Goodbye 2010 ... it's been real

Celebrating the end of 2009 on "Ile aux Nattes" with friends

This time last year I was waving goodbye to 2009 and seeing in 2010 to a marathon of ACDC music videos (yes, it was that weird) on a tiny island off the east coast of Madagascar. There was much dancing, excellent food, kissing strangers, and an anticipation of a bright new year. We even went swimming in the warm midnight sea once all the New Year’s formalities had been dispensed with. It was an amazing holiday with some wonderful people.

But, to be honest, I don’t really enjoy New Year’s Eve parties and, when I’m just with my family (as I am now), I’m usually in bed way before the clock strikes midnight. It may be because I have attended my fair share of weird and disturbing parties at this time of year. It may just be that I don’t enjoy watching people celebrating the end of one year with the mistaken hope that the following year will be better.  I prefer looking back in thankfulness, celebrating the memories and waiting in anticipation and expectation for all that God has for us in the New Year...

2010 had its fair share of challenges, a couple of tears, a whole lot of frustration (I think I am balder and more grey than this time last year) and long hours of loneliness where I yearned for a family of my own. But it was also a year where friendships deepened, where I laughed with my “adopted” family and others in Madagascar, and where I enjoyed a greater depth of relationship with God. I wanted for nothing, and was truly humbled by the attitude and faith of some of my students, by my next-door-neighbours’ acceptance of me in their community, as well as others who just loved me despite my prickliness.

And so here I sit, in a cold wind-blown beach house with 2011 on my doorstep. What adventures, what hilarity, what challenges await, I can only imagine. But I’m sure it’ll be a wild, mad 2011. Happy New Year.

My niece and nephew (on the right of the group) walk down the beach with friends in Mgwalana in the Eastern Cape on one of the only semi-sunny days we've enjoyed this holiday.

Photos from my 2009/2010 holiday are in this blogpost and on my flickr page.

A silent (cold) protest

My drama-queen niece, who was angry at being forced to go to bed earlier than her sister, decided to vent her anger by lying under her bed. Her sister went in to get something later and came out very worried because "Tahila was gone." After a brief search they saw something pink protruding from under the bed. I don't know what this little civil-rights-activist-in-the-making gained, apart from a headache and a cold tummy, but I do know that if I ever start wondering if she's strange or not, I'll just return to this picture ...

The children's beach-holiday sleeping quarters with youngest niece not making proper use of the bunk bed ...

Girls, girls and more girls

Girls are just different! I'm so used to boys after hanging out with the Midgley children most recently. But in South Africa I've mostly come across girls... Despite the differences, they are just as entertaining - maybe even more so:

My niece, the 5-year-old drama queen, overheard having a conversation with a six-year-old and four-year-old over dinner the other night about boys they liked ... Tahila (the niece): "I love Ryan, and want to marry him." Jocelyn: "You know he has to love God if you want to marry him." Tahila: "He does love God. And he loves zombies!" Enough said...

My sister always jokes that her three kids were plugged directly into ESKOM, the South African power provider, at birth. The same can be said of my friends Collin and Jacomien’s 5-year-old character, Abigail. I asked her the other day if she was a naughty child to which she responded, “Ummmmmmm ... only most of the time.” She too is a drama queen of note!

Little Rachel was very shy at first (when I went to visit them recently) but once she had warmed up she kept on showing off her latest discovery, the concept of time with, "It's time for spitting," at which she walked around the house blowing rasberries at me. Or, "it's time for flying ... please can you make me fly, uncle Robin?" And finally, at suppertime, "It's time for playing, and NOT for eating." That didn't go down well with the parents ... (And for all you anti-photoshop people out there - this pic was not photoshopped - this is courtesy of my new 85mm Nikkor lens)

And finally, my greatest fan - 11-year-old Zoe - who promised me at a young age that if I never found a wife she would take one for the team and marry me when she was old enough. Although, after this year's Christmas play, I'm not sure if this is still the case. The next day she asked her mom, clearly much-scarred, "Mommy, why did uncle Robin have to pull his pants up like that in the play? I don't think I'll ever forget it!"

A pseudo-Christmas

18-year-old Helen contemplating Christmas

It isn't in Mada, but it sure is madder... Every December for the last several years, whenever I’ve been in South Africa, I’ve spent Christmas Eve with a family who are like family to me ... Here Helen, second-eldest of four children, shares about this year’s gathering:

“Isn’t it true that dysfunctional families form dysfunctional habits, dysfunctional relationships and dysfunctional personalities? I will dare to add to the theory and claim that “pseudo-families” are just as incapable of leading normal lives. To support my claim, I will use my own as an example. "Family" at Christmas time for us does not consist of aunts and uncles and hordes of cousins coming over to crowd the house and join in the festivities, but rather of one woman and one man (who share no blood relationship to us) joining us ... 

Dearest Auntie Lou hails from Bryanston, not too far away, and this year came bearing gifts of chocolate and tiny cakes. Uncle Robin, keeper of this blog, had to be different and came all the way from Madagascar, bearing an empty stomach, an infamous pair of sunglasses and a camera that produced a jealousy within me that has caused me to, after 11 years of certainty, consider changing my career path in the hopes of someday owning a similar one.

Our pseudo family, like any dysfunctional family, is incapable of having a regular gathering. This, ladies and gentlemen, produces pseudo-Christmas, which this year fell on the 20th of December. The day consisted of way too much fruit cake, tree climbing by my ten-year-old sister and aforementioned uncle, an excess of photography, a rather raucous gift exchange and dinner complete with coke in wine glasses, crackers and cheesy hats. To keep sanity well and truly at bay, a nativity play was prepared by the adults. (Normally we children do the nativity – always with a different theme). My father played a rather disturbing version of Mary while my mother had to wear the pants in the house and play Joseph. Auntie Lou was the star, the shepherd and the subtitles. Uncle Robin put us all in counselling by playing the role of the angel in a tutu and horrendously short shorts. With time and therapy we trust that we will all recover from the sight of so much hairy leg. Picture the scene – the beautiful story of the birth of Jesus told to the music of a reggae Christmas, with some midget wise men thrown in, frenetic, hilarious scene and costume changes, a “star” flitting around the lounge and quotes from the A-team ... a nativity typical of our family.

While normality has never been an element in our gatherings, there is no shortage of laughter, joking and (say awwww) love. We don't keep our voices down, we don't follow the correct plot in our plays and we never ever act like polite citizens. But there is nothing pseudo about our happiness.”

The angel shares the good news with Mary, who immediately emails Joseph the news...

Mary and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem on their trusty steed.

One of the "wise men" sees the star ...

The angels let the lone shepherd know about the Saviour, in song: "The hills are alive with the sound of music"

The "midget" wise men come bearing gifts for a very furry-looking baby-Jesus

Of running, flying, single socks and flight attendants

What I'll miss: Christmas in Madagascar

So, tomorrow I head off to South Africa for the Christmas break. Travel to and from Madagascar is always a challenge – I don’t remember an instance when everything has gone right. I blogged about it in this tome of a post back in April, but the thought of travel got me onto other flight stories I’ve heard or been part of.

Several of them involved running – running through the cold, wet streets of London towards Heathrow while on a 12-hour layover from Canada because I couldn’t extricate myself from the warm innards of a Starbucks; running through the airport in Beijing in 2000, before it was upgraded for the Olympics, (on my way to Mongolia) and then having to sit in a bland room for half a day, unable to buy refreshments, because the sandstorm blowing across the steppes from Kazakhstan had closed the airport in Ulaanbaatar; and slowed down by rude, unhelpful officials at Charles de Gaulle in Paris and having to run, weighed down by 6-months-worth of luggage from the airport, through the labyrinthine metro to catch the TGV (train de grand vitesse) at the Gare de Lyon. Admittedly, it’s much easier doing that with a backpack than with children and all their necessities, like this family and many others out there.

If I ever went to the States I think I would try to avoid airports like the plague, what with the security chaos meted out to all and sundry. Riding cross-country on a motorbike sounds much more fun. Some people are just not good flyers. While living in France an American friend had me in stitches with one of her funnier stories – she was heading home, and had a special pair of flying socks which she wore on the ‘plane. Somehow during the flight she lost one of the socks. When asked to remove her shoes at the security check-in all she could think of was the icky floor she would have to walk on with her sockless foot. And so she hopped through the scanner. Well, number one, this was not in the security protocol, and number two, it set off all sorts of alarm bells. And so off she traipsed followed by an officer to the little booth to be searched. A bit peeved at all the trouble, she put her sockless foot down, saying she thought it more appropriate for a female officer to carry out the search. The moustached reply was, “I am a woman.” I leave the rest of the story to your imagination.

Flying into Europe isn’t any better, mind you. On the Swiss flight into Zurich a few years ago, I went back to the galley to ask for some water. Now, please understand, I realise what a difficult job it is to be a flight attendant. I have a friend who used to fly International routes who had way too many stories about rude, obnoxious, loud passengers; about being tripped while walking down the aisle; and about a colleague who couldn’t take it anymore, snapped, and hit a man over the head with a metal coffee pot. He probably had it coming; she took early retirement... 

But back to my story – so, as politely as possible I said I was sorry to bother her, but could I please have a bottle of water. The very guttural reply had me back-peddling (place Arnold Schwarzenegger accent here), “Get out ov my kitchen now! Ziz is not your home vhere you can do vot you like, it ees mine!”  But I would still rather fly into Switzerland than France.  The friendliest airport I’ve flown to? Definitely Edmonton, Canada, ey.

And that’s about it. Pray the plane leaves on time, is not diverted to some remote airstrip to pick up passengers with chickens and ducks, and remains on the runway when landing...

My opinions may have changed, but not the fact that I'm right

The first picture I ever posted on my blog

I'm torn. Conflicted. Suffering from an identity crisis ... When I originally started blogging way back in April 2009, just after moving to Madagascar,  it was to keep in touch with friends and family back in South Africa – to let them know how my mad life abroad was panning out – through my words and photos. 

And so, rather than sending out huge, photo-bloated email updates to people who weren’t interested in being spammed by a missionary-type who they didn’t want to hear from, I started blogging. My sister has been my biggest fan – encouraging me that my stories and photos actually are interesting and vaguely-amusing, and so I thought others out there might also get something from my ramblings and view of life from behind my Nikon lens.

Because I have many friends in common with the Midgleys (see the multitude of posts in which I refer to them) I often blogged about them – mostly about the five children, because the parents just aren’t as interesting or good looking. And I blogged about my life. And school. And church. And real life out there beyond my front gate. And often the stories were actually funny. But sometimes they weren’t.

And now, unlike when I first started down this road, I think I have more traffic from people I don’t know – people who stumble across my site from who-knows-where – and I ask myself, “Where to now?”

Do I blog for those who will read it, or do I blog for myself? What's the point? Well, the point, for me, is mostly a therapeutic one – almost like doing the dishes.  It keeps me semi-sane on those crazy days, and it may just benefit others.  I love it. (Sure, it still helps me to keep in touch with friends around the world and I’ve even made a new acquaintance or two).

And so, I pray that as you read this blog you will find something that stirs you: something that makes you sit up and take notice of a world bigger than yours, something that makes you smile, or laugh, or cry, or think about why life really is worth living. You may not agree with everything I write about, or find everything of interest.

But I’ll just keep washing one dish at a time, with as much care and delight as I can muster, until people (including myself) stop needing or using them ...

Seriously: Solemn one (and his/her mother) at my front gate ...

Straight and true: Midgley # 2 growing his patience one Lego brick at a time ...

Middle class: Madagascar has a long history of honouring the dead. The upper class tombs are even larger and more ornate than this one. And every so often the relatives of the dead remove the bodies, wrap them in fresh cloth and then have a major party - (often with drunken) dancing around the tomb and into the streets - in a ceremony known as famadihana, "the turning of the bones."

Poser: Midgley # 5 very proud of what he looks like in my cap. Every time he sees me he begs for either a wrestle or a hugickle - my popular invention of a bear hug and tickle at the same time. I was showing his mother the picture of the tomb (above) earlier, when he asked, "Is that where Jesus lives?" "No," she replied, to which he responded, "But then why is his cross on the building?" Interesting question ...

Through the kitchen door: I had an hilarious story about Midgley # 4 Reece having a conversation with his mother about human anatomy and how moms feed their babies, but have withheld it for the greater good. He is the most innocent, sweetest thing, but I think in pictures and it was just too graphic!

Shop assistants: My two little next door neighbours, who I have featured before on my blog. They are so friendly, and wait for me every morning to say hello and give me a huge smile, and every evening to ask how I am and say goodnight with an even bigger smile! The other day a drunk guy was harassing me about taking photos in my little lane, and all my (local) neighbours came out of their homes to my defence. They chased him away, smiled, and I gathered I could take pics any time. It feels more and more like home all the time ...

This will probably be my last blog post for the year (unless something hilarious or profound happens between now and Friday). I'm heading to South Africa for three weeks to spend time with friends and family I haven't seen for way too long, and probably won't have much access to the Internet while there. If you're around, I'll see you there; if not, have a wonderful Christmas, hot or cold. 

If this is your first time here, feel free to delve deeper into this mad life, this life which is mine. Feel free to comment while I'm away and I'll respond when I can. 

"Strange as it may seem, my life is based on a true story". (Ashleigh Brilliant, along with this blog post title)

Read it and weep

I love how one can play with words. They are just so powerful - able to invoke laughter, tears and a myriad of other emotions. And even when one doesn't know what one's doing they can still be funny. Like these sentences from some of my students' spelling tests: 

"I have something in my nose. I guess I have a nuzzle problem".  (Too true – it’s just so inappropriate to nuzzle while you have something up your nose!)

"I am limping because my uncle is sore". (That’s so sweet of you ... sounds like you have strong sympathy for your debilitated uncle. How’s your ankle doing, if I may ask?)

"I was nuzzling the English test".  (That’s just plain weird. But I’m sure the English test enjoyed the attention).

"She nullified her doctor’s appointment because she didn’t want to take her teeth out yet". (I don’t blame her – after all, why go all the way to the doctor if you can just take your teeth out at home?)

"They are going to harangue the picture until it looks better". (Arrange or enhance, perhaps? If I were the picture I would also try to look better as quickly as possible for fear of all the haranguing.)

"The woman’s hair was bellowing so gracefully that my heart skipped a beat".  (That’s some attractively loud hair you’ve got there Miss Jones... It has a kind of agitated-bovine-feel to it, and yet ... at the same time ... very svelte.)

"Mr Robin was a harbinger of haranguing to the Grade 8s". (Wow! That sounds serious. I'd invest in some ear plugs if I were in Grade 8.)

"Mr Robin has a large, rounded girth, which is why he wears loose clothes".  (Oh no, she found me out. And there I thought I was being subtle about my clothing choice.)

Oh, the first ones I posted, almost a month ago, are at my blog post "I try to take one day at a time..."

Mad again!

My sister has told me umpteen times to keep this blog light and fluffy - to write more about the madder side of Mada - but unfortunately last week I let her down badly ... because I was mad; so mad I could spit!

And so I allowed myself the indulgence of being serious here, just for a change. I can't really write about what made me so mad, for fear of having a papal decree or fatwa issued against me, or finding the police at my door, or discovering my dear motorbike burning in the parking lot. I can say that it involved a whole lot of intolerance, a case-load of deception and a serious lack of sense of humour in people I'd prefer to leave unnamed (for already-mentioned reasons). But I reckon God has a sense of humour. After all, he created Baobab trees, and Aye-ayes, and Blobfish and me. Seriously!

Speaking about madder in mada, what could be more insane than Karaoke? Can someone please explain its attraction? It's not small here. There are almost more karaoke clubs than churches or massage parlours. 

(Massage parlours? I just don't get that either. I mean, it's not like this is a high-stress society). 

On every corner there's a karaoke club with people belting out off-tune songs with terrible lyrics. And so tonight, for our church leaders' year-end function, off we went to one of the aforementioned clubs. The locals loved it. I remain ambivalently bemused.  

Death by Karaoke: Church elders Tanteraka and Mamy enjoying a light-headedhearted moment together

Yeah baby! Amazing to think one can have so much fun together - and all without alcohol!

Anri-Louise realises, to her horror, what lyrics she's singing, while Rina, caught up in the moment, obliviously sings on.

The "audience" encourages the singers with some wild, out-of-sync karaoke dance moves.

Extreme

Extreme, originally uploaded by Robin Malherbe.

Many of us have learned to hide our real emotions much of the time. We go through life like sleepwalkers, or hiding, terrified that someone will find us out for the frauds that we are. But every now and then we let ourselves flood out - be it through raucous laughter, a deep sorrow etched in our faces or indescribable pain escaping through tears ... I love laughing. But this week I've tasted extreme anger and frustration. I've also cried ...

Yesterday I read Matthew 5 vs 1-12 again and shared the scripture with one of my classes. What amazing reality in the truth that Jesus shares - that our lives will not necessarily be easy, in fact, we can expect hardship, trouble and sorrow. But with hearts soft and pure in His hands, thirsting after more of Him, and trusting in His goodness and undefinable love we truly live - no matter our circumstances. And not for the here and now but with our earthly eyes fixed on eternity!

Today I laughed again. A lot. At stories from the Midgley boys, while joking with three ladies who teach at the school, and with the kids in my little lane. But then, walking through my neighbourhood in the early evening I snapped a pic of this young girl. I don't know anything about her, but her face sure tells a story. I only pray that one day she will taste the same love, hope and life that I enjoy ...

tragically.tenderly.tana

tana

filthy city

capital of nothing

that matters to the world.

rejected. forgotten. alone:

the outcast of the West

citizens root through the waste

of politicians’ ill-gotten gains

living on scraps angry,

yet smiling –

like an old lover in a dark room,

numbed to her abusive husband’s bruisings.

How much longer my love?

When will your vanilla fragrance fill the air afresh?

When will your beauty and fame set the nights alight?

When will you

start to live

anew?

 

Let's go karting!

Having taught History and Geography last year I could turn this blog post into a look at Malagasy society, and its struggles to move with the times and proactively bring about positive change. Or I could just let the pictures tell a story of a people enjoying their laid-back lifestyles; of a transport system that embraces the new wholeheartedly but is equally happy with patiently shrugging its collective shoulders and putting up with tortoise-like vehicles, relics of a bygone era, clogging its arteries.

My posts won't always be funny, but hopefully they will show what makes life over here just that touch more off-beat than many capital cities in the first world.

Easy does it ...

Slowly, slowly ...

Now we're really moving ...

P.S. And on a more serious note: my thoughts and prayers continue to go out, as they have all week, for a young lady who, in faith and at great risk to her own personal safety, decided to stand up for her convictions; decided to turn her back on an oppressive, wicked system and say, "I believe!" 

Woman. Wo-man!

Hoby, Grade 12, with archaic computer speakers

I was teaching the Grade 8s about poetry techniques in free verse – where the lines don’t rhyme and there’s no regular rhythm. It includes things like alliteration, use of rhetorical questions, changing regular word order, repetition, all capitals, punctuation, etc. etc.

The textbook had used an example of a young girl who was called wicked by her parents (yes, I know, weird). At the end of the theory some of the students asked if I could show them the different techniques in a complete poem. I stuck with “wicked”, but I’m no regular English teacher...

... Vaguely inspired by a poem by the Mike Myers character in “So I married an axe murderer”, this is what came out. The rhythm and meter is all over the place, but that is, after all, what emotions are like – up, down and all around... The Grade 8s pretty much just stared at me blankly when I was done. The Grade 12s, the next class to arrive, got it.

Something tells me I may have unresolved issues?

WICKED. girl

She loved me

not.

She hurt me lots.

Why was she so

Un-feel-ing?

Why did she stomp

on my soul?

But break, break, break

oh hardened heart of mine

or never shall I let love in

again ...

Until. Of course. Another comes along.

The Grade 8s

A lazy Sunday in Tana ...

Playing with water while learning teamwork

I mentioned part of my Sunday briefly in my previous post ... after not sleeping much the previous night because of the unhinged clown and noisy crickets cockroaches, fortunately it was relatively laid back . Firstly, I got in the way trying to help out at kids' ministry, then was invited out to a slap-up lunch at the Savanna Cafe, after which, not wanting to go home and keep myself company, I went to take photos in the street and hang with those equally-unhinged Midgley boys...

Ah, Midgley # 5 never ceases to amuse: His mother was showing all the boys the Michael W. Smith “Secret Ambition” video. It shows a ‘Jesus’ being whipped and crucified. 

Reece comments later how painful the whipping must have been. Evan says: ”Yes, poor fake Jesus!”.

Well, one has to store one's finger somewhere! Kids at church giving all their attention to the instructions.

Coffee after the fact ... Savanna Cafe, on the road to the airport

"The Thing" ... Midgley numbers 3 and 4

Nothin' ta do, jus' hangin' around (furniture in a 5-boy household takes strain)

Isn't it amazing how different people's eyes are completely different - photographic eyes, that is. My friend Anri-Louise and I went out to take pics on the street. This is what I captured. You can see her perspective here.

I love natural, non-posed shots. Life is real. And funny. Sometimes.

My kind of friends

An incident with an ice cream

Last night I didn't sleep much - firstly, the cockroaches were restless and I had images of them rising up against me to get the house all to themselves. They aren't called "Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches" for nothing - these are the noisiest bugs I've ever come across. Finally I figured out how to keep them at bay, and quiet: with insect spray and sleeping with a light on, because they are apparently averse to both. 

Then secondly, after being asleep for way too short a time, I was awakened by the most horrific nightmare. In it I was running through a library being chased by a fat clown with a hideous laugh. For some or other reason I had a handgun, which I used to shoot him, but it was as useful as a pop gun. Finally I pulled a shelf of books down on him. But he was rescued by a ringmaster-looking gentleman in a suit and top hat and the frantic escape continued, this time sans pea shooter. 

I tried to figure out what it meant but all I've come up with so far is that this place is a circus and is trying to kill me! Or maybe I've been playing too much Call of Duty and watching the wrong genre of movie before bedtime...

The compliments and quotes were flying thick and fast today from the Midgley boys in the pic below ... They may need lessons on encouragement:

"Uncle Rob, did you ever publish that really badly written comment on your blog - the one with the terrible spelling?"

"Yes"

"Aw, now everyone will know what kind of friends you have!"

______________

"Mommy, you look really ugly on Wii"

______________

Midgley # 5, starting to cry after being sent to his room for hitting his brother:

"Am I going to get a hiding?"

"Yes"

"But I'm already crying..."

______________

"Auntie Anri, we made you a wii girl. She's thiiiiis fat and has a pig-looking nose".

Have yourself a very alien Christmas

The Nativity is one of those stories we all know. We learnt it in Sunday School, and we know it off by heart - baby Jesus, meek and mild, born in a stable, laid down in a manger, with lowing cattle, shepherds, wise men and his doting parents gathered around. But it's not that obvious when the Lego-wielding Midgley boys get involved ... (Click on the photos to see better-quality versions)

Top: Joseph and Mary (heavy with child) arrive in Bethlehem on a very sturdy horse,
but there's no place at the angry-looking alien's inn. A stable it'll be then ...
Bottom: Wise "men", having travelled from far far (intergalactic) lands meet with King Herod ...
Little does Herod realise that he is to hear most disturbing news later in the day!

A clearly-terrified Jesus wakes up surrounded by an odd assortment of animals (including very angular, out-of-this-world sheep), aliens and scary-looking Oriental types. The Magi come bearing gifts: one, a golden duck; another, a Jedi light saber; and the third, a chocolate ice cream cone. Mary and Joseph look remarkably like they just stepped off the set of Saturday Night Fever. Cool hairstyle, Jo!

And hiding in the corner we discover that Santa is not at all happy with Herod, who has found his way onto the fat man's 'naughty list'. No presents for you, you nasty king ...

A flash of brilliance

Using a flash enhances weirdness in the children. Midgley #3

I've always hated flash photography. I find that it steals life from the pictures, makes them look unnatural, harsh and messes with the depth of field. In all honesty, it's probably just because I don't know what I'm doing...

But last week I received a brand new SB-600 flash for my Nikon. I immediately took some pics at my birthday dinner and was amazed at the exciting possibilities of bouncing light off the ceiling! Then this afternoon I rushed out to see if the flash would help me with my outside shots. From the far recesses of my memory I remember reading something about fill flash ...

Well, I learned a couple of things: firstly, that I've still got a lot to learn and that I need to delve into the flash's manual (I hate manuals); secondly, that kids love their picture taken with or without a flash; and thirdly, that school can get a bit serious, and that real life is out with the real people ... What fun we had cackling like fools with the kids, chatting to the mechanics on the side of the road and waving to moms and tots in their windows ...

I've included only photographs I took with my flash here, but if you'd like to see others (some of which are better than these, I think) you can visit my Flickr page.

Midgley #1 being himself

Children who found the "vazahah" (foreigner) photographer most amusing

Okay, I don't think the flash did much good here, but I like the pic.

This is one of my walls at home - bouncing the flash straight up off my wooden, termite-infested ceiling.