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.