(For those of you who missed it, click here for my fat ass part one; here for my fat ass part two.)

Over the last few months, I’ve lost some weight. Not a lotof weight, maybe ten pounds or so, but enough that people in my village havebegun to take notice. Well, they notice everything anyway, especially mynot-so-fat-anymore ass. They’re worried.

To most Americans, losing weight is seen as good thing,which is understandable in a culture where the skinny are coveted and thechunky are seen as lesser beings. What’s fascinating is actually how hard it can be to havea healthy weight in America. We are inundated day in and day out with absurdfood choices, oversized portions, easy lifestyles (admit it, not many of us areout there slaving away in the fields) and very little time in our hectic livesfor moving our bodies.

We all know it’s become a problem: an epidemic of obesity.More than 30% of Americans are now obese and 50% are overweight. Childhoodobesity and diabetes rates are at an all-time high.

Life is just not the same in Madagascar. People here workvery, very hard their entire lives, with often little more to go on than ameasly bowl of rice and nothing else until they catch or gather it. Childrenhere have some of the highest stunted growth rates of any developing nation.Think your six-pack abs are hot in America? Well, they’re a dime a dozen inMadagascar.

So it should come as no surprise that having some heft toyou is seen as a good thing here. The bigger you are, the wealthier you mustbe; the bigger your booty, the more you must be sitting around raking in thecash. The biggest people I’ve seen in Madagascar are the ones with likely themost desirable job: taxi-brousse drivers. These guys sit on their buttsall day driving around, collecting money and eating roadside foods. Thinklong-haul truck drivers, beer bellies and all.

In any case, I wouldn’t have considered myself in the broussedriver category, but I definitely put on some pounds my first year inMadagascar. I was used to living a very active and healthy lifestyle in theU.S. and suddenly, there was all that sitting around wondering what to do in myvillage, coupled with the heat-induced laziness… and all those endless bowls ofwhite rice… and deep-fried bananas… and deep-fried cassava… and deep-friedbread… and deep-fried dough… and deep-fried fish… well, it all started to addup. To my fat ass.

And boy was my village happy! Everyone was always talkingabout my weight amongst themselves, because there’s no shame in it here. WhileI silently suffered every comment, they rejoiced in my ever-growing ass.

Except now those days are over. I stopped eating fried foods(no easy task in a place where there is often literally no other food optionavailable), exercise daily (the heat is my friend!) and feel almost like mynormal self (and weight) with the exception of a daily dose of sorely missedfresh vegetables and salad. Plus, I think I’ve just plain gotten used to beinghungry. All the time.

This has got my villagers very worried indeed. It’s the highseason in Ambolobozokely: winds are calm and the seas are fruitful. Everyone’seating their fish fill and raking in the Ariary with every kilo of fish sold. Iate at my girlfriend Sophia’s house last week; she couldn’t even zip up theskirt that six months ago was too big for her. She laughed merrily about hergut spilling out of her shirt, while I took note of my negative thoughts aboutit.

Suffice to say, every time I walk past a group of womenthese days, I hear them quietly whisper under their breaths, “Mahia eeee!”(Skinny!) They usually say it when I’m far enough away that they think I can’thear them. Sometimes they cluck their tongues, as if I’m been struck with someterrible disease. Some have a more direct approach, like the local shopkeeper(an exceptionally large woman): she just asked, “What is wrong with you?”

Some conjecture I must be sick (I did lose some weight whenI had Dysentery) while others exclaim “Ngoma!” (Missing someone!) Manyof them insist I don’t eat enough rice while neighbors have started bringingover food, such as coconut-stewed bananas or crab sauce. I just keep pointingout that my big ol’ booty is right there behind me just as it always has been.They laugh.

Recently a friend came to my village that I hadn’t seen fora long time. The first thing she said when she saw me was “Mahia eeeee!”When I told her I wasn’t skinny, just enjoying getting exercise, she had aninteresting reply. She told me that she knew it was a compliment for whitepeople to be told their skinny, but she couldn’t understand why. I shrugged. Somethings are better lost in translation.

What a funny world we live in. Americans are tryingdesperately to get skinny (and failing at that) while the rest of thedeveloping world struggles for just a tiny piece of the pie.

This morning, I had two errands to run in my banking town of Diego. Such small errands that, if I lived in the United States, would not even require me to leave my home, or if so, would be rather painless: pick up a package at the post office (these are usually delivered right to your door in the U.S!), and buy a plane ticket (normally this can be done on-line).

I set out as early as possible to do these two simple errands since the heat and humidity these days steadily climbs and becomes unbearable by 10 o'clock in the morning. Unfortunately the post office and Air Madagascar don't open until 8:30.

First stop, the post office. But please, don't picture a post office. Picture in your mind instead, a dilapidated, abandoned building, complete with broken glass doors, crumbling concrete steps, empty office stalls filled with broken machinery, computer monitors from the early age of computers so covered in dust they look like an artifacts, stacks of phone directories from the 1980's, busted brooms and all manner of boxes, piles of yellowed paper and trash blown into corners. This is where I go to retrieve my packages... where one solitary man sits behind a wooden desk day after day, writing up dozens of package slips by hand in leather-bound books that look straight out of the19th century. Each slip must, of course, be stamped with several official stamps in order for every transaction to be complete.

But I digress. Already pouring with sweat in the stuffy building, I hurriedly give the man my package slip, wondering why it costs an astonishing 10,000 Ariary less than usual. He looks at me sheepishly as he turns the corner to retrieve the package; I sense something is wrong. Normally he will pull out an ancient set of keys that opens a dusty storage room; this time he simply picks up what I think is a large envelope on his desk. As he comes around the corner I see that what looks to be an envelope was once a good-sized cardboard box, now squished (perhaps under the wheels of a truck?) and bundled together with twine. One corner is open, and the whole box is soggy and smelling of decay. This is the package I've been waiting two months for.

I can't help but instantly show my frustration, by swearing (in English) under my breath. He starts rattling off some story about a problem with the truck, and rain, and bad roads, and in response, trying not to be overly confrontational, I don't look him in the eye. I understand most of what he says; his Malagasy is a dialect with which I'm not too familiar. He suggests if I would rather come back in the afternoon, I can file a formal complaint. (This really is just a formality, nothing would come out of it other than losing several more pints of sweat and sitting for several more hours in a stuffy office building.) I say no thank you, I'll take what's left of the package now. He tells me not to be mad at him, he didn't ruin the package. I know this, but still, the sweat, the heat, the two years of dealing with nothing that works in Madagascar... this one moment is just the straw that broke the already-broken-long-ago camel's back.

I pay the money with crumpled, dirty bills and move on to my second errand of the day, which holds much more promise of going smoothly; when I'd gone to the Air Madagascar office earlier in the week, there was actually a waiting area with comfortable chairs, fans that worked (though the electricity was out in half the office), and fairly competent staff who spoke an comprehensible mixture of French, Malagasy and a few English words.

The office is a good distance from the post so by the time I arrive I am once again dripping with sweat. Much to my delight, there is no wait! I make my way to the pleasant woman I'd dealt with on Monday. After securing the reservation (all the while fanning myself with a piece of plastic), we go together to the payment desk, which is where the trouble begins. My credit card won't process through their fairly-modern looking machine. She tries again, and again, and again. Several other workers gather around, trying the card. "Do you have another card?" they ask. No. Of course not.

We sit back down at the desk and she looks at me impassively. "Madame? Can I help you?" she asks, dismissing me and looking around for the next customer. I'm kinda -okay, really- pissed off. She tells me I'll have to go to the bank to get cash, then come back. Alright, fine. It's no one's fault, it's just life in Madagascar. Out in the street, back in the sun, I storm off to the closest ATM. As I approach the door, the guard stops me, calling out in Malagasy, "It's not working! You'll have to go downtown." Of course.

I get the fat stack of Ariary, return to the office and finally make the reservation with a new clerk, who is actually a 60-someodd year old man, who is in training and possibly discovering computers for the first time. He politely asks, "Would you like to pay now or at the airport?" Haha! I almost laugh. This whole time, I discover, I didn't even need to pay at the time of the reservation. I could have paid on the day of the flight, at the airport. Sigh.

I need a beer.

It was a peaceful early morning in my tiny coastal village.Coconut trees sparkled with dew against a dark gray backdrop of last night’srain clouds as they moved westward away from the sea. Ripe mangoes drop fromtheir branches constantly during these languid days; often their kerplunk!on my rooftop startles me out of a sound sleep. Since I’d woken earlier thanmost of the village I was able to enjoy a moment of precious solitude as Istood in the sandy path I walk every morning to a nearby coffee shack.

As I approached the seaside shanty, smoke wafting from thesmall woodfires burning under the blackened pots of coffee, tea and soup, Iturned to gaze once more at the brilliant sky, where the sun was rising overthe glass-like sea and lighting up each raindrop on every branch and flower.

Suddenly I noticed a glorious rainbow stretching across theentire sky; just as I took note of it, a couple children walked past me.

“Look at that!” I implored them, pointing to the rainbow andasking what it’s called in Malagasy, since it’s one of the many words I cannever seem to remember. “Isn’t that nice?” I asked, altogether forgetting whatI’ve heard before about Malagasy people: they do NOT like rainbows. At all.

The older of the children looked at me as if I had threeheads, which is actually a look I’ve become quite used to; my presence is anendless source of amazement and often horror in children (and adults) whereverI go.

“No… it’s not nice… rainbows kill people!” the poor childretorted.

“Really? How do theydo that?” I asked, half smiling. Malagasy aren’t too good at answering “how”questions- something either is or it isn’t and that’s all there is to it.

“When a rainbow goes down to the ground, it kills,” thechild said matter-of-factly, and taking hold of her little sister’s hand, movedon down the path.

Moments later, I sat drinking coffee in the smoky shack,staring out at the same seascape I’ve watched most mornings for almost twoyears, wondering if it’s true: do rainbows really kill people?

Well, why not? We go around saying there’s a miniature Irishman in green pants dancing around a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow.I’d like to know what a Malagasy person thinks of our folktale about rainbows.Maybe it’s true… the leprechaun kills whoever gets too close to his pot ofgold.

One of the many things I love about the Malagasy culture (and which I hope to bring back with me) is the word karibo- but more importantly, the intention behind it.

Karibo (pronounced kah-REE-boo) is actually a Swahili word but has become part of the dialect of northern Madagascar, known as Sakalava, as have many other words and cultural aspects from east Africa. In fact, about 10% of all Malagasy words are Swahili in origin, the other 90% most closely related to the languages of Borneo, Indonesia and the Philippines.

Since there are only about 7,000 words in the entire Malagasy language (English has more than 12,000 commonly used), many words here have multiple meanings depending on the connotation. Karibo is certainly an example of one of these words.

In Madagascar, when someone approaches a person's house, they call out "Ody!" as a way of letting people know they're there. Always- no matter what you're in the middle of or what time of day it is (yes, I've been woken pre-dawn by someone ody'ing), whether you're sleeping, cleaning, napping, or cooking- your immediate response should be, "Karibo!" It translates to "welcome" in this circumstance. And you really, truly mean it.

This is funny in contrast to the American culture, in which people often hang signs on their door to keep people away (No Solicitors Allowed!) or often just don't answer the door altogether. People in my village swing by my house daily to sell things- and I always give a karibo upon their arrival, even if I have no interest in what they're selling. I usually want what they have anyway: ripe bananas, mangoes, litchis, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, leafy greens. Wouldn't it be amazing if these were sold door-to-door in America instead of vacuums or Tupperware?! In any case, if I'm not interested in buying, a simple "not ready to buy yet" sends people on their way down the path. But to not first give a karibo would be considered extremely rude.

Another way in which karibo is used is during meal times. You must always use karibo to invite people to eat with you- no matter what. This is a cardinal rule in the Malagasy culture and one which used to cause me extreme anxiety when I first moved to my village. Since I live alone, I almost always cook for one. How could I possibly say karibo if I only have enough food for myself?

Often I would remedy my uncertainty by eating (i.e. hiding) inside my house at every meal. Eventually I couldn't stand it anymore and started eating on my mat outside like everyone else. This took about five months. But still the karibo haunted me. If I say karibo, will every person walking by my front yard yard as I eat want to sit down and help themselves to my single bowl of rice or pasta? What if I don't feel like sharing? Nowadays reflecting on this kind of anxious naivete almost makes me laugh.

Karibo simply means "please join me," as a kind, friendly gesture. When I finally started saying karibo to those passing by during meal times, people were so happy I was starting to learn Malagasy culture and would respond with a cheerful "Mazotoa!" (enjoy). They never ate all my food as I feared, though occasionally some do saunter over to wonder upon my bizarre (non-Malagasy) cooking.

Next time you're making a meal at home, I want you to pick up all your plates and serving bowls, put a mat down in the front yard and cheerfully invite every passer-by to join you for a meal. This may be difficult for those in cold climates, but it offers an excellent opportunity for cultural reflection: how nice would it be if the next time you were hungry and had no food (or didn't feel like cooking) you knew you could simply walk past any neighbor's house and be offered a delicious, nutritious meal, no questions asked? The best translation for karibo may just be: Take off your shoes, grab a spoon and dig in.

It's amazing Americans don't embrace more of a culture of karibo considering the surplus of food we have in our country. This isn't to say there aren't very generous and welcoming Americans out there. It's just that considering how little people have in Madagascar, the karibo is something that offers me constant hope & inspiration.

Just yesterday, I sat at my friend's house after a simple meal of rice and vegetables. A woman and her young son came up selling a heavy load of bananas, having traveled quite far and obviously fatigued. "Karibo!" said my friend straight away, and the mother and son gratefully (and voraciously) ate what little was there of remaining rice and bits left in the pot.

The Malagasy never hesitate to share what they have, and are always happy to converse over a plate of rice. I hope I can bring back this mentality in my own life upon return... so don't be surprised if you show up at my home to visit and are met with a huge hug, a big smile and genuine exclamation of karibo!

svelte on the outside,

with sleek green/yellow skin;

you look calm, relaxed.

"let the world ease on by," you seem to coo from your lofty perch.

but upon peeling you back,

your insides explode in a sudden burst of color & sunlight.

you taste as good as you look.

So now my life is split into two equal parts:When it’s raining and when it’s not.

When it’s raining,There is sound above all:through ten thousand coconut tree branches, falling onto and -most emphatically- through the leaf-roofover my head,forming puddles and mud pools and temporary culvertswhere they should & should not be, splattering each ripening mango as they grow fat andimpossibly succulent.

When it’s raining, I do not worry about fetching waterfor bathing, for drinking, for washing dishes and pots.

Let it fall, I have nowhere to be.

When it’s not raining,there are other forces to contend with,and they often meld into one entity:heat & boredom. They are the same thing.

There is a certain sound that boredom has here.Even the birds cannot raise their voices against it.It is the sound of the absence of sound in a place wherethere is always something to hear-

a mournful wailing of a cow,the ever-boisterous crowing of a rooster,a crying child,the pounding of rice against wooden mortar & pestle,the buzzing of insects that never rest.

When it’s not raining,and the heatboredom presses downeven those sounds come to rest in the shade.

rainy season brings flowers

click here for last year's blog about the turning of seasons

It's already a thousand degrees outside, the cows are mooing, the roosters are crowing and it's time to head to the sweltering market... not for turkey but for chicken! Turkeys (called kolokoloko in Madagascar) are a bit of a commodity and very expensive. Plus, they'll slaughter, pluck and gut an entire chicken of your choosing right in front of you at the market for a mere $4.00. This Thanksgiving, a group of fellow PCVs will be forgoing the standard Malagasy fare of rice and beans and spending the day cooking up all of our favorite American holiday treats.

We'll have roasted chicken with rosemary and garlic, cheesy mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, vegetable bake, shepard's pie, mango chutney (cranberries do not exist but mangoes are falling off trees by the bucketload!), mango crisp, lemon meringue pie and chocolate mousse pie. This may seem like a standard Thanksgiving menu, but for those of us who have been living in Madagascar for nearly two years, it's a culinary dream come true!

This holiday I am especially reminded of all there is to be thankful for. The perspective of being far from friends and family gives me pause to consider how lucky I have been in my life. While I wish I could be with all those I miss dearly this holiday, and certainly am longing for crisp leaves, cool air and the promise of snow, I remain grateful for a great group of friends with whom I can share this day- and this food.

Looking over the last few blogs, you might think I've been having a miserable time lately. Unfortunately this blog is not the best news either. After a wonderful birthday celebration extravaganza, complete with pool party, cheesy pasta, bread rolls & butter, wine, chocolate cake, gifts, friends, music and a dance party with foamy bubbles shooting down from the ceiling, it happened again... another mugging!

New phone:

261 32 509 6777

Even though many a foamy dance photo was lost forever, I feel grateful that the incident was non-violent. It may seem from my blogs of late that my life here is filled with grotesque intestinal issues and that I'm surrounded by thieving derelicts, but I assure you, I am very happy and fulfilled and enjoying the start of mango season in the peaceful place that is my village home.

While I was away from my site with Dysentery a couple weeks ago, someone broke into my house. As you can see, the hut I call home isn't exactly a fortress... the thief was able to easily tear down the leaf wall (which faces an empty field) and hop inside.

They stole money, clothes, books (in English, which they can't read), knives, harmonicas, sandals, a bracelet and a couple postcards of sentimental value. Initially, when I walked in and saw that my home had been broken into, I felt quite sad and discouraged. Especially after just coming back from a week of being very sick with an intestinal issue. After making a quick assessment of what was missing, I walked up the sandy hill to a place where there's cell reception and called the Peace Corps Safety & Security officer in Antananarivo. I was impressed with his professionalism and concern for my physical and emotional well-being. He made all the necessary phone calls and by the following morning, the regional director was at my doorstep with two armed police officers and the district mayor.

Though their "investigation" was tediously pointless at best, I appreciate the effect their presence had in my village: my house was repaired immediately and the teenage boy that stole my stuff ran away from home. Even the gaping holes that have been in my leaf roof for six months have been patched... just in time for the rainy season. Though the police may not have actually accomplished that much during their eight hours in my village, other than asking me if I wanted a husband and enjoying a free lunch & beers (they insisted I buy), it was yet another interesting cultural experience. At least, that type of perspective is what keeps me keepin' on, through all the trials and tribulations that make up my life here in Madagascar.

It was about time I got sick. I have had nearly perfect intestinal (and otherwise) health throughout the entire 17 months I've lived in Madagascar. Which, for a Peace Corps Volunteer, is pretty much a miracle. Just a few weeks ago as some other PCVs were complaining about their host of medical disorders, from Giardia to Typhoid, I was boasting about my perfect health. Guess I forgot to knock on wood: Dysentery.

According to Wikipedia, Dysentery is defined as an inflammatory disorder, especially affecting the colon, that results in severe diarrhea containing mucus and/or blood in the feces with fever and abdominal pain. Dysentery results from viral, bacterial, protozoan or parasitic infestations, which typically reach the large intestine through ingestion of contaminated food or water, etc.

According to me, Dysentery is simply two long weeks of the above symptoms, with a whole lot of waiting to see what's going to happen, spending way too much time on the internet and wanting to go back to the peace and quiet of my village life. Right now I'm on two types of antibiotics and hoping to be on the mend soon.

I thank the universe for putting my bombastic ego back in place.

Work here as a Peace Corps Volunteer is feast or famine: I either feel so busy and fulfilled by an ongoing project that I don't know where the week's gone or that I have done literally every possible thing I can think of to do in a day... and it's only 8:30 in the morning.

Though I do spend an exorbitant amount of time in my village in the latter state, the past month has been filled with interesting projects and activities. Here's a brief synopsis.

At the end of July, a team of researchers from a UK-based marine conservation organization visited Ambolobozokely for five days to conduct surveys and map the outlying coastal areas. Many small islands just outside of my village are home to serveral different species of sea turtle. I went with a team of these researchers to map the islands and act as translator. After only a half hour's boat ride across the bay, we landed on the first island, which lies on the north eastern edge of Madagascar. Cerulean blue waves crash endlessly against its eastern shore carrying massive turtles muching on sea grasses and riding the waves. We saw several in just the short time we were there, including, unfortunately, dozens of their carcasses strewn along the white sands. Though the turtles are supposedly protected by Malagasy law, these precious creatures still wind up being slaughtered and eaten, or sold at nearby markets. It is extremely difficult to manage environmental issues on any scale in this country, due to a lack of funding, infastructure and manpower to actually monitor activity. In any case, it was interesting to work with this particular conservation group and see my village through new eyes.

The second, much larger project I took on recently was a collaborative effort with another PCV, Kelly Wilson, who lives only 27 kilometres (17 miles) away from me. Since she is my closest (white) neighbor, we decided it would be a good idea to host an AIDS awareness bike tour in our two villages. And because it is Peace Corp's 50th anniversary this year, we thought we'd also take the opportunity to educate people on all the great work that's been done by PCVs all over the world since 1961.

The short tour began on August 4th with two days in Kelly's village. A group of eleven volunteers and three Malagasy work counterparts from all over Madagascar converged upon the village, performing educational skits, dancing (in dust), singing songs, giving speeches, providing condom demonstrations and watching a film on the dangers of promiscuity- all in Malagasy, of course.

Somewhat unluckily for all of us PCVs, the village was also hosting a massive party that weekend as part of an exumation ceremony (long story- will explain some other time). What this meant for us is that a band was booming until 6AM literally right outside of Kelly's doorstep and none of us slept a wink. For two nights.

No mind- we perservered through and got our bikes packed up with all our gear and made our way to my village on August 6th. Traveling to Ambolobozokely is always an adventure- the road is pretty long and mostly sand- but at least it was downhill the whole way to the sea. Believe me, it's no fun going the other way. After a few bike breakdowns and a flash rainstorm, we arrived and ate a delicious lunch of fresh fried fish, coconut beans and of course, rice. We repeated the same spectacular events that we'd done the previous day, with a great turn out and lots of villager participation- even in the condom demonstratons! (Don't worr, wooden dildos were used, not live models.) And it wouldn't be a Malagasy event if there wasn't a dance party at the end that went til dawn, and that, fortunately, is one thing Ambolobozokely is good at.

Dedicated to two of my dear girlfriends, Jenna and Evelyn, who are embarking upon motherhood for the first time.

Being a woman, I was quite surprised to discover how uncomfortable I've sometimes felt watching other women breastfeed in this country. Not a day, nor practically an hour, has gone by in my village or travels around Madagascar where I haven't seen a baby hanging off their mother's breast. Never mind being squirted by breast milk (twice) on taxi brousse rides. With all this exposure, I've had plenty of opportunities to consider my own reactions and wonder upon why in the Western world we have such an aversion to this most natural act. For a culture that so shuns breastfeeding we surely covet the breast.

Since I've never been a mother, I was initially quite shocked at how often babies need to be fed! Here the women do not hesitate to pop out a boob every time their babies cry, no matter where they are, who they're with, what they're doing or who's watching. No one averts their eyes, covers themselves in shame or embarrassment, no one has to go to a private room as if to perform some sacred act. I've never once seen a bottle or a pacifier (or for that matter, a child sucking its thumb). if you hear a baby cry, you better believe in just a minute you're about to see a boob.

At first this used to kinda freak me out (and sometimes still does). Where should I look? Should I leave? Does she mind if I watch? But like countless other times throughout my Peace Corps experience, I've learned to simply follow by example and observe my own thoughts and feelings about it as I go.

For example, I recently attended a meeting in my village which was being conducted at the home of the president of a fishing association. In attendance were two researchers from a marine conservation organization as well as the president and his wife, who was listening on with great interest. At one point during the meeting, their baby started to cry and the mother pulled out her breast to quiet and soothe her. I could tell one of the researchers felt uncomfortable and later on we spoke about it. Sure, it's a natural act, but does it really need to be done in the middle of a meeting?

Well, why not? I try to imagine what it would be like to hide myself every single time my baby needed to be fed. I remember some time ago my girlfriend Eleanor joining a Facebook group that was called, "If you're so against breastfeeding, you put a blanket over YOUR head!"

In a lot of ways, I think mothering is easier here than it is in the Western world. Every one is taking care of each other's kids here. My neighbor's toddler precariously teeters around the paths near our houses; other kids and mothers and fathers all keep an eye out, playing with him, teaching him to walk, giving him bits of rice or fruit and sharing their toys. If his mother needs to get up and move about- to collect firewood, sift rice, fetch water- the child does not need to be confined to a pen or placed in a daycare for the afternoon. The village is there to offer support.

I think of all the special gear it takes for my girlfriends back home with babies to cart around just to leave the house: bags stuffed with diapers, toys, bottles, formula, pacifiers, blankets, breast pumps, carriages, baby backpacks... I probably don't even know the half of it. Here a woman has a few things for her baby when they set out together: a colorful lamba (cloth) for securing her baby on her back, a small extra cloth that serves as a diaper and of course, her breasts, all a little one needs in the world besides a village to watch over her.

I have been so bad at blogging lately. The excitement of living in a foreign culture have given way to a blur of days filled with endless bowls of rice and occasional feelings of ennui. Even in my village, I hardly write anymore, which is quite an anomaly for me. However, as I flip through the pages of my journal, I have found a few excerpts that I think can serve as brief snapshots into some of my recent experiences.

July 12th- [with the onslaught of windy season has come 24/7 electricity in my village]

Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about all this: the waking to noise (aka Malagasy music) at 5:30AM, the kids out of school and hanging around my house (and looking in my windows) for something to do, feeling trapped in my house because there's nothing to do & nothing to do & nothing to do- wishing for quiety to study or read or sleep but the constant cacophony goes on & on; the wind forever blowing.

July 17th- about 6AM

Woke around 3:45 fully rested and wide awake, waiting for the light of day and the roosters to commence their morning alarm. Last night upon returning from Clare's house [a dear friend with whom I share most meals] I ground my teeth in frustration as the same chorus of some discordant Merina church ballad blasted from the house next door. I thought I'd try a new approach to my usual exasperated shouts of "shut up!" from my bed... so I simply went over and said "Azafady fa mety ataova musique moramora? Zaho matorobe fa tsy zatra mandry lera misy musique tabataba." [Sorry but can you play the music softly? I'm really sleepy and still not used to sleeping when the music is loud.] Done. Music off (wasn't expecting off completely)! The new woman that lives in the house next door now is nice- that sweet, ignorant nice that is born out of little education and too many babies at a young age- not sure where the usual cackling crew of women have gone off to.

July 20th

I helped Clare move out of her house this weekend- but this looks very different than the moving I am so well-accustomed to... forget the image of moving trucks, squeezing belongings into every nook and cranny of a station wagon or borrowing a friend's pickup, piles of cardboard boxes, endless hours spent sorting & labeling junk, ordering in Chinese or pizza and packing until the wee hours of morning.

No, I did most of the moving by carrying dozens of bundles of her wordly possessions wrapped in cloth on my head; she is 8 months pregnant and her daughter is 10. Her husband was out at sea fishing during the couple days it took for them to move. You better believe my neck is sore; they spend their whole lives hauling water & heavy guny sacks of rice and laundry and everything imaginable on their heads (sometimes for miles) while I, on the other hand, can hardly walk ten steps without having to readjust even an easy load up there.

Clare moving out has so many implications... I will sorely miss having such a kind friend living right next door, washing dishes and gutting fish and sorting rice right in my front yard every day. Even though she's just moving on the outskirts of the village, it feels so lonely reverting back to the days of eating by myself at my house. I've become so accustomed to eating rice three meals a day on a mat together with her in our yard. Even though it's a beautiful walk through mango groves to her new home on the edge of grassy field lined with coconut trees, the peace I feel there is tinged with a newfound sadness- so much seems to stay the same day after day, year after year, but soon I too will be moving. But this time, I won't be able to carry my things in a small bundle on my head and walk along a sandy path; soon I will be flying across many oceans. Is it soon or not soon enough? Nine months remaining...

My friend Katie Browne wrote a recent blog that I very much want to share with all of you because it is funny as hell and perfectly illustrates my life. Mazotoa (enjoy)!

Dedicated, with sincerity, to the special people of the world who airlift cheez-its despite the recurring fear that their daughter has truly, irrevocably gone rogue.

1. You have come to the belief that the color “dingy brown” actually compliments your skin tone quite nicely.

2. Eating rice with a fork is not just a challenge, it is a physical impossibility.

3. You take great pride in your clean-swept dirt porch. Hours a day are spent tending to it. Shamelessly, you gossip about the shabbiness of your neighbor’s dirt porch.

4. In your town, you have acquired a theme song, “Arovy, arovy, arovy ny tontolo ianatsika,” (Protect our environment!). You hear it wherever you go; it is played for you at parties. While feigning the necessary indifference, you are secretly quite pleased and walk around with the inflated tree-hugger ego of Captain Planet.

5. Often, you simply cannot tell if you are hungry or if you are ill.

6. You do not panic when your friend tells you, “I think I have chikungunia.” Again, you refrain from panic when she reports, “I have something worse.” But when she says, “I may have to go home,” YOU SERIOUSLY FREAKING PANIC.

7. You have entire conversations without uttering a single fully-formed syllable.

8. Endlessly, you and your American friends play games such as “What would you eat at this exact moment in time?” “City names with only the vowel ‘A,’” “Closest guess to today’s date wins a cookie,” and “If your name was a verb what would it mean?” None of these, however, compare to the most enduringly popular “Things I do not care about.”

9. The Peace Corps doctor kindly inquires, “Do you read a lot?” and recommends you use proper lighting as you are “straining your eyeballs.” He forgets, or neglects, to ask about you romantic life. It is only hours later that you think to be offended by this insult of omission.

10. You have lost all human empathy; you read about prison and think to yourself- applesauce and air conditioning- that sounds nice!

My friend Bri standing proud next to a statue of Madagascar painted with the Malagasy flag.

June 26th marked Madagascar's 51st year of independence. I spent the holiday weekend dancing and partying with my villagers. How do you know it's a big holiday in a rural village in Madagascar? People run around all morning long chasing chickens. For a community that eats fish (and rice of course) three times a day and lives off what they catch from the sea, eating a chicken is a pretty special deal. Everyone gets out of their dirty rags and puts on their finest attire, eats some chicken & rice and dances to accordian club jams blasting at the loudest possible decibel until the early dawn.

A pic of me and my best friend Chantaly on Madagascar's Independence day, 26th June.

The word "sojourn" is defined as "staying for a time in a place; to live somewhere temporarily." Over a year ago, when I was still back in the states, "sojourn" seemed the best fit for the experience I was about to embark upon and thus became the name of my blog. What an incredible process then to move from one culture to another, and finally reach a point where I actually feel like I live in Madagascar, versus just staying here temporarily. With only eleven months of my Peace Corps service left, my sojourn has become increasingly precious and fleeting.

Life over the last couple months has been beautiful. While official Peace Corps business such as meetings, trainings and conferences has kept me out of my village from time to time, it is my life back there that continues to inspire me. Not only because of the surrounding physical landscape, but because when I return from time away, it is heartwarming to be welcomed back home. Everyone wants to know where I've been, catch me up on their lives and of course ask for their voandalana ("gift of the road..." in Malagasy culture, one must bring back a small token from their travels, such as a piece of fruit or -always highly coveted- a loaf of bread). I still get the feeling that I should pinch myself: I really do call Ambolobozokely home.

The simplicity of living as they do, eating rice & fish from right outside my doorstep, going for walks with other women to collect wild fruits and leaves for basket-weaving, spending a day fishing out on the sea, reading, writing, studying, doing yoga, dancing; these are the things that make up the majority of my village life. And as my language skills improve and their trust in me grows with each passing month, I am able to spend a lot more time with small groups of women addressing health issues: birth control, family planning, basic hygiene, nutrition, malaria, even simple wound management. Word of mouth is the way of life in village Africa, and something that just takes time to work at as a Peace Corps volunteer.

Still. After a few weeks of the beautiful simple life, I admit I do start to feel a bit stir crazy. So I bike 17 kilometres through the sand & mud out of my village, then catch a bush taxi on the main road and make my way into Diego, a beautiful tropical African city and surrounded by the second largest bay in the world. I am suddenly thrust back into that other self, with all its complexities and privileges: the Peace Corps Volunteer... the American... the white girl who speaks Malagasy. Living with these separate selves continues to challenge me. But I also recognize that it's crucial for PCV's to have time together to commiserate about the trials & tributlations of life in Madagascar, speak English, eat pizza and drink beer. We need to talk about the things we miss, and the things we don't miss. To discuss what it will be like going back, and what we'll do with ourselves. Sometimes we just need to party. To hear American pop music and read "news" from a four-month old People magazine. To know that somewhere out there, the rest of the world is still moving at its breakneck pace.

I long for all those things less & less these days. I love sitting barefoot on a woven mat beneath a massive mango tree, eating fruit that grows only on this island, speaking in a foreign language with women friends, as they weave baskets, breastfeed their babies, sort rice, pound leaves, gossip.

How to articulate the way this sojourn has become my life? Those things that were once foreign, unknown, even insurmountable have now just become commonplace, definitive, mine.

To preface this poem, I should mention that there are two seasons in northern Madagascar: the hot, windy season and the very hot, rainy season. The last few weeks have marked the changing of seasons, with relatively cooler temperatures and a lot less rain. I welcome the end of rainy season; the roads become passable again, it's not unbearable to be out in the middle of the day, and most of all... no more leaky roof!

Here is the poem I wrote a bit ago in my village.

Because the rain completely saturated the leaf roof above my bed and caused me to curl against pre-dawn pillows

and because the roosters insist upon announcing the first light each day regardless of how hard you close your eyes against it

and because no one else in the world had woken before me

and my footprints were the first ones in the sandy path

and the low tide allowed for still-softly-falling drops to patter in their rippling pools

I was able to hear one sound this morning.

One sound building and crashing against itself:

miles away, massive blue waves creating a wall of the same sound

that is never the same.

How do we know something exists without seeing it?

This is a panoramic view of my front yard... on the far right is my "shower" house, then scanning left you see three chicken huts, in the background behind those is the outhouse, and on the far left is the kitchen hut where the village chief's family cooks and eats.

Goals look different to everyone. But as Peace Corps Volunteers, we have additional goals that we strive to accomplish during our two-year service:

1.) Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.

2.) Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.

3.) Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

These are all fine and noble causes.

However, I came across something funny the other day as I opened up the pages of what appeared to be a long-forgotten book at the Peace Corps library in Diego. In it, I found a small scrap of paper written by a volunteer who served way back in 2006, listing her version of the three Peace Corps goals:

1.) Don't go crazy.

2.) Don't drive other people crazy.

3.) Have fun!

This seemed somehow so much more illustrative of the Peace Corps experience. Which reminds me of a small pamphlet a fellow PCV friend made recently entitled, "The Ten Step Guide to Surviving the Peace Corps," fully illustrated with cut-out cartoons from New Yorker magazines.

Here they are, for all of you considering service in the Peace Corps:

1.) Stay optimistic.

2.) Cultivate that sense of adventure.

3.) Lower entertainment standards.

4.) Love naps!

5.) Apply problem-solving skills.

6.) Forget that you once had a thing called pride.

7.) Be patient with Peace Corps bureaucracy.

8.) Remember you are doing good and noble things.

9.) Self-motivate.

10.) DON'T GIVE UP.

A short poem I wrote a bit ago around sunset in my village.

Chickens clucking their way to bed in the mango tree.

Lentils on the stove.

Rain falling steadily. Now intermittently.

Red wine in a rusted tin cup.

Men sewing fishing nets.

Not itching.

Not itching mosquito bites.

Neighbor girl gutting fish. Now frying fish.

Mothers calling their children home.

Me: quiet in the dusky corners of my doorstep.

Wearing blue lamba, loosely hanging over tired legs.

Chickens cluck softly.

Now fall silent and fade into leaves.

I don't want to be anywhere but here,

living my life away from

life

in my home away from home

away from home away

from home.

I never thought that this would happen to me, particularly while living such an interesting life in a foreign land, but lately I have felt at such a loss for what to write about on my blog. This scares me a little. Every time I've had a chance in recent months to write, I think, what could I possibly have to say? Have I really become so used to my life over here that I hardly notice that it's still really, really freaking weird? Has the interesting become mundane? The life that once seemed so bizarre and unusual has slowly, over time, become more or less "normal." And while even the most seemingly commonplace of tasks, such as shopping for vegetables at the market or traveling throughout the country may seem quite an exciting endeavor to those of you who still read my blog, I have become about as African as I've ever felt. Which is pretty dang relaxed.

So what does all this mean? It means that it took me about one year to accept the fact (still somewhat begrudgingly) that while traveling in Madagascar I will have absolutely no idea when I will depart or arrive at a certain destination, nor by what means. While recently traveling several weeks ago around the southern highlands, I was struck by how indifferent I felt to this one singular uncontrollable factor that used to drive me insane. Sitting on the side of the road, waiting to catch a passing ride might mean being squeezed in a 15-passenger van with 38 other people (yes, it's happened), sitting in the back of an open-air pickup truck with chickens and buckets of fish, catching a lucky lift in a fancy vazaha (white person) Land Rover or sitting next to the driver of a massive 18-wheeler beer truck. Who knows? And anyway, what does it matter? You'll get there when you get there (fingers crossed).

Getting used to life here also means that I have developed a healthy Malagasy work ethic. You show up for work (such as fishing, painting, house-building, cookstove-making, what-have-you) pretty much when you feel like it. There are two times of day here when you can say you'll start working: morning (meaning between the hours of 7-10) or afternoon (sometime after 3 and before dark). Mid-day is meant for eating rice and sleeping, and evening is meant for eating rice and relaxing before sleeping. So, that limits the true "work day" to about four or five hours, if you really stretch it and take plenty of rest breaks in between. And here's the clincher: if you (or they) don't show up at all, it really, really is no big deal. I've learned to live by this here, particularly when dealing with work: "Mbola misy fotoana" (There is still time). That pretty much sums up the entire Malagasy culture, too.

Another great example of this ethic came to me while staying at a fellow PCVs village last week. I passively observed (my M.O. these days) our work schedules: we'd start building cookstoves with kids or painting a map on her village's town hall in the morning before temperatures reached the upper 90's, and then spent the rest of the day hiding out in the shade or lying on her concrete floor waiting for the heat to pass. By 4PM it was time to start working again, much to the amazement of other villagers, who couldn't believe we were so mazoto (hard working)! When we ran out of painting materials mid-week and had to wait a day for them to arrive from a nearby city, no one from her village seemed to care. In America, if you aren't cranking out work at top capacity at all times, you're pretty much a failure at life. Here, ya get things done as you can, when the circumstances allow.

How else has my mid-service writer's block of African proportions manifested itself? Well, for one thing, it takes a lot to get me excited these days. I live in a perpetual state of stoicism and indifference, which is a complete product of my environment. We've all heard of how relaxed life can be in village Africa; imagine added into the mix a stereotypical island culture and voila! you've reached whole new levels of idleness.

The way to survive in Malagasy culture is to seem completely uninterested and disassociated from anything that may happen. You never look someone in the eyes (too confrontational) even if you're having the most uninteresting of conversations about the price of rice. You never show anger or irritation, and if you do, you'll just be met with a slightly amused look that says: that's nice, you weird white person. Want to talk to someone about a work project or presentation? Better be prepared to wait a day, week or month until the person's around and then hope it all pans out. If, in a public place, you hear someone speaking in a voice other than hushed, best not to look in that direction, the person is more than likely insane. Being loud or demonstrative is, above all, unacceptable in this culture. For example, some months ago I attended a concert in Diego in which one of Madagascar's most famous singers performed. You'd think everyone would have been going wild. Not the case. As my friends and I were dancing, I looked around and felt as though I were standing inside a museum: everyone was standing stock still, . Talk about a tough crowd.

In any case, I don't want this to seem like I look down upon the Malagasy culture, quite the contrary. I think it's been quite good for me to take a step back from the frenetic pace of American life and look at things from another angle. So, next time you're sitting at your office or classroom and staring down at that overwhelmingly impossible to-do list, just take a second to remind yourself: Mbola misy fotoana ("BO-la miss foo-TOO-ah-na")!

And if you have any suggestions on how to kick my butt out of writer's block, please feel free to comment.

I recently took a trip to Anja Park, about two hours south of Fianarantsoa in the highlands of Madagascar. It was one of the most beautiful places I have been on planet Earth, and left me in awe of nature in all its diversity and splendor.

Ring-tailed Lemurs (Lemur Catta).

It has been such an incredible experience traveling through a new part of Madagascar. There are so many differences from the northern part of the island that I call home... the Betsileo people that live in this area speak a completely different dialect, their style of dress much more conservative and provincial, their facial features more Asian influenced, their livelihoods based solely on rice farming and cattle herding, the city filled with beggars in rags.

Anja Park, outside of Fianarantsoa.

The landscape is vastly different from the coastal north as well, one of enormous granite-lined valleys filled with rice paddies and two-storey mud houses. I couldn't decide at any given moment if I felt like I was traveling through Utah, Australia or Montana. In any case, this is not my Africa. This is not the little fishing village of which I have made a home away from home, with its strong African-influenced music, culture and pace of life. Here we sat listening to lemurs calling out to each other at the start of their mating season. Here we passed through thick jungle and climbed through granite caves where lemurs sleep at night. No, this is not my Africa, this is the Africa that separated from the continent millions of years ago and has become home to an incredibly diverse number of endemic species.

I have now been living in Madagascar for over a year, as of March 3rd. There is still over a year left of my Peace Corps service, set to end in May 2012.

My one year anniversary offers a bit of time for reflection. The time went by both incredibly fast and painfully slow, depending on the day or sometimes the hour. One thing I've learned about this experience is just to hang on through the rollercoaster of ups and downs; even during the worst times here, the smallest pleasure can turn everything around.

Do I like living here now that I'm a little more used to things? Not always. Do I both dread and live for the feeling of stepping off the plane into the chaos and ease of America? Constantly. Do I think I should speak this language better, understand this culture more, be less stared at in my daily village interactions? Daily.

What I am experiencing as my time passes here is an acceptance of what I can stand. My patience during unpredictable and frustrating situatinos grows exponentially. So has a unhealthy sense of apathy. And an ability to truly appreciate joy born of simplicity.

The old midwife of my village died yesterday morning. It was the third death since my arrival ten months ago, the first of someone I knew. Everyone called her Mama ny Zill.

I could immediately sense something bad had happened upon awakening, just by the heavy weight of silence hanging over the morning. Usually the early hours of day, between 5 and 7, are filled with sounds: mothers calling to their children to fetch water, start the fire, cook the rice, men repairing fishing nets, women scraping burnt pots of rice with sand, scrubbing clothes in bucket or pounding cassava leaves, rice or flour by hand in massive wooden mortar & pestles.

On the morning of Mama ny Zill's death however, nary a sound could be heard- it seemed even the birds and chickens had enough sense to refrain from song. People all around the village stood in a silent tableau; I felt like I was the only thing moving through a series of still-life paintings.

The loss of this particular community member came as a devastating shock to all. In her mid-50s with six children of her own, she was the only "doctor" for miles around and had helped birth countless babies over her many years as midwife. She was every woman's doctor, gynecologist, doula, pharmacist and masseuse. She trained no one.

I'm not even certain why she died- some people said she was "too hot" while others insisted she had "oil in her heart." Malagasy explanations for most things are bizarre at best. She was overweight and imagine suffered from a heart attack or stroke.

In any case, I thought I'd offer up a list of the very specific roles people played on the the morning of her death, depending upon their age group and gender. I think the rituals and traditions surrounding the three-day Malagasy funeral are fascinating, as I've already intimated at in my previous blog, "a day at the cemetery." Here is what everyone did within two hours of receiving word that this beloved community leader had passed away in the night.

young men.

Chop down limbs and branches of nearby trees and immediately build several makeshift, leaf-roofed shelters for people to sit under wrestle a cow or two, tie up its legs, slaughter, butcher and cook in several large pots over wood fires; drink rum and beer heavily starting mid-morning, argue amongst each other til sunrise the following morning; around 8PM begin banging on "drums" (actually just any plastic container or jug that's lying around) and begin clapping, changing and singing rhythmic songs til exhausting in the early dawn. Next day, repeat entire process all over again. Young men may not enter the house of the deceased until the third day after death.

boys.

Band together in small groups collecting endless supplies of firewood for all the cooking that must be done from morning til night for hundreds of people; some boys go into the forest by oxcart to gather large fallen limbs; boys as young as 7 are also responsible for managing & steering oxen; also dance, chant and clap with men in the evenings. May not enter the home of the deceased until the third day, unless they are still toddlers.

old men.

Sit under the shelter built by young men that is nearest the home of the deceased; are the first ones to eat during meal times, which must be done in shifts; old men sit on mats or leaves and most wear Fedora-style hats. They do little else in regards to the goings-on other than sit, talk and eat. May not enter the home of the deceased until the third day.

young women.

The first morning, go from house to house gathering large cooking pots, serving bowls, metal pot stands, etc for all meal preparations; sort and winnow massive 50-pound gunny sacks of rice; breastfeed babies and care for toddlers (every woman has at least one breast-feeding baby and toddler to manage at all times, if they are over the age of 16); visit home of deceased, crying in mournful, high-pitched wailing sounds; must wear their nicest print wrap dress and matching head scarf; cook rice over smoky wood fires morning, noon and night; serve rice and beef to everyone, working in shifts; women eat last.

old women.

Sit inside the house of the deceased for three days (the body is laid on the floor and covered in a white sheet with fake flowers), coming out only to eat and occasionally sleep; wail and carry on sometimes to the point of hysterics; welcome (and by this I mean talk shit about) visitors coming from outlying villages.

peace corps volunteer.

Flutter about awkwardly here and there, trying to fit in with young women (but sorely out of place for lack of her own breastfeeding baby); withstand endless, non-stop, never-ending, ceaseless staring and commentary from strangers, drunk men and even locals who see PCV every single day; take long walks alone along the empty stretches of nearby beach to maintain some level of sanity.

The idea for this blog comes from "A Companion for Owls" by Maurice Manning, a book written in the voice of American frontiersman Daniel Boone. I asked my friend to send it to me (thanks Becky!) for the sole purpose of referencing a short inventory titled "Small Possessions I Prize." My own inventory is nowhere near as quaint as his ("porcupine quill, stained purple; stone blade from the Indians; buffalo vertebrae"), but I still think it is illustrative of a time, a place, a lifestyle.

- sahafa (woven, circular mat), used at least three times a day for winnowing and sifting rice, cutting vegetables, sorting beans

- small red notebook I use to write new Malagasy words I've learned (thanks again, Becky)

- two five-gallon buckets, which holds the entirety of my daily water usage for washing, bathing, drinking, etc (average daily water consumption is 69.3 gallons in the US, but it's different when you have to haul it yourself)

- buck knife from the states; knives here are cheap and flimsy

- tsihy (woven mat), placed on the floor of my house or in my front yard; must sit on one when you eat, must be barefoot

- handmade ceramic mug my Malagasy family gave me at the end of home stay

- a big, sturdy spoon, the only utensil I eat with anymore (yes, I use a spoon to eat fish with bones)

- battery-powered speakers, so when the electricity goes out, I can still have a private dance party in my hut

- letters from friends, to be read and savoured again and again

A couple nights ago I was mugged in Diego. I was walking home from the bar with a guy friend when out of absolutely nowhere a man came up from behind us, yanked on my purse with such force that the strap busted apart (though I still cannot understand how it broke, it was a thick nylon strap) and was gone in a flash. The entire event took all of ten seconds, from when he grabbed my purse off of me til his disappearance. He ran faster than anything I have ever seen.

Of course I immediately called out, "Mpangalatra! Vonjeo!" (Thief! Help!) and several Malagasy people in the street tried to run after him, but he was already gone. A few seconds later the skies opened up in a monsoonal rain, and I started crying. It was a very dramatic scene.

I lost some cash (not much), both my ID cards (but not my passport or the copy of my passport), my camera (with a memory card full of about 4,000 photos, most of which were backed up) and... my phone.

So, for all of you that send me texts (thank you thank you thank you) please note I have a new phone number. And keep those lifeline texts coming! They help me so much.

Here it is:

261 32 871 7074

This blog was written by my friend and fellow PCV, Katie Browne. She wrote a great blog about some of the religious practices in Madagascar, and since some of you have asked me about it, I figured I would let her blog do the talking. Here it is:

In Search of Malibu Barbie Tromba

In Madagascar, religions collide. In the northern regions of the island, Christianity of colonial origin mingles with Islam of mainland-African import and both seek to undermine the indigenous beliefs of a culture that predates them both. Church bells and prayer calls quietly struggle against the enduring influence of, among other things, the karazana (the ancestors) and the mpomasavy (the witches). Families that unearth their revered dead and parade the remains through the streets in annual exhumation ceremonies known as “The Turning of the Bones,” attend church every Sunday. In small towns, Muslims who adhere strictly to the five prayers a day refuse to leave their houses after dark, for fear of attack at the hands of those possessed by the spirits of the mpomasavy.

As a former religious studies major, I am a kid in a candy shop residing in such a land. But nothing- NOTHING- I learned in a classroom in Charleston, South Carolina prepared me for the singularly bizarre experience of a tromba in Anketrakabe, Madagascar. And that is by no means a dig on the College of Knowledge.

A tromba, we learned in our comprehensive cross-cultural training, is an exorcism. Though the ceremonies vary greatly in nature, they are far more likely to involve large quantities of cheap liquor than revolving, disembodied heads and projectile vomit (shameless conjecture and hearsay regarding the film; my heart would stop if I watched something like that). Leaving the training session, I envisioned a sort of tromba-frat party, in which heavily intoxicated participants attempt to exorcise their inner demons through outlandish behavior they would rather not be reminded of the next day. Needless to say, this mindset only further failed to prepare me for the real deal.

We could hear the drums from the road, accompanied by the whine of the accordion and the rattle of traditional Malagasy shakers (read: dried beans in a can). The small wooden house was packed to the rafters; mostly women, sitting on the floor and lining the walls; children were passed from hand to hand and lap to lap; teenagers peered in through the narrow windows. For your information (and future reference, you never know when you will stumble upon a tromba), there is no inconspicuous way to enter this arena as a foreigner: you hesitate in the doorway, attempting to find a square inch of space that could conceivably accommodate you. You feign comfort (“I do this all the time. Totally in with the tromba.”) while half the occupants of the room are rearranged to provide a place for the American guest. You slide in- smiling, greeting, look at the baby, look at the baby- and do your best to blend in with the wall.

The atmosphere of that room was unlike any other I have ever experienced: the press, the heat, the humidity of confined human bodies; the endless variations of a persistent beat; the clapping and wailing rising in accompaniment. A figure, anonymous from the crowd, would rise, don layer upon layer of white clothing, douse themselves in cheap perfume, apply white paint to their arms, brows, and jawbones, then circulate, shaking hands and exchanging the French-Gasy triple kiss. Having completed this ritual of preparation, the participants would rest against the wall, smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking moonshine, their bodies hidden under folds of fabric, their eyes obscured by aviator sunglasses.

For some, the fits began immediately. They would hardly have finished the social rounds before they were seized and- moaning and wailing- would thrash about the floor, quite frankly endangering anyone within striking distance. Others sat for hours, observing placidly, before joining in the activities. Strangely, one woman, in the act of making fun of another’s convulsion, was suddenly swept into one of her own; her entire body consumed, she rocked back and forth with such violence that her braids practically whistled through the air. At times, those in the midst of such spasms would be covered completely by a sheet, so that all one could see was their limbs struggling against the tension of the fabric.

As a witness to such spectacle, I can only describe it was surreal. Fits were exploding throughout the room, even amongst audience members, yet the atmosphere was more lighthearted than anything else. I remind you, small children were present. The woman seated on my right, asked me- as she was helping to contain her neighbors convulsion- what exactly the Peace Corps does in Madagascar. Exchanging small talk in such a setting was certainly out of the range of my capabilities (and also, SO not in the job description). It was like a Pentecostal revival, secret society, and family reunion all stuffed into a sardine can and microwaved.

After sitting for six hours, knees pulled to my chest, I began to fear for my lower extremities; they hadn’t checked in with my brain to confirm their existence in quite a while. Desperately, I was beginning to contemplate feigning a fit just to carve out some space for myself. Though the tromba showed no signs of slowing or stopping, we- pathetic, coddled Americans- stumbled out the door. At each tortured step of our ungracious exit, we were tsk-tsked and told we are simply not hardcore enough. If hardcore meant six more hours of that, I will take weak and pathetic any day.

That night, after we had recovered somewhat, we debriefed (now that I “work” for a governmental agency, I enjoy using terms such as “debrief”). Essentially, this took the form of an interrogation, in which we tried to understand what exactly had gone on in that little wooden house and confirm that the entire event was not, in fact, an elaborate mefloquin dream.

Taking into consideration my limited Malagasy, I emerged with this understanding. Though tromba is generally translated and compared to exorcism, the nature of the possession is much different than our (heavily-Christian influenced) perception; often it is non-hostile. Trombas are spirits of the deceased, which have not moved on, but instead have chosen to reside in the body of a living individual. When a tromba takes up residence, it is permanent. Thus, the ceremony that we had just attended was not an attempt to exorcise the spirit, but rather of celebration of its presence and an opportunity for it to express itself. (Apparently, trombas are a rather lively bunch, judging by all that thrashing. Then again, they don’t get out much.)

Trombas have personality in their spirit form just as they did in life. Most are well-meaning, some are not, each is different. In retrospect, I realized that the clothing the participants wore, while generally uniform, accommodated variations in personality accordingly. One woman wore a safari hat (duh! it was safari tromba!). Another wore a veil and long lace gloves; as was explained to us in painstaking detail, that was marriage tromba.

Ok, so I still don’t totally get it. And I must admit I was a tad disappointed at the conspicuous absence of Malibu Barbie tromba. But, walking away from it all, regaining feeling in my legs, the drums fading in the distance, I was well aware that I had just had an experience unlike any other. And I guess that was in the job description.

Several days ago I returned home from a mountain bike ride, dripping with sweat and badly needing a drink of water. I was just inside the fence of my house when a friend came over to tell me that his wife had given birth to a healthy baby boy in the night.

This was wonderful news; I had heard from some other people in town that two of their other children had died as newborns.

After I congratulated him, he asked me nonchalantly, "Can you give him a name?" Still pouring with sweat in the baking sun and breathing heavily, I exclaimed, "Me?! You want me to give him a name?!" He smiled with a face full of joy, "Yes! It will be our souvenir of Vanessa!"

Before you get too sentimental, know that names here don't carry as much weight as they do in the American culture. I cannot count how many times I've asked the name of someone- be it a beloved newborn or a wizened grandmother- only to be met with a perplexed, unknowing shrug. People here either go by nickname or women take on the title of "Mother of so-and-so."

Nonetheless, I've never named a child before, and figured the task would take some reflection. My friend asked if I wanted to swing by the next morning with a name. Even though I was fairly certain of his name- it had come to me in a flash- I agreed to go by the following morning just in case I decided on something different. There were a few points to consider.

First of all, some English names here are really hard or awkward for Malagasy people to pronounce. Luckily, "Vanessa" is easy enough, though most of my village calls me by my Malagasy name, given to me on my first day: Soa Faniry. "Soa" is a prefix for a woman's name- it simply means "girl" or "lady." For example, if you are trying to get the attention of a woman you don't know, it's perfectly acceptable to call out, "Hey Soa!" The word "Faniry" is the the passive form of the verb "maniry," to grow, so my full name means Girl Who Brings About Growth.

But I digress.

The second point about naming a child here is that some names don't translate so well from English to Malagasy. My British friend Matt laughs every time he introduces himself; "maty" here means dead. My other friend Kelly gets perplexed looks: "kely" in Malagasy means little.

So it was with some trepidation that I went to my friend's house the following morning to give his newborn son his name. There was no pomp and circumstance, just the relaxed, casual way that makes up the entirety of the Malagasy culture. I had my camera and snapped a few pictures; my friend pulled out a weather-beaten notepad filled with various random scribblings, then pointed to a blank page for me to write down the name.

I wrote it out carefully as they covet penmanship here: Richard Barrett (pronounced Ree-shar Ba-ray). I explained that Richard was my grandfather's name and Barrett the name of a dear friend from home. I knew they would choose to call their son Barrett for life, Richard being used only for formalities and identification cards.

Everyone in town loves the name Barrett, they say it is for a strong boy, though no one's yet seen the newborn except for a few family and select visitors. As per Gasy custom, the mother and child must not leave the house until two weeks after its birth. When she finally does go outside to introduce her son to the community, the mother must put cotton in her ears for another two weeks. I don't know why- it's just explained as Malagasy culture.

So, there you have it- my first foray in naming children. Let me know if I can be of service to you and yours any time soon.

Staying is not something I've done much of in my life. Since 1998 I've been fluttering about hither and yon. My poor grandmother has three pages in her address book dedicated to my wanderings, with sticky notes piled upon sticky notes.

I like the excitement of exploration, the thrill of the unknown becoming known, new friends becoming trusted confidants, re-inventing myself within the constructs of wide-ranging jobs, nesting into a new homespace, falling in love with a place, a people, a culture, a lifestyle... and then picking up and starting all over again.

That is, I liked all that. Madagascar has exhausted the sojourner in me. For once in my life, I kinda just feel like staying put.

Why would I want to pack up what meager possessions I have and move to another village just to start back at square one... spending months re-introducing myself and the Peace Corps mission to a community already inherently distrustful of strangers, re-identifying already established roles, building boundaries with children (and adults) who are overly-comfortable with entering my house uninvited, figuring out where I can go to feel safe, comfortable and welcome in a place that can sometimes feel so foreign and bizarre? No, all that's not for me to go through all over again. Been there, done that. It is better (easier?) that I simply stay in my little hut home and be patient through this entire process.

And so, life goes on in its ever-changing, never-changing way that defines village Africa. I haven't spoken to my counterpart Pierre for about three weeks, ever since I told him in all likelihood he wasn't going to be able to go to America. (If you haven't read the back story about this issue, click http://vinmadagascar.blogspot.com/2010/12/hard-times.html.) The dynamics between us have certainly changed. Back in early December, after I initially contacted Peace Corps about my concerns surrounding his relationship with the previous volunteer, I made a follow-up phone call to my supervisor to let him know how things were going in my village. It was then that I received the shocking news that the Peace Corps Country Director had contacted the US Embassy in Antananarivo to request they withhold Pierre's visa to America! I couldn't believe it! I had no idea that one little phone call to discuss my uncertainties about how to handle the situation in my village could possibly lead to Pierre's inability to gain entry into the United States!

A sinking feeling came into my stomach shortly thereafter: how was I ever to break this kind of terrible news to Pierre? The waiting and wondering for those couple weeks while Pierre was on holiday with his girlfriend/volunteer were fairly torturous. Eventually, the time came when Pierre returned back to village, around the second week of January. I could hardly look him in the eye; my face flushed hot when I saw the boastful manner in which he walked around the village, donned in all-new clothes and fancy shoes, the way he spoke to the other villagers who asked him where he'd been all this time.

So, the time came for me to be the bearer of some bad news. I told Pierre he wouldn't be able to obtain a visa to America. Imagine breaking news like that to someone in a foreign language with limited vocabulary! I tried to explain as best I could, but he had already made up his mind: I was the one who was making it impossible for him to go to America (didn't you know?- I am solely responsible for US Embassy affairs in Madagascar)! He is convinced that I called Peace Corps with the pure intention of making him stay here.

All this happened about three weeks ago. After much discussion between us initially, in which I tried and tried to explain, Pierre and I have ceased speaking. Certainly he is upset with me, though that all comes out in the Malagasy fashion of utter passivity- for he is in no way an emotionally demonstrative person, as is the culture here. Likewise, I have my own feelings of disappointment with him, and upset with the previous volunteer for all this mess.

Then again, no one said Peace Corps was going to be easy.

Though the dynamic between my counterpart has changed, I try to remember that it is my village as a whole that I am meant to support; they are the ones that I stay here for.

To stay or not to stay, that is the question. I'm in no way considering leaving Madagascar or ending my Peace Corps service. I just spent that last ten days in my village feeling hopelessly overwhelmed by whether or not I can (or more accurately am willing to deal with) the new dynamics that exist there now: marriage proposals left and right, mothers of grown, married men asking if I can get their sons to America, and a host of issues with my counterpart. If there's a better word than awkward for this situation, I don't know what it is.

In the face of all this, I certainly feel like just giving up and running away! It does take courage to stay through a difficult process, and I'm conjuring up all I can. I am of such two minds about whether or not I should continue through in Ambolobozokely or take the opportunity to move to another village and work in the Health sector that I feel stymied by indecision.

Today I think I will stay. Tomorrow I may feel different. It's been like this for weeks.

Dearest, Beloved Cheese,

I miss you. I think about you all the time. I miss the special moments we shared together... satisfying lunches on sunny mountaintops, admiring the 360-degree views; ski trips where you were so cold but still such a trooper; romantic nights by the fireside, sharing a bottle of wine, a hearty loaf of bread and dark chocolate; summertime salads with friends on the backporch. You were always there, adding such joy to every moment in your subtle, humble way.

There is no substitute for you. I know that now more than ever as each passing day goes by without you in my life. I admit it; I do occasionally try to enjoy a pathetic breakfast or dinner with your evil twin- the non-frigerated processed cheese wedge- but nothing holds a candle to you. How you can be both soft and strong at the same time is inspiring; your complexity makes you who you are.

Sometimes I see your likeness all the way over here on the other side of the world, in an expensive shop or fancy restaurant, and the memories come flooding back in. Yes, I miss you, but half a day's salary for one fleeting moment together?

I can wait. I can hold out for that distant day, sometime after May 2012, when I return to you.

The first thing I want to do (maybe after seeing my family and taking a shower) is savor the world's largest plate of nachos piled high with your goodness. I just hope you won't be too cruel after all this time.

Yours faithfully,

Vanessa

A challenging day in my village is everyday; it takes an exceptional happening to really make me question my ability to stay. The last few days have proven to be some of my hardest yet.

To fully explain the situation that recently occured, I must backtrack a little. For those of you who aren't familiar with the structure of Peace Corps Madagascar, each community, after submitting a formal written request for a volunteer, assigns a person who will work directly with the PCV during their two years of service. This person, called a "counterpart," can be a village president, director of a community, governemntal or non-governmental organization, head of a school or business association, etc. The relationship established with your counterpart is a key component to integration into your community and as such, Peace Corps puts a lot of emphasis on ensuring the relationship is solid. Some counterparts speak a little French or English; often they are more educated and in some senses, more "westernized" in terms of work structure- familiar with concepts such as office space, regular work hours, mission statements and the like.

Not so much in my case, however. My counterpart, though a prominent community figure, builds houses or more accurately, huts, for a living. I work with no organization and have no specific job description, outside of the Peace Corps mission. And certainly, no office space. Nonetheless, my counterpart Pierre has been an incredible resource for me throughout the last eight months at site. Not only has he been available at all times to answer ever cultural question imaginable, he and his wife and five children have become a second family to me. (Some PCVs actually live with host families during their service, not so in Madagascar.) We've shared countless meals and laughter together daily, and I've been very blessed to have such a supportive home away from home. Sometimes Pierre has free time to help me with my work, which has largely consisted of building a tree nursery and growing nutritious Moringa trees, and educating women on their health benefits. When I want to feel like I'm contributing in some other way, I often go help Piere build houses, pouring cement, breaking rocks or hauling buckets of water from the well.

In any case, that's a bit of the basic background of the Peace Corps counterpart.

Here's what just happened over the last few days.

Pierre is leaving my village, separating from his wife of fifteen years and planning on moving to America. This may not seem like much news to you, but in a village where roughly 1% of the population has ever even been to the capital city a mere 500 miles away, his leaving behind everything he's ever known and moving halfway around the world is... kind of a big deal.

The real news is that he's not just moving away.

He plans to marry the volunteer that lived here before me, who left over two years ago. It turns out they had a secret affair during her service and have kept in touch this whole time, unbeknownst to me or to anyone else for that matter.

I'm uncertain what this all means for me in the immediate future. When I called my Peace Corps director, he was quite concerned about the impact this situation would have on my morale and the community; the cultural ramifications are vast and not something Peace Corps looks upon too keenly. It is one thing for a PCV to become romantically involved with a Host Country National (or HCN, yes there is an acronym for it in PC jargon) who is single or at least has been separated for some time from their partner. It is quite another to break up a family whose sole income is that of the father's; women here weave baskets for a measly supplemental income when they're not taking care of their children.

The enormity of problems this may potentially lead to for me has been overwhelming to think about. Other women may become quite distrustful of me. Men may think they can get a free ticket to America through me. My work may not be taken seriously, or become even less supported than it already is. The list of issues goes on and on. Because we are cultural ambassadors, PCVs do not just act as solo entities; we represent the entire American culture to a vastly undereducated people. As scary as it may seem to you, and certainly is to me, I am every American woman to every Malagasy person I meet.

In the midst of all of this, I feel sad about losing a partner and friend in Pierre. Though it may be quite some time before he ever sets foot in America, the framework of our relationship has been irrevocably altered. It is hard enough to live halfway around the world with no friends and family nearby; as such, the relationships I've created in my village and with other PCVs have become important lifelines.

The last few days have certainly been challenging, with many more to come. I know that the Peace Corps experience is an intense two-year rollercoaster ride without any exits. I am learning that while I may want to give up and go home right now because everything seems more than I can handle, sticking it out may have greater rewards than I will ever know.

It's been difficult to write this blog, with many stops and starts and edits and revisions. I know that the previous volunteer and her family read this blog, as well as many more people from Madagascar and the Peace Corps community. I want to say that while this situation is complex, it is not entirely uncommon. People meet and fall in love everyday.

We don't know when our time is up.

Yet we live- indeed, thrive- in that blissful ignorance,

necessarily oblivious.

When one of us becomes too-soon-gone

it is difficult to know which is harder to endure:

the loss we live through

or the life which remains

and in that precarious state

we teeter.

Though I did not know him,

I understand what it means to be in the world without him,

because of the certain

soft sound

-almost imperceptible-

in my father's voice,

breaking,

breaking over waves.

~ for D.B.

It is exhausting to constantly be on display, never able to blend in to the crowd and go about my business like everybody else. When I walk down the path to buy a loaf of bread, everyone stops and watches me, then comments upon my return, loaf in hand: "Did you buy bread?" This type of rhetorical question used to literally drive me insane. I used to think: Can't you see?! Yes, I have the bread in my hand!

Now I know that it is just a pleasantry. I've taken to it well enough that now when I see someone washing dishes, my first greeting is, "Washing dishes?"

Even so, when I pass by a group of children playing, they cease all activity and stare relentlessly, greeting me over and over and over again, which is nice, but sometimes I am surprised at the level of excitement after seven months of seeing me walk by.

And then there's the whole openness about, well, my fat ass.

______________

(while drinking coffee, many people sitting around/ milling about)

me to coffee lady: I like your skirt!

coffee lady: You like my skirt? It would be nicer on you, because I am old and my butt is big.

man sitting nearby: Vanessa has a big butt and a nice body.

coffee lady: Yeah she does. Her clothes are nice and her butt is good. Very big!

woman across the street: Vanessa has a nice body, her butt is big, her arms and legs are strong!

(more people look, join in, make comments)

me: umm... yeah... ummm...

__________________

(while sitting around outside a community building the other day)

person 1: Vanessa is getting skinny!

person 2: Yes, she doesn't eat enough rice!

person 1: When she got here, she was big!

person 3: She was very big! How long have you been here, Vanessa?

me: Seven months in Ambolobozokely, nine months in Madagascar.

person 1: You were big when you first got here, now you are getting small.

me: I am not getting small. I am bigger now than I was in America.

person 2: No, it's because you don't eat enough rice.

person 3: No, it's because she was sick.

me: No, I'm not getting smaller! I eat a lot of rice!

person 1: You are a liar.

me: ok...

_______________

(while walking in the forest collecting seed pods, we pass some women)

woman I've never met or spoken to before: You have a good body.

me: Ummm... thanks. What is your name?

woman: Your butt is big, your stomach is small.

me: Ummm.. yeah...

woman: My butt is big too, but I have a fat stomach. I am a fat person.

me: ummm...

_______________

I tried to remain true to the translation of these conversations to the best of my ability, while taking into account that I still don't speak Malagasy very well.

In case you hadn't checked out Part One of this saga, here's the link:

http://vinmadagascar.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-fat-ass.html

This post differs from others in that it is not written in prose form, but rather as short snippets taken over time from my own journal.

______________

I've never heard more gun blasts, explosions, machine guns, bomb detonations and screams of bloody terror as I have since living in Madagascar. It's not because I live in a war zone, far from it, in fact. The Malagasy people are overall peaceful pacifists; the slow, gentle pace of African life in a tropical climate prevails here. The sounds of war come to me daily via my noisy neighbor's television set. It is hard to hear gun blasts and violence day in and day out. Still, I try to take comfort in the fact that at least it is just the soundtrack of a movie and not a real war zone, as countless others around the world must face everyday. I can't help but wonder though what sort of impact these movies- and all that comes with modern entertainment- will have on the culture and the people here.

_______________

When the wind stops blowing in my village, the electricity goes out. Then I do a secret dance of joy. Finally, no more synthesized accordian 90's-style club jams blasting at high decibals from 4:45 AM to 11 at night. Finally, time to hear the songbirds. Finally, some peace & quiet... or not. When the wind picks up again, the noise commences simultaneously.

______________

I thought when I moved to a rural village in Africa, my life would be an extension of the one I spent during my years in wilderness (and admittedly, there are parts that are... rising with the sun, awareness of the moon and night sky cycles, living harmoniously with dirt, trees and the seasons). I just never expected it to be so loud. I am one of the few (lucky?) environment volunteers who lives in a village where there is electricity, thanks to a couple of windmills that were installed about a year ago. Having electricity has certain implications- for myself, as I can easily charge my cell phone and ipod, but more importantly, for the villagers who are experiencing living with it for the first time in their lives. They pay for electricity based on how many lightbulbs are in their houses, not by their usage. They are just figuring out now what payment system is fair, and what is not... in their own slow, passive way.

______________

If it's not some war movie, then it's Malagasy music; I honestly cannot say which is worse.

______________

Overnight, the air was still; this morning there was no electricity and the ocean was as smooth as glass- the first time I'd ever seen it that way. I asked one of the old women at the coffee shack if she liked the town quiet like this, with no music. "Ehee!," she implored, "zaho tia tanana mareseka be!" (Which, of course means she prefers the town "mareseka," a difficult word to translate as there are many definitions depending on the context: fun, lively, much talked about, full, people moving about, like a party, etc.) Since villagers are now only quiet when someone dies, she said it was like the whole town was sad. The whole town, that is, except for me, who enjoyed waking to the sound of songbirds this morning for the first time in seven months.

______________

If a town lost electricity in America, it would be a great inconvenience, maybe even newsworthy, complete with reporters and technicians working around the clock to remedy the problem. When it happened here the other night, my neigbor moved a woven mat into her yard and watched the almost-full moon rise above the coconut trees, talking to her husband and daughter in hushed, wonderous voices.

today, like so many days in my life,

i was my own best enemy.

battling with the weight of my heart,

carrying cloudstorms on my shoulders.

a scowl for this beautiful world.

oblivious to my plight,

nature was boastful and proud,

as she should be most days.

she showed off her big pouty rainclouds

and hip-swaying palm trees,

and finished with a flurry of dazzling pink sunrays

winking on the indian ocean.

i remained distant, unmoved, somewhere else.

to keep pulling this thread

will surely leave one of us undone,

the other with something unraveled,

exposed.

i cannot live here or there,

then or now,

in this life,

or that one.

Way back in September 2008, a very well-loved young man named Wawa passed away in my village. He was only 18 at the time, and from what I can gather, he died of a heart attack, or some other sickness of the heart. (It is hard to ascertain what sorts of medical maladies befall people here, since even the most basic knowledge of the human body is rare, at least among villagers.)

He was buried in the small cemetery that sits atop a windy hill just outside of Ambolobozokely. It is a beautiful little place; the ocean and surrounding islands can be seen through swaying palms.

This story begins one morning last week, while I was sipping some coffee and chatting with friends. I noticed small groups of women gathering at a house and realized that there were only a few men in town. I asked what was going on. It was then that my friend told me all about their beloved community member who had passed away almost two years ago, and how sad people had been when he died, especially because he was so young.

Though he had been buried after the usual three-day three-night mourning event that is the Malagasy funeral, his family did not have enough money at the time for a proper tranovato (stone house) to be built over his grave. They had at last been able to pay for all the materials, and the whole community was turning out to put the last touches on his final resting place. I asked if it was fady (taboo) to go up to the cemetery and check out the scene. As usual, everyone welcomed me to partake in their community event with open arms.

I figured it would be a somber event, at best. I wasn't even sure if I should bring my camera, lest it be perceived as rude or intrusive. What I came across instead was just another inspiring moment that has become the framework of my life here.

As I approached the graveyard, I could hear men laughing and talking as they worked. There were about thirty of them, cheerfully hauling sand, mixing cement, carrying water, but most of them were just there to hang out and cajole the others who were actually working. It struck me as a poignant scene: how it was more like a party then a sad, solitary event. There was an air of celebration and togetherness, as is the case during so many occasions that are more melancholy in the western world.

Mid-morning, the women came up the hill, wrapped in their brightly-colored salovanas and each carrying a large pot or heavy bucket of rice on their heads. They had prepared a huge feast that would be eaten next to the gravesite.

After an impromptu picnic of rice and coconut beans, which had to be eaten in shifts because there were so many of us, everyone wanted their picture taken next to their family's graves. They were all very happy to tell me about the people they still loved and missed, and since there is only one camera in my village (mine), it was an honor for them to get a picture taken beside the gravestones.

There is a simple beauty in having friends and family involved in the building of one's grave. Like everything in the Malgasy culture, life-- and death-- is experienced amongst each other; the community is what sustains and defines a person. The expression is so overused, but it's true: it really does take a village to raise, support and sometimes bury a child.

When living in a culture vastly different than your own, it is easy to put yourself in a mindset of "us versus them." Admittedly, I spend a lot of my time tallying up the differences between myself and Malagasy people. Likewise, it is always a relief to talk to other PCVs living in Madagascar about the baffling characteristics that distinguish our culture from theirs.

I considered for some time writing a blog with a list of all the dissimilarities between the American and Malagasy cultures, but that could quickly become a very long (and boring) book. For example, while I may complain bitterly about transportation to my village being unreliable and inconvenient, to them it is perfectly acceptable to wait 6 hours for a ride somewhere. When I go out fishing, I cannot help but think about what a good workout it is for my arms; they are thinking about how much money they can bring in for their families. When I go to the bank or post office, I must remember that there is absolutely no method to the lines; people crowd around, cut in front of you, or talk to the clerk while you are in the middle of a transaction.

Just as much as I may not understand their culture or why they do things the way they do, they don't seem to get mine. I am constantly being asked questions about the American culture, sometimes disturbingly ignorant, other times amusing and sweet. Are all Americans rich? (They don't believe poor people could possibly live in the US.) Do mermaids live in the ocean over there? (This after watching the movie "Splash.") When a stranger comes to your door, do you invite them to sit with you and eat rice? (No, but I wish we did.)

The sense of "us versus them" can quickly get out of control if you let it. It allows us to be in the right and the other wrong. We can end up spending much of our lives consumed in this mindset, from the guy who's a jerk for cutting us off in traffic to playing a victim role in a failed relationship. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, approaching cultural experiences from this "us versus them" mentality is a deathwish, but one that can still be really hard to let go of. Most of my irritation here comes from wishing "they" would just do things differently. I try to make sense out of the nonsensical, order out of the chaos. Staying focused on the ways that we are similar and becoming more and more accepting of the culture I now live in is the only way I will stay sane.

These days, I'm working a paradigm shift: us IS them.

After five days relaxing on some tropical islands off the northwest coast of Madagascar, I am heading back to my site with a viral infection on my sunburnt lips, a broken bicycle, a busted laptop and 72 mosquito bites on my right leg alone. But the trip was worth it all. The islands are what dreams are made of: few people, very relaxing, gorgeous beaches, crystalline water and a culture all of its own.

(originally written on 10/20/2010)

After a night of much-needed rainstorms, the morning sky from my favorite stoop was the color of pink cotton candy and violets. I enjoyed a cup of delicious coffee (from beans grown right here in Madagascar) while watching the coconut and mango trees outside my hut swaying gently. Their fruits are growing faster as the Malagasy summer begins.

Shortly after a breakfast of oats and bananas, my work counterpart stopped by for a chat. It is good to be easing into conversation in a foreign language with little thought of what I will say, how I will say it or without even needing to translate it in my head. Soon the discussion turned to a tree-planting project that I’ve been waiting to begin for some months now. Today, it finally, almost began, and this lifted my spirits tremendously.

After spending the rest of the morning chatting with friends in town and cooking tasty beans on my fatana mitsitsy (a cookstove that saves on firewood), I went for a great mid-day run down to a distant beach. About a week ago, I discovered a quiet little alcove protected from the wind, perfect for an afternoon swim. The waves are much calmer there and from the rocky outcrop above you can watch many brightly colored coral reef fish. I saw a school of delicate blue and orange fish exploring the nooks and crannies of the shoreline beside me; soon after a fascinating multi-colored striped fish with long leaf-like fins followed suit. With nothing but mangroves and rolling tree-covered hills as far as the eye can see, I swam in the crystal blue water, grinning at my good fortune. I guess if I had to be placed somewhere for two years of Peace Corps service, this is just about as good as it gets.

As I took a moment to soak up some sun and stretch, I saw what looked like a tiny person diving up and down under the waves, perhaps wearing a snorkel mask. How strange, I thought, someone all alone out there in the ocean. But then I looked more closely (yes, I need glasses)! It was a giant sea turtle! It swam a bit closer to shore so I was fortunate enough to get a great viewing. She was huge, perhaps 3 feet long, with a massive green and orange speckled shell, and would dive down under the water for a few minutes only to emerge some great distance further along the beach. It was such an inspiring sight, but marked with a tinge of sadness. Many of those shells become empty of life in my village, as turtle meat is still consumed here in Madagascar despite conservation efforts by many agencies, including WWF.

In any case, it was incredible to see this perhaps 100-year old graceful swimmer making her way through the water that I had just enjoyed myself.

Back in town, I stopped by another friend’s house to help her cook up the cashews we had just gathered the day before on her land. Before coming to Madagascar, I had never even seen a cashew tree, but in the last few weeks I have been on several trips into the forest which is chock-full of these lovely broad-leafed trees. The cashew nut grows out of a sweet-smelling fruit about the size of a plum and needs to be roasted over a fire before they’re edible… and truly delicious! These cashews are sweet, slightly crunchy, and because they’re cooked over a wood fire, have an exquisite smoky aroma. No oil or salt is added; you just eat them as soon as you crush the outer shell, still warm, and best of all: free!

Like the cashews, I have been enjoying many different types of wild fruits that grow everywhere here. Even just walking around the village, I constantly see kids knocking fruits out of some tree or another that I’d never even noticed before. Indeed, children spend most of their free time gathering whatever is in season… climbing coconut trees or foraging for cashews, mangos, papaya or a zillion other fruits you’ve never seen before.

Yep, I like living here. Just another beautiful day in the neighborhood.

In the American culture, birthdays are a special day, a time when friends and family come together to celebrate someone’s life and enjoy an excuse to eat cake. In Madagascar, a birthday means pretty much nothing, at least not in villages like mine. One of my friends at site explained to me that in the ambanivolo (countryside) of Madagascar, most people don’t have extra money for parties and gifts, so birthdays are rarely celebrated. In fact, many people don’t even know when their birthdays are. As such, I tried not to feel entitled to anything particularly special happening on my birthday this year, but something truly extraordinary happened… extraordinarily ridiculous, that is.

It started off all right. Having spent the night before partying in Diego, I needed to catch the taxi-brousse back to my village. Unfortunately, I was dreadfully hungover and dehydrated. 90-degree heat. No Tylenol. Bad idea. I’d been waiting about two or three hours in the hot sun when the driver finally showed up (half-drunk as usual) and announced that the brousse was broken. He was still going back to the village in his personal vehicle, but there was no room for me and my bike, he said. I begged, in my best broken Malagasy, “Please, it’s my birthday,” (which means nothing), “can you please take me today? My friends are waiting to have a party with me!” I’d even bought a couple of expensive slices of quickly melting cake to share with my friends; everyone should learn about the funny birthday tradition of candles on top of cake. The driver reluctantly agreed to take my bike and me too.

After some major confusion on my part, based on the fact that I still don’t speak Malagasy very well, I was somehow informed that there was also a problem that day with the police in Diego, and as such, they were charging brousses extra for carrying cargo out of town. This meant that I was going to have to carry my bike on some other sort of public transportation to the next town south of Diego if I wanted to meet up with the car that was going back to my village. (I’m sorry if this is confusing you, for it surely confused me!)

In the meantime, both my mom and dad were trying to call me to wish me a happy birthday. I was crammed in over-crowded bus, standing room only, sweating profusely, head pounding, wondering if it could possibly get any worse. And oh, did it.

After about an hour of awkward neck wrenching to keep my head from banging against the roof of the bus, I arrived at my stop. I met up with the car going back to Ambolobozokely and in no time at all, we hit the open road with my bike strapped to the back of the car with rope. I watched a gorgeous sunset over rice fields and figured we’d be arriving in my village just in time for my big birthday party. Everything was going so smoothly that I was giddy: this kind of luck never happens, I thought to myself! Turns out, when something’s too good to be true, it usually is, at least in Madagascar. The driver was driving recklessly fast trying to make it to back early; not easy to do since the last 17 kilometers are rutted, gullied dirt road. Finally, we were close to home. It may be hard to fully appreciate what this means, but by the time you arrive in the last village closest to mine, it feels as though you have just accomplished some great miraculous feat.

However, as soon as we made our last stop, mere miles from Ambolobozokely, I knew something wasn’t right. Everyone was arguing, though I couldn’t be quite sure what about. Suddenly, we were speeding back down the road in the direction we’d just come from. I tried to ask the now-very-drunk-driver (he stops in several villages along the way to drink rum) if I could please just get out and bike home. Even though the sun had already set, I knew I could make my way easily by moonlight in no time. He grumbled incoherently and sped up, saying somewhere on the road he had lost someone’s bag off the roof of his car. Why he felt inclined to take me along for the ride, I’ll never know.

I was pissed, and made it known with all sorts of lewd comments -in English- because I was tired of trying to express myself in Malagasy, and anyway, I didn’t really want him to know everything I felt like saying. The driver, laughing, told another passenger, “Vanessa only speaks English when she is really upset!” How astute.

At this point, I felt depressed. It’d been over four hours since we left Diego, a distance of only 30 miles, and I just wanted to go home. I tried to think of all sorts of positive things to derive from this experience. Look at the stars, I told myself. Learn how you deal with disappointment, I considered. Finally, I settled on my go-to thought during times of struggle: hey, someday this will make a good story.

But then the headlights didn’t work, and the driver was driving like a maniac, and I started to fear for my life.

Then we crashed into a big rock in the middle of the road.

Then he tied a flashlight to the front bumper with rope.

Then we waited in some other village for a half hour while everyone argued about the lost bag.

By the time we finally arrived in Ambolobozokely, bag still missing, it was about 9:30 at night and the whole village was fast asleep. I lugged my stuff back to my hut and wept like a child, feeling completely, pathetically sorry for myself. My birthday cake was a crushed, gooey mess in its plastic box. I took a picture to commemorate the sorry event.

What could I do in that moment to create joy out of the discontentment in my heart? After a bucket bath in my leaf-lined showerhouse, I took a quick walk along a sandy path to the beach. There I sat gazing out at the Indian Ocean, listening to the lapping waves, a million stars and the entire Milky Way splayed out before me like an ancient fireworks display. I thought of all the people I love in my life, and how fortunate I am to live in this beautiful country, as wearisome as it is sometimes. I made a wish on all the candles in the sky.

My 32nd birthday might not have been the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, but the wave of peace that washed over me in those quiet moments under my own private night sky will stay with me for years to come. And maybe, just maybe, next year’s birthday will be better.

I spent the last week being quite sick and feeling sorry for myself. I had scabies (mites that enjoy laying eggs in just the places you'd rather not being itching the most) and then had some sort of an allergic reaction to the medication or the bites, and then I got the flu.

Being sick is never fun. But being that sick on the other side of the planet with no running water for showers, or pharmacies stocked with the medications you need, in an increasingly sweltering, humid environment... well, it puts a whole new twist on the word "miserable."

It's times like these when you really need some serious motivation to stay. The Peace Corps talks a lot about volunteers hitting a wall of doubt around the six or seven month mark, which as it turns out, is exactly where I'm at right now. These days, the end of my two-year service (May 2012) seems like light years away. Luckily there is a huge support system here of fellow PCVs to commiserate with... and the ones that are near their ends of service keep reminding me that the time really does fly. I know I want to be here, that I would feel disappointed in myself if I left early.

In fact, just a few weeks ago in my village when I was on a little run along the beach, I was suddenly struck with this euphoric thought: All I have to do is stay and the rest will come to me... the work, the purpose, the way, the reason.

the unusual gift of rain and cool breezes

has been given to me this morning

to ease the burden of autumn's absence:

the slow turning of seasons,

the transformation of leaves into patchwork landscapes,

the way the air becomes as crisp as the golden grasses underfoot.

how i always dread the coming of this season

when i am overseas-

little can be done to remedy the longing for all that october is:

searching for apples in the orchard,

lazy walks home from school through maple forests, shuffling through dried, decaying leaves,

climbing that old worn down mountain that i swear belongs to my grandmother, in her infinite wisdom,

hiding in leaf piles my father so carefully raked,

the shock of that first frosty morning: nose cold, fingers stiff, frost shimmering on gold, red and still-green leaves.

there is nothing that can be done about these things,

nor perhaps should there be.

they need to stay where they are, to live as they have, in memory and in time.

i am here, in the tropics.

knees sweating,

summer coming.

Many years ago I read an interesting book with an even more interesting title, called “The Burden of Choice,” by R. Stephen Warner. Essentially, the book suggests that Americans are in many ways hindered by the amount of choices we have, from the big, life-changing decisions to the small options that inundate us daily. Over the last few months, I have given much thought to the “burden of choice” we face in America and as such, how little of it exists in Madagascar. Of course, I cannot generalize an entire country, but the contrasts between the two worlds are astounding.

For example: do we really need to choose between 30 brands of toothpaste and 50 kinds of shampoo at the grocery store? As Americans, how do we decide where to live, when we have all the means necessary to travel far and wide across the country, or in any other country around the world? We are told from infancy we can be anything we want to be; which career path to choose, with a seemingly endless array of livelihood opportunities at our fingertips? Where to go for vacation? Which school to go to and what area of study? What loaf of bread should we buy? What television show should we watch, on which television and in which room? When to have kids, and how many, if at all? Which drive-through to go to? Which bagel, from the 15 to choose from, the 20 cream cheese options, and anyway, from which bagel shop? How to choose a spouse, when we can meet a million people on the internet alone? Would you like fries with that? Window or aisle seat? Paper or plastic? Pick-up or delivery? The choices are infinite and so pervasive that we hardly even realize how burdensome they’ve become.

What would life be life with fewer decisions to make? In some ways, I’ve come to find out since moving to Madagascar. For certain, life is a whole lot simpler here. And I keep wondering, is this why Malagasy people seem so much happier than Americans? The jury is still out for me; I offer the following observations for your consideration.

The impetus for some of my thinking started after a conversation with my father on the phone during my first month or so in Ambolobozokely. At the time, I was deeply concerned about what work I could do in my village (and to a large extent, still am, but more on that another day). There is no clear job description for me here; I am meant to assess my community’s needs and work to improve people’s livelihoods, while taking into consideration many of the dire environmental issues facing Madagascar. There is no Malagasy organization or person I work for, or with, and nothing specifically I am supposed to do from day to day. I was telling my dad how distraught I felt at the time about this and he suggested I try to find a side job to keep myself busy in the meantime. I laughed! As if there were a lot to choose from! Here are the career prospects available in my village, with job descriptions:

Fisherperson: Go out fishing everyday; repair nets as needed; put the fish you and your family don’t eat on a truck that goes to the city fish market daily.

Mother: Care for children, wash your family’s clothes (scrub by hand), clean the house; polish the floors; gather, kill, prepare and cook all food; clean pots and pans (more scrubbing); carry water from the well to your kitchen hut on your head; weave baskets when you’re not doing everything else.

Then there’s a smattering of shopkeepers, who buy wares from time to time in the city; a couple of hotely-owners, whose daily duties include killing and cooking food; a few carpenters, a couple teachers.

So, that’s about all you would find in the Help Wanted section of the newspaper here, if there was one, that is. Since I am not interested in being a Malagasy mom (not yet, anyway), I do go out fishing quite a bit, which I thoroughly enjoy. The work can be quite hard on the hands and back, especially when the seas are bad, but I’ve always been happiest when I’m out on the water. When the fishing season is poor here on this side of the island, many fisherfolk head over to the west coast where the waters are calmer and the fishing better. Unfortunately, this leaves many women to fend for themselves and to care for their families; as such, prostitution is rampant in the nearby port city of Diego. So, not a lot of career options, as you can see. (However, I don’t want to create the impression that there are not “normal” jobs in Madagascar; I have met many Malagasy people working for NGO’s, law firms, development agencies, etc. Obviously work varies from city to village level.)

In any case, maybe you think the job market in Ambolobozokely sounds depressing, but here’s the clincher: everyone here seems as happy as can be, save for the inevitable money concerns. No one is going to career counselors or meeting with therapists to discuss what to do with their lives. They’re just living them, peacefully. Yes, many are dreadfully uneducated and painfully unaware of the issues facing the world outside of their little village, but I offer this up solely for conjecture: Are we Americans better off because we are brought up believing we can be doctors, astronauts or even president if we just try hard enough? Are we happier spending our lives chasing down that ever-elusive perfect job? What if we were just content to go out fishing everyday, eat what we catch, and sell the rest?

But wouldn’t it be boring to do the same thing everyday? Then again, I wonder if boredom is actually wrought from having too many choices. Kids here never seem bored at all, even though they have not a single toy to their names, so to speak. They play in the dirt, with sticks, with leftover bits of whatever is around (aka trash), and keep themselves occupied all day long between playing games outside and doing housework and chores. At first I found this sad. But then I started to ask myself, why? Kids here never, ever whine or complain about having nothing to do, the way many American children do. When you have so little, it’s easy to be overjoyed just to have a crayon and a piece of paper. Maybe it’s all the choices we give our kids these days that leads to so much discontentment and entitlement.

I don’t know. But here’s more on living with less.

When I stroll down the one road in my village, I have two choices if I want to buy something, and those places are small, seaside shacks, as I’ve already alluded to many times throughout my blog. It doesn’t really matter which place I go to anyway, because they both sell the same things on their three or four shelves: two types of pasta, cans of tomato paste, one brand of toothpaste, several types of cookies, one brand of condensed milk, one type of bread, one brand of beer… and in bulk: salt, flour, sugar, rice, soap, cooking oil (bring your own bottle and fill up as much as you need). That’s about it. There are other small items, but you get the gist.

Do I miss spending an hour wandering up and down the grocery store aisles, often feeling bewildered and overwhelmed by which cereal or yogurt to buy? Do I yearn for the long checkout lines filled with impatient shoppers and crying children, taking a number just to buy some cheese, scanning my groceries on a machine that talks to me, wandering up and down the glowing fluorescent lanes just to find that one last item on my shopping list? No, not really. Sure, I would love more diverse food options, but I don’t miss the over-excessiveness of the American grocery store.

Anyway, if I’m not in the mood for cooking, I can always stop by one of the two hotelys (Malagasy-style restaurants; read: hut with a table and benches) in my village. They pretty much serve the same delicious things day in and day out, depending on what the shopkeepers have killed and/or what’s available: chicken in an oil-based tomato sauce, fish (smoked or ground up with onions and tomatoes), beef with cabbage or papaya, shrimp in coconut-based sauce, or boiled, fresh crab… and ALWAYS served with rice. (As a side note, Malagasy people eat more rice per capita than any other people in the world. Rice is what they eat as their main dish; the rest of the food is eaten in smaller portions, as a side dish.)

Sometimes when I’m cooking at home, or just wishing I didn’t have to cook, I wistfully think back to the culinary choices I had in America. Anything I wanted to buy at the store, from practically any corner of the earth, was readily available to me. Breakfast might be Mexican chilequiles, lunch could be Indian dahl and naan, a dinner of spinach tortellini, with a glass of Australian wine or Belgian beer. (I salivated just writing that sentence.) So many food choices! That, for sure, is something I miss. Or is it? Read my recent blog, “food,” in which I talk about how much I enjoy eating locally.

So, since everyone here is eating more or less the same things, doing more or less the same work, living in more or less the same type of house, does that relieve some of the pressures that we as Americans feel constantly in our lives; the insidious one-upmanship and keeping-up-with-the-Joneses?

I find myself asking: Is life less burdensome in Madagascar because there isn’t a wide-array of choices inundating people on a daily basis? Are the Malagasy people happier in general because they live "simpler" lives? Or are we the fortunate ones in America because we have the world at our fingertips? What do you think? I’d love to hear your comments.

I was never a big fan of TV. The last time I had a television in my home was when I still lived with my parents back in 1997. Sure, there have been pockets of television-watching in my life, when I would go home for visits or during a brief stint in Australia when I lived with a houseful of Norwegians and an English guy who couldn’t sleep, eat or function in general unless the television was on.

So I was quite surprised when I came down with a curious case of the lack-of-television-blues after moving to Madagascar.

How could I possibly feel this way? I’ve never enjoyed sitting like a lump on a log in front of a glowing screen, being spoon-fed what I should buy and how I should look. But now that I’m in the middle of a fishing village in Madagascar, I suddenly wish I were watching the latest episode of Glee?

Other strange feelings began to emerge, particularly during my second month at site, by far the hardest month I’ve had here. I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was, which as it turns out, is quite a lovely place. I was struggling just to live and failing miserably trying to enjoy myself. I felt irritable with everyone, discouraged by my Peace Corps experience and overall, just plain homesick.

I longed for something to distract me from my self-induced despair, but I couldn’t escape my reality; I was just going to have to deal with living in the moment. In other words, I was being forced to be present, and I kinda didn’t like it.

There was no internet to distract me in its myriad ways. There was no computer at all, in fact, where I could do even the most menial distracting activity, such as finally learn how to use Excel. I couldn’t go out for a beer with friends to take my mind off things, couldn’t go to the movie theater to zone out for the night, couldn’t call up a friend for a quick chat. And, of course, there was no television.

As time has passed, I have begun to really enjoy the simple pleasures of living in the moment. It’s a rare opportunity to step back in time; in a sense I am living as people did centuries ago. For example, a while back I was talking to my dad on the phone, which requires I walk some distance from my village and stand in the middle of a cow field. While we were talking, an ox cart rolled by carrying a large family and sacks of rice. On the other end of the line, 11,000 miles around the planet, my dad was driving down the highway using Skype on his ipad.

Our lives in the westernized world are connected to everything, adding an urgent immediacy to all we do. When I am in my village, I’m not updating my Facebook status, checking email, watching commercials, texting friends or zoning out on YouTube. What I am doing is getting to know my community’s needs, building strong relationships, working on protecting the precious environment of Madagascar… in short, enjoying the life that is actually happening all around me. And being forced to be present, with less and less resistance from me.

(one from my journal.)

Ahhh… my first true night alone in so very long, I think since I lived in the US. I didn’t realize just how badly I needed it. Even at site, in my own home, I never really feel alone because the walls are just sticks. Wall concepts.

I shopped for basil, garlic, tomatoes and onions at the market this evening and was greeted by several kind folks I’ve met along the way. It almost felt like I was home. A very foreign and makeshift home away from home.

The bread seller I’ve come to joke around with on market days sold me her largest loaf for 100 Ariary less than usual. Maybe I am no longer just another vazaha to her.

I carried everything home in a woven basket made for me by neighbor.

I took a bucket bath using hand-milled lavender soap and shampoo made from a Malagasy tree.

After wrapping a yellow print lamba around me and sipping a glass of wine, I cooked polenta with marinara sauce, and listened to various albums friends have made for me. The homesick melancholy comes in waves.

Watched “The Truth About Cats & Dogs,” totally engrossed in the lavishness of a DVD player, a couch to lie upon and a bowl of popcorn. Aware of how luxurious it feels.

Room and bed: Warm and inviting with scented oils, fan blowing, clean sheets.

Listen to “Let Me In Your Life,” by Bill Withers. It fits where I’m at completely.

Now these journal scribbles, then decadent, alone sleep, after two weeks of non-stop bunk beds and crowded, ceaseless travel.

September 3rd marked six months living in Madagascar. There is an expression here amongst Peace Corps Volunteers, "the days go slow but time flies." It perfectly describes these last six months. Sometimes the hours crawl at my site, only to realize that by staying focused on small tasks and accomplishments, the months move along quite quickly.

So, Peace Corps flew me down to the capital city of Antananarivo (Tana, for short) last weekend for our six-month training. It's been wonderful to reconnect with the other volunteers from my training group, see everyone's presentations of their sites, and to understand that my joys and frustrations are not just my own. Four people from our original group of 25 have now returned back to the United States. It is hard to live here, but gets easier with every passing day.

I have been in the capital for about a week now, and will be leaving today for a smaller city south of here called Antsirabe, where there are beautiful volcanic lakes, hiking, and even a brewery. I fly back north to Diego next Saturday and return to my village shortly thereafter. It will be strange after almost two weeks of speaking English, gorging myself on non-Malagasy foods and traveling with a large group of friends to living alone in my hut again. Happily though, I have found myself pining for my village, missing the little life I've created for myself there.

My time in Tana has been intense in many ways. For one thing, it is a big, dirty, sprawling city (about 10 million people live here). Raw sewage and trash fill the canals. Some of the lakes bubble with green, toxic sludge. I experienced my first true attempt at pickpocketing in all my years of traveling abroad. Children beg incessantly and it requires a sense of hardness. Getting around on taxi buses is a test in patience and your ability to withstand discomfort on many levels. But also, there is a beauty here, a rawness and exposure to life that I find so endearing. It is so difficult to describe...

For now I just want to say that I am enjoying my time here and hope that you all will continue to read my stories, share with your loved ones, comment on my blog and ask me questions. Goal Three of Peace Corps speaks to educating Americans about life in foreign countries, and I endeavor to do so with all my entries over the next couple years.

More to come...

Number of days I have lived in Madagascar, approximately: 180

Number of days I have eaten rice, approximately: 180

Number of times I have eaten salad in Madagascar: 4

Number of hot “showers” (bucket baths) I have taken: 3

Number of days I have worn flipflops: 180

Number of times I have told the neighbor children not to call me “vazaha” (a derogatory expression for “white person”): 50

Number of people in my village that have asked me to teach them English: 30

Number of people that have followed through with a lesson: 2

Number of dead baby chickens I have found in my yard, causes unknown: 5

Number of times I have danced at a community event: 2

Number of days I hear about my dancing: everyday

Number of nights I slept in a neighbor’s house because my house was infested with small fleas that live on chickens: 3

Kilos of fish we can bring in on a single fishing trip during the high season (November-February): 300-500

Kilos we’re bringing in now (August): 2-10

Number of drunks in my village (population 700): 6

Number of people who can read: about half

Number of overweight people: 3, all in the same family

Types of beer they sell in Madagascar: 4

Types of good beer they sell in Madagascar: 0

Number of chairs, forks and mugs in my house, each: 2

Number of times I have made my own peanut butter: 5

Number of days the jar lasted, on average: 2.5

Number of weeks I have lived without electricity in Madagascar: 12

Cups of rice my Malagasy friend goes through per month: 84

Cups I go through per month: 10

Bags of trash I have produced in the four months at site: 1

Number of days I have thought how lucky, how beautiful, how blessed I am: all of ‘em

It occurred to me during one of the more harrowing taxi-brousse rides I was on recently. Transportation in Madagascar really is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get, to quote that overly used expression made famous by Forrest Gump.

I often have such moments of lucidity while on brousse rides, perhaps due to the early hour of the day I usually have to go, or because of the lack of sleep, or just by the very nature of being shuttled between here and there, with all the vibrancy of Malagasy life right in front of my face, whether I’m ready for it or not.

I began to compile a mental list of things I have witnessed over the last few months on various brousse rides. Lately I’ve even been reminding myself that it will be (almost) fun to add one more thing to the list as I climb aboard a dilapidated vehicle about to slog its way down the road “I wonder what will happen today,” I’ll ask myself with a waning spirit of adventure.

Here is a list of possible responses based on recent experiences:

- cockroaches crawl on me

- the passenger door I’m sitting next to flies open at any given moment

- the passenger door is stuck closed and has to be pried open by three men with screwdrivers

- the woman sitting next to me squirts her breast milk on me, apparently no apology or comment required

- the driver is too drunk to drive, but no one seems to think this is unusual or alarming in any way but me

- the driver is chewing green leaves called katy as a cow chews its cud, from small branches that must be masticated for hours to produce a somewhat-aggressive high

- we leave my village around 2:30 AM and it takes six hours to go 47 km, about 30 miles

- the brousse does not leave my village at all that day because the driver is still too drunk from the night before

- all the people in the vehicle suddenly jump out and I have no idea why (I find out later when they all hop back in somewhere further down the road that they were avoiding the police because of a fine)

- we stop somewhere and I am invited to sleep on the floor of a stranger’s house while we wait for it to be daylight in the city we are traveling to

- breakdowns, of every variety, which take anywhere from ten minutes to four hours to repair

- men jump out of the back of the vehicle to fill up buckets of water at most river crossings to splash onto the engine

- the vehicle that is already going approximately 15 MPH slows down at each downhill turn because it is too top-heavy and the brakes are bad; I could walk faster

- stop for every ox-cart and strap their loads on top of the truck

- blast the music as loud as it will possibly go, even if the tape (CD? what is that?) is skipping and the tape deck is making a screeching, wailing sound

- get more or less sat upon by the person next to me because Malagasy people have no concept of the “personal bubble” that we so cherish in the United States

In any case, that is a small sampling of incidences. And the more I thought about this “box of chocolates” metaphor, the more I realized it is applicable to so many other facets of life in Madagascar.

As I approach six months here, never knowing what I’m “gonna get” is luckily getting easier. I kinda like it, in fact. Maybe the internet is working today, maybe not. Maybe there’s bread at the bakery today, or something else somewhere else instead. Maybe we’re leaving at 3 as scheduled, or maybe I sit waiting at the market for a couple extra hours talking with the old woman who sells rice and seems to know every passer-by. It is wonderful practice in appreciating the moment for what there is to offer.

However, I don’t want to glamorize life here or even make it seem delightful. At times, it’s downright awful. I want the internet to work, I want to buy bread, I want to leave when we’re supposed to. It is hard to change one’s mindset to adjust to constant uncertainty, but by staying open-minded and relaxed, the challenge lessens over time. This is much, much easier said than done.

And speaking of uncertainty, a trip to the market here is proof that you really do never know what you’re going to get. It depends on what’s growing, of course. It is wonderful to eat foods that are fresh according to the seasons; nothing is stranger to me than walking into a grocery store and buying apples from New Zealand or bananas from Ecuador in the dead of winter. The constant availability of every type of food in the American store is quite unnatural. In fact, before I moved to Madagascar, I spent a lot of time and money “localing” (a term my friend Barrett and I came up with) in Montana as was possible: biking to the health food store to fill my backpack with organic foods, eating at restaurants that served Montanan produce, buffalo or cheese, and buying local products at the Missoula Farmer’s Market, where “going local” is so cool that the outcasts of society are the ones who actually drive to the grocery store to buy their food. Weirdos.

So it is with some pleasure that when I go to market here, I buy produce grown nearby that is in season: avocados, pineapples, citrus, lychees… it all depends on what’s fresh now. Chickens are bought that morning and slaughtered before your eyes for lunch. Fish comes in from area villages and is fried up or cooked into a soup for your evening meal. And while this is the dream of every “localvore,” sure, sometimes I wish for a mango now, not to have to wait until December. And I won’t have to buy mangoes either; by my estimation there are about 40 massive mango trees in my village, every branch bursting with growing fruits.

Ah yes, the market. Shopping these days means being chased by men trying to sell me vanilla for five times what it’s worth, enduring stinky meat and fish wafting in the hot air, squished in crowds of sweaty people whilst the fruit vendor is astonished because I speak to him in Malagasy, asking me over and over again, “You speak Malagasy?” Yes, I speak Malagasy. “Really? You speak Malagasy?! Hey, everyone, this white girl speaks Malagasy!” Yes, I speak Malagasy. Now can you please give me my bananas so I can go now? Being a tall blonde in a country of short black people means I will never, ever have the luxury of just blending in and going about my business.

I am constantly amazed at how amazed people are by me. When Malagasy people see a white person, they speak to them in French, and are not overly friendly about it. You cannot imagine their surprise when I speak to them in their language. Their faces light up. They are in disbelief. Their whole demeanor changes, and I almost always get a lower price for things at the market after a short conversation with them, or a little gift, like an extra orange. Some people inevitably continue to speak to me in French, of which I have almost completely forgotten these days, even though I studied French for many years, traveled in France & Quebec and took two French language proficiency tests before Peace Corps. Not everyone is kind towards me, but knowing how to speak even rudimentary Malagasy helps a lot.

So, in short, it is easy to get exhausted by the daily harassment and difficulties, but I am doing my best to keep a good attitude and a sense of humor. I’ve even come up with a new slogan, “I’m just white, that’s all,” to amuse myself when the staring just gets too much to bear.

I remind myself daily that “never knowing what you’re gonna get” is an opportunity for learning about this culture and myself Come to think of it, life is like that in the rest of the world too, if we are open to it.