Armed and Dangerous

It's amazing how heavy a human arm is.

Fortunately, for me, I haven't come across any severed limbs in my almost 24 years on this planet. Yet, I comment on the weight of a human arm because of the shock I got when I was unexpectedly and repeatedly hammered by one on my most recent ride into town.

The buses going to town are double buses. They are not double decker buses like you see in London or sometimes in NYC, but rather, double in length like the ones you see going around Boston, unless of course, I have my cities confused. They seat a large number of people, but still, every time they go to town during the week, they are filled beyond capacity, and people are left standing for the 40 minute ride.

Myself and a few friends boarded the bus before it was filled up, and we settled into a few vacant seats apart from each other. I sat down in the aisle chair of a row of three seats, with a slightly large-ish woman taking up the window seat, the chair between us, reserved for my bag. After a few stops, the bus was almost filled up, and I was thankful I still had my aisle seat, and a place for my bag so I didn't have to carry it on my lap.

With only 2 stops to go, I noticed an absurd amount of people outside attempting to board the bus. The first three people walked past me to some seats beyond. The bus must have been full by that point with many more people to go, and as I looked up, I saw what was probably one of the largest women I have ever seen in my life, coming down the aisle with her eyes directly on me.

Well, her eyes weren't on me exactly, but rather, on the vacant seat next to me. She asked politely in siSwati if she could sit, and outwardly friendly but internally grudgingly, I scooted over to the middle seat, put my bag on my lap, and then just barely dodged this woman's giant leg as she blindly sat down in not only her seat but in half of mine as well. I'm not even kidding. She took up a seat and a half, plus was spilling out into the aisle. I say none of this to be mean, only to recount the facts of the the events of the day. She was a very large woman.

I could tell she was a nice woman though, because as I adjusted my butt, legs, body, and family jewels so nothing would be crushed during the ride, I found that my ass no longer was touching my seat. Instead, it was resting on the right leg of the giant woman to my left, and the left leg of the half-sleeping not so giant woman to my right. It was incredibly awkard at first, but after gently squirming a bit to see if I could maybe slide in between them, I decided it wasn't worth it and accepted my center seat for the ride to town.

My friends were behind me, so I couldn't turn around to talk with them during the ride, so I sent out some text messages to other people around. Some were just "hi" type of notes, others were, "You wouldn't believe how uncomfortable I am right now" type of notes, and others stated simply that at that moment in time, I wanted nothing more than hot and somewhat flattened Krispy Kreme donuts.
As I was writing out my text messages I felt an unexpected dead weight fall into my chest. Thinking someone's bag had fallen from the overhead rack, I looked up, only to remember that there was no overhead rack on this bus. I looked at my chest and saw nothing on there, and had fleeting thoughts that maybe someone threw a really dense sandwich at me and it was on the floor. I looked to the floor.

Nothing.

I looked next to me at the giant woman, who was now somewhat sleeping, just like the woman on my right. The giant woman had her hands on the seat in front of her, loosely hanging onto the bar at the top. I went back to finish my text when I felt ::WHAM!!!!:: again. I dropped my phone as I realized that the giant woman's arm had loosened its grip on the bar in front of her and had dropped directly onto my fragile little chest and arms.

Like a schoolkid who is falling asleep in class, she quickly jerked her arm back to its resting position on the bar and opened her eyes in a dazed fashion. I didn't say anything. I just awkwardly bent over like a Chinese acrobat and somehow managed to pick up my phone from between my feet on the floor. Before I got fully up again, ::WHAM:: the arm knocked me on my shoulder, and quick as a bunny, was replaced back on the resting bar.

I sat up, tilted my head slightly to the left, and looked thru my dark sunglasses at the giant woman next to me. Was she flirting with me? I don't like people who flirt by leaving meblack and blue. Was she awake? Conscious? Mostly alive?

She had her eyes closed, her head tilted slightly back, and both her arms resting on the seat in front of her. I went back to texting, and again ::WHAM::. She picked her arm up. I looked down at my phone.... ::WHAM:: I looked up. She picked her arm up. I looked down. ::WHAM:: I didn't look up. ::WHAM:: I didn't look up. ::WHAM:: I looked up, and to my left. It felt like someone was throwing recently shaven baby pigs at me every time I lowered my eyes. This arm was heeeaaavvvvvyyyyyyyy. However, after this latest series of subcounscious beatings, I imagine she must've felt slightly embarrassed, because she adjusted herself slightly, took her arms down from the chair in front of her, and put her arms at her side.

Now, when this woman put her arms at her side, it was actually as if she had decided to use my shoulder and half my face as an arm rest, because that's exactly where her arm came to rest. I suppose she didn't mind the beard on my face or the bony body structure of mine that must have been stabbing into her somewhere.

I didn't really move much. I stopped texting because I couldn't look down at my phone. All I could see was her giant arm, and all I could feel was the sweat accumulating on my face from the never ending skin to face contact. It got really really hot. And really really sweaty. I thought I might panic after a few endless minutes in that position, so eventually I decided it was time to make a noise or big movement to wake her up. I did just that, and as she stirred to life, she lifted up her arms, I felt the breath of life come back into me, and I saw that she put her hands... back on the seat in front of her.

Wishing I could share this horrific irony with someone else, I began to text another friend, when all of a sudden ::WHAM::. The shaved baby pig. I mean, the arm. Again. What was so amazing, besides the sheer weight of this arm, was that it seemingly had no effect on this woman, that every second and a half, her arm would mercilessly pound me like a raw piece of meat. If it did affect her at all, she might, oh I don't know, WAKE UP.

The whole situation was hysterical to me, and it reminded me of another volunteer's story about riding in close proximity in a taxi with a large breastfeeding mother, and her child. Many women in rural South Africa have no shame about whipping out a boob, and feeding their little ones wherever they happen to be. That's exactly what this woman did. Only as she took out her one breast to feed her little boy, she rested it on the volunteers arm nest to her in the cramped space. The volunteer described the boob as being something like "ridiculously sweaty" and he could "feel the milk pulsing thru the breast" as the feeding went on. You'd be hard pressed to experience that back home.

Anyway, I couldn't help but laugh and laugh and laugh to myself, each time this woman's giant arm came barreling down on me like a dull guillotine. It didn't hurt at all though... in fact, it was just like having a pillowfight.... a pillowfight with a fat woman's arm.

How could you not laugh at yourself in that situation?

Eventually, the bus arrived at town, and we all got off. As I stood up, covered in this woman's body sweat, and nothing really bruised except maybe my sense of pride, I made up my mind that the next time I take the bus, I'm just gonna stand.

Jumping Off High Things

We've all had the dream - you jump or fall off something very high - a building, a cliff, a bridge etc., and you feel yourself falling... falling... falling... falling... and before you hit the ground, you wake up. That feeling of falling endlessly is something very few of us experience in real life due to the fact that many of us are not adventure seekers at heart, or maybe we can't afford the skydiving or bungee jump experience, and also because the highest thing we've ever jumped off is the high dive at the pool, which is about 3 meters tall, and even there, we land in the water, not on land.

I've always wanted to do things like skydive and bungee jump and other such things. But I've never had the money or the opportunity to afford such activities. Until now. Living on a government stipend, as little as it is, does have its upsides.

I've still not actually gone bungee jumping or skydiving. Yet. Someday maybe.

BUT. I did just return from a much needed and very eventful vacation, touring the south eastern part of South Africa. During this vacation, I found myself jumping off high things more than a few times. I'm not sure why. It just kinda happened.

The first few jumps I took were in Coffee Bay, during a day hike. A group of us were hiking along the coast, up and down massive and very steep hills, amongst traditional Xhosa villages, exploring the area right next to where the ocean meets the rocks on shore. We came to the halfway point of the hike - far out in the hills where afterwards, we had no choice but to turn back due to the fact that the land drops off into the sea, and we can't walk on air.

But instead of turning back, we were offered another option - jump from the 8 meter cliff into the ocean below. It was a cold, windy, and very grey day - the rocks were slippery, wet, and very hard to climb up. You had to watch your step, and time your movements so you wouldn't get prematurely soaked by incoming waves splashing whitewater up against the sides of the rocks. The guide asked who wanted to do the jump, and only three people among the 30 or so of us raised their hands. My friend Adam, myself, and some big muscular guy from Sweden (who I found out later was one of those fire twirlers, and a rather impressive one at that).

As we were stripping off our clothes, other people decided to join us in the jump as well. Standing at the edge of the 8 meter drop, I was a bit nervous. It wasn't the distance that got to me. It was the thought of the shock I would get when I finally hit the cold ocean water that made me uneasy. I get cold very fast. We had about a 3 meter square target area to land in - outside that area we were told the rocks jutted out a bit, and it wasn't smart to land on them.... mainly because of the severe pain, discomfort, and broken bones it would leave us with. Right. So go for the bullseye.

After some second thoughts, I was ready to jump. Our guide stopped me before I hesitantly took off and said that after I surface, I should not to get out right away. He said he would tell me when it was safe to get out of the water. Why didd I have to wait for him to tell me to get out? The waves were very strong, and crashing very high and rather violently in this little cove area where we were to jump. He said if I timed my exit wrong, and tried to get out too early, a wave would knock me off the escape rock, and drag me along the many tiny razor sharp barnacles located on top of it, leaving me looking like I had an unfortunate accident with a cheese grater. Good to know.

The Swedish guy and his friend decided they didn't mind going first. Cool by me. The jump didn't look so bad when they did it - they waited about 10 seconds in the water before they swam to the barnacle covered rock, and exited nice and easy. Awesome. Definitely not as bad as I imagined.

My turn. Again, I hesitantly stepped to the edge, then temporarily lost all my cares, and jumped. Hitting the water wasn't bad at all. For the first half a second. The second half of that second my mind went, "WAY TOO COLD IN HERE. GET ME OUT NOW!" I would have loved to listen to my mind, but upon surfacing, I looked up to our guide who held his hand up, telling me to wait - the waves were coming in too strong. He waved me to swim backwards a bit to make way for the next person to jump.

I swam back a bit, and watched as Adam came down with relative grace as compared to me (I still hold my nose when I jump into water - I'm kind of a baby like that). Adam was not allowed to exit yet either. He backed up and in came our friend Jeff. After Jeff came someone else. None of us were allowed to exit until after the fourth guy came in.

The whole process took over 4 minutes from the time I hit the water. I'm not a very strong swimmer in the first place. Bobbing up and down in rough ocean waters like a float on a fishing line so close to big hurtful looking rocks is not my idea of a good time. Especially not when I felt my arms getting exhausted from treading water, propelling me away from the sides of the cliffs, unexpectedly swallowing most of the Indian Ocean in a few gulps, and feeling like my nipples had shrunk about four sizes and were hard enough to cut diamonds.

We finally got the signal to exit. Sweet. I started to make my way to the barnacle infested exit rock, and realized with a tinge of fear that despite my best efforts, I could swim no closer than I already was. I wasn't moving forward an inch. Starting to worry a little bit, I watched as everyone else made strides to exit. I decided I wasn't going to stay in the water any longer. With the last bit of energy I had left, I threw myself forward, with a little/a lot of help from an outgoing wave that pushed me forward, and surprisingly quickly and gracefully, made my exit, only managing to get a few small, insignificant slices on my arm.

Climbing the cliffs eight meters relatively straight back up from there proved to be another challenge which I also managed, thanks to many hand assists from Jeff who pushed me up the rocks I couldn't quite pull myself onto.

I felt good. Like I accomplished something, or maybe just proved to my body that it wasn't going to hold me back. I guess I didn't actually accomplish anything, and if anything it was my body which sent me a clear message saying not to push it too far, or it would leave me floating endlessly in the Indian Ocean. What a bitch. Regardless, I was happy.

At the end of the hike, after some grilled cheese sandwiches, we were given the option to do another "cliff jump", this time into the nearby stream/river. I had no intentions of jumping again. But after watching two people take the plunge, and hearing the water was actually warm, and seeing there were no waves or scary rocks nearby, I decided to jump. This jump was about 10 meters or so. It doesn't sound much higher, but those 2 meters feel like a lifetime of difference on the way down.

I felt like I was falling, should have stopped, but instead went right thru the ground to continue falling those last 2 meters, to then finally enter the refreshingly warm water. It was a lot of fun - I made the jump twice just to make sure that it was as fun as I thought it was. It was. Hooray for me.

The real trip for me was a few days later. We had been traveling up the Wild Coast of South Africa, and had come to Umzumbe - a coastal town near the Oribi Gorge national park. We had heard there was a gorge swing in this park, where you get to jump off the egde of the gorge, into the abyss below, saved [hopefully] by a harness and a beatly metal cable that lets you fall with relative safety. The same thing went thru my head like at the ocean jump... "I'm here now, so why not?"

The gorge is absolutely beautiful. Sad thing is, the idea of this gorge swing takes attention away from how stunning the view actually is from the top. The take off spot is next to a 200 meter waterfall with not a very strong flow, so when the wind picks up, it makes the water droplets swirl and dance around like snow in a snow globe, forming little water twisters, moving like a Moroccan belly dancer. It's mesmerizing.

The jump was prepaid - no refunds, and a bit expensive. So once you paid, you kinda have no choice but to make the jump. Smart business people they are. Facts about the gorge swing - 160 meters to the bottom of the rope, 75 meter free fall, and your body reaches 120 km/h (about 72 mph) in 2.3 seconds. At least, that's what the sign says next to their office.

Truth be told, I wasn't as nervous for this jump as I was about the one into the ocean. I had no control over what was to happen to me after I made the leap, as opposed to knowing I'd have to battle the Indian Ocean to stay afloat in my past jump. It was nice to put the responsibility of keeping myself alive into someone else's hands for the time being.

There are two ways to jump/fall. Most people hold onto the giant cable they are attached to and hang on to it the whole way down. The other more fun way to jump, is to throw caution to the wind and jump head first out into the gorge, like a skydive.

My friend Adam made the leap before me. Good form on the take off - arms spread, feet together, free falling like a skydive. About 7 minutes after he left the edge and was safely back at the top, it was my turn to make the leap. The guy working next to the take off spot hooked me up to the giant cable and told me to lean back. As he let go of his end of the rope, I understood why I had to lean back. The weight of this giant cable actually pulls you forward, so even at this point, if you had second thoughts about jumping, the cable worked to actually pull you off the ledge. A funny thing I saw later in the day was that if the cable didn't move you to jump, the guys at the edge gave you a nice push to get you going - right off the ledge. I laughed.

But back to me.

I decided I would take a first person perspective video on the way down. I had my camera pointing out over the ledge, and would hold it that way throughout the whole way down. After a video farewell address to my mom (you'll see that soon mama, but it basically says I'm not crazy, just having a good time) I started filming the seconds before the leap. The guy next to me counted down, "THREE!! TWO!! ONE!! GO!!"

Take off.

Good form Joey - head first, diving out into nothingness. A little too ambitious I was, I realized after I was no longer facing the ground, but flipping over halfway down the free fall. But there was that feeling again - falling, falling, falling, falling - it's such a rush. The flip was unexpected but appreciated, the main jolt I got was from the harness jerking my legs at the point where the free fall ended and the swing began. I was giddy by the time I reached the bottom, the camera still rolling, I couldn't stop smiling. The ride was over very fast, to the point where I almost didn't remember that I just fell 160 meters, but it was well worth everything. I was happy I had my camera with me, dangling above the canyon below. I got some nice pictures from that vantage point of the waterfall and the views around. The funniest thing I saw, hanging like a worm on a fishing line was a white chalk line on the rocks below, outlining a supposed body splat, arms and legs splayed out like a cartoon character.

My friend Kristy went after me - good form again on the way down. On the way up for her, the wind changed direction, and she got a full body shower from the waterfall. Drenched from head to toe. I was pretty jealous. My friend Craig took a few hours to face his fear of heights, but eventually made the leap as well later in the day.

The gorge swing was a full day event for us, but it was well worth all the money and the waiting. They claim it's the highest gorge swing in the world. As far as I know, it's the only gorge swing I've ever heard of. But maybe there are more.

Cape Town claims to have the world's tallest bungee jump. Before I'm done with my service in South Africa, you can be sure I'll be heading down that way as well to make the leap.

Because why settle for less when you can make the leap from the top of the world?

Pigs - I'd Rather Eat Them Than Catch Them

Raise your hand if you've ever been peed on by a 2 day old piglet while being chased thru tall grass and thorn bushes, running over logs, rocks, and small children who couldn't keep their footing, by a larger than you ever imagined mama pig who is intent on taking a big bite out of any piece of flesh she can get her teeth close enough to latch on to of yours.

I guess I should set up the scenario first.

It was a slow day at the farm a few days ago, and I was coming out of the kitchen looking for a tomato to eat. I didn't find any. Tomato picking season has just ended here.

As I came outside, I saw Lindy, 13, carrying a baby pig to the stoop to show Sophie that one of the pigs just popped out a few piglets. It still had the umbilical cord dangling from its underside.

Very attractive.

Lindy was sweating a good bit. I asked her why. She said she had been running. Odd, I thought. Her friends weren't around, just a few young boys from the compound next to the farm. She doesn't usually play with them. I wonder why she was running?

Lindy asked me to come with her to get the rest of the pigs on "that side". I agreed to go with her. I assumed the pigs were all laying
around in the pig cages on "that side" of the farm, where the pig cages are. I assumed she just wanted an extra hand to put them in a different cage.

Well, off we went - me, Lindy, and 4 or 5 younger boys to "that side", past the pigs cages, over the railroad tracks, across the sugar cane fields of the farm next to us, and into the thicket of reeds and thorns and tall grass where I soon found out mama pig was hiding out with her 6 remaining piglets.

You may be wondering, why do we have to get the piglets anyway? A few reasons. One being that anyone can steal them when they're out there, also, mama pig and her youngins can't get fed out there, and I was told a few others that I don't remember. Whatever. Two reasons are enough, right?

We were supposed to get all the piglets, then get mama pig, then put them in an isolated cage on our property, where mama can take care of them without worrying about the bigger pigs eating the young ones. Because that does happen. Quite often I'm told.

Back to the story.

As we approached the thicket, all the boys and Lindy began picking up stones and holding them in their shirts. Lindy told me to pick up a stick. So I found a small stick about the size of my forearm and continued walking. "No! You must get a big stick!" Lindy said. Somewhat confused, I blindly followed her directions and found a stick about a meter long. I also found a piece of rubber pipe about the same size and thought it might do the trick. What trick? I wasn't really sure.

I felt left out though that everyone else had stones and I didn't, so I retired my rubber pipe and stick before I got to use them, and picked up about 3 or 4 stones and walked into the thicket with the kids towards mama pig.

First thing I noticed was that the kids were just guessing where to throw their stones, hoping to hit mama pig and get her moving a bit. Second thing I noticed was that once mama pig started grunting, none of the kids got closer than 20 feet from her. It was soon told to me that it would be my job to grab any baby pig I could reach while the kids threw stones at mama. Ok, I thought, doesn't seem too hard.

Famous last words, right?

I entered the thicket. The baby pigs didn't seem to be moving too fast, and mama was about 15 feet away from me and them. So I dropped my stones, reached down, wrapped my right hand around the closest baby pig, and everything went white momentarily. The next thing I knew, both me and the baby pig were having a panic attack.

The baby pig's panic attack started because it was being stolen by a scary looking white man with a beard, and the attack took the form of it squealing its head off (the most god awful sound I've ever heard in my life - it sounds like demons escaping from the depths of hell, the whole way up, scratching their nails on an infinitely long chalkboard, yelling obscenities at each other in a language more harsh than anything that my ears have beheld on this earth) and writhing around in my hand like it was spinning around in a blender. My panic attack began when my eyes and ears honed in on the sight of mama pig dashing towards me like an over sized dark orange/pink cannonball, grunting loudly and persistently, breaking branches and hurdling stones in her path. My attack took the form of me yelling, "SHIT!"

I froze momentarily to grasp what the hell was happening, and the next moment, all I remember was dashing out of the thicket by the clearest path possible, hurdling logs, rocks and kids who couldn't run as fast as me, the baby pig over turned in my right hand, still writhing, while I yelled at the kids "GIJIMIA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!"

English translation = "RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!"

I've never spoken siSwati so fluently since I've been here such as I did that moment.

Mama pig eventually gave up on her chase about 50 yards from the start. I was out of breath from my sprint, as were the kids, and we were all laughing. The kids were laughing because of the sight of me running away with the pig in hand, yelling siSwati to them to run the hell away. I was laughing because of the hilarity of the situation, the adrenaline rush I got, and due to the relief that it was all over.

Sike.

"No!" Lindy said. "We must get the others too!"

I handed my pig off to one of the kids, asked them to take it back to the farm, and then gave Lindy a quizzical look. I thought we only had to get one. But no. Ok, so we have to get the others. Silly me. I hatched a plan to get the process over and done with as quickly as possible.
I asked Lindy to translate to the younger boys for me. The plan was, the kids would again throw rocks at mama, getting her away from her piglets, I would swoop in, and pick one up. Mama would then chase me as I ran away, and as I took her further away from the rest of the piglets, the rest of the kids would go in and get the remaining 4 pigs, and we'd be done.

I thought it sounded like a great plan.

We sprung into action, though this time I picked up the big stick I had thought unnecessary during my first run. I considered briefly the rubber pipe, but then thought better of it as I picked it up and it flopped over in my hand. All I could think was, I don't need my tool going limp on me when I need it most.

I looked at the kids, shook my head and decided that no one would get the joke there, so I dropped the subject and the rubber pipe and went on with the mission.

So here I went again, into the thicket, armed with a thick branch (my "pig stick") in one hand, my heart pumping harder and harder, and my right hand ready to do some pig snatching. The kids started throwing stones, and I kept my eyes on mama pig as she began grunting and moving away. I noticed that this time around, the piglets were moving with mama. I wanted to get mama further and further away, so I picked up some of my own stones and started throwing them at her. Hard. They bounced right off her, as if they were nothing more than spitballs. Eventually she turned her back long enough for me to bend down and get my hand around a piglet. Again, the squeals were deafening, and my heart started pounding as I saw and heard mama pig start to charge.

There was no clear exit this time, I was too deep in the thicket. And mama pig was only about 10 feet from me. So instead of a clean get away, I found myself running thru sharp grass as tall as me, breaking clean thru thorn branches and tall reeds, getting swatted in the face by thin tree branches, stepping into divets, nearly tripping on hidden stones, getting my foot briefly stuck in mud, all the while mama pig gaining on me, and little piglet peeing down my arm. I was hoping to lose mama thru the thicket, but she proved much more arrow-like and agile than me, and as I emerged into the clearing, I turned around to see if the kids were getting the other piglets.

To my horror, I saw two things that I did not want to see. The first thing I saw was all the kids running the complete opposite direction as me, empty handed, piglets nowhere to be seen, pointing directly towards me as they ran. The second thing that horrified me turned out to be what the kids were pointing at - mama pig right on my heel, no more than a foot away, mouth engaged to start chomping.

My eyes were as big as dinner plates. I managed to narrow them enough and I let out what I was the most vicious and aggressive yell I've ever managed in my life. At the same exact moment, I swung the stick in my left hand as hard as possible, and clocked mama pig right across the face as she opened her mouth to take a nice size chunk out of my balls.

It stunned her enough for me to get a few steps on her, and I was gone like the wind.

I regrouped with the kids, half angry that they didn't get their share of the pigs, half ecstatic that my balls were intact, and half feeling like a hardened outdoorsman for clocking mama pig at the most crucial moment of our previous engagement. That's a whole person and a half worth of emotions.

I started pointing at each of the kids individually and saying half-seriously and half-mockingly, "Uyasaba, uyasaba, uyasaba.... etc." Translation "You're scared, you're afraid, you're a scaredy-cat etc." "Angisabi!" (I'm not scared!) each of them answered. "Bamba tingulube!" I fired back. (Then grab the pigs!)

Three pigs left.

Same process. Rock throwing, me approaching, stepping thru mud and getting cut up by sharp tall grass, searching in vain for the remaining 3 pigs who were surprisingly mobile and staying very close to mama.

This time around, me being newly emboldened by our last encounter, and mama pig being angrier than ever, we had a short game of chicken. We faced each other, looking each other square in the eyes. She would not budge, despite the barrage of rocks being thrown at her, and I would not leave without another piglet. She made a few mock charges, and I countered with my war cry and by whacking everything around me with my pig stick, almost daring her to try something.

Again, she foolishly turned her back for just a second, and I grabbed the closest piglet. Again, over the river and thru the woods, mama close on my tail. My footing stalled in a mud patch again, thus giving mama a chance to chomp my calf, but fortunately I was in too much of a hurry not to get bit to let that happen. I regained my footing, got out of the mud patch, turned slightly to my left, let my stick fly, gave mama a good whack across the noggin, stunned her, and again I was gone, and mama was left behind feeling beaten and embarrassed for the third time in a row.

The kids again were empty handed, and I gave them a lot of crap for being scared again. Not that I blame them - mama pig is the scariest creature I've come across in a long time - much scarier than any snakes or spiders I've met up with here.

Two pigs left.

Same process, although now three kids were gone with the three pigs we had taken up to that point, so it was only me, Lindy, and one other boy. They threw rocks like they meant it. I told them to try and chase mama out to the clearing so I could grab the last two pigs with relative ease. That didn't happen.

Face off again.

This time, I could see the two piglets standing side by side, halfway between me and mama. I decided to take a risk. I didn't yell or hit anything around me with my pig stick. Instead, I dropped the stick to my left, and like something out of an old western, I readied my hands to spring into action. I could feel my heart pounding... my veins throbbing, swollen with adrenaline, my pulse making its presence known thru my arms, hands, feet and neck. Instead of grabbing a six-shooter and firing off a couple rounds (I don't own a six-shooter), I leapt forward, grabbed the two remaining pigs with both hands, jetted out of the bush, and was treated to their squealing in full surround sound as I carried them above my head, half in a declaration of victory, half in avoidance of the sharp grass and thorns leaving their traces on my exposed torso. (I don't wear shirts most days here - those of you who know me probably aren't very surprised) I must've looked like the Flash thru this whole process, because mama pig didn't have the slightest chance to catch me. I left her so far behind, eating my dust that I half wanted to go back and lap her again. Kinda like the Tortoise and the Hare. (I'm aware the Tortoise eventually gets the upper hand on the Hare, but this Hare had more brains than the one in the fable)

I handed the last 2 pigs off to the two kids and started walking back.

"No! There are more!" Lindy said.

After a small exchange of me saying no their weren't, and Lindy saying there were actually three more I told her I'd suck it up and go back and check.

I wanted to leave on this high note, but I decided to swallow my pride and fear, and face off with mama one more time. I picked up my recently discarded pig stick, as well as an 8 foot hardened reed that I would use like a lance to keep mama at a safe distance from me. As I looked around the ground for more piglets, yelling at mama, trying to keep her away with my reed-lance, I found nothing but a mother pig with nothing left to lose. She charged me not once, but TWICE within the 30 seconds I was there. This time, it was mama pig who was like the Flash, because both times she charged, I barely had time to react. My reed-lance proved useless as I couldn't move it effectively once mama got around it, so again and again, my pig stick saved my balls from certain destruction and a life without children, as I knocked mama clean across her snout when she was right on top of me.

Mama turned around, dejected, I and walked away victorious.

Chasing mama back to the farm was a simple process being that she had no more babies to protect. Only after I returned to the farm did I find out that normally, the baby pigs are put into a burlap sack immediately after capture which makes them stop squealing practically instantly, thus confusing the hell out of mama, and making the process so much easier. It would've been nice to know that beforehand.

Getting mama pig back into the cage with the piglets is a whole other story all-together involving transferring skittish chickens from here to there, baiting mama pig around the yard with her piglets, keeping the alpha male pig, Boss, in his cage, and holding cage doors shut with all my body weight as mama slammed her self against it, much like the scene from Jurassic Park when the Velociraptors are trying to get into the main control room when the auto locks aren't working and no one can reach the gun because it's just 2 inches too far away.

I emerged from the whole experience covered in baby pig urine, my feet caked in mud, my torso, arms and hands scratched up from all the sharp grass and thorns I tore thru, and my entire body head to toe, itchier than I have ever felt in my life.

But I was victorious, and all the pigs are where they're supposed to be.

I kept my pig stick and intend to take it on all dangerous missions from this point on.

Though, to be honest, I hope there are none. :)

So Hot Right Now part. 1.

As my hands lay on my laptop at this moment, my palms are dripping with sweat, which I am feverishly wiping away from the key pad as it puddles beneath my wrists. Anyone who owns a laptop knows that laptops get very hot when left on for a long time - that's why you don't actually put them on your lap. In fact, my mother's biggest fear is that my brother and I will forget this rule, overheat our family jewels, and she will be cursed with no grandkids forever, thanks to portable technology.

My laptop is hot enough at the moment, but add that to the 43 degree plus (celcius - we do the metric system here) cloudless weather, and you've got a recipe for sweaty palms like only a skinny junior high boy with a shade of a mustache at the homecoming dance can compete with. The pillow I'm sitting on is becoming increasingly damp, the longer I sit here, and I can feel the start of a heat headache coming on. So I've been drinking H2O mixed with an electrolyte mix called Energade like a fiend. Also, I'm as close to fully nude as possible, without actually being so. I just don't want to make any surprise visitors uncomfortable. Or the cats. They look at me with such judgmental eyes.

There is an obvious haze hanging throughout the air - you can see it on the edges of the mountains, and it filters the sunlight a bit, making it appear whiter and hotter than normal. I've come back to my house mid-day - no one does anything during the day on days like this I'm told, and I can completely understand why. This is the 4th very hot day in a row, and we're all hoping for a spell of rain to break it up a bit. But as I look out the window here, it doesn't look promising. The weather can change in a heartbeat though, so we can hold on to hope for a bit.

To get anything done on a hot day here, you must wake up before sunrise. Because even as the sun comes over the mountains at 5:15 am, it has a nasty tinge of hotness to it. Waking up before 5:15 am is nothing I'm used to, and to be honest, I don't see myself getting into the habit of getting out of bed that early. So, I must make a plan for days like these, because apparently, this ain't nothin' yet. Everyone keeps saying, "Wait till January/February. You'll shit, it's so hot." Why the heat would induce any sort of bowel movement, I'm not quite sure, so I'm guessing it's just an expression they use here. But I'll let you know if there's any truth to the expression come February.

Nothing helps to cool down on a hot as balls day, like a cold cold cold shower. Take one in the morning, maybe midday, and then before you head to bed. Three showers in a day may seem excessive, but I think on days like this, I wouldn't mind even 4. However, as there is usually some sort of twist to "would be nice" situations I bring up here, I will say that all the water that comes to my house is pumped from an exposed water tank on a hill, carried thru black pipes laying on top of the ground, to the intake hose at the back. The water in that tank is just basking every minute of the day, soaking up every degree of heat the sun throws at it, which is then made even hotter when carried thru the black as nite pipes to the house. Technically, you could still shower in these conditions, but I personally think the situation is better cut out for a more daring experiment. I would create a life size replica of myself, made entirely of uncooked pasta, stand it up in my shower, turn the water on, and see how long it would take to get just past al dente. I'll be taking bets starting from now. I'm putting money on between 4 and 5 minutes.

Seriously, the water = very very very hot. Cooling down in the shower is not an option.

So instead, I'm sitting inside, with all the doors and windows in the house wide open, with my oscillating fan fanning me as it oscillates. That's actually a lie. I have it standing stationary right next to me on full blast. I won't let it oscillate. I want the full breeze. All the time. I can tell my beard is getting a bit bushy because I can feel the breeze coming thru it, tickling my face slightly. I should probably take care of that and take the bushiness down a bit.

So what have we learned today?

1- It's too hot
2- Drink H20 with Energade
3- Get naked (if you don't own judgmental cats)
4- Sit next to a window
5- Don't try to shower
6- Do try to make life size replica of yourself out of pasta
7- Get an oscillating fan, but don't let it oscillate
8- Shave your beard if you have one
9- Shave the cats if you don't have a beard

I'm sure at some point I'll have more commentary on the heat here, which is why this entry is labeled with "part. 1.".

For now, all of you back home, please enjoy the fall weather, the leaves changing colour, and of course, the cold water in your shower.

What a Difference a Day Makes

This past weekend, I went shopping to get some things for my house/room that I have been looking to get since... well, since I first got here. I'd just like to take a moment to explain how much of a difference certain items can make in one's daily activities.

I like to think that I'm somewhat of a minimalist. That's not actually true. But I'd like to think it. If I had my choice, I'd own a lot of little things that make life easier/more enjoyable, like a grilled panini press. They make sandwiches so much more delicious, it really blows my mind as to how it's physically possible. But of course, being broke on top of the fact that I live in Africa, limits the amount of things I can actually buy or own to make up a somewhat luxurious lifestyle.

Being a minimalist here, then, means simply that you can get by just fine without much of anything. That more accurately describes me. I can get by without much, I just don't prefer it.

My living situation is relatively cozy. Before this weekend, my room consisted of a single bed with a thin, soft mattress (though I prefer harder ones), a white wooden chair (not quite sure why it's in here), a very small dresser, one bag of luggage with my warm clothes packed away, a lockbox to store expensive items in, two boxes of books and Peace Corps bound informational packets (a lot of them), the small Peace Corps medical kit, a flyswatter (best investment ever), and a one square foot cardboard box that I keep my snack food in. The walls are decorated with a map of the world, a map of Africa, small holes where someone tried to hang up pictures, and the remains of formerly high pitched buzzing mosquitoes.

As of this weekend, I introduced 3 items to my room which have made all the difference in the world - especially when it comes to nitely activities. The three items include:

1- A CFL bulb where there formerly was just an empty light socket.

2- An oscillating stand up fan.

3- A screen for the one window that opens.

Previously, when coming home at nite, if I wanted to read, or write in my journal, or kill crawling insects, I had to keep my headlamp on for the entirety of the process. It was doable, but it eats up batteries like whoa, it makes my forehead sweat and get itchy after lengthy wearing periods, mosquitoes have learned to avoid the light's glare, hiding in the shadows of the room, and it attracts moths directly to my face - exactly the spot where I don't want them.

To sleep in my room, I would close my curtains to prevent very big bugs from flying in at nite (not always a successful endeavour), and close my door to keep the cats out, thus creating a stagnant, overheated cave to sleep in/lose weight in from all the sweating that occurs throughout the nite. Again, it was doable, but not ideal.

Well my goodness, the afforementioned 3 items have truly made all the difference in the world. I cut the portion of steel screen for my window with kid scissors from a large sheet that was borrowed to me, and luckily I had my straight eyes on, and managed to cut it relatively square and accurate. I attached it to my window using all purpose Prestik, or Sticky Tac, for those of you playing the home game. It works for now.

The combination of the screen, fan and light, made for an incredibly enjoyable first evening with all three. I wrote in my journal, with my room light glowing, a cool breeze coming to and fro across my body from the oscillating nature of the fan, all the while listening to the {tik.... tik..... TAK...} of bugs both large and small attempting to fly thru my screen, much to their dismay, and to my immense enjoyment. I smiled every time I heard one of their failed attempts. The best part was that I managed to sleep thru the entire nite without waking up to kill any mosquitoes, thanks to the tag team of the fan and screen.

I bought a shower head to screw in so my showers don't feel like someone is peeing on my head, but unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to try it out, because we've been out of water this side for the past few days. I'm anxious to try things out when the situation rectifies itself/we decide to fix it.

Next up is fashioning a screen door from reeds - luckily I have some contacts stateside who can walk me thru the construction process. Then I can simultaneously keep the cats out, and have a cross breeze coming thru the room. Just like heaven should be.

Catless and breezy.

Just kidding.

Only kinda.

The Joys of Being Sick

None.

Did you really think there were joys to being sick? Catching up on your DVDs you haven't seen doesn't really count as a joy. More like a "Well, what else is there to do?" type activity. But I suppose I can't exactly leave it there. This would be too short of an entry. Those of you who were expecting a sort of enlightened, optimistic outlook on time spent being sick, I am sorry to disappoint. But you should know better.

I have now been relatively unhealthy for the past week or so with various ailments - nothing serious or deadly, but my goodness is it a pain in the ass/neck. (Well, throat really)

Any time you travel abroad, especially to countries considered to be in the third world, you must half expect to get sick. It doesn't seem to be an option, it rather seems like an inevitability. It could come from drinking bad water, from not being used to the food, from being in overly crowded public areas where the vast majority of folk don't understand the concept of "private space" and proceed to cough and hock up a lung not next to you, but on to you, or it could even come from from jumping into a pond or lake you assume is fine to swim in, only to realize afterwards that parasitic snail lavae has seeped thru your skin and you have contracted bilhazia. you can google that for an explanation. Fortunately, I personally have not gotten sick directly from any of the afforementioned experiences. Yet.

I don't know exactly why I've gotten sick. One of the kids probably just passed something on to me last week. That's the most obvious way to get sick I suppose. Someone you know (most likely a small, somewhat adorable yet awfully dirty child with no sanitary sense) passes some godforsaken bacteria your way thru breathing on you, shaking your hand, or slobbering all over you after a nice big sneeze when they've forgotten to cover their mouth. As I'm sure we're all aware, children escalate this situation when they proceed to wipe the snot that recently emerged from their nasal cavity onto the nearest cloth, which is usually your shirt. There's no way to avoid these common situations, and by the time you realize what's happening, it's too late to do anything. Life. It's a four letter word.

The majority of my week was spent finding my voice again after I had lost it for 2 days (I found it under my bed after I cleaned my room - the spiders were holding it hostage), as well as coughing, coughing, coughing, coughing, COUGHING so much and so hard that I actually developed a giant knot in my back that felt and still feels like a gremlin is trying to escape from between my spine and shoulder blade. I've taken electrolyte supplements, drank vitamin C super energy booster drinks with literally 1111% of your daily recommended vitamin C intake based on a 2,000 calorie per day diet (it says so on the packet), sucked on lozenges and cough drops, taken both ibuprofen and non-aspirin painkillers, and eaten about a dozen cappucino flavoured muffins with chocolate chips in them. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

Not really at the same time. But over the course of the week, that is how I've self-medicated. All I really wanted was some heavy duty cough syrup, some Tylenol PM to knock me out at nite, and a slingshot with pebbles to keep the cats away from my muffins.

Getting sick really messes with your psyche. This is especially true in a far off land where mom isn't there to pamper you and bring you tea and soup, tell you what pills to swallow and when, give you endless hugs, wait on you hand and foot, and bring you anything you want while you watch your favourite childhood Disney movies that are still on VHS tape. Not that my mom ever did that. (She totally did - she's the best) This week, now that I'm all grown up and still getting sick, I found that all negative thoughts were entering my head as I lay in bed, watching my Scrubs episodes and a pirated version of Pirates of the Carribean 3 (no pun intended). I was upset I couldn't match the progress we made last week with the vegetable garden project we started, and then I started thinking that we'll never get diesel for the tractor at this rate. If we don't get diesel, we can't plow the land again, if we can't plow the land again, we can't make our furrows, if we can't make our furrows, we can't start planting, if we can't start planting, nothing will start growing, if nothing starts growing, WE CAN NEVER EAT VEGETABLES FROM OUR GARDEN.

I found that when I felt ultra-bad, I was getting fleeting thoughts of "I'd rather be sick at home on my own couch"... "WTF am I actually doing out here? Do they really need me? What good am I doing here? I can't even understand what's being said half the time..." Blah Blah Blah.

I then began thinking of all the projects we have in mind here on the farm and how there's so much to do and we'll never actually get to do any of it and blah blah blah blah whine whine whine. I'm fully aware that all these sentiments are completely unfounded, and whereas normally I would think and approach these situations one step at a time, and more importantly, optimistically, I found myself having such a negative attitude towards everything. Then this morning I woke up feeing about 70% as opposed to 25% (so still not 100%) and just like that, I started thinking about how many things we will get done next week if I just keep getting a little bit better each day. My sense of optimism was back overnite and all it took was me not feeling devil claws inside my throat and chest ripping me apart every time I coughed. The three letters and package from home I received yesterday made me smile quite largely, and I credit them with speeding up my recovery as well.

Before coming over to this side of the planet, I received a very uplifting and supportive email from a friend of mine who I've never actually met (I don't even know what she looks like!), yet she has been an invaluable resource to me. Robyn has worked/volunteered around the world with various international development and outreach projects for a number of years now, so she knows a thing or two about what volunteers abroad go thru. She wrote one thing in her email that stuck with me, and I'd like to just copy and paste it here to share with you, because it has done a lot to keep my spirits up when I go thru a rough patch...

***not much i can say that you don,t already know, but would love to send my support by saying-- freaking out is normal just go awith it, when times get rough remember that home will ALWAYS be there and just as college or something goes by and life continues all of this will also go by and you will marvel at how you continue your joey life having completed peace corps, that said though_ take it one step at a time and dont let your thoughts get ahead of you, you will probably get sick after 3 weeks- it will only make you stronger, you will probably come out with more questions than answers which means you really get it, use support when you need it (write me anytime!), and know that this doesn,t have to be a phase or lifequest or something but can just be a very real career; part of your life; part of the life of others if you want OR it can just be a fantastic experience that makes you better in any field. safe journey and be well, safe, happy and inquisitive***

If there is any joy to being sick, I've found that it is realizing that you are strong enough to take on and overcome your illness, and when you do get better, you emerge stronger than before and with a more optimistic view of your own life.

That said, next week, I'm heading back to the vegetable garden.

Time. Or the lack/abundance thereof.

Hootie and the Blowfish wrote a song about time. And if you were even half conscious during the mid-90s, you have heard it before. It was an ok song. He sang something like:

TIME's a wasting
TIME's a something
TIME you ain't no friend of miiiine...

I think he was hinting that time seemed to be always running against him, or going too fast. But who really knows? Hootie was a funny guy. So cryptic in his lyrics. Anyway, point is, I don't believe Hootie (or his Blowfish) had ever been to Africa. If he had been, he would have had a very different concept and maybe even written an entirely different song about time. I don't blame Hootie for not being to Africa. But I'm here to explain why thing's might have changed so drastically had he been a visitor to the motherland.

Side note before we get started: For those of you keeping count, my mosquito kill count is currently at 132. And somehow the pests become more and more invisible as the nites go on. I'm getting very good at killing them once they've entered my ear cavity at nite, though it's not a pleasant clean up job.

It's now just before 6 am. Though you'd never know it by checking the wall clock in my house. It has been stuck at 12:47 and 46 seconds for months. I see it as a perfect symbol and a daily reminder that I am now running on Africa time. I have been up for 45 minutes, as has the sun. Now, maybe it's just me, but 5:15 seems a wee bit early for the sun to rise. It really doesn't matter. People start mulling about any time they please. Sunrise means rise and shine for kids going to school that day, 8-10 am for those with nothing better to do with their day, and some as early as 3 am to get a head start on the people they intend to steal from. Sadly, this does happen quite frequently. Poverty + Unemployment = Crime.

But this isn't about crime in SA. This entry is to attempt to shed some light on the issue of time in this country, if not this entire continent.

I will start out by stating that all of South Africa is on the same time zone, even though technically, the country should fall under 2 time zones. I imagine that this makes things easier on a national scale, though I'm not quite sure how, but it confused the hell out of me the first time I came out east to my site and it got dark a whole hour earlier than it was supposed to. I honestly thought my watch had been screwed up overnite, or that I had been completely delusional about what time the sun actually set every evening for the first 7 weeks of my stay. I was soon informed of the time zone situation. Hooray for not being delusional.

I am currrently writing up a proposal to the government here to further reduce the number of time zones in Soth Africa to zero. You see, people don't abide by time constraints like we're used to in the US. Times set to meet, to start something, to arrive somewhere, are all taken as guidelines rather than concrete agreements. (Just like Deltones practice, as I recall) Unless of course it's 8:00 pm. Generations (the most popular soap opera here, which is in Zulu) comes on then, and whole families and most often their American Peace Corps volunteers who stay with them, come together to watch it. But regardless. The attitude towards time here can be very convenient and sometimes relaxing when you don't feel like rushing to get something done or when you can't get to a meeting on time because you have no mode of transport, or something similar. However, as Americans, we often like to get things done or have things done now now now. When this doesn't happen as fast as we would like, we get mad mad mad. Or just irked off a bit at first. But give it some time. It grates on you after a while.

Take fast food for instance. There actually is no such thing as fast food here. If you go to a fast food place like a Chicken Licken, or a Steers, expecting to put an order in, wait 3 minutes, get your food, get in the car and go, you must be reminded that these places do not exist in America, you are in fact in South Africa, and you will wait 15 sometimes 20 minutes for a single chicken burger with nothing on it but mayo. (Mayo is put on a lot of things here I've realized) Our first restaurant experience in SA was touched on earlier in my blog. We waited almost 2 full hours to see our food. The first hour and a half was just waiting to get a waitress.

We have all learned some key terms when it comes to South Africans' concept of time. Here below are short sayings, which I translated into english for your convenience.

1- Just Now - used as in "We're going just now."
American translation = anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on who said it. Sometimes used when referring to past tense as well. "I got back just now." - also alludes to anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour ago.

2- Now Now - used as in "I'll be back now now."
American translation = about 5 minutes or sooner. "Now now" is supposed to mean immediately, or at this very second. You'll find it's misused often, or maybe confused somewhat intentionally with "just now".

3- Tomorrow - as in "I'll get back to you tomorrow."
American translation = well... there are two. 1- Never 2- Fuck off.

The first time it was really made obvious to me that there was an entire culture of not caring about time (for better or worse) was during my overnite stay in Soweto in 2005. After staying out rather late with my hosts (who were all in their mid-20s) going to various house parties and shebeens and feeling completely awkward as I was rubbed up against by every passing person who was overly sweaty, smelly and drunk and wanted to be near the strange bearded white guy, we were supposed to meet up with the rest of the group at a big church in Soweto the next morning, around 9:00 am. I woke up the next morning around 7:30, feeling very tired and strange about the events from the previous nite, but got dressed, gathered my things, and headed to the main house to meet my host brother and his gogo for breakfast. I get there, and there is no host brother and no breakfast. Just gogo, who didn't speak any English, sitting with a cup og tea, watching her TV. Fifteen minutes later, host brother enters. We then go for a walk to find breakfast. The walk takes about 35 minutes round trip. Eating breakfast slowly with gogo takes another half hour. Walking to find host brother's friends takes 20 minutes. Waking friends up takes 10. Getting one of them ready to come with us takes 25. Walking to pick up a kombi takes 10. Waiting for a kombi takes 10 (though I was assured it never takes that long to find a kombi in Soweto). Kombi ride takes 15. By the time we arrived, the church service was ending - and for those of you who don't know, church services here are very long. Usually over 2 hours.

What stuck out more than anything about this whole experience was not so much the process or amount of time it took to accomplish the simple task of going to church, and getting there on time. While on the way to the kombi, I asked my host brother and his friend if they were concerned at all about getting to where we had to be on time. His friend responded with something that shocked me a little bit. He said, "Pshh, man... as a black man it doesn't matter what time I get somewhere... As long as I'm there." That small comment opened up worlds of understanding about the mindset here.

I have to admit - on the whole, I rather enjoy this change of pace from the

"Crap, I've only got 3 hours until my paper's due and I haven't even started research yet."

Or

"Rehearal is starting - where the hell is Colin?"

Or the ever hectic

"Today I've got class at 9 and 10:15, meeting at 11:30, I want to eat lunch sometime, class at 1, work from 2 - 5, I'm meeting this person for dinner at 5:30, then I have rehearsal 7 - 10 then I have to meet with 2 peope to study for a philosophy test tomorrow, which is actually at the same time as part testing, so after the test I have to run to the music building and hope I'll be allowed to part test later, then I have to go and pick up this person from the train, and then I have a music lesson and then I'm the lead dancer in my dance show which is actually happening OH CRAP THE SHOW STARTED 20 MINUTES AGO."

The good side of African time includes not worrying when our kombi breaks down X number or times, thus putting us massively behind schedule to get where we're supposed to be. You know that when you arrive a few hours (or days) late, you can explain - kombi broke down - or you can at least expect not to be grilled on why you've come so late.

The other day, I started my 10 minute walk to the farm after numerous unsuccessful attempts at trying to find a trail that leads to the other side of the stream here. I got about half way to the main house, until I met "Uncle Leo" and his dog Zeus (a small daschund), who were on their way to check on Leo's herb garden, which is on my side of the road. We talked for a minute or two, and then I asked to join him. He was glad for the company, and eager to show off how well his herbs were coming in. Leo walks incredibly slow, which can be frustrating when trying to rush somewhere, but in the case of that day, we didn't need to walk any faster than Leo's walking stick reccomended. We were out on our errand for a long while, and I arrived at the farm an entire hour and a half after I had originally intended to. In my excursion, I was able to talk to Leo on a more personal level than when we are at the farm, and I learned a bit more about his past, his passions, and the depth of his knowledge on various subjects from herbal gardening, to world history. It made me understand why it's not important to be rushing to a destination all the time, especially here in South Africa. It works to my advantage to just let things happen, and not be hesitant to do something that hasn't been planned ahead of time.

These types of events are what make so many memorable life experiences. Unexpected and spontaneous detours, saying "Ah, what the hell? Why not?" and just going and letting things happen. We seem unable to do that many times in our lives in the US, because we are always expected to be somewhere, to be doing something specific, to be abiding by our planned out day schedule.

Here, we can definitely set our own schedule, and then, if we find it's not working for us, we can just change it or disregard it altogether.

Do I have a point in all this rambling? Or any type of conslusion? Probably not. I can get you one by next week though. Just be prepared to wait a month.