A Note on Packages

You know that feeling you get on Christmas morning right before opening your first present? There's that feeling of anticipation/ excitement. You try to control yourself from ripping the wrapping paper off to shreds. For a Peace Corps volunteer receiving any sort of package from home is equivalent to getting a present on Christmas.

The staff at my post office in the neighboring district capital all know me. I'll know right away whether I've received a package or letter based on their initial facial expression when they spot me coming in the door. They'll either seem happy to see me or worried to disappoint me.

Parcels are tied with string and sealed with red wax. It's not as romantic as it sounds since this done after the package is thoroughly searched by post office staff. I'll settle with them taking small tokens for themselves once in a while (Hershey bars) as long as important things are untouched.

They'll tell me to come around back where incoming and outgoing mail is sorted. They'll have me sit down as they rummage around the back room. I've even conditioned them to expect hugs in exchange for mail. Hugging is a very foreign concept to Malagasy. The staff holds their arms out, perhaps concluding that all Americans hug after receiving packages. This has become protocol.

We're shamelessly desperate for anything that reminds us of home. Even if we find something in our care-package that seems somewhat trivial like a packet of Chrystal Light or beef jerky.

Bad Luck Rainbow

According to Malagasy belief rainbows (sobeha) usher in death. Yes these colorful rays of light that dance across the sky after the rain, and if you are fast and crafty enough you can catch the leprechaun and the pot o'gold he's guarding at the end of the arch. when I explain this Western belief to people here they throw me stern looks that say they think I'm insane because rainbows kill here and are bad omens. If it touches you you will die, unless you are pregnant in which case you are immune.

"When I was young I used to bike as fast as I could, racing my friends to find the gold pot. There you'll find a little man who wears green and has a red beard," Christina

"Haha, you are so weird," Malagasy co-worker Brian's reaction.

Its fascinating how one's attitude towards the same exact object can be completely different depending on which part of the globe they live in.

"We even have a tasty candy called Skittles whose slogan is 'taste the rainbow' ", Christina

"Haha, so strange," Brian.

Rats

Colonies of rats live in my roof between the aluminum top and the wooden boards that act as my ceiling. From time to time, I'll hear them scooting around above my shower, my reading corner, kitchen, bedroom, etc. The noises vary from faint scratching sounds to loud thuds which defies the idea that these are tiny creatures. I try to figure out what it is they are doing based on the level and intensity of their scampering. Sometimes it sounds like they are wrestling each other, other times it sounds like they are burrowing into some anonymous object. I asked my neighbor if its a good idea to set up traps. Hi answer was that it is but only with the stipulation that I won't be able to clean the corpses out and it would cause a rancid odor. I guess I should just learn to cohabitate with these little critters. Maybe even start naming them, any name suggestions?

Uploading pictures

I've received several request from several people to put up pictures on my blog. The people who ask feel that it would give a better picture of the people and places I describe here. I agree. I promise to post pictures on my blog once I get faster internet. This may be in a couple weeks or in May of 2013. Be flexible.

Pit to Hell

I fell into a hole measuring one meter long and one and a half meters deep a week ago. It was dark out and I walking from the brochette stand in front of my house. I was ever so care freely promenading on the sidewalk when all of a sudden I felt myself falling. I didn't see it coming so naturally I immediately wondered how I fell into a hole. It was too dark to see the damage but it stung...excuse my French, like a bitch. I whimpered and the first passerby who seemed like they were able to lift me pull me out of the hole. Soon a crowd formed, some were genuinely concerned some were more interested in gawking. A young woman even had the nerve to poke at my gushing wound and ask, "does that hurt?" and laugh. Someone flashed a torch at my foot. Blood was seeping from toes and shin. Entire layers of skin were torn off. This was some serious tissue damage. My flip flops lay in the ditch broken and covered in my blood. Some young women helped me limp home and watched me as I cried "mommy" under my breath while simultaneously clean and bandage myself. I really find it curious how the word for shut up (in a rude way) and be quiet (to calm someone down) is the same (mangina). To me it sounded like everyone was telling me to shut up. My back, knee, elbow, and hip are bruised quite badly. Perhaps I sound like a baby. In fact, I know I do. Maybe I'm just not used to this level of pain. I've seen men acidently drop their sycths on their feet while in the rice fields and walk how five kilometers barefoot on rocky terrain without a complaint. But I feel I have the right to complain. This could have been 100% avoided if someone could just fix the sidewalk. Maybe I should have paid more attention to where I was walking. However, this isn't the U.S of A. Entire stretches of roads, even in large metropolitan centers go without go unlight.

I am not a fan of using insulting language but this is one of the dumbest things I have ever witnessed in my life. Why on earth is there a missing cement block at the top of the steps to the main sidewalk? It's like the construction men wanted to play a really sadistic joke on the public or something, or maybe they were just too lazy to lay another slab of cement down, maybe someone pockedted the funds that were meant to complete the sidewalk. At least this is what the woman who runs the bar in front of the hole says. She's already witnessed several people drunk and sober plunge unknowingly into the hole. In fact the very next day my neighbor fell in too. He has a huge bloody gash on his shins and feet too. We joked that we should organize all the people crippled by the hole and march down to the commune building and demand that it is fixed. I understand why there's a cannel adjacent to both sides of the highway. When the rainy season comes the water can run off and avoid flooding the road. but it baffles me that there is a hole at the top of the steps from the restaurants to the main road. It catches you by surprise. I've even seen children bet each other to see who can jump across without falling in.

I wish the internet was fast enough here so that I could post a picture of this hole. It's the most ridiculousthing I've ever seen and I wish you could visually see it to agree with me. I hope to stop limping soon.

Fringlasy

In the beginning I used French to learn Malagasy. And being that I didn't learn my dialect during training French was especially an important tool. The opposite is true now, since my Malagasy has surpassed my French. The first year of my service was focused on learning the local language. I was actually quite disinterested in studying French for the longest time based on the elitism associated with anything French here and plus it is not necessary for my work. French is also not a language that is widely used among the majority of the population. In fact, there are those from the upper crust of Malagasy society who wish to educate their children solely in French. I was surprise to learn that I spoke more Malagasy than some of these people. But because I am already one year in my service and feel comfortable with how far I can get with Malagasy I've decided to find a French tutor.

Malagasy is fun! I adore my dialect Tsimihety, which ironically enough sounds harsh and at the same time musical. Sass is required when speaking this dialect (think of an intonation used by Italians and apply it to Malagasy). Many words in Malagasy are repetitive with a large series of vowels such as mihinina (to eat), mangidihidy (to be itchy), misangasangana (to walk). I love how they roll their r's especially when they wish to emphasize their point. I've even picked up the way Malagasy pronounce r when they are speaking French such as secretaire pronounced secretara by Malagasy.

I've actually developed a bit of a pidgin language when conversing with my French instructor mixing in bits of Malagasy and French to get all of my ideas across. And when I fail to explain certain concepts in French such as China's one-child-policy Malagasy is the way to go.

But learning Malagasy requires that I use a completely different part of my tete. I put French in the same category that I do English. So when it's difficult to find the appropriate vocabulary in French I just add an accent and a lot of times I'm able to produce French. There isn't this luxury in Malagasy. The language is Indo-Malay stemming from a language brought over by an earlier Indonesian group. The normal sentence pattern is also remarkable different from any romance language since its regular sentence pattern is verb + object + subject. So basically there is a lot of memorization involved, therefore I can't cheat if I don't know how to say something.

Ladies of the Night

What would conversations with a Malagasy prostitute look like? For one thing I think its unfair to phrase such a general question. after a handful of chats with these so-called ladies of the night during my vacation in Diego-Suarez, I've come to learn that there are a myriad of reasons why one would choose such a profession, if you can call it a choice. I asked many of them why they do this. Though the answers all had variation some of the common themes were because they needed to send money to their families living in the countryside, or because they prefer vazaha (foreign) men, or maybe they were just making their own.

Many of these lady's clients were foreign men in their upper forties, fifties, and sixties as I observed in Diego and Nosy Be at least. As disturbing as I found some of the elderly French men being escorted by beautiful young Malagasy women, old enough to be their grandaughters, I respected that these women for the main part choose this over abject poverty. It's hard for me to judge these women when I see what the alternative for them is. I've lived in rural Madagacar, and I can sympathize.

Many of them told me that they prefer foreign men even if they have families in their home countries over many of the Malagasy boyfriends they've had because, "at least their nice to me". Many of these ladies appreciate that they aren't beaten by their foreign patrons. I'm not saying that all Malagasy men are abusive towards their spouses or girlfriends or that domestic abusive doesn't occur in the States. However I feel that it evokes a less visceral reaction here when mentioned in public. People seem to blink twice, sigh, and perhaps say, "fa magnanio" "its just like that" or "Mijali Malagasy" "Poor Malagasy".

I woke up on emorning and as I walked outside to the balcony of the Peace Corps transit house I heard a man beating a woman who I assumed was his wife next door. She was screaming, wailing and begging for her life. I heard thudding and intermittent slaps and punches. All I could muster myself to do was lean against the rails and cry as if in some sort of hopeless solidarity with her. So instead of putting prostitutes in jail why don't we ask why they do this and go from there? Then maybe then there wouldn't be so many to use as scapegoats for our societies faults.

By the way stay tuned to my future post about the same topic. I would like to return up North in order to investigate deeper into this serious sociological issue. Also, I really just want to hang out with some of these ladies who have a charm, wit, and sense of humor I find so refreshing.