My housing situation in Madagascar

My housing situation is a huge building that was built in 1996 and was intentionally built to be offices for the mayor and the adjoint and all the higher ups in town. Now, it's deteriorating at a pretty high pace (if I do say so myself) and houses me, the elderly woman next to me, and the last corridor is actually an office. So it's a pretty long building. It has a tin roof (which some may say is lucky and others say differently because of the heat) and I have cracked and slanted concrete floors. My walls are made from planks, these planks are slowly peeling back their layers, either from being so wet over they last few years or have always looked this way, unsure, but sound residence and animal entry residence is non existent. 

Although it wasn't love at first site, I do love my house! 

I remember the day I saw my house for the first time! I was so excited! I had already seen my stage mates awesome houses and it was finally my time! As we pull up I know exactly which one is mine because of the large newly built fence! We walk in and I think I black out because of the excitement!! No, I didn't black out, I just can't see anything because the walls are brown/black from too many years of cooking with an open fire and there's only one window in a two room house. (We're slowly making home improvements, I now have three windows, and have painted two walls.) 

The excitement is draining from my body but I positively ask to see the backyard! It's lovely! Massive rocks are situated in a forested area behind my house! There are orange trees, avocado trees, jackfruit trees, coconut tress and papaya trees all within sight! Okay I think, I'll spend a lot of time on my porch and not inside that cave they are calling my new home.

So, next question! Where's my kabone and ladosy (toilet and shower) ? 

They tell me they couldn't build me a toilet because those huge boulders behind my house are sacred and that would be very taboo. I think uhhhh awesome!! That's so culturally cool!!! Now, I know for a fact that is a lie because they have started construction on a kabone 5 feet from a boulder and the other boulders are slowly being pounded at. We call the people that choose that career, rock breakers. So, they aren't sacred enough to go unbroken and sold at a low price. 

We walk across the front yard, across the dirt road, walk behind the commune and I see my old used kabone in the middle of a grassy weedy field. I think, Hmm... This is very out in the open. But I guess when ya gotta shit ya might as well let everyone know where the correct place to do it is, in a toilet, not in the coffee forest! 

As I turn around I ask the last question, where is my water source? A well? A pump? My high and excited thoughts of fetching my own water is shattered when we're still walking to the source after 5 minutes... Ohhh god! I'm supposed to carry it this far?! Everyday?! This isn't muscle growth this is torture! 

Luckily, I had my site mate Marcelo next to me through the whole tour. And when all was said and done, he put his arm around me and said, "we're all here for ya Kels!" 

Panoramic view, my house on the left, the village commune on the right. 

My garden!! Flowers, lentils, and cucumbers so far! 

My peaceful backyard, boulders on the right. 

This post was written to give you insight for the next post called "The elderly lady  and the three boys that live next door". 

Let me get the sweat out of my eyes

Below post may seem like complaining. I'm not saying it isn't. 

So, the go-to small chat is to talk about the weather, right? 

Well, that's ALL I seem to talk about, not only because I've mastered that conversation in Malagasy but because the weather here is always on my mind. How can it not be when I'm constantly dripping in sweat? 

The second I walk out my door, sweat. 

While I'm sitting reading a book, sweat. 

While I'm giving a health speech, sweat.

It's embarrassing to describe what it's like when actual physical activity is involved. 

I don't want to eat lunch because it's too hot. 

When I go anywhere I'm practically shadow/shade chasing to stay out of the sun. 

The sad part is I'm not even sure how hot it really is! No thermometer. And the Malagasy of course aren't sweating at all, so that's just the cherry on top when I'm standing chit chatting and I look like  I just finished a marathon, minus the heavy breathing while everyone else is high and dry. 

So, I've mastered the small weather conversation, in fact, I'm not even sick of it. I'm like in a heat stroke everyday, not sure where I am (certainly not Montana) and have to ask, "it is the hot season, right?"

What's all that squawking about?

With all the presidential propaganda and local propaganda that was driving around in November and December, (people in vans screaming through beat up aged microphones and exhausted speakers) the kids have it drilled into their minds that silence is unacceptable. 

So, all I've  been hearing lately is a whole bunch of high-pitched nonsense coming from the kids.

I just assumed they were making fun of me and my naturally high pitched and at times squeaky voice caused by excitement. 

Turns out they've been chanting "Kelsey ho deputy, número quinze!"

They want me to run for deputy and with all the propaganda that was going around they thought they'd be my propaganda; loud, unintelligible, basically disturbing peace and quiet for the whole village. 

Fortunately for the real candidates, kids can't vote, because if they could and if in fact I were competing, I would win by a long shot. 

The first but certainly not the last post about taxi brousses (stations)

I go back and forth on what's worse; taxi brousse stations or actually being in the taxi brousse?

Either way, you're uncomfortable and getting nowhere quickly. 

But this post is about my latest experience in a taxi brousse station.

This was my first time taking a night brousse all by myself. Also, I had already been in a taxi brousse for 35 hours prior to this last stretch towards home. So, for all that know me well, I was slightly grouchy and probably the least pleasant person at the station that day.

I arrive on time, but really, what the hell is the point of that?

I'm assisted by a man, who I reassure that I already have a reservation, but he continues to usher me towards a vehicle. Luckily, my driver recognizes me and gets a hold of me and assists me to the correct van. Earlier man comes with and sits in the empty brousse with me, and with the foggy closed windows because of the rain outside, I'm thinking this is a bad idea!

And I'm grouchy so I don't want to talk to anyone at the moment. I ask him politely why he's there? He says he wants to be my friend. Uh huh... Really? I chat a little, even though it's a tale as old as time that this guy wants a "white girlfriend". Then I ask him politely to leave me alone after the conversation gets weird with the typical "where's your boyfriend" question. He refuses. Calls me a bitch- at least that was clear. Yet, he still wants to be my friend and won't leave. Some people enter the car to sit and wait as well and so I think it's okay to pretend to sleep. Creepo to the left starts petting my head. Yep, definitely not cool. I ask him to leave about nine more times, ask the others to help me out a bit and then finally when I say the magic words of "you're being rude and don't even know your own methods/morals" he leaves. And other passengers agree he was a little "sick in the head". 

Adventure still not over. 

After waiting another  2 1/2 hours in the car, I had to go pee, I'm a well hydrated human. 

 I asked the "driver's assistant", "hey, when are we leaving? Because I've gotta go pee."

He replies with, "now."

YAAA right. "Soooo where can I go pee?"

He replies with, "right there," nods his head in a direction, "behind the brousse."

"Like right in the middle of the taxi brousse station?"

"Ya..."

And so, after being somewhat harassed, I went pee in the middle of a taxi brousse station in the pouring rain. First time for everything. Thank God I didn't have to go number two and that we left shortly after that. 

That day, the taxi station took the win for being worse than the actual ride. 

Not a rare occurrence. (But that's not even the car I was in, my driver is the one in the white shirt doing nothing.)