...until further notice...or October 20th, whichever comes first. Updates to come!

Sylvia By A.R.Gurney, It’s the classic love triangle – husband, wife, dog.

American playwright A.R. Gurney’s delightful and unique romantic comedy tells the story of Greg and Kate, an upwardly mobile New York couple who have moved to Manhattan after years of child-raising in the suburbs.

Greg is disillusioned with his career in finance, while Kate's teaching career is beginning to take her places. After wagging work one day, Greg brings home a dog he found in the park— wearing a name tag engraved with "Sylvia". A Brooklyn bred Lab/Poodle cross, streetwise Sylvia becomes a major bone of contention between husband and wife. She offers Greg an escape from the frustrations of his job in the midst of his mid-life crisis. To Kate, Sylvia becomes a love rival. And Sylvia thinks Kate is ‘prejudiced against dogs’.

The marriage is headed for the rocks until, after a series of poignant and funny complications, Greg and Kate learn to understand that Sylvia has helped them adjust to the empty-nest phase of their marriage and she becomes a valued part of their lives.

Sylvia is cleverly scripted; A.R Gurney certainly knows about dogs and for dog-lovers especially the play has plenty of laugh out loud moments. In the play’s 1995 off-Broadway debut, Sylvia played to full houses and elicited rave reviews with the role of the dog Sylvia originally played by Sarah Jessica Parker.

In The PumpHouse season production, young Auckland actor Amanda Prasow takes on the physically demanding role of Sylvia. With Denise Snoad and John Clarke playing Kate and Greg.

Director: John Antony

Cast: Denise Snoad, John Clarke, Amanda Prasow, Rob Owens, Mel Roberts

Produced by Quotidian Creative – (Gill Saker and David Martin)

I am moving again.

This time it's a bit less dramatic than the last.

I am simply moving bedrooms, in the same house.

Just a bit of a shimmy downstairs and voila, living life on a whole new level...

My flatmate is moving out and in with his girlfriend, and I have decided to 'downsize', taking a smaller, cheaper room - mostly because it is cheaper, but also because it's nice to shake things up a little bit, and I wouldn't mind initiating a gradual process of culling over the next few months, which smaller spaces seem to demand.

So I guess that's the other big news. I will be returning to Canada for the first time in more than three years this June, for the intended duration of four months, before returning to Auckland in October. More about that later.

It's amazing how much of the energy of moving is still present even in such a seemingly insignificant shift. The subtle buzz of inspiration, the anticipation, the moments of reflection.

I was clearing out a drawer just now and just when I thought I was done something shiny in the corner caught my eye. It was my Peace Corps passport (which I sort of vaguely remember should have been surrendered to some government official at some point)...and with just a touch of nostalgia I picked it up...a little ceremonially.

Evidence the dream was real.

I look for that sometimes. When I was on the island I used to dream of the city, and would wake up wondering which universe was real. Recently I had a dream I was back on the island, but things had changed. There had been more "development", and some of the familiar sights were almost unrecognizable. But the thing is, the coconut trees were lower to the ground.

I reached up and plucked a fresh green coconut with one hand and expertly sliced it open with a nearby bush knife, and as I tilted my head back and lustily drank back the nectar I thought to myself, "Thank God this is real. Thank God this coconut is real."

And then I woke up.

But that was awhile ago, and today as I thumbed through the pages of the passport, reread the dates and airports on all the stamps, searched my eyes in the picture for the innocence I claim to miss, with a sigh I thought to myself,

Who knew?

You know?

Like...who knew I'd end up here?

I've had a recent epiphany about my physical health, which may indeed have psychological and even spiritual ramifications.

I have discovered almost accidentally that I have probably been deeply dehydrated for a very long time.

I did a bit of a cleanse a couple weeks ago, a pretty casual self-directed apple fast, followed by an actual fast with some kriyas (yogic cleansing practices) and some relatively intense meditation and chanting practice. Throughout this period I was extremely conscious of staying hydrated, setting myself little goals for water intake throughout the day.

But I found that once I started drinking I almost couldn't stop. I was incredulous at how much water I was consuming, craving, absorbing. You know how people say when you dramatically increase your water intake you are always running to wee and you feel really bloated and stuff? I just didn't have that. All that water was going somewhere.

I'm not saying it's the be all and end all of all my health problems but it's been a fascinating and promising water-logged week since.

So here's the trick, right? To encouraging the habit of regular hydration. Here's the epiphany...

Before when I wanted a glass of water I'd fill it up, drink it, and put it down, right? And then the next time you want a glass of water you do the same...right? Like this is how you drink water, right?

Wrong!

Fill it up, drink it, FILL IT UP. Immediately. So then the next time the thought even STARTS to cross your mind that MAYBE you want to drink something, or perhaps your eyes fall on the glass as you're looking for something else, or whatever...your glass is already full when you need it.

Think about it.

Far out, right?

I hope now you understand how my world has turned upside down for the better recently.

There is one more thing I'd like to share. Some of you with experience 'in the field' may have already made this connection.

You may or may not be aware that fresh green coconut water is one of nature's most effective, efficient, and fast-acting rehydrative solutions. So, like, if you're dying of thirst even a little green coconut can save your life.

I'm just saying it's interesting is all...

I prefer not to think of this blog as "abandoned".

Let's just say it has just been...dormant, for various reasons...none of which are interesting enough to explore here. Although I suppose it must be said that probably the major reason is also the least glamourous: after years of resistance I finally joined Facebook. Of course it is a very different forum of online communication, but in some ways it 'does the job' enough to make you not think about writing blog updates. Okay...ME. I won't make assumptions about the rest of you...

I am well aware that long lapses in communication mean I have probably lost most of my previously loyal (and oh-so-close-to-my-heart!) readership, but there must be some of you still kicking around...somewhere.

So I intend to update you all on "2010 So Far" in two parts: The Practical and The Personal. This is the first.

January sort of accidentally began at the Prana Blue Moon Festival in the Coromandel peninsula.

While everyone else I knew made exciting plans to hightail it out of Auckland and go camping over the Christmas holidays, I just assumed I'd kick around the city and use the quiet time to make some extra cash, as I had done pretty much every Christmas 'holiday' period of my semi-adult life.

It was actually a pretty sad and stressful time in general. It felt like a hundred times a day people were sympathetically cocking their heads to one side and saying, "It must be so hard to be away from home for Christmas..."

And a hundred times a day I would have to decide whether or not to explain that I wasn't Christian (gasp! like Vanuatu all over again!), and that Christmas really really REALLY doesn't mean anything to me or my family, and if I was up for the series of questions I might explain that I have been away from "home" for a very long time, and I might even go so far as to declare that I've never really been a "home person". I really felt like everyone around me really wanted me to be depressed about being single and foreign on Christmas. So I guess I kind of rolled with it for awhile...

Also I was totally broke with no idea how I was going to pay my rent week to week.

That hasn't really changed much, but I do cry about it less frequently than I did in December.

But anyway, I am meant to be focusing on The Practical.

So what I didn't realize is that, like the tropics, Auckland really does shut down for the holidays. There was no extra cash to be a made, I would be on holiday with or without my consent. And just when I returned from the library with a stack of books to feed my soul in solitude, the opportunity came up to go to Prana for free as a worker at a stall for a local organic food store. In about 72 hours, various new friends pitched in to lend me a tent, flashlight, etc, cover my classes at the gym and organize rides for me. It was all feeling very blessed.

One of the funniest things that stands out for me about this preparation phase is how deeply embarrassed I felt admitting that I did not have a functional flashlight or pocket knife on hand...at all times. You can take the girl out of Peace Corps, but you can't take Peace Corps out of the girl!

How could I describe the Prana experience efficiently yet effectively?

I remember afterwards declaring it was as transformative as walking into my one-month Yoga Teacher's Training Course a staunch atheist at 20 years old and walking out a devotee...but even crazier considering I had had no plans to be there, had no idea what to expect, and it was only five days...with a bunch of (mostly) strangers with no particular organization or tradition uniting them other than a generalized interest in spirituality, music, eco-politics and/or the healing arts.

New friendships were ignited, old friendships were renewed and young friendships were cemented.

Everything that had seemed so hard and overwhelming about life just...stopped seeming hard and overwhelming for awhile.

Incidentally, I will be returning to Prana over Easter weekend for a smaller, quieter version of the New Year's festival. I pledge to remain expectation-free in the meantime.

When I returned from Prana, the rest of my January can be defined by a single phrase: "Short + Sweet". This ten-minute play festival ran from Jan 18-Jan 31. Here's a news clip about it, but I sort of have a feeling you may not be able to view it from outside of New Zealand...

In Short + Sweet, I wrote and directed one play, co-directed and acted in a second, and Just Plain Acted in a third. It was an exciting experience for a number of reasons, mostly because it was my New Zealand acting and directing debut and my playwriting debut period. It was an exhausting and inspiring time...plus my legs got really strong from cycling to and from the theatre...

February marked my first show and official induction into Auckland Playback Theatre, a company and form I adore more and more as time goes on. Founded by Jonathan Fox in New York in the 1970s, "Playback Theatre is an original form of improvisational theatre in which audience or group members tell stories from their lives and watch them enacted on the spot. Whether in theatres, workshops, educational or clinical settings, Playback Theatre draws people closer as they see their common humanity." That's from the Playback School website you can go to to find a company near you...

In fact, Playback is so awesome I just know I am going to have blog separately about it at some stage.

At the other end of February, after months of rehearsal, Wet Hot Btchs finally had our 2010 premiere under the more family-friendly title of 'Wet Hot Beauties'...in the pool.

From the press release:

Pretty ladies all in a row!

A fantastical aquacade!

A memorial to the King Of Pop!

A hand in glove mix of syncronised swimming and water boogie - don't miss the underwater hit of the summer!

Deeply silly, delightful and glorious, the 40s era water musical aquacade is back, MJ styles! Hilarious! Hot! Wet! Wet Hot Beauties!

It was amazing...obviously.

March...

...began with the fortuitous combination of a terrible cold and an amazing, intensive training for the newly-established Clown Doctors New Zealand, a partner organization of the long-ago-established Rotenasen (Red Noses) International. Pretty much I'm not allowed to say anything about the program launch in Auckland until the PR moguls have done their thing, but feel free to give us money in the meantime...

What I can say with impunity is that I had 20 Clown Doctors on my patio on Tuesday night to celebrate the end of (initial) training and to say Bon Voyage to our teacher returning to Vienna and other staff back to the South Island. I do so like having parties.

Since Halloween I have been teaching a free Yoga-in-the-Park class on Saturday mornings (weather-permitting). It's in the park.

Which brings us pretty much up to speed.

You may also be wondering how I pay my rent. To be honest, I am kind of amazed it happens myself.

So for money I teach a couple fitness classes a week at a gym, I've run a couple 6-week yoga courses, I babysit adorable toddlers in my neighbourhood, and as of a couple weeks ago I telemarket Me Time Pamper Packs - enter code 9572 to get $5 off (Aucklanders only would care). I've even ended up with a couple eensy-weensy gigs behind the camera which has been awesome and I definitely hope to do more of that sort of thing. But yeah, it's been a pretty hand-to-mouth existence the last few months...

A friend recently suggested that one day I will fondly look back on my starving artist days with a kind of bemused nostalgia...and if nothing else have a good laugh about it...(of course with the implication that I won't still be living them at the time). I hope that's true. I find the thought comforting nonetheless.

You only cost $5 on TradeMe.

And though it appears I rescued you from certain destruction,

I don’t know how you feel about your new GL digs.

It sure is a long way from Parnell.

I’ll let you in on a little secret

Since it looks like we’ll be working together for awhile now:

You are my last and only hope.

Maybe it’s too soon for such confessions.

After all, we’ve only just met.

But what you are to me,

is the best of everything that has been

and may be.

Keeper of my dreams,

guardian of my secrets,

a window to The Good Life

just

beyond

my fingertips…

Late nights and full moons

forgotten dreams and the rustle of

buried regrets

nestled amongst

precious seedlings of possibility

waiting for the faith to breathe them into life.

Just you and me, Filing Cabinet

against the world.

It is high time we reconciled.

After all, we are running out of time.

Who knew when we began what you would do to me?

There were nights you nearly broke my heart.

There were nights I nearly died in your arms.

And somehow you have found the nerve

to show up drunk

and stumbling

upon my doorstep

begging my forgiveness

pleading my remembrance

as if

as if I could ever forget.

You know, they say you've changed me.

They used to say we looked good together.

Now they are afraid to even ask how you are.

How many times did it seem you were two steps ahead of me?

How many times have I shouted into your shadow?

And how many times did you turn your back on me in the darkness?

How could you meet my sobs with cold, stony silence

and act like nothing had even happened

by morning?

I would have followed you across the universe if you asked me to.

As it is, I crossed an ocean.

And in your name, there remains one ocean I have not dared to cross.

I know you never promised me a rose garden.

But there was a time it seemed like you and I could be anything together.

We would slay dragons, conquer whole armies...

Do you remember?

We promised to move mountains together.

And look at us now.

And as the curtain begins to close on our story,

I can't help but wonder

Could I have been more for you?

I just wanted to make you proud.

I didn't know

I didn't know how the dragons would fight back.

I didn't know

those armies had soldiers

hiding

in every nook and cranny

of those mountains

and I didn't know those mountains

had been there

since before time began.

If I could do it all over again,

I guess I might have held you a little closer,

breathed you in a little deeper.

I thought you came here tonight so I could forgive you

but in the end

it seems

I am the one on my knees.

So what do you say

we cut our losses

shake hands

and part as friends?

Because if nothing else

I learned from you

the sun always swallows the moon

some dragons can be tamed

and some mountains are nothing

but castles in the sand.

Goodbye, 2009.

You'll be forever in my heart.

For anyone who ever heard me swear up and down I would never return to suburbia, I assure you, it's different in Auckland. Suburbs are where people live, and downtown is where people work and go to bars. Unless you work in the arts, in which case you just work in the suburbs. Really. It's weird.

Anyway.

It's been a busy couple of months, and unfortunately I don't have anything particularly insightful or even mildly reflective to share at this time. Things are slowing down considerably over the next couple weeks and so I anticipate having time and (head)space to pick up the proverbial pen/keyboard again soon.

In the meantime...here are a few photos to give you a snapshot of my life.

These are the people I live with:

These two photos were taken during my birthday party a couple weeks ago, by the talented NZ photographer Doug Barry-Martin. Ironically, the photos have an extremely still and lonely feel despite the fact there was a 'raging' party brewing inside - I enjoy the juxtaposition.

This is an 'intimate' view of my backyard. And, yes, that is my underwear hanging on the line. My mother will probably cringe when she sees this as I was not brought me to be such a tacky host, but it was an extremely busy day (we went to see the Dalai Lama speak before the party). Also, I thought my Peace Corps friends would get a kick out of seeing what is clearly $3 Au Bon Marche underwear - yep, it's been six months out of the field and I still haven't gotten around to new underwear. Lovely.

Just across the park...

And well, I promise.

I personally find blogs where people just list all the things they're doing incredibly boring and kind of annoying. But there hasn't been a lot of time for ponderous reflection and playful musings in the last couple months - hence my apparent silence. Auckland ain't the island, that's for sure.

Expect an appropriate update in the next two weeks...

Upon checking the date this morning, the following thought occurred to me,

"Shit! It's October? And Janis Joplin was already DEAD by 27!"

(The photo on the right is meant to indicate that I am unimpressed with my late start in artistic achievements and am about to GET SERIOUS).

At the Movies

On Sunday I began a new screenplay, because I just don't have enough unfinished projects at the moment...

I have made an interesting proposition to myself over a cup of Rooibos this morning: absolutely every character has to be consciously (loosely) based on someone I know or at least have met personally.

Perhaps you will all feel violated, but I think it is a really interesting exercise in observation, imagination, and extrapolation and anyway, you don't really have a choice so...yeah.

But have no fear, Kokoru-Kamam: The Movie is still canoeing along slowly but surely and I hope you will hear a lot about more about it in the coming months. I was able to view the first two hours of footage last week and much to my relief and delight it was not 120 minutes of fuzz, snow, blurry fog or weird audio (okay, there is a really weird sound problem in one scene when the boys playing the bamboo drums are like 100 times louder than the old men singing with them - but I have confidence that some audio specialist somewhere knows how to fix it and actually it kind of looks sort of cool and surreal and even maybe like I did it on purpose.)

When the appropriate funds manifest to purchase a computer more vibrant and capable than this terminally disabled laptop, the editing process will begin in earnest.

On the Waterfront

And for those of you who heard about the tsunami warnings here yesterday, at the end of the day Auckland City was not swept into the sea. Please re-direct your concern and prayers to those in the Philippines, Samoa and Indonesia for the time being...

If you live in Wellington, and even if you don't, I would run (not walk) to see

Where Are You My Only One? at Circa Theatre.

It was without a doubt the (accidental) highlight of my weekend in Welly.

When I have some more time, I will be more than happy to pontificate as to why it was such a moving and beautiful experience, but I want to post this as soon as possible because I actually don't want to risk even just one more soul NOT seeing this play because I don't have time to write a proper review right now.

It was that awesome.

That is the current quote of the week (which changes daily), as agreed upon by the fabulous Dryden street flatmates.

It seems like only a moment ago I had no job and now I apparently have 5. This occurred to me when I realized it's 12:15 a.m. and I have been "working" on the computer far too long and far too late for an allegedly unemployed person.

These are all my new jobs, some of which I have already begun and some of which are due to start upon my return from my trip to New Plymouth next week.

In order of hilariousness to most expected...

1) working for a temp agency being a daycare supply teacher (favourite/worst-paying)

2) being a PA (probably soon to be favourite)

3) random babysitting for families I am meeting in the park

4) teaching yoga & fitness classes at a gym

5) doing Ayurvedic nutrition therapy

6) sorting out the whole yoga/workshop/retreat operation (with potential cool new partners)

Okay, so 6. And I think there may be a couple others I've forgotten as well.

So, yeah, pretty much my old life in Toronto with some exciting new twists, different characters and scenery, and a healthier more relaxed perspective on it all.

Now I just need to manifest some acting work and I can call it The Life I Want.

So I drove ALL around downtown Auckland yesterday (a busy shopper's Saturday at that) and nobody died!

Take THAT, Other Side of the Road!

P.S. A very special shoutout to my new flatmate Andrew who lent me both his vehicle and confidence for the afternoon. Quote of the week: "I mean, I would prefer if you didn't smash up my car, but, like, it's okay if you do..."

When you go to an audition dressed as a professional businesswoman and the auditioner compliments your shoes, maybe you shouldn't exclaim, "Thanks! Can you believe it? Only $3 at the Salvation Army!"

But...you know...what's done is done...

:)

While my first week in Auckland was an alliterative whirlwind of plays, parties, and potlucks - this week I decided to buckle down, catch up on sleep, and sort out things like buying hangers and finding (several?) jobs.

Monday:

DAY: got a pedicure and took my bike into the shop (yes, that's right, found a free bike hiding under our hedge!)

NIGHT: cooked gnocchi and went to bed early

Tuesday:

DAY: spend most of it on TradeMe finding random part-time jobs

NIGHT: subbed a Yoga class at a nearby gym & then had flat dinner/meeting - during which we finalized plans for our Halloween Potluck...which my Auckland readership is welcome to attend.

Wednesday:

DAY: temped 9-5 at a playcentre (daycare) - best crap-paying job ever! LOVE it

NIGHT: watched cheesy girl movie with the flatmates (thought it was going to be just the girls at home-oops!)

Thursday:

DAY: en route to frantically buy some business-appropriate shoes for my "telephone market research" interview this afternoon (not to be confused with the telemarketing job for an orthopedic clinic I am going to start next week)

NIGHT: meeting a friend to see a taping of some comedy tv show

Friday:

DAY: an infomercial audition followed by checking out another gym to teach at

NIGHT: TBD

It's a pretty good life up here these days. I have an awesome house with awesome flatmates, heaps of random new friends, and there seems to be a plethora of part-time work available as long as you are willing to take crappy pay in exchange for utmost flexibility (which I certainly am).

Am looking forward to completing the 'scrambling' phase of setting up in a new city and hope things will be a little bit more settled in a few weeks...

...is like a dream come true.

So far.

So good.

This photo doesn't really have to do with anything...it is just of me buying dried cherries in Jerusalem like eight months ago. But I really like dried cherries. And it just seemed relevant. I hope you can understand.

It is the end of an insanely busy day at the end of an insanely busy week, which, come to think of it, is rounding off a pretty busy month.

Tomorrow I leave New Plymouth again for Auckland, and though I know I will be back here in just three weeks for a few days, it feels a bit like the end of an era.

The era of what exactly, I'm not sure.

But this is definitely the end of something, whatever it is, and the beginning of something else entirely.

As of tomorrow afternoon, I will officially live in Auckland.

For the first time in three and a half years, I will be moving somewhere without knowing it is just a temporary stopover. "Just a few months at the ashram before Peace Corps." "Just a few months in Switzerland before Vanuatu." "Just two years on this island before The Rest of My Life," etc, etc...

I mean, in the strictest sense of things, this whole lifetime is a temporary stopover, but you know what I mean...

I will have a home. I will have an address. I may even have matching plates before you know it.

Some items I can't wait to purchase include:

-a bicycle

-a guitar

-tealight holders

-a mug

-some crystals

-organic foot creme (not 'cream' - there is a world of difference)

-a dimmer switch

I am easily thrilled.

Some urban activities I can't wait to partake in:

-drop-in dance classes

-late-night sushi runs

-finding "my cafe"

-exploring used bookstores

-obtaining a library card

-finding a chanting group

And all of the obvious things like seeing live theatre, arthouse cinema, kiwi indie bands, etc...

And then, of course, there is the greener side of Auckland, one of the main reasons why I was first drawn to the city: the beach, the bush, the ranges - just a hop, skip, and a jump from the pulse of urbanity.

Life, in general, seems to be getting easier as it continues. I certainly have my moments, or, you know, my hours, and, okay, there's the occasional four-hour stretch or so, but the general trend of this whole life thing seems to be gently spiraling upwards.

So, there's that...

...you know?

Work Hard

I made sure I was back from Auckland in time for the Shine festival in Oakura last weekend. It was long hours and all pretty full-on, but we met tons of cool people, got some new students, and broke out the harmonium to liven the place up a little bit. Then we got falafel takeaway which is always a treat around these parts, and even though it made me sick after it was all part of the fun.

Play Hard

Yesterday we took advantage of the rare winter sunshine and went for a 'stroll' up (the bottom of) that magic Mount Taranaki.

So, like, have you guys tried Capoeira? I followed a friend there on Friday night having basically no idea what to expect and LOVED it. It was SO fun and so cool and I woke up totally unable to move my legs (in a good way) and all these different muscles I rarely feel from Yoga. It is excellent cross-training and I am definitely hooked - will go back as soon as I can move my legs again.

In other news, things are almost sorted out on the accomodation front in Auckland. I should be up there in some kind of 'semi-permanent' (I use the term loosely)capacity in less than two weeks.

When I can sort out how to upload having left most of my computery stuff in Auckland, I will post pictures of my first Rocky Horror Picture Show experience. How I ended up dressed as Magenta in a French maid costume at SkyCity cinema at midnight within 24 hours arriving in Auckland and not, ostensibly, knowing a soul is anybody's guess.

It was that kind of a trip.

I may, indeed, be breaking my own personal record of vagabondistic behaviour...

Two nights in Onehunga (almost South Auckland - cheers Katherine!), two nights in Waitakere out west (thanks Heather & Alan), two nights nice & central in Ponsonby (you're the best, David), and now back in Waitakere for one night, Titirangi tomorrow night and...well, we'll see what manifests over the weekend.

If I had to describe the last six days in Auckland in one word, it would be..."magical".

It's been that kind of week.

Well, not forever.

Just for a couple weeks.

I'll be heading up there tomorrow to get some things set up - crashing with a friend of a friend for a couple nights (okay, so we haven't even met but I have a good feeling about this) and then with my tried-and-true Rotarians for the weekend...and then...um...well...and then I open myself up to the Couchsurfing Gods (who, I might add, have never failed me yet). I mean, if Jesus and his disciples could go with the flow, surely I could give it a go?

Ahem.

So.

New Zealand driver's licence has been obtained, bank accounts have been opened, IRD number (like a GST number) has been acquired...I guess I actually LIVE here now...

Amazing.

By 'here' I mean in this country. It's not like I actually have a residence or...gainful employment or anything crazy like that.

Plus today I rode a bike for the first time in 2.5 years.

It was pretty awesome.

Just two more days of Primaquine to go and then I'm free.

It hasn't killed me yet so...you know what they say...

-makes me shake

-makes me cry at Will Ferrel movies (i.e. Stranger Than Fiction)

-makes me laugh at inappropriate times (i.e. the middle of Yoga class)

-makes my voice sound really far away to myself

-makes me feel like my life is a movie and I'm watching it

-makes me want to puke all the time

-makes images from horror movies I have never seen hide inside my eyes

-makes all the itsy bitsy malarial parasites potentially hiding inside my body have to die

Eight more days to go!

1. Yoga Student brings New Friend passing through town to Yoga class one day.

2. New Friend happens to have recently met a local filmmaker looking for extras for a shoot the following weekend.

3. E-mails are exchanged, forwarded, and replied to and I arrive at said shoot the following weekend.

4. Whilst at said shoot, I meet a video editor/teacher at a local polytechnic.

5. When I ask if he knows of any short courses in videography, I am informed that he does...and that it starts THE NEXT DAY.

6. Said course runs from 1-4 p.m., the only available time slot I have in the afternoon between the morning and evening Yoga classes at the Sivananda Centre.

7. Twenty-four hours later I am sitting in my Video Course.

8. Twenty-four hours later than that, I have consultants and co-conspirators and an elaborate plan to digitise my documentary footage.

9. Twenty-four hours later than that, I am offered a random ride up to Auckland next Thursday by aforementioned co-conspirator.

10. Twenty-four hours later than that (today), though it was touch-and-go for awhile there, all of the whole NTSC vs. PAL* issue I was praying would not be a problem was revealed to be just that...not a problem. And for the first time, I was able to see my footage on screen...like...like...A REAL MOVIE...

I Have Learned So Far...

...that I LOVE editing! Even though of course I hate it too. But at least I have answered one of the big questions about this film - whether or not I was going to buy the equipment and learn how to do it myself or try to find an editor. Defo going to do it myself.

Two things I decided to accept fully and completely today:

1. This film is going to take a lot of money to make.

2. This film is going to take a very long time to make.

Once you can kind of get your head around that, it all becomes very exciting...

*NTSC is the American system and PAL is the Almost Everywhere Else In This Part of the World system. I purchased an NTSC camera assuming I would be producing this film in North America, which has (surprise) turned out not to be the case at this time. None of it should exactly be a problem because I shot in HD but it can also sort of be a problem except for sometimes it's not and right now it's not.

It's been a busy weekend, and I can't wait to crawl into my bed...and under my magic electric blanket.

Just wanted to post a quick update to All Concerned Parties that I'm healthy and happy and eating copious amounts of kiwi fruit.

Like an old folk tale, it seems like every day I meet at least one expatriate, and sometimes several, who one day found themselves mysteriously drawn to Taranaki and have never been able to leave.

Here is why:

"There's something about that mountain..."

they say, and there is a pause as the speaker loses themselves in a wistful reverie. Everyone nearby shakes their head in solemn agreement, and there is a moment of silence.

Indeed, everything is wonderful when I stop to think about it for a moment. Every day I wake up to find Synchronicity on my doorstep offering the next adventure (I think I almost mean literally at my doorstep - I mean, I live in a Yoga Centre and I don't get out much - so the adventure does usually have to walk through the front door). I guess when your life reminds you of an enchanting old folk tale, that's probably a good sign.

Needless to say, New Zealand has been kind to me so far.

I am still in New Plymouth living and teaching and attempting to spend more time on my head at the Sivananda Yoga Centre.

This is my second day of primaquine consumption, and I've got twelve more days of my apparently 'highly controversial' antimalarial cocktail and then I am officially free!

The tentative intention is to go up to Auckland in a week or so to get new headshots done and check in with some people, and then come back here to New Plymouth to do some kind of a detox and celebrate my new drug-free state.

After which I will begin the process of moving up to Auckland For Real.

Dates are, perhaps obviously, still flexible for the time being. Things might have to stop being so awesome here before I can leave.

There's something about that mountain, I tell you...

This is for those of you who want to just keep reading about Vanuatu on this blog...

I'd like to pass on some information about a project a friend of mine is working on through a program called Peace Corps Partnership. It is a great way for you folks at home to participate in the crazy stuff we do out there on the islands...this one is to complete a Women's Business and Education Center for a women's group that sells woven baskets and handcrafts.

This project is close to my heart because I stayed in this village for two weeks last year and it was definitely one of the highlights of my Peace Corps service.

These families welcomed me into their community and were amazing participants in my Hygiene & Sanitation and Reproductive Health workshops.

These women are industrious, talented and committed and the organization they have developed is one of the most successful small business projects I've seen (certainly partly due to the awesomeness of their Peace Corps Volunteer Blake.)

General Details

Community Contribution- $1303.64US (31% of total budget)

Original Request- $2786.47US

Women artisans in this part of Vanuatu have been organized since mid-2006. Currently the women’s group is compromised of approximately 40 women who are working in collaboration with a local fair trade organization. The vast majority of their products are baskets woven from the leaves of the pandanas tree. This provides them with their livelihood and the ability to provide their families with necessities such as soap, matches, food, and school fees. However they have been functioning without adequate facilities since they began. Now this group is facing a growing demand for the center to work in and store all of their products and materials. Pressure increases with the rising interest of more women desiring to take advantage of this opportunity. The leaders of this group have voiced this need and have developed a floor plan for an appropriate building to cater to their needs, as well as those of the women they serve and the entire community. Let’s help them achieve their dream.

To donate, click here!

For more details, keep reading Blake's Semi-Detailed Project summary...

"Your donations will contribute to the construction of this center in the village I am living and working in, Qatamele. This building is intended to provide appropriate facilities for the women artisans in the surrounding communities to manage their small handcraft business with a comfortable and appropriate place to conduct business, store products, and to provide materials to highten the awareness of women's/child's rights/etc. Due to the infrequent use of the this building (once every two weeks for business purposes) it will alternatively serve the communtiy's various needs. The building itself will be big enough to comfortably hold approx. 30 people for classes, workshops, sunday school, housing for visitors, fundraisers etc... The women's group and community will contribute primarily with locally avaliable resources as well as a portion of the construction costs.

A portion of the project's money will go towards furnishing the facility and managing the project. Items are cash boxes, containers to store/protect handcrafts, a filing cabinet for records, stools, tables, particle boards for posting announcements, etc. Approximately $400US will be placed into the groups revolving fund to directly purchase handcrafts from the women easing the burden of waiting for delayed payments for these products. It will increase the existing fund to $1,000US and when payment is received this fund is replenished."

Once again, to donate click here! .

And feel free to contact me with any further questions...

I have it now. Find me! My Skype name is "amandaprasow". That's all you need, right? I have only been a proud owner of my very own Skype account for about 45 seconds, so I'm not quite sure how it works yet...

P.S. It's been 24 hours and I'm completely in love with New Zealand

Amidst the hustle & bustle of the Arrivals terminal at Auckland airport, which is strangely enough starting to feel a little bit like home to me, I kill time at the free internet kiosk waiting for my domestic transfer that leaves in about two hours.

I have been awake for 25 hours and counting, and I've got another four hours or so before I reach my final (temporary) destination, my peeps at the Sivananda Yoga Centre in New Plymouth.

I imagine I'll stay there for a couple weeks or so before heading up to Auckland and Getting A Life. Since I am now both homeless AND unemployed, my dates are flexible as you might imagine. We'll see what happens.

Despite the fact that I began sneezing as soon as the plane took off and I will most certainly die of hypothermia before the end of the month, I'm feeling pretty good about things...not least because of the fabulous send-off I received at the airport last night.

To the group of committed troopers who braved the torrential downpour to be by my side from my 11 p.m. check-in to my 3 a.m. departure [flight was delayed 2 hours, and I wouldn't have had it any other way], especially those who made the long, laborious and expensive trek from North Efate to do so...yufala i rokem wol blong mi we.

So if you'd all like to raise your virtual coconuts, I'd like to propose a toast:

To Vanuatu: You taught me every day that there was another way...you'll be forever in my heart.

P.S. A note to my loyal readers: As I am still technically "abroad", I see no reason why this blog should end here. Especially what with my aforementioned condition [that is being homeless, unemployed, etc] I should have ample time to write.

So stay tuned for the next chapter...

May 27, 2009

[incidentally, 2 days before the earthquake that rocked our world...]

This is what I want to say.

Somewhere in the rainforest, an 83-year-old man is perched on a wooden bench as the sun begins to set. He is wearing a floppy fisherman’s hat that is undoubtedly several decades old. His brow is permanently furrowed by time and life. Several teeth are missing, and there is the slightest tremor underlying every movement.

He opens his mouth and begins to sing.

He is barely audible at first, his voice hoarse, his breath weak. His body is still, but his eyes dart furtively from point to point as if lost in an inner world. His gaze falls on his equally ancient wife just a few feet away, mostly hidden by the thatch roof of their bush kitchen. She is quietly grating a coconut and cooking their dinner. She begins to sing along with the first few lines, just to get him started. She sings quietly but confidently, and he is calmed.

In a moment he is joined on the bench by his thirty-something-year-old son, himself a father of three. A man unusually tall for his race, he is known for his short temper and fits of violence. He is the man you go to when you want someone warned.

But now he is a child again. He slouches and shrinks down on the bench so he is able to meet his father’s eyes. He joins the singing, his voice both strong and soft, and together they sing the songs of their ancestors. It’s hard to tell whether the son is helping his father remember or the father is teaching the son. At times it seems both are happening at once.

The old man is the Guardian of the Music, a role passed on to the firstborn son of each generation. He is one of the last surviving elders who can remember the songs from Before.

I am ten feet in front of them, behind the camera. This is why we are here. Just nine days before my final departure from this island, they are seizing the unique opportunity to record their traditions as a kind of training tool for the next generation. The times they are a-changin’, and the youth don’t want to learn from the Elders in the way that they used to. The once sacred oral tradition is now threatened by the forces of the 21st century. They would blame secular education, democracy and urban drift if they had the words for them, but instead they click their tongues and mutter, “there is no respect nowadays”. It is through this footage that future generations will learn their history and their kastom.

A wave of peace and contentedness washes over me. Every fibre of my being knows that I was brought to this place at this time for this moment and this moment only. I feel blessed to be a witness. I feel destined to be a scribe.

Within a few minutes a crowd gathers, women and children pointing, laughing, swaying. Another Elder, almost ninety, appears and joins the two men on the bench. His voice is louder, stronger, and he remembers all the words. Young men appear from all directions and drift slowly towards the centre. Someone drags a hollow log of bamboo into the frame, and two boys obediently sit down cross-legged on either side. The drumming begins.

And suddenly reality folds in on itself. What started as a film about these people and their stories has become part of the story itself, the recording an occasion for revival. The Elders explain the chants and the young men are asking questions. Some children drift in and begin to dance.

And in an instant I surrender the past two years to this moment. I give the last two years to this moment, in that I decide it has all been worth it. Every challenge, every hardship, every tear shed over this crazy little place in the middle of the ocean, I offer it as a sacrifice to right now.

And I know there could be no fairer price.

.

May 14, 2009 - Wednesday

Dear Parents,

I decided to write a letter because I never write letters anymore, and pretty soon I’ll be online and have cheap long-distance, so there will be even less of a reason/opportunity.

I think the reason I stopped writing letters was mostly because I have been travelling through Vila so much the last several months - and even if I know it’ll be two months till I go in again, e-mailing someone later will get to them faster than mailing it from the island. There’s that and the fact that I’ve had my DVD player since October. And the fact that no one writes me anymore. Anyway.

By the time you get this, I will most definitely already be in Vila, if not New Zealand.

The reason I am writing at this particular moment is because I finally started cleaning the Dirty Corner of my house and I found this half-empty notebook…and I thought I was out of lined paper! I despise writing on blank paper. What do you think that reveals about me? Ironically, this was the notebook I used when I first got here. I’ve just flipped through my notes on basic greetings in Namakura and some family trees I sketched while I was trying to get to know everyone, before I just gave up on trying to keep track of it all.

I also found an ‘Ideas’ page from my youthful and hopeful days of 2007. I thought it would be incredibly depressing to review it, but actually it wasn’t! I discovered that surprisingly I’ve ended up accomplishing the spirit if not the letter of most of the ideas on that list - and some other stuff that is actually a lot more interesting and potentially important than what I’d originally brainstormed.

I see why so many volunteers end up extending at the last minute. It’s hard to walk away, particularly from unfinished projects you don’t want to crumble in your absence. And yet I know I”d never stay, not least because nothing ever really will be finished, and you could keep dragging it out forever - and also because no one but me and other Peace Corps/Development People care whether my projects fall down or not.

When I first got here, I had a lot of ideas for what I wanted to do, and then was (appropriately) brainwashed by Peace Corps to believe your own ideas were inherently evil and everything was supposed to be about the communities’ needs and desires - so I waited a year for someone to articulate them to me (I just got asked for money a lot). When I got too upset and guilty about spending all day in my house (not bored, mind you, guilty but never bored - I love sitting in my house all day), I started doing whatever I thought could be important, mostly anywhere but here in this village, and the funny thing is, the projects and programs I started later in my service, all the things I feel like ‘salvaged’ my time here, made it worthwhile in the end - are actually not that different from my original ideas list. Go figure.

I experienced a moment of ‘integration’ last week - when I got to see a few of the things I’ve been working on converge. Bridget and I took five of our best campers from our Tongoa Camp GLOW in March over to nearby Tongariki to help another volunteer (Sarah) run a GLOW for her girls. Our girls had no idea we were going to make them teach anything, and I’m sure would not have agreed to come if they had, but we did make them and it was pretty cool to see the girls poring over the lessons plans from the Camp GLOW Manual for Camp Leaders in Bislama, otherwise known as Why I Don’t Remember October. You may remember me complaining about it last year. A resource like that had been my dream since I first joined the GAD (Gender and Development) committee, it took forever to hammer out that draft and I was eager to pass it off to the next set of willing hands. Bridget, Sarah, and I also used it during our camp in Tongoa in March, and even then how I was joking how we had written it for Ni-Vanuatu facilitators but in the end it was saving our own asses.

But this was way cooler - seeing it used for its original purpose, by women I had personally trained and ‘mentored’ if you will. I don’t know how often you get to see the fruits of your labour in Peace Corps. I guess it depends on your project - but I think we do all live with the general understanding that you will never really know if anything you do works, lasts, means anything to anyone, etc.

After the first camp with the teens from Tongariki, when our next program fell through (long story island-style), we improvised a 2-day How-to-Run-A-Camp workshop for our campers-cum-counsellors from Tongoa, with a few locals that wanted to join, including a really amazing teacher. It took me 5 minutes to write my two sessons, “Why Drama?” and “Dealing with Behaviour Problems”.

It occurred to me that after two years of making a lot of mistakes, I have actually picked up a thing or two and have gotten pretty good at some things. It’s a shame I don’t actually care about development work or Vanuatu, because I almost feel a Ph.D thesis coming on - what with the utter specificity of my various methodologies (too bad I don’t care about academia, either). Anyway, I am just trying to write up as much as I can for the people that do care.

So…onto a life I actually do care about! I hope I don’t get distracted again…at least not for awhile. I can’t wait to be one of those crazy women obsessed with their careers. People whisper how she has no social life because she is married to her career. I’ll give myself a hobby for balance (and fitness), cycling or…something new, like rock-climbing. I am quite fond of extremes…

Okay, I am bored with writing now. Bye!

Amanda

Just really busy.

Things are moving as they should.

I'll update soon.

P.S. Contrary to popular rumour, Earthquake 2009 and its aftermath, though an exciting exclamation point decorating the end of my Peace Corps sentence, has not altered my final departure plans. I will be flying to New Zealand on a one-way ticket as scheduled on June 20.

Hey Friends,

I just flew into town and am totally overwhelmed, but these are the most important points you need to know.

1. Yes, I just left the island for good. Here in Port Vila until June 19 when I leave for New Zealand.

2. Yes, the rumours are true - there was a massive earthquake during my goodbye party last Friday. No, no one died. Yes, there is a huge amount of damage. We all camped out at the Aid Post for five nights singing, praying, cooking the fallen breadfruit, and 'doing the disaster' as a community (yes, it's all on film). They were going to break camp yesterday when I left but the strong aftershocks and rumours of potential volcanic activity have kept them together. There's broken homes, ruined gardens, landslides, and most urgently - 14 water tanks in our community destroyed - a good majority of the water supply. I am up to my ears in relief effort details, but do stay tuned for ways you can donate to "Save Tongoa". I'm working on it as fast as I can.

And yes, "Kokoru-Kamam" is going to be the best documentary ever.

Thrilled to be back alive and well and back online! I'd love to hear from you all.

I'm at the aiport. My plane is really going this time.

From now on, those of you that want to send me stuff should mail staight to:

Amanda Prasow

Peace Corps/Vanuatu

PMB 9097

Port Vila

VANUATU

The office can pass it on to the island...and that way if it gets lost and gets to Vanuatu after I've left, they will (theoretically) forward it on to me in New Zealand.

Don't know when I'll be back in town next...or...for the last time. June 8 looks like the absolute latest.

E-mail me texts on my sat phone: 881621455534@msg.iridium.com or my real phone: +678 54-84-246.

:)

I had a really great day on Tuesday. Like a really, really great day. And just as the great day was fading into a fabulous evening, I received a series of "Happy two-year anniversary" texts that startled, delighted and moved me all at once.

How could I have forgotten? I'm usually obnoxiously sentimental with significant dates.

And so, for all of you that were sure I would never survive two years of being a bushman (much more of a descriptive than derogratory term here)...I assure you: no one is more surprised than myself.

But here we are. And while I was rained out all Easter weekend, I took the opportunity to finally scratch the surface of the dreaded Description of Service...the Thing You Have to Write Before They Let You Leave.

I began having nightmares about the DOS almost as soon as I arrived. All the samples I've seen have been flowery, verbose novellas extolling the volunteer's virtues and earth-shattering achievements. For those of you that know me well, you know about my Thing with Written Documents With Deadlines. I panic, I crumble, I refuse to consider the concept of a 'draft' and instead curl into a ball of paralysis until the last possible moment (usually around 8 p.m. the night before something must be submitted in the morning) and then write like a madman with my heart pounding all throughout the night, barely stopping to eat, drink or pee.

I hear there are other ways of doing things, but I have never trusted them.

So the fact that my DOS is already finished NOW is like this huge, huge achievement for me. It is...indicative of potential sanity for the future. The main thing was, I was SURE the DOS didn't have to be as big a deal as everyone seems to make it. And after inquiring about the format with the powers that be, I was able to confirm that 1) there is NO guideline on length 2) point form IS acceptable. Hallelujah!

And so I hammered it out in time to catch the Sunday night outdoor movie at Nambawan Cafe.

So maybe this will...help...answer that burning question, What have you DONE with yourself for the past two years?

DESCRIPTION OF SERVICE:

Amanda Prasow served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a remote island community in Vanuatu from 2007-2009.

Tongoa Island is home to fourteen villages with a combined population of 2000 people. Its two southernmost communities, Bongabonga and Meriu, are separated from the rest of the island by a large hill and at least an hour’s hike to neighboring villages in any direction. Their mountainous topography, small population and relative isolation from the rest of the island pose significant challenges to development and healthcare initiatives. With no running water or electricity, they also have no reliable or affordable transportation to the nearest port, airport, market, and health facility. They are regularly denied government funding and overlooked by health and education outreach programs. It is simply too hard to get people or materials there, and the population is not large enough to demand more attention.

Despite these challenges, these industrious families have lived comfortably, creatively and happily on their land for generations. They are deeply committed to improving sanitation, education, and access to healthcare while maintaining their traditional subsistence-farming lifestyle.

Just a fifteen-minute walk away from each other, the two villages of Bongabonga and Meriu share one primary school, one church, and until recently, one telephone for the combined population of 120 people. Since 2003, they have sustained a formal agreement to work together for all development activities, in order to better serve the interests of their small populations.

Amanda lived in Meriu village for the first several months of her service and moved to Bongabonga in 2008.

Primary Responsibilities:

1) project management of the construction of half-finished community Aid Post that had been previously shut down by provincial health authorities

2) training of local health committee on facility administration and fundraising strategies

3) development and implementation of health education programs

4) training of local service providers on health promotion techniques for village health workers, teachers, and youth leaders

Part I. Partnership with Rotary Club of Waitakere, New Zealand:

• facilitated the request of funds from Rotary for remaining materials to complete Aid Post

• co-ordinated travel arrangements for Rotarians in December 2007 and April 2008

• supervised the purchase of materials and shipping from Port Vila to Tongoa

• worked with Aid Post committee to implement fundraisers for additional project expenses

• liased with community leaders to arrange lodging and meals for Rotarians

• promoted the project as a guest presenter at Rotary Club meetings in Auckland, New Zealand in February 2007 and February 2008

• worked with Aid Post committee to submit proposal for additional funding from New Zealand High Commission in 2009

Two formal project phases were completed in December 2007 and April 2008, with over $6000 USD of materials used. Specialists from Rotary came to Tongoa to train community members on basic construction techniques: painting, tiling, plumbing, etc. The first trip yielded the first septic tank and flush toilet in the area, with the second trip completing the process of bringing running water to the Aid Post, securing a functional toilet, sink, and shower system.

The third and final construction phase is currently scheduled for June 2009.

Part II. “Stap Nomo” -- In the Village: Local Education Initiatives

• First Aid Training for primary school teachers

• Drama Club for primary school students aged 6-13

• Youth Talent Night

Workshops:

• Cyclone Preparedness

• Cancer Awareness

• Family Planning Methods

• Dental Hygiene for Toddlers

• Seasonal Calendar

• Daily Schedules & Division of Labor

• Protecting Your Mobile Phone

Part III. “Wokabaot” -- Around Tongoa: Island-wide Programming

• Camp GLOW: Leadership Camp for Girls of North Tongoa

• Shepherd Island Village Health Worker In-service Training

• Yumi Washem Hans: Hygiene Education for Kids

• Youth Drama Workshop - Nampagasale Junior Secondary School

• Island-wide health issues survey

• EU/Peace Corps/VRDCA Water & Sanitation awareness tour

• Healthy Schools Survey

• Health Committees Needs Assessment

Part IV. “Lukluk Ples” -- Beyond Tongoa: Travel to Other Islands

• Hygiene & Sanitation Workshop - Ambae

• Camp GLOW: Training of Camp Leaders -- Ifira

• Life Skills Workshop -- Vila North Secondary, Port Vila, Efate

• HIV Workshop -- Ifira

• Diabetes Awareness -- Saama Village, North Efate

Part V. Peace Corps WID/GAD Committee

• served as secretary for Gender and Development committee

• created training manual in Bislama for Camp GLOW Leaders

• wrote training templates for Peace Corps pre-service and in-service trainings

• facilitated GAD training sessions for volunteers and trainees

So yeah. I guess...that was my life. Scheduled to fly back to Tongoa at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. I just spoke to an old Elder from my village (God bless Digicel and the Mobile Revolution) and when I asked if the weather was clearing up, he laughed and laughed and cackled until his credit ran out. So...um...you'll probably hear from me again before I head back.

In the process of cleaning out my house for my upcoming departure, I found this handwritten, unsent letter from a year and a half ago. It made me crack up all over again...

October 16, 2007

An average night in rural Vanuatu:

For the first time, I set a rat trap myself, making me feel 1) independent 2) more honest - if a rat is going to die at my command, I may as well face up to it. Though I’m still not quite ready for the aftermath.

So, I set the trap, take my kerosene lamp and head out for the night. My hope is that the deed will be done in the early evening and I can get someone else to dispose of it, rather than hearing that awful sound in the middle of the night.

But unfortunately all the fearless little boys I was dining with fell asleep right after eating, as people here are wont to do. It sometimes looks like a weird mass suicide when you slowly see men, women and children dropping like flies onto pandanus mats. So I go to my house to check and open my door to find the rat sort of moving, obviously not dead, but I was confused as he was a good foot and a half away from where I set the trap, but instead of shining my light to get a closer look I freaked out and ran for Saki, my only friend/close neighbour still awake at the late night hour of 9 p.m.

Saki, or Jacqueline, is also the only person here also squeamish/scared/traumatized by dead rats. She swallows her fear, ready to do the job, but at the last minute we decide to try to find our other friends, which leads to a comedy of errors sneaking around the village, whispering in young girls’ windows like secret lovers do here, and of course only waking their mothers.

Unsuccessful, we return to my house and decide to just throw the rat outside with the trap and get Debor to deal with it in the morning. But of course, we soon realize, a cat will come in the night and either run off with or ruin the trap (I only cared because it wasn’t mine and you can’t buy new ones on the island). During this discussion, Saki tries to convince me that hiding the dead rat and trap in my currently empty laundry bucket is a great solution, but I refuse for hygiene & ickiness reasons she’ll never understand.

In the meantime, we (she) bring it outside, at which point she exclaims it is still not yet dead and suggests perching the unit on a piece of wood and hoping for the best. Of course I protest screaming that we have to put it out of its misery which leads to a horrible beating scene with a nearby blunt object.

It then occurs to me, we could put the corpse and trap in a plastic bag and hang it with rope we can make from scraping off some local bark nearby, thereby keeping the trap safe until morning -- all of this because neither of us want to touch the rat to remove it. So my plan is executed, we are shrieking and laughing the whole time -- at the horror of it, at our own fear, at the absurdity of the whole process, and also because Ni-Vanuatu shriek and laugh whenever they do anything.

I can just imagine Deborah’s face when she dutifully appears at 6 a.m. after hearing about the rat, and I lead her to the hanging concoction in my bush kitchen as if I actually expect her to spend her morning unraveling it.

And so.

A slice of life, if you will. Every day I become a little more brutal, a little more shameless and a little more able to to take responsibility for the pain I inflict on other living beings. There’s Ahimsa-in-the-City and then there’s living in the bush. You learn to become a hunter whether you eat the stuff or not.

As per usual, I am still in Vila waiting for things to dry out on Tongoa so I can head back there. In the meantime, I am still having a great time in Vila. Flight "scheduled" for tomorrow. We'll see what happens.

The office antics never end...

I think Vanuatu has made me a little more playful.

I am currently writing from the Peace Corps Resource Centre. I am here on a Saturday evening with my good friends Blake, Erin, and Jared. Justine is passed out on the couch.

We are currently trying to decide what to do with the small cluster of baby rats just found in our photocopier. While we have not settled on the appropriate course of action, it does explain all the recent paper jams.

I am inclined to just leave them there for awhile, although Jared keeps shouting at me to take them outside and kill them, asserting that it is far more

humane as they will inevitably starve to death if we don't. I am not sure why *I* was selected as the recipient of his instructions, since *I* was not the first one to find them.

Now the boys are proposing various torturous ways of murdering the rats just to upset me.

In this moment, I love Peace Corps with all my heart and soul.

(Not kidding. I mean it. Now that there's a light at the end of the tunnel, I'm totally back on the Peace Corps train...)

And...*drumroll please*...my visa/work permit for New Zealand has finally been approved! So the next step is there for me whenever I'm ready to take it.

Still haven't made any decisions about whether or not I'm leaving early so...we'll see...

A Tangential Rant.

Warning: I talk about periods and make gross judgmental stereotypes about my Host Country Culture.

I wrote this my last night in the village before I started the journey of getting into Vila. I am still doing fabulous. Maybe this will be the last bitter rant you'll hear from me for a (little) while...

This blog was originally titled,

Six Days In My Life, or, A Glimpse At My Job.

but then I didn’t end up getting through the first day, or talking very much about my job. Oh, well.

March 27, 2009

It’s been two years. And you all still keep asking me what I do all day and what my job is. When are you going to accept the fact that I do nothing all day, and that I have no job?

Okay, seriously, I know it’s my fault because I rarely talk about work. This is due to a combination of the following factors 1) I rarely work and 2) when I am working, I am busy working and am not pontificating.

Which is why you are all left wondering why the U.S. taxpayers are paying for me to drink coconuts and play with babies for two years.

Well, you wouldn’t be the only ones.

But to put it in perspective, I read somewhere once that the entire budget of Peace Corps (like for every volunteer and program operating in every country combined) is less than the cost of one of the fighter-war plane thingies flying around Iraq. This statement would be a lot more dramatic if I remembered the precise details of it. Oh well.

Sunday

Sunday is a sacred day of rest here, which means as a Peace Corps volunteer, it is the only day I will ever have a captive audience for meetings, workshops, etc. For a long time I was very respectful of the sabbath and would absolutely never initiate any kind of work-related activity on a Sunday. In fact, I used to even get indignant when someone else would schedule a meeting on Sunday and expect me to show up - on the Lord’s day of all days! What an abomination!

Gradually, as I began to feel (and show) less and less respect for local custom and religion, I started working more on Sundays, and I feel like mostly everyone probably thinks I should have done that a long time ago. Does it really matter if the heathens work on Sundays? Who knows?

Anyway, my usual routine on Sundays is to get up and do my morning Yoga routine, cook breakfast, and then head to church in my village, Bongabonga, around ten or eleven, whenever the bell rings. Church is usually 1-2 hours long, and then I go down and have lunch with my “mom” in Meriu, the nearby village I lived in for my first several months on the island. I hang out there for the afternoon, and then I walk back up to my village as it is getting dark laden with fresh but rare goodies from the garden, ‘Western’ vegetables that she gives to me for the week ahead: green beans, cabbage, tomatoes, or green peppers depending on the season.

This particular Sunday varied slightly. As per my previous statement about no longer showing respect for local customs, I opted out of going to church. It was great! I think I might do that every Sunday from now on. Then I headed down to Meriu a little early, because I actually had some ‘business’ to attend to, interviewing two sample households for a Community Health Survey we Peace Corps Health Volunteers are piloting. Just to cover all my bases, I had asked a chief’s representative a few days ago to select the households I should interview, because you just never know when a group of people is randomly going to erupt into a jealous rage.

I did make a mistake in planning this excursion: I did not consider my lunar calendar...as in, I accidentally planned to do something on the dreaded Day 3 of my period.

I have a real thing about The Third Day, the one day of the month when, in the past, I would consistently conclude that life was a terrible mess of loneliness and this body was a substandard vehicle that oppressed me. Over the past couple years, in an effort to support this day of utter exhaustion and systemic shutdown, I have integrated so many rituals that I actually look forward to it most of the time.

As a rule, I do not do any work f it can be helped, and it usually can with just a little advance planning. I make no social calls, and purposely make my home unwelcome to visitors (this means keeping windows and doors closed as much as the heat will permit). I organize my life so that as much housecleaning and laundry as possible is done in the days prior. If I’m really on the ball, I sort out most of my food procurement and prep in advance, so that I am free to spend virtually the entire day supine. Yoga practice is, for once, entirely optional. I was once read in a tabloid that a certain actress (Sharon Stone?) had written into her contracts that she would always have at least eight hours between shoots to ensure her beauty sleep. As soon as I have enough clout and am not begging for any acting job I can get, I sincerely intend to have a clause in all my contracts that I don’t work on My Third Day.

Anyway, every once in awhile, I forget and plan something unnecessary, which is why I concluded that I was most certainly about to die as I trudged down to Meriu in approximately 100 degree heat and about 85% humidity (I’m guessing). Needless to say, when I arrived at the first house, they had no idea I was coming or why. After we spent awhile trashing the people that should have told them (they) and ascertaining that they were, in fact, willing and able to participate in the survey (me), I took out my papers to begin and realized with horror that several important pages had been left in my house...up the hill in Bongabonga.

I might have cried at the shock, surrounded by several rounds of the always so helpful, “Wow! That is so awful that you have to walk back home to get them in this heat, I wouldn’t do it!” as well as my favourite, “If only you had checked through all your papers carefully before you left...”

I might have cried, but after sweating so profusely on the walk over I really did not have any extra fluid left.

I would like to go off on a tangent for a moment and talk about this phrase that translates to “If only...” People love it here, and it was one of my pet peeves until I decided to adopt it myself and realized how enjoyable it is. “Oh! You wanted to get on that truck? If only you were here ten minutes ago, as there won’t be another one until October.” I guess in our culture people say that stuff, too, but...here, it is actually considered an acceptable way to end a topic of conversation. “What? The province is closing down our Aid Post because our Village Health Worker has other obligations and our building is considered substandard? If only our Village Health Worker didn’t have other obligations and our building was better...” and everyone nods emphatically and that is the end of the discussion. And you’re sitting there as the Peace Corps volunteer and for like the hundredth time you say, “Well, maybe instead of reviewing all the things that went wrong we could spend this meeting brainstorming possible solutions...” and you are met with a chorus of blank stares. The whole point of meetings is to Blame Someone, isn’t it? How would anyone know how much they’ve failed if we went ahead and found solutions?

I remember once lamenting to a fellow Peace Corps volunteer, “I don’t understand how people here think that blame is the most effective use of time and group energy. Is trying to find a solution really such a foreign concept?”

“Yeah, actually, it probably is...and that’s probably, you know, why the U.S. is, like, a developed country and stuff...

Sheer genius! I have thought about that conversation at least a hundred times since.

Put all your thoughts on imperialism and the concept of development aside for a moment and consider it. Maybe if your culture lends itself to focusing on solutions, y’all come up with things like, I don’t know, running water or...the wheel. And maybe if your culture lends itself to finding a scapegoat, y’all come up with...nothing new. And nothing ever changes. Until Western influence trickles in and you decide you want your very own Jean Claude van Damme DVD box set, but now you need the DVD player to play it, and a source of electricity, and the money to pay for all that, and a job to give you that money, and maybe an education system to make you eligible for work, and then you decide you need a Peace Corps volunteer in your community because, after all, they probably all know Jean Claude van Damme personally, but if they don’t they probably know other white people that will give you money so you don’t have to work, after all...

Am I being racist? Or, like, culturist or whatever? I honestly can’t tell the difference anymore. When you live in a society where segregation is a rule, where racism isn’t racist, it’s just...life, where, for God’s sake, people actually ask you if white women menstruate, it’s so hard to remember what’s appropriate.

I’ve tried to explain race relations in America several times here, unsuccessfully. It usually comes up when guys ask me how they can get themselves a Missus.

“Well, actually, in the countries that most of these women come from, it is not generally accepted to choose a mate based on skin colour alone, so you don’t want her to know that you want her because she’s white.”

“Why not? Tell her I like white girls. And I want a half-caste baby...”

“Right, but...like, these women don’t want to be wanted for their pigmentation. It’s like, how would you feel if someone wanted you just because you were black?”

“Great! That is totally what I’m looking for, a Missus that likes black men. Do you know any?”

“But-doesn’t it bother you that a woman would only want you because you were black?”

“No, because that means she wants a half-caste baby, too!”

And so on, and so on...the conversation is always the same.

I was supposed to give you an overview of six days in my working life, but...that didn’t work. And now I’m tired. And nothing seems more boring than writing about my job right now.

Although I will tell you that I did hike back up the hill on Sunday to get my forgotten papers, and then I did go back down to do the surveys...and then of course had to hike back home again in the afternoon. Which actually set the pace for the week ahead because the next day I started a First Aid training program for teachers at the primary school in Meriu, which means I have been going back and forth to the school every day since, anyway, so...

So I am going to climb into bed with Mrs. Dalloway and not think of tomorrow’s adventure: getting myself to the other side of the island without dying of 1) fatigue 2) heat exhaustion 3) frustration. The only trucks that can make it to my side are out of commission, so I intend to use some combination of walking, paying teenagers to carry my stuff, and possibly a canoe to get myself to the airport by Sunday afternoon.

That is, if the rain doesn’t cancel my flight, anyway...

Okay, I really am feeling really awesome right now but I guess nine days ago I wasn't feeling so...awesome...but anyway, that's just a slice of island life, isn't it?...

March 21, 2009

When I sat down to write that’s what came out.

So I guess we have to talk about that now, don’t we?

How depressing. I started this evening cleaning my bookshelf, and with the past two years of my life spread out on the floor I decided to take a break and write.

I should have kept cleaning, I guess.

What I Hoped to Find.

I guess...

A certain peace of mind and generosity of spirit. An all-pervading love and deep compassion in my heart. Strength. Endurance. The capacity to rise above the trivial. To be driven by inner vision. The ability to lead by example with...grace and charm. Spontaneous forgiveness. Divine inspiration. Purification. Release.

What I Found.

A rage darker than anything I knew existed. An infinite capacity for hatred and judgement. Resentment festering in the smallest wounds like clotted, sour blood. A pain that can never disappear completely, that can only wrap itself in the guise of tolerance until it bursts at the seams. An oppressive bitterness. A venomous bile capable of sweeping the greatest of intentions away in the undertow. The overwhelming grief at discovering all of that must have been inside me the whole time.

And so I weep for what could have been.

Who I could have become here. If only...if only I hadn’t got so lost in the darkness. If only I had had the strength to climb out of the well.

Cleaning my bookshelf was today’s attempt to pull myself out of my current pre-menstrual, probably malarial depression (more about that in a second), How many times have I been through this sorting process? It varies only mildly. The piles begin. What to keep, what to take, what to destroy, and what to give away. You can get lost in the stories, not the ones inside the books, but the ones that brought each particular item to that particular shelf. And I’ve only lived here for two years. And I only got my bookshelf a year ago.

This is all I would like to say about Peace Corps and malaria: that of all the trials and tribulations I have experienced over the past two years, nay, even the past twenty-six --the absolute worst thirty minutes of my life was spent having to prick my own finger about seven times to generate enough blood for a slide and Instant Malaria Test Kit. (Negative, if you’re curious, although could be a false negative because of the high amount of my prophylactic antibiotic in my system, which had I been taking faithfully prior to the fever I would probably not have been in this predicament).

I am twenty-six years old! I should be living in the suburbs agonizing over an at-home pregnancy test, not a friggin’ malaria kit! They say you just have to pee on those. They don’t require a self-mutilation of flesh.

As I recall, I was as traumatized by this experience during training. I think I tried to refuse to do it. Or tried to do it but couldn’t or something. They said you had to learn in the safety and comfort of training, because it would be infinitely harder alone in the bush with 104 fever, night sweats, and delirium.

In the end, it ended up being quite a cathartic experience. With every stab I was overcome with a fresh wave of tears, ejected from the very depth of my being. The kind of silent scream that twists your face in agony. Not for the pain, because it is only a finger...but at the horror of it...the injustice! No human being should ever have to draw their own blood. It is just so deeply unnatural, and I cried for the karma that brought me to this moment.

Someone just came over. I was unnecessarily rude to her because I wanted to get back to writing. Why?

Because I am leaving and there is no point in being nice to people.

That seems like a strange answer. Where did that come from?

Because I’m not going to be here for very long so everyone may as well start getting used to it now.

That also seems warped. One more time?

Because that’s just life, isn’t it? People coming and going and being nice to each other for awhile. Because I am the Goodbye Expert in a land where people don’t really do goodbyes, and I may as well start showing them how it’s done. And it all starts with the pre-departure froideur. Everyone knows that. Trust me, it’s easier on everyone in the end.

When I am honest, I feel only slightly more dysfunctional than when I bury my head in Sudoku and pretend I am crying from the heat and mosquitoes, and not because life as I know it is disintegrating, and because though I know it is virtually impossible for anything that follows to be worse than anything that has already happened, it is still going to be a long, long time before I belong anywhere, and that to me is the hardest thing to bear.

I simply do not know if I’m up to this, this Building A Life Again.

Perhaps a change of climate in New Zealand is all I need (oh, how Victorian!). I have been through this whole tropical season-change several times, and there is a distinct pattern. The hotter it is the more I conclude there is no point to living, that life is an endless wheel of pain and suffering that will never get better. As it cools down, the the more alive I feel, the more in awe of the beauty and wonder around me, the more grounded, capable, and...

I think it is safe to say I wasn’t exactly born for the tropics.

My mind is a broken record of negative thoughts. I don’t know how to turn it off. All I want is to put an end to the guilt. All I want is a selfish life. (Does the cultivation of a selfish life really lead to the eradication of guilt? I don’t know...but I may as well try it!)

All I want is a life of luxury and simplicity, where my only obligations to others are contractual and...clearly defined, preferably with a monetary value attached to all interactions, just to keep things tidy. I don’t want any pressure, and I don’t want to have any opinions, I don’t want to care about what happens to anyone else. I want to eat chocolate and have bubble baths and know if I am too lazy to do anything else that is my own damn business and I alone will reap the consequences.

When you hang out with yogis and Peace Corps-types long enough, you start to believe that there is no greater sin.

But isn’t it a greater sin to live the lie?

And yet...don’t all my shining stars make it worth it in the end, even if they are few and far between? Because in between the tears I see them, lined up in front of me...because while the failures run together and hang over me in one dark cloud of regret; the successes, they all have names and ages and...their own story that is one in a hundred. They are a battered woman leaving her husband. They are a teenage boy taking a condom to a party. A young woman practicing Yoga in secret when she is supposed to be washing her father’s clothes. A one-year-old child humming “I’m washing my hands” to himself while he plays in the dirt. These diamond-studded sequins to my memory, my shining stars...compared to all the shit, there are so very few of them.

And yet doesn’t that make them all the more precious? Aren’t they enough? And not just because they have to be. Because they are, anyway. And because the book closes here, and there’s no point in getting sentimental about it. I refuse to make a Vanuatu-style exit. I am completely uninterested in the fanfare. The pomp & circumstance. The speeches, the fake tears, with an extra round of applause for whoever wails the loudest. The demonstrative gift exchange, the promises to return. I dread it all equally.

Maybe if this was my first big Goodbye I’d be up for it. Or my second or my third. But when you’re in my line of work, or at least my line of life, you become something of a professional. You just pack up your shit and get on with it.

And you tell yourself that one day there will come a time when you won’t have to pack up your shit anymore. One day, you will have a bookshelf that just...stays there gathering dust. The books will be your own, gathered or given to you along the way, each one telling a part of your story, the story of here, of how you became someone with her own bookshelf and...and her own matching plates and her own bathtub and...and.... unopened organic toiletries artfully arrayed in the guest bathroom.

I never thought I would be someone who dreamt of matching plates, but in this moment I can’t think of anything more beautiful...

Made it here yesterday.

Everything is wonderful.

Will update soon.

Apparently, my flight IS going today after all, even though there is a massive thunderstorm here in Vila and I'm too scared even to run across the street to the grocery store to pick up some last minute things.

"The Second" was a success, after all, but I'll have to write about it another time.

I check in in an hour, but I refuse to pack up my stuff and get there only to be told the flight has JUST been cancelled, so instead I am calling the Domestic Terminal obsessively every half hour for an update.

I'll be back in a couple weeks...

...it really works.

This is how we roll in Vanuatu: if we are going to screw something up or 'drop the ball', as it were, the ramifications will be of epic, beyond-the-Richter-scale proportions.

But if we do something right, we will shock you with the charm and grace of a thousand ballerinas dancing in perfect unison.

Just to keep you on your toes.

I would like to share two tales of the recent superhuman feats achieved by my two surrogate families: the good people of Tongoa and those of Peace Corps Vanuatu.

The First.

Now, this time it WAS my fault. I 100% forgot the majority of supporting documents for our Aid Post grant application in my house on the island. In my defense, I was under an enormous amount of stress at the time, not least because I suddenly got word that my ship was coming to rescue me EIGHT HOURS EARLIER than scheduled, which meant I had to RUN approximately one and a half hours with all my stuff to the wharf. That was over a month ago, and I still have scars from the blisters from my Chacos.

Just as I was about to jump on the ship, I remembered the missing paperwork and in a flash of panic tinged with ingenuity, tossed my housekeys to my uncle with the following instructions,

"I forgot something really important! You need to get these keys to Mama Alice and I will take care of the rest, but if for some reason I can't get a hold of her someone needs to find my PURPLE FOLDER, okay? PURPLE...FOLDER!"

He nods vigorously, mentally repeating (I imagine) 'purple folder' to himself several times, as he and several strangers do the old heave-ho to get our little boat off the shore and to the waiting ship. He waves goodbye, grinning from the shore...and I wave back weakly, powerless.

I make about a million phone calls upon my arrival in Vila all the way until the departure lounge for my flight to New Zealand, 95% of which result in voicemails left on mobile phones that I know get charged once a week or less.

When I return two weeks later, I discover the following small miracles have ACTUALLY occurred:

1. My uncle passes my housekeys to my Mama Alice.

2. Her sister passes on my frantic, detailed message (thank God for my near-photographic memory).

3. My mom retrieves the Purple Folder from my house and passes it to my dad.

4. My dad solemnly takes the Purple Folder across the island and delivers it to Travis (fellow Peace Corps Volunteer).

5. Sarah, another Peace Corps volunteer from nearby Tongariki happens to show up on Tongoa via boat en route to Port Vila.

6. Travis gives Sarah the precious Purple Folder, and she takes it on the plane with her to Vila.

7. Sarah places the Purple Folder in my mailbox in Vila upon her arrival.

FOR REAL!

The story should have, or at least COULD have ended there, but then, it couldn't have taken place in Vanuatu, after all.

Within a few hours of my return to Vila, after several phone calls I am informed of the miraculous sequence of events outlined above. I check the urge to rejoice (see previous blog entry) which is a good thing because, alas, my mailbox is empty! Which can only mean one thing...

IT HAS BEEN MAILED BACK TO ME ON TONGOA.

(Some of you may remember this isn't the first time I have been in a situation like this. In September, both my mobile phone and my plane ticket to Fiji were accidentally mailed to me on Tongoa - also my fault then).

I call Bridget's phone repeatedly until she picks up and opens all the mail she has picked up for me on the island. The purple folder isn't there.

WHICH MEANS IT IS STILL SOMEWHERE IN PORT VILA.

By 9:15 a.m. the next morning, I had retrieved the Purple Folder from the outgoing mailbag at the post office in Port Vila, which was on its way out to the airport. Is it illegal to break into your own mail? I know it is in North America, and we're pretty sure it is here, too but...damn it, do you want the poor children of Tongoa to have a roof over their head when they seek penicillin from the Aid Post? Do you want them to have a clean water source they can bathe in when they are gripped with malarial fever? How many mothers have to give birth in their bush kitchens before you GIVE ME MY OWN MAIL BACK, Sir?

Thank you very much. You have yourself a lovely day.

Please stay tuned for details on The Second, as this operation is currently in progress and I dare not celebrate until its success is confirmed.

...can you be in a cafe ordering a smoothie on a Monday morning when the Secretary General calls to move up your appointment to...say, right NOW, and you cheerfully agree mouthing the words "Take-away" to the waiter, and then show up to said appointment in board shorts & an Old Navy tank top, with a Nalgene dangling from your purse with a caribiner, and no one seems to find your attire the slightest bit remarkable as you proceed to explain why your community, whose recent actions have led to the entire ISLAND being un/officially blacklisted by the network of international aid organizations deserves, well, a second chance. "Because don't we ALL make mistakes?"

In January, I often described my life as a 'nightmare that keeps getting worse'*. In comparison, February in New Zealand was like a dream come true.

How do I feel being back here?

It feels a bit like walking off one film set onto another, dropping one role and picking up the next. A dramatic change of scenery, a quick-change of costume, language and general demeanor.

My first day back I actually SWORE at a guy harassing me on the street. I just FORGOT you don't do that here. I mean thirteen 'high-risk' prisoners are on the loose AGAIN.

After two years of mastering the art of lowering my eyes & hanging my head, making myself the picture of demureness & obedience, it's amazing how instantly it falls away. I guess you can't take (N.) America out of the girl, after all...

I'm in love with the anonymity I felt in Auckland, with not being a diplomat or...anybody. That being said, on one particular night out I was feeling so uncomfortable in my not-really-that-short shorts that I actually went back and changed.

Of course it's not just about clothes. It's crossing a chasm at lightning speed. It's shirking one set of fundamental values for another, and when you get right down to it, tuning your mind to a different understanding of the universe and of even of the meaning of life.

So which one is The Real World, and which one is the Real Me? And yet, of course, I know the answer is neither, and with such a distorted sense of centre, the compass spinning wildly and my future so uncertain, it dawns on me that I'm just going to have to make my sense of 'home' a little more portable, small enough to wrap up and tuck inside of me, so that I can bring it with me wherever I go.

Because that's what it DOESN'T feel like, for the first time in a long time. Returning to Vanuatu no longer feels like coming home. It feels like going back to work. Or more like..."taking care of business". Which is not a bad feeling. It's actually a good thing considering the fact that that is exactly what I'm doing, tying up all my loose ends in a pretty little bow so I can hop on a plane and start a new life.

What I Learned in Peace Corps Vanuatu:

That you can experience failure after failure after failure, until you learn to redefine it so that it doesn't feel like failure anymore. It just feels like Life. And then one day, while you're meditating, perched atop the mountain of your forgotten hopes and dreams, there is an almost imperceptible rustle underneath you, and you discover that just one of them has risen, just one of them has a chance.

But you no longer rejoice. Because arming yourself against the sting of failure has immunized you against the joy of success. Because you know in Vanuatu, and maybe everywhere, you're always just one rainstorm away from a mudslide. And the Day After Tomorrow no longer beckons you in the way that it used to.

And so you keep your head down and get on with it. Because at the end of the day, it's only A Day. And even mud is beautiful in the right light.

*I know there is a big black hole hanging over these updates (as in, the month of January and why I'm jumping ship far earlier than planned), and I promise once I am officially a free agent again I will fill in all the blanks, but for now...you know, 'diplomacy' and all...

Well.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to report that...it's for real, now.

I should be living in Auckland by the end of May.

The crazy idea/pipe dream/half-joke has manifested itself into something resembling ...my future. Inquiry has turned into intention, wandering into planning, networking into interviewing, and investigation at Immigration has turned into a visa/permit application. So as long as I can convince the powers that be that my chest is free of good ol' homegrown Vanuatu tuberculosis, I should be drowning in kiwis before I know it.

Believe it or not, moving to New Zealand is actually the most logical thing I can think of to do at this point in my life.

The pros are countless, the cons are few and far between.

With the NZD trailing miserably behind the USD, it's the perfect place to while away my Peace Corps money while I get used to The Real World again (while American production companies happily take advantage of the economic situation and reverse season benefits - go, go, Power Rangers!)

I'll be in a beautiful, moderate climate rife with Pacific Island food and culture, in a (relatively) small city just minutes away from both the beach and the bush in any direction. It's a hop, skip, & a jump from Vanuatu if I need to reshoot/follow-up with anything for the documentary or if I just get homesick. I'll be in a cool, casual culture where you can have a hole in your t-shirt and airbrushing is frowned upon.

It is the perfect place to transition out of the rainforest and into The Industry (as long as my terrible kiwi accent improves considerably as well as my skills at driving on the other side of the road).

And it's literally on the way back to North America.

If it doesn't work out, I can just keep on rolling.

I know what you're thinking.

Auckland looks an awfully lot like Toronto in this picture, doesn't it?

Well, alive anyway.

Just kidding. I am fine.

It took me 26 hours to get from Tongoa to Vila via speedboat yesterday...I mean, today.

Why? Because for some reason the boat was going up to Lamen Bay, Epi (shout outs to Amy) and then to Malekula!

Okay, I know these names and places mean nothing to 90% of my readership, but for that small group for whom it does, can you believe it, MALEKULA? Why, oh, why?

But I've already whipped out the silver lining and here it is. Ready? "I just got a free trip to Malekula."

Details to come.

New Zealand next Wednesday.

This is Part One of a two-part photo series. Stay tuned for Part Two: Team Tongoa (At Play)

So I know I already wrote about the Independence Week activities, but considering it was the most satisfying three days of my working life in Vanuatu, I'm going to write about it again with pictures.

Health survey blo mi mo Travis..."What are the two health issues that affect your village the most?"

Results!

Yumi washem hans!

Um...I buy time due to the unexpected change of schedule and being suddenly rushed by a hundred people...

Okay...um...I guess we're doing an interactive story theatre about washing our hands...um...with music...um, sing it with me, now!

Okay...thank God Bridget is ready...now go trace your hand on the banner and write your name inside! If you don't know how, ask a big kid to help!

The banner to remind me it's all worth it...

Then come to the Supercool Washing Hands Station to wash off all that marker...don't forget to use SOAP!

Oh, what? You need to clarify the DANCE ROUTINE to the Washing Hands Song? No problem!

We learned how to dry our hands, too!

Bridget is a Primary School Teacher Trainer. This is her thang:

Survey for primary schoolchildren about learning styles...

Magnetic poetry game to promote literacy...

Some Posters

Three goals of Peace Corps.

Yes, we can help you identify needs and develop action plans...no, we can't buy you a truck out of our own pockets...

Yumi stap go long medel naet now...

It's getting late, isn't it...? And it's a really great party...lots of cool people here, eh?

You know what? Why don't you take some free condoms? Really! Take 2...10...20...pass them to your friends!

I wanted to see if I could take pictures of myself in my doorway and make it look like someone else took them.

These were my best two.

Some days I've got a little time to spare...

August 23, 2008

This is a story about why I've been getting depressed lately, and about the miraculous epiphany that suddenly swept it all away...

So it's Campaign Week in Vanuatu. Need I say more? Perhaps I do, but for um, diplomatic reasons, I can't really say too much. I guess I always assumed that witnessing a democratic election in a developing country would be kind of inspiring...you know, Power to the People! Take Back the Night! etc, etc...

Well...let's just say democracy in a developing nation isn't as...democratic as one may hope.

Yesterday I had an interesting discussion with my Chief about the need for the government to form a system giving chiefs actual legislative power at the federal level. "The basic principle that this government has hitherto overlooked," [I'm translating, and therefore obviously paraphrasing] he informed me, "is the sovereign power of each local Chief. According to our custom, every man, woman, and child is the Chief's private property [his emphasis]." He repeated that phrase, the only one in English, several times over the next few minutes, as he went on to explain the key role chiefs play in maintaining "justice, peace, and unity" at the village level. He had a variety of suggestions for government recognition, including a percentage of the federal budget to be earmarked as tithes for chiefs.

So here is one reason why I've been squirming through all of these campaigns. There is, as you might imagine, a lot of talk about the appropriate use of public funds. But what no one seems to be talking about is how much of this government's money comes from international aid: New Zealand and Australia being the major monetary players, with China quickly rising in the ranks, and then you have Canada (CUSO), the U.S. (Peace Corps), Japan (JICA), and the UK (VSO) sending in the unarmed (as in without money) troops into the field.

A fellow volunteer told me it's about 40% of government's funds that comes from international aid, and let the record show that I have no idea where he got that number from or if it's remotely accurate. You may be thinking that's an awfully large Christmas present from the international community. Personally, I cannot imagine how that percentage can be so low in a country without income tax, I would have guessed more like 80-90%, but I'm no economist.

So here's why I get uncomfortable. It's not like I'm a proponent of colonialism or anything, but surely the average Australian taxpayer might have some opinion about where their money should go. And I recognize that Vanuatu is by constitution a Christian country that sees no need for the separation of church and state, but surely Ramachandra in Auckland or Avraham in Brisbane or Mohammed in Perth or...a whole lot of communists in Beijing might have something to say about that? I mean, I know God is supposed to punish those heathen sinners, but how can we forget that their slave labour at... ToysRUs, for example, just paid for the penicillin that saved your dying child and that new fishing boat just donated to your village?

Which begs the question, how can you have political independence without economic independence?

I mean, surely, I'm not the first person to ask this question here...right?

Incidentally, I'll share an anecdote that I'm pretty is not 'tabu' if I don't reveal the candidate or party in question. So, like, I GET my apolitical role, right? I am very careful to stay happily outside of the circus ring that is Elections 2008. I have perfected my Political Poker Face when candidates appeal to me in their speeches, and everyone turns anxiously to see if the lone Whiteman has given away anything with her eyes.

But the other day this candidate was talking about taxes, and I got excited, because I love taxes! And when we were all casually discussing it after, I casually explained how GST and PST work in Canada, and sort of asked the group at large, "What is the VAT tax here anyway? 12%? 15%?" and was met with a sea of blank stares, to which the candidate replies, "Look, I don't write the platform, ok? The Big Men do that and just tell me what to say..."

Anyway, I'd worry more about potentially intervening in this political process with my ill-advised question (surely the VAT is public knowledge?) if everyone else didn't nod emphatically, almost apologetically, as if to say, "We're really sorry for our Whiteman, sir. She's really short & small, but she is always asking embarrassing questions. We've tried everything to stop her..."

So last night my mom gets home from this parents' meeting at the high school (the one I'm doing the Drama Team with) and tells me about all the parents' responsibilities she learned about. "Great!" I think, "I love parental involvement in education! What did you learn?" And she's like, "So these reports they get, right? Well if it says A, that's good, right? You should tell them that they are a good person. But like, if it's one of the bad letters, like, um, you know a D or E? You need to whip them good! And ground them! And never let them see their friends...and then you need to make sure they cut their hair..."

I wish I was joking, but there is currently undergoing a mass 'cleansing' in the dorms. You know, cause everyone knows that today's dreadlocks are tomorrow's rapists. Clearly all we need to do is shave their heads and all our societal problems will disappear...

There was a lot more said about corporal punishment (there always is) but I'll spare you the details. It's too sad. But here's the thing I have to remember: all these teachers and parents truly believe in their heart of hearts that beating a kid really is in the child's best interest.

And, of course, it is, if what you want is to create a race of obedient, subservient beings..."private property", if you will. All I could hear was that phrase echoing in my mind from 1 a.m.-6 a.m. last night (have I mentioned I stopped sleeping around June? It's kind of a problem...)

I've seen some literature floating around from UNICEF about the CRC, you know, the rights of the child: going to school, not being beaten, etc...and all I can think of is, "Says who?" I would not at all be surprised if I saw someone roll up one of those handy little brochures and beat a kid with it if they said they had homework to do instead of chewing kava for an uncle.

So this brings me back to the fundamental question: Are there universal rights? I mean, are there really? And, if so, who has the right to...administer them? There are some of the questions I ponder in the long hours between one and six when everyone else is asleep.

But are you ready for the epiphany that made it all better? Ready? Here we go:

I AM CAMERICAN!

Born in New Jersey to Canadian parents, and transplanted to Toronto at the age of six and three-quarters. I'm not anyone's private property! My countries have come up with some beautiful things, like the right to the pursuit of happiness and Section 15, respectively.

I was never much of a patriot before. As a Camerican, I never really knew where my loyalties stood and besides, being a leftist you're generally supposed to despise nationalism and The Man, right?

But I am a born-again Camerican and I don't care who knows it! I love my countries, and this is why:

1. Right to Free Speech. Seriously, it's pretty amazing. Think about it. You can't imagine how awesome it is until you've seen it...not in place. And I mean, this is Vanuatu, the "Happiest Place on Earth", not some military junta or anything. I'm sure free speech is on the books...somewhere...wherever they store all that CRC paperwork...but the fact of the matter is, we don't get a whole lot of books out here on the outer islands, and if we did, who knows how to read them?

2. Freedom of Worship/Separation of Church & State. They're the same but different. I'd pontificate on this issue but I'd run out of ink and I'm low on pens as well as everything else. Just think about it.

Education! Taxes! Social services! Telecommunications! Sure, there's some...um...flaws in our systems, and sure my countries (okay, one more than the other) has made some very serious mistakes but...

But I love Camerica with all my heart and you can't ever take that away from me!

GOD BLESS CAMERICA.

Peace.

August 21, 2008

Okay, I am just going to write. Handwriting a blog seems kind of pointless, but then again a) every single aspect of my life feels pointless today b) I’m going into Vila soon and and transcribing will be an infinitely less arduous task than composing something new, which I would undoubtedly feel obligated to do - but I can never write in Vila. I’m always far too busy and stressed and shell-shocked and…like…happy when I’m there…and then there’s, of course, c) I would be typing this, but quite suddenly, my laptop is unwilling to put forth the letters “S” “J” “G” and some others. I have NO idea why, other than that it’s lived too long in Vanuatu, where every Big Thing Always Works Out in the End, and every Small Thing that Can Go Wrong Does.

I will spare you the litany of Small Things that Have Gone Wrong Lately. It’ll make me seem petty.

I started writing because it occurred to me I could be suffering from Vitamin D deficiency (it’s been cloudy for a couple months) and should sit out in the sun for awhile, so I went outside and then remembered that sunlight makes me nauseous and anxious, and I am now safely hiding in my mosquito net in my bed - the only place in this country I can stay for more than ten minutes without experiencing an overwhelming urge to get somewhere else.

So, my mom called last week and asked if I was “feeling better” after the last blogs I got Bridget to post for me in July. I was incredulous. I mean, I don’t remember exactly what I wrote that long ago, but I am pretty sure it was one of my most upbeat and cheerful postings in awhile - at least I was feeling the most upbeat and cheerful I’d been in several months.

My mom asked if it could be my [anti-malarial] “medication”. I mean, I guess it could be, even though it’s been a year since I switched off the one that’ supposed to make you suicidal and to the one that’s just supposed to make you allergic to sun (oh! maybe that’s why I hate sunlight - nah, I always have…), even though when I take my pill after 1 p.m. I invariably have epic nightmares involving a lot of blood and guts and gore.

So Bridget (my BFFL fellow volunteer on the other side of the hill…you know, where the grass is always greener) was over that day, and when I got off the phone and told her about the conversation, we actually laughed about it. How can you explain to someone that’s not here, “No, no, I’m fine. It’s VANUATU that’s depressing. No, really, ask anyone!”

Now, in the old days I would have considered myself an Eternal Optimist, and in fact I still do - in matters completely removed from the Peace Corps Vanuatu experience. But here…well, it’s just not an appropriate strategy for living…

This is my general philosophy for living here, refined over the past sixteen months…

1. Assume everything you are told is a lie.

2. Assume no one will show up to anything.

3. Assume no one will ever pass a message.

4. Assume your flight will be cancelled.

5. Every ‘gift’ is a request in disguise.

6. Always assume people are spreading false rumours about you at any given moment.

7. Trust no one, as betrayal has a myriad of forms.

So here’s the thing. As bitter and jaded and offensive the above principles may seem to the the outside eye, I actually have found that adhering to them does make me happier, more compassionate, more effective at work, and generally more fun to be around - compared to when I was stupid enough to expect anything else from people.

Epiphany: it’s because everybody HERE operates under these assumptions too, so we’re finally on the same wavelength.

But, like, really, I’m not trying to be ironic or anything. I really am happier this way, or at least was, until this wwwk, where everything seems to have collapsed suddenly, but I think it’s just because I know I’m going into Vila soon and am therefore forced to acknowledge the sheer superiority of the Outside World. That and the fact that I am suddenly out of everything: toilet paper, candles, kerosene, food, conditioner, patience, faith, dish soap, stamps, etc.

Sigh…I was Doing So Well, too…

It recently occurred to me that life would be more enjoyable if I had a reason to get up in the morning. Because knowing you’ll be hungry eventually if you don’t isn’t the greatest impulse around which to base your whole existence. But the problem is, I can’t actually think of anything currently available to me that would make me want to get up. I’d bribe myself with chocolate but I’m out of that too.

Anyway, don’t get me wrong. I do get up in the morning…usually around six, and I make my way through my morning routine and Yoga practice. My practice is more consistent and stable than it has ever been, but I still dread it, and certainly never look forward to it.

I think tomorrow morning I’ll schedule playing with Play-Doh at 6:15 a.m.

[Editor’s note - I did]

I’m trying. Really.

Maybe I always led a depressed and pointless existence. Maybe I was just as frustrated, conflicted, self-hating and deeply unsatisfied in my Old Life - but at least I had tofu. And broccoli. And grapes. And Rolos. Okay, maybe I haven’t purchased a Rolo in 15+ years but I’d kill a pig for one right now.

And of course, there are all these personal benefits to being here, like having lots of time to do Yoga and contemplate everything I hate about myself, but it does seem like a…strange use of public funds. I mean, thanks, taxpayers, but surely you’d rather spend your money…not on my spiritual development. Think of how many young, virile soldiers you could be sending to Iraq right now instead…

Oh, a note from my split personality: I really do love Peace Corps and I strongly encourage every American to do it. You really can make a difference. I mean, I’m not, because I’m slothful and selfish, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Better People can certainly do awesome things with their two years, and I personally know several who are. So, write your congressman! Don’t cut the Peace Corps budget!

Seriously, please don’t confuse my personal woes with being a reflection of this institution. (Not being sarcastic,) I love Peace Corps, as an institution and as a community, with all my heart and hope to serve again in my life (hopefully with a husband, you know, so I’d have a reason to get up in the morning).

Just to put a bit of balance into this particular entry, so you get the full bipolar flavour of my Peace Corps experience, here are some of the highlights of the last month or so…

1) Independence Day-Week Festivities with my peeps Bridget & Travis. We gave out over 200 condoms, mostly to 15-year-old boys, which was a really inspirational eye-opener for me, since I had previously resigned myself to the fact that no one cares about safe sex. It turns out they do, they just don’t want to get beaten by their parents for admitting it. Fair enough.

2) “Mommy & Daddy: My Health is in Your Hands!” a modified (and greatly expanded) version of the nursery school program I did in June. But this time the poster has 58 hands on it traced in Magic Marker (thanks, Jackie!) And this time it involved a last-minute improvised one-woman theatre-in-the-round performance by yours truly, with, of course, my indispensable support team (Bridget & Travis) chiming in for the chorus of the hit single “I’m Washing My Hands!”. God, I get chills just thinking about it. I’m going to look at that poster every time I want to quit. Yay, Peace Corps!

3) As for my Aid Post - really, don’t ask. I gave someone a piece of paper to fill out three months ago and I’m waiting for a response…no further comments.

4) And the Health Committee I’ve been trying to start since September…we’re so close. Last week we had four whole people come to the meeting. We’re supposed to have six members and they refuse to elect officers until we have everyone, but we are getting there!

In other news, one of the cutest babies that has hitherto been afraid of me happily crawled into my lap for a whole ten minutes yesterday. Bliss! (Perhaps I have not yet mentioned how strange it is to never touch or be touched by anyone). It was during the campaign speeches. Vanuatu has a federal election on September 2. If you’ve never seen ‘democracy at work’ in a developing country, it’s pretty wild.

As for the movie, it’s coming along…slowly.

Oh, and yes, we are suddenly getting cell phone service on the island! Yes, it’s true! Watch this space (or better yet, my movie) to see how the good people of Bonga Bonga go from having no phone in their village to cell phones in one fell swoop. I mean, forget the fact that we have no consistent power source to charge everyone’s phones - Amanda’s always the party pooper - yay, cell phones!

I have now been writing for so long it can be officially considered ‘late afternoon’ and the evil sun will soon leave me in peace.

Oh yeah, I forgot to write about the new Youth Drama Team I’m starting at a nearby boarding school for ninth- and tenth- graders! I had big plans for all sorts of ‘topical’ plays, but I have had to pull back a bit when I discovered the boys won’t even stand in the same circle as the girls for the warm-up. Okay, so we’re not quite yet ready to explore Domestic Violence in a theatrical context but…baby steps. This is the only work I really care about, anyway. I mean, it’s the reason I joined Peace Corps in the first place…

Until next time,

Me

A quote by yours truly, last night.

On the subject of veganism, and how traumatic it was for me to go unvegan in preparation for Peace Corps, and whether or not I'll want to go back to that upon my 'return' to the U.S. After so much involuntary deprivation, I'm not sure I'll be willing to impose it on myself again. Not that it ever felt like deprivation before...anyway, I was just musing.

So I flew in town yesterday, a shockingly uneventful experience for once.

My first meal of "Vila food" after three+ months on the island was...drumroll please...

A sandwich with real bread and the following items: brie, roasted carrots, asparagus, and tomato!

It was awesome.

I'll be updating this blog in the next couple days so stay tuned...

June 25, 2008

So…yeah…solar power is awesome except for now that it’s winter it’s not as plentiful as it once was, so I’m actually going to try to make this sort of quick before my inverter makes that ghastly beep again and Bridget takes off to Vila tomorrow with my USB stick and my login info. Some highlights of the past five weeks on the island:

• Welcome, Travis! Our newest Health volunteer on Tongoa, Noelle’s replacement, swings by for his five-day Wokabaot site visit. Noelle, Bridget, and I try to make him feel welcome and excited. As he will be the ‘central’ volunteer (an hour’s hike north of me and forty minutes south of Bridget), we inform him of his sacred duties: funneling mail, passing messages, joining B & I in endless hours of girl talk, sharing all chocolate that arrives via plane or ship, etc. The panel meets after his departure and it is unanimously agreed that this boy can hack it. We’ll see you next month, T!

• Sori long Lumbu/Congratulations, Noelle! The amazing volunteer that showed us the ropes, helped us get our bearings and gave us endless support, guidance, and sushi triumphantly completes her two years of service and gets the f*** off the island, leaving yours truly the most senior volunteer. I guess I’m responsible for holding down the fort now. Damn. What was that thing about being positive I was going to start?

• Nufala Helt Komiti! Yes, only eight short months after I first asked for one, the village elects a new Health Committee to work with me. More than half of the five members.came to the first meeting (that’s, um, three people). And a whole two of them showed up at the second! By Vanuatu standards, this shows unparalleled interest and commitment (I’m not being sarcastic). I really am excited about this. Only two weeks after our first meeting, we complete the task of picking leaves out of the gutterings that lead into our two sources of water for the Aid Post. Although how this job ended up getting pawned off on a 15-year-old and a 12-year-old with no one from the committee, I’ll never know - but never say Ni-Vans can’t delegate! Go Health Committee!

• Yumi Washem Hans! I experience a charming, fun, deeply satisfying and inspiring morning at the nursery school introducing songs, stories, and games about why and how we wash our hands. I also have the benefit of following up with the parents later to evaluate the efficacy of my program. Says one cheerful 16-year-old mother, “Kalo and Jennifer loved your program! They came home and sang that song you taught them, whatever it was, who remembers now, I mean, they’ve obviously forgotten it…anyway, when I sent them to wash their hands those crazy kids started looking for the soap - and I was like, ‘Bastards! Don’t waste the damn soap on your body or I’ll whip you good!’ Soap is for laundry, obviously…oh, kids today…”

• Smol Hip-Hop Danis Bridget & Amanda attend Shefa Day, an all-island celebration of…well, no one was really sure but it’s a public holiday that lasted a whole week. Thirty seconds before it begins, they dare each other into entering the Dance Competition against some very earnest pre-teens that have clearly practiced for the big event. All of Tongoa rejoiced as not one, but two of their otherwise generally respectable White Missuses gleefully improvised to the tune of “Girl Fight”. Favourite moves include “The Fish”, starring Bridget as The Fisherman and Amanda as The Fish, and Bridget’s solo performance as “The Worm”. Says the dynamic duo, “We have totally amassed enough social quotient credits for at least the next month. We can pretty much stay in our houses and do nothing until fall.” It is now accepted practice for man-Tongoa of all ages to hide in the bush and scream, “HIP HOP!” delightedly as Amanda or Bridget walk by. There are rumours of several toddlers imitating their wild gyrations, but on this issue the pair declines to comment. Word on the coconut is the Doublemint Twins are already in intensive rehearsal for Independence Day festivities, as well as the much-anticipated and more exclusive “Welcome, Travis!” soiree in July.

• Botel-gas i go long sip! After four very smoky (but enlightening) months, my empty propane tank for my stove finally made it on a Vila-bound ship this morning. It took the first three and a half months to get it from my village to the next one where the wharf is (special thanks to the Deputy High Commissioner of New Zealand who came to check up on our defunct Icebox Project and let me chuck the 11-kilo tank on his truck - man, Whitemen give you so much free stuff, it’s awesome), and another two weeks for a functional ship to arrive. Of course, every phone on the island went down today so I can’t let the gas company people know to pick it up on the other side, but I am encouraged by the developments. At this rate, I should have a functional stove again by 2009. Imagine, making breakfast in under two hours!

• Ova the Fanis Moderately deflated by general feelings of uselessness and despair, as well as the whole lot of nothing going on in my working life, I’ve decided to unofficially hop the fence of project sectors (from Health to Education) and join Bridget in her workshop series for primary school teachers…to help her out, get to know other villages and just, like, to do something with my life. This has also given me a lot of ideas for blending our projects and expanding my Health program outside of my small area. Competition and jealousy is the driving force behind work of any kind here, and it’s a shame it’s taken me a year to figure out how to harness that. Every day I spend working in another village converts another five previously disinterested parties into fervent labourers suddenly desperate for my time and attention. Long live the Petty Rivalry!

So that’s what I’ve been up to…I will definitely be in town again (Vila, that is…) the first week of September, though it’s possible an insatiable hankering for broccoli could put me on a plane before. All is well here…God bless the cold season.

I might meet my sister in Fiji sometime in the next few months, and possibly a parent or two in either Malaysia/Thailand/Australia/here or not at all in October, and I’m planning to hit New Zealand again in January or February. So yeah, I’m going to try to stay put on the island while the tide is low for the next couple months…which means snail mail as usual or e-mails forwarded via Peace Corps.

Once again (credits flashing on the bottom of the screen), you can write to:

Amanda Prasow, Peace Corps

Bonga Bonga Village

Tongoa Island

VANUATU

Southwest Pacific

or volunteer@vu.peacecorps.gov with my name in the subject line.

And, last but not least, the winners for most awesome item received in a recent package go to…

-my sister Andrea for Annie’s Organic Shells & Aged Cheddar Cheese Sauce and

-Juli’s mom for Yerba Mate Chocolate Teabags

You rock my world!

Amanda

(via e-scribe Bridget)

Another letter to a Yoga friend:

June 23, 2008

It’s just so easy to write to you of all this. Why? Other people would understand, of course, but they would worry about me too much. I feel like you understand that when I struggle with what I see, it’s the thing itself that troubles me, not its effect on me and my life. I, after all, have a departure date, however buried into the future it may seem at times. I have a place to go ‘back’ to, a culture, or at least a community within a culture, that shares my essential values and beliefs.

And so I write to you, to tap into that community, because I need to draw on that connection now.

Let me preface this by saying I remain in a relatively balanced state of mental health, at least as far as happiness goes. As far as remaining ethically sound, I’ll get to that in a moment…

I have not yet crawled back into the cave of depression and resentment that held me for several months, though the pessimist in me sleeps with one eye open, awaiting the fall. I keep reminding myself it need not come - people do break cycles eventually, isn’t that, after all, the whole point of Yoga? But I have been through so many false starts, new beginnings, thrilling highs always followed by the inevitable crash that my own naivete in believing ‘it will be different this time’ seems as much my greatest weakness as my greatest strength.

Listen to me…a little dramatic, huh? As if a heroin addict constantly on the verge of suicide…no, it’s always little old me and my little old mind - and the lows are never worse than some tears and maybe a chocolate bar too many to easy the pain - though those are harder to come by than you might imagine out here.

So what is different this time? For one, I currently have the most consistent and regular Yoga practice I’ve ever had outside the ashram - so that’s a big thing. I am still struggling to keep asanas in my life…but I have been able to build a daily practice of meditation, pranayama, kirtan, spiritual reading - and finally start to disentangle the world of karma yoga from the very confusing web of Responsibility, Charity, Duty, Sympathy, Dependency, and other such confusing concepts that comprise my ‘working’ life.

But anyway…I want to talk about rape.

I don’t know what is more disturbing - what I heard today or how I reacted. I don’t know if my cool detachment is a sign of spiritual progress or moral decay (I find myself wondering that a lot here).

A fellow male volunteer once told me, “There’s no real difference between rape and courtship here…” and it’s a line I’ve repeated often to others yet inwardly believed or at least hoped was a gross exaggeration. Just look at all the ‘good boys’ I know here.

So today, after almost a year on the island, a young cousin-brother who is the closest thing to a male friend I trust & respect here casually mentions raping several women…

My first instinct is to create immediate distance and display my disapproval, especially as he’s laughing about it with his friends (including a 22-year-old girl who is laughing with him at how dumb I am for not ‘getting it’). But it suddenly seemed so pointless. My disapproval means nothing to anyone here, nor should it really, beyond momentary embarrassment. They understand that I live by a different set of rules - in a crazy place where you’re not supposed to lie or steal or rape or beat children, but no one sees this as relevant, no more important than women wearing pants in my country or having long hair.

So then I tried to curb my reaction and focus on information-gathering, understanding. What exactly does force mean? Why force? Do you feel bad? What if she screams? Struggles? Cries? Methodically we discussed all the scenarios. Incidentally: “I never had one that cried, so I don’t know. I guess I would just let her go, cause if she cries that means she feels really bad, right? Plus, she’d probably report it…”

And so I listened, and learned how the ones that swear at him will definitely get it because it becomes a competition thing, that if they scream for help they’ll get let go since they’d tell anyway after, though most don’t scream, and they never try to fight him off - because, after all, most of them want it anyway and are just playing hard to get - and the young girl with us is laughing too and nodding, and suddenly I’m the only one too stupid to understand a basic game of cat-and-mouse where usually no one gets hurt.

And as I listen, scarily I begin to understand. What is a right here? There is no such concept of individual freedom in this culture. I listen how he would never rape someone from a different island (one hopes this automatically includes those from a different country, as well) but woman-Tongoa, they belong to him…

And of course, they do. Because in Vanuatu when you pay for a woman, she is yours. And when you father a daughter, she is yours until someone else buys her from you. Property - like a cow, a piece of land, a pencil. And if you grow up with that basic principle of ownership, then…what then?

And I look at him and my anger melts. He is family, after all, and I do love him like a real brother. He’s a good kid…he didn’t design the world he grew up in…what’s that part in the bible (which I never saw before Vanuatu) when Jesus says it’s not the healthy people that need a physician? I decide to continue loving him, and that I won’t walk away from this issue…but I will leave it for later, when we are alone and he can speak more honestly.

Will I think more carefully about being alone with him now? Nah, not really - he’s still the boy I feel safest with and this doesn’t change that. It’s all a game here, and even if I don’t get the rules, everyone else does and they do live by them.

I know he trusts me now, more than before, enough to share this stuff - and I do feel honoured, and I want to keep that trust.

I cannot help but think that Christianity does so well here because of the constant redemption - as long as you’re sorry on Sunday God forgives you. Judaism has far too many rules to follow, and Yoga would be far too much work.

There is that simplicity about Christianity I find compelling, and even wish I could believe in, but something just doesn’t sit right with me about it. I am struggling - a true Yogi would see God everywhere and rejoice in any house of worship, but I have so many inner blocks about it.

So anyway - is this afternoon indicative of a step towards true understanding and unconditional love? Or a sign that everything I’ve ever stood for is weakening, that I am giving into the madness around me, that I’ve walked into the rainforest and sold my soul?

What would Swami Vishnu do? I think he would use Love to build a bridge to knowledge. I think he would trust God that a person will come when he is ready. I think he would advise me to do the same.

I have a Christian friend, another volunteer, who is always talking about different things God has told her - casual conversations, big revelations, etc. I wish I had that confidence…that certainty that all I had to do was listen…

A letter to my sister:

June 8, 2008

Dear Alexandra,

Why I stay, or why I have stayed so far, is not because I am afraid to become an actor as you suggested, but precisely because I am 100% sure there is nothing else I could do without hating my life - and simply because I am trying to work through all the issues I can here (as Swami Sivananda would say, “remove all defects”) before I risk letting my own personal cocktail of baggage ruin the only thing I’ve ever really wanted: my dream career.

The more time that passes, the clearer the image becomes of what I want my future life to look like. This is an unfortunate obsession, and one has a lot of time to think out there…for example, I have already chosen the toiletries in the guest bathroom of my dream apartment. But it is strange, however, to realize my career is the only thing I care about - more important to me than love or money, or even having a strong spiritual community around me…and I certainly have no desire for children of my own. It is stranger still to conclude this here, where no one has a career - where family is the only thing that matters. They can’t even begin to understand.

So while it is true that I hate it here most of the time (though much less with the dawning of the cold season and my ‘mastery’ of firemaking), I hate it no more than I hated the ashram, or Geneva, or England, or any place I’ve ever lived or any job I’ve ever had more than a few months. I am not sure why I am plagued with insatiable restlessness, why my boredom turns to resentment and then to rage so quickly - it often occurs to me that a possible reason is that all I’ve ever wanted is to be an actor in New York and all I’ve ever done is something else, but I suspect it is not that simple, that there is more going on...and I may as well stay in a place where I have 24 hours a day of free time to do several hours of Yoga a day, should I find the discipline (and I’m starting to), read trashy novels in my hammock, and rest in complete financial security. In no other environment I can think of can you delve into being a complete basketcase without it adversely affecting your or others’ quality of life. So - it might not be the most valiant of reasons, but the all-expenses paid sanitorium is a major reason why I’m still drinking coconuts.

I’m hoping to build some strength, purge some of the negativity through a diligent, sustained, consistent Yoga practice before I risk sabotaging the only thing I’ve ever really wanted (my career) by not getting myself together enough before it is too late. So this is mainly why I stay.

Perhaps there is no such thing as ‘too late’, but it’s true that in acting you can’t get away with things the way you can in other fields. Weakness, insecurity, fickleness, nervousness - these are why actors don’t get work, and people have long memories in the entertainment industry. Perhaps it is the same in many fields, but actors are constantly looking for new work so I guess the challenge is more pronounced.

But I was going to tell you about my day.

I woke up at 5, and as it is winter now it was still pitch black. I’ve been in a habit of lolling about till the sun comes up at 6 or even later. This is “bad” primarily for yogic reasons - a meditation before sunrise is exponentially more powerful than after. And, practically, if I get up at dawn to do my morning routine (pee, brush my teeth and use my neti pot) before Yoga, I will be attacked by mosquitoes, so more often than not I hide in my net until well after sunrise. By that time the roosters and children are louder than ever, I get painfully hungry, and start to feel guilty about doing ‘nothing’ for hours when my neighbours are breaking their backs chopping firewood or carrying coconuts.

So, you know, it’s really better for everyone if I get up while it’s still dark. I can always nap later.

I remember a lot of idle conversation about cultures that rise & fall with the sun like this one. It always amazes me that at 5:58 a.m. there will be not a peep in the village and by 6:02 it is light and the day is in full swing. I always wonder if they actually wake up with the light or just wait for its cue to get up.

It occurs to me: as I’m the only one with Indiglo, they couldn’t get up earlier. If they woke up and it was still dark, they’d have no idea whether it was 10:30 p.m. or 4:30 a.m. The roosters, of course - always crow from 3:25-3:50 a.m., so that’s a clue, but they sleep through that, those lucky bastards. Ni-Vans are such deep sleepers that they constantly wake up with rat bites on their ankles. It’s a real problem, especially for kids, because the slightest cut or sore can be grossly infected within hours in this tropical climate. After a year, I remain incredulous. I am awake the moment a rat climbs onto my roof (though these days, roll my eyes & go back to sleep instead of crying till morning), I’d probably wake up to the sound of a rat next door - but then again, I’ve always been a strange sleeper - I can’t remember sleeping through the night more than a handful of times in the past several years. If I ever sleep deeply enough to let a rat get close enough to consume my flesh, I will truly be ‘integrated’ into island life.

(Incidentally, it is a good thing I feel safe here. Peace Corps gives us these useless-in-Vanuatu personal alarms, and once in training a rat pulled the cord out of my friend’s and not a single person in her house woke up. Earlier this year, another friend was actually screaming bloody murder as some stranger broke into her house and tried to rape her and of course no one woke up. Fortunately she was able to fight the guy off and scare him away…)

Anyway, so I got up and was smugly drinking Rooibos tea with Vanuatu vanilla and cinnamon and reading the Bhagavad Gita before dawn. A half-hour’s pranayama then a half-hour meditation to follow. Normally I’d move on to asanas or chanting or sometimes just guitar, but I actually had to be somewhere this morning, which happens (no joke) every 3 months or so, so I went back to the kitchen to reset the fire & make oatmeal when my dad dropped by with a plate of bananas in coconut milk, which when sliced thinly over oatmeal turned out to be almost enjoyable. I’ll eat anything in a pinch, and often do, but after so long I still find cooked bananas nauseating unless I’m starving. I’m often starving with no food source of my own, but I am starting to take steps to deal with that. Last night, I slipped my mom a dollar and today she brought me enough taro for at least 3 days of meals, so at least I don’t have to live on crackers & peanut butter if no one brings me other food. Procuring something green is far more complicated and fruit is more or less out of the question unless I happen to be walking by when someone is peeling a grapefruit or orange. Custom - they have to give me half, especially if I look at it. But anyway, the taro is a good start.

June 11, 2008

Oh, shoot - I might have burned the first 2 pages of this letter. Why am I such a pyro? Now that I cook with fire, it’s so easy to burn things. Sometimes I close my eyes at night and just see flames. Plus I tend to go on these burning rampages. I can’t believe that the only source of fire in my life used to be tealights. It’s just so basic to me now - for food & sterilization and warmth (thank God for winter) and family and spirituality. You should read the book The Vision by Tom Brown Jr. I think you’d like it.

June 13, 2008

I was trying to tell you about Tuesday. I have often bitterly declared, “There is no point working with anyone over the age of 3 in this country” so I decided to take my own advice and visit the nursery school for my most successful workshop ever.

First we all made a circle and I told a story about a boy that had diarrhea cause he never washed his hands, then we all acted out a story (you know, one of those ‘Going on a treasure hunt’ and you all run or hide or reach up, etc) about the boy learning to wash his hands with the Washing Hands song (tune of “London Bridge”). Then we traced all their hands with marker on a poster that said “Mommy & Daddy: Please help me to wash my hands with SOAP and CLEAN WATER all the time!” The poster is now hanging at the Aid Post. Then because of course their hands are obviously dirty from the marker, we all stood in a circle around a basin of water and sang the washing hands song while one by one each kid washed with soap - there was an awkward moment when I made the teacher do it, too - I realized I should have demo’d exactly how to use the soap but whatever - then every kid got to choose a sticker for being such a good handwasher!

I love the nursery school! I can’t wait to go back with toothbrushes!

Then because our phone is down in Bonga Bonga, I strolled down to my old stomping grounds in Meriu to call this guy about a computer we’re trying to get for the school (which has no electricity, but you sort of have to do things backwards in Vanuatu to get funding) hung out with some weaving women and went back up the hill.

I recently bought flour and was experimenting with it in a frying pan and I accidentally made a pita! This was very exciting, and I ran into the house to take a can of chickpeas from my cyclone stash and mushed them up with crushed garlic (jar), sesame seeds (imported) and lemon juice (fresh) and had a theme meal!

Then because I never have any work so a little work is exhausting, I had a nap and read, until I wandered next door at sundown and listened to my teenage brothers practice stringband. For the first time in a long time, I caught myself sighing and thinking, “God, I love this place.”

So something’s working.