There was this one time my Mac laptop survived me lugging it around six countries over the last three and a half months: 2 transatlantic and three regional flights, one 4 hour motorcycle ride (complete with wipeout) over seemingly impassable, high mountain roads, a ferry ride, 2 trips on matatus into the chaotic heart of downtown Nairobi, 4 twelve-hour bus rides (two of which leaked rain water), and countless hours hiding under pillows and in closets when left alone in hotel rooms.

You’re a champ Mac. You have my solemn promise that never, ever, ever will I abandon you for the far inferior world of PCs.

There was this one time I was sitting on a beach in Puerto Rico watching three women playfully making their way into the water. Admiring them, I thought, they must be very close friends.
After a few minutes I saw one of the women dancing strangely, close to the water, her arms and legs waving as if she was on fire. She was saying something too that I couldn’t quite make out. I tried to grasp what game they were playing when I realized the woman was screaming for help. I jumped up and ran toward her. “WHERE IS SHE?” I yelled.
The woman pointed to her drowning friend. I dove into the water and swam as hard as I could, but the waves were too powerful for me to reach the rapidly drowning woman. As I’m losing steam, a man thankfully comes to help. Together we saved her life.

–by Sharai Mustatia

photo by R. Chursinoff

There was this one time, about twenty times a day, every day here in Kenya when kids, usually under the age of 8, would ask me, in their high-pitched, monotone voices, and in robotic unison (if there was a group of them, and there always was), as if they were sent from an alien planet of cuteness, “howahyou? howahyou? howahyou?”
And there would be no stopping this repetitive question until I answered, poa, poa, good, good. Or at least gave them a wave.

If I returned the courtesy and asked them, sa, sa? what’s up?, they’d suddenly fall silent, stare in disbelief that a muzungu would know some Swahili, then burst out into mouth-covered giggles.
So cute. . . the first two weeks I was here. Nowadays I don’t go out much for fear of the mosquito-ish phrase ringing in my ears like a persistent tinnitus.
howahyou, howahyou, howahyooooooouuuuuuuuu ??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

There was this one time when a Kenyan man stole a book by US televangelist, Joel Osteen.
Charles Ndung’u Kinyanjui walked into a supermarket on January 19th and, presumably needing some self-help, but unable to afford it, slipped a copy of It’s Your Time under his arm and attempted to flea.
It certainly was his time as he received three months for the petty crime. Three months!
Oddly, and without irony, this passes as news in one of Kenya’s national papers.

There was this one time, while in Montreal on Ben Lee tour, when Heath Ledger pulled out his hash pipe, stuffed it with hash that he smuggled in his crotch, from LA., and shared it with me.
Hash has not tasted the same since.

–by Rob Chursinoff

There was this one time I came close to losing it. For whatever reason, I woke up absolutely certain that an urgent package was coming, and if I missed the mailman, it would be gone for good. I called in sick to work, canceled appointments, even camped out on the porch. Nothing came. I waited harder. I stopped eating and decided that showering was a big con. Just like that, five days went by. When the mailman finally came on the sixth day, he slipped a deck of overdue bills through the slot, looked right at me and said,
Ma’am, what are you waiting for?
A hot shower came next.

–by Jules Moore

There was this one time I had a patient who was a serial killer. He was transferred from his maximum-security prison to the ER where I was working because, on that particular day, he claimed to have swallowed a razor blade. His guards were so scared of him they didn’t strip search him. It turned out he’d just taped it to his belly under his orange jumpsuit, in an attempt to escape, or at least break a skull or two. When I tried to take it off him, the guards said he was probably the most dangerous man in the state and advised me not to get anywhere near him. While he was getting ready to fight his way to freedom, we had the police come in and use a taser on him repeatedly until he submitted and let me take the razor blade off of him. It was awesome.

– Dr. Ritik Chandra

There was this one time in Butte, North Dakota (pop. 60) when serial killers were on the loose.  Elizabeth and I were there for the summer when a murderous Bonnie & Clyde couple showed up– leaving a body in Texas and one in Minneapolis. Then, after a lover’s spat, they split up, and Bonnie was caught in the neighbouring town of Velva.  Naturally the people of Butte were spooked. Bonnie’s partner Clyde could be anywhere! – the sunflower fields, hiding in hay bales, in the abandoned houses that littered the town (two of which were on either side of our house).