While I was in Madagascar, I had big plans for the final, retrospective series of posts that would end this blog. It was going to be an unabridged looking-back/evaluation of my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer from every angle. Since returning to America (note: I have returned to America), though, I've definitely lost the drive to write. In fact, I've lost the drive to read too. So here's the summary of the end-days.

Three weeks ago today, as I was washing dishes and listening to the radio, my friend came to my town with instructions to pick me up, throw my essential items into a bag, and head back to Fianar. The evacuation juggernaut was unavoidable and unstoppable, and we had orders to leave from the US Embassy. Interestingly, I had just told a student earlier that day that "I'm probably not going home, but if you show up one day and I'm gone, I'll get in touch with you somehow." Two hours later I saw him on the street as we were driving away, stuck my arm out the window and waved goodbye.

In Fianar I called some people to say goodbye, the PCVs had one final dinner together, and we took one last look through our communal house the next morning. I will legitimately miss that town and that house, if only for the incredible elation I felt every time I left my village and headed to the "big city." The next few days at the PC Training Center were even more boozy than the last time, rumors more pervasive and generally incorrect regarding choices we'd be making in the next week.

The night before my group left (the final 'wave' to leave) was the night that the military stormed one of the palaces (a 20 minute drive from where we were staying) and as we were boarding the plane President Ravalomanana resigned (March 17th). I made sure to mark my final steps on Madagascar's 'red earth' before walking up the stairs to the plane, and made similarly melodramatic mental notes when the plane left the ground and the last bit of land on the west coast that we flew over. Needless to say, when we landed in South Africa and told that the hotel we were staying at (with 100+ other volunteers) sported an Irish pub, well that makes for a fairly memorable St. Patrick's Day.

The next four days all PCVs had to go through a medical check-up, write a "description of service" cataloging everything they had accomplished as a volunteer, and figure out their life plans. Some of us left immediately (myself included), some went on vacation before going home, some transferred directly to a new country, and some people opted to go through the entire application process and find a new host country that way. "Reenlisting" to the Madagascar program was also an option but it's not 100% certain the program will ever re-open.

I flew out on the 21st to Paris and then Boston, bussed myself down to Providence, and so began readjustment. It isn't as weird as people have said. Mostly I just laugh to myself every so often when something triggers a memory, or I occasionally can only think of a Malagasy word/phrase and not the English expression. It's good to be back in the States, and I'm really excited to get back to school in the Fall. I'll either end up in D.C. or New York City, either option amazing.

So that's all for this blog. Thanks to all who encouraged me to write or said nice things about it. OK, that's all he wrote. Veloma!

I'll have a larger update later today or tomorrow, but for those of you interested in what's happening with your favorite PCV in Madagascar (whether or not it is myself) here's the latest:

Peace Corps Madagascar is being evacuated.

What I know (or have heard, to be more precise) is that people are starting to leave the country starting on Saturday, and the rest will follow soon after. We're going to South Africa first to do paperwork and such (medical, legal, etc.) and then home. Expect us back in the States in 5-10 days.

That's all for now. I have a few updates from site to type up but not until a bit later. (Also, we're all safe blah blah. Don't worry about us).

Movie nights now finish off my official work week (Wednesday, that is) and tonight I showed “Elf” with Will Farrell. It’s a Christmas movie, yes, but I’m only 2 months late and there aren’t tons of appropriate movies laying around the Peace Corps house in Fianarantsoa for me to borrow. It’s not clear if the majority of the audience (which has definitely dwindled since High School Musical) shows up intentionally to see my movies, or if they just happened to be in the area and had 100 Ariary to spare, but either way I still get about 30-40 people at each showing. They like seeing people fall down, and I like watching movies for a few hours (and watching people fall down) so everyone wins.

As for the “work” part of the week, I suppose I’m starting to let go of my dreams of helicopters coming to take me away from here, and I’m falling back into routine. I’ve stopped constantly debating in my head whether or not to quit and decided to just barrel through it. Besides, I haven’t heard back from graduate schools yet so I might have to extend to keep avoiding joining the real world (just kidding).

So this week I picked up where we left off—present perfect tense in 2nde and body parts and corresponding verbs in 4eme. My goal, which once was for my students to be able to just put together two coherent sentences in a row, is now to simply not seriously injure any of them before I leave. They claim to have forgotten everything we’ve ever gone over (and I believe them) so it’s back to the beginning.

Meanwhile, my fence that topped over (or was intentionally pulled down, depending on who you talk to) is not only not rebuilt, but is now about 1/3rd missing—stolen by my neighbors for firewood. The electricity situation, though, has regained momentum from when progress stopped cold back in November. Now, the street lights come on around 6:30 at night while people get their last buckets of water and buy their last bottle of vodka. I’ve heard talk of them finally connecting houses, but I don’t realistically see that happening in my time here. Either way, I’m in a better mood than this entry would lead anyone to believe, so worry not. It might just be an after-effect, however, of watching Christmas movies in late February.

After a 3-week time-warp through February, often led to believe that we'd take be escaping on a chartered plane swerving out of the wreckage that once was Antananarivo, I've been sent back to site a little shaken up and with a little less confidence in my organization. Maybe it was the emotional turmoil of the whole ordeal--a whirling dervish of joy, anger, confusion, fear, and depression--but being back at site I'm amazed at how many things that, had I not returned, I would have never thought of again. Places in town, views, feelings, objects in my house. People I like, people I loathe, people that scare me. The small yellow dog that hangs out in my front yard all day (it has recently taken to standing up on its hind-legs at my window and peering into my room). How crushing it is every night when I realize, over and over again, how uncomfortable my cheap piece of foam that I call a mattress is. The kids who run to my back yard every morning when they see the door open, and stare at me as I brush my teeth and wash my face (and also perform a running commentary on it: "Adam's washing his face! Look!")

I had a similar experience when I went home last summer, thinking after only a few days how it seemed unreal that a week ago I was sitting in a rural village in the middle of Madagascar. It makes me glad that I've kept this blog, and also that it seems realistic for me to move on, immediately, with my life once home and not think about this place for a while. Throughout the consolidation period, and especially when Peace Corps first offered us all a “Get Out of Peace Corps Free” card, why I didn’t just go home if I hated it so much. This wasn’t a particularly astute observation but they had a point, for sure. I get virtually no satisfaction from being here, I hate teaching English (as much as the students hate learning it), and fundamentally disagree that there should Peace Corps should even have an English as a Foreign Language program in Madagascar. So why do I stay?

- Pretenses aside, pride is a huge factor. Quitting just doesn’t seem to be an option when everyone else is staying. I also have a difficult time changing my mind once I’ve decided on something (also known as being stubborn as a mule).

- Besides, if I were going to resign myself to the idea of quitting, I’d feel even worse knowing that I didn’t just quit a year and a half ago, or even a month ago when it was made acceptable. Somehow, in my head, seeing this through until the end will validate my decision to have stayed this whole time.

- Plus, I don’t have the heart to call the principal of my school and tell him that, though everyone else is staying, I hate your town so much that I can’t possibly stick around for the last 4 months.

- And it is only 4 more months. And only 15 weeks of school. I’m sure it’ll fly by.

- Not to mention I’d still give it a 50% chance we’ll be evacuated. Peace Corps tells us it’s 0%, but this thing has only gotten worse, not better.

Maybe it’s true that there’s no chance of being evacuated, but it’s hard not to live and work like it might be true. In fact, we’ve been told to scale back our way to the things we can accomplish in the short term. Long-term projects and such aren’t feasible right now, especially anything that requires funding. (That said, I think I’ll be returning money that anyone donated to our field trip soon. Fianar isn’t stable enough to being 21 high school students here for 3 days.) All of this makes our work, in my opinion, even less valuable. We’re already supposed to be working and thinking small. I truly pity newer volunteers who signed up to teach people about health and the environment (and even teach English) that have to accept such low standards and wondering how much they should invest themselves in their community if they’ll only be pulled out and sent elsewhere at the drop of a hat/hand grendade. (Not everyone feels this way, though, so take my views with that caveat.)

As for me, still without any form of communication at site after 1 ½ years, I can just teach lesson by lesson and look out the window every time I hear a car passing, wondering if it will be Peace Corps this time, coming to tell me to pack me stuff and say goodbye. Forget long term goals, I don’t even want to start a new book I’m so mentally prepared not to still be here after a few days.

I apologize for the cliff-hanger last post, but on Sunday we shipped off to the Peace Corps training site, a place with almost no means of communication, 40 kilometers or so outside of the capital. Roughly 80 volunteers were kept there for the week (many had already been there for a long time) in "consolidation," supplied with information, food, and activities from Peace Corps. We spent most of our days eating, napping, watching movies, playing volleyball/basketball, and partying, which doesn't, after all, sound too bad.

The problem is that in the meantime Madagascar still hasn't been able to get itself together. All week, rallies for both the President and the opposition group held the capital at a standstill, while some violence erupted in two new cities--Tulear (southwest coast) and Diego (northern tip). In Tulear, 4 people were killed by grenades as they were storming a food warehouse, and 50 were injured.

Despite this, and acknowledging that things like this are likely to happen for some time to come, Peace Corps staff decided it was safe to go back to our sites, and we left the training center on Tuesday. The entire 10 hour ride down was peaceful (the driver even left the radio off) until we pulled into the city, where we were greeted by a wall of angry protesters holding political signs and chanting with their fists in the air. We pulled a 180 instantly, and went the long way around town back to the Peace Corps house, where we were, again, locked in for the day. Over the course of the next two hours, we heard 38 gunshots fired, though they were all into the air trying to scare off opportunistic looters around the city. (Official word after this was: "It's still safe for you to go back to your sites")

These are the facts. How I feel goes back and forth by the minute, both wanting to be home but not wanting to quit; feeling safe at site but still, after 18 months, having no means of communication with the outside world when I'm there. Peace Corps has given us all the option of taking an "interruption of service," meaning I'd get all the important benefits of being an "RPCV" (returned PCV) except one unimportant one, though the connotation is still that of "quitting." I don't want to quit after being here for so long, and especially if everyone eventually returns to site and finishes out the school year. Personally, I cannot fathom finding the energy to return to site and teach about past participles and 5 different ways to ask for a glass of water at a restaurant. I never found my job here very meaningful, and it's now to the point of absurdity.

We are safe at our sites, and we're safer than not here in Fianarantsoa. However, things are not only not clearing up, but they seem to be getting worse. Many of us here are at our wits end trying to stay emotionally stable and figuring out how to work in this environment. Others don't really mind, and a few have already up and left. I've already missed 2 weeks of school and this week they're on vacation anyway. Is it worth it to return to site for the rest of the year? I think the answer is "no," but I don't know if that's enough to make me hit the big red quit button just yet.

After a week of mostly calm demonstrations around the country, things went a little sour on Friday. For about a week, four volunteers had been "consolidated" in a coastal town called Manakara. For reasons unknown, this place effectively exploded and these PCVs were holed up in their hotel room while gunshots, molotov cocktails, and other assorted weaponry filled the streets. (They're all safe and the day after came to Fianar, where I've been since last Friday).

However, the President-wanna-be Mayor called for a demonstration in the capial on Saturday morning, where he would announce his cabinet. Afterwards, the crowd of 10-20,000 people stormed the presidents office where some sort of battle ensued and around 30 people were killed by police forces. Up to 300 were injured.

Where I am, though, is safe and peaceful. There are rallies every day but nothing violent, just some people talking and loud music. The 15 of us here are going a little stir-crazy from sitting around, sometimes under house arrest, and trying to pass the days. Tomorrow, however, we're all headed to the Peace Corps Training Site near the capital (not too close though) and from there, we don't know. The staff says that it's more likely than not that we'll be evacuated, this week. Because I'm almost done, I would likely just go straight home and not wait around to see if things calm down, or head to a different country. I think everyone who's been here for under a year gets that option.

For now, no more internet til something major happens--either going home or waiting out the crisis until we can go back to our sites. I'm personally hoping to just leave. After 2 weeks away from site, being told we might go home, I've sort of lost the mindset of being a teacher in a rural community. Also, of the remaining 4 and 1/2 months, at least 6 weeks of it the school will be on vacation. It just doesn't seem worth it at this point.

Anyway, it's been a surreal week, and it was definitely out of the blue. Next you all hear from me, it could be in Rhode Island! Surprise!

Last week, starting around Monday, I began to hear reports on the BBC World Service that some funny business was going on in the capital. A teacher confirmed that even in Fianarantsoa there were strikes. However, it only ever made the nightly African news, and never the general world news, so I assumed it wasn't much to think about (though it was cool to finally hear Madagascar on BBC--we're routinely ignored).

On Friday, however, as I was walking down to my school I saw a Peace Corps car fly down my road, apparently having already been to my house and now checking the rest of the town to find me. I ran/jogged (flip-flops, and also people laughing) down there and our regional representative was already in a meeting with my Vice Principal. "Hey Adam. Have you heard the news about the strikes? We're all consolidating in Fianar and possibly evacuating." Let's just say I smiled.

What's happening, in a nutshell, is that the Mayor of Antananarivo (the capital) is leading a sort of coup d'etat against the President. He doesn't want to be the next President, but rather lead the transitional government which will then elect someone new. Over the course of the week there were rallies, protests, rioting, looting, and burning all signs of development that aid workers and entrepreneurs have installed for the past 40 years. All of the ex-pat supermarkets are gone, some tourist shops are gone, and everything the president owned (he sort of has a monopoly on all dairy products) is burned to the ground. In the process of looting, about 100 people died.

Last Saturday, the Mayor declared that he was now in charge of the country's affairs and began naming his cabinet. He is currently touring the country for support. Meanwhile, the actual President keeps asserting his power but not very forcefully and isn't taking it very seriously I guess. The African Union is on his side, but they aren't the most effective of the Unions to put it mildly.

So as I said, we're "consolidated." Part of our training involves a plan for emergencies, meaning what to do and where to go at each stage of the crisis. This means that right now, there are 11 volunteers at the Peace Corps house in Fianar, and then 14 other clusters of volunteers all around the country. (There are about 140 of us total). Peace Corps in Tana are in talks with the US Embassy about what to do--should we all stay here and wait it out, should we be evacuated to another country to wait it out, or should we just go back to the states.

For now, we all just sit around and twiddle our thumbs, read, watch movies, and cook big dinners. We're at day 5 of this today, and it's getting a little boring, though we could potentially be here for another 9 days. The "danger" is up in Tana (10 hours away) though there are also rallies here and the police/military are all over the city. No one feels at danger, though ennui would be something of an understatement. Luckily, I'm in a town with internet and good food, while others are stuck in places with absolutely nothing to do and are probably drinking themselves into a stupor. All day long we get conflicting updates from Peace Corps and then even more conflicting reports from the internet about what's going on. One hour we all think we're going home, and the next we expect to be back at site within a day or two. And depending on what goes down, both of these seem equally likely.

It's definitely been an interesting experience to have gone through, though we're hardly in the thick of it here. It would be really anticlimactic to just go back to site as if nothing happened, though many of the people here are too new to want to go home (a month at site or so). If nothing else, it got me through what was going to be a long, long weekend.

As I mentioned last time I was in town, I've started a sort of "English Movie Night" in town on Wednesday evenings. Held at a generator-powered mud shack down the road from my house, the audience has been a mixture of my students (I advertise every Tuesday/Wednesday to my high school kids) and townspeople, though I don't think either one of the two groups understands the spoken English. The usual fare in the theater is French-dubbed American action/horror films, so I think they're used to it.

This week I brought "The Simpsons Movie," which--when it was graciously sent to us by a returned PCV last year--I thought was surprisingly funny. I'm not a huge fan of the Simpsons, but there's enough comedy at both levels so that I could enjoy watching it again and they could sort of follow the plot. Choosing movies follows this formula a bit, and while likely soon end Movie Night because there simply aren't enough shared movies available at the Peace Corps house that a) appeal to children/students, b) have simple plotlines that Malagasy people can sort of relate to, and c) have enough slapstick humor to keep the crowd laughing. Though I'd prefer to show them something like Being John Malkovich, or even Rocky Horror, I just don't think it'd go over well.

The biggest problem I've found so far is the entrance fee, asked for by the people who run the cinema to pay for their costs (gas, mostly, and repairing the generator I guess). While it's 100 ariary (I'd guess this is aboout 8 cents), many of my students complain that "We no mo-nay" and therefore can't go. I don't totally believe them, but for the first movie last week I offered up 2000 ariary (thus 20 seats) out of my own pocket. Unfortunately, the kids that came to claim those seats were some of the most obnoxious, misbehaved students I have and I sort of resented having to do it. These are the kids who sit in the last row and heckle me if I say something wrong in Malagasy or if they can tell I'm getting frustrated with the class. Some of them, I know for a fact, certainly have the money.

Next Wednesday, I'm going to show the classic "The Gods Must Be Crazy," a film about a as-yet-uncontacted-by-the-Western-world tribe in southern Africa that finds a Coke bottle, tearing apart their peaceful society. Though If I remember it right, there's little dialogue and lots of falling down. There's nothing the Malagasy people like more, also, than laughing at "Africans," a group of people they don't consider themselves to be a part of--particularly "tribal" Africans. Whatever the reasons they enjoy it, we gather for the purpose of experiencing English as a real language that people use to communicate, not just a subject their forced to learn in school. (More importantly, the screenings are a pretense for me to watch good movies and ignore everyone else in the room for a while).

Cultural Difference I Suspect My Rural Malagasy Town Didn't Quite Understand At A Screening of the Disney Channel's "High School Musical"

• Karaoke

• Camera phones

• Eccentric theater teachers

• School gymnasiums

• Google stalking

• Stoner/nerd cliques

• Computer hacking

• Detention

• Drama club

• School busses

• Cheerleaders

• Interpretive dance

• References to Ashton Kutcher/"Punk'd"

• Interventions

Things I Didn't Understand in High School Musical:

• Is that McCauley Culkin?

• What's with these pseudo-incestuous siblings?

• Since when is baking uncool?

Things My Rural Malagasy Town Definitely Understood:

• Laughing at the fat girl dancing

• Our high schools are bigger than the biggest buildings in the entire country

• The "tanindrazana" (homeland) of their English teacher is just a little over the top

(After the movie was over, I asked one of my students what he thought about the

film. "High school in America is very different!" I agreed and started to walk home. I later wondered if he was referring to the size, number of students, etc. or the fact that Americans seem to break out into song every ten minutes with choreographed

dances.)

(Don't forget to help with our field trip!)

Sometimes I'm torn about my existence here, oscillating back and forth. Certain days I want to go home, but then other days all I care about is leaving this place. (rimshot please). Yesterday I went to the rather pricey English course given in town every Saturday morning since mid-October, eager to see a Malagasy person teach English and how it differs from what I do. I've been meaning to go since it started, but have never managed to either be in town when it's happening or get out of bed in order to attend. I left questioning on an even deeper, abysmal level why I am here.

I met the teacher hanging outside the classroom before class started and he immediately said "Ah! Mr. Adam is here!" Which is an odd thing to hear from someone you've never met, but I guess I'm not too difficult to describe or pick out of a crowd. He (I didn't catch his name) is a city-bred 20-something who studied English at the University of Antananarivo for two years before dropping out, but he seemed fluent enough to me to have a conversation and seemed to be fond of languages. Someday, he told me, he'd like to also learn Italian and German, on top of Malagasy, French, and English. I tried to explain to him that there might not be any people left speaking Italian by that point, but "fluent enough" doesn't encompass discussions of low reproduction rates and increased immigration from North Africa. Sometimes you just have to let them figure it out for themselves.

Anyway, I was also curious to see who came to this class, particularly since I live in the town for no other reason than to teach English for free. Here, they pay a certain amount per class to be taught be a non-native English speaker. Did they not know me? Did they just prefer a Malagasy person? I was on an investigation, and also needed a distraction for Saturday morning. When I entered the classroom then, I was surprised, and then immediately not surprised, to see that the vast majority of learners were not only middle/high school students, but my middle/high school students. I say I was immediately not surprised because they weren't just any kids, but a group composed of some of my best students, explaining how they know some of the surprising things that they know.

I was quickly reminded of a facet of my experience here that I've tried to suppress, namely that the list of my best students is strongly correlated to that of my (relatively) wealthiest students. Those that can afford private tutoring are the ones the seem to succeed. Needless to say that not present in this course was 16-year old Caliste, a child so malnutritioned that he looks 7, and about whom it was revealed, during the "family tree" lesson, that he has no mother or father. Caliste falls asleep in every class of mine without exception, though if you manage to wake him up and give him a piece of chalk he can usually pull out a decent answer.

In this class, each student gets a 20-page (double-sided) handout with vocabulary lists, example dialogues and scenarios, and a page full of formulas to create sentences in different tenses (e.g. subject + to have + past participle + object = present perfect). Today's lesson started by talking about the use of "just" in a sentence, in the sense of "I just woke up". The teacher explained it in Malagasy, which I only sort of followed, and gave the example "Mr. Adam has just been from his house." I didn't say anything because I can't rule it out that this is unfailingly incorrect, but I did make a note to perhaps tell him later that this isn't a construction anyone would ever use--'to be from one's house' meaning to have come from there. He wrote one other example sentence on the board, equally poorly phrased, and then moved on to a new topic.

"At the restaurant" was the context for the dialogue, though despite having three speaking parts and 15 lines of text, the only thing that is ever ordered from the waiter is "an apple juice with ice." The dialogue was riddled with typos, incorrect grammar, and things that no English speaker would ever say. "I just to accompany my daughter. She would like some drinks." While the class was made to tediously repeat it all, 7 or 8 times, I skipped ahead to check out some of the other grammatical points the page talked about, my favorite of which was an explanation of the use of other/others/another. Here is the entire lesson from start to finish:

USING OF OTHER, OTHERS, AND ANOTHER:

I caught some other fish all the others were caught by the others even I need another.

Well if that isn't the pinnacle of clarity I don't know what is. But the point of this isn't to nitpick or criticize. (Don't get me wrong, I love to nitpick and criticize and I do that freely here, but it's not the point.) Rather, I walked away from this lesson (halfway through; I couldn't stomach an hour or two talking about prepositions of movement) thinking how this is exactly what these kids, and all the students in town, need. How will they ever pass the end-of-senior-year, nationwide, standardized English exam if they don't speak this sort of standardized broken English? How can they communicate with other English speakers here if they don't, also, speak in the same mangled dialect? (This teacher pronounced 'movies' as rhyming sort of like 'toffee'). And I'm not being facetious, either.

The thing is, after three months of a once-a-week course, all of these students can communicate better than all of the rest of students in town who have studied for years in school, and at least one year with me. Whether my students understand grammar and vocabulary or not, they don't have a tenth of the confidence in the language that these course-takers do or the ability to initiate a conversation with someone. The course-kids might botch every sentence, pronounce it like they have marbles in the mouth, but the fact remains that they speak English and I understand them well enough to chat with them. This is the case with maybe 1% of the 500 students I teach in class.

Part of this has to do with the teacher being Malagasy. First, the students have a much higher comfort level speaking in front of him and having the courage to make mistakes. (Not that the Malagasy/French style of education leaves much room for student participation in the lesson; it's primarily lecturing and note-taking). Second, he can speak Malagasy and explain different complicated concepts far better than I ever could. I do my best, and I happen to think that I'm not too shabby at explaining English grammar and vocabulary in Malagasy, but it's still night and day.

Our role here as Peace Corps Volunteers, as admitted by one of the highest administrators in the program, is as a 'temporary stop-gap' for the lack of English teachers while this generation graduates from school and fills up these jobs. But even this dismal rationale for why I've been here for almost 2 years doesn't acknowledge that this is only a valid proposition if I'm actually helping these students to become the next English teacher. And I'm not. Maybe I can help, minimally, some rich kids who have the resources to learn the language with or without me, and who need no inspiration, but the rest, I believe, sincerely need someone that they understand and teaches in a way with which they're familiar. And still, saying that we're only a stop-gap also doesn't recognize the fact that there already are plenty of English speakers who could take over our jobs. However, they're smart enough not to quit their job teaching private courses, or just selling sugar, rope, and grease in the weekly market, for which they are paid four times as much. It's no wonder there are no English teachers; in fact, it's a downright surprise that there are teachers for any subjects at all considering how low their salaries are.

So, contemplating all of this as I walked home, I decided that today was one of the days I don't care about going home, specifically, but rather what's important is just not being here anymore. (This blog just keeps getting more and more inspirational, doesn't it?)

(Don't forget to help with our field trip!)

Whenever I've been away from site for a week or two, I'm always on the lookout for developments around town since I left. The "spot the differences" game is actually one of the things I have to look forward to in an otherwise depressing ride away from Fianarantsoa. I keep my expectations low, but sometimes a new store will open (selling the same five products as the other 10 stores), or a house has been painted some garish color, electrical poles have been installed, and so on. I'd like a fully-stocked CVS or Ben and Jerry's, but I'll take what I can get.

I noticed right away that the section of my fence that collapsed last month, a results of the children who would climb on it trying to steal peaches from my trees, was once again on the ground. I picked it up (i.e. I had some students of mine pick it up) before I left and leaned it against the house, trying to unblock the much-traveled path it was obstructing, but with it in the way again, people simply made a new path through the bushes next to it.

What's new is that, as I noticed when I opened up the kitchen window, the entire fence enclosing my back yard has collapsed in on itself. Some say it was the wind (yet no other fence in the town fell), some say it was the drunks (yet I've never seen drunks, even on market day, messing with anyone's fence). My own far-fetched theory is that the horde of children who shake it, climb on, over, under, and through it might have something to do with it's instability. But who can say for sure?

As for now part of the fence covers up the 5-foot trash pit, and the children now play and jump on the rotted, jagged wood above this drop onto, among other things, broken bottles and other unpleasant fall-breakers that the town throws into it. (Aside from the place into which I throw banana peels, egg shells, and discarded pieces of vegetables, the townspeople use it as a sort of grab-box. What one person throws in there in the morning will be taken as something else by afternoon). Regardless, the parents of these children seem to encourage the playground, or at least don't discourage it.

But while Andriamanitra taketh away my fence, he also giveth me something new. Namely, the inability to sleep a peaceful 8 hours a night thanks to a infestation of rats the size of a small, rat-sized shoe box. I don't generally see them (just once, outside), they climb up to an opening in my wall that leads into the space between my ceiling and roof. All night one can hear them run around, fight, and somehow create noises that sound like stones falling onto metal. (I haven't yet figured this out). No one I've talked to about this seems to care, or even think it's a problem. Well, among other suggestions, I'd like to propose that the entire town will have a problem when my ceiling collapses from the weight of rat droppings and their English teacher is seen leaving town once and for all.

Meanwhile, the electricity poles, all hooked up to each other and with street lights on every other one, remain totally isolated from the houses down below. This part, connecting the houses, some people theorize might take months or years as people protest at how much the wire costs and wait it out. Also, the new English teacher I was promised to have start in January is unsurprisingly not here. I told them, again, I won't be replaced if there isn't one set to start next September, but that doesn't seem to put the fire to their feet and more than having one and a half years of two-thirds of their students not studying English. I'm not holding my breath

Please, if you can, help us with our field trip. 5, 10, 15 dollars? I know I complain about my job here, but there really are some good kids who deserve a trip like this and it could really help them out when they graduate in a year or two.

I realize the website is 1991, but I had to make it on an online editor with dial-up speed.

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Traveling in tourist hot spots on the budget of a volunteer often makes the fun parts of a vacation--the excursions, restaurants, and being pampered in hotel rooms--significantly more frustrating and potentially bankrupting. After more than a day's ride on a taxi-brousse, the prospect of a natural reserve filled with exotic plants, animals, and insects becomes almost petrifying when it means spending another few hours on the road. Hotel prices impossibly cheap to tourists, and therefore reasonable to the proprietors, are impossibly expensive even split three ways. And souvenir shops filled with crafts made from wood, stone, straw, and bone get a quick glance surveying the wares but you generally leave with a fifty-cent postcard.

From similar experiences in Tamatave, Ile Saint Marie, Morondava, and even Antananarivo, we had learned both how to prioritize and, more importantly, haggle. Talking down prices is not only a convenient money saver here, we are actually trained to do it upon arrival in Madagascar. With just a little bit of finesse, posturing, and the willingness to walk away if one's price isn't met. While certain things aren't negotiable, like hotel rooms or restaurants, the cost of almost anything else is subject to debate up until the final coins. This little bit of boldness we all picked up here, we saw over the course of the week, saved us 30,000 Ariary on a boat trip; 24,000 each on a park entrance fee; 20,000 on a single trip's taxi fare; and many other times as well. Moreover, showing the merchant that you speak Malagasy and can juggle their rather complicated number system, opens them up considerably to giving you the "prix namana"--the friend price (what they would sell it for to a Malagasy person).

Though we were thus limited in what opportunities we could take advantage of in Diego, we still managed to get around and mix a little bit of adventure with our ultimate aim of separating the ideas of Madagascar as a general place of work and the Madagascar of pristine beaches, forests, and dancing lemurs. More than a couple of days were passed either swimming around a large pool at the Grand Hotel (serving drinks at a swim-up bar), walking through the streets of uniformly two-story buildings, or whiling away time between meals at better and better restaurants. With one full week between our arrival and non-negotiable plane ride home, we had plenty of time to kill, and we were more than happy to kill it eating pizza, steak, carpaccio, cheeseburgers, and drinking Coke after delicious Coke. We were originally hoping to sample as many restaurants as possible in the relatively swanky downtown Diego, but soon found our niche at Pizzeria Naelle, which without question serves the best pizza in the country.

Excursion #1 was a boat trip to a small island floating somewhere in the bay called Emerald Island. Originally planned for the 24th, our big day was met with non-stop rain and thundering night and day and night. We barely made it out of the hotel rooms before we called the boatmen and rescheduled for Christmas morning. Incidentally, exactly one year earlier on Christmas day, I was waking up early to board a board to go to a small island off the coast of where I was vacationing). Take 2 offered clear, sunny skies and off we trotted to the pier area, 15 of us or so boarding a small watercraft to spend two hours cruising along the bay, alternatively the most sparking blue and most crystal clear water I have ever seen. Having developed a phobia of the ocean from last year's vacation, I mostly rocked back in forth in the middle of the boat and stared at the floor, but now and again I peered overboard and saw endless coral, fish(es), seaweed, and my own potential demise below the near-indistinguishable surface of the water.

On the way to the island, our crew was sitting along the back of the boat using the traditional method of spearguns to reel in our lunch for the day. While we lounged on the beach, snorkeled (during which I saw hundreds of fish, including a clown fish [think Nemo {the fish, not the captain}]), and drank, they made us a meal of coconut rice, cucumber salad, and giant scary fish. Neither Erin nor I had ever eaten fish, despite the fact that I come from "the Ocean state", though I gave it a shot and actually enjoyed it! After another few hours in the water, getting increasingly murkier and deeper because of the incoming high tide, we called it a day and returned to Diego.

Excursion #2 was later in the week to Amber Mountain National Park, set about 90 minutes outside of town. I was excited to hike around for a while and see funny animals, but quickly learned that "rainforest" isn't a name--it's a warning. From the second we stepped onto the trail to the second we left, clouds dumped roughly an Indian Ocean amount of rain onto us, myself with a borrowed, child-sized umbrella and Erin with a beach hat. Others seemed to have known this beforehand, and that's why rich tourists can rent 4x4s to just drive up and down the perpetually muddy paths sunken into deep tire-shaped ditches. Unfortunately, this means that all the animals wisely choose to live elsewhere in the park and we all just walk in circles staring at the ground, trying not to fall into the mud. I did. Twice. We did spot a few things here and there, including a family of crowned lemurs high up in the trees, a millipede with bright red legs, the world's tiniest frog, and waterfall hundreds of feet high. For the most part, though, our guide would hear a chirp or a ribbit and tell us what animal we were hearing and would be seeing if they weren't all hiding from the cars. I grimaced some more, and thought about hot chocolate at the Grand Hotel. After about half the trek, starting on our way back Erin and I decided to part with the group going on a side trail to see another waterfall (I had seen enough water fall that day, thank you very much). We instead trudged back to the entrance lodge, took a nap for a couple of hours, and waited for the group with a massive headache.

Ramena Beach, 19 kilometers down the road from town, was our final destination before leaving the next day, looking for a quiet afternoon. Most of our friends had already left, taking the 24-hour death tour back down to Antananarivo and needing the extra day. Instead, we sat beneath a large shady tree and watched the locals bring in fish nets, sail up and down the bay, and kids trap jellyfish in plastic bags and hang them from branches. The water wasn't nearly as clear as on Emerald Island and there were essentially no fish left to ogle underwater, but the place did have the advantage of electricity, made use of by dozens of little snack huts with cold drinks and warm fish. I opted for a coconut shaving/sugar concoction sold to me by a woman walking up and down the beach with a tin bowl full of them. A drowsy taxi ride home, dinner at a tapas bar, and a hot chocolate for breakfast was the last I saw of the place, aside from being mugged again by a taxi driver en route to the airport. Even this setback, though, couldn't overcome the smile of knowing that our friends left in the afternoon the day before and were still puttering along National Highway 6, and would still be when I was back in Tana, well-rested and thinking about the significance of the next time I step foot in that very airport, 6 months from now and on my way home.

There is no horror like the horror of floating back into consciousness after 24 hours on a taxi-brousse, and realizing you still aren't at your destination. For twenty minutes last night, you were able to step into a scummiest of diners for a meal of what ever they have left--they've served hundreds of taxi-brousses just like yours all day. It seems like a hallucination now, with only 100 kilometers left to go, though the landscape shows no signs of urbanization near or far. The north of Madagascar, it turns out, looks just like the central plateau which looks just like the west and east coasts. A different shade of green, sine waves of lush hills mottled by variations of a mud and clay house. I was expecting to be dazzled; I wanted to see Neptune, or at least Mars. I'd settle for the beach.

We wouldn't make this mistake again, though. Erin and I slapped down thick wads of cash at the Air Madagascar office in order to shave about 23 hours off of our return to the capital, and get a free tuna sandwich in the meantime. During the life vest/crash-landing lecture, I dared Erin to raise her hand and yell "tsy mazava!" (that's not clear) in her best impression of our relentlessly confused students, but she refused. Despite the cost, the anxiety of stepping back into a glorified VW van, wallowing in the helpless misery of stale air and cartoonish redundancy of the landscape--it would have necessarily undermined the very purpose of going on vacation: to take off my 'volunteer at your disposal' hat and put on my 'don't bother me I'm a tourist' fanny-pack. A volunteer we met while there goes as far as to refuse to speak Malagasy unless absolutely necessary.

On Christmas morning, the lot of us pitched in to hire a boat and a crew to take us even farther from far away, sailing deep into the bay Diego-Suarez sits upon. There we found Emerald Island jutting out of the water, with half a dozen wooden shacks built for shade and a place to eat arranged on the beach. For the two hours it took to get there, I alternated between hyperventilating (a gross overestimation of my swimming capabilities led to a frightening and humiliating near-death experience) and marveling at how the boat seemed to float on air, the water was so clear. I continually sized up potential contenders for 'shore-to-which-I-could-most-easily-swim,' only to determine I hadn't got a chance. That the crew was drunk and exhausted on the way home did little to assuage my phobia.

More firmly rooted to the ground were the taxis in town, who we quickly found out charge by the person and not the destination. The city planners of Diego astutely put the taxi-brousse station about five kilometers outside of town, guaranteeing taxi-drivers a constant supply of road-weary travelers fatigued-to-the-point-of-tears and unfamiliar with the town. Our introduction to the promised land, and hence to our vacation, was to be suckered into paying three times the normal price for a ride into town. Fortunately, this amounted to roughly two dollars. Given that only the relatively can take a plane to Antananarivo, our final expense in the town was, similarly, being bullied into paying about six dollars each to get a ride to the airport. This time, however, the violence done to one's wallet is actually a town-regulated mugging. For as much as we enjoyed ourselves in and around Diego, the welcoming and departure committee left an indelible bad taste in my mouth.

On the way up from my part of the island towards the capital, before we ever set out in the 25-hour, wheeling death box, we stopped in Antsirabe for a night. I only note it for being one of the last places on the island, perhaps in the world, to customarily use the rickshaw (here, called a 'pousse-pousse'). The humblest form of paid transportation services, it might also be the most thought-provoking. Namely, you wonder for the entire trip--moving at a hair faster than people leisurely strolling beside you--"why didn't I just walk this distance myself?" Unlike the terror of drowning at sea, or careening off the road into a rice paddy, the only danger from a pousse-pousse is from above. In the event of rain, your driver (if he can be called that) might have the luxury feature of attaching a semi-transparent tarp directly over you. Intense humidity, the Chinese water torture of a drip from above, and the detachedness from reality from the simulated blindness and suffocation--all together they accentuate the absurdity of my existence here, wishing I could trade my cross-cultural experience tokens for a bit of apple pie normalcy.

Until this week, I had never taught English to adults, working exclusively with middle or high school students because... well, because no adult had never asked me. I help out Solofo on Thursdays and Noro on Wednesday, but these are more conversational and not instruction. Most people, I think, assume that I charge money for lessons and don't bother asking. However, it'd be exceedingly difficult to announce that I teach English for free and not have dozens of people lined at my door the next day. Most would stop after two or three lessons, but I don't need that kind of work.

A lady down the street, though, was tutored by a Peace Corps volunteer roughly 3 years ago, and after 1 1/2 years living in my town, she finally thought to ask me to start lessons with her again. I don't know why she waited so long (I go in her store at least once a week) but when she did, she showed me her revered lesson notebook and a picture of the volunteer (the first I had ever seen of her). So now, sitting at a table in her corner store/bike repair shop/lothing emporium/veterinary medicine warehouse/bar (it's kind of a schizophrenic place), Pierette and I study English starting from square one.

This is, in fact, also new to me. I've started at the bare essentials with my classes, but I still assume some level of familiarity with the language. So we're going over numbers, the alphabet, and introducing the verb "to be." In Malagasy, the word exists but in 99% of cases is not used. So, it takes some getting used to for them. It's been interesting enough so far, and it's nice to kill time somewhere other than my house, though teaching pronunciation has been tricky. "Eight" always comes out as et, ent, hoent, and 'ho entana', which actually means "I want to take this to go" in a restaurant, in typical the typical concise Malagasy style.

Distractions are plentiful while we study, with 2 young boys literally crawling all over her (she's 35), shoppers coming in to the store every few minutes, and chickens and roosters sauntering through the room. I'm not totally sure why she wants to know English, and but she always makes an appointment for the next lesson when our hour or two is up, and when I walk in the store she's usually studying. Erin has had pretty amazing successes teaching adults in her town, so I hope to find the same. (Yes, all of my 'altruistic' activities are really attempts to validate my existence here. So sue me.)

Recognizing my ever-shortening time remaining here, I've begun to compile a mental list of things I want to do before I leave. Tasks include: climb the mountain near my town, ride my bike to/from Fianarantsoa, and to see the town at the end of the road called Ikalamavony. One thing on my list, though, required a little less physical exertion and so tonight I crossed a major to-do off my list: watch a movie at the generator-run cinema in town.

What's always stopped my before is that they seem to play only the worst of the worst movies imaginable. These aren't straight-to-DVD films, these are straight-to-the-third-world-bargain-bins. Think Street Fighter 7, Fists of Steel, and movies Chuck Norris would be ashamed to list on his resume. This afternoon I walked by and checked out the marquee (a chalkboard hanging outside the room) and saw they were featuring a true American classic at 5PM. Part two of a trilogy that I think Ebert put on his 'Great Movies" list (don't fact check that): Evil Dead II, starring the squarest jaw in the lower 48, Bruce Cambell, and directed by Sam Raimi (who later went on to direct the new Spiderman movies).

I strolled by at 5, and the door was closed. At 5:30 they told me to wait until 6. At 6, they told me the guy who runs hadn't finished eating his rice yet and to come back at 6:30. Finally, the door to the mud hut Showcase was opened, and I sat in the room with only 3 other people (a mother and two children) for about 40 minutes watching the 'previews'--Malagasy music videos. The room was smaller than my bedroom, had a 19-inch TV up front, and featured, impressively, stadium seating. This means that the first 5 wooden benches were at the ground level, and then got progressively higher up until the back wall. I'm still blown away by that.

Slowly, people started to trickle in and the movie began. The audience was comprised of mostly 2-7 year olds, and the rest adult males. The first Evil Dead movie was a straight-forward, low-budget horror film, however the sequel adds a lot of satire and slapstick humor. So, you see, it was only overwhelmingly inappropriate for 4 year olds, rather than completely inappropriate. Tomorrow they're playing the third in the series, which gave up on horror altogether.

The film had been dubbed into French, meaning that I, understanding about 20% of the dialogue, had the most idea of what was going on. Not that stop-motion, claymation puppet violence needs much in the way of explanation. This means that there were no qualms about having full-length conversations across the room throughout the movie because, hey, we don't have a clue what they're saying anyway. There was also the ubiquitous "that guy" in the room, telling the main character not to open certain doors and the like.

My favorite moment of the night was when an old man, during a scene in which a severed hand is crawling around the room and attacking its former owner, turned around and asked me with a straight face: "is this real?" I looked back at him seriously and nodded my head really slowly. "Oh, absolutely." Who am I do crush his ideas of normal American day-to-day life. Eat, work, destroy your beheaded girlfriend, sleep. In fact, the next day my student asked me, while we had a conversation about movies we had seen, asked "are there dragons in America?" Well, no. They actually aren't real. He thought about this for a while and tried again. "Wait, so where do they live?

While I was gone this summer, the innumerable stray dogs in town multiplied and unleashed innumerable puppies. I might have written about this before, but the Malagasy people absolutely loathe dogs. (In fact, if you're a sensitive animal lover, you might want to skip this entry). They seem to tolerate cats, but they will go out of their way to torture dogs just sleeping in the shade, minding their own business. I've seen them beaten with bamboo sticks, hit and kicked, have rocks thrown at them, and even babies throwing pebbles. (It isn't clear which children are taught first: to call all moving white things "vazaha" or to abuse animals).

A small yellow puppy has been hanging around my house lately and while I can't say I like the thing (I'm not an animal person) I do kind of like that the dog seems to realize that I, if only one person, won't hurt it. So it sleeps on my porch or under my peach trees and I give it pieces of banana once in a while. (I also fed it a mouse I caught the other day but that's a different story). The town's 11-year-old bully, named Tina (a boy), is accused of having committed a heinous, premeditated assault on this thing. Seeing the dog peacefully asleep, the kid went to his house, boiled a pot of water, went back to the dog, and poured it all over its side. (The fact that only the dogs side and leg are severely burned, and not its back at all, lead me to think it must have been asleep).

I tried talking to the father of one of the children around my house, who happens to be a pastor. I asked why Malagasy people hate dogs so much. He laughed at this and told me "Well, there are just too many of them," looking at me like I asked him why kids like ice cream. I wanted to voice my opinion that there are too many children running around town and see just how committed he was to this premise of torture as a way of population control. Instead, I said "well why don't you just kill them and spare them from being abused?" He looked at me kind of shocked, and said "we can't kill them, that's against our beliefs." So now I'm the bad guy. In fact, last week in Fianar the authorities poisoned all the stray dogs. Naturally, they didn't bother themselves with the dozens of rotting corpses for a few days but that's neither here nor there. The point is that they were put of of their misery and I'm OK with that.

The pastor told me that the first volunteer in this town adopted two dogs and raised them in my house. 'Why don't you do the same?' Well, for one, because I hate dogs. These ones, furthermore, are infested with fleas, are trained from birth to be aggressive and un-house trainable, and I leave site to often. That doesn't mean I want to see the things run for their lives if I walk within 10 feet of it, tails between their legs and paws covering their faces. Tina is a messed-up child and will likely grow up to be a murderer, but this is an epidemic in Madagascar and I don't know how they're ever going to change.

I accomplished impressively little today, which is exactly what I needed after this week. This week I taught nine hours of 2nde (10th grade), six hours of 4eme (6th grade) and five hours of Premiere (11th grade). On top of this, every day without exception, someone new has approached me about learning English. So there's 4-5 hours a week with Pierette, 2 with Noro, 3-4 with Bema, and a few others whose name I don't know yet. On Thursdays I hang out with Solofo in the market selling pineapple juice and lychees for a few hours, which, while not tutoring, still feels like work a lot of the time. I now have to carry around a spreadsheet of my schedule to figure out when people can come by to study.

Last year I'd stay awake until about 10 every night, reading and studying. So far this year, I'm lucky if my candle is still burning past 8. The worst part is that it isn't making time go by any faster; in fact, it's going by incredibly slowly now. I have to stop myself and ask, 'have I really only been in town for 4 days? Was that class only this morning? Less than 10 hours ago?'

I'm sure that those of you working three jobs 70 hours a week are scoffing at me, and rightly so. 30 hours isn't even a full time job. I think there's just something a) about teaching, b) teaching a foreign language, and c) having few forms of relaxation. I can't come home and sit in front of the TV or computer, hang out with friends, or go see a movie. It's just correcting exams, studying, or reading by candlelight. (That I'm also not being paid for any of the effort might lead to an energy breakdown past hour 20, also). Now, people want to study during my lunch breaks telling me it's the only time they have available. Well, if they don't mind me eating my 100,000th peanut butter and jelly sandwich, alright come by. I feel like I can't justify telling someone that 'no, I don't have time for you' when so many others already study with me. Luckily, people are often as lazy as I am and give up studying after a few weeks and stop coming. I'm certainly not pounding on their doors asking why they didn't show up.

Teaching, for me, always has its good days and bad days. Sometimes the kids have no trouble at all with the material; sometimes, even if it's a challenging concept or activity they'll give it the ol' lyceé try. It happens. You can be probably figured out, though, this wasn't one of those days. Even though all but one class went smoothly, one section of the the 6th grade-ish level drove me to the point of inexpressible rage. I would have dramatically walked out on the class, had it not been time to leave anyway.

Though there are a few good kids mixed in, imagine roughly 70 students who have collectively assembled a mental Great Wall of China (perhaps the Palestinian wall is more accurate?) between themselves and the enemy: the English language. Nothing is too simple that they won't tell me it's too difficult; nothing is so spelled out for them that they won't scream out that they don't understand. They're already far behind the other section of their grade, but I can't seem to make any headway when 98% of the class doesn't recognize the verb "to be" and for whom the present simple tense ("I eat rice") poses too complicated a challenge. There really isn't anywhere to go from this point but to start over, again and again, like a Groundhog Day sequel from hell. Until we fix something in their brains, we can't move forward.

Today I attempted to talk to them, in Malagasy of course, to get to the bottom of the problem. What's preventing them from retaining even the most basic information? How many years will it take for them to learn the words for mother and father? How many years will it take to see "is" before you associate it with "to be?" (By the way, if you ask them to conjugate the French equivalent, être, they stand up, close their eyes, and recite "je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous être, ils sont" without pause). One girl responded: "It's hard to pronounce." A boy said "I don't know how to read English."

Sure these seem like valid and well-thought out complaints. And yes, English is hard to pronounce sometimes. But when you consider that pronunciation is never something they're graded on, none of the words we use are that complicated, and really can't be the focus of a class with 70 students, it's pretty evident that she actually just wanted to complain. Nothing about "grand-fah-ther" is stopping her from passing her (written) exam. Also, I agree with the boy that reading English probably is really difficult if you don't know any of the words. Unfortunately for his argument, I've taught and reviewed and reviewed and re-taught every word on the board.

What I really learned today is that these ids will go to any length not to learn English and that at this point are perhaps unteachable. Others, I'm sure, could get through to them but I lack the patience or desire to teach them. I'm a few failed lessons away from turning their class into a 7-month long game of Heads Up Seven Up.

On Monday, 4eme had their first exam of the year, for which I had high hopes. This time last year, I was teaching material that really had no business in curriculum at that level and so shouldn't have been so disappointed when they all failed. Round two, however, I've thrown out the book (I actually just gave it away) and started from scratch. Present simple tense (I eat rice) and past simple tense (I ate rice), plus some family vocabulary and basic adjectives. I wouldn't want to tax their little heads too much; after all, they've only been studying this language for over 2 years now.

How did they do? Miserably. The average grade, I'd guess, was about 5 out of 20. And most of those points came from essentially a give-away at the end of the exam. Why did they do so poorly? Well, I asked them that. "How many of you studied for the exam at home?" They didn't seem to understand, so I explained. "How many of you studied your lessons outside of the classroom?" No one raised their hand. I called on four or five students and asked them personally. "I don't have enough time to study." I felt bad for a minute, but only for a minute.

After a little investigation, which found me sketching out one student's daily schedule, I learned that they are all in fact, utter and boundless liars. Things they don't have time for: studying for an English exam. Things they do have time for: playing soccer, playing foosball, watching people play soccer, shopping, walking up and down the street, watching Chuck Norris movies at the local "cinema" (a TV hooked up to a generator in a small shack), and banging two rocks together while staring into space. One student argued that some of the movies are in English, so that has to count for something. It was a nice try, but lacked sincerity.

Granted, these kids have way more chores and responsibilities than any American kid I've ever known. But, don't feel bad for them. They also study less than any student I've ever known. In fact, they have the entire day off on Thursday! Yet, they have no time. I called them out for lying to me, and they acquiesced. I tried to scold them as best as I could, but it's probably for the best that few understood my incoherent rambling trying to tell them they're wasting my time here and that I couldn't care less if a single one of them learned English. I went overboard, I agree, but the truth is the truth.

A few days later, a girl from my 2nde class last year came to my house and asked if I would reconsider teaching them for the time being. After 3 months of school, the other high school English still hasn't shown up and they really want to study. They apparently wrote a letter to the principal, pleading with him to find a replacement as quickly as possible, to no avail. This broke my cold, stony heart so I agreed. I'm now up to 20 hours of teaching a week, plus all the random tutoring I do outside of the school. I stand by my statement that I don't care if a single person can speak English because of me when I leave, but teaching passes the time and helps me sleep at night, so I'll do what I'm asked. The principal assured me there would be a new teacher as soon as next week, but after a year of flying solo, I'm not holding my breath.

As I said recently, one of my anti-depressants is to learn how to cook at least a few impressive meals before I leave. While it's sadly plausible that I will have taught nothing to anybody here in 2 years, I'm still determined to learn a thing or two myself. It's better than nothing, and I know what 'nothing' looks like; imagine my feeling of wasted time when correcting 140 exams on Monday and Tuesday on material considerably dumbed down and reviewed 5 times, only to see 4 students get grades above 50%.

Anyway, I've embarked on a culinary adventure with several different contingencies/pathways in case of total failure. First on the list was 'how to make stir-fry anything,' with corollary question 'A': what is stir-fry? Sure, I'll admit I should probably know this, and I'm sure I've eaten it before, but I couldn't put a definition to it. When you think about it, though, this makes my job of making it that much easier. How can I fail when anything I make could be correct? Either way, I followed the directions I found online, cutting, peeling, stirring, and frying the combination of a chicken bouillon cube, ginger, soy sauce, carrots, green beens, and peanuts. Ginger, I found it, is that disgusting-looking grey blob that everyone here sells. I had always thought it was some sort of mutant fish. Well color me surprised. Rating: delicious. If we had any of the ingredients, I'd learn to make chicken and broccoli like a real fake American Chinese restaurant (R.I.P. Canton Island in Wakefield, Rhode Island. You'll always be in our hearts). I might even buy a wok, if I learn just what it looks like.

Meal 2: a better omelette. All of my prior attempts at omelettes have been failures, but how often in life does one find themselves in a situation where "failure" is, in actuality, "scrambled eggs?" Not very often, and we'd all be better off if more things in life had such a fall-out plan. But, I researched the internet for different methods, found where I had been going wrong, and experimented with new ingredients, including onions, potatoes, and green peppers. After two tries, rating: awesome. I don't have it down to a science yet, but just give me time. (I'm just kidding. Please, for the love of god, don't give me any more time). These went from being a satisfying meal, if served with some sort of side dish/dessert, to barely-able-to-eat-it-all lunch. Success!

Finally, I learned that the little cans of tomato paste that are sold in almost every store here actually have some use beyond forming the tripod in my Peace Corps oven. (The oven is an iron pot, sand, and three of these empty cans holding up the baking dish... never mind). I've never quite understood what tomato paste was, but apparently, if you add water and some herbs and spices, you get a decent pasta sauce! (I bought oregano and basil. Whether these are spices or herbs, I refuse to learn. That's simply a commitment I'm not ready to make). Now, I'm not the most observant person in the world, so when I bought two of these cans there was something I didn't quite notice at first: it's probably prudent to buy a can opener prior to their use. The opening process certainly would have been easier with one of these tools of modernity, but if you're in a bind it seems that sawing, stabbing, bludgeoning, and prying with all of one's might works just as well. It being tomato paste, though, redness was one of its primary qualities; this made find the cuts and gashes all over my hands that much harder to find. No one ever said cooking would be easy! Meal rating: not bad. I think I would have enjoyed it had I not been panting from exhaustion trying to open the cans, and enraged at how well-made they were. I think I'll cave in use technology to my advantage next time.

So that's the status of Rock the Wok '08 thus far. On the docket is cous-cous with vegetables and raisins, in case I ever need to flee to North Africa and disguise myself as a chef. I'm just trying to cover all my bases.

I push my luck when I return to site on a Sunday, but because some method of transportation has always come along there hasn't been a reason to change this risky habit. Whether it's a taxi-brousse, eighteen-wheeler, pick-up truck, personal 4x4, or ox cart (OK, so I haven't gone by ox cart yet, but I wouldn't turn it down), I've managed to traverse all of the 20 miles between Fianarantsoa and my site despite the long hours waiting or bizarre adventures it requires.

Yesterday, though, was certainly the longest and most bizarre of them all. Arriving at the taxi-brousse station around 11AM, I was informed that there were no cars going my way. This seems to be a ritual between the people hanging around there and myself, as they never fail to discourage me from taking a seat and opening a book. There are usually more fellow journeymen, journeywomen, and journeyscreamingchildren waiting alongside the shop fronts (closed, though, on Sundays), but the general rule of thumb has been 'if you wait, it will come.' But, "if you need to get there today," they said, "you'd better start walking." I would have considered doing so had I not been carrying a backpack full of food and a tote bag full of books. And so I sat, reading a book, for the first 6 hours of my attempt to get home. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and forsook lunch for fear I'd miss my chance, so as it got darker I started to lose hope. I hadn't left this late before, and now I was the lone passenger. The only car that had passed was a rented 4x4 with 5 screaming tourists that sped by, not noticing something of the anomaly of a white kid sitting alone against a closed store in the middle of nowhere, with a pathetic sort of 'help me' face.

As desperate as I was to get back (I had to teach the next morning at 7AM), I threw in the towel and picked my stuff up to grab a bus back downtown. Miraculously, at the same moment my knight in a shining white metal taxi-brousse flew around the corner. It was Ralita (rah-LEE-tah), resident of my village and among the most respected and reliable people I know. Unfortunately, he was going the wrong way--he had come from my town, not going towards it. "Are you going back home tonight?," I asked. "Well, yes, but not for a while." At this point, a French man stepped out of the car and walked around to where we were talking. "I'm showing him around Fianar and helping with a concert." Sounds good to me! I hopped in, elated that not only do I get to go home, but it's with a trustworthy guy--you might even say friend.

To make a long journey short (if only), the next 6 hours--and yes, it took me 12 full hours to travel 20 miles--saw me traveling back into town, picking people up, dropping people off, meeting more French people and bungling most attempts to use my recently-reconvened-study-of-French with them, skipping dinner, and then going off to a seminary. More specifically, after 9 hours of trying to get home, I was at church. God was clearly angry with me for something and now he had home court advantage. It was here that the concert would be staged, and it was then that I realized that not only was this thing holding up any chance of eating that day and delaying me further, I've seen the damned show before! I don't know if I mentioned it in my blog, but two guys do a whole song and dance for about an hour and a half about why we shouldn't shouldn't practice slash-and-burn farming methods. It's a really neat show, and the two guys are really talented musicians and performers, but, as much as I'd like to slash and burn this country sometimes, I think once is enough to get this message across to me.

More waiting, more French people, more flute playing with costume changes. Around 9:30PM, we packed up the instruments, backdrops, and people and did another tour of the city dropping people off at their hotels. Before leaving, we passed the Peace Corps transit house that I had left what seemed like days ago, and, at last, sped home. Ralita insisted he feed me once we got back to town, but I demurred and protested that while it was true I was hungry, "reraka mandresy noana." Sleepiness beats hunger. Fumbling in the dark to find my keys, and then my door, and then the two locks, I collapsed through the threshold at exactly 11PM, scheduled to begin class in 8 hours. Exhausted, starving, and bumping into the walls, I smiled as I fell onto my awful foam bed, relieved that I made it back in time, still undefeated in my ongoing battles against Sunday transportation.

Something you might not imagine about small villages in developing countries is how incredibly LOUD they can be throughout the day. Coming from the quiet suburbs of Rhode Island, I often have to use earplugs I stole from the plane just to hear myself think for a while. Imagine, if you will, the following sounds all happening at once in a place roughly 2/5ths of a mile long:

Trucks, cars, and motorcycles passing by, often honking for no discernible reason; blacksmiths hammering out farm tools; the sound of people "mitoto"-ing rice to make flour (imagine a giant mortal and pestle that shakes the ground when you pound down in it); at least 2 babies crying at all times; mothers calling children, children calling mothers, children calling children at the other side of town; pigs screaming and wailing at their slaughter, bulls parading down the road, chickens and roosters squawking/cock-a-doodle-doing all day long (don't believe cartoons. Roosters have no affinity to the morning and in fact never shut up), and dogs barking; carpenters building houses and cutting wood; buckets filling with water at the pump; people greeting each other in the street, often as loudly as they can; generators humming, and the music that they play thanks to the power created; radios blaring, and a girl across the street who sings atrociously, offensively, and seemingly intentionally in an off-key falsetto that drives me absolutely nuts, to the same 3 songs. On Sundays, add to this church bells, and people singing hymns (there are two churches within 10 seconds of my house) for at least 5 hours.

Don't even get me started about market day, when 2,000 addition people come to my town to buy and sell goods.

After an exhausting day today, facing every one of my 5 classes, I can't begin to fathom how anyone could possibly choose to spend their life as a K-12 teacher. I just barely had the energy to not collapse in front of my final class after teaching 4 hours in the morning and 4 in the afternoon. And I'm at the "prime of my life" and with a 2-hour break for lunch! This does not bode well for the future.

I feel slightly better about teaching than I did yesterday, though today I got the belated experience of school administration drama and gossip. I was privy to it (whereas before I would likely not hear about it) because this time I was at its center! The story is that after the GRE two weeks ago, Peace Corps was looking for me after a mix-up. They called my friends, they called my supervisors, and searched long and wide with their hands perched on their brows (I assume) but no trace of Adam. Finally, they called Erin who was sitting next to me at the time. At no point--and this is going to sound incredible, but it's true--did they try to call my phone. Good job, gumshoes!

Regardless, when they called the Director of my middle school, she had the gall to tell my boss that I had only taught twice so far this year because that's all she had personally observed me doing. She failed to mention that she spends 90% of her time in a different city. This led my boss to e-mail me, once they had found me, that he "questioned my commitment" to serving, as if not leaving after 1 1/2 years isn't evidence enough. I found it fairly insulting, and told him so via email.

Furious at this blatant lie, and happening to catch her at the school on Tuesday, I made a beeline for her office. (School and town officials here are about as difficult to meet with as Major Major Major Major, if you catch the reference). Unfortunately, disabusing her of her false notions proved more difficult than I imagined. As it turns out, it's exceedingly difficult to argue with someone in a language on which you have, at best, a precarious grasp. Imagine trying qrgue with a person based entirely on their body language and tone--as you didn't actually understand what they said. (To ask them to repeat in dumbed-down language is effectively to throw up the white flag).

By the end, with a tactical series of raised index fingers and arched eyebrows (I learned everything I know from Stephen Colbert), I think I won the debate (it's hard to tell), and she agreed to call my boss and set the record straight. At the end of our meeting, she smiled at me and asked: "So, do you think you can teach me English?" I agreed and suggested we set up a schedule in the future, which actually means "no."

A few hours later, I ran into the middle school secretary as she stopped me in the street. "I can't believe what she did! She's so mean, and really doesn't do her job well. You teach here every day and she spends all her time in Fianarantsoa!" (This is a loose translation). While she's going on and on about it, the vice principal of the middle school walked by. I thought 'it's a good thing I wasn't saying anything at the time.' He stopped to greet us and shook our hands. Then, turning to the secretary he said "Did you hear what was said about Adam? What a bitch!"

I've had this sinking feeling lately that I'm headed for 7 1/2 interminable months, crawling, crawling, and finally being dragged to the finish line in July. While I wouldn't call it depression, involuntarily sleeping for 12 hours, and then voluntarily staying in bed for another 2, generally denotes a decline in mental health. I have little interest in teaching anyone English, much less the drones of insolent students I'm forced to stand in front of all day. As some sort of cosmic joke, my hours finally increased by 3 hours at the high school, and will soon have 2 more once the middle school wakes up from their collective stupor and finally sets the schedule in stone.

My ideas so far to change my current downward spiral: learn to actually cook, beyond peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (in the works: stir-fry, pasta sauces, better omelettes), resume baking at site, and starting to exercise. That's about where it ends. There aren't a whole lot of options here. I already read a ton and have resumed studying French and German now that the GRE is over and done with it. If I were to have a good friend here, I think I'd have already met them given how few people are in my town. I realized today, talking to a student, that my mid-sized college campus was about 5x bigger both in terms of physical size and population than my town.

In the meantime, I have more games of solitaire to play, walls to stare at, and the inauguration of my high school to attend next week, about 2 years after it went from a building to a built. Someday I'll live among people again where such a tardy celebration would at least raise an eyebrow.

It seems that every time I come back home to my village after a 2 or 3 week break, they've unveiled some new development project. While I'm home, nothing, consequential happens, but the second I leave, they fix the road, they install solar panels, or have computers donated to the schools (we're up to 16 now).

This time, coming home on quite a high from the election news, I noticed two differences from when I left (Highlights For Kids trained me well for these things). First, a large part of my fence is now flat on the ground, decidedly not keeping kids and animals out of my backyard. Kesia, a 7-year old girl, said it was Peta, her neighbor. Peta said it was the drunks, and her sister Dianne said it was the wind. I don't particularly care what happened, though I assume it will take a month or two to fix. It's the responsibility of the "community" as it's technically their house which means everyone can sleep soundly at night without worrying about it.

More interestingly is that when I first returned, I saw long wooden poles--tree trunks, shaved down--laying in front of the town hall. I wondered what it was all about, lamented the further destruction of the forests, and walked on. The next day, they were laid along the town road about 30 yards apart, and the day after that they were all tarred black and had holes in the ground next to them. It couldn't be, I thought. This day can't have come so soon and suddenly. After a few days' break, the unthinkable happened: workmen were putting the ELECTRIC POLES in the ground! TONGA NY JIRO! (electricity is coming!)

Despite all those exclamation points, I'm actually not getting too excited. For one, it will likely be a long time before the town can actually use this electricity, as after the wires are installed on the poles [edit: 11/20: this has been accomplished since the writing of this entry] then every house has to have a wire connected to it and sockets put in the walls. People are expecting to be finished around Christmas, leaving me with about 6 months of electricity. Second, the nature of the game here is that we're actually just getting a town generator, and will have electricity, at best, for about 3 house a night. I expect it not to work often, and as soon as one cog in the system breaks down, it will be gone for months. Besides, a candle can at least simulate electricity, whereas I can't pretend I have cell phone service, for example. Can't replace that quite as easily. Hell, I'd take a post office over electricity if I had the choice. Still though, we're moving up in this "forgotten corner of the world."

After the post-GRE celebration at the "American Cookie Shop" bakery on Saturday (the best 50 square feet in Madagascar), fellow PCV Gabriel and I went down to the TV-Madagascar station, tucked away behind the Carlton Hotel, to witness something incredible. Nay, dumbfounding. Something I had only heard of in myths and folklore: kids who actually enjoyed learning and speaking English.

This wasn't just any English class gathering; this was Teen Talk, one of the most popular TV shows in Madagascar. Created by a PCV and a Fulbright scholar who's been in the country for about as long as I have, the show is taped in front of a live audience of students from Antananarivo and is entirely in English. The hosts, Malagasy students themselves, present interviews with guests (our Peace Corps boss was the guest this week, though they have had dance troupes, the American band Ozomatli, and so on), an activity (learning a song, for example), and trivia questions based on that weeks show. There are prizes, callers from home, t-shirts, and a theme song. It's the real deal. In fact, just about any white person who goes on the show (as a guest or audience member) is likely to be recognized all around the island. (You will also be "recognized" if you look even faintly like someone who was).

Before Saturday, I had never seen the show. My town has no electricity, and therefore no televisions. My students, ergo, have also not seen it. This might be for the best, as other PCVs tell me quite often that people will stop them in the street and sing the theme song. So, I had little idea of what to expect when I walked in the studio where an electronic/techno dance troupe was performing and teaching the audience how to dance just the same. They were surprisingly good, and even spoke English. The difference between people in the capital and in the "ambanivohitra" (the sticks, where I live) is incredible. It's honestly like two different peoples.

I was happy to stand in the corner of the room, behind the cameras and sound equipment, but as the taping of the second episode began, I was informed that the theme of the show was "volunteering" and they needed seats filled, preferably by (wouldn't you know it) volunteers. Our fellow PCV directing the show very casually mentioned that we would interviewed, and that's where I started to panic. But, while I was imagining having to sit in front of the audience and answer questions positively and with a smile (I don't think I could have done this), it turned out to be much less threatening. In fact, I didn't do a thing. The host did ask the infinitely more gregarious and camera-friendly Gabe a few questions, though, so, having sat next to him, I will at the very least be on national television. He later threatened to YouTube it.

That weeks guest, as I said, was Peace Corps Madagascar Country Director Steve Wisecarver, who talked about our presence in the country briefly, mentioning that we're celebrating our 15th anniversary in country. I found out that there have been over 600 volunteers in Madagascar, and almost 200,000 around the world since 1961. Also in the audience were some young volunteers from England, who (as I learned) are only here for three months, teaching English in towns near the capital, so I got to feel condescending and superior for a while. Towards the end of the taping, one of them won a Peace Corps 15th Anniversary t-shirt for answering a trivia question meant for the Malagasy kids, so I guess she got the last laugh. The grimace I made as she was given the shirt that I'll be charged 20,000 Ariary for (12 bucks) was probably the last face of mine ever to be shown on TV.

On Wednesday, I came up to Antananarivo for two unpleasant errands: a trip to the dentist, and a face-to-face parley with the enemy, the GRE. The former was uneventful, though it is worth noting that the only Peace Corps-approved oral hygeinist is a missionary, and is accurately called "The Adventist Dentist." It's fun to say. He maintained an impressively long one-sided conversation while I sat there and nodded. But, no cavities!

This morning, on the other hand, wasn't so benign. I shouldn't be too negative, because I think I did just fine on the verbal and analytical sections. They really weren't bad at all, though the absence of 99.9% of the 600+ vocabulary words I've studied for months made me just a little irate. Thus obstreperous, obsequious, and opprobrium didn't make it, though I suppose building one's vocabulary can never be a bad thing. The writing sections, too, posed little problem. The "issue" topic was about governance, and I had quite a bit to say about it. I just pray that the grader is forgiving in regards to my handwriting.

The math section, I'm less confident about. There were a good 5-6 questions on topics that none of the 4 GRE prep books even begun to discuss, and I just couldn't seem to finish either part in time. I think the scores are going to rule out one or two schools, as they're more economics-oriented. What does the area of a circle inscribed in a square inscribed in a circle have to do with trade policy? I'm not totally sure, but the GRE must have my best interests in mind so I'll just trust that it's in infallible test of my intelligence and ability to succeed in my chosen field.

Either way, it's over and I have my life back. As I said to my friend afterwards, I feel like Inigo Montoya at the end of the Princess Bride. Now that the test is over (revenge of a father's murder, in his case), I don't know what to do with myself. Once I go back to site, it's back to studying French and German and slowly getting better at guitar. I have a small library of books to attack, as well, hoping to break the 150, or possibly 175, books-read mark before I leave in June/July.

Now, I travel back down Route Nationale 7 towards home, though I'm not going back to site until after November 4th. I don't think I'm allowed to express political views on a "Peace Corps" blog, but let's just say he's "mainty" and "tanora." Use this handy Malagasy decoder to find out who I support!

As you may or may not remember, my English-teaching colleague last year stopped teaching around October/November. She became pregnant, and decided to immediately quit and focus on that. Two of the three grades in the high school were thereafter left without a teacher, and stayed that way right up until the end of the year in June. (To address a question you might have, I considered taking these classes over, but ultimately decided I shouldn't give them a reason to not hurriedly find a replacement. Of course, the joke was on me as I should never have expected them to hurriedly do anything.)

But surely, after 9 months of having no English teacher, plus 3 months of summer vacation, they would have found someone to take over. In fact, back in December I found someone for them. His name is Solofo (pronounced Soo-loo-foo), and he sells pineapple and papaya juice in a travelling market that comes through my town on Thursday. Solofo is not only fluent in English and French, but is learned in all sorts of subjects. We talk about the US elections, world history and current affairs, all while he whistles songs by the Beatles.

Furthermore, 10 yards away from him in the market, selling raw sugar, chunks of grease, and strips of colored rope, is a man who goes by Glady. (This isn't his real name, but means something like "fat guy." Solofo doesn't know his real name). Glady received his high school diploma, went to the university in the capital to study English, and when he finished, went to graduate school to do the same. Why does he sell grease, sitting on an empty oil jug? Why doesn't he teach English, or even use English? "Because I make four times as much money doing this!" Solofo nods his head and confirmed. "Teachers make about 500,000 Ariary per month. He makes over 2 million. You should see his house!" Well I can't argue with that. "Now," Solofo added, "he only uses English when he's drunk and cursing." Can't argue with that coping method, either.

Solofo is, however, willing to take the pay cut and teach, for the love of the language. As I said, I brought him to my principal in December, personally recommending him for the job. Problem solved, right? What actually happened was that Solofo petitioned him for the position for months, never hearing back. Sometime this summer, it was made known that it had been filled. "It's OK. Maybe next time." But who is my new colleague? The person for whom I've been waiting for almost a year? Well, I "met" her at the teachers' meeting on September 15th, where she studiously avoided me for the entire afternoon. Since then, she hasn't shown her face in my town. We're over a month into school, and the 100+ kids I taught last year who are now in her class, have yet to study English this year. Solofo says he's seen it before. "She won't come back." To repeat from my last entry, why am I here? Is anything I'm doing even remotely worthwhile?

The end of the work week usually brings good feelings, but not when you've only worked for 2 hours and it's Tuesday morning. 7AM Monday found me turning the corner to my school to face my high school, chalk and lesson plan in hand, alone but for the secretary. Classrooms were closed, flag was down, and I thought, "tell me, secretary lady, why am I not in bed right now?" I asked her as much, and was informed that all the students and teachers were in Fianarantsoa at a training, until Thursday. "But I'm a teacher." "Well, I forgot to tell you." One deep sigh, one tongue bitten, I pivoted and cursed her and everyone I work with the entire walk home. So I wouldn't be teaching 2nde this week, but at least I'd still have 4 hours with 4eme the next day. Not the 6 that I should have, because one month isn't enough time to sort out the schedule enough to give me a slot for my 1-hour class with each section, but I'll take what I can get.

So, 7:30AM on Tuesday and about 2/3rds of my class was present. A majority is a majority, so I began the lesson for anyone who chose to learn (or at least show up). Today's lesson is family vocabulary, which they should have down pat by now, considering this is the third year they will have been taught these words. After going over the words themselves, I tried to present the information differently, and went through my own family tree, labeling each relation as father, mother, sister, brother, and so on. I left out half/step-families because a) I don't know how to explain this, and b) I don't know how to draw this on a family tree. (Sorry, Michael/Nathan). In it's original form, my family is impressively symmetrical; two children, two parents with one sibling each, who are then married with two children (cousins). All, of course, with the two sets of grandparents above.

The real exercise here was to then have them draw their own family tree and use the vocabulary. Most students, naturally, drew my family until I intervened and assured them that their grandparents were not Philip and Marion. Despite my example, the kids insisted on starting from the top-left corner of the tree and working downwards, creating all sorts of chaos, but by the 2nd or 3rd a handful of them were getting the hang of it. I sometimes wonder if they do this intentionally to drive me insane. But, as I walking through the aisles, picking my battles, I noticed a pattern in many of their notebooks: large portions of the "tree," otherwise done corrently, were left off. I'd ask, "well, what is your father's name? what is your mother's sister's name?" "I don't know," they told me. They were laughing, so I laughed nervously too and scurried away. I didn't want to ask questions; it wasn't necessary for the exercise.

One student worried me, though. He's a repeat from last year left a distinct impression on my mind. This boy, Caliste, is 17 years old but looks about 7 or 8 on a good day. He spent most of my class last year trying to desperately stay awake--usually failing. His paper had his own name, and nothing else. "What is your father's name?" "I don't have one." "What is your mother's name?" "I don't have one." "Grandparents?" "Nope." Not wishing to scar the kid any more than I already had, I said "OK, good work!" and tried to move the class along.

Towards the end of class, the middle school secretary took me aside and informed me that I wouldn't have the second section at 9:30AM so that they could attend a dance party. I didn't bother protesting, forseeing its futility, and acceded. And so ended the school week for yours truly, wondering why I ever came here, and why I've stayed so long.

Although I've heard of other PCVs walking out on their English classes out of frustration, I had not had the pleasure. If a class is being particularly intractable on a certain day, I generally will sit at my desk (table) and wait it out, sometimes with a book. I like reading, they like not-learning; everyone wins. They'll be tested on the material regardless. However, I said "had not," above, implying that I did so recently, though this isn't entirely true. Today, I walked out on the weekly session in masochism known as English Club.

Planning on starting around 2PM, I walked over to the high school a few minutes early. Instead of the barren, lifeless campus I generally find at this time (schools here don't hold classes on Wednesday afternoons as a rule), I saw hundreds of jabbering students, supposed to be cleaning the school grounds. It's something they do from time to time. Give enough children some brooms and pails, and a few hours later the site will look marginally less covered in dirt.

Usually, English Club is held for those "in the know." If the general population is aware that its going on, you'll find yourself with a majority of kids who have nothing better to do than heckle the white guy and no intention of practicing their English. As soon as I saw hundreds of students (or rather, as soon as they saw me walk up to the school) I knew what was going to happen. They needed a way out of sweeping, and what could be a more legitimate excuse than extracurricular learning? I should have turned around, and almost did, but thought of a plan. Against my better judgement, I ordered two of my good students to round up the usual suspects and tell no one else.

Naturally, this failed miserably and the room quickly filled up with riffraff and slackers, who found an excuse and a seat all in one bargain. I started (again, against my better judgement) with an activity that I've done before with English Club: deciphering English proverbs. Malagasy culture, itself, has hundreds of their own "ohabolana" so one would think the concept would translate pretty easily. In fact, I began by going over some Malagasy proverbs and talking about them. Then, choosing some common English ones, I split them into groups of 5 and told them to figure out the meaning of the literal phrase, and then what the "bigger picture" was. (Despite this being a place where, as I told them, "we USE English, not where I TEACH English," I had to explain 95% in Malagasy).

Of course, it was a disaster. These kids had no interest in English, other cultures, proverbs, or not-harrassing me and they put up the biggest wall between themselves and "getting smarter" they could possibly construct with the available materials. (These materials include screaming "I DON'T UNDERSTAND," "NOT CLEAR," and a mixture of contorted faces with some totally blank stares.) As such, "Don't count your chickens before they hatch," and "Cross your bridges when you come to them," even if they understood the words themselves, were invariably about chickens and bridges. Nothing about decision making, future-planning, or life lessons--just chickens and bridges.

Regardless, I've worked on my temper to the point where I can still smile and work with the groups and elicit a more profound interpretation (OK, I essentially just told them. I'm not that even-headed yet and they aren't that smart yet). I walked out because, less-than-interestingly, they simply would not stop talking. Not when I was helping them, not when they were supposed to be working, not when a student representative from each group explained the meaning of the proverb to other groups (in Malagasy, sadly). I went there on my own free will, under no obligation, and despite the fact that I had been feeling sick all day long, and they chose to be willfully ignorant and rude. I warned them more than a few times of these factors, and added that I had plenty of other things to being doing. They chose to ignore this also, and so I did.

In certain aspects, the people of my town are remarkably consistent--even against all odds. I will always have new children to gawk at me as if I had two heads, each growing their own second head. Students, after five years of studying English, will always sweat and fumble for a response if asked "How are you?" And, certain things that need to get done and information I need to do my job will be perpetually out of my reach.

Case 1: I've now started my 3rd week of school, yet only have half of my schedule. After an influx of students this year beyond capacity, both grade levels (4eme and 2nde) will mitosis-ize themselves from two classes each to three. This means, potentially, that my workload will increase by 150%. Despite the importance of the change to my life, not a single school official will tell me if/when this might take place, and what the schedule might look like if the classes are created.

At present, I just have all the students that would move to the third class in the first two. Desks have 4 kids per bench/desk, and sometimes kids lay a piece of wood between two desks to sit on and go without a surface to write on. (This is a widely practiced tactic on taxi brousses, where seats are created between two rows with a piece of wood). This wouldn't necessarily be a problem--that I don't know about future schedules--mind you. However, because they don't know who is in what class, they won't create a class roster. Without a class roster, I can't give any sort of tests or assigned work. Without any grades, I can't fill out their report card that's already due in 2 weeks. (Not to mention, I'm positive that despite my asking 10 times if/when they do split the classes up, no one will inform me and I'll miss weeks of classes).

Case 2: My library project, almost a year in the making, needs one piece of information to get off the ground and started. I need a 6, possibly 7 digit number that represents the value of the abandoned house we'll potentially rebuild in Ariary, so it can be included in the "community contribution" to the project. With this last puzzle piece in place, a bevy of other information in the budget can be answered. However, because of the rules of hierarchy here, it would be inappropriate for me to go directly to the owner of the house (who lives in Fianarantsoa, not my town) and ask him. It's instead something that the mayor or another "lehibe" (town official) has to do. Well, they aren't, no matter how many times I ask them, ask to set up a meeting, ask them why they weren't at the meeting we set up. It's always an involved, complex matter to get everyone in the same place at the same time, considering there isn't a way to contact anyone while they're in my town. Why is it an insurmountable challenge to get this information? It's been 6 months! I'd be impressed at how consistent they are in their unhelpfulness if I weren't so frustrated to the point of self-inflicted hair loss.

Chapter 2, Week 1 of English teaching has come to a close, and I'm happy to say that I think it went considerably better than last year. With a better understanding of the students capabilities, and lowering my standards to below sea-level, things went smooth and bode well for the upcoming semester. Last year, I tried to begin my 2nde classes with a discussion about the importance of English in Madagascar's and their own future . This year I started by reviewing basic verbs in the present and past tense, and teaching them to raise their hand when they want to answer a question.

As for the younger students, whose behavioral problems last year (generally just incessant talking) became increasingly maddening and sanity-destroying, I walked into my first class walking my professional walk. You might as well have given me a briefcase. This facade was quickly shattered when I stopped short, wondering if I had walked into the wrong room. I recognized about 1/3rd of the students from last year and hesitated at the door, throwing chum to the piranhas that can smell and feed on confusion and opportunity for ridicule--also known as 12 year olds. As it turns out, I was correct, and all of these familiar faces had been held back a year.

To get momentum back in my favor, I began to tease them about having to repeat the grade, using them as an example for the remaining kids. I didn't feel bad because, as far as I can tell, there isn't the same dynamic of an eternal popularity contest that defines the American middle/high school experience. So, I don't think I'm prompting any wrist-cutting or eating disorders. After the introductory spiel was over, I moved onto the second class where a full half of the students were repeats. One was surprising, actually--one of my best students last year. I suppose she just failed some other classes miserably. As for my own role in their overall failure, I think I'm off the hook. Each class here is weighted and the averages are totaled, for the final grade. English, though, is given a "coefficient" of 1, whereas Malagasy, or Science has a coefficient of 4. Basically, my class, in terms of their overall grade, is meaningless.

Meanwhile, speaking of miserable failures, I've officially eulogized, embalmed, and buried that part of my brain responsible for for mathematics. When you've hunched over a GRE study guide, slamming your fists and cursing at the walls over 9th grade algebra, I think it's evident that you're just not going to get that 800 on the Quantitative section. After 5-6 hours of studying per day, I can at least hope for something that doesn't make the admissions committee question my fitness for graduate school, or perhaps even breathing and feeding myself.

Before I left the sweet succor of Antananarivo last week, I found a few games in the Peace Corps transit house--two of my favorites, in fact, Chess and Scrabble. I don't know if it's because I missed it so much or because my family is unable to sustain conversation, but when I was home this summer we must have spent a full 24 hours playing Scrabble. I decided it'd make a decent English-learning tool for some of my more advanced students, so when I saw a travel set with only 3 or 4 missing tiles, I stuffed it into my bag and headed for the exit. Chess, on the other hand, is for my sole enjoyment.

So far, I've taught just one of my students how to play them, and he's learning pretty quickly. I had thought that the logic and forethought involved in playing chess would be toxic to the Malagasy brain, but no aneurysms yet! However, I don't think there's a word (or concept) of "diagonal" in their language, so figuring out the Bishop has been challenging. I'm not sure why I didn't think of teaching someone these games earlier; they're fun and kill so much time. The kid prefers Scrabble to Chess because he says it's easier, but it's only because we weren't keeping score for the practice games. Just wait until I bust out "CRUSTACEANS" or something ridiculous along the 3x words. He'll rue the day he ever sat down to learn the game.

Meanwhile, school starts tomorrow and I seriously haven't given it an iota of thought. Maybe because it's only the first day (here, the teacher is just supposed to to introductions/class rules and let them go) or maybe because I can do this in my sleep at this point, but I've been too preoccupied with my own English vocabulary for the GRE on October 25th to worry about that of my students. Selfish, much? But, I've come to find out that my math capabilities have deteriorated to pathetic, infantile levels. I'm hoping that playing chess will wake my brain up in time for the test, as reading, alone, seems to have allowed my right hemisphere to go to a screen saver or just plain blue screen. Either that, or a year of teaching has led to a mass-suicide of neurons up there. On that note, wish me luck this tomorrow!

While I wait for school to start on Monday, I've been passing the time with hobbies new and old. Some are practical (studying for the GRE), some are productive (working on a grant proposal for that perennial library project of mine), and some are just calculated wastes of time (keeping track of wins/losses playing solitaire--currently a 2:35 ratio).

Today I woke up early to walk down to the middle school and check in with the secretaries, who presumably had my schedule set. I thought this because they told me so themselves, and to come to the school Thursday morning. It was a long shot, but I thought maybe they weren't lying to me. I can't say I was surprised when they told me to come back on Monday, the day classes were slated to begin. Looks like that won't be happening, but there are always more books to read and card games to play to keep busy.

In relatively more interesting news: my lunch. Around 11 I made a trip to the library to donate the 75+ children's books that my friends had so generously given to me. In fact, there are many more still at my house in the States that I'll have sent over sometime this year. On my way home, I noticed that the Meat Man's stand (a slab from a tin roof resting on some wooden pegs) was sporting the ever-elusive meat grinder! I say elusive because it appeared once almost a year ago, whereupon Erin and I made hamburgers. Well, she made them for me. The next day, we wanted some more and returned to the Meat Man. He and his associates, in all seriousness, denied its existence and ever having owned a meat grinder.

So, when I saw the magical mystery machine, I decided to put off my lunch date with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and ordered 1/4 kilo. They took my order, found an appropriate slab of cow (skin and fat still attached), and prepared the grinder. This involved scraping out the pale gray gunk with their fingers, flinging it onto a pile of cow eyeballs and loaded my meat in. The last bits they, again, plied out with their fingers and flung into the plastic bag. What didn't come out ground, they threw onto a tree stump and chopped with their blunt cleaving knife and piled it on top of the rest. I swore to myself I'd never do this again, but I'd at least pay for it and take it back to my house.

Now, I'm not a manly-man, or a handy-man, or a knows-how-basic-things-work-and-should-be-done-that-a-ten-year-old-would-be-embarrassed-not-to-know-man, but I was willing to at least try to make these into edible hamburgers, willing to risk my health for something tasty. I figured I'd recognize what a "finished" burger would look like by sight, but I always had PB+J as a back-up. Long story short, I managed to form two patties without having to touch it (I put plastic bags over my hands) and had a little left over. I cooked them on my frying pan until they were charred, and sat down to a damn good meal. I even had ketchup I irrationally bought 6 months ago and never opened.

When I finished, I figured that if I were going to get sick from the meat, or become host to a two-foot long stomach worm, I had might as well enjoy it, so I went back to the kitchen and used the rest of the meat to form a third. I put the frying pan back on, emptied out the still-bleeding mush, and threw caution to the wind. Parasites never tasted so good.

*[This is the title of a Malagasy-created movie that came out this summer, meaning (as one might assume) "business man"]

In addition to the the Education, Health, and Environment sectors, Peace Corps Madagscar recently created a "Small Enterprise Development" (SED) sector. Their job, from what I gather, is to assist with both personal finance and developing/expanding small businesses. They teach them how to keep better records, balance checkbooks, and so on. Their first group had 5 members, training with the Environment group, but 1 has since left. The remaining four are spending about half their time, though, doing what is called "site development" wherein the sector searches for potential sites for incoming groups.

As it happens, two of these potential sites are near my town, and I was invited (OK, I invited myself) to go with the PCVs and their Program Director to check them out. One of them, but of course, is everyone's favorite Ku Klux Klan parallel universe, Soatanana. This is the town where about half of the population wears all white, including white hats, though for religious reasons. They sing a lot, too. The other, Anjoma-Itsara (meaning Good Friday) is down the road, and home to a number of my students. This was our first stop of the day, where the hypothetical PCV would be working work a bunch of different artisan groups and farmers collectives, trying to find new markets, expand production, and other economic phrases as well. There's also a coffee plantation in the town that requested some assistance. Meetings with the town leaders and representatives of the groups went very well, and the proposed house was nice, so I think their prospects are good.

After a failed attempt at lunch back in my town, we shot over to Soatanana, where the Mpiandry were in the middle of their annual celebration of... themselves. This means they turned the capital-w Weird up to 11, leading a procession of well over 1000 of them through the streets, in an seemingly endless stream of white robes. I wanted to tell them they weren't helping their cause of getting a volunteer, as the Program Director (a Malagasy woman) thought the town was too bizarre for an American to live in for two years. She may be on to something. The meeting, too, was sketchy and disorganized, and didn't go very well. I have my reservations about their chances of getting a volunteer.

The impotant question, obviously, is "What does this mean for me?" Well, if either one of them, or both, gets a PCV then I have friends! Yay! It'll actually be more helpful for my replacement next year, because a SED volunteer wouldn't actually be installed until May. The real benefit to me was to get out of town for a day and hang out with some other PCVs, all of whom said repeatedly how beautiful my area was. I couldn't take credit for creating the mountains, but instead I just smiled and nodded. Still, it'd be nicer with a few friends around.

Following 12 hours in a taxi-brousse, 7000 Ariary stolen, and four breakdowns in a pick-up truck, I hopped out of the back of my ride and walked a triumphant swagger through my town towards home. Immediately, a group of children ran up to me screaming an approximation of my name, wanting to shake my hand. Further down the road, a market lady nudged her friend and pointed at me, asking her "what's his name?" (I count that as a warm welcome). At my house, peaches are beginning to grow on the trees in the front yard, and no one broke into my house or stole my fence for firewood in the entire three months. This, my friends, is the definition of a successful homecoming.

Before I had the chance to unpack, I had to "mivory" (attend a meeting) at the high school, at which all the teachers convened to determine this year's schedule. Naturally, this took four hours to do and employed the advanced technique of drawing a table on the board, handing out chalk, and asking over a dozen adults to run to the board and jostle for their desired position. I chose to stick with the same hours for my 2nde classes, trying to avoid a fate similar to that of Simba's father in the Lion King.

In other news, my school just joined the late 20th century! Not only did we receive money for solar panels last year, but attached to the grant was a promise from the Ministry of Education that when they were installed, they would give us some used computers. Now many months later, after essentially giving up hope, my principal told me at the meeting that we got 10 (ten) (8+2) (5x=50, x=?) computers!!! He also mentioned that we can only five at a time, but we can work that out. I might be giving a computer class on the weekends, if I can figure out how to say "start menu" and "double-click" in Malagasy.

Lastly, we have a new English teacher! She was at the meeting, but studiously avoided talking to me, looking in my general direction, considering introducing herself to her colleague, etc. So, it doesn't look like I'll be making any friends this year, but at least the two final grades in the high school will have an English teacher again. Afterwards, the principal took us all out to a "restaurant" where we had rice, beef, and vegetables, and the staff had a lively conversation. It sounded really funny, if only I understood their language. I smiled accordingly and hoped they weren't talking about me.

When we finished, I sneaked back to my house to unpack and de-cobweb the corners. Flipping my Edward Gorey calendar forward three months felt good, and I stared at it, amazed at how long I've been here. As for now, I'm back in my routine, feeling pretty good about the last nine months. More aware of my surroundings this time around, even the peach trees slamming into my roof all night can't phase me.

During our two years of service, PCVs must submit a "quarterly" report to their bosses describing what they're up to, providing numbers and data, and so on. I put quarterly in quotes because it's more like biannually. I've filled out two so far, and while I noted to myself that the data we were providing was essentially useless and meaningless, I kept it to myself. For the Education sector, they asked things such as "How many classes do you have? How many students in each class? How many are boys/girls?" This does give an indication of how many kids we come in contact with, but says nothing about the quality of our teaching or the effect we have on the kids.

In this way, Peace Corps has been operating with no accountability for all of its government dollars for almost 50 years. The hundreds of hours that PCVs and staff spend sending in and compiling the data, sending it to Washington, D.C. is essentially wasted because it really doesn't say anything about the work we do qualitatively. It seems someone else noticed this loophole, also, and decided to start reviewing the Monitoring/Reporting/Evaluation (MRE) process in Peace Corps, starting with ol' Maddy.

Erin and I, both living in the capital, were thus called upon by our boss to attend a workshop/conference on improving our sector's (Education) "Project Plan," a fancy term for the document that says what we do an how we measure it. To do so, two women from Peace Corps countries in mainland Africa came to teach us about the MRE process and help us improve our project plans. The sessions were sometimes gruesomely boring and filled with jargon, and we often felt like we were in an Mobius strip of red tape and meaningless phrases, though here and there I think we made some progress.

For each of the 4 Goals of the Education sector, there is a general objective and then a few "indicators" that tell how this objective will be measured. The ones we had to revise were almost incomprehensible, impossible to measure, and sometimes had nothing to do with the PCVs. Working with a small group of myself and 3 other Education volunteers, we went through the entire document word by word and came up with a pretty decent document by the end. Plus, Erin and I get to go back to the training site in December and do a little training on it with the new group that just swore in. Free vacation, free food! Although there were some bitter fights over semantics, debates over the existential meaning of the Peace Corps, and insufferable "ice breakers" every hour, it was still pretty cool to get a look at the inner workings of this organization, which is apparently going for a face lift in the near future. Plus, we got to meet a bunch of volunteers we had never run into and be paid in delicious food.

On Thursday, after the workshop came to a close, the Education volunteers were taken back to Tana so we could leave bright and early for the Presidential Palace. The Ministry of Education is unrolling a large transformation of primary and secondary schools, with some ambitious plans including textbooks for every child, fifty thousand new schools, thirty thousand new teachers, lunch programs, and school fee waivers just to name a few. The President held a conference/speech at his palace (a real mansion, not like my pretend one) which had a huge auditorium in back with thousands of people waiting to see him speak. Being the whiteys that we are, we were escorted to the front and center, walking past live music, dancers, wall-sized video screens, and the stage and podium. Sitting three rows back, we were about 50 feet from the man himself, President Marc Ravalomanana. (Take it slowly: "rah-vah-loo-MAH-nah-nah"), dressed in a hideous suit. His speech was in Malagasy so I naturally tuned out and focused on taking pictures to prove that I've seen the most obscure President of any country in the world. His face is the definition of ubiquitous here, though, beaming from 1 in every 4 t-shirts, handbags, and billboards. Every volunteer is dying to get their hands on an official campaign t-shirt. Before I leave, I might buy one off of someone's back in the street if I have no other recourse.

The speeches and presentations weren't much to write home about (but here I am writing home about it, again) and afterwards there was lunch on the adjacent lawn, though the Prez was a no-show. I should mention that Ravalomanana happens to own the largest company in Madagascar (Tiko), making yogurt, ice cream, soft drinks, bottled water, and the like. As such, Tiko sponsored the event and nearly cause a few stampede deaths when they broke open the boxes of ice cream. People quite literally went frantic (I know I did) trying to get a cone, because--hey, free ice cream. Erin may or may not have grabbed one from an important official's hands. All's fair in love and ice cream, folks.

And so ends my summer odyssey, which actually took place in the winter here. Tomorrow I board a taxi brousse back to Fianar and then to my town. I'm naively hoping that in the time that I've been gone, they've got cell phone coverage, electricity, internet, and indoor plumbing. I'll actually just be satisfied if my house wasn't broken into. And even then, I'd be satisfied if they just left me some books and furniture. As per the title of a previous blog (and lyrics of a Smith's song), "there's more to life than books, y'know, but not much more."