luck.

This is another one I wrote in my journal the other day at site.

I sit in the usual place on my stoop, at the usual sunset time, enjoying a little tin cup of wine and taking inventory on all the good things that have come to pass. I think it is entirely possible that I really am on the verge of being tamana [well-settled] versus just saying I am.

I realized this last night when talking with Tahiry, who came to visit me over the weekend from Diego. He is a surprisingly good friend, despite cultural and language barriers, and I take pleasure in his company, his unintentionally-amusing idiosyncrasies, the way he is passionate about learning a foreign language and curious about unknown customs and culture in much the same way I am.

We were sitting on this same stoop, under the full moonlight, drinking well-deserved cold beers after a hard day of fishing, when I sighed and said, "You know, I think I really lucked out being here." To even be able to express myself in this way to someone is a relief; how exhausting it is to use the same worn buttons of language week after week. Like a good friend should, he smiled and asked me why I felt this way.

Why do I feel so lucky? Let me count the ways... for one thing, the location is beautiful. I have been fortunate enough to live in many lovely places over the years and so perhaps I have become slightly immune to how gorgeous this place is. I live in a perfect-sized hut-for-one, living simply, with little waste or environmental impact, very much an ideal lifestyle for me. My house is surrounded by a fence and sits next to an empty field (albeit frequently occupied by cows, ducks, chickens, noisy children, wild dogs and stray cats)... nonetheless, I have seen other volunteers' houses, smack-dab in the center of their towns, living within a relentless fishbowl. No privacy. I do sort of have friends, though they are still relationships in the making, who come by to visit and bring food, companionship, always willing to answer my questions as difficult as they may be to understand in my broken Malagasy.

I am experiencing an unprecedented level of freedom, which is interesting considering I'm 31 years old. However, along with this comes the standard everyday doldrums and worry about how to create a sense of purpose and contribution. I get to swim in the ocean as often as I like. I fish with my community members, support their livelihoods and eat what I catch. I live in close proximity to a wonderfully laidback and culturally-diverse city. My work projects can be those that I create myself versus being forced into a specific role with a partner organization. Being the third volunteer in Ambolobozokely, I don't have to do as much as other volunteers in the way of explaining why I'm here or what I'm trying to accomplish, though I do have to deal with a constant state of comparison, from looks to likes & dislikes to mannerisms. The weather is perfect right now; I only realized this was a stroke of luck after hearing other volunteers bitterly complaining about the weather at their sites in the highlands: cold, rainy, muddy; endless rain, endless muck.

And so my sense of luck seems to grow exponentially, as is always the case when the mind dwells on all there is to be grateful for: incredible girlfriends back home who support and inspire me across the miles; sweet emails, letters and care packages from loved ones; to all the events (including the tumult and the strife) that led me down this path; for the ways I was nurtured by ALL the parents and grandparents, in their own unique and at times opposing styles; for the jobs and experiences in all the states and countries; to the people whose path I crossed only briefly along the way; all the heartbreaks and tears and reckless leaps of faith; all these and more have led me to sit on this crooked concrete stoop at sunset in Madagascar, writing in my journal. Somehow.

But how could I express any of this to my Malagasy friend, who was gazing out at the full moon behind the swaying palms in my yard?

I simply took a swig of beer and smiled saying, "I'm just lucky, that's all."

malagasy words, part two.

now that i am finally starting to be able to speak malagasy (coming up on 5 months here), i realize more and more each day what an amazing language it is. being a bit of a "verbivore" myself, i love to pour over my trusty malagasy-english dictionary daily, making connections with words i hear and how they are defined. i have found that the malagasy language is fascinating, and at times words i stumble across have a poetic or onomatopoeic quality, so i wanted to share some of my findings.

here are a few basics for all of you out there who love words as much as i do.

first of all, ALL verbs in the malagasy language start with the letter M. to change the verb to past tense, you change the M to an N. to make it future tense, change it to an H.

for example:
Mianatra= to study
Nianatra= studied
Hianatra= will study

there are no malagasy irregular verbs. this makes learning the language easy (sort of) once you get some of the basic rules down. read on.

there are many prefixes that you can add to a verb to change it's meaning, while always keeping true to the original root verb.

for example, add a P to the beginning of the verb (after the M) to make it a profession or something that one does.

for example:
Mianatra= to study
becomes
MPianatra= a student

other examples:
Mavandy= to lie, therefore MPavandy= a liar.
Mandoky= to cook, therefore MPandoky= a cook.

here's the cool part. you can also at "Mamp" to the beginning of that same root verb to change it once again. "Mamp" basically causes that verb to happen.

thus:
Mianatra= to study
becomes
MAMPianatra= to teach (to cause studying to happen)
and if you add a P to the beginning:
MPAMPianatra= a teacher

pretty cool, huh?

here are some other interesting tidbits on the malagasy language.
double the word if it is only somewhat of that quality.

thus:
mafana= hot
mafananafana= warm

or
mitovy= the same
mitovytovy= sort of similar

once you know root words and verbs, you start to see how words are combined to create new words and change their meanings.

for example:
solomaso= eyeglasses
from the two root words
misolo= to change
maso= the eye

or
miasa loha= stressed
from the two root words
miasa= to work
loha= head

sometimes, as i said, there are words that are simply onomatopoeic in nature.
i remember finding this word in the dictionary when i first moved here and fell in love with the definition:

misasasasa= to make a sound of rushing water; to make a sound like falling rain or leaves rustling in the wind.

the root verb?
misasa, which means simply, to wash.

and finally, a verb that defines my life.
miala nenina= to do everything possible so that one will have no regrets later.

a note on style.

Since moving to Madagascar, I have immersed myself in books that take place in Africa or are written by Africans. Not only has this helped me learn more about the history and people of this diverse continent, but it somehow provides a sense of comfort reading about commonalities and generalities of the African experience. Recent books I've read such as "Dark Star Safari" by Paul Theroux, "July's People" by Nadine Gordimer, "Bitter Fruit" by Achmat Dangor and even "The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver offer perspective on what my own life is like here, even though these books all take place in other parts of the African continent at large.

So when I recently read a passage describing the style of dress of Congolese people in "The Poisonwood Bible," I had to dog-ear the page so I could share it here. I could not write a better paragraph about the Malagasy style that I see for myself daily. Here it is:

"Children dressed up in the ragbags of Baptist charity or else nothing at all. Color coordination is not a strong point. Grown men and women seem to think a red plaid and a pink floral print are complementary colors. The women wear a sarong made of one fabric, with another big square of a different fabric wrapped over the top of it. Never jeans or trousers- not on your life... Women are expected to wear just the one style of garment and no other. But the men, now that is a course of a different color. They dress up every different way in the world: some have long shirts made from the same flowery African cloth that is attired by the women... Others wear American-style buttoned shirts and shorts in drab, stained colors. A few of the smaller men even go gallivanting around in little undershirts decorated with childish prints, and nobody seems to notice the joke. As for the accessories... black rubber galoshes unbuckled and flapping open, or bright pink plastic thongs, or bare feet- any of these can go with any of the before-mentioned outfits. Sunglasses, plain glasses, hats, no hats, likewise. Perhaps even a knit woolen cap with a ball on top, or a woman's bright yellow beret- I have witnessed all these wonders and more. The attitude toward clothing seems to be: if you have it, why not wear it? Some men go about their daily business prepared for the unexpected tropical snowstorm, it seems, while others wear shockingly little- a pair of shorts only. When you look around, it appears that every man here was fixing to go to a different party, and then suddenly they all got plunked here together."

cost of living.

i realize that i've made several mentions of prices in my blog, but not much in the way of offering a context for what the cost of living is here. here's a small sampling of items in my little corner of madagascar; i live close to the beautiful city of diego in the north, where unfortunately things are more expensive in general because there are more tourists here. all currency is listed in malagasy ariary (AR); currently 2100AR = $1 US, approximately.

bush taxi from my site to diego: 5000AR
night's stay at a gorgeous hotel in diego: 20000AR
small speakers for my ipod: 12000AR

cup of coffee: 200AR
deep-fried banana bread (breakfast): 100AR
bunch of delicious bananas: 500AR
eggs: 400 each
cheese, no refrigeration necessary: 2300AR
cheese, refrigeration necessary: 8000AR

cup of rice: 350AR
cup of peanuts: 250AR
jar of nutella: 9000AR
olive oil: 23000AR
sunflower oil: 2000AR

lunch in my village: 1000AR
lunch in diego, tourist place: 8000-15000AR
lunch in diego, malagasy place: 1000-2000AR

a beer (only one kind in madagascar, shitty): 2000AR
glass of wine: 10000AR

fresh fish: if i catch it myself, which i do most days, free

waiting.

(Disclaimer: The following blog contains vulgar language. Since the original entry was written feverishly in my journal the other day, I've decided to keep true to every word and merely transcribe it on my blog. To those of you who wish I would not use vulgarity, such as my grandmother, I apologize in advance for any offense this entry may cause. But Gramma, if you were there, I know you'd have wanted to curse too. In any case, here it is.)

I fucking hate waiting. I always have. My impatience has been a constant source of irritation in my life and notoriously so in the lives of my loved ones. I have been known to live by the words, "if you're early, you're on time, and if you're on time, you're late," sometimes to a fault. So why oh why did I come to this stupid place?- a country that seems entirely designed for one purpose: waiting.

A common sight to see are benches and sidewalks filled with people just seemingly watching the world go by, waiting for an overcrowded bus to come, or their river-washed clothes to dry in the sun, or for the bank to open, since it doesn't seem to have regular hours and is closed sometime between 11 and 3.

A lot of times, people are just waiting. Waiting with no purpose, waiting for the sake of waiting, and this is something of an art that I am working on perfecting in my village. I've become accustomed to filling up my days with creative variations on waiting.

Before I can make my coffee, for example, I must wash the pot I cooked rice in the night before so that I can boil the water. Before I can boil the water, however, I need to walk to the pump to fetch the water in a bucket. But when I get to the pump, I must wait for the washer-women to finish washing their clothes by the pump, the only pump in town. When I finally return to my house with the water, I scrub at my pot squatting on the ground as the other women do, using sand to scrap loose the burnt-on rice. By the time I have waited for the water to filter through my Peace Corps-issued filter and have brought it to a rolling boil and have the coffee steeping in my trusty Montanan french press, I could really use a cup of coffee.

Just an example of the sometimes exhaustive waiting process one can go through for a seemingly-simple task. Never mind the more difficult tasks, such as introducing a revolutionary or unfamiliar technique to a community, such as I endeavor to do during my years to come as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

In any case, maybe I am a little less impatient than I used to be. I can stand in line at the bank now for almost two hours, as is the usual case, when I need to do something complicated like take out money. If a friend invites me to go out fishing at 7 AM, no need to rush to make breakfast, because maybe we're going at 10, or maybe not at all. I am perfectly happy either way.

But there are still moments in Madagascar when I think, "Oh. My. God. This is fucking ridiculous." Sigh.

Take now, for example. Some people came to my town to view the windmills that were installed. Since they had room in their truck and were headed that way, I asked if they could give me a lift to Diego, where I need to do some business. Plus, I could save myself 5000 Ariary and sit on a cushioned seat, such a luxury. Little did I realize that everyoone but the driver had been drinking beers all day with no intention of stopping anytime in the near future. No sooner had we all crammed into the vehicle, me squeezed between two guys asking totally inappropriate questions about whether or not I watched "film porno," apparently the only two words in the entire English language that they knew, than we made a turn up the wrong dirt road to visit another village. Why? They sell "trembo," a homemade palm wine and fresh crab, of course, brought in from the sea every afternoon.

But do they have crab here today? "Not yet," always the reply in Madagascar, so as not to disappoint, "not yet." But it's coming, they're bringing in crab soon, they say, anytime between now and half past never.

I am waiting in the car with a bum toe and a bag full of dirty clothes; they are drinking trembo and you guessed it, waiting.

my double life.

it seems to become increasingly more apparent, the two lives i lead here in madagascar. and being in the beginning stages of my peace corps experience, i am at times completely disatisfied and enamored with each, for very different reasons.

when i am in my "city life," and long to describe my "village life" in words here in this forum, i am suddenly struck with not only an inability to accurately capture either, but evenmoreso by the feeling that any attempt at description is futile, pointless.

likewise, when i return to my village, and settle into the daily routine with an increasingly-familiar cast of characters, i feel so far-removed from that other-self, those concerns of the world which came to me instantaneously through email, internet, facebook, news.

it has become almost comical: i flip through my journal for inspiration while at this computer, wanting to partake in the opportunity to share with the rest of the world but instead i read my scribbed words, usually written in my hut at nightfall, as unfamiliar to me as though written by a hand other than my own.

nonetheless, even this experience of leading two lives is neither foreign nor alarming to me. i have spent too many years working in wilderness jobs to be truly surprised by these feelings. i remember late-night drives back from 8-day wilderness shifts in utah; the vast, empty landscapes of grand canyon country, driving that long road toward my home in flagstaff arizona, suspended between the reality of my life in the wilderness and my life at home. there was always the adjustment period of a day or two on either end, coming & going between the two worlds, always missing one, always glad to be away from the other.

and so, it is a bit like that here. when i am in the city, there are many creature comforts which i've become more or less accustomed to living without over the last eight years of outdoor jobs: internet, refrigeration, television, toilets, chocolate croissants.

but then there are the things i miss at my site, which in many senses, has been and will increasingly become my "real life:" my little hut-home, the kindness of friends-in-the-making, the sea, the stars... namely, life in a rural fishing village in madagascar.

what is still shocking though is how difficult it can sometimes be to live here. and to commit to staying in a place for more than one year is not something i've done much in my adult life, and definitely not in a place that can be as indescribably challenging as it is beautiful. there are many internal struggles daily. this is a common peace corps experience: to question why you're here, what you're doing, how you will ever go about accomplishing anything- such an american perspective anyway- and i try to remind myself of this during the hard times.

and a note on "the american perspective." living here reminds me just how goal-oriented, task-driven and work-defined we are in america. when we first meet a stranger, we ask, "so what do you do for work?" malagasys describe themselves in the context of their family relations. i am the mother of... my father is... i have two sons and two daughters...

still, i obviously can't avoid approaching peace corps without being american, and as such, being task-oriented. and this is in and of itself my singlemost challenge currently at site these days: what can i DO? the fact that i don't really have a job or a clearly-defined role in my village can be tiresome and disheartening. nonetheless, the people there don't really seem to mind that i'm not really doing anything specifically (yet). they are just happy when i sit down and join them in a leisurely conversation, or eat a meal with them.

and thus, the ultimate curse of the american; we spend our lives wishing we could just "have more time." time to read books, plant a garden, cook, write, whatever indulgence we can't seem to afford ourselves, that can't seem to squeeze in between our precious work-lives. then, in the case of the peace corps volunteer, there is finally that time and the guilt of actually doing those things sets in! the indulgence of having a stack of books and knowing there will finally be the time to read them.

still, i came here to do something and i'm on the road to find out. lucky for me, madagascar is full of both beauty and opportunity, struggle and joy, city and village.

poetry.

i felt inspired to write these poems the other day at site, after reading nine horses, a collection of poetry by billy collins.

_____________________________________________

i have come back to this blank page,
black leather creased and coming undone,
rain splattering against
the leaf-roof and stick walls

almost as earnestly
seeking its way
as i do here with my pen poised,
scribbling.
_____________________________________________

permission.

what is interesting
is what happens
when you are given permission

to be anything
or anyone you want
in a country where there is no verb,
"to be."

the stumbling-over-oneself
becomes a weekly,
daily,
and sometimes, hourly event

in which nothing seems certain
except that you are
uncertain
of everything:

what the women are carrying
on their heads in those
brightly-colored bundles
hips swaying along the sandy path,
brown skin glowing like a melted chocolate bar.

or why the men sing,
crouched around the framework of a seaside shack,
eating cassava root,
barefoot always.

the roosters begin at 4AM
the cows at 5
and my neighbors music at 6
(i know because i pray to the god of silence daily)

and it is then, in those early hours
i seek to understand
what it is that i am meant to do
but more importantly

why i have been given permission
to be here.
unable to ask,
unable to know.

_______________________________________

still.
there are strange pockets of perfect moments
like these,
when i sit in my wooden chair
rocking crookedly
and the wind blows coarsely through the palms
and the day is coming to its twisted end
when i gaze softly upon
the black & white cat on the stoop,
and the small boy sleeping in the chair,
and think, this is perfection,
perhaps.
perhaps this is my life.