The current state of things....

Madagascar is still a bit of a mess. Tourists aren't going, so a HUGE part of their income is simply eliminated (and of course it's the people not the government who suffer because of that). The new President has decided that all schooling must be entirely in French (never mind of the teachers don't speak it well enough to lecture in it, never mind if many students do not speak it and so will not learn anything in class). Rumor has it they just want to make France like them more. This is a step away from the current direction (the goal was to make schooling more and more in Malagasy), which has not pleased people giving Madagascar aid, which means that in addition to generally screwing up the education, the new President's genius plan means that teachers might not get paid. Think about that for a minute. So that's generally what's going on--or what I can gather from miles and miles away. The old President is somewhere in Africa, working with other African leaders, trying to pressure the new government into stop being ridiculous.

As for me, I'm currently working on a campaign for Environment Minnesota, promoting clean energy. And then in September I'll be heading out with the Peace Corps again! I don't know exactly where or when yet, but it'll be francophone Africa and in the business sector instead of education.

In any case, thanks for keeping up with all the things I've been doing. I'm sorry I can't do a more dramatic ending with numerous lists and favorite memories--it's been a little too hard what with that whole evacuation thing, and I'm rather putting off things like that. I hope you enjoyed this little window into another life and that maybe it's taught you a little something. Or that it will at least make you smile a little whenever you see chickens or cockroaches or who knows what.

(the title comes from two students' tests--it was how I knew they cheated, because it had nothing to do with the question so they couldn't have randomly come up with that on their own)

When I visited the States in November, it was a bit too overwhelming to even comment on the differences—I didn’t even know where to begin because it was all rather surreal. But the shock from November has worn off a bit, so I thought I’d give you a list.

Things that have genuinely surprised me here in America. By that I mean things that surprised me so much that I did a double take—things that took a half an hour minimum to think through because it made so little sense to me.

1. How cold the water out of the facet is. I realize that sounds stupid, but I’m very serious. In Madagascar, refrigerated drinks meant not hot drinks—slightly cool, but certainly not cold. But here—when you choose cold water on the facet, it really means cold. I mean ICY. I mean I’ve had iced drinks that are not as cold as that water. How does it do it? Are the pipes refrigerated? I don’t understand.

2. You can’t hear the rain when it rains. No joke, it rained the first day I was back (since then it’s become snow), and I spent a good hour looking outside at the rain, not understanding why I couldn’t HEAR it. If I didn’t SEE the rain pounding on the pavement, I wouldn’t even know it was raining. Now, in Madagascar, school is often canceled because of rain, simply because you cannot hear the teacher—the rain on the tin roof makes too much noise. And at home, I tried listening to Frank Sinatra while it rained for a cozy afternoon—only I couldn’t hear Frank over all that noise. Even with doors and windows shut, it’s loud and clear. (Note: While you want this to be soothing—so you can fall asleep to it—there are often so many roof leaking problems that the sound of rain doesn’t put you to sleep—it makes you stay awake worrying that the rain will start falling on you in bed or fill up your baskets of clothes, leaving you nothing to wear tomorrow.) I was so sad. To be protected from the sound and smell of rain? If temperatures weren’t 20 degrees colder than what I considered cold in Madagascar (isn’t it April?), I’d have opened the window.

3. Mosquito bites. No seriously, where do they come from? It’s been over two weeks since I’ve been in a place where mosquitoes exist at this time of year. I don’t understand. Did they hide in my backpack? And the one on my knee itches so badly it actually HURTS.

4. Shoes. I guess two years of wearing only flip flops has made me forget what shoes feel like. After wearing three different pairs of shoes, I started to wonder if my feet had grown while I was gone, because they all felt so TIGHT. And then I realized that they all fit perfectly. I’m just not used to having something enclose my feet.

5. American Idol. Three hours. Count them. A TV show is capable of having a captive audience for THREE HOURS EVERY SINGLE WEEK. That’s a semi-serious relationship. It’s incredible. I mean, I can’t even judge that—-it’s straight up impressive. They must be so proud. . . .

6. How clean the water is. There’s this filter attached to the kitchen sink—for drinking water, as opposed to other water. And I stood there and compared the water from the regular faucet with the filter water. They look the same to me. Clean and clean. The water you shower with here looks cleaner than the water I filtered and treated before drinking. It’s incredible. No one should die of thirst in America. (I'll be honest, I sometimes drink the water from the bathroom faucet instead--it feels as if it has more substance in it.)

7. How clean your clothes and body can get. It’s like I’m a new me with an entirely new wardrobe. Okay, I DO have an entirely new wardrobe—one that includes sweaters and warm socks. But my old clothes? When I took them out of the drier? OH—-and can I just say, there’s a machine to dry your clothes. First, the machine that WASHES them spins so fast at the end that they’re practically dry when they come out (okay I admit it—-I suck at wringing my clothes before throwing them on the line). Talk about eliminating that whole sun-fading-the-colors problem. Amazing. But to get back to the point. Even my hair. I’m a whole new me. Water pressure is amazing.

8. A reversal of polite things. So in Mahabo, if you had a runny nose (like I did when I got the flu because the temperature got down—DOWN—to 80 in the evenings before I got evacuated), you would close one nostril with a finger, aim into bushes, and shoot that snot out as far as you can (and, let’s admit it, get whatever clung to your nose with your fingers and flick it away as well). Sometimes I would have a handkerchief, and I was totally embarrassed whenever I used it. Like they thought I was some nut for keeping the snot with me. Even worse with kleenex or toilet paper, because now you’re wasting valuable materials as well. Here in Minnesota? Very much the opposite. I get slightly embarrassed just thinking about what would happen if I followed the same social code here. Man. And it's pretty upsetting when you do something because you think you're doing the nice good polite thing only to find people being cranky because their standards and definitions are different. AH.

9. Wounds heal so quickly! No seriously. I think it must have to do with the general cleanliness thing, but I tell you what—-injuries I’ve been nursing for MONTHS have disappeared here so quickly that I forget where they used to be located. It’s incredible. Scar acquisition must be WAY down in America.

10. If you leave a plate or can or anything that’s touched food out—not only for half an hour, but even for multiple days—ants will not appear. I keep waiting for them to make attacks, but it doesn’t happen. In fact, the general lack of bugs thing is kind of bizarre. It’s like if there were suddenly no children in the world. Not that I’m comparing children to bugs, but I’m just saying—an integral part of my life is suddenly gone, and it’s slightly creepy.

Aaaand a bonus number 11. EVERYONE write blogs. And I mean EVERYONE. And their purpose feels very different from mine when I created this one. I mean, I just did this because I figured it’d be easier than e-mailing people updates. I’d just post the updates online, and then you could check at your leisure. But other real live bloggers? That world kind of frightens me and is not at all what I meant to be a part of. Soooo I do not think I will ever do that again. For future adventures, either we’ll have to go back to the e-mail thing, or . . . I don’t know. Whatever. It just . . . doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t even really like saying I have a blog. They’re my updates that’s all. Okay. That’s all I have to say on that.

Also let’s add a number 12. Food is pre-made here. No joke. Like, instead of buying tomatoes, rice, and onions, and doing what you can with it, you buy dishes of things already put together. Instead of saying oh this is a fruit or a vegetable or I don’t know what, you say oh this is . . . greenish and it contains these five things. I find this confusing. Doesn’t this seem complicated to any of you?

So there is my answer to the question of how my return to the States has been. Shocking and . . . shocking. And sad. (I mean, come on—I got evacuated from my HOME.)

All I hope is that you will now think of my every time your hands become frozen because of the ultra cold water in your facets.

So the reason for the delay for all of those posts is (drum roll please): I was evacuated from Madagascar. Right when they thought things were finally calm again, the opposition burst into life. You can check out BBC, but in short, the ex-mayor who wanted to be president (even though he's too young according to the constitution, even though elections aren't for another couple of years--and did I tell you he used to be a deejay?) stormed the presidential palace and who knows what else--and with TANKS--I didn't even know they HAD tanks!--and has now claimed himself as President. He crowned himself and everything (and was pretty mad that the US didn't give its approval--in fact, only France seems to be not so angry about this whole coup thing--even the African Union condemned it). Wow, that came out not as simple as I thought.

The Peace Corps realized it was too much to keep the program open for now so we got a message one night, packed our bags, and headed out the next day. We spent a week in South Africa closing our service, then I flew home (and surprised my parents).

Soo...that's why things have been a little crazy and I haven't had time to update you.

[A final tribute to my students? You can see from the following that me being consolidated in Morondava for 3 weeks and then coming back unsure if I'd actually be back for the rest of my service was as stressful for the students as it was for me. They were discouraged and many simply gave up.]

Two explanations are needed. Language and exams. Ranting and raving will come with both, but trust me—I tell you not so I can complain, but to get the most out of something negative—and in this case that means trying to amuse you.

Language. I miss my first year here. There are many reasons. I was naïve and everything was new. Life was challenging in different ways, sure, but it had the distraction of discovery. It had those moments where you suddenly looked around you and got this strange feeling just thinking about how bizarre your life was. You’d think to yourself how crazy and different it was, and that would somehow make up for those challenges. The second time around, you look around you and it all seems familiar. You can’t have that strange feeling anymore. You find yourself more realistic—which is good in the long run, but still slightly less charming.

I also miss that first year because of my relationship with my students. I was so much closer to them, for many reasons. The newness, the fact that I had more time with them (I buried myself in Mahabo, without these month-long breaks away for summer vacations or political crises). Maybe they were better behaved (I like to think so) or smarter (ditto). If I think hard enough, I’ll remember reality and how that’s all a lie. Equally naughty. Equally lazy. Equally number of moments unhappy with the idea of being a teacher. But there are some differences that made my time with them better. That naïve thing, for one. I would sing and dance for them (literally), whereas I now have less time with them so a minute can’t be wasted on that—and they get too riled up and it ruins the rest of the lesson. So that’s pretty much ended. And I was learning to teach English as they were learning it, and that was exciting. We were both attacking together! Their success would be my success! I now know that no matter WHAT you do—how well you teach—learning a foreign language ALWAYS lies in the hands of the student. Good lesson or bad, if they don’t care to learn, they won’t. You just try to be there for the ones that DO.

Okay, so maybe I’m just being a little melodramatic because it’s been a rough week. But still. One thing that IS different is language.

See, that first year, they expect you not to know any Malagasy. You’re new, after all. And it’s GREAT, because ONE word in Malagasy leaves them stunned. They are so proud! Look at our blonde singing and dancing teacher! She learned how to say easy in Malagasy!

The second year? I’m SURE I’ve explained this to you, but consider this a quick review. It’s as if they forget that you’ve ONLY been there a year. Not that long in the big picture. They seem to believe that because they are used to seeing you, you have been there forever—and since you’ve been there forever, you are fluent in Malagasy. During the SECOND year, they are stunned (in a NEGATIVE way) if you don’t understand one word. Who cares if you understood every other word they said. How can you not know the meaning of some obscure word you’ve had no reason to learn at this point? Students about to graduate, who’ve studied English for almost 7 years and can’t speak a word of it except “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “goodbye” will sit and giggle because you pronounced a word funny or because you don’t have grammar down pact—WHEN YOU’VE ONLY BEEN STUDYING IT FOR A YEAR AND A HALF. And of course by studying I mean speaking it and listening to it and hoping that your brain will somehow learn the subtleties. Not to rant, but you can imagine how frustrating this is. You are no longer a cute dog doing tricks and earning treats. You are silly for not being a complete expert.

And after spending a month in Morondava with other volunteers during consolidation, I have lost a lot of my language (it happens when you stop using it). So when I’m spending a week trying to re-adjust to my life here after a stressful 3 weeks of never knowing each day if I was staying or leaving, it is just too much when I get the “Oh, she does NOT know Malagasy comment” after I have to yell at my students because they are being too naughty. It is downright exhausting. Shame shame shame on them.

That’s part one.

Part two is an explanation of exams. Another thing I’m sure I’ve gone over.

I loved exams in high school. Sure you’d get nervous. But when it came down to it, they were almost like games. Like a quiz show, only you already know all the answers. As long as you paid attention in class, tests weren’t that bad. High school teachers just aren’t that mean.

That being said, I forget how much I hate GIVING exams. I think of exam week with excitement. You take it and you clear the slate and start over afterwards. Plus exams usually come right before a vacation. There’s no new material to learn—just proving that you’ve paid attention this far.

But no. Five minutes into the first exam and I am in agony. They don’t stop complaining that they aren’t ready—that we should delay the test. They want to keep their notebooks on their desks—they try to convince me it’s okay since their notebook is for physics, even though they just heard me tell ten others that I didn’t care—no notebooks means no notebooks. It takes a good 15 to 20 minutes just to get through these preliminaries.

Then the test starts. Note that this does not mean handing out exams. It means me writing the test on the blackboard and them copying it into their notebooks. It takes another 5 to 10 minutes to REALLY start, because I have to keep pausing until they’re silent—something they are very very bad at.

The test finally written, the explanation given, you’d think it’d be okay, right? No no no no no. I spend the rest of the time yelling—and I mean YELLING—at them to be quiet, to quit looking at other people’s tests, stop talking stop talking stop talking. They seem to think exams are group activities. When I’m not yelling, I’m answer questions about the tests. There’s always one question I answer five times because they don’t seem to pay attention when I explain it because someone else asked. There are a couple questions that are legitimate and I’m fine with—no problem, let me help you better understand the test so you can do your best. But the REST of the questions are ridiculous—essentially requests for the answers. If being tested on vocabulary, they’ll ask the meaning of those same words their being tested on. If being tested on the comparative form, they’ll ask me what the comparative form is. They’ll ask for example after example, tell me they never learned it, say it is too hard or confusing or whatever. And all over questions that are EXACTLY the same form as the exercises we did in class. My younger kids understood that if they knew how to do the exercises from the lessons, they could ace the tests—and a handful of them consistently did just that. My older kids seem to think they can argue me into simply giving me the answers.

And THEN I have to take tests from them when they go way past the time limit (and honestly, if you couldn’t figure something out in 2 hours, would you EVER?). I have to listen to EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM tell me how hard the test was, both as they turn the test in and then again every time I see them outside of class.

They fight over their grades (if you talk to friends all the time or skip class and don’t even bother trying to study later, do you really think you’ll magically get anything near a perfect score?). They get upset if I give them a zero because they so obviously cheated. They do not seem to connect their actions with the consequences.

Exam week is exhausting.

And I’ll point out that that doesn’t even include writing and grading those things.

It’s exhausting. And I keep asking myself—and them—why they don’t seem to understand that if they would just sit quietly and take the test it’d be fine—that when they talk and try to cheat all the time I HAVE to be mean—and we ALL hate THAT.

Now, the point of these two little lessons—on language and exams. For the most part, I love my life here. It is a great experience and I am very happy. I appreciate the quality of the way I live and I try to make the most out of it all. And I am grateful that I’m doing exactly what I wanted to be doing—spending a couple years simply helping other people, not worrying about myself, but trying to make things a bit better.

But then there are weeks like this one. They have to happen, and it’s as much a part of my experience here as everything else—and perhaps has an even greater impact on the way I change as a person (it’s the hard times that make us grow, right?). But it’s kind of ironic. I mean, many people tell me how proud they are, what great things I’m doing, and kind things like that that make me sound like a superhero.

But what exactly does it mean to help others? See, in college, it meant spending time with the elderly at a hospice or making someone smile as they order their cup of coffee. It meant using little moments to make someone’s day a little better. And that kind of thing feels good. And then here I am—when my job kind of technically IS to help others—and I’m yelling—I’m babysitting lazy students who don’t give a shit about learning English.

And no, that’s not entirely true. I do have some students who are very smart and disciplined and who can make a difference in their country. It’s just hard to see that sometimes when the majority of your students are nothing like that.

I guess what I’m trying to say—or perhaps what I’m trying to get my mind around or simply accept—is that helping other doesn’t always feel good. In some ways, the more you head in that direction, the more complicated it gets—and the less convinced you are that you actually ARE helping others.

And then you find yourself telling other people what you’re doing—in this case, being a Peace Corps Volunteer—and you kind of cringe, waiting for whatever response it will bring. Because the truth is, it doesn’t completely deserve the glamour many people are ready to give. The truth is, this complicated two-year experience is just another way of chatting with someone as you make them a cup of coffee.

Not to be a gossip or anything, but rumor has it (aka someone told me last night) that the mayor (who wants to be president) is also rich (like the actual president. The REASON why he is rich is because he used to be the presidents son-in-law. Catch that? The mayor’s ex-wife is the president’s daughter. Hello?? Does anyone else find that crazy? It would seem that our little (big) national problem might should be worked out within the family . . . .

(Okay so a couple months later I'm told other versions of this story and it sounds slightly more complicated--but still--the point is, drama is involved.)

Just so you don’t think I only eat bugs out here, I though I’d describe a more normal meal. (Note: the flour bugs got so bad that I had to buy something to sift them out to avoid eating more bugs than flour.) Well, kind of normal in any case.

Yesterday I made what is called ravimbalahazo voanio. It’s kind of like . . . puree leaves with coconut. Cassava leaves to bre exact. So in the market, these are the units you use. You pay either for a pile, the individual object, or by the kilo. That’s for some things. For things like rice and beans, you pay for a kapoaka—which is an empty condensed milk can (so . . . a cup). This is also true for ravimbalahazo. They take the leaves of cassava, grind them up to make a nice puree that resembles (and kind of smells like) the grass you chop up when you mow the lawn. And then for only roanzato (about ten cents) they’ll stuff a kapoaka full of it and put it in a plastic baggy for you. Lunch!

I ended up grating a coconut, making coconut milk with the shavings, and added it to my leaves. Then I cooked both that and rice in my solar oven. It was amazing. It looks rather spinachy, but has more of a grassy taste. Not like I’ve eaten grass. But you get my point. I’m not sure if there’s even any nutritional value in the stuff, but we generally believe—whether rightly so or not—that the greener the thing is, the better it is for you. In which case, I feel like Popeye, cramming tons of vitamins in my body. I could probably beat you up.

Just thought I’d give you a little taste of the meals I eat down here.

Note: For those of you who feel bad, thinking I am starving and eating leaves, please don’t. In addition to more traditional meals, I still end up making myself queso and torillas about twice a week. I can’t help it. I’m addicted. I craved it so much, and when I figured out that I could do it at a reasonable price, instead of satiating me, it only makes me crave it more. Note: For those of you who now think badly of me because of my obsession with queso and tortillas, please don’t. At one point recently I lost 25 pounds (no joke—I was literally underweight and my clothes wouldn’t fit—seriously—skirts fell right off of me, it was concerning to say the least) so I am convinced that any means of getting more dairy (and therefore more fat) into my body is a good—and even necessary—thing.

Not to gross you out or anything—or to make you think I’ve completely lost any standards I once possessed—but I most definitely had a cup of cockroach coffee. No, this is not some Malagasy cultural thing. No, no. What that means is a cockroach was unfortunate enough to make the inside of the upper half of my Italian coffee maker. And I in turn was unfortunate enough not to check. I put the coffee grounds and water into the bottom half, threw it on the stove, balanced on two forks conveniently making the burner small enough to hold it. It wasn’t until I’d poured out all the coffee and looked inside to check (you can tell what is and isn’t important to check for me) and noticed that little body squirming. Actually, I think it just rolled, not squirmed. There’s no way it was still alive. In any case, I figured the dead body was in the pot and the coffee was in my cup. Not touching, right? It’s like a warped time-twisting version of the 10-second rule. All I can say is that I am NOT the type of girl to waste a good cup of coffee.

Besides, some tiny insects (species unknown) were in the flour I used to make tortillas for lunch right before that cup of coffee. THEY didn’t cross any lines because you COOK tortillas, and in MY mind, anything cooked is automatically cleansed of any impurities.

I consider this all an important reminder that I am getting enough protein over here.

On a similar note, there are new cockroaches in town. There are golden, but I do not want to immediately group them with the shower cockroaches, because I don’t know them personally yet. In any case, they apparently had a breeding party in one of my spices. I’m not sure which, since they turned what was left of it black. Who knows, maybe they nested in cinnamon—or was it oregano? The world may never know.

The point is, these little buggers (less of a pun than a reminder of the word’s origins) creep and crawl everywhere. Then again, they’re still babies and thus unnoticeable—and gone if you blow air at them just once. Also, I prefer them to the mouse droppings I often find scattered. Wow, you must think I’m disgusting. But what do you want me to do? I cannot spray my town for all things smaller than my hand.

Officially and for the record, it is unpleasant to spend close to a month in another town because your country’s having a political crisis. Living in a cramped hotel room aside, it means you have to re-settle into your quiet town. Which you already had to do when you first moved here. And again after summer vacation. And yet again after your US trip. And when you only have four more months to go, with two trips to Tana necessary in the middle of all that, you feel a little homeless or lost or something uncomfortable. And it doesn’t help when someone you were close to left the country for good (ah, what to do when service comes to an end—and it’s staggered—not like college graduation—people slowly dropping out of your world).

So now you understand why that cup of cockroach coffee was so necessary. Sometimes a girl needs those little things that make her happy. For me that’s coffee. And no cockroach can mess with that.

Malagasy dance clubs amuse me. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I get irritated at the drunk man (or woman—equally obnoxious) who keeps grabbing me. But there is so much to be amused about. There are so many ways to study dance and all it says about people.

The main dance in my region is called kilalaky. I don’t remember if I’ve described this to you or not, but in case I haven’t, I’ll give you a quick summary.

They say that kilalaky was created because of the cow thieves. There used to be tons on this part of the island, and they say that the dance imitates the way the cow thieves had to walk in order to cover up their tracks. I’m not sure if this would work or not (drag marks or footprints—don’t they both equal cow thieves?), but I like the idea of it.

So the basics. Think follow the leader, but to a beat. Seriously. One person goes first, and they choose the basic moves, and everyone follows them. And you do this in a circle. Or if there are two different leaders, their two lines kind of twist around each other. You always want to get in near the beginning of the line, because by the time you round to the end of the line, people can’t really see the leader and don’t really care if they’re doing it right and just kind of shuffle in the circle. Because that’s basically what you do. Shuffle. Yes, you move your hands in different ways (though there’s one main way) and yes you can do the legs differently and all that—but essentially it’s this shuffle around in a circle. You know this—that the rest is just icing—because it deteriorates to that once everyone is drunk or tired or both.

Oh and sometimes women will randomly shake their booties. They tie clothes around to emphasize this. And little girls learn this before they can walk, no joke.

I enjoy this dance. The people are creative, even if you are usually following other people. It’s nice, because you work and think creatively blah blah blah when you’re the leader. But otherwise, you just pay attention and focus on having fun. You don’t need to think about whether or not your move right there is cool—you just copy the others and keep smiling. It’s also nice because EVERY kilalaky song is essentially the SAME and very very long. Which means you don’t have to suddenly adjust to awkward beats. You know what I mean.

But what I love best about the kilalaky is watching it. I’m telling you, it’s a character study. You can figure things out about people based on how they dance kilalaky. I’ll give you an example.

We were at this club once. I mean, it was pretty awful—hardly any women there, except for what I think were prostitutes, who then left because they were getting in fights (weird). It was mostly this boys being ridiculous and thinking they’re cool. You know. Typical. At one point, these two guys thought they were so cool. Each put their foot on the other’s shoulder (picture it) and they kind of hopped in a circle, with all their friends rooting, as if they just invented the moon walk. It was incredible.

So then kilalaky started. For the longest time, this one guy played leader. He was muscular, and wore an itty bitty shirt to emphasize this fact. He danced well, but his moves were rather jerky and it was clear that he KNEW he danced well—and probably practiced a lot and generally thought too much about it—and was constantly paying attention to whether or not others were watching. Whatever. This guy started amusing me, however, once he let this girl take over leader. Now, since so many of the moves are centered around your core, as you follow the person in front of you, you are often staring at their butt. I mean, how else will you notice if they change the footwork or the hands, right? Well, this tight t-shirter was clearly thrilled that he got to—was SUPPOSED to—stare at this girls butt for a good 8 minutes (long songs, remember?). He had the BIGGEST grin on his face and never lost eye contact with those back pockets.

The girl, on the other hand, thought she was really being respected as a leader, and would sometimes turn to check and see if he was following her lead. Worry of mutiny, I guess. You don’t want to turn to realize you’re flying solo.

In a kilalaky line you will always find those two things. One person who thinks he is an all-star (justified or not—it’s the fact that he thinks he should be on MTV that counts). One person has to check and make sure others aren’t getting rebellious.

You will also always find (and this one is my favorite) one guy who quite frankly doesn’t CARE who the leader is. He’s in line, yes, sure sure. But he is jiving and going crazy and doing who knows what. Arms are flying everywhere. Legs are kicking out. His face is lit up as he jams. Dancing to his own tune. This is the fun guy. This is how everyone should dance.

And as I mentioned, near the end you will always find the shufflers. They shuffle their feet forward and move with the line, but they make no effort to elaborate. It may be because they can’t see what the leader wants them to do. It may be because they think they’re too cool to do anything crazy. It may be because they’re too busy flirting with the person before or after them. And it may be because they are simply bored, but are doing kilalaky because that’s just what you DO. The latter usually refers to the guy with both hands in his pockets. Awesome.

Of course, you’ll also have the random drunk planets. I’m referring to the people who aren’t part of lines or anything—they just stand in one place and bob a little, in their own drunken haze. Sometimes they’ll balance a beer bottle on their head (never letting go, so I don’t really count it). Sometimes they’ll throw a little ships across the ocean action into the mix, reaching out and trying to grab others as they pass by. These people will be either extremely amusing or extremely forgettable.

present time:

At the end of that last paragraph I got tired and went to bed, not really finishing any thoughts. But I will say this. I not only have my students dance videos (did I ever tell you about that? About me and my students making educational music videos, using traditional song and dance to teach the community about things like malaria, clean water, AIDS, etc?), I also have the some big hits from Madagascar. We're talking talking a devil and Jesus fighting in a dance video. We're talking midgets. It's out of control and amazing and how I'll remember the music that was in Madagascar. So if you're around and my computer hasn't died by then, I'll show you....

I apologize for not writing anything sooner. I realize some of you may have been wondering.... I'll post the things I'd written earlier but couldn't post because of the lack of internet and then I'll get on to recent developments....

Those two words have ruled my life for the past three weeks.

It seems only natural to me that there would be political problems in Africa. After all, the countries weren’t created based on tribes or history, but simply reflect which lands were claimed by various colonizers. Tribes being split in half? Who cares—France got to one side first, Britain to the other. Two different groups of people competing for power because they’re forced to form one country together? Doesn’t matter—they all speak French, right?

But Madagascar doesn’t count. It’s unique because it’s an island. It was a country before any white person stepped on the soil. Yes, there are different tribes, but they’re all Malagasy. They’re already used to living on the same one island. They used to fight for power, sure—but it made sense that they had to work it out between them. One island equals one country. Right?

Doesn’t matter. Apparently political unrest can hit the fan here too. In short, the mayor of the capital—who looks about 14 years old, fyi (oh, how short the Malagasy people are)—decided that HE wanted to be president. Never mind the fact that he’s not OLD enough (literally—I’m not just joking about how young he looks) to be president. Never mind the fact that elections aren’t for another couple years. And never mind the fact that the current president is quite happy in that position (and possibly trying to read the constitution in a sneaky way so he can be re-elected for a third term). He just declared himself the new president one day. You didn’t realize it was that easy, huh?

The problem with this silly story is that some people are unhappy with the current president (I won’t use names because—as my sister says—they all start with R and contain about 25 letters). That’s what happens when a millionaire (or more?) businessman becomes president. He makes bank while the rest of the people are poor. So then when he buys a new jet with the country’s money, people are bound to get a little upset. They support the opposition simply because it’s the opposition.

The result was that I got sent to Morondava in case I needed to be evacuated from the country in a hurry. Now, this seemed silly to me living in Mahabo. Honestly, this part of the country doesn’t really care either way about what’s going on in the capital. One president’s the same as the other, and what matters most is whether or not it affects the price of rice. So while buildings were burned down in the capital, we simply got annoyed that the national radio got cut off.

Nevertheless, to Morondava I went, where I lived in a tiny hotel room without a kitchen or work for 3 weeks. Painful. Not knowing if I’d said goodbye to my school (in a hurry) for the last time. Not knowing what country I’d be in at the end of the month.

The thing is, we were actually VERY close to being sent to the States. Especially after one weekend where I guess a crowd got shot at. Again, not near me, so whatever.

But what you have to understand is, Malagasy people just aren’t into violence. I mean, yes they watch martial arts movies or whatever. Who’s not into that, right? But that’s just movies. The people do not walk around karate kicking everyone they see. Even the animals here aren’t dangerous. The snakes and spiders aren’t poisonous and there are no large lion-like or even elephant-esque creatures to give you nightmares at night. Go figure. When you live on a chill island, violence doesn’t seem to evolve. We’d get destroyed here if we were suddenly connected to the continent.

And so it is with the people. After a weekend of shooting, the Malagasy people kind of said, “Meh—let’s move on.”

Don’t get me wrong—it isn’t over yet. That darn mayor is still trying to set up a new government and tell the president what’s what. And it’s possible prices will skyrocket. Especially after so many places were looted in all the confusion. And fyi I could very well end up still getting evacuated, who knows.

The good news is we were finally allowed to go home—our Malagasy homes. Of course now everyone wants to know why I left for so long—aren’t I happy in Mahabo? They can’t seem to grasp that I had no choice. I would have much rather had my life and done my job than be held hostage in a hotel room in Morondava. But we can’t always get what we want.

So now you know. Political unrest can happen in the most unlikely of places.

Though I think it was just an excuse to loot warehouses for giant sacks of rice.

I will be haunted forever by cockroaches.

As you know, the bug situation in my home has gotten out of control. It’s many little things, but the main problem is the cockroaches.

I’ve discovered that the shower cockroaches and the bedroom cockroaches are different breeds. It’s more than the habitat. The shower cockroaches are multicolored, both black and gold. They also shed their crunchy external things and are glow-in-the-dark white for a while. They scatter when the light comes on, and therefore leave me alone when I need use of the shower. We have an understanding.

The bedroom cockroaches are straight up black. They are bigger, more rectangular, and they fly. I mean they straight up soar around my room before dive-bombing my mosquito net. I have grown used to hearing their flapping wings, sensing when they land on the mosquito net. I flick them off the net when in bed, because heaven forbid they find a way to enter the mosquito net, giving me a midnight cuddle.

These guys—the bedroom cockroaches—they’re smart. For instance, they know that I don’t want them in my house. They also know that I won’t kill them. When they know I’ve spotted them and they have nowhere to hide, they calmly walk to the door, wait for me to open it, and run outside. They realize this is my coping method—how I convince myself that I’m not in fact letting cockroaches run wild in my bedroom (and therefore kitchen and office and living room). They play the game, and then calmly re-enter my house by way of the slots in the windows. A pretty good deal.

But it was getting ridiculous.

The breaking point was during the cyclone. I had moved my bed, because I wanted to sleep, not swim. The roof got fixed the next day, but I considered waiting until the morning to move the bed. I was hesitant because I seem to be getting bitten by mosquitoes so tiny you can’t actually see them—and in the top ten places you’d rather NOT get bitten, thank you. Especially not when it will leave a welt and an uncontrollable need to scratch.

And then—as I sat there trying to decide if I’d survive a night outside of my mosquito net—I noticed them. Hundreds of miniscule baby cockroaches. Little black flying specks with crunchy shells.

I do not like being taken advantage of. Let me rephrase that. I hate being taken advantage of by cockroaches.

See, they had it all figured out. They toyed with me, letting me think I was dealing with cockroach situation in a humane way. Patronizing me and my silly notion of appeasement. Meanwhile, they were breeding like rabbits, rewriting their wills, I’m sure, in order to leave MY HOME to their crunchy little descendants.

Not okay.

Something had to be done.

I slept on it, waking up with one thought: I have to start killing the cockroaches.

Now, in your pristine American houses, I’m sure this seems an obvious solution. You are probably asking why I did not do this sooner. Maybe even blaming me and my apathy for all the cockroach sex that has taken place under my roof. But you have to understand—I live in a different world here. A world where you don’t kill spiders because they eat mosquitoes. You try your best to live in harmony with whatever creatures come your way, because it’s clear that this world is as much theirs as yours. Honestly, the only thing I think that has died intentionally (ha) in my house was that giant snake—and I didn’t even do that. And mosquitoes don’t count, those malaria-carrying jerks. So to decide to actively kill as many of one species as I can find . . . . I mean that’s the closest thing to genocide that will ever take place in my little cement house. It was a huge decision.

I spent the day wrestling with the decision—knowing it was a decision that had to be made, but thinking I’d somehow escape its application. I mean, I felt bad enough just SAYING what I was going to do. Couldn’t that be enough?

Early this evening, it was as if the cockroaches had never existed—were nothing more than a figment of my imagination. I liked to believe that they somehow understood my decision, and therefore had packed up and headed out of town in search for a new schmuck.

It was as if they’d sent a farewell gift too—I found my house FILLED (you can’t understand just how serious I am when I say that) with these odd new bugs. Little guys with long skinny wings. And the kicker is, they lose the wings and become itty bitty worm things. And then a lizard ate a bunch of them. I went from having swarms of them surrounding every source of light (um . . . two) to having a carpet of those wings on the floor. I don’t want to know where the slugs went. I’m afraid of what the answer might be. It was as if the cockroaches were trying to tell me I was lucky—that there are worse bugs to have as roommates.

But I was not so fortunate. Apparently the cockroaches and I don’t share brainwaves after all. Or at least, if we do, they decided to call my bluff and show up after dinner anyway.

I braced myself. Quick and easy, I thought. I’ll hit 10 of them and then wipe my hands of this relationship.

A couple things.

First, you do not understand the horror of each THWACK, slapping your tiny world atlas against the creature crawling on the wall—seeing the juice on the book afterwards—sweeping the dead body out the door. (Note: the atlas was chosen for its heavy weight and plastic-coated cover—easy to clean afterwards.)

Second, I seriously underestimated the number of cockroaches living in my house.

My friend Andrew and I once hunted cockroaches. What it entailed was this: I would grab the cockroach in my hands and then run for the nearest exit. He would quickly unbolt and open the door while I flung the thing outside. Again, it was a way of pretending I was dealing with the problem.

Actually killing them—that kind of hunt—is so much worse. You wait for the flutter of their crunchy wings. You grab the atlas. You run for the wall, where you see their dark body against the fake blue sky you once painted. You smack the thing then watch the body fall. You sweep it out of the house. And then repeat more times than you can believe. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. It never ends. You stop counting after 10. You are well aware when you pass 20. After 30 you’re sick of opening the door and decide you’ll sweep them all out in the morning. After another 10 thoroughly thwacked, you sweep them out after all. It’s the last thing you want to step on should you wake up in the middle of the night. And by this point, it’s more a question of how many TIMES you’ll wake up—thinking a cockroach is crawling into any number of orifices.

The worst moment (if you can actually choose one) is when you’re almost certain a cockroach just crawled out of the location where its dead body fell.

Oh no, you think. They come back.

And let’s be honest—the only thing worse than cockroach spirits haunting you would be cockroach spirits haunting you because you KILLED them.

I start to crack. I hear the fluttering everywhere. The thwack makes me jump. I am disgusted by the cockroach juice everywhere. I have to grind the atlas a little to make sure they’re really dead. Grasshoppers are jumping on my face. Seriously, I have bug issues. And while I am reassured when I see more baby cockroaches—yes, I’m doing the right thing, the executions must take place before it’s too late—I am equally appalled by the idea that this evening will repeat itself once these babies are of age. And I have NO idea when that when that will be. I know nothing about cockroaches that I can’t learn by observing in my shower.

I believe the horror is over for the moment. There are cockroach bodies in hard to reach locations, a couple stuck to the wall with own body goo, and I don’t even want to know how many just outside my door where I swept them in a hurry. Every time I think I’ve killed the last of them, another 2 or 3 flutter in the corner and I grab that trusty atlas.

I will call it a night and deal with everything—the bodies, the goo, the crippling sense of guilt—in the morning. Goodness knows I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. I’ll be dreaming of cockroaches.

Time flies when you’re in Mahabo. I’m serious—you need a weekend to get adjusted, and then it’s as if you escape to this timeless place where you simply exist and live your simple life.

So it’s been a few weeks.

The mouse thing is NOT being resolved. The current way of dealing with the problem is by moving things I know he likes. You know, because then he’ll have trouble finding them as he scurries in the night? I’m less than convinced, but it’s the best advice I’ve gotten so far, and it seems to work a bit. I was also told to leave the lights on all night (so thrilled that I actually have lights!). This does NOT work (not that I’ve tried) because I once came back from the shower to find the little bugger (and I mean little) sitting calmly in the well-lit room. He’d found my spaghetti reserve, had pulled the noodles out of the package, and was nibbling away. No joke. So I have to move that stuff around too (I’d already found the bites he’d taken out of my tomatoes). Only this morning I found the relocated spaghetti pulled out and with slightly weathered ends. Oh no he did not. Unhappy. And he’s too small for me to realistically catch him. The only solution I see is a new cat in the neighborhood. Please. . . . I don’t enjoy messing up my house every night simply to confuse a little mouse.

On a minor note, the cockroaches are getting OUT of control. Before they just kind of chilled in the shower. You turned the light on, let them scatter, and took your shower by yourself. But now. They’re trying to migrate into my house. Aka my bedroom, because it IS only ONE room. And they don’t just hide in the corners, as I’m pretty sure they did before. They fly. Yeah, I know—I didn’t realize they could fly either. They fly and are ginormous and way too close to my sleeping area. That’s all.

A couple quick updates: I got new bed things, so now my entire room is coordinated. No I’m serious, it’s incredible. Blue, green, and brown everywhere. It’s so nature. In any case, I’ll try to get some pictures out there. Then you will see just how cozy my home is. And there’s a new volunteer who lives near me. His name is Andrew and he’s cool. I think we’ll end up hanging out a lot while he’s here (well, once a month—but we’ll thoroughly enjoy it!). It’s fun having another white person around—and it’s always lucky when you happen to get along well with them!

It’s funny, because in Minnesota, school didn’t get canceled for ANYTHING. No amount of snow could stop our education. At most, it’d get delayed to give the plows time to do their work. And then at Duke, I definitely got a snow day or two my freshman year. A snow day. Because of an inch of snow.

Well I do not have school today—and possibly won’t for most of the week—because it’s a cyclone day! I guess a lovely cyclone by the name of Fanele will be visiting Morondava this evening (around 5 or 6 I’m told)—coming from the Mozambique Channel. It’s kind of cozy (even if I can’t watch a marathon of movies and random things like last year, since my DVD player got stolen and I do not yet have access to a computer that reads DVDs). And that explains why it was actually kind of chilly this weekend! Well, by chilly I mean low 80s and I had to wear a t-shirt. Regardless, it gave me an excuse to get all the errands done that I didn’t this weekend because I was too busy making Mexican food with my new neighbor Andrew. Note: I was just now interrupted because my Peace Corps doctor in Tana called to check and see how I was being affected by the cyclone—generally trying to be supportive. So hopefully that will reassure any of you slightly concerned about this. Plus, by the time I post this, it’ll be over (ha).

A quick story esque thing for you before I get to my coffee (with Baileys) and studying (for random things I invent to keep myself busy and learning). My English Club students have at least doubled this year, and lots of them are older, and they are very serious. They want to study every single day after school (which I’ve given them), and they’ve chosen days for pronunciation and conversation (the rest are grammar). It’s really cute and I’m hoping they become much better and actually speak English. They once asked me questions for like 45 minutes before class began. Straight up vocab and pronunciation—curiosity I guess you could say. It was great.

But so one week we did little interviews of each other. It was mostly a way to get them talking. Two amusing things that came of it. First, there’s a girl who’s very very good at English and generally smart (the proviseur’s neice, can you tell?)—actually, she’s one of my closest friends here—along with the proviseur and the Catholic priest. She’s 13. But so my proviseur and I discuss ALL the time how we need to guard this girl and keep her away from boys, because her friend got pregnant and if she gets pregnant, her dreams of being a journalist or singer will be destroyed. And it’s risky because she’s very pretty and already almost as tall as me—and she likes playing basketball, but is one of the only girls out there with the boys doing it. In any case, I’m sure I’ve mentioned this.

So this girl was being interviewed, and the questions (and her responses) went something like this (note: each question was asked by a different boy):

Q. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

A. “No.”

Q. “What abide you?” (read: Where do you live?)

A. “Ampasifasy.” (our neighborhood)

Q. “Will you go with me tomorrow?”

A. “No—I learn my lesson and watch the TV at my home.”

Q. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

A. “Because I don’t like the men.”

(to which they got excited, thinking she was saying she was a lesbian—so I calmed them by saying “because boys are naughty” which is unfortunately too true here)

Q. “Why are you so kind?”

A. “I don’t know.”

We’re hoping this will keep her nice and protected for a while. Hopefully she will continue not liking the men for most of her adult life, or at least until she has a job of her own and can’t get tricked into making babies for years and years.

And finally, a couple questions that made me smile. I’ll include their translations.

“You water yet in the bed?”

(translation: “Do you still wet the bed?”)

“You are growing, my lord?”

(translation: “Do you believe in God?”)

Clearly we still have a long way to go. Thank goodness English Club is every day. . . .

POST CYCLONE.

I changed my mind. I forgot what cyclones are like DURING the cyclones. My kabone (already in bad condition) got the roof ripped off and is now at a slant. Part of my house’s roof came off too. Meaning I spent the night NOT sleeping, moving things in the house around to keep them from getting soaked (including myself and my bed). I listened to what sounded like huge waves crashing—only it was rain and it was crashing into my house (I almost wrote my face—ridiculous). It was rather creepy—I honestly didn’t know if my house was going to make it. In any case, while pre-cyclone days are kind of fun, actually cyclones are kind of scary, and post-cyclone days are spent cleaning up the mess. FYI.

Has it only been a week since school has started again? It feels much longer. An eventful first week, I guess—though for no particular reason. And I must point out that I have less than 6 months left here in Mahabo. . . . Over the past week I was filled with varying emotions—trying to re-adjust to life here (it’s such a contrast from my trip to the States and to the time I spent with other vazahas while waiting for school to start again—I came home both relieved to be home and panicking because I was suddenly very isolated and alone and had forgotten what that was like) and trying not to freak out over how little time I have left. I think the isolation panicking is finishing itself off (I needed to get a weekend in at this slow pace to make the transition) and I can honestly say that I think I will be very satisfied when I leave with what I have done here and with my relationship with Mahabo. Our goodbye will come soon, but I can see already that it will be a happy one.

So. Inona no vaovao? Inona no maresaka? There’s a lot of news from this week.

Electricity. I spent a decent amount of time without it, and let me just say—if you are feeling alone and isolated, having a deadly silent, musicless house is about the worst possible thing for you. You are infinitely more aware of how along you are. The lack of light too. Somehow, reading a novel by candlelight—I mean, it sounds slightly romantic—but it can make you feel a little claustrophobic. I finally got the electricity back. I stay up later, listen to music, study—I can actually keep living post-sunset. This is good for an active little girl like me. Without electricity, you tend to go to bed earlier, and I can only sleep SO much. Plus I now have candle wax spilled on my pillow, sheet, and (no joke) mosquito net. Whatever. Point is, my life is both literally and figuratively brighter. Thank goodness.

An amusing note. . . . The last time I dealt with the electric company (Jirama): I was slightly paranoid on malaria pills at the time (remember that? Seems like so long ago . . . ), and an electrician did a small task and then tried to rip me off—so much that I was so shocked I just handed him the money (10 times as much as I’d been thinking). Once he left, I was so upset that someone from my own town—someone I have to deal somewhat frequently—would take advantage of me like that. I went to my proviseur in tears (I tried to hold them back, but on those pills it was impossible). I’m not sure if she understood WHY I was upset (it was the idea of what he did more than the money itself), but she acted on my tears. She ended up meeting with the director—who gave her all of my money back, saying it is NOT okay that the electrician made me cry. Switching to the present times, we had this electricity glitch (I can’t really explain the details), and my neighbors and proviseur didn’t deal with it while I was gone—they said they wanted to wait until I was back so I could visit Jirama with them. I didn’t get this then, but I do now. So I visited the director with my proviseur. And they discussed for about 20 minutes the need for electricity again and its possibility. My proviseur then told me it wasn’t possible, and that I needed to explain to the guy myself that I needed electricity. I didn’t understand why—they’d been discussing that need themselves for 20 minutes already. The thought of no music—the quietness of my house and the darkness of every evening—was so depressing that I held back tears (I didn’t want him to think me a baby, based on his few interactions with me) and told him my house was too quiet (ha—I was so eloquent). He paused and then asked if I’d be sad if I had no electricity. Sad? Well duh. Isn’t that clear? I said yes, and suddenly—BAM—problem solved, I could have my electricity back. 20 minutes, and it turns out, all he cares about if I’d be sad. Had I known, I’d have let the tears flow right when we entered the room. It seems that my electric company is seriously concerned with my happiness. I’m perfectly okay with that.

Other news. I have guests. The first is a mouse. It’s official. He is not going anywhere. And with the neighbors’ cat getting stolen, I think I might have to legit get used to him. In fact, I think he’s been around for a while. I think that all the droppings I’ve attributed to various animals might actually have belonged to this little punk. I don’t know. I’ve never seen the creatures actually taking a dump. I don’t mind his presence so much as the fact that he literally eats my belongings. Not food or things I can replace. He puts holes in actual objects. He tries to eat my toothpaste. I fear my clothes will all be gone one morning. And the worst is that I can now hear him eating at night. Nibbling away, that little bugger. And I’ll go over, shake things around (I never know EXACTLY where he is). He’ll scurry a little, wait patiently. And then he’ll start all over again once I’m back in bed. It’s exhausting. I prefer listening to the rats in the ceiling. They can run around and have a good time all they want. As long as they don’t eat my money.

My other guests are ants. Luckily, I seem to have eliminated that little problem of the giant electrically biting ants in the shower (we have a truce at the very least). But there are other little tiny ants in my house. At first I thought they were just silly—wandering all over my desk instead of attacking the kitchen area where there’s actually—you know—food. Kind of like the cockroach who tried to eat my soap. I don’t get it but whatever. To each his own. And then I discovered. . . . See, I had some little fun size packets of peanut butter M&Ms. Saving them for special occasions I guess—for certain friends or for certain bad days. But I have discovered that ants like peanut butter. You think I’m kidding? They went into the big plastic bag, ate through the fun size wrappers, somehow cracked holes into the candy shells, and mined peanut butter out of my M&Ms. I mean, I understand why they did it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it made me angry. I dealt with the situation by eating the M&Ms this week instead of saving them for those special occasions. And I was more than once disappointed when I bit into a hollow M&M. Who cares about that candy shell in any case? Let’s just hope they don’t find the tub of Skippy waiting to be made into peanut butter blossoms. . . .

I spent the week fighting for work. I’m not kidding you. My school has this fear of overworking me, yet I’m happiest when I am overworked. It’s a complicated combination to say the least. I resolved the problem last year by working at the private school as well. This year, I did it by going to the office again and again trying to convince them (without crying—ha—now you think I cry all the time—it was all connected though—imagine suddenly being the only white person when you’re used to being around people who understand you, and add to that being unable to work and do something productive, and then you don’t even get electricity or anything to occupy you at your house—and you can only read so much—it essentially means a lot of time to think about how much you wish you had more friends or something—and a problem you know would be solved if they’d only let you work more). So I spend the week convincing them that if I don’t work more I will feel useless and sit at my house alone too much and that’s not good for anyone. They tried convincing me that it was good to work like 10 hours a week—then I could have ridiculously long weekends in Morondava. I tried convincing them that I’m happier in Mahabo and don’t WANT to go to Morondava. Occasionally, yes—but not enough to justify that kind of schedule. Seriously—10 hoursa week?? I’m a stubborn girl, and I won them over—doubling my hours (so I have the same as the Malagasy teachers) and doing a lesson after school every day for the disciplined kids. So now I have about 10 hours more than Peace Corps says I should have. Much better. I promised them that it was my choice and that I wouldn’t blame them for stressing me out. And they made me promise that if I got tired, I’d just send the kids home—and that if I wanted to leave for the weekend, I’d just cancel a bunch of my classes. Not bad, huh? I think we’re in a good place right now.

I got my old students back! Not all of them, but the older crowd. It’s AMAZING. It’s like old friends, I guess you could say. We used to tease each other and we went through so much—my first year!—together. I love having them again. Plus, it’s neat because they’re so much smarter than my other students! I can speak in English for almost the entire lesson, and they already know lots of vocabulary—and they make sure to ask when they don’t—and they pick up on the lesson so quickly! It reassures me, because it shows that a year of being together really does help them. It helps having an English teacher who actually speaks English—they can ask random questions and have them answered, instead of ONLY learning the lesson. It’s been helpful to see and gives me more hope for my new students and the work I can do with them.

Also, my after school lessons are exciting—so many students are joining in—choosing to do a lesson and exercises every day after school when they’re already tired. And before we start—on Friday they spent 45 minutes asking me vocabulary and pronunciation questions. It was so exciting. I mean, at the end of the week I was EXHAUSTED (I jump around and talk too much and make noises and generally waste tons of energy when I teach)—my day Friday starts at 7am and ends at 7pm (with a break in the middle for lunch and siesta). But that’s a good thing for me. If these students are excited about learning English, I’m equally excited to teach them. Plus, my students are my friends in a way. Ha. My friends are my students, my principal, and a Catholic priest. Basically. It’s slightly ridiculous, but I’m happy, and that’s what matters, right? But you can see why it might have taken some re-adjusting this week.

A couple more things then I’ll let you go. Slash you can stop reading, no one’s forcing you. 1. One of my students is named “Catastrophe.” I think that’s HYSTERICAL. He goes by a different name (they have lots of names—like multiple multiple middle names or something), but I really enjoy that one. 2. My 2nde students (around 9th or 10th grade) are split into two sections. While I taught 2nde I, some of the 2nde II students joined in (I don’t know). It was so funny though, because—whenever someone answered a question wrong, whenever someone didn’t understand—whenever someone needed an example, whenever someone was talking too much—a different voice would mumble loudly, “2nde II . . .” This is what I mean—I have so much fun with my students (okay, it was funnier than it sounds right there—just imagine it spread out during your lesson—it was like a well-timed punch line). I’m really very lucky. In the fall, we had so much to do—the work of a semester in half the time. It was a bit stressful for everyone. But now . . . It’s as if we simply enjoy each others’ company. They pay attention because they are amused. They behave because they know they should and they respect me. And I let them get away with a certain amount of talking because I know we’re all happier that way. Needless to say, spending time with my students was key to easing back into Mahabo life.

Okay. I’ll let you go. A cockroach is flying around and I don’t want him to land in my bed. I’ll just say that it was a rough and rather lonely week, but in the end I’m thrilled to be back in a place where you almost get run down by a herd of goats while walking into your classroom (I knew it! The cockroach just landed on my pillow, that jerk) and where you see students chasing pigs in the streets downtown while you walk to the market. Life is good.

Top Ten Signs You’re Back Home in Mahabo

1. There is nothing to do to the point that an afternoon activity means simply listening to the breeze.

2. A night on the town means a couple of beers and some brochettes with your proviseur and her niece.

3. You go to bed around 9.

4. Everyone you know says “Welcome back! You were gone too long!” and looks very very happy to see you.

5. Random people you don’t know will yell, “Betany!!” when they see you. You don’t know them, but they know you—and they felt your absence.

6. You daily activities include a walk to the market.

7. You don’t have electricity and your bathroom is a bucket you empty and clean after every use.

8. A chicken took a shit in your shower.

9. You are constantly wet, either from showers or sweat.

10. You simply feel at home.

Do you like how I kind of cheated to make it an even ten? Whatever, I could have come up with more but those are off the top of my head.

My favorite thing is going out with my proviseur—speaking only in Malagasy, having legit conversations, seeing how she truly cares about me, knowing how well supported I am in this town.

A cute moment was when one of my students (around 13 years old) told me that she would do yoga alone at her house and she would cry because she missed me.

In other news, one of my younger students (between 12 and 14 years old) got pregnant earlier, I’m not sure if I mentioned. I was crushed. Getting pregnant for girls means they can’t study anymore and essentially become a mother, trying to work by selling little things—the future is pretty slim. And this was a really good student! Getting a girl pregnant for boys means . . . nothing. Don’t even get me started. In any case, I think this student had a miscarriage while I was gone. Or rather, she gave birth and the baby died. But she wasn’t due for a while, so I assume it was more of a miscarriage. She is healthy. I’m not sure, though, if they’ll let her study again after this. We’ll see. For many schools the rule is simply once you’re pregnant you’re out of school for good.

And yet other news: Our school has gotten a new director, and now the middle school and high school are actually separate. And I’ve been put on the high school staff. This means my schedule and students will be changing in January (ha—life is all about flexibility). I’m excited because this means I’ll get SOME of my old students back. Not all, but some.

Also, my proviseur is amazing and somehow got our school like ten legit computers. I feel a little silly, because someone donated an old laptop to me for the school, and I brought it back as a surprise—I hadn’t told her I was going to try to find one. But in comparison it seems so little! It doesn’t matter, though—she looked so touched when I told her about it. She’s already talking about throwing a party for me so the town can thank me for all I’ve done. The thought of this kind of makes me want to cry. All I have to say is the Peace Corps staff really matched us together well. I couldn’t be happier with where I live.

Okay. Enough rambling. I’m just excited to be back (and bored because exams are done and their vacation is about to start). Just thought I’d let you know a bit about it all. . . .

So the conclusions you are to draw from five million updates at once are:

1. I don’t have work this week so I am bored.

2. I now have computer means to write updates in Mahabo—as opposed to writing by hand then typing it up later while paying for the time.

3. I am making up for how much I have neglected you over the last year and a half. Oo, consider this a Christmas present. That’s a good one.

On a similar note, my parents gave me a nice camera (thanks, parents), which means I’m actually going to take pictures now and show them to you. I know I said I would post a bunch during my month in the States, but I’ll be honest—I was full of shit. I hadn’t really taken any myself, and I’m less prone to show you photos other people took (because secretly I think I could have done better). I mean, it’s not entirely my fault—my camera DID stop turning on. Okay, so maybe I only discovered that a couple weeks before I left for the States. Whatever. Point is, you will not see pictures! I’ve already taken one of my neighbor dressed as a pirate, so you know this is gonna be good.

Okay so on to the point of this update. This will be very factual and not at all funny. Be prepared.

As you may have realized, HIV is a big problem here. And early pregnancies are a concern as well. Perhaps more for me than for the girls. They agree with me on HIV—after all, death is death and it kind of sucks when untimely. But children and making them are valued here, so it’s hard to REALLY convince them how bad it is to let a guy pay you for sex at the age of 12. The friends of such girls call them naughty, but that’s about it. Needless to say, it doesn’t make them cry like it does it me.

I’ve done a bit of HIV/AIDS education here. My principal feels passionately about it as well, so she’s very supportive of my efforts—and always wanting me to do even more! This includes basic education and condom demonstrations for both genders (the condoms and wooden penises embarrass the girls and excite the boys, fyi). And then with the girls, I’ll do a lot of talking about values and priorities and general life goals. Essentially, it means helping them realize that they can’t reach many goals if they get knocked up or die from AIDS. It also means empowering them to HAVE dreams and to believe that they can reach them.

Another thing they’re doing here in Madagascar (and the title of this entry) is distributing Aok’aloha cards. They are thick red cards that say “aok’aloha.” Nationally, the idea is to get one to every girl before she leaves her parents’ home. In Mahabo, our goal is to get one to every girl in the middle and high school. Because, let’s be honest, the damage is often done BEFORE they leave home.

The idea of the card is that anytime anyone touches you or says or does something inappropriate or makes you feel uncomfortable—or even anytime you just have something important to say and they’re not listening to you—you bust out your red card and say, “Aok’aloha.” It’s kind of a mix of “stop” and “enough already.” Or however you want to interpret it—the red is what counts.

In any case, so the idea of the card is kind of funny to an American. I mean, can you imagine yourself at a bar, and when that drunk guy grabs you from behind you just whip out that little red card and problem solved. . . . Probably not.

But that’s just it—if your society accepts it, it can become incredibly powerful. It avoids mixed signals and tells someone enough is enough.

It works here. People have seen girls in the market, the street—even the classroom—pulling out their card on someone. They’re very serious about it, and were quite upset when I didn’t have enough after the first distribution (don’t worry—I’ve gotten more since then). I made them practice putting a condom on a wooden penis in order to get it during that first session. They were mortified (which is part of the problem—they are pressured by boys before they’re old enough to discuss these things seriously), but did it in order to get a card.

Not just that. Teachers will come to me asking for cards for their daughters (and I think for themselves, though they might not admit it).

It’s as if this little red card has some magic aura around it. If you have this card, you are protected. Sketchy men and dirty boys beware—I have a red card.

I think it’s amazing. I’ve never found it easier to feel as if I’m somehow protecting my girls—truly empowering. The thing is, with the card, it’s already understood. It needs no explanation. So when they use it, it’s the card, not them. They don’t need to do anything but pull out a card, and it will be understood that what’s happening is not okay.

And that’s pretty special. Because at 12 years old, sometimes a girl just doesn’t have the guts to stand up for herself. Here in Mahabo, a little red card will do it for her.

Nothing should go to waste, right? And you should give people presents they want, right? This is why I ended up going through all of my clothes and bringing back a large suitcase full of it to give to my school. They wanted used clothes—that’s the kind of clothes they usually end up buying since the new stuff is expensive and Chinese (read: bad quality)—and I definitely had it to give.

My principal and I went through the suitcase, deciding what to do.

Tomorrow is proclamation. You see, students here don’t get letter grades. They get a number—a score out of 20. Different classes get different weights (English doesn’t get as much weight as some of the others, sadly—but I’m pretty sure we get more than physical education), and an average is created. Then, during proclamation, every class is listed—in order of score, from the smartest to the . . . underachieving. You do not shoot for an A around here. You shoot for first in class. Based on every subject. And you have this pressure every trimester. And then you shoot for first in class based on all of those trimesters.

Point is, we decided to give a t-shirt to each student who ended up first in class. That’s right. After all your hard work, should you be first in class, you will be rewarded with a shirt from a musical I was in—or a free one that I received at Duke—or a souvenir someone gave me that I never wear. Awesome. I know you wish you were in high school in Mahabo right now.

With the leftover clothing (including all of the non t-shirts), we gave it to the teachers as their souvenir from America. It’s what they asked for, and it’s what they got!

The problem (not really a problem) was that some of it was great stuff and some of it was not so great. And most of it was intended to be worn by women.

No big deal. There are bigger problems here in Madagascar. And I need not remind you of the state of fashion here.

So here’s what we did. We didn’t rank people or draw their names and let them choose what they wanted in order. We didn’t even do the white elephant thing we do every year at my Grandma’s house. No, no. That would be too nice. Then people would actually have a bit of say over what you wear.

Instead, we numbered the clothing. Then we put the numbers in a hat. You drew a number, and whatever item of clothing your number matched, you went home with. It didn’t matter if you went first of last. Everyone had an equal chance at the good and the bad.

The result was hysterical. A young unmarried guy got stuck with a little pink tank top. Ramose got a delicate sky blue top. A sweet older man ended up with a beautiful, flowing skirt—which he promptly put on. And almost all of the women got the boyish t-shirts.

I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this experience. Not only were they incredibly grateful—clothes are expensive and they don’t make much, and they could always use whatever they ended up with for another family member. But they LAUGHED—every time someone had a turn, they laughed so hard at the result that was rarely a good fit. It was beautiful.

And the best part is that now, whenever I walk the streets of my large village in Africa, I will see reminders of my past life. Soccer. Musicals. Plays. International Baccalaureate kickball tournaments. Duke everything. Even jump rope competitions from elementary school (not a joke). My entire life will flash before my eyes as I walk to the market.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still—it’s a pretty cool thing. Different worlds collide.

And let’s face it—now they’ll NEVER forget me. How can me? My name is on their clothes.

You would think that after 18 months on this island, I’d have figured out how to not get burned by the sun that shines brightly every second of the day. You would think. And in a way I have. I’m pretty good about sunscreen. Plus I have a base tan that seems to be handy when I accidentally put myself in the sun more than usual.

But then again, I DID spend a sunless month in the United States. I mean, the snow followed me—Minneapolis, DC, New York, back to Minneapolis. I know I’ve been a long-time supporter of winter and snowflakes and general coldness. But you’d think the weather would have taken into account that—based on the heat I’ve been experiencing for well over a year—a little chilliness would be appreciated. More than that and I’m now a pansy. Sad, I know, but true.

Let’s get to the point. After that month in the States, I walked an hour to a beach (in the sun) then spent hours on the beach to make the walk worth it then walked an hour back home (still in the sun). I tried using sunscreen, but I was doomed from the get-go. I also blame the fact that it was so hot I had to swim often, probably removing all the sunscreen I honestly did put on.

The moral of the story: I ended the day red as a lobster, generating heat for all around me. That’s right—no electricity and no fan, but I DO have my own personal heater, also known as my skin. The shower was freezing by comparison and even a little breeze made me shiver from the comparison. I woke in the morning with slightly swollen eyelids—their way of drawing my attention to the fact that they too got burned.

The red has basically faded. Everyone is a bit confused. First of all, I’m told that I’ve lost weight. My town is more reliable than a scale. They’re more vocal when I gain weight (usually it’s after I’ve lost some), saying things like, “Oh thank goodness! You were looking like a skeleton!” But a couple trusted people (Ramose and my proviseur aka principal—note: yes I realize it is strange that though she is my best friend in Mahabo, I call her my proviseur instead of by her name—I can’t help it—she’s still my boss, even if we do drink beer and go dancing together) will tell me when weight.

So I get back to Mahabo and they say, “You’ve lost weight!” I say that it’s a possibility. They look confused and then add, “Weren’t you in America?” Uh . . . yup. Though in my defense, I’m sure the weight loss occurred after I got back to Africa. So then my proviseur looks at me again and says, “And you’re tan!” She pauses again, confused, then adds, “Was there actually sunshine there?” And this is when I say, “No no—this isn’t tan—this is the aftermath of very very red.”

This story has no point except to say that being sunburned makes you very warm. And afterwards you have to deal not so much with peeling but with the random ridding of patches of dead skin. Lovely. Also don’t lose weight when you go on vacation in America. Or once you get back before people have seen you. Everyone will think you’re crazy.

Returning to Mahabo, I once again dealt with the many creatures who took over while I was out. You may or may not recall an ant tunneling problem I encountered in my shower a while ago. I thought I had finished with them—what with the poison and the dead bodies that followed.

But no. Apparently they only played dead while preparing to take over the world.

I finished cleaning my house and obviously wanted a shower (two hours of sweeping will do that to you). And what did I find in my shower? Approximately 5 million ants swarming around piles of dirt in my shower.

My neighbors tried to help by putting burning paper into the shower. This killed enough of them for me to tip-toe inside and shower. When I finished, I put down more of that poison. Problem solved, right? I’d wait for the dead bodies, sweep them away, and move on.

But as the ants died, other ants came to take the bodies away. I don’t get this. They did it after the burning paper too. Based on what I know about ants, I just assumed they were going to EAT the dead. Waste not, want not.

Side note: I suddenly no longer have electricity. Long story, but it’s Madagascar, it’s not surprising, it’s affecting TONS of people in my town, and my proviseur is in the process of trying to make an exception for me because I’m Peace Corps. But until then, I have no music and no fan.

Without a fan, I was eager to shower before bed, simply to cool off. Without electricity, I made my way to the shower with a candle. (Everything is more exciting when it’s done by candle. So much more mysterious.) I saw a carpet of ant bodies, and assumed the dead had evacuated, like last time. I set the candle down and when to get a broom to dispose of the bodies (aka sweep them down the hole/drain).

But when I return, what do I find? These are not all dead ant bodies. No, no. That would be way too easy. Half of them are dead. And half of them are alive and doing who knows what with the dead. I’m no ant ritual expert, but I’m sure I was interrupting something.

It was night (read: dark) so I figured I’d just shower on our back porch. Like the shower, my back porch is made of cement and thus perfect for showering. There’s no drain, but there is an edge and that works fine by me.

That was the idea.

But the problem, you see, was that my candle—my only source of light in these electricity-less days—was now in the middle of a swarm of dead and living ants. No big deal, right? I’ll just grab the candle and be on my merry way.

Not so fast. You see, the ants invading my shower (in Malagasy, “ladosy” pronounced lah-DOO-see) are not the little ones that find their way into the sugar. They are BIG and FAT ants. And apparently they have teeth.

After being bitten multiple times on the feet and hands (a strange bite—like it hits the nerves or something)—and after catching ants running up my legs—I decided to call in the authorities. My neighbors—Ramose and his wife (their family situation is interesting and a whole nother story). Ramose is Gasy for Sir and while it looks like it might be pronounced rah-MOOSE it’s actually pronounced (in a quick, squished up way) ram-SAY. You can call him rah-MOOSE in your head if you want. I don’t mind.

Back to the story. So I knocked on the neighbors’ door and explained the situation as best I could. Um, the ants? They’re not dead. Well, there are some dead and some not dead. And there’s a lot. And they do that thing that hurts with their mouth on my feet. See?

Right.

Luckily, my neighbors understand me well. They took one look at the ants in my ladosy and gasped. Their idea was the same as mine—just take my shower on the back porch.

Instead of explaining that I was trying to but couldn’t get my candle, I let my neighbor stomp all over the place killing some ants, then grab my candle and give it to me. We shut the ladosy door.

And then I showered and went to bed and lived happily ever after right? I wish.

I set the candle down, started reaching for my shampoo, and suddenly felt another nerve-stinging bite. I looked down. The ants—those big fat bastards—had followed me.

Okay, no big deal. I’m a big girl. I’ll just stomp around a little bit until they’re dead and then I’ll take my shower.

No no no. See, these are special ants. I don’t get them, but I’m telling you, they can sense their dead and they seek them out. So for as many ants as you kill, that many more come to take away the bodies and to bite your toes. Or ankles. Or higher. The more I stomped, the more I was surrounded, the more I anticipated lovely dreams when I finally made it to bed. And I must say—dead and live ants are difficult to tell apart when you can only see by candlelight.

After trying to deal with the situation myself, I finally gave up and did the inevitable?

Ramose? The ants. . . .

He came and saw the situation and the story ends with me taking my candlelit shower in the neighbors’ ladosy—out in the yard, far from the ants.

Needless to say, I did NOT sleep well that night. I listened to the rats that have apparently moved into my roof while a cricket of sorts kept buzzing and slamming into my mosquito net and I dreamt of ants crawling under the door and up my bed, eating me alive.

The end.

Well, I have been back in Madagascar for one week, and it has been a dozy.

For those of you who didn’t know, I received a lovely farewell from Madagascar before I headed to the States—my cell phone was stolen a couple hours before I left for the airport. Just a little sendoff to make sure I came back? Something like that.

And my first day back in Morondava, my DVD player was stolen. Like from inside my friend’s apartment (the only apartment being rented, meaning the place is usually deserted) while I took a shower. I mean, it was a good thing, because my friend had TONS of valuable things everywhere—including the laptop my DVD player was sitting on top of. But it was the ONLY valuable thing I had. That and my stolen cell phone. Thank you, Madagascar—I love you too.

(Note: Okay that’s complete bullshit—it has not so much to do with Madagascar as the fact that people steal stuff no matter where you live, so whatever—it could have happened anywhere.)

It wasn’t well thought through, however. They watch French region movies here. The player will ONLY read American movies. (And yes, this also means that I can’t just get a new player here—because they will only read the French coded movies.) And while it can also play CDs (but not the ones with music videos that come along with them, which is what they usually use here), the guy failed to take the charger. Meaning the machine is useless to him, and will be even MORE useless to him once the battery dies (soon)—while it was VERY useful to me. Plus let’s not forget the creepy thought that someone was in the apartment. And while a laptop was donated to my school while I was in the US, it does not play DVDs. Not enough memory, or something like that.

My first week got even better, but I’ll only touch on a couple things.

First, I got eaten ALIVE by some kind of bug that left bite marks as big as bee stings or something. They itch like you wouldn’t believe and cover my back like the measles and they haven’t seemed to go away even though it’s been a week. Awesome.

But to add insult to injury, some restaurant snuck a little mango into a sauce (that wasn’t even good). Mango. In my body. If this does not make you cringe with horror, please go back to a certain entry about a year ago, and you’ll quickly understand. Luckily I didn’t eat much of it (the shrimp were kind of sitting on a swirl of sauce for decoration, as opposed to being soaked in it), so it’s not as bad as it could be. Nevertheless, my face is swollen and itchy. My arms and fingers are itchy. Slightly (okay a lot more than that) miserable and unable to sleep from it at times. And rather than hibernating my way through it, I had to spend two and a half full days without a break with people (it happened in the middle) when all I wanted to do was sleep and wake up when it’s all over. Ha.

All I’m saying, I’m prepared for a cyclone to be a part of the welcome committee. Or maybe I’ll be let off the hook and I now just have to wait for the mango to get out of my system.

To end on a positive (and somewhat ironic) note . . . Throughout all this, I am currently in the process of trying to get assigned to a second tour with the Peace Corps in a different country. Let’s be honest, the US government was probably behind all this—trying to test my commitment before spending more tax dollars on me.

Okay maybe not.

Moral of the story: It’s hot as hell and good to be back. Where else can such a dramatic week be so . . . undramatic?

There are certain things I do not understand about airplanes. I’m not talking mechanics—how a ginormous hunk of metal flies through the air with movies and food service going on inside. I mean . . . general safety things.

For example, why do the chairs have to be upright during take-off and landing? I mean, I’m slightly biased, considering those two events kind of put me to sleep—and don’t you want your chair leaning back when asleep? But seriously. I don’t get it. Think about it. Even during the most turbulent moments, all you do is kind of rock a little bit. Nothing dramatic. Is it REALLY going to make a difference if your body is at a 100- instead of 90-degree angle? I somehow doubt it.

The same goes for the trays being up. What’s the worst that could happen? The book you set on the tray falls off and lands in your lap? This makes no sense to me.

Seatbelts too. No sense. Are you going to somehow fall out of your chair? Doubtful. Will the plane suddenly thrust forward with such force that you will need a seatbelt? The fact that nothing NEAR that has happened to me makes me think that if such a circumstance WERE to arise, you’d have MUCH more important things to worry about. Am I right? And you KNOW the flight attendants agree. After all, they just kind of walk around and ASK you if you have your seatbelt. I can’t imagine someone having trouble sleeping at night because he lied about his seatbelt.

Why does everything have to be shoved in a compartment or under the seat? Will it really make a difference if it sticks out from under the seat a tiny bit? The only person it hurts is you and your loss of foot space.

Here’s all I can come up with. Flight attendants are kind of like . . . mothers. And they really want you to clean up your room or something. Like they hate the thought of everyone getting off the plane with some chairs leaning back, others not. They want all the trays put away. They don’t want random carry-ons sitting on the floor. But rather than nagging you, they use the power of the plane. They convince us that it is DANGEROUS so that their neat-freak tendencies are excused. And we BUY it. I mean, who wants to be blamed if the airplane suddenly plummets to the ground? Do you really want your last thoughts to be, “Well, I didn’t THINK it’d be a big deal if I tipped my chair back” ? I don’t think so.

As for the fact that the entertainment system quits working long before take-off (to prepare?) making it so you never see the last ten minutes of whatever film you were watching. . . . I have no explanation. It’s just plain mean.

For your entertainment (I hope), I am going to give you some beautiful gems I found in homework assignments and exams.

Let's start with my youngest kids (who have an exam at the end of the year) and their preferences. I'll let the quotes speak for themselves. . . .

"I am with pig."

"I hate to invade."

"I prefer girl to boy."

"I dislike boy."

"I love girl."

"I love pretty girls."

"I like none thing to drink."

"I don't like to eat corn."

"I dislikes wool."

"I like paw paw because it's sweaty."

"I love my girlfriend."

"I love Lucia."

"I love daddy."

"I like drawing pork."

"I love you FLAVIEN."

"I like Bethany."

"I like Miss Betany."

"I dislikes my hard of hearing."

"I prefer beef bird to ox."

"I dislike home my haughty."

"I am fond of humbergers (food)."

"I don't like clothe."

"I likes eate and hate cooking."

"I likes in the M/bo. Dislike or M/va."

"I don't like the child a stuborn."

"diske my fiend."

"God blesse me and you Mrs. English."

Next we'll do high schoolers asking questions.

"How year wold are you? I'm year wold twenty-two."

"Who is your mee heser? Your's mechese is Bethany."

"Whe bethany going in Etat Unis? bethany is going in November 21th."

Same students but with dialogues. How they fill in blanks.

What's up? "Yes, I up."

See you later! "No! I'm late!"

The oldest students on advice, family, daily schedules, and AIDs.

"You clean water by to dead the microbe."

"Every Sunday, I stand 06 o'clock. I go to toilette."

"The cousins does Philip have two many."

"You protect yourself by going to club night."

"No respect husband." (how to get AIDs)

"mother's pregnant on my baby" (how to get AIDs)

"No sexual after marriage." (how to avoid AIDs)

"Nowdays Many people got the problem as them about love. Let us talk about it."

And my favorite. What happens when my young high schoolers try writing their own dialogues. The topic is apologies.

"Please forgive me for liking you."

"Why you eaten my 'goute'?"

"I have forgetter my notebook."

"Please forgive me for arising you."

Anita: Why you broken my heart?

Onitra: I apologize I didn't.

Julien: Please stay with me my love.

Rebecca: I am sorry! but I must to come back at one.

Rebecca: I apologize even if you sad.

Julien: No problem! don't forget I LOVE YOU

Rebecca: Well, let me say to you goodbye.

Julien: It's ok! I am agree.

Rebecca: Please forgive me I want to kiss you.

Julien: GOOD-BYE EVEN IF . . .

Incredible . . .

(as of one month ago)

In my shower, you can find dead ants and cockroach crap all over the ground. I made a trade for the dead ants when I got sick of all the dirt they got everywhere while apparently tunneling for who knows what under the shower. My neighbor poisoned them for me and I swept away the bodies. Too bad it didn't work on the cockroaches . . . Here's the thing. I understand that a person (or bug) has to live and all that jazz. But the shower? I have two problems with this. 1. Why?? It's not as if there's any food there. . . . 2. I'm sorry, but if I get to choose ONE space it my life to actually be clean, it would be the shower. No offense.

In other news, I was woken up last night because a giant snake knocked something off my table. It wasn't until I walked over to pick the thing up that I saw the giant snake. My neighbor came to the rescue again, beating it on the head then flinging it out the door. In my defense, I didn't think he was going to kill it. I'm not this psycho animal killer. It was just too big for me to sneak it into a bucket and remove it from the premises. And the Malagasy and seriously afraid of snakes, so I guess there was only one option in his mind. I don't get the fear--their snakes aren't even poisonous. Oh well. It was 2am and I was in no mood to think about snakes.

Moments ago, I climbed into my hammock only to find a bunch of white powder and some snake shit. Awesome. (You may have noticed that I am becoming a serious rockstar when it comes to identifying poop. A useful skill SOMEWHERE I'm sure.) Meaning, the snake didn't climb into my house at night--it simply climbed out of the hammock at night and dropped onto my desk.

The question IS, did I or didn't I sit in the hammock WITH the snake??

And unfortunately, as I swept the poo out the door, it smooshed, leaving a smear of both shit and blood (? your guess is as good as mine . . .). Yes, I realize I've probably just crossed the border into the land of too much information. Sorry? At least you didn't have to clean it up.

This is all I have to say. I let the sauce simmer in the oven while I made the dough and let it rise. Then I threw the pizza in the oven and it was done in less than an hour. I can leave a soup in it all day, and by the time I get off work, I have a delicious supper, still warm from sitting in there.

My life has become so much fancier.

This is amazing.

Before I start, I just want to say that five minutes ago some little kids looked at a magazine with me. One girl kept saying, "Look! It's Morondava!" and another girl would respond, "No, stupid! That's in another country!" So these kids struggle to remember my name (usually not a problem because it's the same as a fishing village in Morondava--Betania--clearly these kids aren't into fishing--or just don't know their geography). And one of them tried really hard to remember and came up with, "Bastawe!" (pronounced bah-stah-way). Yes, yes. Amazing. I love it.

Now. Malagasy fashion.

On the plateau, I'll be honest--they dress better than I do. I mean, they seriously look more vazaha than me in Tana. Then again, "nice" here usually means its Chinese and, well, not the best quality. Pretty and shiney, but broken oh so easily. Cheap. I mean cheap in quality--but expensive in price. Go figure. You get the point.

Here on the coast, however, we play a different game. Life is easier. Particularly in my region, Menabe--which means . . . "very red" or "big red" or maybe even "extreme red," if you will--ha. But so it's too too hot for those fancy Chinese clothes in my part of town. It's much more practical to wrap a lamba around you.

Note: Lamba = the short name (do you really want the long one?) for about a meter of fabric that is super handy and has multiple uses. They usually have a random picture on them with a random saying in Malagasy.

Lambas are worn at ceremonies. They are worn by everyone at home. And by everyone, I mostly mean women. Others wear them all the time (if you have a job that is more work and less office--so farmers and market merchants versus teachers and postal workers). You can wear them as a dress or a skirt. Our cook in Kirindy Mitea enjoying rocking (no joke) a sports coat with a lamba like a shirt. Seriously. It was amazing. VERY stylish.

You use lambas to attach babies to your back. Lambas are handy for women when you are on a taxibrousse and need to pee. Other uses: Rag. Cushion on head to help you carry things up top. Blanket. Towel. Strainer (particularly when extracting coconut milk). Wall decoration. Cushion cover. Pillow case. Table cloth. Cover to protect from dust. Emergency swimming suit. Curtain. Beach towel. Means to connect two motorcycles when one is broken and needs to be pulled behind the other. You think I'm kidding on that last one? I've seen it. Point is, lambas are amazing and you can use them for any and everything.

Final lamba note: Once, I arrived in Tana and was cold (naturally), so I pulled out a lamba and wrapped up in it to keep warm. A Gasy guy from Tana laughed at me (as he pulled out his fleece) and called me a hick. Apparently I'm kind of country bumpkin on this island. I love the coast.

Back to regular fashion.

The best part of fashion here is that anything (ANYTHING) goes. The bad news being, it may permanently destroy whatever fashion sense I had. . . . Men can wear frilly hats. Women can wear matching skorts and shirts made of out bright plaid. A hat seller walks around wearing a stack of 50 hats on his head. I can walk around barefoot and it's totally fine. Just avoid noon or the sand will burn your feet of, that's all I have to say.

The clothes I brought have pretty much fallen apart or gotten so stretched out that if I want to wear them, I either need to gain 5 million pounds (approximately) or get pregnant. Like 9 months pregnant overnight.

I tried using a seamstress, but I've discovered that my favorite source of clothing is the frippe (pronounced frihp). It's kind of like the Salvation Army. America and Europe sends their old, unwanted clothes our direction. Sellers throw it into piles and you dig around for treasures. Sometimes they'll even put things on hangers. So for a buck or two I can buy and wear the clothes that you got rid of! And I DO! Most of my current wardrobe consists of your rejects!

The clothes go two ways.

1. It's something legit. A tank top from Express, for example. I got a new supply of tank tops in Tamatave and I'm afraid to say they're nicer than the ones I brought with me in the first place. They fall under this category.

2. It is something RIDICULOUS. This is my favorite. They are ridiculous but they WORK. At least in Madagascar, they do. As long as it fits, right? One of my favorites is a white dress with thing horizontal stripes--and (get this) pictures of a woman from the 20s-esque on a bicycle circling the bottom. Another favorite is bright blue and green and just might be leftover from the 70s. And let's not forget the pink and white dress with pictures of women in bikinis saying, "Hello!!! Isn't it wonderful!!" and "I like it so much!!! give it to me and don't worry . . ." Right. Who does that? Seriously--who thought this up?

I have to work a bit from time to time--sewing it tighter so it's smaller, cutting the back open so it's bigger. Remove that bow, cut this dress a little shorter. It's all part of the game.

Frankly, it's the best thing ever. Digging through the piles of clothes is like searching for a costume in your grandparents' attic. And then it's arts and crafts time when you make those tiny adjustments. All for the price of a beer!

That being said . . . . Don't be surprised if I come home wearing your clothes.

Love,

Bastawe

(So FYI I wrote these next blogs earlier this fall, but waited until I was in America--aka the land of free internet--to post them)

After spending the summer with other people, coming home has been a refreshing but difficult adjustment. I guess I forgot how lonely it can be as the only vazaha in a large village! (I tried calling it a small town once and was shot down by our Malagasy Peace Corps doctor who downgraded Mahabo to a large village . . . whatever--not bitter at all.) It didn't help that half my classes weren't able to start this week (aka the first week of classes). LOTS of free time. That and my proviseur (my best friend in Mahabo) is away for the week--aka no bonding / summer catch up time. THere have definitely been moments of near-panic at the sudden quietness and lack of activity in my life! Ah, well. Once again finding the beauty of stillness . . .

Of course, it hasn't been ALL quiet. My older students started this week. They were rather quiet--and are doing HOMEWORK this weekend. This year I have the two grade levels with national exams (to finish middle school and high school), plus another high school grade. I mean, technically I'm not supposed to teach the exam classes--but the only other English teacher retired, so having non-exam focused Peace Corps English classes is better than no English at all, right?

So this means I have ALL new students (okay, exxcept for those who flunked . . . but that doesn't count). Which means I'll have taught over 1000 of the students in town--and all of my middle/high school students except the two youngest years. Crazy, right? But it's STRANGE being in one of the same classrooms with new students . . . And I LOVE running across old students. I count it as a success when they ask me to teach them again. Okay, maybe they just miss watching me sing and dance and make funny noises for them. I still count that as a success. My students really are the sunshine of my life--I guess I just need time to get to the new ones . . . And while yes I agree (Emily) that teachers need a break (I was certainly ready for it in June!), 3 months without my students was SAD--and 3 months without work nearly made me lose my mind! Even if I DID do that whole lemur thing for a huge chunk of that time. Let's face it--one week without work is even pushing it for me. Ah, the price you pay when you're a workaholic living in a large village in Africa . . . I'll be sure to let you know my thoughts on the new students some time . . .

Also on the agenda this week has been enjoying my new hammock. I LOVE LOVE LOVE it. There are these women with sewing machines (and we're not talking electric--you turn these babies with your hand--as you sew) who chill on street corners and sew stuff for you. So I bought fabric and cord and explained what I wanted--and paid this woman a couple bucks to make me a new hammock. It's great! More comfortable AND it matches my house! Did I mention I added more color? I'll try to get you pictures . . .

I ALSO have a new solar oven! Might as well put that sunshine to work, right? I've made refried beans (for the Mexican I crave so often) and herb and onion break--and I'm making pizza and cinnamon swirl bread this weekend. It's wonderful!

One of my younger students from last year has been coming over lately--to watch movies, play games, listen to music, or do Pilates and yoga with me. She prefers yoga when it's just the two of us, as opposed to us and a crowd of giggling girls (and boys trying to watch). I'll often walk to town with her afterwards--an excuse to get out of the house!

Speaking of which, I am currently at a hotely, watching 5 million kids go home (the private schools started sooner than we did). And a crowd is heading to a funeral. It's the older brother of my neighbor. I call him Ramose--aka Sir. He calls me his child. I know they're all going because the women are wearing lambas--just like I knew it was a funeral the first day it started by the wailing and crowds of people. That being said, they deal with death well here. They are more often celebrating ancestors than mourning the dead. And when a stranger learned that my grandfather died recently, his quick response was, "It's okay--that's what old people are SUPPOSED to do." Good point.

There are piles of red dirt in the road. I think they are trying to fix the road--which would be INCREDIBLE. I'll take a picture of it for you--how bad the roads are here. I think we should win a prize or something. . . I swear it makes us badass. Somehow.

I also visited my friends the Catholic fathers (the one in particular is my close friend--I call him--and the others--"Mompera"--which is Gasy for "Mon Pere"--which is French for "My Father"). He's the one I worked for at the private school last year. They are Indian missionaries and speak English with me while giving me coke. The soft drink, not the drug. VERY kind people I'm lucky to have as friends.

Okay. Well, those are some little updates for you. And by little I mean that was way too long, sorry. I'll try to give you something more entertaining later . . . .

In the United States, cars are often viewed as a type of miniature home. You keep them clean, you install music systems, you don’t let just anyone inside. It is your own personal space for when you are on the road.

Here in Madagascar, when you look at car, you do not think of any of that. You don’t even think about who owns it. You think let’s attach as much as possible to this motor to get from one point to another. And trust me—that’s exactly what they do.

A taxibrousse (bush taxi) is my main form of transportation. Take van with 5 rows of seats (including that of the driver). Remove any and all cushioning. Add as many people as can fit (the row behind the driver can fit at least 5 but it’s more fun to aim for 10, having some people sitting where feet should be, facing the others, their legs alternating—I’d draw you a picture if I could). Children under 5 do not count. They just sit on laps. I cannot emphasize this enough—if you see someone on the road, you can (and will) fit them inside. Clown cars are normal cars. Throw luggage and a goat on top of the van. Keep some chickens under the seats (I have gotten my ankles pecked on multiple occasions). At least one person is a puker, vomitting into a little plastic bag and throwing it out the window. The sound and smell will inspire others to the same end. At least one mother will be nursing her baby (or child. . .), at least one person will try to talk to you to the point of irritation, and at least one person will fall asleep on you. Now blast obnoxious music as loud as possible, throw the ricketty van onto either a road that is more potholes than road (don’t forget we took away seat cushions—we’re talking hard metal slamming your butt for extended periods of time) or a road that winds so much EVERYONE will puke. Does that give you an idea?

There are variations, of course. Shorter trips mean you cram more people in (my short trip from Mahabo to Morondava takes at least 2 hours for 45k—my long trip to Tana is over 18 hours). Longer trips mean numbness and lack of sleep. Buses in cities are the same thing but for short distances. Traveling in a camion is the same but much bigger, with no seats.

Now, many tourists cannot handle this (particularly when they’re trying to get to a city that has an airport and they can therefore avoid it). They’ll rent cars to avoid it. But with time you really do change your perspective. You are at point A and need to get to point B—does it really matter if you do so with style?

To help you better understand (and in order to make you think of me as an extreme badass), I will describe a trip I took with two close friends, John and Travis (also volunteers here). Before school started, they visited Morondava and we took a trip to the Tsingy, a fascinating park with strange rock formations and caves (don’t worry, I’ll show you the pictures in November). Normally, people rent 4x4s to do the trip. By 4x4 it takes 5 hours or so to get to Belo, and after that 4 hours to get to Bekopaka, the village with the Tsingy. We planned to do it all via taxibrousse

We lucked out and found a Malagasy driver with a 4x4 on his way to pick up his clients in Belo, so he let us hop in for the first part of the trip. His clients had the same plans as us, head up to Bekopaka Monday, spend Tuesday and Wednesday in the park, then head back to Morondava Thursday (a serious deadline for us, as John had an airplane to catch back to his site). The driver said we could tag along with—if his clients agreed. He told us to stay put in Belo while he picked them up—he’d stop by with them so we could discuss. We waited—and watched as he later drove right by us without an explanation. Yes, I understand that if his hands were tied by his clients there was nothing could do—but I find it more entertaining to pretend he totally screwed us.

We quickly wandered the town, looking for ANYTHING on wheels—we worried that if we didn’t arrive that night, we’d get in trouble with John’s flight. Fortunately, after an hour of searching (quite a goose chase), we found a camion heading to Bekopaka. Along with 70 people and some poultry, we crammed inside on top of the luggage and supplies, and we were off. I was eager to spend some quality time with my knees, which I hugged in my allotted foot of space.

By 4x4, it takes 4 hours. Camions are less graceful, so we counted on more like 6 hours. We asked around, reassured by everyone that we’d arrive at Bekopaka that evening—probably after dark, but who needs light to set up a tent? Reassured by everyone, that is, except a gooky old man who said we’d get there the next morning. Oh, that silly man. His sense of time really is old-fasioned of something. Right??

Aaaand, the winner was the old man. We left at 4.30 Monday afternoon. We arrived 8.30 Tuesday morning. 16 hours. It would have been only 4 had we been in that original 4x4. Instead, we ate supper at miniature tables and chairs, and then broke down, spending hours in the middle of the night watching men who were clearly not mechanics try to hammer a large camion wheel onto something too large—after they’d cleaned off grease with little twigs.

Meanwhile, we were exhausted and freezing (who brings blankets when the sun is cooking you almost as much as the body heat?). Our first solution was 3-way spooning in the dirt road. This didn’t work as well as I seem to remember the Voyage of the Mimi might have suggested in the 6th grade. Finally, women took pity on us and gave us a blanket.

The camion was magically fixed, and we all piled in as the owner yelled, ’’Not yet ! It’s not ready yet !!’’ John, whose tall body did not fit well (leading him to spend the first leg of the trip hanging onto the outside) at one point strapped himself to the top. I think hehad the best seat in the house.

Travis spent a lot of time having his thigh grazed by that old man I mentioned earlier. I was coughed by small children (TB anyone ?). We inhaled the smell countless men drinking the moonshine they make around here. We listened to people puking. Our bare feet rested in some goo I have yet to identify. It was amazing.

In the morning, we got rid of half of the people (uh, it didn’t feel much more spacious). Some guy busted out a radio and blasted music for us. One man hid himeself in a lamba (big piece of fabric) to sleep. The owner stopped the camion, ran to a hill with a gun, and shot some kind of bird. That bird’s neck was then cut over my backpack. And it suddenly became okay to touch my butt. Now, I don’t getting coughed on. That’s life. I was even patient when some guy’s armpit was in my face. But getting groped at 7 in the morning isn’t exactly my cup of tea.

Regardless, we got to the Tsingy, safe and mostly sound. We promptly bathed in the river we were told contained crocodiles (but I guess they let you go if you stayed near the edge?). We ate rice and set off for the Tsingy. I’ll let the pictures speak for me, but we rappelled down a dark hole, walked through the maze of beautiful rocks, and climbed around in caves. Plus we saw a decent amount of lemurs.

At the end of the day we set up our 2-person tent with strings (the poles were missing in Morondava—the tent was actually hovering above the ground between the trees), swam with the crocs again, and prepared to look for a way home in the near future (the camion wouldn’t make our deadline). It must be said that sharing a small tent was one thing last December. Doing it in the heat? At one point the boys started taking over my space from both sides—dirty and hot, and I don’t mean in a sexy way. I ended up sleeping outside, on the beach. Sometimes a girl needs a little space.

Luckily, we found an amazing French couple (from Paris) who let us join them the next day for the other part of the park (we hopped into the back of their truck with no guide, no food, no water,and no shoes for John, since they had been stolen from under our flying tent). They gave me a ride home Thursday (John and Travis don’t speak French, and found an English-speaking couple who took them home). We ZOOMED through the journey that had taken us so long earlier that week, and got near Morondava in time for sunset at the baobabs.

It was a beautiful trip.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer (one of the few professions where you are on the clock literally 24-7), Heaven forbid I have 3 months of vacation like my students. I’m required tohave a summer project. Did I teach special English classes or train English teachers? No no. I believe the 3-month break was created for a reason, and I intended to preserve my sanity. So instead, I played with lemurs.

Okay that’s only half true. Yes, I did get to hold lemurs and all that jazz, but it wasn’t like recess or something. I was an assistant to a researcher from Duke—the amazing Meredith Barrett, whose blog of the summer can be found at lemurhealth.blogspot.com. I could give you a long and legit explanation of what we did and what we were trying to discover, but where’s the fun in that? Besides—you can find that at her website. Random comments and observations are much more fun for me. And hopefull you too.

Before even meeting the girl, I promised to go into the middle of the forest with Meredith with no expectations except a lack of water and some kind of connection to lemurs.

On the camp in the middle of that forest (note: the camp is owned by Becca, an ex-Duke student who now teaches at UT Austin—and she was totally doing research in Madagascar while pregnant—what a rockstar): The Peace Corps apparently prepares you for a lot of things, like extreme heat, isolation, teaching a classroom of 70 preteens, and living in research camps. The bucket shower we were allowed every 3 days was not only an unexpected surprise considering the water conditions, but it reminded me vaguely of Mahabo. Different bucket, same concept. As did the rice and beans we had for EVERY meal. It was as if they were trying to make me feel at home. The bathroom was (sadly) better than mine (quite a statement, considering it was just a hole in the ground). There were 3 vazahas (2 more than me and Mahabo combined). Early to bed, early to rise. The lack of heat you can see and the addition of shade was confusing. It reminded me of something by the name of autumn. So THAT was all fine.

Here’s what was strange. Now . . . I realize some of you are into that whole biological field research stuff, but I have to be honest—I do not have the patience for all the rules and regulations. All must be even and random and big enough but small enough and often enough. And THEN—when all’s said and done—you have to PROVE beyond a DOUBT everything you say. One hint of evidence to the contrary and it’s all out the window. No. Definitely don’t have the patience. Like with Meredith’s project. She’s essentially (ha—sorry for the serious over-simplification—seriously, go check out her blog—she’s even got videos) proving that lemur health is negatively affected by human development (basically). But does she really have to spend time proving that destroying the homes of lemurs is bad for them? Is anyone silly enough to not get that? Why not let her ACT on it, instead of providing evidence to support the statement. In ANY case, so that was all very enlightening and makes me feel oh so much better about my decision to be an English major. Ha. Whatever that’s another story for another time.

But then again, science won me over for the summer, so I shouldn’t talk. It allowed me to stop teaching English for a moment, and start setting out little traps at night with pieces of banana inside which were magically replaced in the morning by mous lemurs. Or rats. Or ants. It all depends. It kind of reminded me of a video game. You go up to the trap and slowly open that closed door. You kind of hold your breath. You try not to jump if you open the door to an ugly (and smelly) rat.

If you’re lucky, you’ll see a groggy mouse lemur—confused and ready for bed (they’re nocturnal—which means big beautiful eyes). And I swear they stretch and yawn—I swear. I think mouse lemurs are a cross between mice and bats. You’ll see what I mean when I post pictures in November. And they’re all so different! We’d open the cage and I’d hold them while Meredith did her thing. Some looked TERRIFIED, making their big eyes even bigger. Others were sleepy and cuddly (those are scientific descriptions). Some opened their mouths and tried on their fierce face—only I’m afraid it was more cute than intimidating. Most wuld squish up their face at some point—usually in an escape attempt. Those pudgy ground bats. . . oh so cute.

So that was fine and dandy. But then we moved from the Morondava area to the East Coast. Hang on let’s make a list, just for kicks. You can get the more structured version of it all from Meredith. I’m less into narration than random reflections in any case.

1. Tamatave is a larger, rainier version of Morondava. I’m just saying . . . a live in the best part of the island, that’s all.

2. The aye-aye is quite possibly the most ridiculous animal I have ever seen. No wonder it is taboo to lots of Malagasy people. Would YOU want to run across that at night? That death face? If ever you have children, make them aye-ayes for Halloween, and they will be the scariest kids on the block.

3. The fossa, on the other hand, is incredibly beautiful. Your kids can be that for. . . prom.

4. Wait. I have to stop writing. All that painting has done a number on every muscle in my right hand. The price we pay for a little color in our lives . . . .I’ll write more tomorrow.

OKAY. My hand is fine now. So, there were several unexpected (okay, I was warned about some of them) differences that came with our change in location. I’ll do it in paragraphs but not lists, because this computer keeps trying to auto-format things for me, and I do NOT appreciate it—if I want to do something I’ll do it—I don’t need a computer telling me what to do. Also the space bar is not so stellar which is rather frustrating to say the least.

We lived in little huts. For the most part this was fine, but there were a few glitches. It rained a lot, and my hut had several holes in the roof. This meant that not only did I chill in rain by day, but I got the outdoor experience by night as well. When rain is allowed inside a small hut, you’ll find that the air is constantly moist. Soggy mornings are less than pleasant,but hey—it’s a change from Mahabo, right?

I did get a new hut, but lived in fear of fleas, as the person living there before me was an animal lover and let dogs sleep in her hut. Fortunately I turned out fine.

We would often do around 10k (the one day I kept track) of hiking into the forest and then back again (occasionally twice a day). Into the forest here meant UP. And up in mud an drain. The result of THIS was something of a rebirth of the trench foot. My feet were so constantly wet that most of my toenails actually separated from my toes. I had to cut them ridiculously short to avoid any possible snagging emergencies.

We also had leeches. They came up your pants (those naughty creatures), forcing me to tuck pants into socks (on the river forging days, I wore socks with sandales solely to avoid leeches), and they’d come down in the rain. One day I had 8—including one on each eyebrow. After you get rid of them, you keep bleeding, and as I tried to clean one shoulder, an arm would smear blood everywhere—to the point where my light blue tank top turned brown.

The commute to the village with the forest where we worked including hours of hiking up the mountain, and multiple river crossings. Add to that the complication that I puked violently for no apparent reason before we left—and once we got up there, we wouldn’t be able to get ahold of medicine if it ended up being anything. Fortunately it turned out fine.

We bought all our food before climbing up the mountain, as we couldn’t get it once up there (unless we paid someone to go down the mountain to get it). Now, I mentioned that we used bananas in the traps. I’m just going to say—bananas kept for 3 weeks start to get FUNKY. But while WE couldn’t stand the smell, the mouse lemurs apparently were into it. We think they were getting tipsy on fermented banana.

So the Malagasy student Meredith was mentoring was analysing poop. An interesting job, I know—thank goodness I was not assigned to poop collection. They created a little shit stove (seriously) in order to try the samples for analysis in the States. This was fine, okay whatever (I can’t tell you how many laughs we got trying to make superheroes out of him and a vet friend who was up there chopping off dog balls—you can get so creative with unusual jobs—we considered making action figures—but get real—we’re not THAT bored). But one day, he decided to put the oven near the kitchen/eating area. The smell is tattooed in my mind . . . it’s like a stew, gone very wrong. I’ll leave it to your imagination. Needless to say, the oven was moved.

Story has it that once someone put a toilet seat over the usual hole in the ground we use as a bathroom. I guess he didn’t want to squat. After a while, however, they noticed foot prints on the toilet seat. I guess the villagers didn’t get it and squatted on TOP of the seat. Awesome.

Shawn and JulieAnn will especially like this. I made a quilt. I guess I needed more work, so I made one out of the chunks of fabric we use called lambas. I’ll post pictures of that too, don’t worry. It’s funny, because in the States you’re so precise about measurements and everything is so exact. I had no ruler, so I simply tore the fabric up with a ‘’this looks about right’’ attitude. I then sewed it by hand in the forest. It’s SHOCKING that it actually worked out alright—especially since it’s a bunch of smallish squares. There are actually 2 quilts. I used 8 lambas, for the colors—but this meant a LOT more fabric than needed for one. In any case, I’ll show you eventually.

One other main thing, and then I think I’ll leave the rest to Meredith. Though I’m pretty sure she’ll mention this. So a nearby village invited us to a ceremony. The family throwing the party had connections to the forest we were doing research in—one of the men used to do work there. But so a family decides to celebrate their ancestors, so they throw a party, in which they buy a bull and kill it. Other families give a little money, and in return get some of the meat. So it’s kind of a good way for the village to have meat from time to time.

But the whole thing was much crazier than that. There was taoka everywhere (their moonshine which is ridiculously strong and some say it is the cause of every town’s crazy person). And there were BUCKETS of betsabetsa everywhere (the lighter wine-esque version)—and little kids would steal cups of it. And then the whole village was all gathered in the center, around the big bull tied up on the floor. And then—all of the sudden—they ran at it with a machete and HACKED at it’s neck. The guy next to me got blood sprayed on him. After the head came off, things got a bit hectic. Men squatted everywhere, chopped up meat into little cubes on giant leaves to later be put in piles to distribute (and the cubes could be anything from some good meat to nothing but skin and hair—no joke—waste not, want not). Little children played with raw meat (and then grabbed my hands). Little dogs thought they were in heaven. We walked in blood. We created our own private bathrooms behind somewhat desserted trees. And then we walked back up the mountain. It was all in all a good party. And the freshest beef you’ll ever eat.

Okay. I’ll leave it at that, throw in a couple other entries, and I promise the next ones won’t be so long coming. Plus pictures in November. And remember to check out Meredith’s website. It’ll give you an even better idea of my summer vacation.

Okay. I got home yesterday (today being the day I write this by hand, not type and post it). I celebrated by cleaning the centimeter thick layer of dirt on literally everything. And I got rid of the five million termites and spiders who seem to think we have some kind of time-share and promptly took possession of my home the day I left. This morning was our first teacher’s meeting (during which I mostly twiddled my thumbs—or I would have if that were something I did), and when I showed up at the school, I received all the love from you that has been collecting over the past 3 months. Meaning a handful of packages and 30 letters. Have I mentioned that you’re amazing? After the umpteenth demand after my blog, I’ve decided it’s finally time . . . Where do I even begin?

I am currently sitting in a makeshift bed (my normal sheets also had that layer of dirt I mentioned), listening to a CD from the lovely Matt Emery which he so cleverly calls ‘’Mixagascar.’’ (Love it, by the way.) I’m using my wooden swing as a table, since I’m sort of revamping my house and it’s therefore not attached anymore. Can I just say that windows with slits area pain to paint? EXHAUSTED. But my house (aka cement box) will be even better when all is said and done. Don’t worry—I’ll show you pictures eventually.

Other than that, it’s good to be home. I’ve missed the small town—the crickets and early bed time—the fact that breakfast food is gone if you sleep in until 6.30. I’ve also missed my market—which has changed location, sending me on a treasure hunt for my favorite vendors. In the process, I heard again and again, ‘’Welcome back! Don’t you remember me, Betania? THIS is why we are friends. . . ‘’ Silly me. Of course we’re friends if you said hello once. And obviously I remember EVERY interaction, no matter how insignificant.

Winter is starting to wear off—meaning hot nights and hopefully an end to this wind thing that fills my nose with dust and dirt. My school’s only other English teacher has retired, making me the one and only. I’ll let you know how that goes . . . And I’m trying to mentally prepare formy trip to the US in November (Minnesota for a month!). Only about 6 more weeks before I’m off—CRAZY. And I promise I’ll post TONS of pictures when I’m home and have free internet. Luckily I have friends who take pictures. I am still prefering to live life instead of taking pictures of life happening. That doesn’t mean I’m not incredibly grateful for friends who actually are documenting our time here . . . So there’s that to look forward to.

Okay. On to bigger and better entries.

And when a woman writes you every week, how can you say no? She wants random things, so I'll just do a bunch of quick things? I don't know. We'll see how it goes. Hopefully it will give you a better idea of my life.

I sleep inside a mosquito net every night (doctor's orders). It's really like a green canopy, and I'd like to think it gives me dreams that are forest related or something. I have no proof of this. My bed is a wooden frame with a handful of planks across and a foam mattress on top. My pillos are stuffed with tiny chunks of foam.

I have a one-roomed house (aka a cement box) attached to someone else's house. I love it. It has 2 doors and 4 windows. I also has a closetesque thing where I shower. Showering = a bucket of water and a hole in the ground where the water drains.

I do have a bike, however it is often broken so I leave it in another closetesque thing I don't use because my house is too big for how little I own (yes yes--one room is too big). Besides, I love walking (and why not, when you have time to kill and it's beautiful out and people are fiendly?). It's about 15 minutes to my school and 25 to the market (I live relatively far from things). Plus the fact that I walk provides my students with the opportunity to mimic the way I walk, which never fails to entertain me. I'll show you one day.

There are many many churches in my town (enough that no one really knows how many). madagascar is incredibly Christian--meaning they all (ALL) go to church at least once a week (which they call praying--as in "Do you pray?"). This does not, however, keep men from having mistresses or women from having babies in middle school. Funny how it works out like that. Honestly I think it has more to do with their value of family than anything else. Going to church together is a family tradition.

I have electricity, which means music and a fan. Unfortunately, it didn't work most of the time when it was especially hot. Meaning you had to dump cold water all over yourself before bed and hope you fell asleep before your body realized it was being tricked.

The school system is different here. Students receive lectures and are not used to games or groups or all those special activities we do. You would never realize Heads Up 7 Up is a complicated game if you didn't try teaching it to Malagasy students. Tragic. They have to wear these shirt thngs over their clothes. They raise the flag and sing the national anthem every Monday morning at the assembly--and then clean out the classrooms. They are tested twice each trimester. They talk to much but they are fun and my favorite part of work. I especially love embarassing them in front of each other (meaning anything from using them as an example for vocabulary like bride and groom to randomly singing Happy Birthday to someone). Note: I recently started a second job at the private school, and let me tell you--those kids are WAY better behaved. They also tend to giggle at the way I move and the noises I make (I think my other students are a bit more used to me now) and they seriously love singing camp songs (YES), perhaps because it often means I dance around in front of them while we sing (hahaha whatever don't judge). They love it so much they'll do their exercises super quickly so we can spend the rest of class singing. And they are not afraid to basically say, "Okay that new song SUCKS" (which unfortunately means we won't be doing one of my FAVORITES again--what do they have against short-necked buzzards?).

My furniture: the bed, 2 tables (one for work, one for food), 2 chairs, and a bookshelf. The kitchen table has a gas tank under it connected to 2 burners, dishes drying, and a water filter surrounded by bottles of water I've already cleaned. My bookshelf has kitchen stuff, music stuff, and most anything else I own. Including meds.

The stars are INCREDIBLE. And even better when I put my glasses on! I'd sleep under them all the time, but--you know--the Peace Corps has a thing against malaria or whatever, so . . . But I HAVE slept under them multiple times at the beach, and it's BEAUTIFUL. Especially after a midnight swim in an ocean glowing with those phosphorous algae things whatever I'm sure someone I know will know what they actually are. And a full moon? Yeah that's amazing too. Or when it's gold. It's a beautiful life here . . . Truly truly.

I love getting letters from you. No joke seriously and then people in my town think I'm all popular and loved and stuff (which means they should like me too, right?). PS Shin they stole something you sent AGAIN. Second time. It was the keychain? Flask thing? I don't even know. They don't usually take things from packages (never for me that I'm aware of), but if an envelope contains more than pieces of paper, they slice and steal. FYI.

Okay that's it. Any other questions? It's hard to know what you want to know when life here feels normal to me now. Remind me to tell you about the taxibrousses. Wait here's a little more.

My one piece of luggage (a hiking pack) sits in a corner behind my clothes than hang on a clothes line so they won't be eaten by the mice or termites or cockroaches (hey you never know with those little buggers). A cockroach just died on the floor as we speak actually. They die so often! I feel like I find their dead bodies as often as I see the real deal. Or the babies. They have a lot of babies. They tried having babies in one of my spices. I didn't like that. Especially since I didn't realize it at first, so I definitely was eating little larvae things. Yum yum! Protein, right? My windows open out and up and are held there by a stick wedged in there.

I'd give anything for a swimming pool and a playgroud (I've already designed the set-up). I love Mexican food. Avocados are only 200 Ariary these days! Aka 10 cents. Don't ask what percentage of my salary that is. I have a blue snowman stocking up that's from my mother. My windows have no screens but it'd help keep the night bugs out if I did.

Oops. The cockroach is alive afterall. Sneaky guy. I also own a broom. Much needed. I also have buckets. I burn the little garbage I have, collected in a small plastic bag that once contained dried beans, in all likelihood. Or potatoes. The fruit on the banana tree in the back is almost ripe. I have one umbrella that I basically only needed during the cyclone (rainy season? not in Mahabo). It is bright green with electric blue polka dots. Very happy. I bought it here.

Okay seriously I'm stopping now. If you're curious about other things let me know!

MISS YOU.

So I think after uploading all those pictures the internet decided to not post them after all? I'm not sure. I tried. I swear.

Pictures of my house for those of you interested. Note the swing in the doorway (they thought I was crazy), the blue hammock, the green mosquito net, and the cow eating in my backyard by the banana tree. The shack is my kabone.

This is for those of you who wanted a better picture of my daily life.

To get an idea of what the market is like for me, imagine you are going to a state fair slash carnival. It is often the highlight of my day--the big event (which either speaks highly of the market or tells you just how boring my days are--or probably a little of both--ha).

A market experience for me starts the moment I walk out my door. On the road between home and the market, this exact conversation takes place approximately 15 times: "Hey!" "Hey!" "What's new?" "Nothing." "Going to the market?" "Yup." I don't know why they state the obvious. They know you're going to the market already because you have your basket--the basket everyone has, of varying sizes and colors, that is used exclusively for the market (and if you bring it anywhere else, you will be laughed at). Very environment friendly. It is plastic and woven. Mine is black and orange so I can feel like I'm trick or treating EVERYDAY. Only instead of getting candy I get tomatoes.

Note: Watch out for men on this walk. If you are alone or female or white or blonde or just if your name happens to be Bethany, they will stare at you, unabashedly check you out, try to shake your hand, make noises to get your attention, hit on you in French, ask you for private English lessons, and occasionally grope you. They might also throw a stick at you, but that was an accident. The goal is to not let their sliminess make you angry at the world in general. Fyi.

Also, be prepared to step aside for passing cows and cars.

The highlight of the walk is when little children ont he side of the roads somehow know your name and yell it in their cute little fashion ("Aia le Betanie!" for as long as they can see you). It is less cute when others ask you your name in French and you pretend not to understand them. "What? I don't speak French. French? No no no I'm not French. Ignore the white skin. Pretend I'm Malagasy."

By the time you get to town, you are rather hot--a combination of the fact that you're been walking forever, and it's just . . . really hot. Lucky for you, there are many options for juice at the market! My favorite is to walk up to the open windows selling juice? There, you can get tamarin, pineapple, grenadelle, and orange juice (which tastes suspiciously like Sunny Delight). You can also get milk juice, a pinkish whitish liquid I haven't quite figured out yet. You can also find cintronade (aka lemonade) inside coolers on the tables lining the market. It's not very special (water, sugar, lemon )--sometimes good sometimes just funny tasting water. It's main value is that it's COLD (a rarity indeed). I once had tamarin juice so cold it threw me for the rest of the day. Slush? In Mahabo?

Before actually shopping, you might also pick up a little snack. This will give you enough energy to walk home (it's amazing how the heat can eat up those calories!). Or maybe you're like me and eat the food as an excuse to have sakay (their version or salsa slash hot sauce). There is a wide variety of food to be found and almost all of it is FRIED (torture when your tummy hurts). No joke. Frying is a convenient way to cook on the side of the road. The main ingredients are four and sugar. Sometimes they throw in honey or coconut or put an entire banana in the middle to make it special. It's more expensive (aka 5 cents instead of . . . 2 and a half) if it has egg in it. In the morning, you can find a certain rice bread thing (aka my breakfast) and at night they bust out the big guns (aka they stuff meat in it all). Ironically, at noon, of all those foods, only one is salty instead of sweet (minus the occasional exceptions). This is what I get (remember that sakay goal). But mostly I get it because a sweet old man and his wife sell them. Sometimes they come find me to tell me they're ready and nice and hot. Sometimes they also give me an extra for no particular reason. You see, street food --more than anything--is all about your relationship with the vendors.

The same is true for the regular market shopping. You tend to buy the same things from the same people. Hopefully not from the stands covered in flies. Then they tell everyone you are their friend and are often when weighing those kilos and half kilos to earn your loyalty. They also ask why they haven't seen you in a while. They also give you an extra carrot or tomato sometimes. Honestly, it's kind of nice going to a grocery store that knows you and knows what you want. Note: EVERY time you buy rice (what you eat EVERY meal), they will be SHOCKED. And the ONE time per month you go for pasta, they will shake their heads and say, "She doesn't eat rice! Those Americans--they don't eat rice like the Malagasy." This is very frustrating.

Here is something you must put up with whenever you go to the market: The giant animal carcasses they're selling. You must deal with the smells, the flies, and the men who try to convince you to buy it even though you tell them time and again that you don't WANT that cow's face, thank you. PS The giant hunks of flesh are transported by throwing the dead body on top your your head no joke. Buying in bulk means taking a shower when you get home.

Details: When street food is too hot, they put it in newspaper or notebook paper. When you get juice, you drink out of the same cups everyone else uses that are then dunked in a bucket of water to clean them. A common sight is a woman with a basket on her head, another in her hand, and a live chicken in the other hand. You kill the chicken before supper, of course. It doesn't seem to mind being carried upside down, by its feet. I find that strange.

Add the walk home and you have my daily market trip!

In every living situation, there comes a time when you need to have a little sit-down with your housemates to discuss what is and what most definitely is NOT okay. I believe that time is now.

Note: The snails have already been evicted. Too much pooping in the shower.

To the spiders.

Listen. I thought we had an understanding. I let you make yourselves at home, and you eat the mosquitoes that could give me malaria. We had an agreement. But you are getting FAR too territorial. No, you cannot use my clotheslines as part of your webs. They are not sticky. It will not work. The same goes for my water filter. And my silverware. That's just gross. And I don't know WHOSE idea it was to hide the huge woody spiders in my clothes, but cut it out. You are not cute. Jumping out and surprising me like that . . . And sleeping on my mosquito net? Right above my face? There's a reason you died in your sleep last night. It's called karma. PS I've been bitten a lot lately. Either step it up or get out.

To the termites.

Um, sorry about the poison. But listen, you were etting out of control. I mean, it was one thing trying to eat the mattress?. BAD termites. But then when you ate an entire card from my grandmother (my GRANDMOTHER, for goodness sake)? In one night? You sealed your fate. Not to mention nibbling on my favorite shoes. I had to get you before you got Choi's good Alice in Wonderland postcard. So I apologize, but you left me no other choice. If it's any consolation, there's a decent chance I ate some of that poison too. So there's that.

To the flies.

Okay. Not to be a party pooper or anything. We're all entitled to have a little fun. But seriously. This having sex on my desk thing? It has to go. I do not wish to watch flies mounting flies while I write lesson plans. And I'd appreciate it if your foreplay did not include tumbling over each other ON ME. Is my sweat that arousing for you? And I understand that the food here isn't necessarily stellar--I miss Mexican too, trust me. But get out of my wounds. Puss is not good. You are disgusting. And I don't know you well enough to let you nibble on me like that? Oh, and dive bombing down my shirt? No no no no no. Stop that right now. We're not even the same species. It would never work out. Point is, go forth and multiply, okay fine whatever. But do it somewhere else. Or just go . . . chill with the termites.

To the cockroaches.

I've given you a lot of space--a lot of generosity. I did not grow up seeing you, so you did not bother me. You were a novelty. You kept me company in the shower. But if you're going to move in like that, you need to clean up after yourselves. Showering in your droppings is not my idea of cleanliness. And to the 3 of you who decided to make my hiking shoe your home? What were you thinking?? Stupid stupid stupid? To the one who tried to get into my toothbrush case, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will find you and I will kill you and I will feed you to the chicken. I think I've made myself clear.

To the frogs and lizards.

You can stay. You are cute. And so fast!

To the snake in my kabone.

You can stay too. Though why you'd WANT to is beyond me.

I do not acknowledge the existence of any other creatures in my house. If I have not mentioned you, you are trespassing. Watch out, or I will send the woody spiders after you.

For those of you who have asked (and just to remind the rest), you can write to me at:

Bethany Allen

Lycée Resaotsy

BP 14

Mahabo 615

Madagascar

(miss you too!)

I promise to reply :)

Cleopatra in Andringtra, aka Christmas in Africa

So our fist stop was the most eventful. When going to remote locations, you may find yourself filling a van full of Malagasy people and negociating a price up the mountain. If you are ME, you will use the remote opportunity to ride on TOP of the taxibrousse instead of in it, sprawled out Cleopatra-stylez, reclining on luggage while enjoying the view. Uh, note: such intense sun exposure will ead to a dissolving nose covered in puss and blood no joke. OOPS. Live and learn. I felt like Rochester on syphilis. Hot. Our Andringtra goal was to climb Madagascar's second highest peak. We decided this was best done in one day. Yes yes--up and down in 14 hours with the occasional food break. When the guide wasn't looking, I may or may not have jumped off a bridge and into soem pools by some waterfalls. Oh and THEN I got called Cleopatra a SECOND time when I had to be straight up CARRIED DOWN part of the mountain in the chair created by the arms of two of the guys. Um, oops take two? It seems I aggravated an injury from training. Dear Doctors: I know you told me to take it easy, only running 5 minutes at a time and slowly increasing over weeks, but I'm just too impatient for that sort of thing, and decided to skip it and go straight to climbing 34 km up and down a steep mountain all in one go. Awesome. I could not bend my legs. Silly knees. HA. Christmas day was spent nursing wounds (nose, knees, and a cold that decided to join the fun). Our Christmas feast was eaten out of a can (HAHAHA); And we sang Christmas carols while lying down, looking at the stars. We then spent the night (after finally getting driven away from the mountain) in the sketchiest hotel ever in life (Travis's last words before we all went to sleep: Uh, not to ruin the moment, but I have to say--I think some rat feces just fell on my face"). Hahahaha. I know you are so jealous. Needless to say, there was no snow.

I'll hit on other highlights quickly. 1. Swimming in waterfalls and jumping off a cliff into a natural pool in Isalo. Bonus: not losing my swim suit in the process. 2. Playing with lemurs in Zombitse. No seriously, I had bite marks from wrestling around with them. MUCH more fun than dogs or cats. 3. Snorkeling in Ifaty! Amazing. Perhaps my favorite part of the trip. Minus the slow boat ride back in the rain. Cuddling for warmth was only SO helpful. 4. Ameoba! I got one. His name was Franklin. He's dead now, I killed him. I obviously spent New Years' Eve rolling around in pain in bed with a break or two to puke up my supper. Happy New Year! Hahaha.

Oo, and a panic attack on the way home (I laugh NOW . . .). It turns out my malaria medicine occasionally causes insanity--depression, paranoia, anxiety--the whole shebang. And we discovered (after 7 months of putting the stuff in my body) that I'm one of the lucky few! Uh, cool? Don't worry--I'm on new meds and feeling a bit more normal.

AND I came home to find TERMITES. Yay! Welcome to the party in my house. Hahaha. And there's a snake living in my kabone (bathroom aka hut and hole). OH PS I held a boa constrictor in Isalo. And these snails keep sneaking into my shower and pooping everywhere. NOT okay. There are way bigger than any escargot I ever ate in Paris.

Ooookay. We'll leave it at that. An eventful trip, yes? Oh hey wait did I tell you I put a swing in my house?? Oh yes. Come play!

Talk to you later :)

FYI: If you mail something in a letter, and it does not feel like a letter, they will open the envelope and take it. This is not a joke. This means I did not get your present, Shin :( VERY upset. So if sending anything that's not actually a letter, use a padded envelope thing--then they won't steal it. Those little padded envelopes are perfect! Also, go ahead and lie on the price of things. Pretend it's used or something! Else I will have to pay about as much as YOU did, except I am a poor little girl who lives off of a dollar or two a day. Just thought I'd mention . . . .

PS THANK YOU to everyone for writing. Seriously I can't tell you how much it helps, etc--and I know I say that every time, but that's because it's still true (ha). Okay. Business done. Now for a real live update.

Okay let's continue from a few days ago.

On Freckles

In Malagasy, you literally call freckles "flea shit." No I'm serious I couldn't have made that up if I tried. Hahaha I don't care I still love them. It's a good thing, too. Then again, maybe that's why I love them--you get what you et and you don't have a fit, right?

My recent luxuries

I now have a hammock in my room AND (thanks to Shawn Taylor--you are AMAZING) I also have a little DVD player. After winter break, I'm bringin popcorn, and my proviseur and her neice and nephew and I are having an American movie night. Ha. OH! AND yesterday some carpenters made me a swing! When I get home I'm going to hang it in my back door where there's a breeze and where you can hear the rain on the tin roof when it rains. Yes, I realize I am very spoiled. But cost me like a dollar and I decided it was necessary for my happiness. Everyone needs a swing in their life.

On Christmas Break

I'm camping and hiking in 4 different National Parks!! SO excited. Going with about six other people from my stage. The parks are: Andringatra, Isalo, Zombitse/Vohibasia, and Ifaty. I'll let you know :)

On accidentally visibly talking and laughing to yourself in the street

You shouldn't do that. People will think you're crazy. Probably because that's one of the main things every town's crazy person does (no seriously--every town has one--it's like the village idiot idea but for real--every one gets a crazy person).

PS The other day I saw a lemur in my backyard in the banana trees.

Okay. That's all. I'll try not to be silent so long again. Keep writing! Your letters make a HUGE difference and make me feel less isolated. MISS YOU ALL!!!

So sorry I've neglected you so long . . . . Let me start making amends with a few highlights--snapshots--from my life at this point in time. I will not promise them all to be interesting or entertaining or even all that informative. But now you know I'm still alive.

The Market

Every day I walk to the market to buy the food I need for the day (this is for those of you who wanted the mundate). I have certain people I buy certain things from, and honestly I love it. Except on Saturdays. That's the big market day and it is WAY too crowded. My main food source is tomatoes. It's amazing how many different ways you can manipulate them--my meals may all taste different, but they're essentially the same thing. Ha. On the way home I occasionally am given a ride on a motorcycle by a strange man (never the same one--they seem to know where I live though). Riding a motorcycle in a skirt is now one of my useful skills. Thank you, Peace Corps. But I enjoy the walk home instead, and end up saying "Salama!" approximately five million times. About. I once accidentally even said it to a goat. Oops? At home, I make lunch while listening to music from you. My meals usually consist of tomatoes (as I said), rice, and lentils or kabaro (lima bean esque?). This is my chill time of the day. Wait let's go back to the market. There are 2 things in abundance in my market: rice and mangos. Oh, wait--new subject.

Mangos

I believe I mentioned this in that last quick update, but I don't think you understand. Let's talk about this for a minute. I'm a little bitter. Now, when I found out I had a mango tree in my backyard, I thought to myself, "Me and mangos are gonna have a special relationship." When I saw mango trees everywhere in my town, this thought was confirmed. Little did I know just how special that relationship would be. No I'm serious--you're getting the long story now. It's important. So once upon a time, I got hives all over my arms and chest and neck and ears which progressed to severe rashes all over my arms which then became a swollen face with an eye swollen shut (now I know wht I'd look like as an ogre) which ended as little itchy blisters on my fingers and feet. Now, when this happened the FIRST time, I was concerned, but pushed through it with lots of benedryl, calamine lotion, anti-itch cream, and bacetracin. But when it happened the second and THIRD time, I accepted the ugly truth. I, who have never had the slightest food allergy in my life, an violantly allergic (not deathly--just painful for over a week--over ONE mango) to MANGOS. Mangos. The fruit piled on the sides of roads and at the market. The fruit kids eat in and between classes. The fruit we talk about once a week at our student assemblies (eat from these trees not from those, eat in these places not in those, wipe your juices hands here but not there). I kid you not. It's like being allergic to lemurs, except the fruit version and infinitely more common. I am so hungry for fruit! I have to keep picturing myself as an ogre to keep myself from giving in and eating it in any case for lack of any other fruit option. In my own backyard too! Free fruit! Ripe and beautiful! It is my personal forbidden tree, and I am Mahabo's Eve. SUCKS.

On Rain

You can imagine my excitement as the rainy season approaches. Of course, cyclones don't tend to visit Mahabo, so I don't have to worry as much as others. My neighbors will appreciate the rainy season in a different way this year. When thunderstorms come, they spend the whole time laughing at me--lying down at first then just generally playing in the rain. I guess they don't do that here? Every time they think I'm crazy, I just tell them it makes me happy? This makes them laugh--which makes me even happier. Needless to say, I'm grateful for neighbors who appreciate me as I am. Maybe I'll be able to convince them to come jump in the puddles with me.

My English Club

So here is what makes me laugh: It's so hot that my skin is gritty with salt from sweat, and I have a class full of students singing, "Let it snow!" It is a beautiful thing.

My 2nde Kids

We have a lot of fun. I enjoy making them do embarrassing things, they enjoy making fn of me doing embarrassing things, and we mention Batman at least once every class. My favorite was when doing the lesson on preferences, one of my boys gave as an example: I like Betany! Then got embarrassed. It was almost as good as a girl giving an opinions example: "According to Ms. Betany, Domi is lazy." Domi = class clown.

My 5e Monsters

I love love love these students. They continue singing "I love you Mdemoiselle!" They beg to play "pirates." We make animal noises at each other while they do exercises? I've seen students doodle my nme in their notebooks. I make them dance if they're neughty. I wipe chalk dust on their arms and tell them we're the same--white. I sent them home during a fun non-lesson day because they were being naughty and they begged me to let them stay and do exercises for me (and clapped and said thank you when I agreed). They are ridiculous and precious.

On the neighbor boy

We've made a truce and are now friends. We bond by making faces at each other. My tongue is WAY bigger than his. Then again, he's only 3. Papita is still my favorite. He runs around naked with this sweet little smile on his face.

Fruit in season now

Litchis! Yum :)

Okay wait maybe I'll write more later but I have to run. Ha. Bye!