M'Boutha Muppets in Madagascar

[8/19/07 Dear Joe, I went up to Tana’s (relatively) ritzy northern suburbs last night to see a percussion and reggae band called M’Boutha. The music was pretty good, and it is nice to realize that people here like something besides Shania Twain and Kelly Clarkson, but my favorite part was watching the main drummer, whose shaggy hair and tripped-out swaying reminded me of a cross between Janice and the French Chef from the Muppets. And, in the face, he looked like Jimmy Hendrix … and, in a very understated way, he was wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt. I love a good character. Sometimes, to cope with people I find annoying or don’t understand, I turn them into cartoons in my head. That way, they are entertaining – fun, original pieces of life – not irritating. But there was no need to caricature this drummer. Hair flopping in his face, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, eyes wandering aimlessly. He should really go solo. –John]

Malagasy Discotheque

[8/18/07 LE BUS, TANA – Dear Molly, Africa is a place of contrasts – of high highs and crushing lows. For Tana’s wealthy class (read: ex-pats), you find highs at Le Bus, an all-night discotheque. You can be openly gay there, and no one blinks. That totally amazes me, since elsewhere, homosexuality is completely taboo. But it still makes me uncomfortable to think that this life of excess can exist so close beside dire poverty. But then again, what difference does that juxtaposition make really? In the West, we live to excess all the time. It’s just easier for many people, because they never have to, or don’t want to, see how the other side lives. Here, unless you want to sit inside your razor-wire compound all day and all night, no one has that luxury. – John]

History under cardboard boxes

[8/18/07 Dear Mom, Dad and Ben, There is not a lot of emphasis placed on cultural history here. So I was pleased to find a temporary one-room museum – pitched like a tent on the sidewalk -- that told the story of Madagascar’s kings and queens, before the French occupation.

The square building was painted to look like a castle, but its pitched roof was made of flattened cardboard boxes and the walls were planks of wood, painted on the outside to look like stone. Inside were pictures of royalty, dressed to look rather European, and with the lighting in their portraits displayed as such that they almost looked Caucasian. I wonder if that was intentional – if they lighter skin color has always been favorable, or a symbol of power here.

My favorite royal Malagasy is the one with the longest name (54 letters … no suggestions from spellcheck): Andrianampoinimerinandriantsimitoviaminandriampanjaka. My least favorite is Queen Ranavalona I, who made her subjects, accused of wrongdoing, eat a poisonous shrub to determine their guilt or innocence. She also flung people off a cliff behind her palace. Really nice lady. Her palace burned down in 1995 and they are rebuilding it now. Hopefully you won’t see supposed witches flying off the cliffs once the scaffolding is peeled away and the building is fully functional again. Love, John]

Sweetest snarl of the week goes to ...

[8/18/07 Dear Clanton, Man, I don’t know how you photographers do it … shoving foot-long lenses in peoples’ faces all the time. I’m envious of the self-assuredness it takes. I’m a wimp. Today, I was walking back from the post office when I saw a little girl teetering along a ledge beside the road, holding her sister’s hand for support. I wanted to take a picture, so I ran up from behind them and asked if that would be OK. They said sure, thankfully (many people here don’t, or ask for money). But it was too late. I had wrecked their moment. The little girl snarled at me inquisitively, hands on hips. Her sister flashed a perfect Crest Kids smile. I said, It’s OK, it’s OK, just keep walking like you were -- but that was asking too much, I guess. “Ignore the crazy white oppressor with a camera pointed in my face? Man, I’m only 3!”

I remember, on our trips to Tar Creek, you told me I should to worry less about intruding on people. You’re right. I’m trying. Because, within an ethical framework, the results are usually worth it. Tracy’s parents loved our story about her. – John]

Ah, the sweet smell of diesel in the morning

[8/17/07 Dear Jesse, After walking around Antananarivo the other day, I came home and wiped my nose on a tissue. The white paper turned charcoal gray, stained by the soot that floats around the air here and cakes the nostrils of the city’s 2 million inhabitants.

I met today with the spokesman for the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) in Madagascar, Sylvain Rafiadana-Ntsoa, and he told me that air pollution is a low priority here. Other health issues, like malaria and dihedral diseases, kill far more people. There isn’t enough money to do it all, he said.

Still, Africa is the urbanizing more quickly than any other continent. And the World Health Organization estimates that air pollution kills 800,000 people every year. Developing countries bear a bigger proportion of the pollution than their richer counterparts.

In Madagascar’s capital, it is difficult to breathe walking down the street, and exercising in such conditions is next to impossible. The bikers and runners hit the streets at about 5 a.m., to avoid the smog that hits at the 6 o’clock rush hour. Guidebooks warn tourists they will have a headache for the first two weeks they are in Tana. I can attest to that so far. It feels like you’re standing near a gas pump almost all the time. And this isn’t close to one of Africa’s most-polluted cities – much less China’s.

Automobiles create much of the pollution. Trucks and buses leave furry black tails behind on the road – thick, wet and sticky, like cancerous cotton candy. The streets are narrow, winding and crowded, and the cars are mostly from the 1960s and 70s, without emissions regulators or clean-burning fuel.

Before I left The Oklahoman, I did a project on Oklahoma City’s air quality woes. Those issues, while still important, seem minor in compared to the pollution here. And for the Malagasy, it’s not an issue at all. There's not enough money to make it one. -- John]

That's me, the national dancing tree

[8/17/07 UNIV. OF ANTANANARIVO -- Dear John, At the petanque match, I sat on the concrete stadium stairs next to the mascot for the Island Games, Ravi. That’s short for Ravenala, the name of a famous Malagasy palm with leaves that fan out on a single plane.

This mascot’s real name is Manitra. (He is one of 10). He’s 23 year old, and he says being the mascot is a good job. He dances for crowds and takes photos with tourists, mostly. He likes dancing, but the costume is restrictive, he said. You can see scratch marks on the shoulders of his red vest from the head bouncing back and forth while he dances. And the suit is hot. But whatever, he said, he gets to be on TV (although his friends make fun of him and you can’t really tell who he is). So here’s to dancing that’s uninhibited by television cameras or restrictive tree-character costumes. Love, John]

Plinko + Kerplunk = Petanque

[8/17/07 UNIV. OF ANTANANARIVO Dear John, Eyes gazing intensely over a rectangular gravel court, the petanque player crouches in the center of red mini-hula-hoop – sized for someone like Cindy Loo Hoo or Nicole Ritchie. Metal ball in hand, palm facing down, she swings her arm back and then steadily forward. Release. The ball sails through the air – sometimes flying as high as the tops of nearby flag poles – and lands near a back of others with a “petanque.” Television cameras follow the ball through the sky. When it lands, a patter of clapping comes from the stadium seating.

Welcome to the bizarre and obsessive world of petanque (pronounced pay-tunk) at the Island Games in Madagascar. This country is full of petanque-heads, and, after watching the game for a few hours, I still have no idea why. It’s bocci ball, dude, except the balls are two shades of metal – shiny and not-so-shiny – instead of different colors. This belongs at a BBQ, not the regional Olympics.

The point of the game is simple: is to toss your teams balls close to a small green ball, which is the target, or the “jack.” But these people, and their backers on petanque.org, take that task to uber-serious degrees. Here is a suggested warm-up exercise from petanque.org (they're way to professional for .com):

“Warm Up. Roll 2 boules (that’s “balls” in French) around the palm of your hand. Rotate shoulders, throw a few gentle shots. Don’t start cold and a 10m shot!”

10 meter shots. Phew.

I made a few friends at the petanque tournament. The first was a young woman (don’t know her name) who plays petanque for the University of Antananarivo’s team. Yes, really, they have a team. I met her a her boyfriend while I was wandering around the university, looking for the petanque match. The problem with my approach: I had forgotten the name of the game. The night before, I had taken to jokingly calling it Plinko (from The Price is Right ... who is the new host, by the way?) and Kerplunk (from 1980s living coffee tables).

Our conversation, in French mind you:

“Do you know where the Island Games are?” I asked.
“Oh, of course. Which game?” she said.
“Ummm, I don’t know the name exactly … there are tiny balls… I think it’s called tuk-tuk?”

She died laughing.

“OK, we’re going there,” she said.
Apparently tuk-tuk is the word for cracker here. All the way to the courts they were speaking in Malagasy and laughing. “Jibba jabba jibba jabba… tuk tuk … HAHAHAHA!” I’m always here to entertain …

Love, John
PS: petanque.com also has postcards. Some a really hilarious.]

Homes razed to "make Antananarivo more attractive"

[8/13/07 TANA Dear Estus, I went to the Alliance Francaise today to find a French tutor. What I found outside was more interesting. There is a little wood-plank neighborhood just in their front lawn. Some kids saw me walking by and I asked them if they wanted me to take their picture. Much to my surprise, they did, and so did everyone else at the place. I showed them the photos, on the back of my camera, and the jumped up and down, loving it. They are living in about the poorest situation I can think of – this river of sewage flows between them and the street. But they seemed totally cool with everything. I’m sure that’s a naïve, sunny-side perspective, but maybe I need to stop feeling so guilty about having money, and just try to have a good time with people, and help out where I can. Did read something when I got home that kind of burst my bubble: Reuters reports that 137 illegal (they don’t own the land) homes like these, just across the street actually, were bulldozed by the government to “make Antananarivo more attractive for the Indian Ocean games,” which are going on this week. Elyse Razafimahefa was the city council member quoted in the article. If people are still outside tomorrow, I will ask them about it and report back. Good luck with the Spanish at OCCC. --- John]

No. 119 bus and Darwin

[8/13/07 TANA Dear John, Elana walked me to the bus stop this morning and told me to get on the No. 119, which drives through the center of town and then out to Ho Chi Mihn Circle (gotta love the communist history here). “You seriously have to throw elbows to make it onto the bus,” she said. I didn’t believe her then, but I do now. It wasn’t until my ninth try that I made it onto one of the buses (which are really old Mazda vans, kind of the shape of the 60s VW Bus). When the vans pull in, you have to start running with them, because a crowd of people funnels straight for the sliding side door. The buses only stop for a matter of seconds. If you’re not one of the first three people in the chute, you have no chance. Even if you have one shoulder in the door, you still have to force your way past the people next to you, because they’re all gunning of the open seat. I’m usually not one for physical confrontation – especially when other passengers have babies tied to their backs – so I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get around this city. I guess I will just have to leave a big time window for a trip across town, assuming it will take me an hour to get up the nerve to slug my way onto a ride. Or I could give in and take a taxi. But that’s not the same adventure. Love you, John PS: how’s my car?]

420 stairs to the Indian Ocean Games

[8/12/07 TANA Dear Jim and Pat, At the top of a 420-step staircase, Richard leaned on a rock rail, watching ant-sized men play rugby in a stadium below. Today is the first day of the “Jeux des Isles,” or Island Games, which is sort of a mini-Olympics for the countries in this region. The games last all week, and the city is all spiffed-up for the arrival of outsiders: colorful banners on all of the roads, homeless people conspicuously missing from the tunnels that go through the mountains around the city. On top of one mountain, I asked Richard, who is an IT guy at the local hospital, why he didn’t watch the match from inside the stadium. He said the tickets were far too expensive for him. We talked for a while: I learned that his favorite sport is basketball and he learned that I would be way too short to play basketball in the United States, and then I left him there. I went down all 420 stairs, watching people on their way up huff and puff and stop for breaks. When I got to the bottom, I found out that tickets to the event were only 1,000 Ariary, or 50-cents US. The idealistic part of me wanted to trudge back up the mountain to offer to buy Richard a seat. It probably would have made his day. But I didn’t. And now I’m back to that emotion that is all-too-familiar here: guilt. Next time I meet a Richard, I will offer to help out -- even if there are 420 stairs to climb. Good thing there are one MILLION staircases in the city. Love, John]

Wrestling with poverty in Antananarivo

[7/23/07 TANA, MADAGASCAR --- Dear Chad, I was a rich American looking out across Antananarivo, from atop a hill. She was a poor woman carrying her belongings on her head in a woven plastic sack, climbing up a steep hill to the wall where I stood. They were her children, climbing the dusty path with here. I was the arrogant Westerner who asked to take her family’s picture. She was the homeless woman who said yes, but only if you pay me. And, now, I am the insomniac who feels like he shouldn’t have turned her down. The poverty here is just so overwhelming. I don’t know what to make of it. Hope all is well in Oklahoma City. Take care of the golf clubs for me … --- SUTTER]

Waiting out the night with good ole philosophy

[7/23/07 TANA, MADAGASCAR --- Dear Jesse – Why do we write? Is it to effect change, to nudge the world in a slightly better direction? I hope so. But right now, I write because I control my pen. I control this space. And I must use it to untangle my mess of thoughts. Right now, the rest of the world – its poverty, its heartbreaking inequities – seems too tough to deal with otherwise. – SUTTER]

Buses like pill bugs, slinking around Tana

[ANTANANARIVO, MADAGASCAR --- The van zipped through the streets of this hilly city with me standing on its metal bumper, clinging to the van's back door for dear life. "OK, you really can't die on your first day here," I thought to myself, as we approached a round-about intersection, a thing all Oklahomans fear. This is how I greeted the sun on my first day in Madagascar, and I couldn't have asked for anything more. I have been reading about the 1960s taxis and buses that tote slogs of people around the capitol city of the world's fourth largest island. This bus did not disappoint. There were 40 of us on board, in only five rows -- roughly eight per row. To accomplish such density, the bus has a row of fold-up wooden plank seats in the center, so no space goes unused. The cramming also relies on goofs like myself, who hold onto the back door and watch the pavement sweep by beneath their feet. I read an article in The New Yorker before coming here in which the author compared these buses to wobbly millipedes, crawling all around the city with arms flailing out the windows. Today I am happy to say that one of those arms was mine -- and perhaps one of the legs, too. --John]