If it's not Scottish it's Crap

Technical difficulties prevented me from posting until now.  Sorry for the delay.  I'm sure all five of you who read this were deeply upset.  

After ten days in Ireland we boarded the outrageously early (but cheap!) flight to Edinburgh, Scotland.  I find myself wanting to draw stereotypical comparisons between Ireland and Scotland, but that would indeed be stereotypical and pretty inaccurate.  Even my untrained ear can tell the difference between an Irish and Scottish accent; sexy versus very sexy.  One blaring difference is the liberal use of the kilt here.  Amen.  If I can be honest here, if nowhere else, man legs in a plaid skirt is all right by me.  Now if I could have only had a good look up one of them.  

The two countries are very similar in that it is cold as balls.  At one point while traipsing around Edinburgh it actually snowed.  Yes, May is early summer for them too.  All the nice kilt baring lads assured us this usually never happens, but the point is lost on us after spending five months in the tropics.  Anything below 70 degrees is arctic conditions for us.  I only just got used to the sensation of sweating through my underwear everyday from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm.  My months of diligent work on a golden brown tan has been quickly thwarted as well.  The healthy looking bronze color is rapidly being coated with the sexy, chalky film of ash.  How I will ever readapt to the states is a mystery.

So with the weather forecast being rain with the chance of torrential rain, I picked up my metaphorical kilt, grabbed my balls (less metaphorical) and braved the walking tour of Edinburgh.  It was also free and at this point in our trip and in the land of the Great Brittan Pound, I am not going to turn up the chance at a free anything.  Scotland is bursting with history, from the enlightenment period architecture to the events that led to their absorption into the United Kingdom to their most significant achievement since Mike Myers portrayal of the slovenly Scottish villain, Fat Bastard, in the Austin Powers movies.  That's right fellow dorks, Edinburgh is the birthplace of Harry Potter (as if you didn't know that already though).

Before the international phenomena that is Harry Potter when J.K. Rowling was too poor to heat her own apartment, she would spend her days at the local fire-warmed coffee shop, Elephant House Cafe.  This is where she wrote the first two books of what was to become the fanatically followed Harry Potter series.  The cafe proved to be an amazing point of interest on the tour.  What better way to pay homage to the books I love then by getting a warm cappuccino (also the perfect place to ditch the walking tour that continued to slosh through the downpour for three hours).  I will proudly (somewhat ashamedly) admit that I have read all seven books at least a few times.  I resisted the seeming fad for a long time and if you are still bad mouthing and boycotting them to maintain your "I'm too hip to lower myself to read a mass-consumed children's book" facade, well just get over yourself already and drink the Kool Aid.  Plus, no matter your reading level it will make you feel like a genius when you rip through a 500 page book in a day and a half.  Then you'll also know what the hell I'm talking about when I say I also saw the mid-evil looking castle-like school that J.K. Rowling based Hogwarts on.  Suck it!

In addition to living out the Harry Potter dream, I did actually learn a few educational tid-bits about Edinburgh.  Things such as how several churches are shutting down due to declining attendance and how to properly drink scotch whiskey (which, in my opinion, may have contributed to the reduced interest in the sacramental wine).  After working out one evening, Kelly and I stopped by a pub for "dinner".  We ended up getting sucked in for hours after learning they were holding trivia night followed by a little karaoke. I should lie and say we placed first in trivia, but we in fact shamed America and placed dead last.  What can I say, current events is a rough category when you just arrived in a foreign country and haven't read a newspaper in months.  Sweet redemption, however, came during the karaoke portion of the evening.  Kelly, in her workout spandex and running shoes, gave the best damn eight and a half minute rendition of Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love" to a crowd of confused Scots.  By minute three though she had the whole crowd enthralled.  So much so that the group of hot Scottish lesbians (one with adult braces) in the corner were heartbroken and begging her to stay when we left after her performance.  Kelly speaking the international language of gay; undying love songs and workout clothes.

 

Just writing a little message to Harry Potter/defacing the Elephant House Cafe

Kiss Me I'm Irish

After a solid week of bumming at Kelly's over generous family friend's house we took off for a few days to bum about with our other favorite hosts.  By some miracle we were able to meet up with the Joblins in Mallow, Ireland.  You might vaguely remember that the Joblins were the very first people we stayed with seven months ago when we began this adventure in Nelson, New Zealand.  Fate is terribly convenient sometimes.  

Maureen and Leigh are experts in the field of bovine artificial insemination.  Yep, elbow deep in cow sphincter all day.  And like any good snarky asshole, I made sure to make inappropriate comments at every chance I got.  For example, on the picturesque train ride to Mallow I saw a bull mounting a cow and I thought, "Hey, stop it, that's Maureen's job"!  So when Maureen got home from work carrying a ten-gallon bucket I jumped at the opportunity to sarcastically ask if she was shlepping around gallons of semen with her (my maturity level has sunk to new levels when I'm asking my friend's parents if they brought home a whole cattle ranch worth of bull jiz).  Well, it turned out to be a valid question after all as Maureen, with an air of satisfaction, retorted that it was undoubtedly a gigantic vessel of cow spunk.  Joblins: 1, Krista: 0.

The Joblins were very kind to entertain us (in addition to all of the semen jokes provided) by taking us to their local watering hole.  Also known as The Mouse Trap, it is an old Irish pub about the size and similarly decorated as my grandma's living room.  The patrons were fantastically warm and welcoming (well at least the parts of the conversation we picked up through their thick country accents) and we had ridiculously good time bumping gums with the locals.  We had the luck of dropping in on the same night as their weekly sing along.  Every Thursday the regulars get together to sing traditional Irish and other folk songs, each person taking turns starting and leading the group.  Even as the new kids we were not spared and were expected (forced) to participate fully.  I have no problems singing in a group (by group I mean a car full of my friends screeching along to Lady Gaga), but you will never (never = NEVER) see me get up to sing a solo.  Even drunk karaoke is out of the question and I've been to karaoke night roughly 6.5 million times.  All my friends can attest that, even with all of their peer pressuring, I have never taken the stage.  Luckily Kelly is great at this kind of thing.  She took the reigns and sang a gorgeous folk song that brought the house down.  Thank god I have friends that who pick up the slack for me since coattail riding is one of my specialties.  Despite the steady lager intake that evening, the Irish still caught onto my little game and were not going to let me slide so easily.  F word.  So now I'm nervous because I have to sing in front of a group of strangers and I'm doubly freaked out because I don't know a single Irish/folk/semi-appropriate song by heart.  Now if you wanted me to rap Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice" from memory, sure.  I somehow didn't think that would suffice in small-town Ireland.  In a panic I pulled out an oldie from 6th grade choir...The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.  Super Irish and folky, it's a wonder nobody joined in.  

Now if singing folk songs with the countrymen in an Irish pub doesn't sound cliché enough for you, we also managed to fit in the number one Ireland tourist activity.  No, not the Leprechaun Museum, though that seems to be disturbingly popular as well.  We shelled out the 12 Euro and went to the Blarney Castle to kiss the infamously filthy Blarney Stone.  250,000 people a year visit the Blarney Stone to spit, pee, place their lips upon and god knows what else to that unimpressive rock.  Even the guidebook, the bible of stupid tourist activities, suggested foregoing the geological make out session.  Lonely Planet endorses the seediest of night clubs, but deems the Blarney Stone unsanitary.  Perhaps the suggestion to abstain should have been taken seriously, but I paid 12 god damn Euro so I crossed my fingers and puckered up.  Kissing the festering brick is supposed to give you the gift of gab.  The more immediate effect, however, was the overwhelming urge to scour all of the skin off my lips.  At least I can say I did it.  Which will make the cold sores worth it?  

One of the dirtiest things I've put my mouth on...and that is probably saying something

I'll give you one guess

Singing in the Rain

We finally made it to the land of civilization.  Yes, Ireland.  I think that's what most people call it at least.  Poor Ireland has it rough right now; it's May and feels like winter, the economy is in the shitter, unemployment is at an all time high and booze has become so expensive that the legendary Irish pub culture is dying.  So for me it's been the happiest place on earth.  I've had a permanent grin on my face and an irresistible urge to jig since landing here for many reasons which include, but are not limited to, the following:

1.  English!
     1 a.  English with an Irish accent (hubba hubba)
2.  The stereotypes are false, the Irish are WAY friendlier than that
3.  No one has attempted to squeeze my arms...yet
4.  Whiskey 
5.  Puppies!

Well, the family we are staying with happens to have a new puppy at least.  This really compliments my new lifestyle of spending rainy days inside, reading all day and drinking endless cups of coffee while snuggling with a puppy.  Our timing for descending on the unsuspecting family couldn't have been better, just in time for the cute puppy months without the obligation of potty training them.  We are staying with Kelly's family friends who coincidentally are the nicest people in the entire world.  And I'm not just saying that because I'm fresh off the boat from third world Madagascar.  Though the fact that they have hot showers may be part of the reason that we are now lifetime friends.

Actually, most of the people we've encountered in Ireland are extremely friendly and more helpful than a room full of crossing guards.  The buses being one of the best parts of this city.  The drivers will sit there for five minutes discussing the best way to get downtown and then suggest a couple of places to get lunch, the cheapest haircut and your taxes done.  The other passengers don't even seem to mind that the driver has held up the bus and sometimes even step in to make additional recommendations and then to invite you over for dinner later.  In addition, the male bus patrons jump at the opportunity to give up their seat to anyone over the age of 15 and I haven't seen a single chicken attempting to take public transportation yet.

Only once have I even come close to being offended since being here.  After a night at the pubs, a young gentleman told me that I dressed like a hobo (his words, not mine).  First off, I am a hobo and do, in fact, dress the part.  This is what happens when you are living out of a backpack for a year and haven't been able to do laundry in over a month.  Secondly, he somehow still made it sound like a quasi-compliment (I will admit here that I am a shameless sucker for an Irish accent, but even then the insult was delivered with such a kind smile that you would have never considered the comment hostile).  Thirdly, he was drunk and clearly couldn't see just how well I was pulling off that smelly pair of leggings and sweat stained tank top.  Plus, once I explained to him that I was indeed a hobo and had only just arrived after spending the last five weeks in Africa, he conceded that I was at least a pretty hobo and then offered to show us around the city this week.  God bless the Irish.

 

Au Revoir Madagascar, You Fickle Friend

We leave Madagascar tomorrow.  I'm ready.  This will be the first (and hopefully only) time that I will admit to a bout of homesickness on this trip.  This was one of the more rewarding countries to visit, but it was down right hard to get used to.  I suppose that's what "they" say though.  I do find it interesting that in the end I actually did acclimate to some of the bizarre shit that happens here.  You want me to pay you to ride in that heap of rusting scrap metal that hasn't passed emissions since 1945 with 30 other people (and their chickens) who are going to stare and laugh at me for the next 12 hours?  Sure!  The following should summarize some of the things I never thought I'd get used to in this country but somehow it all now feels like par for the course:

Public Transportation - As I've eluded to over the past couple weeks, public transportation is one bearded lady away from a roving circus.  When we do get the luxury of taking a cab in the big city, we are flabbergasted when the doors have handles and the car doesn't have to be hot-wired to start (an actual key must be a symbol of prosperity here).  Only the big cities, however, have actual taxis.  Otherwise the primary mode of intercity travel is by pousse-pousse (oh, it's pronounced just as you imagined) and often abbreviated as poussey (again, just how you imagined).  So when you walk down the street and men are yelling "poussey" at every corner it is not a come on, though this was initially confusing since prostitution is not a lost art in Madagascar.  The name pousse-pousse is not even the most awkward thing about them.  They are a simple wooden carriage that would be reminiscent of a horse-drawn cart of yore, the only difference being that they are pulled by a running human being.  A barefoot running human being.  As if I wasn't already in awe of the Malagasy standard of fitness, the men (ranging in age from prepubescents to grandfathers) run these pousseys around all day long for kilometers at a time.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, makes you feel more slovenly than another human being pulling your fat ass around.  Where the hell I'm a going that I couldn't possibly walk there (with proper footwear mind you) and I would need to opt for someone to pull me instead?  Ok, I did it but it felt awful, which makes it better, right?  

Celebrity - The biggest challenge was getting used to my new profession as a circus freak.  The laughing, the pointing, the hollering, the solicitations from the men, women and children was overwhelming at first.  It was rarely aggressive, but it was constant and exhausting.  Oddly enough it wasn't just our skin color that was causing all the attention (though that is the blaring beacon that draws the initial curiosity).  It turns out that the men love my big arms (only a close second to my big ass).  Without asking they would stroke and squeeze my biceps (thank god they did not take that approach with my ass).  One guy at our bus station pointed to a poster of Avril Lavine (who's posters are plastered all over here along with the equally popular posters of Jesus) then pointed to his flexed arms and then to me as if saying, "Hey, you look like Avril but with big arms!".  Then he gave me a thumbs up and an approving nod.  They really know how to sweet talk a lady here.  What can I say, my arms are a crowd pleaser.  I'm thinking of taking them on tour next fall.  While I no longer feel acute anxiety about walking down the street, the sense of anonymity is the biggest reason I'm looking forward to Europe (that in addition to the ease of travel, less language barriers and the availability of toilet paper).  I have considered, however, that I might have developed a complex after all these months of fame.  What will I do in Europe when I am not hit on by every single man, simply blending into the sea of white people?  I have already gotten used to a life of people taking unauthorized cell phone pictures of me, people "accidentally" bumping into me just to touch my skin and daily marriage proposals.  I'm not sure I can go back to the attention void the life of a commoner.  

Zebu - Lacking traditional cows, Zebu is the beef of Madagascar.  They are simply delicious, our cattle should start looking to the Zebu for tips on tenderness and flavor.  In addition to their tasty parts, they are down right hilarious.  They look like a prehistoric cow crossed with a camel.  They have huge horns and a hump of fat on their back that comically jiggles about when they walk.  This gelatinous back dance is even funnier when they run, which is an awkward gait at best.  The Madagascar landscape is plentiful in Zebu which makes it the most popular protein choice, especially because the chicken here all look like they have eating disorders.  Unfortunately I don't think you can get Zebu anywhere else, I guess I'll have to redefine my palate to include regular old beef once again.  

Mosquito Repellent - The bug spray addiction is actually a continuation from Bali and SE Asia.  I've been slathering my body in Deet, Citronella and other disgusting chemicals for over five months now.  I think we've far exceeded the recommended continuous usage.  Luckily we are finally leaving a malaria region before my skin has started peeling or blistering (one of the actual warnings on the cautionary label).  I will admit that the toxic sprays have actually started to smell pretty good these days, especially since being in a country where laundry and showers are at a premium.  Dare I say it even acts as a nice, well at least effective, deodorizing spray.  It might as well be the Axe Body-spray of Africa since you have to put it on immediately after exiting the shower lest your body be ravaged by the mosquitos.  I by no means have gotten used to the actual mosquitos though.  No matter how many months of dealing with bite covered flesh, those guys can still go fuck themselves.

Flys - The fly situation can only be described by referring you to the Sally Struthers commercials where they ask you to sponsor a child for only the cost of your daily cup of coffee.  You know the ones.  Flys relentlessly crawling all over everyones' faces and you wonder how the hell can people sit there without taking even one defensive swat.  I now know how.  Spend five weeks in Africa where the flys outnumber you by 7 billion to 1 and they will assuredly break you.  And break me they did.  Oh I tried to beat them away in the beginning, but they hardly took notice of my protests.  Slap one off your arm and, in return, five will land on your face.  It just becomes a waste of energy ofter awhile and that creepy, crawly tickling sensation eventually becomes bearable and then hardly noticeable and then one day you realize that the whole time you've been eating your breakfast 20 flys have been traversing the landscape of your flesh and with your new deflated sense of hygiene you just sigh and go back to eating your eggs with that glazed over look in your eyes.  One time back home I was watching a documentary on National Geographic where a group of field scientists were studying a rare species of sand snake, or something like that, in Africa.  During an interview with one of the scientists the flys were typically dense and kept landing on this poor guy's eyelids, nostrils and lips while he was talking into the camera.  It made me itch to watch it happen yet he barely batted an eye and all I could think was, holy shit that guy has gone native.  This all apparently meaning that I am officially Malagasy now.  Or not.  

Please don't get confused though, just because I've gotten used to some of this nonsense doesn't not mean that I'll even remotely miss it.  Ok, I'll miss the Zebu.  And the lemurs.  And the $0.05 cups of coffee.  And the delicious rice flour pastries.  And the hiking.  And the natural springs.  And the cheap transportation (Europe here we come!).  And the wildlife.  And maybe, just maybe the attention.

    

Kelly in a poussey

Making friends on public transportation - this is after this guy asked me for my banana, my shirt, my watch and my sunglasses