I'm okay, but now where's the car?

I am currently in South Africa seeing doctors to find out more about the lung condition I developed over in Madagascar.

On Monday morning I borrowed my dad’s car and drove through to see my first-choice doctor, who poked, prodded, asked about the history of my condition and then sent me out to the hospital down the road to get x-rays taken of my chest and sinuses. I walked out to an empty parking lot. I looked right, looked left and looked right again, shrugged my shoulders and realised that car thieves in my native land had upped their game – the car was gone.

Reporting the loss to the police was, well, amusing. Firstly, my life bears a remarkable resemblance to Days of our Lives or some similar soapie. It was quite something explaining that I was driving my dad’s car, which actually belonged to my mom, who used to be married to the doctor outside of whose practice I was parked at the time of the theft… Then I pointed out that I work in Madagascar at “Vision Valley School”, A-n-d-r-a-n-o-m-e-n-a,  A-n-t-a-n-a-n-a-r-i-v-o. Try getting a policewoman who has been on duty for two days to spell that correctly. In the final reading of the report it had become “Virgin Valley School” and the town name had lost several syllables. But the police were very helpful. At least it wasn’t a cellphone that had been stolen, because that seemed like a much more harrowing offence to report.

But back to the doctor part of the story. My sister very kindly picked me up from the hospital and took me back to my ex-stepfather, who examined the x-rays, carried out a few other tests and (jokingly) told me that I should live at least another month. My sister, who had at this stage wandered into the consulting room uninvited, suggested I start a “bucket list” of things I’d do in my last month, like movies I’d love to watch. I said that Facebook would be the perfect place to post it, but she was horrified at the thought because of all the people I would have in tears as a result….

It turns out many of my friends are just not that sensitive, however… Here are some of their reactions to the “What if I only had a month to live?”:

• Would it be utterly insensitive and self-absorbed if I asked you to write a blog?
• I would cry then ask to inherit that Nikon of yours.
• We could go on holiday for a month. Who’s paying?
• I’m not surprised, quite honestly. At least we have an excuse for a party.
• Can I have your camera and laptop? It’s for a missionary.
• I’d act sad for a minute, then take leave and go on an adventure with you.
• Great, we can fit in one last barbecue!
• Good, that’s enough time for you to come and see us. We do love you. Sometimes.
• What? At least another month!?! And at most? Where will you do this living? 
• I know what I wouldn't have said: "Can I have your house and millions?"

Many of my friends were too shocked at the possibility to comment and told me so when they saw me…

What would I do if I only had a month? I’d definitely spend it with friends and family… I’d go out to restaurants more… I’d probably try to laugh as much as possible.

What would you do?

A queue, a sauna and a short hop to Africa

The Air Madagascar plane's tail

Oh, how I love flying. Not. I did once but I think Air Madagascar quickly cured me. We were again delayed (I do not remember when last an Air Mada flight was on time) but at least on this occasion they had the foreknowledge to phone me the day before the flight to inform me it would be delayed by around two hours. Bonus.

That didn’t, however, prevent me from having to queue. It was the most bizarre thing – I arrived when the company rep suggested I arrive and immediately went to the back of the already very long queue (perhaps I was one of the only passengers they had warned about the planned delay). Slowly people filed in behind me, but the next thing, when I looked around, I was once again last. This happened several times and I couldn’t figure it out, because I hadn’t seen any rude passengers pushing in ahead of me. But then it all became clearer when a porter approached me and offered to take me to the front, to a specific check-in counter where “a friend” worked. And all it would cost was a mere $7.50.

I declined, but was approached by at least four other porters with the same story in my hour-and-a-half-long wait. The original guy even came back to see if I wasn’t irritated enough to change my mind and said that his special rate “just for me” was now $5. But, firstly, I didn’t see the point of fast-tracking my check-in because Ivato airport isn’t exactly known for its great eating spots, or phenomenal coffee and so there was nowhere to rush off to; secondly I just don’t believe in it ethically and morally. To be honest, I was quite happy to stand more or less in the same spot and sms friends. At least I wasn’t burning up with fever and struggling to stand like the last time I flew to South Africa.

Eventually a group of missionaries from Antsirabe slotted in behind me and also weren’t tempted to part with their money for the empty satisfaction of getting to the front of the queue before other saps in the same boat (or airport queue as it were).

But that was nothing compared to the absolute bazaar of boarding an overbooked plane. We had people shoving their oversized hand-luggage into the overhead lockers; others being shown their seat and then discovering that another passenger had been booked into the same seat; shouting, jostling; three different flight attendants, at various times, trying to make a bag fit in a space it was clearly not going to fit into … and all this while sitting out on the runway in the midday heat. The plane was soon a sauna – and not a particularly pleasant one…

But I’m going “home” – back to South Africa where I have no fixed abode, but where my doctor will hopefully be inspired to discover what ails my lungs. And for that – the hope of health – it was all worth it!

Waiting, waiting, waiting for the 'plane

The mould takes hold

Outdoor adventure Mongolia-style

In my first few years out of university I worked for Outward Bound in South Africa – for part of that time in a misty little hamlet called Hogsback, in the Eastern Cape mountains. This involved using experiential outdoor education to teach young people life skills and, in the case of youth at risk, to help them reintegrate with their families and communities. But today I’m here to speak about our living conditions, not the benefits of the programmes...

For most of my just-over two years at the outdoor programme I called a tent home. But we did have rustic bases, which we used when we weren’t out with students. At our coastal centre the instructors were housed in little rondavels, up on the Free State highlands we used an abandoned farmhouse, while in Hogsback we rented an old house with several outbuildings. And here I come to my point: There weren’t enough bedrooms inside the house, and so I was given a small wooden hut outside. I didn’t really mind because most of the time I was out with the groups. But then I started falling ill. I found that I had a constant cough and, to cut a long story short, I developed allergies to pretty much everything one could be allergic to. If I drank milk my throat would close up; if I slept on a down pillow, likewise...

What the owners of the house hadn’t told us was that the shack had been used for several things previously. It had housed pigeons, held a beer still and it had served as a garden shed – for tools, insecticides and whatever else one uses in a garden. I had never been allergic a day in my life, but over time the tiny, unseen mould, spores and damp crept into my system, pretty much incapacitating me.

Obviously I moved out, and ultimately I had to leave Hogsback, but eventually my body recovered. That was 15 years ago. But now it’s back. With a vengeance. 

I feel constantly as if I have tar or glue in my lungs, I don’t have the energy to get up and write on the board at school, I cough until the early hours of the morning, and none of the medication I’ve tried so far has helped. Today I was told to make sure I didn’t take more than 5ml of a bronchodilator I was given because “it can cause heart palpitations.” I guess I’ll be spending Valentine’s Day at the hospital for tests... 

How’s this possible, I ask myself? I moved into a newly-built place – clean, and painted and mould-free – over a year ago. But here’s the rub: Madagascar has a way of hitting foreigners – in so many ways. We don’t have immunity against its bugs, against its weather or against its cheap and nasty building methods. 

Malagasies use a lot of wood in their homes – because it’s inexpensive – but often they don’t have time to wait for the wood to dry or cure properly; damp-proofing in the floors and lower walls costs too much; bricks are largely home-made and insufficiently baked; cement is not mixed correctly; my house is surrounded by ramshackle homes that have crept up around it, choking the sun ... These all combine as a perfect recipe for mould to take hold. What's next? Time will tell...

Thanks to all those who have asked how I’m doing. I’m not downcast. I’m not feeling defeated (except in Call of Duty, where my lack of energy is appreciably evident)... I wouldn’t mind breathing normally and enjoying a decent night's sleep sometime soon, though... Prayer is always appreciated. I’ll write again when I can.