Gone But Not Forgotten

*Pauses to look at the two shiny new followers*  *waves*  *huffs then buffs knuckles and pats self on the back*  *Tries to remember today's topic*

Ahem.  Sorry about that.  I get distracted easily.  Particularly when I think about how long it's been since there has been any positive change in the Beautifulist.  So what if I'm related to one and the other may have felt obligated.  I will take ya'll any way I can get you-the challenge will be to keep you coming back!  *wink*

Those of you who have been with me for awhile know of my EQ/WOW driven interest in roadkill. I pay close attention to all the little dead bodies I pass on the road, evaluating each for quality, in case it might be something I need.  This has been going on for what?  Close to ten years now? 

Well, today, I just want to stop and acknowledge one of these piles of what is left after bumper meets fur.

Every time, for the last three and a half years, that I drive down Highway 90 on my way to town, when I get to the point where I can just see the 84 lumber sign, I look to the right, and I see what I have come to think of as Flat Dog.  I always say, in my head (but sometimes out loud, too) "I see you, Flat Dog."  This poor thing.  I think of it as a 'him' in my head.  I did not see him immediately following the storm (Hurricane Katrina)-it was actually about ten days later-but I think of him as a victim of it, nonetheless.  After the storm, the traffic around here was awful, what with all of the debris removal trucks clogging up the roads, and for some reason, I attribute his death to one of them. 

I guess it is because I have slowly watched his carcass go from something that looked like it once held life to something only I probably recognize as 'dog', but it is very important to me that Flat Dog gets some recognition.  You see, Flat Dog has a whole history in my head, ala Harriet the Spy.  He had a boy, but the boy's home was destroyed in the storm as were many in this area.  Because animals were not allowed in the shelters, Flat Dog had been searching for his boy in the early dawn hours one morning.  In his doggy brain, he was remembering the last time the boy had thrown the ball for him and his body just naturally jumped to catch the ball and never saw the truck veer onto the berm headed straight at him.  It was very sudden.  It caught him mid-jump, and he was frozen in that position forever.  He looked like he died with a smile on his face, like he was for all time chasing after that ball...and that boy.

Who knows?  He could have been a stray that tore up people's garbage and chased little pussycats and pooped on the sidewalks.  But I like my version better.

I see you, Flat Dog.

The Story Behind The Song

I guess one of the reasons I've hesitated to write this post is because it is really not my story. It truly belongs to the Innocent Bystander, but he won't write it himself, because, he says, he would have to title it "These Motherfuckers". So keep in mind that this is an "as told to" story. Also, please keep in mind that whilst it may be obvious that I/we find some parts of this funny, in all reality a lot of it is quite sad. As a traveler, I try not to pass judgement on the way other cultures do things-different does not necessarily mean wrong. But sometimes when I am pointing and laughing, a great part of me is screaming inside about the injustices of this world we live in, particularly at the inequity of its distribution of resources. The reason I bring this up is that the story behind "The Song" is really the story of the IB's assimilation (and mine by proxy) into the culture of Nigeria.

When he had worked overseas in the past, he never had an opportunity to spend any great length of time in the country he was in (Bahamas, Trinidad, Venezuela) before he had to go to work, but when he went to Nigeria, he had several weeks 'in country' before the boat was even due to arrive. His boss, the Nigerian owner of the boat and company he works for, was a marvelous host. He basically spent the first two weeks that the IB was there as a personal tour guide. He showed him around the company holdings, which we expected, but he was also very upfront about showing him his two nearly identical homes, one for each wife.

Everything was a novelty at first to the IB. The drives through the streets with guards armed with machine guns. The street vendors selling everything from roasted grubworms on sticks to bolts of silk fabric, from nuts and bolts to John Deere motor parts. (There are no stores as we know them-the successful vendors have stalls-the rest carry their wares on their heads.) The way every woman he was introduced to seemed to think he was going to be the man who took them away from all this. The poverty. The begging. Especially the begging.

Nigeria has a reputation for graft, but it really seems to be deeper than that. Virtually everyone wants SOMETHING from anyone he encounters. If someone holds a door open for you to pass through, he asks, "And what do you have for ME, Sir? Just ONE SMALL THING." And then they stand there expectantly with their hands out. It is not just to 'oyibos' (foreigners) that they do this to. This is just how things get done there. One small thing at a time. No matter what it is you are trying to accomplish, you have to remember to factor in 'one small thing' per person involved in said endeavor in addition to whatever the quoted procedure to get said thing done. Every wheel needs a bit of greasing.

The new car smell wore off about the same time the boat was supposed to arrive. That is when the reality of the situation he was in really seemed to gel, and the IB started hauling out the "these motherfuckers" in our phone conversations. I think what really cemented it was this.

The boat that he works on is too small to cross the Atlantic, so it had to be shipped in on a freight barge. The company running THAT ship decided, once they had crossed the Atlantic, that it was too dangerous to deliver the boat to Nigeria, so instead, they dropped it off in Togo, so the IB had to go fetch it and drive it to Nigeria himself, which was a huge clusterfuck, but a pretty typical snafu, all things considered. As he was preparing for his flight, the bossman came to him and handed him two paper bags. They were stuffed full of the local currency. One was to cover supplying the boat with food, fuel, etc. for the ride from Togo to Nigeria, and the other one was for 'dash', which is the local term for the grease that keeps those wheels turning. They needed it all.

He got the boat to Nigeria, and eventually they got all the right hands dashed and got on location. Before the job could start, however, they had to bless the boat. The IB figured it would be pretty much what we are used to as a christening, but it turned out to be a really involved ceremony wherein a group of people from the community came on board and blessed-with singing and chanting and dancing and copious amounts of holy oil-every part of the boat. "Heavenly Father, bless this deck, and the equipment that will sit on it. Keep it free of rust and dents that it may ever be able to do its duty to carry its cargo." And, "Oh, Holy Father, please bless this engine, that it may..." On and on. The generators. The doors. The captain's wheel. The kitchen sink. Literally. Every part of that boat was blessed to the maximum being blessed ability. Including the captain. *wicked evil grin*

So they get the job started, and it became obvious to him the differences between 'oyibo' and local. He is not an overly adventurous eater, so his diet there is pretty much meat, eggs, rice and gravy. The locals who work on the boat eat mostly a concoction of yuca (which we tried when we were in Costa Rica and is actually quite good), beans and bread. Because of the poverty (these guys make the equivalent of something like eight bucks a day, which is a GOOD job there), theft is always a problem, so everything that is given to the crew is rationed (by the owner of the boat). They get five bottles of water a day, a tin of canned milk (which they call 'mik'), and every other day they get a tin of sardines and a can of Coke. I think on the day they don't get the sardines they get some kind of mystery meat in their beans, and everyone gets exactly the same number and size of chunks in their bowl or there is hell to pay. (They do get other stuff, this is just the stuff that gets fussed about the most because I guess it is the stuff they run out of the most.) Most of that stuff that is rationed? They save it up and take it home to their families or to sell. So it is a big deal if they run out and don't get something one day, and they feel they are owed. To them, those rations that are supposed to be nourishing their bodies to do their jobs, are part of their PAY. Never mind that they can eat as much of the staple food as they like. They want what is 'theirs'.

All those years when the kids were growing up and I tried to holy the IB up some? *shakes head* I got NUTHIN' on the Nigerians. I really think that ceremony kinda cracked something in him. Every morning, before work begins, they have a safety meeting. At the meeting they discuss the work planned for the day, the potential hazards involved, how they will avoid those hazards and what they will do if one of those hazards comes to pass. They also air their grievances, say a daily prayer, and finally, they sing the Good Morning, Jesus song, which (accompanied by JOYOUS rhythmic clapping) goes:

Good Morning, Jesus

Good Morning, Lord

I know You come from

Heaven above

The (prounounced thee) Holy Spirit

Sits on the throne (pronounced de trone)

Good Morning, Jesus

Good Morning, Lord

Now, depending on how many cans of 'mik' or sardines are owed them at that point, the prayer and song can go on...and on, and on. They use it as a form of protest. The more they are owed, the longer they pray and sing each day, and the less work gets done. What I really love about it, is that the IB PARTICIPATES. I guess because he can either sympathize or empathize (with him it's hard to tell) (heh. I said it's hard.) with them, he sings right along.

And so do we. Every morning, after cages are cleaned, and before we have our morning munchies, we sing our little song of solidarity, the birdies and I. I don't always get the rhythm right, but I think, with all of our clapping and stomping and flapping of wings, we always get the sentiment right. I hope so, anyway.

...Beggars would ride

I got up this morning and 'did' the birds, then decided to eat something before I had my coffee. Normally coffee IS the breakfast, but I was stalling whilst I mulled this post over, because it will be a little bit of a departure from the 'normal' trainwreck you come here each morning to crane your neck at.  (Don't worry.  I know this blog is not pretty.  It's just human instinct to want to see what I stepped in today.  No one knows you were here.)

Anyway, I had my half a box bowlful of Lucky Charms (the REAL ones that come in a box, not that generic bagged crap) and am sitting here feeling all magically delicious, so I guess I am just going hit you with this like I was whacking you on the head with my shillelagh.  I have my hand out today, folks.

This carefully constructed town I've come to think of as Blogsville is populated with the most wonderful people.  I've 'met' so many people with so many stories who have graciously invited me into their heads, and I feel close to them, in some ways closer than I do to people I interact with every day in the flesh.  One of those people has a particularly soft place in my heart because her story could so very easily be mine, or yours, and she tells it with such dignity and grace that you would be hard pressed most of the time to know she is suffering.  Her name is Lisa.

You know how you always hear about the Make a Wish foundation, which grants children with life threatening illnesses a 'dying' wish?  Why just kids?  This is MY CHRISTMAS WISH.  Ya'll, I want so badly for all of us here today to put on our tiaras, get out our magic wands, and play fairy godmother for a day.  Lisa's birthday falls three days after Christmas, and she wants to LIVE it up this year.  She has linked her Christmas/Birthday Amazon wish list to this post, and if you have enough to eat this year, and are not fighting for YOUR life, I sure wish you would look it over and see if there isn't some little way you can send her some love from Blogsville.

Most of her desires are simple ones, considering the complexities of her very challenging life, and won't cost you more than you waste on a couple of magazines-in the grand scheme of things, you won't miss it, and it might make a world of difference to her to know we are thinking of her and wishing her well.  I wouldn't ask for myself, but I'm asking you for her. Please be generous.

Lagniappe:

Paradise at a price

If you've not yet had your coffee, you may want to drink it before continuing this post.  This is one of those posts that may squick you out.  Then again, if I didn't lose you at the Wall O' Boogers, I prolly won't lose you now.  Just in case though, consider yourselves warned.

This post is actually one I've been toying with for a while, but some comments yesterday from the newest redhead in my collection, Braja, coupled with the timing of this article I ran across yesterday evening convinced me that it is time.

Today's subject is water.  Specifically, my 'choices' of water here in my little corner of Paradise.

When we bought the houseboat, we still had property and a home in Vancleave.  What we weren't really aware of until we tried to sell the property is that it was on wetlands.  This will be significant as my story unwinds.

We did not intend for this houseboat to be our home.  When we bought it, we were really just trying to find a place where we could go on weekends with our deckboat without having to go through the hassle of launching it and taking it out and launching it and taking it out, which is a huge pain in the arse what with having to completely wash it down each time it is taken OUT.  *thinks about the Grandpa shaking his head at that sentence*  

We knew when we bought the houseboat that our only source of water was the river.  At the time, I did not think about the implications of this since we were really just camping when we were here.  It didn't take long, though, for us to fall in love with this river and the life we were finding on and in it.  We are not teenagers walking around with rose colored glasses, however, so that love was tempered with just a little shiver of revulsion.  For soon after we started staying on the houseboat overnight, we realized that not only was river water being pumped into the houseboat, it was also being flushed right back out into the river.  AND ALL THAT IMPLIES.

We would have put a sewage treatment plant on our houseboat if everyone else would, too.  But they are very expensive, and most of our neighbors can't afford to.  We even tried to push the issue (which in retrospect was not that bright-some folks out here are quick to shoot and ask questions later).  The Innocent Bystander called the EPA, the Bureau of Marine Resources and the Coast Guard, but no one would admit that this was something that their department could deal with.  I have done some online research and know that this issue has come up in reports that are made on the river's 'health', but I think everyone wants to try to ignore it until it goes away.  *shakes head*

Now, normally I'm not that squeamish.  I mean, really, when I think about some of the things I've put in my mouth, I have no call to go all Miss Priss on anyone's ass.  But when you get out of the shower and have to make sure no one's going to say "Hon, c'mere.  I think you have a little bit of turd right here in your hair," you have to really close your mind to some things if you don't want to have nightmares.  I really loved being out here, and hated driving forty minutes every day to Vancleave to shower, so I convinced myself, as I'm sure everyone else who lives out here does, that animals poop all over the place and it runs into the river every time it rains and it doesn't bother anyone.  We swim upriver all the time in fish poop water.  When we camp, we wash our pots and pans in the river and reuse them the next day.  If I can tolerate all that, I guess I can tolerate this.  So we used a lot of paper plates and plastic cutlery, and pretty much moved onboard.

But there was still El Juevo to think about in Vancleave, and two acres of grass up there that had to be cut on a regular basis.  The Innocent Bystander was back in Venezuela by this time, and it was getting to be a real pain in the buttocks running back and forth, so when I saw the little house up the road go up for sale, I called the realtor and set up an appointment to see it the next day.  I put in an offer as soon as I saw it, and the owner accepted our bid, so I put our property in Vancleave up for sale and it was sold within ten days.  It was actually sold the first day I listed it, but the guy who wanted it stipulated it couldn't be on wetlands.  That was when we found out about that, and also that the water would not pass the health department test.  The second offer we got on it was aware of that and did not care.  SO.

SO.  We get our health department test on the little house's water back and find that IT has some kind of coliform bacteria in it. We also find after a week or two that it has a peculiar rust bacteria in it that stains our tub, sinks and toilet a beautiful shade of burnt sienna.  It is a brand new well, drilled post-Katrina, and the health department told us to run the water for a week and that that should clear it up.  Since we had no choice in the matter (the place in Vancleave was already sold and the houseboat is too small for all of us) we decided that ignorance is bliss and have since then just taken it on faith that the water is okay for bathing in.  We've used bottled water for all of our cooking and drinking at both places since the storm.  What is so bad about that since evidently we've been using water just as bad in Vancleave for the last ten years?

Fast forward three years.  I've been bathing at the house for the most part, although our washer on the houseboat used river water.  Our neighbor gets this new boyfriend from 'north Georgia' and he is just completely freaked about the water situation.  He is bathing in bottled water.  Guess he's not had as much stuff in his mouth as I have.  Anyway, he and the Innocent Bystander have this bromance going, and he talks the IB into putting in a well for us to share with the promise that he would build the pumphouse etc (didn't happen, but that's another story).  We get the first well drilled.  They go down 150 feet and hit SALTWATER.  WTF???  So they have to redrill, and as the IB didn't want to spend any more money on this than he had to, he only had them go down 50 feet this time.  They got 'fresh' water this time, so they stuck the pump on and here we are.  I start running our new, fresh water that is now going to my washer, my sink, my shower and my terlet and discover that we have a problem.  Evidently we have a very high hydrogen sulfide content in this 'fresh' water, because it smells like FARTS.

There you have it.  My choices are poopoopeepee river water (and let it be noted I do not eat ANYTHING that comes out of this river!), coliform/rust bacteria water or fart water.  Is it any wonder I will travel anywhere, anytime?  Or that I fantasize about a nice long HOTEL bath? (I bring my own cleaning products and Calgon!)  Third world countries have nothing on us!

Situation Normal...All Farked Up

Well, as usual, there is a fly in the ointment. It seems that the Innocent Bystander's paperwork was not 'fresh' enough for the Nigerians. Time will soon become an issue since he is due to return to work on Nov. 4th, so he has decided we are taking this bull by the horns and taking care of this chit in person, which means our plans have changed. Instead of heading up through Tennessee, we are heading over to Hotlanta instead, and will substitute a trip to Six Flags for our proposed visit to Graceland. Personally, I would much rather be howling with exhilaration on a roller coaster than looking at blue suede shoes anyway, so this is no great loss. It was a pain in the fanny, though, as he had to spend the bulk of yesterday running around making 'fresh' copies of licenses, getting things notarized/legalized, getting police reports and such.

So now the plan is to leave this afternoon and make it to somewhere around Montgomery before we stop for the night, then finish the driving Thursday morning. The only RV park we could find is 15 miles outside of Atlanta in Marietta, so we are going to stay there and rent a car to do our running around (if IB would get me the Smart Car I'm jonesing for, we wouldn't NEED to, but that is an argument for another day). The campground has wifi, so hopefully I won't have problems posting whilst we are there.

I also wanted to reiterate something, as I seem to have new readers popping in here and there. When I started writing this blog, I spent WAAAAY too much time trying to clean it up for the Yankees in the crowd (I am a DAMN yank-I came, I saw, and I stayed). By cleaning it up, I am not so much talking about the cursing as I am about the language itself. I DO know how to spell, and if I get stumped I know how to use a dictionary. I KNOW it is not proper to use double negatives, run on sentences, little asterisks to indicate actions/thoughts, but when I tried not to use them to keep from offending your sensibilities, this stuff was just not ringing true. Believe it or not, I do spend a lot of time rolling these words around in my brain like many hard candies, (yes, sometimes it seems more like a monkey flinging balls of poo at you, but sometimes ya get what ya get) slipping them this way and that, poking at them and prodding them like loose teeth until they feel just right. And most of the time, they just don't sound right if I don't write them how we talk down here. I ain't IGNERNT, but I AM a redneck hayseed, by association if nothing else. And I'm finally coming to realize there is NOTHING WRONG with that! So, all of you little Miss Grammars, put up your pens-there will be no redlining here. Just relax and take it for what it is. Me. As the Innocent Bystander is so fond of saying, "You just can't polish a turd, Jackie." Ya' feel me?