Diego

I’m coming to the end of a week of vacation up in Diego-Suarez, a city at the northernmost tip of Madagascar. It’s definitely been a relaxing week. I’ve enjoyed delicious food and drinks, time spent at the beach and poolside, and seeing the sights of the city. It’s really nice to get out and away from my village for a little bit.

Busy streets of Diego.

In the market.

Diego is a really cool city. The city is a pretty popular tourist destination, which means there are a few more white faces around. Though this means it can be pricey for someone living on a Peace Corps salary, it’s also nice to not be called “vazaha” or stared at as much. I’m realizing that I really don’t know much French, while almost every other white person here does. It gets confusing when I don’t know what the waitress said to me in French and my head starts to hurt while I’m trying to decide which language I should respond in. But I’ve also enjoyed a few precious moments where I forget I’m still in Madagascar. I’ve spent an afternoon by the pool reading a book without any children staring at me; I drank a cappuccino.

I baked cookies! It's like America in here.

Cappucino! Am I still in Madagascar?

Luckily there are still the reminders of the pleasantries of my Malagasy life. I sat in a brousse and slurped down a slice of watermelon bought out the window; I strolled through the bustling marketplace. And I’m glad to have every one of these experiences.

Ramena beach, as the fishermen bring in their daily catch.

Out near the Emerald Sea.

Boat ride to Emerald Sea.

The weirdness of being in Peace Corps

I’ve had a bit of time lately to reflect on my life as a Peace Corps volunteer, and let me tell you it’s weird. I know you’ll never truly understand until you come live it yourself, but I’m going to try to share some of it with you.

I don’t know what language to speak. People speak to me in French. I respond in Malagasy. People speak to me in English. I try to respond in English and they don’t get it, so I revert to Malagasy. People speak to me in Malagasy and I don’t know how to respond in Malagasy. I respond with a confused expression.

Every time I come to town I find out that someone back in America has gotten engaged. Or married. Or had a baby. Or moved to a new house. A couple of months ago. I guess I can look forward to meeting your new husband/wife when I get home. But then again you might have gotten a divorce by that time.

I am suspicious of any and all men. You said hello to me? Creepy. You smiled? Creepy. Please don’t speak to me in French, ever. (I apologize to all of you nice men out there and promise to make an effort to drop these stereotypes when I leave Madagascar.)

Food. Never has it been so precious to me, and I am thinking it never will be again. Those leftover spices an old volunteer had in the back of her kitchen cabinet for 2 years are the best gift I’ve received in my whole life. In my banking town? Just a good excuse to overstuff myself with pizza or ice cream or pastries or samosas or all of the above. Maybe this is why they call me fat.

Yes, I’m fat. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had a stomach bug and barely eaten all week, or how many days this week I’ve gotten out of bed to go running at the crack of dawn, I’ll always be “maventy.”

Rice is an integral part of my life. And I have a love-hate relationship with it. When it’s good, it’s really good. But sometimes I just don’t think I can get one more spoonful down the hatchet. Don’t even get me started on funeral rice which is usually not quite cooked and has been sitting in the sun getting hard and cold while they gather hundreds of people to eat it. When I’m not eating rice, I might be planting it, or weeding, or harvesting, talking about, or cooking it.

Notes are my most reliable form of communication with the world outside of about a 10 km radius from my house. Every once in a while a child shows up at my door with a note from another PCV, and it’s like getting a call from a long lost friend, only 10 times as exciting. So I write a response, sit by the road for up to an hour until a car passes. My letter is marked with the other PCV’s name, city/area of that city they live or work in, and Peace Corps. Success rates lately have been pretty high with pretty speedy delivery. In other words, over half the notes make it within a day or two.

Because of the slow nature of communication, social interactions are completely transformed. If you want to visit a family member, you simply show up at their house and they will find some extra rice for you to eat at lunch. If your family’s not at home, you simply ask around the village to find out where they went today. When you leave town, you simply return when business is done—whether that is today, tomorrow, or next month.

Personal hygiene is the most popular topic of conversation when with other PCVs. Out to a nice dinner? Totally okay to talk about how you’ve reduced your hair-washing schedule to less than once a week. Or maybe we should discuss which type of toilet paper is the best, or whose feet are dirtier.

Personal space… what’s that? I’m pretty sure I take up legitimately less space than ever before. No, I haven’t shrunk or lost extreme amounts of weight, I just know how to contort my body so it takes up the tiniest amount of room possible. I owe this new skill to too many rides in a taxi-brousse stuffed with too many people. Being squished against other bodies is just part of life.

I was already pretty okay with pests and bugs, but now it takes a lot to phase me. Dying rat in the kitchen? No problem, I’ll just finish him off and then make my breakfast. My latrine=cockroach house. My shower=snail and spider haven.

Life as a PCV is anything but routine. It seems like things are always in a state of flux. Even if you feel really “tamana” (settled in) at site, next week your best friend might move away or they’ve built a new house next door. PCVs come to Madagascar every March and July, so there’s always volunteers coming and going. All we can do is work our best to enjoy the good parts, survive the bad ones, learn and grow through the experiences, and keep the memories close to our hearts.

A conversation with Tokio

I've been asked what speaking Malagasy is like, so here's a video so you can hear. This little guy is my fan, Tokio. Tokio is very out-going. He always calls my name and asks me where I'm going or where I'm coming from when I see him in the village. Or he comes to my house, because he loves to come get his photo taken. One day I decided to take a video of him instead. Enjoy!

Here's the translation of the dialogue:

Leslie: Who?

Tokio: What?

Leslie: Who?

Tokio: Person over there.

Leslie: Oh. Where are you going?

Tokio: I’m going (not sure where he said). Dad’s drinking alcohol there.

Leslie: Your dad?

Tokio: Yeah.

Leslie: Your dad drinks, but you don’t drink?

Tokio: What?

Leslie: You don’t drink.

Tokio: Yes.

Leslie: And where’s your older brother?

Tokio: At school. Also, he went fishing. His (don’t know what Tokio said…I think fishing net?) is broken.

Leslie: What’s broken?

Tokio: He sews it and he uses bamboo. You do this (demonstration of fishing). You can’t.

Leslie: You can’t.

Tokio: He moved it. He moved it to Mama ny Yon’s house.

Leslie: Oh. You will eat fish today?

Tokio: Yeah.

Leslie: Do you like fish?

Tokio grunts.

Leslie: Yes? Do you like fish?

Tokio: Yeah.

Long pause… new kids come and say hi.

Photo update

Enjoying a little break from my sweaty life at site for some time in another sweaty northern Madagascar city. More on my life later, but wanted to share a couple photos while I have the opportunity.

Getting my hair braided. Have had it braided 4 or 5 times now. Good activity to fill the time and hang out with friends, and everyone thinks its so exciting to see the white girl with braids.

Obligatory cute child photo.

Andapa basin! Recently had a meeting of volunteers in Andapa. Check out all that fertile rice!

Andapa city from an overlooking hill.

Waterfall at Marojejy. Thanks to researcher Erik Patel for inviting me to come along on a trip to the park!

Silky Sifakas in Marojejy!

Another Silky Sifaka.

Taxi-brousses. Yes, that's a goat on top.

Agroforestry. On the bottomside of the canal you see the trees that are starting to grow. On the topside, rice. Some of it's getting pretty tall. I hope that makes up for the other areas where it failed to grow. Harvest in May/June-ish.

That's the current snapshot. Hope all is well with you!

One year...

March 1, 2011 was the 50^th anniversary of the Peace Corps. It also happened to be the day that I stepped on a plane to head to Madagascar for my Peace Corps service. Here I am, one year later, still in Madagascar. Coming here was kind of an adventure with a safety net, where I entered with a group of other travellers to try something new. It’s been quite a year.

In the past year I’ve been through two intense trainings with the Peace Corps and about 10 months of life as an independent volunteer in a rural village. I’ve learned a language I had never even heard before setting foot in Madagascar. I’ve settled into a life where I’m the only white face to be seen for miles around. My schedule is highly regulated by the sun and weather. I live without daily electricity, running water in my house, or direct means of communication with the outside world. For weeks at a time all I really know about covers about a 5 or 10 km radius, plus tidbits I pick up on the radio (or from neighbors who heard it on the radio in Malagasy and transferred it on to me).

In a way I feel like my life in Ambohimanarina fits the classic expectation one might have when entering the Peace Corps, but what I’ve gotten out of the past year has been anything but expected. I’ve learned about the importance of time spent with your community and neighbors, and about the generosity and friendship of those living close to you. Work for me never quite fits the classic definition—sometimes it involves convincing a little kid that I’m not a frightening monster who will eat him. One day can run the complete spectrum of emotions, from boredom and loneliness, to feelings of support and success, to anger and frustration. I’ve also learned the importance of providing support for oneself—taking a break when needed and working to become comfortable and express oneself. And I’ve felt the self-conciousness slowly melting away as I am watched every day by both children and adults. I work my way through speeches in a new language and shopping in a market full of strange new foods, where I’m bound to say something or ask a question that is either completely unintelligible or hilarious to the listener.Mistakes are a fact of life, but also something that doesn’t stop its progress. I’ve learned that the only way to survive and be productive in such a new place is to be unafraid to ask questions and seek help. Independence does not mean that you can make it through everything you do without an extra pair of hands or another mind to complete the task.

I find myself wishing I could find a better way to express what it’s been like to be on the other side of the world for a year. I know that I’m lucky to be supported by an awesome family and friends back at home, and to have found a new set of both here in Madagascar. Thanks to all of you out there following along and supporting me along the way, and here’s to another successful year.