Fourth member of the Trinity

George, Collin and Kim supervising the distribution of food

On Saturday, just before heading for home, I asked Kim what he was going to preach about the following morning. His joking-reply, “The fourth member of the Trinity”, instantly reminded me of a trip he and I took together several years ago...

It was November 2005, and Malawi, the warm heart of Africa, was in the grip of a severe drought. Our church in South Africa received a hefty donation to supply maize to relating churches in Malawi and we’d been asked to organise its distribution too.  The maize was bought and a small team, led by one of the church’s elders was to drive up and spend 5 days in and around Blantyre.

Unfortunately, at the last minute, the elder had to withdraw from the trip, and so, for only the second time in the history of that church, a team sans eldership input went out to share the good news, represent the kingdom and, while we were about it, hand out some food. The team consisted of three deacons (myself, Kim and a chap called Collin) and one pleb (George) from another church. The Landrover trip took 2 days – crossing through a ravaged Zimbabwe, into Mozambique (where we overnighted) and finally into Malawi.

Some ladies dividing up food on day 1.

George seemed a bit shell-shocked, this being his first trip up into Africa, and so uttered hardly a word, but for the rest of us it was right up our alley. We decided to cook for ourselves that first night under Mozambican skies, after a previous negative experience where the beef we ordered turned out to be donkey (well, we couldn’t prove it, but it sure was tough, didn’t taste like beef and we hadn’t seen any cows since South Africa...) We arrived in Blantyre the following evening exhausted but ready for the adventure.

On the first day we travelled to a most beautiful area north-east of the city – the tea-growing region of Mulanje – where we handed out a truckload of maize and Collin and Kim preached (if my memory serves me right). The second day we were going to drive a bit further afield, which required an early start. I got up, staggered bleary-eyed through to the room the other three were sharing and, when asked, boldly announced that I would be teaching on “The Father of God” that day. Well, needless to say, I was mocked for the rest of that day and for years thereafter about the fourth person of the trinity - grandpa to Jesus.

The congregation crammed into the little church

We arrived at the little church, and Collin preached up a storm outside (literally), which drove us into the steamy mud interior. While he continued speaking I watched the ladies collect rainwater, which was leaking through the grass roof, in their shoes, then pass them to the windows, where they would empty them out and start the whole process again. And nervously I waited for my turn to speak about the father-heart of God, the father-heart of God, the FATHER-HEART of God!

My mockers sat behind me as I launched into my teaching, and it all went pretty well. That was, until I called up a young girl from the front row to illustrate my point. Now understand this, many of these kids have never seen a white face before. Trying to show how much He loves us, I sat her on my lap and threw my arms around her in a mock embrace. At first she just looked shocked. Frozen. Statue-like. Terrified of what this stranger would do next. And then she let out a wail and fled to the safety of her mother’s arms. And that was the end of that teaching. I think Kim may have rescued the situation by summing up what I meant to say. I don’t really remember... The details have faded, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the incident itself.

Later, once the rain had cleared, I practised my crowd-clearing ministry by chasing and tickling the kids, we handed out more maize, and headed back to our Blantyre base most satisfied... Two more days of ministry and food distribution followed but I didn’t teach again on that trip. I think Collin and Kim were too terrified about what would come out.

Since then, whenever I’ve been called on to teach in the many churches we’ve visited in Africa and here in Madagascar, I remember the tiny village in Malawi, the terrified child and the father of God...

Postscript: Kim now leads Tana City Church here in Antananarivo, Collin is on eldership at 3Ci in Pretoria, and George (now a good friend) is no longer a pleb ...

 

Foot in mouth disease

Peanut butter: "dairy" goodness

Did you know that peanut butter was classified as dairy? Me neither.

Let me give you some context: There are three major retailers in Madagascar where one can do one's food shopping - Jumbo and Leader Price, which stock primarily French products, and Shoprite, which stocks mainly South African stuff. It is much cheaper than the other two, is just down the road from where I live and I visit it almost daily. 

The second part of our context-setting involves an outbreak of foot and mouth disease in a far-flung corner of Limpopo province in South Africa in October last year. It was caught quickly and didn't extend beyond one farm (which has since been declared free of the disease). Unfortunately, we the consumers, along with Shoprite, were affected by it ... in faraway Madagascar. 

Firstly, shortly after the outbreak, one of our favourite retailer's containers arrived in port here, containing a variety of products, including butter. It was promptly turned back to South Africa. They weren't allowed to unpack anything for fear that other products had been contaminated by the supposedly-infected butter. And so we started noticing shortages on their shelves. 

But the funniest incident occurred more recently:

In order to prevent similar problems the suppliers despatched a new container from SA, and this time made sure there was no dairy in it. But when it arrived at this end of the short voyage the customs officials once again rejected it. Why? Because it had peanut butter in it. And there was no persuading them that peanut butter was made from peanuts and contained no dairy. The ingredients mentioned no dairy but it had the word "butter" plastered on the side, which was enough for them! And so, once again, off went the whole container-load of products back to South Africa and the shelves get emptier and emptier...

It would be hilarious but for the fact that all imported goods, including dairy products, have become so much more expensive to obtain in this impoverished nation. My milk comes from Egypt, cheese from South America, the butter is from France or New Zealand and much of the yoghurt comes from Mauritius... I heard today that the government is starting to import sugar and rice. I just pray, for the people's sake, that there's no peanut butter in the same container...

Pineapple-boy strikes again

Sue, praising Evan about something, called him a hero.
Most indignant at his mother's slur, he replied, "I'm not a hero! I'm a PINEAPPLE!" 

For context see my previous post "Pineapple-Boy"

Tana's traffic

A typical, large Tana taxi

Stimulus: "An agent, action, or condition that elicits a physiological or psychological activity or response".

Have you ever met people who respond completely incorrectly to stimuli? I’m one of them socially but now’s not the time or place to open that can of worms. What I’m referring to is the irrational reaction to stimuli on the roads here in Tana – how the locals tend to overreact, panic or just respond totally inappropriately.  

It happened to me when I knocked over a young girl a few months back, as she ran backwards and forwards, tracking my manoeuvres to avoid her. And I see it almost daily. Like the incident this week when a child was pushing a cart loaded with water drums across the road, with a taxi approaching from one direction and a car from the other. They all seemed to see each other at exactly the same time, and all swerved TOWARDS each other, stopping millimetres from tragedy. It’s at times like this, while wincing and with eyes screwed shut, that the thought flashes across one’s mind, “Am I ready and willing to perform CPR on a bunch of complete strangers?” 

Vehicles generally avoid small potholes by veering towards oncoming monstrous trucks, pedestrians dodge fellow pedestrians by stepping INTO the choked road, and cyclists, instead of yawing safely towards the side of road, normally go the opposite way. The roads, as a result, are kind of terrifying on both my bicycle and motorbike, and I’ve had several near misses while staring at the whites of other shocked commuters’ eyes.

Traffic also seems to portray the underlying mood of a day. Some days it flows pretty well - everyone is calm and courteous; pedestrians walk cautiously and look both ways before crossing. And then on other days all hell breaks loose and it’s like a Turkish bazaar out there – blinkered, desperate mothers dash between cars dragging three screaming children; drivers make insane overtaking moves; scooters with multiple passengers swerve drunkenly from lane to lane – the whole mass acting like some alien life force, bent on bringing an end to traffic as we know it, has occupied it... On days like these defensive driving goes out the window, and prayer and adrenaline take over. 

And don’t even get me started on the arrogant military / government motorcades, which can blow past the airport-bound traffic at any time and seemingly from nowhere, with whistles blowing and horns honking (honking actually isn’t a violent enough term to describe it). Vehicles literally dive out of the way to avoid being run off the road. Anri described how she was in a taxi chugging along the digue (dyke) road, which has rice paddies on both sides, when the driver violently veered and wobbled onto the barely-existent verge in fear of the police cavalcade rapidly bearing down upon them.  As they shuddered to a stop she had visions of the vehicle rolling down the embankment into the dark mire, with all the passengers sardined inside. Terror mixes with anger, but cautiously, breathing semi-normally, one makes one’s way back onto the tarmac ... before being forced off some way down the road by the next politician racing somewhere important!

The roads can be irritating, they can be wild and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to their madness, but it is real and it is very-much part of life here in Madagascar.

Bill Clinton, I presume?

"I don't know! Justin Bieber? Bieber's mom?"

In trying to instil a love of poetry in my Grade 8 students, as well as awaken an ability to pen it, I've been looking with them at how poetic song-writing can be. The other day, just for fun, I played some music from my era and later, but well before theirs, and asked them to guess who the artists were. Here were some of the results: 

Bruce Springsteen: Bill Clinton. (Well, at least they had the nationality correct, and Clinton was also "the boss", but I wonder what his band would have been known as?)

While playing Louis Armstrong singing La vie en Rose one of the boys shouted out that it was Ray Charles. “No, it’s Charles Dickens” countered another. (I hadn’t realised Dickens was so big in the music industry. Perhaps Queen Victoria used to hum the popular ballad Great Expectations quietly to herself. And I'm sure Oliver Twist was a real foot-tapper.)

Whitney Houston: Michael Jackson.  (Close enough).

Boy George was “a woman who ended up in prison”. (Again, close enough, except if you look at what she, I mean he, looks like now...)

It was suggested that Bohemian Rhapsody (sung by Queen) was by The Backstreet Boys. (I have never listened to them myself, but I’m pretty sure Freddie Mercury would be turning in his grave being compared to the boy band.)

In what I took as quite a compliment, one of the students thought that I was singing (although I don't actually remember who was) until he explained: “But it’s really bad. Just like when you sing.”

Erasure was Elton John, Grace Jones was Bob Marley, Depeche Mode was the Beatles and Evanescence was “the mother of Justin Bieber”. I was sure they’d know Kylie Minogue, Michael Bublé and U2. (I mean, who doesn’t know U2?) They didn’t.

But with just one note of Baby the whole class erupted, “Justin Bieber-e”

I won’t be playing any general knowledge board games with them anytime soon. And I may move to jazz-appreciation next...

My life as a woman

WARNING: This post is not for sensitive viewers and contains photos of a distressing, disquieting nature!

I was a cute baby, no question - chubby, with curly blonde hair, and gorgeous eyes. But the problem was that random strangers would often come up to my parents and fawn over their beautiful “daughter” – me!

Fortunately I grew out of that phase, and in no time was a strapping young lad (well, maybe more stringy than strapping). Unfortunately I had an older sister who liked to play dress-up with her little brother more than with her dollies - like when she dressed me in her teeny weenie red bikini. It was an easy fit, and posing like a lady, with the ever-present pout, came quite naturally. I responded to people’s shock and laughter and quite enjoyed the attention I received. And so it all started…

I was an actor at heart while growing up – possibly and probably because of my mother’s influence. In Grade 1 I took the role of Roo in Winnie the Pooh, and in Primary school I acted in all the annual school productions. Every holiday we children, as “The Natures Valley Amateur Dramatic Society”, would cobble together a play for our parents and next-door-neighbours and I was regularly given “normal” roles like the cow in Jack and the Beanstalk and the Beast in Beauty and the Beast. But finally, arriving at an all-boys’ high school I was presented with some unique challenges to have fun and to shock anew – by playing female roles in our school dramas. They weren’t big parts, but I relished them, and I didn’t mind that the other pupils mocked me and called me names. Grade 8 saw me acting as a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, while roles of the Player Queen in Hamlet and Potiphar’s Wife in the musical Joseph followed. What made them even funnier was that I was anything but effeminate.  Other roles, like when I was a policeman in The Pirates of Penzance just weren’t as much fun or as much of a challenge…

The sight of me chasing after Joseph singing, in the deepest voice I could muster, “Come and lie with me, love”, or doing a supposedly-seductive yet disturbing dance for Jacob’s son was, even if I admit it myself, hilarious. My “Hamlet” character was probably the most gratifying though. I laughed every time I had to get into my costume and have my makeup applied (firstly because of how people reacted) – the false eyelashes, false nails, real fishnet stockings … the whole toot. I even had my own pair of stockings at home. Our troupe was the comedy relief of the play, a lot of which came purely by chance. 

One evening I was running down a corridor to get to my stage entrance, slipped in my shoeless, stockinged feet and piled into a set of drums offstage to a loud “ke-rash”. Then, in one of the scenes the king was supposed to run up to me and jump into my arms. Unfortunately, when he did, he ripped my dress to the waist and left me standing sheepishly bearing my padded bra to a full audience… Finally, one evening we were making our entrance, as regally as possible, on a cart being pulled by some minions, when the cart’s wheel got jammed in a hole, flinging the king and I to the ground in a heap, me on top of him – all legs, dress and wig-askew.

I had a serious crush on the friend who helped
me out with this outfit. I don't think me dressing
like a woman helped my cause at all though.

As I grew older, virtually every fancy dress party I attended saw me go as a woman – once again because I was assured of a reaction. Everyone kept telling me what a stunning lady I made, what perfect legs I had, and how the outfits “brought out the colour of my eyes.” I guess that’s the beauty of mascara! There were two incidents that got me to stop, however. 

The first was at a New Year’s Eve party where another man told me that if I ever decided to cross the line, not just cross dress, he’d be waiting for me. The second was at a church party where one of my work colleagues thought I was a lady of the night. I still remember the horror on his face, as he backed up against a wall, seeing me rush towards him to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He hadn’t recognized me at all! (He swears that he doesn't remember the incident.)

I did, however, come out of the cross-dressing closet one final time two years ago when I was asked to play “Oprah” at a classy ladies’ evening at church. And so I fished out the old stockings, had a deep cake of foundation plastered on my face and donned a fancy, frilly dress for my last big hurrah.(A quick aside - I didn't look at all like Oprah, but that didn't seem to matter. I still won one of the prizes on the evening, and everyone wanted to pose with me.)

My legs aren’t what they used to be, it’s getting harder to walk in high heeled shoes, and my hair has receded, but you never know, the old-age home setting is yet to be explored …

My "lady of the night" look, but wearing my brother-in-law's boots!

A just-discovered picture from Facebook: Me as "Oprah".
Yes, well, my interviewing style was pretty good, even if I didn't look like her.

My "Oprah" legs

"Oprah with "Ellen". It was the only wig we coud find at such short notice.
They should have just called me the "butch Indian-looking interviewer".

"Madagascar's Pierced Heart"

This is an excellent National Geographic Article and Photo Gallery published last year about the situation in Madagascar. Read it if you have the time, and if not, at least try to browse through the excellent, yet disturbing, photos.

Article:  http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2010/09/madagascar/draper-text

Photos:  http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2010/09/madagascar/maitre-photography

After a relatively quiet time here politically, the storms are again starting to rumble, with planned presidential elections postponed indefinitely, the former president laying criminal charges against the young upstart who overthrew him, and more revelations about those who helped finance the coup in 2009. And still the "innocents" continue to suffer. We only have One hope, and in Him we put our trust!

The second -lyn

I've previously written about the "-lyn" sisters at my school. Lilyn, second-eldest of the four is most dear to my heart, she with the naughty laugh and knock-kneed gait. I teach grades 7 to 12, but every morning, without fail, I find this little grade 3 and her closest friends waiting for me at the gate to say good morning and walk with me to class. And of course, to ask to be "put upside down and tickled" or tossed over my shoulder. And once satisfied, off they run again to play. Last week I was taking my time getting to lunch, when I heard a little knock on my door. It was one of the grade 3s: "Mr Robin are you coming to lunch?" she asked. "We missed you." It's the real things like this that keep me going on the difficult days ... 

And it's not just "Kevin". He only responds to Kev-eeen.

Lights out!

Snuffed out

Well, after a few days of pretty good rain, and more expected, it looks like the drought has probably been broken here in Tana. But I’ve been struck again by how, when there is even a hint of rain or one little sneeze of lightning, the electricity supply goes down, and we’re left to enjoy life by candlelight.  The other ironic thing is that "they" (the unnamed, easy to blame powers-that-be) cut off my water supply in the midst of one of the storms a few evenings ago (all that water outside, the dearth of water inside...), leaving me waterless, powerless, desperately in need of a shower and so bored that I ended up taking photos of my solitary candle.

In a country that has its fair share of rain, with several cyclones expected to batter the island most summers, it’s amazing to me how badly prepared it is to handle it – from the electricity, to the water supply, to the stormwater system alongside the roads. 

But there is always something to laugh about or at. Most funny stories I can’t recount here on this blog, because people involved actually read it... But I was just chuckling this morning, on one of my regular trips to the supermarket.. 

In South Africa, at supermarket checkouts one always finds little snacks – chocolates, sweets, cold drink cans, or ice cream cones – just begging to be bought and enjoyed on the ride home. Well, here, with the dairy industry in turmoil, they have a freezer-load of frozen potato chips. Yep, frozen potato chips. I could just imagine the little child eagerly peering over the rim into the ice cream freezer and then excitedly tugging at his mom’s shirt saying, “Oh cool! Mommy, pleeeeeez can we buy a big old bag of frozen chips?” Or not.

Which reminds me of when I was in Mongolia a few years ago and was surprised to see all of the little shops selling ice creams on the sidewalk. There’s nothing unusual about that, I suppose, except that it was -10 degrees Celsius outside. Those Mongolians sure do like their ice cream!

Amateur!

By the pool. Little Abigail contemplates a swim

My memory clearly isn't what it used to be, because I was convinced that as a school boy my English was extraordinary. I remember writing phenomenal, mind-blowing poetry and being fêted by all my English teachers for my frightful ability. But this past holiday I was sorely brought down to earth when I discovered an old school magazine from my Grade 12 year. There were no poems, no articles, no sports reports, no one-liners even penned by me. All I did find was that I had taken many of the photos which appeared in it.

When I was a young boy my father gave me a couple of photography tips, I bought a basic book on the subject, and ever since then I have loved taking snaps. I owned a couple of point-and-shoots, and finally a really nice SLR film camera, which I shared with my dad (Whenever the topic of photography comes up he still makes a point to tell everyone that I dropped it off the Great Wall of China 10 years ago and that it has not been the same since - all true, of course). 

I now take most of my photos with a beautiful D7000 from Nikon South Africa. Photoshop is like a swear word to both Stefan at Nikon, and my friend Kim Midgley here in Madagascar, but I do admit to touching up the odd photo or two. Today I was most honoured when one of my students, looking at my photo album on Flickr, commented on the image of the seagull: "You couldn't have taken that. You must have downloaded it - it's too good." 

Thanks to those who have commented on my photos in the past, and who believe in my ability more than even I do. I'm a real amateur, but I love creating images that are hopefully able to tell a story, and bring joy to many ... and it's a hobby that keeps me semi-sane on the difficult days.

And now, because I am out of words, I leave you with a few of my favourites from my holiday-past in South Africa.

Beautiful simplicity. I love the grace of a seagull in flight. (And interestingly, this was hardly altered at all - I just took
the picture on a vivid setting on the camera, played with levels and cropped it slightly.)

Beach cricket, kind of. My niece has much work to do on the finer complexities of the game.
Feel free to leave a comment below if you have a clever, witty comment for this hilarious pic...

Bushed. All that swimming, running around and general adventure leaves my niece ready for an afternoon nap.

Between sand and sky.  Mgwalana, Eastern Cape, South Africa - a holiday paradise, especially for the kids.

But I'm not really shy! And she's not. She's a headstrong, beautiful handful.

Building castles in the sand. One of the little friends my niece made while on holiday

Bowl. This fish was so unmoving that it pretty much was a still life.

Black and White. Visiting friends on my first weekend back home I took this pic of their daughter, who is about to enter high school. I hate posed pictures, and so love the natural feel of this one.

Boris Yelpsin. Named after the Russian president of the 1990s.

Bottle. Walking along the beach I saw this bottle and wondered what stories it could have told.

A Malagasy's regret

Not the student who wrote the poem. But here, one of the Grade 9s
listens intently to a classmate giving a speech.

After yesterday's hilarious post, I thought I should do something a bit more serious today, and so I am including a poem written by one of my students in her December Creative Writing exams, lamenting the coup d'etat in Madagascar (overthrow of the president and government) in 2009. I thought it was amazingly insightful, emotion-filled and well written, especially as English is her third language, and it was written under the stress and time constraints of an exam... Enough said.

A Malagasy’s regret

The country’s burnt

The country’s cursed

And I stand here

With nothing left

The country’s dead

The man has fled

And I am helpless,

With no worth

What did I do

to stop this coup?

Nothing, nothing;

Not a single thing.

The alternative spelling for klutz: A-n-r-i

Anri in a tree with a Lemur. Fortunately she didn't fall out and it didn't maul her.

My good friend Anri-Louise, who teaches at the school with me, and whom I have known for many years is a delightful, engaging and hilarious lady, but a daily accident waiting to happen. It all apparently began when she was just 6, got her first bicycle and rode straight through a sewerage-filled ditch.

At first I wasn’t sure how it was possible for so many off-the-wall things to happen to one person, like the time she arrived at school and told me how her shoe had been washed off her foot by a freak flood of water in the street. She rescued the shoe but dropped her jacket into some glorious Mada muck. It smelled for weeks, despite the several washes. 

Many of her incidents have occurred at home, like the one that involved a hot water bottle and a frozen chicken. It was at the height of winter, and I was borrowing her only spare blanket, which forced her to prepare a hot water bottle. She duly climbed into a toasty bed only for the bottle to explode, scalding her jersey (sweater to the Americans) to her skin.  The store room with spare mattresses upstairs was locked, she couldn't find the key, and so she hobbled downstairs in much pain to sleep in the spare room - only to find that the water had leaked through the floorboards and soaked the mattress... Knowing that she needed to ice her scalded wound, all she could find, that was big enough, was a whole frozen chicken. And so, that night, she slept fitfully in a waterlogged bed, with a chicken strapped to her waist and had to deal with major burns and a soggy bird in the morning.

She has come to expect these incidents, and so goes to some effort to avoid them when she sees the potential for catastrophe. Like on “clumsy” days she will only deal with plastic plates, and won’t cook potentially-dangerous food. Recently she was hanging a mirror at home, perched precariously on a chair, and was most excited that she neither toppled off, nor broke the mirror, nor fell on her head. However, after washing her hands in the kitchen sink, and shaking them dry, she hit a sharp knife which was in the drying rack, cut her finger to the bone and ended up spraying blood around the kitchen. We just shrug and laugh.

Anri also manages to attract the weirdest men – like the one who walked up to her in all seriousness and declared, with a glint in his eye, “I want to be your man! If you know what I mean?” But that was at least less creepy than the drunkard who stalked her for half an hour crying, “I sleep alone, I sleep alone,” or the Rastafarian, dreadlocked dude in a red satin tracksuit who attached himself to her while she was at the airport getting ready to fly back to South Africa. I believe some proposals may have been given too. She’s also been followed home by a guy on a scooter, insisting she catch a ride with him, despite her protestations of “I’m way too big to fit on there with you”.

Holiday incidents too, have kept us amazed and amused... While travelling with her parents through Madagascar, and staying in a beautiful little lodge in the rain forest, she stepped out of bed one morning, straight through the floorboards (with one leg). Lying with her knee jammed in the floor, her foot in the foundations, and the other leg bent like a leg shouldn’t be bent, she couldn’t even call for help because (as she explained), “I was in my pyjamas!” 

Mostly I’ve been exempt from having to witness any of her episodes. But last year December a few of us went on holiday together to a beautiful little island off the coast of Madagascar. One afternoon she left us to go for a walk and to “clear her head”. We were on an island, it was kind of impossible to get lost, but when it started raining and night had fallen fast, we started wondering where she had got to. The next thing she burst into the room, hysterical, in tears, and the story emerged... She had gone for a walk, along the beach, but hadn’t seen the tide coming in and so got stuck around a rocky outcrop. To cut a long story short, she started to crawl back across the wet rocks, and slipped into a bed of sea urchins, getting their spikes embedded in her hands and feet.  A dog tried to rescue her by pulling her by the hand, but this just terrified her, so, with bleeding feet she ran away as fast as she could – only to be pursued by a local making “strange guttural noises.” I don’t handle emotionality very well, and so stormed out and left the girls to deal with her.

Another incident on the same island saw her delightedly skipping across some rocks, only to misstep and land waist-deep in the seaside sludge ... in front of the Malagasy Minister of Tourism, who was unable to keep her dignified composure.

Most recently when she called us to say she was bleeding internally because of a cyst, and that she had developed kidney stones, or that she needed a root canal but it was okay because the dentist discovered that she had no feeling in her tooth’s nerve anyway, our reaction was once again to shrug and say, “It’s just Anri. She’ll be fine.”

Just this week her coffee maker exploded, splattering the whole kitchen with brown gunk. (I say "exploded". This is not an exaggeration...)

What’s next? Who knows, but we wait with bated breath for our good friend Anri’s next mad “episode”.

Lazy Lego Days

When a job needs doing at the Midgleys, like a car that needs
to be moved,  one can always count on the Lego to get stuck in ...

This post has very little to do with the title (apart from the pictures). I've been teaching the Grade 10s about stream of consciousness, and so, on arriving back from church, I found myself wallowing in one of my own: 

After being back in Tana for around a week now I've been mulling over life here - and how different it is to life in South Africa and, I imagine, anywhere in the first-world  ...

... about the madness of the political system and all the recent political decisions and revelations - like the military man who admitted to being paid $10,000 by "national politicians and foreign contributors"  to help carry out the coup d'etat in 2009, which brought the current president into power and plunged the country into crisis 

... about trying to survive (sometimes unsuccessfully) on around $500 a month 

... of the various hilarious methods and modes of transport, and the fact that everything seems to be held together, as cheaply as possible, with a piece of wire and a prayer.  (I even heard a story about someone making his own fuses for his car because he wanted to save the few cents it would cost to buy them!)

... about the lack of rain, how the whole population is linked so closely to the land that the rainlessness hurts, and how the topic now seems to open every conversation 

... of the beauty of the people and the paysage (landscape) 

... about the fact that my old motorbike is now smoking more than a retired, chain-smoking Frenchman in a Malagasy restaurant, and that it could kick the bucket at any time 

... of the juicy steaks, and relative safety and lack of crime 

... about the litter and mud clogging the streets and the cranky electricity supply and not having running water in my house most days 

... of the amazing litchis with their huge pips, and the mangoes and speckled, flawed, real bananas 

... about the thumb-sized cockroaches that refuse to go quietly into the night 

... of the absolute need for good friends

... about frustrations with school and students and the sluggish Internet from the middle ages

But most of all, of the fact that I know why I'm here ...

One of the little Lego men offered to help with the car, but it was pretty tough for him alone ...

... and so he called in some friends, one of which wasn't quite up to the task!

Lego creators creatures, Midgley boys # 1 and 2

Laugh Out Loud

Beware the finger!

I come from a family of English purists - a mother who taught it, worked as a journalist, acted in a drama company and is now doing editing work; a brother who taught High School English for many years before becoming a headmaster; and an award-winning want-to-know-it-all journalist-sister. I don't always speak or write it correctly, but I also don't understand why people would desecrate it by using SMS terms like LOL, or HUGZ or I <3 U.

Somehow, I don't think I ever will. It just irritates me too much, especially because we have such a plethora of perfectly-good, succulent, full-length words with which to express ourselves. I hate bad writing and can't even read a newspaper, or blog, or online column without editing it in my head. It's truly quite a burden being me...

And so I got to ranting at one of my classes today for their below-par, lacking-in-creativity, and pathetic attempts at  impromptu speeches. One of the girls, most put out, asked me why I was so mean, and pointed out that she had never even seen me laugh. Which, now that I think about it, several people (including my 12-year-old niece) have told me over the last month.

But I do (laugh). Really. I think one of the problems is that I've never been very emotionally expressive. Just ask any of my ex-girlfriends. Another is my completely off-the-wall sense of humour. It is so dry and obtuse that most people just think I'm being rude. Again, just ask any of my ex-girlfriends. Thank the Lord for my small circle of equally-bizarre friends (like the Midgleys here in Madagascar and the Deans in South Africa). But I laugh at myself a lot, and continue to joke with people who don't get it, and I laugh on the inside...

One example of people just not understanding me was when I applied to be an exchange student, and was rejected, the year after graduating from high school. I was told that I would have been chosen, but for my lack of humour. In the end I did go, as a substitute for some poor sap who had to drop out, and ended up enriching many Belgians' lives with my incomprehensible wit and charm.

And so, for those of you who know me, when you see the edge of my mouth turn up ever-so-slightly, and you manage to see the glint in my eye behind my dark glasses, then you can tell yourself that I'm probably having a whole-hearted, loud guffaw on the inside.

Air Trip!

On our Air Madagascar flight: JNB to TNR

A previous post refers.

And so I flew back to a warm, rainless Madagascar on Saturday night after a three-week break in South Africa. At the last minute the Air Madagascar ‘plane had been grounded for “technical reasons”, and a bigger, faster, Boeing 767 was despatched from Tana to fetch us – allowing us to leave a mere five hours after our advertised-departure time.  Fortunately this meant that we had to fly directly to the capital because the 767 was too big to land at any other regional airports.

... Unlike the family I met on the ‘plane that had flown from Mayotte (a tiny island close to our bigger island) to Johannesburg at the beginning of the Christmas holiday. Their “direct” flight resembled a taxi ride or bus trip – with them leaving their airport, going first to the Comores, then Nosy Be, Diego and Morondava (all tiny towns in Madagascar), before finally arriving in Tana...  That’s travel in Africa for you.

But the laughs for me started as soon as I stepped on board. I chose an empty window-seat (it was a case of everyone for him/herself) and strapped myself in, but immediately found myself staring at the wrong end of the safety belt, which had come loose from its fitting – not a good omen. And so I moved. After checking that the seat belt worked I settled in to watch the flight attendants mime the safety instructions. And that was when the arm rest fell off.  I moved again. While this was all happening we were still sitting out on the tarmac, eager to leave, but waiting for our luggage, which had been misplaced because of the long delay. There was an open power point next to my foot, loose wires and a precariously-hanging lifejacket under the thread-bare seat in front of me, it appeared as if fittings were cobbled together from other airplanes’ spare parts, and the side panel to my left had been jammed in place with a wad of toilet paper. But the food was excellent and the staff friendly and beyond-helpful.

This flying jalopy reminded me of the beautiful, old, rinky-tink French taxis which ply Tana’s streets daily, and so, in order to take my mind off all the cabin’s failings, and not dwell on the important facets of flying – like what kept the wings, and engines and wheels in place – I stuck my nose into the in-flight magazine...  The main article boasted about the company’s excellent safety record, and how thoroughly their aircraft were maintained. Ironic. Hilarious!

Everyone was tired, and grouchy, and tetchy after waiting around for so long, and so it would have been very easy to be negative and to take it out on the Air Madagascar staff... But I chose to chuckle. To drink some alcohol. And to pray.

Pineapple-boy

The 4-year-old pineapple doing his duck face. 

At supper tonight, out of the blue -

Evan: When I'm a grown up I know how you can make me into a pineapple. You can paint me orange and yellow all over, except for my eyes, my face and the tip of my nose.

His brothers: But how will you make the leaves on top?

His mom: We'll grow your hair long, I'll dye it green  and we can gel it into spikes.

Evan: Yes, and then you can stick all the spiky, thorny things all over me too.
_____________

When out swimming with his family: Look, I'm going to be a normal person like a chicken. Cluck, cluck cluck ... Man / chicken / man ... What's the difference anyway?

Delays ...

A South African Airways 'plane's tail with Kulula 'plane in the distance

And so here I sit, waiting to fly back to Madagascar. And I'm reminded of all that I love about that country, as well as the many frustrations - one of them being  Air Madagascar! I checked in early and calmly, booked my large piece of luggage through (there was no mad dashing around) and then discovered that the 'plane we would be flying to Tana in was just there, in Tana, grounded, not going anywhere any time soon. Apparently there is another 'plane on its way. Apparently we will leave over four hours after our scheduled departure time. But at least there's no snow around, and good cappuccinos are plentiful.

Madagascar's national carrier is anything but consistent, and there are many urban legends floating around about their changing of routes at the last moment, taxiing off the end of the runway, flying with oxygen masks deployed for no reason (and dangling in the passengers' faces), and other non-confidence-inducing stories. One thing they are supremely consistent in is being late.

A tale of a fish

A tale of a fish, originally uploaded by Robin Malherbe.

Getting my five-year-old niece to slow down even for a minute is a feat-and-a-half, and so, when I saw her sitting quietly one morning listening intently to her grandpa talking about fishing, I had to just take some pics. Her expressions tell something of the tale she was listening to.

She duly asked if he would take her fishing, so that she could catch a pet fish to take home with her. Off they went later that day on their great adventure. Unfortunately, it was a mostly-unsuccessful expedition because, according to her, "there just weren't any fish left in the sea". If there had been she clearly would have caught one! She also left her grandpa to do most of the fishing as she dug for treasure, collected sea snails to throw into the water and ran rings around him.

P.S. As a matter of interest, my previous post about Rabin Ravi Raj Rabin was the most-read post on my blog by a long way. It seems that people are always up for a good laugh. Second-most-popular, this one about Christmas, and coming in a close third, some funny quotes from my school kids.

Rabin Ravi Raj Rabin

"Rabin" as a young boy was a burden to his parents ...

One mellow evening I was lounging with friends after a slap-up meal, still sipping on some smooth red wine when we got to talking about Facebook, and how easy it was to create new accounts. The details elude me but by the end of the evening I had created the persona “Rabin Ravi Raj Rabin”, born in Delhi and then living in Fort Worth, Texas. (I think I picked Texas because I was watching the series Friday Night Lights at the time, and figured that it would be the most unlikely place for this Indian character to live. I could just imagine his accent standing out against the strong Texan drawl as he shouted for the Dallas Cowboys...)

Anyway, to cut a long story short, it soon turned into an amazing social experiment. I started by inviting random people in Texas to be my friends first, which quickly snowballed. In no time I had over 400 friends from around the world, and pretty much anyone I asked to be my friend said yes. Of those 400, I think I actually knew only 20 or so.

But as he grew up he shed some pounds and became quite good looking

My first profile pic was of a fat little boy, which then became a young child in traditional Indian garb, and eventually I had a pic of a good-looking adult man on my homepage. All were clearly from the Internet – even pixelated.  But people still wrote commenting on how handsome I had become considering how overweight I was as a child, they sent me birthday wishes, asked about my traditions, when I had moved to the States and what it was like living there compared to India. Someone even tagged me in a photo of when we were in a school soccer team together!

I’m a horrible liar, so it wasn’t actually easy to keep Rabin going as a personality. I played online games with my pseudo friends, and people shared so much about themselves (without realising it) with this arbitrary Indian boy that it actually scared me! Many of them seemed interesting and attractive and intelligent, which also made me wonder why they wanted to be friends with “me”. I eventually cancelled my account when I hit about 1000 friends – my curiosity about people’s gullibility and inability to say no to friend requests satisfied.

But the other thing that really bugs me about Facebook is the fact that it is so shallow. Sure, it’s great seeing friends’ photos, and saying a quick “hi” but I’m not really interested in the inane status updates like, “Water aerobics rocks and the grannies are super friendly :-)” or that “those who do not study are cattle dressed up in human clothing,” or even that you’re drinking coffee alone at 7.20am. I don’t want to know when people are feeling blessed, or when someone’s sister is getting married, or to figure out what this gibberish means: “mn ti frR ... mafy lo, cmplikei mai ki a un coeur d'or”.

And the thing that really gets my goat about this confounded social networking thang is when someone says something like, “Congratulations to so-and-so and what’s-her-face.” You respond with, “Wow! Why are congratulations in order?” And the original writer replies, “I don’t think I should say. It’s personal.” Hello?!?

I stepped back into my Facebook-world this holiday again – to get a few email addresses and try to break the cabin-fever boredom. But, I’m more convinced than ever that it’ll be goodbye again. For a long long time this time!