I love volleyball and when I played in high school and college I loved it, but I don't think I was ever as motivated as the girls on my team here in Benin. Every time I looked they were practicing this past week at a tournament that hosted teams from the Atakora-Donga Regions in Benin. They would wake-up and practice. They'd eat breakfast and practice. In the middle of the day, in the hot African sun, they would practice. It would be raining and they would practice. It is a shame they don't have the opportunity to do it more often back in village, where they are going to school, and when they aren't at school they are doing housework.
While practice is supposed to make perfect, my girls prior to coming to the tournament had significantly less practice than the other teams. We started in February and practiced twice a week, but due to trainings I had, were unable to practice during breaks and at other times. The other teams had been together for a year or so. I have to say though considering all this, my girls were able to hold their own.
The first match it was clear the girls were nervous. They didn't have their usual swagger they seem to carry naturally. Also the voice of our team at the start of the match was missing. She was out looking for the key to the classroom, where all the girls' things were, and no one could find her. Around the court were tons of people, heckling and cheering with each point. Like when I played volleyball, I couldn't stop talking to the girls, cheering them on and trying to remain calm. During the second game the voice of the team showed up. I didn't put her in right away. By the third game the girls settled down and won the game. Unfortunately we couldn't sustain for the fourth game and lost the match.
I was pleased with the girls' performance, but of course there were things that had gone wrong and after the usual post-game chat I made the girls get on the court and do lines. It has been my goal to discipline these girls and to take pride in themselves, if it is the last thing I do.
The next day we had our second match. If we won we stayed on for the semi-finals (there were only four teams total), but if we lost it was back up to Materi. The girls practiced as much as they could within the next 24 hours and we all were confident we could win this match. I was so certain, but as the game started slowly things fell out of place, and after three games we were done. I was happy to see the girls were upset with themselves--to me it meant the competitive streak had seeped into them and good--but I finally said to them that they should be proud of what they had done. I also pointed out to them that I am not sure I could have taken a group of girls from the States and done what I had done with them. They in two months, with maybe a little over a dozen practices, had made themselves into volleyball players. They played without shoes, some of them, in the heat, on courts with rocks and dirt, with one volleyball, a basketball, and a soccer ball. So to steal some words from my favorite movie, while we didn't win the game, it was still good.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Benin Volleyballin’ Part II: Getting There
At 10:30 a.m. I am dropped off at the school for our 11 a.m. departure. After five minutes the other coach calls me into his office and tells me to go ahead back home; he will call me when they are ready. Two hours pass, I am not worried, I expected we wouldn’t leave on time, and finally a little after 1 p.m. I am told to come back. Of course, another hour passes before we actually leave the school—me, the other coach, and 20 students, including the 11 girls that form our volleyball team.
You can sense the excitement of the girls. This isn’t something that happens everyday for them; there are many students, who have never left the village, let alone get in a car. They squeal loudly as the driver turns roughly around to head out of the school gates, which prompts our director to warn the driver to be careful. We bump along the long dirt road, when not even ten minutes in we decide we will stop in the first town, Tanguieta. The driver needs to change his clothes and the students are hungry; they don’t have any problem vocalizing discontent.
We eat quickly, paying for extra food we did not get, just because the Maman at the cafeteria, refused to go and count the plates. It is what it is. Leaving the cafeteria, the driver is no where to be found. Ten minutes pass, fifteen minutes pass, a half hour passes and we finally see him riding around town on a moto. He returns, and the other coach makes a joke about the driver having to go see his wife; it’s his way of telling the guy he shouldn’t have been gone so long.
Next on our trip is Natitingou, where I want to stop at the post office to see if I have packages, including possibly one with much needed volleyballs. Then we also need to get photos developed of each of the players to make identification cards for the tournament. Also there are three girls, who refused to eat in Tanguieta, but of course are still hungry. It is what it is. We arrive in Natitingou, a hour and half later. The photo place can’t make photos with my American camera, so we find out we must make another stop in Djougou. At the post office I am met with success, the volleyballs have arrived, thankfully as we forgot our lone volleyball at school. We are delayed once more though, as the three girls move slowly to find what they deem suitable food.
Djougou is another hour and half plus, which doesn’t include various stops at police checkpoints, where we must give money to keep going on our way. We arrive in Djougou, our destination Ouake, is less than an hour away.
Our stop in Djougou lasts at least three hours--or at least it felt like it. We must make copies of photos as I mentioned for the tournament. We find a place, but once again they can't take the card from my camera, but this other guy says he can. So we hop on some motos and go to his house. As I am doing this, I am thinking, never in America, never in America. After about five to ten minutes we get to his house. His wife is outside preparing dinner, and doesn't even make any face at the fact that her husband has brought two strangers over. We go inside the guys house and it is like a regular old CVS set-up to make copies of photos. Yet, the copies take a while to make, and then we find out how expensive they are and we need like 30 some photos. After much debate we decide to make one copy and then go to another place to make copies. The night is coming and so I go back to the bus with the girls. We wait for another hour and half, and when I call the other teacher, he just tells me he is coming. The girls are growing impatient and so is our driver. I just tell them, it is what it is, and he is coming. He finally arrives after 9 p.m. and we all pile back in the bus for the last leg of our trip. And so after a seven hour plus trip, which should have been no more than four hours, we arrived in Ouake, a town near the border of Togo, Benin’s western neighbor.
You can sense the excitement of the girls. This isn’t something that happens everyday for them; there are many students, who have never left the village, let alone get in a car. They squeal loudly as the driver turns roughly around to head out of the school gates, which prompts our director to warn the driver to be careful. We bump along the long dirt road, when not even ten minutes in we decide we will stop in the first town, Tanguieta. The driver needs to change his clothes and the students are hungry; they don’t have any problem vocalizing discontent.
We eat quickly, paying for extra food we did not get, just because the Maman at the cafeteria, refused to go and count the plates. It is what it is. Leaving the cafeteria, the driver is no where to be found. Ten minutes pass, fifteen minutes pass, a half hour passes and we finally see him riding around town on a moto. He returns, and the other coach makes a joke about the driver having to go see his wife; it’s his way of telling the guy he shouldn’t have been gone so long.
Next on our trip is Natitingou, where I want to stop at the post office to see if I have packages, including possibly one with much needed volleyballs. Then we also need to get photos developed of each of the players to make identification cards for the tournament. Also there are three girls, who refused to eat in Tanguieta, but of course are still hungry. It is what it is. We arrive in Natitingou, a hour and half later. The photo place can’t make photos with my American camera, so we find out we must make another stop in Djougou. At the post office I am met with success, the volleyballs have arrived, thankfully as we forgot our lone volleyball at school. We are delayed once more though, as the three girls move slowly to find what they deem suitable food.
Djougou is another hour and half plus, which doesn’t include various stops at police checkpoints, where we must give money to keep going on our way. We arrive in Djougou, our destination Ouake, is less than an hour away.
Our stop in Djougou lasts at least three hours--or at least it felt like it. We must make copies of photos as I mentioned for the tournament. We find a place, but once again they can't take the card from my camera, but this other guy says he can. So we hop on some motos and go to his house. As I am doing this, I am thinking, never in America, never in America. After about five to ten minutes we get to his house. His wife is outside preparing dinner, and doesn't even make any face at the fact that her husband has brought two strangers over. We go inside the guys house and it is like a regular old CVS set-up to make copies of photos. Yet, the copies take a while to make, and then we find out how expensive they are and we need like 30 some photos. After much debate we decide to make one copy and then go to another place to make copies. The night is coming and so I go back to the bus with the girls. We wait for another hour and half, and when I call the other teacher, he just tells me he is coming. The girls are growing impatient and so is our driver. I just tell them, it is what it is, and he is coming. He finally arrives after 9 p.m. and we all pile back in the bus for the last leg of our trip. And so after a seven hour plus trip, which should have been no more than four hours, we arrived in Ouake, a town near the border of Togo, Benin’s western neighbor.
Benin Volleyballin’ Part I
In February, with the enthusiasm of my school’s director and consistent assistance from another member of the administration, I started C.E.G. Matéri’s first volleyball team. It was opened up to only girls, much to the chagrin of the male students, who insisted they too were jeunes filles (young girls).
Initially, I set out to practice once a week. Free time is not a commodity for most girls in Benin, as they are responsible for cooking and cleaning at home, along with keeping up with their studies. We decided on Saturday mornings at 7 a.m. going for an hour and half. The second week in, after receiving a lecture on making sure they arrived on time, as we only practiced once a week, the girls approached me, “Madame Jamie, ‘What about practicing on Sunday?’.” I asked if this was instead of Saturday morning, but no, they wanted to practice twice a week. So it was set, we’d start practicing twice a week, two hours each day. Of course I can’t think of a single time our practices didn’t run shorter than two and half hours, with the girls continuing to get some last passes in while we were taking things back to be locked up at the school.
I don’t think these girls give any second thoughts to the conditions they play in, meanwhile I have had to slowly accept them, which has sub sequentially left me with total admiration of these girls. We play outside, on a terrain that is basically hard ground, with tiny rocks everywhere. The girls fall on the ground without question or complaint, at the same time they are forced to move quickly to avoid falling all together.
In addition to the one volleyball the school had, I bought a volleyball, which quickly was deflated as the girls sky rocketed the ball everywhere and anywhere but the volleyball court. Then we resorted to using a basketball and two soccer balls, just so the girls could get repetition.
I couldn’t figure out how to run a practice at first, because I was used to having many volleyballs at my disposal. I also struggled to explain things in French. I knew this would be a challenge, but never realized how ingrained in my head volleyball lingo had become. As a result though, the girls have learned a little more English, evident by them saying “Mine,” sometimes, as opposed to “J’ai” to call for the ball. Thankfully with the help of another school administrator I survived and developed some new strategies on my own.
I had to leave behind the complex volleyball I had learned and go back to basics. This means just simply passing and setting, and despite protests underhand serving—next year they are all learning to overhand serve. I had to deal with the time eaten up by chasing balls. I finally resorted one day to taking the girls to the side of the school building and passing with the wall, making them get in ready position, throw the ball up, and passing, in a methodical, controlled process, that kept them focused. I also had to deal with how the other coach wanted to discipline the girls, by yelling and hitting. It was only a matter of time, until the other coach saw giving them running, having them hold the passing position, or doing push-ups worked more effectively. Then there has been the slower process of reprogramming these girls to pick one another up, instead of blasting each other for mistakes.
This all leads me up to today, which was the first day at a regional competition in Benin, where the first girls’ sports team ever from Matéri is participating.
Initially, I set out to practice once a week. Free time is not a commodity for most girls in Benin, as they are responsible for cooking and cleaning at home, along with keeping up with their studies. We decided on Saturday mornings at 7 a.m. going for an hour and half. The second week in, after receiving a lecture on making sure they arrived on time, as we only practiced once a week, the girls approached me, “Madame Jamie, ‘What about practicing on Sunday?’.” I asked if this was instead of Saturday morning, but no, they wanted to practice twice a week. So it was set, we’d start practicing twice a week, two hours each day. Of course I can’t think of a single time our practices didn’t run shorter than two and half hours, with the girls continuing to get some last passes in while we were taking things back to be locked up at the school.
I don’t think these girls give any second thoughts to the conditions they play in, meanwhile I have had to slowly accept them, which has sub sequentially left me with total admiration of these girls. We play outside, on a terrain that is basically hard ground, with tiny rocks everywhere. The girls fall on the ground without question or complaint, at the same time they are forced to move quickly to avoid falling all together.
In addition to the one volleyball the school had, I bought a volleyball, which quickly was deflated as the girls sky rocketed the ball everywhere and anywhere but the volleyball court. Then we resorted to using a basketball and two soccer balls, just so the girls could get repetition.
I couldn’t figure out how to run a practice at first, because I was used to having many volleyballs at my disposal. I also struggled to explain things in French. I knew this would be a challenge, but never realized how ingrained in my head volleyball lingo had become. As a result though, the girls have learned a little more English, evident by them saying “Mine,” sometimes, as opposed to “J’ai” to call for the ball. Thankfully with the help of another school administrator I survived and developed some new strategies on my own.
I had to leave behind the complex volleyball I had learned and go back to basics. This means just simply passing and setting, and despite protests underhand serving—next year they are all learning to overhand serve. I had to deal with the time eaten up by chasing balls. I finally resorted one day to taking the girls to the side of the school building and passing with the wall, making them get in ready position, throw the ball up, and passing, in a methodical, controlled process, that kept them focused. I also had to deal with how the other coach wanted to discipline the girls, by yelling and hitting. It was only a matter of time, until the other coach saw giving them running, having them hold the passing position, or doing push-ups worked more effectively. Then there has been the slower process of reprogramming these girls to pick one another up, instead of blasting each other for mistakes.
This all leads me up to today, which was the first day at a regional competition in Benin, where the first girls’ sports team ever from Matéri is participating.
Marriage Proposals
It is an understatement to say I receive one to two advances from Beninese men each week. On some weeks this is incredibly infuriating, but for the most part it’s been interesting to develop different strategies to put these men off.
Strategy #1:
Me: I am married.
Beninese Man: Where is your husband?”
Me: He is in the United States.
Beninese Man: Do you want a Beninese husband?
FAILED
Strategy #2:
Me: I am married.
Beninese Man: Where is your husband?
Me: Oh, back in village.
Beninese Man: Do you have children?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Do you want a Beninese husband?
FAILED
Strategy #3:
Beninese Man: So you are my wife, right?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Yes, you are my wife.
Me: Well, I don’t sweep.
Beninese Man: That’s fine.
Me: I don’t want children.
Beninese Man: (thinking)
Me: I don’t cook either.
Beninese Man: (thinking)
Me: I also already have two husbands.
Beninese Man: That’s no good.
SUCCESS
Strategy #4:
Beninese Man: So you are going to take me to America with you?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: I will cook and clean.
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Why not? I want a white wife.
Me: Well, I am no good, but I will look for another white woman for you.
Beninese Man: OK
SUCCESS
Strategy #5:
Beninese Man: So, you are here?
Me: Yes.
Beninese Man: With whom?
Me: My friend.
Beninese Man: Do you have a husband?
Me: Yes.
Beninese Man: (leaves, only to return when he realizes “my friend” is not my husband) Does she have a husband?
Friend: Yes.
Beninese Man: Where is he?
Me: He is at home.
Beninese Man: Can I come visit you there?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Why not?
Me: Because my husband is very jealous and he will hit you.
Beninese Man: Really? No, that’s not true.
Me: Yes. (I point to my broken hand) See my hand, he hit me and that’s why it’s broken.
Beninese Man: (laughing) No that’s not true.
Me: It is.
Beninese Man: Did you refuse to do something?
Me: Yes, I refused to cook.
Beninese Man: OK, well then he had reason.
SUCCESS
Strategy #6:
Me: (I pretend not to understand French)
Beninese Man: (After a minute or two gives up)
SUCCESS
Strategy #7:
Beninese Man: (approaches)
Me: Turn my head and just continue to look the other way incredibly pissed off until he leaves.
SUCCESS
Strategy #1:
Me: I am married.
Beninese Man: Where is your husband?”
Me: He is in the United States.
Beninese Man: Do you want a Beninese husband?
FAILED
Strategy #2:
Me: I am married.
Beninese Man: Where is your husband?
Me: Oh, back in village.
Beninese Man: Do you have children?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Do you want a Beninese husband?
FAILED
Strategy #3:
Beninese Man: So you are my wife, right?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Yes, you are my wife.
Me: Well, I don’t sweep.
Beninese Man: That’s fine.
Me: I don’t want children.
Beninese Man: (thinking)
Me: I don’t cook either.
Beninese Man: (thinking)
Me: I also already have two husbands.
Beninese Man: That’s no good.
SUCCESS
Strategy #4:
Beninese Man: So you are going to take me to America with you?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: I will cook and clean.
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Why not? I want a white wife.
Me: Well, I am no good, but I will look for another white woman for you.
Beninese Man: OK
SUCCESS
Strategy #5:
Beninese Man: So, you are here?
Me: Yes.
Beninese Man: With whom?
Me: My friend.
Beninese Man: Do you have a husband?
Me: Yes.
Beninese Man: (leaves, only to return when he realizes “my friend” is not my husband) Does she have a husband?
Friend: Yes.
Beninese Man: Where is he?
Me: He is at home.
Beninese Man: Can I come visit you there?
Me: No.
Beninese Man: Why not?
Me: Because my husband is very jealous and he will hit you.
Beninese Man: Really? No, that’s not true.
Me: Yes. (I point to my broken hand) See my hand, he hit me and that’s why it’s broken.
Beninese Man: (laughing) No that’s not true.
Me: It is.
Beninese Man: Did you refuse to do something?
Me: Yes, I refused to cook.
Beninese Man: OK, well then he had reason.
SUCCESS
Strategy #6:
Me: (I pretend not to understand French)
Beninese Man: (After a minute or two gives up)
SUCCESS
Strategy #7:
Beninese Man: (approaches)
Me: Turn my head and just continue to look the other way incredibly pissed off until he leaves.
SUCCESS
I am Chinese, if you please.
My first week of classes I asked my students where I was from, and they said Spain, which I could not understand. Later I learned that there were Spanish nuns working with my villages Catholic church. Of course this doesn’t account for the countless people all over Benin who assume I am anything but American, or even if they get that right, then they think the United States is a part of Europe. Yet, my favorite misstep thus far happened a month ago.
It was a Saturday morning and I had finished coaching volleyball. Our electricity had been out for a couple weeks, so I had left my phone at someone’s house to get it charged. As I waited for them to bring me my phone, a man wondered into the concession in search of sodobe (imagine something like Everclear). It is not surprising for men to be drunk at 9 a.m. in the morning; in fact, I have seen men as early as 6 a.m. starting to drink. As the man is waiting for the Maman in the concession to pour him a shot, he asks if I am for him. The Maman explains I am hers, she got me in Porto-Novo. He accepts this answer, as if white people really are bought in Porto-Novo, or anywhere in Benin for that matter.
Five minutes go by and the man starts saying Madame, Madame, Madame Blanche. Literally, Mrs. White, as I am white. I turn to him and he says to me, “Are you American or are you Chinese?” He was not joking. I of course say I am Chinese, not avoiding a moment to amuse myself. He then asks if that means I know English, because you know Chinese people speak English. I say no, I don’t know any English. He questions me more, and I insist I don’t understand any English. He seems satisfied with my answer and then proceeds to drink the shot that has finally been poured for him.
It was a Saturday morning and I had finished coaching volleyball. Our electricity had been out for a couple weeks, so I had left my phone at someone’s house to get it charged. As I waited for them to bring me my phone, a man wondered into the concession in search of sodobe (imagine something like Everclear). It is not surprising for men to be drunk at 9 a.m. in the morning; in fact, I have seen men as early as 6 a.m. starting to drink. As the man is waiting for the Maman in the concession to pour him a shot, he asks if I am for him. The Maman explains I am hers, she got me in Porto-Novo. He accepts this answer, as if white people really are bought in Porto-Novo, or anywhere in Benin for that matter.
Five minutes go by and the man starts saying Madame, Madame, Madame Blanche. Literally, Mrs. White, as I am white. I turn to him and he says to me, “Are you American or are you Chinese?” He was not joking. I of course say I am Chinese, not avoiding a moment to amuse myself. He then asks if that means I know English, because you know Chinese people speak English. I say no, I don’t know any English. He questions me more, and I insist I don’t understand any English. He seems satisfied with my answer and then proceeds to drink the shot that has finally been poured for him.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Every Day is Fair Day
Each fall in Charles County, where I grew up we have an annual fair. The fair is like most fairs I imagine, full of rides that have been assembled and reassembled many times over, food meant to put you in some sort of diabetic shock or perhaps effectively clog your arteries, and of course there are arts and crafts, and produce. But what I remember most about the fair is the livestock section. You know full of chickens, goats, sheep, pigs, and rabbits. There were areas where you could pet these animals and some were just for show. For some of us in Charles County, mainly those of us who did not live on a farm, this was the once a year chance to see these animals. But here in Benin, every day is fair day, and I am always buying a ticket for the show.
Donkeys
We have weekly meetings at my school within our departments. To be frank I'd rather count the grains of sand in the Sahara desert than go to these meetings. Needless to say I don't feel guilty when I let my eyes wander. I think my favorite time was when three donkeys wandered into the school yard. They walked in what I felt was a perfect line. I literally sat for maybe ten minutes watching these donkeys march by and go to the water pump in the center of the school yard.
Pigs
Wednesday evening, I hear children yelling outside the concessions, not unusual. The voices get more animated, not necessarily angry, and even though I don't understand what they are saying (they are speaking local language) I can tell insults are being said. This prompts my Maman to go outside and see what is going on. She comes back a minute later and starts explaining what is happening in local language to the zemi driver who has come over. All I understand is that there is stealing and pigs involved. Turns out the pig is missing and the kids were trying to find it and the neighbors said they were trying to steal their pig. Then the next 15 minutes is spent finding the correct pig and coaxing back home.
Chickens
Every night the young girl in my concession is in charge of trapping the chickens and putting them in their coop. I never thought two things about this, until one night I was on the phone with my mom and they shut the lights out and commotion was going on to catch one of the chickens. My mom asked what was going on, and I replied, "Oh they are just getting the chickens in for the night."
Goats
I love goats. There are goats everywhere in Materi and in Benin in general. They are what squirrels are to Maryland. My Maman had a goat this past winter and after I returned from Safari, my family told me the goat had been stolen. It has been returned, but whomever stole it had already killed it. My Maman was not home, but my older brother proceeded to launch a full out investigation to catch the culprit. He was successful and subsequently the three of us spent the whole next day at the police figuring out what to do. Eventually the man gave my Maman the money for the goat.
Animals and Transportation
I was waiting for a taxi in the town near my village, when I see a taxi go by. It looks empty, but as it passes I see it is filled with nothing but pigs. And to this end I have seen the following animals stacked on not just tops of cars, but motorcycles and bicycles: chickens, goats, pigs, cows, and guinea hens. I guess there needs to be some way to move the fair along.
Donkeys
We have weekly meetings at my school within our departments. To be frank I'd rather count the grains of sand in the Sahara desert than go to these meetings. Needless to say I don't feel guilty when I let my eyes wander. I think my favorite time was when three donkeys wandered into the school yard. They walked in what I felt was a perfect line. I literally sat for maybe ten minutes watching these donkeys march by and go to the water pump in the center of the school yard.
Pigs
Wednesday evening, I hear children yelling outside the concessions, not unusual. The voices get more animated, not necessarily angry, and even though I don't understand what they are saying (they are speaking local language) I can tell insults are being said. This prompts my Maman to go outside and see what is going on. She comes back a minute later and starts explaining what is happening in local language to the zemi driver who has come over. All I understand is that there is stealing and pigs involved. Turns out the pig is missing and the kids were trying to find it and the neighbors said they were trying to steal their pig. Then the next 15 minutes is spent finding the correct pig and coaxing back home.
Chickens
Every night the young girl in my concession is in charge of trapping the chickens and putting them in their coop. I never thought two things about this, until one night I was on the phone with my mom and they shut the lights out and commotion was going on to catch one of the chickens. My mom asked what was going on, and I replied, "Oh they are just getting the chickens in for the night."
Goats
I love goats. There are goats everywhere in Materi and in Benin in general. They are what squirrels are to Maryland. My Maman had a goat this past winter and after I returned from Safari, my family told me the goat had been stolen. It has been returned, but whomever stole it had already killed it. My Maman was not home, but my older brother proceeded to launch a full out investigation to catch the culprit. He was successful and subsequently the three of us spent the whole next day at the police figuring out what to do. Eventually the man gave my Maman the money for the goat.
Animals and Transportation
I was waiting for a taxi in the town near my village, when I see a taxi go by. It looks empty, but as it passes I see it is filled with nothing but pigs. And to this end I have seen the following animals stacked on not just tops of cars, but motorcycles and bicycles: chickens, goats, pigs, cows, and guinea hens. I guess there needs to be some way to move the fair along.
Not Saving a Child from a Well
I wish someone could have got me breaking my hand on film and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself after I did it. It was 6:30 a.m. I had three or four hours of sleep and was off heading to catch an eight-hour bus ride down to the country’s commercial capital, Cotonou. Still dark outside, I know I won’t be able to find a zemi (moto) to get me to the bus, and so I am walking hurriedly to get there on time. I have managed to fit all my stuff for a week in one bag, but the bag is rather large, as is my purse. I carry my helmet in my left hand, with the visor open I wrap my hand through there to hold it.
For being so early and having so little sleep, my mind was racing over whether I had everything and all the things I needed to do this week and just in general the trip ahead of me. As I am going over this I consider how I should maybe get my cell phone out to use the flashlight, since I can’t see. I start digging around in my purse and it is at this moment I trip and fall, landing on my left hand, holding the helmet and then lay out flat, scrapping my right knee and my big toe.
I just start swearing at myself, mostly because I am in a hurry and I am slowing myself down, and then because I realize how much the fall hurt. I stand up and I think, "Hey, I think I just jammed some fingers." As I am walking I realize my right hand is bleeding. I should go back to the work station and clean myself up, but I veto the idea, not wanting to miss the bus and because I have a travel first aid kit with me.
So I sit on the bus for eight hours. My hand is killing me. I look at it and think it is just jammed and well it will be fine. I don’t move it and four hours into the trip I finally dig out something from my purse to take for the pain. When I make it to the work station I ice it, and figure if it still hurts in the morning I will go see the doctors.
In 24 years I have done many a things that could have caused me to break a bone, but of course it is tripping and falling that does it. The next day an x-ray shows it is broken and I have to wear a cast for six weeks, which happens to coincide with the same time of the hot season.
Today I am getting my cast off and it has an awful, worse than pungent smell to it. I have resolved to sleeping with my arm as far away from my face as possible. I am embarassed to be too close to anyone else for fear they may think it is me that smells. The doctors think the smell might be because I exposed it to water, my response: "If by water you mean sweat than yes it has been exposed to a lot of moisture."
For being so early and having so little sleep, my mind was racing over whether I had everything and all the things I needed to do this week and just in general the trip ahead of me. As I am going over this I consider how I should maybe get my cell phone out to use the flashlight, since I can’t see. I start digging around in my purse and it is at this moment I trip and fall, landing on my left hand, holding the helmet and then lay out flat, scrapping my right knee and my big toe.
I just start swearing at myself, mostly because I am in a hurry and I am slowing myself down, and then because I realize how much the fall hurt. I stand up and I think, "Hey, I think I just jammed some fingers." As I am walking I realize my right hand is bleeding. I should go back to the work station and clean myself up, but I veto the idea, not wanting to miss the bus and because I have a travel first aid kit with me.
So I sit on the bus for eight hours. My hand is killing me. I look at it and think it is just jammed and well it will be fine. I don’t move it and four hours into the trip I finally dig out something from my purse to take for the pain. When I make it to the work station I ice it, and figure if it still hurts in the morning I will go see the doctors.
In 24 years I have done many a things that could have caused me to break a bone, but of course it is tripping and falling that does it. The next day an x-ray shows it is broken and I have to wear a cast for six weeks, which happens to coincide with the same time of the hot season.
Today I am getting my cast off and it has an awful, worse than pungent smell to it. I have resolved to sleeping with my arm as far away from my face as possible. I am embarassed to be too close to anyone else for fear they may think it is me that smells. The doctors think the smell might be because I exposed it to water, my response: "If by water you mean sweat than yes it has been exposed to a lot of moisture."
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