This is dedicated to all of you who have struggled to find your path and never gave up.

Oh!

To be a shoe

upon your feet

And to feel where you have been

And where you grew.

To feel the hesitation

And sensation

Of courage

As you chose your paths

To travel

And witness

The lives you chose

To see the fear of unsureness set

Take hold with a wayward step

And to fix your course

When you with timid trepidation

Chose your way

How many wonders we will have seen

How much sorrow and struggle

We would find

The origins of the wounds that kept

And those that healed in time

Kept by the heart

To meet those

That you have seen and showed

What an amazement you are

To see the compassion and confusion and how far

Your manner adapted

the sense

To create, to cope

And to survive

Oh to be that shoe

And stop the roulette

Of guessing

To see what you have seen

And to feel

What you have felt

All along.

So on my last trip to Tana I was squeezed comfortably into a small spot behind the driver of our van. A man got on with two boys, both very small, sat one in his lap and the other was standing in front of him. This is very common in Madagascar because the people cant afford paying for bus fair for more than one member of the family. I watched the adorable little boy cling to the front seat as our taxi took off towards our destination and then watched as over the next thirty minutes he slowly began to fall asleep standing up. He then sat down on his brothers legs, on top of his dad so that they resembled a small sad sort of pyramid. That's when I finally stepped in; put down my Emily Dickinson and offering for the little boy to sit in my lap. The father was very grateful and immediately the boy sat down, and fell asleep within minutes. I loved feeling his little frame against my chest, and the warmth of his little body. We sat like that for the last hour of our trip, me sleeping sitting up with his head tucked under my chin, him nestled in my arms. I was in absolute love with him for the ride. As we passed the small communities along the way everyone kept commenting about the foreigner with her son. It was very funny.

Then as we entered Tana and we are travelling along a long bypass that enters a city, a car, travelling straight towards us, swerves and flies into a rice patty, turning over in the air as it goes. It happened within seconds, our whole van gasped in disbelief and a small serving of shock. We pulled over, as did the two cars behind us who saw the same thing. Within seconds the men were out and in the rice patty, trying to save the people who had just untimely entered someone else's yard. One man, the driver was pulled out first. He was so drunk when they set him down on the curb that he couldn't stand on his own feet but instead did a sort of fluid hula dance as he attempted to regain sobriety. A passing motorist accepted the man into his car and took him onward to the hospital. A second man, the front seat passenger was removed very shortly afterward, blood coursing down the side of his face although I doubt he noticed that as he too was also very inebriated. I looked at the little boy in my lap, furious with such a waste of life it may have been. Here was one who was starting his life, those were two who seemed intent on ending it. But more to the point. We were seconds from being a part of their drunken show as well. Such a waste.

To try

and not succeed

is to learn the truest lesson

that can be taught.

That true appreciation comes in loss.

To seek and find blame in the effort

is to lose

our chance.

Within each day

a thousand trials await.

From sleep to sleep

we strive,

pushing ourselves into

possibilities.

Finding ourselves in

opportunities we have created

in trials.

Greet the day with a smile to see

how far your light can cast

and chase shadows.

Reflecting off mirrors

the beams reach the farthest places.

Far from you, the source.

Farther than we can see.

Or know.

So circle back.

Refuse and cast aside Failure,

that threatens to claim your brightness

Instead see

the appreciation within the smile

and light upon the faces

of thousands.

Take your chance and try.

Try and try again.

To see how far

you can truly grow.

Let me tell you about home.

Antanifotsy is located about 2 ½ hours from the capital and an hour away from the regional capital, Antsirabe in the highlands region of Madagascar. Being in the highlands we have lots of green due to the immense amount of rain in our area. Its cold in the winter and warm and rainy in the summer. The days can be absolutely beautiful with clear or slightly clouded skies and pure sunshine. All of these things add up to our main source of work, agriculture.

We are known for our carrots and potatoes. And where do the scraps from those crops go? To our third most known product, pigs. Yes, we are farmers. As you travel from the capital into the district of Antanifotsy all you see are rice fields, and crops growing from the earth. Long ears of corn reach for the sky, cabbage and different types of greens cover the earth that isn’t flooded for rice production. It is absolutely beautiful. If you ever want to see how many colors of green can exist in one area, travel to my town. Carrots are the size of your forearm in a color orange that Crayola has yet to discover. Our potatoes are large and delicious; purple, yellow, and white. And the pork is steaming fresh at the butchers every morning. Cows add to our scenery in small private groups; maybe two, maybe five. I once commented to a friend that it sometimes seemed the cows were just roaming on their own. I was told that while you may never see them, the herders are always there, finding a moment of relaxation while their bovine investments graze.

Antanifotsy is the center of the district of Antanifotsy. “What is a district?”, you may ask. Well, the closest thing I can compare it to is like Fresno. It is only a city because there are some many random farms and settlements around it that the people needed a place to meet and sell. The city itself is small, maybe 2-3,000 people. But because of its location and status as a district capital we are blessed with a military and police presence, governmental offices, and the occasional presence of NGO’s working with our water and malarial issues. We have two private schools through our catholic and FJKM churches, as well as our public CEG ( my work and the equivalent of an elementary/jr high school) a lycee ( high school) and an EPP ( pre-K and Kindergarten). The educational possibilities here are high and stressed to the local children. Possibly because of the close vicinity to the capital and its universities, the interest in education seems to be pretty high. The motivation of the parents and adults filter down to the children. As an activity in my higher level classes I asked my students what they wanted to do and over half of them responded as doctors or dentists. Another quarter of the students responded towards a military style occupation and others said teachers. So the motivation level is high, although the opportunities maybe less than so. But that’s where I come in. ( Or so I think)

When you walk through my town you have the distinct feeling of being home. Last month I had the unfortunate need to walk the 4k from the main road into town due to a lack of cars that could take me to my actually site. At first I was a little nervous walking home late in the dark but within the first few minutes my fears were gone. I couldn’t go three minutes without people shouting greetings from balconies and doorways as I walked in the dark streets. You are home here within seconds with people yelling “welcome back” and “why are you walking so late?” or just commenting on the darkness.

During the day it is just as friendly and the hustling market place invites you to come visit our fresh produce. The smells of fresh tomatoes, cilantro, onions, carrots, greens, spicy sakay peppers greet your nose as you travel the smooth dirt path between the vendors stalls. Stall are constructed from wood and plastic sheeting set at a height for most Malagasy in the area, which is a foot of disadvantage for me. The first things you meet are the multiple vegetable stalls with their friendly smiling woman sitting behind them. Most vendors sell the same things although some can be counted on for fresh peeled chickpeas, sliced carrots or green beans, cabbages the size of your head, or sweet melons. A chorus of “hello”s and “how are you”’s greet me as I path my way through, weaving through children, carts, and shoppers. After the vegetables come the fruits, an old man with a smile to brighten any day sells small pile of apples and grapes, now that they are in season, and offers samples every day, hoping for a sale to help feed his family. Five families sell bananas of all shapes and sizes year round. Small fat bananas that require two bites per layer, long thin ones that are cheaper but feel almost silly to eat due to their small finger size shapes. Then the butchers in their breezy stalls that never smell too overpowering with the stench of death. Fresh sausages hang on racks, slabs of meat are carved, new layers steaming when you order the delicious meat hidden under fat and ribs. Pork and beef, butchered every morning waits on tile slabs to be carved for your order in six different and yet identical stalls. Dogs and children run around, the dogs grabbing scraps, the children grabbing the dogs. Cats wait on windowsills, geese wander the streets in menacing packs, ducks curl on stairwells waiting for the day to pass as chickens wander the streets with clutches of chicks to tempt my dog. Children cry out “good morning” no matter what time of day it is. Small stalls sell juice, fresh yogurt, and small breads for coffee. In the morning there are women who sell small breads, coffee, and tea for breakfast (my morning routine) and share the gossip of the day, or comment on the weather. The occasional cow cart forces us to the side as they pass and Thursday mornings the cow herds are driven through town, blocking our one road for a good ten minutes.

Life is continuous here and happens right on the street. Lined with houses in all shapes and sizes with families spilling out of them, the streets are our social and economic centers for all happenings. Most houses here are converted into store fronts offering flour, salt, sugar, oil, homemade soaps, and other basic essentials to the locals and travelers passing through. Our two taxi stations serve not only to take us to the capitals and on to the other areas of our great island, but we also serve as transportation to the outlying communities beyond the reach of the paved highways. Its quite the hustle and bustle six days of the week. On Sundays our churches regulate all business. Only a handful of stores and vendors continue their work while the churches offer religious service throughout the day. The children in our local schools often live far from our actual town and may walk 10K to get to school if they cant find a local family or relative to live with. They make their way to our town on Sundays and are often the only feet treading our roads. We have one paved road heading in to town, the same road takes you out. One dirt road travels you out to one church, the other takes you down to the CEG and the buses to take you to the farm fields. We have small hills in the distance littered with houses overlooking the family farms and the town center and when the thunder storms come to town they find themselves trapped in our community. You can feel it in your bones when the storms hit. It thunders, rains, and five minutes later the earth and the people dry under the pure sunlight hitting your face. Everyone is smiling, selling, buying, supplying, traveling and living.

And that is my home.

This last week in class I was teaching comparisons to my students. Our adjectives of the day were tall, short, big, little, fat, thin, long,curly and straight. So after the length of our grammar lesson I decided to put their new knowledge into action. Asking two children to the front of the class I then called on my students to make a verbal comparison using the structure they had just learned. Here is the resulting conversation. At the front of the room stand myself, a boy named Onja, and a girl named Juliette.

Me: "Ok class, now what can you tell me about Onja?" ( notice I did not use the key phrase "give me a comparison")

A girl name Aina raises her hand(smart girl): Onja is black.

The shock sets in with cultural smoothness and I stammer: " Yes, ok, Onja is black. Now can you give me a comparison?" (gesturing between the boy and girl)

Aina consults with her partner, a very smart girl named Mendrika. Quickly they come to a most remarkable conclusion: "Onja is blacker...than you."

I hold back the laughter and take on a supportive expression for their efforts and correct usage of the grammar learned and then decide to just go for it: "And who is blacker than me?""

The class doesn't understand that one too quickly so I translate it into Malagasy and they all start to giggle. Aina raises her hand again and I call on her: Tsy iza, tsy iza.

The answer... no one.

I smile, throw up my hands in a shrug, which always leads to classroom laughter and turn back to my chalk bag. Lesson completed. I consider my reactions as I write the exercises on the board.

If I had been in America, that conversation would have been an absolute disaster, resulting in parents filing into classrooms, serious faces, and serious expressions promising serious consequences. After a conversation, perhaps two, the child would be so frightened out of the expression that it would/might only appear in the future as a term of difference/hate.

Here in Madagascar, however, it means absolutely nothing. Except in this case that my children actually were able to apply our English lesson for the day into a real life, spontaneous incident. Other than that it serves only to remind me that the wonders of children is that they have yet to learn what we all have yet to forget. Color only matters to those who would choose to make it matter. My 50 children of this particular English class see it as only a color. It means nothing else. It may mean, in this country, many different things as a result of American cinema reaching its hands across oceans and those perspectives are not ones we would ever wish on other people as our statement of us. Yet, as an ex-patriot, I live every day in the shadows of these expectations and, as a result, have begun to see our self portrayal so cleverly hidden in our films.

Imagine, hundreds of years from now, scientists discover a carefully preserved blockbuster. With careful precision they extract the delicate discs, unearthing machines as they go. After months of care and anticipation they play the first disc in an attempt to understand the society that had created such an uninteresting place. What would the film tell about us, as a people?

Scary question if you think about it long enough. Or maybe it is only scary to me as someone living that exact situation. Only I am not with scientists. I am with normal, every day people that will more than likely never experience anything outside of their farm fields, local town centers, and , if they are lucky, the capital of this country. To them, America IS what is in the film. American women ARE the women in the films and in the magazine pictures. Our culture IS what is portrayed in these pictures of extravagance, emaciated women wanting to lose more weight, clothing that has no purpose other than to flash its colors, homes of such gross extravagance the people in it are considered with disdain. We have so much that we cannot possibly appreciate or cherish anything. We have no culture of our own to respect so how can we respect others, especially when we clearly don't respect ourselves. Money has given us laziness and has robbed of us of our sacred. We don't know what it is to be married ( reference to divorce rate), have real relationships, responsibilities, our to understand what true need feels like. We have never suffered so we cannot understand suffering. Our society is so glutenous we could never understand what it is to be without food. We hold no one more dear than our own selves, and even they we treat with neglect and utter disregard. (These are perspectives and casual statements I have gathered from many conversations, enough to know that they are no limited to a few select people, but rather are shared by many, although not all.) This is what I am constantly fighting as I enter even a basic conversation with a Malagasy person, be it child or adult. Constantly fighting against the attributes, attitudes, and qualities we have given ourselves in our attempts to impress others and thereby creating our own sadness.

Not mine though. I love telling people about my home, my family, my culture. Explaining how many types of foods we have and why, the cultures we have and why. Why I am so big when they all look so small, why my hair is curly if I am not Metis ( African and white blooded). Why I smile like I do, why I have no money etc. It makes me laugh, I make them laugh, and it spurs more and more conversations. I see my time here, my time with my friends and families and students as a broad domino affect. They will tell their families, and friends. And while the information will eventually die out in its interest, it will have changed or questioned the perceived notions of who I am for enough people that when the next person comes along with their wonderfully obnoxious assumptions it is my friends and co-workers who correct them, not I.

And this is already happening.

Look at the power of information.

“ Words are just words.”

A person I care very deeply about, and who cares for me the same, recently uttered this statement to me, in the middle of a debate, and I was so shocked I lost my track completely. He won the debate. I just sat on my butt and stared. The more the thought settled into my mind, the more horrible it became. Just words? Just words?

Words are everything that we, as a global society have chosen to use not just in what we could consider basic communication but in expression. Of ourselves, our opinions, our personalities. We create words into art, into pictures. They fuel our imaginations in countless and unlimited directions. There is no limit on the affect of words on the human race. It is intrinsic to our basic needs and desires, and is our outlet for everything we have found to contribute to our very existence.

As a writer, a poet, and an artist, words are my outlet. Not only for art and expression of my own opinion ,but the logging of my thoughts, emotions, reactions, and experiences. They are my form of a shuttle, for the lost imagination slumbering in the back of my mind, for wayward and unrecognized emotions that threaten to overtake my rationality in times of tiredness. They are my battlefield of understanding, not only of my outside connections but also the untracked trails within myself. My words create and destroy ideas, which in themselves are pictures and words that have connected of their own accord in my heart’s attempts of expression. They are the canvass in which I turn to create worlds of fantasy, stories of love and trials, hardship, struggle, and personal victory. They express every facet of my eclectic personality. Without them I would be lost.

Or really, I would be faced with a new challenge in the art of self expression. But not the point.

When did we lose our faith in words? Was it the advent of the political system? Did rulers in the old ages create the dark side of linguistic syntax or did they even care to twist words into the destruction of faith? As children we learn the meaning of combing letters and, when heard, trust them to the extent we understand. Is it as children, in the face of empty promises and the deceitful twisting and contorting of diatribe that we learn the true meaning of language? Is it then that we lose faith? Or is the faith lost not in words, but in humanity itself?

In ages of political speeches, in which we are told to blindly follow or to learn to read “between the lines” and advertising, targeted at twisting words into psychological triggers, we are constantly faced with what words can mean and have lost the sight of what words truly entail. In our educational system the emphasis is lost on thorough expression. It is instead focused on regurgitation. There is no seeking and discovering of new words like new friends. There is no art created on paper in handwriting and ink. There is no insightful innovation as words are linked with others in creative metaphors, analysis, and allusions. We have lost the alliteration, hyperbole, and simile. Most no longer know the meaning of, or recognize the presence of such techniques in writing. We are taught, shown and expected to regurgitate information. Ignorance is passed through the system with low marks and improvement is never expected. The demand for self thought and self expression lessens, and so then, does the true meaning of text. The understanding of usage is gone, the understanding of impact and affect is lost. And so then, is the joy of prose.

Words can destroy and undo greatness. They can twist and manipulate. They can force, cajole and undermine the balance of our selves. But they also create and breathe life into staleness. They fill silence and spaces of white sheets. They increase our understanding of what is sacred; sacred silence, sacred thoughts, sacred moments. They bring us joy and happiness in understanding. They hold confusion and clarity with the placement of prepositions, nouns, adverbs, verbs and adjectives. They are building blocks to great works of art and expression. They are one of the truest forms of artistic idiom. Millions to chose from, finding the perfect combination to hear the chime within your soul that tells you, “Yes, that’s exactly it.” How else to express feelings and emotion in the attempt to be understood? We crave that understanding and yet have lost the ability to achieve it as we lose definition and the joy of conceiving connection. We learn them so early for our basic desires of hunger, want, tiredness, happiness, sadness and the simple loves of our small lives. We relearn them again as our expressions consume and give birth to joy, bitterness, jealousy, obsession, love, desire and the understanding of change. There is no limit to what we can create, what we can develop and use, the countless combinations. Its defined in the definitions of space and silence, of time and stillness. Limitless in itself. Limited only by us, it’s benefactors.

What then can we do to restore this broken temple? There is no need to wait for the dust to settle to know that the walls are crumbling, the pillars who once supported this great structure have been eaten with the disgraces of time. What can we do before nothing remains and we are staring with puzzlement at the rubble of past greatness?

Three words housed within the very soul: Sincerity, Faith, Integrity.

Where can we start?

With ourselves.

And then go from there.

　

　

Well, after a glorious week on the beach, eating mangoes the size of a face and lychee and drinking baobab juice I am now stuck back in tana at the PC hostel. But to no great amount of hurry as I wait for our training to begin. In the mean time, updating photos, reviewing my trip, swapping stories with friends and sleeping after all those travels. And care packages! Thanks parents and Cederic! I appreciate the goodies and have been enjoying the snacking while watching movies pirated from other volunteers.

Arr matey!

Anyways, I am having nothing but relaxation but cant seem to find the push to write about my christmas travels. But, the moment I do feel that interest youll be sure to find a new neat story nestled in this website! So check again soon!

Hope everyone had a wonderful new year and holiday season. You were all in my thoughts as I ate meat on sticks, watched the sunset, explained the combination of "sun burn" and ""white woman" to malagasy friends, and made new relationships for the new year.

So love you all and check back again soon!

She chews her pencil deciding

The paper a blank canvass for her thoughts and details

The lines begin to form in white

Her eyes tracing shapes in the space between spaces

The pencil twitches

Caught in the strength of her fingers

Held enthralled as it feels the climax

Of invention

She begins to fill the void

Lines forming through carbon

Pleasure pours from her body

As her passions sweep her again and again into the art

Muscles moving in smooth sweeps across parchment, leaving their faint traces

Motion created from stillness

Life created from nothing

Beads of sweat form on her face

Her hands gripped

Cramp as muscles scream irritation

Her back aches as her mind cries for patience

“Almost done” becomes her mantra as the forms from her mind take life in her eyes

Long sweeps become short strokes

Light lines turn into bold flashes, shades of gray

The white, so easily recognized,

Becomes hidden in the shadows

It is over

She sits back and breathes

Her body relaxing , releasing its hold

She stares at the life she has created and whispers

“My love”

　

　

　

So, as a woman in the states I had only one reason why the five year old can of hairspray was still in my repertoire of toiletries: Arachnid assassinations. I was a smart shooter with it too. Anything smaller than a daddy long-leg got a five foot distance which took a lot of muster and convincing, Ill have you know! Anything larger than that harmless insect eating eight legged manifestation of horror deserved a careful appraisal then a steady stream for a good twenty seconds, reevaluation, and if necessary a second.

Why these precautionary measures? Because every time I spotted one of these wall stalkers the room quickly disappeared into the barn scene from the original Arachnophobia. Entering the silent darkness I knew my death awaited and screamed as the mutant monster launched itself and ATE MY FACE!

No really. Every time. I had no shame about it too. In front of family, friends, or strangers, I would scream and launch myself across the room, mentally locating the nearest bottle of stiffening agent to render it immobile. I couldn’t even touch the pictures of spiders in books, after watching a children’s movie where the pictures come to life. I was convinced the black widows and tarantulas portrayed in high color photos with descriptions would crawl up my fingertips and once again…. EAT MY FACE! No, this isn’t some long lost memory. This carried me through high school. Rationality was not a highlight of my teenage personality.

I couldn’t swim in lakes because I had studied the Loch Ness monster and watched movies like The Blob and The Thing From the Black Lagoon one too many times.

Why am I telling you this possibly damaging story? Because of what happened one quiet summer night, this November ( its summer for us in Madagascar) as I sat, peacefully on my bed, reading a book as I heated water for my shower.

So there I was. The opposite of any potentially harmful creature as I sat cross-legged in my lamba, waiting to finish y nightly routine as y water heated on the stove. One corner of my mind considered washing y hair, the other absorbed the book. Morality for Beautiful Girls, by Alex Mc Call Smith, the third in the Ladies Detective Agency series. I remember because I had just read a part on the presence of scorpions in shoes and had stopped reading to eye my shoes sitting “harmlessly” on the floor. It was then that a movement caught my eye. I looked up to see a modest sized, spider/tarantula looking thing slowly and disjointedly walking itself up my wall. I paused, the nerves in my arms screaming for hairspray, the nerves in my legs screaming for exodus of the house. Thankfully I had been reading so my brain was still detaching from the book in my lap and therefore postponed the fight or flight response my body was so furiously generating.

Anyone who knows me knows that from a distance my eyes are… well Im not sharp shooter, or owl, or in fact anything that can see well past about 50 feet in front of their face. My eyes are crap, from a distance. This is an important fact for this next part.

I’m still cringing.

I peered at the apparition on the wall and noticed that while its body was a tan color, its back was dark brown. No, I could not see why it was a different color and my inquisitive mind wanted to see what it was. So I carefully got unfolded my legs and got myself up and around the bed, all without taking my eyes off the body making its way up to my ceiling. What I saw was lumpy darkness on the body and figured, with my analytical brain, that it was a clever camouflage. With that said, I picked up my closest shoe, a shower sandal and smacked the body with all the force my controlled fear could muster. It was far too uch and as the sound reverberated off the wall the most remarkable of things happened. Instead of squishing flat, as should happen in such cases, the darkness on the back of the large epitome of nightmares scattered across my walls with great speed. That is when I realized what I had done. You may call it instant karma but as I stared at the fifty baby tarantulas scattering across my wall three thoughts raced through my brain. 1) It wasn’t camouflage. 2) That’s what I get for killing another creature, and the last. 3) If those babies got into my roof space I was f&*^ed! All three of these thoughts were the first three seconds. The fourth second after the murder found me squishing baby tarantulas with… my fingers. That’s right folks. Miss Arachno-spray was now hunting living tarantulas as they fled across her walls, into her clothing, and into her photo book with her bare fingers. Granted they were no larger than the head of a pin but it makes absolutely no difference.

How was this feat accomplished?

The thought of fifty pin sized spiders becoming fifty giant tarantulas all residing above my head. A plank of wood does not offer adequate protection from that situation. That’s all that kept me going. When the genocide was complete and the large corpse had been relocated outside of the house I washed my hands, scrubbed my nails and then realized what I had done.

Then I took a shower. And scrubbed till it hurt.

Thus did I learn my lesson about squishing insects. Three days later I woke to see a giant ciacid ( the screaming bugs) sitting on my computer next to my bed. I carefully picked up the computer and flung the insect out the door. Lesson learned.

Thank you mother nature.

The quiet that comes in absence is suffocating Where the happiness held between selves Lay in the shallow light of morning The emptiness has taken its hold Leaving only memories The stillness overwrites the laughter Of bubbling brooks gone to stone Echoes and remnants are all that remain But listen close and you will hear The whisper Of heart songs

There’s so much pleasure in aging Discovering the wonders In your life The world only shrinks as it grows larger Imagination never satisfied Explores continents And waitsFor you to catch up

I remember the smells Small gnawing pains of hunger Eating foods still undone A day of magical disappearing acts “Who ate the brie?” Samples leaving trays in laughter Similar smiles within similar faces tell stories Unfolding in details Aromas surround conversations Until the feast Basking in glows of love The family provides Bellies full, retiring to games Waiting to return and revisit again A day of cooking Hours of joy We continue.

Hunting flies takes a great deal more work than you could ever expect. Before we begin: Like any athletic activity prepare your body for the effort with a good stretching and breathing routine to warm up your muscles and your mind. First you must train yourself in the art of spotting the black splotch against your wall that is different than the dirt, tarantulas or any other miscellaneous that may be posted there. Next you will need your weapon; an old rag is preferably as you are hunting truly dirty little bugs, although any piece of cloth will suffice. Then you need nothing but patience. Track your target as it flies, unsettled, although with some practice you will be able to sneak up on the little suckers and skip straight to the killing. The next is not for the weak of heart. Once your quarry has landed cock your arm into a position appropriate for throwing, take a small inhale for the effort and swing that cloth as fast and as hard as you can, although depending on the surface you may wish to hold back a little of that strength. In time you will become a master at the art and you will find yourself an efficient killer, with no need to stalk the same fly twice. Since we are just starting however, you may find the need to do so. In that case track the fly with as little movement as possible since it will only settle that much faster. Once you have again lulled it into the stupor of false security, prepare and adjust your attack as is necessary. Once you have successfully cleaned out the host of flies that love to claim your dwelling for their own, sweep up their little remains or point them out to your dog for immediate consumption. Unlike most creatures, flies are not daunted by the death of their own so dispose of their little carcasses as fast as possible. Side note: this is a great way to pass a good fifteen minutes in your day and can be quite therapeutic. Try enhancing this de-stressor of an activity with a little mood music, incense, or a good snack (after you wash your hands). Use this activity to relieve tension, release aggression, or concentrate instead on using it to clear your mind. Can be used as a substitute or ending to your morning or afternoon yoga routine.

Mangos! Glorious mangos have come top Madagascar! All sorts of sizes and colors can only add to the absolute excitement that I have walking into market these days. Long narrow mangoes are three for 200 Ar, the larger green and yellow mangoes are 200 Ar ( 10 cents) each! Green and yellow on the outside but sweet and tangy succulent yumminess on the inside! Then, to only add to the sweet fleshy happiness that is now characterizing each and every day, the local Farmer’s market that happens here every Friday brought the arrival of tiny brightly colored mini mangoes that are deceptively hard on the outside but inside; a brilliant flash of sweet bright orange meat surrounding a tiny pit! Delicious! How much are these beauties? 800 Ar for a kilo ( 2.2 lbs for 40 cents). Just wonderful. Sure, my new choice of snack is a tad bit messy but once you start eating them the mess only helps you continue to eat them, afterall, the mess is already a mess! The only thing that cues the end is when the bag is empty or my teeth are so full of mangoe fibers I can no longer rip into the juiciness! Just siit down in the backyard, lean over your legs and dig in. Don’t worry about messy drippings and droppings. That’s what dogs and chickens are for. And…I need more dental floss. (Lol) Anyways, besides the arrival of mangoes nothing new ever happens or is happening in my town. My kids are still learning, the cattle are still pulling carts around, the men are still driving the pigs back and forth from markets. The butchers still hack into bones, the grocers still drip water on bright green leaves to catch your eye and to keep them looking healthy. There’s a political reform thing going on that is restricting a bit of our movement and the “president” of Madagascar is coming to my town next Monday although I will be staying as far as possible from that place. Every day is the same, working to live, living your work, and now….eating mangoes in between time. I love mangos.

Next month- PEACHES!

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Do you remember that show? I watched loyally as I was growing up ( not that growing up can ever be relegated to past tense) and it was possibly the first book series I ever read along with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. But yes, an episode of that show can almost be applied to most of my days here. “Pa, there were bullies at school (market) today and they said mean things ( that I cant speak Malagasy)” “That’s ok Laura. Let me teach you about conflict resolution.” “You mean I cant just punch them in the face?” “That’s not conflict resolution. That’s conflict exacerbation.” “Oh.” Of course I am most members of the cast on most days. Everyone from the blind sister, to the rugged father. The hard working mother, the playful son or the willful and wily Laura who learns the difficult frontier lessons with her own unique style. And so finishes my book report. No, in all actuality, life here is wonderful and although the rude and inconsiderate people exist in no matter what level of development a country may be standing in, there are also many friendly and hospitable people to color the scene. My families, for example that continue to invite me to play dominoes and to chat with them are just those kind of people. Friendly, open, welcoming, struggling and still smiling. I have earned a great deal of respect for my community that I didn’t feel before. Everyone works here. Small children carry small buckets of water, big children watch out for their younger siblings and cousins and clean dishes, wash the floors, and carry food to the animals. Young boys herd young cows, young girls herd younger children. Women care for the house and the fields, and the food, and the children and the money. Men cart, carry, dig, build, weld, fix, and overall tend to the basic workings of our community. And I? I educate. I get children to practice English phrases with a glow of pride on their little faces to accompany the edge of nervousness in their little voices. Hopefully I will give them a small amount of time to hope for life outside of this constant turning of the wheel, and maybe work towards something different: college in America, travel, working in offices and cities to better the lives of their own, a career outside of farming, vending, planting, or breeding. Who knows. Mine is the only work that doesn’t show immediate results and fruits of my labor but I can only look forward to the long run. (shrug). Such is my lot loving accomplished. Cleo gets bigger and bigger every day, and demands more and more food to eat. This is a problem some days when she refuses to eat sweet potatoes instead of potatoes, or waits for the cold rice to be reheated. Brat. She’s a brat. That’s what I get for giving her a name to instill strength, cunning and stubbornness. I swear I fully believe in the power of names. She’s also a wonderful companion, escorting me in the darkness to my kabone, to the market, and about on my errands. She created her first growls of warning this last week and is now barking at people approaching me in a small gesture of protection. Its still cute because she’s still small (comes up to me knee). Small is, of course, relatively speaking as she is a puppy and will eventually become a monster. For now though she only acts as big as her name and has yet to grow into all that fur. October brought my one year anniversary since I left country. Can you believe it? What did you do last year? I traveled to three different countries, met people that will thrive in my heart and memory forever, was adopted by five different families, completed 3 months of training in two different languages and lived in three different communities affecting countless people, mainly children. I shard my culture and myself and learned and adapted to things that I never even considered anywhere in the realm of possibilities. I ate foods I would have gagged thinking about and liked (most of) them. I explored Paris for a day, Niger for 6 weeks, and created a life in Madagascar twice. And last year I was sitting at home in San Diego, on the internet, eating a chicken burrito. (Still wish I was eating those burritos.) I gained a sense of pride, accomplishment and adventure in my daily existence to replace the boredom and discontentment I felt constantly in a stale life I never contented myself with. That’s quite the year. In fact, its horrible to admit to myself that I accomplished more in the last year that in the last three. Its rough, although without regret when you realize that the only person holding you back was yourself although at the same time, the only person who could push you into and through the change is also yourself. That helps eradicate the feelings of self guilt that may occur. Halloween came and went without much notice. One day I was writing on the board in my class and the student asked for the date. That was the only reason I realized Halloween was the following weekend. My mind flashed with decorations, store fronts dressed in orange and black, children chattering about costumes, adults planning parties, teenagers planning to drink as though no one will notice. That all means nothing at all here, but there were a few dance parties in the regional capitals. The dancing was great, the party wasn’t a party. But still, I love to dance. Constantly dwelling in my mind are my kids, their classes, and our most recent speaking projects. Held a project in my class the other week where the students had to use the future tense to create responses to a few questions I had written on the board. One of them was “You have 1,000,000 Ariary. What will you do?” The responses varied but the two most cutting were: “I will buy medicine.” “I will eat.” Those almost killed me. I didn’t know how to respond and felt a little silly that my example for that sentence was travel, buy a car, and go on vacation. Just a little stab to the heart, a little blood, and no facial expression. No one laughed, no one giggled. They all agreed and the next group shared their sentences. Rough. And now here’s a happy transition. Speaking of 1,000,000 Ariary though, I have already started planning my Christmas break. Morondava baby! Woohoo! Known for the most photographed place in Madagascar, the Avenue of Baobabs, Morondava rests on the west coast, the shore line of the Mozambique channel. Six days of seafood, swimming, photographing, more eating, and relaxing and sightseeing are in store for me! It is also a large cultural capital ( African predominantly due to the location) and has large celebration feasts on holidays, like Christmas when I’m there so hopefully I will be able to go to one of those as well. There are also large tombs in the area that are supposed to be amazing to see. I am so very excited and can not wait! In fact, its powering me to make it through the mental tiredness. A few more weeks and I’m off to surf, shellfish, and massive trees! Such a sweet deal and will hopefully be a pleasant distraction from the sadness that comes with the holiday seasons. I miss making cookies with Pam, opening stockings that jingle on my bed, sitting and staring at the Christmas tree, shaking presents, smelling pine mixed with cinnamon and roasting food, laughing, drinking eggnog, sleeping through excitement. Twinkling lights, orchestras, and comfort food. Sugar plum fairies, nutcrackers, partridges resting in trees, Charlie Brown searching for his tree and Snoopy dancing on a piano. No matter what I’m doing, those memories remind of what I’m missing, not that I ever cared about missing it before. But, now, they are only memories, not expectations. But here, children hope to eat, to have medicine for family members, to visit family, maybe take a vacation to a nearby town. I feel like I should slap my own knuckles. So much appreciation for so many things in so many ways. So that’s that for now. There is a wonderful proverb in Malagasy that seems only fitting right now as the holidays approach along with my one year anniversary in country. “Be like the Chameleon. Always looking forward with a quick glance behind.”

So, with the help of fantastic herb seeds sent from home, I was finally urged to do my garden project. Four days, three blisters, and two children later its finally done. No sprouts yet but Ive (hopefully) got pumpkins, tomatoes (two types.. I forgot there were different types of tomatoes. Imagine how funny it was to me after a year here to receive three different strains of tomatoes in a package. I just stared at the three packages dumbfounded. Then read the directions.), cucumbers, local zucchini, local chilis called sakay, beans, bell peppers, rosemary, basil, cilantro, garlic, chives, some pretty flowers, and something else I cant remember at the moment. Anyways... here are some pics of the place!

Local boys helping me it. After seeing a tarantula in the water pump room I hired the boy with red sleeves to fetch water twice a week. I pay him pretty well according to the local family.

This is the herb planter where hopefully tasty seasonings will grow. Yes I built the lopsided circle although it has since been corrected.

My little flower planter and dish washing area. Old desks come in handy. Creativity is a must in this lifestyle.

Watching the boys working in the dirt, the girls stayed clean but were awestruck when I was down in the dirt picking out roots, rocks and trash. Apparently people of my "standing" shouldnt get so dirty. I told them I loved it and they laughed and whispered for a good 30min straight

Even Cleo got in on the fun. Although at this point she is trying to dig up a tea plant.

My house is still in the works but here are some preliminary pics for all you curious peeps!

The kitchen which is across from the shower

The shower area with my custom shelves for bathroom stuff I rarely use :)My little study/work/eating room. Its a little messy at the moment as I prepare for 17 classes, two english clubs, and a teachers english club... oh and 5 english courses for the community.. oh and my radio class too. Ok thats it I swear.

My front door. I love my glass doors, except right now when I dont have curtains and many children are oh so curious.

My cute pink house. I know the pics arent in order but sh&* happens.

Do you ever feel like your life is a show? Being separated from American culture, I am embarrassed to say that I cannot remember the title of this movie because in life, movie titles don’t actually matter. And while names like Ed Sullivan and Andy Griffith keep popping up in mind, I’m thinking of the movie with Jim Carrey about the man who is raised in a bubble as a 24 hour show. While my brain struggles for the title I can remember the movie very well. That’s exactly how I feel, except that in this scene I am the director, actor, producer, and writer for everyone involved. This carries with it several interesting perspectives as I am both completely immersed and completely detached. Although the very suggestion that I can be both clearly negates the completely part of those two statements. These days the dreams are becoming repetitive. They are dreams about home that involve two of three things on a continuous basis: 1) teaching my family and friends Malagasy phrases. 2) eating 3) lace underwear. Not the most likely of dream combinations but trust me when I say that my creativity has come to all new heights in the last month, albeit subconsciously, to perfectly blend at least two of the three topics into one seamless transition. If you asked why I could only tell you what I have come up with (Ill limit this to the top five. There are many hours in the day and the first three are usually spent with a hot cup of olive tea and me sitting in the small warmth of the sun wondering what the hell was going on last night): 1) I am bored with the food here. Although I have recently added 5 jars of peanut butter and 4 cans of corn to my constant supply of food I am desperately bored with my meals on a daily basis. Thus I dream of fantastic extravagance or weird food experiments with parents. Salmon in any form, beef that has flavor, plump chicken cake/brownies, and other such fantastic things. Don’t get me started on Mexican food. It litters my dreams at least three times a week. I was able to find chicken pieces of a good size in market on Monday and made some skillet chicken with fried potatoes (serving as lunch and dinner) but its only in the big market otherwise I would be on a severe chicken kick. Added cow heart back into my diet for something new and gave a cow tongue to my dog, thinking maybe I would try it too. But, my own tongue threatened mutiny in the form of upheaval so I let Cleo feast while I stuck to my chicken instead. 2) I speak a lot of Malagasy. I’ve noticed, with a small amount of pride, that my language has gotten so much better. In my daily life I have stopped speaking English, with no classes, or fluent friends in town, my only language in market and around the house is Malagasy. My writing keeps my mind fresh on my vocabulary while some of my friends have complained of vocabulary loss. Luckily enough I have a lot of words I can lose before that point but I keep writing anyways as I find my inner voice chattering nonstop these days and my eyes constantly flashing towards my computer or journal. My journal is starting to lose room as I slowly fill up its pages and so I turn more and more often towards this outlet. 3) I miss nice underwear. Ok no joke. There are two things that, in my comfortable yet un satisfying life in the states, I could buy on a daily basis without flinching: necklaces and underwear. Why? I have no idea. Men have asked for years, and curious women have considered why it is that women are in love with cute and sexy underwear and the truth is this. We love wearing it for ourselves. It has absolutely nothing to do with you and while we are thrilled that you enjoy these things that is only a side affect. Now, granted, there are many of use that love the basics but even those women will reach out for the cute polka dots, animal patterns and fun colors to add to their collections. Living with the same 10 pairs in two colors for the last….year! (holy crap I’ve been here for a year) has done absolutely nothing for my compulsion towards dainty frills and every morning I find nothing at all intriguing about my first layer of dress in the morning. I dream about lace and colors and stripes and patterns and anything besides the same shades of black and periwinkle blue. And I have never in my life had to sew my bottoms. When you begin to set aside an hour in your week to mend your undies you lose all interest in them as attire and begin to see them along the same line as socks. It really is a sad business. 4) I am excited to come home. For those of you who don’t know, I will be more than likely extending my service for another year. I really wanted to contribute two full years to a community and I am in absolute love with the one I am living in so I am thinking of staying. I have until January to decide. On that note, Peace Corps gives me a month of home leave before my third year begins so that I can relax and restock and visit with my family. I would be lying if I said that didn’t make a difference in my decision process. And so I am wistfully, in my sleeping moments, dreaming about home. Sharing experiences, seeing friends, getting big enthusiastic hugs from long lost people, and enjoying what American life has to offer with a whole new perspective. And while, realistically, I may go a little insane from the back transition, I am looking forward to everything I know is out there and making mental plans to visit people, go diving, eat, go to the movies, see a mall, shop (for undies!), drop off souvenirs, and bring back yummy things from the states for friends and for my kids. 5) Last but not least I am overall extremely tired. And in my tiredness my brain is reconstructing my top three things that I think of in passing, on a daily basis. With a new puppy in the house, my school year starting very soon on the 12th of October, and my project ideas running through my days, I find myself in bed by 7:30 and waking up at 6 with the puppy every morning. After a year of not sleeping an entire night my brain has adapted into auto pilot. When I add my kickboxing, ab workouts (first time in my life I’ve used a workout video but I love it!), gardening and daily house cleaning to keep away the tarantulas ( I repeat….TARANTULAS) I am f&^*ing tired every night and love the slightly uncomfortable albeit warm bed I can slip into every night. Then as my lights switch off my brain regurgitates the thoughts that had been pushed into the back of my mind everyday. I may be bored with the food but there’s nothing to be done about it. I enjoy speaking Malagasy but remind myself to do my brain puzzle books to keep my English keen. I even speak to the dog in both languages. I hate my underwear but our local mall is located is located in South Africa and I still have a stubborn aversion to someone else’s used unmentionables. And the tiredness, well that’s only a frame of mind for the first half of the day and by the second half, well, my nightly routines kick in and there’s no time for tiredness until its done. So since there is nothing to be done about all of these things, I, the director, decide to create a character with strong will and endurance to conquer the difficulties ahead of myself. I, the scene writer, decide to write myself into a long plane flight back to America (temporarily of course) and begin considering the range of emotion that I as an actor will be able to convey to myself the viewer. I, the wardrobe coordinator, scan the piles of used clothes constantly to outfit myself, the teacher, better in my environment and hold back the discouragement while hoping the camera catches the display of facial emotions that appear whenever a new hole is discovered in my dainties. I, the head chef of a one man team, decide to blend spices and flavors that I would have never considered in a direct effort to create something different. Instead of thinking what I want to eat I think of how I want to eat it and create a taste from there. I watch as I eat every creation, hoping to see that my work has paid off and that I have somehow succeeded in impressing myself. With every ruined creation however, I worry that I will be fired, and so strive to accomplish some great feat where food from my childhood is recreated in a completely different setting. And now, that this great gooble of garble is finally over, I can begin to shoot the next scene that stars me pouring over books of English lesson plans and creatively creating activities for my English club to start on the 20th. I haven’t written the script yet but I have told myself that more than likely we will be relying on the soundtrack for noise as my part will be most likely silent. Scene 9,946, take 1.…Action!

These days things move smoothly in the quiet of the hours. I spend my time getting to know people, talking as much as possible, working on a radio show program and preparing ideas for classes. Its not the most exhilarating experience, I know, but its still an experience. What can I say?

I cook, I clean, I wake up, I shower (sometimes) I look at my garden while drinking my hot tea in the morning and think about what I want to plant when I get my hands on my seeds, then dream about abundant plants sprouting near my house at night. I like green.

I have a puppy! She’s beautiful and huge and an absolute terror right now to my lack of interior decorations. Thank god for cement floors and OLD used clothing or I may have considered myself insane to go through this again. She’s possibly a German shepherd mix although the little weasel of a man trying to sell her to me for WAY to much money said she was a better breed than that. To me she looks a little like an elk hound but that’s what wishful thinking will do to you. She does, however, have the black and tan on the face of a German shepherd, although no black on her sides, finished with a black tail with a tan strip underlying. Little white booties and a little patch of a white crest on her chest compliments her whole look. I named her Cleo, after the clever Cleopatra, hoping the name will imbibe some of the attributes. So far the stubbornness is the only one apparent. But shes just so dang cute and is already proving herself a devoted companion in her own puppy ways.

I am feeling much more myself these days than I have in the past month as my life settles in and the rocks are pulled from my path. (There are always more rocks). I found myself today wishing for an old green sweater in the chill of the morning. It was my favorite sweater I wore all the time at home when it was cold. The mossy green combined with the warmth of the yarn made it golden in my eyes. I just find it funny that I think should think now of possessions I have left at home when I cant summon to memory more than 5 total. I feel more enticed by my surroundings too. Moving her was very strange; to feel the separation from your home again in a country where I have felt at home in so many places. For a week or so I felt like an observer only, observing myself dwindling through the day, the assistance of the videos pilfered from another volunteer and that helped my day move a little bit different. I forced myself to go into town every day at least once if not twice to meet or talk with someone in an effort of strengthening a relationship and was rewarded with two people asking me for money and two people with whom I am now on a touching basis. (Remember from many blogs ago that touching is an act of comfort and friendship among women in Malagasy communities.(Just in case that comment caused an arch in one or more eyebrows.)) I do find my creative inspiration coming along on its own terms also as I find myself thinking of stories already begun and stories still unwritten in physical form. When I am quiet enough to hear my muse speak again, then I know I am alright.

Afternoons usually find me lying in the sunlight reading a book. Because of this daily habit I have once again resumed my habits of chewing through books in mere days (at most). In the last week alone I finished Moretta, Dragonlady of Pern, by Anne McCaffrey, Their Eyes Were Watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston ( phenomenal book!!!!) and Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulemia, by Marya Hornbacher. A strange mix to be sure but since most of our reading materials come by whatever we can get our hands on you cant afford to be in anyway picky. Their eyes was an absolutely wonderful book and after reading it (took a little longer as it is written in the dialect of old south) it is easy to see why it has reached so much acclaim in so many circles. I wish it had been picked out to be read in my women’s studies class back in college (not that I went to that class but three times due to the dronamatic tones of the professor) so I at least would have had the exposure to it. Wasted is also an amazing reflection of the self. No, I was obviously never bulimic or anorexic but the reflection of struggle and mental wavering of growing up in an emotionally imbalanced household most people, including myself, can connect with and I found myself nodding my head and recognizing so many of the self realizations and self destructive tendencies she tried to follow in her quest to reach unattainably set standards. How many of us know this truth and refuse to see it? It was a wonderful book. This week I have started The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, by Alexander McCall Smith which is already proving to be quite captivating although I am forcing myself to read only a chunk a night in fear that I will eat the book and find myself with an empty plate all too soon. There is a sadness when a good book ends, like saying goodbye to a close friend with who you have shared the secret of the mind. There’s also the intense need for the satisfaction of discovering the secrets within the pages. it’s a difficult game to play but ultimately one queen will be forced to surrender.

This morning is very cold. It is a morning for warm pancakes and steaming syrup, or eggs and toast, or hot oatmeal with goodies. I had hot tea, but it was a delicious hot tea made from olive leaves and accented with a type of sweetened condensed milk and sugar. it’s a deliciously sweet and not so nutritious breakfast, but when your daily life forces you outside in the cold you do what you can to accommodate. Already this morning I have washed dishes, considered the absence of my favorite sweater from home, made and drank a cup of tea, wrote this blog, changed the sheets on my bed (puppy accident which will hopefully never be repeated), stretched out my legs from yesterdays exercise video and listened to at least eight tracks of classical music. Once finished with all this I will go into town and get eggs (hopefully) and a small wheel of cheese that will last me two days, three at most. I will consider dinner but defer it until later when I am more informed of my interests for the day. I will walk around my community waiting to be called a vazah so that I can introduce myself as the new teacher here and will smile and greet every person my eyes connect with. I will feel a wave of loneliness as I move through the streets, aware that there are more eyes recording my actions than I care to count and will feel the need to find a family in this new place. I will sweep my house 3-4 times, finish another three lesson plans before my brain burns out but I will feel a small sense of accomplishment in writing out Malagasy and English script for my radio show( 11 weeks, 2x a week, 22 lessons) , lose a few more games of minesweeper advanced but remind myself that in the last 4,000 games I have won one, then watch the day dwindle until around 4 when I begin preparing dinner to eat around 5 and have myself washed and in warm clothes for bed around 630. In bed physically but not asleep I will stay awake until around 8 or so then succumb to the sleep that is so badly needed. Thankfully this routine will go through overhaul once the school year gets closer and begins. But as for now I am subsisting. Happy, and still feeling like I am on the right track Ill go to sleep knowing that when I wake up tomorrow I will do it all again.

I wish I could play a game of chess. That is the amount of time I feel these days.

　

　

　

~

Darkness falls

Slaughtering sleeping shadows

Left behind

Resigning His post

Light leaves

To lovers desires

　

............................................................................................................................　

She plays in the abandon of age

Not knowing is half the battle

The other being death

...............................................................................................................................　

　

They say everything has its place

But how do we know

The ‘x’ of the map

Is not the ‘x’ of the next

But ours

Rest your eyes in carefree comforts

And cease to worry

Of destinations

　............................................................................................................................　

How to say what is a life

Warmth of touch

Companionship

Love

Coldness of the dark

Unknowing

Silence

Essential ingredients for the gift

Of the present

　...........................................................................................................................

To the old it is patience

To the young it is flight

To those moving mountains

It is dedication not of body

But spirit and mind

Constance

Not only found in sorrow

Approach and departure

We move

Scaling summits

　

................................................................................................................................　

　　

I once dreamed

A place so real

I cried when I woke

Of creatures so large

The ground shook when they spoke

Afraid of the size

Afraid of the chores

Afraid of my life

From here the rain pours

I learned to wake up

As the years went on

I learned to breathe

To sacrifice the pawn

Not just once

More than I could count

Whenever feelings of control

Were in no large amount

Lost in a dream

From a world that fades

How often you feel small

In the game of charades~

Well I have officially moved in and begun the process of exploration and making friends. My bitter thoughts of lost accomplishments in my last community have started to fade as I am slowly making myself known in my community. It’s a daily process of walking to market, meeting new people and slowly dispelling the stories concerning the new white person in the neighborhood. The loneliness is a daily struggle that gets easier and easier as I refuse to allow myself to sink into a morose state of mind which is all to easy in an entirely new place.

These days are full of organizing, reorganizing, laundry and planning. Lots and lots of planning. House planning, furniture planning at the carpenter, food planning ( usually involving me staring at my small food section in my kitchen and then creating something fantastically simple) and program planning. I am to have a radio show twice a week teaching the local area English over a radio program, as well as a mandatory English club for the children at my school, as well as normal classes and an English class for teachers. I am also hoping to work with the other 3 English teachers directly throughout the school year with any grammar questions, methods for teaching new concepts etc. My English club will sing, watch films, hopefully dance, ( wouldn’t it be fun to teach a bunch of kids to salsa or swing???!!!!) and put on theatrics. it’s a very exiting time, although it will mean a lot of work I am excited to see how it goes.

My days consist of a small routine, although it will change soon with the school year beginning on the 11th of October. I wake up in the morning to the darkness of my room and the sound of ox carts on the street below my house. I wait a little, usually mentally committing myself to the day and tackling the feelings of wanting to continue sleeping in order to avoid what I most surely have to do. I roll out of bed and force myself to do a ten minute yoga routine I have on my computer which I pilfered from another volunteer. We love our workout dvd’s here. I don’t like the routine very much but it does its job. It also makes me realize I need to sweep y floor which I mentally commit myself to do later. I slip on my sandals ( called Scooby doo’s here (no joke)) and head into the kitchen, usually warily eyeing the dish from the night before and then staring at my small pantry. Breakfast may consist of oatmeal, peanut butter and bananas (I’m absolutely addicted although I limit myself to one HUGE spoonful of peanut butter a day after I ate a small can in two and cant replenish my stock until I go in to my banking town an hour down the road once a month), tea with sweetened condensed milk ( a big favorite around here) or eggs if I have truly planned ahead. Without Chance to eat in my house cooking has become slightly boring and I am having to retrain myself to cooking for one again. After breakfast I stare at my room for a little bit and put on music to make myself move and do chores. The first four days in this new town was all laundry…after a month I had accumulated quite a lot. These days there is not much left. A small move, a small motion to organize. Doing the dishes, sweeping the floor, reminding myself to buy something here and there. Thinking of plans, thinking of all the other things I should be doing, thinking of the lesson plans I have to write, mentally writing the lesson plans, looking up a Malagasy word I didn’t recognize the day before ( today’s words are Mangarona - to snatch with the hand and Mandromboka- to grab), staring at my bookshelf deciding if I want to read a new book or re-read an old favorite, wondering when friends or parents will call, picking up my phone to check my credit, re-asking myself if I do want a cat or dog, thinking of my next travel plan and the things I will have to buy when in Antsirabe ( my large banking town down the road with all the good stuff) then preparing to go to town. I go to the market around mid-morning… each day it gets easier to go as going to the market is far more than just an outing. It is people staring, asking questions, asking each other questions not truly ready to believe that I can speak their language, asking for prices, trying to say a friendly hello to the same ladies every day and each day being rewarded with a little bit more of a conversation beyond “what do you want to buy?”, and of course having to ward off at least one man with either too much liquor or too much testosterone…which ever comes first. After market I do another little workout while waiting for lunch to finish cooking, or bleaching if its fruits and veggies, or for my water to finish dripping through the purifier because I forgot the night before to fill up a new bottle. I scold myself although not for too long, after all waiting is what Madagascar is about.

A few days ago I had the chance to walk around my community and meet the local officials with my director. A few need no mention but the two that do is the Chief of the District who broke out his English the moment he met me and the Commisaire of Police who made me laugh so hard I almost cried. He had three questions of great importance that he produced with so much flair that Hollywood looked dull.

Question #1: If you fall in love will you stay? “yes”

Question #2: Do you like it here? “yes”

Question #3: Do you like pork and greens? Too which I responded a very enthusiastic yes ( its one of my favorite dishes and dangerously enough, I can cook it quite well.) that caused him in turn to break out in a wonderful raspy laugh as he jumped and slapped his knees. This shocked the hell out of me coming from a community official but the entire office broke out in a great loud peal of laughter and he settled back into his chair, lighting up a cigarette and placing a hand on his knee. His face was wonderfully wrinkled from sun and years, he still had most of his teeth and he sported his blue suit of status wonderfully well with one leg crossed over the other and my blue nationality card in his hand. I looked to my director and turned back to the Commissarie, opened my mouth and then closed it again as he handed me my papers. He gestured for me to continue what I was going to say as I fought to hold back the laughter and tears that just couldn’t stop. After a day of worrying about first impressions he was a wonderful end and I could feel the stress lifting with each wrinkle of expression that crosses his face.

“I think I love you” I said, forcing the words out through my laughter.

“No, I’m already married.” He replied with all the seriousness of a great response. He held the expression for about 5 seconds of silence as I pretended to be ashamed with the same amount of fortitude as he pretended to be serious. In laughter we left his office, and the rest of the day flew by quickly.

Coming home from my afternoon jaunts I grab and fill my two buckets at the tap in the schoolyard enjoying the strain on my arms ( sick pleasures right?) as I find a new method of smoothly and quickly walking, without spilling, back to my house. Then comes dinner time.

The genius design of my house leaves me without a light in both my kitchen and bathroom area but this is no big thing as I am thoroughly joyful to have any lights at all in my humble abode. So, I cook by candle light although some days I am too hungry to wait until dark and so finish my cooking as the last hint of light is taken from the sky. I choose my movie for the evening from my small selection, usually trying to pick the one I haven’t already seen ten times ( most of them by now fit in the 10-20 category) and sit at my table and enjoy my food, soup for the most part. Its freaking freezing (pardon the adjective) and all I want by the end of the day is something hot in my stomach. Also, due to the limited counter space soon to be fixed with the addition of a cooking table, it is far easier to hand chop veggies into a pot and add seasoning than it is to take on any large ordeal. Tonight as I am writing this I am planning eggs over potatoes. The potatoes here are delicious and I can find cheese too! And, since I am no longer in the hottest place my house acts as a refrigerator and things like jellies and cheese don’t go bad right away! Imagine that! As you look into your refrigerator today you can think of my cheering for joy in the cool temperatures of my house that my cheese will last 4 days instead of none and smile at the simple tidbits that truly make life great. Don’t for the first minute think that I envy you and your wonderful controlled environments but I definitely have an entirely new sense of appreciation for so many small things: towels that are clean, water I don’t have to count bleach drops, food I can pop into my mouth without so much as a second of forethought, any dish I want delivered to my door, sushi ( Ok that actually I am incredibly envious for and cant wait for the moment I get into the United States. I am going to eat as much raw fish as I can pack in and then go back for more- no joke) clothes that shrink in the dryer, underwear that last longer than a few months because of the rate that hand scrubbing eats fabric, smooth feet - never had them but I have apparently convinced myself that back in the states there is NO WAY my feet were this bad, and last but not least a flushing toilet. Not that I mind my new hole in the ground as it is much cleaner than my last location but seriously, the cool tile floor beneath your feet and the decorated room with its clean white sink and little soap and towels to match the color scheme. I remember these things with fondness and a wistful tilt of the head. (Just did it again.)

Oh and sauces. I found a small bottle of Worcestershire sauce at the market and splurged on it and I have cooed over that bottle lovingly for at least a week now. Now go look in your pantry. No really. The expression I could give you right now if this was a live conversation would be one of narrowed eyes, a strongly pointed finger in the direction of your nearest food storage and pursed lips threatening to smile. (Those of you who know me know exactly the face I am speaking of!)

After dinner I throw my three dishes into my plastic bin dedicated to tomorrow and heat two pots of water for my shower ( guilty pleasures), run to the hole for the last time that evening ( hopefully) start my water boiler ( another guilty pleasure) for my nightly tea and then make the worlds fastest and most inefficient shower happen. That is to say I literally throw five - ten large cups of water on my self before and after soap, telling myself Ill wash my hair tomorrow( about every three days I brave the cold for combing out the tangles) , and then, before the water cools, jump into a towel and into clothes gasping at the cold as though I am surprised, hurrying into the warmest fleeciest clothing I can find, grabbing my nightly tea and climbing under the blankets to finish the movie from earlier. (Best part of the routine because its fast and intensely satisfying in the end) I may write or read or just watch the film but either way it is the end of a day where some of the hours have actually been counted ( as in now). I tell myself that tomorrow I will begin to write my radio program, or begin/finish a new book, or start to design a border for the rooms of my house, plan the plots of my garden for when my seeds arrive or do something…different. But the things I do differently are never planned, or accounted for in the morning planning sessions, and the constancies are only things that I can create on my own. So I say goodbye for now, telling myself tomorrow I will take some pictures, or play with the ones I already have, I will organize the photos I want to print on my trip to Antsirabe or I will find a new way to hang up something that is one my floor.

Until next time!

Love-Me

OK maybe the frustrations end when you have moved? While no matter what you do to prepare: labeling bags, alphabetizing, making lists, etc.. things are always lost for days, or weeks and then found when they are no longer needed. I used to blame the garden gnomes that kept watch over my belongings waiting for the bet chance to pilfer and pillage my random junk drawer, closet shelf or backpack pocket.

Sly little buggers. But moving on.

I move into my new house tomorrow. After being pick pocketed of all my money in the station going to my new house last week, I am now heading back. A weeks worth of frustration and paperwork seems to have ended, (although not completely I'm sure) and my temperament has never needed a break more. So I will throw myself into a new nesting project! My Malagasy cottage with artistic flare!

My new house is wonderful. It is a literal house, on the school grounds at the CEG and closely located to the office buildings, but with 4 independent walls. It is painted pink(soon to be a new color) with wood doors separating each room and wood windows with real glass! There is a small room as you walk into the house with a beautiful table and book case just waiting for books and then two doors: one that leads to a small but very cozy bedroom with another huge bookcase ( this house must have been made for me I swear!) and a small back room with an area for a shower and a small kitchen. The house has nothing but potential as it is brand new and now has a creative new inhabitant. So...

I am thinking of painting a mural on one of the walls outside my house of a road with baobabs, much like the scenes I experienced on my travels south. Internally I am going to try and make a stencil to use in my house or beg for a neat one from the states to make some sort of trim to separate the vast whiteness of the walls. Many colored shears will hopefully decorate my three windows and small designs to enhance my door frames. My bed has already been ordered and blankets are available in Tana if I ever wanted to pay the money for them, but for now a maroon wool blanket will have to do just fine. Behind the house is a triangle of land, hidden away by the office buildings. This will be the site of my new garden and already I am planning squash, watermelon, peppers, carrots, butter lettuce, and tomatoes!!!! And of course, a small plot separate for an herb planter or maybe even independent pots. So many ideas!

And then a new puppy. Last week when I was getting to know my new banking town of Antsirabe, a man walked up with a fluffy white puppy who had no decoration save for a brown spot right on his butt. Of course I am in love immediately as it reminded me of a friend's dog ( Winny!) and so of home, but the timing was wrong and so I had to walk away, reminding myself that when it's meant to happen it will. Maybe a cat this time? Although in truth cats are for feeling aloofishly loved, dogs are for companionship.

Anyways- this will be me last post for a little bit. Hopefully my next will have new pics of my house, a chapter 2 of my travels south, and new stories about all the new people I am going to meet!

Till then!

Yesterday I was absolutely awash with thoughts and wrote none of them down. I thought of stories to write, letters still unwritten, letters recently sent, the people behind them, my life, the force and the smell of the wind ripping through my town, my new town to come, recipes, and so on and so forth.

I find myself lost and swept away in my thoughts on these slow and windy days in Maevatanana, but when I sit down to write they are gone, afflicted with stage fright they vanish at the very moment I turn on my computer. So in an effort to force a performance we being with an applause to disguise the begging and pleading. We humbly request for the top performance to perform, for the main act to act. And so we continue.

This morning after getting off the phone with my parents, I told myself to do nothing. I went to town to get meat for meals and vegetables ( I cant live without my tomatoes) and felt restlessness. I even felt my inner 4yr old begin to sulk and start whining boredom in her own private litany. Stopping at my friends house I examined the baby clothes she had just started to sell and felt something inside me disgustingly start to Ooh and Aah over the tiny hats, shirts, and pant suits. My friend, seeing the smitten reaction laced across my face told me to hurry up and get pregnant.

“Get pregnant. Then you can buy these clothes.”

“That’s not a reason to get pregnant. Besides I cant while I work for Peace Corps.”“No problem. When you are done, you stay in Madagascar and have babies. Then Ill give you this!”

She holds up a fleece onezie that has no business being in the hottest town in Madagascar.

I laughed to myself which prompted a similar response from the three pregnant women in various stages of pregnancy standing in front of me who were actually shopping for a reason. Having a fleeting thought of a poster advertisement for a fertility clinic I told my friend before I left the country I would have a beautiful baby and leave it for her as a souvenir. I said it as a joke, of course. She was absolutely thrilled.

The restlessness hit again, but my friends smiling face forced me to remain still in her house. Then, after my 4yr old and run out of energy and grew bored with being bored, my 50 yr old kicked in with a ‘just watch’ mentality. So, I leaned myself against the window sill and gave in to watching, people, cow drawn carts, children, and chickens. (Yes children are different than people) It was a struggle at first to make myself stop and watch but after only two conflicts we were perfectly at peace with the moment instead of finding ourselves lost in the moments that were coming.

I love olive tea. I love making it, the feel of the crunch leaves as you slip them into the boiling water, relieving the chef scene from Little Mermaid almost every time I do it.

“It don’t hurt cause you’re dead! And you don’t know how lucky you are…

Cause its gonna be hot in that big silver pot…

-Cue chesty laugh with a French accent….”

With a small smile to my own personal joke I can walk away and continue my business until the pungent aroma wafts through my small house, reminding me that it is time to drink.

A small amount of sugar and pure happiness for the taste buds. it’s a ritual in and of itself.

I sometimes laugh as I watch myself go about my business. If you have never watched yourself you simply must try it. It is absolutely one of the most entertaining things to do when you are surrounded by quiet. I watched as I washed the dishes, cursing slightly when the oily grungy water hit my legs. I listened today as I scolded myself when I discovered the trail of ants leading to a “clean” and completely grungy pan on my wall. I have no idea where my mind was when I thought it was clean, but there it was, hanging suspended on a nail with no more than a sliver of the fish caked rim hitting the wall thereby allowing a thousand ants to come and feast on yesterday’s delectable goodies. I laughed as I sighed and told myself that is what I get for not actually cleaning my dishes then enjoyed the smell of the water hitting the stucco wall as I washed the ant’s trail away. I laughed at myself when I accidentally flicked a piece of meat I was cutting for lunch into my face and watched as I grimaced and delicately removed it from under my eye and delivered it into the slobbering and hopeful mouth of my dog.

Then I watched as I realized I was watching all of this. We both laughed and I thought…” I should sit down and write today.”

And now I drink my olive tea, watching my dog chew sinew and bone ( her Sunday treat), wearing my lazy clothes and thinking of absolutely nothing to do.

Now I find myself thinking of the untold and private stories that are needing to be logged in my journal, explanations for myself of actions and the varied consequences and my thoughts on my life as we would understand it. But that can come later. Nothing needs to happen now, nothing has to happen now. The laundry sits on my floor but the day is still young. The meat sits in garlic oil waiting to be cooked but the hunger has yet to come. So for now it is simply now. Fingers tapping keys, toes flexing, breath moving in and out of my body and blood coursing up my neck into my mind, fueling everything, including the thoughts flowing back through my fingers tapping keys. Its actually quite beautiful. Most things are when we stop to experience them.

Walking in the dark I watch the boundary of the light stretching from my door

A boundary that I approach with each step.

A boundary that illuminates and darkens everything that moves.

Shadows stretch, larger than life, across lit fields

The boundary of the dark prompting and speaking of limitations

Limitations created only by the mind.

I see the edge and stop, my feet frightened by the darkness, the unknown stretching in front of me.

I close my eyes and the boundary is gone, darkness consuming everything, no light but my own

Internal glow to illuminate my steps, my thoughts, and my actions.

Open again there exists another boundary

Another light ahead reveals its substance.

Another, then another

With only darkness in between to separate.

In the dark there are no shapes but textures

No forms but mass to trip my step or to allow safe passage

The boundary itself exists only to my mind, my eyes see the edge and recognizes

But it in itself does not exist

Why do we create our boundaries

Recognizing limitations we accept

Where we can and cannot go

What we can and cannot do.

And are inspired by those who close their eyes to it all

Close your eyes and your minds runs free

My feet remember the ground trapped in darkness

My legs remember the edges of terrain, the dips, the rocks

I walk around them in my memories

And my feet follow my lead

The two combatants faced off in the ring. The size difference between the two, fearsome and awful to behold. In one corner a perfect four legged specimen of the symbiotic relationship between muscle and absolute nutrition. Directly opposite stood a six legged terror of enormous proportions- much larger then anything that could have been created in nature’s own design. It sharpened its blades with menacing authority, never taking its eyes off the bristling creature in the corner. They glared at each other, circling, sizing up their opponents strengths and weaknesses. The tension crackled in the air as the circling continued for two minutes, the spectators holding their breathe the entire while with fascinated anticipation. Finally the attack commenced in a flury of darting, snapping jaws, stabbing barbs countering the attack. Again a ferocious flurry, teeth, saliva, barbs, and chirps filling the small battle ring. Pausing to evaluate wounds the combatants wound their way through cloth and cement, the entire time considering attack or retreat, advantages and disadvantages of size and defense. Finally the attack commenced again, this time the larger of the two using their size to overpower the small and no less ferocious opponent. Towering over his small resilient body she lunged repeatedly downward, small crunches weakening his hard exterior. The defense began to slow, allowing for an increase in offensive attacks, each leading to further injury. Finally with a ruthless snap she had him in her jaws, thrashed her great head back and forth and the praying mantis’s body flew through the air. In a leap and growl of vicious victory Chance brought the crumpled body of the larger than life praying mantis into the bedroom to show me her triumphant trophy of crumpled indignation. I stared at her, praised her for keeping our house clean of the insects of the lost world ( I swear they are that big) and walked into the back room to continue my laundry. Not pleased with the praise she picked up her prize and followed me, stopping where I stopped to continue her feast and move again, resuming only when she was sure I had stopped for longer than a few minutes.

It was quite the day.

The thunder. It rolls in with layers of sound, thrilling and scaring those it approaches. It tickles the imagination, bringing memories of great battles, the bitter rivalries of the pantheons, stories of creation, trickery, and wrath. It brings hope of water and cool air, breezes to cool this dry climate, rain to water the lush vegetation. The thunder comes every day, sometimes announcing itself well ahead of schedule, sometimes with just enough time for a dash for cover before the driving rains. The rain itself can beat unmercifully, horizontally fuelled by intense winds shaking the very roots of the mango groves. Or it can be light and fall straight, only to intensify into a driving downpour and relent again into the light rain that tickles your skin and thrills the senses. It is the water and the source of so much life. It falls into the buckets placed meticulously beside each house to catch the precious water to be used in the next day’s bathing and cooking. It falls into the holes and cracks of ceilings and walls, ruining dry and restful places and families. It adds a new layer of rust to the already rusting structures serving as cafes, homes, and latrines. After the heat and dryness of the day you feel the earth breathe its relief as the rains wash away and ease the lands struggles. Safe under my solid metal roofed shelter the sound is deafening and comforting throughout the night. The winds sometimes threatening the very shelter I keep, promise a cool breeze and the body sleeps soundly with every storm. Every storm is a new experience I revel in. Every storm brings the relief the earth and I seek after the heat and sweat of the day and every roll of the thunder that lifts my eyes up to find its source picks up the pace of my heart in enjoyment. The lightning storms light up the sky most nights, sometimes closer than others but always prominent and astounding to behold. Raised in a place with a dull climactic stability, every storm is a new gift the night brings for me and I feel the rise of any temperament when the first sounds of thunder reach us through the hills. Even now the winds have picked up their pace promising the rains to come, my buckets are empty and waiting to catch the water that will fall and my mind rests easy with the thought of another night of unwakeful sleep. While I have lived here for a few months already the storms are still an excitement for me more than a nuisance. I have grown used to and fairly handy at reading the weather as its warnings begin to reach our community. Once you get used to the signs and the warning sounds you can read the directions of the clouds, and see those that will bring and begin the evening’s symphony. When the lightning does or doesn’t begin you can feel the intensity of the storm growing and you can’t help but feel how little you are in its path. When the first winds ruffle the leaves it’s as though the tree is giving you its own warnings. It is absolutely one of the most beautiful aspects of this country. And when the storm hits at sunset I am reminded instantly of why I am here.

This last week has been one of the hardest I have experienced so far. The week before I had been sick, and was finally feeling better on Saturday. Yeah for bacterial food poisoning. I let Chase out to play and realized an hour later that he wasn’t in his nap spot. In fact he wasn’t anywhere. I told myself not to worry but I truthfully was since as he was still in his puppy mode he never wandered far from the house without rechecking on me first. He then missed three naps and two meals. He never came home. Now, four days later, with the emptiness still in my heart I am realizing that more than likely he never will. Because he was stolen. Apparently, and I found this out after the fact or I would have never let him play with the kids by himself in front of my house, but apparently, some people will steal fat healthy puppies because they are hard to find because no one takes care of their dogs around here! Hence the reason I thought he was fine playing since no one seems to take any notice of any dogs anywhere. But apparently someone liked him well enough to take him home and not let him return. He knows where is his home is even though he’s just a little man still and he would have never wandered too far anyways. There is still one place to go check on as I have slowly walked the entire surrounding neighborhoods asking the local women and kids if they have seen him and listening for his sounds. I can’t harbor a bunch of hope though. He was little, and easily hidden. Maybe someday when he grows big and no one cares any longer about him I can find him again. Maybe not.

With Chase gone the loneliness and feelings of isolation have hit me hard. Not that I haven’t created relationships with some of the teachers here and other women in the community, and the kids are all fantastic. But at home, in my sacred place I had another small person who needed me as much as I needed him for a short while. And his absence is a fresh wound in an aching heart. This is no reflection of my community and I have spread the word with everyone I know that someone has stolen my dog, but it hurts. I didn’t fully recognize the companionship that had been forged so strongly and quickly between us, although the passion that I live my life with doesn’t make this impossible. I love my puppy and miss him every day I don’t see his face or wiggling body come to greet me, trying to rip my clothes, parading socks and underwear around the house or trying to eat my shopping bags. The possibility of another in the future is possible; a friends neighbor’s dog is pregnant and will deliver in about a month and she has offered a puppy to help with the hurt but as of right now I am denying it. I’m not ready to completely give up hope yet. Once I have searched the other half of this city I’ll know what my verdict is but there’s no rush. I miss my Chase.

This last week has been so fast I found myself waking up this morning and struggling to figure out what day it was. The thing that has helped the most with the week’s speed has been the formation of a routine as my daily schedule. While the routine varies only slightly it has helped give me small things to look forward to as I create my life here in Madagascar. I spend my mornings stretching, feed the dog and myself and relax and mentally walk myself through whatever classes I have for teaching that day. Then I process when I’ll go to market, when I’ll try to nap, when I’ll play with Chase and when I need to go get water from the water pump nearby. I went to my classes; this week introducing Bob Marley’s “Three Birds” as an incentive. I prepared an exam that is coming up next month with some other English teachers, planned an English class every Wednesday for the teachers here at the CEG, planned an adult language class for one of the nearby community groups at the private school here in Maevatanana and blew up condoms as balloons in a sex-ed class given by my friend in town. I cursed and loved my dog every day, killed the giant cockroach that had satisfied itself with living in my shower without my permission, realized that the giant rock in my shower was to block the shower drain the night that I was brushing my teeth and a rat poked its head into my shower, and figured out that I am completely inept at cooking green beans in this country. I sang for all my classes to a thunder of applauses and outbreak of laughter when I broke out a few dance moves as I sang then had them join in and went on a bike trip that kicked me in the BOOTAY!!! Ouch… I have no idea how men ride bikes… it just… hurts. And I’m a WOMAN! As though you didn’t know. And I wrote a letter to Katy so look for it in the mail lady!!!!

It was an eventful week and where each day gets its own flavor is in all the interactions, sometimes exhausting, that come every day without any planning. I can only structure my day here, I cannot plan, or control it nor do I actually want to. It’s all the unplanned and uncontrollable things that make it so phenomenal and such an experience that all I can do is organize what I need to get done and know that what will get done may be completely different. I meet many new people every day walking into town, some faces I recognize, some I will never see again. I receive market gifts from the vendors I visit for my daily vegetables and laugh and talk with the other vendors that are happy to laugh and talk back with me. I might grab a brochette or a coke at a shop or bring the food home but my daily walk has grown more and more a large part of my life here. Not that I don’t have my lazy days where I dream of stores full of safe food to eat, juices I can drink without fear, and meat I can eat without worrying how intensely I just cooked it. I miss my family and friends and the conversations I could be having, the hugging and laughing with my dad, relaxing with Katy at a beach or grabbing a burrito after a fun day of wandering with her wherever. Playing on my computer, swimming… I miss swimming more than I ever expected, looking forward to holidays or breaks from work, seeing the ocean I have seen my whole life. But realizing that these things are missing and gone give the memories of them such exquisite detail and importance and thinking about having them again almost takes the loneliness away. I hold my memories of friends and loved ones inside of me and carry them with me. A friend asked this week if I was afraid that life had moved on without me and I thought about this question before I had any sort of response only because in truth I didn’t feel at all that life had moved on without me as I feel only that I am finally moving with my life. But in the lives of family and friends? Yes their lives are continuing just as mine, and the paths that brought us together in the past have every possibility of bringing us back together in the future. When that happens we will all have more stories, more experiences and more light to enrich our already rich relationships. I have always believed and continue to believe that people come and go from our lives for reasons that we may not see at the time it happens. For those whose time in my life has ended I know it is for some reason or another that may or may not be known in the future. I cannot mourn the end of those relationships or be troubled by their passing as I have split from them on my path. But those whose time in my life has not ended I can only hold in my heart with the others and be patient and ready to feel the joy of being reunited with them again. I have had the happiness of meeting and creating a few relationships these last years with people that have contributed so much to my life and I know without a doubt that those relationships will continue to be there and that I am in their thoughts as their lives continue, just as they are in mine. That is all we can wish for when we make decisions we know are right! I love you all!

Random incidents with no particular order but all of interest to me! I hope you enjoy!

Walking in the rain to my director’s house late one night to tell him about someone stealing my puppy I get hit by something flying into my umbrella. At first I think it is yet another giant moth momentarily confused by my flashlight but notice something crawling on the ground. Then I realize it’s a small bat that is probably more than happy to realize that I am not a car. It’s is the first bat I have ever seen in person and I watched in fascination as it crawled a little dazed on the ground seeking shelter to reorganize its thoughts. I apologized quickly before continuing in the rain, in Malagasy of course. After all it is a Malagasy bat.

My first day in moving all my stuff into my new place and my friends come running in to tell me to come see the giant chameleon running on the ground. My Peace Corps director who had come with us for our installation walks in holding his hand. Apparently if you grab a chameleon by the body you are good to go. If you grab it by the tail…well… it is that flexible.

Cooking with my homestay family during the first week and we have guests who bring us four giant fish from the capital. I ask my host mom if I can help and assure her through gesture and broken sentences that I used to scale and gut fish with my dad whenever we got the chance. I was out of practice. Gutting fish is easy sure. There aren’t too many ways to make sure all the insides are outside. But scaling a fish. A life time of cut away from your body is still instilled in this new country so I hold the fish by the tail and slide the knife down its body. The fish, in some afterlife attempt of revenge, slips out of my grip, slides over the side of the bucket and into the lap of our guest. I look up, with a surprised look no doubt, the knife in one hand and fish slime in the other, see the surprised look on our guests face and my mom laughs so hard she can’t breathe for a few minutes. Actually, we all do. I shrug my shoulders and look up at all of my new family and say “Welcome home?”

In that first week at homestay I was desperate to do laundry and so had an assortment of dirty clothes in my room but with no area to put them in besides a neat pile on the floor. My host mom, as most moms do, had already attempted to tell me that she would clean my room each day for me. When I told her no because I was 26 she laughed it off. But she couldn’t get past the fact that I had a pile of clothes on my floor. So I promised her the next time I went in to the capital in the coming week that I would buy a large basket with which to hold my laundry. This appeased her for a short while, until I came back with no basket. Due to security measures our trip to the capital had us confined between two buildings with no chance to wander and shop on our own. At dinner that night my host mom asked why I hadn’t purchased a basket for my clothes. I had a fairly decent grip on the language at that time so I figured I would attempt to explain, in Malagasy, why I was unable to buy anything. I told her and my host dad that because of the security in the capital we were told that we couldn’t do anything. My host family was shocked and looked at each other then at me for any reaction to follow the comment and then back at each other again. They asked me to repeat so I did again, thinking I hadn’t used the correct words. I said…. “We were able to do… then made the gesture that would pass for “anything” in the states. My parents again looked at each other and back at me and finally my host dad said, “But you sleep alone.” At this I was completely confused as I did not understand the word alone yet and so had only understood, but you sleep. I repeated my sentence again, this time adding a few more about political elections and safety and where we stayed then repeated the same phrase and gesture from before. Their response was along with shocked expressions was the same. So I grabbed my language dictionary thinking I was completely missing something and looked up the last word he had repeated. When I saw the word alone I realized that I had completely said the wrong thing. What I had been saying was… “Tsy afaca manao (gesture) izahay” which literally translates to “We can’t have sex.” Apparently the verb Manao which is to do or make means exactly that when followed by another word. When used alone it means to have sex. So I had been repeatedly telling my parents that the reason I was unable to buy a basked for my dirty laundry was because we were told by Peace Corps that we couldn’t have sex. To which their confused response of “But you sleep alone” made perfect sense. I was so embarrassed I almost blushed and made the mental note that sometimes gestures might not be the best substitution for words.

Walking through market a week in to living here and I was looking for some food for dinner for Joanna, another volunteer living nearby, and myself. I saw a weird looking fruit while talking to one of my favorite veggie vendors and asked her what it was. I didn’t understand the Malagasy word and she didn’t know the word in French so I started asking her questions to see if I could figure it out on my own. I asked if it was a fruit and she said yes, maybe. I asked her if it was great which was answered with an enthusiastic yes. I then asked if it was sweet. “yes,” she said,” just add sugar. I thought that was a little funny but figured, as with most fruits, you add a little sugar and let it sit to enhance the sweetness and make it a little dessert or tasty treat. I shrugged and purchased it then headed to another favorite vendor where I buy flour and sugar. She saw what was in my market basket and pointed out the weird food I had just purchased and was so excited. “That’s delicious!” She said. So I asked her the same things I had asked my other vendor and she had the exact some answers. When I get to the house I started preparing the veggie salad I was planning and then decided to cut into the mystery food and figure out what kind of flavor it was. I cut and then stopped; my strange fruit looked strangely familiar. “Joanna,” I said, “ I know it’s been too long since good old home cookin’ but I’d swear that this is an avocado.” “What?,” she replied. “Avocados aren’t sweet.” So I sliced off a little chunk and popped it in my mouth and experienced that weird plant-butter combination that I love in avocados so much. I just started cracking up. When she asked why I was laughing I responded. “It’s a freakin avocado. Of course its sweet, when you add sugar!” At that we both kept laughing and still do whenever it comes up again. It’s the perfect example that a pivotal aspect of Malagasy culture is all based on perspective.