My Career in Steel

One summer in university, I had somehow managed to screw the pooch long enough that there weren’t many high-paid summer jobs left. Scratch that – there were no jobs left, short of the typical burger-flipping, $7 an hour grunt jobs that really don’t contribute much more than pizza money to your accumulated funds.
I needed a high-paying dream job, and I needed it fast.
Enter Rachel – my friend from the Student Union. She had a job at an aluminum factory typing letters, or something similar. Glamorous – not so much – but it paid.

In case you didn’t know it, Hamilton Ontario is also known as “Steel Town.” Didn’t get that nickname for no reason. Nossirree. Hamilton is literally jammed with steel and aluminum factories. Not near the university. No – over there it’s all coffee shops and nature trails. You’d never even know about the concrete hell that exists on the other side of town. On the other side of James Street – to be exact.

Hamilton’s one of those funny places where you can go and hang out and feel very happy and comfortable – as long as you stay west of James Street. The minute you cross over – it’s like a different world. Everything is run down, closed, or smells like urine. Even the sky gets darker and cloudier. Nope – east Hamilton is the stuff of scary scary legend.

Needless to say, my one big job hope that summer was east of James Street. Not just east, but north. North by a mile, on the slow bus. About an hour after catching my first bus, I had transferred two more busses, and walked up a factory-lined street.

The lovely thing about factories is they don’t really have inviting glass doors with potted plants to show you where the entrance is. What they do have is a lot of steel double-doors, about one set every 50 feet, all around the perimeter. Most of them have either 18-wheelers, or men smoking cigarettes outside. I picked one with smokers.
Inside I found my friend, along with a lot of other job hopefuls, and waited for instruction.
Ah – clipboards and application forms. No problemo. I scanned the sheet looking for the part where I told them how fast I could type, or take dictation, or something equally office-y.
Hmmm. Likely just a standard form. Just because there wasn’t room to share my super fantastic office experience was no reason to panic.

Next came an orientation. Everybody shake hands, say hello, hear the history of the company, which, for purposes of this story, will be known as Aluminum Casting Corporation.
Still not sure why I would be required to be familiar with the layout of the factory floor, I followed the tour.

Two things that are vital to know about an aluminum casting plant, before the tour begins:
One – it is unbearably hot inside. You know those days in summer where the humidity saps all energy out of you, and the heat greets you like a brick wall whenever you leave the safety of your air-conditioned office? Double it. Triple it.
Two – the smell of melted aluminum makes you wish you had been born with no nose. But since you were, it makes you want to rip out whichever parts of your brain process odours, and burn them. The smell is indescribable – and I’ve smelled a lot of barnyards, rendering plants, and slaughterhouses. An aluminum plant is so much worse, I cry and cry just remembering it.

Back to the tour.

“Now – over here is where the aluminum is superheated to become molten aluminum. It’s then piped through to the casting molds. Never ever come this way – it has happened before that molten aluminum has squirted out the side of the machine and….well…” awkward silence. The foreman looks at us meaningfully, then carries on. I look at my fellow tour mates – they seem slightly concerned also.

“OK – now here – just watch your step. The floor gets pretty slippery, and someone fell and broke their leg yesterday.” The mental checklist of places to get injured here is growing by the second.

“Now – this is the casting machine. This is where we take the extra aluminum off the casting. So – what you do is this…you….here you try. Fit the casting to this piece here. Now – take your hands off. Both hands. Use both hands to push these buttons. Just remember to take BOTH hands off. If you don’t, this thing’ll break your arm.” Fuck.

“…and watch out for the forklifts – they move pretty fast, and they don’t always see you.”

“…long pant legs, long sleeves, safety goggles, steel-toed boots, and heavy gloves – or the aluminum is sharp enough to slice you.”

“….need to check each piece and file them down quickly. If you see a bubble or hole – pull the piece out – otherwise it could explode when these get to the automotive plant for fitting.”

Now, I’m not a practicing Catholic. I’m not even Catholic. But at that point, I was earnestly wishing I knew how to Hail Mary and ask her to preserve me.
It was looking worse and worse for the cute little office job, and more and more like I would be joining the aluminum worker team.

Next came our training.
This consisted of standing behind a current plant employee, and watching what they did for an hour.
This is not as fun as it sounds.

My particular employee was a very sweet man. He told me about his family, and how long he’d worked at the plant, and what he liked to do on weekends. He pointed out how to keep from breaking my arms, getting sliced, melted, or run over by forklifts. As he talked, he picked up pieces of aluminum off of a conveyer belt. The aluminum had just been poured into a mold, set, and dumped onto the belt. Eldon’s job was to take those pieces (carburetors, I soon learned), and cut off the excess bits of aluminum, with the arm-breaker machine, which works kind of like a big, arm-breaking 3-hole punch.
Next, he would take the excess pieces, and throw them into a scrap bin.
He then took the carburetor and filed down any sharp edges with a big file. This was to make sure that the workers who would install the carburetor later didn’t slice their hands off on rough leftover aluminum.

All very interesting, but here’s what was going through my head.
“Wow – I can’t believe this guy does this for 12 hours a day every day. This is pretty tiring work. And you only get one half-hour lunch break? Crazy. God it smells in here. Where should I stand? I don’t want to get in this guy’s way. But I don’t want to stand to close to the arm-breaker. And if I stand over here, I’m in danger of getting run over. But if I’m over here, he can’t stack the carburetors properly. I guess I’ll just stand directly behind him. I really hope that as he’s flinging the excess pieces of jagged sharp aluminum into the scrap bin, which is also directly behind him, that he doesn’t forget that I’m here, and accidentally fling them at my head. He does this every day for 12 hours a day. Surely the routine of flinging those super sharp pieces of aluminum into the scrap bin is like breathing to him. How can he possibly remember that I’m here. Instinct will take over, he will forget I’m standing here, chuck that extra shit back, and I will end up with a lethal spike of aluminum in my forehead. Or across my jugular. Or in my eye. Oh god. Please don’t forget I’m here. Please. Please. Geez I wish I were Catholic.”

45 angst-ridden minutes later, we were able to take our lunch break. I stuck to Eldon and the new recruits like glue. On the inside I was crying. On the outside, I was trying to figure out where the ladies room might be. It then occurred to me that, other than my bitch friend Rachel, who had tricked me into coming here in the first place, there weren’t any other ladies here. There weren’t even any butchy broads. Nope. Just me. Awesome.
We completed the day with our trainers, and were asked to check the schedules to find out when our next shifts were.
Lucky me – mine was 7am the next morning. 7am to 7pm. Then, 7am to 7pm the next day. Then again, and again.

I headed outside, and found the bus.
I sucked back tears the entire bus ride home.
I climbed into bed and cried and cried.
I woke up the next morning at 5am, and started crying.
I got back on the bus, and cried my way east through the nice part of Hamilton, all the way to the factory.
I got changed in a broom closet, since there wasn’t any ladies room.
I spent 5.5 miserable hours by myself making carburetors, crying.
I wandered into the lunchroom, and noted despondently that all talking ceased when I entered. Apparently a sad looking girl in the factory was a bit of a novelty.
I finished my shift, got back on the bus, and cried all the way home.

My second full shift varied from the first very little, except that I learned my neighbour on the arm-breaking machine to the left was out on parole. Umm, yeah. Murder.

The next morning, I called the plant. I told them that physically, I couldn’t handle the job, and that I wouldn’t be coming back.

And so ended my career in the aluminum business.

For anyone who ever thought I was brave or tough or capable of anything – now you know the sad sordid truth: I was beaten by the aluminum industry. Beaten badly.

Shooting for Dummies

Check it out - the video evidence of "Shooting 101"

Hot Ankle Plague

So, one thing I noticed, is that men in Africa have hot ankles.

I don’t mean that you’d look at their ankles and feel a little quiver in your loins, and suddenly and inexplicably feel that you are madly in lust with their ankle-bones.

I mean they must physically have ankle joints that are overheating. But only their ankles. Or at least, more so than their knees or calves.

How have I made this astute observation?

By astutely observing, of course.

Faced with a cancelled flight out of Zambia, necessitating a trip to the airport “restaurant,” and then a further one hour delay while the now not-cancelled-but-instead-delayed flight arrived, I had a couple of gin and tonics (in Africa, “couple” equals “four”).

Because there were no seats left in the wildly overcrowded departure lounge, and having just spent $200 in the airport store on a bunch of children’s pillowcases with warthogs on them (don’t ask), I smartly decided to sit down on the last patch of remaining floor space, and not drink anymore gin and tonics, not spend any more money.

From that vantage point, I saw the first evidence of the ankle-overheating ailment plaguing men travelling in Zambia.

Everywhere I looked, another man appeared to be suffering.

Everywhere I looked, women stood idly by, as if they didn’t realize the agony their men were in.

Everywhere I looked, men had ill-advisedly come to some sort of solution on their own.

Yes, everywhere I looked, men had found a way to combat the hot ankle plague.

Capri pants.

Just then, a mild, unassuming, and sadly smitten young man strolled by me in Capri’s.

I shuddered, and tried to erase the picture from my memory.

Then suddenly, my visual cortex – now programmed to register other similarly-clad men – lit up like a Christmas tree. They were everywhere.

They were coming out of the woodwork.

There were men in Capri’s all over that airport, and god knows how many more outside.

This was serious. A veritable pandemic.

Obviously these poor men were having overheating issues with their ankles. But just their ankles. Their calves and knees appeared unaffected. How else to explain why they could not wear full trousers, yet tragically, had also not opted for shorts? Only a man in ankle-overheated desperation would turn to the absurdist of leg coverings – the Capri man-pant.

Of course, because I am an intrepid photojournalist, seeking always to bring you only the most relevant, most newsworthy stories, with visual evidence, I took a few snaps.

And so here I give you:

Crisis Zambia: Hot Ankle Plague 2007 (insert appropriate CNN-type music here)

This man - not content with the trouser-to-short option, planned ahead for the crisis, opting for a third zip-off option - Capri's.

Actually, these are some random Russian dudes and their classy girlfriends hogging the bar. No Capri's, but amusing, nonetheless.

Security - stop that man!

I told you....everywhere. Let's hope it's contained to the African continent, and doesn't go all SARS on our asses.

The Lost Posts

OK – so I got back from Africa right before Christmas. Now it’s May.
Things got a little crazy, a little hectic, as they’d say in Jozi. I may have rearranged some priorities when I got home, and Mr. Blog fell down a couple of notches.
However – there are a few posts that never got posted. And there are always new posts to add.
So…for one week and one week only, I’m posting some of the “lost posts.” Consider it May Sweeps – you know – to get you all hooked on the series again.
Then we’ll see how I do acting like a tourist in my own town, finding the blogworthy stories back in the Great White North.
So I’m Going to South Africa. Redux.

The best trip yet

Exactly two years ago today I met the sweetest little boy in Karachi, Pakistan.
I’d flown half way around the world for only one reason: to meet him.
He didn’t have a name just yet, but his mom was pretty sure she knew what she was going to call him. It was the name she’d been thinking of for a little boy since she was young.
For those three weeks I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life – meeting wonderful people, seeing beautiful places, and becoming a masi.
Today, he’s a bopping two year old, full of life, and darn smart.
And he’s going to be a big brother. Correction: he’s going to be a great big brother.
Knowing how long the journey was to bring him home, and how loved his new little siblings will be, I cried buckets when she called to tell me the amazing news.
I am so happy for him and my dear friend and her husband and family.
I wish every story had just as happy an ending.

Eid mubarak.

Stateside - the sequel

Well – I’m back.
Physically, anyhow. Mentally I’m still stuggling. I think that’s mostly the pre-Christmas thing, and it’s rapidly becoming worse as I enter panic flat spin over Christmas gifts.
Yes I could have shopped for everyone in Africa, and no, I could not possibly have brought it all back with me.
As it was, I had three very heavy and overloaded suitcases, and three items to carry on to the plane, with a fourth bag tucked inside.
Yikes.
It was a disaster at the airport.
Actually, it was a disaster all day. I managed to shove all three suitcases and the carry-ons down my apartment stairs, and load up my little Renault. It occurred to me that a lot of people can pack everything they own into their car. I am not one of those people, obviously, because I know damn well how much more crap I have at home.
No sooner had I left the electrified fence of my complex for one last time, when a tire blew. I’ve actually never had a flat in my life – and have only vague ideas about how I would change a tire. I’m pretty sure it happened on Who’s the Boss, with hilarious results, but having neither Angela or Tony nearby, and not keen on learning a new skill at the side of the road in Johannesburg, I flipped on the hazard lights, and drove very very slowly to the office.
It was kind of like being in a parade – everyone stopped and stared, pointing and gesturing. I smiled serenely at them, nodding, and acting as though driving on the rims was perfectly normal.
By the time I reached the parking lot at work, the rubber was hanging in shreds, and the wheel was practically off. But, my luggage and I made it – so no problemo.
True to form, no one in the office batted an eyelid as I walked in. Actually, not many people were even there. Guessing correctly that absolutely no thought had been put into how I was going to get to the airport, I inquired about a taxi. I was handed a couple of phone numbers, and spoke to the companies – one of which “doesn’t go to the airport anymore” and the other of which had no cabs available that day.
Hmmmmm.
OK.
Pretty typical.
Any other ideas? Nope. Also pretty typical.
I picked up the phone to call my client. It might be in poor taste to ask your client for a ride to the airport, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and she, at least, would be happy to help.
Thankfully, another woman in the office, overhearing my predicament, offered to help, and managed to get me a lift to the airport.
I had more than six hours before my flight left, but I wasn’t in any mood to hang around anymore, and left immediately, stopping by the client’s quickly to say goodbye.
There were about a million people at the airport. A million plus me, trying to push a badly overloaded trolley through the crowds.
The woman at the baggage weighing station looked at me with not an ounce of sympathy, and pointed me in the direction of the “excess baggage” area. I took one look at the crowd I’d have to push the cart through, and just left it. An airport worker half-heartedly tried to convince me to take my belongings with me, but I assumed an air of importance, and brushed him aside.
1,000 rand for an extra bag seemed a reasonable price to pay, and I checked in as fast as possible, giddy with relief when the three suitcases disappeared down the conveyer belt. I headed to the lounge to wait.
Two glasses of wine, one bag of peanuts, and three magazines later, I made my way to the gate, and boarded the plane. Again, I was met with looks of disdain as I explained to the flight attendant that I needed to fit not one, but three pieces of luggage somewhere in the crevices of the cabin. Thankfully, not everyone was being as stupid as me, and there was actually some extra space for my stuff.
I’ll spare you the details of the 8 hour flight to Senegal, and the remaining 10 hour flight to New York. Suffice to say, I watched every movie they had. I think I watched Hairspray twice. Something about John Travolta in a dress made me giggle. Maybe it was the altitude.
Now an expert at the “way too much luggage” game, I rocked the baggage claim at JFK, and found a cab with a trunk big enough for all my shit.
I only had one more obstacle to go in order to get everything into my sister’s apartment: the stairs at the bottom of her building. Poor Gus the doorman – he didn’t know what to do. Trained to be helpful at all costs, he was helpless in the face of the barrage of luggage. Nevertheless, he gallantly held the door open on each of my five trips up and down the stairs. Good man.
I was now officially stateside, jetlagged, and dying to meet my new nephew.

Stateside

Well - just because I'm back on this side of the Atlantic, doesn't mean that I don't owe you a few posts that didn't make it.
I have a few written that just need posting - and gosh darn it - that's what I'm gonna do.

Here's another word of the day:
Sac a papier. Say it mean, with a French accent.
Meaning: paper sac.
But apparently, according to my French buddies on safari, in France, you can actually use it as an obscenity. As in "You ignorant pig dog. Sac a papier - I should run you through with this sword." Or something.