Under African Skies

(This post was originally written on May 30th, 2008)

Good evening to all, and what a fine evening it is. A Friday in the month of May, around the time when everybody put they game on play. The sun juuust *blazed* oranges, pinks, and purples as it set over Mt. Justin off to the west; so much beauty… Such a simple pleasure, yet beyond comprehension. It makes me really appreciative. You know what else makes this such a fine, fine, evening? I’ve just closed out seven weeks straight at site, and had a pretty fantastic time to boot, and I’m gettin’ a sweet, sweet baby of a two week break in Fianar and Tana. This means cold, icey-cold beer, ice cream, pizza, cheeseburgers, with a little luck season 4 of Lost and season 3 of The Office, and life in general as I once knew it…

So I was working down at the clinic last week when this dude strolls in. He’s got on a Chicago Bulls jacket of some kind. I nodded towards his direction in recognition, and made some clicking sound that was supposed to indicate I was “down,” or “with it,” as I recognized the Bulls logo. He made an uncomfortable squirming motion in the seat he’d taken after I made the clicking sound. I approached him to introduce myself and explain to him who and what the Chicago Bulls were, and then I read the caption below the logo. “Rugbyball Champions.” Oh, Jesus. So I explained to him how the Bulls aren’t actually a rugby team at all, as his jacket would have us believe, but actually a basketball team in Chicago, which happens to be one of the biggest cities in the U.S.A. He almost certainly didn’t understand me. I’ve also seen the Bulls logo on clothes here claiming they are the “Beijing Bronx.” But hey, what can you expect from a country that uses second generation hand-me-downs from China as primary school uniforms?

I have been in Isoanala for a good deal of time now, relatively speaking, and the ‘vazaha’ thing is easier, but it still gets under my skin. People say it to me less in general, and when they do, it doesn’t make me as mad. In fact, enough people now know me that nine times out of ten when they call me it there’s someone around who will already know I hate it and tell them, so I don’t even have to say anything. There are times, though, when it still gets to me. It reminds me of the softball episode of the Simpsons, when Bart and Lisa call Darryl Strawberry’s name from the stands to annoy him. Marge tells them it’s not nice, to which Lisa replies that no one should worry because Strawberry’s a professional and these types of remarks roll right off their backs. Then we see Darryl shed a tear. Sometimes I feel like Darryl. The worst is when it comes from a friend that you would never expect it. Eric.

An annoying habit that people have picked up around here is screaming. Mostly within the demographic of local, young male adults, if they’re sitting around a bar, hanging out with friends, or just walking down the street at any time they’re liable to yell out a sharp, quick Nate-like little scream. Or it kind of sounds like the Howard Dean speech where he flipped out in Iowa during the 2004 primaries and gave that little shout at the end of the speech. So, like everything else here, it can be nice because I can feel free to follow suit at any point in time. But it can be a bit redundant to hear day-in, day-out.

Another thing worth mentioning is the alligator-men. Men who, perhaps, hunt and sell alligators, you might think? Naw, friend. This would be a half-man, half-alligator kind of hybrid. I took an extremely pleasant bike ride down to the “barrage” (French garbage for “dam”) last Saturday with a charming neighborhood kid. When we got down there he explained to me that I must never go in the water on account of all the alligator-men. So there’s this old legend in Madland that a long time ago, at a big lake way up north, a town got flooded and people drowned but came out of the lake as alligators wearing jewelry. Somehow this legend tricked down here and the locals sort of felt free to interpret the legend that it actually took place where I live. So anyway, I explained to my young friend that there were no such things as alligator people, but he didn’t hear me though… Later on that same day I was talking to my neighbor, a 30 year-old mother of seven, how I had gone down to the barrage earlier. She responded, “Oh that sounds like fun… Did you happen to see the alligator men?” :-/

Well, what say we end the blog with the story of Kabab. This guy, this effin’ guy… Serious, serious contender for the Numnbuts Award of the Week. I was introduced to “Monsieur Kabab” last December. He’s a portly gentleman of about 35 years. As I saw him around town he was never particularly nice to me, but always was trying to schmooze with important people. Like when my boss visited me, he was all about talking to her because she happens to be married to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Kabab is supposedly the town “veterinarian.” What a *crock* that is… So a couple months back old Kabab got himself into a little jam, and before he knew it he was standing trial in Antananarivo for producing false currency; counterfeit money. So now he’s back, because he certainly was guilty and he certainly paid a bribe so that he can now be free, free right back on the streets. Back in Isoanala, up to his various lowlife scams and cheating on his wife. Know where that dirtbag started his life? Southie Projects. No, wait, Isoanala. And I’m out.