2010 February | Kelsey Timmerman

Should I have my appendix removed before I travel?

By Kelsey

Pending my release from being held hostage, I’m only a few months from Africa. Now is the time to start thinking about vaccinations and pre-trip doctor visits. That said, I thought I would dust off a piece from my travel column days and a photo of my brother with Malaria in France after our trip to Honduras. Good times.

An Appendectomy to Go, Please

I’m not hardcore I have an appendix.

Legitimate children of Adventure prepare for their travels and expeditions for months if not years. They look into every possible problem and how to prevent it. The worthless appendix is like a time bomb to these neurotic adventurers, lying in wait to go off at the most inopportune times. In the body, the appendix represents an X factor that can destroy years of planning, but in a glass jar soaking in formaldehyde at their bedside, it is a testament to the lengths they’re willing to go to avoid failure. Illness is not an option, but an appendectomy is.

My appendix sits useless at the bend of my large intestine filled with bubble gum and jaw breakers swallowed from a sugar-coated childhood. To insure healthy travels I am not willing to undergo surgery, but an upcoming trip requires that I visit a doctor.

“Hello, I’m here for a physical”

“Do you have insurance?” I hand her my card. “I’ve never heard of that company before, sorry.”

“I’ll just pay it myself. It’s a physical how much can it cost?”

“Hmm…A self pay physical?” Apparently I am entering uncharted waters. She leaves the room and comes back with a large white binder. She thumbs through the pages with long sighs of annoyance. “That’ll be $275.92. You must pay now.” Her voice is filled with sharp-edged victory.

I hesitate, and then pull out my checkbook. I turn my gaze towards the examination rooms and my thoughts linger. What a wonderful world must exist behind that door. I almost here the soft chamber music, I long for the pre-exam massage, my palate anticipates sweet wines and bubbling champagnes, my back foresees the heavenly support of the Tempur-Pedic examination table, and my skin rises to goose bumps with the thought of silk examination gloves.

“Uh-hmm…excuse me sir. You can make the check out to Ben Dover M.D.”

What am I doing? I’m about to place the decimal on the check when the three digits to the left, once written down, return me to my senses. “Isn’t that price a bit expensive? What is it without the holistic healing benefits of the day spa?”

She looks at me with a fair amount of disdain. I close my checkbook and run for the door, “No thanks.”

Hours later I am sitting in a waiting room watching Montel on a TV older than me. The plastic chair creeks with each movement and occasionally grabs flesh in one of its larger cracks. The room smells like a drunken bum who has doused his body in rubbing alcohol in an attempt to cool his bright red burning skin.

It’s a short wait, and after a few pokes, prods, deep breaths, and coughs, I am written a clean bill of health without so much as a cherry sucker.

“Ok, the price of the exam is $40.00 minus the $15.00 coupon…your total is $25.00.”

I smile, pay, and begin converting my savings of $250.92 into massages, bottles of wine, and cherry suckers.

Although it may be the last way you want to spend the money stashed away for your travels, a visit to a physician for a physical is not a bad idea. It gives you a little one-on-one time with a medical professional who can address any health concerns or problems that you may have.

Before you go research required and recommended vaccinations for the destination(s) you will be visiting, at The Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s website. Discuss these with your physician and lay out a plan for immunization. Some vaccination series may take up to two months to complete so make sure that you plan accordingly.

The possibility of illness and disease when traveling must be kept in perspective. If the CDC had its way the perfect traveler would be covered head to toe to protect against malaria, dengue, filarsis, leishmaniasis, onchocerciasis, and trypanosomiasis. He would never taste the authentic delicacies of street side vendors in order to avoid cholera and typhoid fever, he would never dip a toe in freshwater no matter how perfect the swimming hole for fear of schistosomiasis, he would walk around with a wide-brimmed hat and large dark sunglasses to prevent skin cancer, and he would never play with monkeys in order to avoid rabies and the plague. Add a mask to prevent the inhalation of airborne illnesses, and the perfect traveler is…Michael Jackson (minus the whole not petting monkeys thing).

Get the necessary vaccinations to protect against scary multi-syllabic diseases, but whatever you do, don’t walk away from the doctor’s office with the completely untreatable disease of paranoia. It is bound to take away from the genuine experience of travel.

And if you’re hardcore, or looking to become hardcore, broach the subject of your appendix tactfully with your physician. “Yeah, Doc I want to have my appendix removed.”

He’ll push and prod with latex or silk gloves, depending on your wealth, “Does that hurt? How about this? It looks fine to me. Why do you want it removed?”

“The truth is, Doc, I wanna be hardcore.”

Travel

Held Hostage

By Kelsey

I’ve always wanted to be held hostage.

Not because of the messy bits - being blindfolded, asking permission to use the restroom, the failed escape, the proof of life, or even the Stockholm syndrome – but because of Barbara Walters.

If you’re held hostage and are released, you are pretty much guaranteed an interview by Ms. Walters. I’m not talking the View here. I’m talking 20/20 where the sharpness of Ms. Walter’s questions are inversely proportional to the softness of the lighting. The lighting would make me look 12 again, well, other than I wouldn’t have big ol’ buckteeth and a head a few sizes too big for my scrawny torso.

You suffer the bad bits and then “cheese” you’re on Barbara Walters promoting your book that follows your life from a young balsa wood plane hobbyist to your doomed expedition in search of the perfect Ochroma pyramidale tree. The first 7/8ths of the book are crap. You know it. Barb knows it. The American people know it. No one really cares about your daddy issues and that kids made fun of your pinstriped blue jeans in 3rd grade. But that last 1/8th is gold. Who knew that you could carve a full size balsa hang glider with a sharpened spork and fly to safety?

I watch Ms. Walter’s do these interviews with former hostages and think, “That could have been me; I travel with a spork.”

I’m currently being held hostage by Apathy, which is an entirely different thing. It’s almost the exact opposite from my ideal hostage situation really. Being Apathy’s hostage is quite comfortable. Apathy let’s me live my life and we kind of have this “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule between us.

However, lately I’ve been angering Apathy. I’ve become more involved with issues in my community, traveled around the world to meet the people who made my clothes, and, in general, just started to give a darn about a lot more things.

Apathy wants me to return to the PlayStation, college days, during which I would kill an entire weekend playing Madden or Final Fantasy or doing absolutely nothing but eating when I wanted to eat, doing what I wanted to be doing, and sleeping when I wanted to sleep. So, when I told Apathy that I would be going to Kenya to raise awareness about life in the slums of Kibera - Africa’s second largest urban slum - Apathy duct-taped me to my La-Z-Boy.

I told Apathy that I have really hairy arms and would much prefer to be tied to the recliner, but Apathy wouldn’t listen. That’s how much our relationship has eroded. Out came the duct tape.

If enough people show their support of my efforts, Apathy will be forced to release me. There are a number of ways you can do this:

1) You can donate to the cause – your donation will go to Life In Abundance and help support their work in Africa. (I’m donating $10 today as a part of my #ten4tues project)
2) You can decide my fate in Kenya
3) Join Life in Abundance on Facebook
4) Follow #apathyhostage on twitter

In a sense we all are held hostage by apathy and always will be. There will always be wrongs and injustices that we won’t bother to acknowledge. We know they exist, but get too wrapped up in our daily lives to address. Yes, we can only do so much, but we should do something.

I’m going to Kenya with Life in Abundance, Rule29, and McDonald Photography.

Although I most likely won’t be sharing tales of a harrowing escape with Barbara Walters upon my return, I’ll see the world differently, and that’s all the reward I need.

I hope you’ll come along for the ride.

Giving Back, ten4tues

A year of giving: Team Morgan “the hitchhiker”

By Kelsey

Sometimes in life you just stick out your thumb and see what adventures will find you.

That’s kind of the approach I’m taking to my year of giving $10 to a cause every Tuesday. I thought I would have to spend more time looking for causes to support. So far the causes have found me. I’ve supported groups helping in Haiti following the earthquake, and a homeless shelter in my hometown after my sister-in-law emailed me about a walk she was doing. This week is a bit different still.

I follow Matt Gross, the New York Times’ Frugal Traveler, on Twitter. Last week he posted this:

frugaltraveler Founder of hitchhiking site Digihitch.com gravely ill, needs help.

I read the story of Morgan and his tumor he named Buster.

My wife works at a cancer clinic and (I just asked her) she hasn’t heard of anyone naming his or her tumor. That speaks volumes about Morgan. So does the blog he started and that his family has taken over.

Morgan is a husband and a hitchhiker.

Me too. I think that’s why I feel Morgan’s story so much.

I know that he’s stood beside the road alone in the rain, thinking that no one would ever pick him up. Each ride was one click closer to where he is today. And today, he’s anything but alone.

Since I missed #ten4tues last week, I’ll be donating $20 to my fellow hitchhiker, Morgan, today. I’d be honored if you joined me.

Details of how to donate to Team Morgan are here.

ten4tues

Happy Valentines?: Gemstones lead to deaths in India

By Kelsey

At least now I have a good excuse for not buying Annie jewelry this year for Valentine’s day. If you’re appalled by this practice, sign the National Labor Committee’s petition.

Watching this video reminded me of an experience I had in Nepal. I wrote a column about it years back. I dusted it off for your reading pleasure.

The Kathmandu Caper
By Kelsey Timmerman

On the streets of Kathmandu- Motorcycles weave in and out, cars honk their horns repeatedly jockeying for position, pedestrians scurry for their lives frogger-style while covering their nose and mouth from the dirt and stench. Tractors lacking gas caps slosh fuel this way and that, cows and dogs dine side by side on piles of trash. Chaos reigns supreme, but none lose their cool.

Amid the ruckus I stood with my glowing blonde hair, a foot taller than anyone else. In all the commotion, wide-eyed, I sought the security of my guidebook.

A man approached. He was tall for an Indian, had perfectly combed black-blue hair, and a sparkle in his eye. I half expected him to break into song and dance, get the girl, or shoot someone, in the spirit of the popular Bollywood blockbusters produced in nearby India.

“Do you need some help?” His English was better than mine.

“Err…where is the Austrian Air office?” I needed to change a plane ticket.

“Follow me. I consider myself, somewhat an ambassador of the city.” As we walked he was constant chatter. My inner voice was every bit as chatty, This guy wants something. You are like that deer in the Far Side comic who displays his bulls-eye birthmark to his buddy who responds ‘Bummer.’ Try not to look like such a target you idiot.

He looked me square in the eye, “Don’t worry I am not after your money. I have my own business.” His words were less reassuring than alarming. He looks at your light skin and blonde hair and sees green, you moron.

We found the airline office and I said bye to Ricky and wished him good luck. Pushing open the door to the office I said under my breath to myself, “And you thought he was going to try to rip you off?”

With my plane ticket in order I stepped back onto the streets of Kathmandu. Ricky stood across the street chatting with a buddy. He waved and then without looking ran across. My inner voice gloated in victory, Told you dumb…

“My American friend, how is everything? I would like to buy you a cup of tea?”

Murder, rape, and slavery, were just a few of the scenarios running through my head. Don’t be such a wuss I want to see what his deal is.

Ricky looked across the street, shot his buddy a wave and a wink, and then hailed a cab.

The cab stopped in the middle of the street. Ricky paid and then we ran out like a couple of bank robbers. We were in the tourist part of the city known as Thamel. Ricky ran a comb through his greasy hair as we passed by rundown shops filled with generic camping gear such as “The Nepal Face” in the same design as “The North Face” gear. In Thamel nothing is as it appears.

Ricky led the way into the restaurant and gave the sole employee a nod of greeting. Words were not exchanged and Ricky showed me to a booth in a dimly lit corner. Two teas were brought to our table.

He put his elbows on the table and then leaned in over his cup of tea. Welcome to Ricky’s office you schmuck. Ricky was dialed in and it was time to work on the naïve American. “I export precious stones and carpets, but I have met my exporting limit for the year. You seem like a nice man and I would like to help you make some money.”

Oh, I see. He is not after your money; he is trying to make you money. What a nice guy?

I sat there with a blank look staring at the cream coagulating in my tea. “All you have to do is take my stones or carpet to another country and upon arrival give them to one of my contacts who will give you US $6,000- you keep half. ”

He continued to explain: where I would pick up the merchandise; how I would carry it through customs; how I would claim it, etc. Every detail was touched on and then explained again. Whoa, sounds like some easy money, Kelsey, and you really don’t have to do anything. Play along. Act interested.

Ricky leaned back in his chair, stretched, and as if an afterthought said, “All you have to do is give me your credit card and I’ll take off US $3,000 so when you meet my contact you keep the entire $6,000 and we’ll be square.”

Play along, please, for me. “I am flying to Austria. Do you have a contact there?” He nodded. “And then London?” Nod. “Dayton, Ohio?” Nod. You must really look dumb if he expects you to believe that he even knows where to find Dayton on a map..

I sat silent. “Come, we go to my shop?” Hey doofus, go with him, but be ready to bale out on a moments notice. No matter how bad I talk about you, you’re my only friend.

His shop was a few blocks away. The streets were crowded with tourists and I felt in no real danger. Ricky stopped in front of a rotting wooden door, no sign or window. He opened the door and sitting on the floor were two Nepalese boys chipping away with hand tools at red, purple, blue, and white stones. Here I thought that precious stones took millions of years to form and then once harvested were cut by highly trained individuals wearing white lab coats in white room, looking through high powered magnifying glasses, working with high tech cutting tools.

You need to get some glasses and maybe grow a beard. Something to make you look smarter. I was beginning to feel a little insulted. “You know Ricky, I hate to have all that responsibility of carrying around your beautiful stones, I’ll pass but thanks.”

“It is no problem. I have insurance.” He was pleading in desperation.

“No thanks.” Kiss my inner butt, Ricky.

I walked away with my thoughts.

Engaged Consumer

My corral is empty

By Kelsey

I’m not famous.

I don’t need a corral for folks to line up in to buy a book and have me sign it. I don’t need blank cards for me to sign in case a student doesn’t want to buy a book, but still wants my autograph.

But when I was speaking at a The Check Your Label Symposium at IU’s Kelley School of Business I had both.

As a kid you dream about the day someone will ask for your autograph. In preparation you practice. You recall the Reds player you saw signing baseballs atop the dugout. His wrist flashed across the baseball and a signature appeared. A looping, swooping, signature that assured the ball would never be hit into the field again, but instead sit atop a dresser next to little league participant awards and prized baseball cards.

I dreamed that I would sign basketballs and basketball cards.

I print a “K.”

I write “elsey” in the cursive I learned in 3^rd grade. Unfortunately my writing hasn’t evolved since then. In 3^rd grade I had both myself and my teacher convinced that I wrote cursive better with my leg on the desk. I think she let me try it because, after all, it couldn’t get any worse.

The “y” tails up to the “T” which I slash on the page with the authority of Zorro.

I gave up on writing “immerman” a long time ago. It’s much too bumpy and long and there is only so much time allowed to sign an autograph. You need to make it look like you do this all the time. That you are practiced. That you will keep the line in the corral moving steadily. So after the “T” I just make a long line.

That’s my autograph.

I hand the once blank card to the student. It’s a moment that is much different than I imagined as a kid. It’s embarrassing.

I’m not being humble here.

I sign the card and look at my corral. It’s empty. It’s like Wendy’s after the post-lunch rush. You make eye contact with the cashier and then you weave your way through the corral feeling silly. And then you order a Frosty.

But there’s no Frosty here. It’s just me and my crappy autograph.

The girl walks away and I’m embarrassed for her and I’m embarrassed that I’m embarassed. It’s one thing to have me sign a book. I like having signed books regardless of the author’s fame.

I imagine her getting back to her dorm, looking at my pathetic third-grader’s signature and chucking it in the trash. There, crumpled up next to junk mail and balls of chewing gum, sits my “K” my “elsey” my “T” and the line that represents both my laziness and my “immerman.”

-

I had a great time at IU. Despite my inherent lack of fame, everyone there made me feel as if I were famous. I had a blast interacting with the students. Some of them skipped the IU v. Purdue game to listen to me speak. Some of them got up at 8AM to have breakfast with me. Don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head. Each event was accompanied with free food. And at the main event, besides interacting with more students, I got to meet Kelley and Anne Campbell of The Village Experience, Amy Chin of International Development Collaborative, and, the real rockstar of the Symposium Blake Mycoskie, the founder of TOMs shoes. It was an honor to share the stage with such passionate and creative people.

This Writer’s Life

Every reader is my co-author

By Kelsey

This morning I caught author Katherine Paterson on the Bob Edwards Show. She lived in Japan and talked about the use of white space by Japanese artists. The artist intends the viewer to fill in the space with their own imagination.

Patterson told Bob that she incorporates this into her writing and said something that really resonated with me…

“Every reader is my co-author.”

I’ve come to appreciate this because a funny thing happens when you write a book…someone reads it (hopefully). And when they read it and then they tell you about it, sometimes you’re left wondering if they read the same book that you wrote.

Awhile back two interviews of me came out on the same day. One was in Ball State’s newspaper and the other was in a newspaper in Amherst, Ohio. (You might recall that I got pulled over on my trip to Amherst and eventually tried to friend the cop on Facebook. He hasn’t accepted…yet.)

One article painted me as an anti-sweatshop activist and the other as someone who thought that the apparel industry would save the world.

Yes, I explore both sides of the issue, but it seems that the author of each article brought their own baggage to the table and use my exploration of the issues to support their own opinions. (Or perhaps they didn’t read the book at all and I should just shut-up now.)

In a way, I’m honored to get such different takes on the book, but the last thing I want is for someone to have the takeaway be: the worker’s lives are tough, they need these jobs, so I’ll continue to mindlessly buy stuff regardless of the brand or country of origin.

So regardless of where readers fall on the larger debate, I hope to get them caring about the people who make our clothes. My message is simple and I hope it comes through to all. It can be summed up in three words…

GIVE A SHIT!

After that I’m happy to let my co-authors make the book whatever they want to make it.

This Writer’s Life

Hometown Homeless Shelter - The ten4tues Project

By Kelsey

This weekend my sister-in-law, Emily, is participating in “Walk a Mile in My Shoes” to raise money for the Muncie Mission homeless shelter. Go Emily!

Emily and her family have been very supportive of my shenanigans over the years, and I’m thrilled to give $10 in support of this important cause.

Unfortunately, it’s getting more important by the day.

In Delaware County, Indiana, where I live the number of homeless people has increased by 100% in the last year (from 223 to 447). Ivy Farguheson, one of the Star Press’s finest reporters, has written about the increase and about the circumstances that have left folks homeless.

This week if you donate to your local homeless shelter and report back on this post or via Twitter or Facebook, you could win a framed photograph from New Orleans courtesy of my friend Meredyth Friend.

When I announced on Twitter that I would be donating to the Muncie Mission, I was contacted by one of my Twitter friends @ragamuffinPC. He grew up in Muncie and was involved with the Muncie Mission as a kid. He was kind enough to agree to write a guest post about his experience.

PC is a speaker.writer.pastor from Sacramento, CA with his wife Tonya. He loves his wife, coffee, and beer (KT: in that order I hope). Check out his website at www.ragamuffinpc.com or follow him on twitter @ragamuffinpc.

A LIFETIME OF RECOVERY THANKS TO MUNCIE MISSION

Homeless I am not and never have been, but I grew up at the Muncie Mission.

Grandpa worked on staff at the Mission, and my high school was only a few blocks away from the building on High St. I would walk to the Mission nearly every day after school to hang out with the residents. I learned much more than ping-pong and pool from those moments.

1. Each of us is only one dramatic step away from homelessness

The Mission’s website indicates their purpose to “provide basic needs and teach life skills while guiding residents through various problems that have brought them to [their] doorsteps.”

The face of homelessness is drastically different than the image most of us attribute. As I began to meet the residents and hear the stories, I discovered just how many of their stories were prominently familiar to mine until one unforeseen inciting incident, which flung them into a homeless situation.

2. There is a difference between ‘homeless’ and ‘panhandler’.
Many misunderstanding people have a particular face of homelessness in their mind, and that image is typically one of the panhandler on street corners and in alleyways. The men at Muncie Mission rarely had to live within that image before they were thrust into the situation that brought them there.

Most of the men had been bested by some particular situation, and they would never want to be the one most of us imagine on the street corner. Various attitudes and addictions entrap people in a place where they are begging and manipulating every source they can draw from. Those are the panhandlers who have hit bottom without the wherewithal to begin the recovery typically provoked by ‘hitting bottom’.

I did not grow up with bad people. They were only people in trouble reaching to get out.

3. Recovery is for the broken; not the homeless.
One of many goals sought by the Mission is to care for the broken and ruined. That goal extended far beyond the Men’s Residential Program. The Mission is not a shelter intended to be a warm place to sleep for a night. It is a transition. It is a program designed to care for all of the broken and bedraggled.

On many occasions I not only observed but also participated as the Mission assisted men, women, children, and families in the process of recovery. Before the days of Celebrity Rehab and Intervention, the common TV junkie knew nothing of common recovery terminology. The only way to know the terminology was to be saturated with the process.

At a young age, I learned, painfully at times, about the wounds below the addictions we all battle. My recovery began in high school with a bunch of homeless people though I was never homeless, and my recovery continues today thanks to my experience with Muncie Mission.

Where are they now: the PC Walker story
Nearly 15 years after graduating from high school and moving away from Muncie, I pursued a ministry degree and have applied it specifically to either homeless or young adult ministries. (Turns out I am attracted to the populations of highly misunderstood and unheard people.) I cannot stay away from either.

My heart beats wildly for the bedraggled and beat down. I crave the God who pursues those who are smart enough to admit how dumb they are; rich enough to admit how poor they are; and strong enough to realize just how weak we all are. I can thank the Muncie Mission for a significant portion of that formulation within me.

LINKS I RECOMMEND:

Muncie Mission – Just go look around for crying out loud.

The Exodus House – Recovery community in Anderson, IN who believe that community means staff residing with residents and sharing in this holistic healing process.

Ragamuffinpc Ministries Facebook

Giving Back, ten4tues