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.