Wordless Friday (why be a conformist)

Because it's a long weekend, my brain has temporarily shut down and I don't feel like writing, so here are some photos from the last three days: (Click on pictures for bigger versions)

One of my little neighbours showing who's boss

A Grade 2 takes exception to my camera in his face

My favourite -lyn sister (princess of the playground)

A typical Tana landscape complete with people fishing for their supper

2nd-eldest Midgley playing a computer game, with the eldest giving advice

"Ah, dad, who let the vazaha in again?"

Last Christmas I gave you my heart ...

Many times I have been asked by young and old why I, at age 41, am not married. Part of the problem I have already explained in this blog post about my social failings, but one of the other reasons I suspect (and which has been confirmed by my friends, who have mocked me repeatedly and viciously about it) is my infamous “Music Mix”.

I always believed that girls wanted romance and to be pursued, and what better way to show one’s feelings than a carefully thought-out “mixed tape” or “Mixed CD”, as it has become. It’s sweet, it’s sentimental, it’s personal, and it’s a gift that “keeps on a-givin”. And because words don’t come easy to me, what better way to say “I love you.”

In the early years there was huge effort involved working with cassettes. Ladies want quality time, and I have spent much of that on my own compiling the perfect mix, which, when I was young and stupid was anything but perfect. My music of choice probably drove the lasses into a sickening spiral of depression, but I have since changed what I listen to and learnt a thing or two – now throwing in a good blend of soppy and sentimental, humorous, classical and jazz.

Unfortunately I don’t really listen to lyrics, and only know the first line of most songs – and so I go for the “feel” of the music, something Esther (a fellow blogger) has pointed out may not help with the opposite sex... Also, unfortunately, most people take a while to understand my sense of humour. As the special mix is created at the embryonic stage of a relationship, the young lady is usually still trying to figure out what I’m on about on a normal day, which leaves her scratching her head at the aptness of Eggplant by Michael Franks, Be Mine by The Grits, or Grow old together by Adam Sandler (from the movie The Wedding Singer). Or what on earth Paolo Conte and Charles Aznavour are crooning in their strange accents...

The last mixed CD I made had two very distinct responses from the lady – the immediate one being, “Oh, that’s so sweet, I feel so special,” quickly followed by the furious clatter of footsteps receding into the distance as she realised that this meant the relationship had gone to a terrifying level involving vertigo and nausea.

But, realistically, I’m too old to do love mixes any longer. It’s time to move on to something much more satisfying – the “break-up mix.” I could include songs as a form of torture, like that 80’s horror that just goes round and round and round one’s head, I should have known better by Jim Diamond; one of my all-time favourites Somebody Kill Me (also from The Wedding Singer); and just to rub it in, the Gloria Gaynor classic I will survive ...

I don’t think I’ll be needing it any time soon, so any suggestions are welcome!

________________
P.S. No former girlfriends were harmed in the writing of this blog.

Upside down and backwards

Yesterday, sometime midmorning, before being flung from a desk in the Grade 5 class, Anri-Louise, the Grade 3 teacher, discovered that her beautiful purple top was inside out. She went to the bathroom to change but got distracted and forgot. 

And when she arrived in class one of her girls pointed it out: "Miss Anri-Louise, your shirt is upside down!" (Yes, this is her second language).

"Well, sweetie, it's actually not upside down, it's inside out, and that's because we're having INSIDE OUT DAY," Anri quickly recovered. And so she sent the whole class to the bathroom to put their shirts on inside out, and turned it into a game of observation - the first three staff members or students to notice that the whole Grade three class was "inside out" would each win a prize.

Amazingly quick thinking on one's feet, I say. And the whole class had a whole lot of fun!

So I cried over some cucumber

Anri, after being flung to the floor by a desk

Anri-Louise once again adds to the humour and cringe-worthiness of my blog...

There are bad weeks; there are positively horrid weeks; and then there are weeks like I’ve just endured. (This is more or less where I picture you, the reader, nodding with understanding and a sympathetic grin.) Rob has introduced me to you as the KLUTZ, but the past few weeks supersede all.

It all started with a drive to the doctor for a painful “belly”, as my school kids would call it, only to return with four separate, totally unrelated diagnoses – all needing treatment. The first set of antibiotics added an allergic reaction to the list and so it was back to the doctor again, an excursion taking a minimum of three hours through the hustle, bustle and fumes of Tana. The second set of treatment was more readily accepted by my body, but did less than nothing to the germs, and so I returned once again for visit number three. (Kim has suggested I return to South Africa for general maintenance – like a used car...)

I am okay, I tell myself, lying in the dark – the electric cables to my house having been stolen, and the month’s meat supply in a bloody mess in the bin. It is not so bad that the guard filled my new containers set aside for bed linen with soil for his gardening project. Serving burnt rice to my Church homegroup, I can also deal with. I am okay. I AM okay. I am OKAY.

But as we all know, when it rains it pours, and right now it seems to be raining “cows and pigs” (one of my little girls' cute quotes). I survived the school bathrooms when antibiotic number four again had my system rebelling. I laughed at the unbelief on Rob’s face when I toothpicked my filling out in the lunch room. I watched in a mirror as the dentist took 90 minutes to replace the filling using makeshift tools but saved me from a threatening abscess on the other side of my jaw. I apologised for breaking Kim’s louver window while trying to close it and for getting angry with Rob for absolutely no reason (that he could see). I lived through my cellphone staying behind in a taxi, never to be seen or heard from again. And then this morning I sat on the only broken desk in the entire grade 5 class and was catapulted to the floor in a heap.

But in the end it was a simple piece of cucumber that broke the camel’s back... I was eating salad at Sue’s; the cucumber fell to the floor (in slow motion), setting off a chain reaction only women would understand. Both men immediately fled the scene.

After a few bucketloads of tears I am telling myself once again that I am okay – mostly because of a tattooed smoker at the Three Horses Beer (THB) bar. Heading home from church he stopped me to take a picture of him with his friends... and then paid me for the job – all of $0.50! I laughed all the way home. I, a vazaha (foreigner), have just been paid 1000 Ariary to take a photo at a bar. Sure. God is still in control. And He will provide. Finances. Health. Some good luck. And laughter!

Dubley-do-right turns 10

The battle rages in a perfect spot for an ambush

Justin Dubs Skinnymalinks Midgley will be turning 10 tomorrow, but yesterday he celebrated with a “water fight party”. Seven boys and one boisterous girl joined him and his brothers and they played non-stop and noisily for two hours. His mother exceeded her cake-creating reputation with a custom “Clone Wars” R2D2. 

And then in the afternoon we headed off to an ear numbing, heart-stopping, stomach churning, yet Spirit-filled worship time at church. 

Along with cake design, the children also get to choose what they want for supper on their birthdays, which (yesterday) was Mommy’s special all-in farmer-style breakfast. Yes, breakfast for supper. And it was probably the best supper-breakfast I’ve ever tasted!

Okay, whose birthday is next?

(Click on pictures for bigger, better versions)

The famous cake

The waterfight begins. And no, none of this was choreographed...

Rumours and rain

That sounds like a song title ... but its not. The last week has seen a whole bucketload of rain (or maybe a little bit more) dumped on us by Cyclone Bingiza. This was of course accompanied by high winds, and on many an evening I sat at home listening to the torrent and my neighbours' roof sheets banging, creaking and threatening to fly off into the night.

I joked on arriving at school this week that we could advertise canoeing as an extra-mural activity when I saw the state of our soccer "field". And when the rain arrives while we are teaching I am left looking like a goldfish - opening and closing my mouth, my words drowned out by the thunderous storm. 

I've also been quite a source of hilarity for them in my rain gear. Honestly, I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because they've never seen me in long pants before? Perhaps its because I bought the stuff when I weighed 15kgs less than I do now.

Last night I headed home after a night out with friends across town, and was hit by the tail end of the cyclone. Before I knew it, the wind and rain had lashed and whipped and soaked me to the bone - right through my rain gear. Methinks its time to invest in a new rain suit. Or perhaps it's just a good idea not to be on the roads in the middle of a tropical storm.

It was rumoured that Madagascar's deposed president Marc Ravalomanana would be returning home today, and so hordes of people flocked to the airport to see him in along with six truckloads of riot police. Our electricity was off for many hours and the Internet didn't work (quite coincidentally, I'm sure.) But it all turned into a damp squib as the government prevented him from even boarding the plane in South Africa. It'll be interesting to see what comes of this politically...

Apart from that we celebrated a Midgley boy's birthday, went to a worship event at church and ate breakfast for supper. But more on that tomorrow when I've got a bit more energy...

A smiley-face slap

One of my readers, someone I can only refer to as “Anonymous” as they never left their name, recently criticised my friends Kim and Sue and myself for not integrating more into the community – for not learning the language, or understanding the customs; for setting ourselves apart in our “villas” and judging the nation from the comfort of our air-conditioned cars... 

I’m not here to defend our honour, or speak about what our lives are like in reality, but there were several things that irritated me about their judgmental comments – probably the most galling being that they signed off with a smiley face. Seriously, for future reference, if you want to comment positively or knock me then please be bold enough to leave your name – I like to know who both my friends and enemies are. And whatever you do, if you are being critical, then be critical – don’t try to appease your conscience or soften the blow with a smiley face. 

That would have been like the incident when I was in Grade 11 or 12, where a popular student who had a beef with me came up from behind during break and slammed my head into the side of my locker. He'd made his point and probably felt better about himself seeing blood running down my face and onto my uniform. It would have been rather incongruous for him to offer me a daisy after the fact...

But onto other things... A few days ago, after being inspired by Anri-Louise who has been doing this for some time, I had a stack of photos printed of children and families who live around me. Yesterday morning, before leaving for school, I went to each one’s home and handed them over. It was amazing to see their faces as they received these mementos – most of them have never had photos of their children or themselves to put on the shelf. 

How heart-warming to see the one old granny and her husband beaming at the pics of their grandchildren, or my friendly charcoal-selling neighbour’s enthusiastic response. They were small gifts, and easy for me to give, but the biggest gifts that these normal people would have received in a long, long time.

A place to lay my head

- The "Three Hogs" mountains outside Hogsback -

As I mentioned last Sunday, for just over two years after university, I worked for Outward Bound South Africa (OBSA) and was based for much of the time in Hogsback, a sleepy little village in the Eastern Cape Province.  It is fabled that J.R.R. Tolkien of Lord of the Rings fame spent time there, and used it as inspiration. That’s debatable, but one could actually imagine little Hobbits and other mythical creatures running around the misty forests, past the Madonna and Child and Kettlespout waterfalls and across the hills overlooked by the rough-hewn, striking Three Hogs and Gaika’s Kop mountains.

- The one-and-only dirt road to the village -

I was very much the new recruit, and so didn’t exactly get to choose my accommodation. My first “bedroom” was in the more basic of the instructors’ houses, which I shared with three colleagues. I had a closet for my few belongings in the lounge, and slept on a wooden ledge above the open-plan kitchen, which was accessed by a make-shift ladder. The ledge was slightly wider than the mattress itself, and for privacy there was a thin curtain slung across its length, hiding my snoring from the communal area below. Fortunately I didn’t sleepwalk, but getting to the bathroom, half asleep, for mid-night emergencies was a challenge. Whenever anything aromatic was cooked below (bacon being a good example) I enjoyed the fragrance in bed for hours after. But it was at least better than my first-year’s “field accommodation” – a big old tarp and thin, blue foam mattress. 

Fortunately, whenever an instructor left those who had been there longest got to choose a new room, and so I gradually moved up in the accommodation sweepstakes. My next room was in the slightly better house, which was prized for its fireplace. Here the kitchen was on the lower level, and my room was once again attached to it – this time in the cool, damp basement, with a Hobbit-height door, low roof and little window to the outside. Whenever anyone walked on the floorboards above I would hear them, and once again I was awakened whenever the kitchen was used. 

We used two kinds of fuel when out in the field – reasonably harmless methylated spirits for the students’ stoves, and the much more volatile benzene for our high-pressure stoves. Anyway, so one chilly evening I volunteered to start the fire at home and used a jug of ‘meths’ to get the damp logs going. The next thing, I found myself dazed and very unpopular behind the couch – I had used benzene by mistake and had blown the chimney off. That I wasn’t injured was a miracle, but it’s given me something to talk about around many a barbecue (and here).

My final interesting spot to rest my head in Hogsback (after the wooden hut I mentioned on Sunday) was a walk-in cupboard. We had run out of bedrooms, and I was out in the field most of the time with students anyway, so I was housed in the cupboard at the end of the passage. It was wide enough for a mattress, had plenty of shelves for all my gear and felt perfectly private. Fortunately, after having slept in a one-man tent for so long it felt just like home. 

And it makes my current one-room bachelor pad seem quite palatial. 

- Our playground, along with Hobbits and the like -

Adults can be so silly sometimes

Battle-ready 2, originally uploaded by Robin.

This evening at the dinner table Evan asked me to help him with something, and when I was done his mother asked if he had thanked me. "Thank you," he replied obediently, to which I asked, "Thank you who?"

"Uncle Rob!?!" was his quizzical response, as if saying to me, "Hold on, surely you know your name by now! Why do you need a 4-year-old to remind you?"

After supper, while checking her mail, his mother clicked on a You Tube video link and then clicked several times on the video itself as it was opening. (Our Internet is incredibly slow here in Madagascar.) "It's a video, Mommy. You've got to wait for it to load before you can watch it," was his sage advice.

"Old people. They're so silly sometimes."

Tis Tuesday

Unexpected Bougainvillia beauty in a communal wash area

(My last two days' posts refer...)

I saddled the old nag this morning and trotted over to the other side of town on her for the first time in three months. As she gets more and more decrepit with age I haven't been taking her out very far, and the incident where I knocked a young girl down also still weighs on my mind (especially because it is happening more and more frequently here - often with fatal results).

Tropical Storm Bingiza was still making herself known in fits and starts, but overall it was a pretty uneventful and not-too-wet trip.

I am always amazed when I find efficiency in this town of chaos: I'm seeing a specialist in tropical diseases at the Seventh Day Adventist Clinic, and I already feel like a new man after starting with the medication he prescribed yesterday. Although I suspected it was this bad, he confirmed that Tana sits amongst the top-5 most polluted cities in the world, which makes serious allergies pretty commonplace. He drew blood for more specific tests, and the vial was rushed straight off to a lab for testing. It seems as if we have caught it before it becomes a chronic problem.

He also tells me that it should be relatively easy to remedy. All I need is to find a sunnier, drier, more airy abode, hidden far from the main road with its choking fumes. Thank you too to everyone for your prayers ...

I love travelling through town on my bike, because I get to stop and take photos whenever the mood catches me. Here are a few from the last two days: (click on photos for bigger, clearer versions)

The wash area, sandwiched between two main roads

Happy as a bug in a tub: a little child waits for her mom to finish with the washing, while quietly chewing on a brick of soap

Roadside washline

Cocooned: A baby acts as weight to the washing.

Art Pub: For all your printing needs, and second-hand car licence plates

The Rova (Queen's Palace) as seen from the Waterfront road

Happy anti-Valentine's Day

And so another Valentine's Day has come and gone. And to a large extend I think it passed this island by, unlike Tropical Cyclone Bingiza, which made landfall from the east earlier this morning. We are largely protected from the most severe rain and wind because we are inland, but I sure am pleased I wasn't on Ile St. Marie around now...

If I were in South Africa I would have celebrated the day with my Valentine-weary single friends for an "anti-Valentine's Day" party, but being here, Anri and I ended up at the Midgleys for some no-love-lost-here COD shooting, and a slap-up meal of beef, veggies and heavenly ice cream for dessert...

I went to the doctor today and came away with some medication and another appointment tomorrow morning for allergy tests. And now I feel drug-induced sleep coming on. Oh yes, and I did receive two cards - from my Grade 9s and a Grade 7...

Any ladies out there who are interested, take note: "I am a man full of love and (good) personality."

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.

Not the sounds of silence

A neighbourhood child: captured on her way home from school

I've been lying in bed sick for the last few days. When I returned from South Africa a month ago I developed a chest malady, which has just become progressively worse, until it laid me up at the beginning of the week. But then, Madagascar has a reputation, with all of its weird bugs, of being unkind to foreigners.

But it hasn't been a complete waste - I've found some time to read inbetween my bouts of coughing and I've also learnt something - Tana is loud ... and alive. 

With the rising of the sun so the mish-mash of sound grows. It comes in waves - the sound of water being poured for washing of clothes; the drone of my nextdoor neighbour's voice punctuated by the harsh shriek of his sister's strident laugh; the man in the street, sounding like a Mongolian throat singer, calling for people to bring out their rubbish or recyclable bottles; a persistent person tirelessly knocking on a metal gate, with no response from within, for what seems like hours; the chickens clucking, rooster crowing and neighbour's children loudly (and irritatingly) copying its call; the sirens from the main road as a politician passes by; the thump thump thump bass of an unrecognisable song emanating from deep within the mess of homes; the happy sounds of children playing loudly outside my front gate; said ill-fitted gate being slammed open and closed ad nauseum; babies crying; ladies gossiping at the little shop next door; dogs barking; a scooter being coaxed back to life, then spluttering down our walkway ... 

And so it goes on until dusk casts a blanket on our little community. I could say more. I could speak about the fact that we can't afford to cut ourselves off from others, can't afford to get too comfortable in our safe little bubbles; that we should never be quiet, that we are called to proclaim the truth and love and salvation that we know, that gives us hope; that we are here to make a difference in real people's lives ... But I won't. That subject can wait for another day ...

Some more neighbourhood children, at the end of my little road

Sorry, how much will that be?

Living in a foreign country has its challenges. One of those is money – not only the lack of it but dealing with a foreign currency...

And here in Madagascar we deal with two, sometimes three ... It keeps us on our toes and is hilarious at times.

Again, some background: In the 1920s Madagascar gained the Malagasy Franc (FMG) as its currency – pegged to the French Franc. And it remained the official currency until 2005 when former president Marc Ravalomanana, trying to sever ties with the French, and open his country to the world, changed the currency to the Ariary. (Currently approx. 2000 Ariary = 1USD, while approx. 280 Ariary = 1 Rand.)

Here’s where it gets interesting. All products are marked in Ariary, but the majority of the population still thinks in FMG. The large notes are only in Ariary, while the smaller notes carry both the Ariary and FMG amounts. So, a typical scene at our local supermarket (which I see often) would go something like this:

Checkout lady: “That’ll be 24100 Ariary ($12), please”

Customer: “How much is that in FMG?”

Checkout lady: “120 500”

The customer then counts out the ARIARY, while doing the conversion to FMG in their heads! So, while removing a 10 000 Ariary note she would say to herself, "50 000" and so on until reaching the amount owed...

Taxis, roadside vendors, kids at school, indeed the majority of all trade here is quoted in FMG, but one always has to check. So, when buying tomatoes, if the lady says “1500”, then you ask, "FMG, or Ariary"? FMG being the answer, you hand over a 500 Ariary note. When I first arrived here, and before I understood this concept, I was most put-out when I was told to pay “1000” for a short bus ride. When I showed my ire, all the passengers burst out laughing and explained that I'd been quoted the FMG price, that it was only 200 Ariary, and that the vazaha wasn’t being picked on! 

And then, every now and then, one has to make payments in dollars too, like for airplane tickets or credit card purchases! Recently I had to register several students for their SAT exams (in dollars). I paid with my South African credit card, did the dollar conversion to Rands, then to Ariary, and finally into FMG to tell them what they owed... How the head swims!

Fortunately, when I was growing up, calculators were a luxury and my dad always stressed the importance of doing sums in my head. Thanks dad - without your wisdom way back when, I'd be lost!