The Huggers

Sky lanterns are paper balloons with a wax fuel pellet suspended from the bottom.  You light them and let the paper balloon fill with hot air and then release it to fly away somewhere until the pellet burns out.

I bought some sky lanterns for my daughter Z.  It was near Christmas and it was Cyber Monday at that.  I hadn't really formed a list, but all the media were telling me that I had to buy something on Cyber Monday to get the best deals. So, I went shoppin’. (www.justartifacts.net/sky_lanterns)

Sky Lanterns came across my screen and I thought my daughter would like them.  She likes fire and outer space.  I figured it was a perfect gift.  I bought 6, thinking maybe they would make a good stocking stuffer.  At cyber-checkout, they told me I would get free shipping if I bought $50 dollars or more.  So, I bought 36 Sky Lanterns.  It was a pretty big box. Maybe Z would need a bigger stocking.

Though at first perplexed, she later thanked me for the gift and displayed her gratitude by stowing them in the basement.

Skipping ahead to summer, I was home from DC for the holiday. We gave the Fourth of July Fireworks a miss, so I asked Z that evening if she’d like to launch a few of the lanterns.

“I thought we’d go over to the high school down the street and launch one from the football field”

“Isn’t it locked?” she asked dubiously..

“Nah, I saw a deer on the 40 yard line the other day.  There has to be a way in.  Like Grandpa used to say, ‘Confucius say, if a dog is on the roof, there must be a way up!’”

I asked Mrs. Secret-Asian-Man if she wanted to go along, but she thought she’d better stay behind in case we needed bailed out of jail.

Off we walked down the street. Z was keen, but muttering under her breath about getting caught.

“Do you want to go back?  We could find another field. I just thought this one was closer.”

“No, no!  Let’s stick to the plan.”

We walked along the fence looking for a gap or another way in, because really, I did see a deer in the middle of the field. The deer must have been a jumper because we couldn't find any obvious holes.

“I guess we’ll have to climb the fence”, I said.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Z, we can go back if you want.”

“No, this is an easy climb.”  And, over the chain link fence she went.   “Aren’t we trespassing?” she asked, as she hit the ground.

“Actually, right now, YOU'RE trespassing.”

“Dad! Get over here!”

And, a’trespassing I went.

We walked out to the 20 yard line, unfolded the lantern and set it on the ground.  I lit the corners of the fuel pellet and through the papery lantern it cast a bright glow across the field, but it didn't appear it be in any hurry to float away.

We heard the clink of beer bottles in the distance, then a yell.  “Fire! WTF!”

Z hissed “Dad! There is someone over in the bleachers!”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got a large burning object in my hands, so, it’s too late now!”  I steadied the lantern hoping it would heat up enough to lift off quickly.  While waiting I mentally checked my pocket for my phone to call Mrs. S.A.M for bail or help.

Then footsteps and voices approached.  “Sky lanterns! I love sky lanterns!”  Two wispy figures in long dresses traipsed into the glow.  “These are the best! We light them off at music festivals all the time!  Have you done this before?”

“No. Does it show?”

“You have to hold them up and be careful not to catch them on fire.  We want to help you with your first sky lantern experience!”

Yes, it did go on quite like that.  Wispy druids smelling of Corona and maybe Patchouli, removed of most filters, going on about all the musical festivals and the lanterns they’d lit and the tree that caught fire that one time (Yikes!)  We set off two more lanterns, the four of us in a small circle guiding each one on its way. 

Both women were named Calista (What’re the odds that both their mothers were Ally McBeal fans?). One went by Cali and the other, Cal.  They both were in dog training school. (Okay, this is weird. Two people named Calista in Dog Training school?)  A third druid, Olyvia, appeared.  She’d been waiting in the shadows.

Cali turned to my daughter and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Z”

“Hi, Z, I’m Cali and I’m a hugger” at which point she leaned in for a hug.

To me, “What’s your name?”

“Secret Asian Man”

“Hi, I’m Cali and I’m a hugger.”  Yes, so I’d heard.  We hugged. “Okay, so we’re headed out.”

I asked to be shown the way in and out as I’m sure these women in their long dresses did not climb the fence.  They pointed toward a gate on the far end of the field and said there was gap to slip through. We all headed that way chit-chatting.  

Z said, relieved, “I thought you guys were the police”

Cali said, “Technically, what we’re doing isn’t illegal.”

Z replied, neutrally, “Trespassing is sort of illegal.” Which received a shrug.

We all slipped through the gap, the wispy ones a little more easily than us, and said our goodbyes.  “Thanks for sharing your sky lanterns with us!

“Thanks for keeping us from setting the field on fire.”

And with that, Z and I walked home. “Why do huggers feel their needs outweigh others?  I’m not a hugger, shouldn’t I have a say in the introduction?”, she asked.

“That’s true.  Substitute ‘licker’ for ‘hugger’ and you might be dealing with a felony.”

The following day driving by the high school, Z said, “That was a lot of fun. I’ll never pass that place without thinking about the huggers.”

Parasite

Secret Asian Man has heard tell that’s he’s acquired some followers and is quite appreciative.  He’s also quite aware that he’s been negligent in keeping those followers informed.  

I’ve also heard inquiries about how one follows this blog without waiting on notification on Facebook.  That’s easy to do.  

Just click on “Follow by Email” button somewhere over here --------------------------------->

You’ll get notified every time something gets posted here. I promise I won’t sell your name to anyone.

One interesting aspect of all this training is that you get to go back and review things that you’ve learned in the past.  Or maybe look at things in more depth.  

Recently, we spent two full days in the Tropical Medicine Department at the Uniformed Medical Health Services Hospital in Bethesda looking about all the invasive lifeforms that can harm you.  Schistosomiasis, Leishmaniasis, Ascariasis, Malaria etc.

It was like going back to Medical School but “funner.”  And, I’m not sure why that was. Maybe it was the flood of information that was being presented at the time way back when.  Maybe I was too distracted trying to find Mrs Secret Asian Man.  It may have been the teaching materials.  

Way back when we had textbook and microfiche photos that we spend hours pouring over, but nowadays, there’s YouTube which really makes the material a lot more interesting.  

If you’ve got time here’s a cool video on Malaria…..

http://youtu.be/1UTJ38D0ukw

And, if you have the stomach for it, here’s a really cool movie of a worm being extracted from someone’s gallbladder.  If I may be so Buzzfeed, you will be amazed by what you see at the 4:45 min mark! Seriously, you won’t stop watching.

http://youtu.be/1XId87aphbQ

But, we also studied things the old fashioned way, which was a good way to reinforce the learning.  We got out the microscopes made our own slides and spent hours looking at samples, trying to spot things that could be seen out in the field.  It really was more fun than you could imagine looking at feces and blood.  

Lunchtime View

A lunch time view from the Martin Van Buren Dining Room.

The Legend of Zelda

Spent a week in Boston at a conference for our group of docs.  We gathered from around the world.  27 or so of us.  It was great to be able to meet people who’ve been doing this job for the last 15 or 16 years.  

There were also quite a few new folks as our service is growing, so it was also good to get their perspective on what it’s like to be a new person in this job.  Their successes. Their struggles. All were keen to offer tips and I felt fortunate to be able to attend.

A lot of these docs are involved in a lot of really interesting things.  Some have helped in hostage recovery.  Some have helped in relief of natural disasters.  Several spoke of being involved after the Westgate Mall shootings in Nairobi.

It makes you tune into the news with a different ear. While in Boston, the news was full of the Boko Haram kidnappings.  We heard a U.S. Senator pledge that the U.S. was going to send assistance including “mental health assets”  

One of us newbies remarked, “I wonder what they mean by that” to which an older doc said, “That would be you. You're the mental health asset.”  We’re all that close to the next headline.

To a person, they all said that this was the coolest job in the world.  

And it is, or it seems to be when you hear about all the exciting stuff.  Then there are days like yesterday where everything is a hassle.  

Not coming from a bureaucratic background it is a struggle to try and wend one’s self around in this big conglomeration.  And, I’m told that the foreign service is small on the government scale.

I’m reminded of those video games where you’re given a quest and nothing but some rudimentary tools that seem useless at the beginning.  You start out just wandering around bumping into walls and picking up random objects.  

Then you discover that if you bang on trees, coins fall out so you bang on all the trees you can find and you upgrade your rudimentary tools.  You find people to give you bad information and others who are gurus.  You hang on their every word.  

You finally complete some task and run back to the beginning to get your reward or move on to the next level.

This is similar to what it takes to get reimbursed for expenses.  Fill out a form. Send it in. Form is rejected without explanation. Tweak form. Resubmit. Rejected again with cryptic feedback.  Seek guidance from helper who’s assigned to help you. Receive silent shrug. Seek guidance from guru who instructs you to put form back how you had it the first time. Resubmit. Wait. Success!  Why?  “I don’t know”

So, I guess even the coolest job in the world has gotta have it’s downsides.  Just got to learn to shake those trees.

Asian Hair

Until I hit the road, I'd had my hair cut by the same Cambodian woman for more than 20 years. I guess I'm a creature of habit. Or someone told me once that I had “Asian hair” and needed an Asian stylist to manage it. Someone was impressionable in their youth. Anyway, she and I both grew into our Middle Ages together at 4-6 week intervals more or less.  There were lapses in fidelity. She'd shift shops and not have my number. I would be on vacation and get a trim.

Now, I'm away and I've grown shaggy twice with no where to turn. This caused some distress

Next door to my accommodations in DC is a place called Eden Center billed as the largest Vietnamese shopping center on the East Coast. And it is quite impressive.   If you're looking for Pho or fresh squeezed cane juice or Asian groceries, this is the place to find it. Even the parking lanes have Vietnamese street names.  On Saturdays and Sundays the place is packed.

My ingrained belief that I have asian hair lead me down a side entrance to a small shop with some open chairs.  I enquired about a haircut and was pointed to an end chair where a small man was seated.  

I've been there two times now. I call him Rex because that’s the name on the shop window.  It’s not his shop though.  He has a chair toward the back where he’s found 6 days a week.  He says he’ll cut hair until his wife retires.

The man is older. He told me last time he was 72. He does fine with Asian hair. He told me he's been cutting hair since 1979 when she emigrated here.  He was an officer in the South Vietnamese Army and was convicted and imprisoned after the war for something like 7 years.

I like him because he reminds me of my dad.  

Slight build. Artificially black hair long past practicality  Wire frame glasses with black temples.  His crisp white short sleeved shirts with stuff in the pockets. His accented english is different,. He’s soft spoken with not a lot to say, so when he says something it seems important.  

Like my dad, he pays meticulous attention to detail.  It seems he cuts hair one follicle at a time.  His mannerisms are the same when he inserts a new razor blade or brushes the hair off my neck.  The deliberateness that frustrated me as a kid,  in Rex, I can see my dad cleaning a camera lens or chopping up vegetables for a meal or carefully pouring molten lead into a pinewood derby car we made.

It was my father’s birthday the last time I went.  He would have been 81.  Sitting quietly and watching.  A vietnamese soap opera playing in the background. It was a good day to feel that connection.

Dramamine

This is a testimonial to the value of modern chemistry.  Dramamine is a godsend. And, here is why.

After our Trauma First Aid class we were sent over the hill to the local Motor Speedway for a day and a half of safety and evasive driving.   This class was a total blast!

Riding around in old police cruisers (Crown Victorias) we wore helmets which should tell you something.  We skidded.  We learned to get out of skids.  We stopped… hard. Without hitting cones…. mostly.  We slalomed and we mostly stayed on the road.  The photo above is kind of how we looked.  ;) Though there was more Cooter and no Daisy Duke. 

On the second day, we did most of the same things, only in reverse.  We backed through slaloms.  We skidded a bit.  Then we had to do it all in traffic.  All the other students skidding and backing up in a bit of a traffic concert.

Oh, and we rammed! Yes, rammed.  Other cars.  They lined up some junked, but still functional cars and we took turns ramming through a road block.  I could not help but fantasize about the mall parking lots at Christmas time.  This was awesome.

After lunch we put it all together.  We faked out baddies sneaking up behind us, baddies sneaking up in front of us and baddies in their roadblocks.  Baddies, everywhere!

So, where does the Dramamine come in?

This class was a blast to drive, but I believe there is a reason the car was lined in plastic.  Sloshing around in the back of this car while our teacher or other students drove was truly a nauseating experience.  It was all I could do to keep my lunch down and I'm not usually one to get ill.   Eventually I had to be left off at a shelter house.  “The Barfzebo”, they called it.  I wasn't alone.  There was a handful of green souls sitting out for a while.

With motion sickness pills on the second day, though, I was totally able to out ride the bad guys without tossing my cookies. 

Death is Certain

S.A.M spent the last week in  training to prepare us for potential Benghazi attacks. This is a new requirement that everyone must go through now. In a world that is unpredictably changing, it is best to be prepared.

A few score of us headed to the rural outskirts where they've set up a whole training facility for this and other trainings.  

Medic/first aid was on order the first day and a half.  This was taught by former military medics who had seen all sorts of trauma.  Our course was introduced by an affable, straight talking guy with tattooed, post-spinach Popeye forearms. I sat to the side of the classroom, so I could only see one arm tattoo clearly.  It said something to the effect of 'death is certain.'  What was I in for?

Laying around the room were assorted mannequins in various states of dying. Dismemberments, disembowlments, bullets, etc.  Arms and  legs were strewn about.

We spent much of the day learning how to place tourniquets and plug holes. Before our first exercise an instructor walked up with a large red bucket labelled "fake blood."  He connects a hose from the bucket to the dummy's chest and threw down a pad.

He handed me a radio control, the kind you'd steer a model car with. He hands me the control and says this switch make him move and this switch makes him bleed. All I could think about was "I feel bad for the legless chap in front of me, but  does this fake blood stain?, ‘cause this is the  only pair of pants I brought."

"Boom! He's hit! He's bleeding." I start working the levers and sure enought the dummy starts writhing on the floor and a good amount of red liquid spurts out onto the floor as my teammates work to keep him from fully exsanguinating. There we were, four doe-eyed bureaucrats trying to keep our clothes clean.  

But by the end of the day we were all pretty good at that and other things. Patching chest wounds, inserting nose tubes, applying bandages.  All the things we could do to bide time until better help arrived.  

For the last class, I sat on the other side of the room.  The first instructor came back and I could get a better look at his ink.  He crossed his arms once. The full tattoo was less gloomy and more positive. To paraphrase, it was a reminder to  ‘live life fully for death is certain.’