South Africa, Namibia and one wet Madagascar

Well, it has been a while! There are many very good excuses that I can give for why Kenny Bloggins hasn't takin it to the internet in nearly three months, however since we all know what excuses are like, I will spare you. I do hope that this finds you all doing well, enjoying spring, and baseball season. My computer suffered stroke like symptoms which left the side of the keyboard paralyzed, but I think I should have it up and working again. This will hopefully have the effect of making it possible to keep ol' kenny updated on my current doings here in Madagascar.

When I left Port Berge on March 6, my cat had just given birth. This was quite the experience for both us. It was something that neither of us had gone thru before, and it really caught us both by surprise. Imagine the shock one might have when your yet to be confirmed pregnant cat's water breaks while you are on the phone with your mother. After a long birthing process, Gigi delivered two stillborn and one living kitten. I don't know the status of mother or kitten since I've been out of site for nearly a month, but I will find out when I arrive home hopefully on Easter.

To date, Madagascar has received 380% more rain than what is expected per annum. This dramatic increase in rainfall can be attributed to the seven cyclones (name for Indian Ocean's hurricanes) that have hit the island so far this year. Things were looking drastic after the fifth cyclone, and now that two have hit in the past three weeks, things are dire. So far, 114 people have died, around 38,000 have been displaced (homes destroyed), and it's looking like the suffering (esp. on the East Coast) is in its beginning phases. Many crops have been ruined, structures destroyed, and already muddy roads made entirely impassable. Getting aid to the people in need has proven to be quite difficult due to the poor infrastructure. As is typical, the international aid-giving community has been slow to respond, and that response is not nearly adequate. It is sad to see this country that is desperately trying to modernize and develop, thrown back. The cyclones that hit the east coast blew all the way thru to Port Berge, and while my house had been reported as being in good shape, it has been reported that some stuff has been broken. I am anxious to get back and see how everyone and everything is doing. Please keep the Malagasy in your prayers and if you feel so compelled, check into contributing to the rebuilding process (or just providing money for food, as many areas are entirely without nutritional food sources) through orgs/ngos, CARE, USAID, and/or UNICEF.

On a much, much lighter note (and one that pangs my heart due to the disparity in my good fortune compared to people here in Madagascar), I am on the tail end of a fabulous vacation/mid-service conference. Seeing my parents, sister and Adam Jones in South Africa was much needed and a very enjoyable reunion. Highlights would include a night drive, morning walk, and several day drives thru Kruger National Park (where we saw many of the famed African big game), climbing Table Mountain, wine touring in the Stellenbosch area near Cape Town, seeing the Cape of Good Hope, and the sobering tour of Robbin Island (where Nelson Mandela was held for 27 years). Many African knick knacks were purchased and no one could say they did not eat or drink well while in South Africa. It was a most enjoyable time spent together, and one that makes me feel very fortunate to have such devoted and adventurous family and friends.

After the Fam and Jones' departure, Abby and I took a bus to Windhoek, Namibia. Expecting to see a similar scene in northern SA and Namibia as that we see in Madagascar, we were shocked by the developed state of both countries. Namibia and SA are what Madagascar is striving to become in the future. After a night's stay in Windhoek, Abby and I made our way north to Tsumeb where we met up a bearded, long hair named Adam Shukwit. It was quite the reunion for former fraternity father and son, which culminated with us partying with the locals in a township. We danced, drank red wine mixed with coke, and half way thru the party we separated into male and female groups and ate cornmeal porridge with goat meat. It was quite the fun, cultural experience. We then left Tsumeb and made our way to the German (former colonizers) beach town of Swakopmund. You might know this as the place where Brangelina had a baby. We had great German food and drink, met some other PCV's and exchanged experiences, and then ended our time there with the coolest thing I've ever done. Abby and I went sandboarding in the Namib Desert, the world's oldest desert. From the top of the dunes we could see the Atlantic Ocean and a shipwreck. We flew down the dunes using slick pieces of plywood sometimes reaching speeds of 74km per hour. I had never played in the desert before, and I must say it was one of the most beautiful, amazing, and heart pounding experiences of my life. A great stay in Namibia!

My group of health volunteers just finished our mid service conference which was a productive time of learning about closing up our service, still being productive, and exchanging experiences. I now head back to site with about 7 months of service left, and a very fresh outlook on the rest of my service. Thanks to all those who donated to the well project. We will start digging as soon as the ground is sufficiently dry. I am hoping to find out who all donated, so I can send a personal thanks, however if this can't be done please know that everyone of us in Port Berge is very grateful. Hope this finds you all well. Drop me a line and let me know how you're doing.

All the Gasy Down in Gasyville

As I sit here listening to Nat King Cole sing about roasting his chestnuts over an open fire, I have been given pause to think about how drastically different the Malagasy Christmas is compared to that lovely, yet frenetic time in the US of A. The main difference can be summed up with the fact that there is no significant Christmas season in Madagascar, or at least in Port Berge. Sure, some cheap Chinese tinsel is sold at the epiceries and a few fake tannenbaums can be found, but there is no significant behavioral shift or Christmas saturation like there is in the States. People look forward to the holiday, but mainly because it signifies the start of disco season. On Christmas day the citizens of Port Berge will gather with family and friends to eat and drink. There may be some marginal gifting, but in no way will the focus be on what a not so fat Gasy Claus left in little Nomenjanahary’s stocking. For the majority of Port Bergeians, however, Christmas will mark just another day with the only considerable difference being that they will eat some sort of bird. According to my friend Mama Steph, on Christmas the Gasy eat a bird and on New Years they eat beef, pork, or goat. I can assume, judging from the size of the chickens (the bird most people will eat), that most people’s Christmas meal will resemble that provided by Bob Cratchit. Indeed, all the ducks, geese, chickens and turkey are rather paltry poultry here in Madagascar. But, like the Cratchit’s Christmas Feast, the size of the bird or the bounty of presents means nothing as long as family and friends are together. The difference between the Gasy and American version of Christmas is vast, and the one thing I can say that I don’t miss is the exorbitant use of Christmas lights. Tasteful lighting is nice, but taking out a second mortgage on your home in order to cover every square inch of the house in lights is never impressive. Also, I don’t miss creepy shopping mall Santas.

So, the Dec. 3 the Malagasy Presidential election came and went, and I will assume since I am still here, that there were no major post election incidents. The 2001 election saw the current president, Marc Ravalomanana, defeating the incumbent, followed by some small scale violence which brought about the permanent evacuation of all PCVs. There has been no official announcement of election results, however it is well known that Ravalomanana has been reelected with a healthy majority of votes. It certainly was interesting observing the democratic process at work in a third world developing nation. The official start of campaigning started twenty days before the election. Evidence of the Marc Ravalomanana campaign was present everywhere. It took a while before the other candidates were able to mobilize their supporters to get their posters out. Ravalomanana came into the election with several distinct advantages. First, he’s the incumbent president who can use government funds for campaign purposes. Second, he’s one of the few self made Malagasy millionaires who owns a well known yogurt company, Tiko, here in Madagascar, so he’s got his own money to give out free gifts such as t-shirts, pens, stickers and hats to the population (I got my hands on a t-shirt and hat—sweet souvenirs). In many ways, receiving the free stuff that Marc R gives out is the most impact the national government will have on the ordinary person living in Port Berge. Third, Marc is rumored to have American political and business advisors who help to make both his campaigning and business efforts first class. Finally, Marc is wildly popular with his ethnic demographic, the Merina, who also happen to be the most populous group in the country. From what I could tell, most people vote for candidates that are of the same ethnic group instead of the candidate’s platform. It was obvious after Marc’s 30 minute campaign stop in Port Berge that he would win by a wide margin. He flew in with two helicopters (the only helicopters I have seen here) and his stage, podium and speech were very well orchestrated and quite professional. Interestingly, many people I talked to around election time said that they were not going to vote because they were either uninformed or admittedly didn’t care (they already got their t-shirt). Peace Corps had no role in the election and we were to maintain strict neutrality, which I did. The only effect the election had on me was to make me less busy, due to everyone else being busy getting ready for the election.

On Dec. 22 Abby arrived in Port Berge and we commenced our Christmas celebration. This year’s Christmas was markedly different from last year’s when I was alone in Antsohihy with all outgoing communication down for the day. Abby and I decorated the house with cheap Christmas decorations and blinky lights, while Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole serenaded us. All in all Christmas was a pleasant time, but I think both Abby and I can say with a lot of certainty that we are looking forward to spending our next Dec 25th in the US. Our Xmas gift exchange’s theme was practicality, and so the gifts we gave each other were mainly items to be used on a daily basis or consumed. Highlights would be coffee mugs and a meat grinder for Abby and peanut butter and scotch tape for me. Both of our mom’s sent gifts for the other person to open, so we did get some nice little American gifts. It was a nice day and it was definitely nice to be with Abby, rather than feeling lonely in a dusty truckstop.

Now it’s on to Diego for the New Year. Many fellow volunteers will be congregating there for holiday festivities, so it should be a good time. I would like to thank everyone who responded about helping out with the well building here in Port Berge. I have responded to some of you, but not all, and for this I apologize. It’s a bit paradoxical that although the world’s technology improves by leaps and bounds every single day, the internet situation in my banking town has gotten worse. As of right now, it is more of a hassle than it’s worth to sit for hours and wait for things to slowly upload with the current dial up system. I apologize for my tardy replies and please know that I appreciate all emails and interest in the project. I am waiting for Peace Corps to green light the project and then list it on its website, and once that is done then anyone and everyone can access the website, check out the project’s details and decide if they want to help the people of Port Berge. I will let you all know the details when I know more. I look forward to hearing from you all in this upcoming year. Happy New Year!

That Was One Gasy Year

One year ago, after hugging the family and giving the ol’ dogs one last pat, I boarded a plane that was Peace Corps bound. I knew I was getting myself into something big, but little did I know as I sat on the flight to Philadelphia worrying about the possibility of finding myself immersed in a hippy fest, that the least of my concerns a year from October 2005 would be too many hippies. What I wouldn’t have given on some of the loneliest days to spend a little time with even the headiest of headsters. In the course of a year, I have had some incredible experiences and I have learned a lot about myself. Of these experiences and introspective times, several stand out.

Of all the things to be worried about going into the Peace Corps, my biggest focus as I took the airport shuttle through downtown Philadelphia on my way to the Sheraton Hotel, was the prospective company I would be in for the next three months. Immediately upon entering the hotel the first person I encountered was an attractive girl with short blonde hair wearing a jean skirt with a black top and white shirt. We both gave each other an appraising up and down and went on our respective ways. The thought then crossed my mind that this impending Peace Corps experience was going to be just fine, especially if I was in the company of such good looking girls. Abby, that attractive girl from Iowa, and I have been dating for a year now. We still find the separation to be difficult; however we have become good at making the best of things and looking forward to the future phone calls and times together. Sometimes one has to go to an island off the east coast of Africa to find the right the person.

As soon as we arrived in Madagascar, every person from my group was delivered to the home of a Malagasy family. We hadn’t been in Madagascar for more than five hours, and of course, no one spoke a lick of Gasy. I recall sitting in the Rajaonarison’s home the first night eating dinner by candle light and being in a jet lag induced state of stupefied bewilderment. One week prior I had been eating dinner with my American family with numerous electric lights shining, speaking English and knowing what I was putting in my mouth. Move one week forward and I couldn’t have been farther out of my comfort zone. Ahhh but it felt good, it felt damn good. Life in a Malagasy home as it turned out was not so dissimilar from that in an American home, with the notable exception of many of the amenities of daily life that are readily taken for granted. I bathed every morning after waking up, yet I used a cup and bucket to wash instead of a shower head. Food was served at the usual time, however prep time had started hours before and temperature regulated ovens and microwaves were replaced with an open fire in a hearth. Nothing was served that everyone didn’t readily eat. People in Madagascar don’t have the luxury to be picky. Trying to explain the concept of obesity being a dangerous American problem was unfathomable to my new family. I immediately fell into the rhythm of my new life and greatly appreciated the simplicity. I still stay in touch with my host family in Alarobia, and will be forever grateful for the kindness, warmth and generosity they showed me in my two and a half month stay in their home.

In December 2005, I moved to Port Berge and quickly learned that if I didn’t learn to speak Malagasy then life would be exceedingly difficult. The first three months were tough, but proved to be enlightening about myself. I learned a lot about what I can do, despite the fact that I never want to deal with some of those things ever again. I can live with mail as my only form of outside communication. I can spend Christmas by myself in a hotel, in a town with all communication methods cut for the day. I can go for months at a time without talking to my girlfriend. I can go days on end without talking to anyone but myself. I can shrug off disappointment after disappointment and still maintain an optimistic outlook. I can wait for hours on end. I can sit on taxi brousse for 20 hours. I can get teary watching Vince Young make great plays in the 2005 Rose Bowl even though I could care less about the Texas Longhorns. I can drink a lot of Punch Coco. I can feel completely useless or much needed in the span of 20 minutes. I can have diarrhea for weeks on end and not think anything of it. I can live in a Malagasy town, with Malagasy friends, and I can find work that I enjoy, that I am good at and that benefits other people.

From day one in Port Berge, I have worked mornings at the hospital weighing babies and giving little health talks. My work at the hospital has evolved since December 2005, and I’m sure by December 2007 it will be different than it is presently. In the beginning I was slow to understand what was said to me and was not proficient at filling out the paperwork. As I grew comfortable with the basics of my work I began to get up in front of a group of mothers and give health talks. That was a good way to start, however there was much room for refinement. I started to observe that only a few women would pay attention to me when I would get up and talk. Women with squirming zazas wanted to get the baby weighed and vaccinated and get home as quickly as possible to start cooking rice. So, I decided that I might make more of an impact if I talked to the women individually about their child and its growth and health. The group setting has its pros, but one of the major negatives is that women are often unwilling to ask questions in front of a lot of other women. The one on one setting is more comfortable setting for question asking. Women with healthy babies obviously know what they’re doing and don’t need much counseling other than reminders about future vaccination dates. Some women have babies who are healthy but their growing curve is starting to straighten out and a few little pointers can keep the baby growing healthy and strong. Then there are some women who come in with dirty, malnourished and generally unhealthy babies. With these women we try to make it clear that three easy things can be done to have a healthy, happy baby. First, breastfeed frequently, second, feed cheap wholesome weaning food at 6 months, and finally, wash the child regularly with soap and water to prevent rashes and infections. Sounds basic, but when life is a daily struggle to live and put rice in bowl, sometimes the health of a new baby takes a backseat to other pressing concerns. Our job is to show that it doesn’t take too much effort or expenditure to have healthy children and if that effort and expenditure is too much, then there ways to prevent future pregnancies. It is common in Port Berge for babies to grow well in their first six months and then start to gradually fall off. This is due to the fact that many mothers are not knowledgeable about when and how to wean a baby, or there is a new baby to take care of at the expense of the older baby. I have started talking individually with women about starting to wean their babies at 6 months and I write a feeding plan in the baby’s carnier (medical book). I don’t give too many group talks at the hospital anymore; however I do go out to different fokontanies (neighborhoods) every weekend to deliver group health talks. I have already finished two tours of the ten fokontanies in which I have talked about the Vaccination Program and STD’s. I am currently at the beginning of my third tour and I am talking about the dangers, symptoms and preventions of Diarrheal Disease (something I have some first hand experience with). These presentations have also needed a lot of refining as I go. I have found that it is best to deliver health talks in as light an atmosphere as possible with as much humor as can be applied to topics such as diarrhea. Each fokontany provides a different audience, ranging from very interested and receptive to indignant and raucous. I don’t care what kind of reception I get as long as a few people come away with some new helpful information or a dialogue is started between families or community members.

The other big thing going on in Port Berge is a community initiated project to build four new wells. My role is this project is to ask for a grant in order to build solid, long lasting wells, help coordinate the construction plan, and provide water sanitation education. Two of the wells will be built at schools and the two others will be in an accessible place for the use by two different communities. Port Berge needs more access to clean water. Today, as I write this (October 24) we have had our first substantial rain since the beginning of March. That’s close to eight months without rainfall. It’s hot and dry here and the water company who regulates the town pumps has been rationing out the water. A line of multicolored buckets snakes its way down the street from the pump, marking people’s place in line when the water is turned on. The four new wells should greatly help several of fokontanies within Port Berge get the water that they desperately need. I have finished the proposal and have sent it on to Tana, and from there it will be sent on to Washington. I am going through the Peace Corps Partnership, which allows friends and family to donate money to the project. The cost to build four wells will be about $3,880, or less than $1,000 to build one well. If you are reading this and think that you or someone you know might want to contribute to this worthwhile endeavor I would love to get an email from you saying so. No amount is too small, as even $10 can buy the pulley for one well. I will be sending out a formal email request to everyone on my email list; however I would love a heads up from anyone who has interest in helping the students and people of Port Berge.

I am always exhausted at the end of every day no matter how busy or sedentary I have been during the day. Mental and physical exhaustion seems to accumulate over the time I am at site and so often a vacation to an exotic Malagasy locale is just what the doktera ordered. I have been to some amazing places here in Madagascar and have had some unforgettable experiences. I saw some lemurs in Andasibe, relaxed on paradise personified, Illes Aux Nattes, an island of an island of an island accessible only by pirogue, took pictures of a huge, recently captured crocodile, ate and drank everything coconut in Mahajanga, nearly fainted watching a young woman give birth in Abby’s village, ate too much amazing pizza at Pizza Inn in Antsirabe, sang 80’s classics way too many times at the karaoke bar, The Green Room, in Antananarivo, gotten worms from eating roadside sausage, and lounged pool side with a THB in Nosy Be. To name a few. A good vacation provides the much needed motivation and energy to jump back into the Malagasy life in Port Berge.

I have grown accustomed to routine and pace of life here in Port Berge. It took one full year, but I can say that I feel well settled in Madagascar. Of course, I miss my family, friends, and life in the U.S. and look forward to returning; however I am content with where I am and what I’m doing. I owe a debt of gratitude to everyone that has made the often difficult, expensive and inconvenient effort to stay in touch with me. I have enjoyed writing these blog posts and will continue to do so as long as I know that they are being read. I would appreciate any input or comments on topics to cover or ways to improve the posts. We’re turning the corner and have one more year to go. I am looking forward to hearing from you all and then seeing you all in 2007. Also, please let me know if you have interest in more information regarding the well building projects here in Port Berge.

Gasmith

“I’d hoped the language would come on its own, the way it comes to babies, but people don’t talk to foreigners the way they talk to babies. They don’t hypnotize you with bright objects and repeat the same words over and over, handing out little treats when you finally say ‘potty’ or ‘wawa’. I want to be a baby (fat little zaza), but instead, I am an adult who talks like one, a spooky man-child demanding more than his fair share of attention” ---David Sedaris

Politics have been described as taking a bath, in public, at the busiest intersection, naked, everyday at high noon. Maybe, but at least during the rest of the day, the “clean” politician is fully dressed. Living in a foreign community and speaking the language like a child is akin to being a never tackled streaker in the daily game called life. As you run around naked (stroll around Port Berge speaking pidgin Gasy) everyone is staring and laughing, all the while pulling for you to keep making a fool of yourself. At some point, after running around in endless circles you hope that someone will finally catch you, tackle you and end the madness you willingly created (just one conversation with an English speaker).

Learning to speak Malagasy requires that all inhibitions are thrown aside. I am the only non native speaker of Malagasy living in this town of 10,000 and, not to mention, the only white person. I stand out. My every move is carefully watched and despite having lived in Port Berge almost 10 months, any Gasy word that leaves my mouth is frequently met with open mouths, blank stares, laughs, and/or mockery. In the beginning this was quite frustrating, but after the initial shock of realizing my nakedness, it has become very liberating. Letting my words flap in the proverbial wind of conversation feels good. I don’t care that I sometimes mispronounce words such as “fanavakavahana” (discrimination) or that when going to the pharmacy that I say, “Mila voan’kankana zahe” (I need intestinal worms) instead of requesting the medicine that will clean out the parasites in my gut. Sure, an odd look accompanied with a scoffing laugh will be sent my direction, but mistakes must be made in order to learn and speak more fluently. It feels good to surprise people with my funky Gasy, and to know that I am one of a handful of vazaha’s in this country that can speak the national language instead of opting for the expected vazaha language, French.

In order to be my friend here in Port Berge, it is essential to be patient. My friends have to listen very carefully and then do a bit of deciphering to figure out exactly what I’m getting at. This patience is something that is not inherent to the majority of Gasy. The Malagasy are an exhibition of patience when it comes to waiting for an important person or dealing with a taxi brousse broken down for the third time, however when it comes to conversing with a non native speaker of their language very few are up to the challenge. I find that the more confused I get, the faster and more exasperated the person speaking to me becomes. In a way this is beneficial, as it’s good for me to learn spoken Gasy and not toned down, baby-speak, however I end up nodding my head and saying yes when I have no idea what is being conveyed to me. It wouldn’t be far off to say that I understand 60-70 % of the things that I agree to.

If being laughed at as opposed to being laughed with is a source of aggravation, the Peace Corps experience will quickly change that. Phrases said in all sincerity, such as “Zaza handeha doktera, madira milanza” (Babies seeing the doctor, should come get weighed), are met with peals of laughter and are then heard being repeated again and again with the laughter rising in volume each time. If a person were to sit in on one of my health/hygiene presentations they would think that I am Madagascar’s own, Jerry Seinfeld. My stand up routine with punch lines such as, “Tena zava-dehibe, tsy mentsy mahazo vaksiny dimy-jiaby zanakareo!”, (It’s very important, your children must get all five vaccines!”), has my audience rolling in laughter. My Malagasy, with it’s Englishy nasal intonation, is funny and so when I butcher a word I usually try to do it in a humorous way. In this way I can at least play along with the illusion that we are all laughing together.

When I pull off a big, difficult word it feels good. Wrapping my tongue around the polysyllabic words of Malagasy is as unnatural as the Gasy pronouncing a hard “R”. The fact is that learning a language is not easy and it takes a lot of time, practice and patience. It also requires that you feel comfortable enough with yourself so that you can speak uninhibitedly while knowing that mistakes are inevitable. People will laugh and mock you, but those same people will be the first to say your “efa mahay miteny Malagasy” (already good at speaking Malagasy) when they see you again. Few things make my day brighter than when I am able to have a meaningful, understood conversation with someone else in Malagasy.

My language skills have greatly improved since I first came to Port Berge, but I am constantly aware of how far I have to go to be able to really understand this language. I recently just had an epiphany-like moment when I realized that I was actually understood what was being said to me. I was nodding my head in agreement as always, but I really understood what I was agreeing to. If nothing else I do here is worthwhile, at least my fellow Port Bergeians will remember me as Christophe, the vazaha who preached about health in funky Gasy.

A Day in the Life

“Abby, what are we going to do today on this glorious American Saturday afternoon?” BEEP!, BEEP!, BEEP!

Ahh, damn, it’s just a dream I think as I roll over at 5 AM to hit the snooze button to prolong my sweaty slumber for another couple of minutes. Finally, I summons all motivation one can have at 5 in the morning and roll off the mattress that has been deeply creviced by 7 months of hard sleeping. Fumbling around with my headlamp I finally get my bearings and set myself in motion for my early morning jog. Hearing me stir, the cat begins crying without pause to be let out of the kitchen. I throw on my workout clothes, grab the ipod, drink some water and stretch the morning stiffness away. Five in the morning is the best time for me to get a little exercise for two main reasons. First, waiting only one hour later would mean the sun would be out and it would be significantly hotter outside. Secondly, I stand out, no doubt about that, but a bandana wearing white guy running around Port Berge would create quite the stir if done during the day. At five, it’s still dark, its cool, few people are out and I will get to see a spectacular sunrise. My run takes me to the outskirts of town to the old airstrip which is still occasionally used but consists of only a dirt runway and an old tattered orange windsock. It gets lighter as I get to the landing strip and upon my return a rising bright orange sun is shining on the parched landscape.

After finishing the run I return to the house for a little breakfast. In order to drink coffee, I must roast the greenish, gray coffee beans on my stovetop until they are black and smoking. I then crush two pestle’s worth of coffee in order to have an adequate amount to fill my coffee sock and still get the much needed kick in the pants that my body asks for every morning. Boiled water is then poured through the sock and my morning java only needs a good pressing from my camper-press and we’re ready to rock. Food is either toast with butter or cheese spread, or Mokary, a small doughy rice cake purchased from a lady down the street who makes and sells them fresh every morning. Mokary is subtly sweet and is great for dipping in coffee. No matter what form it comes in, rice is the Gasy staple food and is eaten for every meal. My morning’s meal costs no more than 500 Ariary, or a quarter. I enjoy my breakfast while perusing a month old news magazine keeping me informed, but not up to date.

Post meal, I hop in my cell-block like shower for the dreaded, but much needed cold shower. The cold water is a great wake up call and prevents me from wasting water. I consider myself very fortunate as I am one of the very few PCV’s who has a real shower in their house. In fact, I am one of the only PCV’s I know that is not adept at bucket showering. Jeans, polo shirt and top-siders make up my work attire and after dressing I leave the house at 8:15. After a ten minute bike ride through the heart of the Port, I arrive at the hospital.

If it’s a Wednesday or Friday there are usually a good number of mothers with babies already waiting around the vaccination room. Many of these women have spent the early morning hours walking many kilometers with babies strapped to their back in order to get to the CSB. This is due to the fact that Wednesday is BCG day, the only day that newly born babies can get their first vaccination, and Friday is the only day that babies nine months and older can get their final shot of the five shot program. Other days of the week are considerably less busy with the occasional mother bringing a child in to get vaccinated and weighed, or just weighed. All babies should gain weight every month and so it’s important for the mothers to consistently bring their child in each month to get weighed and have their growth plotted. If a baby is not gaining weight then I convey this to the mother and tell her to either continue breastfeeding frequently or discuss ways to properly wean the child with good, healthy food for babies. These little conferences are usually done one on one but sometimes there are a group of mothers who can benefit from hearing the message. The hospital has devised a nice weaning program for babies six months and older which uses foods found locally that are not too expensive. We also try and make it clear that the best and cheapest way to keep their baby well fed is by breastfeeding all the time and continuing it through the child’s second year. The added benefit to exclusive breastfeeding is that it is a natural form of contraception. On Wednesdays and Fridays I give a kabary, a small presentation in Malagasy, on subjects such as healthy food for children, the vaccination program, preventing and treating diarrheal disease, good hygiene and/or preventing malaria. Any kabary could have an audience ranging from 4 to 30 women with babies. I have a written script that I loosely follow, but I have found that the better talks are the ones in which I stray from my notes. My visuals include information written on colored construction paper, posters produced by the Health Ministry, and my own puerile artwork. I have never had any issue speaking in front of groups and usually find the women to be interested in either what I’m saying or how I will mangle their language. My talks are often conducted amidst a cacophony of screaming and yipping zazas. The best presentation is one that is short, easy to follow (i.e. few statistical facts or complicated health terms), and show/teach the women something they don’t already know (i.e. how to make a homemade Oral Rehydration Solution for diarrheal disease or that exclusive breastfeeding for the child’s first 6 mos., is a natural form of contraception). I give the same presentations over and over again and they can get a little monotonous; however, the fact remains that the women can’t hear these health messages enough.

My work at the hospital is usually finished on Mon, Tues, and Thurs around 9:30 AM and I stick around until 11 AM writing letters and studying Malagasy. On Wed and Fri it is not unusual for me to finish weighing and cataloging weight statistics for the final babies right around my departure time of 11AM. Despite it being winter time in June and July, I am always aware of the heat as I return home. After changing into shorts and t-shirt, I make my way to the market. I usually stop and purchase some Tiko yogurt from some nice epicerie owners in order to break the large bills that they only give me at the bank in Antsohihy. Apparently the large bill scheme is employed by many a developing nation and it serves two purposes. It helps stave off inflation, and it makes people like me put money into the economy. For example, it’s a guarantee that the people selling veggies at market will not have change for large bills, so I have to buy things such as yogurt on a frequent basis in order to get smaller bills to buy bananas, tomatoes, carrots, etc. Thus, anytime I want to buy food I have to purchase more than I really need that day in order to have usable money. So after my yogurt purchase, I wind my way around the various vegetable stalls always with an eye out for large green peppers or pineapple. I can always find tomatoes, potatoes, onions and carrots but veggies/fruit such as peaches, apples and peppers are brought in from Tana and are found infrequently. The market is divided into three general sections, rice and beans, veggies and fruit, and various butcher blocks. Surrounding the pavilion that makes up the roofed market, are many people selling chickens, milk, knock off clothes from China, cheap knick knacks and odds and ends also made in China. There are several stalls set up that serve meals of lasopy (soup), sakosako (corn in coconut milk) and various bean and meat dishes over rice. Lining the front of the market are women and children serving a selection of fried foods such as fish, peanuts, cassava and bread. It’s impossible to accurately describe the sights, sounds and vibe of the market- it must be seen. I love weaving my way between the various stalls and sellers and briefly shooting the breeze about the size of the carrots or who will win the World Cup. Many of the sellers know what I like and know my habits, so they call out to me if they have something like chicken eggs or something unique that is selling fast.

Lunch is usually leftover food from the night before served over rice; however on Mondays when I get fresh ground beef I make a fine Philly cheese steak. This is done using La Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow processed cheese, the only cheese that can stand the heat) along with hamburger sautéed with onions and green peppers. And, I've always got to make a little extra rice for the Piso (cat) as her meals are made up of dried fish and my leftovers. I try to finish my lunch as quickly as possible in order to maximize the hour and a half of electricity, thus fan time, before it’s cut off for the afternoon. Because of the heat, everyone takes an afternoon siesta. I tried to withstand this as I always considered the post lunch nap a dangerous habit to start, but my will power did not last long. I read and nap until the electricity cuts out at 2 PM (coincidentally, the hottest part of the day). The afternoon is then spent taking care of practicalities such as letter writing, kabary preparation and/or meeting with people. Around 4:30 or 5, I go out to get a little snack and do any final food purchasing. Almost everyday I buy some peanuts and then stop off to eat fried cassava or kida (unsweet banana) and chat with a group of ladies near my house. The lady that sells the food helped me find Gigi the cat so she is always interested in how it’s doing and if I have any rats. I may do some of my best work as a PCV in this setting. There is a table with food surrounded by women sitting on two benches and they get a kick out of chatting with me. They ask me about things such as preventing intestinal worms or different forms of oral contraception, and because it is a casual, friendly atmosphere I feel that I give good solid advice and that they really absorb what I tell them.

More reading is in store while I eat my afternoon snack and think about what to cook for dinner. More often than not, the sautéed vegetable medley over rice wins out due to the quick and easy prep time. I cut and dice whatever veggies I have on hand and then sauté them in olive oil. Many times ground beef or a scrambled egg is added for a little protein kick. While I eat the same thing on a very frequent basis, I have found it to be quite tasty and healthy. Despite my lack of motivation to make creative cuisine every night, I have managed to make some very good meals. Highlights would include fresh tuna steaks marinated in a ginger/sesame butter sauce, cheesy pasta with packaged salmon in a mustard/with balsamic vinegar sauce and I baked chocolate chip cookies for the first time in my life (they turned out ok). I have creative culinary bursts of energy, and then I flat-line for a while and eat my veggie medley. One of my favorite things to do, in the U.S. and here, is eat my dinner while watching Seinfeld episodes. I have now probably seen every show from the 4^th season at least twenty times. After eating and cleaning up, I will eat some yogurt and maybe brew a cup of Rooibos Tea and settle in for more reading or a game of hearts on the computer. Or like right now, type up a lengthy, overly detailed blog post. Around 8:30 PM, I light a mosquito incense coil and lay out my therm-a-rest for a little pre-sleep exercise. Despite trying to go up in sets every week or two, I have recently plateaued at 5 sets of 20 pushups and 5 sets of 40 sit-ups. After exercising, the cat goes in the kitchen; I take my second shower of the day and then hit the sack a little after 9PM. I have started reading this book called the Bible that apparently has been creating quite the stir over the past few years. While there are many people who have very rigid religious views and like to use their narrow interpretation of vague biblical passages to fit their own moral/political agenda, I feel that the majority of us are very uninformed about what the Bible has to say and adhere to our parent’s religious views like it’s politics. I have thus started on a quest to inform myself in regards to differing religious beliefs by reading cover to cover all important religious tracts in the course of my lifetime. I think I will delve into the Koran after the Bible; however my focus now is finishing the book of Leviticus. The Old Testament of the Bible is quite interesting after getting through the lengthy genealogies and building instructions. Lights out happens around 10 PM.

I have found that my life eerily resembles Phil Connor’s in the movie Groundhog Day. Despite every day being more or less the same, I think I’m at the turning point where I grow accustomed to it and take the opportunity to make that sameness as profitable and soul enriching as possible. Recently, I have started going out into the outlying fokontanies (small villages comprising all of Port Berge) to deliver health messages and discuss the possibility of starting some well or latrine building projects. This new type of work is what I thought my Peace Corps experience would be more like and so I have welcomed this opportunity to interact with my fellow community members in a proactive, health conscious way. I expect to be busier in the future and feel that my “real” work as a Peace Corps volunteer may just be starting. Well, time to do some more reading and sleeping. Good night, all!

Coo-Coo for Coconuts

After a long, dusty 10 hour taxi brousse ride I arrived in Mahajanga on June 1 around 4:30 pm. I had been told that the road was good from Port Berge to Mahajanga, and this was partly correct. After the town of Mampikony, the onion capitol of Madagascar, the road is paved and even has painted passing lanes and road signs (!). Before Mampikony, however, the road is what one might generously call bumpy. The 3-4 hours it takes to cover the 84 km from the Port to Mampikony is spent traversing deeply rutted roads with 10 m stretches of the old disintegrating paved road intermittently alleviating all from the very slow, jarring ride. I can’t remember the last time I was so elated to arrive at a destination (although, pulling into the Port upon my return was pretty sweet). The problem of the roads here in Madagascar is representative of the many cyclical problems that developing nations face regarding their infrastructure. The roads are poor and so when it rains, the only way to travel is by massive cargo trucks. These camions tear up the road even more creating deeper ruts, which then makes the behemoth vehicles all the more necessary. Attempts made to fix the roads are often band-aid solutions, when the answer needed is a lasting, well designed system to prevent future problems (i.e. drainage systems for water runoff).

I got to the Anjary Hotel and promptly washed the layer of dust that had been caking my body for the past several hours. My first hot shower in a couple months was exquisite and so was the air conditioning cranked at full blast. I went out with a worker from the hotel as I was not too familiar with this provincial capitol. He took me to a nice little restaurant that overlooks the bay. I treated him to a dinner of beef and shrimp brochettes and a couple THB’s. As is typical, a communication snafu meant that more food came than was expected and the price exceeded what was in my pocket. Gasy culture dictates that the person doing the inviting to dinner must pay for everything. Well, I guess I invited my new friend to eat, although my intention was to only get a couple beers. I hadn’t eaten lunch and so I wanted some food, but there was no way I could order food and not offer to get him anything. The long short is that he got a very good meal for free and I left the restaurant in debt to be repaid the next day. My friend then asked me to do him a favor. The favor involved me going to his house on the outskirts of Mahajanga and proving to his wife that he had actually been eating with a vazaha and was not out cavorting with a new girlfriend—not too much trust in that relationship. Without really thinking about it, I said yes as I thought it could be an interesting little trip and I had nothing better to do by myself in Mahajanga on a Thursday night. We took one of the large taxi buses that run throughout the city to the area where he lived. The ride took a long time because of frequent stopping, and I started to realize that I had gotten involved in something that could take a very long time. I was very thirsty, completely out of money, and did not want to spend any more time sitting on my arse in a taxi. Finally, we got to his street and then walked to his house which was a one room house made completely of tin. I greeted his wife and corroborated her husband’s story while she breastfed their 5 month old baby. It was a pleasant, yet very awkward encounter. After five minutes at the guy’s house I made my way to the taxi bus pick up and caught another long ride back to the hotel where I drank 1.75 liters of water without stopping.

I awoke very early the next morning as it’s not easy to sleep when you haven’t seen your girlfriend in a month and a half and you know she’s traveling solo on a 15 hour taxi brousse. Any anxiety on my part was alleviated when I remembered that Abby is the toughest girl (sorry, young woman), that I have ever met. She could easily wup any guy I know and no doubt could put a severe hurtin on any overly friendly Gasy dude. It was unbelievably good to see her when she walked in the door. It had been over a month and a half since Abby and I last saw each other and even though we have phone conversations, they are usually hurried and brief due to phone card limitations. Needless to say, this is difficult on both of us, but we always fall right back into where we left off. The distance and lack of communication are tough to handle, but we know that when we see each other that all the recent lows will be erased. I personally have never experienced the emotional peaks and valleys such as those presented by the Peace Corps experience. The low of being isolated and lonely, is immediately trumped by getting to spend time with my beautiful girlfriend in the pleasantly exotic city of Mahajanga—the highest of highs. We spent the morning reacquainting over pain au chocolat and café.

Highlights of the Mahajanga vacation were many. Morning activity usually commenced around 9 or 10 and always revolved around strong coffee with sugar and either yaourt de maison or a freshly baked pastry. As we casually consumed our breakfast, we would plot the day’s activities which mainly centered around where to swim in the afternoon and where to have a good meal that night. The rest of the morning would be used to take care of practicalities such as email/internet, shopping for souvenirs, or buying bottles of wine. One morning we ran into Lauren, another PCV, who is in the education and is teaching in Mahajanga. She showed us around and took us to the big market which had one of the finest outdoor fish markets I have ever seen. Huge tuna and jumbo shrimp were only a few of the many fresh seafood selections. It was great running into Lauren as she showed us around a part of town we would not have found on our own. Another morning Abby and I spent the morning walking all over Mahajanga in search of hand made paper lanterns that were being sold for the upcoming June 26, Malagasy Independence Day celebrations. We walked all over town in the midday heat and couldn’t find a single damn lantern. A frustratingly, fun excursion that allowed us to see many parts of the city that would not be seen my most other tourists. A couple afternoons were spent swimming in a great salt water pool perched on the ocean’s edge. Our finest afternoon, however, was spent at the local’s beach, Grande Pavois, where we relaxed in the sun, swam in the Mozambique Channel, drank a bottle of South African Chardonnay and ate crevette bengets (fried dough balls with shrimp). We wrapped up many an afternoon by strolling along the Bord du Mer, a side walk that lazily winds around the ocean front and has been nicely landscaped with palm trees and white benches, while the sunset fell from the horizon leaving the sky painted in hues of purple and orange. Sometimes ice cream or a rhum de maison provided a nice exclamation point to a great lazy day.

Meal time played a very important part of our vacation. I got on a huge coconut kick while in Mahajanga, and so it became a quest to eat and drink anything and everything coconut. Shrimp in a coconut butter sauce over rice proved to be my favorite dish and though long and arduous, my journey to find the best punch coco finally ended after much sampling but with one definitive winner, Punch Coco from the Fishing Residence Restaurant. The key to good punch coco I’ve determined is to have a strong rum offset by a perfect combination of fresh coconut milk and fresh vanilla bean as well as to be chilled or served over a couple ice cubes. Finding the perfect Punch Coco (so far Baboo Village on Ille. Aux Nattes) means that I will rarely be found without a glass of it in my hand—I love it. Thanks to Lauren the PCV we became aware of the Pizza Marco, arguably the best pizza in Madagascar. The place is French owned and is only open from 6-10 pm. It is sits among many other small Gasy owned restaurants and epiceries and one would never know it existed during the day, however, when open, it stands out. Pizza Marco is a very popular destination with vazahas and is busy every night. The pizza is creative (think pears, coconut, shrimp) and the atmosphere is unique. The waitresses are scantily dressed in uniforms that advertise the restaurant in very convenient places for wandering male eyes. We spent our second to last night at Pizza Marco watching the opening ceremony of the World Cup and listening to the French patrons cheer against Germany in the first game. Another great find was a hacienda style coffee house, reading room and Malagasy crafts store owned by a small Spanish lady. Abby and I found the place during our last couple days and we were pleasantly surprised to find that she served iced coffee and real cookies. The outdoor reading room/courtyard, the plants, fountains, décor and the very comfortably cushioned couches created a very pleasant and relaxed atmosphere to enjoy a cold drink and read a magazine.

The return to Port Berge took a long time as night travel over deeply rutted roads is slow going. I was disappointed to learn upon my arrival that the cell phone company that had been putting a satellite receiver in PB had yet to turn on the service. Returning to site after being away for an extended period of time is always difficult. The transition from speaking English and spending a lot of quality time with Abby to spending a lot of alone time while speaking nothing but Gasy takes some readjusting to say the least. My readjustment, while difficult, was aided in the arrival of my new companion, Gigi the kitty cat. Never having been a cat person, it has taken some getting used to sharing the house with a feline. She is a very small kitten, she cries all the time, and recently after eating some deworming medicine she has pooped very long white worms. She has developed an obsession with my feet and this foot fetish has led her to get accidentally kicked and stepped on occasionally. I feel that Gigi won the cat lottery of Port Berge as she will get a shot at a good life by living with me, however I have made up my mind to treat this small animal as just that, a small animal. I find it difficult to reconcile pampering this cat like Americans do their pets, when there are sick and starving children down the street who could use the deworming meds and rice that I daily feed my cat. She will be given a good life for a cat, but she will sleep on the floor, she won’t have little outfits to wear, and she will eat rice and dried fish. There will be no Meow Mix. Also, Gigi was brought on board to do work, that being rat extermination. Since her arrival, I have not been aware of any rodents so I think her mere presence is a rat deterrent.

Well, if you’ve gotten to this point, thanks for reading and I hope you weren’t too bored. I hope summer has treated everyone well—Happy 4th of July!

Shake Your Gasy: A Disco Experience

"Handeha amin'ny Disco, amy Alina, Christophe?"
Well, I wasn't planning on going to the disco tonight, but now that you mention it, I might have some interest. "Amy firy hanomabaka Disco?" The Disco starts around 10:30 pm, but we'll pick you up around 9:00 pm.

My friend Olivier owns the local radio station as well as an epicerie that I frequent. He and his friends always hound me about going to the Saturday Night Disco and I usually beg off or say I might go, all the while knowing that I will spend another low key night at my house. When Olivier offers to pick me up, my mindset changes and I agree to go. In my mind, I convince myself of the importance of having this cultural experience. I also get a little excited at the fact that my usual routine of eating dinner, reading and then going to bed around 9:00 pm will be interrupted for a sweaty shakedown.

Making my way back to my house I think that while I might be ready to go to a disco at 9:00, there is a good chance that no one will be by to pick me up. I eat dinner around the usual time of 6:30, all the while thinking about what I may be getting myself into tonight. After dinner, I spy the old water bottle filled with rum that has been marinating with vanilla beans. A little pre disco cocktail sure wouldn't hurt, and it might end up as a nice nightcap if the pick up never happens. Occasionally I will have a beer on a Saturday night, but I have yet to imbibe any liquor at my home here in Port Berge. Drinking a beer here is very socially acceptable as it is seen as merely another form of soft drink. Toaka Gasy (rum), on the other hand, is a different ball game and one that is played by only the professionals. My little cocktail proves to be quite refreshing and is socially acceptable since I am the only one who knows that I am enjoying it. I always find myself socially acceptable in my own company. I get ready, nip my toddy and read a National Geographic--one of the rowdier pregames I have ever been a part of.

As 9:00 comes and goes, I feel fairly certain that I will not be going to the disco and begin to shut down the house for a night's slumber. At 9:30, a rap on the door lets me know that it's time to get up and boogie. I throw on my Hawaiian shirt, a pair of khakis and some flip flops. I make my way outside and waiting for me on the dirt road in front of my house is a black Mercedes Benz. Olivier is probably one of the wealthier men in town, but I had no idea that he would be pushing a benz. Well, we shall roll in class. We make a couple of stops to drop off some girls sitting in the back seat and while I wait for Olivier's return, I ponder how I have found myself in this situation. I am in an isolated rural town in Northwestern Madagascar, which is off the southeastern coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean, and here I am sitting in a black benz waiting to go to the Saturday night disco. Rarely do I find myself out at night, and so this is one of the first times that I have seen how incredibly illuminated the night sky is with its bountiful amount of stars.

I think that we are on our way to the disco, but Olivier informs me that he is not dressed to impress. We go to his house which is also the radio station. Here I meet his friends and my cohorts for the evening's adventure. Jimmy, Gervais and Dodo (pronounced DooDoo) are calmly knocking down a few whiskey and cokes. Whether you're in Port Berge, Bloomington or Kansas City, there are always going to be a few guys sitting around chewing the fat whilst enjoying whiskey and coke. As I drink one myself, I make a vow to myself to watch the intake and keep my wits about me--you've got to if you plan to really get down and shake it Gasy style. Jimmy tells me that I might have to go home and change out of my flip flops as they are not disco appropriate foot attire. Olivier assures me that since I am a vazaha I will not be hassled, but to not wear flip flops again. I try to explain that flip flops are socially appropriate for going out in the US, but quickly realize that this doesn't make them any more appropriate here in the Port. We load up in the Benz and make our way to the disco which is located at the corner right before you enter the market.

Just like in Swingers (sans chain wallet), we unload and swagger in. Because Olivier is kind of a big deal, we walk right in without dropping the 3000 Ariary ($1.50) cover charge. From the outside the building looks small, but once inside I realize that it's quite open and spacious. While this is no Studio 54, I would contend that this disco has as much character, if not more, than that infamous establishment. The Steve Rubell's, Androgyny and White Horses are replaced by many scandalously dressed women, one other white male apparently with an eye out for a Gasy prostitute, and many guys dressed in the latest Von Dutch knockoff attire to hit the Port. People are looking good, feeling good and ready to go to work on the floor. A large cement dance floor is surrounded by many white tables and chairs. The ceiling is high with many multicolored fluorescent lights hanging down in the various arbitrary places. One large disco ball hangs down in the middle, certifying this as an official disco. Two large speakers sit in each corner of the building. There is room in the back where one can purchase various disco supplies such as Good Look or Boston Cigarettes, Three Horses Beer, Whiskey, various soft drinks, snacks and condoms. This room is also where the DJ plies his trade. There are no records spinning, but there is an ample selection of mixed CD's. In front of this room are two people attending a small grill which turns out the finest brochettes (beef grilled in fat and then sandwiched on a stick between several delectable bites of fat) in PB. In the back left corner are the restrooms. I can't speak for the women's lavatory, but the men's is one big cement trough which is rarely used. Most of the men find it more convenient to pee on the plants that sit right in front of the bathroom. Even though the bathroom is one step further, I guess guys always feel compelled and more comfortable to mark their territory on any freestanding vegetation.

There is a small debate as we enter the disco as to where we should sit. Several people are already present (mostly groups of females) but I'm told that the place will be filled around 11. We choose a very central table in front of the brochette grillers. At this vantage point it is possible to scan the entire perimeter of the dance floor as well as observe all the newly arrived party goers. There is Gasy music playing but no one is out on the floor yet. I observe the crowd. Sure enough around 11, a giant TV screen is wheeled out, turned on and Gasy music begins blaring. With little hesitancy, men and women get out of their seats and begin dancing. Immediatley my friends encourage me to get up, grab a girl and shake my groove thing. I beg off for the first few dances because I've got to observe how things are done. Apparent protocol maintains that the guy goes up to the sitting girl, says nothing, extends his hand and she must accept. I watch how Olivier does it and he's as smooth as butter. Girls seem eager to dance with him and I quickly realize why. He can really groove and knows all the right moves and steps. Watching all of this makes me a little hesitant to get out there and act the fool, but then again, "whatcha gonna do if you really don't want to dance, get ya back up off the wall." I'm at a frickin disco and there's really only one thing to do at a disco and that is to put on your boogie shoes. I strap up and make my way to the floor, because at this point there are so many people dancing that I need not ask for a partner. Some people know special dance steps and moves, twisting and turning their way around everyone, but most people are just out there to shake it. Immediately, the majority of eyes are on me to see how ridiculous the vazaha will look while he gets down. I must say that I consider myself a pretty good dancer, but this mainly has to do with the fact that I could care less what others think as they watch me. This reckless dancing abandon served me well through high school and college and I happily summons it up in order to make the most of my disco experience. I look and dance ridiculous but this does not concern me. As it looks like I'm having a great time (which I am) other people want a piece of the action. I've got guys duplicating my patented shoulder shaking and I quickly find myself surrounded by girls hoping to get my attention. I am content to dance solo and just enjoy the tremendous energy pulsating through the massive throng of rhythmic revelers. People, man and woman, really move their hips. The place feels as if the steam has just been turned on in a sauna. The mob on the dance floor is tightly packed together, creating a dense heat that percolates with an alternating aroma of very strong cologne and very strong natural scent.

I dance myself into a sweaty mess and then decide it is time to take a small timeout. I go talk to the DJ and request some American hip hop. I'm especially after Usher's Yeah, but I have to settle for some other mediocre hip hop tracks. Then the first of several special events throughout the evening occurs. A woman comes strolling around all the tables holding up a whole grilled chicken. I am confused at the onset of this display, but once an explosive bidding war breaks out between two factions on either side of the room, I realize that the chicken is being auctioned off. Some of the road workers from COLAS win the bird and quickly reduce it to a heap of perfectly cleaned bones. Then, a hip hop dance contest is announced. A group of boys dressed in their freshest hip hop attire (mainly knockoff Jumpman jerseys and shorts) make their way to the center of the room and everyone else sits down. For twenty exhausting minutes these boys dance their hearts out with every move from the robot, head spin to flips and the moon walk. I have never seen dancing endurance like this, they just keep going and going. Whenever one guy does something cool or outrageous, it is immediatley attempted by all the others. Some are really good while others have some work to do. If you work hard some day maybe you too can be the hip hop dance champion at Port Berge's Saturday night disco. I am awaiting a vote by crowd enthusiasm, however, since the judge of the town tribunal is present he chooses the winner, runner up and third place. He gives a small speech congratulating the winner on his hard work and accomplishment and then a set of prizes are placed at our table. Apparently, I am considered one of the more important people at this disco as I am selected along with Olivier and the judge to hand the prizes out to the finalists. I hand the runner up a digital watch and give him an "Arabeny" (congratulations) and return to my seat, happy that I don't have to give a congratulatory speech. Finally, as the night wears on I hear a country western line dance song blast on and I laugh as I think this should be interesting. Well, I don't know where they got their hands on the Branson Dancin DVD but this was some rather spectacular line dancing. People paired off, man/woman, woman/woman, man/man and the Grand Ol Opry meets Hee Haw meets Gasy Disco was swingin, steppin, twirling and just plain makin it happen on Saturday night in the Port.

I am lost in the inferno when I get a tap on the shoulder and Olivier tells me it is time to go. My concept of time left me as soon as I walked into the disco. We hop in the benz and Olivier drops me off in front of my door. I presume that Olivier is going home with the girl who is sitting in the back and who he danced with most of the night. I am shocked when I get inside my house and realize that it's 3:30 in the morning. I fall on my bed and peacefully slip into a dance induced coma. I don't plan on going to too many more discos, but I am very happy that I have had this fabulous cultural experience. Get your Gasy on the floor tonight, and make my day.