<<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>

Traveling halfway around the world from <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> to the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> takes time, about <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> hours to be exact. Add to that <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> hours of layovers and <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> hours lost to time difference because we were travelling <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and the figure comes to significantly more, which explains why I felt a measure of fatigue as I made my way down the airstairs to the vast, snowcovered airfield ramp at <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> Air Force Base near <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. The sting of the air at <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> degrees Farenheit felt akin to stepping inside a blast freezer, and the sharp gasps and intakes of breath from the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> other <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> personnel with whom I'd shared the journey were met with only the bleak, muted sounds of the lucky 'volunteer' cargo loaders and the transit vehicles waiting to transport us to the main base. Plenty of questions floated around in (or stuck frozen to the sides of) my head but one of the great things about this stage of a military outing as compared to the preparation stage was that there wasn't a need to feel stress or actively seek answers to any of them - everything important would be explained eventually and everything else wasn't important - and this left me free to relax and only ponder seriously the mystery of why we hadn't flown <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> around the world instead of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, gaining <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> hours instead of losing them and thereby effectively eliminating a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> of travel from our schedule.
A few droning briefings about things like rules and orders and reporting instructions and equipment issue were interspersed with the occasional useful view of a base map or explanation as to where the food and bathrooms could be found, after which we spent an incredibly unforgiving half hour trying to find our personal gear (conveniently packed in <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>) in a pile of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> other people's personal gear (conveniently packaged in exactly the same <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>). Anyone who has ever had to do this outside in a fenced mobility yard in subzero temperatures and icy slush will definitely gain a newfound appreciation for all those tedious conveyor belts, roofs, walls and central heating systems they build at airports. I know I did. Following this we picked through our bags for all the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> gear we'd decided was too heavy or bulky for our <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, restacked our bags on a pallet, hurried through linen issue and then hiked across base to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, which was our assigned home for the next few days. A quick summation by or element commander (who'd been through <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> before), however, resulted in us heading next door to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> which had nicer bunks and was immediately adjacent to the showers and bathrooms, since apparently nobody would be the wiser if the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> of us slept there instead.
Life at <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> isn't bad at all. Hot food, hot showers, mattresses, decent food, all the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> we can drink, phone and internet access and even a bar in one of the tents with some good <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> beer. We get to meet plenty of folks from <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, and today I even ran into a good friend of mine from pilot training who I hadn't seen in years who just finished up in <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and is on his way back to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. Our only responsibilities while here are to check the passenger terminal a few times each day for the status of our airlift to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and turn in our linens when we leave - other than that it's been nothing but taking the occasional photo and relaxing with a book all day long. Sadly of course it was never meant to last, and just now we learned that if the current weather holds our airlift should leave sometime between <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. After a short flight we'll arrive at <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, and then (unless I'm way off the mark) we'll probably sit for a few droning briefings about things like rules and orders and reporting instructions insterspersed with the occasional useful view of a base map or explanation as to where the food and bathrooms can be found.

Shyorongi

Hiking in Shyorongi

While being given a tour of my school on my first day here, I noticed a wideish red dirt path passing behind a section of the school wall that was under construction. A few days later, a bit bored and craving a walk, I decided to see if the path had anything to offer. One of the most beautiful and unexpectedly delightful hikes of my life ensued. The path wound around the huge hills surrounding Shyorongi, giving me epic views of banana, tea and coffee fields for miles. The landscape around here is so green, and the dirt on the paths is so red, it feels like I’m in some kind of enhanced Technicolor version of reality. For the first hour or so, there were little clusters of huts every few hundred yards along the path, and everyone who saw me asked where I was going. At first, I was worried that I might be trespassing, but after asking a few people I realized that the Rwandans seem to have no concept of private property. People seemed nothing but proud when I told them that I was just walking to enjoy the scenery. No one gave me a hard time, and almost everyone wished me a happy journey. There were frequent turnoffs from the path that wound down into the giant valley below Shyorongi, but I stuck to the main, widest route, since I’ll have plenty of time to explore the rest during my year here. I walked for a couple hours before I hit a road, then I retraced my steps. The terrain isn’t too hilly, since it hugs the hills while staying on basically the same topo line the whole time, so it’ll be fantastic for running if I can work up the nerve to let the locals see the crazy muzungu turn bright red as she runs for fun. I’m so excited that my aimless wandering doesn’t have to be put on hold till I can get back to San Francisco, and I can’t wait to check out some of those crazy inner-field offshoot paths.

Mardi Gras with the Sistahs

The nuns here at Stella Matutina have extremely generously been inviting me to lunch and dinner almost every day since I got here, and penniless, cooking skillless me has been accepting every time, but Rwandan food is ROUGH. Rice, beans, cassava (the hateful starch), potatoes, liver, and cabbage salad is the daily fare, and it’s always prepared exactly the same, and I invariably hate it, and internally pine for Mexican, Indian, Thai, seafood, hamburgers, anything available for purchase at Bi-Rite market, fresh-baked bread, Italian, pizza, red wine, American breakfast foods…oh, God. But! Yesterday, in an inexplicable stroke of divine benevolence, after the aforementioned Rwandan starchfest had been cleared away, a piping hot stack of at least twenty CREPES appeared, followed by a tub of BUTTER (the first time I’d seen it here) and a little pot of sugar to boot. I nearly wept. The nuns asked if I’d ever had a crepe before, and I went off, talking about Shrove Tuesday and French class and Crepevine and Crepeville and all those other crepe-themed restaurants that make my heart sing, and about Ross and Nicki’s cromlettes and about the countless times that I have been too stuffed with crepes to open my eyes, and how they’re like sushi in that you never think you’ll be full off them but you always are…I don’t know if they understood anything I said, but they loved that I was so excited over a stupid crepe, and piled some on my plate. I braced myself for the worst, telling myself that maybe Rwandans make their crepes out of cassava flour, or with banana paste instead of egg, or in some other fashion that totally destroyed crepes as I knew them, but then I took just one bite, and grinned from ear to ear, because from sunny California to stuck-up France to weird and wonderful, cassava-worshipping Rwanda, you can’t mess with crepes. Tres, tres, tres bon was all I could say, and it was enough.

California Stars

So I’m getting used to life here, and really liking it in a lot of ways, but missing home more acutely than I expected. I’m even surprised to feel that strongly about “home” at all; I knew that I liked California, San Francisco particularly, but it’s only now that I’m attempting to really live somewhere else that I realize how strongly I felt about it, how comfortable I was in my home, how much of a home I had. Being away from home is exciting and exhilarating and exhausting. This makes sense:

I'd like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of California stars
I'd like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of California stars

I'd love to feel your hand touching mine
And tell me why I must keep working on
Yes, I'd give my life to lay my head tonight
On a bed of California stars

I'd like to dream my troubles all away
On a bed of California stars
Jump up from my starbed and make another day
Underneath my California stars

They hang like grapes on vines that shine
And warm the lovers glass like friendly wine
So, I'd give this world just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of California stars

Surfing in Grenoble

'I saved these just for you.' I told the bus driver as I handed him the two pound coins. They dont like big bills and change. So I had in fact made an effort throughout the day to save these two coins to make the twelve pound fair for two open ended return tickets to the edinburgh airport.

'Thanks.' He said with a half laugh half smile. 'You two off home then?'

'Off to France actually, sort of a holiday within a holiday.' I replied. Ski-ing in the alps. Holiday. Living in Scotland. Working holiday. We board the bus and our journey to les orres begins as the 4pm sun sets on edinburgh castle.

'Enjoy your trip'

We had checked in on line. We just have small ish carry on bags with us. So there wasn't any of your usual airport stuff. No line at the security check point. On we went landing was good and there we were in Grenoble. Not too much colder than the Scottish highlands. Still cold.

So at this point I think i'll put in some background information. We had decided to try couch surfing in grenoble. If you have not heard of it, couchsurfing.com is an organization which aims to get like-minded friendly people together. Take the idea sleeping on a friend's couch and expand it. Once registered on their site you can host and surf. As a host you invite people into your home, provide some accomodation, give infomation on your local area and perhaps even show people around town. As a surfer you can contact hosts in places you'd like to visit, find out if they are willing, and be a good house guest. Ideally feedback will be given by both host and surfer so others can know.

In Grenoble we had arranged to stay with this guy Xavier. It was sweet. He had given us directions to his place from the airport, which turned out to be spot on. As Grenoble sits in the mountains (Omi tells us 'when you are in grenoble you can pick any street, and you go to the end of that street, there is a mountain there') the airport is a 45 minute drive from the city. Following Xavier's directions we take the shuttle into town, ride trolly line A 5 stops and trolly line C 3 stops. We were about to call him when we here Nicki's name. He was there to meet us.

hello bonjour bonjour hello nicki xavier ross 'have you guys eat? I keep food for you come come.' He had told us previously that he was having people over this night (otherwise he would have picked us up at the bus station) and would save us some food. He was very very welcoming. He showed us in and to our room. Many times it seems hosts will have a spare room with a bed. 'you can put your stuff here and then come to get some food.' said xavier. We knew he was having people over, but we did not expect the welcoming party we received. Xavier is friends with many of the other couch surfing hosts in Greneble, and on this night there just happened to be fifteen or twenty of them gathered in his small living room eating raclette and having a gay old time.

They were all your mid-twenties crowd, all very french and very friendly. Raclette is amazing. Its like cheese( nice french variety) and meat, with onions and potatoes and other stuff; all individual like, then they have this cooking machine - wide flat and oval with hot space on top and in the middle, no moving parts looks like a mini two storey parking garage, then there are about 8 large flat metal spoons you put in the middle with the cheese in and it melts maybe some onions or salami on top - it makes like individual portions of fondue to be eaten with these other fixings. They were all very enthusiastic about showing us. Very generous with their wine. We stayed with them til perhaps 3 in the a.m. talking and playing games, one game very similar to mafia amoung others. The next day xavier continued to offer us food and gave us a key to his place so we could come and go as we pleased.

Grenoble is a very pretty city indeed surrounded by mountains. We were there on a sunday so many shops were shut. Memorable moments included 1.asking the owner of a kebab shop for directions to the train station (so we could arrange tickets to less orres). I asked in my very rudimentary basic french; something not unlike (phonetically) 'oo ay lu gard du tron.' What ensued was a lengthy and confusing transaction. He didnt speak english, and us not french. (I know coming to france and not bothering to learn... but we've been learning fast) He would say something, realize we weren't getting it, then repeat louder and slower, as you do. in the end we got there. A kilometer away in a direction. and 2. Hiking to the top of the closest hill. There was a fortress with tunnels and walls. The viw from the top was great.

So monday we had a very beautiful train journey from grenoble to gap. where our friend manu picked us up and drove us to the ski station where he works 'les orres'. At which time we learned the correct pronunciation: lezore. It is beautiful here...

Prep

Monday morning I awake in <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, in a crappy hotel but at least not one with drunk people singing. Instead I wake up to a horrible loud obnoxious continuing screech from the plumbing whenever the person next door takes a shower, but that's possibly not as bad. The room is a decent size and there's a pool and a treadmill, so no huge complaints. The weekend was uneventful following an interesting <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> which I spent actually saving someone - a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> was having a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and we were tasked to transport her by air from a small town in rural <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> to a hospital in <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. The rescue itself went off without a hitch so in order to avoid setting the bar too high for the upcoming <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> I nearly <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. Oops!

Anyway, as I said I awake. Some exercise, shower shave brush teeth, healthy breakfast and a short commute bring me to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> which is the earliest I can show at work due to my <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> land time. On the way to work I call my home unit MPF for words on my orders but get no answer, I suspect that office is closed for inspection readiness training and won't be picking up before the afternoon. I arrive at the squadron with a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> for the maintenance troops (don't ask) and someone immediately asks if I have my orders yet. I reply no. They tell me they need orders to book my flights to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. I inform them I know this and mentioned it to my commander on <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. They ask if there's anyone I can call. I give them a number or two and inquire about my boots. Boots are still on order. I drive across base to medical to get my <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> shot. They tell me their computer is down and it will be a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> wait, and regardless they won't give me the shot unless I have my orders. I drive back and on the way someone from my home unit calls and tells me MPF is closed for inspection prep but that they're trying to work my orders. I get back to the squadron and someone else asks if I have orders yet. I reply no. I ask where to get <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> for my <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> vest, nobody seems to know. Someone from home calls and asks if they've booked my flights to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. I reply no, I need my orders first. They say I should have them. I agree profusely and ask them to contact MPF. They say they can't, they're <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> tonight and have to plan. Besides MPF is closed today. Someone sees me on the phone and asks if I'm getting my orders. I hang up and say they should be here soon. I try to do some <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> planning but get interrupted by another phone call from home from someone new, saying they've got an email from MPF stating they can't finalize my orders until I get a signiture from medical certifying I've had all my shots to include <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>.

A this point I give up and go <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. At <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> we land, short commute back to the hotel, set alarm, sleep. <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> was about the same.

Murakaza neza mu Rwanda.

I'd been awake for about an hour, sort of half way between wake and sleep, tossing and turning, aware that something was keeping me up but not willing to fully address it, like when you're freezing cold at night and you know there's a blanket in the closet but you're so tired you don't want to get out of bed and get it, like that. It gets louder, and louder, and what had just been loud voices becomes full-on singing and chanting and pounding, and I finally snap out of my doze, and I see that Jane is awake too. We look at the clock and it's 2:00am, and the racket is getting louder, and it feels like the whole hotel is shaking. We go back and forth about what it might be, how many people it is, how we're about ready to jump off the balcony, how we've already had food poisoning from this hotel and flooding from this hotel and no power from this hotel and a general royal screwing from this hotel, and there are references to straws and camels' backs bandied about, and finally by 2:30am the hullabaloo reaches such a fever pitch that we jump out of bed in nothing but shorts and tank tops, showing off our scandalously inappropriate knees, and march downstairs to have a look. We find them at the bar, in the center of the small whitewashed tin box hotel, eight or nine men and about six times as many beer bottles and no television or radio or anything, just them, singing football anthems at the top of their lungs and pounding on the table, the counters, whatever. We put on our most pleasant faces and use our most pleasant Franyarwanglish to explain that please, we're sleeping, we're tired, it's 2:30am, we're teachers, we have class, we need sleep, please. They get too close, they touch our arms, they tell us that they're guests at the hotel, they ask us where we're from, we're a little freaked, we repeat that they need to shut up and we back out the door. They agree to close the door and say they'll keep their voices down, and we bolt upstairs and lock ourselves in our room and agree that the two muzungu girls in their skivvies going down to take on the band of drunk local men in the middle of the night was not our brightest scheme.

Two minutes of serene peaceful quiet and we're rather proud of ourselves.

And then it explodes again, the chanting, the pounding, the head splitting racket. We call Eric and he says the manager is going to cut the power to make them go to bed, that's the manager's solution, there will be no talking to the men, just a vague hope that the darkness will make them tired. Eric says stay in your rooms, there's nothing to be done about it tonight, we'll get in touch with the police tomorrow. We hang up with Eric and it's funny now, it's been hours and we're so tired and all the frustrating things about this country and this experience are concentrated in the racket and ruckus and it's awful and great to laugh it all out. Perfectly timed, we both receive a text from Meghan next door:

"I t h i n k t h e n a t i v e s a r e p r e p a r i n g t o e a t u s."

They hear us laughing and soon all four of us are out on our adjoining balconies, me and my three buddies that I met two weeks ago but feel like I've known for months, delirious with tired and laughter, letting all our frustration out onto the muted balmy Rwandan night. Susan points out that we can see the stars out here in the country, not like in Kigali, and we all sit and Jane shares her Nice brand biscuits and we enjoy the stars and the relative quiet for a while. The noise is still raging by the time we go back in, but I'm beyond caring. We put on David Sedaris reading Christmas stories, and I idly listen, and after an hour or so the noise must have died down, because the last time I remember seeing on my clock was 3:57am, and I fell asleep.

Eric filed a police report this morning. I doubt much will come of it.

Many things here seem all-encompassing, freaky, and infuriating when I'm in the thick of them, but just two weeks in this country and I already notice a pattern of being constantly pulled back to what matters. Having a tiny room with no amenities doesn't matter when you get to wake up to stunningly beautiful choir practice each morning. Being hot and uncomfortable and irritated doesn't matter when you get an email from a friend back home that makes you happy enough to cry. Waiting two hours for a meal at a restaurant and finally being served almost, but not entirely, the perfect opposite of what you ordered doesn't matter when the server is the nicest person you've met so far and when John makes a joke and the end of it all that makes you laugh harder than you ever have in recent memory. Tossing and turning to the sound of rowdy drunks for three hours in the middle of the night really doesn't matter when you're lucky enough to share biscuits and watch the stars with new friends that you weren't looking for but are starting to need.

Murakaza neza mu Rwanda. Sorry this is a long one, shorter, more informative, less introspective next time. Missing the Afghani, Scottish, and Pleasant Hillian Copley contingents with wild abandon. Love you all!

The Largest Gathering of its Kind...

...in as Many Years

Other possibilities for the title of this blog included

"The Night of the Arctic Barn or Lisa's Dream Wedding"

"18 Hour Shift"

"Too Much to Drink for 200"

However all of these are old news. I chose the current title because it is happening now. We are experiencing one of the coldest snowiest winters Scotland has seen in 25 years. Apart from other implications; transportation limited due to scotland's unpreparedness for such conditions, excellent skiing, us being really cold here at the hotel, pipes freezing etc; the recent freeze lends itself to the sport of curling. The Lake of Montieth, which lies a short distance south of monachyle mhor, will potentially hold the largest curling event the uk has ever seen. The Grand Match as they call it was last held in 1979, the last time conditions permitted. It isnt actually until tuesday, but the last remaining staff here at the hotel will head down there today (Saturday) just to see whats happening.

I would love mention a few things about these other titles, but they will have to wait for another blog, as its already 1 in the afternoon and we need to get going.

suffice to say xmas, new years and the wedding are all finished and went as smooth as could be expected. all the guests and most of the staff are finally gone. just a handful of us now. nicki and i will hang around til thurs. maybe get in a day of scottish skiing. they have a couple of days in edinburgh before our flight to Grenoble on saturday.


all my love

To Begin, and the Frustrations of Waiting

Welcome to the blog. I don't feel like writing an intro so sorry readers, you'll have to figure this out as you go.

I'm the first to make an entry here, partly because I just set up the blog and partly because I haven't yet done any of the things the blog is supposed to be about, because I'm still sitting at home waiting. Military orders can take time to complete, especially when I don't choose to babysit them myself from request to final approval, and so instead of going to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> today to train for <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> like I was supposed to I'm enjoying the good life here in Northern California with nothing but eating, blogging, and eventually packing my clothes to pass the time. My <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> training in <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> is now <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and rapidly dwindling but that's alright, because one of the good parts about (and the chief reason why I'm) not babysitting my orders is that I don't have to stress about when they'll be finished - I'm sure I'll get there eventually!

Oh, and after <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> is <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. That's one of the things this blog is supposed to be about.