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.

A regular yuppie

So I've become one of those obnoxious yuppies that you can find running around town equipt with fancy tennis shoes, matchy-matchy flattering sports outfits, and timer in hand.  Sometimes in the evening you might even find me working out with elastic bands to pilates/ yoga videos.  I've found that regular exercise helps me keep in check mentally and even helps balance me emotionally, and all the paraphernalia only acts as encouragement. Usually I run from my house to the large Bank of Africa sign three kilometers to and fro pass a hamlet of brickmakers, a Chinese cotton company, stands that sell pickled mangos, and a defunct gas station. It helps to run in the morning if I've had particular difficulty falling asleep because of my anti-malarial pills, a harsh nightmare, or basic anxieties that keep my mind from a peaceful rest.  The sun rises around five a.m. This is the time that you'll see young men start to come out on their ox-pulled wagons and the roosters begin to crow.  You feel the dampness of the ground dissapear as the sun rise dries up the evenings dew.  However my favorite time to run is in the evening especially after a stressful day.  It helps me put things into persepective.  I'm completely in my own "zone", as all the distractions are phased out with nothing in site but miles and miles of red earth and dry grass...not quite conducive to growing food crops.   At the end of my run I usually no longer feel stressed.  Stress never lasts forever but then neither will my time in Madagascar. Words fail to describe this beautiful landscape scenery, but I try to stain mental images that i'll hopefully remember for years and years after my service.

Tongue Tied

This past week has really made me sympathize with language translators.  Generating accurate translations is a lot more difficult than it seems. This is perhaps why electronic translators many times fail to encapsulate and formulate coherent translations. Some hurdles include translating phrases with heavy cultural baggage (i.e. Idioms, history), sometimes having to explain ideas outside of the participant’s knowledge, not knowing vocabulary, trying to explain concepts for vocabulary that doesn’t exist, and keeping in mind cultural and social cues while speaking to either person on each end of the discussion, while attempting to produce sentences with correct grammar and syntax.  I was asked by a French graduate student doing research on black eye beans to help him translate interviews with farmers and collectors in Ambato-boeny (a city near Mahajanga) in the West.  We interviewed union members, independent farmers, government employees, and middle-men. Each interview was very different from the next.  Depending on how technical the language they used was I would at times sit perplexed trying to fill in the linguistic gaps with my own logic. I translated from English to Malagasy and vice versa.  And because English wasn’t the graduate student’s native tongue there were moments when I tried to make sense of his meaning too.  I think of all the literature I’ve read in my life that had been translated from its original language, and wonder to myself how much of the meaning is lost.  Really translation work seems to be a skill that one can always improve at without ever reaching perfection.  Words themselves are packed with meaning, and sometimes their true meaning is lost when translated literally.  

Sunscreen

Aging is a natural life process.  This is a fact I don’t need to remind us all.  However aging is exacerbated by exposure to the sun.  I remember people in my stage (training group) ask if the current volunteers were a lot older than us when we first landed in-country.  Little did we know we would look like this in a year’s time.  I was shocked when I saw my stage for the first time in almost a year during our last conference.  Many of us had crow’s feet where none existed before.  The impact of the sun had left blemishes and our skin more leathery.  Of course there are other factors that contribute to our enhanced “ripened” state, such as physical and emotional stress, but out of all of these the sun is to be the most blamed.  DO NOT challenge the Malagasy sun, particularly on the coasts, because you can be assured that it will win.  Our complexion is lighter than that of our African counterparts, therefore more susceptible to cracking.

Wear sunscreen. I’ve ditched the mascara, the foundation, the blush and lipstick.  My prep work before exposing myself to the public includes dousing myself with sunscreen.  This has become a necessary daily regime.   I go through a tube every month.  Straw hats and sunglasses have become important accessories to me.  More than cosmetic reasons I’m afraid of skin cancer.  This brings to my mind asinine practices such as membership sun tanning that we as Americans can’t get enough of.  I understand why people do this, but in the end I ask myself why…really why? Our skin is our largest organ.  It is a living part of us that needs to be cared for just as any other part of our bodies.  And with the encroachment of ozone layer depletion, we need to grow ever more wary of the sun.   

Permission to Speak

In the novel Mating by Norman Rush the inhabitants of an experimental colony in post-colonial Botswana are required to first give a signal to one another if they wish to speak English versus their native tongue.  I wondered what kind of implications this development model would have in Madagascar.  Just imagine, if foreigners first had to ask permission to speak French to a Malagasy person, and vice versa how it would shift one’s attitude and mentality. In subtle ways the legacy of French colonization continues. 

There is an unspoken expectation that metropolitan and educated Malagasy speak French when communicating with foreigners (vazaha).  However, if vazaha were urged to ask permission before speaking French this could result in a power shift, bringing to consciousness among foreigners that they are merely guests and aren’t owed accommodation, but rather must show respect to gain it.  I feel  not only would this encourage foreigners to learn more Malagasy but empower the local population, especially the most oppressed to feel more pride towards their native tongue.  There are elites in this country who opt to converse mostly if not solely with one another in French.  This creates more stratification in society and reaffirms French dominance.   I’ve been thanked several times and have shocked many that I can speak Malagasy.  This should not be necessary.  Out of respect one should at minimum learn basic Malagasy, and if they aren’t able to then signal for permission to speak French, because understandably not everyone has the time or resources to learn Malagasy.

 I was able to visit and speak to a traditional spirit interlocutor.  It took a year and a half to build up enough Malagasy vocabulary so that I could have this conversation.  However the French lady who organized the meeting was able to gain as much if not more information in a mere few weeks of being in-country by using French.  What if I could have cheated too and spoke French from the get-go?  I would have saved so much time and energy, and my work would have been expedited.  But so much more is at stake than time. 

Before joining Peace Corps one of my main goals was to gain linguistic skills that could be applied in a future international career.  I hoped to learn a language such as Arabic, Russian, Spanish, etc. But I am proud that I speak Malagasy, and furthermore I am proud of Peace Corps volunteers.   We can found in some of the most obscure pockets of the globe with the ability to speak languages such as Zulu, Setswana, Wolof, and Quechua.  In some ways we are helping to preserve and encourage the use of indigenous tongues.  Some of us converse in languages that may only have a few million speakers worldwide and for the most part we do it well.

The Living Dead

Cultural sensitivity is a pivotal aspect of any Peace Corps volunteers’ life.  But how relativistic does one need to be before their own personality and morals diminish?  Most cultural practices have arisen due to economic or geographic constraints, normalizing sometimes arbitrary or harmful practices, just think of the short story The Lottery and the message behind it.  Now there are pcvs who are unable or unwilling to access HCN’s behavior with a nuanced point of view, rather judging harshly and therefore unfairly, creating stereotypes and unwarranted labels. Understandably this is due to frustrations with integration.  Perhaps they are projecting their own insecurities and homesickness onto HCNS (host country nationals, some more PC lingo).  I am not saying that I am not guilty of doing this from time to time too.

This is a story that happened over a year ago in my old village.  I had just moved into my site around a month and was taking an afternoon stroll around my community.  The sun was shining brilliantly.  Dust clouds would form wherever I stepped on the baked earth. Everything seemed in place: women braiding and breastfeeding, children chasing broken bicycle tires, and people standing in line at the pumps for water, until all of a sudden I ran into an elderly man prostrated on a heap of hardened sand.   Only the whites of his eyes were visible as his eyeballs rolled back into his head.  He was quenching for thirst as his lips hung half open parched.  His body lay limp, emaciated and without movement.  The only thing he wore were rags, which exposed his ribs and vacant belly.  Shocked I asked the people around me why no one was helping him, in my then very broken Gasy.  The villagers told me that he wasn’t their responsibility and that his son lived down the road and to ask him about the old man.  I quickly ran to the man’s family’s hut and called for someone to come out.  A young man appeared, and when I described what I saw I expected him to react differently to his father’s sickness.  Rather, he seemed apathetic and tried to feign interest, but really the answer was found in the expression in his eyes.  He went with other family members and children trailing behind him to pick up his father who lay dying only meters from his home.  I’m unsure of what became of this story.  No matter how much I inquired afterwards the only response would be that they had brought him to a doctor and a look to mind my own business. But I knew this wasn’t the truth.  The old man was dead and I couldn’t do anything about it.

 A French researcher told me about a time when he went to a neighboring village and a young man lay dead with a sweater covered over him in the middle of the busy market.   Someone had dropped him off knowing that his time on this earth was limited and could not handle the burden and or finance of moving him to a doctor or respectable place.   I was surprised that people in the market weren’t more aghast at the site of a dead body where they shopped and bartered for food. 

Death is a much more accepted in life here than it is among Americans.  This I presumed is due to socio-economic limitations.  Perhaps this is why funerals often times lack the same air of dread that they do in the West or why children are born in the dozen with the expectation that many will not make it to middle school.  Like all humans we all grieve over loved community and family members.  However access to proper medical care is a luxury not many can afford here.  Maybe for this reason people have become more accepting and complacent of death here.   Jaded. Perhaps this is the crux of a lot of the development issues here.  We are jaded as PCVS, NGO’s, the outside spectator who only hears about hunger in Africa, and even the local population.  We all hope that things can change, but a part of us feel so limited in what we can do and often fall into despair or apathy.  In what ways does apathy fuel poverty and in what ways does poverty fuel apathy? 

A Heart Away from Home

I thank Mark Zuckberg for avenues such as Facebook, which I've consistently rely upon to receive updates from friends and family.  However, it brings to mind the fact that my life is drifting farther and farther away from those who I left behind nearly a year and a half ago.  I ponder to myself what life would have been like if I hadn't made the decision to join Peace Corps.  Sometimes I vacillate between wanting the salaried figure, the big grand investments (car, home, and sofa from Ikea), and the rock on my finger, the promotion or to continue on this wannabe Indiana Jones / Mother Theresa adventure.   There is no way I can label my decision to live abroad in a developing nation as superior to my peers who have chosen a more traditional avenue to pursue.  Having lived abroad, and for a majority of that time removed from basic conveniences and technology, has created rifts between once unbreakable bonds.  It’s helped me discern the high context and low context relationships in my life, and to reevaluate my criteria for friendship.  However, I can’t be bitter, as I understand it’s natural that time and distance forces change to occur.   In what ways will I be able to compensate for the lost time?  Will I be able to slide my way back into my old social circles, laugh at the same jokes, and continue old hobbies? Will children of family members recognize me? Without a doubt I will become emotional when I hold babies whom I've never met before.  But honestly I still have a year before these issues become relevant.  For now, I enjoy long bike rides over the plateau, grinding rice in large mortar and pestles, teaching English and art at the local primary school, and having beers while discussing politics with my Malagasy friends.  The rest I’ll worry about when my plane lands on American soil.