Easter Shopping Madness

Shelves and shelves of the evil stuff

What is it with people and needing to buy things, stuff, clutter?

I had to go to a major retailer today - a store similar to Walmart in the States, I imagine. I wouldn't choose to go on any day, let alone a holiday weekend, but it was the only time I could. Oh, the crush of people, the frenzy of buying, the naughty children careering around on bicycles, scooters and little kid-sized trucks. I stood there pondering about worse things I could be doing and couldn't think of any. Doing paperwork in Madagascar, traipsing through the Siberian Tundra or cleaning out a used longdrop would have been less torturous (and tortuous, as it turns out).

In short, it was chaos. And the things people were walking out of the shop with was just mind-blowing. Where does all the money come from? How do people afford all the stuff - the new flat-screen televisions, bigger fridges, carts piled high with food and crisps and candy... I've lived in Madagascar for two years - perhaps I'm just over-reacting when comparing this to the abject poverty over on the island. Perhaps this is normal.

But the worst came at check-out when I had to walk past the shelves of chocolate screaming out to be bought. Talk about real torture!

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.

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?

 

Of soldiers, storms and a very loud "fizzle"

Kebab barbecuers downtown

So, it's Saturday afternoon, and since writing yesterday it seems as if there has been a whole lot of nothing going on in Tana! Well, nothing that we are meant to be aware of, anyway!

Firstly, yesterday morning the military ordered civilians in the immediate area of the barracks where the mutinous coup leaders were holed up to evacuate. Shortly afterwards, with military vehicles rolling past our school, the defence minister announced that they had no desire to use force to end the standoff.

Reuters reported prime minister Camille Vital as saying "it had never been the government's intention to storm the barracks and the steps taken in the morning were to prevent children and civilians from witnessing negotiations between soldiers." Does anyone else find that hilarious?

But Malagasies are, to a large extent, very laid back ... They've watched their country go down the tubes under this current regime and, for the most part, have done nothing.  I heard a funny first-hand story related to the crisis yesterday evening. Two nights ago locals set tyres alight, and barricaded the main road to the airport; soldiers in riot gear were patrolling; it was tense You'd imagine people would stay away, but within a stone's throw of the acrid smoke the regular sidewalk  kebab sellers were doing their regular thriving trade, as if it was the most normal night of the year.

Speaking of soldiers in riot gear - a crowd of civilians apparently ignored the order to leave the area last night, and were, according to some press reports, clashing with the military when a very timely storm rolled in to drive everyone under cover. And that was the end of that for the evening. Thank the Lord for the violent tropical weather ...

It seems there may be a clampdown on information here too - the local website that normally has live news updates is reporting on inane things like the president meeting taekwondo and volleyball teams. This on top of rumours circulating about a private TV station being banned from broadcasting ... It's quite laughable, really, but there's a strange sense of déjà vu to all of this ...

As I write I hear sirens outside, and we've just seen more army trucks and other military personnel moving towards the airport. Reuters has just reported (5.30pm) that security forces have stormed the barracks, and that gunfire was heard... We wait with bated breath to see what happens, believing all the while that this is all in God's good will ... 

I think I'll go and watch a game of rugby.

Bogerovski!

This is not going to be one of my regular blogposts. There will be no accompanying photos, no funny, witty little anecdotes. It is not cheerful. 

On my way home from giving extra English lessons today, through the throng of typical Saturday afternoon traffic, I knocked a young girl down. I wasn’t going fast. I watched her cross into the middle of the lane, freeze, run backwards, run forwards, and then freeze once again right in front of me – like a deer in the headlights. I had already braked, but was going fast enough to knock the wind out of her. 

I obviously stopped to see if she was okay, which she seemed to be, but the bottle she had been carrying lay shattered on the ground and her left hand was grazed and bleeding. In her right hand she still clutched the few notes she was heading to the corner shop with. I checked to see that she had no broken bones. She looked dazed, but otherwise unhurt. And then everything went south.

Madagascar is in a mess. People are desperate, bitter and tired of being victims. And unfortunately, because they cannot turn their anger on the main culprits of their pain, the politicians in their ivory towers, they turn it on anyone they can – the rich, the foreigner, whoever is in the wrong place at the right time. It’s short-sighted but real. In this particular case they turned it on me. 

A crowd quickly gathered, some people obviously concerned, others opportunistic, angry and vocal about me needing to make right for the damage I had caused. Genuinely sympathetic, I tried to sort something out. I had money in my hand, to get her to the pharmacy and doctor around the corner, to replace her bottle of cold drink, but people in the crowd started demanding payment for her “broken arm”, payment to take her to the doctor, clinic, hospital (for x-rays and further treatment) and that this would cost me 1 000 000 Ariary (about $500). I refused. 

I’m sure that they are all very pleasant people when at home, but there on the street I saw them transmogrify into an angry, threatening, hissing mob. One woman, in particular, fuelled the flames. By now the little girl was crying. I’m not sure how to explain how the story unravelled. But unravel it did; in a hurry. The next thing I knew I was being jostled, people were grabbing at my backpack, there was screaming and rage and so I jumped on my bike to go. (I’m a foreigner in a foreign land, and it’s just a situation one doesn’t want to find oneself in, especially now with all the politically-motivated turmoil.) One person threatened to call the police; others hemmed me in and tried to pull the bike from under me. Something was pulled out of my pocket. I fired the beast up, gunned the engine and fled through the crowd, not in fear of my life, but flee I did – very shaken and upset. 

And the more I’ve thought about it, the more terrible I've felt. I am heartbroken that the real victim was left with nothing. I’m devastated that I couldn’t help her. I wish I could go back and make things right with her. But I’m also livid and disillusioned that I saw this African disease of entitlement rear its ugly head again today – that the white man, the foreigner must pay no matter what. 

Because in the end no-one wins ...