Stop the madness!

It is with glee, gratitude and gladness in my heart that I plead with you to STOP THE MADNESS! After today's mail call, the Triscuit Total (just the unopened boxes, not the ones we've already plowed through) stands at 12. There are officially 14 cans of Easy Cheese still waiting to be consumed. I have Goober in grape AND strawberry. And I have lost count of the vast number of Hostess products that have past through my hands (and lips!). There are cookies and candies, cakes and cards. There are lotions and potions and even an inflatable beach ball!

The contributions to SAIA have come from far and wide. Leigh in Italy tracked down Chewy Runts and endured looks of disdain from a Shoppette cashier (you work at the SHOPPETTE - are you REALLY in a position to look down on someone?) when she bought out their stock. Michelle, who is in the middle of a PCS move, bought out the commissary's pastry aisle just to have her "badass kids" (her words, not mine) eat the cache before she could mail it. She found a Conoco and a CVS and was able to pull it together, though!

I have gotten contributions from people I've never met - Cindy's Aunt Cindy in Pa., for example, made sure my diet NEVER gets back on track. Ian's wonderful girlfriend, Aubrey, has included a little something in each of her care packages that makes me smile. And there have been contributions FOR people you've never met (Cindy is stocked up on Swedish Fish for life - and she says thanks mom!) My parents sent (among other things) bacon cheese to add to the Tricuit goodness. Michele's mom (who has enough to worry about, as her own daughter is serving in Iraq right now) made sure I have what it takes to pamper myself (smell good lotions and pedicure stuff to last for months!). Scott's mom found a way to get homemade cookies here fresh and almost in one piece. Aaron sent Mother's Day cards and roasted garlic goodness with letters from my boys. Rick sent his own Mother's Day love in the form of more calories than I have a right to eat this year... And the list goes on. So, to all those I've mentioned (and those of you I haven't) - THANK YOU!!!!!

My entire office loves you and you have made sure I am smiling during each and every mail call (which are not many, but I ALWAYS have something to look forward to). But we're out of space (both in the office and in our pants!). I no longer need to walk to the chow hall for meals because I have enough packaged, processed, preserved foods to endure a large nuclear holocaust. I honestly laugh with each and every box that comes in. I feel more loved and thought about than I ever thought possible.

Many of you have told me I'm in your prayers. For that, thank you! Just knowing that helps me to sleep much better at night. Honestly!

We're halfway there! I'm five days away from hitting double digits. I am trying not to count days, so I'm counting more manageable milestones. Right now I have seven rotators, eight paydays and 16 Malaria Meds left until I can have REAL Mexican food (chips and salsa here I come!!!).

Thank you again for all your love and support. I really appreciate all you've done to make me smile day in and day out. Please keep the e-mails coming and I'll post new photos as soon as SOMETHING happens that is worth blogging about. And please keep me in your thoughts as I head to the gym to undo the damage of the past six weeks. And if you're looking to send love in the form of tangible gifts, I can always send you the link to my Vickie's wish list!

Queens of da Nile

I can say with full conviction that white water rafting on the Nile is a once in lifetime experience. I mean this quite literally, because never…ever..again in my life will I do something that completely freakin’ stupid!

I have flow in a T-38, twice in an F-16 and once on Fat Albert during an airshow. I have jumped from an airplane at 12,500 feet with 250 pounds of big country strapped to my back. I watched a man I consider my friend eject from an airplane 8/10ths of a second before his Viper hit the ground. I have been on a KC-135 at 8,000 as we took AAA fire. And I have never been this terrified in my entire life. Never!

Two weeks ago, when we knew we were coming to Uganda, Cindy says “Hey, wanna raft on the Nile?” Sounds like a good idea to me – when will I ever get a chance like that again? We have to come out for military to military training. But we will arrive Friday night and our mission won’t start until Sunday. The Global War on Terrorism is funding our airfare and lodging which means we only have to pay the $125 to raft. So I jump all over it and off we go. We take a bus up to Jinga to the headquarters of the Adrift Company. They’re the largest rafting company on the White Nile and have been in business for 12 years. They start their tours about two kilometers from the source of the Nile. The one day tour offers 31 kilometers of rapids, with a stop for lunch halfway through. On the bus, on our way to Jinga, one of the guides tells us a little about the river. He named off rapids (Buogo, Big Brother, The Dead Dutchman, the Bad Thing) and talked about class sizes. I’m not a subscribing member of the International Rapids Rating Association (if such a thing exists) so when you tell me we’ll hit Class II through Class V rapids, I have no frame of reference. This means nothing to me. But it sounds fun, so why not? And once at the site, they told us we had two options. We could be on the “mild” team or the “wild” team. Cindy and I didn’t hesitate when we said “Oh oh… we want WILD!”

Now, this decision would hit me with full force later in the day when I realized two things. First, I fancy myself as being adrenaline junky. But “fancy” is the key word. Because I’m not. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I almost always realize after the fact that some things sound much better in theory. Shooting rapids on the Nile is defiantly one of those things. My second realization was one borne of common sense – and borne just a little too late. I realized that if we’re starting at the top of the river, there is really only one way down. Mild or Wild – those are just terms to make people feel better about themselves. The river is what it is and while I’m not physics major, I do know that what goes up, must come down.

Our boat was an interesting mix of people. Our tour guide was a local Ugandan named Tutu. Tutu is a straight up crazy bastard with a face that resembled one of Michael Vicks’ pit bulls – full of scars, broken teeth and a deranged look in his eyes. We had U.S. Navy Lt. Anthony Seifert (a rescue swimmer who earned his keep), Cindy (all 5’ 3” and a half and 105 pounds soaking wet), an Egyptian in his mid-20s who works for Oracle and isn’t all too comfortable swimming, and a group of four Brits. Toby and Ben are in their early 20s and seemed to be in good shape. The two little pop tarts they brought with them left something to be desired. Emily wouldn’t have actually put forth effort to paddle if her life depended on it and Harriet was even tinier than Cindy and prone to histrionics even before we cleared the first Class II rapid. It took every ounce of self control I had not to bounce her skinny butt overboard in the first 30 minutes. She never used her oar to row – only to gesture wildly while emphasizing points and inadvertently smacking Cindy in the face on several occasions. Lastly was a 54 year old adventure seeker from Alaska named Kathy.

There were five teams plus a safety boat and maybe a dozen rescue swimmers in kayaks in our group. Our team was the first on the river and the first to complete the necessary drills required before the boats can head down. The goal was to complete 16 kilometers and five Class III or higher rapids before we hit the island for lunch. This seemed easy… what did I know? I had never seen a rapid, so again, it meant nothing to me! We started off slowly; a few Class II drops to get our blood pumping and to practice our skills. Then we hit the first real challenge of the day and I learned quickly that I was well out of my element. As we approached the first of the large rapids we would encounter, Harriet starts her horror film soundtrack – screaming, screeching and basically raising my blood pressure and anxiety level before I even know what was coming. We hit a Class IV rapid and we flipped. Now, here’s what flipping entails: there are 10 people in a 10 man raft. Cindy and I are on the left side and our boat flipped left over right. This means that everyone on the left side came over us and then raft ended up on our heads. You’re still getting tossed around in the rinse and spin cycle of the Nile Maytag as this happens, making breathing impossible. There is no way to tell which way is up and now a slight sense of panic has permeated my disorientation. I’m scared and feel like I’ve been under for several minutes when in all reality it couldn’t have been more than 15 seconds. I popped back up, got slapped by another large wave, tumbled again and then spit out toward one of the safety kayaks. He was able to grab me and take me back to the (relative) safety of our raft.

Cindy didn’t fare as well on the first toss (I say first because there were more to follow and they only got progressively worse). Cindy got tossed but managed to surface fairly close to the boat, and even closer to Kathy. Kathy, in a panic, grabbed Cindy for support and drug her under several times. Kathy had Cindy outweighed by a good 50 pounds and had an extra 6 inches or so on her reach, meaning there was no way Cindy was going to be able to fight back. As Kathy was trying to climb Cindy to reach safety, Cindy showed her might by kicking off and swimming away. But the experience left her a little shaken.

Back in the boat, we had a little time to relax as we drifted toward what would become my unintended attempt at suicide. Big Brother was to be our last large rapid before lunch. Tutu warned us that we “might” get tossed and even took us through several drills. He told us that no matter what happened, we needed to hold on to the boat. He stressed several times that this was a dangerous section of the river and that it was imperative we not let go. When we’re talking about matters of life or death, I tend to take instructions quite literally. Thinking that I would add an extra ounce of protection into my day, I placed my left hand in the grab rope on the side of the raft and twisted, almost like I was a bull rider getting ready to leave the chutes at the PBR finals. This was possibly the worst decision I have ever made. We hit the top of Big Brother and I realized it was a seven wave series of rapids that stretched for close to 400 yards. I had a moment of panic as we hit the top and it went downhill from there. Again I was on the left and again we capsized left over right. But this time, I was caught in the rope on with my left hand. This meant that when I hit the water, I had no way to break free. I was at the mercy of the river and our raft. And when our raft righted itself, I was trapped underneath with no way to break free.

Many people talk about “finding God,” as if he were lost and you needed to search for him. I can tell you where he’s NOT. He’s not under a raft 15 kilometers down the Nile. I know this because I called for him many, many times…. It sounded a little like this: “Oh God, oh God, please, sweet Jesus, Lord have mercy…” And I realized that even while panicked, I have the ability to negotiate. That sounds a little like this: “God, please get me out of here. If you let me surface, I promise to be a better person. I’ll stop making fun of people as much, I’ll try to be more patient with the stupid people I encounter, I’ll stop offering unsolicited fashion advice to the ill dressed… You name it God, I’m in…”

I finally twisted free of our raft and surfaced, only to be smacked with our boat once more. I went under and when I came back up, after getting spit out of the center of this cyclone, I was more than 100 yards from our raft and completely alone. I could see Anthony back in our righted raft and searching for me and then I was snagged once again by an angel in a kayak. Cindy was scanning the water frantically trying to see where I was and I was hanging on to Henry (the rescue swimmer) while vomiting the several liters of water I had inhaled thus far. I was shell shocked at this point and not sure I had any desire to get back into anyone’s boat. I was thrown into another team’s raft and their guide did his best to soothe my nerves and I sat wide eyed and speechless, giving thanks while hatching an escape plan.

I was sent back to my boat and we had a chance again to relax before lunch. At lunch I was trying to figure out why I didn’t choose the half-day rafting adventure, knowing that I would be done by now and not preparing to face another 17 kilometers of rapids. But I didn’t have long to dwell before we were strapping the helmets back on and heading out again. And I couldn’t figure out, exactly, how so many teams were still dry when our team spent more time in the water than in our raft. It seems that with enough money, you CAN pay your guide to keep your boat righted. Hmmmm…. I have no problem paying for good services. Why didn’t I think of that? But it was too late now – we were back in the boats and out again.

The first hour after lunch was nothing but flat pools and a lot of chances to jump from the boat, swim and relax. This gave me time to talk myself out of my marathon anxiety attack. And just when I thought it wasn’t so bad, Tutu starts taking about a waterfall and throwing out options. First, we have to navigate around a Class VI rapid called “The Dead Dutchman.” I’m sorry – dead? You don’t name a rapid “The Dead Dutchman” unless there was a Dutchman who went over it and is now DEAD. I wasn’t finding comfort in this statement but I didn’t have time to ponder because it was decision time. We could go AROUND the waterfall, or we could go OVER it. Wow. I don’t see that as being a choice. Why godf over? But we did pay good money for this adventure and I didn't want to be the spoil sport here. Cindy shot me a look, told me (and I quote) to “cowboy up, find my balls and put on my game face” and I knew we were going over. But we couldn’t just go. We had to sit AT THE TOP, tied to some reeds, and wait for the safety boat to catch up. Then we even got to watch one or two rafts go over ahead of us, providing ample time for my anxiety to reproduce faster rabbits in the spring. But I managed to talk myself through it – until we were cresting the waterfall and got stuck. Yes, the other boats went over nose first. But we were special. We got to hit the falls right side (still my side) first and hang there at the apex for an indeterminable amount of time before crashing over and hitting the bottom. Somehow, oddly enough, we stayed rightside up and I was pumped. For about 30 seconds. Then we sat at the bottom and watched the last of the boats come over. And on the very last raft, someone got tossed. And he got caught in the waterfall. (By the way - he was on the mild raft. Mild my ass!)

Now if you’ve never seen an object hit the bottom of a waterfall and get caught in the tumble, I have to tell you, it’s a breathtaking sight. But when it’s a person and they can’t flush free, it’s a different story. As the rescue boats were trying their damnedest to pull him out, I was desperately looking for ways to step off our boat and on to the safety of land. I figured that at this point, I could walk down to the final landing, meet the group there and still have a great story to tell. But there was no way for me to bail so instead I got to watch in horror as they freed the guy. They pulled him to safety in the amount of time it took me to work on a whole new panic attack and then we were off once again.

The final hurdle of the day was a rapid called “The Bad Thing.” A picture may be worth 1,000 words, but sometimes a name says it all. It really was a BAD THING. In order to get to the Bad Thing, we had to beach our raft and walk about 100 meters through the jungle to get around another Class VI rapid too strong to navigate by boat. Once on the other side, we were given our last option of the day. We were told we could split our team and take another boat. You could do the Bad Thing, with a 50/50 chance of flipping, or you could take the safety boat, float around it and be done for the day. Harriet was long gone by now, having opted some time ago for the safety boat. I was already in our boat when this option was presented, and feeling like I had nothing to prove, was quite ready to jump to the safety boat. But by now, a crowd had formed on the banks and in order to get to the safety boat, I would have had to step off our boat and walk through them. And I couldn’t do it. I realized I would rather swallow more Nile than swallow my pride and before I knew it, I heard the words “Screw it – let’s do it” coming out of my mouth and we were off one last time.

I knew before we were even at the top of the Bad Thing that we were going over one last time. There was no doubt in my mind that we were flipping. So I picked the left side of the boat and started talking myself through it. Sure enough, we went under the first wave, through the second and over the third – and we were airborne. As soon as I realized we were flying, I planted my feet on the side of the boat and kicked with all I had. I managed to clear the people on the right – by quite a bit – before hitting the water. And then it was game on. I grabbed my vest with both hands, shut my eyes and held on for dear life. I flipped and tumbled a few times, I inhaled more water than is recommended by the USDA, but I was okay. And never, ever so happy in my entire life.

We came to the end of our adventure - which includes beaching your raft, climbing some 500 meters up a cliff covered in wet mud while carrying your gear - and were done. For the 30 minutes after, the 90 minutes on the bus back to Kampala, the hour in the car back to the hotel and the two hours it took me to fall asleep, I still felt like I was on a boat. At night, sometimes as I drift off to sleep I feel like I'm falling. Last night, I felt like my bed was about to capsize. I may very well have PTSD from this adventure. And given the amount of water I swallowed, I'm pretty sure that there is a case of dysentery in my near future. Every drop of water I had had since yesterday evening still tastes like the river. I'm black and blue from toe to torso, I think I have whiplash and I'm pretty sure that the sunburn on the tops of my legs has reached an epic level. But I have a tee shirt, tons of photos and a great story to tell - a story that I'm sure will only get better with time.

On a final note, we were on the White Nile in Uganda. The portion of river that we were on will cease to exist after about 2010 as they are creating a new damn in the area and diverting the water. Knowing that I conquered a portion of water that will soon no longer be traversable by man gives me a slight feeling of pride and awe. But that still doesn't mean you could pay me to ever put myself through that again!

Lord only knows what Cindy will come up with next. And I can almost promise you that no matter what her next suggestion is, I'll say "Sure, let's do it" and then once find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing in whatever situation we find ourselves in!

It's hotter than Hell

The high yesterday in Hell, Mich., was 62 degrees. The high on Camp Lemonier yesterday was 123 on the wet bulb. That means, by my math, it is almost twice as hot in Africa than it is in Hell. And it's only early May. My friend Ian fondly tells us every day "It's only going to get hotter..." Because THAT goes far is making me feel better about this plight, right?

We've run out of fun little euphuisms for hot. I used to say "It's Africa hot..." but now I know it was never THAT hot. And we used to say "Wow, who turned the thermostat to Africa..." but I realize now that no thermostat in the U.S. has a setting close to what you'll find here. When I said "It's 100 and stupid out" I couldn't have know at the time that nothing has ever been this stupid.

A lesser known fact - Djibouti, Africa has the highest recorded temperature of any inhabited place in the world (there are hotter places, but no one is retarded enough to LIVE there.) It's already a level of hot that defies comprehension. I can't explain what it feels like to walk to lunch when there is 86 percent humidity and the asphalt has caught fire around you. There are some clouds that look to threaten rain but those aren't actually clouds. They are actually an accumulation of smoke from all of the places on camp that just spontaneously combusted throughout the day.

I'm escaping the misery for a little over a week as Cindy and I hit the road. They're unleashing us on the continent again without adult supervision. And this time, we get a day off. So, not ones to waste a chance to make this war count, we're going to white water raft on the Nile. We have found a company (http://www.blogger.com/www.adrift.ug) that will allow us to spend a day shooting the Nile, provides lunch and will even pick us up at a hotel and drop us back off. The Global War on Terror is funding our airfare to and from and even covering our hotel. So all we have to pay is the $125 for the day trip. I pray that I will never have to come back to this Godforsaken land so I'm going to enjoy it while I can.

The company also provided us an option for "Nile High Bungee" jumping. You jump from a bridge, your head dips into the water and then you snap back up. For about a day I thought this was a stellar idea. Cindy tried to talk me out of it by saying "Do you REALLY trust someone in Africa to ensure the bungee is safe?" But I didn't find it any different than trusting some 19 year old on meth at Fiesta Village to secure my bungee. But she won on Logic - Round Two. She pointed out that Karma is a bitch and that bitch doesn't like me. Therefore, as Cindy pointed out, the odds are fairly good that I would be "THAT" girl - the one who popped back out of the water just in time to have a large Nile croc jump out and eat my head. I'm sure it would make for great photo and video, I don't think I want to risk it. So instead I'll just stand on the bridge and make fun of everyone else who may or may not get eaten. I was going to open up the "jump or no jump" poll to American voters and let you be the judge. The column with the most responses would have won. But I don't trust all of my friends enough to vote with my best interests at heart. So we won't be jumping off of any bridges (real or proverbial) any time soon.

On a separate note, the good people at Armed Forces Entertainment brought the Edwin McCain Band out to perform for us last night. If you just said "Who?", don't feel badly. He released the 1997 hit (I mean that so loosely) "I'll Be" and the 1999 radio pop gem "I Could Not Ask For More." After that, I think he might have written some television theme songs for the WB but I don't think he was selling out any amphitheaters anywhere. So where do you go when you're a fallen pop star looking to resurrect your career? I guess the answer to that is "Djibouti." Because there is nothing that will invigorate record sales faster than crooning ballads to semi-intoxicated sailors serving shore duty on the surface of the sun. But it was free, so I really shouldn't bitch. (I WILL, I just shouldn't... There's a big difference!)

That's all the news that's fit to report. Since I will be out of communication for a while, I'd like to take this renta-space to wish all of the mothers in my life (and two very special mommies to be - Jessica and Amy) a very happy Mother's Day. I hope your Sunday brings everything you could wish for - sleep, a clean kitchen, positive numbers in your bank accounts, positive control of the TiVo remote and no trips to the emergency room! I love you all!

Caught with my pants down

In case you've ever wondered what you would do if you got caught with your pants down... let me give you the answer. But first, there is some background required, so bear with me a second.

We live in what are called "Containerized Living Units." The CLUs are sea/land shipping containers sightly retrofitted to be livable. By sea/land container, I mean the Corrugated tin Maersk rectangular boxes you see at ports, on ships and passing by on trains. They're 32 feet long and 7 feet wide, divided in half. There are two people living in each side. This means that Nikki and I share a 17 by 7 space filled with two beds, four wall lockers, a small desk and two chairs. Essentially, I have about 11 inches of personal space in my CLU when all is said and done. I have less room than my cousin's ex-husband had when he was serving time in the Tehachapi State Prison - and HE got time off for good behavior!

Now, I'm blessed to have Nikki as my CLU-mate. She is my age, my rank, a single mom, she's clean, she's polite. It's great! And we have a system... whoever gets home second knocks before we open the door just to alert the other - just a little courtesy right?

So last week, I get back from work first. I walk to the back of the CLU to get out of my uniform. I have my clothes in my hand, I have set my things on my bed. I'm very obviously in MY CLU. So there I am, left hand on the wall, right foot on the floor, left foot raised, pants around my ankles half bent over trying to pull my pant leg off. And WHAM - my door swings WIDE open. I freeze. I can't move... I'm stunned and confused. There, standing at my door is Pat from SNL - I wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. He/she looks at me, swings the door closed to look at the "address" and then swings it back open. I'm still frozen... Again, he/she swings the door closed to look at the number and make sure it's MY CLU. And now I'm starting to doubt myself. Sure, it's my pink sheets on the bed and my fluffy towel on the hook. It's even my clothes in my hand. But I'm seriously starting to think that maybe I am in someone else's CLU. That's how surreal this is.

Now, after take two of the door check I realize it's a woman who needs to either fire her hair dresser or purchase a mirror from Drugstore.com and I'm starting to think about what "high maintenance female" tips I might be able to lend her to transition her from the "Pat" look into something a little less 1980 and a little more 2008. But then she COMES IN and shuts the door! She stands in the doorway of my house (yes, I'm still half naked, white hiney in the air, hand on the wall) and says "Wow, I guess I'm in the wrong unit..." and then, as abruptly as she appeared, she left. Just like that - gone.

I now know the answer to what I'd ever say if I got caught with my pants down... Not a damn thing people; not a damn thing!

This kind of stuff doesn't happen to other people, does it?

For less than $1, you can feed...ME!

Did you know there are currently people starving in Africa? Okay, maybe not starving, but there are (white) people in Africa who just aren't gettin the good stuff folks. I know, I know, sad but true.

But YOU can help. From right there in your own town. You can choose to sponsor today's featured "Starving American in Africa" with our "Send the Junk Food" program. Yes, for less than $1 a day, you can make all our junk food dreams come true.

Here's how "Send the Junk Food" program works... One trip to your local Piggly Wiggly is all you need (for those of you in Calif., a PW is a grocery store, but I'd prefer you go to Smiths....). Once there, hit up the cookie/cake/cracker aisle. It's just that simple...

Here's what Starving Americans in Africa need. Hostess! Not Little Debbies
(although Entamins might work...) Hostess - namely Ding Dongs and cupcakes but SAIA will eat anything short of those horrid pink SnoBall disasters that should have been banned shortly after Red Dye No. 7 was banished. And, if you're in the Northeasten U.S., the BEST choice would be Tastee Kakes with their Coffee Cake goodness. Mmmmm.... Tastee Kakes!

The next is a tricky one - ROASTED GARLIC Triscuits and EZ Cheese. (EX Cheese is spray cheese in a can....) Regular SAIA Gold Star donors have run into a supply shortage. It seems that Roasted Garlic Triscuits aren't as easy to come by as they once were. So if you happen to see a box, grab it now while supplies last.

And last, but this one isn't easy either, there is an urgent need for Chewy Runts. Not regular Runts, which are easy to find and honestly a disgusting candy, but the illusive yet coveted Chewy Runts. The SAIA safe house is at a zero balance and the clock is ticking!

If you would like to help a Starving American in Africa but participating in the "Send the Junk Food" program, please send your donations (food product only, no cash) to:

Tech Sgt Katherine Garcia
CJTF-HOA/PAO
FPO AE 09363

The Americans in Africa love you for it!

What the H#LL am I doing???

Have you ever had a moment in your life where you stopped, considered your surroundings and had to ask yourself "What the H#LL am I doing here?!?" Well, I did!!!!

We just took a trip to Uganda and Ethiopia and had an incredible time. We started out in southern Uganda at military to military training. There was a Uganda People's Defence Force soldier who ran the U.S. Army PT test (two miles) in 10:39 - BAREFOOT! And the guy who came in second ran it in 11 minutes flat - in FLIP FLOPS! These people can run!

Once we left there, we took a seven hour car ride on the highway of death to northern Uganda. We were roughly 30 km from the Sudan border, which I thought was pretty cool. We were up there for a veterinary civil action program. I will post the stories from the VetCap soon so you can read about some of the pretty cool things we're doing out here. This is actually a project I believe in.

I'm too ADHD to just sit and watch ANYTHING in life, so on day 1, I told the Army vets that I wanted to get involved. Thank God for Maj. Nina DiPinto - she told me to grab a needle and jump right in. By mid-morning, Cindy and I had learned how to age calves and goats, give shots (some on the rump, some in the neck), how to give the deworming "drench" and how to soak the skin to get rid of ticks. We treated cows, goats, sheep, pigs, dogs (and Cindy got a monkey on a leash too!)

At some point in the middle of the second afternoon, I realized that I was in a field in the middle of Uganda, wading through cow patties to wrestle a calf to the ground when it hit me - What The H#LL Am I Doing Here?!? Don't get me wrong - I had a BLAST! Fourteen years ago when I joined the Air Force, no one could have convinced me that this is where I'd be today. Even as I was there, I really couldn't believe it was happening.

But in typical Kati fashion, I did manage to elicit smiles from the locals - again at my own expense! So here we are, halfway through day 2 and a farmer tells the vets one of his cows is sick. Turns out this poor animal has a softball sized cyst on his rear flank. They need to drain it. This is the point where we all need to remember that I'm the southern California blonde girl. I didn't grow up on a farm and I believe that happy cheese comes from happy cows that I see while driving down the 60 to my grandparents' house. I had no idea what "draining a cyst" might entail. Yeah... I won't scar your mind's eye with the details. I will just fast forward to the part of the story where the smell hits me. It was a stench that I can't even being to describe (be thankful for that!)

Next thing I know, I'm on my knees in the grass giving back to the Earth the meager breakfast I had consumed hours before. This doesn't bother me so much... I've always had a weak stomach and I'm not new to the regurgitation game. What DID bother me was what comes next.

I look over to my right and see a cluster of local village women. And they're LAUGHING. Yes, they're pointing, laughing and mocking me. These are women who have never thought to don a bra, keep their babies strapped to their backs and gaily walk barefoot through cow sh!t all day long and THEY'RE LAUGHING AT ME!!!!

So I did the only thing I could do at that point... I rinsed my mouth, smiled, waved for the crowd and went back to work... once again wondering "What The H#LL Am I Doing Here?!?"

3 (stupid) white people and some monkeys

Cliches are cliches for a reason... They're trite, but they usually express a popular or common thought or one that as lost it's originality.

So... Cindy, JT and I became a cliche in Uganda. In every scary movie from the 1990s, the stupid white people were the cliche. You know the scene - two couples pull up to a house in the woods. There is no power. Couple one sneaks off for a quick romp, boy two heads outside (alone) to get wood for a fire and the girl (always a blonde) heads up to take shower. And everyone is yelling at the screen - "NO white people... don't do it. You'll die!!!!" Well, we weren't THAT bad, but we were close.

Now, one of our hotels in Uganda was on the shores of Lake Victoria (we'll get to that later) and they have monkeys all over the grounds. The signs are large - red and white, albeit misspelled - and clearly state "Do Not Feed or Play With The Monkies." We saw the signs... we even photographed one. But they're MONKEYS!!! And how can you resist?

So we head for the bar, grab a beer and walk down to "watch" the monkeys. But we're not close enough. We have to get closer (cue the Stupid White People music). So we sit and watch the monkeys for a while and then walk through them to a get a better view of the lake. No problems. And then we head back, and have to walk straight through them to get back to the building. This is where the problems start... Monkeys on the left, monkeys on the right. And then they start to hiss and charge. Cindy and I run away from each other, cross back in front of each other, and then STOP and literally cling to each other (maybe if we're BIGGER, the monkeys will be scared!) and freeze. JT takes off in the other direction and gets surrounded. Now we're panicked and at least two of us (I'll let you guess which two) are screaming like little girls.

This is where the locals (who have been watching the Stupid White People from afar) come to our rescue. A janitor of sorts simply steps in, hollers one word at the monkeys and off they go. Seems they were much more scared of him than we were of them!

As we scurried off to our table for dinner, we turned around to see a group of hotel employees having quite a laugh at our expense. And that's when it hit me - we became their walking, talking white people cliche!

That's typical Kati - bringing smiles to people all around the world... even when it's at my own expense!

Oh oh... Lake Victoria. It's gorgeous! It's huge and looks like an ocean. It has small waves, an island - - - and it's toxic. We were warned by 100 different sources to stay off the shores. It seems that around 1972, Idi Amin launched a campaign of persecution, murdering between 100,000 and 500,000 (most sources say 300,000) people. He ordered their bodies dumped into Lake Victoria and the Nile. These bodies turned the underwater graveyard into a freshwater source of such yummy diseases as Hep C and the Marburgvirus. As depressing as this was to hear, it was still incredible to be at a place that has such a profound history for an entire continent.