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.