October 15, 2008

I just returned from my final training course in Virginia. This is really, truly, the final one. I promise. I am so well-trained now, I just don’t know what to do with myself except go to Africa!

the green light, finally blazing
This week I got the official green light from our US Base that I can go ahead and purchase my plane tickets. I can’t believe it is finally here. I am so excited and ready to go. I am looking to depart toward the end of November! Thank you for all of the financial and prayer support that literally flooded in, making my launch possible. Thank you for sending me.

hostile environments
Day One of HEFAT - Hostile Environments and First Aid Training (run by former British Royal Marines)

Pulling up to a farm tucked away in the Shenandoah mountains, the games began. There were 13 of us in the car, pleasantly visiting, getting to know each other, still digesting our breakfasts. There were journalists from the NY Times, Associated Press. There were military engineers headed for Iraq to set up systems. It was an interesting group of people. I was the only “aid worker,” as they called me.

So our driver got out of the van to “open the gate” when a loud explosive device went off. Our five trainers came running up, holding AK-47s, camouflaged from head to toe, masked, yelling. Pulled us out of the van. Pushed us face down on the ground in the mud. Put black bags over our heads and cinched them tight. I could hear myself breathing. This did not make me happy. They walked us in a line, laid us face down on the grass and searched our persons. Then we heard the van being loaded up, its doors slammed, and it drove away. Quiet descended upon us.

So what do you do then?
I waited a while.

But you know, I’m not the most patient person. I began to move my hands slightly. Nothing happened. Then I moved my arms in a big way to see if anyone would yell at me. No response. So I tried to take off my black head bag and guess what happened?

They shot me!

First one dead, so the last one to get her head mask removed.

What a way to start the day.

Our trainers said that they get the “kidnap and abduction” training out of the way right away, otherwise people agonize and hypothesize all week about when and where and how it’s going to happen.

first aid training
Day two we put on dark blue, zip up coveralls. Looked like Jiffy Lube personnel. Strapped on “bum bags” – what our British trainers call fanny packs – full of first aid materials and trekked off on the farm to hypothetical traumas.

We would find our Royal Marine trainers lying on the ground under fallen boards, or in car accidents, or burned up next to fires. Fake blood all over them. Wounds looking too real for me to touch. They were moaning and groaning. I wasn’t sure how to react.

At first, I just laughed a lot. Got giddy.

angels of what?
During our second round of real-life first aid scenarios, our instructor began calling my partner, Katherine, and I “angels of death.”

She’s pretty, feminine, and more girly-frail than I. So imagine the two of us at a trauma scene. It was comedic, really. We discussed ad-nauseum how we should address the compound fractures on the leg. We discussed it so much so that the “casualty” lifted up his head, barked at us, and asked whether we were going to “Talk it to death or do something about it.” Then he put his head back down and continued moaning.

Then Katherine wasn’t strong enough to lift the victim’s leg up high enough for me to pass the gauze under it. I burst into semi-hysterical giggles and could hardly contain myself (stress reaction?) In the meantime, the “casualty” – Al, our tough marine instructor – is shooting fake blood at me, simulating an arterial bleed. It’s landing all over my Jiffy Lube coveralls. I’m not too happy about this.

Mayhem. Stressful. Fun.

I make light of it, but the training was invaluable. Well worth the time, money, and energy. I know I will be better-equipped to react in situations of trauma and disaster now, should I encounter them in East Africa.

bruised
Knees and elbows, bruised. Trained in arms, ammunitions, booby traps, fractures, arterial bleeds, cold and hot environment survival, CPR, land mine awareness, kidnap and hostage procedures, compass navigation, etcetera, etcetera. Information overload.

On day three, we took a pleasant walk through the woods where we were shot at, mortared, and booby trapped. We did a lot of dropping and crawling. Hence, the bruises.

By mid-week, the instructors began calling me “trouble” and picking on me (lovingly, of course). One day I wore a pink hat while everyone else was in earth tones. Probably wasn’t my smartest move. And when they needed someone to model a 40-pound bullet-proof vest, who’d they pick on? Me.

Standing there in this bright blue, crotch-covering vest labeled “Press.” Hilarious. It’s a miracle I didn’t fall over. (Though I think that’s what they were aiming for. Comic relief.)

four weeks
I leave in four weeks.

Surreal.

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“True mission is the weakest and least impressive human activity imaginable,
the very antithesis of a theology of glory.”

- David Bosch in A Spirituality of the Road

“When the resurrected Christ appeared to His disciples,
His scars were the proof of His identity.
Because of them the disciples believed (John 20:20).

Will it be different with us?
Will the world believe unless they can recognize the marks of the cross on us?”

–Bosch