Well bonjour. It is difficult to know where to start this blog. I suspect it will move from a rant to a French farce. You see, the French have a very different attitude to people with disabilities to that which I am accustomed. The attitude is sympathetic for the person's plight, but equally insistent that it shouldn't interrupt the sympathiser's day.
The title of this blog says it all, 'ce n'est pas possible' - it's not possible. I have learnt this phrase well, and it is usually said with a shrug, and a turn away. I've heard it when trying to access floors at museums with a broken elevator, when trying to get on the wheelchair accessible bus with a 'broken' ramp (nb 2 drove past before a non-broken ramp was available), and today, when asking for the shop assistant to get a specific print from the upstairs floor of a shop (which had an elevator, but it was locked).
Now, I've been to inaccessible countries before (yes, I'm looking at you Vietnam and Timor Leste), but at least they are honest with their inaccessibility. The difficulty I have had in France, Paris in particular, is that they indicate access, but frequently access is blocked off, broken, or just not there. In all cases, the simple answer is 'ce n'est pas possible'. In a developed country, in the 21st century, when the World Health Organisation promotes participation for all, is it ok to respond to a lack of autonomy, contribution and participation in one's community with a simple 'it's not possible'? I would think not.
Rant over. I promise funny stories next time... Unless ce n'est pas possible
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
A wheelchair in Paris
After 2 fun-filled weeks, I hopped on the Eurostar to get some respite in Paris. We had a moment of panic when the check-in man informed me that they already had 4 wheelchairs on board (I wondered if those chairs contained people) and that is a lot. Four wheelchairs is a lot???? Mate, I've just been to the Paralympics. Four is just the line for coffee...on a slow day!
After we established that I was traveling on that train (ok 'we' was probably 'me'), I sat back and let the French chic wash over me. And by 'French chic', I mean red wine.
When I arrived, it was pouring with rain. Paris was a sad, dreary, wet city. The people looked like wet poodles, and the poodles looked like.... Damn, I've run out of similes. Anyway, it was cold. I stood in the taxi line for 45 minutes, and then 10 minutes later, I was at my nice, comfortable hotel. I booked a hotel in the Invalides area, largely for the comedy value of the name. Get it, me as an invalid?? Ironical! Yeah, the French don't get it. I'm the only one that laughs each time I give directions to my home.
Speaking of les Invalides (heheh), up until today, I thought I had the only wheelchair in Paris. However, sitting in this cafe, in the last hour, 3 people have wheeled past me. They must also appreciate the free entry to the museums (not to mention the invitation to skip the long lines). Honestly, I turned up to Musee d'Orsay to see millions of people in line. I joined the queue, and there was a round of
'non Madame' from the guards. Suddenly I was ushered in the side entrance and welcomed like I owned the place. In order to prolong this feeling of superstardom, I kept popping out in order to pop back in in such a spectacular fashion.
But what Paris gives, Paris also takes away.... For a little while. Feeling very special and VIP-like, I left the museum to wheel home. On one of the roads, I had to bounce off the footpath past construction. I bounced down, wheeled for about 4 minutes, then found there was no way up. I was trapped on the road at the exit of a busy tunnel that ran under the Seine. What to do, what to do?
Well, I sat there like un Invalides for a bit... And a police car drove past at that moment. Next thing I know, the tunnel was blocked by the police car, traffic was stopped, and I was escorted across the road. Superstardom!
That's all for now, but next we speak, remind me to tell you about my first ever roller coaster ride at Eurodisney.
Cheers, L
After we established that I was traveling on that train (ok 'we' was probably 'me'), I sat back and let the French chic wash over me. And by 'French chic', I mean red wine.
When I arrived, it was pouring with rain. Paris was a sad, dreary, wet city. The people looked like wet poodles, and the poodles looked like.... Damn, I've run out of similes. Anyway, it was cold. I stood in the taxi line for 45 minutes, and then 10 minutes later, I was at my nice, comfortable hotel. I booked a hotel in the Invalides area, largely for the comedy value of the name. Get it, me as an invalid?? Ironical! Yeah, the French don't get it. I'm the only one that laughs each time I give directions to my home.
Speaking of les Invalides (heheh), up until today, I thought I had the only wheelchair in Paris. However, sitting in this cafe, in the last hour, 3 people have wheeled past me. They must also appreciate the free entry to the museums (not to mention the invitation to skip the long lines). Honestly, I turned up to Musee d'Orsay to see millions of people in line. I joined the queue, and there was a round of
'non Madame' from the guards. Suddenly I was ushered in the side entrance and welcomed like I owned the place. In order to prolong this feeling of superstardom, I kept popping out in order to pop back in in such a spectacular fashion.
But what Paris gives, Paris also takes away.... For a little while. Feeling very special and VIP-like, I left the museum to wheel home. On one of the roads, I had to bounce off the footpath past construction. I bounced down, wheeled for about 4 minutes, then found there was no way up. I was trapped on the road at the exit of a busy tunnel that ran under the Seine. What to do, what to do?
Well, I sat there like un Invalides for a bit... And a police car drove past at that moment. Next thing I know, the tunnel was blocked by the police car, traffic was stopped, and I was escorted across the road. Superstardom!
That's all for now, but next we speak, remind me to tell you about my first ever roller coaster ride at Eurodisney.
Cheers, L
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Post-paralympic Parisian Post
Well then. The Paralympics are over for another four years, which is just as well as it might take me four years to recover. I thought that being an athlete was difficult, but I hadn't counted on the stress in being a spectator. You see, when you're a paralympian, you have a team manager who organises transport, food, access to games, and sometimes sightseeing and entertainment to pass he downtime. As a spectator, I needed to provide this all for myself...with mixed success, let me tell you.
I became quite expert with the bus system...apart from the 'hop on hop off' bus. It seems only a few of those had wheelchair access, over three different routes. The bus company didn't see why this was a problem. For Gerry and I, it meant a long wait to 'hop on', only to watch two non-accessible buses go by. Followed by a discussion with a driver where he pointed out that when we 'hop off' we might need to wait for three or so buses to 'hop on' again. Not so much the 'hop on hop off' experience, more like the 'get our money back and go to the pub' experience.
As a spectator, as I said, you play every minute of every game. As a player, you do this too, but you have the opportunity to influence the outcome. Your actions have an effect. In London, in the crowd, I spent every game chewing the inside of my cheek, like I did when I was on the bench as a player. By the end of the tournament, I was actively avoiding orange juice
(carefully replacing it with alcoholic ginger beer, score!!!) as the insides if my cheeks were so sore.
But what can I say about the tournament? As you possibly know, the australian women's wheelchair basketball team, the gliders, won a silver medal. I can't speak for those players, but what I can do is tell you about my feelings when I won a silver in the Athens paralympics.
In a team sport, winning a silver means you lost the gold medal game. You go home with a shiny medal, of which you will eventually be proud, but you lost your last game. It's a hard position to be in. It took me a few months after Athens to start saying that I won the silver medal, and not that I had lost the gold.
I know this blog is meandering a little as I reflect on the London Paralympics. It's very difficult to reflect on an event that is: 1. Momentous, 2. Record-breaking, and 3. Represents many of the values that makes me me. The Paralympics is a gathering of people for whom negotiating the world is a tad more complex than the average person. People who have had to develop resilience, coping skills, negotiating skills, and a high belief in their own abilities...and that's just to go shopping! The lessons you learn as a young person with a disability in the presence of paralympians provide a framework to build a life. I will forever be grateful to those athletes who took me under their wings, and in turn, I tried to do the same.
So, yes the Paralympic games is a sporting event, and the sport was superb. However, it is so much more than that. For a child with a disability, it might be the first time they see a role model, a hero, something to aspire to, that isn't reliant on all body parts working, or even all body parts being present. For those of you with all your working bits all in the right places, you might not realise how important this is. Let's just say that the Paralympics feeds my soul.
I plan on attending the next Paralympics, in Rio in 2016. Brazil, the land of parties, Mardi Gras, and skimpy bikinis. I have four years to turn into a supermodel!!!
Cheers, Lisa
I became quite expert with the bus system...apart from the 'hop on hop off' bus. It seems only a few of those had wheelchair access, over three different routes. The bus company didn't see why this was a problem. For Gerry and I, it meant a long wait to 'hop on', only to watch two non-accessible buses go by. Followed by a discussion with a driver where he pointed out that when we 'hop off' we might need to wait for three or so buses to 'hop on' again. Not so much the 'hop on hop off' experience, more like the 'get our money back and go to the pub' experience.
As a spectator, as I said, you play every minute of every game. As a player, you do this too, but you have the opportunity to influence the outcome. Your actions have an effect. In London, in the crowd, I spent every game chewing the inside of my cheek, like I did when I was on the bench as a player. By the end of the tournament, I was actively avoiding orange juice
(carefully replacing it with alcoholic ginger beer, score!!!) as the insides if my cheeks were so sore.
But what can I say about the tournament? As you possibly know, the australian women's wheelchair basketball team, the gliders, won a silver medal. I can't speak for those players, but what I can do is tell you about my feelings when I won a silver in the Athens paralympics.
In a team sport, winning a silver means you lost the gold medal game. You go home with a shiny medal, of which you will eventually be proud, but you lost your last game. It's a hard position to be in. It took me a few months after Athens to start saying that I won the silver medal, and not that I had lost the gold.
I know this blog is meandering a little as I reflect on the London Paralympics. It's very difficult to reflect on an event that is: 1. Momentous, 2. Record-breaking, and 3. Represents many of the values that makes me me. The Paralympics is a gathering of people for whom negotiating the world is a tad more complex than the average person. People who have had to develop resilience, coping skills, negotiating skills, and a high belief in their own abilities...and that's just to go shopping! The lessons you learn as a young person with a disability in the presence of paralympians provide a framework to build a life. I will forever be grateful to those athletes who took me under their wings, and in turn, I tried to do the same.
So, yes the Paralympic games is a sporting event, and the sport was superb. However, it is so much more than that. For a child with a disability, it might be the first time they see a role model, a hero, something to aspire to, that isn't reliant on all body parts working, or even all body parts being present. For those of you with all your working bits all in the right places, you might not realise how important this is. Let's just say that the Paralympics feeds my soul.
I plan on attending the next Paralympics, in Rio in 2016. Brazil, the land of parties, Mardi Gras, and skimpy bikinis. I have four years to turn into a supermodel!!!
Cheers, Lisa
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Timor Leste - The real reason for our visit
Today, I started organising my suitcase to head to London for Paralympic-spectator duties (NB. my spell check tells me that Paralympic is not a word....NOT IN YOUR WORLD MR MICROSOFT, BUT IN MINE, IT DEFINITELY IS!!)
Anyway, I thought that I better finish off the Timor stories before I start on the UK and France stories. Now, where were we? I'm not sure, so here is a picture of Justin Bieber on the back of a taxi-type vehicle to distract you while I gather my thoughts. (NB. spell check tells me that Bieber is also not a word. Mr Microsoft, I think our worlds are as one on this point!)
So, Alison and I volunteered to run a 4 day wheelchair basketball camp, and 1 day of demonstration games at a rehabilitation facility in Timor Leste, called Assert. Assert is the only rehab facility in Timor, so, as you can imagine, people with a wide variety of needs attend their service. While I was there, I met half the occupational therapists in the whole country (I met one!). He was one third of all OT's, but one of the three is on maternity leave. Understandably, there is a lot of work for him to do!
Here is a mural on the wall of the exercise area:
The little froggies have prosthetic spring-legs. Awwwwwww!
Being the OT that I am, I had a poke around in their equipment room. They have adapted day chairs to be more suitable for rough terrain by replacing the two front casters with a long bar, leading to one single large front caster. This is great for getting around through gravel, dirt, in the wet, etc, but I wonder how people manage in their own homes with daily living tasks like cooking (Sorry, can't help it...the OT in me is always thinking!). In addition to the day chairs, there are also a lot of these tricycles at the centre:
Several years ago, I saw these in Vietnam also, and they are a great idea for rough roads, with no footpaths. In fact, my day chair was so unsuitable that when I got home, I had to do a fair amount of maintenance because it just wasn't used to the off-road, dusty, dry conditions (there's now a footpath from my house to every bar in Torquay so I never need to go off-road!!).
Transport is also similar to Vietnam. I love the use of a fluffy hat for protection:
But, let's talk about the basketball, shall we? Firstly, I must say, I'm sorry, but I can't post photos of the players on my personal blog due to privacy reasons. However, I have done some judicious photoshopping (thanks for teaching me that skill NetReach) so there is a photo.
Unfortunately, I missed the best photo opportunity... When we first arrived, on day 1, when all the players were waiting for us in the building, a cow was happily lazing on the court. Apparently, that is his home. And let me tell you, he was not happy when we made it our home instead! At that point, Alison and I both knew that we were in a very different basketball world to the one from whence we had come.
So, here is a quick photo of Alison and I on court for the first morning. Notice how we look clean, not sweaty. Our shirts are not covered in dust, our faces are not too red, and I have found some shade. Yep, none of those things lasted long!
The court was white concrete, which reflected the billionty-zillion degrees of the sun. It was winter in Dili, and some of the players wore jumpers during training. However, not me.... Have you seen that scene from the Wizard of Oz when the wicked witch melts into a pool of liquid? Well, I'm pretty sure I reenacted that on the afternoon of day 1....and then again on day 2.....maybe day 3.....but by day 4, I learnt how to hide in the shade!!
That was not all I learnt though. We knew that we were throwing new knowledge at our players, all day, everyday. Our idea was that we would provide a lot of new stuff, knowing that only some of it would be remembered. So, in order to minimise the stuff they needed to learn, we decided to learn some Tetum basketball-related words. I thought I learnt the words for Left and Right, and led the group through a drill where they had to turn their chair according to the direction I said. I'm not sure what I said, I thought it was Left, but clearly it was "stop moving your chair in order to laugh at Lisa and look at each other with raised eyebrows". Oh well, that's not the first time I've done that...but usually it's in English.
Just in case you're wondering, here is a photo of the whiteboard on which we had the players write the Tetum words for the lines on the court. I just want to point out that the word for the key is Xave, pronounced something like Shar-vay. You know, Sharvay...the same way I say my surname after I've had a few wines! That's right people, I AM THE KEY TO BASKETBALL!!
I won't spend too much time talking about the skills we taught, but just imagine the very beginning of a wheelchair basketballer's career. The players soaked up the knowledge like they were sponges. They were great! Both the new players and the last year's existing players all improved each and every session. On day 1, we taught one-handed shooting and we hardly saw two-handed, behind the head, shots ever again. And the amount of smiles and laughter that happened showed us that wheelchair basketball is such a great game, and Alison and I felt privileged to be able to share it with others. I can see how this volunteering gig can become addictive!
Pushing the wheelchair was not necessarily something that all of the players had done before, so for some, it was a struggle to steer straight. In fact, one of the women had only received a day chair on the first morning of the camp, despite not being able to walk for years. She told us a story of hardly leaving her house, and when she did, being mistaken for a beggar. She was so embarrassed about that that she hardly ever left the house again.
It was stories like her's that reminded me again and again that I was lucky to be born into a country with resources, infrastructure and laws that support my equal participation and social inclusion. Although I was not particularly lucky in collecting the whole, complete set of vertebrae, I was lucky to do that in Australia.
Anyway, on a lighter note, here is a picture of a picture that was hanging above my hotel bed. Does it remind you of anyone (answer below picture)?
(Answer: The Timorese version of Bert and Ernie...with giant nipples!!)
And then, after 5 days of great fun sharing our knowledge and experiences with new friends, we headed home.
Anyway, I thought that I better finish off the Timor stories before I start on the UK and France stories. Now, where were we? I'm not sure, so here is a picture of Justin Bieber on the back of a taxi-type vehicle to distract you while I gather my thoughts. (NB. spell check tells me that Bieber is also not a word. Mr Microsoft, I think our worlds are as one on this point!)
So, Alison and I volunteered to run a 4 day wheelchair basketball camp, and 1 day of demonstration games at a rehabilitation facility in Timor Leste, called Assert. Assert is the only rehab facility in Timor, so, as you can imagine, people with a wide variety of needs attend their service. While I was there, I met half the occupational therapists in the whole country (I met one!). He was one third of all OT's, but one of the three is on maternity leave. Understandably, there is a lot of work for him to do!
Here is a mural on the wall of the exercise area:
The little froggies have prosthetic spring-legs. Awwwwwww!
Being the OT that I am, I had a poke around in their equipment room. They have adapted day chairs to be more suitable for rough terrain by replacing the two front casters with a long bar, leading to one single large front caster. This is great for getting around through gravel, dirt, in the wet, etc, but I wonder how people manage in their own homes with daily living tasks like cooking (Sorry, can't help it...the OT in me is always thinking!). In addition to the day chairs, there are also a lot of these tricycles at the centre:
Transport is also similar to Vietnam. I love the use of a fluffy hat for protection:
But, let's talk about the basketball, shall we? Firstly, I must say, I'm sorry, but I can't post photos of the players on my personal blog due to privacy reasons. However, I have done some judicious photoshopping (thanks for teaching me that skill NetReach) so there is a photo.
Unfortunately, I missed the best photo opportunity... When we first arrived, on day 1, when all the players were waiting for us in the building, a cow was happily lazing on the court. Apparently, that is his home. And let me tell you, he was not happy when we made it our home instead! At that point, Alison and I both knew that we were in a very different basketball world to the one from whence we had come.
So, here is a quick photo of Alison and I on court for the first morning. Notice how we look clean, not sweaty. Our shirts are not covered in dust, our faces are not too red, and I have found some shade. Yep, none of those things lasted long!
The court was white concrete, which reflected the billionty-zillion degrees of the sun. It was winter in Dili, and some of the players wore jumpers during training. However, not me.... Have you seen that scene from the Wizard of Oz when the wicked witch melts into a pool of liquid? Well, I'm pretty sure I reenacted that on the afternoon of day 1....and then again on day 2.....maybe day 3.....but by day 4, I learnt how to hide in the shade!!
That was not all I learnt though. We knew that we were throwing new knowledge at our players, all day, everyday. Our idea was that we would provide a lot of new stuff, knowing that only some of it would be remembered. So, in order to minimise the stuff they needed to learn, we decided to learn some Tetum basketball-related words. I thought I learnt the words for Left and Right, and led the group through a drill where they had to turn their chair according to the direction I said. I'm not sure what I said, I thought it was Left, but clearly it was "stop moving your chair in order to laugh at Lisa and look at each other with raised eyebrows". Oh well, that's not the first time I've done that...but usually it's in English.
Just in case you're wondering, here is a photo of the whiteboard on which we had the players write the Tetum words for the lines on the court. I just want to point out that the word for the key is Xave, pronounced something like Shar-vay. You know, Sharvay...the same way I say my surname after I've had a few wines! That's right people, I AM THE KEY TO BASKETBALL!!
I won't spend too much time talking about the skills we taught, but just imagine the very beginning of a wheelchair basketballer's career. The players soaked up the knowledge like they were sponges. They were great! Both the new players and the last year's existing players all improved each and every session. On day 1, we taught one-handed shooting and we hardly saw two-handed, behind the head, shots ever again. And the amount of smiles and laughter that happened showed us that wheelchair basketball is such a great game, and Alison and I felt privileged to be able to share it with others. I can see how this volunteering gig can become addictive!
Pushing the wheelchair was not necessarily something that all of the players had done before, so for some, it was a struggle to steer straight. In fact, one of the women had only received a day chair on the first morning of the camp, despite not being able to walk for years. She told us a story of hardly leaving her house, and when she did, being mistaken for a beggar. She was so embarrassed about that that she hardly ever left the house again.
It was stories like her's that reminded me again and again that I was lucky to be born into a country with resources, infrastructure and laws that support my equal participation and social inclusion. Although I was not particularly lucky in collecting the whole, complete set of vertebrae, I was lucky to do that in Australia.
Anyway, on a lighter note, here is a picture of a picture that was hanging above my hotel bed. Does it remind you of anyone (answer below picture)?
And then, after 5 days of great fun sharing our knowledge and experiences with new friends, we headed home.
Bye Timor Leste, we will be back!
Monday, August 13, 2012
Timor Leste - Before the Basketball Began
Well, I'm back from Timor Leste. Technically, I wrote this blog whilst away, but we didn't have internet access so I'm posting now. This post is about the first 2 days, before we started the basketball camp, when we were just travellers without a purpose.
When we arrived, they saw the
effort it took to get up the two big steps at the front. So, in the time it took
for me to go for a quick swim in the pool surrounded by a cat and a chicken
(true!), they had whipped up a ramp. Ingenuity at its best!
To catch up, I was in Timor Leste with a Gliders team-mate, Alison, to run a development wheelchair basketball camp, funded by Motivation Australia, a not for profit disability and development organisation. Three other coaches went last year, where they built the donated wheelchairs, then introduced 10 players to the fabulous game! This year, 8 of those players returned, with 6 new ones, but more about the actual basketball in the next post.
Just before we start my account of the day, a trend I have noticed happening amongst my friends is taking a holiday at a health retreat, where you have no internet and avoid phone contact, eat basic foods such as rice, protein and vegetables, engage in exercise and maybe take saunas to cleanse the toxins. Well, let me tell you, running a 5 day wheelchair basketball camp in an outside court in Timor Leste meets every single one of those goals!!
Friday, 3rd August:
Day one. Today, we travelled from our homes in Hobart and
Torquay to Darwin, where, the plan was, to stay in the airport hotel overnight.
It seems simple enough, right? Well, consider the amount of stuff we needed to
bring: My day chair, both our sports chairs, one bag of spare
wheels, both our suitcases, and a box full of basketballs. Still, not as bad as
last year’s volunteers, who had to bring the basketball rings over with them!
Normally, there is that moment when you dump your luggage at
check-in, and don’t have to worry about it until you reach your final
destination. Unfortunately for us, we were on two different airlines from
Melbourne to Sydney, and then from Sydney Darwin (not to mention the final leg
of Darwin to Dili, which makes it three different airlines). Yep, at each stop,
we had to load up a trolley full of luggage, and stack one sports chair on top
of the other, and make our way through crowded airports.
The last time I had this much stuff to haul through an
airport was when I was off to the Athens Paralympics. Because Australia is
currently gripped by Olympic fever, every now and again, some other passenger
asked me if I was off to the London Paralympics. Well, I didn’t lie when I said
yes ;)
The Darwin Cup is on this weekend. The flight to Darwin was
chocca-bloc, and all the hotels are booked out. Just as well tonight’s hotel
booking was made a while ago…..or was it?!?!? Well, technically, the staff of our organisation booked a
room for us…. But the hotel staff recorded the wrong date, despite sending a
confirmation email. That’s right, 2 women and a truck-load of luggage were
homeless in Darwin. We thought about turning the sports chair frames into
humpies for a moment. However, luckily for us, the airport hotel had a sister
resort just around the corner, where they could give us a room.
Off we trottted, pushing trolleys and wheelchairs to “just
around the corner”, which was thankfully, just around the corner. A bit of
confusion ensued as the desk person was not the same one that had spoken to our
first attempt of a hotel. However, this was quickly sorted when the original
person’s break was over.
Holding our key to room 244 in our hot little hands, we
wearily wandered to dump our stuff and collapse on the beds. And, here lies the
problem. You see, room 244 was not abundant in beds. In fact, it had only one.
Now, I’m short, but I can’t fit in a drawer!
Back we wandered to reception. Finally, 2 hotels, a walk “just
around the corner” and 3 attempts at a room later, we collapse on our separate
beds, and contemplate how quickly we will use the 2 passes for free drinks we
were given for our troubles.
Our Glider teammate, Red, met us for dinner, where the
manager proceeded to give us more free drinks and a discount on dinner. Well,
we don’t mind if we do…and we did! After a catch up on lives, lots of laughter, ridiculous
amounts of pork ribs, and the odd bubbles or two, we collapsed into bed, ready
for our 4.20am wake up call.
Saturday 4th August,
4.20am came around very quickly!
5am shuttle bus to the airport, for a 6.30am flight. Plenty
of time, we thought. However, we did not count on the “wheelchair panic” of the
airport check-in staff. (NB. “Wheelchair panic” is a term that I use to
describe the sheer panic of customer relations staff in “having to deal” with a
person in a wheelchair. It’s not restricted to airline staff, but they tend to
get it the most. Ironically, most wheelchair panic can be alleviated by simply
asking the person what usually happens, rather than reinventing the wheel
(heheheh pun) each time).
We checked in our mountain of luggage, and unfortunately,
this time I didn’t win the war. That is, this airline has a policy that day
chairs are checked in with ordinary luggage, and I have to sit in an aisle
chair for an hour or so. Most progressive airlines understand that it is
actually less staff intensive for them if I stay in my chair until boarding.
Nope, not this airline…and it took them a while to understand that I would only
agree if they provided a staff member to push me for the entire time (ie, not
sitting me in the corner of the gate lounge, unable to move).
They provided a staff member, and she was lovely.
Unfortunately, it was her 3rd day, so for the next half hour or so,
we went on adventures together trying to find the secret hidden lifts in
restricted areas of the airport.
While we were lining up in customs, a call came through on
her radio, telling her that she needed to change my seat from the very front of
the plane, to the very back of the plane to allow for the DPL. What is the DPL
you ask? The creatively named “Disabled Persons’ Lift” – the tiny little cherry
picker type thing that takes a person in an aisle chair onto the plane from the
tarmac.
Just as well I learnt what a DPL was, because it gave me a
heads up when the radio crackled through with “actually, I don’t think Dili has
a DPL”. Ummm………it’s a long way down to bungie jump onto the tarmac!
The flight to Dili took just over an hour, and here is a
photo of some spectacular scenery as we flew over Timor Leste.
We landed, the other passengers
disembarked, and sure enough, there was no sign of a DPL. But then one arrived.
Here is the Timor version of a DPL, getting me to the tarmac.
I am
pleased to say that when he arrived at my seat, he looked me up and down, and
then nodded, indicating that he could indeed lift me. I am less pleased to say
that he was panting like an ill-prepared marathon runner by the time we got to
my chair! [Mental note: next time I go to Timor, spend several months on Weight
Watchers first.]
We arrived at our hotel, holding
our breath that this booking was correct. Yep, all good (*wiping sweat from
brow… both from relief and the millionty-zillion degrees of sunny sunshine). The hotel had done its best to
become wheelchair friendly since the time our booking was made. They whipped up
a ramp, and a shower chair, in the shed out the back (I mean, they
whipped them up in the shed, not that I had to shower in the shed!).
Then we headed outside to have a look around, and here is a quick look at what we found:
Sunday 5th August
Today was a lazy day today, with a
small bit of site-seeing, and a lot of lying by the pool. This morning, we
drove on the Timorese version of the Great Ocean Rd.
What I mean is that it
wound around corner after corner, had the beach on one side, had mountains on
the other…. and sometimes, a car came towards you on the wrong side of the
road!! However, unlike Australia, the drivers here seem to anticipate that
nobody drives with rules. Nobody panics… no harm done.
We hired a driver for an hour, who
took us the big Jesus statue.
Apparently the nice beaches are further
along, past the statue, and known as Jesus Backside Beach. We didn't get that far, but the beaches we saw where pretty amazing anyway.
Tonight, we ate food on sticks
cooked on the beach. I’d tell you what that food was, but the most specific I
can get is ‘meat’. I’m sure mine was chicken, but Al bravely chose the
“buffalo”. Mmmmm…tasty. Best we don’t question that one too much. We bought some of the banana leaf things just to see what was inside: a little bit like "Deal or No Deal". Deal - Rice!
After beachside dinner and beers, we then reviewed tomorrow’s plan. We can’t
wait to get on court and share the joy of wheelchair bball!!
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Wiping off the dust, metaphorically speaking
Well, hello there,
I thought I would wipe the dust off the old blog, and let you all back into my world.
To be fair, it's probably the same as your world...except permanently sitting down. And, if you are also a permanent sitter, SNAP!
Why have I reinstated this blog, you ask? Well, here are some clues, based on what I bought today:
- spf 30+ sunscreen, water and sweat resistant
- industrial strength mosquito repellent, for tropical conditions
- enough finger tape to strap down a small army (ooohhhhh, interesting idea)
- a new elbow protector
- tyre tubes
- dysentery tablets
Worked it out?
Ok, I'll tell you. At the end of next week, I'm off to East Timor (or Timor Leste) to run a 5 day wheelchair basketball camp. Did you know that the average temperature for August in E. Timor is one billionty-zillion degrees?
Fun!!! Sun!!!! Sweat!!!!
I'm hoping that it will simulate being in a giant sauna, so I will drop 453654645645 kg before going to France in September. I need to drop 453654645645 kg by then because I have calculated that I will gain exactly 453654645645 kg from carafes of red wine and pain au chocolat in the two weeks of Parisian living!
Anyway, this blog is really just to tell you to look out for the new ones, coming to you from firstly East Timor, and then the London Paralympics....and then maybe some from some tiny cafe in Paris (if I can work out how to use the computer after 45346364364563 carafes of red wine!)
I thought I would wipe the dust off the old blog, and let you all back into my world.
To be fair, it's probably the same as your world...except permanently sitting down. And, if you are also a permanent sitter, SNAP!
Why have I reinstated this blog, you ask? Well, here are some clues, based on what I bought today:
- spf 30+ sunscreen, water and sweat resistant
- industrial strength mosquito repellent, for tropical conditions
- enough finger tape to strap down a small army (ooohhhhh, interesting idea)
- a new elbow protector
- tyre tubes
- dysentery tablets
Worked it out?
Ok, I'll tell you. At the end of next week, I'm off to East Timor (or Timor Leste) to run a 5 day wheelchair basketball camp. Did you know that the average temperature for August in E. Timor is one billionty-zillion degrees?
Fun!!! Sun!!!! Sweat!!!!
I'm hoping that it will simulate being in a giant sauna, so I will drop 453654645645 kg before going to France in September. I need to drop 453654645645 kg by then because I have calculated that I will gain exactly 453654645645 kg from carafes of red wine and pain au chocolat in the two weeks of Parisian living!
Anyway, this blog is really just to tell you to look out for the new ones, coming to you from firstly East Timor, and then the London Paralympics....and then maybe some from some tiny cafe in Paris (if I can work out how to use the computer after 45346364364563 carafes of red wine!)
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Row, row, row your boat
So, I can barely type today. Holding my hands to the keyboard is causing all sorts of pain. You see, last weekend, I went rowing.
"Rowing??!@#", I hear you say, "Don't you use your legs for that? Doesn't that require some sort of balance so you don't fall in? How about you spend your weekends on the couch, watching Martha, and having a little cup of tea?"
No!!! Why sit at home in the safety of your own teapot when you can make an idiot of yourself in public!
You see, this was not a brave new world into which I was venturing. I'm familiar with the work of the rower. Very, very familiar with the work of the rower. You see, last year, I volunteered to be the cox for my university's team in a charity rowing event. Now, for those of you who were there, I'm sure you had a vision that just popped into your head, and surprisingly, it wasn't of me. For those who weren't, here is the story:
Each team was allocated a coach, and our team was allocated quite the lady's man. And what better way to show off being a "lady's man" than to wear lycra shorts.... all the time.... not just during sport. And what better way to show off these lycra shorts than to make sure they are bright in colour.... well, not all of the shorts. Our coach persistently wore black lycra shorts, with a middle strip of flouro green. Yes, the universe had used a highlighter pen to illuminate his "gentleman's area" (hahahahahahha.... sorry, I just really wanted to use that phrase).
Also, what better way to make a highlighted area stand out than to present it first. So, our coach had perfected a way to stand with his knees and shoulders in alignment, but his penis about 3 foot in front of him. Each to their own, I say, except when I'm sitting beside him. I had to be careful not to turn around too quickly, or I might have poked my eye out.
Anyway, this coach was very good at rowing, and very helpful to our team. However, as much as I tried to dabble in the coxing (ooohh.. blankety-blanks style double entendre!), my back just wouldn't stand up to the motion of the boat, so I had to stop. The first day after I left, our coach became the "fill-in" cox (and again!). If you can imagine how this man stands, imagine that sitting down as he sat in the cox-box (I'm not joking!! That's what it's called!!) My friend, Wendy, was in the first seat, as the first stroke (seriously!! again, not the name I chose), and she had to be particularly careful not to live up to that name!
So, as you can imagine, I ventured to rowing last weekend with a little trepidation.
Well, it was fine, everyone was appropriately clothed, and all coaches stood with their body's in proper alignment. Phew!
Now, when I say it was fine, I clearly was not talking about the actual rowing. The boat had been adapted so you don't need to use your legs. There are floaty devices on the side so it's hard to tip. It looks easy. It isn't.
I bobbed around in circles on the Maribyrnong river like the universe was playing a sick game of "spin the bottle".
However, here's a photo to prove I've been there.
Cheers, I'm off to highlight some pants.
L
"Rowing??!@#", I hear you say, "Don't you use your legs for that? Doesn't that require some sort of balance so you don't fall in? How about you spend your weekends on the couch, watching Martha, and having a little cup of tea?"
No!!! Why sit at home in the safety of your own teapot when you can make an idiot of yourself in public!
You see, this was not a brave new world into which I was venturing. I'm familiar with the work of the rower. Very, very familiar with the work of the rower. You see, last year, I volunteered to be the cox for my university's team in a charity rowing event. Now, for those of you who were there, I'm sure you had a vision that just popped into your head, and surprisingly, it wasn't of me. For those who weren't, here is the story:
Each team was allocated a coach, and our team was allocated quite the lady's man. And what better way to show off being a "lady's man" than to wear lycra shorts.... all the time.... not just during sport. And what better way to show off these lycra shorts than to make sure they are bright in colour.... well, not all of the shorts. Our coach persistently wore black lycra shorts, with a middle strip of flouro green. Yes, the universe had used a highlighter pen to illuminate his "gentleman's area" (hahahahahahha.... sorry, I just really wanted to use that phrase).
Also, what better way to make a highlighted area stand out than to present it first. So, our coach had perfected a way to stand with his knees and shoulders in alignment, but his penis about 3 foot in front of him. Each to their own, I say, except when I'm sitting beside him. I had to be careful not to turn around too quickly, or I might have poked my eye out.
Anyway, this coach was very good at rowing, and very helpful to our team. However, as much as I tried to dabble in the coxing (ooohh.. blankety-blanks style double entendre!), my back just wouldn't stand up to the motion of the boat, so I had to stop. The first day after I left, our coach became the "fill-in" cox (and again!). If you can imagine how this man stands, imagine that sitting down as he sat in the cox-box (I'm not joking!! That's what it's called!!) My friend, Wendy, was in the first seat, as the first stroke (seriously!! again, not the name I chose), and she had to be particularly careful not to live up to that name!
So, as you can imagine, I ventured to rowing last weekend with a little trepidation.
Well, it was fine, everyone was appropriately clothed, and all coaches stood with their body's in proper alignment. Phew!
Now, when I say it was fine, I clearly was not talking about the actual rowing. The boat had been adapted so you don't need to use your legs. There are floaty devices on the side so it's hard to tip. It looks easy. It isn't.
I bobbed around in circles on the Maribyrnong river like the universe was playing a sick game of "spin the bottle".
However, here's a photo to prove I've been there.
Cheers, I'm off to highlight some pants.
L
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I live in a sub-culture, not a sub-urb
So, last year, about this time, I moved to Torquay.
I signed the contracts on Good Friday, during the Bell's Beach surfing carnival (I mean, during the same time frame. I don't mean that I took a break from surfing to sign the contract). That day, it was party-town, with people everywhere.
And then, 30 days later, I moved in..... to a hibernating, winter-in-summer-paradise, where I was the only person living in my street. SURPRISE!
But, that's ok. I needed a rest.
It went back to a party-town overnight, sometime in October. If you come to visit, and you can stand up, you'll get a lovely sea-view from my lounge room. I'm not sure why I bought a house that caters for others and not for me, but we managed to change that. You see, if you stand in a specific spot in the corner, near the telly, squat down, and look up at a strategically angled mirror, you'll also see the sea.
The sea is this town. It is a surfing town. It's not unusual to see kids riding a skateboard to school, and carrying a surfboard (It's probably a year 10 elective). I'm not a surfer. I tried.... once.... unsuccessfully (not as unsuccessfully as scuba diving, but pretty close). You see, I was lying down on the board, and a big wave came. The helper (calling them this because I honestly don't remember who I was surfing with) let go of the board as the wave came. I did the "how-excited-am-I" screams which made the helper think I was doing the "I'd-like-to-stop-now-because-I'm-terrified" screams (mental note: need safe word), so they grabbed the board again.... at which point, I flew off the end, into the wave.... doing some sort of somersault.... with pike.... and jazz hands.
Anyway, because I don't surf, I've had plenty of time drinking coffee in this town (Yes,in between, I have gone to work at some stage). Basically, I've spent the last year noting the behaviours of my fellow townsfolk, and I have two questions:
Schoolies - if you need to have a lie down in my garden when you're walking home from the pub, have you stayed up way past your bed time?
Hanging ten - if I attempted to surf, what would it be called? Hanging-on-for-dear-life?
Right, that's me done. I'm going to go take a drop (apparently this is torquay-talk for going out for spot of surfing, but it only makes me think of wine!)
Cheers,
L
I signed the contracts on Good Friday, during the Bell's Beach surfing carnival (I mean, during the same time frame. I don't mean that I took a break from surfing to sign the contract). That day, it was party-town, with people everywhere.
And then, 30 days later, I moved in..... to a hibernating, winter-in-summer-paradise, where I was the only person living in my street. SURPRISE!
But, that's ok. I needed a rest.
It went back to a party-town overnight, sometime in October. If you come to visit, and you can stand up, you'll get a lovely sea-view from my lounge room. I'm not sure why I bought a house that caters for others and not for me, but we managed to change that. You see, if you stand in a specific spot in the corner, near the telly, squat down, and look up at a strategically angled mirror, you'll also see the sea.
The sea is this town. It is a surfing town. It's not unusual to see kids riding a skateboard to school, and carrying a surfboard (It's probably a year 10 elective). I'm not a surfer. I tried.... once.... unsuccessfully (not as unsuccessfully as scuba diving, but pretty close). You see, I was lying down on the board, and a big wave came. The helper (calling them this because I honestly don't remember who I was surfing with) let go of the board as the wave came. I did the "how-excited-am-I" screams which made the helper think I was doing the "I'd-like-to-stop-now-because-I'm-terrified" screams (mental note: need safe word), so they grabbed the board again.... at which point, I flew off the end, into the wave.... doing some sort of somersault.... with pike.... and jazz hands.
Anyway, because I don't surf, I've had plenty of time drinking coffee in this town (Yes,in between, I have gone to work at some stage). Basically, I've spent the last year noting the behaviours of my fellow townsfolk, and I have two questions:
Schoolies - if you need to have a lie down in my garden when you're walking home from the pub, have you stayed up way past your bed time?
Hanging ten - if I attempted to surf, what would it be called? Hanging-on-for-dear-life?
Right, that's me done. I'm going to go take a drop (apparently this is torquay-talk for going out for spot of surfing, but it only makes me think of wine!)
Cheers,
L
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Catch-up
Well then. It's been a while. What have you been up to?
Me? Thanks for asking.
I've moved house....again.
Yes, I know. The last house had the bath that was the size of a lagoon , and coffee within 100 metres. So, why would I want to move. Well, I see your facilities, and I raise you one.
The new house is technically part of a resort, so I have a bath that actually IS a lagoon (although, they haven't taken too kindly to my loofah and shower cap, and the management prefer to call it an "outdoor pool").
Also, not only is coffee within 100 metres, now, there is also wine, cocktails, and a lovely assortment of nibblies. I can also create an owner's account, and just receive a monthly bill. (I have resisted this facility however, as I'm pretty sure if I start booking up food and drink to my house, I'll be 09453405734534 kilograms and 324094-574375 dollars in debt by next year).
Now, don't think that I'm talking myself up here. There are downsides to living resort-style.
1. While everyone is partying up, I'm going to work.
2. There are a few couples in their 80's living there until the aged care facility is built nearby. This isn't any downside....until one of the ladies whips your ass in the lap pool.....repeatedly!!!
3. They have started to lock up the towels so nobody can steal them. Now I have to buy my own towels.
5. the aforementioned issue of weight and debt.
6. The biggest downside, Reg-the-circus-dog couldn't come with me. Sad, but he went to a happy home in Perth where he runs amok amongst children. Perfect.
On the upside, Lulu-the-unhelper-dog is no longer cranky at me!!! She's been strutting her stuff like nobody's business.
Right, so that's it from me. What have you been up to? Fancy a drink....just don't book it up to my room.
Cheers,
L
Me? Thanks for asking.
I've moved house....again.
Yes, I know. The last house had the bath that was the size of a lagoon , and coffee within 100 metres. So, why would I want to move. Well, I see your facilities, and I raise you one.
The new house is technically part of a resort, so I have a bath that actually IS a lagoon (although, they haven't taken too kindly to my loofah and shower cap, and the management prefer to call it an "outdoor pool").
Also, not only is coffee within 100 metres, now, there is also wine, cocktails, and a lovely assortment of nibblies. I can also create an owner's account, and just receive a monthly bill. (I have resisted this facility however, as I'm pretty sure if I start booking up food and drink to my house, I'll be 09453405734534 kilograms and 324094-574375 dollars in debt by next year).
Now, don't think that I'm talking myself up here. There are downsides to living resort-style.
1. While everyone is partying up, I'm going to work.
2. There are a few couples in their 80's living there until the aged care facility is built nearby. This isn't any downside....until one of the ladies whips your ass in the lap pool.....repeatedly!!!
3. They have started to lock up the towels so nobody can steal them. Now I have to buy my own towels.
5. the aforementioned issue of weight and debt.
6. The biggest downside, Reg-the-circus-dog couldn't come with me. Sad, but he went to a happy home in Perth where he runs amok amongst children. Perfect.
On the upside, Lulu-the-unhelper-dog is no longer cranky at me!!! She's been strutting her stuff like nobody's business.
Right, so that's it from me. What have you been up to? Fancy a drink....just don't book it up to my room.
Cheers,
L
Thursday, June 11, 2009
check ME out
So, here's a conversation that I had in a loud basketball stadium, with an unnamed man, named Tim.
Me: So, in august, I'm going to be on the cover of the Australian Unity magazine
Tim: REALLY!! I thought they used models for things like that.
Me: Shut-up
Tim: No, really?? Do you really want to do that??
Me: Why not? That magazine uses real people, not models. In fact, they have mostly used my friend Cate, and all her family.
Tim: Well, is it going to be on sale in newsagents? Like, will everyone see it?
Me: No, it just goes to members.
Tim: Members of....??
Me: Australian Unity, of course
Tim: OH!!!! Australian UNITY!!!! I thought you said Australian NUDITY!
hahahahahahahahahahahaha
Cheers,
L
Me: So, in august, I'm going to be on the cover of the Australian Unity magazine
Tim: REALLY!! I thought they used models for things like that.
Me: Shut-up
Tim: No, really?? Do you really want to do that??
Me: Why not? That magazine uses real people, not models. In fact, they have mostly used my friend Cate, and all her family.
Tim: Well, is it going to be on sale in newsagents? Like, will everyone see it?
Me: No, it just goes to members.
Tim: Members of....??
Me: Australian Unity, of course
Tim: OH!!!! Australian UNITY!!!! I thought you said Australian NUDITY!
hahahahahahahahahahahaha
Cheers,
L
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