Yard update

Last summer, the DYI store near me had a thing for systems to collect rainwater & store it for watering the garden later. I didn't get off my butt to get one then, but the idea grew on me over the winter, and this year I've decided to do something.

The rain hitting my roof is all collected into the gutters, which are attached to pipes that take it all straight down and away, so there's not much to collect off the main house. But the gardening shed doesn't have a gutter, so I could do something there.

Off to the DYI store, and not only are rain collection systems so last year as to not have anything at all on hand, but I don't even find gutters to attach myself. Perhaps they're out in the drive-in, semi-industrial part of the store. That part, strangely, is not connected to the inside part of the store, or even the outside part that has gardening stuff. You have to go out and walk a long, long way around, and in another way. It's crowded. The heck with that. Like I know anything about installing gutters anyway.

What they do have are nice containers with lids. Made of thick green garden plastic, one holds about nearly a cubic meter of water. And the lids stay on pretty well, they won't go flying off in the wind. So I got two of those, and three large rectangular trays, about 36 inches by 8, maybe 2 inches tall, the kind you put under long planters on the balcony.

That all got arranged to catch the water falling off the roof of the shed, and we've had enough rain just this weekend to half fill a barrel already. Now I'm thinking maybe just a series of barrels under that eave would be best. It would have been more, but this morning when I left the house I forgot to take the lids off the barrels in anticipation of rain later. 

The other thing I did out in the yard Saturday morning was take the saw and whack off this major limb from the plum tree that hits the side of the house whenever there's a lot of wind. There's been a lot of wind lately, and I've lost two roof tiles where this branch hits the house. So off it goes. Barbeque wood, once it's dried.

The apples are nearing the end of their bloom, and the cherries are covered with little hard fruit now. A week ago, I rejoiced to see the apricot covered with early fruit, but the tree is old and diseased. It has hardly any leaves, and what with the terrible wind and all, most of the nascent fruit is gone. Who knows how much will mature. Enough for jam? Likely not.

What I should do, is have somebody come out and remove the apricot and the even older and crummier plum tree next to it. Replace them with a new apricot and a peach. There were 16 fruit trees when I moved in, and the lease says there have to be 16 when I leave. I guess it depends on how long I plan on staying, whether the work is worth it.

mystifying

I’ve been amused recently looking at the stats of visits to the blogs. It’s really quite curious.

I can write something I think is really great, and not many people go to see it. Just a handful, maybe one or two comments. Those days I reason, well, they’d have to come to the blog first, just to discover there’s something interesting posted. It’s not because there’s something interesting that new people come. To get them here before they can be sure there’s a treat in store, that’s a slow process of hooking random passers-by and keeping the regulars coming back.

Following that line, a core of regulars come by regularly, regardless of the quality of any particular post, and when a post has had one or two dozen hits, that’s it.

But there’s a strange thing going on. Sometimes one post will just take off. One I wrote about taking the tram from one end of town to the other has scored a whopping 646 hits*. The heck?? How are people finding it? And the one on improving a manuscript by sprinkling it with tabasco sauce has scored 154, a good ten times the average traffic for that blog. One about watering the garden has been visited 411 times. I think the watering post is just kind of ‘eh’, while one about the dinosaurs getting into the chocolates is better, but seen by only 7 people.

So you never know. Must be somebody posted a link somewhere. But who? Where? And why that particular post and not some better one?

One time I posted about putting the rats into the tissue-lyser at the lab, and that one came up when you googled ‘tissue lyser’. But otherwise the wild popularity (and I use that term relatively – my top score would be a slow day for some other blog) of certain posts is a mystery.


*plus 60 more since writing this 4 days ago. And I know it's not you clicking on the link!

It's baaaaack.....

Yeah, it looks rather like a bit of dirt.

This was my rhubarb patch on the 24th of March. The little rhubarb sprouts are just barely starting, but you can see them scattered about.

 On April 1st there were recognizable leaves.

Rhubarb is cute!

 On the 11th the leaves were bigger, and not all wrinkly. 

It isn't monstrous yet, but that's a lot of growth for just 10 days.

A week later, on the 18th, I had to start putting a rat in for scale. Should have had one all along.

It's got leaves the size of dinnerplates already. End of May it'll have leaves the size of my dinner table, and I will hack at it with a knife and distribute its body parts to appreciative friends.

Algeria 2012: VIP escort

Just a little side trip, very quick!

Uh-huh, kidnapped again.

And we're off to a neighboring village, where we tour the new hospital. They call it a hospital, but it's really a small clinic treating emergencies, obstetrics, and children.

It's a nice place, light and airy and clean. This is in great contrast to the last time I toured an Algerian hospital service, in 2004. There the ceilings soared but the plaster was crumbling everywhere, the paint peeling on every surface, the floor tiles cracked, patients 4 to a room, or packed in 12 to a ward. A hygiene nightmare, impossible to clean try as they may. This is a good start; I hope they maintain this beautiful new building. 

It's maintenance that's the problem. The Algerian state has buckets of oil money to finance new buildings and highways. But once constructed (and often badly constructed), there's little interest in keeping anything nice. Whether a hospital or a residence for visitors, or the spanking new university we just had our meeting at. The whole culture needs to change, and not just at the top.

We are met by the director of the clinic, who is thrilled to show his establishment off to such distinguished guests. In the kitchen a table is set for 6, and naturally we stay for lunch. A quick lunch. Couscous, light as feathers. No meat, please, we prefer to eat lightly after days of feasting. Then yogurt and fruit. They're phoning for us (again!) from the Residence. Our ride to Algiers is ready, so we don't stay for tea.

My rug has been packaged up in a "suitcase" of tough, clear plastic. I toss in the heavy picture book of the region, the paperback guide to the region, and the boxed plaques comemmorating the congress for both myself and my boss. The rest goes into my backpack, with the sack of dates as hand luggage. I have three times as much stuff as when I arrived.

Our luggage goes in one car, Remy and I in another. We are told to wait just another 5 minutes, please. More waiting?

Two police cars show up. They are our escort, sent to clear the way.

Oh, my. We really are VIPs. It's hard to accept that sometimes. I'm just a regular person. I have an American passport, yes (whose value I barely appreciate), and a certain expertise in my domain. I don't feel I've done much to merit all the pomp and accolades.

We don't get on the freeway right away, perhaps to give our escort the opportunity to get the sirens and horns going as we elbow our way through a neighboring town. Then it's on the Chinese-built freeway for an hour with nothing much to do. The countryside here is a lot like Arizona, around Flagstaff.

This whole freeway, from Algiers through Bordj and Setif toward Constantine, is built by foreign contractors. The Japanese did a section which is very nice. Some parts of the Chinese sections are cracked and uneven already, and who knows what the good-looking parts will be like in 10 years.

I wonder why they Algerians don't just build their roads themselves. Millions of people here have nothing to do. They might have to bring in some engineers if they lack expertise, but how much training does it take to perform the bulk of the work?

We come to a poorly-built section, and it's hard to believe it's a new road, or that local labor would have done any worse. The next section is under construction still, and we see the fenced camps where the Chinese workers are housed. Nothing there but barracks, dirt and barbed wire.

The traffic is shunted off to a heavily-used 2-lane road that follows a long river gorge. Our escort now has something to do as we put on a show of sirens and lights and elbow our way up the center. The road is 3 cars wide. Two cars and a truck if it's not too close to the drop-off. But not two trucks and a car. Fortunately, there isn't too much oncoming traffic.

At the top of the canyon, we pull over to change escorts (which change every time we cross a regional boundary), and wait for the relief team. All the cars we just passed, pass us in turn. Children wave at us.

Nearer Algiers there's more traffic, and our new front car drives as if he's on his own. It's all our driver can do to keep up with the weaving in & out, but the way is still fairly clear and our baggage car manages to keep up too. For the last bits we have a motorcycle escort, and here things really get nerve-wracking as they blast their way through what are now 3 divided lanes of cars, trucks and busses, where nobody pays much mind to the lane markings. We have plenty of time to catch our flights - there's no reason to push our way through like this.

Make way! Make way! Professors coming through!

The luggage car falls behind and is lost in the tide of traffic. They take an extra 20 minutes to join us at the airport parking lot.

And that's it.

More goodbyes, more promises to return, and Remy and I are airside with time to kill.

Algeria 2012: Presents!

In the morning, a new surprise: presents!

Seems the presentation of the gifts got forgotten yesterday, and here they are on the couch in the lounge, minus the beaming officials. The organizers have given me an enormous kilim in bright colors on a dark red background. The thing is bigger than my luggage, but the fixers at the residence are charged with making it so I can check it separately at the airport.

My colleagues get framed pictures 3 feet across, but I don't see what's under the wrapping since we don't come down to breakfast at the same time. Remy tells me his features two old-fashioned pistols and a knife. He'd like to trade with me, but I think I have the better deal already. In addition to these bulky items, we all are given gigantic picture books of the region. I like photo books of the places I've been, but I wish I could go see for myself!

The day at the congress is very clinical. I'm not a medical doctor, so there's not much of interest for me. They seem to be going over the basics of breast surgery, radiotherapy schedules, mammography techniques, and suchlike. It's heartening to see them discuss the latest techniques and equipment as if everyone would be putting this information to use immediately, if it isn't already old hat. But I know that this stuff is only available in a few, select centers. Richer women just go to France for care, and even routine screening. The majority of women in this country don't have easy access to the latest medical care. There's a pertinent discussion of the case load in the big city centers that do have the technology - screening takes up so much of their time and resources that care for those with something serious often has to wait.

So the day passes. If I go out, I am missed, and there's noplace to go anyway. During the breaks I participate as I can in the discussions. A lot of people ask me about the state of breast care and mammography in the States, and it's hard to say anything; I haven't lived there in 15 years so my firsthand knowledge is a bit rusty. I follow the literature, but with my attention on risk factors and molecular genetics,  not clinical care. 

My scientific hosts are keen to start up genetic counseling, and wonder what's involved in training someone to be a genetic counselor. Well, there's something I know a bit more about. There are master's programs in France now training such people. Candidates need not be MDs. It's a two-year diploma, and to get into the program you need at least a licence degree (3 years college: more or less a bachelor's).

My colleagues could send students to join the French program, but they're more interested in developing a program of their own. They've discussed it with my boss already (I'll discover that when I get back), and they'd like to have us come down and teach the necessary classes. Maybe plan a week where my boss gives an intensive course in the medical aspects of the subject, and another where I go over all the scientific and technical aspects.

On one hand, it would be a pleasure to take two weeks in the spring or fall, teach hard for a week, and then spend the other on a camel-trek to Tamanrasset. On the other, that would be far from enough to turn their students into competent genetic counsellors. In any case, I'm sure to come back and give some classes at some level. And I might feel out of place here, but I'm making important contacts for the next steps of our grand collaboration. Now I'm unlikely to forget who Filali and Bastanji are. I have to work hard at names, and strange names are hardest.

In the morning at the residence it's just me and Remy for breakfast. The Bernards and their anti-mammography message were whisked away at 5 am to catch their flight in Setif. Our flights are at 6, from Algiers, and our ride to the airport is scheduled for noon.

Remy really wants to change his gift of weapons for something more reasonable. When I see the thing, I understand his concern about passing customs with it (a flight like this, even checked baggage is at least x-rayed, if not opened). It isn't a picture or painting of revolvers and a knife; it's two real revolvers and a knife, attached to a board & framed. Actual metal items.

Ah.

Errr...

What on earth?!

We should have time to deal with this if only we can convince someone to take us to the shop. There's no question of refusing an official gift. (Though it must be admitted, certain items and plates of cookies have been discreetly set aside already.)

Around 10 a driver and a dental surgeon who participated in the congress take us into the small streets of town, the interesting ones filled with little shops. At last!

The revolver & knife place deals in antiques and authentic stuff. My kilim is from here too. I'll hang it outdoors for a few days, let the napthalene evaporate. The shop full of its brethren makes for a pretty strong atmosphere. Remy has his choice of alternative items:

- goatskin bagpipes in poor to disastrous condition. One has been dyed in sections of pink and yellow and green.

- boxes with wood and mother-of-pearl inlay

- cheap metal jewelry

- kilims and rugs

- diverse secondhand items of metal or wood or leather or any combination thereof.

A red rug catches his eye. Naturally it's on the bottom of the pile, and a helper is shouted for to bring them all down. It's dark red with yellow bits here and there, not what he'd hoped after all. What about the white kilim up there?

The one with the blue pattern is quite nice, but a little stained and they won't part with it once it's held up to the light and some small holes become visible. The one with the brown pattern is in better shape. It feels nice, too. Wool, but soft and pliable. Wrap it up.

I have an eye out for something for my nieces and think of inlaid boxes, but the workmanship is poor. No luck here. Standing outside, I notice one of the models for the traditional women's outfits on display is draped with a rather nice wool shawl. It's not sheep's wool, but goat hair, a relative of cashmere. It's off-white, with grey and black designs; light but warm, and pretty. I have not a dinar on me, but my dentist friend insists on making my choice a gift.

The people here are so generous! It would be insulting to refuse, and I really do appreciate a souvenir that I have chosen for myself. Thank you so much!

Remy now needs a luggage accessory to transport his new kilim and all the other gifts showered upon him. He's a big fan of Thompson oranges and intends to acquire some of those as well. So we stroll down a couple of blocks and end up at a spice-seller who has large, flexible straw baskets on offer. Just the thing. And a hundred grams of that black pepper while we're at it.

Next stop a fruit vendor. Remy and I have been talking about strawberries and how the gigantic California ones can be so tasteless. Local strawberries are just coming in, and they're pretty large... Our host returns to the car with a sack of fresh dates on their long canes for each of us, a pound of strawberries for me, and oranges for Remy. The dates weigh a ton, and I don't even like dates, but how to say no now? He is so happy to give them. I will make a gift in my turn, later. 

Back in the car we drive right past the residence and keep going.

Uh...?

End tomorrow!

Algeria: Looking for a good sit-down

At the residence I discover my toilet doesn't actually work. It pretends to, but the tank doesn't refill.

Nor do I have any kind of clock and this isn't an ordinary hotel with a clerk to ask for a wakeup call. In the early hours, sometime after the long calls of the muzzein and before proper light, we have a nice little earthquake. I'd give it a 4. Apparently they're not so common here, and it's the talk of the day.

The schedule says the first talk is at 8 am, so I'm up with the sun. I've never seen a congress start so early. But never fear. No need to rush. At 9 the group is just starting to consider getting into the cars and going over.

We start the first talk at 10, when we should be starting the coffee break. My host asks me if I'll be giving my absent boss's talk as well as my own. Er, well yes I did expand my talk to cover some of the missing information, but I really don't know what all he intended to say.

At any rate, I save us a bit of time, but by 11:30 when the moderator announces there will be no pause (so we can catch up, and break for lunch before dinner!), I go out anyway for a bathroom break. This apparently opened a floodgate, because when I emerge from the so-called bathroom, people are streaming out of the ampitheater in search of refreshment.

[note to self: find a toilet worthy of the name and plan accordingly. The one next to the dining room at the residence is good but usually locked. The university ones are pits with no paper and a flush system that gets the whole cubicle wet. Why on earth did they install such a disgusting and poorly-functioning system in a spanking new building?? At a minimum, from now on I keep a supply of paper in my pocket at all times.]

The sensation of the meeting is a tag-team of two guys from France come to expose large-scale mammographic screening as completely useless. Their position is that the increasing incidence of breast cancer worldwide is 100% attributable to finding non-symptomatic tumors that would never have become a problem. Mortality from breast cancer has not really changed, and so doctors are patting themselves on the back for lowering the percentage that ends up being fatal. Breast cancer is skyrocketing, but look - we're holding the line on mortality! But think: if you're inflating the incidence with useless diagnoses, have you really improved survival for the unchanged core of serious cases? Bernard J and Bernard B are here to tell us it's all a ruse put on by Big Pharma and the Medical Machine.

The reality has to be somewhere in the middle. Yes, breast cancer can disappear on its own. Yes, some tumors just never evolve, they just sit there for years. Yes, screening picks up all sorts of suspicious lesions that we can't tell in advance what they're going to become. Yes, we are pushed be the business of medicine, pharmaceutical companies, and a litigous public to screen early and often and without any independent evidence of pathology.

But some of the increase in breast cancer indicence is real. Our protective factors are disappearing fast:

- physical activity

- healthy environment

- early and multiple births

- long periods of breastfeeding

- late menarche and early menopause

So it's right to question the pertinence of widespread screening as well as when to start, how often to do it, and what techniques to use. But don't just say Forget the whole thing. Not yet.

The official dinner is in another restaurant, again with a separate room with traditional decor for the VIPs - all cushions, rugs and taxidermy. This time I eat with friends in the regular dining room, all formica and linoleum.

Trying to wash my hands before dinner, I was probably cleaner just staying at the table. The single toilet for the huge restaurant is utterly inadequate. It leaks, and the entire floor is wet even beyond the restroom itself. The toilet paper gave out long ago, and the paper towels are going fast. I have (thank goodness) arrived before the critical stage where the toilet becomes clogged when people eventually turn to using napkins off the tables. There is at least a large bottle of dish soap for your hands, but we are inevitably tracking the mess everywhere. This is why you leave your shoes at the door when you enter your house.
Dinner is enjoyable. I'm sure if I stayed in Algeria for a month I would start speaking Arabic. The food is not great so it's easy to not overeat for once, though it's rather spectacular when the people at the end ot the table pass their mostly full and precariously stacked plates to the waitress. She doesn't want to take them, having one hand full already with used dishes, but she tries. And fails. And then I had peas&carrots all over my shoes. (what is this international fascination with peas&carrots? in China, in England, in the US, now in Algeria: they're everywhere.)
My friend and her colleagues from various hospitals in cities along the coast are very merry. The laughter never stops, though most of it is in Arabic and the rest mentions people and events I don't know. I do my part for a while, and then am graciously allowed to smile and nod.

In the quiet of my room at the residence, I'm delighted to discover my toilet has been fixed.

Algeria 2012: The Residence

The Residence in Bordj bou Arreridj is new and opulent, while the surrounding town is Algerian middle-class (traffic, crumbling plaster, peeling paint, random debris, a satellite dish at every window). I have a grand room, very clean and bright. The spacious bathroom includes a bidet (do people really use them?) and a tub for two. But it's strange. 

I could fit a month of clothing in the armoire, but there's only one hanger. The flat-screen TV turns on, but doesn't get any stations. The door is not straight in its jamb, preventing the deadbolt from bolting. And the great gobs of putty around all the baseboard tile have just been left there.

I wish they would call me for lunch. I'm starving enough to have a second slice of the mealy apple in the room, and it's tempting to start on the orange.

 Built on two floors around a paved courtyard, downstairs there are lounges and offices and a kitchen, surely a dining room I will discover soon. Nobody is about. My host is seated on a couch talking to his phone. From the kitchen come sounds of women's voices, the rattling of pans, some frying. Soon! The long side of the court has a series of arches that look out to a field or very young orchard or a garden they mean to get to later. A man is painting the wall yellow. Sparrows jump and twitter everywhere.

I forgot my sunglasses in rainy France.

Wandering back inside, I find two colleagues have arrived from Algiers, and are sitting in one of the vast lounges lined with couches and low tables. The center of the large room is empty, like a waiting ballroom. The tables have been furnished with plates of almonds and pistachios and peanuts, bottles of water and soda. The men are radiologists, going over their slides. 

Very slowly, people arrive. Around 2 we sit for a formal lunch with the early-arriving VIPs of the First International Oncology Congress. The meal is delicious. A wonderful local specialty soup starts us off, lightly spicy with chicken and granules of wheat with a minty background to the broth. This is followed by mountains of couscous with lamb, then fruit and coffee & tea.

According to the schedule we should be at the university already for the opening of the Congress. After milling around for quite a while longer, we're loaded up into cars headed for the new hospital, where a subgroup of VIPs will inaugurate the oncology department. The rest of us are taken directly to the University Bordj Bou Arreridj, where we naturally have nothing to do but hang around until the others make it over from the hospital. We're herded into a vast room lined with couches and low tables (they have a thing for these vast, nearly-empty rooms here), where an eager team tries vainly to serve us tea and cookies. We are far too stuffed for cookies, but politely take tea.

After feeble attempts at small-talk, I concentrate on my tea and on smiling interestedly at people who all know that I am The American, without my knowing any of them. Soon they lapse into arabic.

At long last the others arrive in a swarm of politicians and photographers. Everybody is photographed with everybody.  The regional Director of Health is on hand, a striking blond woman impeccably dressed in the latest Paris fashion. In the crowd I find people whom I recognise from my other trips to Algeria in 2004 and 2007, but I only remember three of their names. Absolutely everyone knows mine, however. That's a skill I wish I had - remembering names.

Now we are herded into the ampitheather, which is packed for the evening's session of lengthy introductions, tributes, and two featured presentations. Comfy armchairs are installed for us VIPs in a row facing the podium. You can't see the screen for the slide presentations from here, but we are much more comfortable than in the classroom rows above.

The featured presentations are odd. The first is on near-death experiences, and other than relate what people describe about their experiences, there's no substance to this. The speaker is quite excited, however, to have a new graduate student working on the subject. He explains that the previous grad student on the subject died, and we cannot help but wonder - how? doing experimental work? The last I read about near-death experiences was a couple of years ago, in an article showing how the white light at the end of a tunnel might be a physiological effect of shutting down the brain in stages. Our speaker doesn't mention this, nor does he make any religious or spiritual claims, and we're left wondering what his hypothesis is.

The second speaker is meant to talk about pediatric cancer care, but what he actually presents is a talk on basic hospital hygiene. He has lots of photos of modern hospitals with clean rooms and assorted waste receptacles, and staff wearing appropriate clothing. I wonder if these measures, taken for granted by people in France and the US, are making much headway in Algeria. The tour of the hospital in Algiers 8 years ago made me swear never, ever, to get sick or injured in the country. Not that I'm planning on getting sick or injured anywhere. But especially not here.

In the confusion of the stampede to leave for dinner, I manage to find my friend Amina, who tells me to wait where I am for just 5 minutes while she goes to get her stuff. While she's gone, my driver finds me. He already has his other charges in tow, and insists we go right away. I convince him to wait, but after 10 minutes the hall is nearly deserted and he practically takes me by the arm to the car. Such a hurry! Then we wait in the car, for no discernable reason, for 25 minutes before leaving. Hurry up and wait. My favorite game!

At the restaurant, I'm ushered into the special "traditional" room, where we eat at low tables, seated on thick cushions on the floor. There are rugs on every surface, animal skins on the walls, and a stuffed antelope with its forelegs badly reattached.

Our special VIP menu tonight: local specialty soup, couscous with lamb, fruit, and tea. Exactly what we had for lunch and not quite as good. Happily, we are allowed to serve ourselves from the platters.

Photo a day: mail

Like anyone, I have a love-hate relationship with mail. Love, love, love to get postcards and letters from friends and birthday cards from family. Doesn't matter if you "see" me on facebook every dang day. Snail mail I can touch with my hands, reread in 50 years.

Most mail isn't so fun. Paying bills online helps, but I still get the rent notice in the mailbox, and tax forms. I was hoping for good travel reading in the box this morning, but alas. There was, oddly, an unscheduled envelope from my landlord. Left it in there. Back later.

Photo a day: Colour

With a "u", they spell it. In French, you get two u's: couleur. Is a hue or a value or a shade or a wavelength more refined the more u's it has?
At work we add colors to an Excel table to mean things. Grey is just ok. Bright yellow screams for confirmation. Pink for unclassified variants, a paler shade of Red for Danger: Mutation. It's our way of adding an extra dimension to a flatland spreadsheet.
Red light: stop!
Green zone: safe.
Red cherry: eat.
Green apricot: wait.
Colors mean stuff - you just can't always tell what.
Trayvon: blood as red as yours.

Photo a Day: April

My friend Lisa has been doing this photo-a-day thing on Facebook since March now, and she's put up some pretty clever images. Every time, I say to myself - I should do that! But then I don't.

The list for April has been hanging around in my notebook for a week, and, having time to write but not to photograph/dig through my archives, I've decided to make it a word-photo thing. A 100-word thing.

I've got hours of train-time today. Perhaps I can catch up. First theme: my reflection. What is this whole post but a reflection of me?

100 words : Drought

Drought?

What, already? It’s barely April.

But yes. The winter was so agreably dry and warm, hardly a winter at all (excepting those 20 days that froze my radiator, still unrepaired). Any particular day without rain is a nice day. But string them together and what happens?

Payback time.

The bucket is back in the bathroom, no down-the-drain while heating the shower. One in the kitchen as well. The garden is thirsty.

My effort is miniscule, but that’s no reason not to do it. It’s the little bits together that make a difference. Either way. Be on the plus side!