Baby Girl, tiako ana, we love you

What does it feel like to have everything important to you, all that you love, vanish before you? Last night I could feel the weight of sadness fall over my village, as we had just received news that one of our own beloved had just hours before passed away. She was the daughter of my friend Hugette. She was merely 1 and a half years old, beautiful, with a sunny disposition. Her name was Cynthia. She had suffered immensely for two weeks, having lost dramatic weight, swollen lips, and could not hold any form of sustenance down. The doctor could not figure out what illness was afflicting this infant. I can still hear her piercing screams of anguish in my mind along with her young mother's worried face. They had left on a brousse a couple nights ago and the next morning when Hugette had reached the hospital in Tana it was too late. This is a bit hard for me to write but I feel its important that we understand that there was little Hugette could do. How can I blame her for what had happened to her little girl? She couldn't afford the taxi-brousse freight. I had found out to late about her illness, and by that time it seem that she was on her way to recovery as her swelling had calmed down, her diarrhea had stopped, and she had started eating again.

I don't know how I can express this more but everyday, especially on this day let us be thankful for our health and access to doctors. Rest in Peace Cynthia

Shit

Human excrement has never been the sexiest conversation topic but an important one nonetheless. The United Nations has declared November 19th to be World Toilette Day. To the average Westerner this title may evoke some chuckles but billions of people in developing nations are afflicted by poor or no access to proper water or sanitation. After having a conversation with the Minister of Water and Sanitation Region Sofia I learned that in my region only 6% of the population has access to latrines or toilette facillaties and 19% to clean water. I see this even in my community. Many children bath in the same streams where cattle trod and women do their laundry, as well as where some people relieve themselves. It's a problem now especially now during rainy season the stream will run down carrying all of the feces where the children bath. They receive parasites that make them lose hair on some places in their scalp. Water, a human right...right? My village pumps are locked during some hours of the day, especially now when water has been become more scare. I've been trying to educate children to wash their hands more often with soap, which is hard to do since at home this is not enforced as well as washing their hands after going to the bathroom (going outside, i.e. my backyard). I know I'm not a health volunteer but I feel like health issues are some of the largest concerns in my community.

so today on Thanksgiving be thankful for having access to toilettes, clean water, and access to hospitals and doctors.

http://www.worldtoilet.org/WTD/

Desert Flavor

My nine year old sister Zipe came over last night for dinner as she always does. This is on the basis that she helps do some of the chores i.e. wash the dishes, fetch water, sns. Eating alone can also be a drag, so the company usually lightens my mood. It was like our typical evenings together except that night we had meat on the menu! I decided that afternoon that I would purchase a few pieces of raw chicken to cook for lunch. This is a luxury I can't always afford on a regular basis, plus buying meat in front of my community makes me appear as someone with money. Being careful not to waste I used the bones for soup afterwards with bouillon.

We both slurped happily enjoying the hardy flavor of the ginger/ chicken broth. A nice break from our usual meal, which consists of dried shrimp with onions, topped on rice. Zipe suddenly stops eating, looks up at me, and out of the blue asks, "Who is someone rich in the U.S?" The first person to come to mind was Bill Gates so I said his name.

"He is probably not suffering with food," she remarks. This is the closest translation I can think of for, "Mety tsy mijali sakafo izy."

She continues, "Does he have a child?"



"Yes," I answer.


"He is probably not suffering with food"


"No, probably not."


"Are you suffering with food?" I ask her.


She nods.


"How about me?" I point towards myself.


She nods again.


At which point we both start to laugh uproariously. Even though you probably aren't smiling too, I've found that a good sense of humor helps me get through most days.

My friend Cecilia, a volunteer in the same region and I both agree that in two years when we've returned to the States, we'll look back and think it's hilarious that all we had to eat was rice and rotting tomatoes on some occasions.

But for people in our community this is their life and always was, and will be for many years to come. Around 90% of my village are subsistence farmers. Their fields provide the staple for their diet. Half the day when my eight year old neighbor girl is not at school she spends collecting rice for her family or pounding the husks off in oversize mortar and pestles.


Mijali is a perfect term that cannot be properly translated since it combines those who are poor with those who suffer. These concepts aren't necessarily divorced from each other in English but nor are they linked together like in Malagasy.


When I was conducting my community diagnostic survey one of the overarching concerns was food security. Unlike in the highlands the plateau area where I live is not conducive to growing varieties of vegetables because of its arid climate. And my desert is far from having the designer buffets that are available in the Las Vegas desert. Coming from a family of cooks I have always been surrounding by ample amounts of tasty things, which has probably helped instigate my vivid food dreams. I will refrain from describing them here since they may edge on sounding pornographic.

Just having my propane tank refilled for my gas stove was quite an ordeal in itself. I needed to carry it all the way to the big city. After having it loaded onto the top of the taxi-brousse, I lugged it around town while fulfilling other errands just to find out the gas stations couldn't refill it for one reason or another. I waited two weeks to be able to cook on a gas stove again since the epicerie owner who I had commissioned to get it refilled kept forgetting. During this time I made an attempt at using a charcoal cooker. There was no BBQ. My failure at being able to cook on a charcoal stove is a bit embarrassing so I won't discuss the details.

Finally, when my tank was recharged Mama "epicerie" looked at me and exclained, "you look skinny! Did you lose weight because you were hungry?" At which point she chuckled loudly while pinching my arm remarking to the people around me, "Haha, I feel her bones". This was the first time I've ever become upset at a comment that I look skinny. In this place in Africa, being called skinny is not a compliment.


No, I am not telling you all of this to make you feel sorry for me. And, no I am not malnourished. Not having many foods readily available in my market has made me more conscious of how much of each food group I am consuming and forces me to plan out my meals carefully so that my body receives a sufficient amount of vitamins and minerals.


Living in such conditions also motivates me to educate my community more about health and nutrition because life in the ambanivohitra (countryside) is no walk in the park.

So every time you take a bite into a hamburger, you savor the taste of the meat juices seeping onto the fresh sesame seed bun, or let the ice cream melt in your mouth so that you can soak up all the creamy rich flavor.

And also, turn off the television during meals. Actually look at your food, taste it, understand its texture, indulge in its scent with your nostrils before cramming it all in your mouth. And once in a while give whoever cooks your meals a big hug, whether its your mother or the restaurant chief.

Happy Thanksgiving! Now, go eat a turkey dammit!

Frank Van Rijn: novelist, cyclist, journeyman

One of the greatest advantages of living off of one of the best paved roads in Madagascar, between two regional capitals, is that I cross paths with so many fascinating individuals. As always, I was having my morning coffee on the side of the highway when a cyclist stopped by the market to purchase a papaya.

The fruit ladies quickly ran to me to translate what he was saying. He was lean and nearly two meters tall. He sported a white beard and raggedy tee-shirt. His skin had been darkened numerous shades by the scorching Malagasy sun, as indicated by the tan line left by his sock. He was clearly not like any other tourist I have ever seen. I asked him where he was from in French and when he answered Holland I excitedly switched to English. I glanced at his bicycle which had numerous baggages tied around the front wheel as well as back. He had been touring Madagascar for nearly two months. I thought perhaps this was an adventure he had planned for when he had retired. No. He had been touring the world on bike for over thirty years, having already visited 125 different nations. This wasn’t just a vacation, this was a lifestyle choice. I asked him his name and he pointed to the print on his bike frame. Frank Van Rijn, what a pleasure to meet you.

Since he was unsure if he could find a hotel before sunset I invited him to pitch a tent in my extra room. I was also intrigued to hear more about his adventures abroad. After telling him of the different species of lemurs that live in my national park we decided to search for some. We trekked through the forest snacking on mangos while at the same time trying to dodge the ones that dropped down from above. It was a nice hike despite not having spotted any lemurs. I was also impressed at how much energy he still had after having already biked nearly fifty kilometers in blistering heat. I suppose all these years of biking had physically conditioned him.

Images of Indiana Jones popped up in my mind as he told tales of being held up by gunpoint in El Salvador, robbed by a man with a machete in Burkina Faso, being captured by a liberation organization in Mozambique, to having narrowly escaped flying axes thrown by bandits in India. His life is nothing short of a legend.

After graduating from university with a degree in electrical engineering he decided to take a gap year to travel through South, Central, and North America. After returning he taught science for nine months before deciding to get back on the bike. “this wasn’t a conscious decision to make this my career. It just happened like that,” he tells me. Loving the freedom and closeness with nature and people that you don’t get using any other form of transportation, its no surprise he opts to ride the bike.

He’s shared a glimpse of his experience in the eleven books he’s authored in Dutch. I complained when he told me that only one is available in English translation, Pilgrims and Peppers. “You can make beautiful books, with beautiful illustrations, and beautiful binding, but they may not be read by many if the book promoter is no good,” he states emphatically. I learned more about the complexities of the book industry after he described some of his frustrations with finding a publisher for an American or English public. I really hope his books will be translated not only in English but in several languages, as I believe his stories need to be told. It is not enough to know about our own environment in which we live. He offers a window into many different worlds through his own eyes and through his words fostering tolerance and humanity.

visit his website as well as keep updated on his current movement:

http://www.frankvanrijn.nl/?page_id=4&lang=en

Good-bye Dear Onion

I’ve focused most of my blogs primarily on cultural observations since sometimes it’s difficult to write on matters relating to work without touching upon more sensitive issues, such as money and why the people I work with have little to none. And thus, what forces prevent them from improving their lives economically. Admittedly, I spent Sunday night crying over the phone to my sister all the way in Italy. She made me realize after this conversation that the only way I could help anyone is if I got it together, stopped feeling sorry for myself, and understand that I am one person and that these problems existed before me and will take a long time to overcome.

I go to the pavilion that was just built recently on the main highway to my village, every morning to talk to the ladies that are part of the microenterprises I work with. There was recently an exposition there, showcasing the high-grade Oriental onions that my women’s microenterprise produces. I was surprised to see a semi-truck there loading up large sacks of these onions. The buyers were taking advantage of the recent harvest and were ready to sell these onions for a marked up price, reaping a profit near the capital city. I froze when I heard the price they were receiving per kilo. The ladies knew that their crops were worth more but they had to compensate for the recent costs of tuition fees to send their children to school. I know what your thinking,

“same old story of the farmer being exploited, its sad but its life”. But, these are my friends, I play with their children, some of them have even adopted me into their families. I’ve been out to the onion fields with them so many times over these last five months clearing field, planting, transplanting, watering, harvesting. I almost feel an ownership over these crops too. I was almost in tears, but to upset and frustrated to cry as the sacks were lifted over a large balance and numbers were recorded. The lady in charge of the operation was dodging my questions and answering my questions which were in Malagasy in rapid French, and since I don’t really speak French as well as Malagasy upsetting since she was Malagasy. She told me that the price she was giving them is the market price for onions, and that I could check this is I was still in disbelief. Of course with my frequent access to internet and electricity this is possible.

I felt guilty for letting this truck roll away with much of the crop that my community labored so hard over. But after talking to Constance, who has been my saving grace, and my program director I know now that I have to move forward and not dwell on what can’t be changed. And by doing this I use this experience as a lesson learned; to educate about saving, planning ahead, and costing and pricing in my community.

Checkpoint

So according to statistics the highest number of early termination volunteers occurs within the first three months of being at site. Probably since this is when the realization that this will be your life for the next two years finally sinks in. But I am proud to say that all 38 of my colleagues turned up at our in-service training in Mantasoa (just 30 km. outside of the capital Tana). After catching up with most of everyone I realized I wasn't alone in all of my struggles. There were those who had it even harder than me. Without mentioning names I learned that people were being terrorized by fleas and parasites, hit by fast-moving vehicles, throat operations, harassment by strange Malagasy men/ women, and constantly being asked for money since people mistake all vizaha for having money. One thing I am grateful of is that I learned all of this through the voices of the individuals versus through the "Peace Corps grapevine" as we call it. Living in remote isolation compared to other already remotely isolated volunteers has allowed me to hide away from petty intigue and gossip which has actually been quite rewarding. Seeing so many vizaha (foreigners) in one place after many months of not seeing anyone from my stage but Cecilia (closest neighbor to me, by close i mean 90 km) was incredible anxiety building. But overall it was really nice to see everyone again. I found the information gained at IST pretty useful, and now I feel like I have a clearer picture of what direction I want to move my service. The fact that we were given an opportunity to investigate our sites using Community Development Surveying techniques over the past five months made this training much more relevant as far as technical training than PST (pre-service training). A leading expert in fruit science/ preservation techniques Fonsa came to speak to us since many of us do work with fruit growers or confiture microenterprises. I work with both groups, so I found what she had to say particularly interesting. I learned more about bee-keeping, very useful since my community asked me to investigate further. Plus, numerous other guest speakers and volunteers offered their advice, expertise, and experience.

Famadihana

I was invited by my neighbor to her father’s and uncle’s turning of the bones ceremony, or famadihana. After seven to ten years after someone’s death, ones family will perform an exhumation ceremony. Malagasy beliefs surrounding death is incredibly rich and complex, which is evident in how they perform their exhumations and burials. I have only begun to unravel the mysteries surrounding these “croyances” that can be traced back to the original boat people from Indonesia, who came to shore thousands of years ago.

Preparations started one week prior to the event, which was to be held in my backyard. A canopy of palm leaves was propped on top of logs as a tent. A cable connected to a generator was used to provide entertainment and electricity for the festivities. Guest rolled in early Friday morning and didn’t leave until Sunday afternoon.

First the bones are unearthed from a cement grave, which is proudly maintained by the family of the deceased, an expense deemed necessary as a sign of respect and deference to their ancestors. The oldest male members of the family are the first to descend into the dug up graves. After undoing the silk shrouds he will hand the bones one by one to close members and friends, yelling excitedly what each bone is, “Here is his shoulder!” He spoke of the dead as if they were still in present, watching and evaluating how well his tribute was carried out. The bones are rubbed down by oil to clean off years of accumulated dirt. They are spoken to in hushed voices, with the latest family and community news. Later they are wrapped in clean new cloth.

I was helping cook a gargantuan amount of rice cooking in fifteen large cauldrons over charcoal cookstoves outside when I saw the large party parade the bones down the hill. The bones were then laid out on a table at the head of the tent.

They danced and sang. This was a celebration after all. Toaka (Malagasy moonshine) was served in pails. Music blared from the speakers. Women wearing salovina’s (traditional colored cloth worn by women in the north) were winnowing rice against my house. Three zebu (bovine with humps on their back) were sacrificed for the event. Zebus play an imminent role in Malagasy society. The creatures are a source of pride and wealth all over Madagascar.

Rows of bowls, with red paint bearing the initials of its owners on the bottom, were placed in three long rows on the sandy ground. Large bowls containing steaming rice were then placed down followed by zebu stew. Spoons were placed on rice to be eaten communally. Lunch was served. The children were called first to eat, then the men (many of whom were already intoxicated), the women last. I squatted knee to knee between two other women already busy chowing down the much labored over meal.

More dancing and drinking followed well into the wee hours of dawn. Children were the most enthusiastic, dancing the night away underneath the Southern hemisphere stars.

Coffee was even served in pitchers to combat fatigue at midnight. I didn’t have the same kind of strength as everyone else. I fell under a restless sleep at two in the morning, my ears pounding throughout the night by music that seemed to only get louder by the hour.

I admire the Malagasy people for their immense respect towards their ancestors. I was asked numerous times how Americans celebrate their dead, and whether we have famadihana too. I had to admit that graves are often forgotten over time by most people. But then I thought harder. In my own Asian heritage we also hold elaborate memorial services, sweep the tombs and provide offerings to our ancestors. Then there’s the numerous Hispanics who hold their own beliefs and have their own celebrations such as Dios de Muertos. So perhaps it was better to explain the mosaic of different heritages that make up American society and their attitudes towards death. Death is not seen as an end in Madagascar, rather it’s the start to a new beginning.

20th hand clothes

"We call this second-hand clothes in English," I tell my Malagasy friends as we comb through a pile of frip: used clothes, bedsheets, bags, shoes, and even lingerie. Fripperie are stuffed into large sacks or crates then thrust out by wealthier nations into the hands of poor vintage hungry Peace Corps volunteers living in developing nations like myself. One of my friends comments that "second-hand" is really a euphemism for what should really be called 20th hand clothes. There is little doubt in my mind that this shoulder padded blazer was popular when my mother was in high school, perhaps it was even worn by her.

Who knows where our unwanted clothes items end up after we discard of them? Most of these hodgepodges are in my opinion offensive. I can't comprehend how someone could even fathom donating some of the things I see. And its not because I'm a fashion victim, used to being able to afford what has been dictated to me by Hollywood or popular society. Rather I feel, "look! a questionable stain on these shorts," or, "hey looky, here's some elastic band yoga pants, that no longer is elastic...bummer." But sometimes theres buried treasure underneath all the undesirable stuff, such as a nifty D & G bag that would cost me an arm and leg in the States, perhaps its the designer label lightly worn cocktail dress. One whole USD why not? Finds like these makes me eternally grateful to rich Westerners who tire of their attire after only a few wears, if not even.

I keep myself from translating the meanings that I find on some peoples shirts. For example I spotted a teenager during mass sport a tee which read, "No silicone". Ironically she let it hang, as most ladies do not wear brassieres here, unknowingly holding true to the statement. there was another man who wore a brightly colored shirt stating, "I love BJ" during a morengy match (Malagasy bare knuckle boxing). And not to mention a number of South Park jerseys with obscene comments printed on them. These items without question are from our earlier more angsty days of adolescence, desirably wiped from our memories in the form of charitable donations to organizations such as the Salvation Army. They are however appreciated by our Malagasy friends for the warmth they provide and maybe even great color scheme.

What's in a name?

I find names to be fascinating, not necessarily the name itself but the story behind why one is given his or her name. A child that was recently born in a fellow volunteer's village was given her middle name Ruzena. Children are often named after famous events, people, and sometimes even natural disasters such as cyclones in Madagascar. In a country where children often don't know their own birthdate, one can sometimes take an educated guess based on their names. For instance my friend's niece is named Noel, since she was born around Christmas. One's offspring is a source of pride here, since they are their parent's life insurance in old age. Adults are often called their children's names followed by the title Mama or Papa. My personal favorites are: Mama Tasse (Mother Cup), Mama Piso (Mother Cat), Mama Valo (Mother Eight, I'm going to guess she ran out of good ideas for baby names after her eighth child). Its as if after becoming a parent your identity ceases to be linked to you as an individual but rather as a mother or father. Individualism isn't necessarily a characteristic one takes pride in here. Once I asked my neighbor's son what his name was. He answered Bogosy meaning handsome. I laughed and flirtingly responded, "yes and my name is Beautiful." I blushed when I discovered this really is his name.

Every boy's first memory

I saw little Divul running around in a skirt the other day. Strange, I thought to myself. Had I mistaken this infant for a boy the whole time I’ve been here? I interrogated his mother about this. “No,” she chuckles, “he just had a snip snip down there.” She lifted up his skirt and sure enough this little guy’s little guy was scabby and sore from a recent circumcision. But why now, and not right after he was popped out into the hands of the rasazy (mid-wife)? By Malagasy custom a young boy age 3 to five undergoes a very painful rite of passage: circumcision. All of the child’s relatives are invited to attend the ceremony. The foreskin is later eaten ontop of a banana. If there isnt a banana its simply chased by toaka Gasy (home made liquor, think of moonshine) by the grandfathers or if they have already passed the uncle on the mother’s side. I later on asked some of my male friends if they remembered when this happened to them.
“Of course…it was my first memory,” says my buddy Gaeton.
“Really, why,” I question.
“well because ummmm…it hurt so much.”

The other guys confessed that this was there first memory too because of its traumatizing affect on them.

At Band Practice

I was walking home with my bicycle along one of the main unpaved roads in my village when I heard a cacophony of noise coming from behind a home. Curiously I followed the noise down a narrow path to find a group of children around ages 4 to ten completely immersed in what was their band practice. I am surprised everyday by the inventiveness of children here, since they don’t have things like little league softball or videogames to keep them occupied, but this was creativity to another level. A group of five girls danced and sang in unison, mimicking their favorite Malagasy pop star in the front of the “stage”. I am so taken back by how well people in my village dance and even more at how shamelessly they do so, even the men. One boy was beating away masterfully at his “drums”, which was a discarded piece of aluminum propped on a bamboo stick, old bowls, and a plastic bottle. Another was on his guitar which was made out of a small piece of wood with green rope tied from the bottom to top to resemble strings. The last boy was tapping imaginary keys on a keyboard on a broken piece of cardboard. I feel like a decadent wasteful Westerner when children ask me for my trash. Garbage is a huge commodity here for children. I always try to remember to save my plastic bottles for them since they are used as playthings. This has also made me a lot more conscious of my carbon footprint. I try to minimize the amount of trash I burn or bury (since that is the only way of disposal here) by buying unpackaged foods and carrying them in my straw basket and then later giving the animals (pigs, zebu, dogs, chickens, and goats) that roam around my house everything that I don’t eat.

karakory baba? a term of endearment

I've learned to yell....no scream. In Tsimihety land people have no reservations at yelling their innermost angsts at each other over long distances, sometimes whole rice fields. It was a shock at first, coming from the highlands where I felt people spoke in hushed voices. I found I actually really enjoy this. I especially like yelling the greeting "karakory oah baba?" to my male friends. This means, "what's up dude?" And is used somewhat as a term of endearment, since baba is a term of respect you use for older males (and mama for women). I've learned not to be overly nice or too polite, in terms of Western standards (I try to mirror how my village interacts with each other). When I was reserved and polite (in my view of course), it really separated me from others and made them think I was miavona or snobby. There was an "air" about me and people acted differently around me, thus was a minus for my integration. Of course there are social etiquettes that you use with people of authority, like for example the mayor or gendarme. Another thing I don't feel is pity for people here, despite the fact that most of the people in my village have much less than I do in terms of material possessions. Pity is condescending and I feel is objectifying; it suggests that I am on a different plane than the people in my community. Instead I understand that due to many factors (whether relating, to geography, history, colonization, etc.) people struggle on a day to day basis to feed their families here. They are no better or worse than I am, but rather our lives were shaped by outside circumstances. Its really humbling to see my neighbor give me mustard leaves that she needed to hike 6 kilometers for uphill, barefoot to obtain when she can't even afford to buy sponges to wash her dishes.

my cultural faux pas... i'm a tromba from Etats-unis

Despite having had two months of cross-cultural training, possesing abundant reading material, and my consistent attempt at being culturally sensitive I still manage to blunder in all sorts of ways. For example, many of the villagers still practice what is called tromba. A tromba is a mystical ceremony, which employs the use of a witch doctor or healer to cast out evil spirits that possess and cause maladies in individuals. Its victims often experience quivers and speak in different voices. I was having my daily breakfast of coffee with fried bananas when I spotted a family with, what I considered strange white markings painted all over their faces. I ran up to the children and even was "audacious" enough to touch the baby's face. The villagers gasped and whispered among themselves while giving me skeptical glances. I realized later after talking to my friend that I had committed a terrible cultural taboo. I needed to go up to everyone who witnessed my silly actions and explain to them that I am still learning about Malagasy culture and was simply curious, not knowing that I had offended many people. I went to a funeral a week ago for a women who died during childbirth, leaving eight children (many still being very young) behind. Not knowing what the proper dress for this was (which is traditional brightly colored cloth that is sewed in a tube shape called salova) I showed up in black pants and a t-shirt. People made remarks but fortunately noone seemed offended and derived my ignorance of dress code to me being a vizaha. Malagasy mysticism and funeral rites are just some of the more overt forms of culture which are easily identified. There are still the more subconcious and "sneaky" manifestations of culture that lie beneath the iceberg such as the concept of face saving and time that take longer to learn. People often ask me for a voandalana (or a gift from the road) when I come back from a trip. The point of this as pointed out by my "cultural broker" is to maintain social relationships. So instead of getting annoyed I try to keep in mind these cultural nuances.

To all mothers

Yesterday marked the annual celebration of Mother's Day in Madagascar. My village held a large celebration that began at noon and lasted well after sunset. The festivities included my mayor holding an elongated kabary (speach) at the commune as the women sat poised in their brightly colored lambas on the podium. This was followed by the consumption of cases of THB (local beer). This was one day in which the women could take a break from their daily routines and kick back. The women in my village possess so much strength and character despite the numerous hardships they are confronted with. One of my best friends is twenty but already a mother of three, the oldest being 5. She cooks three meals a day, raises income for her family by making peanut brittle, fried bananas, and sews rugs; yet manages to care dilligently and teach her children morals. I admire her so much and am inspired tremendously by her.

Even though I've only been living in my village for two and a half weeks I feel already very tamana (or at home). I feel that mostly everyone has gotten over the novelty of having a vizaha living amongst them and are now taking the time to try to get to know me versus stand and gawk, run away, or giggle uncomfortably at me. There are two little girls in particular Zipe and Donella age 11, who consistently wait outside my home calling my name until I come out. They've become some of my greatest assets here since they patiently teach my Gasy and about Malagasy fomba (culture) in language that is understandable for me. For example when I was passing by an elderly woman's home she attempted to sell me papaya. Latter on Zipe whispers to me that its good that I didn't buy the papaya since the women is a mpamosavy (witch) and has already poisoned a number of people with her papayas. Whether this is true or not I don't know, but Zipe also advised me not to go out at night since that is when the mpamasavy come out and terrorize people. Since then I have been very paranoid going out to my latrine after dark.

Living here also makes me realize how fortunate I am and what I have taken for granted. A few nights ago there was a village movie night in which the local epicerie owner played a foreign film on a 20 inch tv hooked up to speakers. He enclosed the space by putting tarp all around wooden benches. The entrance fee was 200 ariary. The "cinema" was filled with around 200 people of all ages. This is a rare treat for the people in my town since only a couple families actually own televisions. Even though the film was mediocre and in a language they couldn't understand, "Blood Rayne", it provided unique entertainment for the townspeople.

The end of the first chapter...the beginning of my life as a peace corps volunteer

so how do i even begin this post? i want to apologize in advance for having horrible grammar and punctuation. unfortunately internet is expensive, slow, and in general unreliable here. I am also writing on a french keyboard so it makes things a little difficult for slow learners like me.

but i survives pre-service training and now I am currently at my new site in in the northwest. Its been a crazy journey so far, I feel i don't have enough time or energy to explain in detail exactly what I've been through these past two and a half months but I'll try my best now before the computer breaks down for the upteenth time. I've learned my lesson though, save often save more.

I lived with a Malagasy host family in a small village in the outskirts of the capital Tana. They had a a farm, three children ages 6,9, and 8 months. The father was a fisherman and the mother raised pigs and chickens. The first nine weeks of my life in Madagascar consisted of intensive technical and language training. I learned standard Gasy for the first 5 weeks since I didn't receive my site post and therefore the dialect I would have to speak. Afterwards I had classes in Sakalava a dialect that is spoken here in the north, however since PC is understaffed I was forced to take Sakalava. Sakalava isn't even the dialect of my community. Rather it is Tsihimety, which is supposively similar but in reality isn't.

Homestays were meant to prepare us to live successfully by ourselves at site. After four hours of language class and two hours of technical/ cross-cultural training a day I would come home and help my host mother prepare food over a wood cook stove. I would wash my clothes by hand and fetch water from a well. So far I still do these things at site.

I trained with 38 other incredible individuals, who i can proudly say all made it through the rigorous training too. We swore in at the embassy on May 3. After all of the final goodbyes I left the next morning with two other volunteers, a language trainer, and driver to be installed at my site.

our group was divided up into two groups: environment and small enterprise development. I was placed in the latter group. During training I did a number of hands on group projects. I visited a small embroidery business in my training village, formed an income generating activity, and did a feasibility study of how an internet cafe would function in the town. During the process I got to better understand the business climate in Madagascar. Our training also consisted of cross-cultural sessions. We learned what is fady or taboo, dance, interpersonal relations, etc. All in all it was informal and made me realize what an extroidinarily diverse place Madagascar is. This was reinforced by my technical trip, in which my SED sector visited a number of current volunteers at their sites. We traveled all the way south to Ihosy as well as to Fianar, Antsirabe, Ambositra. Being able to view what other volunteers were currently doing was such an encouragement for me as a trainee. My APCD asks us to really find projects that we are passionate about since being a SED volunteer actually takes a lot of self-motivation since there is no set direction or requirement of us.

I've dealt with fleas, bed bugs, and a rat infestation. I've also gotten an interesting parasite called Parasy Afrikana. The female lodges herself in her hosts foot and lays a sack of eggs which will then emerge after a given amount of time if it is not taken out. Fortunately one of the villagers was able to dig it out of the back of my ankle before this happened.

Now that I am site I feel a mix of emotions, overwhelming but exciting. It averages 90 degrees everyday, its dry, I have two rooms in a cement house (despite the fact that the other homes are made of mud and palm leaves since my NGO required it of my village to build me a house), I walk 30 meters to get water from a well, I take cold bucket baths everyday, I get mocked by children because of my vazaha-ness (foreigner), no electricity, or internet, and goats, pigs, and cows roam around my yard. Despite all of this I love it here. Its peaceful and I feel that I am learning a tremendous amount. Everyday I've spent hours in front of local epiceries and hotelys (restaurants) with a notebook and pen asking people questions in Malagasy and translating with my Peace corps issued dictionary. There are still many cross-cultural misunderstandings that I probably will have to face for the entire duration that I am here, but I feel that with Malagasy people and Tsimihety (a tribe in the NW) if you are open, polite, and respectful they will extend their friendship to you. I get little personal space here but i've set boundaries already that I feel most people in Anjiamangirana understand, especially since I am a foreigner with a different culture and background.

Communication has actually been the toughest part since i've been here, but everyone has shown a great level of patience with me. Since English is not spoken at all in my town i am able to use what little French I have as well as a mix of Malagasy to get my point accross. French has also been a valuable tool to learn Malagasy for me.

Takeoff in 10, 9...

This will be my final entry until takeoff. I am feeling a myriad of emotions right now, I feel my head spinning in all directions. I'm anxious; its hard to put myself to bed at night. Yet, I feel enthusiastic about getting to meet all of my fellow PCV at staging. There's also a bit of sadness in having to leave behind all of the people and things that I have grown attached to and love. True, it will be an experience that will shape me in ways I cannot yet foresee. All I hope for is that I am up for the challenge.

My plane leaves Minneapolis at 11:30 am and lands in Philadelphia at 2:30 pm on Sunday the 27^th on Delta airlines. That's precisely one and a half days from now!!! I register at the hotel on Sunday night and wake up the next morning to begin my staging process. Monday will be a day full of meeting new people, finishing up paperwork, orientation, and saying our final goodbyes to America.

I fly out on Tuesday from New York's JFK and fly to Johannesburg, South Africa for an overnight stay before hopping on a puddle jumper to Antananarivo, Madagascar on March 2 (a day before my birthday!). I feel this days kind of snuck up on me despite the fact that I've already been graduated for two months.

I've just been trying to live in the present and not take things for granted as much. Its been a joy being able to bond with family and friends at my home in Minnesota and Chicago. I love the snow (except for the pain in the butt blizzard we had last weekend). I love my mom's pho. I love shopping outlets, watching X-files, and being able to gain wireless connection pretty much everywhere I go. I know I will make the most out of being in Madagascar, despite not having these things, or at least I hope to.

I won't be able to get internet or telephone access for the first few days I am in Mada. Rest assured, the in-country director Kelly Daly told us that, “no news is good news in Peace Corps”. I will have to rely on a lot of trust and self-confidence to get through this I feel.

I'm not usually someone who lets her fate, especially when it comes to big decisions be taken out of her hands but I've realized with this Peace Corps process its absolutely necessary. They are a huge bureaucratic government organization that is honest in admitting that it takes its dear time in process volunteers paperwork.

Time line:

March 17, 2010: submitted online application (which was super extensive and required a full medical questionnaire, with three recommendations, resume).

April 10^th: received a call from her recruiter in Chicago to have an interview

April 22^nd: Had an interview. He was really amiable, I almost felt like I was talking to an old friend

April 25: Received a nomination to Sub-Saharan Africa.

May 29^th: Went in for first doctors visit

July 7: Went in for second doctor visit since I still needed to receive shots, and have more lab work done

August 20^th: Went in for third doctor visit. I received my third notice from the Peace Corps saying that my file was incomplete. I passed out after the fourth vile of blood was drawn. I didn't know they would give me apple juice as a cure.

Mid-October: My file was cleared!!!! Finally I am on my way to become an official invitee.

November 5^th: I received a big blue welcome packet to French speaking Madagascar! All I knew about this island at this point was that it was a Disney movie with cute lemurs, its an island, and that there are environmental concerns there.

February 27: Staging in Philadelphia, PA

March 2: Arrive in Madagascar

So more or less the whole process took about a year. So if you are thinking of applying, do so about a year before you want to depart.

Once I arrive I will be living with a Malagasy family. I am so excited about this. I requested that they have tiny children. Since I know that children are the best at teaching you a foreign language, since they are less critical than adults, and vocabulary is well... still fundamental.

Well I promise the next post will be a lot more interesting than these last few have been.

But farewell and thank everyone for supporting me!

Learning to comment parler du français

So it is roughly one month till takeoff. I'm scrambling to think of things I should purchase. Already my list includes: the Diva cup, camera, Midol, GPS tracker, chopsticks, good reading list (for all of the lonely days without English to come), hiking bag and shoes, water purifier tablets, travel book, etc.














Aside from the obvious laundry list of items that I need to get in order before leaving, there are also the not so concrete things. I've been auditing a French class with an old teacher from high school as preparation. I figured that I should brush up on the language since I'll be in a Francophone country, even if the locals in the site I'll be placed in speaks primarily Malagasy.

Not much has changed from when I took the class four years ago. Monsieur T. still has a witty sense of humor and thought provoking commentary about the world, we still "rap" to French hip-hop songs from Diam, and the students are relatively motivated since its a high level course conducted all in French. However something has changed, and that's me. Four years having been away at university, having studied abroad in Beijing, and having lived in Chicago has transformed me. It makes me wonder how much two years living in Madagascar will alter me from my current self. I remember when I was 18 I felt I was so knowledgeable about the world around me as I sat in that classroom, now I am much less confident of this fact. I hope to be more humble, wise, and tolerant after two years of service in Africa. But these are just hopes and aspirations. I'm really trying to be open to how my experience will impact my worldview.

As far as my emotional preparation goes, I'm not really sure where I should start. I suppose I really won't know until my airplane lands in Antanarivo. Something I've been trying to do is feel comfortable with being lonely. Many PCV tell me that I will have lots and lots of alone time. This is especially hard for someone who has grown up listening to the clattering of noisy relatives coming in and out of her home freely. I cherish and feel comforted having multiple family members surrounding me at any given moment. Connecting with love ones at home may be difficult or infrequent however from what I hear. I must be able to cope with this somehow. Any suggestions?

It's strange that I'll be gone in a month for more than two years. Right now I'm just focusing on preparing myself mentally, emotionally, and physically for what may come. I've been advised from other RPCV's (returned peace Corps volunteers) that my experience will be entirely unique, as every PCV is, from volunteers before me. I don't know where my site will be after my three month training in the capital Tana. This makes preparing for my journey somewhat hard but I'm doing the best I can right now.