Adventures in Africa: Part 12 - OBSERVATIONS

OBSERVATIONS

I was walking this evening, and it suddenly occurred to me that there are some things I haven't seen or heard since arriving in Uganda two months ago. This is not a judgment or indictment in any way....just an observation.

1. planes flying overhead
2. trains
3. robins, bluejays, or any other birds I'm used to seeing
4. McDonalds, Starbucks, or any other American franchise
5. oranges that are actually orange in color


Things I LOVE about Uganda:

1. the dark nights where street vendors still have candles lit and people continue walking along the road (see video clip below)
2. the people -- the friendliest people on the planet
3. the climate -- temperatures mostly in the 70s year-round
4. the children
5. the dignity of people who may be living in hopeless situations



Things I've seen here in Uganda that I had never seen back home:

1. people walking around carrying dead chickens they just purchased
2. vendors walking around selling fried grasshoppers as a snack
3. traffic jams with motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians winding through
4. a bug that looks like the "golden snitch" from Harry Potter
5. everyone well dressed and looking extremely well groomed
6. thousands of black people and I'm the only white one in the crowd
7. goats wandering along the roadside
8. huge, waist-high vulture birds
9. young men riding bicycles stacked with 8 crates of soda pop to sell, or carrying huge truck tires, or a mattress or bed frame, or long poles of metal re-bar, or several large sacks full of charcoal, or several big bunches of plantains for matooke
10. a driver, plus two adult riders and two children all on ONE motorcycle
11. brooms with no handles
12. matooke (the main food eaten here)


Things I will never take for granted again when I get back home to the United States:

1. fresh air
2. drinkable, good tasting, safe and free tap water
3. freeways, freeway lighting, road signs, painted lines on roads
4. stop signs, stop lights, sidewalks, relatively few potholes
5. electrical power 24 hours a day
6. fast internet
7. a variety of restaurants with different ethnic foods available
8. getting to choose which pieces I get when I order fried chicken
9. ordering food and not fearing food poisoning
10. cold milk
11. free education
12. variety of breads and other foods
13. stores with new clothing rather than used, dirty leftovers from thrift stores from other countries
14. excellent medical care
15. the U.S. Post Office and postal service that actually DELIVERS
16. reliable garbage, recycling, sewage, utilities services

Adventures in Africa: Part 11 - DANCE!

SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE....

Well, no, to be quite honest, I DON'T think I can dance! In fact, I know I'm quite bad at it!! But yesterday I was invited to an end-of-year party out in the village of Bbira. In attendance were some of the children and their parents and teachers from the school that I am helping support. After some speeches and songs and dramatic performances-- all under a small tent in the pouring rain -- the weather cleared up and we all danced!

Like I said, dancing well is not a talent that I possess! But I just tried to mimic the moves the kids were showing me, and just had fun with it. Here's a clip with music from three different Ugandan tribes: Lusoga, Lutolo, and Buganda.

We also ate "mbuzi" -- goat meat. It was the first time I had ever tasted it. I found it to be extremely tough and chewy, but interesting! Even more interesting, I was later told that the older boys in the group had slaughtered and roasted the goat that morning, and the girls in the group had prepared the cabbage/carrot salad they served with it.

Adventures in Africa: Part 10 - CROSS THE STREET

HOW TO CROSS THE STREET

Crossing the street in Kampala, Uganda is really just a matter of closing your eyes and hoping for the best.

There are only about two stoplights in all of Kampala, no lines in the road, no stop signs, few real rules it seems. Traffic is almost always thick. Cars, taxi vans, boda bodas (motorcycle taxis), bicyclists, and pedestrians all kind of play one big game of "chicken" as they weave in and out, jockeying for position. Men push bicycles that are loaded with 8 crates of soda pop, or huge bags of charcoal or other goods, or 30 foot long pieces of re-bar with no red flag on the end. I wonder how many people have been skewered by metal or wood that they didn't see ahead? Try weaving through congested traffic while pushing a big old wooden wheelbarrow filled with vegetables, or carrying two big truck tires while riding a bicycle. I really don't know how they all do it.

Making matters worse, there are HUGE potholes everywhere. Not little dips, but big holes that everyone must veer to avoid. A narrow two-way road becomes a one-lane road when everyone is trying to drive around the potholes that can send a boda boda flying or ruin an axle on a car.

I travel mostly on the back of a boda boda, even though I know it's dangerous. Yes, I've brushed against cars. And one time my driver passed another boda boda so closely that my leg was bruised for weeks from the smashing it took. But a boda boda will get you to your destination in 10 minutes, compared to spending hours stuffed into a hot taxi van with 15 other people, enduring a spine-jarring ride with no shock absorbers.

I knew it was only a matter of time, and today it happened: I saw a big SUV hit a boda boda. The boda boda man, the rider, and the motorcycle all went flying through the air. And traffic continued as if nothing happened.

I really should use this as a severe warning and not ride them anymore. Will I heed the warning?

Adventures in Africa: Part 9 - THE BARBER

THE BARBER

In my free time, I go next door and sit in the barber shop and chat with the barber and his customers, and watch him shave heads. There are many times when he cannot work because the power is off, and he is forced to just wait. But he is there, 8am to 10pm, 7 days a week, making a tiny amount of money (about $20 dollars on a good day) out of which he must give nearly half to the shop owner. The barber has a wife, four children, and two toddler nephews to support. They all live in a two-room house with no electricity. He often does not eat, because he doesn't have enough money for even a cheap lunch. And yet, unlike many of the people I've met here, not once -- NOT ONCE -- has he asked me for ANYTHING. People here see a white American woman and assume I am rich, and they see me as their only hope. They either immediately ask for help, or they wait until the time is right, and then ask for money, sponsorship, gifts, an education, or to take them to America, or to have sex. (Yes, I've been offered a cow for sex.)

But not the barber. He has been nothing but an honorable, honest, dignified man of integrity who works hard, day in and day out, for his family, with very little hope for the future. He doesn't make enough to send his children to grade school (Uganda has no public school -- everyone must pay tuition).

Yesterday two horrible things happened to him: First, his electric shaver broke. That is his livelihood. So he had to close the shop and pay for a ride into downtown and buy a new shaver. The first one they tried to sell him was a fake. He finally got a good one and came back. The shop owner was there, and told him that they are now going to raise his rent for using the space, AND charge him an electricity fee each month as well. This would mean that he would now not even make enough money to feed his family. He was a broken man.

And so.....I decided to give him the Christmas gift that I already had wrapped and was planning to surprise him with on Christmas Eve. I gave him a box that had a couple small gifts in it. His eyes glistened with tears and gratitude -- his parents died of HIV/AIDS when he was a little boy, and he had never received a Christmas gift in his life until now.

"Look in the tissue at the bottom of the box, " I said.

He lifted the tissue....and immediately burst into sobs, huge sobs of relief and joy and gratitude. I had given him a small amount of money. It's not enough to change his life. It's not enough to buy his own shop. But it is enough to make a difference.

Here's the kind of man this barber is: He decided to spend the night thinking about how he should spend the money. Many people might spend the money on furniture or clothes or luxury items. This morning, he told me that the money will pay for his children's education. Perhaps THIS is why I am here....

Adventures in Africa: Part 8 - DESPERATION

DESPERATION

I've now been here for 39 days. I've met scores of friendly people. My comedian friends here have welcomed me like a family member, and I love and cherish them.

I'm discovering, though, that not all acquaintances and interactions are based on genuine friendship. Many are based on desperation. Uganda is hurting, people are looking for help, and a white American symbolizes hope.

Here's what happened an hour ago:

A grandmother and her pregnant daughter holding a toddler say "Hi!" to me as I walk by.

I smile and say hello to them in their native language. They laugh and smile in delight at hearing a muzungu (white woman) speak in Lugandan.

Then the grandmother says, "Merry Christmas!!"

I say the holiday greeting to them, again in their native language. They can't believe it!

We stand there smiling at each other. It is a charming moment...sharing between women of two different countries. I'm thinking about what to say next to them in their language.

And then the grandmother says, "Where dollar?"

I cannot believe my ears.

Moment ruined.

Adventures in Africa: Part 7 - TO MY PARENTS

TO MY PARENTS

My dad is 82 and my mom is 79. I worry about them while I'm here in Uganda. Mom is in the mid-stages of Alzheimers, and Dad is doing his very best to take care of her. Being here, visiting elderly people in the village, makes me appreciate my parents more than ever. Here's an e-mail message I sent to them a few minutes ago:

Hi Mom and Dad!

Everything is going really well here!! I'll be performing my regular Tuesday night show this week, PLUS I've been invited to perform on Thursday with a renowned sketch comedy group here! I can't wait!

Also, Mom, I wanted you to know that you taught me something decades ago. When I was a toddler, I remember watching you wringing out the wet laundry before you'd hang the clothes up on the clothesline to dry at our house at 714 3rd Street. All these many years later, I am doing my own laundry by hand in my hotel room, and every time I twist a wet piece of clothing to wring out the water, I think about YOU and how you taught me this when I was just a tiny little girl. So thank you, Mom.....you must surely know how much I appreciate you.

And Dad, as I walk up and down the road here in my area, everyone greets me by name --- "SHARON!!! HELLO SHARON!!!". They know me because as I go on my walks, I smile and wave and chat with them. Just like my father always did in Cheney. So thanks to what I learned from YOU, Dad, I have many friends here in my Uganda neighborhood. It is a great gift that you have given me.

I love you both.

Sharon

Adventures in Africa: Part 6 - COMEDY in UGANDA

COMEDY IN UGANDA!

I've been so fortunate that three comedy troupes have invited me to perform with them! What an amazing opportunity and huge honor! Comedy in Uganda is totally different than in the USA, and none of my jokes from home would have worked here. I have been writing all news jokes every week for my performances with Brain Wash Comedy at Efindy's in Centenary Park. The set I did with Crackers Comedy at Theatre La Bonita was televised on N-TV. I also had a wonderful time performing with the sketch comedy group Fun Factory at Hotel Africana. I try to use as much Luganda and Runyankole language as possible in my jokes, which really surprises the audiences. Here are some excerpts from some of my performances:

Adventures in Africa: Part 5 - YOUNG and OLD

YOUNG and OLD

One of the best things about coming to Uganda is the honor of visiting schoolchildren and elderly in the nearby village of Bbira. Thanks to donations from many of my friends and family back home (and my own money, also) I've been able to bring to a very bare school:

* 300 ink pens and 100 pencils

* enough writing notebooks for all 100 children to last a year

* children's reading books
* 20 boxes of crayons and a few boxes of colored pencils

* enough chalk for the teachers to last a year (yes, they have old blackboards)

* textbooks in English, Math, Science,and Social Studies for all 7 grade levels
* science and alphabet wall charts
* 2 pencil sharpeners to replace the bare razor blade they have been using

* 4 playground balls, 7 jump ropes, 1 baseball kit, 2 long jump ropes
* one "new" piece of used clothing for each child

This school is extremely poor. They had only one old borrowed ball -- that was their entire list of playground equipment! They had no textbooks. They have no desks, and not enough benches for the children, so the children rotate classes to have benches. They had never heard of crayons. They ALL need clothing so badly -- the shoes they wear are deplorable. More holes than shoe. A couple boys simply wear threadbare socks, and many just go barefoot.

I'll soon be giving the owner of the school big sacks of maize flour, rice, and beans which she'll use to cook their school lunches.

Some elderly persons in need have opened their homes and their hearts to me. I brought each one a warm blanket, soap, washtub, sugar, salt, and rice. I gave one woman a pair of Dollar Store glasses. The look on her face when she put them on and could see for the first time in years, was priceless! She could finally see well enough to read the newspaper again. These people live with such dignity. On each visit, they have honored me with a traditional lunch. Two of the women have given me mats which they have woven themselves. I will treasure these gifts.

Adventures in Africa: Part 4 - GOOD, BAD, WONDERFUL

THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE.....WONDERFUL

I had intended to write a daily blog about my stay in Uganda. But then real life got in the way. It turns out that we only have electrical power -- and internet -- about 4 hours each day, thanks to the Ugandan government not paying its bill to the power company. It ruins my plan to give you an authentic daily account of life here....but being forced to unplug from home and modern life for most of the day means I have more time to go out and meet people, explore my surroundings, learn the language. So rather than having a chronicle of each day, I've decided to just talk about things that randomly come to mind that I think you might find interesting about life here.

People here often ask me what I think about their country. I'm always positive, telling them I love it. And I do love it. But if you want a completely honest answer, I would also have to add that the pollution here is horrendous. I haven't had allergies in more than a decade, but now my itchy eyes, runny nose, and sneezing are back with a vengeance thanks to the clouds of black exhaust spewing out of most of the cars, trucks, taxi vans, and motorcycles. Add in the wood and charcoal smoke from all of the homes trying to heat their food and water, and the fumes from generators, and the stench from burning garbage, and you've got an excellent recipe for bad air. I feel sad that the people here have to breathe this their entire lives. Fortunately, I found a pharmacy that carries allergy meds, and I'm able to get by. But wow, I will never again complain about the strict DEQ standards and fees back home.

The best thing about this country is the people. Most days, I'm the only white person ("muzungu") I see. I am alone amid hundreds of thousands of black Africans. I am stared at curiously by most. Some quietly murmer, "Muzungu" as I pass by. Others give a friendly yell, "MUZUNGU!" I always smile -- always. I don't consider myself a good looking woman...I'm fat, I am well into middle-age...but I do have a good smile. And I use it everywhere I go here. All I have to do is look someone in the eyes and smile, and I seem to have instant friends. And when I then greet them in their native language -- without exception they are happily floored!!

The power is going out now -- I must end this post before I lose it all.

Adventures in Africa: Part 3 - HUMAN BEING vs HUMAN DOING

HUMAN BEING vs HUMAN DOING

"So, Sharon, why on earth are you spending nearly four months in Uganda???!!"

In August, 2010, I went to Iraq to entertain the U.S. troops. While there, I met several Ugandan soldiers who had been hired as security forces on all of the bases. Some of them became my Facebook friends, and we'd been chatting for months. One of them, Kato Jackson, invited me to come to Uganda to see his beautiful country. And so I did!

In January, 2011, I spent nine days in Uganda, escorted at all times by Kato, his best friend Moses, and our driver, Cyrus. It was an amazing week, with trips to the source of the Nile River, Lake Victoria, and Queen Elizabeth National Park for a safari.

What I really loved, though, was how the people in Uganda seemed to be so much less tied to the clock. My entire life I've been working, working, working, competing, striving, rush, rush, rush, set and meet my goals and move on to the next. Being this type of person has served me well -- I've had an amazing life full of accomplishments. But it occurred to me that it might be nice, even if for a short while, to "step off" of my crazy, hectic world and step into a world where people are human BEINGS rather than human DOINGS. This isn't to imply that the people of Uganda do nothing. They just appeared to me, at the time, to be more into community and less into the rat race.

The plan was to go to Uganda and do NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. Just spend my time getting to know the people I meet, and soaking in the culture. That's it. Nothing more.

Um.....that's not exactly how things have turned out. I apparently am unable to do nothing. As soon as I purchased my ticket back in April, I began trying to learn as much of the Runyankole language as I possibly could. This is not an easy task, considering that Runyankole isn't written anywhere. The only way you can learn it is by getting words from the Runyankole tribe members. So every time I chatted with my several Ugandan soldier friends on Facebook, I'd pump them for more words. Later I found out that most of the people in Kampala, where I'd be staying, speak Luganda rather than Runyankole. So I now needed to learn Lugandan also.

Then I began reading the online Ugandan newspapers, and discovered that there is stand up comedy in Kampala!!! It's new -- only about two years old -- and so I went on Facebook and searched for the comedians mentioned in the newspaper article. I found a few of them, and they invited me to perform with their troupes!!

One of the troupe managers mentioned to me in an e-mail that he runs a charitable organization to help school children and elderly people in the village of Bbira. Being a former teacher, I was drawn to the idea of going to the village and helping out at the school in any way I could. That idea later snowballed into my asking 200 of my Facebook friends in the USA if they would like to donate money for me to take to Uganda for this excellent cause.

Clearly, my plan to be a Human Being was out the window.....

Adventures in Africa: Part 2 - THE JOURNEY

THE JOURNEY

I knew that the journey would be long. I was prepared for the 39 hours ahead of me as I boarded the United Airlines plane in Portland, Oregon on Thursday evening, November 10, 2011. Had I known that ten extra hours would be tacked onto that, I think I would have paid more to fly on another airline.

The first leg of the trip was a short jump to Seattle, where I was bumped to a morning flight for the next leg of my journey. That was okay with me -- $4oo compensation and a nice hotel room for my trouble, and I would still make my connecting flight to Brussels when I got to Washington DC. I took this as a good omen! I was wrong.

In Washington DC, we boarded the plane to Brussels, Belgium. And sat there. Forever. Finally we were told to get off the plane and they would try to fix the mechanical problems. As the minutes ticked by, I watched the window of opportunity to make my next connecting flight in Brussels to Entebbe slipping away.

Hours later they ordered a different plane, and hundreds of angry people boarded, knowing that they would be missing their next connections. Me? I've traveled enough to know that getting mad about things like this solves nothing. It doesn't make the plane fly any faster; it just makes you upset about something over which you have no control. So I calmly took it all in stride. Fortunately, I was able to call my friend, Moses, in Uganda and let him know that I would not be arriving when scheduled.

I slept as much as I could on the long flight over the Atlantic Ocean, and practiced my Runyankole and Luganda languages whenever I was awake. I had made myself flashcards out of all of the words I'd been able to learn from the Ugandan soldiers I chat with on Facebook, and I was determined to arrive in Uganda at least knowing how to say polite phrases in two of their 55+ tribal languages.

To describe the hassle and waiting and confusion and frustration endured after arriving at Brussels International Airport would be a disservice to you readers. I want you to keep reading my blog, and if I told you about all that I went through to get myself to Entebbe, Uganda, you would surely say, "Enough is enough! I'm done!" Let me just admit that my cool, calm, "I'm a seasoned traveler; it doesn't help to get upset" boast earlier in this post was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, I did not make a fool of myself by getting angry or demanding; but my frustration found an outlet in tears. I cried and cried as I ran through the airports, racing to not miss each of the following flights.

Suffice it to say that in the end, I was re-routed to Amsterdam, Holland, then Nairobi, Kenya before finally landing in Entebbe, Africa on Sunday morning, November 13, 2011, at the end of a 49 hour journey. And....despite several reassurances from a myriad of airport staff....NONE of my luggage arrived with me.

It would be 6 days before I finally had shampoo, deodorant, allergy pills, most of my clothing, and everything else that was in my suitcases stranded somewhere in the world.

But I made it. And now the real adventure would begin!

Adventures in Africa: Part 1 - DON'T GO!

"DON'T GO, SHARON!!"
"SHARON, YOU'RE A FOOL TO GO!!"
"AFRICANS HATE WHITE PEOPLE, SHARON!!"
"SERIOUSLY, SHARON, THEY WILL KIDNAP YOU AND USE YOU AS A WHITE SEX SLAVE BEFORE THEY MURDER YOU!!"

These were the warnings from the people back home, including several African Americans. And one of my friends had good reason to warn me about this, having had a family member murdered in Uganda a decade ago. Plus, just weeks before I got on the plane, there was news that 5 white women were kidnapped and one white man killed in neighboring Kenya by the same Somalian terrorists who blew up a rugby stadium in Uganda just a year earlier.

But I must go. Uganda is calling to me. And so I board the plane.

2nd Tour of Kuwait and Iraq

I was fortunate to be asked to go on a second tour of Kuwait and Iraq to entertain our troops. Unlike the cool weather January tour, this one took place in the hottest time of year: August! It was 120-130 degrees the entire time I was there with co-headliners Lee Marvin Adams and Caroline Picard. This tour was just as amazing as the first one, and I have even more respect, if possible, for our military men and women now, seeing what they have to go through during the summer months!

We performed at Camp Patriot, Camp Victory, Camp Loyalty, Camp Ramadi, Al Asad, Camp Taji, JSS Muthana, Camp Hammer, JSS Duora, and JVS Palace for the Special Forces Unit.


We usually slept in the CHUs (Containerized Housing Units), but we also got to spend 4 nights in one of Sadaam Hussein's 88 palaces. Niiiiice.

I just want everyone to know that while we were over there, it was the same week that all of the U.S. national news stations were headlining their evening newscasts with "Final Combat Troops Leave Iraq!!". That was so hard for the service men and women in Iraq to take -- because 50,000 troops ARE STILL THERE serving our country!! It was a matter of semantics. The troops are no longer called "combat" troops, but they ARE still there, and don't want to be forgotten. I know I will never forget them and the sacrifice they are making for us all.

SLEEPING AROUND (Moments from a Road Comic's Life)

I've now been a road comic for more than five years. As I look back on my career so far, the time spent on stage has been amazing! But on the nights when there's no show while on the road, finding a place to sleep has been just as....memorable.

As mentioned in an earlier post, bookers and clubs usually only provide lodging on the nights you have a show. Unless you can find gigs for the other nights, comics are left to their own devices to find a place to stay.

Even the least expensive dive motel is going to empty $40 a night out of your earnings. Multiply that by five, and you could spend $200 for lodging on the non-show nights each week. Add to that the cost of car rental, gas, food, and airfare -- well, it doesn't take a math whiz to figure out that a feature act who makes $100 per show is going to have a tough time covering expenses. Forget about actually MAKING any money -- I feel blessed if I manage to break even!

So I sleep in my car. Here's the routine: Fly to the Midwest (or East Coast, or South, or wherever I have a few weeks of shows lined up), pick up my rental car, and drive to Walmart to buy a $5 blanket and a $3 pillow for those nights when I need to sleep reclining in the driver's seat of the car.

"No, Sharon!! That's dangerous!!" I can hear you screaming in horror. Well, here are some other alternatives I've tried:

* Posted an ad on Craigslist in the town where I was going to be, looking for a couch to sleep on. When the guy didn't show up at the appointed time...or ever...I was stuck with nothing.

* Met a sweet, well dressed elderly woman in a park who kindly invited me to sleep on her couch. Turns out she's a hoarder...with a dog that isn't potty trained (the stench!)...and a colony of mice that scuttled around all night.

* Was smuggled onto an army base, so I could stay in the empty women's barracks for three nights. This was perfect, except for feeling guilty about evading national security and risking being thrown in jail if discovered.

* A couple playing pool at the table next to mine offered to get me a hotel room and give me $100...if they could spend the night with me. Ew. No.

* Sometimes comics in other parts of the country will let you sleep on their couches. Which would be great, if they weren't mostly bachelors...who apparently have a lower gag threshold than I do when it comes to cleanliness. I'm actually not all that picky, but a bathtub ring is one thing; a totally gray bathtub that's supposed to be white is another. And using a back issue of Penthouse for toilet paper just seems.....weird.

The only real drawback to occasionally sleeping in my car, other than the obvious lack of safety and a shower, is the embarrassment of being awakened at 3am by a cop banging his flashlight on my window, asking me what the heck I think I'm doing.

A small sacrifice when following your dream.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dementia

Moments from a Road Comic’s Life

In a dual attempt to fend off Alzheimer’s and fulfill a lifelong dream, Sharon Lacey quit her 23 year career as a teacher and hit the road doing standup comedy. What follows are moments from her new and crazy life.

In the nearly five years that I’ve been doing standup comedy, I’ve had some of the most amazing, challenging, adventuresome, memorable, exciting, scary, unpredictable, unexpected, hilarious moments of my life.

Take, for instance, some of the crazier venues where I’ve performed. I’m not talking about the many fine comedy clubs, casinos, military gigs, and colleges that have booked me. I mean places where I never would have guessed I’d be performing if you had asked me this five years ago.

BIKER BAR: I was a little scared at first…until I discovered that rough looking guys and gals in tattoos and leather need to laugh as much as anyone else.

SWINGERS CLUB: I have to admit, I’d been curious about what it would look like inside a place where people enjoy a different “lifestyle” and like to “play”. I was expecting to see amazingly gorgeous women and superbly handsome men, but it turned out most of the people looked pretty much like me…except I wear a lot more clothes!

36,000 FEET HIGH: I was invited to do 10 minutes of my act while flying on Southwest Airlines from California to Oregon. The great thing about this was that no one could walk out if they didn’t like my jokes!

HEAD SHOP: Tommy Chong was going to be at the grand opening of a store in Vancouver that sells things that people like to use at 4:20 in the afternoon. I was asked to perform for the huge crowd while they waited for Tommy to make his appearance. It wasn’t much fun for me…nobody could focus, and they kept wandering off to Taco Bell.

STRIP CLUB: Puh-leeeeze. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind hire a middle aged, plain looking female comedian to tell jokes in a “gentlemen’s club” while the strippers go on break??? I was fully clothed, but felt naked standing next to that brass pole that was too small for me to hide behind. The men weren’t any more thrilled that I was there than I was, but I will say that the strippers were the most supportive audience I’ve ever had!

APPLEBEE’S: Of all the strange gigs I’ve done, last night’s was, I must say, the worst! Wholesome, un-crazy Applebee’s. The regional manager wanted to see if having a comedy night in their bar area would be a good thing. It wasn’t.

For 23 years I spent every weekday in a nice, safe, predictable classroom. I’ve had enough of predictable. Good or bad, I can’t wait for the next adventure!

#10 in a Series: BACK FROM IRAQ, FINAL INSTALLMENT

Part Five – FINAL INSTALLMENT -- BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian, by Sharon Lacey
(In Part Four, comedian Sharon Lacey told about flying on Blackhawk helicopters to several bases in Iraq to perform for the men and women serving there.)

DAYS SIX - TEN:
Many people think Iraq is a hot oven all year. It’s not. It can snow in the winter, and it definitely felt cold enough to snow last night here at Marez Base near Mosul. The heater in my bunk just couldn’t do the job, and the one thin blanket supplied didn’t help much,. During the night I put on my winter coat over my clothes, and added gloves, muffler, two pairs of socks, and leggings. And yet I awake this morning, shivering. I’m staying in the VIP quarters. I can only imagine how cold the soldiers must be.

Over the next four days my two comedian cohorts and I ride on Blackhawk helicopters to seven more bases, and do our best to make the brave men and women there forget for an hour that they are in harm’s way.

There are no women at JSS Love Base, however. This is a small outpost, far away from any of the larger bases. Fifty guys come in to the primitive wooden structure for a lunch far more basic and drab than what the guys at the bigger bases get. They sit on benches at long tables and wait for us to perform. These are young guys, and I’m told by the officer in charge to do my bluest (raciest) material. I do. And it’s all wrong. I get a few laughs, but it just isn’t going as well as my earlier shows. I’ve chosen the wrong jokes, and I’m failing miserably. I feel horrible that I haven’t given them a show that would make them laugh hilariously. I’m so embarrassed, and after my set I go to a little room behind the lunch room and just cry privately to relieve the stress. I feel like I’ve let these guys down, that I’ve let myself down, that I didn’t do my job. As a comedian, you win some, you lose some, and each night you just get back up on that stage and try again. But here, these soldiers deserve nothing but “win somes”, and I feel terrible.

Thankfully, the other two comedians, Davin and Dennis, are both huge hits, and their acts give me time to pull myself together, wipe away the tears, and put on a smile for the autograph session after the show.

As the men file by, I give each one a hug, and thank them for their service. In the helicopter on our way to the next base, Davin and Dennis try to console me, but I just feel terrible for letting those soldiers down.

All of the following shows go much better. We go to two or three bases each day: Brassfield-Mora Base, where we go to the rifle range and shoot M4 rifles, M-240 machine guns, Saw machine guns, and a 50 caliber machine gun out of an armored truck. Turns out one of the soldiers in the truck is from Oak Grove, Oregon, where I live! He even went to the same high school as my daughter! Later, we’re honored to sit at a head table and have dinner with the soldiers before our show; Normandy Base, where we perform on an outside stage as helicopters fly overhead and drown us out with their noise (I’m glad they didn’t shoot!); Woodcock Base (named after a young fallen soldier there), where the officer in charge shows us a huge map of the nearby Iraqi town and pinpoints the exact neighborhood where insurgents are living; O’Ryan Base, where five Iraqis come up to me as we’re leaving and gently grab me, saying, “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” (meaning my blond hair), and signal that they want to have their picture taken with me; Summerall Base, where the Command Sgt. Major greets us and lets us try our hand at shooting an AK-47 and a 9mm Baretta before we go inside and perform for his 400 soldiers.

We spend our last night in Iraq at Freedom Rest on Speicher Base, which is a place where soldiers who are completely at the end of their rope, who are in need of a break in a huge way, can come for a brief respite. Waiting for me are two e-mails from soldiers at JSS Love – the base where I felt I had failed. One of the soldiers writes that he appreciated my coming to their base, and that he really needs someone to talk to, and would I please write to him? The other e-mail is from a soldier who says he appreciated the hug I gave him after the show, that the hug had come at a time when he really needed it. My heart is filled, knowing that I had meant something to some of those men, and had helped them in some way after all.

We are tired, but we don’t want to go home. We’re supposed to have this last night off. Instead, we arrange to put on an extra show, specifically for the Blackhawk helicopter pilots, gunners, crew, and their entire brigade. It’s our best show yet.

EPILOGUE
I still write to those two JSS Love soldiers to this day, and several others, too. My journey to Iraq ended all too quickly. I would go back tomorrow if I could. Ten days earlier, I had boarded a plane heading across an ocean to a war zone, intending to have an adventure. But I discovered something far greater: The men and women of our United States Military put their lives and families on hold to be over there. Whether we agree with why they were sent there, or why their orders are to remain there, the fact is they ARE there, serving with courage, humility, and valor. They deserve nothing but our utmost respect and gratitude. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all, and I thank your families back home who wait with open arms for your safe return.

Sincerely,
Sharon Lacey
e-mail: sharonlacey101@yahoo.com

#9 in a Series: BACK FROM IRAQ, Part 4

Part Four of BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian, by Sharon Lacey
(In Part Three, comedian Sharon Lacey told about flying from Kuwait to Iraq in a C-130 transport plane, and touring the base hospital at Balad.)

DAY FIVE:
We’re rousted out of bed early because we don’t want to miss our C-130 transport plane to the next base. What I soon learn, though, is that in the military the motto is “hurry up and wait”. We get to the base airport, where we’re told we have a 90 minute wait. And the power is turned off. We sit in the dark. I talk to a Navy sailor. It’s amazing how quickly friendships are made, and sad to know you may never see each other again.

Our plane arrives, and as we board, a female sergeant named Regan hugs me and tells me she’s grateful they sent a female comedian this time. She says the entertainment they get is usually bands, cheerleaders, beauty queens, or male comedians who can sometimes be somewhat misogynistic. She tells me it was nice to finally have someone the female soldiers could relate to – a mom, an average woman, telling jokes women could enjoy. I’m so glad she shared that with me. I had been feeling bad for the soldiers because I’m no beauty queen. She validated my very presence in Iraq.

We arrive at the next base. Telefar. Out in the middle of the desert. And no one is here to greet us. No one knows we were coming. No one knows what to do with the three comedians. So they show us around, and they entertain us by letting us hold their M4 rifles.

At last our escort arrives, and we run to the Blackhawk helicopter waiting to whisk us away to another base. It’s cold in the chopper. The sides are open with a soldier at each window, hands on the triggers of their machine guns, ready to shoot. We’re shadowed by another Blackhawk, also with two gunners. I feel scared that we’re a target, and yet also calm, because I trust these men and women to protect us.

We fly low over the desert. As I look at the terrain, the Tigris River, the bombed out hovels and tiny clay-like villages, I can’t help but marvel that just a year ago I was in the classroom teaching my seventh grade students all about Mesopotamia, Sumeria, Babylon – and here I am, flying over that very region!

We arrive at Meraz, the base near the city of Mosul. The seriousness of the war is evident everywhere we look. This base has been heavily bombed. The dining hall was destroyed a few years ago. We pass a memorial to the twenty fallen soldiers killed in that onslaught. And we’re told that just three weeks ago, on Christmas Day, ten more bombs were dropped on this base. Worse, on New Year’s Eve, two weeks ago, one soldier was killed by a bomb that was shot into the airport. The shooters were soon found and killed. How did our soldiers find them? Easy. A huge blimp floats over the town of Mosul. Inside that blimp are video cameras with telephoto lenses that can zoom in close enough to read someone’s dog tag. Those cameras are monitored at all times, and it was easy to see where the bomb originated.

We’re escorted to our living quarters. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little scared to be here. But they tell us our bunks are in the most protected area in all of Iraq. Not because we’re anything special, but because some Army general was recently here. We go through a maze of towering concrete walls topped with barbed razor wire. We pass several bunkers fortified with green sand bags, and I make a note of where I will run and take cover if I have to.

The show is a big success, and the troops really seem to want to talk afterward as we’re signing autographs. A few men and women give me their e-mail addresses, and I promise to write to them.

The brave firemen of the Mosul Fire Dept. didn’t get to see the show, so we go to their workplace and spend some time talking and laughing with them.

It’s now nearly midnight. As I walk to my bunk, a full moon lights the way. The air is crisp and clear. I look up and see a thousand stars, and am surprised to see Orion. He looks the same here as he does in my Oregon sky. That gives me comfort.

But then I hear a bomb go off in the distance, and I run to my bunk. As I write about it in my journal, I think I hear machine gun fire, too. Amazingly, though, I’m unafraid. Our military has me covered. And I am grateful to these men and women who do their jobs under duress every single day and night. No matter what I think of the war, or our country’s reasons for being here and staying here, I can’t deny that I owe a huge debt to the courageous people who are here to serve.

[Note: A few weeks after returning to Portland, there are news reports that four soldiers are killed by a roadside bomb near this base at Mosul. I felt terrible for the victims, and was also worried sick that it could have been some of the soldiers I’d met here, because they hadn’t e-mailed me in days. At last I heard from them. One man, Joe, said he’d just come back from the bomb site, filling in the hole and re-paving the road where his fellow soldiers had just been killed.]

(Next month: Part Five of BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian)

#8 in a Series: BACK FROM IRAQ, Part 3

Part Three of BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian
(In Part Two, I told about my third night in the Middle East – our first perfomance, at Ali Al Salem military base in Kuwait, where I began to realize what I truly had come here to do.)

DAY FOUR: Yesterday’s visit to Ali Al Salem base opened my eyes. The men and women stationed here may have a few amenities like fast food places and fitness centers, but the one thing they don’t have… is “home”. And whether my jokes are funny or not, it seems my presence here is giving some of these great people some much needed respite from their feeling of isolation and homesickness.

Something else made me glad I was chosen to be a part of this comedy tour: Several female soldiers came up to me after the show to thank me specifically for providing entertainment for THEM. They said a lot of the entertainers they get are beauty queens, cheerleaders, and misogynistic comedians. Fun for the guys, but not all that fun for the female soldiers who need entertainment, too. I guess I fit the bill for them, and I was so grateful I had this opportunity to do so.

Three hours’ sleep.

Then we rush to get on the huge C-130 cargo transport plane. I’m wearing a heavy Kevlar flak vest, an ugly green helmet, and I’m sitting in this hollowed-out plane alongside and knee-to-knee with the other two comedians and a hundred soldiers and private contractors. We’re packed in like sardines. They all sleep. I’m too excited to sleep.

Ninety minutes later we’re in Iraq, at the biggest U.S. base there: Balad. It looks like a small brown/gray concrete city. No green anywhere, except for a tiny patch of grass that somebody took the time to water every day.

We tour the base hospital. Parents of soldiers stationed in Iraq, let me ease your mind a bit: Everything is state-of-the-art at this emergency facility; nothing but the best in equipment and personnel. The doctors tell us that if a soldier is brought to them within an hour of being injured, there’s a 97% success rate for recovery.

I hear the screams of a small child. It’s an Iraqi toddler, the victim of a house fire due to indoor cooking. The child’s mother hadn’t understood that she was supposed to change the bandages regularly, and now they had to be peeled off while the child suffered excruciating pain. Local Iraqi people come here for emergency medical aid. Part of America’s commitment to helping them. They have nowhere else to go.

The hospital tour ends in the wing where a group of our soldiers wait to be flown to Germany for further medical treatment. They won’t get to come to our show tonight. We want to perform for them, or talk to them, or do anything for them that will help them feel better. It feels awkward. They’re watching a movie, and we don’t want to interrupt them, but yet it sort of feels like some of them want to be interrupted.

So I just blurt out, ‘Hi guys! Hi ladies! We don’t want to interrupt your movie, but we just wanted to say hello.” That breaks the ice, and some answer. I ask where they’re from. Montana, Texas, Colorado… We chat, but it’s a struggle. One guy from Montana asks if I’d write back to him if he e-mailed me. “Sure! Of course! Here’s my e-mail address!” He sends me a short e-mail right that very minute, while we’re still there. He is skeptical that I will really write back to him.

The nurse in charge says our time is up. She whispers apologetically that most of these wounded soldiers are pretty drugged up right now.

That night, I e-mail Josh Leete, injured soldier from Montana. We still e-mail each other to this day.

(Next month: Part Four of BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian)

#7 in a Series: BACK FROM IRAQ, Part 2

Part Two of BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian
(In Part One, I told of the first two days of my adventure to entertain the troops. At this point in the story, I am still in Kuwait.)

DAY THREE: At Camp Arifjan in Kuwait, we’re finding that maybe things aren’t as tough as we had expected them to be. The troops have two HUGE fitness centers, each the size of a football field, with all brand new state of the art exercise equipment, huge flat screen tv’s to watch the Armed Forces Network (AFN), racquetball courts, basketball courts, tennis courts and baseball diamonds outside.
They have a nice dining facility (D-FAC) where we have unlimited food choices; nice buffet dinner, or fast food, or sandwiches to order, free Baskin-Robbins ice cream.

I’m amazed at how much money was put into this base – and then find out that the Kuwaiti government pays for it all.

This afternoon, we’re driven to Ali Al Salem base, about an hour away from Arifjan. The Army National Guard troop from Hawaii are our hosts. In spite of their being half a world away from where they grew up, they welcome us with such graciousness, such warmth. They bring us what must be treasured gifts from their own families back home: chocolate covered macadamia nuts, roasted macadamia nuts, things that would be hard for them to get here in Kuwait. We share jokes and laughter, and even play a game of Scrabble before the show. During our Scrabble game in the MWR (Morale Welfare Recreation) Center, other soldiers play pool, ping pong, watch a movie, wait in line to get on the bank of computers to e-mail home.

A few hours later, our first show. There’s an outdoor stage, with a huge camouflage backdrop. I’m standing up there, looking out at 50-60 soldiers, and I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m scared to death. What if they don’t like my jokes? What if they were hoping for somebody famous – I’m no Ellen DeGeneres or Kathy Griffin. What if they’d prefer a young, hot beauty queen? I’m middle aged – I could be their MOM. I crack my first joke, saying something about how I feel like I’m Bing Crosby in the movie “White Christmas” when he’s still in the battlefield singing to the troops. They all stare up at me with blank expressions. These men and women are in their early twenties. They’re all too young to know what the heck I’m talking about. Great. So I do my regular material. And they laugh. A lot.

At the end of my set, I take out the piece of notebook paper I’ve brought from home. “Before I left Portland, Oregon, I asked people what they would like me to tell the troops. They all told me to tell you ‘thank you’ and that they realize what you are sacrificing by being over here. They want you to know they’re grateful for the fact that you’re making it possible for all of us to have our freedom. And they told me to give you a hug from them. So after the show, if you want, I can give you that hug.”

Afterward, the emcee tells the troops that the comedians will be available for autographs. I choke on the water I’m drinking. Autographs?? Who would want MY autograph??!!

It turns out that LOTS of these young men and women not only want my autograph, but they want a picture, too. And they want that hug. No, I take that back. They NEED that hug.


(Next time: Part Three of BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian)

#6 in a Series: BACK FROM IRAQ, Part 1

BACK FROM IRAQ: Diary of a Comedian

When I was given the opportunity to go to Iraq to entertain the troops, I jumped at the chance. I wanted to be able to put it on my resume’. I wanted to travel. I wanted adventure.

I was going for all the wrong reasons.

I went to Iraq with ignorant, naïve opinions that I had held for all of my adult life. I came home a changed person. This is my diary.


DAY ONE: I’m at Dulles International Airport in Washington D.C. I have a seven hour layover here after the five hour flight from Seattle. Plenty of time to talk to the soldiers who, like me, are waiting for the flight to Kuwait. I show my itinerary to the group of Marines sitting near me.

“It says I’ll be at about ten different ‘FOBS’. What’s a FOB?” I ask.

The guys laugh. One of them explains, gently, as if imparting news that might be hard to take. “Well, it’s like this: Over here,” he gestures with his right hand, “is the big, safe military base. And way over here,” he gestures with his left hand, “are the bad guys. YOU…are going to be…here.” And he moves his right hand close to his left hand.

Turns out “FOB” stands for “Forward Operating Base”, and I’m going to be performing for troops who don’t usually get entertainment, because they’re located so close to enemy territory. Well…I wanted adventure.

DAY TWO: The twelve hour flight from D.C. to Kuwait went quickly. I’m excited as I step off the plane and into the Kuwait International Airport. I run to the VISA counter, grab a number, and wait to be called to pay for the paperwork to enter the country.

A soldier walks past me, shoulders slumped, looking like he’s just lost his best friend. I’m over here to entertain the troops, I think. Now’s as good a time as any to start. I catch his eye, and ask, “Hey, are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“Some Christmas vacation,” he replies, glumly. “I get home, and I’m presented with divorce papers.”

My first introduction into what real life is like for a soldier. I want to console him. I offer words of sympathy. But all I can really do is stand and keep him company.

Two hours later, the other two comedians (Davin Rosenblatt and Dennis Ross, both of whom I’ve just met) and I are being driven to Arifjan Base, followed closely by two armed Marines in an escort car. Davin and Dennis are from the East Coast, and their luggage didn’t arrive with them. I’m grateful mine did. I had packed lightly; one small carry-on and a small backpack for ten days of travel. The most precious item in my luggage is the chocolate. I packed three giant Mr. Goodbars, a big bag of peanut butter M&Ms, and a bag of Kit Kat miniatures. I might be sleeping in a tent, trudging through mud, freezing cold at night, but I can survive it all as long as I have chocolate to see me through the tough times.

Next in the series: Performing in Kuwait