March Mada-ness: The Sequel (Part II)

The MCC: Culmination of Stress, Commencement of Crazy

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned my planning for the American Mobile Cultural Center (MCC) in previous blog posts.  Short background: I started bugging the US Embassy via email for support, or at least advice, in creating an English center in Fort Dauphin sometime last spring.  They kindly informed me that they wouldn’t be able to build any American Corners or English for the Environment Centers here in the near future, but they were supportive in that they invited me to chat with them at the Embassy when I passed through Tana and gave me boxes full of English-language books.  Finally, sometime after I’d gotten back from the states last summer, they told me about their new MCC idea, a sort of multimedia center promoting awareness of the environment, American culture, and the English language.  It would travel around the country, staying a month at each location.  They suggested I try to bring this to the FD as sort of a warm-up to the actual English center that still exists only in my mind. 

This turned out to be a bigger task than I expected.  Luckily, I’d already made all the right connections.  I asked Rio Tinto, the mining company whose employees I’d taught over the summer, to be my partner and financial supporter in the endeavor.  They enthusiastically agreed and generously donated the main room of their community center to house the MCC.  The only major problem was transporting the MCC to Fort Dauphin.  Since roads to the deep south of the island can be impassible during the rainy season (January – March), and that’s when it was scheduled to arrive, all parties agreed that shipment to the Ehoala Port in Fort Dauphin would be the best solution.  The embassy has almost no budget for transportation of the MCC, so the bulk of my work from October – January was working with the Port director to get free shipping, figuring out how the cargo shipping industry works (much more complicated than I was expecting, by the way), and acting as a general coordinator of the whole thing.  There were so many unforeseen issues, and there’s no way I could’ve gotten anything accomplished without almost daily internet access.  I may complain sometimes about being located in a city and therefore not being a “real” Peace Corps volunteer, but I can’t take for granted the advantages I have for actually being able to carry out medium to large-scale projects. 

Long story short(er), it all worked out in the end – just two months later than expected.  Representatives from the embassy came down to help set it up and for the opening ceremony.  The center itself was incredibly modern, very strange to see in this country.  Tall metal columns displayed banners with pictures of Ranomafana (which is their focus this year) and even a picture of my PC stage at our swearing in ceremony.  Attached to two of the columns were four LCD screens displaying slideshows of pictures.  There were four laptops, a big-screen HD television, projector, DVD player, a bunch of DVDs, computer games/programs, and tons of books.  With the help of Rio Tinto, I arranged an opening ceremony for many of the VIPs in town.  It was unbelievably professional by Peace Corps standards.  Then again, everything in Madagascar has to be overly official.  There were several speakers, a tour of the MCC, and a “cocktail” (buffet of various finger foods and sodas) to follow. 

The center stayed in Fort Dauphin for a month.  We were open 6 days a week, including weekends, from morning until evening.  The DVDs were a big hit, especially the ones with English subtitles.  The computer games were popular with the younger crowd, and the more serious learners used the laptops for English listening practice.  The books were the main attraction.  There three bookshelves with books about the environment, American history and culture, democracy, youth activism, and the English language.  We also had supplemental activities like guest speakers, group discussions, games, and contests.

For the most part, the MCC was extremely successful.  In fact, I’d say that at a certain point it was actually too successful, attracting 100+ visitors (mostly students) at a time, which was a disturbance to the people working in the building’s offices.  For a perfectionist such as myself, it’s difficult for me to look back upon the month of March and not brood about all of the problems we encountered.  Thus began March Mada-ness...again.  What is it about this month...?

Just to give a brief overview of the issues faced: too many school kids (not the studious kind), too few professionals, too many people asking for direct translations of long lists of the most random/irrelevant vocabulary imaginable, misinterpretation of the purpose of the MCC, disappointment about the lack of English classes, disappointment and outright hostility about the center not being permanent, and a high rate of book theft.  All of these reasons, but in particular the book/CD theft, sent me into another downward mental spiral that has yet to completely abate.

What travelers, new PCVs, people at home – pretty much anyone who hasn’t lived in a developing country – don’t always realize is that there is no “poor, starving, innocent African” (emphasis on the “innocent”…obviously there’s a lot of poor, starving people) population that we idealize for movies and humanitarian aid donation commercials.  This is just a generalized image, kind of like the “all white people are rich” stereotype here.  In reality, everyone’s got evil in them.  For instance, that poor man on crutches with the polio-twisted leg is still a pervert, and I feel no guilt passing him by when he tries to strike up a conversation about where I live and when he can visit.  I’ve mentioned in previous posts how the little kids on the beach by my house are trained to give big googly-eyes, hold their stomachs, and beg for money whenever they see a white tourist.  Sure some of them are significantly mal-nourished, but you know what will probably happen to the money you give them?  They’ll deliver it to their parents who’ll put it in the moonshine fund, and the kids will scamper off and play until the next tourist passes by.  I had a family down by the beach that I liked to help out here and there, even lent money to when they desperately needed it (because the dad had spent all of their money getting drunk).  I thought I did it subtly, but it ended up causing so much drama among the other families (jealousy, arguments, whispering behind each other’s backs, attempts to falsely befriend me, rumors that people would attempt to steal things from me) that I now refuse to give anything to anyone on that beach.  Same goes for tourists, most of whom would be astonished to know that their gifts of food, toys, or money actually cause more drama and jealousy than happiness and appreciation.

Anyway my point is, people are just as evil here as they are back home.  I have the capacity to loathe individuals just as much as I can love them.  It’s never bothered me that much and definitely never dampened my motivation to work or live here as a PCV.…at least not until the MCC klepto-fiasco.  The technology and quality of materials available at the MCC are far beyond anything the people here in the south of the island will ever have access to, yet the Embassy made the center open to the public and free of charge.  The Embassy and I worked our asses of to bring it down here, and what do the people do?  Complain.  Complain that we don’t sell the books, complain that I won’t let them [illegally] burn the DVDs, complain that there aren’t enough ________, complain that the center isn’t permanent, complain that one month isn’t enough time to learn English (NOT the purpose of the MCC, by the way)…  Essentially visitors decided that, even though the MCC must travel around the whole of Madagascar, they themselves are entitled to keep the incredibly expensive, high-quality materials because it’s not fair to share them with the rest of the country.  Thus began the stealing.

This sent me over the edge.  It felt like we’d given the people a gift and in turn received a slap in the face.  Not to mention it was unbelievably embarrassing for me, the representative of the town, after having talked Fort Dauphin up to embassy officials for nearly a year.  I thought about all the cultural issues I’ve faced in the past year and a half and began to question everything I’m doing here.  Why try to help people who have no interest in helping themselves?  Don’t they understand how this damages their already lackluster national reputation?  How can I get anything accomplished in a culture that thinks Robin Hood-ing is acceptable?

At this point, I’m still pretty bummed about the whole situation, but I have to keep reminding myself that the MCC did accomplish a lot of good things and the books were probably stolen by a select group of misfits rather than the vast majority of visitors.  I think the main reason it killed my spirit was because the MCC project was just a warm-up for my actual goal of creating a permanent English-learning center.  But whatever, membership fees and a few security cameras should solve most issues.

Things I Still Love about the Culture

I sometimes wonder if my blog posts are overly-negative.  Kind of like how, when PCVs get together, we tend to discuss all of our problems and frustrations and things we miss about home rather than our successes and joyful gooey feelings.  The positive stuff just isn’t as fun to talk about.  But it’s still there.  Therefore, I’ve compiled a list of things I still find wonderful or fascinating about Madagascar.

·         Sharing culture.  As selfish as people seem when they ask me to give them things like money, clothes, jewelry, and candy, I’ve found that those same people are just as willing to share what little they have with me.  One time I broke my flip-flop in town and had to walk home barefoot.  Several girls who normally won’t let me pass without asking me for money declared:

“Jess, you’re not wearing flip-flops.”

“I know.”

“Why??”

“They broke when I was walking.”

“Oh…  Do you want to use mine?”

The Malagasy family that lives next to me is another example.  They don’t think twice about lending me household tools, oil or salt, a bucket, their cat, a DVD, etc.  In return, I lend them sugar and coffee and don’t complain when their chickens and ducks walk through my house and occasionally poo on my floor.

(A side note: Lending money, however, doesn’t work in this country.  I’ve never successfully lent it out and gotten any returned.)

·         What to do with a thieving kid: Whoop his arse.  I was once walking out of the marketplace where a kid had just attempted to steal a bottle of cooking oil.  The old man selling the oil grabbed the kid, threw him on the ground, and started whacking him for a good 30-40 seconds while I and the rest of the people on the street watched.  By the time the old man was finished, the kid was bawling and ran home while we just watched, shaking our heads at the nerve of the little hoodlum.  No one screamed or jumped in to “save” the kid or called child protective services.  And you know what?  I bet he’ll never steal again.

·         Kickass old people.  They walk tens of miles barefoot everyday through all weather conditions carrying enormously heavy loads on their shoulders or heads just to support themselves and their families.  Americans start complaining about every ache and pain as soon as we hit middle-age.  If one thing can be said about the Malagasy – they are made to endure.  On taxi-brousses, for example, everyone from old ladies to small children (seriously) sits tranquilly on often painful seats where you’re literally crammed in like cattle for hours or days.  In this same situation, I’ve been known to squirm and adjust my positioning because I long ago lost feeling in my legs.  I’ll admit I’ve even shed a few tears because I’ve never had to endure such intense discomfort for such long periods of time.

·         Death in general.  I admire the way people here deal with death, though I could never hope to emulate it.  When someone dies, it’s just as sad and painful to close friends and family, but in this culture, it’s not life-stopping.  It doesn’t cause psychological problems or tear families apart.  There is a time to mourn, but it’s short and people get back to their regular lives immediately after, simply because they have to.  You can’t buy take-out or frozen dinners here just because you’re too sad to cook or take care of the house.  If you don’t go to work, your family won’t have enough money for food, school, rent. 

According to one local tradition, when someone dies, a certain species of tree is cut into a coffin and sealed with a glue-like substance after placing the body inside.  People from surrounding villages come and sit in the yard around the house.  The women cry, the men don’t.  They drink coffee and help the family of the deceased.  They sit through the night and sing, chat, dance, but don’t sleep.  Goats, sheep, or zebu are killed for the mourners.  They do this every night for a week.  Assuming all long-distance family has arrived by then, mourners bring gifts of money, cloth, or livestock to the family.  The body is buried on an auspicious day, as determined by an ombiasa (witch doctor).  A zebu is killed for the guests.

Death of people you don’t know is regarded a bit less reverently than in the states.  Haja and I were walking down the street once and he sniffed the air.  “Misy olo maty,” he said.  There’s a dead person around here.  We then walked on as I tried to pretend that I wasn’t disturbed by the fact that the odors of death constantly linger around town.  Haja’s aunt and cousin came to visit my house once.  They passed by the beach just as fisherman were pulling out a body they had caught in their net.  Unaware, I greeted them when they arrived at my house and we sat in the yard and chatted for a half-hour or so.  They then casually mentioned what they’d seen on the way and asked me if I wanted to go “look at the dead guy” with them.  Part of me was excited, since I’ve never seen a body that wasn’t embalmed and nicely prepared for public viewing.  A much bigger part of me, though, was freaking out, hands sweating, heart racing, terrified of how I might react.  On the way, they joked about how fish like to eat the eyes and tongues of bodies in the ocean (keep in mind that his aunt  lost her brother to the sea).  Luckily, the body had already been removed by the time we walked down the hill.  That was the third body (that I know of) pulled onto the beach by my house since I’ve lived here.  I still wonder if and when I’ll see one wash up on shore.

March Mada-ness: The Sequel (Part I)

Every time I write a new blog entry, I tell myself that, after this, I’m going to write shorter ones at more frequent intervals. Obviously, that hasn’t happened yet. So instead of bullet-pointing this one as is my usual go-to style when I’ve got a series of unrelated events to comment on, I’ll just divide it into mini-blogs. Keep a lookout for more Parts coming out soon.

Holidays

In case anyone was worried, I was eventually let out of my medical prison in good time for the holiday season. Haja (pronounced “Hadza”), my wonderful boyfriend who had been patiently supporting me over the phone every night as I cried about the evil doctors and how they kept tormenting me with the “We’ll wait and see how it is after a few more days…” line over and over, was waiting for me at the airport with a cab driver friend to take me home. I had missed the end of the school term, so there was nothing to do except chill out and settle in. There was a series of sweet concerts that led up to Christmas, starting with Lola (a guy...and Malagasy pop star) who also happened to be on my flight. This would be a good time to comment that Malagasy people don’t freak out when they see famous people, hence why I didn’t realize I was sharing a terminal with a national celebrity until Haja told me upon my arrival. In my experience, people here just point and say, “Hey look, there’s ________.” If the person’s really famous, they might say it with a big smile on their face. The next week there was a concert of multiple “lesser” but still famous artists, and then the grand finale – Tence Mena on Christmas Eve. She’s essentially the Beyonce of Madagascar. Several people have kindly explained to me that Rihanna actually steals her clothing, music, and dancing styles from Tence Mena. Makes sense.

We bought two chickens, one for Christmas Eve, one for Christmas Day, and a whole lot o’ pig meat. (For those of you who are used to buying nicely packaged pork chops and heavenly hams from the supermarket, you might be surprised to know that buying pig meat straight from the butcher’s is actually a disgusting experience. About half of the weight (if you’re lucky) is fat. Pure, jiggly, squishy, hairy pig fat.) Christmas morning we went to church, which was especially exciting because all the kids and teens had put together a Christmas performance. They all did various forms of hip-hop, African, and pop-ish dances to music that had absolutely nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. And there was no living nativity scene. Lame. That evening, Haja, Paul, Eric (a health volunteer about 25km away), and I met up at my neighbor Barry’s house and shared food, beer, and good times with his family. It was an absolutely fantastic away-from-home Christmas because there was no gift-buying, house-decorating, or anything else to stress us out and make us think of what we were missing.

New Year’s was mellow, too. Haja and I went all out and bought a duck, some soda, and liquor. I asked him if he wanted to go out or at least spend the evening with his family. He explained that he didn’t want to hang with his relatives (the ones we go to church with) because they don’t drink, and going out to bars/clubs on New Year’s Eve is for prostitutes, drunks, and other bad people. So we hung out at my house with a neighbor friend until about 11:50pm, when they both passed out. I watched the year change on my cell phone and kissed Haja on the cheek as he lay drooling on the bed. Possibly the first time in my life I’ve outlasted other people on NYE. New Year’s Day, the real party time for Malagasy, we killed and cooked the duck, invited our guardian neighbor over for some rum, and gifted him with a huge rope of paraky – Malagasy tobacco that I happened to find myself with – and chilled around the neighborhood all day.

Carags in Madagascar

While I was drinking rum-and-cokes and waiting for the clock to change in Madagascar, my parents and brother, Jon, were drinking champagne somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean after the pilot announced the changing of the years. They arrived in Paris New Year’s Day then flew to Tana, where they spent the night at a hotel near the airport and were shuttled back the next day to catch a flight to Fort Dauphin. Haja and I picked them up at the airport and drove them back to a nice hotel by my house, overlooking the beach and the town. They got settled and gave me a huge suitcase of Christmas gifts from friends and family and other awesome America stuff. For the next two days, I showed them this crazy beach town that’s become my home. On the third day we went for a day-trip to Berenty so they could see tortoises, crocodiles, bats, birds, spiny forest plants, and lots of lemurs up close. We met up with Paul for dinner in Ambovombe and spent the night at a hotel, then continued on to Faux Cap the next morning. I’ve done the drive down to the southern tip of the country several times, but the ecosystem changes along the way never cease to fascinate me. I was so excited to show people the transitions between dry coastal peninsula to greener valleys beneath mountainous forest to transition forest where you can start to see tall, finger-like, otherworldly looking plants with spines to unending rows of sisal plantations to agricultural desert protected by impassible walls of cactus plants to more open desert-like spiny forest to the gradual disappearance of tall trees and plants to the more barren, sandy dunes of the deep southern coast. You caught that, right? Luckily, the full drive takes about 6-7 hours in a 4x4, so I have time to explain everything on the way. I find it especially interesting to watch the transition of people from the coastal foresty-dwellers around Fort Dauphin to the more hardy desert-dwellers carrying spears, wearing sarongs draped around their shoulders, and herding gigantic herds of zebu. My family seemed only mildly interested, even after I exclaimed that this was as close to “real Africa” as they could get in Madagascar.

We arrived in Faux Cap mid-morning and settled into bungalows at Haja’s family’s hotel. They then began a ceremony in which one of their best goats was presented to my parents by handing it off to my brother via one of Haja’s brothers. I could see a sitcom episode being made of this stuff. Pictures were taken, drinks were served, and speeches were made. The cultural significance of this? My family essentially traded me for a goat. (Don’t worry, it wasn’t a marriage ceremony. If it were, I would've had my parents demand at least a medium-sized zebu.) I tried to prepare my family ahead of time about what to expect, and although they were probably confused and maybe a little scared, they didn’t show it. I had explained to them that Haja’s family is very vazaha culture-friendly and wouldn’t actually expect this to be a binding cultural ritual. It was more to give my family some authentic Malagasy experience and to show them that they consider me one of their family.

We took a small break from the drinking to watch the goat get slaughtered. Although I don’t particularly like watching large animals die, I’ve gotten used to it over the past year and a half. Unfortunately, I forgot how much it took for me to get to this point (remember when I freaked out over my host family killing the chicken in Mantasoa?) and didn’t consider that my family might be a little traumatized by the experience. In Malagasy tradition, Jon was supposed to be the one to kill the goat. He politely refused. So we watched. When goats are killed, the throat is slit but the vocal chords often aren’t severed, so the goat continues to bleat during the process and you can hear the blood gurgling in its throat. My father was fine, he’s seen it all before in the Philippines. I was surprised the Jon and my mom were able to make it through the whole thing, though they later admitted that they were a little upset by it. Once the goat was dead, though, the whole thing got a lot more fun. Watching them skin it, cut it up, take the organs out, etc. I think is interesting for most Westerners because we often imagine ourselves lost in the wilderness attempting to catch wild game with crude traps or hunting methods. Rarely, though, do we run through what we will actually do with the carcass once we’ve got it. Watching an animal be dismembered for its meat and innards makes you realize that the process is slightly more complicated than just sticking it on a spit and roasting it over a fire.

After all the excitement we had a lunch of fresh grilled lobsters and jumped back on the road for a two-hour drive to Cap Sainte Marie, the southernmost point of the island. We went to the reserve, which has crazy cliffs, a lighthouse, radiated tortoises everywhere you look, and an awesome view of Antarctica. We returned to the hotel in time for dinner, which consisted of rice, our goat cooked in at least 4 different ways, and a few other dishes. Then began the party. Several of Haja’s 13 siblings traveled home so they could party with us. Most of the local village showed up just to watch the festivities. There was traditional Tandroy (the regional tribe) dancing in traditional-ish garb (a loincloth-like covering for the men) as well as a good deal of contemporary Malagasy boogie down music.

The next day we returned to Fort Dauphin, where we spent the next couple days. We then flew to Diego (at the very northern tip of the island) for 2 nights. On a side note, before we left Fort Dauphin, Jon and I took a walk over to Israel’s house, where we found out he was leaving Peace Corps due to some issues back home. Three months have gone by since then, and it still feels a little strange without him. Israel – if you ever find yourself reading this blog, know that people here (Malagasy and vazaha) still miss you and you definitely left your mark on this town.

In Diego, we did a lot of relaxing and walking around town. I’m not sure how much my family actually enjoyed it, but it was really cool for me to see a completely different part of the country. When we returned to Tana, they took a flight back home, and I returned to Fort Dauphin. Looking back, it was so amazing to have my family there to see a small fraction of this weird life I’ve found myself in. I think about all the ways I could’ve made it better, all the things I forgot to show them or never explained. A lot of it had to do with the limited time they were here, but I was ecstatic that they (especially my mom) would actually consider a [really expensive] flight to a developing country on the other side of the word just to see me for 11 days.

Portraits of the South

Photos I took around the south of Madagascar. See my Facebook album for the full collection.


(Yes, that's an enormous joint.)

Bust a Move If You Love Jesus

I’m currently being held captive against my will in the Malagasy capital by the Peace Corps medical team. I have ebola or SARS or something. They won’t release me until the results of medical examinations are in and further experimentation has been conducted (probably Thursday). Good news though – there’s 24-hour free wifi in my cell.

Lots of fun has been had in the past three months. Went on a couple crazy trips around the south of Madagascar (see pictures on Facebook – will try to post some here). Spent 2 days and 15 minutes on a camion from hell in which people are regarded as cattle and squished into rows of 9 people (designed for 6 people). Began teaching 2 of my fabulous university classes again and gained a new, equally fabulous class. Saw some famous Malagasy pop stars perform in Fort Dauphin. Got stalked by an old Pakistani man. Had 2 kickbutt Thanksgivings. Killed my first turkey. Went to a string of parties ranging from fantastic to painfully quirky.

Also. Much to my mother’s elation, I’ve been attending church almost every Sunday for over a month. No, no, no, my first birth remains the only, but it’s a fun community activity and good bonding time with my “in-laws,” who take care of me and feed me several times a week. I’m no closer to Christianity than I’ve ever been, but I actually enjoy the services. And let me tell you, these are no sleepy “Is it communion yet??” Catholic masses. Not that I’ve had much experience with other denominations, but this church is what I imagine Pentecostals on crack would be. The 2.5 hour service begins with a 1 hour warm-up of earsplitting rock music complete with full drum set, keyboard, electric and bass guitars, gigantic speakers, microphone-wielding choir, and who-can-belt-the-hardest-for-Jesus diva-offs. As if this in itself isn’t entertaining enough, groups of kids (some of which can’t be more than 5 years old) separate into boy and girl dance groups on the stage and perform choreographed routines to all the songs as well as spoken worship times in which a large black woman (and not always the same one) half-sings half-screams the good Lord’s praises to the soothing sounds of electronic keyboard. I call my side of the church’s dance group the “Altar Boyz II Men.”

But wait, the fun doesn’t end there. God wouldn’t approve of the congregation just sitting around and watching the worship, we all must take an active part in the festivities. Everyone from toddlers to tottering old ladies gets up and grooves to the music. At my first service, I couldn’t help but notice an especially enthusiastic man waving a humongous flag and spinning in circles down the aisles. He later turned out to be the preacher. For the main event, the preacher gets on stage, cries out the glory of the son of God, leads some prayers, and oversees some group-prayers. The group prayers are superfun because everyone has license to give praise in whatever way they deem fit. Some do the quieter bow-of-the-head whispered prayer. Others raise their hands to the sky and speak/weep in tongues. Still others become possessed by the Holy Spirit and scream, wail, pant, jump, roll on the floor… The best part of the service is, sadly, the part I haven’t even witnessed yet. Sunday afternoons are the healings. I teach a class at that time, but the in-laws always give me the 411 later that week. People from all over the region, whether they’re of this denomination or not, bring their sick and injured to the preacher to be healed. I’ve heard tales of a blind man regaining sight, a mute exclaiming “Jesosy!” [Jesus], and a woman being cured of diabetes – in addition to all the more “lackluster” miracles. And this has all been since October. At this point, these healings are the equivalent of the local cultural beliefs in ghosts, witchcraft, and the living dead – I’m not sure if I believe all of the stories, but I desperately want to. I’m just waiting to see everything for myself.

One kooky cultural observation I don’t think I’ve discussed yet: Malagasy kids can kick American kids’ butts. Literally. These small people are built strong and built to last. From the time they’re born, they’re strapped to their mothers’ backs with a sarong, heads a-bouncin’ and a-bobbin’ all over the place. Yet no necks are snapped. Once they can crawl, they’re basically turned loose on the world to play in the dirt, put things in their mouths, and take naps on the ground. Toddlers are given small, round candies to eat and learn to climb trees and play with sharp objects. Small children, who we still think of as helpless and innocent are given adult responsibilities. They are sent to the store to pick up oil or cigarettes. They collect large buckets of water on their heads that are heavy even for me. They carry their small siblings on their backs around town. They are taught how to collect things like shells, jewelry, and shellfish and sell them to tourists. When this fails, they are taught how to beg money from white and/or rich people. They are integral parts of the household, helping with cooking, cleaning, message-delivering, chicken-catching, cattle-wrangling, and family trades. When they’re not working, they roam around town, play with handmade toys in the streets, and swim in the ocean – all without adult supervision. And the extent to which children physically resemble their parents here is startling. Like creepy miniature clones.

Anyway, life in my second year in Madagascar is going fantastically. It really does take a year to fully become part of a community – I can’t even imagine what it would be like if I stayed here 3 or more years. It’s almost laughable now how I used to think I knew my community after a couple months, after 6 months, after 10 months… There’s still so much I’m learning, but I finally feel like an accepted member of the town, not just an outsider that people are used to seeing every day. I’m confident in my teaching abilities, and I know my place as a PCV and where I can be the most effective. I have a strong network of friends in diverse circles, and all I think about while being caged here in the capital is going home to Fort Dauphin.

A strange thing has also happened in this second year: I’ve experienced this funky cultural perspective switch. When comparing Malagasy and American cultural differences, my subconscious immediately tells me that the Malagasy tradition is normal, while the American one is strange. For example, I see a Malagasy woman whack her 3 year old child with a stick for getting distracted by a piece of trash on the street and slowing her down. Then I see a white woman trying to placate her squirming and screaming toddler in a stroller with food and toys. Where’s the damn stick?? I walk 2.5 miles to the market and am still put to shame by old ladies carrying 20 lb baskets on their heads 4 times that distance just to sell their goods around town. Then I think about how I’ve driven my car around the block just to get from the supermarket to the bank. Is it really that much of a sacrifice to get off your butt every once-in-a-while and actually interact with people on the street? Here, I buy a live bird or a cut of beef straight off the cow if I want to eat meat. Then I remember how we pay more for pre-killed, pre-cut, pre-cleaned, pre-packaged, pre-frozen meat off an animal that died who knows when/where. How crazy is it to find entire refrigerated isles of plastic-wrapped meat thousands of miles from the gigantic slaughterhouse it came from? I avoid Malagasy street dogs like the plague because, well, their legions of fleas may actually carry the plague. Then I see a vazaha tourist cuddling up to one of the filthy beasts and cooing something about animal cruelty. In America, wouldn’t that be the equivalent of hugging a large rat that just crawled out of a dumpster? I’ve learned to reuse everything and get phones, electronics, shoes, etc. repaired to within an inch of their lives before even considering throwing them away. Then I think about how we buy brand new everythings just because we’re tired of our “old” ones. Why toss a perfectly good metal plate if you can just throw a piece of duct tape over that pesky hole? It’s not so much that I’m “against” our American lifestyle or am going to drastically reform my previous way of living when I get home, I’m just amazed at how our perception of what’s normal and logical can be so easily molded by the people and culture we’re surrounded by.

Alright, back to my House marathon. Once I bust out of this cage and get back to the FD, I’ll be spending the holidays around town and frantically prepping for the arrival of my parents and brother on January 2. Finally someone is coming to visit me – I’ve still got 9 months here homies!

Who says you can't go home?

“Nothing makes you feel more like a native of your own country than to live where nearly everyone is not.” –Bill Bryson

My great return to the land of freedom, Stephen Colbert, and non-seasonal produce aisles was far too short and not nearly as overwhelming as I expected. I was only home for about 3 days before hopping a giant boat to Mangoritaville, but I had enough curious revelations to fill another insanely long blog post. In an effort to keep your mind from drifting off to Mangoritaville as well (not that I’d blame you), I’ve condensed my thoughts into this letter:

*****

Dear America,

It was fantastic seeing you again; if only we’d had more time to catch up. Sounds like you’ve had quite the summer. Thanks so much for the warm welcome; it was such a surprise to see you heat waving at me when I arrived at the airport in DC. I heard through the grapevine that you were recently quaking with anxiety from the hurricane of work that’s blown your way at the office – you know how you always exaggerate problems in your head! But I digress. I’m still a little confused by some things you said during our time together, and I just want to get some of my concerns out in the open:

• I’m still not sure I understand the obsession with bottled water. It seems even crazier to me after living in a place where I filter and bleach all my drinking water because bottled water is too expensive to buy regularly. May I remind you of how easy you have it with your free, non-amoeba infested water straight from the tap?
• I can’t stop thinking about that last Harry Potter movie and how it officially marks the end of an era. I know there’s nothing you can do…I guess I’m just wondering if you feel the same way?
• I couldn’t help but notice the over-abundance of processed, low-fat snacks in your grocery stores. Okay, so I’m not so concerned with the “processed” part, but I’ve yet to find a low-fat snack that’s as delicious as its calorific counterpart. It’s nearly impossible to find America-quality junk food in Madagascar – I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve spent hours of my life here fantasizing about Oreos, Cheetos, and Hershey’s chocolate. I beg you to eat healthy, wholesome foods 95% of the time, then go to town on a bag of full-calorie Doritos for me.
• No more Coffee Toffee Twisted Frostees..? Really?
• Can you help me explain my post-vacation obsession with Taylor Swift? Then again, it could be worse in a country that’s so power ballad and cheesy 90s pop-saturated, hearing a Justin Bieber song on the radio brings a tear of homesickness to the eye.
• You should seriously consider cutting down on the variety of foods available in your stores and restaurants. I know, I never thought there was such a thing as too much variety. But I was so overwhelmed by the sheer number of foodstuffs available and spent so much effort deciding combinations of best possible taste + lack of availability in Madagascar that I didn’t even come close to gaining my goal weight of 10lbs.

I hope I don’t seem ungrateful for your hospitality. In fact, I have a greater appreciation for those quirky Americanisms that the rest of the world seems to find so off-putting. Walmart saved my life when I had a million unrelated things to buy and only a few hours to find them. And I can’t thank you enough for your infatuation with ice. Iced coffees, Slurpees, piña coladas, even just a soda with ice cubes – how does the rest of the world live without this basic human right? Finally, I will never, NEVER again take for granted that which we call “sandwich.” Deli meat, cheese, veggies – all piled high on condiment-soaked sliced bread. Sweet land of liberty.

Anyway, I just want to thank you for everything you’ve given me over the years. I’ve never been prouder to be an American. Take care and stay out of trouble. I’ll see you in a year!

Love always,

Jess

*****

So now I’m back in the Windy City of Madagascar. The cruise was incredible, particularly because I was with my entire family plus some in-laws and family friends. I didn’t go half as buffet-crazy as I’d hoped, though I did drink my weight in frozen tropical cocktails. The negative side effect of this euphoria was a subsequent affliction with crippling homesickness for a couple weeks after my return. Basically, I locked myself in my house for the first week and slept 12+ hour/day (thank you jetlag), sobbed “I hate Peace Corps!” into my pillow a couple hundred times, and lived solely on grilled sweet potatoes (welcome back gifts from my neighbors). A dark time, indeed, but not dark enough to have actually made me consider ditching my Beach Corps life. Side note: They finally fixed the pipes in and around my house. Jess has running water, biotch! (Not that it changes my lifestyle much, but hot darn it sure makes flushing the toilet easier.)

I’m back into the swing of things now, still teaching a bunch of classes and loving it. I recently finished editing and formatting an English teacher training manual for one of the NGOs in town, which was an absolute blast. No sarcasm, seriously. I’ve learned that editing is what I do best, and I enjoy doing it.
COU-nerd-GH

So for one of my advanced classes, I decided to do a session on American culture and diversity – what it means to be “politically correct” and using appropriate terminology when talking about race, religion, sexual orientation, disability, etc. Like many people around the world, the Malagasy have a tendency to place non-Malagasy in generalized categories when discussing ethnicity. I had just finished a whole schpeal about the difference between nationality and race and how there is a huge variety of ethnicities in America (i.e. why you can’t assume someone is from a certain country based on physical characteristics), when one of my students enthusiastically declares, “Okay, but I think you are Chinese.”
“No, I’m American.”
“Yes, but you are Chinese.”
“I’m not Chinese.”
“But you look Chinese!”
Fail.

Sexual orientation was another interesting topic. The students I teach have access to Western media, so they are all aware of the concept of homosexuality, but their ideas are very vague (picture the looks on their faces when I tried to explain the term “transgender”) and most don’t agree with it or simply deny its existence. I explained how sensitive an issue this is in America and advised that it is better to avoid the topic altogether rather than risk an exchange that could be offensive to both parties. Like the lesson on race, most of the class understood and took to heart what I’d said, but there’s always that one student…
Me: “Can someone give me a sentence using the vocabulary we learned today?”
Student: “Yes. Gays, bisexuals, and transgenders are mentally disabled!”
Class: *embarrassed laughter*
Me: *cracking up* “Okay, that sentence is grammatically correct.”
If I were a more sensitive person, that student would’ve left class with my flip-flop print on his ass. Thank goodness for Peace Corps cross-cultural training.

On the topic of cultural exchanges… Those of you who know me well know that I love to make generalizations about groups of people (usually jokingly) that have no bearing whatsoever on my opinion of them as individuals. Here’s another one for you: I cannot STAND expats. Phew, feels good to get that one off my chest. More accurately, I should say I don’t like expat drama. Why? They’re like alphas without a pack. Expats get themselves so invested in certain aspects, issues, institutions, etc. in this country that they become convinced that only they know what’s right. It almost becomes an “if you’re not with me, you’re against me” situation. I cannot count the number times I’ve sat amongst a group of expats bitching and bickering about the conflicts in their lives and laughed to myself about how pointless (and impossible to keep straight) it all is. Some of it is long-term animosity (the Brits don’t like the French, the French don’t like the South Africans…) and some of it is ideological differences (missionaries v. holding groups v. NGOs v. entrepreneurs), but it’s all part of an convoluted web that can never be untangled. Peace Corps volunteers have an interesting perspective because we’re not working for ourselves or for a particular affiliation. We don’t bring development; our goal is to transfer skills to the Malagasy people so they can facilitate their own development. Maybe that’s why it’s so amusing to watch all of these white people argue over which one of them knows what’s best for Madagascar. But then I guess therein lies the irony: We all want the same thing – whatever is best for Madagascar.

All that said, I LOVE the expats in Fort Dauphin as individuals. They’ve all enthusiastically welcomed me into their respective communities and done so much to help me. They provide me with interesting conversations and new perspectives, and they are almost always willing to share what’s theirs. They’ve become some of my best friends here. Thank you expats! (And try to chillax – it’s just life.)

Don't Play with Fire[works]

The first anniversary of my love-hate relationship with Peace Corps Madagascar was last Friday, July 22. I could be cliché and say that time has flown, but no. Hellz to the no. This year has been long, complex, and darn fantastic. Life finally feels “normal” in the sense that I’m staying busy, being inspired, setting goals, and compiling a list of tangible accomplishments. Fort Dauphin feels like home, though not enough to make me want to stay past my close of service (COS) date. One of my current goals/challenges is to apply to grad school this fall and hopefully get accepted so that I can begin as soon as I get back to the states next year. Anyone want to write me a letter of recommendation? Hehe.

Work has been hectic over the past two months (well, as hectic as Peace Corps work can get…I still feel like I’m on an extended vacation). I finally feel like I’m growing – not just mentally, but professionally. I spent most of May organizing what I called my “World Environment Day English Competition.” It was a city-wide competition for high school-level English students in which they could write a short story, poem, or song in English relating to the theme of “grassroots conservation.” I ended up with 20-some total entries (way more than I expected, and many were group entries). Over the weekend of June 5 (World Environment Day), all of the contestants had the chance to read/perform their entries for the public outside the town hall; I'll try to post some of my videos. The top 3 winners received baskets of school supplies and English-Malagasy dictionaries donated by QMM (the local mining company). Visits to local conservation areas, including Andohahela National Park, were awarded to the top contestants as well.

This competition was my baby. I was like a proud mama watching the fruits of my labor get up on that stage to share their English-speaking, environment-loving talents with the world. Laugh not! I know this kind of work is standard for many people, but this was my first real experience with project development. What began as a little seed of an idea planted in the soil of boredom sprouted out into the real world of meetings and deadlines and blossomed into a full-blown accomplishment. The fact that I did everything – pitching the idea to the regional environmental department, meeting with QMM representatives to solicit prize donations, begging the English teachers at the town high schools to encourage their students to participate, attending several meetings in which I had little to no idea what was going on but nonetheless feeling shamelessly proud to have been invited as a regional environmental representative, reading and rereading the entries 20+ times because I was too darn proud of all of the contestants to chose winners – made me realize that I actually am capable of turning my ideas into reality if I just put in the effort. (Note: I realize this is essentially the job description of a Peace Corps Volunteer, but just let me have my moment anyway.)

I ended my classes in early June – a month early – because English is the only class my students have year-round. I could tell that 4 hours of English-learnin’ per week over the course of three trimesters was starting to dampen their already less-than-tremendous enthusiasm. June 26 was Madagascar’s 51st birthday and justification for a weekend-long celebration. A fairground was set up near the city center, though it was composed of more bars and gambling stations than child-friendly amusements. A huge stage was built in front of the town hall, where concerts were held each night. Saturday was fireworks/Black Nadia (a famous pop singer) night, and I’ve never seen so many people squished into what I previously thought was a spacious area. By some insane stroke of luck, I ran into a friend of mine who invited me to sit with his friends at a table in a prime concert/fireworks-watching spot. Little did I realize, as I was enjoying my beer and brochettes (meat on a stick), the danger that wonderful table would put me in.

It was a dark night, so I didn’t notice much of what was happening around me. With no warning, WOOSH! A blast of light shot up into the night sky and exploded into fiery splendor…from only 25 feet away from us. A couple more blasts and I was still a little shaken from the surprise, but so far so good. Then the military guys set off this funky dancing firework that sent sparks whirling and twirling in random directions through the air and low to the ground. One of the sparks decided to fly straight for my face (mind you, there was nothing – people or otherwise – between me and the launching point). Everyone at the table did a flinch-and-duck, but it must have burned out right before it reached us because I was only pelted with small black things that looked like charcoal. After that, we were all on edge but tried our best to enjoy the rest of the show. The next few funky dancing fireworks in the mix shot rogue sparks at new targets. One hit the serving table where they were making our food, one hit a lady in the crowd (I’m pretty sure she was okay), and one traveled down the hill toward the port and struck a wooden house…which then to burst into flames. Why they didn’t just shoot the fireworks from the safety of the port, I’ll never understand. Not exactly the most enjoyable fireworks display of my life, but definitely the most exciting. I later heard that a few people were killed during shows in other parts of the country. Way to go, Madagascar.

After Independence Day, I began a round of new English teaching gigs. While Israel and his counterparts cover many of the start-from-scratch beginners in town, I seem to have found my calling in the environmental and professional circles. In addition to my private teaching of various professionals, I now teach a class at the regional environmental office, a community course for professionals, and, my personal favorite, two classes (beginner and intermediate/advanced) at QMM. I love this one because I only have to walk 2 miles to their community center, then a bus picks me up and takes me to their [air conditioned, cubicle-lined] office building 7 miles north. Because I’m a volunteer, I get to eat a free lunch in their amazing cafeteria then teach employees from the biodiversity and community relations departments over their lunch break. We have class in a temperature-controlled conference room with cushion-y seats and a whiteboard, and I can use their copy machine to make handouts for my students. The people who work there are the bomb friggin diggity – as students, as workers, as human beings... Sweet deal. Anywho, this round of new classes has done wonders for my teaching abilities. I learned all the basics from my classes at CEL, but eventually I got comfortable, we developed a routine, and I stopped being as creative toward the end of the year. These new students, with a mix of levels, personalities, and goals, are forcing me to think of new methods, activities, topics, you name it. Maybe by next year I’ll feel confident enough to actually refer to myself as a “teacher.”

Alright, I’m going to cut this post short[er]. I’m currently lounging in the Peace Corps transit house in Tana, waiting for my flight to South Africa – then back to U S and A, where a 10-day family reunion cruise extravaganza awaits me. Woot! Hopefully I’ll get some videos/pics posted when I have access to America-fast interwebbing. Check back soon. Note: I arrived Sunday and am posting this from the muggy heat of the Mid-Atlantic.

One of the contestants reading her poem at the town hall.

Me with students from 2 of the participating schools.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TK3EcRaWxnY
Check out the song the second place contestant wrote for the competition. I sense an international hit.

March Mada-ness, April Amelioration

As you may have gathered from the last couple posts, December-February was pretty darn busy in terms of moving around and keeping things interesting. When my schedule finally settled into a relatively uneventful routine again in March, I went a little crazy.

March was a month of too much pondering time and the resulting inner turmoil – about my job, my role as a Peace Corps volunteer, my life in Fort Dauphin, my life in general. Basically, it was like an extended mental breakdown. Apparently, this is completely normal for volunteers at this stage of their service (as I later confirmed after having several “bitch it out” sessions with fellow volunteers), but definitely not something I expected of myself, which perhaps contributed to my mental instability. The whole thing was essentially an accumulation of irritations with the culture, feeling useless, feeling like everyone was using me for money and/or status and that I had no friends I could actually trust, cravings for America, yada yada yada. I think I summed it up best in a message to Sarah, my American partner-in-crime when I was working in Ranomafana: “Nothing specifically brought on my cultural frustration. I just occasionally get those ‘I can't take it anymore’ days and they kind of stick to the ‘I'm not accomplishing anything with my life’ feelings and roll through a pile of ‘I miss fast food, running water, and refrigeration,’ and before you know it, a snowball of Peace Corps depression has formed and is plummeting down Mount ‘Someone needs to incite revolution so that we can be evacuated.’”

Anywho, I could go into all kinds of detail about that horrible month, but no point now. I am once again loving life, though I doubt the cravings, feelings of restlessness, and periodic cultural frustrations will ever dissipate. Such is Peace Corps.

I’ve managed to leave Fort Dauphin on a few short excursions in the past month or so: Went to a tree-planting ceremony in a village to the north with my students, sat in on some classes at a small primary school in the countryside, visited the nearby American Lutheran hospital and told the doctors I’d come back to teach them English, traveled to Ambovombe with Israel and Steph (the volunteer in St. Luce, a town north of Fort Dauphin) for a weekend birthday extravaganza for Paul. Even here at my site itself, I continue to find new places and things to do. Fort Dauphin definitely isn’t a small town, but the frequency with which I say, “I didn’t know this part of town even existed!” never fails to amaze me.

My work and social lives have both been busier as of late. In addition to my classes at CEL and the French students I practice with, I give private lessons to QMM (the mining company) and some regional government employees; I’m thinking about setting up some professional courses during summer break. The director of the school has me edit grant proposals, blurbs for the website, etc., and I’m working with the regional department of the environment on various environmental sensitization projects and contests in the local schools. I was actually invited to a regional government meeting for local environmental representatives, and I was more-or-less able to follow the general topics of conversation. Then the woman running the meeting asked me to pitch my ideas to the room…in Malagasy (of course). Absolutely terrifying, but I managed to convey what I needed to convey. There’s also an environmental festival coming up in June, and I really want to do something to celebrate Peace Corps’ 50th anniversary and the contribution of volunteers in the southern region, but I haven’t busted far enough out of the bubble of laziness to actually plan something yet.

I still love my job at CEL, even more so now than when I first began. Not because of the teaching itself – my actual skills aren’t that much better nor do I particularly like teaching anymore than I ever did – but I’m getting really attached to my students, and I can tell that they both like and trust me a lot more now. It also helps that I’ve finally swallowed my chill pill. I no longer have to be serious and strict for fear of an uprising, I’ve accepted that it’s completely culturally appropriate for students to be 10-15 minutes late to class, and I no longer take it personally if 75% of the students don’t show up one day because they’re running late on a deadline for another class’s assignment. It’s absolutely incredible how different all three of my classes are. One class has all the personality – they’re immensely entertaining to teach, but are a complete mixed bag as far as English skills and motivation are concerned. One class is pretty darn boring and, frankly, uninspiring to teach, but they’re very studious and, for the most part, motivated. The last class is absolutely brilliant – what I can only assume is any teacher’s dream class. They participate in discussions, ask a crap ton of questions, are great with critical thinking and formulation of opinions (skills that aren’t often exercised in the Malagasy educational system), and can spend an entire class period debating about an environmental topic. Despite the differences, all of my students are incredibly mature. Most of them are pretty close to my age, and I’ve gone out drinking and clubbing with a good portion of them, but they are never disrespectful or inappropriate with me in or out of class.

Life outside work has been a ton of fun lately. Spring break was a hoot. Israel was in Tana most of the time because of an illness, but Paul came into town to cover Israel’s community classes, so we got to kick it vazaha (white people) style. Both of us hate cooking, so we ate out a lot; we went to the beach, explored new areas of town, watched a surf competition, and drank a lot of beer. Outside of spring break, I’ve been going out and just chilling with my Malagasy friends a lot more, which may be why I’ve been enormously more sane than when I was traveling in packs of Americans with the study abroad students. Not that I don’t love hanging out with the vazaha community here, but I find it to me much more mentally calming the more time I apportion to my Malagasy homies.

Our main goal as Peace Corps volunteers is to “integrate” into our communities, so we tend to complain a lot about being treated differently because of our skin color, nationality, affiliations, whatever. I recently come to realize, though, that it’s just not possible for a foreigner to completely integrate into a community. We should really embrace our unique position in society right now because there’s nothing we can do to change it, and, truth is, 99% of us will NEVER be this popular again for the rest of our lives. Seriously, people in my community stare at me wherever I go, even if they’ve seen me walk down that street 100 times. Random people walk with me on the street and strike up conversations just to be seen with me or to find out who I am. Groups of women shooting the breeze outside their houses call me over to hear me speak Malagasy and ask if I’d be interested in marrying their sons. People call out my name and wave to me everywhere I go just to show other people that they know me. People I barely know invite me to their houses, give me gifts, or tell me that I’m part of the family. In no way am I implying that everyone’s motivations are completely innocent or genuine; my point is that I’m sort of regarded as an approachable celebrity. Never again will I attain this level of positive fame in a town of 60,000 people. Never again will it be so easy for me to make friends.

Never again will I have this feeling of power. My status as a PCV, American, vazaha, call it what you will, also comes with a certain amount of power that I’m not accustomed to. For example, I could walk right into the mayor’s or the regional director’s office and ask to speak to them about a project I’m developing. Nobody would question it, nobody would tell me no. For better or worse, most people in this country believe that foreigners have the power to get things done (money = power seems to be a universal concept). It’s a complicated issue, but all I can do is embrace it and use my powers for good because, again, there’s absolutely nothing I can do to change it.

So cultural commentary aside, everyday life is going well. December through April was incredibly hot and rainy, though usually not muggy, which is a huge advantage to this town’s location. The weather’s starting to cool down and dry out now; a few days this past week have actually been downright cold. When it’s sunny and I’m not too busy, I chill out on the beach by my house with the family I’ve decided to adopt. My mother, father, and six little brothers and sisters live in a one-room house (about the size of the average American bathroom) on the path from my house down to the beach. I think the dad grows a couple crops on their little plot of land, and the mom takes care of the housework and sometimes makes necklaces out of shells and seeds to sell to tourists. Most of the kids are in primary school, but they sell necklaces, shells, and other knickknacks to tourists on the weekends. I sometimes go swimming with them or take them on walks around town. I also like to buy them roasted peanuts from another friend on the beach because they have a horrible protein deficiency. It kills me sometimes that I can’t give them money (that kind of reputation spreads faster than syphilis in this town, and I’ve worked really hard to get to the point where everyone I know accepts the fact that I’m here to stay and I’m not giving free handouts). Once, the mom got a huge cut on her foot. I’m pretty sure she got cellulitis from it because her foot later puffed up like a balloon, and she couldn’t walk. Luckily, the mom happened to meet German friend of mine, who gave away a lot of her money for health and educational purposes, so my friend helped her with the money she needed for the antibiotic shots.

For the most part – and maybe this has a lot to do with the fact that I live in a modern-ish town as opposed to a small village – I can’t say that living in a developing nation has been a “life-changing” experience. However, one random noteworthy mental transformation I’ve undergone: I’m no longer painfully sensitized to the killing of animals. That’s right. This one-time vegan who used to cry out in empathetic agony when someone squashed a bug in front of me, is now a cold-blooded killer of all things creeping and crawling, shuffling and sauntering.
No. That’s a lie. BUT I have no issue with killing the endless flood of ants that washes into my kitchen every time a scrap of food is left on the counter. I’ve gone on middle-of-the-night cockroach squashing sprees because I’ve reached my breaking point when I feel them crawl by my face while I’m sleeping. I’ve chased mice into the waiting jaws of the cat that hangs out in my house. I’ve learned how to catch, prepare, and fry grasshoppers as a snack or source of protein (they just taste like chips…though I’ve heard that they taste more “buggy” if you roast them instead). I’ve prepared live crabs and lobsters straight from the reefs around my house. I’ve watched the slaughter of chickens, sheep, goats, and zebu with rapt fascination (it’s a lot less traumatic than you’d think), followed by the dismemberment and preparation, and then consumed the meat. I know it sounds hippie-cliché, but you gain a lot more respect for and understanding of your food when you actually see where it comes from – that goes for plants or animals.

So that’s life right now. We just got two new Small Enterprise Development (SED) PCVs in the southern region, so perhaps there will be some wild-n-crazy adventures with them in the future. Still loving life and not in the least bit homesick – nonetheless, I could not be more pumped for my trip stateside in July/August. I’ve already got a gigantic list of things I want to do, foods I want to eat, and stuff I want to bring back with me. If anybody wants anything from Madagascar, let me know so I can start searching it out for you!