It was a Wednesday afternoon, March 11th. News had been streaming in to me in Isoanala from Tana about escalating clashes between TGV and TIM supporters; I couldn’t have been more stressed than if I was actually at the site of the violence. I knew what this meant was coming. It was a moment I’d been dreading for days; like waiting for the results of a biopsy when you already can feel that you got it. It was a bad time for Madagascar. I was trying to keep my mind off of it all by keeping busy, so I kept my weekly English club for that evening at four p.m. as scheduled. More than usual showed up; maybe twenty various teenagers and adults. I had a fantastic time doing the English club that evening, but I still had that one thought turning over and over in the back of my mind: dead man walking. It was as I was correcting Caron and Ilma on their pronunciation of ‘actually’ as my cellular phone chimed in, indicating a text had been received. It was from my best friend, more than that actually, in Tana.

“SITUATION WORST. I THINK IT WONT BE RESOLVED SOON. CLASH TGV-TIM RESULT- 2 DIED & 40 INJURED, HOUSE OF SOME TIM MEMBR BURNT… RUMOR: REBEL MIARAMIL TAKIN MINISTRIES,” is what it said verbatim. ‘TIM’ is Ravalo’s political party (Tiako I Madigasikara, which literally means, ‘I love you, Madagascar!’), and ‘miaramila’ is Malagasy for military. This was not a promising development. As I wrapped up the English lesson, one of my pupils carried my bag as we walked towards our neighborhood.

I arrived at my house and put my things down. It was all but certain now. How could PC possibly see fit to operate under these conditions? Plus, I knew that if PC had to make a move, there would be no more consolidation, as much as I hated that. No, this time would be for all the marbles. Evacuation. The worst possible outcome. I walked out onto my balcony; took in a deep breath and looked around. I saw Dadafara, my neighbor’s youngest child (and my favorite, though I would never let them know it so as not to lower the self-esteem of the other little ones) running about in a fit of glee. I shook my head thinking how my life in Isoanala had become a house of cards, how Dadafara deserved so much better than all this, and how I prayed Madagascar would not drag itself down the path of so many other unfortunate countries on the great continent of Africa. It almost looked like he was running in slow motion as I thought about all this. It was heavy. Madagascar must not do this, for little Dadafara if nothing else, I thought. Was I really about to find out that this would be my last night ever in Isoanala? In the town of nearly all my friends and family in the country? The last night in my home and my heart for the past year and a half? Damn, how could it ever have come to this.

Colby, the Administrative Officer for PC Tana, had been sending out updates every evening around five about what had gone on that day. Five came and went with no word; then six, then seven. Finally, at 7:30 p.m., I received a text from PC Tana.

“Decision made to suspend PC Madagascar. Very sad. Process of leaving will be lengthy. Prepare tonight for consolidation and onward as flights are confirmed. STAY IN SITE. For now we must be able to find you,” is what it read. My heart sank as I put down my phone. I couldn’t have expected how it would feel until it actually had happened. I wandered back out to my porch and looked on at Mt. Justin. The stars were out and it was a full moon. Still being early in the evening , the main drag in Isoanala was still abuzz with live. I went back in my house and began taking pictures down off the wall. After taking down one or two I threw them down in frustration. Grabbing a bottle of Bushmills Irish whisky my sister had brought out while visiting, one which I would have otherwise been saving for a special occasion, I walked out the front door and started heading towards my friend Joro’s house. I called him while I was en route.

“Taking an evening walk?” he inquired after picking up, both of us not accustomed to me being out like this after dark. I told him ‘no’, and that there was something I had to come tell him. He lives above a convenience store/bar, and had his wife running it for the evening as he had an itch to watch an old Henry Fonda western dubbed into French in his living quarters above the store. He told me to come on up. I went upstairs and he told me to have a seat. I started telling him earnestly that something horrible had happened and that I would likely be leaving the next day never to return. He grew visibly distressed and asked me how something like that could happen. I told him I wasn’t quite sure, but that if it was God’s will I would one day return again. We reminisced of times past, drank whisky and beer, ate grilled cubes of meat, and watched Henry Fonda into the night.

The next morning I woke up and didn’t want to get up to face the day. But I had to. I started getting my things organized and separating the things I was bringing from the things I would be giving away. I went out to my breakfast lady shortly thereafter for my standard issue rice’n greens with coffee. I then walked to the hospital to inform my counterpart and dear friend Dr. Mamy, or D-Mamz, of my unfortunate circumstance. He hung his head low and asked if was a certainty or not that we were going. I could never lie to D-Mamz, and even if I did he could read me like a book. I told him I’d be packing most the day and then taking an overnight brousse up north to Fianar which should pass through Isoanala to pick me up around midnight.

It was an emotional day to say the least. Once I had most my things packed, I started calling my neighbors over one by one to confirm what they had heard and give them whatever I wouldn’t be bringing with me. It was like making a will almost; a will going into effect while I’m still alive. Up to this point no tears had been shed on my part, although they had come damn close. After I’d given away all my earthly possessions other than what was being brought in one duffel bag I went for a long walk. It was late afternoon. I visited Madame Volola, Madame Chantelle, Lalaina, Joro, Madame Nivo, Ponona, Hary, and everyone else I could think of. The sun was setting as I walked around the market place, telling all the good folks who I’d spent the better part of the last two years with that we may never see one another again. The market air was its typical dusty orange color that it gets to be around sunset. I hugged my closest friends and headed back home as the sun went down. I got back to the house and told my neighbors, who I’ve shared a love/hate relationship with, that this was it. I was going into the house to try and get some sleep before getting on the overnight brousse and that we may not see each other, so I told them ‘fare thee well.’ I went in the house and laid down on my bare bed, sheet-less. I was awoken by Joro’s older brother’s phone call, informing me that the brousse had arrived. I checked my phone and it was 12:30 a.m. It was already very surreal. Joro’s older brother’s soft yet firm voice was on the other line.

“The brousse has arrived; now,” he said, cluing me to the fact that it was time. I gathered my possessions onto the front porch. Before blowing out the candle I had kept lit for myself, I took one more look around and sighed. Then the flame went out.

It was a full moon, so despite the witching hour and lack of electricity the street was brightly lit. I walked past the Lutheran church, and past the round point towards the mighty bus. There was a very short person, a midget actually, who had always lived in Isoanala. We had greeted each other in passing, but always very cordial, nothing friendlier than that. He happened to be helping loading up the bus with the new passengers’ things that particular evening. After throwing my bag atop, he looked at me and shot a wistful smile.

“Veloma,” he said. This word means ‘good-bye,’ but in the south of the country it is reserved for only when one is parting ways for a long time. I reciprocated and shook his hand. After boarding the brousse, I had nearly an entire row to myself. We petered out of town on my old friend, RN13. We passed the ‘bon voyage’ sign; we went past the last water pump and the rice paddies on the outskirts of town, and the brousse was silent. Most folks had already dozed off. That was probably for the best, since tears had started dropping down. They weren’t the first ones I shed in that town, but they might be the last. After all the blood, sweat and tears that I put into the earth there throughout my time, I couldn’t believe it was being ripped away. The brousse got to be five km out of town, then ten, then twenty, and with each passing kilometer one half of my heart was being torn further from the other.

I arrived in Fianar the next afternoon and was greeted by all my friends, which was nice. We were due to hit the road the next morning at six, but we all wanted to go out as it was looking to be the last night in Fianar forever for a lot of the folks. That night I could tell local tensions were rising, as I spoke to various Gasy bar patrons as many were scared to admit they were from the Merina tribe, the tribe of the plateau, of Tana, and of oppositional leader Andry. We all had a good time, and most were tucked in by one or two in the morning. The next morning we drove all day, starting at six in the morning then finally arriving at Mantasoa around eight that evening. I got to see a fair number of friends there, which was nice. But each day there were waves of PC folks being shipped off to the Southern Sun Hotel at Tambo Airport in South Africa, a fate awaiting me within one day’s time. I pondered how Andry could claim to have his country’s best interests in mind while so recklessly driving it into the ground; taking a few steps up in his career at the expense of his countrymen’s livelihood and prosperity. It seems he may have slept through Introduction to Macroeconomics, as he has demonstrated he doesn’t understand how developing countries develop. If you live in a glass house, don’t throw stones.

The last day before leaving, Monday, January 16th, was slow and uneventful. Some busy work tying up loose ends at the office was all we were responsible for. There were was one person I absolutely had to see on my last day. During all my time in Madagascar, she had been around. Through all the drama, all the good times and all the bad ones; whenever the smoke cleared she had always been there for me. I had made it my top priority to see her before leaving, and was relieved when I was able to do just that in the afternoon of the 16th. We got together for lunch then retired to private quarters. Aside from leaving Isoanala she was without question the hardest part of leaving. The next day we were all on a plane, looking down on Madland. Looking back, but with no regrets.

Tuesday, March 17th, happened to be the day we arrived to our hotel in South Africa, which happened to have an Irish pub on the premises. We all know what happens on March 17th, so celebrating in the name of the Irish with all my friends as we had returned to a more familiar civilization was my pleasure. Checking out of Peace Corps meant filling out lots of paperwork and going through lots of strange medical tests of a nature that fascinated me. We all spent four days in that hotel, which wasn’t all bad as most folks needed at least that much time to decide what their immediate next step was going to be. Plus, nearly all wanted to spend our last remaining hours together with one another, getting a pint at pub and trading war stories, or maybe just heading out to the local apartheid museum to take in some local culture. No matter what it was, it was important, because it was with your friends. There were only eleven of us left in the Health '07 group, as pictured here in our good-bye dinner at the Southern Sun, from an orginal group of nineteen. But these were fast times, and decisions had to be made. I had arranged to stay in a young man’s apartment located in the trendy neighborhood of Sea Point. A strange Afrikaner living in Miami, he agreed to rent out to me his vacant apartment at a reasonable price. Jayne, Eliko, and Maggie all agreed to come on board with the apartment, as it was two bedrooms, in order to ease the financial burden.

Thus it was to Cape Town for nearly half of Peace Corps, the other half of folks going onwards throughout Africa or back home. I have been here in Cape Town for some time now; job hunting by day and going out at night. This is a magical city, where the ocean crashes in on one side and magnificent mountains stretch over the other side. All completely developed and ready for enjoyment. It’s looking more and more like I’ll be returning to Tana next week in order to continue my job search from that point as a new launch pad. As great as this fare town is, I find myself missing Tana. I’ll likely be staying in a large, furnished apartment in the upscale Ambondrona neighborhood of Tana. Far enough away from the city center that if any riot garbage were to break out I would be well removed, but close enough to get anywhere without much hassle.

Well, I guess that wraps it up and gets everything up to speed. The only reason I created this blog was to document my life as it existed in the Peace Corps. Now that’s all over. I find myself wondering what it all means, what is meant to be and what was meant to have been… A rather abrupt jolt into the next stage, but nothing I can’t handle. I will persevere. Will I stop posting entries? Time will tell. In the event we no longer see one another around the way on your neighborhood blogosphere, I thank you as a scholar and a gentleman for patronizing my drivel. Hey, I’ll catch you a little further on down the trail…

(The following post was written on February 23rd, 2009)

It was all supposed to be so simple. A quick, three-day stint in Mantasoa for a Peace Corps conference. In and out. I had always felt up to spending a few days at the training center up there. Despite the slow tempo of Mantasoa life, time would always fly by. I was used to having a few meetings scattered throughout the day; here in the morning, a little there in the afternoon… Then have a staff vs. volunteer volleyball game, maybe throw on a DVD, or just take the canoe out on the lake for a bit to relax; reflect. No screaming babies, no chickens; none of the hardships that accompany life in the city or country in Madland. It was January 22nd that I left Isoanala with all that in mind. Little did I know that I was about to embark on an experience in which I would witness the most incredible, the most extraordinary and the most remarkable events I have ever seen in this strange place.

Part I

I wasn’t horribly anxious to depart Isoanala proper. I had only just arrived a week and a half earlier from being gone for over six weeks. But I was asked to attend a three-day conference, and thus duty called. The first obstacle on my journey would not take long to make itself known. Cyclone Gael had just blown through the day before my departure. Truly one of a kind, Gael managed to lumber herself directly over the unlikely desert of Betroka earlier in the week, and left a trail of floods and tears in her wake. Normally, a taxi-brousse takes two hours to go the 80 km from Isoanala to Betroka, as that particular stretch happens to be the most developed on RN13. This time it would take 23 hours. The first 40 km flew by as they usually would. Then we hit the first flood. Seven hours we waited for the water to recede, as semis, brousses, cars and bikes all began to accumulate on either side of the decrepit land bridge. To this day I know that any of the semis could have easily trudged through the 20 meters of three-foot deep water with little trouble. But no one would try before them, so there we sat.

Once beyond the first flood, the day had reached late afternoon, and the rest of the distance should have taken less than an hour. I envisioned laughing about this with friends and colleagues in Betroka over drinks and appetizers before the sun was down. My God; how wrong I was… As the brilliant orange penetrated the peaks of a nearby mountain range from afar, the colors in the sky promised that twilight was nearing. As we began to close in on Betroka, the town had never looked to sweet to me. Back in range, I was texting friends to tell them which bar to meet me at. To my sheer horror, as we neared the bridge on the southern route to enter the town, a giant lake emerged on the horizon. As we approached it I saw a motley crew of semis, brousses and cars, not unlike the one earlier, assembled on either side of the flood. What kind of forces were at work to be so cruel?

It was approximately 200 meters from shore to shore of the tremendous flood, sporting whitewater rapids towards the center. However many millions of tons of water left in the uplands from the cyclone were proceeding to pour down monstrously at eh most crucial part of that road. I began to laugh maniacally, then straightened a serious expression on my face. I began trudging through the flood. At first the water was up to my ankles; then my knees, then the waist. I was only a third of the way across and I felt as if I could have been swept away. Two teenagers dragged themselves out, claiming they could lead me across “the right way” for 2,000 ariary. Fine, I thought. Whatever it takes to get me to a bed tonight. They brought me upstream a bit to a submerged forest of shrubbery and low-lying trees. We then hit open water, as the current immediately picked up and the depth increased dramatically. My two “guides” were as skinny as twigs and the first in front easily lost control and began to be swept away into oblivion. I quickly grabbed a branch and told his comrade to grab the long end and go retrieve his partner. After doing so, we began trudging back from whence we came, defeated. I was told to sleep in the back of the brousse and that at first light we would check to see if the waterline had receded.

The night in the brousse could have been worse. I had my own row and managed to get substantial shuteye. The next morning I awoke and immediately ran to the water for an update. It had not receded. Not enough for cars, in any case. There was, however, a line of folks soldiering through the water, one after another, like lost souls exiting the Titanic. I gathered my things and got in line. Balancing my duffel bag atop my head, I was getting wet as the water had reached my chest at the deepest point. But before I knew it I had reached the other side and my salvation. Sweet, dear Kelly, bless her heart, was waiting for me and guided me to her house. She wrapped a blanket around me and put on a kettle of water as I began to describe the things I had seen.

That evening we rejoiced with merriment late into the night. By the next day it was already Saturday and I was set to miss the conference which was to commence Monday morning. So I hitched a ride with one of the brousses that had been stranded but was no longer constricted by the flood. It was Tana-bound, and on a direct route. Good, because it would get me there on time. Bad, because I would be stuck on a cramped, filthy, urine-soaked taxi-brousse for the next 26 hours straight. It’s better for me to gloss over this part of the journey, as it is still painfully raw in my mind.

We pulled into the Tana brousse station around 1 p.m. Sunday afternoon. On the cab ride to the Peace Corps house the driver was describing to me the recent political problems currently plaguing the city. I remembered having heard something about it the past week, though not much news makes it down to Isoanala. I remembered something about someone holding protests at a local park in Tana every Saturday. Turns out the Malagasy president, Marc Ravalomanana, had forced Viva off the air two weeks ago. Viva is a radio/TV station owned and operated by Andry Roejilina, a 34 year-old former disc jockey who was elected mayor of Antananarivo, also known as Tana, one year ago. Ravalo’s (Ravalomanana) reasons for shutting down Andry’s (Roejilina) media station were simple and bold: two weeks ago Andry hosted a live interview via satellite with former Malagasy president Ratsirika on Viva. Ratsirika has been living in exile in Paris ever since he was ousted in a successful coupe by Ravalo in 2002, and any media coverage of him has since been forbidden. Well, the cabbie had just said a mouthful. I could understand why Andry might be none too pleased to have his property violated, but I could also see just cause for at least suspicion from Ravalo provoked by Andry. At this point the cabbie told me that Ravalo was not supporting the democracy he supposedly had established in 2002, and that the time had come for a change in Malagasy politics. I, of course being street savvy, did not offer any opinion but just nodded and said, “Hmm…” Then we drove by a mob of people who evidently were assembled to protest, and I could see just how potentially explosive this quagmire could become.

I arrived at the house only to learn that Ravalo had fled the country in fear and that he had issued an arrest warrant for Andry. Andry was clearly gaining the upper hand. That afternoon I saw my dear friend Sarah Curl, and we proceeded to go out for beer and pizza. As we did so, we pondered the current political debacle of this country we had come to hold so dear and brainstormed on what the implications were of what might be to come.

I was jarred awake late that night by a text message from a gasy friend. It was 3 a.m. and I had received the following cryptic message:

“VIVA RADIO was destroyed BY africains SOLDIERS WITH WEAPONS AT 3 IN THE MORNING TODAY we DON’T know yet if there was people killed,” is what it said, verbatim. What did that mean? Was Ravalo back? Had he actually brought back mercenaries from abroad? Despite the propensity for the rumor mill to run in this country, I tossed and turned until the morning.

The morning of January 26th seven other volunteers and myself shipped out to Mantasoa. The text message I received the previous night was getting more and more confirmation. There was an enormous rally scheduled for 10 a.m. by Andry to respond to the aggression. Upon arrival at the PC Training Center we were informed that despite the multiple rallies forming in Tana and predicted violence, we would proceed with the conference as normal. The topics included analyzing the Training Design and Evaluation in its relation to the PC “knowledge, skills and attitude” approach to learning and teaching in a village community. A worthwhile program to be sure, but remarkably mundane given the nature of the events that were unfolding in Tana. The day went on into the afternoon and multiple reports of rioting and looting were beginning to filter in from Tana. At last we finished the day and it was time for dinner. By that time many Malagasy PC staff members had grown significantly distressed over the safety of their families in Tana and the future of their country. After dinner came an announcement from Mr. Leif Davenport, the APCD/director of the environment sector.

“The situation in Tana is…not getting better,” he stated with a solemn expression. It seemed the looting was previously being targeted only to businesses associated with or owned by Ravalo, but it had now spread to Jumbo, the one store equivalent to a Target Greatland in the country, and the savior of many PCVs in search of deodorant or barbeque sauce. This store was not even close to something owned by Ravalo. There had also been many recent reports of the Malagasy government selling several million hectares of land, totaling around a fifth of the country, to Korean electronics manufacturer Dae Woo. This potential deal resulted in otherwise unprovoked attacks on many Asian and Indian-owned stores that day and throughout the week. The decision was made to stock up on enough food to last us a week in Mantasoa, then head back to Tana the next morning at 4 a.m. in order to avoid any potential rioting.

For reasons I still do not understand, and to the dismay of virtually everyone else at the conference, the woman facilitating the conference just insisted that we work past dinner and into the night while these horrific events were taking place. Very unsurprisingly, no one was much in the mood and it didn’t last long. The next morning our caravan was en route to back to Tana before sunrise, and little did I suspect I would soon regard Mantasoa not with the sweetness my taste had acquired, but with puckering sourness as a result of what would be the Great Consolidation of 2009.

The rest of that week was virtually spent on lockdown at the Peace Corps house in Tana. By Tuesday the violence had spread to other regional capitals around the country. By Wednesday every Magro grocery store, a chain owned by Ravalo, had been looted and burned to the ground. In another looting at an electronics store in Tana that Tuesday, the roof caved in killing all inside, most of whom were reported as looters; the death-count topping off somewhere around 30. Within a day, grizzly photos of the recovered corpses were being circulated on at least one Malagasy Facebook group, and were likely being used exploited as propaganda on both sides of the conflict. On Wednesday evening the PC Country Director (CD) gave a much needed update visit to the eleven of us trapped in the PC house. He told us that non-essential personnel of the American Mission (i.e. families of the American ambassador, director of the American school, etc.) were on the verge of being evacuated, and that if they left PC would likely follow. We were also informed that all PCVs had been frozen around the country and would likely begin consolidation before the week’s end. By that Wednesday evening not only had the news story finally shown up on the BBC website, but the story had jumped to the top headline.

Thursday and Friday of that week, things calmed down and there was a hint of promise and compromise in the air. Andry’s daily protest crowds had diminished and the immediate threat of violence seemed low. Those of us stranded in Tana went to the PC office to help organize what they call “phone trees,” a mechanism to locate, contact, and mobilize every volunteer on the island. Then, on Saturday, January 31st, 39 PCVs including myself were shipped out to the training center in the cozy confines of Mantasoa. Some of us would not return for 18 days, and I would be one. And so began the great consolidation of 2009.

Part II

At first, consolidation didn’t seem like it would be so bad. To me, it meant lots of free time at the training center, free food, getting to see old friends and getting to meet some new folks too. And meet new folks I did. If it hadn’t been for consolidation, I may have never met Chris, Chase, Whitney or Phil, among others; all good people. Plus, I got to hand with some people I already liked but hadn’t hung out with much yet, such as Lindsay, Jerome, Dave, and Joanne. It was largely forbidden to exit premises beyond the village of Mantasoa, but we were allowed to at least go that far for beer and such. There was usually a car that would bring people in every day as well, sort of like a supply ship. As the first few days went by, the political situation wasn’t doing much one way or the other. The biggest problems were being reported in the regional capitals of Mahajanga and Sambava, but not in Tana. More and more busloads of PCVs were being brought in with each passing day, and the number of residents swelled to over 70. Each morning there would be a visitor from PC Tana with an update on the political situation and Peace Corps’s response to it. I had been told a week earlier we were on the brink of evacuation, and despite the politician-esque vagueness of our status of whether we were staying in-country or not from the PC staff, it seemed as if we might be staying.

‘Tranobe’ means ‘big house’ in Malagasy, and at the training center the Tranobe is a large meeting room located at the furthest point of the peninsula on which the center sits. From the first night on Tranobe dance parties became a mainstay every night as an option for anyone interested in dancing or drinking on any given night. Of course, I partook multiple times the first week, and had a pretty good time to boot. I remember one night dancing with a girl I liked, after which she whispered a very encouraging sweet nothing into my ear. She then withdrew outside and I pursued with the vigor and conviction of a slightly intoxicated man. Evidently, and unbeknownst to me, she already had a gentleman suitor that particular evening who had witnessed my pursuit outside.

“Head for open waters, Tuna…” he said, after pulling me gently aside. But he had become a friend by that time, so I was more than happy to gracefully bow out, although it may have been more of an awkward sideways stumble.

The next day, Thursday, February 5th, brought horrible news of a plane owned by Ravalo being burned upon landing that morning in Manakara, a large city in the southeast. This was followed by heavy gunfire and even grenade usage which may have resulted in deaths. Unfortunately, these events happened to take place just down the street from a PCV consolidation point, leaving said volunteers quite shaken up. This is to no fault of the person who selected that point, as such temperate violence was liable to breakout virtually anywhere anytime. That night after dinner, Lindsey, Jerome and I all felt a little fidgety. So we headed down to the Tranobe with a bottle of rum. We started trading stories from back home. Eventually, we all got a little tipsy and someone put on “Purple Rain” by Prince. The circumstances dictated that the situation had become weird, so we embraced it. We first started weirding out by building a bonfire outside and dancing around it. We then entered the Tranobe once again, and using folding chairs and table cloths, we built what I believe to have been the best damn fort that Tranobe has ever seen. All in all, it was a pretty fun night, which would not be easy to come by soon after that. The good times couldn’t last forever.

Part III

What we had by this point in time was a very fragile situation with many moving parts. It dealt with two massively narcissistic Malagasy men who shared no major ideological differences, potential tampering form the country’s ex-president, enormous and unavoidable economic problems looming on the horizon, cyclone season, potential food riots, and most troubling, it was still unclear whose side the military was on. By all accounts they had largely done nothing but stood idly by up until then. All that was clear and that could be said was that there were individuals with firearms occasionally accompanying protesters and looters, and that Ravalo had been attempting to protect his power at times using other individuals with firearms.

Despite news of recent deaths and violence in Toliar, and the airplane incident in Manakara, things were looking up for Peace Corps. Earlier in the week, PC staff had told us if there was one more instance of violence in the country we would be evacuated. So two instances later, they changed their tune (again) and called said incidents ‘isolated’, so they were hoping to start sending us back to site that Monday. The PC staff voluntarily introduced the concepts of “tripwires” and “chokepoints” to us early on in consolidation, and virtually every day would change what their definitions were. All this was very frustrating and mentally taxing; to be told one day that evacuation is on the table and the next day being told it turns out that’s not actually true. But despite dealing with that, I was growing weary of the Mantasoa life. I was growing deeply annoyed with at least a few people, one in particular. There were organized activities to do each day, such as painting a country map on the basketball court or starting a community garden, but finding my mind idle was increasing in frequency. Especially frustrating was watching people, usually PC staff, freely breeze in and out of the training center and go back to the capital at least every weekend if not every day. I wanted more than anything to get out and back to site, or at least to the reality of Tana. So despite flip-flopping from PC Tana and PC Washington I was receptive to the prospect of getting out and heading back to site by the beginning of next week. Then came Saturday, January 7th, a day which shall live on in infamy and be mourned throughout the country for the indefinite future.

I slept through breakfast and got up around ten in the morning. I grabbed a quick shower and headed to the rec room to see what was on. Unfortunately, I had to watch something called “27 Dresses” for an hour and a half until lunchtime came. After finishing lunch, an announcement was made that Andry organized a massive protest over 10,000 strong and was currently leading them to either the main government ministry building or Ravalo’s palace. We later heard that when the march arrived at the Ministry building Ravalo’s forces had fired right into the crowd and gunned down at least 30 people, none of whom lived. Personally, I could never have fathomed the crisis reaching this level. There was sporadic rioting and looting reported throughout the afternoon following the shooting. That night there was much sober conversation and nervous laughter among us at the training center. The CD was due in the next morning for an update. That night most lights were out by ten.

Sunday morning the CD rolled in around 11 a.m., toting a case of beer in each arm; a welcome gift. He followed suit with the vagueness of all the other updates we had received earlier in the week, but he did say this was a push much closer to evacuation. I understood and appreciated the complexity of the situation, and, though I didn’t necessarily hold it against the CD, I did walk away from the “update” feeling more unsure of things then when I walked in. I spent most of the day by myself thinking about the fact that, unlike others who had notice they were consolidating, when I came to Tana I thought I was coming only for the conference and would be gone for just a few days. Most people had gotten to pack their prize possessions and said good-bye to their village in case they didn’t make it back. I hadn’t had any of that. I started realizing for the first time that I may never again see any of my friends in Isoanala. It was depressing.

On Monday the word was out that (finally) at least PC Washington had set a deadline, and that PC Tana had to decide by 11 p.m. that night to either evacuate or send us back to site. This came as a relief to me, even knowing full well that evacuation might well mean never returning, I would still prefer that then spend another week in what had become this netherworld purgatory to me, totally unsure of anything. After all, putting it off and keeping us in Mantasoa for at least another week was the only other option on the table.

Monday came and went with nothing. Tuesday Joanne and Chris asked me if I might be interested in a walk to Ambatalaona to visit our old host families, as both our stages had trained in the same village so long ago. Nothing sounded better to me; get some fresh air, stretch out the legs on a 15 km walk, get the hell out of Mantasoa, and, most importantly, pay a long overdue visit to my dear host family. If we were evacuated, I would take solace in the fact that at least I could touch my old roots before leaving. The walk took nearly three hours each way, and it rained almost the whole way back to compliment my broken sandal. But God was it great to see them. It had been nearly a year, and it was just my pleasure to bring them a couple bags of groceries and reminisce of times past.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the daily update had been delivered and was awaiting us upon our return. I would be disappointed. The news was that the deadline had been extended and given an open-end for a decision from PC Tana, and that we would likely be spending another week in Mantasoa. Also, for those feeling too uncomfortable to return to site or staying in-country, they could opt for “interruption of service” (IOS). In the exact language of Peace Corps, this is a “no-harm no-foul early end of service; like an honorable discharge.” First of all, that’s great for those who are “uncomfortable” staying in-country. What about those who are perfectly comfortable staying and would prefer to go back to work but need a decision from PC Tana? What’s the option for that person? Furthermore, the degree to which IOS would be a pragmatic solution for a PCV would not be high in many or most cases. This is due to the many folks who were in my dilemma or other fragile states of mind who are thus not thinking clearly, and it is the volunteers in this kind of position that might opt for IOS as they are ushered towards it as an option by Peace Corps. These were the same types of people who would never opt for it in a clear state of mind. In this way I believe that Peace Corps was mortgaging potential volunteer work for a small time extension to make a decision they had already had twelve days to make. I understand it’s very, very stressful and demanding. But this was it, it was go time. Make a decision already.

That Wednesday and Thursday they organized trips for anyone interested to the city of Moramanga about an hour east on the highway RN2. That was a nice opportunity for those of us with cabin fever. I was a bit beyond that, though, as they abyss of Mantasoa purgatory, i.e. consolidation, was getting deeper and deeper, with no end in sight. Days were going by without me speaking to more than one or two people. I know I would have been more mentally stable and comfortable anywhere else, even in a potentially dangerous hotspot in the country, than in Mantasoa. The list of people who I found annoying was growing. A new list of people I was growing to hate was forming. I wasn’t over the edge, but I had never felt much closer… There was one person, though, whose care and love was carrying me from one day to the next. So I’d like to give out a special, special, special, special dedication to that person now, because without her I think I would be checked into a laughing academy right now. On Wednesday I wasn’t up for much of anything, but Thursday I took the trip to Moramanga. Finally, we had cell reception, internet, and ice cream. The few hours there was only enough to wet my appetite for any hint of reality, and before long it was back to the straight jacket at Mantasoa.

On Friday, the daily update was vaguer than ever. The PC staff breezed in and even brought some volunteers back to Tana for personal reasons when they left. I watched the car drive off, resenting the burning jealousy I felt for all in the vehicle. Everyone going back to some slice of reality, getting out of Mantasoa to do something else for the weekend. The vagueness of the day’s update this time leaned towards the positive side. By the next day, my third Saturday within a two acre compound, I had lost any sense of caring. I had let go and was in a bad way. It happened to be Valentine’s Day, so of course there was to be a dance party scheduled for the evening at the Tranobe. There was also to be a pre-game party on the basketball court in the afternoon; something called a “case race.” Evidently, the environment sector had challenged the health sector to see which team could finish a case of beer first, hence the case race. I was in a mood to indulge in anything to help me forget what was happening, and thus more than happy to oblige the request from my sector of health to participate. We would have won too, if it hadn’t been for Chris C. on the environment side. The kid weighs 140 lbs, and slammed four 66 cL beers in a period of fifteen minutes! It’s just like that Nathan’s hot dog eating contest; you always have got to watch out for the skinny kid, because he’s the one who has the power to turn off your lights. Predictably, I was able to get drunk and unsurprisingly I felt invariably depressed the next day.

On my third Sunday in Mantasoa, both the CD and the Regional Security Officer came for the update. Again, the CD came with two cases of beer in hand, and again it was greatly appreciated. Now we were hoping to deconsolidate on Tuesday, he said, and start getting folks back to site. Hmm, had I heard that before? The situation had become so stressful that I had all but shut down emotionally. Once again, I understand that PC staff was working long, long hours and in many ways in a more physically stressful environment than us. And once again, who had their own beds waiting for them at the end of every night? Who was going back to Tana every day and getting to choose what they ate and not live with the same group of 80 people for fifteen straight days? It wasn’t me. Another common theme which was surfacing more and more in the conversations of PCVs was to what extent the PC staff conferring with PCVs on the final decision. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the American PC staff say that no one knows the Malagasy language, people and culture better than the PCVs. So why were the only sources of input for the decision which wholly evaluates the Malagasy people and culture coming from those who don’t know the culture as well? Never even for conversation’s sake were PCVs asked what we think the decision should be during a staff meeting or group update in Mantasoa. Instead it felt more like being patronized; throwing us all in the training center with basketball and beer for safe keeping while the people who knew what they were doing made our decision. I realize the difficulty of the situation and commend both PC Tana and PC Washington for doing the best they could, and I do trust the judgment of all those in the PC staff. I certainly consider us to be a team. I just hated being in the position I was in at Mantasoa.

The third Monday night in Mantasoa we were told that the caravan for Fianarantsoa, my route to site, would be heading out at 6 a.m. Tuesday morning. I felt great about the prospect of it happening, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. See was believing by that point, and nothing lesser. That night word came in that three looters had just been shot and killed in Tana, and that we were no longer leaving the next morning. I smiled at the irony. Despite the news, I was up and ready Tuesday morning at 5 a.m. in the unlikely event we were still leaving. Breakfast came out at six and it was confirmed that we were not leaving. I started shooting some hoops and at nine I overheard someone on a cell phone talking about rumors being false and it being okay to leave. A couple minutes later on announcement was made that the violence from last night was a false rumor and that we were leaving in fifteen minutes. Hoorah! I got my bags back out and an hour and a half later we were on the road.

We were dropped off at the PC house in Tana for a couple hours, then back on the road by 3 p.m. We were about six hours behind schedule, but we could still get to Antsirabe, a large city and checkpoint on the Fianar route, before dark for pizza and sleep. However, that also did not happen.

I have ridden in the PC cars, convoys and caravans many times; countless, probably. Never have I had problems with car trouble on those trips. Not until this trip. The funny thing is it’s still technically true. We would have horrible car trouble on the short way to Antsirabe, but it wouldn’t come from a PC car. What happened was, de-consolidation involves driving an insane amount of volunteers around at the same time. Therefore, the amount of space in PC cars understandably ran out quickly. So, PC Tana justifiably had to rent private vehicles to transport the excess volunteers. Disappointingly, the person in charge of renting the car for the Fianar caravan chose to select a lower-than-average, run of the mill, beat-up taxi brousse for our extra car. The second the engine started, clouds of black smoke poured out the exhaust and a perpetual rattling came from the engine; seats were torn and the doors didn’t lock. Whoever opted to rent this particular vehicle deemed it roadworthy for PC to take it the over 400 kilometers to Fianar. I have got to question the judgment here. It was obvious it would break down. On the way to consolidation from Fianar, I understand they reserved a high quality conversion van and heard high reports about it. So I just don’t understand how this one passed the same tests. In any case, the whole way the PC cars were going half their normal speed on the highway to accommodate this ridiculous van, and after the first hour it broke right down. Sunset came and went, and we ended up having to double up everyone in the other cars and leaving the rented van behind as it was clearly beyond irreparable. So nearly everyone had a person on their lap for half the way to Antsirabe.

We did eventually make it. We pulled into Antsirabe around nine in the evening, where there just happened to be a city-wide curfew beginning at 9 p.m. Plus, we had no hotel reservations. No one had had dinner to boot, so we were all a bit grumpy. We waited on the street for an hour while the cars searched for open hotels, as we couldn’t sit in a restaurant let alone eat due to them all closing in compliance with the curfew. Eventually we found a hotel and rice to eat.

The next day we hit the road at eight and it was much better. Luckily, many folks had disembarked the caravan in Antsirabe so there were enough normal spots in the PC cars for all. We were cruising; making good time. For the first time in a while I was starting to feel genuinely good and optimistic. The fact that we were about to reach Fianar without problems after all we had been through was a signal to me that maybe this was really happening; getting back to good old Fianar and then back to Isoanala, back to home. The fresh plateau air blowing in was starting to smell ever so slightly of the savannah sage aroma I know and love, a surefire sign of the south approaching.

Finally, we reached Fianar. My God, it was a beautiful sight. We passed by Sofia, a dance we club we tend to frequent on the far side of town. We went by my barbershop, then Casa Delicios… We were getting close to the house. We turned onto the last main drag that leads up to our road. I was daydreaming; looking out the window and reveling in the prospect of our newfound freedom and good fortune. It was then that Adam turned from the front seat to look back at us behind him, his haw hanging home… I pulled out my headphones and immediately heard something like a group of people singing somewhere far off. I propped myself up on the seat and looked on ahead of what was in front of our vehicle. About half a block up there was a massive crowd of protesters holding up signs supporting Andry, and they were marching right towards us. The “song” I had heard was them chanting something along the lines of, “no justice, no peace!” Nirina, the driver, pulled a sharp 180 and peeled off in the direction we had come from. He found a long route that goes around the city to avoid the mob, and a half hour later we were at Chez Niny’s across the street from the PC house ordering lunch. It was right as my beer arrived that the first gunshot rang out. This was followed by a spray of gunfire down the hill from where we were eating and we were rushed into the security of the PC house. I was again on house arrest. Throughout the day we confirmed 39 shots, keeping tally with charcoal on the concrete outside the house. Somewhat surprisingly, the next day we were told to continue on to our sites. I was actually for that decision, although I was again disappointed that PC Tana did not even ask us what we say happen that day in Fianar, let alone how we think it should impact our immediate interim plan. Instead they relied on the notoriously corrupt and subjective gendarme for information on what happened. I have lived in this country for 17 months now, and I am 110 percent completely convinced that the Gendarme in this country, nine times out of ten, are sneaky, conniving, abusive and narcissistic individuals who are only interested on taking advantage of their power to gain wealth. This is not the case for all of them; but it is nearly all I have come in contact with. Despite all that, continuing south sounded just fine to me. Anything to avoid round two of the Dharma Initiative back there at Mantasoa.

So Kelly and I broussed it back to Betroka. Incidentally, on the way back down I saw my first wild alligator on the island. Right as we were entering Betroka from the north side of RN13, there was a large boggy marsh with water a few feet deep that we had to drive through. AS we crept across, a giant alligator surfaced in front of our vehicle. He was six feet long if he was an inch, I tell ya! His reptilian frame slithered smoothly past us, and his low growl faded into the nearby reeds.

I have now been back at site for a good few days now, and it’s fantastic. Getting my life somewhat back in order, talking to folks around town, eating right and getting good sleep. I even picked back up the hogging program. The trick is to get up at 4:30; that way it’s still cool out because it’s dark and it’s earlier than most other folks get up so I have no gawkers pulling up lawn chairs to watch me, as has been a problem in the past. You know work’s been goin’ pretty good too? Although one frustrating point of my “post-crisis” new life here is just that knowing something could really break out again anytime. It makes it harder to really genuinely invest myself in longer projects. I still do and will, but I dread the day that I get a text telling me it’s all over. On the bright side, if that day does come and we went back into consolidation or were evacuated, I would at least get to prepare for it, unlike before. There has been more violence too… A few shops were looted in Toliar last week, and someone was shot dead in Fianar just yesterday by the military. But I’m trying to stay optimistic and do the best job that I can do. And by God I will, raha sitrapo ny Andriamanitra (Gasy for “lord willing”).

I’d like to finish by saying that the purpose of this post is not and never had been to bash Peace Corps. Any regular reader of my blog would know that the content I write rarely, if ever, speaks negatively about Peace Corps as an organization, a non-profit, or a support network for us volunteers. If there is any reference, it is usually in a positive light. I do apologize if at times this entry appeared to come down too hard, but I feel these things had to be said. It can be intimidating to bring up said issues as bluntly as I might like to with PC staff in Tana, not to mention that I try to uphold the professional courtesy of being polite. So the views I have expressed in this blog are meant to be received as constructive criticism. Very rarely would I even consider this as a tool to actually express any meaningful view of mine, as it is hardly the time of the place. I typically use it as a venue to simply tell the tales of my life as they occur; the tales of Selb. This particular post happened to take a course which inevitably led it to occasional opinionated ranting, and to the readers who enjoy my blog precisely because it usually avoids that, I also apologize. I have not embellished this story nor any others, as they need no embellishment. They are simply the facts of my life as a tall, 27 year old, PCV man in Madagascar.

The day is calm in this capital city. Street vendors hawk their wares, vendors sell their street side treats for all to enjoy, most importantly, at a normal price. The news reports on your favorite major websites are desperately lacking on information from other cities, but they do what they can. Mid-range to larger cities in this country have suffered heavy damage; between looting and mobbing, Sambava, Mahajunga, and Toliara are reported to have been the worst hit. Here in Tana, many smaller stores, family dreams, and long-established neighborhood fortunes have been destroyed. But that is over now.

Tomorrow is largely believed to be a tipping point in this fragile sandglass. If the demonstration proves to be peaceful, Tana will live to see another day for the better. If things go the wrong way, well, there’s no telling how many years it will set back this beautiful country, and how many tears may roll down my cheek. Should a riot mentality set in on this metropolis, they have the capability to destroy this city and all others around this country. It is not promising that the mayor of Tana still refuses to a dialogue with President Ravalomanana

Peace Corps update is as follows: We go to Mantasoa on Saturday, 30th January. We will be on lockdown there for longer than we ever should be. God, I wish to hell I was out of this hellish purgatory. More to follow. This is Justin Selb reporting live, from Antananarivo.

The situation in Tana today has followed suit from yesterday; there’s a general strike and government institutions such as schools and other non-essential offices are completely closed. Yet there is a peaceful calm throughout the city. As far as I know Andry has not yet agreed to a dialogue with Ravolamanana, or vice versa. The success of the immediate future of this country is heavily dependent on getting that dialogue going. Yesterday the American ambassador met privately in separate meetings with both men to try and persuade them to meet, but to no avail.

Problems in other cities have worsened. Toliara has experienced high rates of violent mobbing and looting, and Fort Dauphin is expected to experience general strikes today. Mahajunga in the north has suffered serious damage to its infrastructure, and Sambava in the northeast has been described as a war zone and virtually destroyed.

The question now is whether or not this calm in Tana will guide the country back to order, or if it is simply a lull in between waves of violence. The more longstanding impacts are sure to be economical. A gas scare has already struck the country, with lines wrapping around the blocks at the few gas stations that were in stock. I’ve frequently seen images reminiscent of Baghdad. Another possibility is that if looters strike cell phone towers that would deal a harsh blow to the country in general.

As for Peace Corps, today they are beginning the basic steps towards consolidating volunteers. In the event of an emergency, volunteers in any given region have rallying points to meet up at. The problem is that those points are usually in the regional capital, which is where all the problems have been heating up. Peace Corps has been racing to come up with a contingency plan for the interim, involving new consolidation points for volunteers in trouble spots. A trouble spot would be a place with limited number of banks or roads in the area, which could lead to money or food shortage or major transportation problems.

I’m still at the Peace Corps safe house in Tana, waiting for further instructions. There is a chance I will not get to return to site if they do evacuate us, which would be absolutely devastating for me. When I left I only planned to be gone for a few days and packed accordingly, and much more important there are many friends who I would at least have wanted to say good-bye to. If we are evacuated we will go to Kenya for an undetermined period of time, and if that happens it is unlikely we will return to Madagascar. The most concrete thing Peace Corps has decided is that the new group of trainees due to arrive next month will almost certainly be postponed indefinitely.

The city has calmed, but trouble is only being held at bay. Only time will tell what this crisis holds for the future of Madagascar; prosperity or chaos; tranquility or turmoil. This is Justin Selb reporting live, from Antananarivo.

(The following post was originally written on the 16th of January, 2009)

Brothers, sisters, friends and countrymen: I welcome you back to the recently allusive yet everlasting Tales of Selb, and to the New Year. I have been back at site for about a week now and I must say we’ve come leaps and bounds since this time last year. We’ve got Zain cellular services (formerly Cel Tel) up and running, we’ve got electricity in the house, and I’ve even seen road crews out working on RN 13, albeit sporadic. I've got a laptop with droves of DVDs, lots of cheese whiz, and not one, not two, but *three* bottles of Bushmill's Irish whiskey squirreled away for a rainy month. You know work’s not goin’ too bad either? I finally got that AIDS prevention soccer league funds request that I been workin’ on. I should hear back soon. So, yeah; sittin’ pretty in Isoanala for the New Year.

Last November I headed up to Tana to train the new health stage in-country. It was a positive experience for everyone, I think. Nothin’ like a group of wide-eyed newbies to break in; they sounded just like we did last year, I tell ya; brought me back, it did. Then in December we had another family visit. This was going to be a big one… My mother and Dave were due to meet me in Johannesburg. They had never been to Africa. I knew they could handle it though. They’re tough cookies. Dave came up on the mean streets of northeast Minneapolis in the ‘50’s. Mom is from Iowa, but I knew that Dave and I could look after her. I was looking forward to a change of scenery myself. Fifteen months I spent in this country, and I shouldn’t look forward to this? At the very least a change in beer selection! Don’t get me wrong, I love the 65 centiliter bottles of Three Horses Lager here, but a guy needs to stir it up sometimes, no?

On December 18th, I stepped onto an airplane that would take me to see my family, whom I had not laid eyes upon for a year and a half. The plane landed at 3:30 p.m. in Johannesburg. As I entered the icy-cold airport from the stifling African sun, I was blown away by the advanced nature of the structure I was in. I could have been in the new airport of any capital city in America. Was it really Africa? As I approached customs, walking like a zombie, spinning in circles and marveling at my surroundings I backed into a gentleman standing in the customs line.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said as I turned around. To my astonishment, the man I had bumped into was none other than Dave Reavis, accompanied by my dearest mother, fresh in from D.C. We all embraced and attempted to comprehend what was happening. As we approached customs, I was called up to a middle-aged, clean-cut gentleman behind a desk.

“Howzit,” he mumbled without looking and grasping for my passport.

“Good?” I said, unsure of his question.

“Yeah, kuntrezidin,” he muttered.

:Oh, um… American?” I tried.

“Naw, naw, naw, naw, man. Kuntrezidin,” he countered, growing fidgety.

“Huh?”

“What country ya reside in!” he exclaimed. Gotta love that accent!

At our hotel that evening, we caught up; traded war stories. They got me up to speed on family business and I dished out a couple of my better Dahalo stories for them. After not too long they complained of jetlag, understandably so. After they had turned in, I decided to stay at the hotel bar and watch soccer for a bit. I noticed the only other bar patron was a man who periodically approached the bar and refilled his Walker Red. We got to talking and it just so happened that he was in the development business as well. An interesting and well-mannered fellow of Pakistani descent, he worked with UNICEF and was coming from Egypt to South Africa for some work-related business. He asked me for my story. As I explained who I was and what I was doing, I noticed a glimmer in his eyes. Especially as I explained how I once worked in a cubicle for Citigroup in downtown Manhattan, and had decided that wasn’t going to be my direction, exactly.

“You know I made a similar decision when I was about your age. This is more interesting, don’t you think?” he inquired. Yes, sir. Yes I do.

The next day we arrived at our safari lodge in Kruger National Park. The vast majority of the staff hailed from the Shangan tribe, but the Xhosa people were spoken for by some as well. The lodge was truly fit for a king. They had California-king size beds with air conditioning that literally had a notch on the dial for “igloo-mode.” On top of it all, the mini-bar was just dirt cheap! Castle, Heineken, Amstel, J&B airplane bottles, you name it; all 15 rand! The equivalent of about $1.50! Well I was just astounded. Some of the nicest hotels in Madland do not have a mini-bar, and the ones that do aren’t that cheap… The AC was necessary, however, as midday temperatures tended to top off around 115-120. Thus, it should come as no surprise that the animals didn’t much go out during the day. So, if we wanted to see animals on this animal safari, we would have to follow their schedule. A perquisite we didn’t mind none too much; who would want to face that heat? The animals were right! Put it to a vote; I’ll vote for it. So the guardian gentleman would softly knock on the door of my lodge at 5 a.m. and we would be off by 5:30, and back by 9 a.m. The breakfast and lunch followed by a nap, then the evening drive from 4 to 8 p.m. Our driver, Fany, and tracker, Renius, were just a couple of class acts and couldn’t have been more courteous gentlemen.

So I know what you’re asking yourself, and the answer is: yes. We saw all the big five *except* the allusive cheetah. They’re a slippery bunch; they substitute teacher of the jungle world. Ask a real live tracker, man, he’ll tell you the same. But man, oh man…did we see a lot. Tons of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hippos, and impala. Buzzards, Egyptian cobras, of course the Malibu Stork, water buffalo, lions, black-backed jackals, and on our last day we saw a rhino. One evening we saw one single buffalo stave off *three* giant, male, freakin’ full grown lions! We learned the lions had been stalking the buffalo the previous few evenings. The buffalo was facing death; he knew it. But God bless him, he started charging the lions in a last-ditch bluff attempt knowing full well that if he didn’t, it could mean his own life. The lions seemed mildly irritated by the disturbance, and were acting more like it was too hot that evening to go ahead and kill the buffalo, than like they were genuinely intimidated in any sense of the word. You’ve gotta hand it to that buffalo though… What balls! God loves tryers.

The next afternoon mother and I were walking towards the mess hall for some lunch. We were discussing something ridiculously mundane, especially given the nature of the events that were about to take place. About halfway to the mess hall, I was muttering to the ground more than to mother something along the lines of, “You know, I like Russ Feingold. I don’t care what anyone else says…” when someone hissed a borderline rude “shush” at us from afar. The two of us looked up and saw another guest silently making the “silence” motion, then pointing hurriedly into the brush. At that point I noticed a Canadian teen and Indian housewife just up the path looking in awe at something where the first guy had just pointed. Our eyes followed the gaze of the others slowly into the bush. Not ten meters away we saw standing the largest, most majestic elephant I have ever seen. We slowly joined the Canadian teen and Indian housewife to get a closer look. For about ten seconds we all stood, mesmerized and transvexed by the creature’s magnificent presence. Then came a moment; a moment when the seemingly harmless curiosity in the elephant’s eyes flickered instantaneously into a furious rage. W all saw it happen, but before we could react, the mighty beast kicked up its front two legs and trumpeted out the most bloodcurdling cry I have ever heard. The ground rumbled as its two legs came crashing back to the earth. Its tremendous ears folded out erect as it mock-charged us. I was petrified. A rage burned in its eyes deeper than the fires of hell. I extended my arms to feel who was behind me, never taking my eyes off the beast. The Indian housewife was gone. In fact, there was on one left in sight other than mother, the Canadian teen and myself. 65,000 years of sheer survival instinct flamed inside the thing’s eyes.

“Don’t…move. He can’t see us, if we don’t move…” the Canadian teen squeaked. I told him he was an idiot, and slowly backed us off to a safe distance, at which point I yelled for all to run for their lives to the mess hall! As we ran, familiar faces began to emerge from the woodwork. The guest who shushed me, Dave; they all jumped from their respective hiding bushes and ran with us into the mess hall. After we had made it and sat down to have out heart attacks, we saw the elephant had made his way across the path to a nearby swimming hole. The chef came out of the kitchen and said to no one in particular,

“Well, looks like Herman’s sneaking in his noontime swim.” We all had a good laugh about it over a cold round of Castles. You win this round, Herman.

After a few days of Safari hijinx in the blazing bushes of Timbavati, we were all ready for some civilization. We flew to a little place called Capetown. What a horribly terrific town, that is! It is completely up to snuff with any American city in terms of development. Better than some, in fact. But my God, how cheap it was! The city itself is nestled beneath the rugged peaks of Table Mountain and the bar marina where the Atlantic meets the Indian Ocean. I found that Capetown boasts an eclectic mix of folks from all walks of life. It is truly a vibrant community in which there is something for everyone and anything goes. I met the love of my life on the plane down; an Eritrean girl with some Ethiopian influence. She spoke just enough English for us to communicate. One thing she told me was that in her country they have a saying for a man to tell a woman he is courting. Originally created after a war, then man should offer to point his gun towards the sky to shoot heaven on down for her. I was only able to have one night with her. We went out to take advantage of the humming nightlife on Long Street. A true rival of the East Village in Manhattan or the Piramide in Rome, Long Street is packed with restaurants, bars, clubs, and discos. There is a chance I will one day return to Capetown for my Eritrean princess and one of the many bountiful jobs ripe for the picking.

On Christmas day, Dave, Mother, and myself met my sister in Johannesburg, and the next day we were on our way to Madland. Being gone for only a week still seemed strange to me, and I was relieved to be back in my element. We all spent New Year’s Eve on Isle St. Marie, a rival to Nosy Be, which you may recall from a previous entry. We had a tremendous time swimming, relaxing, and extreme-ocean kayaking. There were lemurs to be seen, shrimp to be eaten, and sometimes cold beer to be drank. Before I knew it, the time had come for my family to leave me. They all had their lives to resume, as did I. It had been too long since I was in Isoanala, and I was looking forward to getting back. I spent a few days in Tana to air out from the experiences I’d just been through, and then headed back to the spiny desert. Back to where I belong.

(The following post was originally written on October 19th, 2008)

It was a Friday morning. I’d been in the Tana area for just over a week. The day before my colleagues and I had completed a three day training seminar in Mantasoa at the Peace Corps Training Center. Mantasoa is always nice. It’s very similar to a year-round summer camp in northern Minnesota. Surrounded by a giant, picturesque lake on three sides, the compound sprawls out for about four acres and is gated off on all perimeters. The landscape is lush with pine trees, and nothing is better than drinking in a gorgeous sunset over that lake; it always goes down smooth. We would have a couple sessions throughout the day, with lots of free time for ping pong, volleyball, watching movies, or just taking the canoe out for a relaxing trip on the lake. Of course we dine together in the mess hall three times a day; taco night is my favorite. Needless to say, I always come back to Tana rejuvenated after a three-day stint in Mantasoa. That particular Friday morning I would need my energy. For Terry Selb, my father, was due in at the airport before breakfast.

Now, up to this point, which was only a couple weeks back, I hadn’t had any visitors of any kind. There had been absolutely no physical overlap between my Peace Corps life, over a year in duration by that time, and my old life back in the real world. Of course I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing my dad, but I was still a bit anxious as to what would happen in this first instance of my old life meeting my new life. Would worlds collide? Time would tell.

We met outside our hotel in Tana. Right as I was walking up to it, I saw my dad lumbering out of a taxi with two giant bags and a briefcase. I tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, and we embraced one another. The kind of embrace warranted when one finds a long lost brother, or close friend. Unsurprisingly, the day flew by in a whirlwind. The more we conversed, the more I was beginning to remember. My heart ached as familiar nostalgia began coursing through my veins, triggered by the sight of my father. Something didn’t compute. Reconciling the way I’d been living the past year with the 26 other years back home was difficult; as was negotiating a middle ground for the two in my head. Then combining this overwhelming feeling with the shock of such luxury; the fancy restaurants, the nice hotels, pockets laced with cash; I felt I was approaching a critical point and that the possibility of a mental short circuit had become very real. But it never came. By the time we got to the airport a couple days later I felt right as rain. A bit like my old self, actually; the way it used to be. Our destination was the top beach resort area in the neighborhood, and by neighborhood I mean Indian Ocean. I’m talking about a place called Nosy Be; a paradise playground where Euros and Yen are more abundant than the priceless coral reef spread throughout the crystal clear waters that surround the island.

If the time in Tana was a whirlwind, Nosy Be was a cyclone. My God, I was completely blown away by my experience there. The sheer colors alone were enough to leave you breathless. White sands, blue skies, turquoise water, and bright green jungles. In Tana my dad said this was to be my trip, so I should make it how I wanted. With that in mind, I decided to sort of give the trip a “massage” theme, and tried to arrange for a massage each day after lunch and a nap. I, of course, carried this theme to Nosy Be. But the trick is, don’t use the hotel services for that when you speak their language, literally. With our laundry too, for that matter. I knew for a fact that I could talk to any number of people on the beach right in front of the hotel and get the same thing for a quarter of the hotel price. So that’s what we did. And it worked, too. 5,000 ariary per shirt? Yeah, right. I got my load and my dad’s done on the beach, 30 pieces of clothes, for 8,000 ariary total. Cause what I know now, and what the tourists could never understand, is if you want to be one with the people, you have to actually be with the people. But I digress.

The greatest thing we ever did on that island was going scuba diving of the coast of Sakatia beach. That beach was right out of a fairy tale. I mean the water was warmer than a bath tub and so clear and clean that you could drink it straight. Now I’d never been scuba diving before, and I didn’t know what an amazing experience I was about to have. First of all, when you go scuba diving and you’re underwater, everything moves in slow motion. It’s like watching a silent movie that takes place underwater, and slowing the playback speed down by 75 percent. There was this South African by the name of Jacques who took us down as our guide. He took us each down about six meters, one at a time. He was just getting us accustomed, showing some of the basics. But once I got down there it took some getting used to, let me tell you. It’s a weird feeling to look *up* and see a far-off water surface. But I got into a groove after a bit of time, and the three of us began exploring the ocean floor, slowly floating towards various destinations.

There I was, hovering horizontally three feet above an endless sand bed. There were several different types of very brightly-colored fish swimming nearby. But something curious had caught my eye. I checked for the others and could see Jacques and my father not far-off, fruitlessly trying to communicate something to one another in marked silence; the occasional flutter of bubbles floating from their masks. I shrugged and headed for the curious object. It looked to be some breed of sea log, except it was brightly marked at parts. I slowly drifted towards it, mesmerized. As I approached it I tranquilly extended my arms and grasped it into my wrinkled hands. It felt softer than a log. Then, to my horror, it slowly began shifting its shape, bending and curving. The creature and I shared a mutual moment of terror as its color changed from greenish-purple to yellowish-red and it began silently excreting a powder into the water near me from one of its ends, in what could only have been a natural self-defense mechanism. I’m sure we were both screaming, but nary a soul heard either of us. I dropped it and looked over to Jacques in horror as the object slowly began descending back to the sand from whence it came. He was a good five meters away, but I could clearly see he was slowly and gracefully wagging his index finger at me through the water, which was he had earlier established as the “no-touch” signal. I attempted to float towards his hand, which was now outstretched to me. Thank God I reached his precious, protective hand without problems, and he led me to safety. He would later inform me that the beast I had thought was a log was actually a “sea cucumber”, and that’s it’s better to let them be.

The days in Nosy Be slipped by quicker than I could count them. The constant, gentle crashing of waves had the effect of a brain massage; day-in, day-out. I’d recently had an unfortunate coincidence of illnesses. A strong head cold, cut toe, and a scraped shin. My father insisted I start a course of antibiotics for my shin; it had obviously become infected. He was more worried about it than I was and he could tell. He asked me how I ever expected it to get better if I didn’t do something about it. It was an interesting question. I supposed in certain areas of my mind I’d already convinced myself, some time ago actually, to just let go. I think the ultimate answer to my father’s question was this: I never expected to get better. But this island, this place, took a healing grip of force over my life. It nursed me back to health without either of us even trying. I had never felt so fortunate, so alive, and I doubt many ever do. As I lay floating in the crystal clear water on our last afternoon, I felt something in my chest again pounding harder than before. I still wasn’t sure what it meant. I strolled up the white sand out of the water and turned to face the mighty channel. The physical portion of my environment was so beautiful, but there was something deeper digging in. I was trying to think with my mind and not with my heart. The fact that my father’s visit reminded me how distant home is resonated, but how I felt at home on this Malagasy turf is what really got to me. There are really no words for the content feeling I had gotten from this realization while standing on that beach; Jesus, indescribable. As I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, tears rolled down my cheeks.

The next day my father and I flew back to Tana, both decompressing. My father from the hotel seafood buffet, and me from my introspective journey into the first hints of what the hell my life is here. I don’t think it’s about saving the world, or making a difference, or even doing something crazy before I get stuck in a cubicle for the rest of my life. But as I drove down south from Tana with my dad, towards where the lush, green rice paddies open up and fold out into the desert savannah that is my home, I knew I still hadn’t found whatever it was I had been looking for.

We were going into the deep south. We were Isoanala-bound, and it felt good, too. It took a long time getting down, but after several days and repeating “Sticky Fingers” by the Stones ten times, we eventually did make it in once piece. It was a quick visit for dad, in and out really. Of course, I stayed on behind. Man; that first weekend back was tough. I spent hours on my porch seeing the afternoon safely into the dusk racking my brain on what in the hell had just happened. When we were on that island my life seemed a million miles away; a billion. But which life was I thinking of? The hospital, the spiny desert, the savannah, the stray dog Snuffles who comes each night to eat my leftovers? My colleagues, my friends, my habits… then it hit me. It was Isoanala! Had to be, really… But, okay, then how could it mean so much to me? Nosy Be may well have been a million miles away, but once we got south of Fianar on the drive here, and I started recognizing so many of the customs down here that I knew so well… Well, I suppose I realized that I’ve grown accustomed to them. I now know how present I can feel here. Back when my father first arrived, it’s no wonder I was having trouble straightening everything out. It’s because I was out of my element; I was out of Isoanala. And now I know that this is where I am; 100 percent mind, 100 percent body, 100 percent soul. When the time’s up, the time’s up. But you’ve got to live for the moment.

(This post was orginally written on September 13th, 2008)

Well, it was about this time one year ago that I had bid New York good-bye and made L.A. my lady, albeit a brief fling. I remember cruising the strip with Malcatraz on our way to Mirabelle's for a dry martini; the sun had not yet set.

"So Malcatraz, how's L.A. today," I asked, palm trees breezing by."Mellow, man," he replied under his shades and Marb red cigarette. "We got a nice, smooth L.A. today..." And with that he started blasting M.I.A. like it was going out of style, though ironically it had just come into style.We hit up Mirabelle's and a few different spots. There were some good folks at all of them, although a fair share of your run-of-the-mill L.A. garbage too. At the end of the night we were driving back to Malcatraz's place, where I would crash on his couch. We passed La Cienaga, then he turned to me and said, "So Selby; first the O.C., then Palm Springs, tonight L.A. and tomorrow you're headin' up to the Bay area? Sort of a victory lap before you go off to God knows where for two years?" I hadn't thought of it that way yet, but Malcatraz has a way of calling things like he sees 'em."That's right, bro. And not a moment too soon, either..."About one month on from then I'd packed up and shipped out. Fresh meat, that's what I was. In-country three days and I was as green as they come. The country director at the time was Mr. Bill Bull. True to form, he was a hulk of a man, standing at 6'5 with a bulky build. For sure intimidating at first, but easy to get comfortable around. He requested a brief interview with all new trainees, so I stepped up to bat first. He asked me to give him a brief synapse or "elevator speech" on my reasons for wanting to join Peace Corps. I'd been through it so much just before in the states that it should have rolled off my tongue, but I froze up a little. I felt a little something like Wynona Ryder must have in "Reality Bites" when her job interviewer asks her to define 'irony', at which point she chokes. Fortunately, shortly afterwards in the film we have a young dreamboat named Ethan Hawke to inform us that irony is when the literal meaning of something is the exact opposite of its actual meaning. In my jam, however, there would be no Ethan Hawke to save me. So I just took a deep breath of composure, recalled my "elevator speech," and gave it to him as I had given it to so many before.Finally, now in the present day, I look back at all and laugh. What was there to be so nervous about in the first place? There's plenty around to laugh about everyday in this place. for example, we are currently in 'circumcision season,' which as far as I can tell is similar to duck season. I believe it's every three years, in my community particularly, from June through September. If you happen to be a male who was born just then, they circumcise you. If you happen to be a male who is two and a half-three years old and "missed" the last season, they circumcise you. I feel for those poor little buggers; yeesh! It literally goes on all summer (or winter, for us ;-) and as each family completes it they conduct a parade where they dance and sing about town for a half hour or until whenever they tire themselves out. It is interesting to watch, to be sure. My dear friend and counterpart Dr. Mamy performed many of the circumcisions (none botched) himself. But the final and hilarious part of the story is as follows: the aftermath of all this, is that there are tons of boys at once who have just been circumcised, many of whom are three years old. The custom, due to sensitivity, is for these walking, talking, human beings to roam nude from the waist down day-in, day-out for weeks on end! I find it humorous. So I continue my service, and the band plays on. World keeps on spinnin'...

(The following post was originally written on July 28th, 2008)

Damn; more news of another Dahalo attack. I hung up and rolled over, thinking about the trip I had to make through Skull Valley the next day. I got up, put some shorts on over my boxers, and wandered to my neighbor’s house.

“You hear they hit Bekroba last night?” I inquired groggily, rubbing my eyes. My neighbor sighed, his smile fading as he spoke.

“Yeah, I heard. Made off with thirty cows and supposedly killed a woman,” the last part catching me off guard.

“Whoa, what? They actually shot someone?”

“That’s what they’re saying. A mother too, no less. It’s really too bad… When do you think this drought will end?” We’d been going on three months with no rain. It’s a good thing they had harvested the rice when they did. Even so a lot of good folks were taking some hard hits on their crops, wallets, and stomachs.

“I really couldn’t say, man. Maybe two weeks, maybe two months. I’ll see ya,” as I walked back to my house I shook my head, lost in concentration over the menacing Dahalo. Like any good guerillas, or insurgents, they were using their environment to their advantage, sticking to the vast desert and making base in the highlands or the sprawling foothills. I considered all this as I prepared my bucket shower.

* * * * *

Coming back from work that night I contemplated some advice a coworker had given me earlier. Apparently word had it that the Dahalo were moving due south, and would likely be passing through Skull Valley the next day looking for trouble around Beraketa, my would-be destination. He reckoned I was better off postponing my trip if I couldn’t find someone to go with. Well, half the allure of my countryside bike trips was the time for introspections on the old bike. I thought about looking for someone to go with, especially since I knew my coworker was right. Even if the rumor had turned out to be false about them heading south, I knew how many networks of secret little paths and trails there were, and I knew the Dahalo were already dug in like ticks through that valley. But I also knew that the chief and folks in Beraketa were good eggs and that they would take care of me once I got there.

I got home to find Jacko sitting on my front steps, shoulders slumped and looking bored. He’s a neighborhood kid who likes to visit me a little too often, but good company nonetheless.

“Hey I heard you’re going to Beraketa tomorrow morning. What time you heading out,” he asked.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet, bro…” Did he want to go? I was still potentially looking for someone… But this kid’s only thirteen. If anything happened it would be on me. No, no that wouldn’t do. Plus why did he ask me “what time” I was going, as if I’d already told him it was okay for him to go with me? The balls on this kid!

“Naw man, no, I’ve got to go alone. It’s too far for you to come with, and you know the Dahalo have been acting up,” I explained.

“I would have asked you if you’d given me a chance,” he grumbled while walking away, as if reading my thoughts. I wandered over to the western railing of my porch to watch the brilliant oranges and pinks drain down the mountains. I didn’t even own any cows, what did I have to be afraid of? Then again the Dahalo are known to run with common bandits also, who would undoubtedly be happy enough to relieve me of my bike. Usually whenever I had a meeting in Beraketa I would give myself 99 percent chance out of a hundred that I’d make it back okay. This time I gave myself 50/50.

* * * * *

“Whozit…” I garbled out, still half asleep. I looked at the Coleman digital watch on my bedside table. It was ten to six in the morning.

“It’s me,” called out the baritone pitch of a recently changed voice. It was Jacko. What could he want this early? The sun had barely begun to rise. I parted my mosquito net and stumbled through the darkness, groping for walls and stubbing my toes while cursing.

“Good God, boy! Do you know time it is? Well, what in the hell is it!” I blurted out. I like to think I had adapted the ways of a morning person since I got here, but even I was struggling with this.

“Justin man, the Dahalo nailed Benonoky early this morning. They made off with the cows and got out quick,” he sputtered out, as if out of breath.

“So? What’s all this got to do with me?” I was awaiting an explanation for his “courtesy” wakeup call.

“Word is they made like a beeline for Skull Valley. Isn’t that where you wanted to go today?” His words sunk in deep. Maybe I should cancel my trip after all. But could I let the Dahalo run the parameters of my life? What message would that send to my friends and neighbors who strive for a free way of life in their village community? I was lost in thought.

“Justin?” Jacko asked.

“Huh? No. No, you run along now, Jacko. Thank you,” I gently shut the door in his face, and I heard him trudge off, hands in pockets no doubt. This *was* disturbing news. But I just couldn’t imagine holing up in my house, peaking out from closed shutters as any way of life. The rising sun over the eastern foothills promised a hot day and would likely show little mercy on the villagers’ drought. I turned over the prospect of going over and over in my mind as I prepared my bucket shower. What were the pros of going? Of not going? By the time my pot of water had boiled I resolved to get going right after I showered and ate my morning regiments of rice n’greens with Madame Lolola.

It was five of eight by the time I hit the trail. The path to Skull Valley started out through a cavernous passage made out exclusively of cactus so tall they nearly formed a canopy over my head. Many yielded beautiful flowers despite the desert heat. Once through that passage I was officially out of the village and into savannah territory. I had left the last of the villagers some ways back, bypassed most the savannah, and skidded to a halt at the bosom of Skull Valley. There was a soft breeze. I gazed across the vast, silent valley, taking in thousands of acres of seemingly empty land. Not too empty, though. I remembered after this point, if I continued on I would encounter a plethora of small trails, most of which leading to Beraketa. A virtual labyrinth of meandering paths that snaked onwards. I didn’t see any signs of Dahalo, so I shoved off.

About a half hour into the trek I stopped for water under the shade of some tall shrubbery. I still hadn’t seen anyone and was satisfied I was already halfway there. I was about to shove off again when something caught my eye. I saw a big, steaming pile of cow dung on the side of the road. Cockeyed, I walked over to it, taking my time. I squatted near it to discover it was still quite pungent. Fresh. I looked beyond the edge of the path onto the gravely sand patches and noticed another pile. It looked like someone had recently herded cows across the path at this point. Why would someone be herding cattle away from the path, from one side of the rugged terrain to the other, with no use for the beaten trail? This far out, no less… Something was up and I didn’t like it. There was sweat on my forehead and back, but I got a chill down my spine just the same. I started backing away from the desolate scene towards the direction of my bike. When I got there I peeled out as fast as I could.

By the time I reached the ¾ distance marker I was parched again. God, why was it so hot? How did people live out here with no water pumps? I was crushed to find my water bottle empty. I felt as if I was caked in dirt and dust, which was constantly blown around. I carried my bike on my back across the dried up, boulder-ridden riverbed and back up the trail. Sailing down the trail, then with dry reeds up to my chest on either side, I encountered the final leg before Beraketa. Dried up, abandoned rice paddies. The only marking indicators of which way the path went was by the eroding dirt clumps that were once carefully-crafted, elevated grass land-bridges that navigated the paddies. I slung the bike over my back one final time and started forward. Halfway through I heard the crackle of gunfire near the mountains to the south. It had to be someone mixed up with the Dahalo. I picked up the pace and raced the short distance remaining to Beraketa.

* * * * *

“Justin! My God, boy! We didn’t know… we thought if you still came they might try to… come in! Come in, my boy…” The village chief was worried sick. He explained that word had just come into Beraketa that the gendarme was shooting it out with some Dahalo about 12 k southeast.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” I exclaimed. “About half an hour ago I was still some 8 k south of here on the trail. I… I saw the cow dung,” the wheels were starting to turn.

“Why, Justin, that’s precisely what time the Dahalo would have been crossing that area, probably fleeing the gendarme,” the chief said wistfully. “If you had ridden by there only a short time earlier… In any case, cheers to your safe arrival.” As he was wishing my good health we heard a low rumble far off. At first I thought it was the gendarme, maybe using a grenade. Miraculously, it was no such thing. We trotted outside to find that dark clouds had just blown in on the western horizon from the direction of the Mozambique Channel. Those were rain clouds, moving quickly too. Within a half hour it was thundering and pouring down rain outside. The chief and I celebrated the fresh, much-needed rainfall with cups of hot rice-water.

(The following post was originally written on July 8th, 2008)

I remember once reading that there are tribes in India which are unaware of the existence of the state of India. I can recall also finding that quite interesting, if not bordering crazy-talk. I now can appreciate that possibility with a slightly less skeptical perspective. There are 19 tribes in Madagascar, none of which are unaware of their country’s existence that I know of. But as a health agent, one of my duties includes doing pre-natal consultations (CPNs) with a nurse. On any given CPN day we could see between 20-50 girls. Easily over half do not know how many months pregnant they are, their birthday, or even how many years old they are. Every so often there is someone who doesn’t know what *year* it is. They couldn’t say whether we’re living in the fifteenth or the twenty-first century. I’ll do my best to explain what year it is. Sometimes I succeed, others I do not. So I’ve got my work cut out explaining what AIDS is and how to prevent it. Then with locals who do follow current events, I’m sure not getting any help from idiots like the foreign minister of South Africa who go on record saying they’re not worried about getting AIDS from recent intercourse with a prostitute because he “took a shower afterwards.” Or just ask the female minister of health in South Africa, Manto Tshabalala-Msimang, who recently denied any link between HIV and AIDS and recommends drinking beetroot juice as a cure. But I digress…

The other day I felt like I was in a bit of a slump, so I though I’d treat myself to a bike trip through Gulley’s Pass. There’s something calming about that place, sort of like an enchanted forest. So before I headed out, I rolled up my sleeves and treated the Trek to a tune-up of its own. Just gave the handlebar stem the old 1-2 with a hex wrench. I remembered the gears being sticky so I greased ‘em good; fixed it right up. Checked the brake pad alignment, gauged the tire pressure, and I was off! I had visions of the village chief in Marovala doing a little jig of joy when I arrived and accommodating my request to gather a group to give a speech to about AIDS prevention. Well I hadn’t made it 5 k before my damn seat broke off the bike! Faulty H-screw was the culprit. So I headed back into town standing up on the bike, as I couldn’t sit lest I sit on a narrow metal pole. I felt like I had problems up the…wazoo! Get it? It’s a jump…to conclusion mat! In any case, I got a replacement part from Samüel, my bike guy, and I headed back out into the bush. I made it all the way past Lavalila with no problems, and forged on into Gulley’s Pass.

It was a calm, serene experience. As I left behind the last of any villagers, my mind entered a transcendental state. I began a period of introspective analysis on who I was and what I defined my role as. The bumps flowed through the rubber of my tires, up the metal frame, and through my body as I grew into one with my surroundings. Then I heard a sound from my backpack indicating I’d gotten a text. Initially annoyed by the distraction, I grew quickly amazed. Ever since my arrival last December of 2007 they have said cell phone service will begin at the end of every month. January came and went, February, March, etc., and nothing. Now July, I found myself in Gulley’s Pass witnessing an incredible, joyous event. I checked my cell, which I had brought to function as a timepiece, and sure enough Isoanala reception had indeed just been turned on and was coming through full throttle. I later reached Marovala and received a jig from the village chief who then agreed to let me train his people on AIDS prevention.

As for my community here in Isoanala, all is well. I’ve sort of come to grips with my status as vazaha. Why fight it? It will never end, so nine times out of ten when someone says, “Ah! Salama vazaha!” I just murmur a salama back to them. I guess I’m comfortably numb about the whole thing, if you read me. Although I did get a healthy little wakeup call about where I’m at last week. On the fourth I had a couple buddies over in honor of America, as pictured above. While we were playing Drunk Driver (card game), we heard a mob run by outside my house screaming. We ran out to see what all the rhubarb was. Turns out some guy got busted breaking into a house, and he was literally running for his life towards the gendarmerie compound because he was being chased by a lynch mob. And *that’s* what all the rhubarb was. Personally, I think the mob should have just taken the advice Bill Clinton gave last winter when Barack and Hillary were slugging it out, that “everybody should just chill out.” But in any case, don’t let anyone tell you Isoanala is a joke.

On the upshot I recently found a poster of 213 circa 1990 at my weekly bazaar, which I promptly bought for 25 cents. Nothing like a young Nate Dogg, Warren G, and Snoop Rock to spruce up an apartment in Isoanala. Later that day my neighbors asked me to take their picture. They wanted my bike in the background and to hold their radio while posing, so as to infer they were people of a high enough status to be around such things I suppose. :-/

(This post was originally written on July 5th, 2008)

You don’t see, what I see, everyday in this country. Another sunny day; another bright blue sky… The sands of time have such a strange way of moving in my world. We are all a part of this vast world; you in your corner, I in mine. It can, at times, be overwhelming to the five senses when standing face to face with an infinity where the sidewalk ends. Madagascar may be an island, but it is the fourth largest on this planet. In my neck of the woods there extends a vast air; a dry network of patchy, sand valleys sporting the stuff tumbleweeds are made of and a hell of a lot of cactus. Sometimes when I walk through it I feel like I’m walking on open water in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Flat but rolling; mild yet rugged, as far as the eye can see in any direction. No human, hut, or road in sight. It is this dreamy, surreal sensation that can feel heavy. But I am from the land of snow and purple rain and this feeling is not unlike a whiteout blizzard on a frozen lake. So, it runs through my blood of course. I once heard something like this described as ‘agoraphobia,’ but I’m not sure this fits. I believe that implication indicates a kind of fear, an ingredient lacking in my equation. It’s a feeling more like he must have felt by the rivers of Babylon where he sat down and remembered Zion. No matter what you call it, it is my life.

I recently was rolling through this environment on a bush taxi; barreling down the one road that actually exists in south central Madland. My old friend, RN13. It boggles this mind that RN13 is all there is. This dirt path, a very generous term, is riddled with waist-deep holes and frequently ceases to exist at all, at which time you drive blindly through the desert due south until it picks back up. It is a national highway. Bush taxis are reminiscent of the truck driven by the Beverly Hillbillies, or better yet something out of a Steinbeck novel. In the shape of a VW bus, the brousse (French for ‘bush’) is never newer than five or ten years old. After a mandatory two hour waiting period, you’re crammed aboard slave ship-style. You face forward and shut up, and mentally prepare for a journey anywhere between 2-50 hours long. After you board, the thing teeters out of the station with luggage, furniture, bikes, and a variety of livestock tied on the roof, forming an awkward bulk often higher than the brousse itself. If at any time throughout you need to visit the little cowboy’s room, you get to use the phrase, “Azafady sofera! Olon-belo fa tsy akoho!” which, roughly translated, means, “Excuse me, Chauffeur. I have to use the bathroom now. Can you pull over? After all, I’m a human being. Not a chicken.”

So barreling down RN13, the road barely fit for a 2009 Landcruiser, in one of these ridiculous brousses last week, I felt the urge to have a movement. I was getting ready to tell the people pinning my left arm that I needed to move it to tap the driver and tell him I was a living, breathing human being, and not a chicken, when he pulled over on his own. We had reached the village of Llanana. Most headed towards the one hotely in town to get themselves some rice, so I followed to ask the worker where I might find an outhouse. I received information that the only one in town was at the clinic off yonder. I scanned the horizon and spotted a newer building far off that could only be the clinic. Hands in pockets, I lazily strolled off in its direction, pondering the vastness of this particularly golden plot of land; a kind of peculiar mix of marsh, desert, and savannah. After a bit of time, I couldn’t say how much, I reached the clinic and eyed a Johnny-on-the-spot behind it. I approached the door, took on look around again, had a chuckle, and went in.

Upon completion I stepped out and took a deep breath of fresh air. I was walking away, buckling and hiking up my pants when my eyes, focused on the ground directly in front of my feet as I walked, came into direct contact with a blue note of some kind just sitting on the gravel. I recognized that blue. It’s what green would have meant to anyone back in the States. My brow furrowed and my lips formed into a tight space. I bent over and picked it up, immediately noting it was at least a couple 5,000 ariary notes folded up. Before counting my head instinctively jerked up and snapped around, scanning. There was no one. Earlier I had made a mental note of how strange it was that his clinic should be closed during a Monday afternoon, but sure as I’m writing this there was no one working and it was locked tight; save for the outhouse. There was one man a good 150 meters west, who appeared to be walking from a far-off place to a far-off place. Then the village sat about 200 meters south. Turns out it was 10,000 ariary. It could have easily been dropped by a doctor, who would not miss it terribly, or dropped by a poor villager who won’t eat for the next week as a result. There was no way to know or return it, so I prayed for the former, put it in my pocket, and walked towards the brousse.

Shortly thereafter the brousse shuffled us around and loaded us in. It peeled out leaving only a ghost of dust it had kicked up. The gentleman sitting to my left had gotten off in Llanana, and the driver had replaced him with a rather questionable youth. There was something to him though, some indefinable quality that hung in the bags beneath his eyes. I asked him who he was, where he was going. He remained stone-faced and never used two words to answer when one would do. He wouldn’t divulge what line of work he was in, but alluded to the idea that it was not particularly legitimate. He was Dahalo. I’d never been more sure of anything in my life. I asked him how he could do it, live a life like that; and you know what he told me? He told me that the most important thing was to keep moving. That way they might never catch up to you. I eyed him for a moment and let him be after that.

We tumbled into Betroka sometime after the sun had set. I slung my knapsack over one shoulder and strolled in the direction of Kate’s old house with visions of the brousse falling off its wheels and tipping over to my back. Ever since Kate’s departure last June I’ve been the only vazaha for 200 k in any direction, and Betroka has felt a little empty. I reached the lycée, hopped the fence, and groped the darkness for Kate’s old front door. As I let myself in, I flipped on the light. I heard eerie echoes of our laughter, bottles clinking together, and DVDs playing in the sitting room. There was none of that now. In fact, the silence was deafening. I set my phone alarm, laid my head down, and began to mentally prepare for my next multi-month bout in Isoanala to begin before the next high noon. I remember thinking that Kipling said it best, “Lord God be with us yet; lest we forget, lest we forget...”

(This post was originally written on May 30th, 2008)

Good evening to all, and what a fine evening it is. A Friday in the month of May, around the time when everybody put they game on play. The sun juuust *blazed* oranges, pinks, and purples as it set over Mt. Justin off to the west; so much beauty… Such a simple pleasure, yet beyond comprehension. It makes me really appreciative. You know what else makes this such a fine, fine, evening? I’ve just closed out seven weeks straight at site, and had a pretty fantastic time to boot, and I’m gettin’ a sweet, sweet baby of a two week break in Fianar and Tana. This means cold, icey-cold beer, ice cream, pizza, cheeseburgers, with a little luck season 4 of Lost and season 3 of The Office, and life in general as I once knew it…

So I was working down at the clinic last week when this dude strolls in. He’s got on a Chicago Bulls jacket of some kind. I nodded towards his direction in recognition, and made some clicking sound that was supposed to indicate I was “down,” or “with it,” as I recognized the Bulls logo. He made an uncomfortable squirming motion in the seat he’d taken after I made the clicking sound. I approached him to introduce myself and explain to him who and what the Chicago Bulls were, and then I read the caption below the logo. “Rugbyball Champions.” Oh, Jesus. So I explained to him how the Bulls aren’t actually a rugby team at all, as his jacket would have us believe, but actually a basketball team in Chicago, which happens to be one of the biggest cities in the U.S.A. He almost certainly didn’t understand me. I’ve also seen the Bulls logo on clothes here claiming they are the “Beijing Bronx.” But hey, what can you expect from a country that uses second generation hand-me-downs from China as primary school uniforms?

I have been in Isoanala for a good deal of time now, relatively speaking, and the ‘vazaha’ thing is easier, but it still gets under my skin. People say it to me less in general, and when they do, it doesn’t make me as mad. In fact, enough people now know me that nine times out of ten when they call me it there’s someone around who will already know I hate it and tell them, so I don’t even have to say anything. There are times, though, when it still gets to me. It reminds me of the softball episode of the Simpsons, when Bart and Lisa call Darryl Strawberry’s name from the stands to annoy him. Marge tells them it’s not nice, to which Lisa replies that no one should worry because Strawberry’s a professional and these types of remarks roll right off their backs. Then we see Darryl shed a tear. Sometimes I feel like Darryl. The worst is when it comes from a friend that you would never expect it. Eric.

An annoying habit that people have picked up around here is screaming. Mostly within the demographic of local, young male adults, if they’re sitting around a bar, hanging out with friends, or just walking down the street at any time they’re liable to yell out a sharp, quick Nate-like little scream. Or it kind of sounds like the Howard Dean speech where he flipped out in Iowa during the 2004 primaries and gave that little shout at the end of the speech. So, like everything else here, it can be nice because I can feel free to follow suit at any point in time. But it can be a bit redundant to hear day-in, day-out.

Another thing worth mentioning is the alligator-men. Men who, perhaps, hunt and sell alligators, you might think? Naw, friend. This would be a half-man, half-alligator kind of hybrid. I took an extremely pleasant bike ride down to the “barrage” (French garbage for “dam”) last Saturday with a charming neighborhood kid. When we got down there he explained to me that I must never go in the water on account of all the alligator-men. So there’s this old legend in Madland that a long time ago, at a big lake way up north, a town got flooded and people drowned but came out of the lake as alligators wearing jewelry. Somehow this legend tricked down here and the locals sort of felt free to interpret the legend that it actually took place where I live. So anyway, I explained to my young friend that there were no such things as alligator people, but he didn’t hear me though… Later on that same day I was talking to my neighbor, a 30 year-old mother of seven, how I had gone down to the barrage earlier. She responded, “Oh that sounds like fun… Did you happen to see the alligator men?” :-/

Well, what say we end the blog with the story of Kabab. This guy, this effin’ guy… Serious, serious contender for the Numnbuts Award of the Week. I was introduced to “Monsieur Kabab” last December. He’s a portly gentleman of about 35 years. As I saw him around town he was never particularly nice to me, but always was trying to schmooze with important people. Like when my boss visited me, he was all about talking to her because she happens to be married to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Kabab is supposedly the town “veterinarian.” What a *crock* that is… So a couple months back old Kabab got himself into a little jam, and before he knew it he was standing trial in Antananarivo for producing false currency; counterfeit money. So now he’s back, because he certainly was guilty and he certainly paid a bribe so that he can now be free, free right back on the streets. Back in Isoanala, up to his various lowlife scams and cheating on his wife. Know where that dirtbag started his life? Southie Projects. No, wait, Isoanala. And I’m out.

(This blog was originally written on May 21st, 2008)

I would like to take this opportunity to welcome everyone back to my blog, and to this edition of “Numbnuts Award of the Week.” This week’s award goes to a very deserving candidate. He is a former colleague of mine here, who was recently let go for riding a motorcycle without a helmet. Hardly a numbnuts move, you might think. Completely agree. I mean, obviously one should wear a helmet, but who among us has never in their lives done that? No, this would hardly qualify someone for the Numbnuts Award of the Week. What’s even more bullshit is that they fired him for it. Performance record notwithstanding, I would also tend to disagree with the Peace Corps on that particular judgment call. But there’s a new CD (country director) in country, maybe he wanted to make an example out of someone. Whatever.

What makes this young man the winner is the way in which he saw fit to leave country. It’s come to my attention that upon receiving news of his dismissal, the guy went to Diego, the nearest big city, while in transit to the capital to be processed. So while he was staying at the Peace Corps house is Diego, there was a “break-in.” The would-be thief broke in, ruffled a good many bags and the like, and proceeded to steal one phone, and one camera, from guess who’s bag… That’s right; Numbnuts’. So he left country in a huff claiming some bogus story about theft and how his termination was bullshit.

Naturally, back in Diego, all the people whose things had been gone through by the “thief” wanted answers, and duly contacted the Peace Corps security office to report the incident. They were struck, very unsurprisingly, by the fact that many of the ruffled bags had large sums of cash money left untouched by the perp. So, after some *extremely* basic investigation work by the Peace Corps security they found Numbnuts’ phone AND camera for sale at the local bizarre in the town where he had served before leaving. So what happened is, Numbnuts, upon learning he was fired, actually sold his own stuff in his local market in some idiotic, half-assed scheme to claim it later as stolen property to a travel insurance company he had employed. This is why you get the Selbtales Numbnuts Award of the Week, Numbnuts.

Seriously people, this has got to make you wonder what kind of screening process Peace Corps has set up in Washington, that these types are actually let in and brought on. I mean if it’s this jackass and his dumbass camera scheme this week, what will it be next week? Conning the doctor for unnecessary Perkadan instead of paying the $1.50 at the pharmacy down the street? Or if we leave it at this level, why don’t we just stop fooling ourselves and change the complimentary subscription from Newsweek to the New York Post? It’s ridiculous. At the very least, this week’s award recipient is now back in America, comfortably in his element, where there’s a numbnuts around every corner.

(This post was originally written on May 12th, 2008)

Hello, friends, colleagues, and countrymen. It’s currently Monday, May 12th, which mean, as I’m sure you’re aware, that it is Pentecost. This is a Christian holiday that’s just really taken Africa by storm. Not so much in the States.

So the pic above is myself holding up Dadafara (a name that translates to “Uncle”, or “Big Daddy”). Dadafara is, by all rights, my youngest neighbor, and he’s just a little ray of sunshine. He tramps around the neighborhood all day, happily squeaking and taking choppy little steps, extending his arms out with hands waving in the air. Why, he could just as easily be a little boy in France chasing a little red balloon. Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that Dadafara marches to his own drumbeat.

Something else worthy of mention here is the local custom for bargaining with street venders. If you walk up to a local street vender selling shirts, for example; maybe you see something you like.

“How much for this one?” you might ask. Then the reply, virtually every time, will be something like this:

“Oh, that one there? That’s 2,500 ariary. And, you know, that’s negotiable. You can go ahead and bargain that down.” So it really takes the sport out of a good haggle! What’s the point of giving a number, an amount of money, when you *know* you’re going to immediately tell the potential buyer they don’t have to pay that? It just seems a bit redundant or something. I think the way I’m used to, is like say you walk up to a sunglasses guy on Canal St.

“How much for these?” I ask. Then nine out of ten times they will tell you what it should be, $5, and that’s what you pay. Maybe if you’ve only got $4 on you they’ll cut you a break, but otherwise it’s wham bam thank you ma’am. Buy it and move on with your life. So anyway, just an interesting tidbit on local custom for you out there.

Okay, brass tacks. With the title, I may be “on the market” for a girlfriend in Isoanala. When I first got here, I was of the mindset that I would never want a gf at my site, because, basically, don’t shit where you eat, right? Like I’m already the vazaha in town trying to work here and talk to these people, the last thing I need is everyone spreading rumors about me and a girl in the community I work in. I get enough flaming toilet paper thrown at me when I’m at home, know what I mean?

But now I’m about 5 months in at site, and it’s just starting to get a little boring. Not too boring by any means, mind you, but times might just be so much more enjoyable if I had someone to share them with. Surprisingly, like Manhattan, the Spiny Desert can be both a beautiful princess and an unforgiving bitch goddess. But even from the start of this misguided, ill-conceived idea there are problems. The thing about living out here in the country is that most people are born here and don’t leave either because they have no desire, or more commonly due to economic constraints. Then the minority of people that do have the necessary means for the necessary means for a higher education, sort of get out the day they turn 18, on to a bigger city. So I guess what I’m trying to say is, the potential pool of candidates for a gf is, by nature, quite small here. But they are out there.

Then the next problem is that it’s true, don’t shit where you eat. I mean, it’s sort of like I recognized that problem earlier in the blog and nothing’s really changed about it since then. I’d like to believe that if I met someone nice everyone would just be like a big ice-cream social all the time, but that just wouldn’t be the case. It’s a point of weakness for me, in a sense, if I were to be involved with someone at site.

And finally, most obviously some of you may be thinking, you can’t force these things. I mean, you shouldn’t just decide that “today I will start a relationship with someone.” I would suppose you can open or close the door to that possibility at any time, but everyone knows any relationship of any value is not based on artificial influences. Like what would I do, write a personal ad in the sand at the town square?

“SWM ISO nice local girl; You: no commercial sex workers, no syphilis, maximum of 3 children already born. Me: Bicycle-owner, own no cows, have means to travel at least 200 km north. All interested parties go to front door of vazaha’s house.”

I don’t think so. You know, it’s a dumb idea. I’m not on the market. You can’t force these things; if it happens, it happens. I just thought I might find a nice girl I could be a nice guy to. I wanted to be, I wanted to be… I think Paul Simon said it best:

“These are the days of lasers in the jungle, of miracles and wonder. And I don’t want no part of this crazy love.”

(This blog was originally written on April 26th, 2008)

You know I can recall one Brooklyn night about a year ago when Stompy, Natesies and myself headed out for a Saturday night soiree. It was a Stompy-related party on a rather questionable block in Crown Heights, but the Hienies and Brooklyn Pennant Ales flowed abundant and a good time was being had by all. Then Stompy’s boss showed up and really weirded things out. He was just making socially-awkward comments and demonstrated general social ineptitude. Well, Nate and I weren’t ones to be bested on the weirding-out scale, especially at Stompy-related events. So as I recall we selected one single Depeche Mode song off the playlist and we just had it loop, over and over again… Oh sure, people started to notice about the third time it came on, so we promptly acknowledged the “blunder” and did the same trick with a Smashing Pumpkins song. Okay, so fast-forward one year and you’d find a similar situation, albeit with a slight alteration in setting.

It was a chilly night in early April. Summer was winding down and during the nighttime you could tell. My stage, now down to 11 people from the original 19, had just finished our IST conference in Mantasoa, the Peace Corps training center/modern luxury haven just outside the capital. It was our last night there and the ’06 Health stage, the one right before mine who trained us, had just arrived to begin their MSC conference. The evening clouds promised an autumn rain and debauchery abound. Final word was there was to be an ‘awkward’ party in the tranobe after dinner. This idea was to be interpreted as freely as possible. Ben dressed in a bomber vest, no shirt, sunglasses, and slicked back hair with a set of mutton chops. Becca, pictured above, dressed in a moo-moo, in some misguided attempt to look awkward that way, and ended up most resembling an old, old Afghani refugee woman. I had the dumbass idea of wearing my pants backwards.

Before things got too weird I tried flirting with Natalie, who is an extremely cute third year extension girl living in Tamatave, but to no avail really. So after that didn’t work and she had taken off I decided it was sort of time to take things up a notch. I nonchalantly walked over to the playlist and in between songs I put a little number by Journey on repeat. I think it made it to the fourth rotation until people started complaining. Stealing a page from our playbook the year before, I apologized for the “mishap” and started 1979 by the Pumpkins on repeat; I then ran away giggling. The night ended, as those types always do in the tranobe, with a few die-hards sitting around nursing the last bit of booze and bitching about Peace Corps bureaucratic bullshit.

On to the next topic, it’s currently late April and we’ve just wrapped up “Samy Salama ny Reny sy Ny Zaza” week here, or “Mother and Child Health Week” to the lay person’s ear. The main program was to bike out to the countryside and preach about basic health messages (not different from the normal program), but with the doctor to administer infant vaccinations and de-worming meds. During that period I helped record who was getting what vaccination where, and was thusly exposed to many Malagasy names at a rapid pace. Basically, mothers with babies under one year of age would essentially line up, and successively tell me their child’s name and their own, which I would then write down on their new state health card and on the hospital’s permanent record sheet. During the first ten or twenty women I tried my best to double check I was spelling correctly but often the very woman who’s name it was seemed uninterested in correcting or I would get too behind and have to just do my best. In many ways it reminded me of what it must have been like at Ellis Island when waves of immigrants were pouring in and being registered, and how their original, sacred family names were butchered by the immigration officers who didn’t want to hold up the line. My own conversation with the women often came down to something like this:

Me: What’s ya name.

Them: My name is Randriahetsisoa.

Me: Ranisiso? Over there. Next!

Or like when people couldn’t understand each other and their last names ended up being the small European village they were from. Except in my case, it was *me*, the person *taking* the names who couldn’t sometimes get the language he was supposed to. So sometimes the conversation would go like this:

Me: What’s ya name.

Them: Noro.

Me: What’s ya kid’s name.

Them: We’re from Sarodrano. Is that what you were trying to-

Me: Next!

But just names here in general can be pretty funny. They all mean something. And I suppose you could argue that in America too. For instance, a popular name in America is Ryan; which happens to mean ‘Little King’. But it’s not quite the same over here. When names mean things here, it’s not like vague symbolism that goes back to the ancient roots of the words. It’s the actual words in the language that literally mean whatever the word is, that is just then applied as someone’s name. Some examples of these names include, but are not limited to, Health, Good Health, Good Luck, Happy, Life, Uncle, Big Daddy, Lots of Money, The Wall, Trustfulness, Welcome, Necklace, Perfume, Pretty Girl, Complete Girl, Bee Honey, and by far the most common, Sweetness. My name is most often mispronounced as Jesmin, Jeslin, or, of course, Jonistan. (?!?)

The last amusing thing I’ll report on today is the popularity of Jellies here. You might remember last seeing these clear, plastic sandals worn by toddler girls when you shared a similar age. It’s a *fun* age, and a great time for Jellies, especially if you’re a girl. In the adult world they remain a source of amusement, perhaps most notably in the popular film “The Big Lebowski.” In this film we all enjoy a chuckle at The Dude’s bizarre fashion sense in his employment of Jellies footwear. Probably due to economic reasons, but nonetheless an odd choice given the wide array of alternatives here, Jellies are by far the most popular choice of shoes for men in my community. Masculinity in my southern, spiny desert community is prized very highly by men. But not only are Jellies popular among exclusively men, they are something of a status symbol as well. It is an urban legend that even the Dahalo prefer Jellies and cut out the middle part of the plastic near the toes to define their notorious status. I have not yet seen this. Frequently the village elders or chiefs opt for the Jellies, while many with less means opt for the cheaper, standard flip-flop style sandals with the upside down V going between the first and second big toe. I opt for the flip flops. Incidentally, for apparently no reason whatsoever the Malagasy word for flip-flop sandals is “Scooby Doos.” I cannot explain it, I can only witness and report it. In summary, I love the Malagasy people. I guess when you go halfway around the world, some things are bound to change.

(This blog was orginally written at site on 23 April, 2008)

You know, I remember back when I first showed up to this place. I was bright-eyed, revved up and ready to jump right in the deep end of the Spiny Desert. I'd walk around my dusty little village, shake people's hands and go through all the motions. At the end a every day I'd kick my dogs up and take a load off, maybe after watching the sun set over the western mountain range; not a cloud in the sky. Usually a little smile'd creep into at least one corner of my mouth.

But all the while, there was something eating on the back of my mind. And I couldn't quite get a grip on what that was exactly. I could feel it when a drop of sweat would run down my face from under my straw hat, forging a little stream through the brown dust on my cheeks and the lines in my skin. I think it had something to do with trying to convince myself I wasn't an outsider to these people. Constantly wearing a smile and trying to speak their language to them. Heck, I was no more of an outsider to them than I'd become to myself.

As time went on, each day got to be less and less of a show. I was able to be more of myself, and not be so preoccupied with impressing folks around town. I could feel an ease from my old amigo pulling at the back of my mind. He was either pulling less each day or I'd grown enough accustomed to him it didn't make a difference anymore one way or the other.

Yeah I can recollect one day riding through Gulley's Pass, down in the valley there? The path wasn't as hospitable as I'd a preferred. Every so often a boulder or cactus patch would pop up so quick it could bite you right in the behind. The sun was blazing, but I had a good cover a shade most the way from the mountain I was following along the foot of. Even so I was getting burned. I pulled over up a little offshoot for trucks what lost their breaks; kinda reached a little bit of an overpass with a pretty good view a things. I took a long swig of water and wiped my mouth and shades clear of the dust. A soft breeze picked up. Felt good. It would've been mostly silence wasn't for some critters scuttling off in the sagethicket. I put my shades back on; looked across the valley. I started thinkin' back to some of my first days here. Back to that old feeling; that little something in the back of my head I couldn't seem to shake. You'd read books, take walks; find a million different ways to keep it off your mind. But at the end a each day, there it was. A black abyss of otherness, that just went deeper and deeper. But the fact of the matter is you just can't be yourself when you come to a place this far off, to do something like this. Fact is no one can. You just got to realize that inevitably there comes a point, for every man. There comes a time when you have to sort of step back, take a look at it all. It's a time when you have to say to yourself, "Yeah, okay... I'll be a part of this world."

HELLO NEW YORK!

And everyone else too.

Well I just got back from an AIDS awareness basketball tournament held in honor of March Madness in beautiful downtown Fort Dauphin. FD is a lovely beach town on the Indian Ocean. It was a wild success and you wouldn't believe how many people were "sensibilized" by me!

But since my time is valuabe as I imagine yours is we'll get down to brass tacks. There are a gang of bandits that live in the south of Madagascar known as the Dahalo (think Bloods or Crips except spears and muskets instead of glocks and teks). They exist for one purpose and one purpose only; to steal your cow. If you happen to get in their way... BAM! Spear to your dome! They crazy! They use a kind 'fanafody Gasy' that is like a necklace, which they believe will not only make them bulletproof, but do so by turning bullets that are shot at them into water. They ain't afraid to die and if the they got beef their boys are comin' in herds... So they live all around me, but I'm always fine because I don't own any cows. But about a month ago, there was an incident. It was a lazy Sunday night; I was tucked in around 9 pm. The sun had just set across the western mountain range and all was well. Until there was a loud commotion in the town square outside my house and I heard gunshots ring out. The next day I would learn that the Dahalo had stormed Isoanala from all sides that Sunday night. They rushed the town square where many cows were being moved through, fired their muskets in the air, and told everyone to be cool and that they were taking the cattle. So the people in the town square threw there hands in the air, but there were others lurking in the shadows... Word spread like wildfire that my town was being jacked. So the villagers around the periphery rushed to the two main roads leading out of town and formed a human blockade so that the cattle could never be herded out. The Dahalo were facing defeat. They knew it. So they licked a couple more shots in the air and scattered into the dark neighborhoods, slithering off into the night. These types of events are not uncommon, but I've got spears, and I don't have any cows, so it's all good. It's all good until I step outta line...

Then another story with a happy ending is about my neighbor boy. He's a scrawny kid at the tender age of 17. One day we were out throwing around an old ratty American football left by my predecessor in the hot noon sun, when he suddenly fell dizzy and collapsed into a seizure. I gathered he was epileptic and ran for the hospital. On the way I suddenly understood why Fosten, my neighbor boy, had never left the front porch. Everyday when I left and everyday when I got home, there he is on the front porch. His parents, apparently, will not let him out to work, study or play for fear he will break into seizure. So I get to the hospital where I work, out of breath, and plead for someone to come help Fosten, explaining that I think he's having a seizure. So first the midwife comes out and basically laughs at me. She's just all, "HUH? What's all this? Oh, Fosten? Yeah, that happens to him everyday..." she says between giggles. "Naw, Justin you don't gotta worry about that..." I get her to agree to send a nurse, who never comes. By the time I get back Fosten is recovering under a tree and his mom has arrived. So his mom proceeds to bitch me out for apparently not being psychic and already knowing he was epileptic and that hot sun provokes his seizures. So I tell her I tried to get help, at which point her and everyone around listening starts laughing. So I go home, defeated, not knowing who needs to wake the fuck up, me or them... So just by sheer luck for Fosten, the next week I get a surprise site visit from one of my bosses, Boda Ranjeva. Now, I'm not quite sure how to put this; Boda's sort of a big deal. She was the first female surgeon in Madland and is married to the current foreign minister/former defenser minister of Madagascar. So if we're ever stopped by the gendarme anywhere in the country or some garbage like that we just throw out her name and they wave us on through, wide-eyed. So she visits me, and I say, "Hey Boda, aren't poor people supposed to be able to get free medecine down at the clinic for things like epilepsy?" So I explain the whole thing to her and she tells me I did the exact right thing. My doctor was out of town at the time, so she wrote a note about this to him for me to give him telling him to give this poor boy the meds he needs for free, as he should. Now if the letter had been from some no-name, it's possible the good doctor would have just said he had to charge everybody for medecine. But because this word came from Boda Ranjeva, he quickly wrote out the prescription gratuit for poor old Fosten. So now he no longer buys his goofy meds from the witch doctor and has seizures, but gets the proper meds for free from the doc. It's my dream that he'll one day be able to leave the front porch and live life like a human being.

So there's a feel-good ending for you. That's all for now. Veloma

That is an ancient Malagasy proverb of great importance here; I have no idea what it means. Once again I would like to apologize for the lag of time in between posts. The problem, you see, is that a black goddamn hole in outter space is more plugged in than where I live. Not to say that's a bad thing... I've rather enjoyed living the past two months without english, cell phones, internet, or news. I'm now taking care of business in the capital of Tana and will be heading back in for another six week stint this weekend.

Here in Mad-Land people are kind of crazy. For example, there is a widely accepted rumor that the country's top presidential advisor is a centaur who lives underneath the ground of Ravolamanana's house. And everytime he advises the president, the president must sacrifice a human baby. Also anytime you go travelling away from home, like I am now, it is very much expected of you to bring back a voandalana or road gift to your neighbors and whatnot back home. Just some fruit will do, and if you don't bring it it's no big deal. But the people in my town go kind of crazy about it. Like my neighbors went out of town for a week while I was gone once, and I got back to town before them, and then when they got back they heard I was gone and were like 'where's the voandalana Justin.' YOU were gone longer than I was! Where's MY voandalana. But he's good people though. Or you kow how if your late for a class, or a meeting or something, you just sneak in the back row and try not to be noticed or interrupt? Complete opposite here. I was at an AIDS conference last week, a couple guys lumbered in right while this soft spoken Malagasy gentleman had the floor and was making a point, and the late guys go 'AKORY IABY!!!!!!' or 'how's it going'. But no one was mad. It's just the culture. Also unfortunately, as with many other African countries, a lot of country folk think that twins are evil here and if a set of parents have a set of twins they'll likely kill one of them.

The word 'fazaha' means foreigner. When we first got here the trainers told us this would likely upset us, being called 'fazaha' all the time. I didn't see why; I mean we ARE foreigners, and they had to undergo french colonization garbage so its understandable if they are skeptical of foreigners at times. But then when I got to site last December, my thoughts on all that changed a bit. I am THE ONLY white boy for hundreds of kilometers in any direction; so needless to say, I stand out. Old people, young people, men, women, everyone says 'Salama fazaha.' At first I didn't mind, I just said hi right back. But sometimes kids would just point at me and scream 'fazaha'! Or some punk on a bike will speed by leaving himself just enough time to say 'Bon Jour fazaHA' in a really cynical way and not give you any time to respond if you wanted to. Now does that sound nice or pleasant? So I was begining to understand how fazaha could get annoying. Plus, I mean if you see any foreigner in the states and want to say hi, do you walk right up and say 'Hello, foreigner!' Or if you even just want to get around them, would you say, 'excuse me, foreigner. I need to get by.' No you wouldn't, would you... It might be considered rude. Different cultures? Yes. Do I understand that? Yes. is it still annoying sometimes? Yes.

At first I would just ignore the cynical 'fazaha' calls, then my language got a little better I got a little more confident and settled, had more friends to back me up, I started responding with my name is Justin, my name isn't fazaha. Nowadays in those situations I may tell them to f*$k off, or tell them they're rude or something. Last week I was walking to work. I stopped to talk to my street vendor friend Hary. While chit-chatting a truck full of workers rolls by and give me an annoying-sounding 'fazaha'. I yell after them which elicits laughter. Then I walk down the street a little more and a 5 year old starts pointing at me and screaming fazaha. Still salty from the truck before I walk over to her older brother, tell him my name is Justin and his sister is being rude. I say it over and over again to make sure he understands. He just smiles and nods. I walk away fairly agitated. I don't make it ten steps before a tobacco street vendor says 'over here, fazaha!' I flip. I JUUUST storm over to her and bitch her out royally, and she looks genuinely surprised I was so offended and was fairly apologetic, which I didn't expect. Then the next day I saw her again and she was like 'Hey, Justin. How's it goin'?' And we chatted a bit pleasantly. So that's like one less I have to worry about, I guess I sort of had a victory there. Each day gets easier anyway.

The picture of me is me presenting my host dad with some certificate of some kind commemorating my stay with them at a fare-thee-well dinner. Anyway I should run. Next post probably won't be until April, fyi.

This is Justin Selb with the BBC reporting live.... from Faluja.

(Or with PC from Antananrivo)

Well, firstly I greatly apologize for the lack of entries. Unfortunately the internet availablities in this country are worse than we all had feared! In any case, here's a quick update.

I just finished the 10 week training program and I am very conversational in Standard Official Malagasy as well as the Bara dialect. I spent most of my time in a small town called Mahitsitady, which is a rice-farming town with no water or electricity. I stayed with a great host family; Samuel and Esther were my parents, and they are in their 50s, then they had five boys, all 24 and above. Four of them were great but one was a bit of a drunk and just kind of an idiot. They are mostly all nice people in the town and not into material things at all, probably not by choice, but they don't really stress on it and I dig that. We had tech sessions and language sessions from 8 am to 5 pm every day mon-fri, and sat mornings. Then we took a field trip to Antsirabe which is a limur park, where I saw some great, giant limurs!

Here's some random facts for you all. They have banana trees which look similar to palm trees absolutely everywhere here, but the bananas are half the size of American bananas and when they're ripe they're GREEN! Also meals are composed of a huge bowl of rice and a small side dish of like beef and carrots for example. And everyone eats out if the same dish alot of the time. And you don't have drinks with your meal, you just sometimes drink the water the rice was boiled in at the end of the meal. The site I'm going to is down south in the desert and it's full of Dahalo, which are a gang of cowboys. They love to steal cows, it's so engrained in their culture, that in order to be married you have to have been incarcerated for cow theft. When I walked down the street of my town, people were stopping dead in their trakcs staring at me, because I guess they hadn't seen anyone like me before.

So I get sworn in tomorrow, I will play tennis and go swimming at the ambassador's mansion, then go out tomorrow night here in the capital, then Weds off to site. Off to the Wild Wild South; the dry, hot desert... I'll try to post more soon. Stay tuned!

The time has now come for me to attend to all last-minute tasks, and muster up and and everything I want to say to life as I know it. Because life as such is ending for me. But not without a rebirth of sorts, a metamoprhasis the likes of which we have never known. It's a brave new world out there, and by God I want in on it.

Last night, as you may or may not know, was the great automn tornado of '07 here in Minneapolis. I had just returned home with mom at quarter after five. As we exited the motor vehicle darkness washed over the skies. The wind was blowing up a gale as thunder steadily rumbled across the black clouds. Mom and I entered the house to find Dave running amuck, justifiably so, battening down the hatches for what would soon be known as the great autumn tornado of '07. I collected the dog and a few other irreplacables and huddled in a corner I began to hear heavy peltings against the house sidings. I peered just above the window sill to see baseball sized hail slamming down on the sidewalks. The sirens had been wailing like madmen for some time now, but then, out of the blue, the sirens stopped and the skies cleared. Hazah! The storm had ended and all but washed away any previously littered garbage on the streets. It made me think of the great adventure I'll soon be embarking upon, God willing. Stay tuned for my next entry from the land of Malagasy...

Hello, friends...

I've recently begun my final preparations for 27 months in Madagascar. Moms hooked it up yesterday at REI so I'm ready for all-weather jungle fun. I've heard there are hissing cockroaches the size of apples there, so the first step towards my mission of health education will likely be to teach the children not to keep these cockroaches as pets.

I'm fairly concerned how I will stay plugged into current events during my time away. Like yesterday I learned the prime minister of Japan has resigned! That's pretty big news and it had snuck by me until yesterday; if that's possibly in Minneapolis then it's sure as hell possible in Madagascar! Anyway, I just couldn't be more excited. Here's a link of some fantasic Malagasy music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZjwsHmRIC4

Let's touch base again soon.