tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102902302024-03-13T20:54:29.221-07:00Excerpts from the Peanut GalleryKikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.comBlogger319125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-21291129451039873072013-03-18T22:01:00.004-07:002013-03-18T22:01:31.939-07:00AddendumI stand corrected: I miss Madagascar.<br />
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<br />Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-22109595828585066542013-01-20T11:15:00.001-08:002013-01-20T11:17:54.599-08:00The Final Countdown<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">More
than a year ago, a friend and coworker who was leaving Madagascar sent me in her final months of work a departure tracker. It's an excel spreadsheet
that, while perhaps not a very stylish, is pretty clever. But then I've
always been impressed by what a simple old excel worksheet can do - its
the clydesdale of our times and we'd be lost without it, no matter what
the smooth talking software developers tell you about their fancy-pants
data management tools. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
never bothered to set it up for myself, because somehow I never was
quite sure I was leaving. But this week it ended up in my inbox again as
I may have mentioned once or twice to some of my coworkers that there
are but a few short days left for me in Madagascar. Turns out, I marked
800 days since I first arrived in Madagascar this week. I will also only
add about 20 or so to that and then be finishing up here. It tells me,
down to the second, when I will have completed my "tour" here and I have
to admit, it's pretty satisfying to open it up and see that I'm in the 1
percentile. I'm in the home stretch!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In
November 2010, I came to Madagascar for five weeks. Now, more than two
years and several false departures, I'm actually coming home. Promise.
And while the homecoming has been longed for and expected many times
before, now that it's actually on the horizon, it's a little bit
bittersweet. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can't say two years in Madagascar have been easy or full of sublime
joy. I know you're supposed to ooze with love of a newfound culture on
these blog things and talk about how you felt just so at home in your new land. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Well
I didn't. Not until the near end, at least - and even now, it's more
like Madagascar and I have come to have a healthy respect and
appreciation for one another (and one another's boundaries), rather than the puppy love of wide-eyed adventurers. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There
were a lot of lonely, baffling moments. This culture is unlike any
other - I have tried to tell any other <i>vazah </i>that comes here, even if
they're fresh off the Air France flight ,that they need to get it
through their head quickly that Madagascar is not African, it's not
Asian, it belongs to no other continental culture. If anything, it
belongs to the Indian Ocean. It truly is its own island. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But
that doesn't mean these two years haven't had their sublime moments. I
can remember looking out over rolling hills and eucalyptus groves once
in an area that can fairly justly be called "the middle of nowhere"
thinking to myself I'm one of only a handful of people - let alone
Canadians - who ever get to see this piece of the earth. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can also remember running many Sunday afternoons along the beach of the
crashing and cajoling Indian Ocean and thinking "here I am... wow."
When I look out over the waves, and the blue stretches away it's crazy
to think that the next stop is Western Australia. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can remember a lot of brunches featuring jambon cru, muffins, quiche,
an assortment of cheese and tropical fruits with a motley crew of Brits,
Japanese, fellow Canucks, Moroccans and, once, a rogue German. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can remember balancing on the back of a motorcycle trying to film what
this place looks like, weaving between bicycle rickshaws, children, 4x4
pick-ups, several dogs, the odd chicken and more rickshaws. It was
chaotic and went in starts and fits and it smelled of exhaust, but once
we got out of the rickshaw-jam, it smelled like cloves. Cloves, sunshine
and a nice drive to the beach, it's a pretty unbeatable way to spend an
afternoon. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can remember attending the 236th Annual Marine Ball. I can remember
being as speechless then as I am now, just at the thought of it. 16,000
km from the US every year, the flag is saluted, presented and pomped and
circumstanced around a ballroom with the glitterati of the expatriate
and political community in Tana. The US Marines that guard embassies
around the world throw a ball every year no matter where they are, so it
was kind of neat, kind of funny, to think that ambassadors and grungy
aid workers across the globe were schmoozing in their tails and
feathers. And if you don't believe me, I have the commemorative cup they
gave us to prove it. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can't even count the number of times I remember sitting in Cafe de la
Gare, an odd piece of Paris 1924 swarmed in a sea of Antananarivo 2013.
Driving up to it is one of the more chaotic market streets where women
sit in <i>lambas </i>(sarong skirts) <span style="font-size: small;">flimsy</span> costume jewellery next to men in
addidas selling cellphone chargers or sometimes just a five-minute
charge. Then the driver turns right into the gated parking lot and the
Gare (the old train station) looms as dignified as the Dowager Countess
of Grantham. When you walk into the Cafe de la Gare, it's an enclave of
civility and society from another century. Giant wrought-iron
chandeliers above, leather seats below, a giant fireplace made out of an
boiler engine, and the funny bathroom in an old train car, where the
seats nearly touch the doors. On the walls are my favourite part though:
archive photos of Antananarivo from the late 19th and early 20th
centuries right up to a truly special one with a bohemian band climbing
aboard a train at the station in 1960. Not only is the Gare a nice place
to sit, but they'll let you sit there ad infinitum. Quite often on a
Wednesday night or a Sunday afternoon, a group of us would gather to
play board games. Usually a round of Puerto Rico would last the dinner
and a couple of drinks after, but I also can remember the only time I
ever wanted to leave the Gare. One Sunday afternoon someone rallied the
troops for a game and one of the teachers at the American school brought
a game called Joan of Arc. That it revolved around the hundred years
war should have been our first clue. It was the hundred years game. We
met at about noon and no number of rounds of beer, no amount of "what's
one more crepe?"-ing could get us to the end. I finally ducked out with a
friend at about seven, but I think the game could have continued and
the history teacher (of course) looked at us reproachfully for deserting
Joan in her hour of need. It's not like we didn't already know it
wasn't going to go well for her though. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can remember so many things that have happened here, people I've met or
places I've seen now that I get going. A friend asked me recently what I
will miss the most when I am back home or where ever I move onto next.
If I am honest, I don't think I will miss Madagascar in the sense that I
will not long to be back here. I know that sounds awful, but about
eight months after I came here, I was relieved when a very kind friend
told me I don't have to love everything and every place doesn't have to
capture my heart. It isn't that I don't like Madagascar, and sure I'll
miss the balmy 36 degrees and the sound of the ocean and the fresh
mangoes. But you can get tropical amenities all over, well, the tropics,
which happen to take up a large swathe of the earth. Oh and of course
I'll miss the people - I'm sort of supposed to say that, but the truth
is I already miss many of the people that have made this place for me
what it is. When I first got here, a few coworkers took me to <i>Veloma </i>(farewell) parties to meet other people. It's been a revolving door since I got here and maybe that's what's made it hard. My fast and fabulous friends that I've made here aren't here any more. They're scattered in around the globe now in the UK, Panama,
Oman, South Africa, Mauritius, Sudan, Australia, the US, Japan,
Canada... </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
may not miss Madagascar exactly (who knows, maybe I will), but I will cherish the time I've had
here and the incredible things I've seen, eaten, smelled, experienced.
As much as Madagascar included some times of loneliness, it also brought people into my life that I would never have gotten
to meet in any other place. What I find incredible is
that we were all managed to get here, this mass of deep red earth in the
middle of the Indian Ocean so far from where we came, if only for a little bit - and that sort of
thing doesn't just happen by chance. I think that will be what I will
take with me from Madagascar and love most. I had to come 16,000 kms
(and for someone who hates flying that's got to mean something profound) and it
was obviously worth it, because I have gotten two years that I couldn't
have had anywhere else on the planet. </span></div>
<span class="HOEnZb" style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #888888;">
</span></span>
<div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span class="HOEnZb" style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #888888;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="HOEnZb"><span style="color: #888888;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 22px; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span></span>Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-53925139844777256302012-06-26T11:57:00.001-07:002012-06-26T12:13:05.747-07:00The Franco-Malagasy-English Vazah Dictionary: The Abridged Travel Version<br />
In honour of the festivities to mark Madagascar's Independence day, on this 26th of June 2012, and dedicated to my mother, my greatest fan, who celebrates her birthday this week, I give you an ode to communication in <em>l'Ile Rouge</em>...<br />
<br />
Once before I have written for you, dear reader, a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=7391557125" target="_blank">wildly successful Spanglish-Kiki Dictionary</a> that is now well into its third printing. Due to the overwhelming popularity of that volume, which was compiled after painstaking minutes of brief and rather shallow digression, and based on further anthropological study abroad, I have come to the conclusion that the world needs more help with translation. Indeed, in no place is this overwhelmingly evident as in Madagascar. I will shamelessly refer you to my earlier treatise on the <a href="http://kikitegelberg.blogspot.com/2011/07/lost-in-translation.html" target="_blank">mistranslations of one Sunny Golf Hotel</a> if you require further proof.<br />
<br />
Madagascar presents a unique and acute challenge to the translation editor. There are not one, but two languages in which one may be misunderstood: French and Malagasy. But I am not daunted, oh ho no. If Samuel Johnson can persevere, so can I. While a complete dictionary is a massive undertaking that will be several years in the making, I have taken the liberty of drawing up a preliminary list of some key phrases and terms that would be necessary for any intrepid explorer considering visiting the island of Madagascar. Let us begin with the <u>French-English</u>, shall we:<br />
<br />
Commande/Demande: <em>Co-mahnd/deh-mahnd</em>. 1) Polite request. In Madagascar, bureaucracy is a fine art. That is why it is critical that one knows that when they are presented with a <em>commande</em> or <em>demande</em> to formally <em>commander</em> or <em>demander quelque chose</em>, they are not being threatened nor inducted into the gendarmerie. It should not be confused with the menacing English DEMAND.<br />
<br />
En fait: <em>Awhn fay</em>. 1) In fact. People only deal with the facts here. There are a lot of facts too. Example: En fait, I went to the grocery store and, en fait, they were out of milk. Both. Facts. <br />
<br />
La bas: <em>LahBAH</em>, often spoken with a slight rolling L: lllah bah. 1) Literally, down there. 2) In conversation, there. Right there, no, no, over there. Can’t you see? La bas, there. 3) Alternatively, Here. Just, here. Yes, right here. <br />
<br />
Oeufs: uh-(f). <em>Eggs</em>. I include this one as there seems to be a great deal of confusion over its pronunciation. I have heard Malagasies fluent in French stare blankly at a French-speaker who is <em>commander</em>ing eggs for breakfast. I have also seen them think long and hard and then laugh and finally proceed to correct the person. <em>En fait</em>, the same incident has actually happened to <em>moi-meme</em>, if you can believe it. Potato/potahto I guess. Nevertheless, it is important to note well the correct Malagasy pronunciation as soon as one arrives in country, as otherwise one will be precluded from clarifying that one does not want eggs on every dish served, including pizzas. <br />
<br />
Voila: Emphatically on both syllables, <em>Vawh-lah</em>. 1) There you go. Or 2) There YOU go. It finishes any sentence as the consummate summation of all preceding facts presented within the sentence. 2) Less emphatic summation, similar to the English phrase “so… yeah…”<br />
<br />
<u>Malagasy-English</u>:<br />
<br />
Alefa: <em>ah-LEY-fa</em>. Go for it. Go ahead. Give’er, g’awhn, gun it son. <br />
<br />
Inovowvow: <em>EE-no-vuh-VOW</em>. Whatsap? This always produces a smile on the Malagasy face when sputtered by vazah (see below). <br />
<br />
Mora Mora: <em>Mooe-ruh, mooe-ruh</em>. 1) Slowly, slooowwwwly. And how. It is often offered as a comforting reminder or a kind command to observe that whatever you have requested will likely come slowly, slowly. 2) Alternatively, never. <br />
<br />
Vazah: <em>Vuh-ZAH</em>: 1) Literally, foreigner. 2) Emotion(s) expressed by laughter and pointing. One day I will write an entire book to expound on this word. For now, let it suffice to say it loosely translated as “expatriate” or “foreigner” but is bandied about rather excessively, if you ask me. For example, it is often shouted by mothers to their children when beckoning them to come out of the house and see the vazahs coming by. Now, ok, sure the first time I was out with my Sunday morning running group jogging along the dykes separating the rice paddies and irrigation ditches around the suburbs of Tana, I can imagine them wanting a gander at the spectacle. And sure, we were all pale women wearing rather bold neon reflective running outfits. And yes, we were all sweltering and wilting, because we were snowflakes (see below) not built for that kind of exertion in the highland heat. But that’s no reason to point and laugh every Sunday thereafter when the experience repeated itself. <br />
<br />
Veloma: <em>Vel-OO-ma</em>. 1) Bye! 2) See you later! 3) Happy Trails! 4) Bon Voyage! 5) Write often! 6) We’ll miss you! 7) Safe Travels! 8) Good luck! 9) Godspeed! 10) It is also often used to describe the traditional final party when someone moves away, a veloma party, or just a veloma. 11) Sending someone off in style. <br />
<br />
<u>Bonus! English-English </u><br />
<br />
Snowflake: <em>SNO-flehkh</em>. This is particular to the dialect spoken by the east coast male vazah, though its usage is spreading to the wider vazah community. It refers to a female vazah – pretty, delicate, white, melts at high temperatures. I am, apparently, a snowflake. <br />
<br />Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-66347695326635558112012-03-21T11:02:00.005-07:002012-03-21T11:14:49.470-07:00Wu Chao YingAhh I see I have been remiss – and after being so good for two whole weeks! Well, fret not my loyal, if small, following. Have I got a treat for you. I do so hope you will accept it as a humble offering for my degenerate failure to post last week.<br /><br />If you’ve been here a time or two, you may have surmised that I am a bit of a fan of coffee. I am confident enough to admit that some nights I climb into bed and shut my eyes tightly and tell myself if I am good and fall asleep quickly, then I can get up and have coffee first thing in the morning. No seriously, I’m like a child on Christmas Eve when I realise that there is a bag of beans wrapped in a shiny package nestled under the cupboard in my kitchen.<br /><br />You can imagine how I felt when I moved into company housing with a cafeteria that, while happily offering soft bacon and a solid salad bar, had the traditional cafeteria sludge that can only be made from ground up coffee branches instead of beans. There is a vending-style espresso machine that offers a selection of beverages that are quite drinkable, but regardless, the fact remains that both of these options are a six minute walk from my housing and only available during concise eating hours and I need a steady drip rather than a one-shot betty each morning.<br /><br />Something had to be done.<br /><br />Concurrently, I had a hankering last weekend, as one does, to do a bit of shopping. I didn’t really need anything, but I thought it would be nice on a Saturday afternoon to go do a bit of window shopping, visit the butcher, get something tasty to nibble on Saturday night and maybe find a new kitchen tool or book to treat myself. The answer to this in Vancouver would be a toodle down to Granville Island, or an hour’s stroll on Broadway.<br /><br />The answer to this in Tamatave is a $4200 ticket purchased electronically on expedia.ca back to Vancouver. That was not the kind of money I was looking to spend (and you thought translink tickets were atrocious). Happily, there is one magical place where both my desire to peruse the latest merchandise and answer the more long term and disconcerting issue of coffee supply is a little place I like to call Wu Chao Ying’s (because that’s what the owner named it – it’s painted on the sign).<br /><br />How can I describe Wu Chao’s? Let me count the ways… there are not many that I think will do it justice, so allow me to use my humble words and when all else fails, defer to a photo.<br /><br />Wu Chao is like no other place you’ve shopped at – unless you are 102 and then you probably have, but when you patronized such an establishment, it was called “ye old general store” (kudos to you for making it this far, by the way).<br /><br />Now, the more astute of my readers (or the Vancouver ones at least) will notice that the name is not particularly Malagasy, but has distinct Asian undertones. You are correct. There is, of course, a Chinese business presence in Madagascar. We’ve all heard tales of the Chinese diaspora growing in Africa and perhaps you are curious about their strategy for ingratiating themselves locally. Direct military intervention? Diplomatic manoeuvring? Land acquisition? Bold faced flag planting? None of these things. The way I see it, they are doing it the same way they did it in North America: Sell the unsuspecting fools every possible dazzling item that can be manufactured so they are desperate for more.<br /><br />And do they ever. Wu Chao has a veritable smorgasbord of items on offer: plastic basins, gadgets and utensils, rice cookers, soap – laundry, dish, hand – treats and booze and pickles and pasta. There are rain slickers and tools and widgets and wing-nuts. I bought a very stylish pair of white rubber boots and kettle when I was there last. Today I was after the prized coffee maker.<br /><br />I decided upon a sleek, understated and modern affair from a trusted name and at the right price. These qualities are all quite exceptional, because at the other appliance merchants in Tamatave, you are either paying through the nose for something far fancier than you ever wanted or you are getting something that will most likely spontaneously combust. Case in point, I bought a $10 toaster at the grocery store a few weeks ago and the shop assistant prepared to do the typical “look it works madame!” plugin test before I was allowed to take it home, but this time he wouldn’t actually plug it in until he had actually replaced the plug part. I chose to overlook that. It did, after all, work.<br /><br />At Wu Chao, I was confident I was getting quality. And quality service. Wowee! Now, should you ever be in Tamatave and wishing to purchase … um, anything… let me just brief you before your maiden Wu Chao voyage. They have a system. It’s unlike any other system you will encounter. It’s a delightful system, once you get used to it.<br /><br />The system you are used to probably goes something like this: you pick up your shopping cart at the front entrance. The finer establishments will let you have it for free because there is a mutual respect and regard between you and the proprietor, though some places must take the silly precaution that you may want to keep the useless, cow-sized buggy for free and insist on you giving them a whole quarter as a guarantee you’ll replace it in the appropriate receptacle when you are done. Now, I wouldn’t know from experience, having not really led much of a life of crime to speak of, but I do secretly doubt that a quarter would be sufficient deterrent for those hell-bent on keeping the cart, but I trust there is plenty of market research to support this business policy. So we progress – you take your cart and you proceed inside and you wander aimlessly the aisles lined in a similar fashion, the world over: dairy, fresh produce, meat and baked goods along the outer walls and packaged items, such as but not limited to: dry goods, chips and pop, salad dressing, paper towels and other sundries, on the parallel inside aisles. You are pretty much left to your own devices to peruse at your leisure. In fact, you’ll be damned if you can’t ever find a stock boy, a manager, anyone! who can help you locate molasses. They do, of course, move them on a quarterly basis as a matter of policy. Once you find your items and give up hope on the molasses, you proceed to the check-out counters. These are also in neat rows and, if you are at Walmart, will number about 24 stands, with only number 2 and number 18 open. Of course, you had the misfortune of putting toilet bowl cleaner last on your list, which would conveniently spit you out of aisle 12, just in front of checkout stand 18, which is inconveniently preceded by a mass queue snaking in front of it. You naturally look for another checkout, and start making your way to #2, but since it’s a football field’s distance away by the time you make it there, it has also grown a line and you are no better off.<br /><br />At Wu Chao, it’s a brave, old world. The first time I – and anyone else I know who has ever shopped there – came, it was a startling experience. We all did as we normally do, minus the cow-sized cart, which were nowhere to be found. We entered and proceeded to wander the aisles and peruse the merchandise. Everything seemed normal, until you reached out to take your first item off the shelf. Even if you were just meaning to read the label, you wouldn’t get that far, because every time – Every. Time. – there is a shop assistant that will materialize out of thin air and gently supersede your reach, taking the item down for you, gingerly showing you and asking the pre-requisite “<em>c’est bon madame?”</em> prior to adding it to your list.<br /><br />Oh yes, you have a list.<br /><br />You have a list and you’re not allowed to see it. That’s right, they hold the list. And all your items. No cow-sized carts, just the heavily laden arms of your new friend.<br /><br />The slogan written over the door at Wu Chao is, after all, “<em>Vous trouverez de tout… meme un ami!”</em> And they guarantee that you do indeed find everything, including that friend, by providing one, and then a few extras in stock just in case. Of course, you can’t take them home with you, because they have to finish their shift, but they’ll be here for you when you need a helping hand. Wu Chao is single-handedly employing more than half the city – and who can fault them for that? They have one person to follow you around and write your items down on a draft list. They have another person who then transfers that list to the real good receipt paper and adds it up at the front desk. Then down the long bench you go to the person who adds it up again for verification and takes your payment. Incidentally, they sell cash registers, but they don’t use them. After paying, you, naturally, return back down to the end of the long table and benches to where your goods were originally tallied. What ensues is usually a complex dance with the person who tallies and the shop handyman/assistant and your driver. Eventually, after a few uncoordinated steps to the left and left again with the bag, without the bag, you will be in your car with your new goodies and on your way.<br /><br />Yes, Wu Chao is an experience to be sipped slowly, methodically and without question. You want to carry your own shampoo selection? <em>You can’t. That is interdit</em>. You want that boot in size 9? <em>Try 6… just try it. Go on</em>. You wish to pay? <em>Right away madame, in 35 agonizingly long minutes, we will have you on your way</em>. It’s not a place for the independent power shop of the average North American woman. But Wu Chao, I feel, is somehow good for me. It forces me to do things in someone else’s mind-boggling way. Too often, I know my way is best. And that may be, but it’s not always about having things my way. And the side benefit is a funny, simple pleasure from doing things someone else's completely different way.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-76644657928706451002012-03-04T08:59:00.004-08:002012-03-04T09:23:31.644-08:00TreatsOne of the little luxuries that life abroad afords me is fabulous nail care. I was a loyal and frequent customer of a salon called Cocooning in Tana. Aside from the strange verb form of the name, it is a bit appropriate in another sense. Inside Cocooning are the real ex-pat and local elite wives of Antananarivo, getting their nails done or bringing their children in for a most unwanted haircut. There is the normal assortment of beauty magazines – Glamour, Marie Claire, Paris Match – and it’s clear and bright with fresh orchids accenting the chrome and white leather décor. In Tana, I got a pedicure almost every two weeks – why not, it was a ludicrous fraction of the price back home? I would walk over from my apartment on a Sunday afternoon and sit and have my feet massaged and primped and painted by a middle-aged Malagasy woman who had a spark of glamour and smoker’s cough. I would flip through the fashion magazines and pretend for a moment that there was realistic scenario on this planet in which I would actually consider picking up that $2000 purse on my next trip home.<br /><br />One particular day a few months ago, I walked back home, up the drive past the chain link fence with roses stubbornly, defiantly pushing through the metal, pick my way across the world’s 7th most terrifying intersection and walked back down towards my gated community. I crossed the Jovenna petrol station parking lot and was as usual joined on the other side by the horde of street kids who walked in step for a few meters, madaming me, only to peel off when I proved impervious. After this I came out on the narrow road and try to simultaneously avoid garbage and speeding cars. I remember as I turned onto the street a mother and daughter with a small baby in tow turn kitty corner towards me from a the opposite cross street. They weren’t the poorest Tana has to offer, but they were bad enough off. <em>They have nothing to do with the $2000 purse</em>, I thought. <em>It may as well not even exist</em>.<br /><br />This is the life of an expat. Regardless of whether we are talking missionary, aid worker, diplomat or someone who is working for a foreign company, we all have vestiges of this experience. Maybe many don’t experience the ultimate extremes of this, but there is usually this baffling dichotomy that they walk between daily when living in a developing country. They see this type of poverty daily, a good lot of them working hard to improve things, and often they take an evening to go for drinks at the one nice restaurant in town or a pedicure to keep their sanity.<br /><br />This post isn't an apology for my pedicures. We all have treats and these just happen to be one that I can afford here and not so often at home. I was reminded of this scene in my head today and it got me thinking a bit. I walked down to the beach on this leisurely Sunday afternoon, because, <em>after all</em>, I said to myself, <em>how often is the Indian Ocean just a 6 minute walk away</em>? The beach is luxurious no matter where it is and the best part is, it’s free. This particular stretch of Indian Ocean was near-deserted with a handful of fishermen down on the jetty and three other foreign workers strolling in the distance. The sand is golden and fine and the waves roar impressively. I found that, similar to our annual vacation to Cannon Beach, I am glued to the waves, always watching to see if the next wave that starts can beat the last one for height and sound and spray.<br /><br />As I walked back there was a beat-up old blue mini-van with some kids scampering around on the path up from the beach. They were much better off than the ones that madame me in Tana, and they were enjoying the afternoon at the beach as heartily as I was. For some reason I was struck by a moment of free luxury in the simplicity of it all.<br /><br />I have given up wine for lent. It was a decision that was made retroactively (as I realised Lent started about 4 days earlier, but the Lord isn’t known to be picky about these things). Aside from the primary reason of foregoing something in order to enter into a deeper understanding of what was foregone for me, and to enter into the discipline it must have taken to stand there and take it all, there is another side-benefit that hinges on something I’ve been mulling over lately.<br /><br />My people (as in, Canadians, westerners, young 20- and 30-somethings, redheads, Vancouverites, etc.) aren’t really known for the virtue of discipline and simplicity. Sure, I know many people who discipline their bodies, pushing them hard to excel in some sport or other, doing cockamamie things like sleeping in the snow or running for days on end. Those are all impressive and good, but they aren’t quite what I mean. We aren’t known for depriving ourselves of anything we truly, or even marginally, want. What’s more, I don’t think we’re known for being any more satisfied that any other segment of society. Now, I will certainly give the caveat that until I’ve had to scrounge for food in a rubbish heap, I probably can’t fully comment on what satisfies and what doesn’t. However, this post is not about getting into a debate on the lavish excess of the west and the virtue of the poor. As a good friend of mine once quoted, poverty isn’t itself a virtue.<br /><br />But being content and satisfied with your gift is.<br /><br />I gave up wine, because it’s something I genuinely enjoy – not in a desperate, can’t-function alcoholic way, but in a slow sip taken in front of a wide view that washes around your tongue at the end of a well-earned day way and because it’s my other little cheap luxury treat here. I can find fine South African and French wines that I would otherwise not get to taste back home; they are rich and satisfying, just like a nice foot massage during a pedicure. There is nothing inherently wrong with these treats. If you read Robert Ferrar Capon’s chapter on wine in <em>The Supper of the Lamb</em> you will know how heartily good they can be. The point is not what treat I picked to forego – it could have been any number of things – it’s what I do with it this time without the treat. The challenge of Lent is to dig my toes into the luxury that has been given me. It is to gain satisfaction not from the treats that life gives me, but the fact that I have been given life itself.<br /><br /><br /><em>“For when I gaze at his crucifixion, I see my death indeed – but my death</em> done<em>! His death is the death of the selfish one, whom I called ugly and hated to look upon.<br />And resurrection is another me.”</em><br /><br />-Walter Wangerin, “In Mirrors” in <em>Bread and Wine.</em>Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-23202915578668838782012-02-26T09:31:00.003-08:002012-02-26T10:17:48.544-08:00Oh Canada!I see, to my dismay and shame, that my last post was October 2011. Now, whilst I beg the caveat that I still feel like there are days I catch myself writing 2002 and not 2012 on my dates so should be excused from some time lapses, I want you to fear not dear reader – I have turned over a new leaf and will solemnly swear not to let you down like that again, if you will in turn take my humbly apology and forgive me.<br /><br />Now, much has happened – where to even start? This might take a few posts to catch us up and soothe the distrust that lingers betwixt us. That’s ok. As I said – I’m committed.<br />Since my last post, I’ve been to Canada (for two whole months!) and back. When I came back to Madagascar, I moved to the Tamatave, on the coast, which – if you know just a teensy bit about me, which of course you do, my faithful three friends + mother – I am a big fan of coastlines all over the world. Let me rewind today to my time in Canada, because I have been meaning to tell you about this for a while.<br /><br />The first day back in Madagascar, I walked into the office of two lovely ladies with whom I work and was greeted with enthusiasm. One asked me “So, how was Canada??”<br />Me: (dreamily) “It was… (sigh)… Canadian.<br /><br />Now that I am safely back in the tropical world, where the cold, wind and rain are but a dream, I am mostly pleased – it’s hard to be discontent when your commute to work involves a five minute walk through a Eucalyptus grove, pungent with the aroma that people back home pay exorbitant fees to smell in a room that mimics the humid, full air here that I get for free. And just wait until clove season. Wow, I can’t even describe it. Imagine riding on the back of a motorcycle, and the smell of cloves rushing to you through the heavy, humid air on the pothole ridden street. It's what I imagine Christmas in Australia must be.<br /><br />As beautiful as it is, you know that there’s really nothing like going abroad to help you understand where you came from (I think Mandela or Tolkien once said something very profound and eloquent to that effect – trust them to take all the good quotes before I could even get here). Going home for those two months, made me appreciate the wind and the rain (sometimes, it is nice to be able to go a day without showering several times to wick off the sweat and heat). But the weather is inconsequential to the little things that make life sweet. I could easily gather a list of those things about Tamatave, but today, I’d like to dedicate this ode to Canada, and in particular, my hometown, Vancouver.<br /><br />You miss the strangest things when you are away. Allow me to name a few – so that you don’t feel too jealous of my free aromatherapy deal.<br /><br />1. Sidewalks. These are not known in Madagascar. Back home of course, we all complain about the broad cement slabs they’ve paved over paradise, but if you value your life – you’ll not speak too quickly on that subject. One of the reasons I love Tamatave is that I feel that it is wider. The streets are wide and there is occasionally a path on the sides of them for pedestrians, where maybe even two or so people could walk side by side. Not so in Tana. People often ask me if I feel safe and I tell them that while I wouldn’t be stupid and walk around with ma’ bling n’ stuff, all alone at night, what concerns me is not theft, but traffic. I am more worried that I’ll get hit by a car in Tana than I am about getting taken for a ride. The city has extended spidery legs around the hills that it covers, narrow streets with houses built often right on the edge. There is a shallow gutter that you can walk in in my neighbourhood, but it wouldn’t matter if two cars are passing each other – one or the other will need that gutter space to make it through, at which point you are clinging haplessly to the cement wall of the house or shop across the street and hoping not to get speared by one of those thorny bushes everyone seems to have here. I love that most people don’t feel the same thrill of danger I do when a car comes whipping by them a foot away at 65kms/hr.<br /><br />2. Tap water: Every day when I was home in Vancouver I got up and my primary cup of coffee was knocked out of first place priority drinking with a tall glass of cool tap water. You don’t miss it, until it’s gone. It’s a very disconcerting and panicking feeling when you get home late at night and don’t know if you have water to brush your teeth with, let alone gulp down should you be struck with a sudden wave of thirst as you often experienced as a 6 year old child just before bed. Sure, those strange moments where your tongue was as parched and cracked dry as the Sahara have largely disappeared – but drinking water, as was the case with the childhood desire to stay awake all night, when you realize that you can’t, that’s when you must. How I long to go into a restaurant and have them seat me and pour a glass of ice water in the same swift, efficient movement. The empty bottles that float around endlessly and cling, flattened, to the side of the road here are neither economical nor environmental. I tell myself that they provide free containers to the local populace, who then in turn make use of them as the building blocks of each and every product you could hope for – from flooring to toys. Yet, I have seen too many indignant documentaries and came of age in David Suzuki’s BC. There is a part of me that just can’t quite sleep easy, knowing the quantity of plastic it takes to keep me hydrated. Or maybe it’s still just a ploy to stay up later.<br /><br />3. Pickles! One just came with my lunch the first time I was out at home. I didn’t realize how much I had missed a good, juicy dill on the side of a plate with a handsome burger.<br /><br />4. Soft Kleenexes: I know it sounds needy– one Kleenex is as good as the other, right? Oh but wrong, so wrong. The tissues available here in Madagascar are so scratchy, my nose hurts after one! The trouble is that I am a habit nose-blower. I don’t know how this started, I blame my mother, who seems to have nurtured this which is not in others’ nature with her own need for copious quantities of Kleenex boxes, but now when I visit someone else’s house and there isn’t a box in the bathroom, I think how odd they must be, and perhaps just a smidgen too cavalier about hygiene for my tastes. But in Madagascar, what is the use? You may as well use paper towel (oh the humanity!). Even the ones with tissues avec l’aloe plastered in the side are a mean trick. They may have been spritzed with some aloe scent before leaving the factory, but there is nothing soothing or comforting about those scraps.<br /><br />5. Milk: Fresh, pasteurized, cold, normal 1% milk. It’s not Hennessey I’m wanting here, it’s milk. And not a lot: note that my semi-lactose stomach can only take so much. Just enough to top up the cup of coffee! It’s not so very demanding is it? But surely, for all those zebus, there is milk in Madagascar? You query. Oh there is, it’s called UHT: Ultra-high temperature. That means that it doesn’t need to be refrigerated. Ever. And you think that ultra-long life comes without exacting a perilous price in taste? How is that even possible?? You demand. I don’t know. It comes from Germany. Trust the Germans…<br /><br />6. Cafes: Among the supreme pleasures of west coast living is sitting idly in a coffee shop, watching the rain drip by, in time with the coffee. Even their exorbitant prices can be forgiven for what is essentially a hot cup of coffee-themed milk (but there you go again – milk, so ubiquitous to us from North America, turns out, is a precious commodity elsewhere). I can’t quite place my finger on the whole of it. It’s the calming jazz music, the baristas that want to be your best friend for the five minutes you loiter in front of them, and the fact that you are welcome to stay as long as your heart desires. I could wax eloquent on <a href="http://kikitegelberg.blogspot.com/2009/06/those-of-you-who-are-familiar-with-my.html">the philosophy I have about coffee</a> as the social glue that keeps us together, but I’ll just reiterate for now how wonderful it is to be beckoned in from the cold to the warm glow of a place meant for talking, sitting, watching and thinking. That space is not to be taken for granted.<br /><br />7. You know what else is not to be taken for granted? People – some of them just can’t be replaced and it’s a real, darn shame they can’t be in two places at once.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-86911890893485747792011-10-09T08:44:00.006-07:002011-10-09T11:02:33.623-07:00Why I Love Thanksgiving (an grade 3 essay by Kiki Tegelberg for Mrs. Cowan)<div style="text-align: left;">Over the last few years, thanksgiving has become one of my top holidays. Of course I love Christmas, don’t get me wrong. And doesn’t my mother know it: I’ve abused her for years with enormous present-pressure requiring each person of the family to receive equal and obtuse gifts and over-bearing Martha Stewart decoration regimes. However, I think thanksgiving is becoming my secret true love that I don’t want Christmas to find out about.</div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I love thanksgiving because it has all the wonderment, all the hearty good food, all the beauty and all precious time with loved ones, but without the hype, or the violent parking lots of Christmas. It doesn’t have the commercialization of any other holiday. We all know Christmas is atrocious, but even Easter (which I will defend vigorously as my other favourite holiday for reasons more profound) has the energizer bunny droning on in offensive pastels. That does wear on one’s nerves so.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Thanksgiving is, naturally, an opportunity for some quality time with family, and it never seems to have the angst-filled snappishness of a holiday previously named. One year I booked myself a tour with the Eric & Jeanie Travel company (I have a brochure on their fantastic itinerary to France if you're interested). That particular Thanksgiving my dad and I had a lovely bonding experience </span>along the Naramata wine route as he taught me how to taste wine properly while Jeanie drove the tour bus. And it was such a treat to be able to give - in person - a hearty congratulations to the Alberta cousins (that we so rarely see!) who participated in the Kelowna marathon that year. Sharing in the post-run spoils without actually doing the run itself is entirely justifiable if you have come such a distance just to see them cross the finish line. Of course, we stayed in bed while they were running and crossing all lines, but it was great to see them later that day, after their respective showers. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In the last two or three years, I have also come of age through Thanksgiving. I baked my first turkey last year, which provides no end of mirth and merriment to this day as I recall showing up with a half-thawed bird at my friend Krystal’s house ready to bake that thing into submission a mere three hours before guests were to arrive. That night was one of the evenings that I cherish most to this day. It encapsulates my life in Vancouver – we ate until we couldn’t fit any more. We decided the definitive top 10 reasons to de-friend someone on facebook. We learned that turkeys take DAYS to defrost and that Jamie Oliver means what he says about stuffing. We laughed so hard the wine may have come out our noses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Last night, a friend and I hosted a Canadian thanksgiving dinner in Antananarivo for 19 guests at my apartment. I didn’t know I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">had</i> 19 friends in Tana!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And think of the ones who wanted to come, but couldn’t! How lucky I am! How obscenely blessed I am that I could cook for 19 people! How ridiculously rich my life that I could have my cook, Perline, to help!! She came for the whole day and managed the turkeys (last year’s escapade was delicious, but it didn’t give me much of a boost of confidence) and I handled the desserts (<a href="http://www.joyofbaking.com/PumpkinBreadPudding.html">to which I will pledge undying affection for all my thanksgivings to come</a>). I had never done a sit down dinner for that many people and I admit just to you, dear reader, that I was terrified. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I woke up at 6 am yesterday morning (after a week of jet-lag and sleep deprivation over a big work project) with feverish anxiety dreams about a dearth of potatoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I managed to procure an extra bag of potatoes by 9:30, but I still had those two birds to worry and wring my hands over. Let me just tell you – Gasy turkeys are not the same as Canadian turkeys. For one thing, there is no butterball here. We get them as they come. That means that you have to buy two to get what you’d get from one back home. Oh and they come home from the store with all the body parts God gave ‘em. They still had claws attached. I wish they wouldn’t leave the claws attached. It humanizes them. Poor Gus and poor Sylvia – may they rest in peace. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">But, lo and behold, it was scrumptious and fantastic and we had more food that we could possibly imagine. What a day to be thankful for indeed. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Many of my friends here are not Canadian, as one would imagine. I have quite a few, in fact, who are British, who are less familiar with thanksgiving </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;">á</span><span lang="EN-GB"> la Canuck, than with the well-touted American version. I was asked on Friday night what the point of it is for us, since we were more reticent than our American neighbours to be done with our colonial <s>master</s> mother. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Well, you know, we have a um… a harvest, and we’re… we’re just generally grateful people…</i> But it is more than that. As one lovely person remarked during the toast, it came from a time when people were pulling in the harvest and batting down the hatches for the coming Canadian winter, it was a time to be grateful as one looked the worst square in the eye. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I love thanksgiving because we know that winter is coming. We know that we will always face hard times and that we should always cultivate a grateful heart. But we need a reminder to do it and we sometimes even need a reminder of the very things for which we are thankful: beautiful friends and family, a full belly and a full heart, change of season and change in circumstance. We know that these things are good and I know the One from whom they come, but I don’t always remember to admit my gratitude for them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thankfully, he is more than willing to put them right in front of my face all at once, usually about once or twice a year, to make it very obvious. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ei8HT7hzHljLdZfC-TI6BVAamlSWaqFBzuNm-JaFPjWWqps6kkcXQfxxeTELC6-vbYbcNLabpk3ecifmY809oJe4_ZE9mv4PLJKTKncPrUXaIsl6Dq-W6m0I0x7eSXjHKsx1/s200/IMG_0272.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661522102773165378" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px; " /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000FF;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000FF;"><br /></span></div><div><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydhXM0IWmCBdvsIwqTNTUoGXtdLitF8aHnDbqM3pLmQ54-dtO9aJ58Zhj8xNjDnZ1b8yLVr5TfqnH4mdQyPkTNmGHnoB7lCgBPGlG0W0QEv2rSXn96EdKB-7NIdqxdpY9_LN9/s200/IMG_0270.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661522098519823970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px; " /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">My lovely guests around the tables</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000FF;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinoeXKMNE-RooXuKq16cymqbZgx7Vlz3KnkTtj6g1yA-C3er66ksHsPGbv6VOZ0orfXLFMKE36SzAM9QK0NiYyNmHT9zRBvXymPfAPISXKYgf25Lh1xsX4tqGdCIBneqMAeh6q/s200/IMG_0268.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661522109809102146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px; " /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">This is what was left over AFTER 19 people had gone through (My co-host and I twisted their arms to go back for seconds, thankfully).</span></span></div> <!--EndFragment-->Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-3019768626348408952011-07-31T10:32:00.007-07:002011-08-01T10:57:27.972-07:00Lost in Translation<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I would like to dedicate this post to Walter.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Some time ago, I wrote a post that introduced a </span></span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=7391557125"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Spanglish dictionary</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> I compiled of the ‘niquismos’ (nicaraguanisms) that found their way into daily conversation over the time I spent in Central America. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><a name="_GoBack"></a>Being an Anglophone in Madagascar is a double challenge, because you have both the French and Malagasy language barriers. However, similar to life in Nicaragua, ex-pats tend to have a dialect unto themselves. You mix languages and slang and, my personal favourite, just generally butcher proper speech with a horrendous accent, not because you can’t pronounce the sounds, but because you’re just plain lazy. I am sure one of these days I’ll update the dictionary to make it multi-lingual and then you’ll all be really impressed. Rightly so; it’s a pretty neat trick, this language business.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Today, however, I want to focus less on vocabulary and more on the advanced translation component. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Let me first get out all the appropriate provisos, caveats, and qualifications. I know first-hand that learning a new language takes guts. I remember talking with a Korean friend who once made the point that she felt that people assumed she was stupid because she was inarticulate in English. This is a serious error that often gets applied to the whole lot of foreigners. It’s easy to mock that which you don’t understand.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">It takes a lot of courage to sound stupid so that you can be smart – anyone who knows five languages, like my Korean friend, can hardly be considered a twit. So I would like to preface this post with admission that I am writing this from a place of utmost empathy. Heaven knows I’ve massacred the French language since coming to Madagascar, although if you ask me, the French had theirs comin’. </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mark Twain is supposed to have once insisted that “in Paris they simply stared at me when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their language.” Quite. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">And long before French, I more than had my way with Spanish. Although I’ve pretty much got that one down pat now, there was a time when I too would make the classic blunder between </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">ser</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">estar</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> (pfft, amateur..).</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Now I know when I am and when I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">am</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, but to show magnanimous I really am, I will start this off with my shining moment as a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">hispanohablante</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. When you point the finger at others, after all, there are three pointing back at you (the thumb really just points awkwardly at hapless passersby).</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">My friend Noel is the owner of </span></span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=42665774161&v=wall&ref=ts"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Artesanos</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, which I can confidently say is one of the best café/bars in Latin America.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">While living there, I had come into a bit of renown among my friends for my frequent baking. Here’s a good tip too for those of you entertaining the thought of moving to a new country but worried about how to make friends in your new surroundings: nobody, regardless of culture or creed, ever turns down a banana streusal muffin.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I was talking with Noel and a few other friends one morning over breakfast at the cafe about how my contract was coming to an end and I wasn’t sure if I’d stay in Nicaragua or go home. Noel, bless his pea-picking heart, told me that if I wanted to stay in Nicaragua, I could come work for him. He was the type of guy that would hire you first and find something for you to do later, so as an afterthought he asked me, in Spanish, what I’d want to do. I replied – tumbling over my words as usual because I just have so much to say and not enough time to say it – that I’d be happy to bake for everyone. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Or so I thought. You see, to bake in Spanish is “hor</span></span></span><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">ñ</span></span></span><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">ear,” pronounced “or</span></span></span><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">n-yey-ar.” But that ñ can be tricky and if you don’t pronounce it properly, it comes out awkwardly sounding more like orinar (orr-yee-nar). That, my friends, means “to urinate.” Noel’s response was to look at me with his most serious face and say “</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">lo siento amor, pero aqui todos podemos orinar para nosotros mismos</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">” (Sorry love, but here we can all pee for ourselves). That was the sad end to my career as a Nicaraguan pastry chef.</span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Many times in Nicaragua, we’d cackle over spelling errors in English documents. One of my favourite restaurants in Managua had a typo at the bottom of the first page of their 20-page menu that said “If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask your walter.” While the poor chele who translated 20 pages of flowery culinary descriptions deserves some whole-hearted respect, it never got old to ask if Walter was available to take our questions about where babies come from and the meaning of life. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In order to highlight just what a global affliction mistranslation is, I give you the “Sunny Golf Guide to Gasy Life.” The other week, I was staying at a hotel in Tamatave and the proprietors had thoughtfully placed a bottle of water, a tea set and the “Inside Procedures” on the desk for me. Usually things like this might provide one or two mistranslation gems, but the whole page was pure gold, so I have selected for you my very favourites:</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"></p><ul><li><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">You are asked to not serve some current water than exclusively for the purpose of toilet (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I am not sure what they are referring to with “current water” or “the purpose of toilet,” but I for one, am not touching the bottle of Eau Vive they left me</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">).</span></span></span></li><li><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">For your dirty linens and ironing, our laundry services stay at your disposition. It is prohibited positively from ironing the clothes in the room, to wash the linens in the sink or tub and to throw some objects there can obstruct them (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Utterly and</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">positively).</span></span></i></span></li><li><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Thank you to respect the sleep and rest of the other. To avoid the nocturnal uproars. (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Oh but I do so love a good nocturnal uproar)</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">.</span></span></span></li><li><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In order to avoid possible temptation, all values […] can be deposited at Front Desk (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">You just can’t make this up</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">).</span></span></span></li><li><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The non respect of these Inside Procedures entails the exclusion of the hotel directly.</span></span></span></li><li><u><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">ENJOY YOUR STAY</span></span></span></u></li></ul><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In light of the positive prohibition on nocturnal uproars and treacherous toilet water currents, I feel that the last point is more of a command than well-wishing, but I can’t quite tell. Some things are just lost in the translation.</span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-1428261601636107542011-07-03T11:32:00.005-07:002011-07-03T11:59:10.889-07:00The Most Terrifying Thing I Ever Did<div><p class="MsoNormal">The most terrifying thing I have ever done was hand small children highly flammable objects, light them ablaze and then send the kiddies out into the dark streets of their already dangerous capital to play.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Now before all my dear friends at UNICEF start howling at me in outrage, remember that a) it was all conducted with a respect for the culturally acceptable celebratory practices; and b) that I did at least make a concerted effort to keep the large kitchen knife used for cutting up candles away from the smallest members of the party.</span></p></div><div><p class="MsoNormal">It’s not always clear what is best (or worst): over-zealous, cautionary parenting born out of a culture that loves their law suits in the west and the lackadaisical, free-for-all in the rest of the world. I am not sure if one is better actually, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, which one I found myself in on Saturday night.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">The event started off on the right foot. I had made plans with a friend and about Thursday or Friday of last week, she sent me a text saying that she had a proposal. June 26<sup>th</sup> is Independence Day here in Madagascar. Since it ain’t no party ‘til you spend a week lighting off firecrackers and tooting party horns into the wee hours, the Saturday night, (the 25<sup>th)</sup> was just as exciting. In fact, I think it’s the big event, sort of like Christmas Eve – you have all the fun and excitement and anticipation and then Christmas morning involves a lot of quality family time spent in one’s pyjamas. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">My friend sent me a message saying her housemate, who runs an orphanage, is going to do the traditional Independence day lantern walk and would we like to come along and help, because they could certainly use some extra adult supervision. Well, who’s going to say no to a bunch of orphans?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Not me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">We decided to go do the lantern walk and push our plans back a few hours. I have volunteered in a few kid’s homes and youth programs as volunteer before this and I even did it for pay in my own wild youth. I worked at a high-adventure camp for kids. We routinely sent kids off a 70 ft zipline. We woke them up in the middle of the night and told them the camp was being invaded by the bad guys from the Matrix and that they had to save it with their flashlights and smelly-felts. We had milk chugging contests and let them wrestle for inner tubes. We devised all sorts of madness and nonsense for crying out loud. Nothing prepared me for this.</span></p></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWIE7BycPNAAyyoFTSSstnoIRqQ9SrTNGDzAwfaJmhuqNhCCOw9A5UG8OW7mvHJkikUWZDXiC8AWCCDE0HF9Vc5fQJ7O4W43Z06AFEx2Z_Wzq9Yp7wXQ9C3Q-_-kU5tw6xXRu/s1600/IMG_0198.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWIE7BycPNAAyyoFTSSstnoIRqQ9SrTNGDzAwfaJmhuqNhCCOw9A5UG8OW7mvHJkikUWZDXiC8AWCCDE0HF9Vc5fQJ7O4W43Z06AFEx2Z_Wzq9Yp7wXQ9C3Q-_-kU5tw6xXRu/s200/IMG_0198.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625199652103872994" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Just a taste of the madness (note the awesome, though somewhat unnecessary, snowsuit bottom right)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">There are a range of stimulants that can produce team wall-bouncing in a group of 20 children: new faces, dinner time, fun and games… did I mention there were 20 of them? All these factors together colluded to create utter mayhem. In my amazement, as I watched these kids run and skid into each other like roller derby champions, I felt a nice patting sensation on my head. The patting changed to a light massage and before I knew it there were little hands braiding my hair from multiple directions. This is also not so strange in a group of small children. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">However, it was a bit strange that it was the 10 and 12 year old boys who ended up being the stylists. But I am not one to judge. And if that is what they want to be when they grow up, then I, Kiki Tegelberg, will happily be their hair model. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">As the makeover was winding down, the boys were drawn to bigger and brighter things – literally. I had made the mistake of pulling out my camera and setting off the flash, at which point (photographic evidence to follow), not a single one of them would rest until they had their chance to strike innumerable poses. Luckily I was saved by other lights: a small rustling over in the corner started gaining more and more participants. What was that rustling? It was the unfolding of accordion-style paper lanterns. Now, I am all for this lantern idea and being the silly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">vazah</i> that I am, I thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">they must have little battery-operated flashing LED lights inside</i>. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Hahahahahahahaha no. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Nothing but live ammunition for these precious little ones. The rustling was the lanterns, but the ominous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">thwack</i> that punctuated the roaring din of 20 children all talking excitedly at once was definitely from the one child (let’s be generous and say she was eight or nine) who was using a sizable kitchen knife to cut candles down to size and then melt off the ends to stick them in the lanterns. Small hands grabbed from all sides, giant paper bubbles bobbed and batted around and a nice layer of melted wax coated the scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC2BdujOPZlzk7CBz_TmcJizZ7mX925Y3Sy630Gey8a98RKH9KJ41xjULX9j5fi0SyfgFqix1Z_gso1TL9DGeq5UjvXJ4wVuq1gAA6eCQNLd8g3QxYNjWq1h3UD5T7fXX7jez/s1600/IMG_0179.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC2BdujOPZlzk7CBz_TmcJizZ7mX925Y3Sy630Gey8a98RKH9KJ41xjULX9j5fi0SyfgFqix1Z_gso1TL9DGeq5UjvXJ4wVuq1gAA6eCQNLd8g3QxYNjWq1h3UD5T7fXX7jez/s200/IMG_0179.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625199646328134050" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px; " /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Is anyone else hyperventilating at this point? Because my breathing was certainly mildly uncomfortable. If not, well, prolong the mayhem and fire for another forty minutes while each and every lantern was lit and then relit and after that factor in the flailing coats and scarves as the children suited up in their “winter” gear for a chilly night walk. It was, after all 20 degrees Celsius – better bundle up!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Finally we assembled the crowd and set off into a completely dark street, save for the other bobbing paper lanterns of hundreds of other children. I know this is rather anticlimactic, but it all went swimmingly. Maybe it’s because children aren’t pampered here with functional electrical grids that provide a steady supply of light and power and are sensitized to the fact that that flamey thing will hurt like the dickens if you touch it. Maybe we were drenched in divine providence. Probably a bit of both. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXprP8vfSwe8BWJX1P2xDqrdG3PPTPaoHShRYLYkRR-lR9P4qhh45X49gTs25eP6jDUBiveV9PxvPP0h7gEu0AdfDm1D-My-PQOr0zaCC-JLMNg1KiKD1tf_-WB1JU2PWOfU-d/s1600/IMG_0191.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXprP8vfSwe8BWJX1P2xDqrdG3PPTPaoHShRYLYkRR-lR9P4qhh45X49gTs25eP6jDUBiveV9PxvPP0h7gEu0AdfDm1D-My-PQOr0zaCC-JLMNg1KiKD1tf_-WB1JU2PWOfU-d/s200/IMG_0191.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625199660614520498" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px; " /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">I was not quite sure what to expect: how far were we walking?<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> (Please not far) </i>What happens if a candle burns out? (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">catastrophe</i>) What was the end point? (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">we’re still not sure</i>). Out in the dark street, I felt a bit of trepidation. It was 20 of them and about 8 of us adults. Sure, good odds if you’re in Canada where people can afford leashes for their children. We had no such leashes. We didn’t even have a street lamp. But I didn’t need to worry about the dark. We quickly joined one of the main roads through the village and there we joined the throng of bobbing lanterns held by other children and their accompanying adults. It was a bit touch and go to keep track of the kids when in that lighting, and since I really didn’t know any of them, they all sort of looked the same as the other 700 running around, but somehow we managed. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">The final destination was mercifully only a few blocks, where we proceeded to promptly turn around and head home (my friend who organized this wasn’t completely mad). I can remember as a child going out trick-or-treating and felt like we conquered everything between the Tsawwassen ferry terminals and the North Shore, but I am sure it was a similar situation. We were lucky if we made it to the end of the block with out getting a bunchy wedgie from our costume and needed to be carried home out of exhaustion (or perhaps, my Dad was lucky if we made it any further). I wasn’t upset when it was time to round them up. It’s easier to breathe slowly and enjoy the bobbing, brightly coloured lights when you know that the direction is home.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmGftYp6yWhhBgpFxQ5d1uRM4q2MNAEFdh4UMPKusNc9w-77aNlM0nMu5GyNA1WYGBajCNkm96UDhzUVksMN8K_W0Jx3QC_oXz_G-Tpw-sw6Ag8c0piDmswC-GWOwtzD_dM1J/s1600/IMG_0200.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmGftYp6yWhhBgpFxQ5d1uRM4q2MNAEFdh4UMPKusNc9w-77aNlM0nMu5GyNA1WYGBajCNkm96UDhzUVksMN8K_W0Jx3QC_oXz_G-Tpw-sw6Ag8c0piDmswC-GWOwtzD_dM1J/s200/IMG_0200.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625199666837436162" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px; " /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-8308902497467571442011-06-05T12:33:00.005-07:002011-06-05T12:53:28.994-07:00Voyages of DiscoverySometimes it feels a bit ironic that I live in Madagascar. I am not the most intrepid of explorers among my friends and aquaintances. Ok, sure, I’ve lived in a four countries and travelled to their various neighbours so that's got to make me somewhat credible, particularly if you were the type of person that considers a trip to Bellingham a perilous journey (and depending on border traffic, it may well be). Then sure, I’m a regular Christopher Columbus (actually I’d prefer to be Juan Ponce de Leon because I’d get to discover the Caribbean but on the other hand, people might call me “Poncey” for short so I suppose that has its drawbacks, but this is all neither here nor there). But throughout my travels I have met these real “explorer” types, and trust me, I’m not them. They are the people that roll out of their mosquito net/tent in the morning and don’t have the foggiest clue where they’ll pitch it that night. I on the other hand, generally like to have a room with a bed and a bathroom lined up well in advance. I’m perfectly willing to try going somewhere new, but I’d prefer to be home by 11, because, you know I just don't enjoy pulling all-nighters and I never have. This is perhaps why I prefer to move into a place and make myself at home and explore from within. But the people that run, jump and dive into the complete unknown - that's ballsy if you ask me.<br /><br />Just thinking about being on the opposite side of the globe is a bit awesome. Well first, in the interest of full disclosure, I should honestly state that the <a href="http://www.freemaptools.com/tunnel-to-other-side-of-the-earth.htm">polar opposite of Vancouver </a>is actually just to the south east of Madagascar, but since there are no inhabited land masses between Madagascar and Antarctica in the southern Indian Ocean, the former will simply have to satisfy.<br /><br />Secondly, I am fascinated with explorers, particularly the historical sort who have become, in my mind, a bit of the stuff of legends rather than real people who lived and breathed. It boggles my mind that people would sail off for a year or forever. Can you imagine not really knowing how big the world is and just going out “to see what we see”? I am reading Brown’s <em>A History of Madagascar</em>, which covers everything up to the 1990’s. So far I am at 1664, which was just the time when the Europeans started showing up around here and there and all over the map, if you will. Brown recounts stories of how trading and exploration ships would land on Madagascar’s shores and sometimes would have a friendly trade of goats for beads and sometimes would get massacred by the locals.<br /><br />In a way, this is so far out of my experience, but in another sense, it is very close to our world today. It is so totally alien in the sense that in order to come to Madagascar it takes 40-odd hours, instead of 40 weeks. I can google Madagascar before coming here and I can use street view to see where I will stay before I touch down. I can watch the <a href="http://video.citytv.com/video/detail/80113765001.000000/season-2-ep-10--madagascar-departures/">Madagascar episode of Departures</a> to get a sense of the culture looks like to the travelling Canadian. I can call ahead to see what type of visa I should acquire or if there is any significant chance that I will be harpooned upon arrival at Ivato International. Imagine though, for a moment, being a 2nd or 3rd century Indonesian, getting in your canoe and shoving off of Bali thinking '<em>Well, here we go</em>,' and then somehow crossing the Indian Ocean (ok, realistically, they hopped from land to land around the edge of it, but I still maintain that such a feat is nothing to sneeze at). Or even being a 10th century Mozambican and deciding that sailing out into the middle of the big blue just to see what the horizon looked like up close was a good idea. Or imagine being a Portuguese sailor in the late 16th century and putting up with scurvy on the off chance that you find some incredible pile of gold and rare spices sitting on an abandoned dock somewhere. That’s why these people baffle me.<br /><br />Yet there are points that I have in common with the crazy intrepids. Early explorers had only a mythical concept of the limits of the earth, or if they did have something more concrete, they assumed that they would not be the ones to finally find it and have to deal with it. Here is where we are one in the same, Poncey and me. I today have but a cerebral notion of the limits of humanity. I know that there are <a href="http://www.census.gov/main/www/popclock.html">some 6.922 billion </a>of us, but that number doesn’t really make sense and I can’t get to know all of them, so the limits of the world remain far beyond anything I’d have to tackle.<br /><br />I wonder though what the motivation was – if it was really the sense of fearless curiosity. Brown tells a story of a 17th century ship that limped home to Britain after sickness and storms destroyed the fleet that was with them and much of the crew. They carried home a paltry cargo of pepper as their prize for years on the seas.<br /><br />On the other hand, if I didn’t have pepper – or any of the array of condiments now widely available to me largely thanks to the invention of high fructose corn syrup and red food dye no. 40 – maybe the arrival of pepper would be a pretty big deal. Without these and the wide array of amenities, such as strawberries in February in Canada, I wonder if my senses would be heightened (would meat taste meatier?) or would a small taste of pepper drive me mad enough with delight to get on a boat and sail off into the wild blue yonder like a nautical don Quixote? Today… we’ve got the Planet Earth DVDs to answer what those remote places look like and Whole Foods can provide even the silliest of exotic sundries for our cravings.<br /><br />So why get on the boat? I find the idea of 10 months at sea and 10 hours in a plane equally terrifying, and yet, here I am, at 18°55’ S, 47°31’ E, which is pretty far from 49°15’N, 123°6W. I’ve been thinking and mulling this over with some friends this week. Some of you know how tough the first 6 months have been here, and I’m not going to get into that too much, but one of the themes of my rants to those close to me for the last six month has been an impatient stomping of the foot and the demand to know just what the big idea is here, God.<br /><br />I am coming to the place where I think perhaps there isn’t a big idea. Perhaps, there are a few smaller ones: maybe like the average Portuguese sailor, I needed a job, and getting on the boat meant a job that would change every other job that would come. Maybe also, a little bit, like Poncey and the Indonesian canoer, I wanted to see what we could see. Call be a naive idealist if you must, but I think I understood that this place would have people and things worth investing in - that it would give me something in return for that investment that I couldn't produce back home. I don’t have to be the intrepid explorer, who bushwhacks her way into the middle of things and finds the climactic answer to all this and riches to boot. I can just come and be and, hopefully, barter some good and uplifting things, in return for enough good and uplifting things to see me home.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-26466309732075988822011-04-08T12:33:00.004-07:002011-04-08T12:58:03.915-07:00There are worse things<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">This weekend my visa expires and I have been left with no choice but to go to Mauritius for five days to renew it. I have experienced this immigration delinquency before and I am once again reminded that there are worse things in life than a visa expiration trip.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The last time this happened I was in Nicaragua and I was “forced” to go to Costa Rica. Now, this really cheesed me because it the visa expiration happened to fall on the very weekend that all my friends were going up to Matagalpa for a friend’s concert. Those days, I would make the two-hour trip up to Matagalpa about every other week, so it is not like I was missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime event, but you know how it is when you feel like everyone is going to have a party without you. So I stomped around the office in a cranky mood trying to find a place to stay in Tamarindo… stupid beach town… mumble mumble… maldita immigracion... mumble jumble…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes, I was a spoiled cranky-pants until I arrived in Tamarindo, one of Costa Rica’s premier surf resorts and realised that there are worse things than an enforced, paid holiday to the beach: My roommie Shannon came along so I wouldn’t get lonely and we had a lovely adventure running away from the other backpackers, getting top notch spa pedicures and even met us some handsome fellas. As I recall, I had a jolly good time all around.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here’s a bit of advice from Auntie Kiks for those kids who want to grow up and try to save the world: clam down and enjoy the ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This week, faintly in the back of my peanut gallery mind, there was the kind voice saying “it’ll be ok, this will be good, you will get a visa and if you don’t, they will figure out plan B or C or Z…” Unfortunately, the rest of the peanut gallery was the usual, charming gong show, so poor little gaffer didn’t get much credit for being wise or calm or right. Instead, I stomped around my office trying to get answers and make people run after my anxious inquiries.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So often I hear that in order to make it working overseas, be it as a humanitarian worker, a missionary, in the diplomatic corps or just any old international business, there is one virtue above all others: flexibility. It’s true, but it is something deeper than that. You have to be able to roll with the punches on the surface, because deep down you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">trust</i>. There is nothing naïve or weak about this trust. You make the best arrangements you can with the knowledge you have and then you let it go. It is also called "faith" and what makes it work is that it delights in people - lovely, flakey, people - but doesn't need to rely on them. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Of course, it's much easier said than done. Of course, it's much easier to be cynical. I hear other expats whine about how people take advantage of you or won’t do what they promise or this or that or the other…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But so what?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So they tell you they will do something and then don’t do it for four days. So what? I have the sneaking suspicion that, contrary to what popular culture tells me, my time is not as colossally important as I think it is. I think that's the difference. The beauty of faith is the wonderfully freeing idea that if it doesn't work out - shock and disbelief - the world won't come to an end, because it turns out that I'm not at the centre of it all. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Man I should take my own advice… At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if I am in Madagascar or Canada though. Being at peace with the things I can’t control is not a challenge unique to a new culture. Some days we're better at it than others. I am happy to report that at the end of the day, I can trust that this is in the hands of someone greater.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s the other 23 hours of the day that are a problem …</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-69371730229035287392011-04-03T06:50:00.007-07:002011-04-03T07:07:19.719-07:00Going Places<div style="text-align: left;">I travel a lot for work and there are two key travel methods I’d like to discuss here, one I use all the time and the other I simply look upon with awe. The first is flying: you will be happy to note that I’ve been doing jolly well considering that, as I’ve said numerous times - I don’t like flying, but I want to go places. I don’t love the whole 30,000 ft in the air part, but airports on the other hand – big fan. I’ve been known to peer pressure friends into sky-training all the way from Waterfront to YVR just for an airport starbucks, which is different from regular starbucks. It has the extra sense of anticipation and importance and it comes with the rather exciting warning: “Caution, this beverage is hot and if left unattended, it will be subject to immediate seizure and disposal so your $6.32 worth of coffee-themed milk will be a double waste of time, money and recyclable product packaging.” After all, numerous peace and security studies have indicated that one of the tell-tale signs of a terrorist is their flagrant disregard for environmental sustainability.</div><br />I’ve been flying about four or six times a month for work these days, each time to Tamatave, Madagascar’s second city. We take a nice wee 15-seater, where I can sit behind the pilots and heckle them. For some reason, this takes the edge off the fact that I am flying through a lightening storm in rural Africa. No big deal.<br /><br />Pre-bording at the Tana airport has very specific pleasures, even if it lacks alarmist coffee cups. At Ivato International, one can find second-hand editions of the Economist and the International Herald Tribune for about $2 (compared with $10 in town – highway robbery if you ask me), left behind by business passengers on the international flights. Also, I would like to clear any misconceptions about Malagasy air security. To illustrate just how seriously they take air safety, above the Air Madagascar check-in counter there is a sign that clearly states:<br /><br /><i>Please ensure that your hand baggage does not contain any of the following:</i><br />and then, in picture format, what look like:<br />- Bursting fireworks<br />- An open can of paint<br />- An oven, particularly with some sort of sloppy spill on it – perhaps paint.<br />- Rifles<br /><br />You know, all I can think when I see this is that at some point someone attempted to bring an oven in their carry-on and the airline was unimpressed either with the girth or the unclean state of the appliance. It was not immediately apparent which from the picture.<br /><br />Travel in Tamatave is another story altogether. I LOVE Tamatave because it’s hot and sticky and sandy and it looks like what would have happened if Cannes had suddenly been overtaken by a massive hurricane and then deserted for 60 years. I often take an early morning walk down to the beach and there’s nothing – nothing – like the smell and weight of the 6am air that hangs under mango trees that form a sand-swept street into tunnel to the open ocean.<br /><br />One of the reasons Tamatave so enticing is the movement in the town. It is the diametric opposite of Tana’s tightly packed streets and winding labyrinths of people, buildings and congestion. Perhaps it’s just that Tamatave isn’t smushed into the crevices of 6 or 7 towering hills, so you feel as though you have space to roam and commuting in Tamatave is a different world from Tana. The difference is the second form of transport I mentioned. For all its simplicity, it towers over the sophisticated technology of any other mode of transportation. I would like to herewith attempt an adequate description of these venerable contraptions that you may never get to experience yourself: let us take a ride on <i>le Pousse-Pousse</i>.<br /><br />To say it is a rickshaw or a pedi-cab takes away from the mystique. Technically, it would seem very similar to a common rickshaw. Oh but it’s so much more. There is something about the pousse-pousse that even the well-to-do driving lot can recognize. In Tamatave pousse-pousses are given the right of way. If you’ve ever been anywhere outside of the OECD, you will recognize that is no trifling honour. As shocking as this may seem, in other places of the world pedestrians and bicyclists don’t have the pampered existence they enjoy in places like Vancouver or Amsterdam. There are no designated bike lanes and pedestrian-controlled intersections. If you are one of these hapless bipeds getting around on pure human kinetic energy in the global south, you look both ways about ten times and then run for it. Cars don’t stop for you because you’re being environmentally conscientious.<br />Ha! They speed up.<br /><br />But the pousse-pousses of Tamatave are different altogether. They are a respected herd, like the Riders of Rohan. If they come pounding down towards you, you keep your head down and let them pass.<br /><br />The pousse-pousse itself is sort of a misnomer. Literally in French it is a “push-push” but it is really more of a “pull-pull.” Most have bicycles on the front, but there is also the simpler model - a wooden bar rectangle that the driver will hold up at chest level and push, with you and your lazy… backside … sitting behind. And it may not be just you in tow. I once saw a pousse-poussse that had a moto-scooter in the passenger seat. They feature brightly coloured awnings that cover the passenger, but the noble driver is out in the bleeding heat all day long. I have no doubt that these men, given permission to unhook the backseat, could easily lap Lance Armstrong. My favourite day was when I saw a pousse-pousse that had Usain Bolt written on the back. Apparently Usain has used his Olympic winnings to invest in an entire cooperative of them here, as there is a prolific number bearing his branding. Another cooperative is “sponsored” by Subaru. One pousse-pousse I have seen is the quintessential representative of all others: on the back is a union jack (best not to ask) and a very friendly “Hello my friend!!” painted across the middle, which I am sure was selected only because “Hello my friend!! Eat my dust!!” was too long to fit. <div><br /></div><div>Make way, all yield to the mighty Pousse-Pousse.<br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLr15eq1Wd2XI3p-k_7UvdwZGLg4a7lVMPWAzpUfpI7nry1hccMmJ8HCqipM31KeKO54DjavpGdZ4FFxC8c152zhzVuDvbO4yQZbJ_WRiytnkNTBIhy2meHBAeKTQPw3XBDMmN/s320/Pousse-pousse.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591355287060463186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div></div></div>Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-51300482223440570282011-03-04T10:55:00.005-08:002011-03-04T11:04:59.492-08:00Ends of the Earth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsv154vB-36L6YkKk0V9MKk2Q2_UmA35o5Y_cssXZ0ZJqNkiU2yDJZoCdneHlU1sW6f5NSBkqKFD6ZOZdvFCqLrRfm_rS961ETSQwGNynRTb0QmcZe2Skn7MBCA7Im-uncf79/s1600/Middle+of+Nowhere%252C+Madagascar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsv154vB-36L6YkKk0V9MKk2Q2_UmA35o5Y_cssXZ0ZJqNkiU2yDJZoCdneHlU1sW6f5NSBkqKFD6ZOZdvFCqLrRfm_rS961ETSQwGNynRTb0QmcZe2Skn7MBCA7Im-uncf79/s320/Middle+of+Nowhere%252C+Madagascar.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580301317009256946" /></a><br /><br /><br />I often think how incredible it is that I get to see places on earth that only a handful of people may ever see. And I may very well be one of a few westerner, maybe only one of two or three a year, maybe not even one or two every ten years. Statistically speaking, I’ve got to be the only Canadian. Ever. There just aren’t enough of us to go around – we’re no Indian subcontinent. <div>In truth, sometimes I feel like I really am at the ends of the earth and in its secret pockets.<br /><br />I used to think the same thing in Bolivia, when I was doing my research. The seditious thought came into my head while I was writing my thesis that I could say anything, for who would drive 5 hours into the Bolivian jungle to check my facts?!? (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Note: to preserve my academic integrity,</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-USfont-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I didn’t conduct my research alone so it is all verified and reproducible).</span></span><!--EndFragment--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><br /><br />I don’t think I have the particular spirit of an explorer, which makes this all rather funny. Sometimes I think it may well have been more comfortable to stay home and enjoy my cup of coffee at leisure, knowing that I will be safe and no unpredictable misadventures will befall me. In short, I am a hobbit - a very tall hobbit.<br /><br />But one can’t shrink from it. You can’t say it’s not worth it, at the end of the day – even if at the beginning you sort of dread it, and only partially enjoy the time spent in the blistering heat of the middle of nowhere. After all, you do come to the realization at some point that you are enjoying it.<br /><br />I think at this point I could go one of two ways: I could finish it off with the simple and truthful point about how the views alone are really worth it. They are. The end.<br /><br />Or… I could be brutally honest about what it’s like being alone on the other side of the planet trying to work in development (loosely) and how I’m feeling at this point. Here’s that option: It’s like that view at the top of Cypress Mountain when you get off the chair lift and sit at the top of the run. On a clear day can see mountains and mountains for days and days and days to the north and the east. They are absolutely terrifying. There’s no one at all on those peaks facing you – just trees and bears and crows.<br /><br />But you still want to go and you think, <i>actually, if I just stretched my arm far enough, I could touch that next mountain over</i>. I don’t think I’m breaking any major news here by telling you that every person working in development notices that projects seem go on forever and ever without the certainty that they’re making a difference. And we wonder if people here would have gotten along just fine without us (we all have a hunch on that, don’t we?).<br /><br />But you know that there always is the flip side of that coin. Just as often we think: if I just give this one a good stretch – maybe there is something at an arm’s length that will make it all burst forth.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Kq-6uzSvDyQIWKBZdaLS2V4C4DyFJPVxvB8G3WDcOvm51SgHjp0DRB3W1ZjHxhPQDs5Do5ObIBYS2fy7HDIdBDXzqWQUDcOeGPc0YNoRBkaRXe_hwgPyV2K79Rqc7L1HBFAG/s1600/Skyview.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Kq-6uzSvDyQIWKBZdaLS2V4C4DyFJPVxvB8G3WDcOvm51SgHjp0DRB3W1ZjHxhPQDs5Do5ObIBYS2fy7HDIdBDXzqWQUDcOeGPc0YNoRBkaRXe_hwgPyV2K79Rqc7L1HBFAG/s320/Skyview.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580300940389869730" /></a><br /><br />K – promise the next post will be less melancholy. Really!<br /></div>Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-23909959408641746082011-02-13T09:44:00.002-08:002011-02-13T09:58:33.122-08:00Grateful HeartThis is my third attempt to write this post today. I won’t foist the first and second upon you, because they are both rather dreary contemplations of how truly baffling and heart-breaking I find poverty at this moment. I’m not sure what to say on that without giving you the whole sordid story, but let’s put it this way: I am stuck trying to balance a) the “big picture” route of dealing with poverty through sustainable solutions in aid and development long-term work with b) the imperative need to figure out how should I face the street children and mentally ill people living on my street, for whom my presence here in Madagascar does not seem to have much of a tangible benefit. <br /><br />See? Dreary. <br /><br />So rather than arguing aid practice theories with myself here, I’m going to take a whole new direction than versions 1.0 and 2.0. I’ve been dancing between complete bewilderment and frustration lately. There are days that I think, “where the heck am I!?” BUT there are also days that I think, “I am in freaking Madagascar!” <br /><br />Today was not one of those days, unfortunately. <br /><br />But today did offer a lot of good things and I think at this point I need to be active in cultivating that wonder and excitement rather than staring at the fields and hope it will magically grow. Last week a British friend recounted the American she knew who made everyone share his or her “grateful heart.” We laughed about it, but there is value in it, as cheesy as it may be. One of the things that is a direct hit to the discouragement that I seem to be entertaining too often, is to recount the things that have been very good gifts (and acknowledging the gift giver in the process, which will be the main point). These things are signs that I am not left hanging, despite what I let myself believe. <br /><br />So here we go – in no particular order I thank God for:<br />- Utown (Oh, am I thankful!), and that I could find a place here in Tana to fill the void that is left by not having that community. First time attendee today at Tana City Church. <br />- Writers, particularly Mark Buchanan when he wrote the Holy Wild. Even the Preface was hitting home this afternoon. Apparently I need to read more. <br />- Rachel – obviously one of my favourite people in general – but today particularly, for being the person who taught me how to make quiche, and thereby giving me a very top notch supper despite being 15,000 kms away.<br />- A lovely taxi driver named Tina, right outside my gate this morning, with his fair prices <br />- A job. I have a job.<br />- A safe ride home last night<br />- Gentle reminders about what I am owed (nothing) and provided (everything)<br />- That prayer is a conversation. There was a response there, and I need to remember that<br />- Sleep – and on that note, it’s time for me to put myself to bed after a very long 20 hrs.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-43751848986547564432011-01-30T05:15:00.006-08:002011-01-30T05:44:30.544-08:00So What's It Like?""...So what’s it like?"<br /><br />I have been getting this question fairly frequently. At home people are unsurprisingly curious, since Madagascar is not a regular destination. Here, people want to know what I think of it so far – which can be taken a couple of different ways: either they want to know if I am fed up with all the things they are fed up with or they want to know if I am totally enamoured yet and ready to marry the first Malagasy that offers me a cow and a good home or they want to see if anyone else is as baffled as they are (this one being entirely from ex-pats, of course). <br /><br />If I had to choose one – and as tempting as the cow is – I would say the latter. I feel like I have barely scratched the surface. I gave that as an answer at a party last weekend and was politely told that wasn’t good enough. I was asked for my first impressions, whether I understand what they are about or not. That has gotten me thinking (and looking around) quite a bit, so here you go, this is what it is like:<br /><br />Tana (Antananrivo) is the capital city, which sits up on the central plateau, so the weather is warm and mild and there’s a lovely breeze this time of year (as well as crazy thunder storms, though out on the coast they are even better). From my vantage point in Tana, it seems to be a sort of scattered ring of hills covered in houses, clinging to the sides wherever they can. <br /><br />The houses, for their part, are one of the delightful little surprises about this place. There is, of course, your normal range of shacks and shanties and square stucco bungalows. Most often, however, they are French colonial two-stories made of brick with verandas covered in potted plants – and though they be derelict, they have charm (though perhaps not for their tenants depending on how things are inside). My favourite part is that so many of them have bright blue shutters. I don’t know why I see so many blue shutters, and now come to think of it, there are plenty that are green, but the blue stands out everywhere and they’re my favourite houses. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NcX7GTixxwx4G-9bd20wtJXWGhjEGfVFURxxqgUHa7x1SfbCTvCzZoiADKWsutMFtJNSnccePLcpVekFO0FlSmFnuzjb-54iw7zaXM6tOOaOVNSPwM2RJi_iIv3yGD0mz0a4/s1600/IMG_0415.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NcX7GTixxwx4G-9bd20wtJXWGhjEGfVFURxxqgUHa7x1SfbCTvCzZoiADKWsutMFtJNSnccePLcpVekFO0FlSmFnuzjb-54iw7zaXM6tOOaOVNSPwM2RJi_iIv3yGD0mz0a4/s320/IMG_0415.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567969652406517634" /></a><br /><br />Not to miss the forest for the trees though: another thing about Tana is the bizarre mesh of streets. My impression is that the city has just been carved out where ever they can find a spot for a new crop of houses or alleys. The result is there isn’t much design. Mostly there are several maddening one-ways that merge together at hair-pin turns up the hills and down. My friend pointed out this week that as Madagascar develops, more and more people are getting enough money to afford cars (even if they are only beater Peugeots that are miraculously still hobbling along since the 1960s). The trouble is that the streets haven’t kept up. The streets of Tana are generally narrow affairs and I can only think of three places with sidewalks. The streets are so twisty and curve around so that you can wander up and down hills, having no clear vision of any direction at any given point in time. Case in point, this morning we went off for our run, planning to do 6 miles and ended up doing 9 as a result of a few key wrong-turns (and then remaking the same wrong-turns, but we knew something was up when we saw the same life-size crucifix and the board bridge over the rice paddy for the second and third times – they obviously hired us all for our keen sense of observation). <br /><br />While I am at it, there are rice paddies in the city. That’s interesting too, eh. I have joined a group of ladies that go out running every Sunday and we jog just over half a mile down this one road that goes through what we call “the village” because the main road is lined with shop-fronts selling about a handful of vegetables and charcoal. More than that, it’s like a little rural village – but it’s in the middle of a city of several million. At the end of the village the road continues along, passed where all the micro-buses sit and is unpaved. If you follow it for another third of a mile, you will have rice paddies on both sides and a lovely view of the plain, the mountains in the distance and then strings of houses here and there. After a mile, you come to a T-intersection with another higher dirt road. Turn left and you will go another two and a half miles to get to the main road to the airport. I tell you all this because it can take anywhere from half an hour to an hour to drive to Ivato (the airport). But I reckon I could run it in about that time by crossing the rice paddies instead of the main roads. That’s just how winding and convoluted the streets of Tana are. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovv2vjXw4-SOuvNN0piH_Z5zYBiAj4yBpe3qN5_w3MaY9vsRmDFCG2QIUUtaGGRO3jQ-hgW4cZ7_XgN0HcPiQEp46cOWnWEIgXxuyKKZP-X-gkFG9xfcVA9OKzUqGfz7zllno/s1600/IMG_0515.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovv2vjXw4-SOuvNN0piH_Z5zYBiAj4yBpe3qN5_w3MaY9vsRmDFCG2QIUUtaGGRO3jQ-hgW4cZ7_XgN0HcPiQEp46cOWnWEIgXxuyKKZP-X-gkFG9xfcVA9OKzUqGfz7zllno/s320/IMG_0515.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567973952389803314" /></a><br /><br />If there are plenty of cars, there are hoards of people on the streets – at almost all times of the day. I have walked out at 7am on a Sunday and find the street outside my compound already buzzing. The only time it’s quiet is at midnight or after 5 on a Sunday afternoon. Apart from that – people everywhere. This is somewhat disconcerting because the cars whip down like they’re Surrey drag racers. <br /><br />I kind of like that there are people always out on the streets, though naturally, I am concerned for all our safety. There is an assortment of standard people out on the streets at any given time. Around the corner from the Jovenna gas station by my house is a row of fruit sellers. The second one in from the left will charge you too much because you are vaza (foreigner) but the others are quite nice. Of course, they’re all charging more than the average Malagasy would pay by virtue of the fact that a) almost all their clientele are vazas who roll up in chauffeured 4x4s and b) the stalls are positioned kitty-corner to the Prime Minister’s house (not to get side-tracked, but what self-respecting PM would take a residence, however grand, behind a gas station?). Still, in order to retain a shred of dignity, Mr. 2nd from the left - you are black listed until you are willing to play nicely. <br /><br />Down the road just a few metres on the other side are a collection of flower-sellers, another fruit stall and a young guy who runs the bamboo furniture business, which has provided me two very lovely side-tables that look quite swish with my rocking chairs. He has some nice deck chairs with red fabric that might be my next purchase. Moving along, you’ll see guards in front of compounds, restaurants, the municipal offices, the stadium, and of course, the army barracks. They loiter, are generally quite reassuring and not terribly obtrusive. Unlike what I am used to in Central America, they do not often hiss, holler, hoot or declare their love to you and your blue dress as you pass by (“I love you! Hello! Blue dress! I love you! Okey, bye bye”). Malagasy men will thank you, sometimes profusely, for walking by, but mostly they seem to just watch with varying degrees of interest, surprise or pining. <br /><br />When I first got here, the Jacaranda trees were in full bloom, which is something to see indeed. The Bougainvillea came next, and it’s one of my favourite flowers to see in a garden because it’s so bright and it grows over everything. It’s not a smell unique to Tana, but there is a particular smell that is wonderful when the bougainvillea, this cedar-like hedge that I can’t identify and burning garbage all waft together. I know that latter part doesn’t sound appetizing, but trust me. I’m here and it’s my impression and you’re not so you don’t have much choice!<br /><br />I should mention the downtown area I suppose – it’s full of old, colonial villas and houses. My favourite place is the Café de la Gare, which is in the old train station. They have deep green leather seats with wicker and dark wood tables and large photos of Madagascar from the turn of the century. The chandeliers are huge wrought-iron affairs and there is a large roasting machine next to a giant fireplace. Outside is a long lawn where you can sit if the weather is good and the bathrooms are in an old train car. It’s about as wonderful as it can get. I can’t believe I come dressed in anything other than head-to-foot white and without a parasol and straw boating hat. The shame is great indeed, but they graciously do not stand on ceremony there. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6HuKgKDGaYKeNg68DwCCEUC-EPj0sjTgQaYdIcpzqJ1oi-rhiBQjigPmbYSDHHTLBJVQhXXMmIal5BnNn4fDBaYqmmlSwLykso-w430xXeohiad-nsDoQD866UdwpyzN78ni/s1600/IMG_0505.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6HuKgKDGaYKeNg68DwCCEUC-EPj0sjTgQaYdIcpzqJ1oi-rhiBQjigPmbYSDHHTLBJVQhXXMmIal5BnNn4fDBaYqmmlSwLykso-w430xXeohiad-nsDoQD866UdwpyzN78ni/s320/IMG_0505.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567972442388322770" /></a><br /><br />I know that what I’ve given you here is basically my visual impression of Tana, without really telling you much about the culture. That’s the part that I still barely know, so you won’t get it out of me yet! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOzz98vQ5MT33YBrsgxmGQKyi4NxVko3J0Q4ewXAYTdrc18gVUOcAUYHYllt7CuQ0yFLUpVOd5CRdvCYoRuhwdY0tN0OeSYNRC7Wj71JlhI4Jtq7ro2x7IEWUMmPTm2fWqDxm/s1600/IMG_0436.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOzz98vQ5MT33YBrsgxmGQKyi4NxVko3J0Q4ewXAYTdrc18gVUOcAUYHYllt7CuQ0yFLUpVOd5CRdvCYoRuhwdY0tN0OeSYNRC7Wj71JlhI4Jtq7ro2x7IEWUMmPTm2fWqDxm/s320/IMG_0436.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567968891858526866" /></a><br /><br />Next week I’ll tackle Tamatave, out on the coast, which is a whole other delightful story.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-60315475329343208942011-01-19T09:10:00.002-08:002011-01-19T09:19:24.093-08:00Taking a Page from a Fellow SwedeJanuary 16, 2011 – Antananarivo <br /><br />I got back to Madagascar on Wednesday in the wee hours. I have felt barraged with one frustration after another since about New Year’s. I won't get into the details because when I list them off they all sound so petty, but we all know what it is like when things build up each day, you don't think you can take another hit - and that's about the time your toilet breaks and no repair man can come until after the weekend (true story). <br /><br />Since I have been back, I see again the beautiful things here for which I am thankful and that make being here an experience worth having. I was also reminded when running through the village today that most houses here don't actually have toilets - and that this too shall all pass. I am, therefore, incredibly frustrated at my own lack of grace in handling these problems that are being constantly thrown at me.<br /><br />I have a few thoughts that I’ve been mulling over in response (between my other responses of foot stamping, fist shaking and the hand wringing): <br /><br />First (1), I don’t understand why God doesn’t just make me nicer. <br /><br />There’s the minute possibility that is my responsibility though…<br /><br />Secondly (2), we really weren’t designed to be hermits. Even if for purely self-preservation reasons, we need people around us, to help us, to protect us, to tell us when we’re being unreasonable and to laugh with us about it after we’ve managed to stop telling them where to shove it. We need people who we can trust so that we don’t always have to shoulder the burden of moving apartments alone or letting the plumber in when you’ve done it the last four times and need to be at a work meeting. I am convinced that I need to be more grateful and kind to my past roommates than I have been. They are true prizes. <br /><br />Thirdly, (3) I picked up Dag Hammarskjöld’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Markings</span> today – it’s a bit like reading Gandi or Martin Luther King or Paul’s epistles from prison. I mean, I don’t know of any great suffering in his life, but I can imagine being Secretary-General of the UN for 10 years, especially during things like the Korean War and the Suez Crisis would be a life that had its fair share of stress, and yet here he is, saying all these gentle, wise things. So it is convicting stuff. Two quotes I’ll share: “ Never measure the height of the mountain, until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was.” Followed later by “life only demands from you the strength you possess. Only one feat is possible – not to have run away.” I don’t believe for a second that Mr. Hammarskjöld was one of these self-help gurus that believed that if a person just tries really hard, and thinks positively, all would be well. I think he knew that we come up against some real tough stuff sometimes, but we also have a tendency to think we’re the only ones to see trouble. When I read the latter quote, I was reminded of Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians – “ no temptation has overtaken you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.”<br /><br />I remember the first time I ever lived overseas there was another person talking to me about mountains in a similar way. At the precious age of 18, I did a study abroad program in Guatemala. I remember talking with my friend Jenn about something that I had to do that week of which I was truly terrified – it was some new step out of my comfort zone or other. She said to me that this was “the first hill in a series of foothills and then mountains – don’t look at the mountains, because that will be too overwhelming. Just get on with this hill and you’ll be surprised at the end.” For whatever reason, I’ve been in stuck somewhere in the Kootenays for the last little while. I am far too easily angered that it’s not more like Regina. <br /><br />Third-point-fifth (3.5), I was talking with some friends over the holidays about faith. One friend was relating conversations she has with a very bright friend of hers who is an atheist and presses my friend on her faith. As the three of us discussed these conversations, we came to the point that you can’t convince someone of faith – as Hammarskjöld says “only through the self-knowledge we gain by pursuing the fleeting light in the depth of our being do we reach the point where we can grasp what faith is. How many have been driven into outer darkness by empty talk about faith as something to be rationally comprehended, something ‘true’.” I told my friends that my faith has sometimes been comprised of moments: moments of complete assurance of God’s presence, conviction of God’s truth, confident of God himself – not in an intellectual way, in a way that you simply can’t explain. Those moments are enough. <br /><br />Fourth, and final: I am not impressed with the “self-knowledge” I’ve gained this week. I’m cranky and not always cool when things break and I’m alone and tired. I asked God to throw me a bone (literally, I used those words in prayer). I got a whack on the snout from Dag and Paul as my answer – but, it’s actually quite comforting. That one about not running away and the connection to Paul's point on God's faithfulness when you don't run away are swirling around each other nicely in my head. Ah ha! In this instant, it all makes so much sense! D & P, your reminders are moments enough for me today.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-90271033755408798022010-12-14T13:41:00.001-08:002010-12-14T13:43:13.734-08:00Home Jeeves!I should clarify something: I like going out but I like being home too. In the early haze of consciousness this morning at about 6:14am a week or so ago, I was thinking about nice things that will happen because I get to spend Christmas in Vancouver. I could see my little, cosy apartment with it’s little, cosy Christmas tree and then my little, cosy neighbourhood with it’s little, cosy Christmas lights strung up and people in their cosy (not so little) parkas. And then I started thinking what a great place to be from Vancouver is – really! It’s got everything: mountains, ocean, coffee shops, I can ride the bus without having to call the driver first and see if he’s eaten lunch yet (having a chauffeur can be harder than it looks). And ever since the Olympics, Europeans know that it’s not near Quebec so we can’t speak French and Americans don’t say “oh, Washington huh?” Yep, we have finally arrived. <br /><br />You know Vancouver is a great place to be from and it’s a great place to come home to. I may not spend my whole life there, but I had the thought that morning that I am so grateful it is home base – because I never have to justify the $3200 plane ticket. I can go any time. Of course, being from the South of France or Buenos Aires would probably be just as cool. I wonder if people from other places say to themselves “I wanna live in Vancouver – if only for a year” like Canadians do about Paris or somewhere hot. I am sure they do. In fact, the French probably have an inferiority complex about our style, what with our classic sleek yoga pants and reflective running gear and all… <br /><br />So, I’ve packed my (one underweight!) bag and am once again setting off home. Maybe, since I know I am coming back, it is much more exciting to be going home. There is no denouement to the return, it's just a pause - the plot thickens, maybe even! There’s a small chance that I might not be as happy to get on a plane (as “happy” as I can be about that task), if I were going back to job searching and sitting in my little, cosy apartment for another 6 months. But I was never really discontent while doing that either. So, I think I’ll just make this short and sweet and to the point: <br /><br />I’m thankful.<br /><br />Punto.<br /><br />Take me home, Jeeves!Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-76631158004318074542010-12-05T08:07:00.003-08:002010-12-05T08:16:04.421-08:00Bizarre de NoelDecember in a hot country again: It’s a bizarre experience for me every time. The decorations and music sneak up on you when you feel like you should be getting ready for a Canada Day BBQ or something. You’ll be wandering around in the blazing heat, and suddenly see Santa and his polar bear buddies socking back an old-fashioned Coca-Cola up on a billboard. In Managua, the roundabouts always had very snazzy over-sized decorations, usually in, ahem, alternative Christmas colours, like a 12-ft pink snowflake that was put to shame by the blooming bougainvillea. That year, all I wanted for Christmas – other than my two front teeth and you, of course – was this absolutely wonderful fake Christmas Palm Tree. It came with lights already strung up on it’s incredibly vibrant and – may I add – very life-like branches. About a week ago I walked into Jumbo Score (the big grocery chain here) and was shocked into December by the double-wide yuletide decorations aisle – which, distressingly, had replaced the double-wide wine-tasting aisle. This upsetting exchange notwithstanding, I was impressed with the quantity and quality of Christmas decorations available here – they obviously take trimming the tree quite seriously. And so they should. <br /><br />So, into the Christmas Spirit we go. You will be relieved to know that I participated in shopping excursions to not one, but TWO Christmas Bazaars. The first one was at the French school last weekend and one at the American school yesterday. Now, I will just note that last weekend was my initiation into Malagasy Christmas Bazaars and I was highly unprepared for what awaited me. I expected something featuring picture frames with painted popsicle sticks and macaronis that the children of said school had made and were selling to raise money for new pinnies for their gym class or something. But lo, it was a real festivus and included pretty much anyone who makes anything cool in Madagascar - and then some more things that are only semi-cool and the occasional ugly item, that I am sure SOMEONE buys, because SOMEONE makes it - and I have enough economics to know that people don't just supply things if they aren't in demand. They don't. Trust me. <br /><br />Anyways, these Christmas Bazaars are very serious affairs here. If the Christmas deco aisle was any indication – well, I just simply should have known. Any body who is any body goes to see and be seen and buy jewellery and throw pillows and baskets and purses and spices and shoes and soap and the odd quilted hippo (it’s very cute, trust me). The first round, at the French school, I was caught completely unaware of the cool stuff that was to be found. So the second round at the American school I came to well armed and was not disappointed. I was able to make out like a bandit with all sorts of things that I am sure will be lovely gifts for Christmas, if and when that rolls around - I am still unconvinced, but my Google calendar has never been known to lie yet.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-57426757278000461512010-11-18T22:00:00.004-08:002011-07-20T11:48:01.630-07:00These are the chronicles of an Ex-Pat in the Land of Lemurs (catchy eh?)*Note: I wrote this last week, but still don't have internet at my apartment, so I am a bit behind on posting. Sorry for the old news!<br /><br /><br />I have been in Madagascar for about five days now, which means that I am still sleeping heavily one night and wide awake the next. Turns out, jet lag is not as glamorous as they tell you. The first few days I was put up in a hotel just a mere block and half away from my snazzy new office. I could see it from my window, especially because the hotel and the office are the only two buildings with modern architecture and taller than two storeys on this “highway.” Now, let’s just pause here for a point of order. Personally, anything with only two, very congested lanes filled with pousse-pousses (rickshaws) and walkers doesn’t qualify for highway class in my taxonomy of things. On the other hand, the government of BC has been calling Hwy 10 a ‘highway’ for years, despite the inordinate amount of stoplights, so who am I to argue? The proximity didn’t stop the company from providing me with a chauffeur for the new commute either, but I am not complaining. The hotel was a nice introduction – ease yourself in, go for a swim, watch some BBC, have a French buffet breakfast for the first few days so your stomach can become accustomed, don’t push yourself over the limit the first week, etc.<br /><br />But Friday was a big day. I moved into an apartment AND was invited to happy hour put on by the American Embassy. I am a pretty big deal around here already! Let’s comment on the apartment first. I’d like to entitle this chapter:<br />“Why Won’t my Toilet Stop Running? And other tales of moving woe:”<br /><br />Even when one is moving in Canada, where you know that you will be able to find and purchase toilet paper with relative ease. I forgot though that moving in a foreign country is twice the excitement. Not only are you not quite sure where your next roll will be coming from, but you also are met with bizarre configurations and unfamiliar technology. For instance, there are two plugs beside the normal plug that are, as of yet, unidentified. They fit no French, South African nor Canadian electrical plug. They don’t fit a phone or Internet jack. They are just two thin strips with a little tear drop on the end that are there to confound even those most experienced techie. My toilet, as I have already alluded, is another issue entirely. It runs constantly. CONSTANTLY. So I have to turn off the water at night because the sound drives me mad. Some might liken it to having your own soothing indoor Zen waterfall. Sure, if your idea of Zen is the deafening roar of Niagara. It’s also funny to me that the toilet is in a separate little room from the rest of the bathroom. It’s the definitive “water closet.” Who designs these things?<br /><br />Answer: the French.<br /><br />Yes, I’ve taken to abusing and praising the French for much here – mostly because I still don’t know the Malagasy way of doing things yet. Nevertheless, I feel certain that the Malagasy would never do something so absurd as separate the toilet from the sink, bathtub, towels and (more importantly) magazine rack. But, despite the disastrous experiment that was colonialism in Africa, we can be thankful to the French for a few things here. I have made a list:<br />- Daily fresh croissants<br />- Daily fresh baguettes<br />- Superb charcuterie<br />- Heated towel racks<br />- The availability of tampons in major grocery stores (don’t ever take that for granted)<br /><br />So you see, it’s not entirely bad. On Friday, my driver Lala (yep, that’s his name) took me to Jumbo, the supermarket near work. I was astounded by the goodies that were to be had. I believe I have previously spoken about my love affair with third world grocery stores before. I could (and have) wander the cool, calming aisles of grocery stores throughout the developing world for hours. Jumbo is a real treat. It must be owned by Casino, the French grocery chain, because that is the main brand it sells for everything (including foie gras and ratatouille – add those to the list). But I will firmly say that any grocery store that carries tampons, however limited the selection, and two-week old Economists is all I need to survive. This place is fine - they have no need for development professionals like myself, which is worrisome, since I only just got here. Ah well, perhaps for the sake of the nationals I should be happy.<br /><br />Don’t I wish it were so. Tana (short form for Tananarive or Antananarivo) is a city of about 3 million. It is beautiful with white houses with brightly coloured shutters cascading down the small mountains on which the city sits. Rice paddies fill the bottom and line the way out to the airport. Jacaranda trees are in full bloom as are the Sacuanjoche (Frangipane) trees. Hibiscus and bougainvillea line the gates in front of houses. You can buy flowers from every other corner – tall lilies and gladiolas of literally every colour – for pittance. It’s a gorgeous place, but, as more than one local has already said with varying degrees of scorn or sadness, “c’est pauve.”<br /><br />On the other side from the Jacarandas etc, is a busy city: on the main “highway” there is a cluster of shacks lining each side. Sunday was apparently washing day, since the women were out beating the dirt out of their clothes in the run-off ditches lining the paddy on the right hand side. Some were working the stone piles also there.<br /><br />Yesterday, a friend recommended to me a taxi driver to take me around to see some of the sights and do a bit of shopping. Gabbie the Cabbie was an excellent chauffeur, French tutor and local guide. I had a good laugh from him too. We were talking about how to get to the Palais du Roi, which sits on the highest point in Tana, overlooking the rest of the city. There had been protests so it wasn’t safe to go the one way. I asked him what the protests were about and got the run down on the political situation in the country – taxi drivers the world over are always the best source of that type of information, - they don’t hold back. The conversation was going on about how these protests have become regular, but they won’t make much difference:<br />Me: You know, where I lived before in Bolivia, they say there that protesting is their national sport.<br />Gabbie: Here in Africa, I would say that our national sport is making babies.<br />Me: (laughter)<br />Gabbie: it’s true! The people are so poor, that they need the children and it is all they can do.<br /><br />It’s funny, but sad too. Children are current labour and old age pension payments at once. They help you with the kiosk or hawking now and then when you are old, they can care for you. There are a goodly lot of children around, I will give him that.<br /><br />I thought about it later that night and decided that in Canada our national sport is apologizing. I’ve been a champ at it, much to the chagrin of foreign friends who were weary of the word. I went to the Embassy happy hour and got into a discussion with some Americans who thought our accent was “cute.” They wanted to brainstorm all the words that we Canadians say differently. ‘Sorry’ was a big hit. I think I made the very salient point that our pronunciation must be the correct one, since we have perfected it by using it so frequently.<br /><br />So, this is my introduction to live in Madagascar. Turns out that it is not a cartoon and I have yet to see a lemur, but I have seen lemur bridges so that they can get across the road without getting hit – it’s cute. Stay tuned for my next edition: “My first coup.” That's bound to be exciting, isn't it?Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-36837970585049288112010-09-17T12:23:00.003-07:002010-09-17T12:31:08.112-07:00Can we go out?When I was a kid, I always wanted to “go out.” I’d ask my mom if we could go out today and she would reply “Where?”<br /><br />“I don’t know, just… out.” I always wanted to go somewhere fun, that would generally involve shopping, although for the record, going to home depot with dad, despite being a technical example of ‘shopping,’ did not meet the minimal requirements for ‘fun.’ Other than that, I had pretty low standards. I would take a toodle through the IGA with grandma as a good time. <br /><br />I still find Home Depot the most boring place on earth and I still want to go out. I appreciate coming home a bit more these days, but for the most part, I want to go out and see what is going on. Get me outta here. I will go anywhere – I just want to go!<br /><br />Ok, that’s not quite true – I should qualify that I have a list of places I will not go. I have informed God that Afghanistan, Somalia and the Central African Republic are off the table. I think the first two are fairly understandable. As for the Central African Republic, the thing is I don’t actually know anything particularly damning against it, but that’s precisely my concern. I’ve never heard anything good either. I am fairly certain it’s in the bottom five on every UN development indicator list ever drafted. It doesn’t have to be the worst, but if you only squeak past Somalia in terms of maternal health but not the Congo, that really isn’t saying much, is it? <br /><br />But aside from those reasonable exemptions, I’m pretty flexible. <br /><br />Ok, that’s not true either. I do have a few marginal requirements. For example, I have to have access to reasonable sanitation systems somewhere in the country or at least in my house. Now I am willing to concede that ‘reasonable’ is a loose term. My friends make fun of me because I am incredibly picky about cleanliness in Canadian loos. If a stall isn’t up to snuff, then I have no scruples about rejecting and moving one to the left. “How on earth do you survive in third world countries? You can’t possibly hold it for eight months at a time” They sound only marginally incredulous – like they secretly think I must. Personally, I believe that though I may have to put up with it in third world countries where infrastructure lags decades or centuries behind, I certainly don’t have to do so here in Canada, the land of peace, order and good septic systems. I saw a book at Chapters once on implementing sanitation systems using the basic environmental resources available. I will be purchasing that book and memorizing it. I may not have any ability to fathom modern engineering, but people have been disposing of their poop in creative ways since the dawn of history. I am sure it can’t be that hard to sort out.<br /><br />So there’s that to consider. Issue number the next is that slight fear of flying. I think we’ve covered that previously. Damn oceans are always in the way. But the truth is, all the good viewpoints in life require taking a bit of a running leap, don’t they? <br /><br />I’m sorry, that was rather cliché. It’s still true though. <br /><br />Speaking of oceans, another issue I have is the distance to water. I am from Vancouver. It rains 75% if the year, and you know what? It’s actually wonderful. I’d take 10 degrees and drizzle over -30 and dry any day. My prairie counterparts always counter “oh but it’s a dry cold.” <br />No. <br />Hell no. <br />Forty below zero is just damn cold. Anyway, if you are from Vancouver, I think you are bred with a higher water requirement. You’re not a cactus; you are a kelp. You need the water and you can take more of it. I remember during the dry season in Nicaragua thinking to myself “I could go for a little rain right about now.” I dry out; I get parched. I live in a city that puts up palm trees and pretends it is a tropical rainforest. It is technically a rainforest region – it’s just a temperate one (we tend to downplay that aspect though). What's important is that we get a steady supply of water in large quantities<br /><br />While any old body of water and a fairly reliable annual rainfall is necessary, a short distance to the ocean in particular is what would be sufficient. There is something about being within a short distance to the ocean that makes one very calm. It’s just good to know it’s there if you ever need to get on a boat in short order – if you need to escape a revolution or if there is a major disaster for instance. It’s also nice to have in case we do end up running out of water after all but have a working desalination machine on hand (I think they mention some pointers on how to build one of those using cedar planks and broken clam shells in the Sanitation for Dummies book). Even if you just feel a little woebegone, it is very calming to have a sit next to the ocean. <br /><br />So that rules out Uzbekistan for sure (double landlocked). <br /><br />I have also decided I could not ever move to Abbotsford. Yes, I know it’s in BC, has a fine sanitation system and is within a reasonable distance to the ocean (although, a bit petulant if you ask me – not entirely unreasonable but petulant). I don’t care; it’s still not worth it. I’ll admit that it has some beautiful mountains. But aside from that, all I think of when I picture it is a row of giant box stores and large SUVs sitting in front of them (the Escalade and Durango type, not the respectable 4x4 type). <br /><br />I don’t have anything against chain stores per se – it’s always nice to find your favourite brand of toothpaste in an unfamiliar town thanks to a neighbourhood Safeway. But these are not the benign type of supermarkets with an overactive cheese section and an aisle of underwear and sweatpants to fill out a few extra square feet. No, places like Abbotsford have the serious big-box giants. There are many heinous reasons to hate them: they mistreat overseas workers and undercut the economy so that we all become addicted to the cracksicle of cheap, disposable consumer culture. But that’s not even what really frosts me about these places. No, it’s actually much less noble: inevitably, you go in, find the ONE thing that is unavailable to you elsewhere and then look at the range of 25 check-out counters and see that you have an option of TWO that are open – both a football field’s distance away from wherever you happen to be standing and each other. By the time you check one to see how busy it is (and it’s always busy, because they hide the true size of the line by snaking it up and down) you find that the other less busy one has filled up. What was just a three-minute trip to get duct tape and popcorn has just left you in line-up limbo until the next morning. You remember that book/movie with Natalie Portman about the girl that gave birth in Walmart? Yeah, she goes in for a pregnancy test and some olives and 9 months later… <br /><br />Poor Natalie… you’d think her agent or someone would have noticed she was missing.<br /><br />So, I have ruled out suburbia, landlocked countries, failed states that are terrorism hotbeds and Home Depot. That happily leaves a lot of places though. I am ALWAYS willing to go out to coffee-growing countries. This includes, but is not limited to: Brazil, Colombia, Nicaragua, Mexico, Kenya, Vietnam (although, I take issue with the mass-production of poor-grade Robusta almost entirely destined to become instant “coffee” so that is qualified heavily), Indonesia, Ethiopia, Papua New Guinea and Madagascar. <br /><br />I recognize that many of these places are exotic. I can lower the bar if that would help. I still enjoy a good toodle around the grocery store (provided it falls below the giant box-store square footage requirement). Even as an adult I have found grocery stores to be at times incredibly wonderful – and other times incredibly harrowing, like Superstore on a Sunday at 3pm when every mother brings her entire brood and shops using the extra-wide carts that double as strollers – it’s the nightmare you imagine it to be, but what have I been telling you about big box stores? <br /><br />When I lived in Managua, I used to stop by a grocery store called La Union on my way home. Sometimes I needed things; often I just made up an excuse. There was something so calming about the place – maybe it was the air conditioning or the shiny magazines detailing the glamorous lives of the Hispanic world’s royalty or the fact that it had a bookshop in it. Maybe it was the fact that it was the only place in Managua (and thereby in the entire country) that had a steady supply of feta cheese, peanut butter and fine Argentinean wine within five feet of one another. I think what it really was though, is that it was like home. Grocery stores the world over are organized in the same typical way. Moving clockwise or counter-clockwise from the entrance around the perimeter: fruits/vegetables, dairy, meats, fish, bakery. Inside: rows and rows of canned goods, cereals, baking supplies, and then the junk food and – anywhere except Canada – the wine and beer aisle. While I love going out and seeing new things, there is comfort in finding that we all need the same basic things, the world over. The brands lining the aisle of La Union are often different from home, but you can find the same sort of thing that people everywhere love and need: food, beauty and toilet paper. <br /><br />Nelson Mandela said, “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.” I don’t think I can justly boast that that is my intent when I yearn to “go out” but I do think I can justly say it has been the most delightful surprise consequence of all my outings. Some times we go out and find little mundane things that lift our spirits (two-ply on sale!) or we go out and life is forever changed – we cannot return home without seeing things in a new way.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-29128904493283294252010-07-27T10:44:00.002-07:002010-07-27T10:50:33.948-07:00Job Hunting like an AmazonJob searching is about the most abysmally depressing thing a healthy, educated young adult can do these days. It is as though some masochistic mind designed it just so that when you sail out of a degree with the wind of triumph, you are then unceremoniously dumped on still seas, to float, endlessly, on and on, no horizon in sight, waiting for a breeze, crackling in the searing sun, parched – I’m sure you’ve all gotten the picture. You spend all day clicking link after link and assess within an instant if it is a job that A) you could realistically do, or B) would realistically be considered for. I find myself ignoring the former and cursing the latter. Then, once you’ve trawled the mass of links and find that you have identified precious few opportunities, you spend hours upon hours carefully crafting a cover letter, resume – and in many cases, essay questions and writing samples. You tailor them to the organization’s goals and paradigms and you customize it even further to the vacancy in question. Then, after wanting to poke out our eyeball at the thought of trying to come up with yet another way to say “takes initiative,” you package it all up the way they like – I’m coming to resent websites that make you upload it in some obscure old form or worse, may you input your employment history one at a time when it’s already listed on the resume – and then, with a single mouse-click, you send it off. <br /><br />Perhaps what makes it so particularly awful is that you never really know what happens to your application after it leaves your email message page. I can only imagine the terrible weight upon human resources managers across the globe as they carefully and painstakingly and attentively and laboriously examine each and every individual application. I am confident that is how it is done and I tell you, I don’t envy them that task. No wonder it takes them so long to reply to my request for confirmation that my delicately constructed resume, hand-tailored not only to their organization, but to the specific position in question, has not gone directly to their junk-mail due to a mammoth organizational webmail spam filter. I can only imagine how acutely they feel it - that they are missing out on all sorts of potential employees due to the pure and hapless misstep of someone in the IT department. <br /><br />Coping with this sordid reality is difficult. After much consideration I have come to the conclusion that the following responses will be ineffectual and counterproductive: <br />- Heavy drinking, <br />- Crying, <br />- Staging a hunger strike outside the office of the desired employer, <br />- Binge eating chocolate cupcakes, particularly those enticing ones sprinkled with decorations <br />- Clasping desperately onto the arm of a contact who hazily remembers having a friend who worked for an organization similar to the one you just mentioned at while making small talk with them at the supermarket/church/art show<br />- Binge eating chocol – oh wait, I said that…<br />- Snarling<br /><br />Yes, despite being highly ineffectual, they all sound rather satisfying, don’t they? I mean, short of the satisfaction one would feel if one had a job that allowed them to pay rent, buy groceries, have some self-respect, etc, of course. Obviously, that would be the consummate definition of satisfaction. But since consummate definitions are just the sort of things that post-modern kids like myself are taught to run screaming and flailing from at a very tender age, then I think it’s understandable why I’ve taken the time to assess other options, if not carry them out. <br /><br />Thus far I’ve managed to avoid bingeing of any kind, although I am never really above snarling and crying is more of an involuntary reaction, sort of like a sneeze. You can’t really control a thing like that so I think I could be excused for a perfectly natural and biological catharsis every now and again. As for the hunger strike – well that wasn’t likely with me anyways. I’ve never been one of those girls that would willingly forgo her supper. On a related, yet tangential note, I am baffled by girls that say, “Oh, I was just so busy all day I totally forgot to eat.” <br /><br />WHAT. <br /><br />No, I am sorry, I might be TOO BUSY (on a very rare and specific occasion) but I never forget. I am always thinking, “Gee, I wish I were eating” in such circumstances. <br /><br />Which brings me back to the subject at hand. I need to eat. Not right now, but at least a few times a day. This is a critical area in my life that I do not foresee ever being wholly resolved. So how do you think I feel when I scan the website of a well-respected, large, <span style="font-style:italic;">funded</span>, organization with offices in hundreds of countries around the world (not to name names, but the UN), offering MA grads unpaid internships? How do I <span style="font-style:italic;">feel</span>? <br /><br />I feel hungry. I feel like a sandwich. I feel like I am sandwiched uncomfortably between the interns and the 10+years experience job categories – and ne’er the twain shall meet. How does one go about getting 10+ years experience if they are destined to die of starvation within, well medically speaking probably, the first 40-50 days of their wage-less job? <br /><br />I’ve always said that, like the facebook group, I picked a major I liked and in ten years I’ll be living in a box – but at least that box will probably be on a beach in Mexico. I am posting this today because I am actually quite hopeful. It’s been crappy, this job search, but I am becoming more and more convinced that my job right now is to run it well, remembering that God does not abandon his plans with us. Forget the snarling and the bingeing options - pursue the good even in the abysmal. When you know there is something coming down the pipe – even though you don’t know when or what, there is hope in that.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-20162205575228631962010-06-26T10:29:00.005-07:002010-06-26T12:29:07.465-07:00Posits on International Relations Theory and the Global Polity: whither stupid titles that vaguely reference moving toward a new understandingYesterday, after four lovely days in a secluded cove cabin up the Sunshine Coast with some friends (read: deliciously away from all technology), I returned to find that I had missed both the beginning and the deadline for the second round of an application process I am in with a UN job. When I explained the situation, they gave me an extension but to my dismay the essay questions were largely on topics of international relations theory that weren't my particular cup of tea. Luckily, I am nothing if not skilled in speed-writing essays on subjects on which I have only vague assumptions. By the end of lunch I had turned myself into Vancouver's leading authority on cosmopolitanism, peace building and which way forward for multilateral relations in an age of colliding discontent over divergent governance structures (and you thought I was just being modest about my speed-BS-writing, uh I mean speed-essay writing). I am not sure Vancouver hitherto realized the gaping vacuum it previously had without such a leading expert, but now that I have reached such a height, I think we have all arrived at a very good place philosophically, dialogically, grammatically...<br /><br />Every so often though, when dwelling too long and too hard on International Relations - particularly when considering global systems and international "solutions," I have a thought. Yes, it's a dangerous acquisition, to be sure. <br /><br />I can't help but thinking how funny we must all look to God. I have this vision of him sitting on a big, antarctic snow bank, his crampons and thick boots dangling over the edge, with a funny grin on his weather-whipped face. He's looking down on us at the edge of the ice floe, all us penguins waddling around and chatting sociably. We waddle over to one and then another and then two more over there and busily inform one another of our very inventive plans and ideas on how to manage the ice. And he can hear it all, it is just the sound of "mer mer marrrr, mar. Mar mar... mermermer merrrrr mar!" <br /><br />What funny creatures we are. Mar mar. Waddle, waddle... occasional "weeeeee!" as we jump into the water, pause, heads up and shake quickly with a startled look on our little beaks. Who knew it was that cold?! That wasn't what we were expecting AT ALL. <br /><br />It's not that we shouldn't discuss these things. Of course we should - we were created to waddle and swim and murmur. But we do tend, rather oddly, to think our ice floe is the only thing in the world and man, have we got it set up well. I can't help but think just how much <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> beyond our ice floe - our vision of comprehension. In our globalized world we are bombarded with options and visions of ice floes thousands of miles away from us, in Mumbai or Iraq or Switzerland. Ice floes in Cape Town seem to be very exciting these days, despite the tepid water and distinct lack of ice for most of their penguins. But while we have so much knowledge (or maybe a better term is 'awareness' - I wouldn't say we are all necessarily knowledgeable), it is almost too much to fathom, let alone manage. Which cause should I take up? Climate Change? Darfur? Human rights abuses? Oh blast, now there is some trouble in Kyrgyzstan - is it the Uzbeks who are being chased or the other way around? I can barely spell the country name... And where should I travel next?? - That's another pressing issue. The world is my oyster (I am told), but it still requires an awful lot of money and energy. <br /><br />Back to the penguins. Even if we know about the other floes and penguins, and even if we - in a rather strange turn of events - decide we care about them, how funny it is that we pretend to be able to make decisions that will benefit them, as opposed to resulting in a very sordid menagerie of negative externalities (oh that's a doozy of a phrase!). I don't want to be Negative Nelly here at all, that's not my goal. I just think we should realize that we are all just penguins, that's all I have. Swim well, murmur kindly, remember to look up at the one the snow bank. Other than that, I've got no further moral lesson or "way forward toward a more consistent trajectory" or some other concluding remark. Just some reflective murrrrmurings.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-78921935849695039752010-05-21T11:13:00.003-07:002010-05-21T11:31:55.619-07:00The Lost Art of Train TravelThose who know me well are acquainted with my distaste for airplanes. I hate flying, but I want to go places. My mom used to be a travel agent in Winnipeg in the 70s and she has told me the story of a man who once came into her office and wanted to book a trip to Hawaii – by bus. Needless to say, when she explained the deal about the Pacific Ocean, he was a bit consternated. After a bit of inquiry into possible routes to Honolulu via train and boat, he finally settled on a trip to Minneapolis. I can relate. <br /><br />I mean think about it – have you looked at a plane recently? It’s rather obtrusive. How on earth can something so morbidly obese not only get to 40,000ft, but stay there. I am fascinated by the marvels of modern engineering in the same macabre way that one might be fascinated by looking at a <a href="http://internetmoment.com/the-ugliest-animals-of-the-world/">hairless cat or an eel</a>. <br /><br />Aside from my experience in first class on a return flight from Seoul to Vancouver, I do not actively enjoy flying. There are two moments of exception: the take-off (come on, it is a bit exciting) and the liberal disbursement of wine on France-bound flights. Those aspects aside, there is generally short-shrift given to leg-room and peace from screaming babies. I know it isn’t a very nice character reflection, but come now, we all want to slap it, that howling box with exorbitant projection capabilities that, no matter what seat you have booked, is always two rows behind you. There, I said it. And to top it all off, I am still not entirely convinced that if I do not close the lid prior to flushing those inordinately violent toilets, I will not possibly be sucked down and ejected out a back hatch into the stratosphere. <br /><br />Flying is a means to an end: it gets you where you want to go relatively quickly. I don’t love it, but compared with a four-month journey across the choppy Atlantic sleeping in bunks doused with vomit from newbie sailors and the very real threat of scurvy, it is a cake-walk. On the other hand, I am continually baffled by how giant this earth is, and – not to be outdone – how vast my own country is. I don’t think I have taken a Toronto-Vancouver flight that didn’t make grinding my teeth on the pavement sound pleasant, resulting with me flinging myself on the ground, crying out “LAAAAAAND!!!” upon arrival. <br /><br />But on my most recent journey abroad, the clouds parted and the sun shone down on a new method of transportation that makes the plane ride to get to it all the more valuable: Trains – and European ones at that. As with a plane, you arrive at a destination much faster than with a car, bike, shoe, horse-and-buggy, etc, but you get to see it all go by at the same time! And this is an important point. Trains let you get there by exploring from the comfort of a rolling armchair. Castles and vineyards whip by for your viewing pleasure like a toucan to a birdwatcher. You can pick and choose which ones to stop for. And as a bonus, sure, you might fall over from the rocking when trying to use the toilet – but at least you can be safe from an impromptu free-fall to your death. <br /><br />I think my favourite part though is the dining car. It is reminiscent of the ages of Agatha Christie thrillers and Cary Grant. There is an element of nostalgic class. The door to the dining car is actually a magical threshold, similar to Lewis’s wardrobe or Carroll’s looking glass. It will take you to a new time and place, where women in silk evening gowns smoke cigarettes on long, slim filters and gentlemen puff pungent cigars and somehow, miraculously, we are not all having a coughing fit as a result of the excess carcinogens in the enclosed space. And rest assured that there is plenty of diamond jewellery and brandy to go around. <br /><br />On my train from Paris to Barcelona, my daddy booked me a first-class sleeper ticket. “If you are going to do it, you may as well do it properly.” That ticket was also apparently good for complimentary champagne in said magical dining car. It was a shame I left my emerald necklace at home. If you still need proof of the beauty of this form of travel, I offer one more: I was served the first meal involving asparagus that I have ever eaten with alacrity. See what I mean? <br /><br />Now, I will say that despite having a bed all to myself, I, bafflingly, could not sleep for the life of me. But the rest of the experience was so pleasant and exciting that I am more than willing to forgive SCNF for the insomnia.<br /><br />Even when travelling with the plebeian hordes in regular coaches there is plenty to delight. Take, for example, the return train from Barcelona to Montpellier. Sure, the train itself was a step down from the other ones I had been enjoying. It definitely was a left over from the era of Mary Tyler Moore’s orange tweed-clad 70s and not the roaring 20’s – but let’s say that it too is ”an homage to a bygone era” and let it hold its head high. Sure it is an era that no one had particularly missed, but there is room for welcome, particularly when the large brown armchair seats with a touching napkin spread over the headrest still manage to be stunningly comfortable after more than 40 years of Australian backpackers and Belgian businessmen bumming down on them. And yes, the curtains looked like a tennis skirt that must be dearly missed by the Bitsey Hetherington-Jonses or Muffy St.Clairs of the world who mourn the year of their athletic zenith (1981). But my favourite part had to be, yes again, the dining car. I was informed just half an hour after pulling away from the station that the train featured a celebrity on its staff. The Australian seatmates across from me swore that the car was manned by none other than Manuel from Faulty Towers. <br /><br />I thought they were joking, but no, it really was him: small grey moustache, pinstripe waistcoat and all. But the resemblance was truly uncanny in his demeanour. His method was the madness. He took orders one at a time from the small crowd that had gathered at his bar and he never doubled up on a task. It didn’t seem strange to him that despite the last three people ordering the exact same thing, he still did each order one at a time, heating each sandwich separately in an spaciously industrial Panini-maker. One by one we all ordered a sandwich or croissant with coffee and one by one, he would put on one cup of coffee in the espresso maker that was not only held together with twist-ties, but that was also teetering precariously on the metal counter, ready to tumble head-first at any moment. <br /><br />The whole act was truly complicated by the fact that the kitchen was separated from the bar by a wall, with only a small hold a foot and a half tall through which, ostensibly, a chef could pass orders back and forth with the wait staff. Someone obviously had high hopes that there would be a long line of two-man teams to service the train. Alas, they were sorely mistaken. It was our loss (mine and that of the growing crowd now assembled) but also our gain in amusement. We had a front-row seat to watch Manuel, after he received an order, determinedly step out, march around the counter, walk down the full length of the car and enter the galley and step lively to the warming oven which sat mere inches away from his original post on the other side of the porthole, insert sandwich, wait three interminable minutes, take out sandwich, march back, make coffee, accept payment, repeat. It was a high-calibre performance in the very least. <br /><br />This is the beauty of trains – I can understand why little boys are so fascinated by them even with fighter jets and aircraft carriers with which they must contend. It doesn’t matter how old they are – they still have a mysterious power. They go like stink and rock and roll you into a nice state of humour where everything looks just a little more exotic that it might otherwise be. They aren’t sanitized corporate jets bearing the standard navy blue upholstery and the standard meticulously groomed attendants, who are lovely, to be sure. Instead, train station attendants sit behind a glass window in an arching art deco foyer and hold their hands behind their back and ask you to guess right or left. You never know if the hand you pick will slowly open up to reveal the Orient Express or Thomas the Tank Engine, but you can’t help but win either way.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-4747153324797010472009-09-04T19:46:00.000-07:002009-09-04T19:53:42.604-07:00Buenos Aires, Argentina<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOTONyyABXtMuU8hMQ-2cxJv2mlm3_cEYbeVzQVS36ueo7R_waew6q83iPpWPBokBw6iXoOM267tQ01dpZ5SswTrVaWfvo1Y35G15Qg9Xzdm_fdXA0GctnckWaGk7_T-AJnA0/s1600-h/IMG_0634.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOTONyyABXtMuU8hMQ-2cxJv2mlm3_cEYbeVzQVS36ueo7R_waew6q83iPpWPBokBw6iXoOM267tQ01dpZ5SswTrVaWfvo1Y35G15Qg9Xzdm_fdXA0GctnckWaGk7_T-AJnA0/s320/IMG_0634.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377811009615618466" /></a>Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10290230.post-5675746554297367682009-09-04T18:08:00.012-07:002009-09-05T05:30:15.487-07:00My Gaucho Initiation<span style="font-style:italic;">Good grief mother, if you only knew what your daughter was doing some times.</span><br /><br />Tonight I shared a yerba mate (pronounced "mah-teh") made by our wonderful hostel guy, Javier,** out of a communal cup (Oh yes, I prayed over it before drinking- I would appreciate your continual prayer for my protection against swine flu and mono though). <br /><br />Before I can talk about tonight, allow me to take us back to grade 11, a good nine years. I first heard of and saw yerba mate then at the precious age of 16 when it was a big fad with the Ekkerts, the Fasts and the Seels (also known as the 'Menno Mafia' at Richmond Christian Secondary - three families of minimum 6-8 children that all, funnily enough, happened to be cousins. One wing of the clan, (the Ekkert wing, I believe) had grown up in Paraguay so they brought the mate ritual over to Canada and the tradition was rapidly incorporated by the rest as if they too had been gauchos in the pampas all their young lives. <br /><br />The mennos all did mate, along with a strange dice game that never made any sense to any of us other kids (and by the others I mean myself, my brother, my fellow tsawwassenite Rachel, a few of Rob's carpool buddies and the 40 Asian kids who made up the rest of the student population - a motley crew indeed). They did mate and to me it always looked like some sort of drug. It was what I assumed all the cool kids at the public schools did after finishing their cigarettes and red bull. Cool kids did red bull - I still don't like red bull, but that is beside the point. <br /><br />Anyways, so that is what I thought of yerba mate. That and I knew that you were supposed to drink it with all the flakes still floating in it - from a cow's horn. It did not look tantalizing. But somehow, nine or ten years down the road, whilst held under Argentina's dazzling spell, I was gripped by the desire to try it. Apparently it is a social thing, so very few places actually sell it, you are just supposed to buy your cow horn cuppy-thingy from the hippies selling in the middle of calle Florida and have a cuppa "whenever you feel like it" (so sayeth Javier). I think everyone just packs it around instead of asking for a venti at Starbucks. I suppose it saves on paper cups.<br /><br />Jessi and I discussed it and decided to ask Javier, who has quickly become a favourite with us. A funny thing about him - our first couple meetings one or both of us (Jessi and I) were either breaking hostel rules or hostel hardware. We brought home a bottle of that famous Argentinian wine one night and realized as we walked in the door there were fairly conspicuous posters everywhere clearly informing us that alcoholic beverages from outside the hostel were not permitted. But what could we do? We couldn't return the wine, so we decided we should at least plead stupid. I walked up to the desk and there sat our friend. I kind of danced around, wine bottle clearly in hand and tried to explain the situation. His response: "Entonces....? (So then...?) one eyebrow raised. He let me bite my lip nervously for a minute and shift my weight a couple of times until he felt the moment was <span style="font-style:italic;">just</span> right and then softened and informed me it was alright - <span style="font-style:italic;">this time</span> - eyebrow still raised, with a twinkle. <br /><br />The next time I had an interview with Javier it was to inform him that the toilet was broken and that the face plate that held the flush button on the wall above the toilet had fallen down while Jessi and I were in bed and broken into two pieces. Javier responded with a politely alarmed "OH my Got!" to my spanglish explanation. Needless to say, we needed an experience to repair the friendship. So we asked Javi for the mate hookup. He obliged and gave me a thorough lesson in the guarani tradition. <br /><br />I was a bit - a LOT - grossed out when he pulled a mate cup off the counter in the hostel kitchen, shook out the mate tea leaves from the last person and rinsed with water and then started preparing my cup. I asked if it needed soap and he looked horrified. If you use soap it gets into the wood that lines the cup. I still thought the silver straw could be disinfected, but he seemed convinced that it was just right, and I didn't want to be rude - story of my life these last 4 months working in the campo - so I took it. It has not been my downfall yet. I informed him that in Canada we are very concerned about mono. He looked askance until I remembered that 'mono' in spanish means monkey, not a terrible flu that lasts for 6 months. I tried to explain the difference. He assured me he didn't have mono (still not sure he was only referring to the monkey type) - and he continued that in fact, one had to get some germs inside in order to be resistant to them. <br /><br />So i took the cup and drank and hoped for good germs. And, you know, it was quite nice, it is more bitter than regular tea - which I am accustomed to having with milk and sugar. But it seems like it would be a nice half way mark between tea and coffee. Not so strong, but not so mild as tea. <br /><br />Now, a few interesting tidbits - there is quite the process involved in preparing it, including slanting the mate and pouring the water into the resulting gap, multiple times, allowing it to simmer in each time. Also, if someone offers you mate, you must drink all of it in the cup and not hand it back until you have, or else it is a signal that the mate is bad and could result in hurt feelings on the part of the maker. You know you can pass the cup back when you hear the sound, Javier informed me. The "sound" is that gurgling that a straw in an empty cup makes. I thought it would be something more adventurous but I guess some things are the same in every language, including "all done, that was yummy. Thanks."<br /><br /><br /><br />** Here is where things become truly strange: When I asked Javier his name I could not help laugh as I walked away. On the last trip I had with Jessi, in Ometepe, Nicaragua, we befriended the guy at the front desk there. Over our four days, we often sat, enjoying the shade by the desk, asking for advice or just chatting to wile away the time. He became an instant friend on the day of our arrival we broke his polite reception exterior with a shocked look of delight that resulted from hearing us foreign girls using Nica slang. He quickly regained his composure when the boss came around the corner, but from then on we had a special bond with him. He looked out for us and we were delighted with him. He was-<span style="font-style:italic;"> also </span> named Javier. Coincidence? We think not.Kikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00494736691636256207noreply@blogger.com1