Water, Water Everywhere, but Not A Drop to Drink

Alas, we have come upon difficult times. This morning the water cooler was found to be empty, with no replacement tank in sight. Immediate panic set in for some, but eventually cooler heads prevailed. What shall we do? The admin building next door has a water cooler. The fact that their weekly allotment of tanks is greater than ours, while servicing far fewer employees has been a long-term point of contention, and today, evidence that they may have a surplus of water. Being that it is not the weekend, and that the admin building is occupied entirely by our bosses, the covert water theft plan was aborted early. You may wonder why we don't have a water fountain. We do have a water fountain, and it spews forth a substance resembling dissolved chalk. Unbeknownst to my fellow employees, I had brought a small bottle of water to work today in my backpack, for personal use. I should say, previously unbeknownst to my employees, for I have made a fatal oversight and left the water bottle sitting on my desk while taking a phone call. The baboons circle quickly in these parts. "Please,please,please,please,PLLLLLLEASE!" bellowed one of my office mates, so I allowed her access to one styrofoam cup of water. She was pregnant after all. The other red-faced menaces quickly viewed this as a moment of weakness and increased their efforts. I, having the upper hand, stood tall and proud as I drained the rest of the water down my throat. The hoard was unhappy, but dispersed. I am now enjoying the rest of my day quite nicely. Begrudged and grumbling coworkers slowly walk past my desk and bless me with hateful glances. I graciously stop them and tell them about how much I enjoyed the water in the Caribbean when I swam there, it was so clear you could almost drink it, or about the time I went snorkeling in the Florida Keys, there was water as far as the eye could see, or I just tell them about how bad I have to pee after chugging that whole bottle! Anyway, I'm having a good day, even if no one else is.

Ebola, Canadians, and Over Zealous Felines

I know I just posted, but a unique situation has occurred in which I have a) a large amount of free time and b) an issue of vital importance. I had Ebola once. It is true. No it wasn't while I was in Africa, actually it was while I was in Africa, twice, but this specific instance of Ebola did not occur in Africa, nor while I was in college (where I also had Ebola once). The first thing you need to know is that Ebola is both a vindictive and egotistical disease. It prides itself on its lethality, and begrudges all who survive its assault. Thus, if you live through it once, it will come after you again and again until you succumb. When I had Ebola in college my kidney actually burst. I think it was the right one, but I can't be sure anymore. Anyway, my parents were out of town, so I called my big sister to let her know. She laughed at me. Can you believe it! She thinks she's so mighty because she had malaria, recurring resistant malaria to be exact, as if anyone even cares. I had Ebola! That beats malaria hands down and everybody knows it. Long story short, my kidney got better and life went on.

The instance of Ebola that I'm trying to tell you about, if you would stop with the questions, started when my cat pushed me out of bed one morning. My cat, Callie, likes to snuggle, a lot. She crawls under the blankets and snuggles right up against you. When you roll over, she snuggles right up again. Somehow, I am subconsciously aware of her presence in my sleep and never roll back over on top of her, only away from her. In this manner I am slowly pushed across the bed throughout the night until I awake in the morning to find myself clinging to precious inches of mattress. On this particular day I must have been sleeping very deeply, because I did not realize that I had come to the end of the mattress, and I fell right off of the bed! My fall was broken nicely by one of my sneakers. Don't feel bad for the sneaker, it was old and the heel was worn down, it had lived its life. When I say that my fall was broken nicely, I mean that the sneaker hit me right in my ribcage and caused quite a bit of pain. The cat, meanwhile, remained asleep and unfazed. I would find out later that the injury to my ribcage was more serious than I had anticipated. I should have noticed this earlier, but I was distracted by the fact that I was due to leave on vacation later that day. Indeed, I was due to leave for Mexico.

The thing that you have to know about Mexico is that it is populated almost entirely with Mexicans. Beyond that there is a surprisingly large amount of Canadians there as well. Canadians are a naturally sneaky people, and often appear to be Americans. In some cases it is necessary to force them to speak before you can tell the difference. On this visit to Mexico, my companion and I encountered a pleasant mother and daughter from Prince Edward Island. When I say pleasant I mean that they utterly refused to divulged to me the secret facts of the life of Anne of Green Gables, and insisted that they knew only what I myself had learned from the movies. Now do you see what I mean? Sneaky. When I arrived in Mexico, my ribcage was bothering me slightly, unconcerned I simply put some hand cream on it and hit the beach. However, it wasn't long before the pain became unbearable. After all, hand cream can only do so much.

The Mexican hospital was surprisingly pleasant. I shared a room with a young spring-breaker from Alberta who was hospitalized after losing a bet with his friends. The good news was that the barracuda was fine. My roommate was in quite a bit of pain as the hospital staff had refused to treat him until his parents wired $20,000 to cover the costs. Needless to say, he wasn't much for conversation. My ribs were a quick fix, but the real problems were yet to come. You see, some time before the bed-falling Mexican/Canadian incident, I had popped into the mind of my old friend Ebola. Thrice thwarted in its attempts to conquer my immune system, Ebola was more determined than ever to gain its victory. Ebola had begun to stalk me, and in that moment, when my ribs hit me sneaker, Ebola found opportunity.

Fortunately, I was as familiar with Ebola as Ebola was with me. Distracted by my ribs, I did not notice the presence of my old nemesis, but in that Mexican hospital, with my spring break barracuda bitten buddy moaning in the night, I felt Ebola make its move. Common medical knowledge dictates that rest is the key to recovery, but Ebola is an ambush hunter and must immediately be routed from its hiding place and driven from the area. I immediately knew what was necessary. I had to find a badger.

The badger is a tenacious beast, as tenacious as Ebola is vindictive. It was not easy, finding a badger in Mexico. Even more difficult was drawing him out. If given the chance, a badger will run, but if cornered he will live up to his full potential. So there I found myself, sweaty, ill, and hemorrhaging, face to face with a cornered badger in the back of that little chapel in Juarez. To this day I don't think that that wedding party fully understands why it had to happen, but I layed into that badger with all the strength I could muster, and received the beating of my life. After a few minutes I awoke, and found myself lying in the courtyard before the chapel, torn and broken by the badger, beaten and pummelled by the wedding guests, but Ebola free and happy.

The key to beating Ebola is to realize that, after the point of infection, you are no longer fighting the disease. Ebola has become a part of you. You are Ebola. To defeat the disease you must defeat yourself. Thank God for that badger, but as I said before Ebola is egotistical and vindictive, Ebola does not take defeat well. I relish our next encounter.

The Baboons Are Among Us!

One of the perks (and there are not many) of working for the government is that you get to meet lots of different people who do lots of different things. You know the guy that owns the local auto shop, and the owners of many different businesses, you know firefighters, highway workers, politicians, preachers, and cops. I even know the guy that works that big screen at the stadium. Out of all of these people, the cops generally have the best stories, and that is why you are reading this today. Over the years I have been able to form a friendship with the guy that answers the phone at one of the local police departments.
Apparently the other day the police got a call from John. John owns a business in the town, I don't know if its a restaurant or gas station or what, it really doesn't matter. John was calling to report that every night when he closes up shop he places all of his dirty linen in a bin at the back of his building. Early the next morning a linen service (I didn't know that there was such a thing) picks up the linen to be laundered. I don't know how the clean linen gets back to the shop, but that isn't essential to the story. Anyway, John or Fred or whoever calls in and says that he received a call from the linen service stating that when they arrived that morning to pick up the linen they found a sheep in the linen bin. My friend, the call-taker, asked the obvious question, "Is it alive?" John informed him that the sheep was dead. A dead sheep was found in his linen bin. John further informed my friend that the driver of the linen truck had, for an unknown reason, taken the dead sheep with him. Both intrigued and appalled, my friend attempted to have an officer respond to the shop. Calls for dead sheep in linen bins are apparently not highly valued among police officers, and a small argument ensued. By the time an officer arrived at the shop, John was not to be found. Fortunately, my friend had obtained a phone number for the linen company. Unfortunately, the woman at the linen company knew nothing about a dead sheep, but would contact the truck driver that had that route and have him contact the police station.
It was over an hour before the driver called in, and in that time there was no little debate over the origin, and current state, of the sheep. The business was not in a rural area, so where did the sheep come from? Was it a ritual killing? Was it big or small? Had it been someone's pet? Why would the linen company know nothing about one of their employee's finding a dead sheep? What were the driver's intentions with the sheep? At last the phone rang. It was the driver. The desk sergeant, and man of considerable experience, took the phone and informed the driver that he was calling about the dead sheep. The conversation went something like this:

"I need to know more about the dead sheep that you found."

"The what?"

"The dead sheep."

"Who is this?"

"This is the police."

"No really, who is this?"

"I told you. This is the police, and I need to know more about the dead sheep that you found in the linen bin at the shop in town today."

"I found a bag of bed sheets," the driver was a bit confused. "That business never put out bed sheets before and I called the owner to see if they were actually his. I don't know anything about any sheep."

By now the sergeant had figured out what had happened, but needed to maintain an appearance of dignity, so he apologized for the confusion and ended the call quickly. While the officers all had a good laugh, my friend became a bit concerned. Obviously there had been a mistake made somewhere along the line. If he had mistaken "bed sheets" for "dead sheep" his time answering phones for the police station may be rapidly coming to an end. He consoled himself with the fact that he had asked John if the sheep was alive and the answer wasn't, "Of course they aren't, they're just sheets!" Eventually the sergeant was able to contact John, who still believed that a dead sheep had been found in his linen bin, and explained the what had happened (John had forgotten how to hear). My friend was not at fault, and everyone went about their business.

My point in this story is that the Baboons are among us. John's Baboon was the malicious kind that puts dead sheep in peoples' linen bins. The truck driver's Baboon was some phone prankster pretending to be a police sergeant. My Baboon was my friend who performed pranks and told stories for my pleasure. In short though, we are all a Baboon to someone sometime, so make sure to guard you candy and cover your linen bins.

The Beginning . . . .

When I was young my family spent some time abroad. We were fortunate to visit many places, and one of my favorites was, and still is, the Yankari game reserve in Bauchi State, Nigeria. Not known for its amenities, Yankari is a place where you can, if lucky, see elephants, lions, crocodiles, hippos, and other types of African wildlife. There are two attractions at Yankari that are not dependent on luck. The hot spring and the baboons. Yankari has a naturally occurring hot spring that flows from underground at the base of a cliff, forming a river of perfectly clear water, with a white sand bottom. It is simply a beautiful place to spend time, and the water is around 70 degrees year round. In order to enjoy the hot springs, you must be willing to brave the droves of wild baboons that frequent the hot springs and guest houses of Yankari. It is not uncommon to see babboons playing in the trees over and around the springs. Occasionally a mother will bring a young baboon down to the water for a bath, and if you are very lucky a baboon will lose a wrestling match on an overhanging branch, or on the face of the cliff and you will get to watch as it plummets into the water below and then scrambles to the shore again. Sounds great right? What I have yet to mention is why these baboons are comfortable being so close to humans, when all of the other wildlife in the park is elusive at best. The answer is very simple. Baboons are relentless in their pursuit of food. There is never a bag left unattended by the side of the hot spring. As soon as its human guardian abandons it for the warmth of the water, a baboon arrives to search its contents for food. Many a camera has been tossed through the air by a baboon hoping to find more valuable items. Greatly dismayed is the visitor who neglects to lock the door to their guest hut, and returns to find a baboon sitting on their bed eating candy, or bubble gum, or a banana, with the contents of the guest's luggage strewn about the room. Family friends have related stories of waking up from an afternoon nap to find themselves face to face with a baboon who had been ransacking the room. My own grandmother had to use motherly indimidation (that's right, she used "the look") to retreive her suitcase from a marauding baboon. My point in this story is very simple, paradise comes with a cost. You want to float down a beautiful African river with monkeys playing over-head and the chance to see elephants? Fine, just lock your doors and don't take anything outside other than the clothes on your back. Oh yeah, and be willing to stand your ground if approached by a monkey the size of a large dog. A small price to pay if you ask me. Seriously though, are we all that different from these animals? Boorishly pursuing our hearts desires with no regard to the paradise around us. So I guess that's what this blog thing is all about for now, stories about life, and about us, The Baboons of Yankari.