The Third Goal

• Mission one of Peace Corps: Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need by trained men and women 
•  Mission two of Peace Corps: Helping promote a better understanding of Americans' on the part of the peoples served. 
•  Mission three of Peace Corps: Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. 

I was listening to the radio yesterday on a drive and the dj's were talking about a recent story when passengers on a plane heading from London to San Francisco had to endure a ten hour flight without toilet paper, since the crew forgot to replace some on-board.  This was a travesty they reported.  How unfair this was to the passengers.  Callers then were able to share their stories of when they couldn't find t.p. in their proximity.  'I went to a poker game with a friend once,  being that they were all guys they didn't plan to buy toilet paper, and there were only porta-potties. I then made my boyfriend go and buy some for me.' Cry me a river.

Being that I wasn't able to carry out the first two goals as I had originally planned, there was still hope for the third.  Now that I've been back to the United States for over two weeks and have traveled in other well-developed parts of the globe since closing my service, I realized that the third Peace Corps goal is in fact the most difficult to achieve. In fact, coming back in general is the most difficult part of Peace Corps. I mean if people in the U.S. think that toilet paper is a human right, that doing one's own laundry is too hard (pushing a button), or that gas prices are too high, really they are lacking outside perspective.  I hate to sound so harsh, but I hope to promote honesty here. Serving Mission Three really is the point of this blog after all, to evoke curiosity and discussion.  Really I shouldn't be surprised that I've received very little interest regarding my two years in Madagascar as a Peace Corps volunteer. 

 I tried giving baskets to some people I know that one of my women's microenterprise hand weaved from natural dyes and dried leaves. These came from a village which didn't have running water or a market, where one of these baskets would give the weaver a two day salary.  I don't think I pitched a good enough story since the recipients of the presents just left them in the same place on their way out the door.  We are inundated with so much stuff in this country.  Everything is so worthless to us yet a lot of us feel our self-worth is connected to how much we have and the price tag attached to it.    

Whenever the words Peace Corps or Madagascar leave my mouth I feel people quickly close up...even almost physically.  They will speedily look away or walk away.  Few questions are asked. I once thought that serving two years with Peace Corps would make me interesting to people, in fact its quite the contrary.  Perhaps its because my life was difficult to relate to for many, that the things I would like to share about life outside of these golden gates is threatening to others, who are very comfortable knowing what they know, being who they are. I've talked to several other returned Peace Corps volunteers and they had similar reactions from people.  But to be honest, why does it matter?  

This gives me just another challenge.  And if its one thing that PCV's can do its overcoming challenges.  This gives us a good opportunity to seek out platforms and individuals who would be receptive to what we have to say, to make new friends, and find creative ways to spread our messages across.  And perhaps its good to hold the same mentality that I did during my service, that perhaps I'll just get through to one in ten people but that's ok since its still one and not none.  

And the lessons and experiences I've gained from Peace Corps are truly unforgettable and in the end of the day has made me and thousands of others stronger people.  I feel now that not much is impossible but also have a better understanding of my own limitations.  So really there is an unspoken fourth goal, which really is an inevitable achievement, which is within the individuals who served Peace Corps, of self-improvement and personal growth.  

I know that this blog sounds like a combination of scathing and self-glorification, but I don't know how to communicate the value of Peace Corps.  It's invaluable, no matter where you serve, what you do.  What really matters is your attitude.  It's doable as long as you have physically able and a healthy mindset.  

Life is calling how far will you go...

The REAL world

I apologize for not posting any new blogs since February.  Time sped up for me around the close of my service as I was working hard to tie up loose ends.  My head was spinning from everything that needed to be done as I was trying to balance all the post Peace Corps arrangements and embrace my last days in Madagascar.  All of the goodbyes were emotionally draining.  After spending two years somewhere you develop close bonds with the individuals who made living in a once foreign environment that much more familiar.  I started to call a place that seemed once so strange and frightening home. It's hard to fully articulate all of the thoughts and feelings that I underwent these past few months being in constant transition.  I'm going to take these following months finally being in a stable state to reflect on my two year service in Madagascar and to communicate what my reintegration in America is like.

My plane landed in Minneapolis on July 3rd, after being gone for approximately 1,461 days.  Tears streamed down my face.  It was an emotional catharsis from all of the pent up homesickness. I was finally home after being gone  for over two years! I was greeted by my sister and mother at the airport gate and then driven straight to my grandparents home to finally indulge in the home cooking I dreamed endlessly about during my service.  I've been back for a little over one week. Not that much has changed on a surface level, Obama is still president, my parents still go to work, my brother is still in high-school, our economy is still recovering from recession, my Toyota Avalon still sits in the garage, etc. Everyone keeps telling me its as if I never left and all has settled back to normal.  I feel I'm burning inside, as I am desperately trying to keep up with the pace of life, to adjust to the climate, the dress, the behaviorism's of the U.S. Even keeping up with conversation complete in English has been a bit of challenge.  I've received a few comments that my speech has slowed down significantly since I left.

But now that I am back, strangely I feel a bit alienated.  I've reduced my "African" experience to a few digestible statements, that really reflect what the other person has preconceived about this "black hole" continent, and also to amusing anecdotes that truly doesn't explain real life in Madagascar.  I've found I am only able to produce broad answers to broad questions such as: "What was it like?" and "How was that?" I've compartmentalized my life in Madagascar, as everything seems to be compartmentalized in this country: time, work, relationships.

I've received many comments/ questions as to, "how it feels to be in the real world?" or "now that you're in the real world..." and really I am at lost as to how to react properly.  I am trying my best to not be offending by this since I know these individuals are well-intention.  I suppose its hard to fathom a place that most only put on a map due to a silly Disney cartoon with talking animals.  Life in Madagascar for me was real.  I wasn't able to numb myself to my surroundings by air-conditioning, hopping in a smooth car ride, television, internet at my fingertips, or convenient grocery stores.  My experience was deeply visceral, and felt through  each pore in my body whether I wanted it to or not.  And really I don't regret a moment of it.  For better or for worst its transformed the person I was into who I now am.  Really I am trying to stay focused when people complain about their work related problems and act like having a job doesn't beat abject poverty or the fear that their children will go hungry that night.  I fall into a frustrated stated when I'm told my view on prostitution is misconstrued when most have had zero exposure to it, or how pets are cared for better than many of the children in my village, or how much waste is produced unconsciously by people.  I am still wrapping my head around these industrialized versus developing nation differences.  I'm trying to figure out ways to healthfully cope with all that I've seen and experienced and now being here.  What I've learned though is that all things take time which is what I'm relying on to help me make sense of it all.  Peace Corps had warned us that coming back was going to be harder than leaving.  I'm starting to believe this now.

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. 

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.  

Talk of the town

Gossip plays a profound role in disseminating and receiving news, entertainment, and to caution others in small towns.  Ever since I’ve arrived I’ve heard whispers of bad men kidnapping Malagasy children so that their bones can be sold abroad to foreigners.  Graves are seriously guarded because of this.  When I ask what exactly these bones are used for no one is able to give an explanation.  Even though these bone collectors borders on urban legend it is so deeply embedded in the local psyche I am unsure whether to dismiss it simply as myth.  Even highly educated people with influence are convinced this is true and will give me specific examples and “proof” of these occurrences.  

There was one time that I noticed a large crowd form around the commune of my village.  A twelve year old girl was returned by her uncle’s wife since she was worried that the police were on her tail for kidnapping her niece in the attempt to sell her to human traffickers in the north.  I heard about the story for a week.  Children are constantly told by their parents to never play or walk by themselves at night.  The fear is pervasive.  My community wouldn’t let me leave to go to the forests or neighboring communes if I wasn’t accompanied by at least one person. 

I’ve been hearing more and more about a so-called satanic club.  Supposedly some foreigners came to spread the message of Satan in Madagascar.  One can find whole articles written about it in Malagasy journals.  Their method of indoctrination is by calling with unknown numbers, threats, and promises of wealth to those in desperate situations.  Perhaps you can think of them as the arch nemeses of a missionary.

So these are just a couple examples of stories that are discussed with hushed voices and believed by many without any concrete evidence.  To be honest I’m a little freaked out myself.  No one knows whether these things are really true, half-true, or simply make believe but it has enough of an impact on ones mentality to influence how one acts including me.  So you may think that writing about this on the internet is a bit mad but let’s be real.  How much of a threat am I putting myself in, especially if this is “common” knowledge here?  

Hospitality

I’m torn about the concept of a voandalana or gift from the road, our version of a souvenir.  This is the expectation that you bring small gifts to your family and friends every time you travel, even if it’s a place a few kilometers away.  Immediately upon hearing of my departure or noticing my arrival most people will ask me for a voandalana, even people who I’ve never spoken to once.  Understandably this is a custom meant to preserve networks and ties to one another.  A voandalana can be as simple as a baguette or produce, but it’s really the thought that counts.  What irks me a bit is that that this thought that supposedly counts is many times taken for granted, which is the reason why I’ve reserved giving voandalana only to a select few and only for when I leave on an extensive trip.

 Perhaps this is just my ethnocentric stance but to me a voandalana kind of implies a culture where more is expected than given.  I’ve been offered a voandalana only once, whereas I’ve given numerous, and its not because I’m more mobile.  I’ve had hesitations writing this blog since I don’t want to dissuade people from visiting Madagascar because I feel that in general this isn’t a very hospitable culture.  Also, my concept of hospitality is very different than the average Malagasy’s.   

Many foreigners will challenge my opinion because they’ve had different experiences than me, which makes me wonder if they’ve encountered many other cultures where most of the population lives in abject poverty.  Both sides of my family came from developing nations, but if you come to my home they will not allow you to leave with an empty stomach or at least until having some tea.  And I know that this was always true, even when their economic position wasn’t what it now.  Every time I walked into the homes of Nepali who newly immigrated to the U.S. with little material possession and disposable income I was treated to on minimum a cup of chai, and prevented from leaving until I had consumed some sort of curry meal with rice.  Upon greeting members from this community we would close our hands together and greet one another with “namaste”, which translates roughly to “I see the God within you, that is also within myself”.  Hospitality is an art in many cultures.  Before leaving to China my grandfather sat me down seriously with my grandmother and great uncle one afternoon and showed me the proper way to serve tea to guests.  Not only is hospitality an aesthetic but a concept so intrinsically interwoven in ones religion, customs, and impacts how we interact with one another. 

I spoke to my close friend Madame Florine honestly about how I viewed Malagasy hospitality to hear her reaction.  I trust her to not become offended for she’s acted as somewhat of a cultural broker for me.  She’s worked with former Peace Corps volunteers and other foreigners so she is able to explain and relate ideas sensibly.  According to her, Malagasy culture has altered so much since her childhood.  She feels that entitlement to another’s belongings and wealth has become much more pervasive than its ever been.  And to Ernest the German who lives in my town, who’s worked over forty years here as an agricultural development special will tell me that the overall economic situation of Madagascar has degraded impacting the common people.  Traditionally the Tsimihety people (my tribe) would have to first drink from a cup that they would give their guests to prove that it wasn’t poisoned.  

Maybe hospitality is more greatly linked to wealth than I think.  Most entrepreneurs leave the village setting to try their luck in larger cities because they feel that if their heads peak only slightly above those around them it will be pounded down to par with everyone else’s.  Any form of wealth that one receives is expected to be divided evenly among family and friends, but I’ve noticed that many times reciprocity is not involved.  Two years ago I would have sat there in awe, romanticizing what I viewed as a primitive communist utopia where everything is shared and where one is not allowed to have more than the other.   I realize now how condescending and naïve this was. 

I am writing this not out of frustration or bitterness with my host culture but to be honest about my feelings.  Temporary visitors usually have a different stance and find this place very welcoming.  I am writing this despite having built close relationships with individual Malagasy people.  I spent my service striving to integrate and respect my host country nationals with cultural sensitivity.  I hope to clarify that I am writing in generalizations which can be contested.  I can give numerous examples to how Malagasy have been so warm and welcoming to me and will leave thinking well of my service and the Malagasy people who’ve touched my heart.  I often try to think how I would act if I were also in their shoes.  Peace Corps attempts to do this by throwing us to live in the sticks isolated from other volunteers, to live in local conditions, with receiving a salary on par to the locals.  Peace Corps is as close as it gets to “living” local. Despite this I still can’t fathom what it would be like to actually be Malagasy.  If I had so little and can barely feed myself and saw a vazaha I would probably want to take advantage too.  I can’t say I would be above this. 

The legacy of colonization continues till this day and is lodged into the subconscious of the population.  I feel there is a general resentment and deference towards foreigners here.  I feel its more difficult for Caucasian people because immediately they are labeled as being French.  Every time I went shopping with a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer or my French roommates they are given a higher price than me at the market.  So, I realize a lot of what I've written in this blog seems unrelated and scatterbrained but really what I feel hospitality is for me is how one treats and shows respect to guests, guests to one’s country, family, friends, acquaintances, and even strangers.  

Miniature Adults

Children in Madagascar assume many adult responsibilities.  It’s common to find young children, particularly girls, as old as five caring for their baby siblings.  Children act as their family’s farm hands, water and firewood fetchers, zebu herders, laundry assistants, cooks, market shoppers, income generators and cleaners.  You may even spot children buying cigarettes or alcohol for the adult members of their family from local epiceries.  Just now right outside of my window my seven year old neighbor was hanging her family’s laundry on my fence with a long stick since she couldn't reach the top of it, after she will return home to cook dinner.  Earlier today I witnessed a group of five kids around the ages from three to ten from the same family I assume, each parade around a large pillow in their arms to sell at the market place.  At the market you will see young children selling vegetables, meat, and fried bananas on large platters on their heads. 

Each child has a task in his or her family and if its not fulfilled there usually is some sort of severe repercussion such as receiving lashes or a meal being taken away. Its easy to judge these children’s situations as abusive or somewhat like slavery but its important to first look at the context in which these children live.  A lot is expected of children, much more than their Western counterparts because for the majority of them it is a matter of survival.  If they are unable to kill a chicken or cook rice over charcoal they don’t eat.  If they don’t pound the husks off of the rice they've just harvested the main source of carbohydrate in their diet is cut out.  And while their parents are out in the fields they look after baby siblings. They share a limited amount of their family’s resources and income with several other siblings therefore everyone must contribute to housework and other duties. 

But despite all of this I find children here to be charming and full of life.  Honestly it’s been the children that have kept me going when I've lost all hope and motivation.  Despite the hardships in their lives they smile and play and inspire me to not dwell so much on negative thoughts.  Sometimes I wonder who exactly are raising many of these children.  Education involves much more than schoolwork and the time spent looking at a blackboard.  Really the bulk of what we learn is at home.  Sometimes I feel no one looks after these children and other times I feel it’s everyone in the community’s duty.  But its fascinating to watch children govern themselves.  Often it’s the oldest child in the group that takes the responsibility to make sure that food is evenly divided among the group or that the younger children behave.  I often entrusted one of the older and more mature girls in the pact to look after my things when I needed to run out to do an errand.

They are forced to mature quickly.  I sometimes found it hard to believe that my neighbor was only nineteen and raising three children on her own while managing a small business to support her family.  What were my concerns when I was 5, 4, and 3 (the ages of her daughters) besides play?  At three the youngest is given a small pail to fetch water from the pump, at four this daughter is asked to buy oil from the local shop, and the oldest, five, has become an expert with a knife as she is in charge of chopping vegetables for meals. 

You know you are a Peace Corps Volunteer when...

You know you are a Peace Corps Volunteer when: 

1. Ants crawling all over your food ceases to bother you...protein yum!
2. Traveling seven hours just to check your e-mail and Skype becomes a norm.
3. You can live for weeks out of just one backpack.
4. You read every letter you receive at least thirty times.
5. You forget how to use makeup.
6. You become upset over a 50 cent increase in taxi fare.
7. People commonly ask you why you don't have children yet, even though you are only 23.
8. Any cold beverage taste like heaven on earth.
9. You sometimes forget what language you are speaking.
10. You become frugal over water.
11. You start "beeping" people to not waste phone credit.
12. You consume anything American even if you didn't at home. Have you seen Justin Bieber's new haircut? (yes realize he is Canadian, but he's part of the average American teenage girl's idol list so I'll leave him here).
13. You speak and play with village children that aren't your own.  You forget how creepy this is considered    in the States.
14. When you ask what time something is supposed to happen you are used to being answered: "morning-morning" "afternoon afternoon" "night" "evening" "very morning"
15. You get funny tan lines all over your body.
16. You are constantly asked for your hand in marriage by locals.
17. You learn to NEVER trust a fart.
18. You feel like you are in a retirement home when talking to other pcvs, because the subject always ends up with sharing health problems.

Adieu coucou

Tonight I celebrated Anne’s farewell with roommates, as well-as some of her counterparts, and Malagasy friends.  Understandably she was exhausted after all of the goodbyes, last minute preparations, and packing but we still made it a night to remember.  Being two of the only women foreigners in our town naturally we gravitated towards each other even though we came from completely different backgrounds and have a different mother tongue, we found a way to communicate.  It happens like this, you become friends with people you would have never imagined befriending in your own country.  

Living abroad really helps one become open to different types of people.  The last few days were spent enjoying special dinners, desserts, wine, exchanging presents, and bitter-sweet moments.  Even though I’ve known her since last February, for the past three months particularly we’ve become close; spending most dinners together, as well as traveled, and other activities.  For the past two weeks we’ve lived in the same house with two new French missionaries.  It’s extraordinary how much we’ve shared in such a short period of time.  We've learned to rely and trust each other since we were all we had.  We sought the words that we needed to express ourselves to each other when we didn’t have them, and as a result both my French and her English has improved tremendously. 

As she’s sitting next door to me right now, I ponder to myself what the rest of my service will be like without her.  She leaves tomorrow to the capital upon which she will fly straight to her home in Paris.  I also sit here and wonder how many farewells I’ve expressed over the past five years since I left my home in Minnesota as well as how many there are to come.  I’ve chosen a life of transience and as a result I attract and am attracted to transient people; as I’ve moved between Minnesota, Chicago, Beijing, and Madagascar.  This includes anything from family, friendship to relationships.  And every time I think I’m getting better at saying good-bye I realize how heart-breaking it is to lose someone.  I really shouldn’t think of it as a lost since real friendships stand the test of time and distance.  But let’s be honest and say how different it is to actually have some in your presence versus someone thousands of miles away. 

Also, because I will live here a lot longer than most foreigners who come here I am the one who is left behind.  The emotions between the two parties are very different at the time of departure.  Usually I was the one leaving so I couldn’t really comprehend what it was like to be in the other’s shoes.  The person leaving is of course sad but is mostly excited about the next step since they are in a transition period.  The person who stays knows tomorrow will be the same but without that person. 

I know for myself that I will have to make a choice someday where I need to build a permanent (or  permanent-like) nest.  Instead of acquiring defense mechanisms to make constant transitioning better I feel I’ll just combust.  I don’t know when this will happen necessarily since I still have ambitions with continuing my education (and away from home)  as well as seeking a career in the international arena.  But I have a gut-feeling that I’ll know when to “settle-down” when the time comes… j’espère. 

A day in the life of a Peace Corps Volunteer

I just realized I've never posted what my daily schedule looks like.  It's hard to give a definitive description since I've transitioned so much between housing, have traveled (especially in the past five months), and in general my life in Madagascar doesn't follow such of a pattern.  Rather I've had to adjust to the local mode of life, which is especially not keen on the idea of using planners. I feel that nearly everyday has been another adventure for me, full of surprises and blooper moments.

My initial adjustment period was pretty long.  I took my time to feel comfortable at my last site.  I spent most of my days promenading around town and scavenging the forest with children in search of food, this was especially helpful with learning my dialect Tsimihety.  Children I've found are the best teachers.  I would sit at the local hôtely every morning and bury myself in my English-Malagasy dictionary trying to keep up with conversation with a local friend.  Finding a Malagasy, even one, who I could confide in helped not only with integration, but my own understanding and appreciation of this culture.

I'd take long bicycle rides along the main road past neighboring hamlets during the late afternoon.  This was a good way to reflect on a number of things since no one was allowed to interfere with my train of thought since I was quickly moving past them.

I liked taking the opportunity to walk through the local national park, usually accompanied by at least one of my adopted sisters.  We would take off our shoes as we past rice fields so we wouldn't get stuck in the thick mud.  We'd rest and snack on mangoes which we picked up along the way.  We'd surpass sandy streams, keeping our shoes off the entire way.  If we were motivated enough we'd go deep enough to spot sifikas and brown lemurs.  I always stood in awe of the tsingy formations and bat caves.

In the beginning I started washing my clothes in a large basin in front of my house once a week and continue to.  I feel any sort of manual labor is good for you.  I liked that I had to travel three times to the pump just to get enough water for one load of laundry.  It was a great workout.  I'm at a point now that I can wash my clothes as fast and as clean as any machine, or so I think.

I taught English once a week.  In the beginning many students showed up, then slowly less and less did.  I was a bit offended at first.  But since this wasn't mandatory  I think once the idea of being taught a foreign language by a vazaha wasn't novel anymore people weren't as interested.  But I am back to teaching English at my new site, and honestly being able to speak Malagasy better helps tremendously in keeping students engaged and interested.  So I really dislike it when people dismiss English teachers at being the worst at speaking Malagasy, because in my opinion they must be the best. Also there is more structure to my classes.Teaching English is a way to ward of boredom and feeling unproductive if the work within my own sector, community enterprise development, has been slow. I teach at a school and have a fixed schedule, and give small assignments.

I visited members in my women's onion microenterprise in their fields constantly.  I helped them in the whole process of preparing the field, planting, and harvest. It was an educational experience since I've never farmed a day in my life. I also received many lovely gifts of onions.

I made my rounds between these fikanbananas, or formal or informal groups.  Another group I visited on a regular basis were my fruit ladies.  Anjiamangirana is famous for its papayas.  These are the sweetest papayas I've ever tasted in my life.  I'd sit and talk to the women while snacking on this fruit trying to encourage them to not only think of themselves as farmers but as business people, capable of making entrepreneurial choices.  After a few months at my old site, I realized I wasn't going to be able to make giant strides in helping them with income generation.  I was the first volunteer there.  Really my work focused more upon establishing what Peace Corps was and trying to foster new ideas, or at least trying to make them more open to them.

I also worked with a group of women who made confiture, or jam and concentrated juice.  These came in different varieties, and depending on the season we'd always have new jam to work with.  They created papaya jam, papaya/ banana, pineapple, pineapple/ banana, Chinese plum, acai berry, and tamarind. I visited the homes where these women would put large cauldrons with boiling fruit and cook it on burning charcoal and sticks.  It was interesting watching how meticulously they measured the ingredients, making sure that the right combination of citrus juice, sugar, and fruit were put in each tightly sealed sanitized glass bottle.

The favorite part of my day is going to the market.  Local farmers travel several kilometers each day, carrying their produce on head, bicycle, or ox-pulled cart.  I love walking through the bizarre and smelling the fresh mangoes, watching the women winnow rice before pouring it into large gunny sacks.  Many volunteers have what they call a "market Mama" or the lady whose vegetable/ rice stand they frequent the most.  I buy carrots, onions, and cabbage most days from mine.  Before I went to a stand in front of my house to buy rice, yam leaves, dried shrimp, and onions. Because there wasn't much variety I spent less time loitering around town buying "groceries".

I visit an epicerie almost every other day to snack on homemade yogurt, and the most refreshing tamarind juice in town.  The owner Daddy Voany is this jolly man, who goes shirtless, and walks around with a lamba (brightly colored cloth) around his waist.  Sometimes I don't see him there because he's at home fixing small electronics such as radios and watches as a side-job.

Moving into the French Mission has been a bit of another adjustment for me.  I am forced to try to speak French now.  I was still struggling to express all of my thoughts in Malagasy, this is just another challenge for me.  I really adore all three of my room mates though.  I've forgotten how much fun it can be to live with women.  Perhaps I'm speaking too early and the drama hasn't unfolded yet, but these seem like wholesome ladies, worth spending a good amount of my day with.  I love their attitude towards food.  They really enjoy it.  They don't just scarf down every bit of grain of rice as fast as they can.  Instead they look at their food, slowly put it in their mouth and masticate, perhaps reacting to it, then commenting on it.  They love to talk about food, either on the table or off.  They take time to enjoy hors-oeuvres and desert (and again there is more commenting on food and drink).  It seems to them that the main course is just as important as the others.  

I visit Madame Vivianne, the leader of the sewing association I was assigned to work with by my counterpart NGO Prosperer, at her atelier pretty regularly.  I check up on her students and help in whatever way I can to improve her business, since I see there is so much potential in her skill.  I've custom made several articles for her and have recommended that friends do so to.  She's made the models which I've given her to a T.

I bike once a week to a nearby hamlet to a group of basket weavers.  Its always shocking to see the disparity of wealth and resources of my town and this village not seven kilometers away.  Most of the members are unmotivated or unable to weave baskets, leaving only a couple who weave on a regular basis.  It's difficult to find a market in Madagascar for them since it is inundated with these sorts of products, and difficult to export because of all of the red-tape put up.

I've read more in Peace Corps then I think my whole life combined as well as hand-written more letters than all my friends will in the 21st century.

Ever since I've had electricity I sleep at a much later time an arise much later than I previously did.  For instance its nearly mid-night and I'm still awake.  I will probably wake up around 7:30 am tomorrow.  During my days without electricity I slept an hour or two after dinner and arose with the sun or roaster, whichever one came first.

Although I don't really abide by a strict schedule feel my life is rather mundane on a day to day basis, as things do take a long time to change here. But then if I really sit down and reflect on my life I realize I've underwent a dramatic change of lifestyle from my previous life in the U.S.  It's exciting yet nerve racking to think of reintegrating into American society after being abroad for so long.  I'll have to relearn what is "normal" again, and this makes me a bit nervous.  But I suppose one valuable lesson Peace Corps has taught me is to be flexible.

Love or something like it:

Webster dictionary defines love as: “strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties (2) : attraction based on sexual desire : affection and tenderness felt by lovers (3) : affection based on admiration, benevolence, or common interests.”  Just as in English, Malagasy has one single word for love: fitiavana.  The way to say I like you and I love you is the same, Tiako anao zaho.  

 This has given me some difficulties since its been hard to express whether I simply like a man or like him or the degree to how much I like an inanimate object.

Just like in most places on earth the relations between men and women is difficult.  I will try to write this blog in the context of my host culture as best I can.  Monogamy is not a cultural pillar here.  On the coasts marriages are not-common.  I have witnessed one marriage since my arrival.  Many times people who cohabitate together are considered “pi-vady”,  or a married couple.  If one is in a serious relationship the significant other is to be called their spouse even if there is no paper proof or wedding ceremony.  A sipa, or girlfriend or boyfriend, is considered someone who isn’t taken as seriously, perhaps our cultural equivalent would be an open-relationship or more crudely put a F*&^ buddy.  Although marriages are uncommon and cheating occurs frequently it is still frowned upon, and intense still jealousies arise.  The wife of my counterpart can be found policing around town on her scooter trying to keep her husband in check. 

Pregnancies occur frequently because even with all of the efforts made towards educating on family planning, most people do not choose to use contraceptives.  I’ve talked to mid-wives at the local hospital. Their main complaint is the amount of young girls lost between the ages of 13-15 because they are unable to perform cesarean section, and because of their frail and not-yet quite developed frames of their body they pass away during childbirth.  I often wonder to myself whether or not most of these female teens consented during conception.  Many times the fathers are nowhere to be found or have other families who crave his attention.  These girls immediately drop their schooling; the young men who impregnated them , I’ve noticed, are allowed to continue.  Teen pregnancy is commonplace and not much is said about it or against it.  

I witness a young group of girls passing to and fro from an epicerie where I spend a lot of time.  These girls look no more than 18 years old, they are scantily clad and receive patrons daily, some have even become regulars.  If you talk to some of them they aren’t allowed to return home empty handed otherwise they will be thrown out.  One session on average allows the girls in my town to earn 2,000 Ariary, equivalent to one dollar.  Posters can be found throughout the country, particularly in hotels, with cartoons to dissuade prostitution and the selling of young girls by parents to foreign men.  I’ve seen a fifteen year old girl escort an elder foreign man.  When I asked him why she was spending so much time with him and his friends, he answered by telling me her father was overjoyed to get rid of her, acting as if he were her savior.  There are full time prostitutes but for the majority of women who sell their bodies they do not consider themselves as prostitutes, but rather when the opportunity or need arises will perform these duties to earn what is needed.  I’ve seen once innocent and decent foreign men corrupted by lust and perhaps by power.  The men who are considered mediocre by their own country become king here.

Aside from prostitution there are Malagasy and vazaha relationships, some work out some don’t, just as with any other sort of relationship.  The difference here is that there is usually an uneven power dynamic.  The vazaha has access to a government that will support them, a passport to leave, and funds.  Many times this is what makes us attractive.  Perhaps the widespread desire to have light skinned metisy children is a form of internalized repression left behind by the French.  There are some pcv men will tell you that they’ve been propositioned to simply impregnate a woman with no request or obligation.  Their belief is that the child will have less struggles in life if he or she is lighter and has foreign features.

Even when a pcv dates a HCN (host country national) who is highly educated, comes from wealth, and shares many of the same morals towards relationships, there are cultural barriers that are difficult to transcend.  But in truth it seems like these relationships are more desirable for the pcv woman than dating foreign men in general.  My reasoning is straight-forward,  For the HCN this is his home he is not running away from his troubles and is tied to family and friends.  He is not taking a two-year break from his usual morals. These are all signs of stability. The novel  Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus comes to mind when looking into the microcosm of pcv relationships.  The opportunities are endless here for foreign men.  They most likely have never been so popular with women.  Their status as a foreigner and what this entails is impressive to many Malagasy and the vulnerable state that many pcv females fall into and their need for companionship in order to combat loneliness here causes these tadpoles to turn into barracudas.  I always found it heart-warming when I heard of couples who met during their tour in Peace Corps.  But the reality of the matter is is that promiscuity is high and since the selection pool is small the situation becomes somewhat incestuous.  I never thought I’d write a blog about relationships but I think its become important to break the stereotypes of the men and women who go abroad to do development work as being saints. 

I have met a young French married couple who works with the Mission.  This is the first time they've lived together since they joined right after tying the knot. It was interesting to hear their perspective.  According to Antoine marriage had liberated him.  Never again, did he feel he would be alone.  Having someone to confide in makes living in such a challenging environment tolerable they've told me.  I can only imagine serving together in Madagascar would be a good test for the strength of one’s marriage.  My friend Madame Florine is currently with her husband in Tana for an operation.  This has been an especially challenging past year for her because of her husband’s health.  “For the good times and the bad,” she tells me emphatically. 

Romantic love is a luxury that not many in impoverished situations have.  I feel that when we look condescendingly at prostitutes, not-quite prostitutes, and gold-diggers we understand how their life situation prevents them from prioritizing finding a “soul mate” and rather securing food and shelter for themselves.  I joined Peace Corps at the tail-end of being 21 years old, I will have had three birthdays in-country.  I never took the prospect of having a lifetime partner seriously, but now the idea doesn’t  seem so daunting.  To be honest I couldn’t imagine doing Peace Corps at a later age.  I guess I’m growing up. 

A Move

This is the fifth time I've moved since the start of my service.  I really pray that this will be the last as I only have six months of my service left fingers crossed.  Because of a passive negotiation between my NGO and an associate organization I was indirectly kicked out of the house I have lived in for nine months.

An electricity bill that included all the other buildings in my compound for five months was delivered to my home...no this didn't push me to move.  Finally the representative of the center e-mailed my APCD to put pressure on my counterpart in the Antsohihy headquarter to put pressure on my counterparts in my town to find appropriate housing for me.  I threw up my hands and asked  my friends at the Catholic Mission house if I could squat in one of their extra rooms.  The answer was an enthusiastic yes.  I've gotten so used to having my own space that I felt that living with other people might intrude on my current lifestyle.  After the tiring move, and the realization that I buy too much frip (used second hand clothing), I received a warm welcome from my new three French roommates.  I find it nerve-racking to speak French, even more than Malagasy.  The French in general are not very forgiving when it comes to mistakes being made in their language. But really its more of my personal psychology that is the problem I've realized.  They've been nothing but helpful and open in trying to help me speak French.

I've had a bit of a change of heart about this language.  I do believe that Malagasy should continue to emphasize it in their education.  But I hope that they can teach it effectively.  Another wonderful thing about living with other foreign volunteers is that we can come home to each other and rant about our daily struggles and not have to constantly worry about offending our host culture.  They run a French library in my community.  The knowledge available in these books is enormous and at the fingertips of people here if only French comprehension was higher.  According to a German friend who has worked in Madagascar for forty years, French has been on the decline since the process of Malagasization by Raziraka's administration.  I suppose I associate how much I love or despise a language based on my encounters from people from that country.

This truly is another immersion experience for me.  Even with a Catholic background and education I feel that I am being surrounded by an extra layer of faith. None of them impose any type of religious doctrine on me though, in fact I feel that they are some of the most accepting and non-judgmental people I have met since my arrival.  They've broken many of the stereotypes I've had of overbearing religious practitioners and "zes Frenchies".

Also, I love living with women.  We share intimate discussions sans les garcons, which remind me of the days of college roommate bonding. Being able to share meals, drink, and activities with other people on a regular basis actually fosters, I've found, a balanced state.  I've spent my service as a "black hole" volunteer as my region has been nicknamed because of the scarce number of volunteers here (I am a whole day trip away from the closest Peace Corps volunteer).  Maybe its good that I end my service with other like-minded foreigners.  

COS crisis

I've recently reversed my decision to extend my Peace Corps contract.  The idea of adding on three months to my contract had originated from the  fact that I had automatically lost three months of my service due to the time it took to move to a new site and to having been put on medical hold.  I grew a bit envious when I witnessed the tight bonds that other PCVs formed with community members and how my ability to do this at my original site was cut short because of my abrupt displacement.  Integration into my new community was a bit more of a challenge than my first. I'm not certain whether it was because of the much larger population and quasi-metropolitan ambiance that this place exudes or because of my fatigue from moving that prevented me from feeling as tamana (at home) in Port-Bergé.

Oftentimes we are the first foreigner to ever reside in these places, therefore we are forced to win the trust and acceptance of community members before we are able to initiate projects.  I suppose I felt the need to buy time to solidify new relationships in my new town. Based on the level of activity that I witnessed here I felt the opportunities for work were endless.  I was ready to impart substantial change finally. My illness had interfered with my project from being completed smoothly.  I wanted another jab at the same project which I would have to wait another year to do.

However I place a much larger emphasis on my personal health which I've taken for granted.  I've realized that the medical resources I need simply can't be found here, even when there are excellent doctors, which frightens the hell out of me. I can rant on and on about horror stories found in some clinics here, but what's the point?   I can't afford to be evacuated to South Africa anymore, neither can the American tax payer.

And since I am no longer going to extend my service I am trying to weigh and seek out different options such as graduate school, travel, or work.  I am trying hard not to get lost in the web of online applications, resume building, and writing cover letters and open my eyes and realize I'm in flippin' Madagascar.  

Diaspora

Wherever you travel in the world you will be assured to find a Chinese population.  Even in most far-removed corners such as in Madagascar you can be assured to find a China town.  There is a Chinese run cotton factory in my small town in the Northwest.  They manage the fields that this commodity is grown on, process it, and export it to Guangdong Province on boat.  I’ve befriended the owners of this company and have been invited to share scrumptious meals that cause me to become a bit homesick.  I find it interesting how resource constraints and a burgeoning population have forced entrepreneurial spirits out of their home countries to try their luck elsewhere.  These I feel are some of the bravest souls I've ever met and make Peace Corps Volunteers look a bit wimpy.

  These are truly people who have thrown themselves into the unknown.  With perhaps one loose contact, no knowledge of the local language or culture, and an uncertain salary they feel the risk is worth taking.  Labels are thrown at these “Karani” (population with Indian/ Pakistani heritage) and “Sinoa” (Chinese immigrant) groups.  They are blamed for exploiting this country of its natural resources and subjugating the local populations.  I will not comment here exactly why this is but it’s evident that wealth concentrated in certain groups causes for stratification of class, and the abuse of power.  The entire population of East and South Asia are stereotyped as being the same.  This has made me especially conscious of how I am to represent Americans, because for the majority of people I encounter I am the only contact they will ever have from the US. 

  Being of Asian heritage many people here don’t believe that I am American or a Peace Corps volunteer, but rather judge me firsthand with carrying certain attitudes of those within the merchant class.  It’s difficult to walk down the road with adolescents trying to mimic fake Mandarin to me.  I used to haughtily answer in fast Mandarin then switch to fluent Malagasy chastising them then finally ask whether they wanted an answer in English, French or Russian.  Most times their jaws would drop, which was amusing for a while.  I believe I even initiated a physical match one time because of this issue.  I’m just not sure I have the stamina to fight anymore though.  My mother was able to relate, explaining to me that her experiences with bullying wasn't so different nearly thirty years ago when she first arrived to the US from Vietnam.  Classmates would pull their eyes back and chatter in gibberish.  “Turn a blind eye and continue your work,” she advises. 

  Because I’ve tanned quite a bit I sometimes here whispers behind my back as people try to discern what exactly I am.  “Is she Merina (the ethnic group in the highlands with Asiatic features), Metisy (of Chinese and Malagasy background), a vazaha (an Westerner)?  I know what its like to be viewed as a minority, however I grew up in America, have acquired an American identity that was new to my parents, and speak English as an American.  For the first time in my life I have felt like an alien life form.  Not only do I speak kind of funny, but act and look a bit strange.  One thing that is great about the Chinese expatriate community here is that they are extremely well networked across the country.  If I wanted 500 grams of raw sapphires and rubies, shark fins, hard to find cooking ingredients, medicines delivered within a week from Guangzhou I know who to turn to.  I find it fascinating how families are built when blood families are left thousands of miles behind as a form of protection and comfort.  It is our duty as Peace Corps Volunteers to engage with the local population and integrate as much as possible but understandably we need a break too, and we seek this in the places we find most familiar to us.  

Bourgeois Bohème

So you want to be a Peace Corps Volunteer?  I've found that there are two major categories of Peace Corps volunteers: those who joined in idealistic hopes of changing the world, and those who desire a change of pace. Perhaps to liberate themselves from a taxing relationship or tired of the drudgery of their corporate job.  Both camps crave further personal direction, adventure, and answers to lifes existential questions.  The first group tends to become disillusioned early on in their service.  They've taken their first real bite at development work, and as this reality sinks in they grow disillusioned as their naivite fades.  We crave nice things such as hot showers, fast internet, and four star hotels even though we joined for the challenge.  We realize that living like a local 24/7 is not as easy or romantic as we thought it would be.  We are a product of our culture and environment more than we would like to admit.  This once idealistic group many times feel useless and begin wondering why they've sacrificed two years of their life with out any concrete evidence to show others of the work they've done.  They feel like a failure, since the realization that this country will be burdened with poverty for the next several generations to come finally sinks in.  This group is avoiding working in a"real job" and the obligations of paying back school loans.  They snobbily smile to themselves as they witness everyone at home falling in line with societies demands and expectations thinking to themselves, "thank God that's not me". In reality we are prolonging real adult responsibilities.

 The second category of volunteers, usually belongs in their upper twenties and beyond age group.  They've spent years accumulating practical job experience, and have cushioned their savings account.  This group usually comes with the most emotional baggage that they are desperately attempting to run away from.  Having not been able to build relationships that will root them down in the States they decide to scram to the third-world with a "to hell with it all" attitutde.  They've made a  complete career change.  They pray that they'll find happiness here.  The seek to leave all the skeletons behind and forge a new identity for themselves.  But in reality these skeletons follow them and they are unable to find the answers they were hoping for.  The answers don't come from outside they are cultivated within.  All volunteers for the most part have been born into or made it themselves into the middle-upper/ upper class of American society, otherwise how would they be able to afford to up and leqave to live in poverty for two years?  They are highly educated, equipt with leftist sentiments, and creed cultural relativisim.  We are the bourgeoisie bohème.  And this demographic in socieity builds up the majority of those employed in development work worldwide, not just in Peace Corps.

We are asked to represent America to the outside world, even though we define but a narrow population of it.  We are asked, "not what our country can do for us but what we can do for our country." After fifty years what is the cumulative product of all of our labor abroad?  In part, we have eeen sent abroad as a sort of goodwill ambassador.

We are asked to mitigate the guilt committed by American military and corporate bodies worldwide.  But alot of times we fail to create a possitive image as I'v e seen many of my fellow PCVs fall into alcoholism and other self-destructive behaviors as a coping mechanism to loneliness, feelings, of isolation, and difficulties with integration.  We oftentimes have an air of entitlement perhaps stemming from the ease and convenience of the life we lead as Americans. We expect Peace Corps to provide stable work.  In reality we've just not done our homework and have not realized that the main goal even though stated in our mission statement is not the alleviation of poverty.  If it was then we would be given insane amounts of money for infrastructure and sensibilization projects and not have our salaries tied to the local wage?  I make around 2,300 USD a year.  We would not have been placed in rural areas with no running water, electricity, internet, and sometimes food.  At the lowest point of my weight I had lost 25 pounds and thought morning, afternoon, and evening solely about food, how I would get it, where I would buy it, and how my body would use the nutrients.   Honestly if one was really expected to do hardcore income generating work would we be put in situations where all we are focused on is survival and everyone around us is only focused on survival? And if everyone around us is focused on how they are going to feed their children, then how can you expect them to take risks that could lead to potentially starvation?

Throughout ones service we unintentionally compare ourselves to other volunteers living and work situations since disparate throughout the country. The volunteers in areas with greater wealth such as Tana and around the highlands where there is more food security have more to brag about in terms of work successes on average.  They are placed in clusters with other volunteers, being able to form a strong support network.  However, they deal with other struggles, often times corruption, security issues, and annoying intrigue within themselves. We are asked to be flexible since we are for the most part told where we will live.

But despite all of this Peace Corps has been the single best experience of my life.  I would be lying if I say its been an easy ride, but despite all of the hardship I can only see good that's come of it.  Seeing others less fortunate around me and feeling helpless to make substantial change in their lives does not leave me in a place of despair but rather of gratitude. I've learn to be grateful of all that I've been given, and understand that my successes in life has been on the backs of others and have not been gained on my own merit.  Finding those few volunteers and people within my community have help keep me a float in difficult times, making me realize its quality versus quantity that counts.  And although I may not have accomplished much or will receive much positive reinforcement for what I have done its the intangible benefits and not the tangible successes that matter.  I have the rest of my career to pursue projects in development work if this is the path that I choose.  I came in as a megalomaniac, a bright eye idealist with little experience under my belt but packed with textbook economic development models in my head. I am glad that I've choosen to start with Peace Corps, its not only taught me self-reliance but the limitations of one person. Perhaps JFK and Sargeant Shriver didn't design Peace Corps to be an effective poverty alleviating institution but the lessons learned within the individual are invaluable.  As returned PCVS we bring back a new worldview which we extend to the public and private spheres in our life.