Flexibility

Before entering Peace Corps volunteers all understand that we are required to be flexible. Now, this is a loaded term that I don’t think any of us really understood before we landed in country. During my initial interview I remember all the questions would funnel back to this very point. My recruiter was interested to know how far this girl was willing to go, and if she was willing to be flexible maybe she had a chance.
“Can you walk five kilometers in the heat on bumpy terrain?”
“Not a problem.”
But perhaps if he had asked, “Would you be able to escape from an uncomfortable situation from a remote African village in the evening to the hut of the closest other volunteer who is five hours away on a severely crowded taxi-brousse sitting by a lady who may have consumption and then tread knee deep in water up a one kilometer hill to get to her home caused by the monsoon?”

I think that question would have provoked a bit more self-reflection on my part.

I say this not to deter anyone from applying to Peace Corps but I do want to emphasize the point that you do not know what your living conditions will be like, so it’s really important to understand whether you have the personality to be open to a completely new climate and way of life. I suppose we never really know until we try right? I’ve been pushed to extremes I never knew I was capable of handling.

This leads to the explanation as to why I have not posted a blog the last couple months. I am currently typing this entry from my brand new site. A month ago I didn’t even know I would have to move. The events that led up to this move occurred so quickly. Because of security issues I had with some of the local authorities I was forced to move. There were a series of meetings with district big shots, my counterparts, and Peace Corps program director that revealed my fate. You will find this story uncensored in my personal journal but because its really difficult to describe this tale without revealing too many details that may put me at threat I will resort to telling just the basic outline of my story. I was never touched or hurt in any way but the things that happened were enough to prompt me to move.
It was painful to leave this community, where I had spent a good part of my service. I will never forget the individuals that impacted my life in a irrevocable way. I completely did not foresee these events from happening nor did I know that I would have to start my service over in a new home. As a Peace Corps Volunteer you have no choice but to be flexible, because at times it is a matter of survival. I wish I was just being melodramatic when I state this. To explicate: I dropped all of my undergoing projects, changed counterparts, changed homes after one year of service, completely changed my daily schedule, and said goodbye to close friends and people who I considered nearly family all within a month… I never thought I would end up in Sub-Saharan Africa, I never thought I would live without electricity or running water, live in the desert without access to varieties of food, internet/ television or be fluent in a relatively obscure African language. But in Peace Corps this happens.

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.