A poem that my new Country Director posted in our newsletter

Rite of Passage

- by Maladoma Some

I had a date in the bush with all the gods; so I went.

I had a date in the bush with all the trees, so I went.

I had a date in the mountain with the Kontombe.

I went because I had to go.

I had to go away to learn how to know.

I had to go away to learn how to grow.

I had to go away to learn how to stay here.

So I went and knocked on doors locked to me.

I craved to enter.

Oh, little did I know.

The doors did not lead outside. It was all in me.

I was the room and the door.

It was all in me.

I just had to remember.

And I learned that I lived always and everywhere. I learned that I know everything, only I had

forgotten.

I learned that I grew. Only I overlooked things.

Now I am back remembering.

I want to be what I know I am, and take the road we always forgot to take.

Because I heard the smell of the things forgotten and my belly was touched.

That’s why I had a date with the bush.

That’s why I had a date with the hill.

That’s why I had a date with the world under.

Now, father, I’ll take you home.

I am back

December 25^th (Baobab Delight on Christmas day):

 We woke up around 6 am in order to make it out to the Avenue de Baobabs before the sun rose to its full strength.  It was easier than we thought to flag down a taxi-be (local bus) to the famous baobab lined road.  Venders grouped around the entrance propping up stands which sold carved baobab statuettes and children presenting us with baobab fruit in their small hands.   This is a round fruit with a hard fuzzy brown outer shell.  The inside contains nuts which are covered with a white tangy substance.  These trees were enormous, with trunks measuring at least fifteen feet.  Herders wearing lamba hoanys (colorful sarongs) passed by with large knives steered their cattle on barefoot.  I tried taking pictures of them, but not without being asked for payment.  I wonder if there’s an association in charge of protecting this tourist area.  I was surprised that tourism wasn’t more developed at this site since all the travel guides rave about le avenue de baobab.  Tourism is an infant industry in Madagascar.  Infrastructure remains the largest barrier.  The roads to the Northeast are practically non-existent in order for the Chinese mafia to hold on to their monopoly on rosewood and other precious commodities. 

By nine it was far too warm to continue on our walk.  We hailed the first 4 x 4 we saw and hopped in the back.  There were other hitchhikers.  We get good at hitchhiking in Peace Corps, despite what our mothers told us.  The owners of the vehicle had on their Christmas finest, being that they were on their way to church.  We held onto dear life to the closest stable looking piece of metal since we passed many bumps along the way.  

We picked up as many ingredients we could find to make a spicy Vietnamese soup called Bun Bo Hue, again a not-too-traditional meal for being in a not-too-traditional place for Christmas.  We took an evening stroll with Ryan’s counterparts at Mehefa (a health sensibilization NGO) and picked up coffee along the way.

December 26^th (Beach day!)

We spend the whole afternoon at the beach with Ryan’s neighbors who are all around our age.  The boy was doing some free-style flips, telling me that there’s nothing to it. The water was warm and the bottom was sandy, great for swimming! We spot French hippy couples with dreads and old men with young Gasy women under their arms, typical crowd in a place like this.  Afterwards we got the runaround from different ship hands trying to figure out which sailboat was leaving the next day for Morombe in the Southwest.  

December 27^th (ships ahoy matey!)

That night we stand at the sandy shores of the beach with a headlight as a small canoe paddled up to us to take us to the sailboat.We woke up to a sail that had been dropped on our bellies.  The sailors were preparing the sails with the awakening of the sun.  Drowsily I hear garbled speech that I didn't recognize, the sailors were all Vezo,  a fishing tribe in the southwest, also experts at boats and maritime navigation.  I realized that once taken out of the north I could barely function with language.  Having become very confident with my abilities with Tsimihety, this was very humbling, especially when the sailors were able to speak a combination of the northern dialects to me.  I look out, all around us was blue, blue, ocean.  I asked them how they didn’t become lost at sea without the use of any navigation instrument.  Their answer was simple, “I am Vezo, the sea is my home.  One does not become lost in their home.” They’ve heard of tall tales of Vezo living inland who became insane without the proximity of ocean to them. 

There are only a few other passengers on the boat.  Under the deck they are carrying a couple tons of rice gunnies.  Some of the crew were nice and pulled up a tarp, made out of old USAID sacks over the wooden plank we were to live on for the next four days, in order to shield us from the scorching sun.   We pass our time reading and dozing off in order to combat seasickness.  I tease Ryan since half his bag was being used up by Tolstoy’s War and Peace and a mini chess set.  I suppose everyone finds different items indisponsible when they travel. Relieving oneself is also quite an ordeal on the water taxi-brousse.  I would have to squat behind the front sail and hang on to dear life on the iron latter on the side of the deck.  The  waves splashing up and down acted as a bidet...enough said.

We stop in Belo Sur Mer, a seaside town famous for its national park and collecting sea salt.  This is the first-mates home.  Since rainy season had begun tourism was low.  The first-mate explained to us that since the boat was out of firewood for cooking we would have to stay docked all of the next day so that the crew can go in the woods to search for some.  Even though we understood everything he was telling us was tay-omby (BS) we were trapped in paradise so we let it slide.  He was actually going to a funeral procession which we viewed the next day.  Passengers were being carried across the water with the body to the place of burial.  Malagasy people will stop all activity when someone in their community passes away as a sign of respect, no matter how distant this person was to them. 

The resorts on the beach were very quiet.   the sand was scorching hot outside so we took shelter in a hotely as a young woman with a yellow argile mask prepared fresh grilled ocean fish and rice for us. The town was small and built on the sand.  Vendors were selling baobab fruit outside and we took rest at a local epicerie with outdoor seating and enjoyed a refreshing beer.

During the evening we took rest ontop of the deck with some inibriated sailors singing along to a radio. I never expected it to be so chilly compared to the shore. 

The Grand Circuit

Since July I’ve been planning a grand voyage that would take place around the holidays.  I would start in Antananarivo (the capital), then pass by Morondava to the west, head down by sailboat to Tulear in the Southwest, then travel up to Isalo, Fianartsoa, then finally end up back in the capital before returning to my site in the Northwest.  My partner in crime: health volunteer Ryan Farkas.  I choose him as a travel companion based on the fact that he pronounces bag the same way I do, being a fellow Minnesotan.  The travel would occur within a three week time frame under a Peace Corps budget: a great adventure was in store for us. 

Minnesota nice written all over these smiles 

December 23^rd: After being told that the taxi-brousse was already fully reserved the other day (a lie) I was told to come back the next day before other passengers filled the car.  I ended up waiting five hours in the most foul-odored taxi-brousse station in Madagascar.  After two years I still can’t outwit the mpaneira’s (middle-men who are responsible for finding passengers for taxi-brousses).  He wanted a guaranteed customer was all.  

sitting in an empty taxi-brousse waiting for it to get full 

Since the more direct route to Morandava has not been renovated it requires that I go far south of Tana past Antirabe before heading northwest.  As I was lingering between a half-conscious state and peaceful sleep I felt the driver plunge the van into a ditch, attempt to dodge boulders, and trees before coming to a complete stop.  Entana (passenger items in the van) are being flown astray all around us.  There seemed to be little shock amongst passengers as they climb nonchalantly out of the battered vehicle.  I on the other hand am outraged.  There appeared to be a fatalistic acceptance of what just happened as I asked people around me their feelings towards the situation.  “It’s understandable [he just risked our lives] he’s tired,” was what I was getting.  After expressing my opinion in the most courteous manner… I’m sure, the sofera (driver) compromised that he would rest and in the meanwhile someone else would take his place. 

Finally I arrive in hot, hot, simmering hot Morandava to Ryan’s place, but not before my taxi-driver attempts to hike my fare up.  No matter, I’m in my desired designation in one piece on Christmas Eve.

December 24^th:

Ryan taught me how to gut and scale a fish.  He’s become somewhat of an expert after living several months in a northern coastal city.  Our Christmas Eve dinner was delicious although being not-so traditional.  We had eggplant and potatoes; with steamed fish; topped with a cold, crisp Gold (Malagasy brand) beer.  I feel that half of the goodness of travel comes in the form of food. 

We join Ryan’s neighbors at a Christian service this evening.  I wasn't quite sure but there seemed to be a reenactment of the nativity scene, equip with costumes and props.  The female church group, who all made matching outfits, lead the congregation in song and prayer.  It was a bit nostalgic sitting in church that evening, since it brought back memories of many past Christmas Eve’s at mass surrounded by festive décor and poinsettias and listening to the choir being accompanied by bells.  It’s nice celebrating Christmas with another American.  It helps mitigate feelings of homesickness.  

to be continued...

The Black Hole

My region (region Sofia) has been labeled the Black Hole among Peace Corps volunteers.  It acquired this nickname when the main road was almost completely impassible.  Even though the road has been renovated the name lives on, and this is because of the scarce number of volunteers who are placed here.  I asked my APCD to place me in the desert and to isolate me from other volunteers.  Even though I was deathly afraid of these things I asked for I decided that I wanted to go the whole nine-yards since I was already in Africa, I never expected to be placed here in the first place.  The label makes this region seem uninspiring, but in reality its quite the opposite.  And because it takes me one full day to reach the closest volunteer its become important for me to identify true friends and to not take them for granted. 

The nine weeks of training I had in Mantasoa did not prepare me for my life at site.  People say that PST is a necessary evil.  But really I think if Peace Corps had given me a quick crash course in health and security and dropped me directly over a ‘copter at my site I would still be in the same place I am now.  When I was first installed I felt I was in a different country; the culture, the environment, the people, the spirit are all so strikingly different from the highlands.  The training I received in Malagasy official was almost useless for me here.  I appreciated PST for it exposed me to Merina culture and language.  I wouldn’t have had that experience otherwise. But when put at site I quickly realized I needed to forget everything I learned during my training and that I would have to run harder and faster to reach the same level of language with everyone else.  I started learning how to say the basics again on my own: dog, cat, bed, morning, night, tomorrow, yesterday, girl, boy, etc.  I had to learn how to sing when I speak, to pronounce the nasal “ng” sound, to roll my “r’s”.  There was no small Peace Corps community that I could turn to exchange ideas and language with.  For the most part I relied upon myself and the support from my community.  I suppose I sound like I’m bragging, no not really, just completely honest like I’ve promised to be.  I’m writing this as a warning to future volunteers in this region.  You will struggle.  It’s not the easiest region to live in, but in the end it will be so rewarding and you’ll feel accomplished for making it to the finish line.  You will realize how strong but on the same token how vulnerable you truly are.

As far as work goes, I explained a little about what this would look like in my region from my previous post.  The population here will not listen or respect you unless you prove yourself in their eyes, and even when you do this they already have instilled in them a stern independence and sense of self that is challenging to work with.  When my director came to this region and talked to many of the inhabitants and non-profits she was surprised to find this out.  It truly is a different world up here.  

Food: if you are in the sticks, you will either gain tremendous weight or lose it. Carbs, carbs, carbs, on carbs.  Before the road was fixed there was widespread famine here.  I’ve had children, particularly the girls who do most of the chores but get a smaller portion of the meals, come begging at my door for scraps. I’ve had children scrape the burnt rice at the bottom of my pots when I turn my back, and eat it quickly out of embarrassment.  

PCV’s don’t know much about the Black Hole volunteers nor do they know much about the region.  Most of what other volunteers know about me is from our short training together over a year and a half ago.  The black hole kind of sucks you in to it.  But to be honest I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I’m offering a window into this place where no number of adjectives can justly describe.  

A Fighting Spirit

I have lived with the Tsimihety tribe for more than one year and a half, I think its about time that I say a little bit about them.  Their name literally means people “who do not cut their hair”, Tsy mihety.  This is due to their refusal to cut their hair after the death of a Sakalava prince, which traditionally was done by the population to show deference towards royalty.  They are known to be stubborn and rebellious in nature.  They refuse to submit to anyone, and are the only group in all of Madagascar who have never been dominated by a king or have a monarchy imposed upon them.  They are said to be born from the intermarriages of two tribes, the Sakalava and Betsimisaraka, groups who both inhabit the coastal areas of the island.  Most of the Tsimihety can be found in the north central area near Mandritsara but are moving West and can be found as east as Tamatave and mostly found in the northern region of Sofia. 

The women in particular play an interesting role in this society.  I spoke to Madame Norline, the daughter of the first president of the republic Philibert Tsiranana, and her views of Tsimihety feminism.  The Tsimihety women sexually are very free, up to the point where their sexuality is extolled and has become an expectation, otherwise they are considered frigid.  The Tsimihety traditionally are allowed to move out of their parent’s home after one year of giving birth, with or without a husband, to where they please to start a life there.  No one is to stop her on her way.  In the past, when a man wished to marry he would be put in a room with his prospective spouse and she would push him against walls and bruise him a bit to see if he can withstand the abuse, a test to see if he can protect her and her future offspring.

Their stubborn character, which has proved to benefit them in the past, has rendered them as a difficult group to work with most NGO’s and other international organizations.  I have found this to be true in my own attempts to work here during my service.  NGO’s come in with a Western methodology towards work and are highly results oriented.  When coming in to this region one must consider the fact that these are free people, they will fight you directly or indirectly to maintain this freedom.  Even though the suggestions made and the resources of outside organizations are meant to help they are viewed with suspicion. 

This is my tribe.  I am proud to have the opportunity  with these energetic, loud, vibrant, and perhaps even a bit flashy people.  I’ve been asked on a few occasions whether I’m from Tamatave because of the large mixed Chinese/ Malagasy population there and because I speak this dialect.  This of course is very flattering.  Even though frustrating to work with at times I am so grateful I’ve had the opportunity to live amongst the Tsimihety people.  

One mind, one body

Being sick in a developing country really blows.  You are isolated in an inhospitable environment, away from family and friends, with no access to reliable medicine or doctors within reachable distance, you must travel hundreds of kilometers to the capital to reach your Peace Corps Medical Officers (PCMO).  The travel is exhausting and sometimes takes days.  And when you are sick, sitting in a brousse for hours on end on bad roads takes a lot out of you.  I understand fully now why the medical examinations was such an extensive portion of my application process.  Everyone groans and moans about it but really its completely necessary to make sure that volunteers already with health troubles are put in accommodation zones such as South Africa or in Eastern Europe.  I rarely saw the doctor before joining Peace Corps except, most only during annual physical checkup.  I’ve underwent many changes in my health here in Madagascar.  Most of illnesses were mild in nature, however there was one health concern that lasted for an extensive period of time (four months and ongoing) which eventually caused me to be medically evacuated abroad. 

When I became ill in February of this past year the PCMO had me come down to Tana so that he could inspect what I was describing to him.  He cleared me after the exam with a packet of antibiotics.  I never knew that antibiotics were going to be my worst enemy and savior for the next four months while I suffered physically.  My issues ceased to end.  I went between clinics in two major cities in Madagascar and numerous doctors and examinations.  Every doctor would diagnose me with different maladies and prescribe me with the “appropriate” medication, but no one was tackling the cause but just the symptoms.  My distaste for taking medication was brought to a standstill by my desperation to get better.  At one point I was using homeopathic remedies and even considering visiting a traditional healer or to be exorcised by a small Christian cult whom are currently preparing for the end of the world this year. 

And finally after a taking a long series of ineffective treatments the PCMO’s and D.C. decided that they’ve dried up all the resources in-country and it was time to medevac me (medically evacuate me).  This meant that I would be sent to South Africa.  All PCVS with major health concerns in Africa who are unable to be address in their country of service are sent to South Africa.

What I’ve learned that it’s important to not only treat one’s physical symptoms but to also to assuage the psychological issues that concurrently arise.  I’ve seen numerous doctors in Madagascar , in the best clinics, and each would indirectly address me to one another without actually talking to me.  They would hand me a sealed envelope with the diagnosis with no discussion included unless I pushed for it, otherwise they would discuss about me to my PCMO vs. to me directly.  I felt more like a problem than an actual living person who needed help.  In the doctors defense I can see how this is a defense mechanism.  They can’t become attached or humanize every patient who walks in their door.  Personally I can see how I would get emotionally drained by that.  Really its not that different in the U.S.  Patient/ doctor relations aren’t always the most cordial but rather have an impersonal vibe.  However after this experience I feel that a doctor can remain professional and be warm and comforting towards a patient at the same time.  Actually I think it’s crucial in order to facilitate the actual healing process.  There must be trust between the patient and doctor.  Also to have people in support of you is indispensible.  Even though I didn’t have this support in-country, which made things very difficult, my friends and family from home reached out to me when I most needed it.  People always joke about being medevaced to be able to visit South Africa, however when you truly are sick the idea evokes less excitement.

 I’ve never even once amused the idea of E.T (early termination) but I was on the verge of ending my service in order to get the medical attention I needed.  Health is the most important asset we possess.  If we don’t have our health what do we have?  Nothing mattered anymore. I lost interest and motivation in carrying out my service and in social events.   Another thing that I’ve learned that it takes a long time for things to move in D.C.  There was so much bureaucratic processing that needed to happen in order for me to be medevaced, which was infuriating and lead to a number of breakdowns. 

I was very impressed with the clinics and doctors in South Africa.  When the doctor told me that I needed to undergo surgery I actually was relieved because she had confirmed to me what I already knew: that I was sick.  The doctors’ in-country couldn’t find anything wrong with me.  I’m sure in their minds I was being a hypochondriac- simply making up my issue in my head, but in their defense they’ve tried their best and they aren’t specialist.  I still rely on them a lot.  Finally I was receiving answers, being able to go on a safari wasn’t all that bad either.

As much as our PCMOs attempted to prepare us for our environments during our PST (pre-service training)  its really inevitable that we become sick.  Coming from vacuum air-conditioned environments in the States its no wonder we are more susceptible to becoming sick.  Our bodies are weaker than the local population.  Our skin flakes and burns easier in the sun than African skin; our stomach’s haven’t been trained to handle the microbes and germs in the water, air, dirt. 

o   Overall lessons:

§  Don’t take health for granted

§  One body one mind: need to take care of both as best as possible.  Because you only get one your whole life.  

§  Regular exercise, a good diet, and healthy coping mechanisms to deal with stress since you are living under sometimes physically trying conditions

§  Getting sick: it’s the name of the game.  Hey, no one forced me to sign up for Peace Corps. 

§  You must become your own doctor for the two years of your service.  I’ve learned more about medicine and health issues than I’d ever have to in the States.  You do a lot of self-diagnosis when you are in the bush by yourself.  

§  Just because a doctor tells you one thing doesn’t mean that its set in stone and 100% correct. 

§  If you know something is wrong with your body then you probably are correct, you live with it not your doctor,

·         Become aware of your body’s needs and/ or abnormalities, weaknesses. 

Guilty Pleasure

Mangos + new blender= heavenly fruit smoothies.  Mango season has arrived folks and for most of the day you can find either me or one of my roommates snacking on this scrumptious fruit.  We will go through at least eight altogether every day in every variety.  I never knew there were so many different kinds of mangos until I came to Madagascar; manga lava, manga be, manga bory, manga hetsy, etc.   I consumed this many just myself when there wasn’t too much else to eat in my old village.  I was hesitant in buying a new blender since I won’t have so much time before I have to part with it, but I thought that it would be a nice gift to the people I live with, plus if we’re able to enjoy blended cocktails during the weekend then it would be worth it.  It’s been very worth it! I obsessively blend things every day.  I’ve found endless uses for it such as blending coffee, sesame seeds, hummus, protein power shakes, etc.  Posh Corps life isn’t so bad after all.