Turning a new page

This is a recent shot of the three of us during a visit to Great Falls National Park, just about an hour outside of DC. (There are many more new photos on the flickr page. Check the link to the right.)

My hand is the one turning the new page. As many of you know we returned from Madagascar in June, spent a few tumultuous months job-hunting and bouncing from relative to relative, before finally landing in Northern Virginia. As luck would have it KP hit paydirt first on the job front and started working in early September.

My break came about six-weeks later. I interviewed for a position with a federal agency in DC and two weeks later heard back with an offer. If we thought our lives had been crazy up to that point, as soon as I accepted our lives rocketed forward at an even faster pace.

I've been at work for about a month and it feels good to working again. I do miss the special connection between ORP and me, which has seemed to fallen back on KP and his new daycare provider (and her grand-daughter).

For better or worse, the trophy days of Madagascar are gone.

Back in the USA!

To my loyal readers, what few that are left after almost 5 months of silence, KP, ORP and I are back from Madagascar. We've been back for a while, since mid June, but have been swamped with getting back into the swing of things. Mainly this means finding gainful employment, which has proven more elusive than we had thought it'd be. In the meantime we're living out of our car, hoping the arrival of our sea shipment continues to be delayed, and taking advantage of friends and family who are too polite to say no to our visitations.

We're in Maine right now introducting ORP to the wonders of Ocean Park. No lobster rolls yet, but so far he's enjoying the beach. (He's only managed to eat a limited quantity of sand, plus one cigarette butt.)

Will keep you posted on our eventual landing. Keep your fingers crossed.

Villefranche sur mer

We made it to Villefranche sur mer where Kristen is enrolled in a two-week intensive French language course. The town is lovely. I can now understand why southern France is such a popular destination. Yesterday I walked around the bay with Owen and he fell asleep long enough for me to pop into a cafe and have an espresso. This is living!

There are more photos from our trip on flickr.

Merry Ole England

Well, we made it to London yesterday afternoon after 14 hours of traveling. It's great to be back in "civilization." We left Tana just shy of 1am on Tuesday morning and by 1:15pm our plane from Paris to Heathrow was at its gate. As we de-planed in London, Kristen and I were both surprised to be greeted by the gate agent in English. Owen, at 5 months, was a bit harder to handle than he was when we flew from Ohio to Madagascar when he was only 6 weeks. We did have bulkhead seating with a bassinet to put Owen into when he slept. That was great, except he didn't sleep very much. I spent most of the flight walking the aisles with him in my arms, trying to keep random strangers from putting their dirty mits on our "très mignon" son. With the sleep deprivation and the change of scenery, by the time we boarded the plane in Paris for London, he was at his limit. He cried like we've never heard him cry. Finally, with much persuasion, he nursed himself into a stupor until we landed in London.

So, here we are. Another night in London before taking the train out to Norwich and East Anglia University for Kristen's conference. I am the domestique on this trip, and, after the month of consulting I've just come from, I'm looking forward to my time with the lad.

We didn't have the right clothes for Owen for our spring trip to Europe. But we did have this cape, which we tried on Owen before we left.

Back in the saddle again...

Chim-chimney-chim-chimney...

Sunday, February 25, 2007

I’m in Tuléar tonight by myself at the Eden Hotel, whose outer façade is the color of mint chocolate-chip ice cream. The cheap kind. I’ve landed another contract with CARE to do some more proposal writing. This will probably my last hurrah before KP’s contract ends in mid-June, so when this opportunity arose I felt like I should take it to get all the experience I can before leaving. (As a side note to those of you visiting the blog: we’re looking for jobs, so any leads—or offers!—would be welcome.) I’m not in Tuléar to work, just to catch a flight to Ft. Dauphin, on the east coast. I’m going to be on the east side three nights before catching a flight back to the west side, doing background research and talking with the team there. It seems a silly commute, but the Fianar—Tuléar drive is A LOT better than the Fianar—Tana one. Having just done the latter yo-yo trip a week ago, I know what I’m talking about. The last 7 weeks of steady rain have left large stretches of the road in bad shape that prevent you from getting any decent head of speed from building up. Last Sunday we took 10 hours to do Tana to Fianar, and today I made it to Tuléar in just under 7. (Okay, full disclosure: last Sunday we had about a one-hour delay because we were stopped by the gendarmes and forced to pay a fine for not having our papers in order—our green plates were of no use that day—and we stopped so Owen could nurse. Today, I didn’t have any of those same issues.)

This is the first time I’ve spent a night alone since Owen was born and it feels lonely not being part of the usual routine with he and KP. It’s small conciliation that I have a working TV. There are only two channels that come in, both in Malagasy and one channel is showing a Madagascar version of American Idol; the other is showing how Tropical Cyclone Gamede is on target to make landfall on Madagascar on the eastern city of Tamatave. The best thing I saw on TV was a commercial using Bob Dylan’s Just Like a Woman for its theme song. It was an ad for a beauty salon in Tana. Being a Sunday, there aren’t many restaurants open, so I happened to find myself at same Italian restaurant I ate at when I was last in Tuléar. About a year ago—last Easter Sunday to be exact—we were here with the FTC group and, like tonight, this place was about the only place open. KP and Claire ended up both getting sick and Hugo and I left with our respective wives so they could convalesce back at the hotel. This left AB and Patrick to chit-chat with Claire’s college semester-abroad host-family brothers and their girlfriends for the evening. The next morning we boarded our rental van (a.k.a. rolling Super Fund-mobile) and 10 hours—and one snapped accelerator cable—later, we got to Fianar. Thanks to a poorly (absent) exhaust system we arrived looking like a band of traveling chimney-sweeps. Oh, good times.

Monday, February 26, 2007

I made it to Ft. Dauphin this morning just as the sky opened up in a burst of rain. I suspect this was the leading edge of TC Gamede; it’s been raining off and on all day since I’ve been here. At present, according to the weather map the storm still looks poised to hit Tamatave head-on, but these things have a tendency to change direction at the last moment. Regardless, there are going to be many coastal communities dealing with the storm surge and a lot of flooding. When I arrived, the CARE driver took me to the office first. What struck me most along the way was how bad the roads were. Last May, when I was here last, the roads were in terrible shape, and since then have really deteriorated. I suppose the weather has something to do with it, but also I think the heavy trucks from the QMM mine and the port-building operation are not what the road engineers had in mind when the road was originally built.

Turns out I’m staying at the guest house of the regional coordinator. I didn’t realize this, but was excited by the prospect of not staying in town (less chance of random booty-calls from the local prostitutes). He lives on atop a picturesque promontory overlooking the Indian Ocean. Upon entering the “guest-house” I began to wonder if this was, in fact, a good thing. First impression was that I was living in a sty: clothes were strewn about the place, dirty dishes were piled high in the kitchen sink, the commode doesn’t have a seat, and there’s no shower curtain. The cook, who received me since the coordinator was still at the office, led me through two rooms before showing me my “room”—what is essentially a glorified closet with a double-bed wedged inside. There’s just enough room to maneuver around, but only just. There is a mosquito net, thankfully. But, what really had me worried was the corpse I passed en route to my room. In the second room I passed through lay a body on a bed with a sheet pulled up over its head. The cook didn’t even glance at it as she led me by. Not knowing what to do, I did nothing. As I was putting my suitcase down I heard the corpse emit a low moan, at which point I assumed the corpse wasn’t a corpse. I tip-toed back past the corpse to sit outside and wait for the coordinator to come home for lunch.

And eventually he did, and he explained the mystery of the corpse over lunch. The corpse is a friend of his who is working as a consultant on the project that I wrote up for CARE last summer. He’s one of these dyed-in-the-wool development jocks who has lived in Africa for the past two decades and has decided to eschew such western “luxuries” like mosquito nets and malaria prophylaxis. The corpse-like state was a product of two things: 1) an acute case of malaria and; 2) an acute case of alcohol poisoning from a weekend bender. It was unclear which of the acute cases came on first, but the end result was the corpse.

Now back home after working the afternoon at the office, the corpse was awake briefly and spoke, but has now turned off his light and is sleeping. I’m thankful that tomorrow I’m going out into the field; I don’t predict a good night’s sleep.

2007 Fianarantsoa Province Reboisement (Reforestation)

Two weeks ago I received a call on a Tuesday from the Regional Coordinator of the main USAID-funded Environment project here in Fianarantsoa province. He tells me, “Kristen, I’m so glad that you are going to the reboisement tomorrow morning. Everyone else is completely swamped or not even around. You will be representing ERI (the environment project), SanteNet (a USAID health project and my host agency), the Alliance (the coordinating body of all USAID-funded projects in our province), and the Wealthy North in general.” Meanwhile, I’ve just finished a conversation with our secretary asking her if she can go instead of me as I don’t really have time (our Regional Coordinator was in the capital). I respond, “Yup, I’ll be there.” The irony that someone from the health project was representing all of the environment projects wasn’t lost on either of us. Our secretary was willing to go (though she doesn’t usually represent our office at such official functions), but had encouraged my attendance instead, as apparently the head of the province himself (equivalent to a state Governor in the USA) had brought the invitation by the week before (it seems that no one from our office went last year, so the pressure was on). After committing to go, I start to look forward to wearing sneakers and a t-shirt (a SanteNet one, of course, to advertise our presence) to work, getting out into a rural site for the morning, and getting dirt on my hands, and planting some trees (which I hadn’t done since finishing up my Peace Corps service in Niger in 1998). It turns out that ERI was able to dig up a staff member to go along after all (Vony, who is great fun), and our water/sanitation guy (Jonathan, a former PCV in the area) decided to join us as well. As we were leaving, Jonathan asked one of the office gardeners for an angady (local hoe used primarily for rice cultivation), to dig the holes to plant the trees. At this point I realized how distant my tree planting, Peace Corp days are, for Vony tells us that we don’t need an andady; all of holes for the trees will already be dug by the time we (‘official’ people) arrive. She was right – when we (along with about 1,000 other office types) finally got to the rural site, all the holes were ready (dug by soldiers earlier that morning). School children carried the trees from the nursery to the reforestation site and laid them next to the holes, and all we had to do was stand and listen to big whig speeches (granted, not easy on a 30+ degree slope) and then plop our tree into its hole, fill in the soil around it, and pat it down. After seeing the hundreds of other people who left their desks to “plant” a tree, I wondered if the Governor would really have noticed if we hadn’t showed up. Turns out, at the ‘cocktail’ (soda, fried cakes, cookies) after the ceremony, just as Vony, Jonathan, and I were making our exit, I was accosted by the mayor of the commune (county) where the reboisement was taking place. As he and I chatted, who should appear but the Governor himself. He sees the camera around my neck and requests a photo of the four of us, and expressed his pleasure at seeing USAID’s presence. Whew, it’s official: we were there. I hope some of the 1200 trees planted make it, and that the other reforestation events in 2007 throughout the province are as successful.

Sam's 30th Birthday

The other night Owen attended his second 30^th birthday party (not his own, though he did achieve the 4-month mark last week). His first was his Aunt Marian’s in DC in November, which I believe he slept through as he was only 6 weeks old at that point. His second was this week, when Kristen’s colleague and our friend Sam (a Brit who’s transplanted herself to Madagascar) turned 30. We had Sam over for a drink (or two) to welcome in her third decade. Left to right: Abel (Sam’s boyfriend), Dan & Owen, Kazaku (Japanese volunteer for the NGO Sam heads up), and the birthday girl herself. The highlight of the evening was Sam’s story of the massage she received in town as a birthday present. Specifically, how the masseuse commenced with her feet (living as we all do in Fianar, which is a bit of a dump, and seeing as it’s summer here so we’re all in sandals…let’s just say it’s hard to have squeaky clean feet by 5 pm on any given day), and then spent an inordinate amount of time rubbing the front side of her upper torso instead of her back, and finished up with her face. Abel said he wanted to watch next time. I hope no one gives me a present to that masseuse for my next birthday.

ORP for Prez

Even as far away as Fianarantsoa, Madagascar we are feeling the ripples of US current events here. To gauge from the barrage of news reporting on the radio, print and blogosphere—and all the attendant punditry—there seems to be a lot of excitement about the 2008 presidential election. Not a day goes by when someone or other either announces they are going to run for office, or are forming an exploratory committee in order to consider running for office. Well, this explosion of candidatures has left us little choice but to show our hand a bit earlier than planned.

Here it is: Owen Redlund Patterson is forming an exploratory committee for the office of President of the United States of America.

There will be a bigger rollout later, as Owen tightens up his talking points (once he learns to talk, that is). But until then, here’s what we can say about the candidate and his platform. Owen is a baby of the people and doesn’t have strong ideological leanings to the right or left. With the proliferation of other presidential hopefuls on both sides of the aisle, Owen will be running as an independent. He wants to reach out to all people (as well as he is able given his limited gross and fine motor skills…) regardless of class, creed or color. At sometime between 9 and 12 months, we are hoping that he’ll take a stand for universal breast milk for all, unrestricted mobile viewing, and the unalienable right to decide on nap frequency and duration.

Knowing the political landscape inside the beltway, and the ruthlessness of the special interest groups, we want to avoid any kind of scandal involving our candidate, so we’re pulling out the skeletons right from the beginning. In his younger days, Owen was a bit wild and was known to imbibe a bit more than he could handle—sometimes to excess. He’s been to treatment and has a handle on his problem. And, there could be some incriminating nude photos of Owen leaked to the press. He takes full ownership and responsibility for the pictures and admits to agreeing to pose for these shots in return for a reduction in his room and board in Fianarantsoa. He’s not proud of the photos (well, maybe just a little proud), but he was in a tight spot. (And he naively believed it when the photographer told him “What happens in Fianar stays in Fianar.”) But now he’s a new baby, having turned his back(side) on these darker days.

Look for Owen in Iowa sometime in July, after he’s back in the US. He’s looking forward to meeting his constituents and taking the fight to Washington.

Hoes and their beaux

A little background would help frame this story. The apartment where we live is one of several apartments created from an old winery. The complex is pear-shaped and all the apartments open out onto a courtyard, where there is a small lawn and a fountain (that currently harbors a very cute and very green frog). There is only one way into and out of the compound at the narrow end of the pear, so comings and goings are pretty much public knowledge. When we first moved into our place, we were only the second family living here, so there wasn’t much activity. Little by little the other units filled up, and now, in the six apartments, we are 4 Americans, 1 Malagasy, and 1 French. In nearly every communal-living arrangement there is going to be friction. Lots of people doing their thing, when and how they want to, is a recipe for conflict. Most folks are considerate, and those that aren’t at least pretend to be to avoid conflict. Very occasionally, there is a blatant, serial offender whose every action manages to infringe upon the other residents. We have one of these in our midst and this is her story.

Mademoiselle Frenchy (MF – for short) moved in last May and works for a French road-building company that has a government contract to improve the roads. When she first arrived, we (the other tenants) held a little cocktail meet-and-greet in the courtyard and I remember thinking how great it was that there was a little international flavor to spice up the predominant American presence. The meet-and-greet went well and we learned MF was young and that this was her first post overseas. From June until December, there is some missing time for us because Kristen left for the US in June and I was working in Tana in June and July. But, in the time that we were away, trouble paid a visit to our paradise and our MF quickly became a persona non grata among the other residents; here’s how she did it.

Her first crime was that of being young—which to be fair—something that is beyond her control. That means that she was only acting as young people do, which is to say selfishly. She has an interest in having fun, going out and hanging with her peeps. That wouldn’t be so bad if she had a modicum of consideration for the other tenants. Bshe steps out at 11pm and doesn’t roll back home until 3am, and when she does come back, she and her peeps think they are the only ones living in the complex.

Speaking of peeps, she made another critical error in choosing who she hangs out with. MF befriended a group of prostitutes, and then went as far as letting her new “friends” move in with her. Well, I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Where there are prostitutes, there are pimps and other bad actors. And, from the reports from our neighbors, after the hoes moved in, a steady stream of flotsam and jetsam came into and out from the complex, at all hours of the day and night. One night, an upstanding member of the community, recently released from jail for holding up a local filling station, threatened one of our guardians and boasted he could steal our neighbor’s car. Classy. Don’t get me wrong, in all this, I don’t begrudge the prostitutes; they’re just rational actors taking advantage of the situation. And, to be fair, there could be a genuine friendship between them and MF. But, mostly I question the judgment of MF by keeping such company. Really, my only beef with the prostitutes is that, given the nocturnal nature of their profession, they add to the late-night noise pollution.

The icing on this turd cake is provided by MF’s dog, literally. She must have a soft spot for hopeless causes, because in addition to adopting hoes, at some point she got a puppy. Considering Bob Barker’s spay and neuter campaign hasn’t made it to Fianar yet, there are a blue-million dogs having puppies at any given time of the year. She brought one of these devil-spawn dogs home. Then, according to reports, she basically neglected it. We can attest to this. She never takes it for walks or bothers to train it; it barks at everyone who comes in the complex. Worse, she lets the dog crap in the courtyard never picks up after it. Anyway, one time when MF was out of town and her “friends” were holding down the fort the dog got out of the complex, was hit by a car and broke a leg. The friends didn’t take the dog to a vet, and neither did MF after she returned. So, now we have a gimpy, pent-up, hyperactive, loud obnoxious dog literally right in our front yard.

Apparently, while we were away the combination of odd hours, late-night parties, and Cujo wore down the other tenants and poisoned the rapport between MF and the others. She also seemed oblivious to the fact that the other tenants had stopped talking to her, or having anything to do with her on a social level and kept on keeping on. We returned in December and, after seeing the lay of the land, decided things couldn’t keep on like this. We lasted about three weeks before we took action. Right before Christmas, MF left for France to spend the holidays with her family. She left her apartment (and dog) to her usual gang of prostitutes, plus in addition two random French dudes who had a propensity for walking around without their shirts somehow sprang onto the scene. It was a Wednesday and the apartment-sitters had a pretty good party, which we partook of indirectly until its eventual decline sometime around 4am. The next day we rallied the other tenants and, in turn, each called our landlord to ask him to do something about the situation. It worked. The next day the director of the road-building company showed up and we explained the situation to him. (The company pays for MF’s apartment, and therefore holds the lease to, and responsibility for, the apartment.) By noon, the locks had been changed and the hoes and their beaux kicked out. So, our Xmas present was two weeks of total quiet. Total, because the director had to take the dog for the two weeks that MF was away.

Now, over a month later, MF is back, along with the prostitutes, but I have to say that something must have penetrated her skull because there hasn’t been a repeat of the mid-week blowout. There are still lots of random folks coming and going; in fact, this morning I saw something I hadn’t seen before. Around 10am 3 young punk guys, one with Allan Iverson corn-rows, left the apartment and spontaneously broke out in three-part harmony. It was just like a second-rate Malagasy boy-band. I suppose getting laid has a way of making you want to sing.

We have come to find ourselves endebted to the British footballer Michael Owen. As surprising as it may sound, when we were choosing names for our son, we didn't consider our Malagasy hosts' feelings. In the Malagasy alphabet, the letter "W" doesn't exit, so pronouncing the name "Owen" could be a real challenge. (For example the environmental organization WWF is known around here as VVF.) But thanks to the far-reaching popularity of soccer, this isn't the case. After asking what our son's name is, and before we start spelling it, the response is usually something like this: Oohhh, "oh-WEN", comme Michael Owen, le footballer !

So, Michael, wherever you are, thanks a lot, you're the best.