Shave or Dye

Since I arrived in Ireland at the end of January, I’ve had a handful of people ask me if my hair was for “Shave or Dye,” and I had no idea what they were talking about. Last weekend a woman approached me in Aldi and asked how I dyed my hair. She and her family were going to do Shave or Dye, she said, and she didn’t know how to get the best dye results. I told her my basic tips: bleach your hair to white, wait a day or two, leave the dye in for 2-10 hours (I’ve been leaving mine in overnight lately), and only wash your hair in cold water.

So when I got home I finally looked it up. Shave or Dye is a campaign by the Irish Cancer Society to raise money for cancer research. People volunteer to participate and collect pledges to either shave their head or dye their hair a bright, unnatural color. The campaign started in 2010 and has raised over €6.1 million (source)! I think it’s awesome that simply dying your hair or shaving it off has raised that much money in three years—the figure doesn’t include any funds raised in 2014 yet.

I like this campaign not only because it’s for cancer research, but it’s helping to alleviate the old stereotypes of colored hair. You wouldn’t believe the number of times people have assumed I’m a troublemaker or that I’m into some bad things. When that happens I just laugh because that’s totally not me at all. If I end up dying my hair while I’m still here in Ireland, I plan on participating in Shave or Dye—and I might try to convince some of my classmates to join me.

Whale Ho!

Saturday 1 March 2014

(Right to Left) Captain Tom, First Mate Cami,
deckhands Claire and Willie

We set sail around 11 a.m. with Captain Tom steering us toward the day’s treasure. Okay, well treasure might be a little too exaggerated. For all I knew it was a wild goose chase—wild dead whale chase would be a little more accurate. But in any case, our captain had done some research to pinpoint where the whale was supposed to be. During the hour long voyage through the greenery of County Mayo, First Mate Cami supplied us with the day’s rations of snickerdoodle cookies, which the two other deckhands and I devoured immediately. We would need the sustenance for the impending hunt.

Once we got to the town of Ballycroy we docked for directions and further sustenance. The port was a small supermarket set up like a general store of old with the majority of merchandise on shelves behind the counter. Tending the store was a lovely maiden in a neon pink shirt. She knew precisely where we meant to go and gave us landmarks to steer by. We bought some candies and drinks before reboarding the SS Ford Focus.

It was a treacherous journey from there. We nearly capsized when trying to pass another ship in a narrow strait, but Captain Tom got us out of that sticky wicket. Then we realized that the maiden from the supermarket must not have taken into account the wind speed and direction, so we turned about and tried a different course. A few kilometers into the new route we saw another port with a lass standing on the docks. She rattled off directions without even consulting her compass, and they were spot on. The worthy lass deserved a pint, but she wasn’t to be found at the port on our return journey.

Finally we docked at a rocky beach. There was so little sand I had a hard time calling it a beach, but perhaps it was a real beach before the storms of the last few months. Alas there is no way for me to tell. Captain Tom and First Mate Cami allowed us deckhands to wander at will rather than give us direct orders. Claire and Willie generally stayed ahead, keeping a watchful eye out for the treasure, but I tended to lag behind as I observed the rocks and plant matter of the strand.

I was beginning to doubt our directions since we had walked nearly a half hour without any hint of a whale, dead or otherwise. But then the cry of “Whale!” from Willie stopped us all in our tracks. We strained our eyes to find what he saw and continued moving once we had satisfactorily spotted its location. I had steeled myself for the smell, ready for the repugnance of 50-some tons of rotting whale carcass, but it didn’t come. The only place I smelled anything was directly in front of the whale’s head. Even standing downwind of the actual wounds produced no offending stench.

 

Close-up of the skin

The whale’s skin was dry and cracked; it had been stranded on the beach nearly two weeks by the time we got there. All the ships seeking the thing had signed a no-poaching treaty. It was to be left alone, nothing taken, nothing added. Many ships came to see how they might bring down other whales, to learn their weak spots, but our purpose was merely curiosity. Our whole crew had never seen a whale before—dead or alive—so it was almost necessary to make the voyage.

It rained during the trek back to the ship so our entire backsides were soaked. Despite this, it was a productive journey for all parties—unless you count the whale. His journey was undeniably unsuccessful. Tomorrow we start another new mission, but the Captain still hasn’t let on what it is.

Breathless

Friday night when we were in Galway, we saw a production of “Breathless” at the Druid’s Mick Lally Theatre. One of our professors managed to get us all last-minute tickets, and it turned out to be a brilliant performance. The only thing we were told before we got to the theatre was that the play was about four missing women. Through the large, industrial door in the foyer is a small, 90 seat theatre (source). Instead of an elevated stage like many larger theaters, the Mick Lally’s stage is floor level with rows of chairs ascending above it. “Breathless” only showed for three days, but it held the whole audience captive (at least for Friday night’s show).

My first impression of the set was strange. There was a ratty, torn couch on one side; a bare old mattress in the back; a pile of rusty junk on the other side; empty bottles and cans of beer, hard cider, and wine; and four pairs of nice shoes. A fog machine had recently been running but wasn’t any longer so there was a slight haze hanging at eye level.

Donna Patrice and Kate Gilmore

At first, the play was so confusing, which I absolutely love. Stories always start in media res so having a beginning seems unrealistic. Anyone can start writing at the beginning and progress the story linearly; starting in the middle and weaving a complicated timeline of past and present is vastly more intriguing. It wasn’t until 20-30 minutes in that I realized the women were not just missing—they were dead and in some sort of limbo or purgatory. From the look of the set I had assumed they were hostages in an abandoned house, but no other characters appeared and the women seemed not to know very much about each other.

 

Sinead O'Riordan and Ruth McCabe

The women speak about their current situation, their past lives and problems, good memories, and how they came to be where they are—their murders. Each of them were murdered and their bodies hidden. It begs the question whether they will be able to leave that place of uncertainty if their bodies are ever found. Despite the overarching sad mood, there was plenty of comedy to be had throughout. Definitely an excellent production!

Author: John MacKenna

Director: Iseult Golden

Actresses: Ruth McCabe, Sinead O’Riordan, Donna Patrice, and Kate Gilmore

Yellow One Update 1

After our weekend trip to Galway the Yellow One I Win score stands at

Steph: 10
Emilee: 3

Walking the Country Roads of Ireland

When we go out taking pictures (shooting), we mostly just walk along the roads leading out of Louisburgh. Some have sidewalks but most don’t so you end up walking on the road itself. This can be a bit nerve wracking until you get used to it. The roads are narrow and the cars fast.

It’s a good idea to take at least one other person shooting with you. That way they can keep watch as you take pictures and vice versa. Your ears tune themselves to pick up the frequency of engines off in the distance, and your mouth becomes habituated to warn, “Car!” once you see it rambling over a hill. Waterproof shoes are a must as just stepping to the edge of the road isn’t always enough; occasionally you’ll need to tramp into the soggy, grassy shoulder.

At first this kind of thing really frightened me, but I got used to it within a couple days. We had one experience last week, though, that had my heart racing and adrenaline pumping. Emilee and I were on one of our usual photo excursions walking up a very narrow uphill road when we heard the tell-tale sound of a car approaching the crest from the opposite side. Only it didn’t sound like a normal car. It was much louder and a lower pitch, and that could only mean one thing: a truck. As it materialized at the top of the hill, Emilee and I looked at each other. Her face mirrored the “oh shit” look I knew was painted on mine. Had we been closer to the foot of the hill we would have jogged back down to a wider road. But we were more than halfway up the hill and there weren’t any driveways nearby so our only option was to just stand on the tiny shoulder and let the truck pass us. So we stepped over onto the grassy shoulder only to realize that there was also a trench on that side of the road. It was about a foot wide, but I couldn’t see how deep it was; thee was definitely water at the bottom, though. So there we are, standing on a strip of grass ten inches wide with a truck approaching on one side and a trench on the other. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place—or should I say a truck and a deep place.

The driver saw our predicament and tried to drive as close to the other shoulder as he could, but that’s not exactly possible when the truck is nearly as wide as the road itself. It was so close to us that I wouldn’t have been able to fit a camera between my face and the side of the truck. Maybe four inches, six tops. It would have been a cool picture had I thought of my camera at the time (instead my inner monologue was more like, “Fuck. Don’t move. Breathe. Stay still. Shit. Shit. Shit. Holy shit. Breathe. Calm down. Whatever you do, don’t move. Breathe. It’s okay. Almost done. Breathe.”). Once the back bumper had passed us, we breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief but stayed frozen in place for a moment. When we were finally capable of moving again we booked it up the hill and down the other side. There was no way in hell we were going to get caught on that road with another truck. I was scared shitless at the time, but now—less than a week later—I just laugh about it.

Rugby in the Snow

When I woke up this morning, I was a little confused. I was still in my cottage in Ireland, but outside it looked like we had been transported back to Minnesota. Snow. I built up a fire and spent the rest of the morning tending to it and reading. Then Emilee woke up and wanted to go for a walk, so I threw an extra layer of clothes on and went with her. As we walked, we were talking about how this kind of snow is the absolute best for snowballs; I had an idea that we just couldn’t pass by: snowball fight with all of our classmates.

We knocked on every cottage door with various repetitions of, “Suit up for a snowball fight!” Not everyone was home and not everyone wanted to play, but those who did come out had a blast! None of us expected weather like this, so we were all clad in jeans, light jackets, and any shoes but snow boots. I wore my Chucks (not a bright idea, but it was what I had on hand), and I saw others in hiking boots, rain boots, and tennis shoes. Pretty soon into the fight one of the guys produced a rugby ball. It started as just passing it around and attempting to tackle each other, but progressed to an actual organized match. Or our version of a rugby match, anyways.

The Riders of Johann (who later changed their names to the Mighty Ducks) vs Team Ramrod. Team Ramrod won 3 tries to 1, but both teams put on an impressive game. Everyone came away sopping wet, freezing cold, and needing to do laundry, but it was well worth it. There were a few minor injuries: some scrapes and bruises, sore joints, and almost a broken toe, but that’s to be expected. It was pretty cool mixing our Minnesotan indifference to snow with such a popular Irish game. 

Yellow One I Win!

            One of my best friends, Courtney, and I play this game called “Yellow One I Win” when we’re in the car. Basically you just watch for yellow cars or trucks, and if you see one you have to shout, “Yellow one I win!” However you can’t call taxis, work vehicles, or freight. It’s become such a habit for me to watch for yellow cars that I have been looking for them since we first got to Ireland. But it’s so difficult to find any yellow ones here!

Walking back into Lewisburgh from Carrowmore Beach.
Point for me!

            In high school, Courtney and her friends started playing “Yellow Truck.” Basically the same rules apply, but you just say, “Yellow truck!” and punch the person next to you. She then took the violence out of the game to keep her young brother entertained on a road trip. He loved the game, and everyone in the car ended up getting really into it. Courtney got so excited when she’d get a point that she’d say, “Yellow one I win!” instead of just “Yellow one!” And thus the game “Yellow One I Win” was born.

            I never thought it would be so difficult to play a game like this in another country! In the 13 days we’ve been in Ireland, Emilee and I have only seen 3 yellow cars. It seems that the people around Louisburgh tend to favor darker cars, like blacks and navy blues. Of course, there are other colors—white and red are also fairly popular—but black and blue are by far the most prominent.

            My housemate Emilee said she’d play “Yellow One I Win” with me, but instead of resetting the score after each road trip or outing, we’re going to play throughout our entire three month stay in Ireland. I’ll update the score every couple weeks; right now it stands me:2 Emilee: 1.