| 2008-04-23 08:06 |
| The V-Word |
| Public |
I’m working with a group of high school kids now, a slam poetry group that got started at the Alliance Française a few years back. Me and a few volunteers put out there that if they were interested in working on their English poetry, which they had never tried writing, we’d be around to help. It’s turned out to be a success and they’re actually a lot of fun to hang out with. Cocky high school boys (and a few girls) reading their sappy or passionate or hilarious poetry is an easy way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
They made me promise to work on a poem of my own- with a spirit that everyone should be participating. However, I don’t really DO poetry. Hardly even read it. The New Yorker when I get a copy, but I just don’t come across it, nor get inspired in verse.
Sounds like an apology, right? Nah. I defiantly post this poem as my first attempt. I’m performing it at the Monthly Tournament this Saturday in Fianar (just to perform, I’m not in the tournament—I’d have to have FIVE poems ready to potentially win it, which I wouldn’t since most people won’t understand the majority of this, being in English). I wrote it in English in the spirit of our English Slam Poets Club.
The V Word
Let me vent my vantage point, let’s cool the volume
Volunteering and verbalizing my view
I will venture to share my vision and version
My vice is hearing ‘vazaha’
That word-vomit, non-varied nor valid
The vicious circle of voicing that vile word
I’m not a villain, nor a viper
I’m not a Vagabond vampire
I am not a ‘vazaha’
Those boys vied to turn my vanilla visage
This mother vocalized it to her baby wrapped in velour
That vegetable seller viewing me with vulturish intentions
They tried to vandalize or maybe violate me with a venomous word
Vaguely aware it might veer me away
Let’s find a voice to veto ‘vazaha’ from our vocabulary
Let’s vaccinate this population with verse, not voodoo
I am not a victim; this is verily vincible
Vanquish this vehicle for racism and separation
Vanquish ‘vazaha’ from the vernacular
Viva vocabulaire vaovao
Vita
Side note: ‘vazaha’ is Malagasy for (white-skinned) foreigner. I hear “Salut Vazaha” and "io vazaha. io." a lot. A lot. ‘vaovao’ means new and ‘vita’ is ‘finished, completed’
So I’ll let you know how that goes…
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| 2008-04-02 13:36 |
| out with the old, in with the new |
| Public |
Last night, two new trainees stopped in Fianarantsoa for the night. This is the third Environment group I’ve seen come in after me.
God, it changed my outlook! About time, right? I think everyone around me is so fucking sick of hearing me bitch now!!
These were good people, with good minds. Their hearts are in the right place. Their eyes are open to new experiences.
And they’re excited to be here. Excited to be starting. That’s just something I haven’t felt in a while, and I want that. That’s why PC practices the constant turnover. I know it and live with it, but it never hit me that I might one day become the one needing to be turned over. Volunteers can become so jaded so quickly, even when things are going well, work, friends, dating. But still, some of us, well, most of us, need to leave when the contract’s up.
The dinner gave me a good perspective of not being at the end of my service, but being in the middle of Peace Corps’ service to this country. And I like that, because that might make it easier to leave, even though I know it’s just about time.
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| 2008-03-31 13:31 |
| the last vacation in peace corps |
| Public |
Sounds ominous, doesn't it? I'm out of vacation days. You don't get brownie points for having any leftover, so I'm taking full advantage.
Joseph came for Easter week. We really have a fabulous understanding of how we like to vacation: eat, drink, be merry on intoxicants, then get those toxins out by full relaxation and spa treatment. We were two peas in a pod last week. Being in that pod, though, made me broke. It’s a shitty thing to have to admit, since Joseph paid for more than his fare share (even treated me to a plane ticket to our island –an island off of the island- beach getaway). Unfortunately, I don’t get paid again before I leave country, so a far too strict budget is being put into action. Bleh.
Of course now I’m back in Fianar, with the days whizzing past me, and my exit day no closer (so it seems). I’m trying to purchase an insane set of plane tickets to get me home via lots of other enticing places. I’m having to get travel agents in the US involved, since I can’t, nor can my travel agent here, deal with it all without adding on over a grand to my grand total.
I think when I finally get out of Peace Corps, I’ll go berserk during this COS trip. Luckily, Kate’s just the kind of girl to go crazy with. Cheers for being up for anything, right? Then I think I’ll just sleep for a few weeks. Point of note, I yawned just as I wrote that. Getting through my days is exhausting. I know, poor me.
In my defense though, it’s sometimes good to know you’re about to leave a place or job. It pushes me to tie up the assignments, projects and relationships I’ve been putting off or plain ignoring. And if it really comes down to it, are they really going to hunt me down in Arkansas? Doubtful. Most people I meet here don’t know where that is much less know an Arkansan. I think to some people, being in Arkansas is as unreachable as Madagascar is. I’ll give them that the airports in both places seem to be pretty far away from me.
Work with the Radio Project is fulfilling and this is what I want to be doing at this point, but the holdups. Oh the holdups. I’ve gotten so used to the holdups and the hold-me-backs that I’m not blinking an eye as they forever (it seems) hold back this final survey I want to finish before I leave. Tick tock goes the clock. But no sweat off my back if it doesn’t get done, right? I’ve already given them a solid good year.
Can you tell I’m checking out?
I seem to remember doing this exact same thing when I was in the process of shutting my brain down and leaving Anja a year ago. Of course leaving this time will be final. A defense mechanism perhaps? Definitely.
I would have to make the effort to come back.
To take another job in ‘development?’
Fight my discouragement. Fight my disappointments. Fight my knowledge that Peace Corps is unique and if I get a masters or some other terminal degree, it will most likely to give me the ability to run things. But run a project of an organization with an actual budget? I’ve been less than impressed with big-budget development NGOs and ventures.
But there are cutting edge people and organizations, right? Environmental resource management is a path that’s not drab and dreary.
So onwards to looking at schools and other life possibilities.
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| 2008-02-19 16:36 |
| By the Vohipora River |
| Public |
We made plans to get the plumbing redone at the bureau in Fianar. We’ve had a pretty bad rainy season this year. During the particularly nasty storms, our kitchen has this nasty habit of having groundwater seep in though the cabinets, flooding the house. This can go on for hours or all night, so it obviously has to stop. The problem with identifying the root cause is that the plumbing system was probably installed when the house was built, back in the 1920s. The plumbing for the streets was set a few decades after that, so no one really knows where our pipes drain. I know. Ew. And it’s coming back up into our kitchen.
I made plans to come up to Tana for the week, have meetings and see people I haven’t seen in many months. It made sense, since my water would be cut off for the week. I mean, seriously, no water in the kitchen or the bath is not a serious inconvenience if you live in a house that is equipped to not have a toilet i.e. you have a pit latrine out back. Otherwise, it means you head for higher ground.
So, this past weekend, Cyclone Iven hit the east coast, really tearing things up. I mean towns destroyed, rice crops ruined, and volunteers we’re temporarily evacuating.
I left first thing Monday morning, on the road by 7am with great timing in the wake of such a storm. At 8:30, we arrived a quite a river. A river with a bridge underwater. The dam upriver broke at 8am we were informed (being the 4th car to arrive). We began to wait for the water to recede. I fell asleep.
At 11:30, I woke up to grumbles that we should head back the road a bit and find some rice to eat. The water was rising.
All day in Vohipora, we sat in the drizzling gross rain, waiting, commiserating, waiting, complaining, waiting. The town really pulled through. They weren’t even aware the dam had broke when we first arrived. By mid-afternoon, chickens and pigs were slaughtered to sell to the crowds of travelers. Sellers of corn on the cob, fried bread, boiled cassava, roasted peanuts, cigarettes, beer, toaka gasy (local rum), and laughing school children filled the spaces between the taxi-brousses and camions at the juncture of the road.
12 hours later.
I can’t say I know any of my fellow travelers’ names. But I think because of it, and because there are so many supposed differences, we dived into a number of taboo topics. Politics, faith, and sexuality—aren’t those the big three no-no’s? Or maybe that’s just in the work place? This was more like an impromptu street festival. And trust me, this was a progressive, well-educated crew of Malagasy men and women.
The water did recede. My heart hammered like a jackhammer as our mazda minibus went through a shallow river to get to the other side. I contemplated the rushing water and its many possibilities. But maybe that’s just it. So many possibilities. Yesterday was just one possibility. Most any other taxi-brousse trip I never would have talked to the guy next to me, except to explain that no, I won’t marry him despite understanding that it would be an excellent idea. I think the experiences I don’t count on having, or the ones that initially seem daunting or overwhelming are the ones I will end up cherishing more in the end.
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| 2008-01-23 13:15 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
We had this lightening storm last night. Truly wicked downpour. The Internet in town’s been down for a few days. Phone service has been spotty at best- long periods of time where no phone calls or text messages are possible. I laid down to read a bit before sleep last night, when this horrible gut pain bore down on me. It was a body-racking pain that clenched my whole body up, and there seemed to be little relief than the expectation that I would soon pass out and maybe my intestines would relax. This went on for a few hours.
Of course this was the first night since I’ve been back from holiday that there wasn’t a person in the flop-house. I live in a provincial capital, have all these added amenities that other volunteers don’t have. And ultimately, I was completely alone with my body railing against me. There wasn’t a possibility to call the doctor, as phone service was down. [Rest assured Mom, in a worst-case scenario, I would have crawled into a taxi and presented myself at a hospital.]
Why even bother writing this down? Especially since I’m not actually on death’s door. My GI tract is still upset this morning, but not screaming at me. Why was this moment significant?
I had a moment of clarity. It’s time to move on. Hurray for June.
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| 2007-10-04 17:44 |
| The Turning of the Bones |
| Public |
Last weekend, I went to a famadiana (exhumation) in a town called Mandrosoa (it means ‘come in!’), approximately one hour outside the capital. To the best of my knowledge, the Malagasy are the only people in the world that currently practice exhumation. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never heard of anything like this outside of Madagascar.
The Malagasy believe that the dead join the ancestors in the ranks of divinity and that ancestors are deeply concerned with the fate of their living descendants. The Merina and Betsileo peoples practice famadihana, or "turning of the bones" to acknowledge this spiritual relationship. But not even all Betsileo people practice the famadiana. I have spent my entire service near or in Fianarantsoa, with Southern Betsileo people who do not exhume. There are also exceptions around the country, but this practice is concentrated around the highlands, near the capital. In all other parts of Madagascar, the funeral takes the multiple-day celebratory place of the famadiana.
In this ritual, the remains are removed from the family tomb, rewrapped in new silk shrouds (ideally), and returned to the tomb amidst festivities where sometimes the bodies are lifted and carried above the people’s heads with singing and dancing before returning them to the tomb.
The exhumation will be different depending on where you are and who you’re with. In some places, the exhumation takes place for each family every 7 years. Others 9. Some people unwrap the body, some only rewrap it, some use silk, some cotton, some synthetic polyester white cloth. Some people dance with the bodies, some eat with them, some even fight over the body! In Mandrosoa, the family practices the exhumation every 7 years, rewrapping the body (meaning adding a new cloth layer, no unwrapping), with white synthetic poly-blend. There were around 22-25 exhumations in Mandrosoa alone this ‘season’ at different tombs. An average exhumation costs at least 1.000.000 Ar or approximately $2000 (money I might venture to say they don’t really have to spend, but it’s an important cultural and familial practice).
Last weekend, there were frigid winds that blew in from the Antarctic; we were chilled to the bones. I was wrapped in a blanket for a good chunk of the festivities. I went to Mandrosoa with two other volunteers to meet the volunteer who lives there.
The exhumation is a two-day event if it doesn’t include a day of hiragasy (storytelling), and the one I went to didn’t. Day one: party. Now this particular famadiana took place at the top of a mountain very near Mandrosoa where Natalie lives. We trekked up the mountain after dinner to party with the two hosting villages, thankfully guided by the light of the full moon. The attendees to the party were predominately young males dressed in their finest. I made the acquaintance of a boy whom we dubbed Lil’ John. He was dressed to appear in one of those videos, yet walking through rice paddies.
Each house that will participate in the exhumation throws a party, with a band (think accordions, violins and a big drum) or speakers or even a DJ if the price is right. I faded out at about 2am, but was invited to sleep in the house of the people who invited us. I crashed upstairs with about fifty others on mats laid out in the house. All the furniture had been moved out of the house for this purpose. I slept under a blanket with two children, lolled to sleep by the pounding bass from the stereo system. At 4am, the group I arrive with collected me to head home for a few hours rest in an actual bed.
Day two: to the tomb. We arrived on the mountaintop refreshed and wrapped in our lambahoany (traditional printed cloth worn over cloths, especially clothes you don’t want to get dirty with the dust and mud. The problem with this is then no one gets to see your nice clothes… hmmm…). More dancing, singing and two huge meals of rice and beef pieces. A little gross, but the thought and practice is wonderful. The hosts will keep piling on rice and beef; there will always be leftovers. This signifies the good care the given to their guests.
At the tomb, the beer and liquor sellers ran a stiff business. I was opting for coffee at this point. All the community leaders climbed up on top of the tomb (freshly painted white) to announce the beginning of the ceremony. Multiple bands played the national anthem. Ah, national anthems played on accordion. How sweet and strange.
The tomb was dug open. I surged forward with the crowd. As bodies were pulled out, they were laid on mats, and then taken to different parts of the crowd (different parts of the family). There wasn’t a whole lot of grieving. The removal of the bodies from the tomb was generally a cause for true celebration. It was the strangest family reunion I’ve ever been to.
There was only one exception, where the women wailed and the men’s faces were tear-streaked. When the body was pulled out of the tomb, it was not lifted high up; the carriers were weighed down. This was a recently buried relative. A bystander told me the body was a father who was buried last year.
The family wrapped each body with care, knotting a thin strip of cloth along the body’s length. Each time a body’s enshrouding was complete, the family lifted it high up as an explosion of music emphasized the crowd’s excitement.
I watched a number of these, and then the frenzy got to be too much for me and the other visitors. We found a soft patch of grass on a steep incline just above the tomb. We watched the 500 or so celebrants dance under the sunset over a few warm THB.
As soon as the dozen or so bodies were securely knotted in their fresh white sheets, they were returned inside the family tomb, and the crowd headed home. I followed a band back to Mandrisoa. To descend the mountain path, the accordion was balanced on top of a head, and the violin was securely wrapped in a cloth sack on its musicians’ back.
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| 2007-06-27 18:17 |
| Flat or Round? |
| Public |
I came home for my lunch break. Sat down at my computer to while away a bit of time. I opened my music program, only to cause my heart to race. Panic ensued. There was nothing there. Then I discover there was nothing in my documents folder on my hard drive. AND there were no pictures in my picture-viewing program! What the fuck did I do?
Thankfully, when you import music and TV shows to the computer, there’s a backup file on the hard drive, so I’m back in business. Can’t say the same about my pictures, but thankfully, I have copies of all those on CD back at home in the States. I just have to start from scratch here on that front. ::sigh::
I’m going to assume I didn’t personally do anything. Maybe my flash-disk has some sort of bug on it? I’ve reformatted it now for good measure. We’ll see. The electricity cut out this morning. I had to reset the breaker. Who knows if that was the cause of my misfortune, as I invested more than I wanted to in getting a surge protector power strip that I plug my computer in.
I can’t help but think that maybe I’d be better off without all this technology. Maybe we’d all be. I’m fairly sure I’d feel differently in the States, as technology was mama’s smack for a solid month during my home leave. So I think it’s just because I’m halfway around the world. But when something like this happens here, I feel hopeless, because I have a sinking feeling that no one around me would be able to help me. That’s pessimistic, but it was my gut reaction and I’ll stand by it.
I’m reading, “The World is Flat,” by Thomas Friedman. His view is quite adamant that we have reached a place where everyone everywhere is on the same footing because technology i.e. the web has, well, made the world flat. Okay, I’ll give you that the world is getting flatter. But with my electricity flashing in and out and my Internet is crawling and drooling over America’s connection speed, even when I now have satellite-connection speed… rrrggg…
I’m also getting started at ALT. It is so fucking frustrating getting started ALL over again i.e. feeling as I did two years ago, only I have little excuse to feel so incapable in my language skills. I happen to know this NGO is doing good work. And they happen to know that they want and need a volunteer to pitch in over the next year. We just can’t put our finger on WHAT exactly I’ll be doing. I know, I know, I’ve only been in the office two days. Okay, so tell me where the fuck is the fast forward button to something worthwhile? I know it’s around here. I’m just not familiar with this program.
It’s just been a shitty day. At least the weather is mirroring me. Cold, drizzly, and determined to be sour.
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| 2007-06-16 17:54 |
| Misbehaving Kids |
| Public |
I spoke to my parents last night. Apparently I left home a week ago. My concept of time is thoroughly wacked. I think a day and change in the air, plus a huge time difference will do it to anyone. Coming back was bittersweet, as the health volunteers in Ambalavao ETed (Early Termination). Thankfully, there was some overlap time in the capital. Mull it over some beer and good food, which is all the capital is really good for (to me) at this point.
It feels very natural to be back from my home leave. But I feel the loss of leaving all over again. Being pampered by my parents, using a washer and dryer, having cold cut sandwiches when there is ‘nothing’ to eat, driving a car. I hardly want to get into not being able to see the people I email face-to-face.
When I got into Fianar, just one of my bankers was at the house, but one that we’ve always connected really well. We went out to get some provisions for supper. On the street, there was a pack of kids going home from school. They began jeering us in their version of what English sounds like in their heads. Then this girl had the nerve to tug on my friend’s hair, which happens to be flaming red. This really bothered her, but she didn’t do anything about it. We crossed the street and did our best to ignore them.
Just a minute later, the same little girl reached out and gave a tug again on her hair. I instinctively moved my arm to brush her hand away. Definitely nothing hard, but something to show it still affected me. In fact, very little contact was needed to have them scatter like little bugs caught in a beam of light. I was shaking. The kids, on the other hand, were all shrieking with laughter. “Aza fady! Tsy mahalala fomba!” Repeating what I shouted.
Things like that just never seem to happen in the US. At least it’s not something I have to accept might happen from a culture that has its roots in xenophobia. They are only now, and in small, educated circles to address this problem. Years, centuries. Sadly, the vazaha shouting (hey white foreigner!) won’t stop here of over most of Africa for generations.
I think a big obstacle, one I indeed want to overcome, is how uncomfortable I can feel here in the city. Many have done it. Hell, my brother’s seems to be thriving (socially) in Kampala. It’s just like I used to feel in the countryside. I feel uncomfortably in the spotlight.
In this city, like all cities, the disparagement between the haves and have-nots seem so great and without solution.
There are so many ex-pats who have given up on development. Too corrupt. Not worth a damn. Impossible to fund the ones in need. I’d rather not give up. Not just yet. I just want to be realistic. Realistic of my place in society and how I can contribute. When my time here comes to some sort of conclusion, I need to gracefully get the hell out and get a Master’s so I’ll eventually be able to support myself! I think that should be May ’08.
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| 2007-04-13 09:32 |
| Faty i Rasoja |
| Public |
Rasoja, a prominent older member of my village, passed away. I knew him to be a wise soul. This was the Wednesday before Easter. What we might call the ‘board of directors’ of Anja park (don’t think suits, think old sweats and baseball caps) had been meeting everyday for a solid week, hashing out the problems of how the park’s running. I was invited to all the going-ons, which turned out to be a rewarding experience as my Malagasy language skills—two years on— are finally on a level where I can follow these meetings without having to have my eyes glaze over from incomprehension and boredom. I was even able to make a few solid suggestions, which (surprisingly) were taken seriously.
But when a death occurs, all other activities cease. Most villagers won’t ever get a proper marriage ceremony (more like a common law marriage—they just move in and call each other man and wife, since you need at least a small amount of money to file the paperwork). However, everyone is entitled to a funeral. In the family tomb.
Since I was continuously experincing a string of "this will be my last ‘fill in the blank,’" this faty was particularly difficult. The day of visiting the family passed, rice and coffee through the night. I personally didn’t stay up the entire night. I suppose if it were a good friend… that’s why the tradition exists after all. To stay with the family and friends continuously though their time of grief.
Friday morning, I got up at 5:30 with the first sounds of the village and the first rays of light. After a quick toothbrushing, rebraiding of my hair, and donning a skirt and lambahoany (cloth wrap), I headed out to the actual funeral. A day that begins without a cup of caffine always means the day will be different, and breaking routine tends to be fantastic.
In the viewing room, a gutted out house, at least 50 women sat croutched in a 100ft2 room. Don’t forget the squared off section of space where the body lay wrapped in a blanket. Not much room to breathe, and what you do breathe has a bit of a putrid oder mixed with general body oder.
Four men picked their way through the room and moved the body onto the floor in front of the women, the prominent family members sitting closest. The women gathered close to prepare the body for transport to the family tomb. When the cloth was pulled back for viewing, on cue, a wail went up. The grief immediately affects everyone, wailing or not. Tears streamed down my silent face. I was up against a wall and couldn’t get up to see. But I seem to have seen a fair number of bodies in my two years in Anja. More than the rest of my life combined. The funeral is a much more private affair in American culture.
And those bodies are definitely not embalmed. So the person actually looks as they should, moving on to somewhere else, perhaps. Lord, I just don’t know.
The girl next to me, a young girl I would take to be Rasoja’s granddaughter, started wailing inconsolably. The high pitched moan, the gasped breaths, brough her to a senselessness and hyperventilation. I was sitting directly to her right, and I put my hand on her shin, which was jerking, as if to absorb the shock. But there was very little I could do. Many women layed hands on the girl. Her gasping unconsiousness only subsided when Ramama (you can call any grandmotherly type woman this in my village, perhaps all over the island) spat water into her forced-open mouth.
She opened her eyes after much coaxing, but could not be persuaded to talk or drink more water. Tears continued to stream down her face. And mine. And all the womens’. She was left to tend to herself, though her sister, who sat next to her, squeezed her hand tightly.
Wave after wave of grief swept over the room. The faty is so unlike the funerals I have experineced. As we are unattached to the food we eat and the land it comes from as Americans, we are unattached to the processes we send our loved ones through after death. Off to the mortician.
Grief is very viceral. It hangs in the air but is transformed into love and joy in the visiting and reuniting of family. This should be manifested equally in both cultures, but so many Americans, open to expression in so many ways, clam up to open grief and it becomes a private affair. Do not deal with this in the open.
We stepped outside the house, the men went inside to bring out the body. The day was now bright and beginning to get hot. When the people saw Rasoja’s body tied up in a woven reed mat, the loudest cry yet lept from the collective mass. The same girl wept and shook, lost her balance and fell into my arms. Who would have guessed I would be right next to ther again ? It was a moment before her sister collected her again.
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| 2007-02-13 18:11 |
| travel is good for the soul |
| Public |
Two years ago today, I arrived in Philadelphia for orientation. Two years gone by!
Well, things are not official, but I hope they will before the end of this business week. According to the office in Tana, I have the job of PCVL (Peace Corps Volunteer Leader) in Fianarantsoa for next year (June to June 2008). This is pending medical clearance. I have appointments on Thursday and Friday. The problem is the ear infection, which isn’t so much of a problem anymore. Peace Corps Washington decided they really didn’t want to take out the permanent tube. Surprisingly, we’re on the same brain wave on this decision. In taking out the tube, I risk having complications from the minor surgery, then really having to go home. I took a different round of antibiotics; the gooping stopped. So I just plan on pushing for clearance, which I will assume will be given without a problem, until I hear differently.
Anyway…
Even in this Peace Corps assignment, there are times when you don’t feel like you’re traveling or living exotically, just because you can get used to ANYTHING. I feel very much at home in my village, and one gets caught up in the daily tasks of village life. You are not on vacation. This is just living life, working your projects and dealing with complications.
Last week, I got a call from Nirina, who I’ll be working closely when I end up in Fianar that I should come up and go on site development with him. The new Environment volunteers arrive next week, and the final look over of the new sites (villages) have to be completed, so we need to know that the house is built and yes, there are indeed people in the village who want to work for the volunteer, not just a mayor.
It was such a good trip.
The landscape in this country is so breathtaking. From time to time, I can forget! There should be a reprimand for each time I do not enjoy a sunrise, sunset, rainstorm, or a tranquil starry night. And the landscape and the weather can change so dramatically so quickly. I went from Fianarantsoa to Androrangavola to Manakara to Fanarafangana to Vondrozo. None of these places are the same, but are all within 200 km of each other (divide by approx. 2 and you’ve got miles if you can’t deal with km). Any volunteer who lives along the way gets a brief visit, I suppose to let us know if something’s the matter or just a message needs to get out, since most people have little to no communication at site. I don’t. I really enjoy arriving unannounced at people’s doorsteps. In this kind of remote world, any visitor is always a welcomed visitor.
The land that really took my breath away is the grassland south of Manakara (the end stop of the train line). The yellow-green to neon-green with every green-in-between grass blankets the hills that look like hands creeping out from underground, laying flat as far as the horizon. Between the fingers are groves of ravinala (it means leaves of the forest), a palm that is a bit of a national symbol. It is an enormous two-dimensional fan of palm fronds. But hundreds of trees. Thousands.
No people. It took me almost half an hour to realize what was so strange. No villages. Nothing. Maybe the land is unusable for farming. The remoteness was exhilarating, freeing. I don’t know if there’s any way for me to find out why no one was living there, as I won’t be moving there to try my hand at farming the land. Nirina and I rolled down all the windows of the Peace Corps Land Cruiser and played classic American rock (his preference in genres), Led Zepplin, ACDC, Guns n Roses.
If I have one recommendation to you, it is to travel. See it all. See it again. Go live there. Then go home but never forget. Repeat.
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| 2007-01-26 17:23 |
| sick abroad |
| Public |
I'm not even that sick. Just far away from American doctors. Well, that's not true. Far away from American doctors not constrained by US Goverment procedures. It's all understandable.
When I went white water rafting on the Nile over my Christmas holiday in Uganda, a lot of water went into my left ear that has a permanent tube. An infection developed. Antibiotics were taken. I don't have the infection any more. My ear continues to leak-- more like goo. This has gone on for about a month. I go on another round of medicine when it arrives at the post office now.
At least it doesn't look like they will be able to take out the tube like the doctors here in Madland wanted to. Bad news is if I don't get better before med-Feb I have to go home. Damn.
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| 2007-01-07 16:35 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
Sometimes you have to change your course, and it feels very much like giving up.
The audit of the community park I work was conducted to clear the honor of two close friends (the P and VP) and has taken over 4 months of tedium, slowly pushing all possibility of starting my gravity-water project into nonexistence. I believe strongly in not rewarding an assoc. that is potentially embezzling, especially if an audit can prove the accusations one way or another. The water technician (a Japanese volunteer) will be going home in a few weeks; only time to wrap up current projects. Another tech, whose opinion I highly value, has been keeping his opinion for a while that the project should be scrapped because of a low flow rate at the spring. Aaarrgghhh!!!! Maybe if we switch to wells? A light at the end of the tunnel?
Maybe if I tell the Park that they need to buck up and realize there is a LOT of money flowing in now each year; a LOT of vazaha (white people) come practically each day. They should build wells if possible. They definitely could if they made it a priority.
But it’s the rainy season now. Very little is possible now until it gets dry again and well techs can see how low the water table gets.
Development is excruciating slow, with so much red tape it becomes difficult even to keep a positive attitude of your reasons for staying and being here. But as my older brother pointed out on the phone today, at the end of my time here, I’ve lived in a loving community for two years. I’ve laughed with them and cried to myself. I’ve seen some projects through. I’ve seen this large project not even get off the ground. These are all invaluable experiences. I have to let this experience be what it will be.
I’m not of the philosophy that one person can move a mountain. It takes a community. It takes the world.
I feel dread going home to the village and telling my friends and colleges that we must find a new course of action; that the project as stated cannot happen. We have waited too long. I think the project wasn’t right from the start.
I hope to be able to redirect the money into other water/sanitation projects in the area as quickly as possible with the consent of the donors. There is still light at the end of these tunnels.
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| 2006-11-14 20:57 |
| The next step |
| Public |
I bet a few of you saw this about a mile away. I've been talking about it for months now. I submitted my application for extension here in Madagascar. A year. I applied for the PCVL (Peace Corps Volunteer Leader) position, which would move me to the city of Fianarantsoa. I know and love the community there and would be running the Peace Corps office/ 'flop house' where the volunteers stay when they come to bank and market.
Currently, I am considering two possibilities for secondary projects next year. Definition of my role would come with acceptance of the PCVL position. Some thoughts:
1) Extension of my current eco-tourism projects at Anjà (publicity and infrastructure development) over the Fianarantsoa region. A number of village parks received the land-management transfer over the past few years (among them another one in my commune that I recently visited and loved), but are unsure of the next steps to take, often thinking there is nothing to do but wait for tourists to arrive because of little or no money, no partner organizations, etc. I am somewhat apprehensive to bolster my current eco-tourism projects when I do not see myself working in eco-tourism in the long run. However, I recognize the value that my experience at Anjà Park would bring to a greater area.
2) My current job interests lie in water/sanitation projects. Field camp, a summer working in a laboratory, and PC has underscored my desire to work in the field and not in a lab. Fortunately, in Fianar and with USAID projects, there is ample opportunity to get out in the field: village systems, hospitals, and schools. Closer to the house in Fianar, there is also the possibility of working with Karen Freudenberger and the rehabilitation of the “old town” with water-pump and pit-latrine construction.
It's a relief to get the app. in. Since I want to stay, and I know it's the best fit for me...
The current plan is to visit the States for the month of May. I'll definitely have to drive around (good god, I'll have a car at my disposal--- FUTURE CAR--- damn, I miss my car) and see folks. Because I like doing shit like that. And that will be what that vacation will be all about. Satiating myself of all the things I've missed in America.
Like aged cheese.
And good wine.
And the Simpsons.
Mmmmm... simpsons...
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| 2006-10-27 08:09 |
| another birthday has come and gone |
| Public |
hmmm...
I have to say, this birthday was infinitely better than my last birthday here in Madagascar. Not that it was celebrated in any fashion on the actual day, but that's the culture here. Birthdays just aren't that important, and people don't really indulge in those celebrations in the countryside. It's just extravagent fluff.
And I hear that.
It's just not what I grew up to expect out of a birthday.
However, it's infinitely better to be settled with friends who you can laugh and joke with over feeling sorry for yourself for a dy or week (me last year). So I didn't feel like throwing myself a party. I was running low on funds and didn't want to dish out money on alcohol to make the drunks drunker. I baked banana bread for my neighbors and we visited. It was actually very nice.
I went to a concert a few weeks ago. I can tell I've been here a while. I felt very dressed up walking out of my village in jeans. IN JEANS! And everyone asked me where I was going. Oh, to the spectacle (the concert-- say it with a french accent).
Oh! Have fun! Bring back bread! Everyone always requests baguette bread to be brought back to the village. They might make fun and say that vazaha (foreigners) consume a lot a bread, and it's true, tourists really do consume an inordinate amount of bread. Well, I actually consume an obsene amount of rice now. But I think they would eat a crapload of bread if they only could afford it. That's of course OVER the three times a day that they eat bread. The Malagasy would never replace rice.
It's a little sick.
Oh! A new volunteer (another one- another year, another try) is coming to Ambalavao! I do like having someone near, even if it's just for the last few months.
I'm trying to outline a program for next year if I should stay in Madagascar and move to Fianarantsoa. Mark (guy I work with an env NGO) is pushing me to expand the eco-tourism stuff I've been doing to a regional level. But I'm hesitant.
I want to get going on some sort of project in water/san, but it's difficult to articulate WHAT exactly I'd be up to doing in conjunction with the PCVL position, which would require me to stay in Fianar for a good chunck of time and visit volunteers and their sites-- NOT a lot of time for field work, you know? I hadn't really considered that before I approached Mark about our potential collaboration. But it's a painful reality.
hmmmm...
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| 2006-09-24 10:57 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
We just had a regional mass meeting of volunteers in Fianar. Even though I’ve started this extensive debate in my head as to what to do post-Peace Corps, or if I should stay here indefinitely, doing god knows what, it was brought to my attention that my stage (group) is now the oldest one here. People kept/keep asking me questions, how to do this, what’s the best way to do that, is this even possible.
Boggles my mind. Doesn’t seem like I’ve been here that long. But then again, this organization has a high turnover rate.
The days can be so long, but the years so short.
I have moments where I keenly want to go home. Joseph put it well (as he packs his bags for Uganda) that you just can't get perspective abroad like you can in the US. To figure out what's next.
Grad school for water/san? The best programs I've found are in Michigan, North Carolina, New Mexico, and Florida. Michigan sounds like a barren wasteland of snow that I could never live in. Florida is hot. NC like everything I know and love in Tennessee. The southwest sounds like an incredible lure to bring me home. But what do I do while applying? Twiddle my thumbs?
I already do that here.
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| 2006-08-14 15:08 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
I have been away from site for three solid weeks, the longest stint during my Peace Corps service. I will go home first thing in the morning. Being with the group is exhausting once you have gotten used to a solitary lifestyle. I can see why I had trouble in training, just existing in a ‘herd’ is trying at best. Now that I’m back in Fianarantsoa, I have that clenching in my stomach that I get after being away from site. Getting back into the grove of village life always seems daunting, though it never is. Doesn’t stop my anxiety of doing it.
I found at my MSC (mid-service conference) that more than half of my group (9 out of 16) is considering extending their service, though how seriously, I won’t know for a while. I am including myself. I hope to get hopping on figuring out how I can get involved in a water/sanitation project next year. The benefits certainly weigh out the deterrent factors. I have no Masters or specialty experience. I would retain my medical and evacuation insurance. I would continue to cultivate contacts and get involved in fieldwork of my choosing, not just the training that PC provided when I arrived last year.
More daunting than the anxiety of going home to Anjà is the anxiety of asking my friends and NGO workers for a job. They have to provide housing but no salary, so it will be interesting to see what possibilities are out there in my region, or if I need to look further. The PCVL (PC Volunteer leader) in Fianarantsoa is a possibility, though I have my doubts as to whether running the house in Fianar is something I want to do. But it is free housing, and may give an edge over other possible extenders. Our current PCVL is leaving for the capital and then home tomorrow. The next group of possible extenders will start COSing soon, but there’s currently only one person who wants to extend, and she wants to extend in her banking town. So that leaves the position open until I COS May 2nd. BUT… who knows if the house will make it that long without a PCVL?!? I am only being pessimistic but I know that the Country Director would rather the regional houses die than try to keep them open. He doesn’t have to be explicit for me to sense this.
Well, there’s still plenty of time to brood. But a year-and-a-half flew by. I expect the same for the rest of the tour (so the lingo goes).
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| 2006-08-05 09:17 |
| Alley of the Baobobs |
| Public |
We were late getting back to Morandava after Kerri's festival last week. Then we were to help out at the Marathon that was Malagasy organized (it used to be run by Peace Corps, but we're periphial now). Late lunch. I was already filthy from sweat and dust, my hair in knots. We went to the bureau. Much confusion ensued. Almost 2 hours later, Kerri said we could cut out if we were just helping hand out water and food -- can you imagine me even desiring to run the half or full marathon?!? So, Nat, Sarah and Sean Mc made the split second decision that we would indeed try to make it out to the Alley for sunset.
Now the Alley of the Baobobs is a good 20 km outside of Morondava. After settling things at the hotel, I discovering my camera was missing, but fuck it, let's get out of here, we piled into the taxi and started puttering out of town. (my camera was found a few days later, so don't worry Mom)
We were all quiet for a bit, we just kept slowing down, time slowed down, but the sunset sped up. Sarah and Nat explained the Betsamisaraka fomba that you can't ask how much further, how long the trip or something bad happens on the road. Example, on their last trip to Tana, someone dared ask, and their truck split in two (in TWO!). They repaired it with sticks and a belt from the engine . the driver cursing the whole time that it would never have happened if no one had asked when they were going to get to their destination.
Sunset was magical. Sans camera, I had an uninterrupted peaceful experience with these magical trees. My friend told me that God punished the baobobs, and they were pulled from the ground, and placed back upside down, their roots forever exposed. It's entirely possible. No one seems to know what they did.
The village children quickly made friends with us when they realiwed we weren't tourists, didn't speak French (un peu), and had no money. Well, I actually bought them out of peanuts, and we made a dinner of peanuts and coke and rum cocktails.
The kids made a bonfire under the trees. We sang songs. We were put to shame. In lieu of musical instruments, the Malagasy all can sing well, loud, and in four-part harmony. At one point, we Americans belted out Row, Row Row Your Boat just to prove we could do a round!
A gray sky woke me up. Sean began to sing Morning Has Broken. Sunrise was fast and electrifying. I don't think my camera (or thoughts in a blog or journal) could ever capture my contentment that chilly morning.
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| 2006-08-04 10:16 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
I signed up late to help out with Kerri's health and environment festival in her village north of Morandava, on the west coast. No big deal, considering we're good friends. I saw her on medical hold in the capital when I had my stupid tooth scare. Her eyes after a year and a half have been effected by the dry and the dust, and the dust has started scratching her corneas! Well, she no longer has patches on one or both of her eyes. Sh's quite well, but it was a long way coming. Her opthomologist insisted on another follow-up appt and PC would not automatically clear her to return to her own festival.
Then she asked me a favor. I'd run everything in Morondava, buying supplies and handing out assignments as volunteers came into Morondava, constantly being called by Carrie on my cell phone. THough the marvels of the 21st century in Mcar, I could not place calls to anyone on my phone, I had no trouble receiving them.
It was chaos. But we got prepared. And waited. And held our breath. And left for Kerri's village, not knowing if she'd return. We (the volunteers) met all the important people, etc, etc. We saw the plane we knew she was SUPPOSED to return on.
But she made it. And I rode back seat, though people kept pestering me with questions, which I know in the long run, is a good thing not to bombard this woman who's been stuck in Tana with a million detail oreiented questions. She hadn't been in her village in 3 weeks. I can't even begin to imagine.
So I gave up my plans to go to the Tsingy. There will be another time and place, I know it. Rachel, Lisa, Kerri and I ran off to Belo sur Mer for rest and relaxation. A bungalow on the beach. Mangrove forests. The biggest and best crab I have ever eaten.
We made reservations at a kind of swanky French hotel, but thankfully, they were assholes, overbooked, and treated us like shit. Good. Kept walking down the beach and found Hotel Doro, run by Meur Dorothay (he immediately acknoledges it's a girls name). A big jolly Malagasy man, a welcoming smile, shares the sme name as my grandmother, and bugalows at a price to die for. $7 for 4 people a night, two big beds, and our door was right on the waterfront. Bliss.
Much sleeping and lying around ensued. Kerri unwound a bit. I am blissfully ready for my mid-service conference.
More later.
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| 2006-07-14 18:41 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
I'm not so sure about the doctors here. They may be full of shit. OK, I'm 99% sure. That's a personal opinion, not to offend anyone with PC. But the dentist was quite dismissive about my tooth problem. So I'm mental to boot. It's in my head. You just need a good cleaning, Amanda. So fucking condescending.
Took an X-ray on this TINY TINY card, but on the tooth I had concerns about. They seemed to have little concerns about the rest, though. I'm on a special toothpaste and mouthrinse. Follow-up in a month. No, I don't ride the special bus to school. But my gums apparently need help.
Then the PC doctor told me I had to make sure I saw a particular dentist when I came back because HE had some doubts about the one I went to. But that I had to see that one because it was an 'emergency' and I couldn't schedule ahead.
I was so relieved of the outcome at first, but now I'm not so sure. But since I do have a follow-up, I will just monitor... not much else to do. Sit and watch the grass grow. A common theme in PC.
Everything is falling beautifully into place to go to Morondava (home to the Alley of the Baobobs) for the health/env fair in a fellow volunteer's village, followed by the Jumping Rat Race Marathon at the end of the month. Then I'll go on vacation with friends to see the park with the tsingy (crazy carst formations-- and a particular lemur that can leap from craggy point to jagged peak). Hike and camp for a couple of days. Bliss.
I am counting the days (12) until I have to leave my site to start this trip-- so short stint back at ol' Anja. But it's so cold here. We're all wrapped up in blankets (don't forget they're mainly pink, peach and covered with large flowers. Did I mention they come in velour? Quite the statement for the male population. But everyone's doing it...), hats, scarves, sweats, anything that can be layered, etc, etc, on the high plateau, shivering in the mountains.
It's high time to run away to the beach. I miss wearing skirts. And there will be crab. And tuna! And coconuts and mangoes! Praise the Lord!
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| 2006-07-12 13:39 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
After the party over the 4th, I went home. Promptly, 2 people from my village died, so the next four days were filled with visitation ceremonies, the wake, the actual funerals, and of course, more drinking. For my own justification, my life is definitely not one big party, filled with booze and good times. Alcohol just happens to be an integral part of the traditions here, and though I could refrain, I don't. The same could be said of American society, though most people I know are not the power drinkers I am currently surrounded by-- and I refuse to become such. I do have work to do here, right?
The problem is that when festivities occur in this country, alcohol is inevidibly involved, and therefore work projects are suspeded. When I don't surrender myself to celebrating with friends and relaxing and not worrying (as my personality likes to do), I find myself far happier here, without even having to become the town drunk.
I have a problem tooth right now-- perhaps an infection? Not really sure. I came to Tana to have it checked out by a dentist. Have to say, I'm a bit freaked. But on the bright side (I'm one of those 'the glass is always half-full' kind of gals), I haven't really been sick before. Plenty of volunteers have these disgusting stories of their intestines practically falling out, fungi I wouldn't begin to describe, not to mention the occasional random horror story (my brother had pink eye in BOTH eyes when he was a volunteer, his eyes swelled up closed for days). So nothing like that. Not even a toothache. But I have a really bad taste in my mouth, excess saliva, a site on my gums that is really suspect of an infection, and an over-active imagination. Two hours until I see the dentist.
So not much work is getting done here at the office here in Tana while my mind wanders here and there. Now that the exhibition is done and squared away, onward to up-dating the park's brochures, printing post cards, brainstorming for more publicity. Writing up a proposal to get money to bring water pumps to the park and village. Building camping facilities-- imagine taking a bucket bath in the woods?!? Towering mountains in front of you, lemurs around you. I can hardly wait.
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