Don't Feed the Lemurs

Fall on the Farm

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 02:48:00 +0000

A milking devon, Indy, deciding if Nikon's are edible.

Madagascar feels a world away while spending crisp fall days at my sister's farm in eastern Pennsylvania. A stroll around the back field followed by a meal of baked macaroni and cheese and smoked country ham completes a return to my food and fat-rich motherland.

John Adams, President and one handsome silver grey dorking rooster.

(My sister prefers to name most of her farm pets after American Colonial big wigs.)

A sweetgum leaf getting a jump on her neighbors.

My niece Maisy doing swinging in the day's last light.

Blowing milkweed and making wishes.

The cornfield across the road as seen through handblown bullseye glass in a dining room window.

A staring steer.

A weathered and well-used chicken coop.

A Spanish black originally named Martha Washington. Unfortunately, Martha turned out to be a gobbler just like her/his comrade George, so she was rechristened Marquis de Lafayette.

A wooly bear curling up and calling it a day.

Abigail Adams a rather dignified-looking silver gray dorking.

(You try looking dignified with a name like dorking.)

A watering can at sunset.

Photo Junk Drawer

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 18:57:00 +0000

Just one example from the government's new Blatantly Obvious Sign Initiative. Others include "Rocks are Hard," "The Sky is Blue," and "Yes, those Pants do make your Butt look Big."

If I ever gain 150 pounds and find myself in a French professional wrestling match, I now know exactly what my stage name is going to be.

This boy met our car about 3 miles out from a tourist destination that is reached via a rutted dusty track. He ran ahead of the car the entire 3 miles pointing out ruts and rocks in the road. For his trouble, he earned nearly $1 as a tip. Then he ran back 3 more miles to get another customer. Something to think about next time you want to complain about a hard day at work.

The author herself signing page 6 of my favorite Malagasy children's circumcision book. Oh, like you don't have a favorite Malagasy children's circumcision book?

The rocks are part of a tiny, but popular, geyser. The shack in the back is a photo booth that can take a digital photo and give you a print to remember your trip to said geyser. Nothing terribly impressive until you consider the closest electricity is about 10 miles back past nothing but a few huts and some papaya planations. The place runs its computer and printer on car batteries charged up back in town.

Next time you get your overstuffed cable bill, crumple it up and tell Verizon to shove it; you're going with a 26 inch used bike rim instead.

Returning Home by the Numbers

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 14:37:00 +0000

I awoke this morning back home. The United States. West Chicago specifically. And a lovely morning it was. I did not awake to delicate birdsong or an ethereal cloud of coffee and buttermilk pancakes. No, I awoke to a sound pillow pummeling delivered by two nieces and a nephew in my brother's basement. A chorus of birds and a stack of pancakes can wait; a pillow fight with the kids was welcome enough. (That said, I won't be waiting too long for the pancakes now).

And how does one travel from Madagascar to West Chicago? I'll let the numbers do the talking:

9,775: Miles traveled by air.

3: Number of separate flights.

2: Different airlines. (If I only spend another $10,000 with Air France, I will have enough miles to get a free ticket home. Sadly, that is not a joke.)

17: Occasions of waiting in lines for baggage, check-in, passport control, etc.

7: Movies watched in flight. (Including Out of Africa while actually flying out of Africa.)

4: TV episodes watched.

1: Number of times I waited in the wrong airline's check-in line in Newark because I was too tired to remember how I was getting to Chicago.

6: Trains, cars and buses taken getting to and from airports.

10: Number of 400 mg ibuprofen tablets taken.

34: Total hours spent in transit from my house to my brother's.

0: Times I used an airplane bathroom. ( I have nothing against them, but about 10 years ago I realized I had never used one and now it is just a personal challenge. It's best to have goals in life.)

10: Timezones travelled.

3: Different crumpled currencies crammed into right front pant's pocket.

15-20: Times I responded to airline and airport personnel in Malagasy instead of French or English.

15-20: Number of confused looks from airline and airport personnel.

18: Number of separate, tiny and mostly difficult to open items Air France delivers on a notebook-sized tray for breakfast.

20: Inches of width in which one must maneuver his Tyrannosaurus-Rex-like arms while trying to open and/or consume said 18 items.

9: Minutes between the delivery of the hand and eye coordination challenge, aka breakfast, is delivered and the decent into Paris is announced. (This has happened 4 times to me know. There are 11 hours in which the breakfast could be served and leisurely enjoyed, but it is always handed out just minutes from Paris at which point the bounty of minuscule items must be devoured with all the haste of a Jack Russell terrier.)

100: Percent of the trip worth it to see friend family again.

Malagasy Health and Lack of Safety Regulations

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 21:24:00 +0000

Saying Madagascar has strict health and safety regulations is bit like claiming North Korea is a thriving democracy. To prove this, I invite you to scroll down and take a tour of some electrons as they travel along a 20 foot extension cord from an electric meter to a handmade welder seemingly stolen from the prop room of Mad Max. Along the way pay particular attention to the industrious, and I'm sure perfectly fireproof, use of grocery bags to insulate the not one, not two, but four joints in the cord. Not to mention the lack of plugs at either end.

Don't worry there was no danger to the workers who were using this at the children's home. It is only 380 volts. Ok, worry just a little bit.

The Other Baobabs

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 13:59:00 +0000

These towering Andasonia madagascariensis are among the tallest baobab species in the world.

If the baobabs of Madagscar could talk, I doubt very much many would have anything nice to say about about Andasonia grandidieri. Those particular baobabs are uppity little tree divas. Absolute attention hogs. Nearly every photo of a Madagascar baobab is of that one species. Worse still, most photos are just of the 12 haughty trees that line the Avenue of the Baobabs in Morondava.

But there are other baobobs that deserve a bit of the spotlight. Andasonia madagascariensis for example. In particular, these four lovely ladies from Ankarafantsika National Park, Madagascar. They represent just one of the 6 other species of baobabs found in Madagascar that normally play ugly stepsisters to Anasonia grandidieri's Cinderella.

So please enjoy the photos and give another baobab its due.

These proud specimens are from the dry deciduous forest of Akarafantsika National Park in western Madagascar. To survive the dry times, the trunks can store roughly 30,000 US gallons of water.

As the name suggests, Andasonia madagascariensis can only be found in Madagascar. In fact, 6 of the world's 8 species of baobabs are endemic to Madagascar. Not to brag.

Do Do that Hoodoo that You Do So Well

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 16:26:00 +0000

Not just hoodoos, but optical allusion hoodoos to boot.

Here's a word to toss around when next you find yourself in the middle of a conversation lull at a geologically-inclined cocktail party: hoodoo. This little gem is the name given to those skinny tower-like spires found in dry canyons. The skinny rock underneath is capped by a harder layer of stone that protects the soft layer underneath (much like a Twix bar). They can be inches tall or rise more than 100 feet. And the red canyon in Ankarafantsika National Park, Madagascar is chocked full of them.

And you thought red wine was tough to get out? These tiny red towers are actually white. But thanks to the iron-rich capstone and our atmosphere's abundant oxygen, the rainwater from above drips red and stains the pristine white monoliths underneath.

The canyon is small but stunning. Much like Selma Hayek.

Run Hoodoos! Run!. Cindy likes to imagine a small Smurf-like civilization, called the Hoodoos, living amongst the red-stained rocks. She also likes to pose large dead beetles besieging the presumably peace-loving Hoodoos.

Looking up Ankarafantsika's canyon. (That sounds dirtier than I thought.)

Thank periodic floods of iron-rich sediment for the lovely red and white layer cake appearance.

Even minus the red the canyon still stuns.

Lost in Translation: Ampefy

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 21:34:00 +0000

Ampefy is a small typical borough on the banks of Itasy Lake. For those who prefer relax, resting, fresh air, far from the crowded beaches, discover this small haven of peace nested in the area of Itasy and which offers many treasures of curious forms.

All of the italicized text is taken verbatim from the Malagasy travel webpage www.travel2mada.com/cities/ampefy.xhtml. The informative and unintentionally entertaining site showcases the gorgeous and intriguing volcanic region around the town of Ampefy. Highlighting these literary bumbles and fumbles is meant in good fun, especially considering I myself can translate English into Malagasy with all the grace and accuracy of a frozen fish stick:

The list of products which comes from this area is very long, namely tomatoes, tobaccos, apples, avocados, manioc… and garden products. In addition to these products, this zone essentially lives, in addition to tourism, of fishing; the Lake Itasy is full of fish.

After the waterfall and the Lake Itasy, the stay with Ampefy also makes it possible to enjoy the spectacle offered by the Analavory Geyser...It offers a gushing spectacle of many sources of a few high meters. With time, the effervescent water rich in minerals (suffers and silica) gave birth to reds and copper colors round form concretions.

The Geyser is a spouting spring in a hot water and vapor spray. The gushing is discontinued. The quantity of water propelled in only one eruption can be a few deciliters.

Before reaching the waterfall, the river crosses over rather desert volcanic landscape. In certain places, it crosses fields, often rice plantations, which are sometimes covered with light green grass or a field ransacked after a plough on standby for the rainfall.

The Lake Itasy is the third lake of the Great Island, from its surface which is 3.500 ha. Compared to the other lakes, its size is a major asset for pirogue ride. This lake has a very evocative name which literally means “basin”. [Sorry, I didn't have a photo of the lake nor a funny mistranslation about papaya trees.]

The lake gets its water from the Lily River with the beauty of its extraordinary waterfalls which achieved unanimity of all the tourists who already had the occasion to have a glance at it...While going forward, one meets very discrete peasants who are posting a broad smile and full with generosity. After few minutes’ walk, one starts to hear the buzz and the crumpling which becomes increasingly strong: it is the Lily waterfall. It pours its water from its 23m elevation which generates a large scum on water.

The cascade offers a splendid and very beautiful landscape. One can even take few minutes of small bath in mountain water which is fresh and very limpid.

Kid Portraits

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 21:06:00 +0000

Some Malagasy kid portraits from our recent trip to Mahajanga.

Back in a Bit

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 11:00:00 +0000

We will be out and about on a wee vacation for the rest of the week around Majunga. Even the dog will be tagging along, so there will be no one left at home to do the blogging. I'm sure there will be plenty to say and post in a 3 or 4 days though.

Until then, and apropos of nothing, here is a picture of a zebu neck-deep in a river and surrounded by drying laundry.

The Hottest Gallery in Town

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 17:05:00 +0000

There is very little geothermal or seismic activity (hot springs, earthquakes and such) in Madagascar. This is not a bad thing considering Lincoln Log homes have more structural integrity than the average Malagasy abode. But the little activity there is can be found around Ampefy. And most dramatically at the Analavory geyser.

Not final act of Hamlet dramatic. More like final act of a 2nd grade production of Goldie Locks dramatic. Dramatic nonetheless. It is not a large geyser (imagine Old Faithful with embarrassing prostate issues). But there are only about 1,000 active geysers in the world and Yellowstone hogs about half of them, so any geyser is a fine and rare thing.

And despite its paltry size, the Analavory geyser is beautiful. The hottest gallery in town you might say (especially if you are a dweeb like me). So forget the MOMA and the Louvre. Come to a geyser. It's just like Rembrandt said, "Dissolved minerals and thermophilic lifeforms make a fine medium."

Cindiana Jones and the Jasminum of Doom

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 21:05:00 +0000

Live the adventure...botany.

Well, it sure beats a coffee mug. As Dr. Cindy prepares to shift from plants to fuzzy lemurs, she received a wonderful parting gift from the Missouri Botanical Garden: her very own adventure movie poster.

MBG's amazing moss specialist/artist, Roger, whipped up this sketch from a photo taken of Cindy during some field work last year. She is seen in full botanical/viva-la-revolution gear while holding a new species of Jasminum in her left hand and a tricky species of Dracaena in her right.

(What cannot be seen is the 6-foot boa encircling her left leg and the drowning blind child clutching her right leg as she pulls her to safety.)

Cindy in her Castro chapeau posing with the talented artist himself, Roger.

Rent or Drug Deal?

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 20:23:00 +0000

Has Cindy taken up a side job and converted our kitchen into a meth lab? Unlikely. Her cooking generally only involves brownies or pancakes. This is actually our rent for the month. The largest bill in Malagasy ariary is worth about 5 US dollars, so it can take a pile or two to pay for lodging.

It is always alarming when we travel to France and visit the cash machine to make a withdrawal. We take out 100 euros and stand aghast when only 5 bills pop out. We feel robbed, cheated, shafted; we blame the French (then again Cindy does that for everything). In Madagascar it is extremely rare that a cash machine will even allow you take out 100 euro's worth of ariary and when it does you need a mid-sized armored briefcase or a pair of steel-belted MC Hammer pants to get it home.

Peas and Rainbows

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 16:50:00 +0000

Spring has sprung here in Madagascar. Well, not so much spring as the rainy season, but I don't know any alliterative rainy season cliches, so I'll just stick with spring.

The nights are warming up. The humidity and mosquitoes are coming back. And fresh peas are in the market. Delicious peas. Homegrown. Sweet. Real pea peas (that sounds different than I expected). And cheap to boot. I bought about 3 cups of fresh rainy season goodness for a whopping 58 cents. Try getting that deal down at the Whole Grain Uppity Mart?

And on the motorcycle ride back from the market today, there was another nice treat; the first rainbow of the rainy season. A fine day indeed.

There's a New Blog in Town

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 06:55:00 +0000

The town being Ambohidratrimo, Madagascar and the blog being www.akany-avoko.blogspot.com. The blog is the first step in updating the web presence of the Akany Avoko children's home in Ambohidratrimo where I volunteer. Since many of the readers of our blog have graciously contributed to the children's home, this new blog will allow you to see and learn more about where your hard-earned cash goes.

This Old Hut: Tools Not Even Norm Abram Has in His Workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 20:48:00 +0000

A two-man lathe. One for turning and one for...well, turning. The metal bits are all recycled car parts etc. The wood is rough-hewn scraps and the belt is made of woven uncured cowhide. It works like a dream though. Roughly speaking, one turn per second on the big wheel turns the wood blank at about 1500 rpm.

A hand-powered homemade jigsaw. It cut through hardwood like butter (this being Madagascar, perhaps I should say rancid butter). The best part was the blade. It did not come from a 5-pack down at the Home Depot. The man made the blade himself out of the metal band that runs along the bead of a car tire. Bring that up next time some uppity Prius-drivin' neighbor won't shut about being "green".

The hand-powered drill was not anything special, but the drill bit sure was. It was made out of a nail. The head was cut off and the point was flattened and filed into a lovely spade bit sharp enough to eat right through a tough bit of dense rosewood.

You won't find Stanley chisels on the work benches; you might however find some Stavleys (by far my favorite knockoff brand I've found so far). The chisels are mostly homemade. Check out the old metal file in the foreground. Just because the file teeth are worn smooth as glass, does not mean the file's days are done. No. Just remove the handle, flip it around and sharpen into a fine new chisel.

All those homemade chisels will need sharpening. And here is the right rock for the job. A fine blue sandstone or possibly shale that is brought in from 20 miles outside of Ambositra, the woodworking capital of Madagascar where all these photos were taken. Every shop used the same type of stone and I even ordered a large one for myself for a whole $2.

And what is the preferred Malagasy wood finish? Polyurethane? No. Danish oil? No. Shoe polish? You bet.

Malagasy Recipe Card #4: Ranonapango

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0000

A nice piping hot glass of burnt rice goodness, ranonapango. This is a darker brew than some, but not uncommon.

Prep Time: 2 minutes

Cooking Time: 15-20 minutes

Serving Size: 4-8 cups depending on how strong you like it and how adventurous your guests are

Ingredients:

1 1/2 c. rice, pink preferred but any variety will do
2 2/3 c. water, pink preferred...sorry that was for the rice
4-8 c. more water

Ranonapongo is normally made with Madagascar's very own pink rice. Use any rice of your choosing. But if you are a stickler for authenticity head for your local high-priced organic mart and look for South Carolina Gold. That there variety of rice came all the way from Madagascar 300 years ago, so it did.

Preparation:
Combine rice and water in pot. Over medium high heat, bring to a low boil. Reduce heat, cover and allow to simmer over low heat until rice is tender. Do not stir (the rice that is, you are more than welcome to mill about or check out the 6:00 o'clock news).

Remove from pot being careful not to remove the bottom inch of rice. Consume the removed rice in any manner you see fit; I'm not your mother. Return the pot with the remaining rice to the low heat. Fight all instincts to stir, scrape and/or clean the pot as the layer of rice slowly goes from light brown to dead black scorched. For a light brew, remove from heat when a pleasant toasted aroma reaches your nose. For a dark brew, keep over heat until opening a window and silencing the fire alarm become necessary.

Add the remaining water and return to heat. Bring to boil feeling free to stir for a change. Remove from heat, strain and serve hot. You are welcome to add more boiling water to adjust the strength of the final brew. Don't go adding sugar, honey or milk though. No one in Madagascar does.

It may be a pain to clean, but you can't make ranonapango without the apongo (see notes below).

Notes:
Ranonapango is, like many things, an acquired taste. When I first arrived, I compared the taste of even good ranonapango to dishwater. Which was not just a handy metaphor. It really did taste like water used to wash dishes. However, I now enjoy a warm cup after a meal. My wife even goes in for the dark brew. So, if you don't care for it the first time, give it one more try. After that, I don't really care what you do. Life's too short to waste on insipid warm brown beverages.

What's in a word? Well, in ranonapango two things. Rano means water. Apango means the the layer of burnt rice at the bottom of the pot. Cooking rice in large heavy vessels over fires means that apango is no accident. It is tough to make rice in such a manner without making apango too. That's one of the reasons people make ranonapango; it helps clean the pot of the stuck-on apango. The boiling usually lifts and loosens the layer, so it can be easily removed...and eaten. It's quite a treat to some. Not to us mind you, but to each his own. And the water used to do the loosening, water that may have very well been scooped out of a rice paddy, is now safe to drink too. A clever little beverage, no?

The Malagasy are not the only bunch of rice-eaters to turn into rice-drinkers too. Koreans have their own version of scorched rice tea (actually a tisane if you want to be a culinary geek since it is not made with tea leaves). They have been drinking sungnyung for nearly a thousand years. The Japanese prefer to toast uncooked rice and brew it with green tea in their version called genmaicha.

If you want a faster way to make a drink then first making a big batch of rice, simply keep some pre-toasted rice on hand. Toast over high heat in a dry pan. Shake it around until brown and nutty. Put a spoonful in a mug, pour in some boiling water and you have yourself a quick cup of ranonapango.

While doing some research for this recipe, I found many misconceptions and outright fibs (just when I thought I could trust the internet again). For instance, the International Year of Rice website reports that "Ranonapango...is reserved for special occasions." That is about as truthful as saying the French reserve red wine and adultery for special occasions. A pitcher comes complimentary with meals at almost all Malagasy hotelys (small local restaurants).

In the Madagascar section of the The African Cookbook, Bea Sadler writes:

Malagache cooks double the quantity of rice they require for the meal. When it is cooked, they remove most of the rice from the earthenware pan. The remainder (a layer about 1/2-inch thick) is heated until it is burned and acquires a characteristic aroma. At that point boiling water is poured over the rice to the top of the pan. It is cooled, strained, and chilled. This beverage is used in place of water on the island.

I'll begin with cooks doubling the rice. They do indeed eat a lot of rice, but poor malnourished farmers are not tossing in a few extra cups of rice at every meal. They don't have it. Hence the poor and malnourished.

Earthenware pans do sound quite rustic, but the reality is many people, even out in the bush, have metal pots.

"Boiling water is poured over the rice..." Quite unlikely since 90% of the country cooks over wood or charcoal fires. Wood takes time to gather. Charcoal costs money or even more time. People are not cooking over 6-burner stainless steel Wolf ranges. One fire is expensive enough, so there would not be water boiling on a separate fire. Cooks just pour cool water over the scorched rice.

As for the cooling, straining and chilling: no one cools it, some strain it, most could not chill even if they wanted to. It is a warm drink that comes after the meal, not during, and when it does come it usually has rice grains in it. Fridges in Madagascar aren't unheard of, but they are only found near cities (electricity) and in the homes of the middle to upper-crust. This is not Gilligan's Island; there are not coconut-powered iceboxes in the middle of the rainforest.

I will agree with the point that it is used in place of water. In the developing world, a staple drink that has to be boiled first is generally a good thing.

Click here to read other Malagasy Recipe Cards

Our 200th Post

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 19:43:00 +0000

This is precisely why I'm not allowed back on the International Olympic Committee. Gary graciously donated and sent us a box full of first-class hammers all the way from the States and I skipped construction and opted instead to form Madagascar's first synchronized hammer team.

We would like to dedicate this our 200th post to a man who's care packages have made our stay in Madagascar much more tolerable.

A man who insured that 9,000 km and several oceans did not come between Cindy and her Thin Mints (not a good place to be).

A man who, customs be damned, risked it all and sent the good stuff (by good stuff we mean extra crunchy peanut butter).

A man who recorded the 2009 Super Bowl and sent it half the world around for us to watch. (Sure, I made a bunch of party snacks and hunkered down for the big game only to discover the second half didn't play, but it's the thought that counts.)

A man named Gary who deserves much more thanks than the following limerick we have composed in his honor, but that's what he's getting...

There once was a man from Shamong,
Who helped ship all the stuff we should've brung:
Endless Girl Scout cookies
And much needed bookies,
He must buy his stamps by the ton.

Or, this alternate/dance re-mix version...

There once was a man from Shamong,
Who helped ship all the stuff we should've brung:
Endless Girl Scout cookies
And much needed bookies,

That made us both happy as Propeamussium lucidum.

(Yes, that is a species of clam.)

How to Tell You Have Been Living in Africa Too Long

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 20:49:00 +0000

Cindy enjoying a nice cup of cafe au lait and seeing if the Bradt guide mentions anything about Madagascar's rate of Hantavirus.

Last Friday, out for a country wander on the motorcycle, I was not surprised at a man waving me down asking for a ride to the next village. Not surprised despite the fact that riding behind me and my backpack was Cindy and her bag. Or that riding behind her was a large grey plastic box with our happy dog inside. Two people, two bags, one box and one dog do not make a "full" motorcycle in Africa. Families of five do not need 5-star safety-rated mini-vans; they have 125cc knock-off Yamahas instead.

About the only thing that surprises us anymore is the fact that we are not surprised by things would have once been strange at best and alarming at worst.

Take a recent coffee and pastry break at a local cafe called Sweety Home. While reading the remainder of this wee anecdote, remember that this is our favorite restaurant in the city. A beloved haunt with a marvelous view of the royal Rova ahead and Tana's surrounding hills to the left. Workers wade the rich green watercress fields in the valley below.

All marvelous distractions when the coffee arrived last Saturday. We had ordered two cafe au laits and soon (African soon meaning 15 minutes) two saucers, two cups of coffee, two small carafes of warm milk and one steel bowl of sugar arrived at the table.

The coffee itself was tepid and weak. Two things which actually place it rather high on the coffee scale here. The milk was warm as well and kept that way by a protective blanket of curdled milk skin floating on top. Nothing strange there either.

What's a cup of cafe au lait without some skin milk...er, skim milk?

The sugar is bowl is where one should have been alarmed. I was nose deep in a three-inch thick tome about the construction of the Panama canal as Cindy calmly prepared her drink. She did so without note and took a few sips, the sun warming her face, the small cup warming her hands, before gently interrupting my reading to inform me that there was mouse sh** in the sugar bowl.

I then, in a likewise calm manner, lifted the hinged lid and confirmed that indeed there were several small black droppings in the sugar bowl. This was followed by a careful spooning around said sh**. A dash of clumpy milk, some gentle stirring and soon we were both taking in the wonderful view and sipping our soothing drinks.

Unfortunately, that dark spot is not some misplaced black pepper in the sugar bowl; it's actually one of several mouse droppings. Upon later photographic review, small discolored clumped bits that may or may not be wee wee also appeared, but my wife and I are both choosing to just ignore that little revelation.

In a few minutes, we did discuss if we should mention the matter of fecal contamination to the waitress. When next she checked in, we informed her of the "problem". She responded with a slight eye-roll and a small disbelieving huff but did relent to replacing our sugar. We did not need anymore, but the gesture was still appreciated.

So, will we be returning to Sweety Home anytime soon? Certainly. We even swung by the next day. I mean if God and the severe shortage of decent resteraunts with a view teach us anything it is to forgive. Frankly, if ever asked to write a short guidebook review, I may word it something like this:

Decent food. Good prices. Delicious pastries. And a view so fine, you won't even mind the occasional sugar bowl bestrewn with mammal excreta.

If you happen to be in the south-east African area anytime soon, stop on by for a tasty pastry and a coffee. You may just wish to pack some Sweet 'N Low.

Now isn't that a view worth risking a little black plague? This is the Rova as seen at night from Sweety Home's lovely terrace.

Barnes and Ignoble: Buying Books in Madagascar

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 21:57:00 +0000

Good English books in Madagascar are about as hard to come by as democratically-elected presidents. There is exactly one Barnes and Noble for every Starbucks in the country, which is to say none. There are some book stores around in Tana, but I could count their English language offerings on one hand. There is even a brand new library at the likewise new American Embassy, but it is only open business hours and it is not a lending library.

This is where equally-literature-starved friends come in handy. Good books get passed around from friend to friend with the ease and excitement of Dengue fever. An example being a non-fiction favorite I brought with me simply titled Salt by Marc Kurlansky. I have read it more times than my wife finds rational, but I did finally relent and pass it on to some dear Australian friends.

They in turn passed it along to a mutual and fellow non-fiction-reading American friend. He then lent it to another Australian (who shall remain nameless for various shady, albeit colorful, reasons) who loved it so much he photocopied the entire book before sadly parting with it.

We have however found a lovely little book connection that does not involve not-so-subtle hints to friends that they should let you read that book when they are done with it. A new bookstore? No. The Madagascar National Library? No. The veterinary clinic? Yes.

Not the outdated issues of the South African edition of O magazine that litter the waiting room. Though, as a sign of how desperate things are, I must admit to a small tinge of excitement the first time we took the dog for a check-up. No, the vet clinic has more to offer the literate client than just Lady O's latest self-healing tips; they sell used books. English books. Hundreds of them. Ok, maybe a hundred twenty-seven tops, but still thats a veritable Amazon on an ex-French colonial island in Africa.

The books are all donated by generous souls helping to keep the vet clinic afloat, so it is a not always the greatest selection. Some careful panning will always show some gold, but our most recent trip suggested the claim might just about be bust. I am not sure who the most recent book benefactors were, but by the title of the above book, A Man Like Morgan Kane, I'm betting they did not read a lot of Phillip Roth.

C'est la vie. To each her own. And frankly, say what you will, but Morgan Kane does turn out to be one heck of a man. What? Should I learn French and buy some of the thousands of titles available in the local bookstores? I'm desperate, but not that desperate.

And here I thought it was the wind.

Nothing says "Real Country" more than a man and his six-string guitar...and his flute playin' 80's lady.

"36 hours that changed everything." Delivery or conception, either one is rather impressive.

Did anyone else realize that Pee Wee Herman was John Lennon's son?

Don't think for a minute I haven't taken to wearing flower prints and insisting everyone now call me "The Rogue."

A bit behind? Perhaps. But this may explain why many people here were surprised in the recent election when Obama defeated Nixon.

I know I dressed like that at some point. Dear god, I know.

And by the looks going on at the bottom of the page, it appears the sequel might be entitled, An Incestuous Sister for Johnny. (Was that wrong? Maybe just a little.)

Lunching at the Club

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 10:06:00 +0000

Our time in Madagascar can't all be about saving plants and needy children, so that is why last Saturday found the LeFraizbos not at the herbarium or the children's home but rather lunching at the Club.

The Club being the Golf du Rova 20 km or so north of Antananarivo. It is the jewel in the crown of Malagasy golf courses. Granted, that crown is a rather small one, there being only four courses on the world's fourth largest island.

What's on the menu at the Club? The local smooth brew, Three Horses Beer, crispy French fries and the tasty treat that tastes back, beef tongue in a spicy sauce.

The clubhouse is indeed a true clubhouse complete with bar, dance floor, pool and older Frenchmen and their inappropriately-aged Malagasy wives.

Lest anyone think we have completely gone off the deep and extravogantly-wealthy end, we attend the club as guests not members. Well, technically not guests so much as interlopers. We do not actually know any members, but no one seems to care. Plus, as they say, nothing tastes as sweet as forbidden tongue. Fruit...tongue...something like that.

Our money being as good as any skeevy Frenchmen's there really isn't any chance of us having our ears twisted and escorted off the property. Of course there is always my pants.

Presentation is everything. Nothing tops off a bit of tongue like a spot of...chocolate mousse?

The club is only minutes away from the children's home, so a few of us will occasionally duck away from the destitute kiddies and treat ourselves to a nice lunch. (You try eating overcooked Malagasy rice for two years and see if you'd be any better). But back to the pants. Sneaking out means I have to wear my work wardrobe which includes pants that now contain as much wood glue as cotton. Washing seems to do little good. At this point, I believe them to be so befouled with oil, dust and adhesive as to repel crossbow bolts let alone soapy water.

To prevent being tossed out, or worse, having to don a pair of club-appoved plaid golf pants, I always make it a point to be seated quickly and remain so until the bill is payed (a draped table cloth being a great equalizer).

Regardless of perilous pants, the food is always more than passable, the service generally good, there is rare outside seating with a view and the people watching is marvelous. The Golf de Rova clubhouse may not be a recommended eatery in any guidebook, but I for one, and my pants for another, will continue to sneak in for a fine meal when the rice just gets to be too much.

And just for the record, it took a fair amount of restraint to not entitle this post, "Maddy Shack."

The Cat in the Inappropriate Hat: a Few Words on Malagasy Children's Books

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 16:00:00 +0000

God is love. Judith however...

We have spent the last several months trying to upgrade the library at the children's home. This meant paying a couple of trilingual friends to translate the French and English books that some of you lovely folks have gathered and shipped over.

But we also scoured the local Tana bookshops for the homegrown stuff. It turns out the homegrown stuff, despite being mostly Bible-based, is a bit disturbing. I could describe some of the real jewels, but I prefer to let Judith and her swift blade of justice (see above) do the talking.

For those of you who aren't up on your Deuteroncanonical texts (and don't think for a second we don't know who you are), Judith was the Hebrew widow who seduced Nebuchadenezzar's general, Holofernes, then snuck into his tent and deftly removed the drunken general's head from his sleeping body.

It may at first seem an inappropriate subject for wee ones, but, if we let ourselves be honest, learning the consequences for allowing one's army to lay siege to a devout Middle Eastern city is a much more timely moral than any to be found in The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Abraham, another in the Raise a Shiv for the Lord series.

Kinga sy Bota, probably the most popular non-Biblical children's book series, has its moments too. This is the opening page of book 6, Marary i Zo!, or in English, Zo is in Pain! (In its defense, Goodnight Moon was already taken.)

Malagasy: Avy nodidim-poitra i Zo. Fa maninona no mangovitra ianao, ry Kinga?
English: Zo has been circumcised. Why are you shaking, Kinga?

Why indeed?

Photo Junk Drawer: The Final and Slightly Inappropriate French Addition

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 14:41:00 +0000

Well, that would explain the 3-foot long blond hair we found in the appetizer.

Some people may choose to immediately consult a specialist. Others, like the c'est la vie French, just have a public festival.

A Foreign Legion hat, two pair of sequined short shorts and some gas masks. All I can say is our second anniversary is surely going to be one to remember.

Nothing terribly funny or inappropriate. I just like the pic and had no where else to put it.

In France, they are known as vis-a-vis neighbors. The people who live in the opposite apartments, not necessarily those who chain smoke in nothing but their skivvies.

My French is a bit rusty, so this may or may not be a good thing and may or may not be a bargain.

After the whole Jerry Lewis thing, I guess it should come as no surprise the French also love Roger Ebert.

Or for those of a more inappropriate persuasion...

I'm not sure who the buried colossus is, but if that's his thumb, it certainly would explain the Eiffel Tower.

I'll take a Tale of Two Cities terrine and a big steaming bowl of Dickens.

All fine and good, but at €49.95 a week plus a €10 registration fee, I'm sticking with Zapping.

A Post About Fence Posts

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 18:40:00 +0000

Normandy has nice fences. Here are some. Not much else to say really.

Chalk One up for the Coccolithophores

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 14:28:00 +0000

Someone should really send a thank you card to the coccolithophores. No, not Earl and Mabel Coccolithophore with the nice little Cap Cod over on Elm St. The algae coccolithophores from the Upper Cretaceous period. Though a nice note to Mabel wouldn't hurt either; word has she makes a mean peach crumble.

Sadly, algae coccolithophores, being single-celled and having little to no formal culinary training, make a terrible crumble, peach or otherwise. However, they do make marvelous cliffs. The white cliffs of Dover being their most famous creation. England is not the only place their handy work is evident though. France, in a fit of geologically keeping up with the Jones, also has white cliffs.

The view from the cliffs above Etretat, France. Note the curve of the Earth.

La Côte d'Albâtre, the Alabaster Coast, runs for 80 vertiginous miles along the shores of Normandy and is every bit as white and lovely as its counterpart across the Channel. And both are indebted to the industrious coccolithophores.

So, how did these thumb-less green algae go about constructing such marvels? The noble way; they died for it. And by the billions.

The windswept grasses at cliff's edge make a wonderful place for a nap or, in this case, voyeurism.

Alive, the coccolithophores spent their days near the ocean's surface at the whim of the currents converting sunlight into food and watching their favorite daytime soaps (As the Cretaceous World Turns couldn't hold a candle to the drama of Jurassic Hospital). Dead, they sunk to the ocean floor and shed their intricate microscopic shells of calcium carbonate.

Big sky overhead; billions of dead algae underfoot. Cindy and her mother strolling along the coast near Etretat, France.

A few billion more followed suit and soon time and pressure did their geologic voodoo and turned the seafloor cemetery into a thick layer of soft sedimentary limestone which fanned out over northwestern Europe called the Chalk Group. To geology dweebs, it is simply known as The Chalk.

Rock geek or tourist, when next you are cliffside on either side of the channel, doff your beret to those billions of calcified and courageous coccolithophores being trod underfoot. Single-celled they may be, but it is a selfless cell.

Merci, Cocco.

Cross in foreground. A large elephant dipping its trunk down for a drink in the background. At least that is what some think. I don't really get it. Elephants or not, Monet and others found the cliffs quite remarkable subjects for their works over the years.

The cliffs are only the visible chalk deposits. Take the train through the Chunnel, and you will be traveling right through a layer of chalk. It does make for easier digging.

The English Channel, or as the French call it The Sleeve, is not exactly swimmer friendly, but boats have a fine time.

Second place is nothing to sneeze at. Especially when it is Cindy's mother, Pat, competing at the 17th annual Greater Normandy Coast Plover Impersonation Contest.

The bone white cliffs are streaked with rusted flint inclusions.

And that flint comes in quite handy in Norman construction. Everything from outhouses and water towers to chateaux and barns are made of brick and flint.

Links:
Wonderful travel article from France Today

Photo Junk Drawer: Statues of France Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Chad Lebo) — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 08:18:00 +0000

With a cautious eye towards those occasionally pesky Germans, the French Defense Department forsook conventional weapons and instead recently chose to summon from the underworld Pointilus, the Great Unicorn of Destruction.

"And lo did the angel Gabriel appear to them and say, 'Heyyyyyyy!'"

Oft' reduced to second fiddles, but intimidating nonetheless, the Four Turtles of the Apocalypse.

This little free spirit was apparently strung up as an example to any statues considering the "pantless" look.

Much sought after following his success with the whole Lord of the Rings thing, Gimli the dwarf finished his career as personal assistant and bodyguard to Charlemagne.

Dysculus, Philosopher, artist, and, much later in life, dirty limerick-smith, is here depicted in the midst of his greatest creation, the chicken or egg conundrum.

Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, father of the first cohesive evolutionary theory, pondering how best to remove pigeons from the great web of life.

Go to "Photo Junk Drawer: Statues of France Part 1"