Wednesday 13th July

We finished at the Oasis really late tonight. And while it's lovely to cycle through the vineyards alone in the day time, I’ve discovered it's less pleasant to do so at night time. Thank you Lord for gangster angels.

Tuesday 12th July

You know, I’m just not sleeping well at the moment. I’m tired when I go to bed, but I can't fall asleep very easily. I think it's because I’m in this big, old house all by myself. Every noise I hear could be a burglar, every shadow a menacing threat and I feel that I have a responsibility to check it out. Normally I sleep fine, figuring that my housemates will deal with any problems, but now I’m it. I’m the last defence. So I lay awake at night waiting to see what that creaking sound was or if those drunken youths are going to hop the fence and try and break in. It probably doesn't help that I’m watching NCIS just before I go to bed. Or that I’m on the wrong side of someone on the wrong side of the law.Or that there's about 100 chickens living just a few metres away from my room.

I mowed the lawn this afternoon and cleaned out the terrapins. It's probably a shameful admission, but before coming here I’d never mowed the lawn before in my life. My folks have a gardener and my uni gardens have always been very insightfully paved over.

I don't mind mowing the lawn as such, but I hate how loud the lawnmower is and how much attention it draws. I’m on the main road opposite a building site, so there are plenty of people to stare at me. And trying to get the darn thing started in the first place, oh my word! You put the cord, pull the cord, pull the cord, nothing happens! You feel like a complete failure. It's so embarrassing. And how are you meant to get all the bits round the edge? A monkey could do a better job than me!

Monday 11th July

Today was my first men's clothing room. It seems totally strange to me that the women on the team should be present at a men's clothing day because it was so gender separate in Athens, but it's different here. It's a small team so everyone has to muck in where they can.

My job today was to fold and pack clothes into plastic bags, to fit people for flip flops and to make sure no one was taking more items than allowed. While I’m not great at folding clothes with one hand, I’m even worse at telling impoverished refugees that they're only allowed to take one T-shirt, not two and one pair of shorts or trousers, not both. We don't have enough stock to let people take as much as they want, which is what I think all of our hearts is, so we have to be quite strict in enforcing the rules.

I used my Farsi today, and wished I’d spent some time revising the wardrobe section of my book before coming here. But I managed hold my own, and even proved to be quite useful as the other team members don't speak any Farsi. I also used my French. We've had an influx or North African refugees this past week so it's been a good opportunity to get some practice in. Again, I’m the only one on the team who speaks French, so I’m feeling quite useful at the moment. Most of the refugees are Russian speakers, which has left me feeling linguistically redundant. I’m appreciating the change. Not that my Russian hasn't vastly improved since I’ve been here. I know at least three words, not including vodka, and my accent is uncanny.


Since we finished at the Oasis quite early today, Claire and I decided to cycle home together and take some photos in the sunflower fields. On the way, my bike started making a loud clonking sound. Not going very fast and eager to know what it was, I looked down to see if I could see the cause. The next thing I knew, the door of a white Volvo was pressed up against my face and there was a sharp pain shooting through my ego. I had crashed my bike! Into a car I might add. Now before you all get too worried and start flooding my mailbox with Get Well Cards and flowers, I should provide one minor detail. The car I crashed into was stationary.

Now those of you who have seen me ride a bike before, or indeed operate any kind of vehicle or machinery, will no doubt, not be particularly surprised at this announcement. It was pretty much inevitable. Like Agent Smith killing Neo. But as in the Matrix, my story also developed a nail-biting twist. But we'll get to that later. First the story of the detour of my Monday afternoon.

The owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, so I wrote a little note in German and tucked it under the windscreen wiper. It contained an apology and my contact details. Surely this would be enough to discharge my responsibility as a good cyclist? Apparently my moral compass didn't think so, which is why it marched me to the local police station so that I could formally log the accident. In German I might add. That's the test of your language skills, when you spend the afternoon at a foreign police station explaining how rubbish your spatial awareness is. I of course started off by trying the old schoolboy trick, “kanst du English sprechen?”, but was forced to stumble on when the reply came “nein”.

I explained what had happened to the officer at the desk, who apparently found it so funny that he called over one of his mates and made me tell the story again. Stifling laughter, the second officer grabbed his friend and asked me to take them to the car I had crashed into so they could survey the damage. It's worth mentioning that the car was parked right in front of the Lager, and a group of Afghan women whom I’d befriended were sitting outside chatting. “Salam,” I said as I passed by. “Khoubi?” They nodded, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted high. I was so embarrassed. And I didn't know how to explain what had happened in Farsi, so I’m sure a few rumours were started that day.

Two deep scratches and a basket sized dent in the panel were the sum of the damage, and it looked pretty bad. We went back to the station to try and contact the owner, and that's where the twist comes in. We couldn't get hold of him because he's currently in prison doing time. Yes, I crashed into the car of a convicted felon. But don't worry, he gets out in a month, so we'll be able to sort it all out then. That's just super! And he knows where I live because my address in on the police report. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

Sunday 10th July

When I visited Cat last weekend I met Debbie, another Exeter student who I’ll be living with next year. We arranged to meet up again today so that we could get to know each other a bit. We agreed to meet at Karlsplatz, but I got there five minutes early and was absolutely bursting for the toilet. I ran about for ages, tears in my eyes, desperately searching for a loo when Debbie called and suggested I go to the one in the underground station. Oh my word these stations are hard to navigate. It's the most ridiculous signposting system in the world. They'd be better off not putting up any directions and letting us sniff the toilets out ourselves. The signs are so confusing; it's like they're put there to deliberately mess with your mind and challenge your bladder control capabilities. I honestly considered squatting in a corner somewhere in the station. Or maybe they just do it so that by the time you find the toilets you don't care that they're charging 70p to get in; I would have given £70.

Bladder relieved, I went to Karlskirche to meet Debbie. We walked to the canal together and had a picnic of Mc Donalds, lebkuchen and watermelon. First impressions, she's really nice and we'll have fun sharing a house next year.

After the picnic I had to get changed into more modest clothes because I was meeting a couple of Iranian believers that I met at the Oasis on Friday night. They'd invited me to their church and we arranged to meet at a high profile station so that I would be able to find it OK. But somehow I got hideously lost and was thirty minutes late. I was planning to change in the bathroom at Philadelphia Bruke station but because I was so late I had to change in between stops in the platform. Let's just say I’m no Houdini. I ended up ripping the sleeve off the top I was changing out of. Arrgghh! It's so frustrating.

I find the transport system here really confusing. The stations aren't very well marked so it's hard to tell when to get off the train. It was only as I approached the end of the line that I realised I'd gone too far. Then when I finally made back it to Philadelphia Bruke station, I found myself trapped in an underground labyrinth of escalators, kiosks and passageways. I went up here, down there, through that way, past the kiosks, back upstairs, round the pillar and I still couldn't find my friends. In the end they came looking for me and we were on our way.

Going to an Iranian church was really interesting. I recognised some of the songs- they must have been translated from English, but judging by the music most of them were written for the Farsi Church. Singing in Farsi is definitely a challenge for me. I find it hard enough to keep up with the words of a new song in English, so trying to read the lyrics in the Persian script in time with fast music was hard. It should help improve my overall reading speed for when I’m back studying Farsi at uni.

Saturday 9th

Something has been bugging me ever since I got here. It's a very important question of a highly curious nature. And I’m not the only one it's had bothered. When I visited Cat last weekend she said I could ask her any questions I had about Austria. When I told her that actually yes, something here had me utterly perplexed, she knew exactly what I was talking about before I’d said a word. “The shelf in the toilet, right?” she said quizzically, eyebrows raised. “Yes!” I yelled. “What's it doing there?” She didn't know.

Yes people, there's a shelf in the toilet bowl. When you do your business, it lands on the shelf, crying out for your attention. You turn round to flush the chain and there it is, staring you in the face. More poignantly, you're staring it in the face too. Did they really put this shelf here just so you can admire your handiwork before you flush it away, or does it serve another purpose? I can't think of one.

I decided it would be inappropriate to put a picture of my faeces in the internet, so I searched the bathroom for an alternative prop to demonstrate my conundrum. That's when I found this rubber duck.

I cut a piece of loo roll tube to balance the duck on so it didn't actually touch the toilet. No rubber ducks were harmed in the making of this blog entry.

Despite my efforts for decorum and propriety, I can't help but feel like this blog entry will come back to haunt me one day in the future, like if I’m running for prime minister or something. All that comforts me is the knowledge that David Cameron did pot in his student days and still got elected, and this is much less worse than that. Although my grammar might still disqualify me...

Friday 8th

This morning I met with some of the refugees to watch a film about Jesus. I’m not too keen on these films myself; I find them a bit cringey, but do you know what? God can use anything and people are getting saved all over the world after watching these films. So who am I to turn my nose up at them?

In the afternoon I had a blessed time with three refugee girls from East Africa. I met them at clothing room on Monday and it's been really soothing to spend time with them. We talk about jackfruit and sunshine, long bus journeys and pineapple Fanta. I thank God that they're here – I really needed this little piece of Africa to keep me going. So I invited them over to cook dinner together and we had a blast. And do you know what they wanted to cook? Chapattis! Yes, I am now a skilled chapatti chef!

I know how to cook them! Eat your heart out Karyn and Mike.

It's a fairy complicated process that involves considerable risk to your fingers, but it's very fun and totally worth it. Perhaps I’ll give you a demonstration when I get home.

I was very clear to the girls that we were working to deadline as I had to be downstairs at six to set up for ladies night. We started cooking at three and I thought 2 hours would be enough time to get everything ready for a 5 o clock dinner. But three and a half hours and two litres of oil later, the food was still not ready. I’d forgotten how long it takes to make African food. We would spend all morning preparing lunch in Rwanda, but I thought it was just because we had no proper equipment. We peeled and chopped the vegetables with blunt knives and we cooked the food outside on open fires. I assumed that in a fully equipped kitchen things would be quicker. How wrong I was! At 5.53 I carried the food to the table and we sat down to eat. Don't even get me started on the state the kitchen was in.

We also cooked curried chicken and spicy meat potato balls, as well as fragrant rice and a vegetable sauce. It was delicious!

Thursday 7th

Thursday night is Coffee Bar, which is a lot like Tea House in Greece, except that we serve coffee. The team here operates a little bit differently to the team in Greece and I’m finding it hard to adapt. As a young, single women working at the Ark I had to be very careful about my conduct around the male refugees. The rules were strict but simple – do not engage. If a male refugee comes up to you and tries to start a conversation, ignore him and walk away. Keep eye contact to a minimum and be careful where you smile. Our hair always had to be tied up because 'a woman is as loose as her hair' and we had to wear long, high cut, baggy tops to cover our shape. I felt so rude the first few days because it's so different to what I’m used to. Listening to people whom the world rejects and giving them positive attention is an effective way of ministering God's love to them, so in Greece I felt crippled. That is until you begin to understand the culture.

We were working with Muslims from Afghanistan, and in their culture there would be no interaction between non-related men and women. For were a single women to engage in conversation with a man who is not part of her family, it would cast serious aspersions on her character, especially if she's all smiles and eye contact! To behave in this way is synonymous with prostitution. So you feel less rude about walking away from someone knowing that their very approaching you means they think that you're loose. You cannot be too careful about your reputation, especially when witnessing for Jesus. And when your conduct around the male refugees is blameless, it earns you trust and respect from the women, because they don't think you're trying to steal their husbands and they trust you to be a positive moral influence on their children.

So the men in the team work with the male refugees and the women in the team work with the female refugees. And though it's rare, there are enough guys on the team in Athens for this to work. Praise God.

But the approach at the Oasis is different. We can wear our hair down and talk to the guy refugees. In fact, we have to do the latter because there are only three guys on the team, and one of them is away for the summer. I feel very conflicted. Surely if loose hair meant loose woman to the refugees in Athens, it will mean loose woman here as well? And I don't want anyone thinking I’m loose! Happily the team is being very patient and gracious to me as I try and make the adjustments. And I have to remember that here at the Oasis we get refugees from all over the place, not just from Afghanistan. It's a melting pot of cultures, nationalities and languages.