to stay at the Marriott on Rastavelli,one block away from our office.
So there was security, meaning blocked streets and extraordinary traffic. No surprises with a visit from a dignitary.
Everyone anticipated some hub-bub, but I understand it was quite an event. Let’s defern the politics until another time.
While Joe and President Sakashvilli are discussing arms and peace with Russia (Ha!) and other such important things, humanitarian aid was in motion.
Weekly on Thursdays we have transfers from Tbilisi to Sukhumi and Sukhumi to Tbilisi. On those transfers we transfer expats, expat’s stuff (if they are coming to the mission or leaving the mission or just going on holiday). We also transfer mail from Tbilisi, because there is no postal service in Abkhazia, and we transfer items from Tbilisi that cannot be purchased in Sukhum. However, most importantly we transfer sputum and pus. Those disgusting body fluids that must be analyzed in order to determine whether and which type of Tuberculosis is alive and well in these particular specimens, as we know it to be alive in well in many, many human species in the Caucasus, some of whom are our patients.
Because we expats and national staff and drivers really don’t want to be infected with Tb while transporting the samples, (and that can happen), we have a rigorous process to protect the sputum and pus( and those that are involved in the transport). We have boxes, “cold boxes”. These are insulated, metallic-lined boxes in which we have placed those blue frozen thingies you put in the freezer then put in your cooler to keep the potato salad and beer cool on the 4th of July….. instead of potato salad and beer, we put sputum and pus in the cold boxes, which are really only cool, not cold.
Anyway, Joe and his entourage were causing quite a ruckus on Rastavelli and the area surrounding the Parliament building, and the humanitarian aid workers just wanted to get the cold box out of the car and into the next box along the “cold chain”. So, what’s a cold chain? It’s a process of moving items that must be kept cold from one place to the next. There are often a series of cold storage devices to make that happen such as freezers and metallic boxes with blue thingies. In our case the S&P had to get from the Tb hospital in Sukhumi to the MSF office and then to the Tbilisi laboratory where further analysis would be conducted to determine whether the sputum has regular Tb or multidrug resistant Tb (it had already been established that Tb was present).
Typically the transfer is quick, efficient, minimizing any mishap which would involve dropping the box and the S&P. As you can imagine there were multiple blocks with traffic and hoy-paloy interfering with an efficient transfer. So, on this otherwise uneventful day, the driver of the transfer vehicle and his passengers were obliged to carry all the transfer items, including the S&P, from the car, now parked many blocks away.
For entertainment value I would like to tell you that there was a grand mishap, that S&P were spilled all over the streets of Tbilisi, that Joe and his entourage are now undergoing testing in the US to determine if they have been exposed to Tb and that there is a wild, embarrassing Tb scandal, but the truth is everything happened as it should have, given the interruption of the traffic and the extra on-foot transport of S&P.
There is no big splash, or emotion, or “awakening” to share with you today. Just a simple recognition that while all of you were listening to news of the day, and perhaps heard that Joe, the VP, was traveling somewhere far away, and a few of you may have even thought, “I have heard of Georgia, it’s the place that’s close to Russia, that’s where Genie is, isn’t it?” The truth is I am not in Georgia, I am in Abkhazia, but the MSF mission headquarters is in Georgia.
But anyway, on Wednesday this week, as on every day there is “THE NEWS” the scandal, the big scoop, and then there is what is happening with the rest of us that never makes the news. Primarily because it isn’t news-worthy.
Sitting at the beach today, it was fun to think about potential events, the unlikely but possible events that turn into screenplays and blockbusters….like Caucasian terrorists who have staged a heist of a humanitarian aid’s transport vehicle, during the chaos of a dignitaries’ arrival, only to find deadly sputum and pus …..!!
Not to worry, I will not be writing it.
it’s bedtime…nighty night….
Saturday, July 25, 2009
War and Rain
War and Rain
Denver is High Plains. Sukhumi is sub-tropical. They are very different.
Right now I am experiencing the wonder of summer sub-tropics - but exactly what does “sub-tropics” mean here? Sub means below, so does it mean that Abkhazia is below the two great tropical cities St Petersburg and Moscow???? I wonder whether the writer of the article I read before coming here describing the climate in Abkhazia as “subtropical” has actually been here. If I were writing I would say the climate is cold and wet in the winter, hot and very wet in the summer. That’s it. Forget the subtropical stuff.
Oh, who cares. It rains. And when it rains here in the sub-tropics, it really rains. And what is nicer than awakening to a soft rain, that soon turns into a thunderous downpour, complete with lightening that of course shuts down the electrical supply for hours or days. And never mind that last night it was one of those scorching inferno nights, where, as we sat on the terrace celebrating Jasco’s (Japanese nurse) birthday we were all sweating and laughing and recalling the events of the day. And now, it’s morning and those who didn’t shower last night are eager to shower, but there is no water…..well except the roaring sea down the street or the gazillions of droplets coming from the sky. There is water, it’s just not coming from our showerhead.
Oh well. Another day. More Rain. No electricity. No shower. Floods in nearby villages.
Comments on change:
Our Field Coordinator (MSF “boss” for Sukhumi) decided to leave. In addition we have reduced two positions in the national team due to down-sizing. Change.
And when there is change here, there is increasing tension that more change is just around the corner. That is what happens when you live in a place where war has dominated the undercurrent of reality. Reality here is that “what has happened is likely to happen again”. A little bit of war or rain (change) often turns into a lot of war or rain ( more change). These “realities” are rooted in natural, understandable reactions to real events in the lives of the Abkhazians. Relentless war is real. Relentless rain is real. Change is real and causes real problems.
And so we live with our Abkhazian colleagues, their tensions and reactions to these staff changes, knowing that they are asking who is next to leave? When is the next power outage?
When will the next war break out?
And I who know little about war on my homeland, (except Gettysberg, Shiloh, Pearl Harbor) touching my life, wonder why I struggle to understand the reactions of those in the midst of cruel, unintelligible actions against innocents and those who want to protect the innocents, war.
As months go by I listen, see, feel, and begin to know more about fear, despair, hope, how it is rooted in human experience, a new kind of beauty.
Denver is High Plains. Sukhumi is sub-tropical. They are very different.
Right now I am experiencing the wonder of summer sub-tropics - but exactly what does “sub-tropics” mean here? Sub means below, so does it mean that Abkhazia is below the two great tropical cities St Petersburg and Moscow???? I wonder whether the writer of the article I read before coming here describing the climate in Abkhazia as “subtropical” has actually been here. If I were writing I would say the climate is cold and wet in the winter, hot and very wet in the summer. That’s it. Forget the subtropical stuff.
Oh, who cares. It rains. And when it rains here in the sub-tropics, it really rains. And what is nicer than awakening to a soft rain, that soon turns into a thunderous downpour, complete with lightening that of course shuts down the electrical supply for hours or days. And never mind that last night it was one of those scorching inferno nights, where, as we sat on the terrace celebrating Jasco’s (Japanese nurse) birthday we were all sweating and laughing and recalling the events of the day. And now, it’s morning and those who didn’t shower last night are eager to shower, but there is no water…..well except the roaring sea down the street or the gazillions of droplets coming from the sky. There is water, it’s just not coming from our showerhead.
Oh well. Another day. More Rain. No electricity. No shower. Floods in nearby villages.
Comments on change:
Our Field Coordinator (MSF “boss” for Sukhumi) decided to leave. In addition we have reduced two positions in the national team due to down-sizing. Change.
And when there is change here, there is increasing tension that more change is just around the corner. That is what happens when you live in a place where war has dominated the undercurrent of reality. Reality here is that “what has happened is likely to happen again”. A little bit of war or rain (change) often turns into a lot of war or rain ( more change). These “realities” are rooted in natural, understandable reactions to real events in the lives of the Abkhazians. Relentless war is real. Relentless rain is real. Change is real and causes real problems.
And so we live with our Abkhazian colleagues, their tensions and reactions to these staff changes, knowing that they are asking who is next to leave? When is the next power outage?
When will the next war break out?
And I who know little about war on my homeland, (except Gettysberg, Shiloh, Pearl Harbor) touching my life, wonder why I struggle to understand the reactions of those in the midst of cruel, unintelligible actions against innocents and those who want to protect the innocents, war.
As months go by I listen, see, feel, and begin to know more about fear, despair, hope, how it is rooted in human experience, a new kind of beauty.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Djugelia
Djugelia is dying. We know it. She knows it. She has end stage kidney disease and there is no dialysis here, no chance to beat the odds, no reason for hope for another fall harvest. The death-reality happens every day in every place on earth. And so it is here.
What is remarkable is the way the death-reality is expressed. We have choices about many eventualities. We also have choices about how we live the reality that death is eminent. Djugelia has made her choice. It is honorable. She has chosen to return to her very, very humble home, to be surrounded by neighbors who will visit her and will offer human kindness.
She can offer gratitude for what has been, then acceptance of what lies ahead. This is beauty.
And a gift for those able to witness it.
What is remarkable is the way the death-reality is expressed. We have choices about many eventualities. We also have choices about how we live the reality that death is eminent. Djugelia has made her choice. It is honorable. She has chosen to return to her very, very humble home, to be surrounded by neighbors who will visit her and will offer human kindness.
She can offer gratitude for what has been, then acceptance of what lies ahead. This is beauty.
And a gift for those able to witness it.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Happy Honking!!!
Language
It is a mystery. It is subtle. It is a link between thou and me, other and self. Of course sometimes with me “other” and “self” are the same person, conversing among themselves………
This has been a place and a time to let language express itself without my always requiring interpretation or understanding. In fact, here, most of the time language is happening with no interpretation.
Inga would be disappointed, I expect, if she heard me say this. Her full-time job is making sure I understand what is being said by others and making sure what I say is understood by others. She is brilliant interpreter, she is patient, she is executing her craft with skill and kindness. What she does is interpret Abkhaz and Russian words. There is this other thing, Language, that is happening also. The language of Russian is becoming increasingly familiar to me. PLEASE do not interpret that last statement as “Genie can understand Russian”. I CAN NOT. The language, not the words, are becoming familiar.
I see language patterns, I hear common language expressions and familiar phrases, I pick up the “gist” of a conversation, and even by the pitch of what is spoken, I surmise an underlying emotion, AND I understand how much of the Russian language, including 99% of the words, I do not know. It is fun.
I am not taking formal Russian lessons right now. My teacher’s father is ill and she is in Russia tending to him. Quite honestly the lessons have not been so useful. I spend more time learning what my teacher (God bless her and her patience) wants me to learn and not what I want to learn. I have several great tools I use regularly; Russian language-learning books and a dictionary that are serving me quite well. What I want to do is to talk. Not conjugate verbs.
The infinitive, “to want” works for me, and those to whom I am speaking. Instead of I want, he wants, she wants, you want, they want, I will want, you may want…….etc, I just say “Want yablaka” And an apple appears. Then I say “Skolka (how much)” and a number is spoken - and sometimes I give them 70 ruble instead of 80 ruble because “seym” and “voseym” sound similar when spoken quickly. Usually, I get change back. Occasionally, I have been ripped off for my stupidity. Such is life.
If I come again to a Russian speaking mission, I will dig into conjugation. For now, I want convivial repartee, laughter, and lots of smiles!!!!!! Beats the socks off of conjugation!!!!!!!
I wanted a hair cut today. It is Saturday, and I had time to go to the market, get a haircut, etc. I navigated a conversation with the lady in the beauty shop and got a hair cut, instead of hair color or hair perm or hair annihilation, although some may question the end-result calling it more towards annihilation than cut. But what the heck, the language of “paz shalsta, ya kha choo pas tree git yhea” got me a nice summer “do”. (As you can tell, I do not have a Cyrillic alphabet on this computer, so you get the English-sound-alike version of what I said and not the real Russian look-alike version). It is fun, this language stuff.
There is another language that I am also learning. It is automobile horn honking language. It is as foreign as the Cyrillic alphabet and the Russian language.
There are honks for many occasions such as “Hi There”, “Get out of the way you bastard”, “Excuse me, you are blocking the bleeping road”, or “You idiot, don’t you know I am louder, stronger, faster and stupider than you, and that means I can mow you down, unless of course, you mow me down first”, and “This intersection is blocked and so I am going to sit on my horn until everyone is so annoyed they will get the bleep out of here so I can get on my way”…….and on and on and on.
I wish there were books and dictionaries for the Abkhaz honks, so that I could begin to learn how to understand them too. I am afraid I will leave here completely incapable of interpreting a single honk, other than the familiar “I will kill you if you don’t move, lady” honk.
What I am really wondering is whether the driver has to conjugate the honk language just like one has to conjugate the spoken language???????
I think so.
I hope each of you will give your horn a good ‘ol American HONK for me today. The one that says “Hey there, I am honking my horn because my friend Genie asked me to honk and American honk, otherwise I really have no reason for honking!!!!!”
Happy Honking!!
It is a mystery. It is subtle. It is a link between thou and me, other and self. Of course sometimes with me “other” and “self” are the same person, conversing among themselves………
This has been a place and a time to let language express itself without my always requiring interpretation or understanding. In fact, here, most of the time language is happening with no interpretation.
Inga would be disappointed, I expect, if she heard me say this. Her full-time job is making sure I understand what is being said by others and making sure what I say is understood by others. She is brilliant interpreter, she is patient, she is executing her craft with skill and kindness. What she does is interpret Abkhaz and Russian words. There is this other thing, Language, that is happening also. The language of Russian is becoming increasingly familiar to me. PLEASE do not interpret that last statement as “Genie can understand Russian”. I CAN NOT. The language, not the words, are becoming familiar.
I see language patterns, I hear common language expressions and familiar phrases, I pick up the “gist” of a conversation, and even by the pitch of what is spoken, I surmise an underlying emotion, AND I understand how much of the Russian language, including 99% of the words, I do not know. It is fun.
I am not taking formal Russian lessons right now. My teacher’s father is ill and she is in Russia tending to him. Quite honestly the lessons have not been so useful. I spend more time learning what my teacher (God bless her and her patience) wants me to learn and not what I want to learn. I have several great tools I use regularly; Russian language-learning books and a dictionary that are serving me quite well. What I want to do is to talk. Not conjugate verbs.
The infinitive, “to want” works for me, and those to whom I am speaking. Instead of I want, he wants, she wants, you want, they want, I will want, you may want…….etc, I just say “Want yablaka” And an apple appears. Then I say “Skolka (how much)” and a number is spoken - and sometimes I give them 70 ruble instead of 80 ruble because “seym” and “voseym” sound similar when spoken quickly. Usually, I get change back. Occasionally, I have been ripped off for my stupidity. Such is life.
If I come again to a Russian speaking mission, I will dig into conjugation. For now, I want convivial repartee, laughter, and lots of smiles!!!!!! Beats the socks off of conjugation!!!!!!!
I wanted a hair cut today. It is Saturday, and I had time to go to the market, get a haircut, etc. I navigated a conversation with the lady in the beauty shop and got a hair cut, instead of hair color or hair perm or hair annihilation, although some may question the end-result calling it more towards annihilation than cut. But what the heck, the language of “paz shalsta, ya kha choo pas tree git yhea” got me a nice summer “do”. (As you can tell, I do not have a Cyrillic alphabet on this computer, so you get the English-sound-alike version of what I said and not the real Russian look-alike version). It is fun, this language stuff.
There is another language that I am also learning. It is automobile horn honking language. It is as foreign as the Cyrillic alphabet and the Russian language.
There are honks for many occasions such as “Hi There”, “Get out of the way you bastard”, “Excuse me, you are blocking the bleeping road”, or “You idiot, don’t you know I am louder, stronger, faster and stupider than you, and that means I can mow you down, unless of course, you mow me down first”, and “This intersection is blocked and so I am going to sit on my horn until everyone is so annoyed they will get the bleep out of here so I can get on my way”…….and on and on and on.
I wish there were books and dictionaries for the Abkhaz honks, so that I could begin to learn how to understand them too. I am afraid I will leave here completely incapable of interpreting a single honk, other than the familiar “I will kill you if you don’t move, lady” honk.
What I am really wondering is whether the driver has to conjugate the honk language just like one has to conjugate the spoken language???????
I think so.
I hope each of you will give your horn a good ‘ol American HONK for me today. The one that says “Hey there, I am honking my horn because my friend Genie asked me to honk and American honk, otherwise I really have no reason for honking!!!!!”
Happy Honking!!
Dolphins and Yogurt Pie
Whew, the dog days are upon Abkhazia, and I expect they are upon the good ol’ US of A as well.
But I have the sea two and a half blocks away, so how can I complain?
I have been walking-jogging every morning before work. The scale says I have lost 10 pounds, but I am doubting its veracity, 5 is more likely, or maybe I haven’t calculated kgs into lbs properly. Anyway, now that the sea is a perfect temperature in the morning, I will replace the sweaty walk-jog for a swim. This morning the dolphins were jumping.
I can’t wait to be at the right spot and the right time and swim with them. They jump high in lovely patterns….synchronized swimmers. I can almost hear them saying “Wheeeeeeeee”. It is beautiful. I have tried to capture them on film, (and swim fast enough to meet them) but every time I swim to shore and grab the camera, and ready the shutter to capture the moment, they are gone (and every time I try to swim with them I have never been able to swim fast enough or far enough to “capture” them either). It’s a game we play, the dolphins and I. This beauty is much less about the physical wonder and much more about the experience of wonder. The gracefulness, the silence, the sweet playfulness that I experience is “real” for me even though the dolphins are not likely to consider themselves sweet or playful or even graceful for that matter. They are swimming and eating breakfast. What I have absorbed from the moment, my experience of beauty is my own. Others might say, “Look at the dolphins swimming, nice huh?”
My camera is not suited to capture gracefulness or sweetness anyway.
Tonight our Burmese doctor will make dinner- Burmese-style. Yum.
It’s about time for me to make another apple pie, but it is so hot, I thought I might make a cold fruit pie - like a berry yogurt or berry custard pie. Great, except I can’t find any vanilla extract to make the custard. Any ideas? Any recipes? I guess I could use vodka (since there is plenty of it - and it’s cheap) to give the custard a bit of flavor - maybe cognac would be better. Of course a yummy graham cracker crust would be great too, but you can already guess there are no graham crackers, in fact there are no crackers of any kind here.
So I will make a regular flour, butter, salt and water crust, make a custard with some flavorful spirits and add fresh berries…..we’ll see, nothing like making do in the “wilderness”, roughing it.
I think we are going to go camping in a couple of weekends - to the mountains. I am already excited…..cool, beautiful, fun……
Well, off to the office to check the cold-chain - (drugs that require refrigeration). It’s my weekend to check 5 fridges twice a day to make sure they are the proper temperature. Then off to the market I go to see what I can find in the way of “custard spirits” and to get some shampoo - always a trick to make sure I can decipher whether I am buying shampoo, body wash, conditioner or body lotion. Last shampoo purchase ended up with my hair being washed by a lovely smelling body lotion……
It’s all about having a good time, right?
But I have the sea two and a half blocks away, so how can I complain?
I have been walking-jogging every morning before work. The scale says I have lost 10 pounds, but I am doubting its veracity, 5 is more likely, or maybe I haven’t calculated kgs into lbs properly. Anyway, now that the sea is a perfect temperature in the morning, I will replace the sweaty walk-jog for a swim. This morning the dolphins were jumping.
I can’t wait to be at the right spot and the right time and swim with them. They jump high in lovely patterns….synchronized swimmers. I can almost hear them saying “Wheeeeeeeee”. It is beautiful. I have tried to capture them on film, (and swim fast enough to meet them) but every time I swim to shore and grab the camera, and ready the shutter to capture the moment, they are gone (and every time I try to swim with them I have never been able to swim fast enough or far enough to “capture” them either). It’s a game we play, the dolphins and I. This beauty is much less about the physical wonder and much more about the experience of wonder. The gracefulness, the silence, the sweet playfulness that I experience is “real” for me even though the dolphins are not likely to consider themselves sweet or playful or even graceful for that matter. They are swimming and eating breakfast. What I have absorbed from the moment, my experience of beauty is my own. Others might say, “Look at the dolphins swimming, nice huh?”
My camera is not suited to capture gracefulness or sweetness anyway.
Tonight our Burmese doctor will make dinner- Burmese-style. Yum.
It’s about time for me to make another apple pie, but it is so hot, I thought I might make a cold fruit pie - like a berry yogurt or berry custard pie. Great, except I can’t find any vanilla extract to make the custard. Any ideas? Any recipes? I guess I could use vodka (since there is plenty of it - and it’s cheap) to give the custard a bit of flavor - maybe cognac would be better. Of course a yummy graham cracker crust would be great too, but you can already guess there are no graham crackers, in fact there are no crackers of any kind here.
So I will make a regular flour, butter, salt and water crust, make a custard with some flavorful spirits and add fresh berries…..we’ll see, nothing like making do in the “wilderness”, roughing it.
I think we are going to go camping in a couple of weekends - to the mountains. I am already excited…..cool, beautiful, fun……
Well, off to the office to check the cold-chain - (drugs that require refrigeration). It’s my weekend to check 5 fridges twice a day to make sure they are the proper temperature. Then off to the market I go to see what I can find in the way of “custard spirits” and to get some shampoo - always a trick to make sure I can decipher whether I am buying shampoo, body wash, conditioner or body lotion. Last shampoo purchase ended up with my hair being washed by a lovely smelling body lotion……
It’s all about having a good time, right?
Monday, July 6, 2009
After 4 months time, with all the war and work, the rats and rain, the smells, the struggles, the sadness’s, today I finally let homesickness come into my room.
And she stayed awhile, and comforted me while I cried. She wasn’t really a sickness as much as an imaginary presence that quietly entered when I wasn’t looking.
She came while I was listening to music. She lured me into wonderful, soothing places of joy and melancholy.
It wasn’t really that I wanted to be home, it was more about wanting to be hugged and loved in a way “home” hugs and loves. With purpose, with gentleness, with acceptance. With flesh and blood. I wanted some of that today. Just a little bit of “home” to sit with me while I cried. No need to talk or solve anything. Just be here with me.
This imaginary presence told me about:
my family that has given me love and titles (mom, wife, sister, daughter, cousin,and my favorite title, babooska-grandmother), offered go-get-‘em-girl support and plenty of patience,
my friends that have brought their immense depth to share with me and offered me renewal and challenge beyond my dreams and wishes
my places that provide a large allotment of pleasure, our mountain cabin, favorite walking spots, friends homes………..
I was grateful for “homesickness” or what I now call “home-imagination”.
She didn’t disrupt the quiet fan that was keeping me cool, nor was her intensity sufficient to drown out the gentle rain. She was noticeable but barely.
I wished home-imagination had a body. I wished that body was sitting here holding me and singing to me or dancing with me or simply being here.
She left after a while. She didn’t say goodbye. I guess she will return.
And she stayed awhile, and comforted me while I cried. She wasn’t really a sickness as much as an imaginary presence that quietly entered when I wasn’t looking.
She came while I was listening to music. She lured me into wonderful, soothing places of joy and melancholy.
It wasn’t really that I wanted to be home, it was more about wanting to be hugged and loved in a way “home” hugs and loves. With purpose, with gentleness, with acceptance. With flesh and blood. I wanted some of that today. Just a little bit of “home” to sit with me while I cried. No need to talk or solve anything. Just be here with me.
This imaginary presence told me about:
my family that has given me love and titles (mom, wife, sister, daughter, cousin,and my favorite title, babooska-grandmother), offered go-get-‘em-girl support and plenty of patience,
my friends that have brought their immense depth to share with me and offered me renewal and challenge beyond my dreams and wishes
my places that provide a large allotment of pleasure, our mountain cabin, favorite walking spots, friends homes………..
I was grateful for “homesickness” or what I now call “home-imagination”.
She didn’t disrupt the quiet fan that was keeping me cool, nor was her intensity sufficient to drown out the gentle rain. She was noticeable but barely.
I wished home-imagination had a body. I wished that body was sitting here holding me and singing to me or dancing with me or simply being here.
She left after a while. She didn’t say goodbye. I guess she will return.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Under the Chicken Coop
Outside our office is a chicken coop that was previously occupied by chickens. Now, it sits empty. The virtue of an abandoned chicken coop is the dirt underneath the coop. It’s great fertilizer. Especially when it has been “ripening” for a year.
So, this spring I decided to take advantage of the coop poop and scoop some for the little garden I was planting….tomatoes, zucchini, lettuce…etc
The story begins. On this particular spring day, the day I was going to harvest the chicken poop, the soil was soggy around the chicken coop due to rain. Not a problem. I found some lumber and made a “bridge” to reach underneath of the coop, which was my destination. Great, except the “bridge” sunk into the mucky gunk as I was crossing it. Oh, what the heck, it will be mucky fun excavating coop poop. Clothes and shoes will get washed later.
Once entering the under-the-coop poop area, which is about 3 feet high, and 4 foot square area, I realized I would be stooping to scoop the poop. Not a problem. Scoop a while, stretch the back, stoop and scoop some more (stoop, scoop, stretch, repeat). Next challenge: I needed containers to carry the poop to the garden which is at our house across the street. So, I found an old metal bucket that seemed sturdy enough to carry poop. And the scooping began.
There was not enough room to put the metal bucket under the coop, so I had to scoop, and toss the poop into the muck by the bridge, then get out from under the coop, stretch my back, re-scoop the poop and put it in the metal bucket. I had a nice system working for me now. Stoop, enter under-the- coop, scoop the poop, toss the poop out from under the coop, get out from under the coop, stretch, re-scoop the poop, put in bucket, carry bucket across bridge, through the compound, then across the street, dump poop in the soon-to-be-garden, and return with the empty bucket and begin the process over again.
After about 20 repetitions I was pooped out (tee hee). And still did not have enough fertilized soil to my satisfaction. I took a break and went back to work. I had to dig out the already rooted weeds growing under the coop that had taken advantage of the nitrogenous, healthy soil, but that was OK too. I just kept digging, scooping, tossing, carrying……
While routing around under the coop I found various interesting items, that are worthy of comment and speculation. It was no surprise to find tea bags and kitchen refuse, the kitchen is next to the coop. No surprise to find cigarette butts either, every Abkhaz male and many females smoke and freely toss butts wherever they choose. Under the coop is a good place.
It was the pantyhose and undies I uncovered while scooping that surprised me most, and made the whole experience worthwhile. I giggled and thought of a likely scenario to explain the undies and pantyhose.
And so the story begins one lazy summer evening a year or two ago:
Boy says to Girl: “Let’s meet tonight - somewhere private”.
Girl says to Boy, “Let’s meet in the back corner of the MSF compound after dark. I know the guards, they will let me in.”
So, they arrive outside of the compound after dark. Girl says to Boy “You can climb the fence while I distract the guard.” Girl knocks at the large metal door and the guard approaches and she says “my mom is the cleaner for MSF, and she forgot something. I am coming to get it.” The guard lets her in without further questions.
Boy easily scales the fence surrounding the property and they meet at the corner where the chicken coop is, the most private area, where no one, not even the guards will see them. They giggle and crawl under the coop, tell stories to each other, do the things that young lovers do. Then they hear the guards opening the iron gate letting in an expat to do some late-night work in the office. They stay quiet, hidden under the coop, looking in each others eyes, enjoying the adventure of making love under the chicken coop and hiding from interlopers. They are joyous, delirious. Soon it is time to leave, she crawls out first. As she is walking toward the guards area she remembers she left behind some clothing, but the guard sees her and she can’t retrieve them now. She once again talks to the guard, while Boy scales the fence. Boy and Girl hug farewell and go their separate ways, likely to meet again another night in another secret garden.
All is well, under the chicken coop, then and now.
I liked my work that day. I enjoyed making up the Girl-Boy story while I was scooping. I would never have imagined this late-night adventure had she not left her things behind.
The day has left a permanent smile in my heart like many simple days that bring profound joy. That mucky, back-breaking, repetitive, stinky day of scooping poop to put in the garden brought me pleasure.
I have an abundant harvest now, 3 kinds of lettuces; a red fluffy leafed, a green frilly leafed, and a tall straight one, some spinach and of course lovely flowers. The tomatoes, basil and zucchini should be ready this month.
later, g
So, this spring I decided to take advantage of the coop poop and scoop some for the little garden I was planting….tomatoes, zucchini, lettuce…etc
The story begins. On this particular spring day, the day I was going to harvest the chicken poop, the soil was soggy around the chicken coop due to rain. Not a problem. I found some lumber and made a “bridge” to reach underneath of the coop, which was my destination. Great, except the “bridge” sunk into the mucky gunk as I was crossing it. Oh, what the heck, it will be mucky fun excavating coop poop. Clothes and shoes will get washed later.
Once entering the under-the-coop poop area, which is about 3 feet high, and 4 foot square area, I realized I would be stooping to scoop the poop. Not a problem. Scoop a while, stretch the back, stoop and scoop some more (stoop, scoop, stretch, repeat). Next challenge: I needed containers to carry the poop to the garden which is at our house across the street. So, I found an old metal bucket that seemed sturdy enough to carry poop. And the scooping began.
There was not enough room to put the metal bucket under the coop, so I had to scoop, and toss the poop into the muck by the bridge, then get out from under the coop, stretch my back, re-scoop the poop and put it in the metal bucket. I had a nice system working for me now. Stoop, enter under-the- coop, scoop the poop, toss the poop out from under the coop, get out from under the coop, stretch, re-scoop the poop, put in bucket, carry bucket across bridge, through the compound, then across the street, dump poop in the soon-to-be-garden, and return with the empty bucket and begin the process over again.
After about 20 repetitions I was pooped out (tee hee). And still did not have enough fertilized soil to my satisfaction. I took a break and went back to work. I had to dig out the already rooted weeds growing under the coop that had taken advantage of the nitrogenous, healthy soil, but that was OK too. I just kept digging, scooping, tossing, carrying……
While routing around under the coop I found various interesting items, that are worthy of comment and speculation. It was no surprise to find tea bags and kitchen refuse, the kitchen is next to the coop. No surprise to find cigarette butts either, every Abkhaz male and many females smoke and freely toss butts wherever they choose. Under the coop is a good place.
It was the pantyhose and undies I uncovered while scooping that surprised me most, and made the whole experience worthwhile. I giggled and thought of a likely scenario to explain the undies and pantyhose.
And so the story begins one lazy summer evening a year or two ago:
Boy says to Girl: “Let’s meet tonight - somewhere private”.
Girl says to Boy, “Let’s meet in the back corner of the MSF compound after dark. I know the guards, they will let me in.”
So, they arrive outside of the compound after dark. Girl says to Boy “You can climb the fence while I distract the guard.” Girl knocks at the large metal door and the guard approaches and she says “my mom is the cleaner for MSF, and she forgot something. I am coming to get it.” The guard lets her in without further questions.
Boy easily scales the fence surrounding the property and they meet at the corner where the chicken coop is, the most private area, where no one, not even the guards will see them. They giggle and crawl under the coop, tell stories to each other, do the things that young lovers do. Then they hear the guards opening the iron gate letting in an expat to do some late-night work in the office. They stay quiet, hidden under the coop, looking in each others eyes, enjoying the adventure of making love under the chicken coop and hiding from interlopers. They are joyous, delirious. Soon it is time to leave, she crawls out first. As she is walking toward the guards area she remembers she left behind some clothing, but the guard sees her and she can’t retrieve them now. She once again talks to the guard, while Boy scales the fence. Boy and Girl hug farewell and go their separate ways, likely to meet again another night in another secret garden.
All is well, under the chicken coop, then and now.
I liked my work that day. I enjoyed making up the Girl-Boy story while I was scooping. I would never have imagined this late-night adventure had she not left her things behind.
The day has left a permanent smile in my heart like many simple days that bring profound joy. That mucky, back-breaking, repetitive, stinky day of scooping poop to put in the garden brought me pleasure.
I have an abundant harvest now, 3 kinds of lettuces; a red fluffy leafed, a green frilly leafed, and a tall straight one, some spinach and of course lovely flowers. The tomatoes, basil and zucchini should be ready this month.
later, g
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I Don't Like Mice or Rats
Enough said. I doubt you do either. The problem is they seem to like our house. The Nepalese prayer flags on the terrace seem to be excellent bedding material for the mice. The kitchen toaster is an excellent hide-out.
Several weeks ago, while in the kitchen, I saw a mouse scamper out of the toaster. YUCK. I saw little turds and figured desperate measures were needed. I scrubbed the toaster three times with various cleansers and other likely toxic substances found under the sink. THEN I put a towel over the top of the toaster to thwart the mouses efforts to enter. I am smarter than a mouse, RIGHT?
Yesterday morning I came to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea and a piece of toast. I took the towel off of the toaster, sliced the bread, put two slices in the toaster, and pushed the switch. OUCH! The little mouse must have felt a warm-turning-to-very-hot sensation on his little tootsies, because he bolted out of the toaster lightening speed!!! The toast didn't care, it kept toasting away as if nothing had happened. YUCK.
Another round of cleanings and this time I now stuff two towels WAY down into the toaster so there is no room for the mouse to hang out. I AM SMARTER THAN THE MOUSE. I just know I am.
So far so good, no mouses crawling out of the toaster in the morning, no turds in the bottom of the toaster. I will let you know, if I am forced to come up with yet another manage-the-mouse plan.
Several weeks ago, while in the kitchen, I saw a mouse scamper out of the toaster. YUCK. I saw little turds and figured desperate measures were needed. I scrubbed the toaster three times with various cleansers and other likely toxic substances found under the sink. THEN I put a towel over the top of the toaster to thwart the mouses efforts to enter. I am smarter than a mouse, RIGHT?
Yesterday morning I came to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea and a piece of toast. I took the towel off of the toaster, sliced the bread, put two slices in the toaster, and pushed the switch. OUCH! The little mouse must have felt a warm-turning-to-very-hot sensation on his little tootsies, because he bolted out of the toaster lightening speed!!! The toast didn't care, it kept toasting away as if nothing had happened. YUCK.
Another round of cleanings and this time I now stuff two towels WAY down into the toaster so there is no room for the mouse to hang out. I AM SMARTER THAN THE MOUSE. I just know I am.
So far so good, no mouses crawling out of the toaster in the morning, no turds in the bottom of the toaster. I will let you know, if I am forced to come up with yet another manage-the-mouse plan.
Back in the Saddle
I had a refreshing, utterly enjoyable holiday.
In one word - CLEAN.
The “culture shock” was not the ease of transportation in Vienna, the pristine beauty of the alps, the delicacy of the food, the luxury of thermal baths in the Austrian countryside, the daily naps in the park, the sweetness of being in Ballard's company ....it was the shock of cleanliness.
Like a chameleon I adapted to the sparkling clean environment with no effort. I felt myself aware of the tiniest little speck of dirt on my arms, the faint odor that was "different", the room temperature "not quite right". These awareness’s were not bothersome, they were simply in my consciousness.
Before returning to Abkhazia I am working in Tbilisi for a few days (with luxuries such as predictable electricity, internet, quiet office, market with all kinds of recognizable items). It will help the transition back to the REAL world in which I live; fungus on the floor, nasty smells, loud voices, strange sights, sad sights, compromises, frustrations, questions with no good answers.... set amidst a landscape as majestic and grand as Austria... . what I know is I will soon be back living with another consciousness.
I am happy.
I love being clean, I love being not so clean.
I love luxury, I love not so luxurious.
I like good food......wherever it is.......
I like living and working with good, talented people……
News:
Last week Russia vetoed a resolution that would allow the UN to remain in Abkhazia. That means the UN will close its peacekeeping mission in Abkhazia. That means the opportunity for an emergency evacuation using UN helicopters will vanish for MSF expats in Abkhazia in a few weeks. It means a loss of hundreds of jobs for Abkhazians who work for the UN and loss of thousands of rubbles of revenue to the vendors who supply expats with food, services, housing...etc. This is unfortunate, but Abkhazia will have to adapt to this new reality.
The US has big crises with bank closures, billionaire crooks, healthcare inequity, Toll House cookie dough being recalled. Abkhazia has big crises also. We will all make it through these crises and will likely have a new set of crises right around the corner. So be it.
Will talk to you soon,
genie
In one word - CLEAN.
The “culture shock” was not the ease of transportation in Vienna, the pristine beauty of the alps, the delicacy of the food, the luxury of thermal baths in the Austrian countryside, the daily naps in the park, the sweetness of being in Ballard's company ....it was the shock of cleanliness.
Like a chameleon I adapted to the sparkling clean environment with no effort. I felt myself aware of the tiniest little speck of dirt on my arms, the faint odor that was "different", the room temperature "not quite right". These awareness’s were not bothersome, they were simply in my consciousness.
Before returning to Abkhazia I am working in Tbilisi for a few days (with luxuries such as predictable electricity, internet, quiet office, market with all kinds of recognizable items). It will help the transition back to the REAL world in which I live; fungus on the floor, nasty smells, loud voices, strange sights, sad sights, compromises, frustrations, questions with no good answers.... set amidst a landscape as majestic and grand as Austria... . what I know is I will soon be back living with another consciousness.
I am happy.
I love being clean, I love being not so clean.
I love luxury, I love not so luxurious.
I like good food......wherever it is.......
I like living and working with good, talented people……
News:
Last week Russia vetoed a resolution that would allow the UN to remain in Abkhazia. That means the UN will close its peacekeeping mission in Abkhazia. That means the opportunity for an emergency evacuation using UN helicopters will vanish for MSF expats in Abkhazia in a few weeks. It means a loss of hundreds of jobs for Abkhazians who work for the UN and loss of thousands of rubbles of revenue to the vendors who supply expats with food, services, housing...etc. This is unfortunate, but Abkhazia will have to adapt to this new reality.
The US has big crises with bank closures, billionaire crooks, healthcare inequity, Toll House cookie dough being recalled. Abkhazia has big crises also. We will all make it through these crises and will likely have a new set of crises right around the corner. So be it.
Will talk to you soon,
genie
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
EINO
Eino and her grandson
Eino and her 10 year old grandson live together. Eino’s son and the child’s father was killed by a land mine, both were watching. The mother, in her grief fled, leaving the child behind. Many grandparents love and raise their grandchildren, but in Eino’s case she is the one being taken care of by her grandson. Eino had a stroke three years ago and is bed bound, paralyzed on her left side. She will bake no cookies, play no games, never go on adventures to the park or to the “big city” of Sukhumi with her grandchild. Eino’s reality is to wait for food provided to her by her grandson while guiding, teaching, instructing him as best she can from her bed. Meahwhile, he feeds the pigs, milks the cows and tends to the property, which is high in the hills, another spectacular vista overlooking a majestic landscape of green mountains and wide open valleys.
The little boy in all respects is wild. He looks bewildered to me. A confused little emperor in his palace, the filthy fortification which keeps him safe from the world and in the protection of his invalid grandmother. He has never been to school, he does speak, although not much, and when he does it is understandably with hesitation, even suspicion. His austerity seems normal in a strange sort of way. He has cleverly rigged a rope on the end of the bed which will allow Eino to pull herself up, by using her right arm. She weighs no more than 70 pounds, is clearly malnourished and anemic and has a smile on her face when we greet her for the first time. We ask if we can assess the wound which covers her entire left leg. She agrees.
We glove and begin the process of unwrapping the dressing to assess the wound. The smell was disgusting, part of the wound was oozing whiteish- green exudate, the other part necrotic, black, dead tissue. The little boy uses a leaf found on nearby trees about 6 inches long and 4 inches wide to dress the wound. It is supposed to have antiseptic properties. We do some minor debriedment, but do not have proper instruments to do a reasonable job. We do use clean gauze to wrap the entire leg, to cover the wound. We then ask Eino if we could transport her to the hospital for surgical intervention, her only hope to survive. Soon she will be septic and will die if the infected tissue and the dead tissue are not removed.
She refuses. She oversees her grandson’s milking the cows and feeding of the pigs, running of the household. What will he do if she were not there? What will happen to the cows, pigs - they are a revenue source, a food source. Perhaps the neighbors can assist. We suggest he go with her to the hospital. He can sleep in the bed next to hers, as many family members do. He refuses. He is terrified someone will take him from his grandmother. We leave in sadness
Upon our return to the office we discuss the case with our social worker, LaLa and she says, “let me talk to the neighbors”. LaLa is our social worker, probably in her early 50s, lost her husband in the war, raised 3 girls (my mom will appreciate the challenges of raising 3 girls). Testy at times, rude other times, none-the-less she gets the job done when it comes to taking care our folks and she works hard. LaLa returns from yet another jaunt to this remote hillside home indicating the boy is willing to stay with neighbors. They are willing to assist him with milking the cow while Eino goes to the hospital.
Eino has to travel in the back of the Toyota 4 wheel drive truck, on the hard, dirty metal floor. MSF does not have an ambulance. No easy feat getting her into truck. LaLa is a miracle worker some days. With help from the neighbors they load Eino into the truck. .
Eino is now in the hopsital. The surgeon has conducted one surgery. Another is forthcoming next week. Last weekend we took a drive to the mountains. We walked in glorious terrain. We passed by Eino’s home. The cows were fine, the moma pig and her 2 babies were fine, and the grandson was presumably with the neighbors. The bedding that was on Eino’s bed was draped over a railing airing out - a good sign.
We do not know the future. None of us know the future. We do what we can do today, we try our best, we gather people to help, we make decisions, we allow others to make choices, we love, we work, we pray, we smile.
I’ll let you know how Eino and her grandson are doing .
Meanwhile I leave today for holiday. I will go to Tbilisi, Georgia, another border crossing. I will work in Tbilisi tomorrow discussing the handover plan for our program with the Head of Mission. I will meet Ballard in Vienna on Saturday. We will have a leisurely week together, given he has a broken leg and a torn medial collateral ligament. You can ask him for details!!!!!!!
So I will resume my adventures in Abkhazia in a couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for your thoughts, prayers, gifts you have sent, your lives as they bless me.
“See” you soon……………..
Love, genie
Eino and her 10 year old grandson live together. Eino’s son and the child’s father was killed by a land mine, both were watching. The mother, in her grief fled, leaving the child behind. Many grandparents love and raise their grandchildren, but in Eino’s case she is the one being taken care of by her grandson. Eino had a stroke three years ago and is bed bound, paralyzed on her left side. She will bake no cookies, play no games, never go on adventures to the park or to the “big city” of Sukhumi with her grandchild. Eino’s reality is to wait for food provided to her by her grandson while guiding, teaching, instructing him as best she can from her bed. Meahwhile, he feeds the pigs, milks the cows and tends to the property, which is high in the hills, another spectacular vista overlooking a majestic landscape of green mountains and wide open valleys.
The little boy in all respects is wild. He looks bewildered to me. A confused little emperor in his palace, the filthy fortification which keeps him safe from the world and in the protection of his invalid grandmother. He has never been to school, he does speak, although not much, and when he does it is understandably with hesitation, even suspicion. His austerity seems normal in a strange sort of way. He has cleverly rigged a rope on the end of the bed which will allow Eino to pull herself up, by using her right arm. She weighs no more than 70 pounds, is clearly malnourished and anemic and has a smile on her face when we greet her for the first time. We ask if we can assess the wound which covers her entire left leg. She agrees.
We glove and begin the process of unwrapping the dressing to assess the wound. The smell was disgusting, part of the wound was oozing whiteish- green exudate, the other part necrotic, black, dead tissue. The little boy uses a leaf found on nearby trees about 6 inches long and 4 inches wide to dress the wound. It is supposed to have antiseptic properties. We do some minor debriedment, but do not have proper instruments to do a reasonable job. We do use clean gauze to wrap the entire leg, to cover the wound. We then ask Eino if we could transport her to the hospital for surgical intervention, her only hope to survive. Soon she will be septic and will die if the infected tissue and the dead tissue are not removed.
She refuses. She oversees her grandson’s milking the cows and feeding of the pigs, running of the household. What will he do if she were not there? What will happen to the cows, pigs - they are a revenue source, a food source. Perhaps the neighbors can assist. We suggest he go with her to the hospital. He can sleep in the bed next to hers, as many family members do. He refuses. He is terrified someone will take him from his grandmother. We leave in sadness
Upon our return to the office we discuss the case with our social worker, LaLa and she says, “let me talk to the neighbors”. LaLa is our social worker, probably in her early 50s, lost her husband in the war, raised 3 girls (my mom will appreciate the challenges of raising 3 girls). Testy at times, rude other times, none-the-less she gets the job done when it comes to taking care our folks and she works hard. LaLa returns from yet another jaunt to this remote hillside home indicating the boy is willing to stay with neighbors. They are willing to assist him with milking the cow while Eino goes to the hospital.
Eino has to travel in the back of the Toyota 4 wheel drive truck, on the hard, dirty metal floor. MSF does not have an ambulance. No easy feat getting her into truck. LaLa is a miracle worker some days. With help from the neighbors they load Eino into the truck. .
Eino is now in the hopsital. The surgeon has conducted one surgery. Another is forthcoming next week. Last weekend we took a drive to the mountains. We walked in glorious terrain. We passed by Eino’s home. The cows were fine, the moma pig and her 2 babies were fine, and the grandson was presumably with the neighbors. The bedding that was on Eino’s bed was draped over a railing airing out - a good sign.
We do not know the future. None of us know the future. We do what we can do today, we try our best, we gather people to help, we make decisions, we allow others to make choices, we love, we work, we pray, we smile.
I’ll let you know how Eino and her grandson are doing .
Meanwhile I leave today for holiday. I will go to Tbilisi, Georgia, another border crossing. I will work in Tbilisi tomorrow discussing the handover plan for our program with the Head of Mission. I will meet Ballard in Vienna on Saturday. We will have a leisurely week together, given he has a broken leg and a torn medial collateral ligament. You can ask him for details!!!!!!!
So I will resume my adventures in Abkhazia in a couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for your thoughts, prayers, gifts you have sent, your lives as they bless me.
“See” you soon……………..
Love, genie
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Curtain
Avakiyan Anna, 60 y/o, is more persistent than most in her emotional and behavioral exaggerations. Histrionic is what doctors use, to give a clinical diagnosis or a “detached observation” to such behavior.
Anna’s issue is her son. He is mentally unstable. His instability causes her daily, moment-to-moment anxiety that leads to persistent angst which seems to be a source of her histrionics. Although, who knows what is at the core of her spirit, the past legacy she carries forward into her daily exaggerations. She needs help, he needs help. And there are limited, and questionable at that, mental health workers here in Abkhazia, none of which would want to engage this duo.
My initial reaction to Anna: whiny, immature - judgmental words, not clinical nor diagnostic not needed nor helpful. In that moment, those words made me feel superior, detached. I don’t know whether she could detect my feelings. Inga, I am sure, could. I was not compassionate, not curious, just eager to dispense her BP meds and leave. No matter in Denver or Sukhumi a person with histrionics is difficult for me to connect with for fear I will be saprophytically (hum, is this a word?) gobbled up. (Is this where “sap” comes from?) Those of you who know me well have seen it before, superior, detached, just like Inga likely saw in me today.
We listened to Anna for 20 minutes, Inga translated with neutrality and sympathy and patience, God bless her.
I was distracted during Anna’s rants, watching a shredded curtain. I could see the curtain from Anna’s kitchen window belonging to someone in the next building. The curtain was reaching out into the space between the buildings, trying to free itself, trying to escape into the breeze. It was a renegade curtain, not minding its proper duties, but instead trying to transform itself. It was ragged and tattered, that silly, brave curtain and I could feel it was trying to become a luxurious silk cloth. A coveted cloth that would be worn by a princess. It was a worthy effort on the curtains part. The curtain wanted to be something different, something appreciated, something lovely, and in that moment I too wanted to be somewhere and something that I wasn’t. I wanted to be in some lovely place, doing something lovely, actually anything other than listening to a histrionic woman. But the curtain and I could only pretend in that moment, we shared a space and a knowing.
Later I thought, sometimes sharing with an-other of same mind, of same spirit, is as good as being in another place or being something we are not.
After I examined Anna’s heart, lungs, she received her blood pressure medications, a multivitamin, a reassurance of a return next month. She pleaded that we stay longer.
I can’t change Anna nor can I really help her much. According to Inga she has been in this miserable state for years. The medicines we might choose for Anna in the US are forbidden in this country - anxiolytics and most antidepressants.
I can however, work on my feelings, I can try to be aware when the small voice within me is saying “listen, know your feelings, find compassion, find curiosity, find someone, something that teaches you a little bit more about joy in each moment.” And smile.
g
Anna’s issue is her son. He is mentally unstable. His instability causes her daily, moment-to-moment anxiety that leads to persistent angst which seems to be a source of her histrionics. Although, who knows what is at the core of her spirit, the past legacy she carries forward into her daily exaggerations. She needs help, he needs help. And there are limited, and questionable at that, mental health workers here in Abkhazia, none of which would want to engage this duo.
My initial reaction to Anna: whiny, immature - judgmental words, not clinical nor diagnostic not needed nor helpful. In that moment, those words made me feel superior, detached. I don’t know whether she could detect my feelings. Inga, I am sure, could. I was not compassionate, not curious, just eager to dispense her BP meds and leave. No matter in Denver or Sukhumi a person with histrionics is difficult for me to connect with for fear I will be saprophytically (hum, is this a word?) gobbled up. (Is this where “sap” comes from?) Those of you who know me well have seen it before, superior, detached, just like Inga likely saw in me today.
We listened to Anna for 20 minutes, Inga translated with neutrality and sympathy and patience, God bless her.
I was distracted during Anna’s rants, watching a shredded curtain. I could see the curtain from Anna’s kitchen window belonging to someone in the next building. The curtain was reaching out into the space between the buildings, trying to free itself, trying to escape into the breeze. It was a renegade curtain, not minding its proper duties, but instead trying to transform itself. It was ragged and tattered, that silly, brave curtain and I could feel it was trying to become a luxurious silk cloth. A coveted cloth that would be worn by a princess. It was a worthy effort on the curtains part. The curtain wanted to be something different, something appreciated, something lovely, and in that moment I too wanted to be somewhere and something that I wasn’t. I wanted to be in some lovely place, doing something lovely, actually anything other than listening to a histrionic woman. But the curtain and I could only pretend in that moment, we shared a space and a knowing.
Later I thought, sometimes sharing with an-other of same mind, of same spirit, is as good as being in another place or being something we are not.
After I examined Anna’s heart, lungs, she received her blood pressure medications, a multivitamin, a reassurance of a return next month. She pleaded that we stay longer.
I can’t change Anna nor can I really help her much. According to Inga she has been in this miserable state for years. The medicines we might choose for Anna in the US are forbidden in this country - anxiolytics and most antidepressants.
I can however, work on my feelings, I can try to be aware when the small voice within me is saying “listen, know your feelings, find compassion, find curiosity, find someone, something that teaches you a little bit more about joy in each moment.” And smile.
g
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Names
I can’t quite express my contentment that morning.
The pastoral vistas that silenced me as we moved further into the days' journey.
Thick, green moss softly clinging to tree trunks, solidly hugging houses, senselessly growing on abandoned cars, that green on everything, that green and its need to be everywhere made my breath sink deeper, and rise higher. Neither the moss nor my breath could help it.
It is nature.
As always, it is exhilarating to travel new terrain. Today was in the hills between the sea and the mountains. In Denver we call this between-terrain “foothills” (except in Denver there is a prairie instead of a sea).
Precarious by car, deep ravines, rivers to cross, bumpy beyond belief. I am happy with these explorations. The drivers know these roads so for them it’s just work, for me, it’s a daily adventure, a journey into one more magic kingdom.
Her husband, 87 years old, bearded, kindly, was slightly bent at the shoulders, working diligently on a pile of wood. Each piece he cut was as if it had been measured with laser precision. His work was slow, and his outcome, the woodpile, was beautiful. The rooster crowed while he worked, announcing instructions as they seem to do everywhere. Mikaeliyan Azne, the patient, was a jolly, hefty Caucasian woman with diabetes. Her blood pressure was sky high, her blood sugar was sky high. I guess the sky is a good place for her, it seems to suit her well.
Being a pushy doctor, I exalted her with wisdom and cautions then dispensed her pills as if I were giving her communion. Then I receive the Abkhaz ritual: blessings of health from the host, a gift ( which could be nuts, flowers, candy, typical juice made with bread dough - yeasty and nasty….). This ritual is something I now cherish. I know enough Russian to hear familiar words, to recognize a few phrases of bestowing good health, long life and happiness. I respond with my well rehearsed “thank you very much, pleasure to meet you” which sounds like “ochen spa seeba, priat na paz na com itza”.
Smiles, of pleasure from them, from me.
I saw some deep blue irises as we drove away, down a narrow path. I have some in my front yard in Denver, except they aren’t quite so deep in their blueness. I was told they were Siberian Irises. I have always thought of Siberia as some place so far away, so utterly unimaginable, that it wasn’t really REAL. It was like calling something Bohemian, or Mongolian. They are ideas, images, but hardly a place. But now, I recognize Siberia is just a place north of here, yes, quite a ways, but it is a place with many of the same stock as home, the same stock of flowers, deep blue Irises and the same stock of people, rugged, independent. Siberia, the Caucuses, Abkhazia, Mongolia,…..are just places, not really so far from any of us, with flowers and people so lovely, so unique they deserve a name.
In my human-way, I legitimized some bits of nature by calling them a name.
Meanwhile, nature kept being her usual self, beautiful, harsh, mysterious. She didn’t really need a name.
To you who read and journey with me, named by me and unnamed, I send my love,
genie
The pastoral vistas that silenced me as we moved further into the days' journey.
Thick, green moss softly clinging to tree trunks, solidly hugging houses, senselessly growing on abandoned cars, that green on everything, that green and its need to be everywhere made my breath sink deeper, and rise higher. Neither the moss nor my breath could help it.
It is nature.
As always, it is exhilarating to travel new terrain. Today was in the hills between the sea and the mountains. In Denver we call this between-terrain “foothills” (except in Denver there is a prairie instead of a sea).
Precarious by car, deep ravines, rivers to cross, bumpy beyond belief. I am happy with these explorations. The drivers know these roads so for them it’s just work, for me, it’s a daily adventure, a journey into one more magic kingdom.
Her husband, 87 years old, bearded, kindly, was slightly bent at the shoulders, working diligently on a pile of wood. Each piece he cut was as if it had been measured with laser precision. His work was slow, and his outcome, the woodpile, was beautiful. The rooster crowed while he worked, announcing instructions as they seem to do everywhere. Mikaeliyan Azne, the patient, was a jolly, hefty Caucasian woman with diabetes. Her blood pressure was sky high, her blood sugar was sky high. I guess the sky is a good place for her, it seems to suit her well.
Being a pushy doctor, I exalted her with wisdom and cautions then dispensed her pills as if I were giving her communion. Then I receive the Abkhaz ritual: blessings of health from the host, a gift ( which could be nuts, flowers, candy, typical juice made with bread dough - yeasty and nasty….). This ritual is something I now cherish. I know enough Russian to hear familiar words, to recognize a few phrases of bestowing good health, long life and happiness. I respond with my well rehearsed “thank you very much, pleasure to meet you” which sounds like “ochen spa seeba, priat na paz na com itza”.
Smiles, of pleasure from them, from me.
I saw some deep blue irises as we drove away, down a narrow path. I have some in my front yard in Denver, except they aren’t quite so deep in their blueness. I was told they were Siberian Irises. I have always thought of Siberia as some place so far away, so utterly unimaginable, that it wasn’t really REAL. It was like calling something Bohemian, or Mongolian. They are ideas, images, but hardly a place. But now, I recognize Siberia is just a place north of here, yes, quite a ways, but it is a place with many of the same stock as home, the same stock of flowers, deep blue Irises and the same stock of people, rugged, independent. Siberia, the Caucuses, Abkhazia, Mongolia,…..are just places, not really so far from any of us, with flowers and people so lovely, so unique they deserve a name.
In my human-way, I legitimized some bits of nature by calling them a name.
Meanwhile, nature kept being her usual self, beautiful, harsh, mysterious. She didn’t really need a name.
To you who read and journey with me, named by me and unnamed, I send my love,
genie
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Jena
I am saddened by a death that happened recently. A friend close to me. My first friend in Sukhumi in fact. The friendship that somehow helped me to connect with something familiar, something joyful, something simple as I was learning my new rhythm of life. Jena was the cocker spaniel next door. Every day coming and going, Jena was waiting with a smile, she had a big grin on her face, and that tail. I’ve seen lots of waggin’ in my days, but none ever so happy as Jena’s. Her tail was short and fast. “HI, I AM SO GLAD TO SEE YOU” her tail said every time I walked to the house. Although the tail didn’t need words. Jena knew I would rub her belly, she knew I would give her time and attention. She could count on me. I could count on her for a smile and a wag. Each of us were comforted by the other. Jena’s family includes 3 little people under the age of 5, a “mother and father”, a mother-in-law, and various other folks that are related but who knows how.
I could talk to Jena and she understood. The family on the other hand doesn’t understand my Russian nearly as well as Jena understood. I practiced my lessons with Jena. She would smile, but not laugh, at my bad pronunciation. She was very patient and was ready again and again for my fledgling efforts to pronounce multiple consonants in a row: zdr, pyt, zhahl, tahch…….. These, of course, are the English translations of the Russian letters, the Russians have their own alphabet, and they have consonants we don’t have, and in my humble opinion, shouldn’t have. Jena really liked it when I spoke English. She was coming along quite nicely with her English lessons.
I went to the beach for the first time. I swam in the brisk, or some might say ICY COLD Black Sea that day. It was exhilarating. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sand was warm and the water was cold. I came home and Jena was lying too still. Her little tail acknowledged my presence, but barely. “Hey Jena, kak vas?” how are you (in Russian), I said. Tail wiggled ever so slightly. She always stood to greet me. That day she didn’t come or stand. She laid still, breaths even and shallow. No signs of trauma. I sat with her late into the evening. Other family members came and sat. No one spoke. It was a quiet, peaceful evening. After everyone had gone to bed, I came out again and sat with her long after dark. I cried. I placed a fresh rose given to me by a patient, at her side. Her breaths even more shallow.
The next morning she was breathing her last. I gave my tearful farewells to Jena and her tail. I think maybe they were conjoined, her tail and her, living two separate but synergistic, sympathetic lives. I will miss them both. They were my best Abkhaz friends. Jena and her tail knew me. They accepted my ways, and welcomed me. I know Jena will go meet her family in doggie-heaven, and all will be well. I went home at lunch that day, her absence was painful, her little body was gone.
God bless little Jena and all little dogs that find wonderful ways to enter our hearts.
While visiting one of our patients two days later, I saw a new litter of puppies. Stumbling, shining, yearning little pups wondering where their mom’s tits were. I thought about bringing one back to give to Jena’s family, but I didn’t. I figure that is a family decision, not a friend of a friend’s decision.
As it turns out, today there was a cute little bunny hopping around at Jena‘s place. The little girls, Marisha, and her sister, whose name I have yet to master, were happy, playing with the new family pet. We will all miss Jena, maybe me more than the little girls. I think and write and ponder, they play. That’s the way it should be.
Life and death and new life.
I could talk to Jena and she understood. The family on the other hand doesn’t understand my Russian nearly as well as Jena understood. I practiced my lessons with Jena. She would smile, but not laugh, at my bad pronunciation. She was very patient and was ready again and again for my fledgling efforts to pronounce multiple consonants in a row: zdr, pyt, zhahl, tahch…….. These, of course, are the English translations of the Russian letters, the Russians have their own alphabet, and they have consonants we don’t have, and in my humble opinion, shouldn’t have. Jena really liked it when I spoke English. She was coming along quite nicely with her English lessons.
I went to the beach for the first time. I swam in the brisk, or some might say ICY COLD Black Sea that day. It was exhilarating. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sand was warm and the water was cold. I came home and Jena was lying too still. Her little tail acknowledged my presence, but barely. “Hey Jena, kak vas?” how are you (in Russian), I said. Tail wiggled ever so slightly. She always stood to greet me. That day she didn’t come or stand. She laid still, breaths even and shallow. No signs of trauma. I sat with her late into the evening. Other family members came and sat. No one spoke. It was a quiet, peaceful evening. After everyone had gone to bed, I came out again and sat with her long after dark. I cried. I placed a fresh rose given to me by a patient, at her side. Her breaths even more shallow.
The next morning she was breathing her last. I gave my tearful farewells to Jena and her tail. I think maybe they were conjoined, her tail and her, living two separate but synergistic, sympathetic lives. I will miss them both. They were my best Abkhaz friends. Jena and her tail knew me. They accepted my ways, and welcomed me. I know Jena will go meet her family in doggie-heaven, and all will be well. I went home at lunch that day, her absence was painful, her little body was gone.
God bless little Jena and all little dogs that find wonderful ways to enter our hearts.
While visiting one of our patients two days later, I saw a new litter of puppies. Stumbling, shining, yearning little pups wondering where their mom’s tits were. I thought about bringing one back to give to Jena’s family, but I didn’t. I figure that is a family decision, not a friend of a friend’s decision.
As it turns out, today there was a cute little bunny hopping around at Jena‘s place. The little girls, Marisha, and her sister, whose name I have yet to master, were happy, playing with the new family pet. We will all miss Jena, maybe me more than the little girls. I think and write and ponder, they play. That’s the way it should be.
Life and death and new life.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
What's it all about?
I haven’t actually told you what a “typical” day looks like for me. And like you, there is no “typical“, but here is a sketch of one day, many others are similar.
When the birds start to sing around 6ish, I am aware of their “alarming” wonder. Truth is, they are not alarming at all, they are “wake-up-ing” wonderful sounds that provide natures alarm, better than an electronic buzzzzzzz or smooth jazz. Usually my thoughts wake me up from those wonderful early morning moments when the dreams of the night still have some imprint but are quickly fading and there is that lingering question, “why did I dream that?” According to ancient lore all dreams have meaning, we just have limited time or inclination to ponder or make-believe a meaning. Some mornings, in this distant place, with few stresses other than to show up at work, I ponder a while. Last nights dream was particularly “ponderable”. Maybe I’ll share it with you some day, maybe not.
The bedspread that has given me such misery has been relegated to a new role. Instead of the honor of covering my bones and flesh and assisting me with nightly dreams, it sits on the floor, folded in half-lengthwise, rolled up. It is my morning stretch mat. I have made peace with the spread, because as a mat, it is fine. I have put a cover on it, a seaside print, with palm trees. I have no particular stretch routine, instead I make up a new routine every morning, based on what my Abkhazian-stretch-needs-for-the-day seem to be. After stretching I shower.
I use an old stove coffee maker to make coffee, which for me is a little coffee in a lot of milk. No one else will go near the “dirty milk” especially my Italian doctor colleague Rossella.
Rossella is smart, young, we spend a lot of time together outside work because we enjoy one another’s company, but on the matter of coffee, we differ. She keeps trying to convince me to make REAL coffee, the kind that is dark, robust, thick, REAL Italian coffee. She says I should make real coffee, pour myself a little bit and add hot milk. She could have the remainder. Rosella is a get-up-at-the-last-minute- morning person, so if I would cooperate she would get to have her coffee made (by me) since I would only take a small amount and leave the rest for her. Perfect. Except, I want to make the little bit of coffee I drink, the way I want to make it. So THERE. We laugh, and occasionally I make it HER way and sometimes I make it MY way. Today, being Sunday, I made it MY way. I like watery coffee with lots of milk, YUMMMMM.
On the weekends Rossella and I go to the market and a bakery which happens to be next door(not good for the perpetual diet every woman in the world is on). But heck, it’s the weekend, and the bakery has a good, not too sweet, apple cake. We each buy one piece, 25 rubble, it is our weekend splurge. This weekend we have “the big wigs” in town for the mid-year budget review and program planning for the remainder of the year. I baked a coffee cake myself instead of going to the bakery because the bakery was closed, for some reason.
The market is crazy, busy with smells, sights that stimulate all senses. I take a backpack for carrying groceries. One day a gypsy stole my new prescription eyeglasses out of the back pack. It was one of those, crowded jams of people, where everyone is pushing to get to the next stall through the morass of people;there is lots of body contact. A perfect spot for a thief to execute their craft. I now carry my old, outdated prescription glasses (I brought in case of a disaster like this) in a more secure place. Fortunately, nothing else was taken. My glasses will be a huge disappointment back at the gypsy camp. One eye has had laser surgery, the other has not, so the prescription is bizarre. Oh well, the glasses were probably entertaining for a few minutes and now sit in a rubble pile. It is what it is.
During the workweek, I commute approximately 62 paces via foot across the street to the office. Some mornings I go early, fetch firewood, and make a fire in the fireplace in my office. It is nice for staff to come in and have a large blazing fire to warm themselves. I, of course, do it for my own pleasure as well. Some mornings I get on the internet for a couple of minutes to see if anyone has written me a note. Many mornings the internet is not working. Today, Sunday, it has rained all day. The internet does not work when it rains. That’s good. An excuse to ponder instead of focus on reports.
Work is a combination of patients and paper work, negotiations, compromises, planning, meetings, thinking. I like all. We work most days from 8:00 until 5ish. Most of the expats stay another hour or so to finish up work that is best done in solitude. Sometimes I go to the sea, then come back to the office. My office has a door that opens onto a little porch with nice trees, the trash pile, the chicken coop, the wood pile and a path to the shack where we eat lunch. It is a fantastic office that I share with all the HAP team members. Fortunately I have worked in hospitals, clinics, nursing homes where there is no privacy, quiet spaces. I don’t like it, but I can concentrate with distractions, other persons yammering….. You might see me mouthing words while I am thinking, it seems to help. Remember, I am working with Russians, Italians, French, Japanese, Armenian, Australian - there is no end to distractions and talking.
Right now I am preparing to handover the social component of HAP (Health Access Program). We are not going to close the whole program. After a visit from a Board Member in Paris, and in part due to my recommendation, we are going to keep the medical component of the Health Access Program and handover the social part to the Local Red Cross. Another day I will tell you about the curiosities involved in this handover. The political and security discussions, best left unspoken for now.
I am pleased the program will survive. This is good, needed work. The Abkhaz government is busy with many other priorities, like trying to create an independent country, generate revenue to survive their nascent status, and manage the little bit of funding that comes from Russia. They are unable to attend to their elderly. I am hopeful the Local Red Cross is able do the work. MSF has provided care for 15 years, buying and delivering food, assisting individuals with pensions, transporting those in need to the hospital, visiting the isolated, assessing needs, providing wood in the winter and heaters, blankets, house dresses, socks, minor home repairs. If the social needs are not met, it makes no difference that medical needs are met. Hunger will preempt patients interest in their high blood pressure every time.
Lunch is a shared event with all the staff in a shack behind the office. This is where Sveta reigns. She and I see ‘eye-to-eye’ now or better said ‘eye-to-boob’, her being much taller than I.
There is a team that works exclusively with Tb patients in the hospital, the prison, at their homes in remote ambulatory points. There are also administrative folks - the field coordinator, the bookkeeper, the logistician. There are house and office cleaners, Shamile, the all around fix-it guy. I have Russian lessons on Tues and Thurs eve. Dinner is expats sharing recipes and a willingness to try whatever is in the fridge, a mix and match of food and good conversation.
I write on the weekends mostly. I have little scraps of paper with images, words, thoughts and a few ink markings on my hands where I have “taken notes”. I use these scraps, this rubble to compose a new blog. I have a lot more notes than ever get written on the blog.
At night I read. I have read some good books. Here are my favorites so far:
Ahab’s Wife - don’t remember author -
The Enchantress of Florence - Salmon Rashdee
The City of Your Final Destination - Peter Cameron
Charlotte Gray - don’t remember author
The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
STIFF, The curious lives of human cadavers - Mary Roach
I have now received 4 packages:
First one was from Barrett and Diedra Travis 4 weeks ago- whahooooo a Russian dictionary (although, unfortunately my old prescription glasses are so bad, that I have a hard time reading the small print). The other handy Russian study tools are fantastic, and my first installation of chocolate.
The next package was from Janae - A fine piece of artwork from Maryn and chocolate.
The next package was from Annelle Mook - A card and chocolate.
And on May 22nd I received a mothers day package from Maryn - another beautiful painting and some Burts Bees goodies, foot cream, lipstick, lemon cuticle cream and chocolate.
I am very thankful for these gifts. When the transport car comes on Thursdays everyone is secretly wishing for a package.
I know others of you have sent packages. Maybe they are being transferred by donkey, or pig. Maybe they will arrive someday.
A favorite time of the day is walking back from the sea, hearing and seeing the little canal in front of my house. The water is flowing from the mountains. Most days the water is shimmering with a peach-colored streetlight reflection(when there is electricity) and the little trickle sound of the water is sweet. It is a color and a sensation that somehow touches me, makes me feel tender and fluid and quiet and content. Truth is there are so many places, so many moments that are full of awe.
I will take them as they come. Savor and let them pass.
Pleased for the next and the next moment.
I am ready to put the computer away and listen to the incessant rain.
Good evening all
My love,
g
When the birds start to sing around 6ish, I am aware of their “alarming” wonder. Truth is, they are not alarming at all, they are “wake-up-ing” wonderful sounds that provide natures alarm, better than an electronic buzzzzzzz or smooth jazz. Usually my thoughts wake me up from those wonderful early morning moments when the dreams of the night still have some imprint but are quickly fading and there is that lingering question, “why did I dream that?” According to ancient lore all dreams have meaning, we just have limited time or inclination to ponder or make-believe a meaning. Some mornings, in this distant place, with few stresses other than to show up at work, I ponder a while. Last nights dream was particularly “ponderable”. Maybe I’ll share it with you some day, maybe not.
The bedspread that has given me such misery has been relegated to a new role. Instead of the honor of covering my bones and flesh and assisting me with nightly dreams, it sits on the floor, folded in half-lengthwise, rolled up. It is my morning stretch mat. I have made peace with the spread, because as a mat, it is fine. I have put a cover on it, a seaside print, with palm trees. I have no particular stretch routine, instead I make up a new routine every morning, based on what my Abkhazian-stretch-needs-for-the-day seem to be. After stretching I shower.
I use an old stove coffee maker to make coffee, which for me is a little coffee in a lot of milk. No one else will go near the “dirty milk” especially my Italian doctor colleague Rossella.
Rossella is smart, young, we spend a lot of time together outside work because we enjoy one another’s company, but on the matter of coffee, we differ. She keeps trying to convince me to make REAL coffee, the kind that is dark, robust, thick, REAL Italian coffee. She says I should make real coffee, pour myself a little bit and add hot milk. She could have the remainder. Rosella is a get-up-at-the-last-minute- morning person, so if I would cooperate she would get to have her coffee made (by me) since I would only take a small amount and leave the rest for her. Perfect. Except, I want to make the little bit of coffee I drink, the way I want to make it. So THERE. We laugh, and occasionally I make it HER way and sometimes I make it MY way. Today, being Sunday, I made it MY way. I like watery coffee with lots of milk, YUMMMMM.
On the weekends Rossella and I go to the market and a bakery which happens to be next door(not good for the perpetual diet every woman in the world is on). But heck, it’s the weekend, and the bakery has a good, not too sweet, apple cake. We each buy one piece, 25 rubble, it is our weekend splurge. This weekend we have “the big wigs” in town for the mid-year budget review and program planning for the remainder of the year. I baked a coffee cake myself instead of going to the bakery because the bakery was closed, for some reason.
The market is crazy, busy with smells, sights that stimulate all senses. I take a backpack for carrying groceries. One day a gypsy stole my new prescription eyeglasses out of the back pack. It was one of those, crowded jams of people, where everyone is pushing to get to the next stall through the morass of people;there is lots of body contact. A perfect spot for a thief to execute their craft. I now carry my old, outdated prescription glasses (I brought in case of a disaster like this) in a more secure place. Fortunately, nothing else was taken. My glasses will be a huge disappointment back at the gypsy camp. One eye has had laser surgery, the other has not, so the prescription is bizarre. Oh well, the glasses were probably entertaining for a few minutes and now sit in a rubble pile. It is what it is.
During the workweek, I commute approximately 62 paces via foot across the street to the office. Some mornings I go early, fetch firewood, and make a fire in the fireplace in my office. It is nice for staff to come in and have a large blazing fire to warm themselves. I, of course, do it for my own pleasure as well. Some mornings I get on the internet for a couple of minutes to see if anyone has written me a note. Many mornings the internet is not working. Today, Sunday, it has rained all day. The internet does not work when it rains. That’s good. An excuse to ponder instead of focus on reports.
Work is a combination of patients and paper work, negotiations, compromises, planning, meetings, thinking. I like all. We work most days from 8:00 until 5ish. Most of the expats stay another hour or so to finish up work that is best done in solitude. Sometimes I go to the sea, then come back to the office. My office has a door that opens onto a little porch with nice trees, the trash pile, the chicken coop, the wood pile and a path to the shack where we eat lunch. It is a fantastic office that I share with all the HAP team members. Fortunately I have worked in hospitals, clinics, nursing homes where there is no privacy, quiet spaces. I don’t like it, but I can concentrate with distractions, other persons yammering….. You might see me mouthing words while I am thinking, it seems to help. Remember, I am working with Russians, Italians, French, Japanese, Armenian, Australian - there is no end to distractions and talking.
Right now I am preparing to handover the social component of HAP (Health Access Program). We are not going to close the whole program. After a visit from a Board Member in Paris, and in part due to my recommendation, we are going to keep the medical component of the Health Access Program and handover the social part to the Local Red Cross. Another day I will tell you about the curiosities involved in this handover. The political and security discussions, best left unspoken for now.
I am pleased the program will survive. This is good, needed work. The Abkhaz government is busy with many other priorities, like trying to create an independent country, generate revenue to survive their nascent status, and manage the little bit of funding that comes from Russia. They are unable to attend to their elderly. I am hopeful the Local Red Cross is able do the work. MSF has provided care for 15 years, buying and delivering food, assisting individuals with pensions, transporting those in need to the hospital, visiting the isolated, assessing needs, providing wood in the winter and heaters, blankets, house dresses, socks, minor home repairs. If the social needs are not met, it makes no difference that medical needs are met. Hunger will preempt patients interest in their high blood pressure every time.
Lunch is a shared event with all the staff in a shack behind the office. This is where Sveta reigns. She and I see ‘eye-to-eye’ now or better said ‘eye-to-boob’, her being much taller than I.
There is a team that works exclusively with Tb patients in the hospital, the prison, at their homes in remote ambulatory points. There are also administrative folks - the field coordinator, the bookkeeper, the logistician. There are house and office cleaners, Shamile, the all around fix-it guy. I have Russian lessons on Tues and Thurs eve. Dinner is expats sharing recipes and a willingness to try whatever is in the fridge, a mix and match of food and good conversation.
I write on the weekends mostly. I have little scraps of paper with images, words, thoughts and a few ink markings on my hands where I have “taken notes”. I use these scraps, this rubble to compose a new blog. I have a lot more notes than ever get written on the blog.
At night I read. I have read some good books. Here are my favorites so far:
Ahab’s Wife - don’t remember author -
The Enchantress of Florence - Salmon Rashdee
The City of Your Final Destination - Peter Cameron
Charlotte Gray - don’t remember author
The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
STIFF, The curious lives of human cadavers - Mary Roach
I have now received 4 packages:
First one was from Barrett and Diedra Travis 4 weeks ago- whahooooo a Russian dictionary (although, unfortunately my old prescription glasses are so bad, that I have a hard time reading the small print). The other handy Russian study tools are fantastic, and my first installation of chocolate.
The next package was from Janae - A fine piece of artwork from Maryn and chocolate.
The next package was from Annelle Mook - A card and chocolate.
And on May 22nd I received a mothers day package from Maryn - another beautiful painting and some Burts Bees goodies, foot cream, lipstick, lemon cuticle cream and chocolate.
I am very thankful for these gifts. When the transport car comes on Thursdays everyone is secretly wishing for a package.
I know others of you have sent packages. Maybe they are being transferred by donkey, or pig. Maybe they will arrive someday.
A favorite time of the day is walking back from the sea, hearing and seeing the little canal in front of my house. The water is flowing from the mountains. Most days the water is shimmering with a peach-colored streetlight reflection(when there is electricity) and the little trickle sound of the water is sweet. It is a color and a sensation that somehow touches me, makes me feel tender and fluid and quiet and content. Truth is there are so many places, so many moments that are full of awe.
I will take them as they come. Savor and let them pass.
Pleased for the next and the next moment.
I am ready to put the computer away and listen to the incessant rain.
Good evening all
My love,
g
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Reading Coffee
Yesterday while conducting home visits I was invited to have my coffee read.
What would you have said if someone invited you to such an occasion?
“Of course, sure!!!”
I don’t drink coffee, but I have learned here to do so, because to not accept a coffee is an insult. After the first week I was tired of insulting people, so I said to myself, “Buck up buckaroo, and learn to drink coffee, if only for a short while“. I will deal with the withdrawal headaches when I return home.
The circumstance of my visiting Sulaberidze Soniya was a bit unusual even without the coffee reading. I had already eliminated Sula from our patient list.
Sula, 86 year old Russian woman living in Abkhazia, had not been home three previous times we tried to visit her. I told the team that if we go again and she is not home then we should eliminate her from the program. She can’t be vulnerable and frail if she is always “out and about”.
Inga, in her understanding way just replied, “please, before you make a final decision, see her once, then decide“. Inga knew something was wrong with Sula, not sure what, but she didn’t want me to make a rash decision. She is very clever, not to be completely put out by my direct manager-get-it-done-approach. She wants to make sure I am making the decisions, but she makes sure I make the right decision!!!!! I think all good assistants do the same. Make the boss seem smarter than she really is!!!
As it turned out, Sula was home yesterday. We arrived as we do with all the patients, unannounced, we just show up.
After greetings, we enter her house. Sula walks bent over at the waist. Kyphotic, like many individuals who have severe osteoporosis and arthritis, Sula can‘t stand up straight. She is shaped like an upside down L, instead of a normal I. She doesn’t seem to mind. It is what it is.
Sula worked during WWII in a munitions factory bending over and lifting heavy objects. She said she could not straighten her back after the war and has been walking like this for decades. Her husband was a General in the Russian army, they traveled a lot before the war. No children. He died in The War, WWII that is. She is bright, well traveled, a delightful hostess, even in her one room “home”. She was given a place to stay by neighbors. She sold her home several years ago, sent all the money to her brother in Armenia so he could arrange a place for her, a new home. (She is Armenian, married a Russian, lives in Abkhazia, has sister in USA - typical conglomeration of mixed cultures) She wanted to be close to family. Her neighbor gave her a room to stay in until she moved. She was planning to move to Armenia right before the war broke out in 1992. She has been unable to accomplish this since, because she needed a Russian passport. Abkhazians cannot leave Abkhazia via Georgia and that is the most direct route to Armenia. She obtained the passport finally last year (because she was born in Russia, she could apply for one). Sula is one of the fortunate ones who has obtained a Russian passport while living in Abkhazia. The advantage of a Russian passport is a large pension(around 3,000 rubble= 85 bucks), compared to the Abkhaz pension (100 ruble =3 bucks). Per Year.
Sula told us why she was not at home for the past month.
She needed to renew her Russian passport (annual requirement). She knew of the approaching expiration date on her passport. She did not have money to pay for the renewal so she requested funds from the Local Red Cross to help her to pay for the renewal. She was given sufficient funds, then became ill. She was in bed for 2 weeks. No one knew she was sick. When she was well she decided to get on a bus and go to Russia to renew her passport.
She arrived at the border only to discover she did not bring one of several documents that is required for renewal. She had to turn around and go home. She got the papers, went back to the border however, at the border she was not able to cross because her passport was now expired by two days. She explained the situation, but was told to go home and to send in the money and the documents to Moscow and she could pay a late fee and her passport would be renewed
And so, she did that.
Sula said she was distraught and decided she would to try to go to Armenia without her Russian passport. She would go through Georgia. It is very tricky for Abkhazians to go to Georgia, but she was going to try anyway. She arrived in Zugdidi, Georgia via bus and while getting out her money she accidentally dropped her Abkhazian identification. BIG MISTAKE. Georgians DO NOT WANT people to show or to HAVE Abkhazian identifications. Abkhazians are supposed to be Georgians. To show the ID is an insult. Abkhazia is a territory of Georgia, not an independent country where citizens have Identification Cards.
She did not mean to drop the ID , but she did and now she was in trouble. The militia took Sula to jail, for having an Abkhaz ID. She stayed in jail for three days, then was taken to a psychiatric floor of a “old-folks-home!!!!!!! She was told there were no beds other than in the psychiatric area. Sula is clear-headed, frail, kind and of NO threat to ANYONE. The militia felt that an old folks home was more fitting than jail, but now she was medicated with antipsychotic meds along with those who “needed“ them, and force to live with individuals with whom she had no ability to communicate. She had no recourse. She had no family to contact. She was doomed in this horrific place. She was innocently trying to go to Armenia to be with her family and was likely to spend her last days in a place worse than jail.
Sula decided she would commit suicide. After having been refused any opportunity to contact relatives in Armenia, she felt death was a better way to solve her dilemma than life in the psych ward. She announced her plan. Of course, that only confirmed she needed this level of care. The soldier who had arrested her came to see her, feeling guilty, I guess. She told him her plan. He told the Director of the Old Folks Home that he must take her to a government office to sign “some papers” . He said he would bring her back as soon as the papers were signed.
He then let Sula go. He said, “I cannot give you your Abkhaz ID back, but Go Lady, wherever you can and wherever you want to go, just GO“. And she did. She did not have enough money now to go to Yerivan, Armenia. Her money had been used in the “the home” to buy food. She was able to beg a bus ride back to the Abkhaz border. She had no Abkhazia ID, but the man at the border crossing recognized her and mercifully let her through the border.
When we saw Sula she had been home for 2 days. She was beyond grateful to see friendly faces. She was happy to be in her little room. She now regrets having sold her home, but she has no ability to reverse this decision. She must find a way to get to Armenia.
We will meet with the International Red Cross this coming week. They have a re-location program and should be able to assist Sula getting re-located to Yerivan, Armenia. She wants to wait to get her Russian passport, so she can leave Abkhazia legally through Russia. If you look on the map you will see how absurd this is. Russia is north of Abkhazia. Armenia is south. It would be like going through Denver to go from Los Angeles to San Francisco. ABSURD.
But on to the coffee reading.
While Sula was telling her tale, we sipped on coffee. After completing the coffee, and still telling the tale she quietly swirled the final contents of the coffee, and then turned the cup upside down.
Remember this is thick, muddy coffee. Turkish coffee. You drink only the top portion and leave the bottom one third. The bottom is just thick coffee grounds.
So in preparation for “the reading” she swirls the remaining coffee grounds, turns the cup upside down then lets it sit. My cup sat for 15 minutes.
We had now finished the tale, and were ready to leave. I thought perhaps she had forgotten all about the coffee reading. Inga had warned me, that “you never ask to have your coffee read”. One is invited to have their coffee read, at the invitation of the coffee reader. There are only a few coffee readers in any village or town. This is a rather special talent. It is like palm reading, fortune telling, future forecasting.
Sula, without announcement , picked up my coffee cup and began something like a chant. While telling her tale she had been animated. This was a different voice, a different space. She was a different person while reading my coffee. This was serious, this was sacred.
I shant tell you the content of the reading. I don’t think I should. Inga knows, because Inga knows everything. She translates for me. I was stunned. Sula has never met me. She never asked anything about me. I introduced myself and told her my name when we arrived, that‘s it. During the half hour we had been in her home we discussed only her mis-adventure. There is no way she could know the things about me she knows. The coffee told her.
Sula has a gift. Tears streamed down my face as she read the bottom of the cup. She twirled it around and around. She paused. She smiled. She never looked at me. She was almost in a trance.
It was yet another spiritual experience in this magical place. I have been offered secrets into my future.
God Bless Sula in what will no doubt be more adventures and mis-adventures that will bring her to her long awaited reunion with her people. God bless us all as we travel and reunion with our people.
What would you have said if someone invited you to such an occasion?
“Of course, sure!!!”
I don’t drink coffee, but I have learned here to do so, because to not accept a coffee is an insult. After the first week I was tired of insulting people, so I said to myself, “Buck up buckaroo, and learn to drink coffee, if only for a short while“. I will deal with the withdrawal headaches when I return home.
The circumstance of my visiting Sulaberidze Soniya was a bit unusual even without the coffee reading. I had already eliminated Sula from our patient list.
Sula, 86 year old Russian woman living in Abkhazia, had not been home three previous times we tried to visit her. I told the team that if we go again and she is not home then we should eliminate her from the program. She can’t be vulnerable and frail if she is always “out and about”.
Inga, in her understanding way just replied, “please, before you make a final decision, see her once, then decide“. Inga knew something was wrong with Sula, not sure what, but she didn’t want me to make a rash decision. She is very clever, not to be completely put out by my direct manager-get-it-done-approach. She wants to make sure I am making the decisions, but she makes sure I make the right decision!!!!! I think all good assistants do the same. Make the boss seem smarter than she really is!!!
As it turned out, Sula was home yesterday. We arrived as we do with all the patients, unannounced, we just show up.
After greetings, we enter her house. Sula walks bent over at the waist. Kyphotic, like many individuals who have severe osteoporosis and arthritis, Sula can‘t stand up straight. She is shaped like an upside down L, instead of a normal I. She doesn’t seem to mind. It is what it is.
Sula worked during WWII in a munitions factory bending over and lifting heavy objects. She said she could not straighten her back after the war and has been walking like this for decades. Her husband was a General in the Russian army, they traveled a lot before the war. No children. He died in The War, WWII that is. She is bright, well traveled, a delightful hostess, even in her one room “home”. She was given a place to stay by neighbors. She sold her home several years ago, sent all the money to her brother in Armenia so he could arrange a place for her, a new home. (She is Armenian, married a Russian, lives in Abkhazia, has sister in USA - typical conglomeration of mixed cultures) She wanted to be close to family. Her neighbor gave her a room to stay in until she moved. She was planning to move to Armenia right before the war broke out in 1992. She has been unable to accomplish this since, because she needed a Russian passport. Abkhazians cannot leave Abkhazia via Georgia and that is the most direct route to Armenia. She obtained the passport finally last year (because she was born in Russia, she could apply for one). Sula is one of the fortunate ones who has obtained a Russian passport while living in Abkhazia. The advantage of a Russian passport is a large pension(around 3,000 rubble= 85 bucks), compared to the Abkhaz pension (100 ruble =3 bucks). Per Year.
Sula told us why she was not at home for the past month.
She needed to renew her Russian passport (annual requirement). She knew of the approaching expiration date on her passport. She did not have money to pay for the renewal so she requested funds from the Local Red Cross to help her to pay for the renewal. She was given sufficient funds, then became ill. She was in bed for 2 weeks. No one knew she was sick. When she was well she decided to get on a bus and go to Russia to renew her passport.
She arrived at the border only to discover she did not bring one of several documents that is required for renewal. She had to turn around and go home. She got the papers, went back to the border however, at the border she was not able to cross because her passport was now expired by two days. She explained the situation, but was told to go home and to send in the money and the documents to Moscow and she could pay a late fee and her passport would be renewed
And so, she did that.
Sula said she was distraught and decided she would to try to go to Armenia without her Russian passport. She would go through Georgia. It is very tricky for Abkhazians to go to Georgia, but she was going to try anyway. She arrived in Zugdidi, Georgia via bus and while getting out her money she accidentally dropped her Abkhazian identification. BIG MISTAKE. Georgians DO NOT WANT people to show or to HAVE Abkhazian identifications. Abkhazians are supposed to be Georgians. To show the ID is an insult. Abkhazia is a territory of Georgia, not an independent country where citizens have Identification Cards.
She did not mean to drop the ID , but she did and now she was in trouble. The militia took Sula to jail, for having an Abkhaz ID. She stayed in jail for three days, then was taken to a psychiatric floor of a “old-folks-home!!!!!!! She was told there were no beds other than in the psychiatric area. Sula is clear-headed, frail, kind and of NO threat to ANYONE. The militia felt that an old folks home was more fitting than jail, but now she was medicated with antipsychotic meds along with those who “needed“ them, and force to live with individuals with whom she had no ability to communicate. She had no recourse. She had no family to contact. She was doomed in this horrific place. She was innocently trying to go to Armenia to be with her family and was likely to spend her last days in a place worse than jail.
Sula decided she would commit suicide. After having been refused any opportunity to contact relatives in Armenia, she felt death was a better way to solve her dilemma than life in the psych ward. She announced her plan. Of course, that only confirmed she needed this level of care. The soldier who had arrested her came to see her, feeling guilty, I guess. She told him her plan. He told the Director of the Old Folks Home that he must take her to a government office to sign “some papers” . He said he would bring her back as soon as the papers were signed.
He then let Sula go. He said, “I cannot give you your Abkhaz ID back, but Go Lady, wherever you can and wherever you want to go, just GO“. And she did. She did not have enough money now to go to Yerivan, Armenia. Her money had been used in the “the home” to buy food. She was able to beg a bus ride back to the Abkhaz border. She had no Abkhazia ID, but the man at the border crossing recognized her and mercifully let her through the border.
When we saw Sula she had been home for 2 days. She was beyond grateful to see friendly faces. She was happy to be in her little room. She now regrets having sold her home, but she has no ability to reverse this decision. She must find a way to get to Armenia.
We will meet with the International Red Cross this coming week. They have a re-location program and should be able to assist Sula getting re-located to Yerivan, Armenia. She wants to wait to get her Russian passport, so she can leave Abkhazia legally through Russia. If you look on the map you will see how absurd this is. Russia is north of Abkhazia. Armenia is south. It would be like going through Denver to go from Los Angeles to San Francisco. ABSURD.
But on to the coffee reading.
While Sula was telling her tale, we sipped on coffee. After completing the coffee, and still telling the tale she quietly swirled the final contents of the coffee, and then turned the cup upside down.
Remember this is thick, muddy coffee. Turkish coffee. You drink only the top portion and leave the bottom one third. The bottom is just thick coffee grounds.
So in preparation for “the reading” she swirls the remaining coffee grounds, turns the cup upside down then lets it sit. My cup sat for 15 minutes.
We had now finished the tale, and were ready to leave. I thought perhaps she had forgotten all about the coffee reading. Inga had warned me, that “you never ask to have your coffee read”. One is invited to have their coffee read, at the invitation of the coffee reader. There are only a few coffee readers in any village or town. This is a rather special talent. It is like palm reading, fortune telling, future forecasting.
Sula, without announcement , picked up my coffee cup and began something like a chant. While telling her tale she had been animated. This was a different voice, a different space. She was a different person while reading my coffee. This was serious, this was sacred.
I shant tell you the content of the reading. I don’t think I should. Inga knows, because Inga knows everything. She translates for me. I was stunned. Sula has never met me. She never asked anything about me. I introduced myself and told her my name when we arrived, that‘s it. During the half hour we had been in her home we discussed only her mis-adventure. There is no way she could know the things about me she knows. The coffee told her.
Sula has a gift. Tears streamed down my face as she read the bottom of the cup. She twirled it around and around. She paused. She smiled. She never looked at me. She was almost in a trance.
It was yet another spiritual experience in this magical place. I have been offered secrets into my future.
God Bless Sula in what will no doubt be more adventures and mis-adventures that will bring her to her long awaited reunion with her people. God bless us all as we travel and reunion with our people.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Classrooms
I was a visitor today. At two schools.
The first school was The Sukhumi Boarding School. It used to be a very prestigious competitive educational facility. Now it is an orphanage. The students there have no parents, they were lost in the war. There are some students who have one parent, but that parent is disabled in some way, ie unable to make a living and so the child lives at the school during the week and goes home on the weekend. The students that show promise and perform well have a free ride to a Russian University. The school is paid for by the government. Inga and I went there today, she said I was the first expat to go to the school. It was high up on a hill, overlooking the sea. A spectacular setting. The building was rebuilt after the war. Institutional, but quite nice. The campus was beautiful, it could have been in some lazy New England township or English village. Majestic trees, fresh spring grass, pastoral scenery, pastures with content cows, soft sunlight highlighting the basketball court and a couple of students sticking their heads out the window, greeting the visitors.
We went there to donate Plumpy Nut. Some of you may know what Plumpy Nut is and others may not. It is a therapeutic food supplement, basically peanut butter with vitamins, minerals and a bit of sugar. It is packaged in a plastic foil packet enough for a single healthy serving. Kids love it. It’s is distributed in countries with famine or after a disaster. It is portable, doesn’t “go bad”, and as lots of calories, and is a complete food substitute - ie one can live on nothing but Plumpy Nut and clean water . It has saved many lives.
We were sent a shipment that was three times larger than ordered. So, we thought we would take some to the orphanage as a donation. They were pleased. I expect the kids will be throwing temper tantrums next month when all the Plumpy Nut is consumed. With a little jelly, yum, what more could a kid want?
On the way back to the car there were a couple of boys at the scrappy, but functional basketball court, obviously skipping classes. We laughed, they look chagrined, but confident in their naughtiness.
School boys, always ready to bend the rules on a sunny day in May.
I visited another school this evening after my Russian lesson.
I estimate there were 15-20 students in each classroom. Three classrooms in all. Each had the same basic curriculum.
There were students that were “normal” students, that is, they conducted their exercises with rhythmic synchronicity. Perfect timing, perfectly graceful in their execution. There were students that were “showoffs” as there always are in every classroom. Stand-outs, eager for an audience, playful and naughty, you know, 12 year old boys. And of course there were those students I could not see, because they were, well hidden. Hidden in the sea.
The students were dolphins. The sea was the school. It too was a lovely setting. The campus was soft, almost silky, very few waves, only those made by the few dolphins jumping and playing while other students quietly “rolled” in and out of the water. They were at one moment black dots, that looked like a mirage, then they came closer, then they were very close, close enough to see their fins creases, and the individual movements
It was thrilling to witness, so close and for so long. I stood for an hour in amazement.
Of course, I tried to take pictures, but as soon as I saw them jumping, I was so excited that I clicked the camera a millisecond too late. After 8 or so attempts I gave up, and just said, “Genie, enjoy. You can’t capture this moment on a camera.”
I think the reason why I have not seen them before is that the dolphins are studying Russian. Most days they can’t take recess, too much work to do. Too many letters to learn, to many nouns and verbs to conjugate. So, I think the dolphins and I both enjoyed this evening. Done with your lesson, ENJOY SOME FREE TIME. The dolphins and I are determined to learn a little but make sure we play a lot.
We also took Plumpy Nut to the Psychiatric hospital.(I’ll make no nut jokes) I’ll tell you more about that another day. Two classrooms is enough, plus Russian lessons!!!!!!!!
Nighty night…..g
The first school was The Sukhumi Boarding School. It used to be a very prestigious competitive educational facility. Now it is an orphanage. The students there have no parents, they were lost in the war. There are some students who have one parent, but that parent is disabled in some way, ie unable to make a living and so the child lives at the school during the week and goes home on the weekend. The students that show promise and perform well have a free ride to a Russian University. The school is paid for by the government. Inga and I went there today, she said I was the first expat to go to the school. It was high up on a hill, overlooking the sea. A spectacular setting. The building was rebuilt after the war. Institutional, but quite nice. The campus was beautiful, it could have been in some lazy New England township or English village. Majestic trees, fresh spring grass, pastoral scenery, pastures with content cows, soft sunlight highlighting the basketball court and a couple of students sticking their heads out the window, greeting the visitors.
We went there to donate Plumpy Nut. Some of you may know what Plumpy Nut is and others may not. It is a therapeutic food supplement, basically peanut butter with vitamins, minerals and a bit of sugar. It is packaged in a plastic foil packet enough for a single healthy serving. Kids love it. It’s is distributed in countries with famine or after a disaster. It is portable, doesn’t “go bad”, and as lots of calories, and is a complete food substitute - ie one can live on nothing but Plumpy Nut and clean water . It has saved many lives.
We were sent a shipment that was three times larger than ordered. So, we thought we would take some to the orphanage as a donation. They were pleased. I expect the kids will be throwing temper tantrums next month when all the Plumpy Nut is consumed. With a little jelly, yum, what more could a kid want?
On the way back to the car there were a couple of boys at the scrappy, but functional basketball court, obviously skipping classes. We laughed, they look chagrined, but confident in their naughtiness.
School boys, always ready to bend the rules on a sunny day in May.
I visited another school this evening after my Russian lesson.
I estimate there were 15-20 students in each classroom. Three classrooms in all. Each had the same basic curriculum.
There were students that were “normal” students, that is, they conducted their exercises with rhythmic synchronicity. Perfect timing, perfectly graceful in their execution. There were students that were “showoffs” as there always are in every classroom. Stand-outs, eager for an audience, playful and naughty, you know, 12 year old boys. And of course there were those students I could not see, because they were, well hidden. Hidden in the sea.
The students were dolphins. The sea was the school. It too was a lovely setting. The campus was soft, almost silky, very few waves, only those made by the few dolphins jumping and playing while other students quietly “rolled” in and out of the water. They were at one moment black dots, that looked like a mirage, then they came closer, then they were very close, close enough to see their fins creases, and the individual movements
It was thrilling to witness, so close and for so long. I stood for an hour in amazement.
Of course, I tried to take pictures, but as soon as I saw them jumping, I was so excited that I clicked the camera a millisecond too late. After 8 or so attempts I gave up, and just said, “Genie, enjoy. You can’t capture this moment on a camera.”
I think the reason why I have not seen them before is that the dolphins are studying Russian. Most days they can’t take recess, too much work to do. Too many letters to learn, to many nouns and verbs to conjugate. So, I think the dolphins and I both enjoyed this evening. Done with your lesson, ENJOY SOME FREE TIME. The dolphins and I are determined to learn a little but make sure we play a lot.
We also took Plumpy Nut to the Psychiatric hospital.(I’ll make no nut jokes) I’ll tell you more about that another day. Two classrooms is enough, plus Russian lessons!!!!!!!!
Nighty night…..g
Sunday, May 17, 2009
GIRLFRIENDS
She was a raging maniac tonight, like I have never seen before.
I see her every day, and I love her changing moods.
She is shimmering, silvery and sexy one day and sullen and sour another. Some days her “dress” is a glorious pink at sunset and sometimes she wears an ugly grey-green housecoat that needs to go to the goodwill. Plenty of days she has a conservative dark blue suit that looks quite nice on her.
She is lazy some days, just lolly-gagging, in no mood to do much of anything.
She can be rather tempestuous and on occasion fidgety, but late this evening she was madder than mad, crazier than crazy, she was a lunatic. She was intimidating and downright scary. I don’t think she could have been arrested for her behavior because no one could get close enough to her to catch her.
THE SEA was quite a gal tonight. All that fluid fury and oceanic anger from my friend was good to watch. I know exactly how she feels. It is always good to be around girl friends that can tell you what they are really feeling. "Just let it all out honey, it will be OK soon." She and I are buddies. Tonight no one else was around. No one else wanted to be around. They all wanted the comfort and quiet of their homes. I however came to the sea to “vent” and when I got there she was ranting and raving and kicking and screaming so that I forgot all about my own grumpiness. That’s the great thing about a good girlfriend.
We take turns. Sometimes she listens to me and sometimes I listen to her. We need each other. We girls.
I hope tomorrow She-Sea is in a better mood, otherwise I may have to have a heart-to-heart talk with her. You know, "shape up or ship out". "Get off your high horse and get back to work". "Stop that nonsense". "Honey, you aren’t the only one with problems"………….. She will likely tell me to butt a stump.
We will laugh and all will be good……….
I love all of you, my friends, you that speak, you that listen, you that empty you soul, and you that allow me to empty my soul into your outstretched arms.
good night.
I see her every day, and I love her changing moods.
She is shimmering, silvery and sexy one day and sullen and sour another. Some days her “dress” is a glorious pink at sunset and sometimes she wears an ugly grey-green housecoat that needs to go to the goodwill. Plenty of days she has a conservative dark blue suit that looks quite nice on her.
She is lazy some days, just lolly-gagging, in no mood to do much of anything.
She can be rather tempestuous and on occasion fidgety, but late this evening she was madder than mad, crazier than crazy, she was a lunatic. She was intimidating and downright scary. I don’t think she could have been arrested for her behavior because no one could get close enough to her to catch her.
THE SEA was quite a gal tonight. All that fluid fury and oceanic anger from my friend was good to watch. I know exactly how she feels. It is always good to be around girl friends that can tell you what they are really feeling. "Just let it all out honey, it will be OK soon." She and I are buddies. Tonight no one else was around. No one else wanted to be around. They all wanted the comfort and quiet of their homes. I however came to the sea to “vent” and when I got there she was ranting and raving and kicking and screaming so that I forgot all about my own grumpiness. That’s the great thing about a good girlfriend.
We take turns. Sometimes she listens to me and sometimes I listen to her. We need each other. We girls.
I hope tomorrow She-Sea is in a better mood, otherwise I may have to have a heart-to-heart talk with her. You know, "shape up or ship out". "Get off your high horse and get back to work". "Stop that nonsense". "Honey, you aren’t the only one with problems"………….. She will likely tell me to butt a stump.
We will laugh and all will be good……….
I love all of you, my friends, you that speak, you that listen, you that empty you soul, and you that allow me to empty my soul into your outstretched arms.
good night.
Friday, May 15, 2009
RATS
RATS
Not in darn-it, phooy, but the rats that creep you out. Healthy, robust, well-fed rats are what are here, BIG RATS.
But then, it’s really no surprise. The choice of the Abkhaz for clean versus dirty seem heavily weighted on the later. The rats are happy, happy, happy and BIG here.
Gabrava Indusha has rats. When we entered today there were shreds of bedding, sofa stuffing, scraps of food, paper, wood, plastics everywhere. Her “home” tops the list for the most unadulterated disgusting place yet.
Gabrava receives dry food (pasta, rice, flour, lentils) and fresh fruit (apples, oranges, bananas, greens) and hygiene products(TP, soap, cleanser) from the MSF social worker every month. She has NOTHING except a mattress, a filthy chair, in which of course she insist that I sit, and a little tiny table, full of moldy food, black, fuzzy stuff, shreds of who-knows-what, with the floor underneath and around the table also full of the same black fuzzy stuff.
Gabrava wants to give me SOMETHING, although she has NOTHING. Everyone wants to give me something, nuts, candy, flowers, something. I appreciate the gesture, but I (MSF) is supposed to be giving not receiving. I am learning receiving is a form of giving.
I have given up resisting gifts intended to express the happy-to-welcome-you joy. I accept a mushy, but not yet black fruit of some kind, probably last months delivery from our social worker.
In this moment, Gabi is a gracious hostess, hosting an Amerikankee. In her rat-infested, vomit-inducing hell-hole, she offers me her “best”.
While Olga. our national doctor, with whom I am working today, is talking with Gabi, (well-named - non-stop talker), I sneak in a bit of cleaning. I know I shouldn’t but my hands cannot stay still, they must do something. I put on a pair of thin surgical gloves we use for changing dressings on wounds, and they immediately rip, but here, where something is better than nothing, I forge ahead with clandestine cleaning (although we are all in the same room). I pick up a stinky, mushy Jehova’s Witness pamphlet in Russian of course, empty plastic bottles and caps, sticky stuff, mushy stuff, black stuff, really smelly stuff, rat poop, shreds of things……something that has become nothing….I am a fastidious fairy god mother. RIGHT?
After the exam and more gabbing from Gabrava, after she complained bitterly about the RATS, we prepare to leave. I pick up the large plastic bag with the grunge in it and am walking towards to door, and Gabrava intercepts me and the bag. I indicate I am happy to carry the bag outside, to the dump, for her.
She will of course not allow this. But I am your fastidious fairy god mother, come to heal your wounds, and clean your home…..NOPE. Instead of engaging in a tug of war with Gabi I relinquish the bag, I render the rubbish back to it’s rightful owner.
I am ashamed.
I am a “doctor without borders“, but am I also a “doctor without boundaries“?
Even though there was a part of me that said, “this is pathological hording, and she is at risk of disease and death because of her hording. I am there to help…“but somehow, when she took the bag, intentionally, deliberately, I knew I had crossed a line, she may be ill, she may have a psychologically diagnosable, unstable condition, but did I have a right to impose my values in her single room-home?
I am sure next month when I return all of this mush-rubbish will have found a new home in this room and the rats will have consumed a portion of it and the remainder will be taunting me once again.
Truth is, I am sure my well-intended meddling is something I have done in other’s homes, my friends, my family.
I hope, I pray next month I have the restraint to leave Gabi’s goop alone, and just focus on her.
This is hard. The medicine is easy, we have so little sophisticated technology to get in the way. We keep things simple, medically. It’s the rest that is hard.
Everyone, please just do a little bit of cleaning FOR ME today, for the world, make a little space a bit better than it was. Perhaps I can take comfort in this.
And let the grunge, the muck, the black fuzzy stuff just remain.
THANKS
g
Not in darn-it, phooy, but the rats that creep you out. Healthy, robust, well-fed rats are what are here, BIG RATS.
But then, it’s really no surprise. The choice of the Abkhaz for clean versus dirty seem heavily weighted on the later. The rats are happy, happy, happy and BIG here.
Gabrava Indusha has rats. When we entered today there were shreds of bedding, sofa stuffing, scraps of food, paper, wood, plastics everywhere. Her “home” tops the list for the most unadulterated disgusting place yet.
Gabrava receives dry food (pasta, rice, flour, lentils) and fresh fruit (apples, oranges, bananas, greens) and hygiene products(TP, soap, cleanser) from the MSF social worker every month. She has NOTHING except a mattress, a filthy chair, in which of course she insist that I sit, and a little tiny table, full of moldy food, black, fuzzy stuff, shreds of who-knows-what, with the floor underneath and around the table also full of the same black fuzzy stuff.
Gabrava wants to give me SOMETHING, although she has NOTHING. Everyone wants to give me something, nuts, candy, flowers, something. I appreciate the gesture, but I (MSF) is supposed to be giving not receiving. I am learning receiving is a form of giving.
I have given up resisting gifts intended to express the happy-to-welcome-you joy. I accept a mushy, but not yet black fruit of some kind, probably last months delivery from our social worker.
In this moment, Gabi is a gracious hostess, hosting an Amerikankee. In her rat-infested, vomit-inducing hell-hole, she offers me her “best”.
While Olga. our national doctor, with whom I am working today, is talking with Gabi, (well-named - non-stop talker), I sneak in a bit of cleaning. I know I shouldn’t but my hands cannot stay still, they must do something. I put on a pair of thin surgical gloves we use for changing dressings on wounds, and they immediately rip, but here, where something is better than nothing, I forge ahead with clandestine cleaning (although we are all in the same room). I pick up a stinky, mushy Jehova’s Witness pamphlet in Russian of course, empty plastic bottles and caps, sticky stuff, mushy stuff, black stuff, really smelly stuff, rat poop, shreds of things……something that has become nothing….I am a fastidious fairy god mother. RIGHT?
After the exam and more gabbing from Gabrava, after she complained bitterly about the RATS, we prepare to leave. I pick up the large plastic bag with the grunge in it and am walking towards to door, and Gabrava intercepts me and the bag. I indicate I am happy to carry the bag outside, to the dump, for her.
She will of course not allow this. But I am your fastidious fairy god mother, come to heal your wounds, and clean your home…..NOPE. Instead of engaging in a tug of war with Gabi I relinquish the bag, I render the rubbish back to it’s rightful owner.
I am ashamed.
I am a “doctor without borders“, but am I also a “doctor without boundaries“?
Even though there was a part of me that said, “this is pathological hording, and she is at risk of disease and death because of her hording. I am there to help…“but somehow, when she took the bag, intentionally, deliberately, I knew I had crossed a line, she may be ill, she may have a psychologically diagnosable, unstable condition, but did I have a right to impose my values in her single room-home?
I am sure next month when I return all of this mush-rubbish will have found a new home in this room and the rats will have consumed a portion of it and the remainder will be taunting me once again.
Truth is, I am sure my well-intended meddling is something I have done in other’s homes, my friends, my family.
I hope, I pray next month I have the restraint to leave Gabi’s goop alone, and just focus on her.
This is hard. The medicine is easy, we have so little sophisticated technology to get in the way. We keep things simple, medically. It’s the rest that is hard.
Everyone, please just do a little bit of cleaning FOR ME today, for the world, make a little space a bit better than it was. Perhaps I can take comfort in this.
And let the grunge, the muck, the black fuzzy stuff just remain.
THANKS
g
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
OUT OF JAIL, STILL IMPRISONED
Ali and Asya Bairactarov, both in their early 80s live high in the mountains. It has rained every day this past week - and every night. So the MSF Toyota vehicle got stuck in the deep muddy ruts on a very steep, not-meant-for-man-made-vehicles road as we were approaching their house. Donkeys would be better, cows would be better, goats would be better. An elephant would be best.
Ali comes to the gate to greet us - he is huff-puffing and audibly wheezing. But with a smile on his face he welcomes us into his palace - chickens squawking, dogs barking, a one room-with-a-porch shack with a wood burning combination heat and cook stove, 200 or more years old I guess. I see an after-though electric wire loosely attached to the wall leading to a single bulb in the middle of the room. The sun is out, no need for a light. It is dark in the little room none-the-less.
We extend greetings, I now am accomplished in introducing myself, and saying a few words of conversation in Russian. If the persons speak Abkhaz, I don’t even try. It is the silliest language you have ever heard. Slooshes, and choschloshes, gutteral utterances that sound like a bad cough combined with an apple stuck in the back of your throat.
Anyway, exam time. Asya is first. She has had a stroke, and currently has a large pleural effusion - based on exam. No breath sounds in the entire L lower lobe. She has apparently has an effusion in the past. But she is too sick to transport now, nor does she want to be transported. So, we acknowledge, yep, it is there, and treat what is bothering her. The pain in her hand. She is happy. Ali’s asthma is worse. He wheezes a lot, and struggles to get a deep breath. We have inhalers that help. He also has diarrhea and so we treat that. He too is happy.
I ask for a photo. They sit next to each other, a kind, loving glance between the two. She takes off 2 layers (there are ALWAYS many, many layers). I stopped her when she arrived at the orange polka dotted dress and said, that is nice and colorful. She smiled and stopped taking off layers. Ali had on a dirty grey shirt, he puts on a dirty gray sweater to be presentable. Neither bothers with their hair.
As we were packing up ready to depart, I see a little book in the window. It is a math book, for a school child. Ali says that it is his grandson’s book. I also see a twig, with leaves on it. I have seen this same twig in numerous homes. I ask what it is. Ali smiles and says, it is to “encourage” our grandson. He shows me that the leaves, that are fuzzy and a bit sticky also have a sting to them. Like stinging nettle. He smiles, it helps our grandson when he needs “encouragement”. We all laugh.
Olga told me after we left Ali and Asya’s home their son died in the war. Their daughter died in a car accident 3 years ago. They have no other family but the grandson. They must stay alive for him.
I say to Olga, “they are such a sweet couple.”
She smiles, and says, “Ali and Asya met while they were serving time in prison”.
They served their prison sentence, they are serving a different sentence now. They are imprisoned in time’s-running-out-jail. No means to make money, both too sick to survive for long, and a mandate to stay alive, to keep going, to survive, to be able to care for their one-and-only-grandson.
We will return again next month. God bless Ali and Asya.
Ali comes to the gate to greet us - he is huff-puffing and audibly wheezing. But with a smile on his face he welcomes us into his palace - chickens squawking, dogs barking, a one room-with-a-porch shack with a wood burning combination heat and cook stove, 200 or more years old I guess. I see an after-though electric wire loosely attached to the wall leading to a single bulb in the middle of the room. The sun is out, no need for a light. It is dark in the little room none-the-less.
We extend greetings, I now am accomplished in introducing myself, and saying a few words of conversation in Russian. If the persons speak Abkhaz, I don’t even try. It is the silliest language you have ever heard. Slooshes, and choschloshes, gutteral utterances that sound like a bad cough combined with an apple stuck in the back of your throat.
Anyway, exam time. Asya is first. She has had a stroke, and currently has a large pleural effusion - based on exam. No breath sounds in the entire L lower lobe. She has apparently has an effusion in the past. But she is too sick to transport now, nor does she want to be transported. So, we acknowledge, yep, it is there, and treat what is bothering her. The pain in her hand. She is happy. Ali’s asthma is worse. He wheezes a lot, and struggles to get a deep breath. We have inhalers that help. He also has diarrhea and so we treat that. He too is happy.
I ask for a photo. They sit next to each other, a kind, loving glance between the two. She takes off 2 layers (there are ALWAYS many, many layers). I stopped her when she arrived at the orange polka dotted dress and said, that is nice and colorful. She smiled and stopped taking off layers. Ali had on a dirty grey shirt, he puts on a dirty gray sweater to be presentable. Neither bothers with their hair.
As we were packing up ready to depart, I see a little book in the window. It is a math book, for a school child. Ali says that it is his grandson’s book. I also see a twig, with leaves on it. I have seen this same twig in numerous homes. I ask what it is. Ali smiles and says, it is to “encourage” our grandson. He shows me that the leaves, that are fuzzy and a bit sticky also have a sting to them. Like stinging nettle. He smiles, it helps our grandson when he needs “encouragement”. We all laugh.
Olga told me after we left Ali and Asya’s home their son died in the war. Their daughter died in a car accident 3 years ago. They have no other family but the grandson. They must stay alive for him.
I say to Olga, “they are such a sweet couple.”
She smiles, and says, “Ali and Asya met while they were serving time in prison”.
They served their prison sentence, they are serving a different sentence now. They are imprisoned in time’s-running-out-jail. No means to make money, both too sick to survive for long, and a mandate to stay alive, to keep going, to survive, to be able to care for their one-and-only-grandson.
We will return again next month. God bless Ali and Asya.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mothers Day
We planned a trip to Lake Ritza today. A spectacular lake high in the mountains that is often photographed. However, it is raining cats and dogs and pigs and rats and goats and, at the moment, blundering bombastic buffalo. Perhaps Ritza will happen another day.
So I can catch up on some writing, some reading, some cleaning, maybe even some Russian lessons.
I like rainy Mother’s Days. Plans Change. No packing of picnics, or dressing up for brunch, just hanging out. At “home”
I have the best Mother in all the world. I think everyone who knows Frances will agree.
Frances Harper knows the joy of love and living the good life, and she know equally the pain of love lost and a tough life. She know beauty and banality. She has had her share of plenty and parsimony. Frances knows how to navigate in auspicious occasions and those occasions where no one would ever want to be found.
MOM is my mother superior, my most blessed one, who inspires me with her beauty, her grace, her kindness and forgiveness. She is a sit-on-the-bed-late-at-night-giggle-with-the-girls-mom. She is a sure-why-not-mom. When she was “too old” she paddled solo down the Guadalupe river in an inner tube, screaming with the rest of us, and in the dead of winter she hiked with snow-shoes in the mountains in Colorado. Each "I'm-too-old-adventure" she curses and says "I'll never let you do this to me again" reminding us she is too old, but of course secretly enjoying her “too-oldness”.
Granny is a champion among champions. She plays a mean piano and organ, and knows the ancient art of short-hand. She says she can’t cook, but all three of her daughters remain well-fed, even today. Quite frankly I think the “oh, I can’t cook thing” is a muse - mom’s smart enough to cook when and what she wants, but not to be stuck in the kitchen cooking my favorite, your favorite, and everyone’s favorite dish every day. I like this practical approach. And her squash casserole is yet unmatched by any.
Everything I am, the good and the naughty has it’s roots in this red-headed, hot-headed, gentle-spirited, generous mother of mine.
I am my own person, but much of that is because Franny Wilson was her own person and she showed me how. Peg made mistakes, still makes mistakes, and she deals with what has been dealt her (perhaps keeping a few lucky cards in her back pocket, and regularly disposing of unnecessary cards along the way).
She is my hero, my inspiration, my friend and foe, she makes me happy and mad, warm and boiling hot.
GaGee is a fabulous grandmother, and a tremendous great grandmother but it is her motherness that I love.
It is the simple, never changing fact that Martha Frances Wilson Harper, Granny, Gagee, Peg, Franny, mom is and will always be my mother, and that brings me more joy and strength, courage and kindness, curiosity and balder-dashidness than I deserve.
Thank you Mom, I love you. I am grateful the gods selected me to be your daughter.
PS: I happen to have with me the picture of you in those ridiculous, “jeweled” red glasses that you “won” at the goofy gift exchange a couple of Christmas’s ago. I look at it often, and giggle. This is my elegant, poised wacky-I-can’t -believe-she-is-really-wearing-these-mother!!!! I am hoping you will bring the equally ridiculous egg pan for this year's goofy gift, but you may have already selected something even stupider (is that a word?)
see ya,
daughter#2
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Maia and Tomi
I would like for you to meet Pantskava Maia, who is 30 years old.
Maia had been married 4 years when she fell while cleaning a house for a wealthy Russian family. They wanted outside windows cleaned. There was no ladder. Maia fell 3 stories. She is now a paraplegic. A lovely girl. Lying in her bed with a sad sort of smile, a half-smile.
Her husband left her after the accident, and two years after that her only child, a son, died of leukemia. Her mother moved to Germany and her father is deaf and frail and is not able to care for her. Maia’s aunt lived in Sukhumi and offered her a place to stay.
We provide her food and dressings for a chronic fistula at the surgical site on her back, the unsuccessful surgery. Maia’s only wish is to go to the cemetery to visit her son. We got her a wheelchair this week, it is not what MSF typically does, but I have a small “undesignated/ miscellaneous” budget to work with, and I spent a portion of it on Maia‘s wheelchair. Many who contribute to MSF never know exactly how their money is spent. I wish they knew how they helped Maia. I am grateful to those persons who have given Maia a whole-smile to replace her half-smile. She is planning a trip to the cemetery to see her son tomorrow.
Tomasina Gaiyina lives alone, at least with no other humans. She actually isn’t alone at all, with her dogs and cats and chickens and polka dot pigs. Tomi is strong and her dog is mean. Today we go to visit. We call her name from outside the fence in a very loud voice. She slowly walks out the door, onto her porch, we see her turn around, get on her hands and knees. She then backs down, step by step, until she reaches the bottom. She picks up two tree branches made into walking sticks, with mean dog by her side, and she hobbles to the fence. Mean dog growls as she approaches the fence where we are standing, the cats and chickens of course don’t care. The polka dot pig is grunting and schloppily shlugking in the muck.
Inga is afraid of dogs and gets back into the MSF vehicle. I stand by the gate and Inga translates leaning her head out of the truck. Tomi says “After I open the gate the dog will come out and be nice“. Hummmm, do I trust this? My predecessor had 5 dog bites, my colleague had a dog bite near our house just yesterday. Tomi looks so kind, and she shakes her hand with a gesture of assurance, the tree branch also shaking, communicating non-verbally “really, the dog is OK, he is nice”. I wait, I spot a stick within reach, so stupidly I think I can grab the stick and fend off the dog, once he gets out of the gated yard, if he decides he does not like me after all. I remember I had the full rabies series while in Paris.
Gate opens, out comes the dog, he looks at me, growls, tail starts wagging, he looks back at his master and watches her. Nothing. She was right - Mean Dog is Nice Dog outside the gate.
Of course, I will be examining Tomi not in the comfort of her home, but in the wide-open……but she is so unsteady and how foolish of me to not bring an exam table or at least a chair. I go to the back of the truck, there is an emergency box, a metal box, about 2x2x3foot. Perfect ,a make-do chair. It is hard to find a flat space, so the “chair” sits on uneven ground and I help Tomi sit. Blood pressure very high, lungs clear, heart irregular. .No swelling in her feet, her knees arthritic and it is arthritis she is complaining of today. I change her medications to hopefully impact her BP and recognize there is nothing I can do in her front yard to improve the irregular heart rhythm, other than the selection of an antihypertensive that might also slow the heart rate a bit. She gets paracetamol (the equivalent of Tylenol) , and some ibuprofen with proper warnings. Inga and I carry the old-fashioned black bag with all sorts of medicines and goodies, never knowing what might be needed. We dispense the proper amount in little teeny zip-lock packets, with the Russian names written. We give verbal instructions. Mean dog has been sitting dutifully by his master the whole time, a perfect doggie-gentleman.
We finish our examination and visit, Tomi is happy. Mean dog is happy. She has chocolates in her raggedy pocket. She hands them to me. I say thank you in Russian. I watch her habbleto her home on the hill, place her two walking sticks next to the stairs, which this time she ascends one at a time on her knees.
Mean dog stays at the fence , on his side, and growls viciously.
Maia had been married 4 years when she fell while cleaning a house for a wealthy Russian family. They wanted outside windows cleaned. There was no ladder. Maia fell 3 stories. She is now a paraplegic. A lovely girl. Lying in her bed with a sad sort of smile, a half-smile.
Her husband left her after the accident, and two years after that her only child, a son, died of leukemia. Her mother moved to Germany and her father is deaf and frail and is not able to care for her. Maia’s aunt lived in Sukhumi and offered her a place to stay.
We provide her food and dressings for a chronic fistula at the surgical site on her back, the unsuccessful surgery. Maia’s only wish is to go to the cemetery to visit her son. We got her a wheelchair this week, it is not what MSF typically does, but I have a small “undesignated/ miscellaneous” budget to work with, and I spent a portion of it on Maia‘s wheelchair. Many who contribute to MSF never know exactly how their money is spent. I wish they knew how they helped Maia. I am grateful to those persons who have given Maia a whole-smile to replace her half-smile. She is planning a trip to the cemetery to see her son tomorrow.
Tomasina Gaiyina lives alone, at least with no other humans. She actually isn’t alone at all, with her dogs and cats and chickens and polka dot pigs. Tomi is strong and her dog is mean. Today we go to visit. We call her name from outside the fence in a very loud voice. She slowly walks out the door, onto her porch, we see her turn around, get on her hands and knees. She then backs down, step by step, until she reaches the bottom. She picks up two tree branches made into walking sticks, with mean dog by her side, and she hobbles to the fence. Mean dog growls as she approaches the fence where we are standing, the cats and chickens of course don’t care. The polka dot pig is grunting and schloppily shlugking in the muck.
Inga is afraid of dogs and gets back into the MSF vehicle. I stand by the gate and Inga translates leaning her head out of the truck. Tomi says “After I open the gate the dog will come out and be nice“. Hummmm, do I trust this? My predecessor had 5 dog bites, my colleague had a dog bite near our house just yesterday. Tomi looks so kind, and she shakes her hand with a gesture of assurance, the tree branch also shaking, communicating non-verbally “really, the dog is OK, he is nice”. I wait, I spot a stick within reach, so stupidly I think I can grab the stick and fend off the dog, once he gets out of the gated yard, if he decides he does not like me after all. I remember I had the full rabies series while in Paris.
Gate opens, out comes the dog, he looks at me, growls, tail starts wagging, he looks back at his master and watches her. Nothing. She was right - Mean Dog is Nice Dog outside the gate.
Of course, I will be examining Tomi not in the comfort of her home, but in the wide-open……but she is so unsteady and how foolish of me to not bring an exam table or at least a chair. I go to the back of the truck, there is an emergency box, a metal box, about 2x2x3foot. Perfect ,a make-do chair. It is hard to find a flat space, so the “chair” sits on uneven ground and I help Tomi sit. Blood pressure very high, lungs clear, heart irregular. .No swelling in her feet, her knees arthritic and it is arthritis she is complaining of today. I change her medications to hopefully impact her BP and recognize there is nothing I can do in her front yard to improve the irregular heart rhythm, other than the selection of an antihypertensive that might also slow the heart rate a bit. She gets paracetamol (the equivalent of Tylenol) , and some ibuprofen with proper warnings. Inga and I carry the old-fashioned black bag with all sorts of medicines and goodies, never knowing what might be needed. We dispense the proper amount in little teeny zip-lock packets, with the Russian names written. We give verbal instructions. Mean dog has been sitting dutifully by his master the whole time, a perfect doggie-gentleman.
We finish our examination and visit, Tomi is happy. Mean dog is happy. She has chocolates in her raggedy pocket. She hands them to me. I say thank you in Russian. I watch her habbleto her home on the hill, place her two walking sticks next to the stairs, which this time she ascends one at a time on her knees.
Mean dog stays at the fence , on his side, and growls viciously.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Crazy
Three expats in the past two years have gone home early - “mental stress” was the reason.
Now they tell me…..GREAT
We have another expat leaving next week, she too is leaving early. I wouldn’t say stress, I would simply say she is “off her rocker”, she passed being unstable and stressed months ago.
So VY, Vats ze reason?
Here are a few
You know all about the bedbugs and cats .
Then there’s the greasy water. Yep, my hair honestly comes out of the shower saying “I thought you were washing me, and for the last 50 plus years that has meant fresh, soft, fragrant, you know CLEAN. Not greasy, slimy, smelly, yuck.“ It’s a sad situation when ones hair speaks to its owner in such vile terms. My hair is not happy with the quality of shower and shampoo. My body sings the same tune. “Come on now, can’t you manage to scrub yourself squeaky-clean every once in a while? I mean really, is that too much to ask the owner of a body?” I apologize often, to my hair and my bod, but they keep their tirades up night and day….
Is it the pipes, the water, the soap my imagination,? Am I too going crazy?
I have requested an American plumber-friend to come size up the situation, but unfortunately an American plumber friend or foe would have a hard time getting into Abkhazia, but better foe than friend. It would be easier to say “I am a thief, here to cause trouble, to rob and plunder, you know, like all other Abkhazians.” It would also help if the plumber said “and by the way I hate all Georgians, and while I don’t hate Russians, I do want independence, I want Abkhazia to remain Abkhazia." That might get the plumber in the country.
The Russian military movements began again today. Convoys of 20 tanks, 30 canvas-topped trucks, larger weapon-weilding vehicles in town headed for the border, helicopters overhead, something is going on. We will have a briefing tomorrow morning and find out. Probably not the best time for a well-intentioned plumber to come to town.
Meanwhile, I just complain about my hair and my body and the fact that I am going a bit off my rocker too.
Nighty night,
genie
PS - Announcement was made yesterday regarding agreement between Russia and Abkhazia. Russia will secure Abkhazia’s borders (truth is Russia has kept tanks at the border since last summer, now it is official that they will secure the border). We will see how this impacts our travel to and from Georgia. MSF has weekly transfers between Abkhazia and Georgia in order to send sputum from the Abkhazian Tuberculosis hospital for drug sensitivity testing and to receive supplies from Georgia, and for expat movements.
All for now
Now they tell me…..GREAT
We have another expat leaving next week, she too is leaving early. I wouldn’t say stress, I would simply say she is “off her rocker”, she passed being unstable and stressed months ago.
So VY, Vats ze reason?
Here are a few
You know all about the bedbugs and cats .
Then there’s the greasy water. Yep, my hair honestly comes out of the shower saying “I thought you were washing me, and for the last 50 plus years that has meant fresh, soft, fragrant, you know CLEAN. Not greasy, slimy, smelly, yuck.“ It’s a sad situation when ones hair speaks to its owner in such vile terms. My hair is not happy with the quality of shower and shampoo. My body sings the same tune. “Come on now, can’t you manage to scrub yourself squeaky-clean every once in a while? I mean really, is that too much to ask the owner of a body?” I apologize often, to my hair and my bod, but they keep their tirades up night and day….
Is it the pipes, the water, the soap my imagination,? Am I too going crazy?
I have requested an American plumber-friend to come size up the situation, but unfortunately an American plumber friend or foe would have a hard time getting into Abkhazia, but better foe than friend. It would be easier to say “I am a thief, here to cause trouble, to rob and plunder, you know, like all other Abkhazians.” It would also help if the plumber said “and by the way I hate all Georgians, and while I don’t hate Russians, I do want independence, I want Abkhazia to remain Abkhazia." That might get the plumber in the country.
The Russian military movements began again today. Convoys of 20 tanks, 30 canvas-topped trucks, larger weapon-weilding vehicles in town headed for the border, helicopters overhead, something is going on. We will have a briefing tomorrow morning and find out. Probably not the best time for a well-intentioned plumber to come to town.
Meanwhile, I just complain about my hair and my body and the fact that I am going a bit off my rocker too.
Nighty night,
genie
PS - Announcement was made yesterday regarding agreement between Russia and Abkhazia. Russia will secure Abkhazia’s borders (truth is Russia has kept tanks at the border since last summer, now it is official that they will secure the border). We will see how this impacts our travel to and from Georgia. MSF has weekly transfers between Abkhazia and Georgia in order to send sputum from the Abkhazian Tuberculosis hospital for drug sensitivity testing and to receive supplies from Georgia, and for expat movements.
All for now
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
It Ain't Me Babe
For those of you older than dirt, like me, do you remember the song It Ain’t Me Babe?
I have been singing one of the lines recently……”Go away from my window”……then it goes something like “leave at you own (the word escapes me)speed“……“I’m not the one you want babe“,….on and on.
You see, there is, or actually there was, a cute kitten (like the kitties on my bedroom walls) but in fact a real kitten that was beloved by the former occupant of my room. She liked cats and liked to sleep with cats. Every evening this little kitten would arrive at her window and come in for a snuggling sleep. Fine, I have no problem with people who like cats, and who sleep with cats. It Ain’t Me Babe.
And so when she graciously moved out of this room to assume a larger room in the other house, leaving me with the kitty wallpaper, she didn’t tell me about the REAL kitten, who wanted to stay in his little cuddly bed every night.
I am charmed by the kitties on my wallpaper. They don’t meow, they don’t tear things up, they enjoy their 2 dimensional existence in silence and respect of their roommate.
Not so with the REAL kitty. After several nights of kindly putting the kitty out the window, then tossing the kitty out, then cursing while hurling the kitty out, I had to take more drastic measures. I’m smarter than a kitty, RIGHT?
The window has iron bars on the outside presumably to keep out unwanted visitors, Hah!!!!!! The house guards are paid to keep out unwanted human visitors, but not cute little kitties.
I found some extra mosquito netting in a closet and thought - this will do the trick. So, I put the netting on the window attaching it with clothes pins which I stole from the clothespin basket (I am sure my thievery has been noticed). I will need netting on the window for summer anyway. However, the little kitty just tore a hole in the netting. I tried double netting (you know extra strength, like Bounty) but the hole was there the next day and the kitty was in my bed the next night.
Drastic measures for desperate times. I called upon Shamil. Shamil is our “Jack-of-all-trades” grounds-keeper. He is the kindest, always smiling, fella in Abkhazia. He reminds me of my friend Jose, he too is always willing to do those pesky chores no one wants to do. We have drivers (required by MSF) that often are grumpy, and ask for raises every other day. Shamil is thoughtful, and very helpful whenever asked. He fixed the light fixture in my room and so when the electricity works, so does the light. We found old buckets and pots to plant flowers in for our terrace, and Shamil put holes in the bottom……I asked Shamil to use his wits, not his charm, to solve the kitty problem. The next day he put chicken wire on the window, small hole wire, no kitty can come through those holes, neither will the giant RATS we have either. I guess a teeny mouse could get through, but I have not seen mice, just gross, fat, fast RATS. I am not sure who would be the victor in a cat and rat battle, I don’t really care. They can have their own games, just leave me out.
So, you might think the kitty ordeal is solved. It was, sort of. After 5 days of the kitty meowing endlessly throughout the night, while I was using earplugs and dreaming of a stun-gun, he departed. Presumably to find a more hospitable home, one where food and lodging were provided. Dilemma solved.
A week of peace and quiet, nice, then last night, as I was drifting off to sleep after finishing MY LAST BOOK (please send more books, Please) I heard not one cat, but two damn cats, meowing right under my window. On the terrace outside my window TWO NEW CATS decided since cute little REAL, but now departed, kitty has found another home they should take up residence here.
I ran out on the terrace, forgetting there is a guard guarding our house sitting in his guard-perch who has full view of anyone on the terrace, in my birthday suit, yelling at the cats, “Get out of here, NOW“.
Who knows what the neighbors on either side of our house were thinking, cats are just apart of life here. The cats of course scampered away for a few minutes, only to return once I got back into bed. This time with a yodel instead of a meow, a quivering, screeching, irritating, annoying, frustrating, disgusting, ‘we‘re out to get you, you silly girl‘……….yodel.
Earplugs,
a smile from the guard the next day,
an acknowledgement that I’m here to learn,
maybe to accept new night-kitty-friends.
Not in my bed, NEVER. Nighty night g
I have been singing one of the lines recently……”Go away from my window”……then it goes something like “leave at you own (the word escapes me)speed“……“I’m not the one you want babe“,….on and on.
You see, there is, or actually there was, a cute kitten (like the kitties on my bedroom walls) but in fact a real kitten that was beloved by the former occupant of my room. She liked cats and liked to sleep with cats. Every evening this little kitten would arrive at her window and come in for a snuggling sleep. Fine, I have no problem with people who like cats, and who sleep with cats. It Ain’t Me Babe.
And so when she graciously moved out of this room to assume a larger room in the other house, leaving me with the kitty wallpaper, she didn’t tell me about the REAL kitten, who wanted to stay in his little cuddly bed every night.
I am charmed by the kitties on my wallpaper. They don’t meow, they don’t tear things up, they enjoy their 2 dimensional existence in silence and respect of their roommate.
Not so with the REAL kitty. After several nights of kindly putting the kitty out the window, then tossing the kitty out, then cursing while hurling the kitty out, I had to take more drastic measures. I’m smarter than a kitty, RIGHT?
The window has iron bars on the outside presumably to keep out unwanted visitors, Hah!!!!!! The house guards are paid to keep out unwanted human visitors, but not cute little kitties.
I found some extra mosquito netting in a closet and thought - this will do the trick. So, I put the netting on the window attaching it with clothes pins which I stole from the clothespin basket (I am sure my thievery has been noticed). I will need netting on the window for summer anyway. However, the little kitty just tore a hole in the netting. I tried double netting (you know extra strength, like Bounty) but the hole was there the next day and the kitty was in my bed the next night.
Drastic measures for desperate times. I called upon Shamil. Shamil is our “Jack-of-all-trades” grounds-keeper. He is the kindest, always smiling, fella in Abkhazia. He reminds me of my friend Jose, he too is always willing to do those pesky chores no one wants to do. We have drivers (required by MSF) that often are grumpy, and ask for raises every other day. Shamil is thoughtful, and very helpful whenever asked. He fixed the light fixture in my room and so when the electricity works, so does the light. We found old buckets and pots to plant flowers in for our terrace, and Shamil put holes in the bottom……I asked Shamil to use his wits, not his charm, to solve the kitty problem. The next day he put chicken wire on the window, small hole wire, no kitty can come through those holes, neither will the giant RATS we have either. I guess a teeny mouse could get through, but I have not seen mice, just gross, fat, fast RATS. I am not sure who would be the victor in a cat and rat battle, I don’t really care. They can have their own games, just leave me out.
So, you might think the kitty ordeal is solved. It was, sort of. After 5 days of the kitty meowing endlessly throughout the night, while I was using earplugs and dreaming of a stun-gun, he departed. Presumably to find a more hospitable home, one where food and lodging were provided. Dilemma solved.
A week of peace and quiet, nice, then last night, as I was drifting off to sleep after finishing MY LAST BOOK (please send more books, Please) I heard not one cat, but two damn cats, meowing right under my window. On the terrace outside my window TWO NEW CATS decided since cute little REAL, but now departed, kitty has found another home they should take up residence here.
I ran out on the terrace, forgetting there is a guard guarding our house sitting in his guard-perch who has full view of anyone on the terrace, in my birthday suit, yelling at the cats, “Get out of here, NOW“.
Who knows what the neighbors on either side of our house were thinking, cats are just apart of life here. The cats of course scampered away for a few minutes, only to return once I got back into bed. This time with a yodel instead of a meow, a quivering, screeching, irritating, annoying, frustrating, disgusting, ‘we‘re out to get you, you silly girl‘……….yodel.
Earplugs,
a smile from the guard the next day,
an acknowledgement that I’m here to learn,
maybe to accept new night-kitty-friends.
Not in my bed, NEVER. Nighty night g
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