Dude, you just gave me the chills… :eek:
Holy crap, that’s worth three of these :eek: :eek: :eek:
So far I feel like I’ve found every notebook I used in college except this one. Between the water damage and a sticker I put on it, it should be hard to miss. I’ll get some help and look again this evening. I’ve never used that story for anything; I should probably find a way. Meanwhile, I see that I failed to mention this water was deep enough to go over my head. And that it was brown. 
Mr Bus Guy All I can think of is
HOLY FKIN’ SH*T !**
However, three of four paragraphs on anyone of these would be great. Preferably all three in different installments. I think you’d be glad you put them down in writing one day. I know we would.
Marley23- When I was about twenty I worked on a survey crew in Florida. A survey crew in FLORIDA? The bugs, the heat and the snakes all came together in any one of the many swamp adventures we undertook. I’ve been arm-pit-deep in a murky swamp walking on palmetto roots under water so dark I couldn’t see my boots. I can feel your pain.
(Apologies for length. Adapted from my travelogue.)
People in areas that were hit by the tsunami are naturally jumpy these days. The whole time we were volunteering on the tiny island of Phi Phi in Thailand where more than 2,000 people died, I had the uneasy feeling that it was going to happen again. The likelihood is actually higher than you’d think, since the faultline that ripped that fateful morning in 2004 only ripped halfway. Already the pressure between the plates a little further south is greater than it was prior to the Indian Ocean quake. In March 2005 there had been the Nias earthquake, which had sent everyone to the hills. In May, there had been an unfortunate coincidence involving an earthquake in the morning and testing the sirens in the evening, that had precipitated the same panic, though most of us knew it was just a rumour, despite our unease.
On Sunday, July 24th, me and Emma, another of the English people on the island, decided to cook a big traditional British Sunday roast for about 15 of the long-term volunteers together with some culinarily-adventurous Thais. We commandeered a restaurant kitchen, sharing it with the Thai cooking staff, and spent most of the afternoon preparing the vegetables, and roasting the chickens, after I decapitated them, they having been provided with heads.
We attended the nightly volunteers’ meeting, then went to the restaurant, where we went back into the unbearably hot kitchen and I made gravy while Emma boiled the veg. At this point my cellphone rang. It was my sister, calling to tell me that my grandfather back in England had had a massive stroke. Feeling helpless and completely unable to do anything, I threw myself into cooking, trying not to think about it. We ate, and though I say it myself, the food was sensational, especially given the conditions we were working under.
Just as the meal finished, my brother called to tell me my grandfather had died. I was in shock, and I wandered around, stunned, not knowing what to do, pretending to be OK, since people were at that moment coming up to me and thanking me for the food.
And then we heard those terrible words again: “Tsunami coming”.
I ran to an internet café as I had done the last time, but this time the charming sweet-faced lady who ran it didn’t smile and say “don’t worry, no tsunami”: she was grabbing a flashlight and a blanket. “Internet is free tonight”, said the manager, “but you must leave now. Get to higher ground”. Sure enough there was a report on the USGS website of a 7.3 earthquake off the Nicobar Islands, and the Thai government had, for the first time since last December, issued an official warning. My insides turned to water.
Thailand is in a direct, unprotected line from these islands, and any shearing seismic event there would be devastating - probably moreso than the Acheh earthquake, despite the smaller magnitude of that day’s quake. The sirens were going off, though they were too quiet for me to hear them.
We ran upstairs to the restaurant again - 60 people were saved by being there on December 26th - but then the bar owner urgently told us to leave and go to even higher ground.
We ran down the street to Reggae Bar, which is a three-storey building that abuts the side of a hill, with an accessible window that opens onto the hillside. The manager was welcoming us in: “please, be safe, last time many people survive here, go upstairs”. Unfortunately the toilets were on the ground floor and I really needed to go. As I was peeing, there was an almighty crash and the sound of screaming. “Oh shit,” I thought. “Here we go.” Being a guy, however, I had to finish what I’d started, so I carried on peeing and waited for the walls to cave in around me. As I left the toilet, seeing no advancing water, I breathed a sigh of relief as I went up to the top floor. The crash had been someone climbing onto a table in panic, and falling off.
In the bar, thankfully, beer was available, though not cigarettes. I ordered beers all round and we chugged them for Dutch courage. We then clustered at the edge of the balcony, trembling, peering into the darkened empty streets, watching for the arrival of the dark water.
The TV was on, and there were newsflashes every ten minutes in Thai. Our friend Neng translated for us. There were English language alerts saying “get to high ground and remain there until told”. The Minister for Meteorology appeared live in front of a map, charting the projected path of the wave, saying that this time the tsunami might be travelling slower. Surreally, the news flashes were interrupting “Thai Idol” or some form of ghastly karaoke competition. News footage showed scenes of chaos in Phuket, with hundreds of cars cramming the street as people left the coast for the hills.
A fatalistic bar nearby, on the ground level, had stayed open, and I looked down on several Thai people playing pool. They were survivors of the tsunami, and didn’t care what happened any more. An indication of the strength of our nicotine addiction is that, when I tentatively suggested that I descend to the bar to buy ciggies, mrs jjimm didn’t wail and tell me not to be stupid by risking my life, but said “get two packs just in case”. So I did. The guys in the bar were laughing. “Last time, this bar not damaged. Water only come here.” He indicated his chest. “This time, same same!” I bought cigarettes, thanked him, and ran back upstairs.
We were there for about two hours. People clustered around nervously, and further up the hill we could see the flashlights of dozens of Thai families huddled in the jungle. Many tourists were in a state of near hysteria, some having only arrived that day, and we tried to calm them.
And then, just before 1.30, Neng started jumping up and down, cheering and clapping, and the all-clear was given.
Sadly, my relief was soured immediately by the realisation of the loss of a truly wonderful man. We went back to our bungalow and I finally had the chance to grieve for my grandfather.
Um no I worked the bouncer part for the rowdy females that came in, and otherwise worked the (non-alchoholic) drinks. \
Although right after that should have been pool hustler not poll. :smack:
Nic2004 No way I writing out THAT story, I don’t even like to think about it. <Shudder>
Ah, now that makes sense. Actually, a whole bunch of sense. Thanks, I never thought of that.
jjimm Wow. That’s incredable! You know how to make gravy? 
But seiously, that is an epic story and a great scene. The part on the balcony, huddled together facing the darkness, the flashlights further up the hill playing in the darkness… all very visual. Even the kitchen scene with the not-yet-sans-heads chickens.
mrald- sorry to hear this. We are the poorer for it.
July 2005. Agent Foxtrot and I, along with our friends Keith, Andrew, Kenny, Barnakal and Don drove into the boonies of West Virginia for the Rainbow Gathering, a big hippy get-together.
Upon arrival at the campgrounds, we are greeted by a young woman wearing fairy-wings. We set up our tent at the camp of some friends of Barnakal’s, punk kids from B’more who were heavily into the E. Our camp was called ‘Camp America’, and our symbol was an upside-down American flag pinned to a tree.
Hippies, hippies everywhere. Naked hippies, breastfeeding hippies, pregnant hippies, kid hippies, Hare Krishna hippies, old hippies, young hippies, lesbian hippies, every imaginable sort of hippy. You would be greeted with cries of “Hello brother! Hello sister!” and sometimes people would walk up and give you apples. I met people named Breakfast (because she was born during breakfast, duh), Enigma, Freshman, and Amnesia. The smell of marijuana and patchouli filled the air.
We climbed up some very slippery hills to reach the Hare Krishna camp, where we helped prepare food and then ate some of it. I don’t think I ate anything else the whole weekend but Hare Krishna food. There was a rumor they put saltpeter in it but I never saw any. We would carry out watermelon to the revelers in the high field, who would dance and play drums to celebrate Mother Earth. All the guys would take off their clothes hoping the women would be inspired to get naked too, but they didn’t, so there were lots of naked men surrounded by amused women.
I carried some Hare Krishna food back to Camp America. Don came shuffling in, starving, so I offered him some, then accidently stepped in the bowl. Undeterred, he took the bowl and happily scarfed down the food that my foot had just been in. Barnakal accidently whacked Kenny across the face with a pot, and Kenny bled all the way down the side of his head and down onto his chest. He looked like a murder victim. Keith went looking for a hippy honey of his very own. We discovered that someone had snuck into our tent and had sex in there. We found an empty condom wrapper. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that at the very least they had practiced safe sex.
We met up with some folks who knew of a secluded stream deep in the mountain forests, so we piled in a van with Bill and Ira from Michigan and drove off to find it. There was this gorgeous mountain stream, with the coldest, clearest water imaginable. We splashed in, laughing and smiling, and swam around to wash off the muck and grime. Afterwards, we climbed up on large boulders in the water and sunbathed and smoked pot.
Agent Foxtrot, who had been the most reluctant to go on this whole adventure, ended up being the one who most regreted having to return to the Real World. I think he would’ve run off with a hippy caravan if I hadn’t stopped him. He spent the whole weekend wearing his blue swimming shorts and big clunky boots. I ran around in one of his oversized yellow t-shirts with a sarong and painted my face. Our friend Keith, more amazingly, wore a white shirt the entire weekend and that thing was spotless. We’re still not sure how he did that.
The ride back was harrowing. It rained a bit that morning, so as we’re carefully making our way down those serpentine mountain roads, our Honda hydroplanes and slams into a guardrail! We were thisclose to going over a forty-foot cliff. Don got out and kissed the guardrail in appreciation. Then we hit Tropical Storm Cyndy on the way back, the rain was coming down so hard you couldn’t see your own headlights, much less the car in front of you. We’re all terrified, except for Kenny, who was so high he had no idea where he was. As we’re hurtling along slick highways, screaming, all of us convinced we’re about to die any second, in the backseat Kenny is like, “Bananas! I like bananas.”
Suffice it to say we all made it home safely (except for Keith’s toes, which Agent Foxtrot ran over with his car. But that’s a story for another time).
Sept. 13, 2001. I’m reading horror stories in the L.A. Times while waiting for a bio lab at a community college. My dad calls my cell to say that my nurse practitioner mother says her mother has gone from bad to worse after her stroke yesterday, and in her expert medical opinion, this is probably it. I’m walking through athletic fields, crying on the phone. I decide to go to lab and then drive to their house, about 2 hours away.
During class, he calls again and says she’s gone. Plus, I was really on edge about what to do about the girlfriend I was coming to realize I couldn’t really marry.
THAT was a rough day. I drove to their house and turned off my mind for about 3 days.
Mississippienne- Great story. I didn’t know such events were still taking place. Kinda restores my faith and all that. What a great light-hearted event to capture on film to try and off-set the somewhat heavy events in other scences.
I always half expected that whole Hare Krishna thing to be a slippery slope.
I still want to know about Keith’s toes though.
Mississipienne, that sounds fantastic. Can you point me to somewhere I can find information about events/places like that?
fetus, it was fantastic. There’s an okay website at Welcome Home , but you won’t find much indepth information on the Rainbow Family on the internet. Basically, it’s a loose confederation of lots of hippy groups across the world, they host regional festivals you should check out. Annually around Fourth of July weekend there’s the Rainbow Gathering, a HUGE festival that’s free for all, a true experience. I attended Rainbow Gathering 2005 in the Cranberry Glades forest in West Virginia. Rainbow Gathering 2006 is going to be held in Colorado.
At the Rainbow Gathering there was a hug tent, where if you felt like you needed a hug you could enter and join in a big group hug. People walk past, waving and saying, “Hello brothers and sisters! Loving you!” There’s a Moment of Silence on the morning of the Fourth so you can better commune with the Earth. You can barter for goods (zuzus, or candy, is always popular), but food is free at the kitchens. At night there’s Circle, where people light a bonfire and play drums and everyone dances. Then the fire-dancers come out and perform, and they’re spectacular. The funniest part is the cops. Because the Rainbow Gatherings are held on public land, the local cops always prowl around, as though drawn by the scent of hippies. They’d do periodic sweeps through the camps, but you’d know about them from a mile off because everyone would raise the call of “Six up!” upon seeing them, that being slang for cops.
Was there any actual enforcement done?
One day when I was a wee lass, I went with my parents to a flower park. We were seated in a grassy field under a tree when suddenly another tree fell over and killed a woman sitting halfway across the field :eek:
fetus: No, not that I ever saw. I’m sure the cops knew there was pot-smoking and general heathenness going on, but no one was ever arrested. They just sort of stomped through, glowering about menacingly. Really, if I was a cop I’d be a lot more worried about A-camp, where all the bikers hung out – it was segregated from the main area, and lots of violence and scary stuff went down over there.
Nic2004: While we were driving back through Tropical Storm Cyndy, we had to pull over because the rain was coming down so hard we couldn’t see the road in front of us. Keith got out of his truck and ran up to Agent Foxtrot’s car and pounded on the windows, trying to get his attention. But the rain was so heavy that not only could we not see him through the windows, we couldn’t hear him, either. So Agent Foxtrot decided to merge back on, and ran right over Keith’s toes. Ouch!
But a few weeks ago, I found myself in Tijuana, Mexico building houses as part of a Youth Mission program for a local church. We slept on the floor of an unfinished building at an orphanage, raised up on plywood and cinderblocks as the place flooded. On the last day, I had been up on the roof of our house doing various tasks, and thus was covered in tar. Because the vans were rentals, there was a strictly enforced no tar in the vans rule. As a result, I ended up riding in the back of a pick-up truck back to the orphanage. The driver of the truck was notorious for taking tar-covered students at very high speed through the bumpy dirt roads of downtown Tijuana. My partner in the back of the truck was a 300 pound behemoth of a football player/wrestler, and also one of the kindest and funniest people I know. Did I mention it was raining?
So we’re tearing through the backstreets, both covered in mud, both in pain, and both enjoying the hell out of the whole experience. Sometimes we would hit potholes so deep that the impact would bounce us around the truck like a game of jezzball. On one such occasion, I was unlucky enough to find myself directly underneath him.
As we’re driving, we see a man sitting on the side of the road, and a woman waves us down. We stop, and me and the friendly giant hop out. As it turns out, the man has no legs, and was trying to get into the woman’s car, about 50 feet up the road. We pick him up and place him gently in the car. The woman is in tears, and through my broken Spanish I was able to pick up that he was born with no legs, and has to beg through life because he can’t work. The woman, whom I presumed to be his wife, then dropped a hell on me.
The reason he was getting into the car was to go to their new house.
Which I had just built.
That is an ispiring post indeed. How is it you came to be in this place doing this sort of work…with this sort of partner again? A Youth Mission? Ever done this type of thing before and are all the events like this? The whole “encountering and helping the very one for whom you worked” is a fantastic finish to the scene.
At the encouragement of a couple of classmates who enlisted before me, I joined the Navy right out of high school. This was nearly 20 years ago so let’s see what I can remember.
Scene: the military induction center in New Orleans, summer, 1986.
If you’ve heard “Alice’s Restaurant”, you already have the general idea: a bunch of little rooms where they inspect, detect, and neglect you. No injections, they come later. One room we went into, the inspectors, detectors, and neglectors had us strip, bend over, grab our ankles, and walk around in a circle like we’re all trying to bury our head in the butt of the guy in front of us. My digestive system couldn’t take the pressure so I let out a little fart, which got the other naked guys laughing. Then the inspectors, detectors, and neglectors had us stop and turn to our left so they could stick their fingers up our butts. I guess they took one look at the skintag hanging down next to my anus and decided not to give me an exam.
Another little room was the one for hearing tests. They tell us to press the button as long as we hear the beeps but I processed this as having to press the button every time I heard a beep. The inspector, detector, and neglector was not amused by the mountain range I created so he had me take the test again. So I did. This time, I held the button for as long as I heard beeps but I missed an entire frequency range in one ear. This means I failed the test and was sent home to have my ears cleaned. Over the next week, my parents flushed out both ears with a cleaning solution and I went back to the induction center for another hearing test. I had some difficulty with the highest frequencies but this is normal. I had passed!
The final little room is where the inspectors, detectors, and neglectors tell you when the next available spot is. I get “Great Lakes, February.” On retrospect, I should have held out for San Diego or Orlando. I’m from the Chicago area, or rather close enough to the Chicago area to pick up their TV signals. I know what it’s like in February.
Scene: night at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, early February, 1987.
Damn, it’s cold! A whole bunch of us just disembarked from a bus, lined up, and marched–hands out of pockets–to the processing center where we are to be inspected, detected, and neglected but not as much as at the induction center. Injections are still later. I can’t hear too well because I’m still having trouble with my ears after the flight up from New Orleans. Everything sounds tinny. A group of us from New Orleans ends up staying in the NTC processing center until 3am because the induction center screwed up our paperwork, or at least that’s what we were told. Those of us, like me, with screwed up paperwork end up in Company 051 and get temporarily assinged to barracks on the north end of the base, near one of the gyms.
We get issued our uniforms and green canvas duffel bags then we get two pneumatic markers, one white and one black, and a stencil with our names, initials, company number, and the last four digits of our SSN on them. White markers are used on dark items, like our peacoats and raincoats, while black markers are used on everything else. Different parts of the stencils are used on different items. Our last name goes on the fronts of our denim shirts; last name and company number inside our shorts; full name, company numer, and SSN on our duffels. I don’t get pants right away because they don’t have anything in my size, at least that’s what I was told.
One day, while the company commander is doing rollcall, I start getting thirsty and need to ask to visit the scuttlebut (waterfountain). Asking to do so right after the CC called someone else’s name is a bad idea.
Eventually, the company is issued permanent quarters in one of the two divisions on the south end of the base. So, we march with full duffels from one end of the camp to the other. Anyone using the pedestrian tunnel under Buckley Road is required to sing “Anchors Aweigh” while doing so. On the way to our new home, I notice that the cadence “Left, left, left right left” when echoing off the buildings sounds like “Little, little, little by little”.
At our new home, things start going downhill for me. Turns out that I’m not adept at keeping my area neat and I start getting pains in my feet, part of which turns out to be caused by ingrown toenails. That’s not so bad because it qualifies me for light duty. One day, I start having trouble putting my weight on my right foot so I drop out of formation while the company was on its way to mess. I start hobbling back toward the divistion house when another recruit notices my trouble and shortly after that a car pulls up behind me. Turns out that sickbay’s podiatrists are in that car! So they take me to sickbay with them and I get xrays. They ask if I’ve dropped anything on my foot, which I haven’t. Then when the xrays don’t show anything, they accuse me of malingering, telling them my foot was broken, and stopping because I knew they were behind me. All of which is BS; I didn’t know anyone was behind me! Then there’s the incidents with the psychiatrsts, which I’ve related elsewhere.
One day, with an inspection pending, I get sent to the company one deck below ours. They’ve just come through processing and have been issued their markers & stencils. I decide to stay out of their way, which is another bad move. At least a recruit there is also on light duty so I get to keep him company until I get sent back to my own company.
Little by little, Chief Ambrose (my CC) becomes more exasperated with me. He’s labelled me a bug and takes it upon himself to get me in line. He’s decided that, given that I’m a few pounds over the Navy’s ideal weight, I like Twinkies, so he has me give a little performance for all the other CCs in the division: “follow the bouncing twinkie”, encouraging me to do pushups. Only I don’t like Twinkies, and what he’s holding isn’t a Twinkie anyway. Later, he decides to get me to doubletime like I’m supposed to by giving me a demerit. Only he can’t give me a demerit himself so he goes and gets someone who can, which results in the rest of the company getting demerits. That night, after hearing that Ambrose was able to get those demerits reversed–which makes sense because he caused them–I learn that the other ricks in my company had planned a blanket party for me.
Ambrose’s attempts at pushing me don’t work so I get sent to Intensive Traning–which I pass–then to the Motiviational Traning Uni–twhich I not only don’t pass but those in charge of the MTU threaten to give me two tours. I can’t even get through one, how the hell am I supposed to do two?
I end up with a discharge hearing and get sent home the same day my original company graduates. I probably could have stayed in if I had informed the officer in charge of the hearing the reason that Ambrose’s efforts and those of the MTU had no effect on me: I was used to all their little mind-games because I had to endure the same sort crap from one of my brothers. They weren’t doing anything new.
I never did get those injections.