the culture of karibo.

One of the many things I love about the Malagasy culture (and which I hope to bring back with me) is the word karibo- but more importantly, the intention behind it.

Karibo (pronounced kah-REE-boo) is actually a Swahili word but has become part of the dialect of northern Madagascar, known as Sakalava, as have many other words and cultural aspects from east Africa. In fact, about 10% of all Malagasy words are Swahili in origin, the other 90% most closely related to the languages of Borneo, Indonesia and the Philippines.

Since there are only about 7,000 words in the entire Malagasy language (English has more than 12,000 commonly used), many words here have multiple meanings depending on the connotation. Karibo is certainly an example of one of these words.

In Madagascar, when someone approaches a person's house, they call out "Ody!" as a way of letting people know they're there. Always- no matter what you're in the middle of or what time of day it is (yes, I've been woken pre-dawn by someone ody'ing), whether you're sleeping, cleaning, napping, or cooking- your immediate response should be, "Karibo!" It translates to "welcome" in this circumstance. And you really, truly mean it.

This is funny in contrast to the American culture, in which people often hang signs on their door to keep people away (No Solicitors Allowed!) or often just don't answer the door altogether. People in my village swing by my house daily to sell things- and I always give a karibo upon their arrival, even if I have no interest in what they're selling. I usually want what they have anyway: ripe bananas, mangoes, litchis, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, leafy greens. Wouldn't it be amazing if these were sold door-to-door in America instead of vacuums or Tupperware?! In any case, if I'm not interested in buying, a simple "not ready to buy yet" sends people on their way down the path. But to not first give a karibo would be considered extremely rude.

Another way in which karibo is used is during meal times. You must always use karibo to invite people to eat with you- no matter what. This is a cardinal rule in the Malagasy culture and one which used to cause me extreme anxiety when I first moved to my village. Since I live alone, I almost always cook for one. How could I possibly say karibo if I only have enough food for myself?

Often I would remedy my uncertainty by eating  (i.e. hiding) inside my house at every meal. Eventually I couldn't stand it anymore and started eating on my mat outside like everyone else. This took about five months. But still the karibo haunted me. If I say karibo, will every person walking by my front yard yard as I eat want to sit down and help themselves to my single bowl of rice or pasta? What if I don't feel like sharing? Nowadays reflecting on this kind of anxious naivete almost makes me laugh.

Karibo simply means "please join me," as a kind, friendly gesture. When I finally started saying karibo to those passing by during meal times, people were so happy I was starting to learn Malagasy culture and would respond with a cheerful "Mazotoa!" (enjoy). They never ate all my food as I feared, though occasionally some do saunter over to wonder upon my bizarre (non-Malagasy) cooking.

Next time you're making a meal at home, I want you to pick up all your plates and serving bowls, put a mat down in the front yard and cheerfully invite every passer-by to join you for a meal. This may be difficult for those in cold climates, but it offers an excellent opportunity for cultural reflection: how nice would it be if the next time you were hungry and had no food (or didn't feel like cooking) you knew you could simply walk past any neighbor's house and be offered a delicious, nutritious meal, no questions asked? The best translation for karibo may just be: Take off your shoes, grab a spoon and dig in.

It's amazing Americans don't embrace more of a culture of karibo considering the surplus of food we have in our country. This isn't to say there aren't very generous and welcoming Americans out there. It's just that considering how little people have in Madagascar, the karibo is something that offers me constant hope & inspiration.

Just yesterday, I sat at my friend's house after a simple meal of rice and vegetables. A woman and her young son came up selling a heavy load of bananas, having traveled quite far and obviously fatigued. "Karibo!" said my friend straight away, and the mother and son gratefully (and voraciously) ate what little was there of remaining rice and bits left in the pot.

The Malagasy never hesitate to share what they have, and are always happy to converse over a plate of rice. I hope I can bring back this mentality in my own life upon return... so don't be surprised if you show up at my home to visit and are met with a huge hug, a big smile and genuine exclamation of karibo!

ode to a mango.

svelte on the outside,
with sleek green/yellow skin;
you look calm, relaxed.

"let the world ease on by," you seem to coo from your lofty perch.

but upon peeling you back,
your insides explode in a sudden burst of color & sunlight.

you taste as good as you look.

rainy season, year two.

So now my life is split into two equal parts:

When it’s raining and when it’s not.

When it’s raining,

There is sound above all:

through ten thousand coconut tree branches,

falling onto and -most emphatically- through the leaf-roof over my head,

forming puddles and mud pools and temporary culverts

where they should & should not be,

splattering each ripening mango as they grow fat and impossibly succulent.

When it’s raining,

I do not worry about fetching water

for bathing, for drinking, for washing dishes and pots.

Let it fall, I have nowhere to be.

When it’s not raining,

there are other forces to contend with,

and they often meld into one entity:

heat & boredom. They are the same thing.

There is a certain sound that boredom has here.

Even the birds cannot raise their voices against it.

It is the sound of the absence of sound in a place where

there is always something to hear-

a mournful wailing of a cow,

the ever-boisterous crowing of a rooster,

a crying child,

the pounding of rice against wooden mortar & pestle,

the buzzing of insects that never rest.

When it’s not raining,

and the heatboredom presses down

even those sounds come to rest in the shade.

rainy season brings flowers

click here for last year's blog about the turning of seasons

thanksgiving morning.

It's already a thousand degrees outside, the cows are mooing, the roosters are crowing and it's time to head to the sweltering market... not for turkey but for chicken! Turkeys (called kolokoloko in Madagascar) are a bit of a commodity and very expensive. Plus, they'll slaughter, pluck and gut an entire chicken of your choosing right in front of you at the market for a mere $4.00. This Thanksgiving, a group of fellow PCVs will be forgoing the standard Malagasy fare of rice and beans and spending the day cooking up all of our favorite American holiday treats.

We'll have roasted chicken with rosemary and garlic, cheesy mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, vegetable bake, shepard's pie, mango chutney (cranberries do not exist but mangoes are falling off trees by the bucketload!), mango crisp, lemon meringue pie and chocolate mousse pie. This may seem like a standard Thanksgiving menu, but for those of us who have been living in Madagascar for nearly two years, it's a culinary dream come true!

This holiday I am especially reminded of all there is to be thankful for. The perspective of being far from friends and family gives me pause to consider how lucky I have been in my life. While I wish I could be with all those I miss dearly this holiday, and certainly am longing for crisp leaves, cool air and the promise of snow, I remain grateful for a great group of friends with whom I can share this day- and this food.

birthday blues.

Looking over the last few blogs, you might think I've been having a miserable time lately. Unfortunately this blog is not the best news either. After a wonderful birthday celebration extravaganza, complete with pool party, cheesy pasta, bread rolls & butter, wine, chocolate cake, gifts, friends, music and a dance party with foamy bubbles shooting down from the ceiling, it happened again... another mugging!

New phone:
261 32 509 6777

Even though many a foamy dance photo was lost forever, I feel grateful that the incident was non-violent. It may seem from my blogs of late that my life here is filled with grotesque intestinal issues and that I'm surrounded by thieving derelicts, but I assure you, I am very happy and fulfilled and enjoying the start of mango season in the peaceful place that is my village home.

breaking & entering.

While I was away from my site with Dysentery a couple weeks ago, someone broke into my house. As you can see, the hut I call home isn't exactly a fortress... the thief was able to easily tear down the leaf wall (which faces an empty field) and hop inside.

They stole money, clothes, books (in English, which they can't read), knives, harmonicas, sandals, a bracelet and a couple postcards of sentimental value. Initially, when I walked in and saw that my home had been broken into, I felt quite sad and discouraged. Especially after just coming back from a week of being very sick with an intestinal issue. After making a quick assessment of what was missing, I walked up the sandy hill to a place where there's cell reception and called the Peace Corps Safety & Security officer in Antananarivo. I was impressed with his professionalism and concern for my physical and emotional well-being. He made all the necessary phone calls and by the following morning, the regional director was at my doorstep with two armed police officers and the district mayor.

Though their "investigation" was tediously pointless at best, I appreciate the effect their presence had in my village: my house was repaired immediately and the teenage boy that stole my stuff ran away from home. Even the gaping holes that have been in my leaf roof  for six months have been patched... just in time for the rainy season. Though the police may not have actually accomplished that much during their eight hours in my village, other than asking me if I wanted a husband and enjoying a free lunch & beers (they insisted I buy), it was yet another interesting cultural experience. At least, that type of perspective is what keeps me keepin' on, through all the trials and tribulations that make up my life here in Madagascar.

dysentery.

It was about time I got sick. I have had nearly perfect intestinal (and otherwise) health throughout the entire 17 months I've lived in Madagascar. Which, for a Peace Corps Volunteer, is pretty much a miracle. Just a few weeks ago as some other PCVs were complaining about their host of medical disorders, from Giardia to Typhoid, I was boasting about my perfect health. Guess I forgot to knock on wood: Dysentery.

According to Wikipedia, Dysentery is defined as an inflammatory disorder, especially affecting the colon, that results in severe diarrhea containing mucus and/or blood in the feces with fever and abdominal pain. Dysentery results from viral, bacterial, protozoan or parasitic infestations, which typically reach the large intestine through ingestion of contaminated food or water, etc.

According to me, Dysentery is simply two long weeks of the above symptoms, with a whole lot of waiting to see what's going to happen, spending way too much time on the internet and wanting to go back to the peace and quiet of my village life. Right now I'm on two types of antibiotics and hoping to be on the mend soon.

I thank the universe for putting my bombastic ego back in place.

work. (or, the blog I never thought I'd write.)

Work here as a Peace Corps Volunteer is feast or famine: I either feel so busy and fulfilled by an ongoing project that I don't know where the week's gone or I feel I've done literally every possible thing I can think of to do in a day... and it's only 8:30 in the morning.

Though I do spend an exorbitant amount of time in my village in the latter state, the past month has been filled with interesting projects and activities. Here's a brief synopsis.

At the end of July, a team of researchers from a UK-based marine conservation organization visited Ambolobozokely for five days to conduct surveys and map the outlying coastal areas. Many small islands just outside of my village are home to several different species of sea turtle. I went with a team of these researchers to map the islands and act as translator. After only a half hour's boat ride across the bay, we landed on the first island, which lies on the northeastern edge of Madagascar.







Cerulean blue waves crash endlessly against its eastern shore carrying massive turtles munching on sea grasses and riding the waves. The beaches are important nesting habitats; the turtles return to the same beaches every year to nest. Juveniles have a very low survival rate, thus very few hatchlings will make it to adulthood. Those that do have to run the gauntlet of various threats; many sea turtles are caught in numerous fishing nets which are plied around the coastline of Madagascar.

We saw several Hawksbill turtles in just the short time we were there, including, unfortunately, dozens of Green sea turtle carcasses strewn along the white sands. Though the turtles are supposedly protected by Malagasy law, these precious creatures still wind up being slaughtered and eaten or sold at nearby markets. It is extremely difficult to manage environmental issues on any scale in this country, due to a lack of funding, infrastructure and manpower to actually monitor activity. In any case, it was interesting to work with this particular conservation group and see my village through new eyes.

The second, much larger project I took on recently was a collaborative effort with another PCV, Kelly Wilson, who lives only 27 kilometres away from me. Since she is my closest (white) neighbor, we decided it would be a good idea to host an AIDS awareness bike tour in our two villages. And because it is Peace Corps 50th anniversary this year, we thought we'd also take the opportunity to educate people about the great work that's been done by PCVs all over the world since 1961.

The short tour began on August 4th with two days in Kelly's village. A group of eleven volunteers and three Malagasy work counterparts from around Madagascar converged upon the village, performing educational skits, dancing (in dust), singing songs, giving speeches, providing condom demonstrations and watching a film on the dangers of promiscuity- all in Malagasy, of course.

Somewhat unluckily for all of us PCVs, the village was also hosting a massive party that weekend as part of an exhumation ceremony (long story- will explain some other time). What this meant for us is that a band was booming until 6AM literally right outside of Kelly's doorstep and none of us slept a wink. For two nights.

No mind- we persevered through, got our bikes packed up with all our gear and made our way to my village on August 6th. Traveling to Ambolobozokely is always an adventure- the road is pretty long and mostly sand- but at least it was downhill the whole way to the sea. Believe me, it's no fun going the other way. After a few bike breakdowns and a flash rainstorm, we arrived and ate a delicious lunch of fresh fried fish, coconut beans and of course, rice. We repeated the same spectacular events that we'd done the previous day, with a great turn out and lots of villager participation- even in the condom demonstrations! (Don't worry, wooden dildos were used, not live models.) And it wouldn't be a Malagasy event if there wasn't a dance party at the end that went til dawn, and that is one thing Ambolobozokely is very, very good at.

Just a week later, I hosted a brief visit to my village by none other than Peace Corps Country Director, John Reddy. He and his lovely wife Portia took a tour of town and enjoyed an ice cold Coke from the refrigerator powered by local windmills. The next night I joined them in Diego for a wonderful pizza dinner with all the Diego region PCVs. It was fascinating to talk about all the changes they've seen in Peace Corps since"way back in the day," when they served in Lesotho in the 1960's. John is a great Country Director and a strong advocate for PCVs throughout our experience. Too bad we couldn't convince him to join us on the dance floor later that night.

All in all, it's been an action-packed month or so. Now I'm sick with a case of dysentery, and that is keeping me running as well, but in a whole different way.

breastfeeding.

Dedicated to two of my dear girlfriends, Jenna and Evelyn, who are embarking upon motherhood for the first time.

Being a woman, I was quite surprised to discover how uncomfortable I've sometimes felt watching other women breastfeed in this country. Not a day, nor practically an hour, has gone by in my village or travels around Madagascar where I haven't seen a baby hanging off their mother's breast. Never mind being squirted by breast milk (twice) on taxi brousse rides. With all this exposure, I've had plenty of opportunities to consider my own reactions and wonder upon why in the Western world we have such an aversion to this most natural act. For a culture that so shuns breastfeeding we surely covet the breast.

Since I've never been a mother, I was initially quite shocked at how often babies need to be fed! Here the women do not hesitate to pop out a boob every time their babies cry, no matter where they are, who they're with, what they're doing or who's watching. No one averts their eyes, covers themselves in shame or embarrassment, no one has to go to a private room as if to perform some sacred act. I've never once seen a bottle or a pacifier (or for that matter, a child sucking its thumb). If you hear a baby cry, you better believe in just a minute you're about to see a boob.

At first this used to kinda freak me out (and sometimes still does). Where should I look? Should I leave? Does she mind if I watch? But like countless other times throughout my Peace Corps experience, I've learned to simply follow by example and observe my own thoughts and feelings about it as I go.

For example, I recently attended a meeting in my village which was being conducted at the home of the president of a fishing association. In attendance were two researchers from a marine conservation organization, as well as the president and his wife, who were listening on with great interest. At one point during the meeting, their baby started to cry and the mother pulled out her breast to quiet and soothe her. I could tell one of the researchers felt uncomfortable and later on we spoke about it. Sure, it's a natural act, but does it really need to be done in the middle of a meeting?

Well, why not? I try to imagine what it would be like to hide myself every single time my baby needed to be fed. I remember some time ago my girlfriend Eleanor joining a Facebook group that was called, "If you're so against breastfeeding, you put a blanket over YOUR head!"

In a lot of ways, I think mothering is easier here than it is in the Western world. Every one is taking care of each other's kids here. My neighbor's toddler precariously teeters around the paths near our houses; other kids and mothers and fathers all keep an eye out, playing with him, teaching him to walk, giving him bits of rice or fruit and sharing their toys. If his mother needs to get up and move about- to collect firewood, sift rice, fetch water- the child does not need to be confined to a pen or placed in a daycare for the afternoon. The village is there to offer support.

I think of all the special gear it takes for my girlfriends with babies back home to cart around just to leave the house: bags stuffed with diapers, toys, bottles, formula, pacifiers, blankets, breast pumps, carriages, baby backpacks... I probably don't even know the half of it. Here a woman has a few things for her baby when they set out together: a colorful lamba (cloth) for securing her baby on her back, a small extra cloth that serves as a diaper and of course, her breasts, all a little one needs in the world... besides a village to watch over her.

excerpts from my journal.

I have been so bad at blogging lately. The excitement of living in a foreign culture has given way to a blur of days filled with endless bowls of rice and occasional feelings of ennui. Even in my village, I hardly write anymore, which is quite an anomaly for me. However, as I flip through the pages of my journal, I have found a few excerpts that I think can serve as brief snapshots into some of my recent experiences.

July 12th- [with the onslaught of windy season has come 24/7 electricity]
Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about all this: the waking to noise (aka Malagasy music) at 5:30AM, the kids out of school and hanging around my house (and looking in my windows) for something to do, feeling trapped in my house because there's nothing to do & nothing to do & nothing to do- wishing for quiety to study or read or sleep but the constant cacophony goes on & on; the wind forever blowing.

July 17th- about 6AM
Woke around 3:45 fully rested and wide awake, waiting for the light of day and the roosters to commence their morning alarm. Last night upon returning from Clare's house [a dear friend with whom I share most meals] I ground my teeth in frustration as the same chorus of some discordant Merina church ballad blasted from the house next door. I thought I'd try a new approach to my usual exasperated shouts of "shut up!" from my bed... so I simply went over and said "Azafady fa mety ataova musique moramora? Zaho matorobe fa tsy zatra mandry lera misy musique tabataba." [Sorry but can you play the music softly? I'm really sleepy and still not used to sleeping when the music is loud.] Done. Music off (wasn't expecting off completely)! The new woman that lives in the house next door now is nice- that sweet, ignorant nice that is born out of little education and too many babies at a young age- not sure where the usual cackling crew of women have gone off to.

July 20th
I helped Clare move out of her house this weekend- but this looks very different than the moving I am so well-accustomed to... forget the image of moving trucks, squeezing belongings into every nook and cranny of a station wagon or borrowing a friend's pickup, piles of cardboard boxes, endless hours spent sorting & labeling junk, ordering in Chinese or pizza and packing until the wee hours of morning.
No, I did most of the moving by carrying dozens of bundles of her wordly possessions wrapped in cloth on my head; she is 8 months pregnant and her daughter is 10. Her husband was out at sea fishing during the couple days it took for them to move. You better believe my neck is sore; they spend their whole lives hauling water & heavy guny sacks of rice and laundry and everything imaginable on their heads (sometimes for miles) while I, on the other hand, can hardly walk ten steps without having to readjust even an easy load up there.
Clare moving out has so many implications... I will sorely miss having such a kind friend living right next door, washing dishes and gutting fish and sorting rice right in my front yard every day. Even though she's just moving on the outskirts of the village, it feels so lonely reverting back to the days of eating by myself at my house. I've become so accustomed to eating rice three meals a day on a mat together with her in our yard. Even though it's a beautiful walk through mango groves to her new home on the edge of grassy field lined with coconut trees, the peace I feel there is tinged with a newfound sadness- so much seems to stay the same day after day, year after year, but soon I too will be moving. But this time, I won't be able to carry my things in a small bundle on my head and walk along a sandy path; soon I will be flying across many oceans. Is it soon or not soon enough? Nine months remaining...

going rogue.

My friend Katie Browne wrote a recent blog that I very much want to share with all of you because it is funny as hell and perfectly illustrates my life. Here are the top ten reasons we're going rogue. Mazotoa (enjoy)!

Dedicated, with sincerity, to the special people of the world who airlift cheez-its despite the recurring fear that their daughter has truly, irrevocably gone rogue.

1. You have come to the belief that the color “dingy brown” actually compliments your skin tone quite nicely.

2. Eating rice with a fork is not just a challenge, it is a physical impossibility.

3. You take great pride in your clean-swept dirt porch. Hours a day are spent tending to it. Shamelessly, you gossip about the shabbiness of your neighbor’s dirt porch.

4. In your town, you have acquired a theme song, “Arovy, arovy, arovy ny tontolo ianatsika,” (Protect our environment!). You hear it wherever you go; it is played for you at parties. While feigning the necessary indifference, you are secretly quite pleased and walk around with the inflated tree-hugger ego of Captain Planet.

5. Often, you simply cannot tell if you are hungry or if you are ill.

6. You do not panic when your friend tells you, “I think I have chikungunia.” Again, you refrain from panic when she reports, “I have something worse.” But when she says, “I may have to go home,” YOU SERIOUSLY FREAKING PANIC.

7. You have entire conversations without uttering a single fully-formed syllable.

8. Endlessly, you and your American friends play games such as “What would you eat at this exact moment in time?” “City names with only the vowel ‘A,’” “Closest guess to today’s date wins a cookie,” and “If your name was a verb what would it mean?” None of these, however, compare to the most enduringly popular “Things I do not care about.”

9. The Peace Corps doctor kindly inquires, “Do you read a lot?” and recommends you use proper lighting as you are “straining your eyeballs.” He forgets, or neglects, to ask about you romantic life. It is only hours later that you think to be offended by this insult of omission.

10. You have lost all human empathy; you read about prison and think to yourself- applesauce and air conditioning- that sounds nice!

happy independence day.

My friend Bri standing proud next to a statue of Madagascar painted with the Malagasy flag.

June 26th marked Madagascar's 51st year of independence. I spent the holiday weekend dancing and partying with my villagers. How do you know it's a big holiday in a rural village in Madagascar? People run around all morning long chasing chickens. For a community that eats fish (and rice of course) three times a day and lives off what they catch from the sea, eating a chicken is a pretty special deal. Everyone gets out of their dirty rags and puts on their finest attire, eats some chicken & rice and dances to accordian club jams blasting at the loudest possible decibel until the early dawn.

A pic of me and my best friend Chantaly on Madagascar's Independence day, 26th June.

sojourn.

The word "sojourn" is defined as "staying for a time in a place; to live somewhere temporarily." Over a year ago, when I was still back in the states, "sojourn" seemed the best fit for the experience I was about to embark upon and thus became the name of my blog. What an incredible process then to move from one culture to another, and finally reach a point where I actually feel like I live in Madagascar, versus just staying here temporarily. With only eleven months of my Peace Corps service left, my sojourn has become increasingly precious and fleeting.

Life over the last couple months has been beautiful. While official Peace Corps business such as meetings, trainings and conferences has kept me out of my village from time to time, it is my life back there that continues to inspire me. Not only because of the surrounding physical landscape, but because when I return from time away, it is heartwarming to be welcomed back home. Everyone wants to know where I've been, catch me up on their lives and of course ask for their voandalana ("gift of the road..." in Malagasy culture, one must bring back a small token from their travels, such as a piece of fruit or -always highly coveted- a loaf of bread). I still get the feeling that I should pinch myself: I really do call Ambolobozokely home.

In work news, my Chef Fokontany (village president) recently asked me to help the community fishing associations obtain storage refrigerators for their fish, and as such I've been writing a proposal to get funding through the Peace Corps Partnership Program (click here for more details on the program in general).

A bit of background on my project specifically: Ambolobozokely is home to around 700 people who rely solely on fishing for their livelihoods. There are currently three fishing associations in the village, with approximately 40 members each, who pool money together monthly for the purchase of motors, gasoline and upkeep of their outrigger canoes. They store their catch on ice, which must be hauled in daily from a nearby city approximately 30 miles away. However, the road becomes frequently impassable during the worst parts of the rainy season, which lasts approximately three months. Ironically, the rainy season is also the high season for fishing, sometimes bringing in over 500 kilos (approx. 1,100 pounds) per day. As such, their livelihoods suffer if they cannot get ice to the village. By purchasing storage refrigerators and installing them in the local fish processing facility, the community will no longer be at the mercy of the road's conditions for keeping their fish cold and ready to sell. More information about this project in the months to come.

The simplicity of living as my community does, eating rice & fish from right outside my doorstep, going for walks with other women to collect wild fruits and leaves for basket-weaving, spending a day out fishing on the sea, reading, writing, studying, doing yoga, dancing; these are the things that make up the majority of my village life. And as my language skills improve and their trust in me grows with each passing month, I am able to spend a lot more time with small groups of women addressing health issues: birth control, family planning, basic hygiene, nutrition, malaria, even simple wound management. Word of mouth is the way of life in village Africa, and that is something that just takes time to work at as a Peace Corps volunteer.

Still. After a few weeks of the beautiful simple life, I admit I do start to feel a bit stir crazy. So I bike 17 kilometres through the sand & mud out of my village, then catch a bush taxi on the main road and make my way into Diego, a beautiful tropical African city and surrounded by the second largest bay in the world. I am suddenly thrust back into that other self, with all its complexities and privileges: the Peace Corps volunteer... the American... the white girl who speaks Malagasy.

Living with these separate selves continues to challenge me. But I also recognize that it's crucial for PCV's to have time together to commiserate about the trials & tribulations of life in Madagascar, speak English, eat pizza and drink beer. We need to talk about the things we miss, and the things we don't. To discuss what it will be like going back, and what we'll do with ourselves. Sometimes we just need to party. To hear American pop music and read "news" from a four-month old People magazine. To know that somewhere out there, the rest of the world is still moving at its breakneck pace.

I long for all those things less & less these days. I love sitting barefoot on a woven mat beneath a massive mango tree, eating fruit that grows only on this island, speaking in a foreign language with women friends, as they weave baskets, breastfeed their babies, sort rice, pound leaves, gossip.

How to articulate the way this sojourn has become my life? That those things that were once foreign, unknown, even insurmountable have now become quite simply commonplace, definitive, mine.

rainy season.

To preface this poem, I should mention that there are two seasons in northern Madagascar: the hot, windy season and the very hot, rainy season. The last few weeks have marked the changing of seasons, with relatively cooler temperatures and a lot less rain. I welcome the end of rainy season; the roads become passable again, it's not unbearable to be out in the middle of the day, and most of all... no more leaky roof!
Here is the poem I wrote a bit ago in my village.


Because the rain completely saturated the leaf roof above my bed and caused me to curl against pre-dawn pillows

and because the roosters insist upon announcing the first light each day regardless of how hard you close your eyes against it

and because no one else in the world had woken before me
and my footprints were the first ones in the sandy path

and the low tide allowed for still-softly-falling drops to patter in their rippling pools

I was able to hear one sound this morning.

One sound building and crashing against itself:
miles away, massive blue waves creating a wall of the same sound
that is never the same.

How do we know something exists without seeing it?

front yard.

This is a panoramic view of my front yard... what I see every morning when I first wake up. On the far right is my "shower" house, then scanning left you see three chicken huts (and the mango tree where they prefer to sleep), in the background is the outhouse, and on the far left is the kitchen hut where the village chief's family cooks and eats.

This is where I live my life, where I eat all my meals sitting on woven mats, where I clean my dishes, play with children, slice vegetables, cook rice, prepare fresh fish and socialize with my fellow villagers. Yards are different in Madagascar... it is where life happens... it is an open, common space. The home is meant for sleeping and storage.

When I first moved to my village one year ago tomorrow, living my life "exposed" in the front yard was surprisingly hard for me. I was used to a certain level of private, personal space; each meal I would cook and eat alone, inside my hut. Slowly over the last year I have come to live more & more of my life in the front yard like everybody else. I moved my one chair outside. I moved my dishwashing station outside. Now I can't even eat sitting at my table (I tried the other day, it felt odd). And I rarely eat alone anymore, because the families that share my yard welcome me to eat rice with them at every meal.

I've moved into the front yard. Year one, down.

three goals and ten steps.

Goals look different to everyone. But as Peace Corps Volunteers, we have additional goals that we strive to accomplish during our two-year service:

1.) Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
2.) Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.
3.) Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

These are all fine and noble causes.

However, I came across something funny the other day as I opened up the pages of what appeared to be a long-forgotten book at the Peace Corps library in Diego. In it, I found a small scrap of paper written by a volunteer who served way back in 2006, listing her version of the three Peace Corps goals:

1.) Don't go crazy.
2.) Don't drive other people crazy.
3.) Have fun!

This seemed somehow so much more illustrative of the Peace Corps experience. Which reminds me of a small pamphlet a fellow PCV friend made recently entitled, "The Ten Step Guide to Surviving the Peace Corps," fully illustrated with cut-out cartoons from New Yorker magazines.

Here they are, for all of you considering service in the Peace Corps:
1.) Stay optimistic.
2.) Cultivate that sense of adventure.
3.) Lower entertainment standards.
4.) Love naps!
5.) Apply problem-solving skills.
6.) Forget that you once had a thing called pride.
7.) Be patient with Peace Corps bureaucracy.
8.) Remember you are doing good and noble things.
9.) Self-motivate.
10.) DON'T GIVE UP.

the chickens go to bed.

A short poem I wrote a bit ago around sunset in my village.

Chickens clucking their way to bed in the mango tree.
Lentils on the stove.
Rain falling steadily. Now intermittently.

Red wine in a rusted tin cup.
Men sewing fishing nets.
Not itching.
Not itching mosquito bites.

Neighbor girl gutting fish. Now frying fish.
Mothers calling their children home.
Me: quiet in the dusky corners of my doorstep.
Wearing blue lamba, loosely hanging over tired legs.

Chickens cluck softly.
Now fall silent and fade into leaves.

I don't want to be anywhere but here,
living my life away from
life
in my home away from home
away from home away
from home.

writer's block.

I never thought that this would happen to me, particularly while living such an interesting life in a foreign land, but lately I have felt at such a loss for what to write about on my blog. This scares me a little. Every time I've had a chance in recent months to write, I think, what could I possibly have to say? Have I really become so used to my life over here that I hardly notice that it's still really, really freaking weird? Has the interesting become mundane? The life that once seemed so bizarre and unusual has slowly, over time, become more or less "normal." And while even the most seemingly commonplace of tasks, such as shopping for vegetables at the market or traveling throughout the country may seem quite an exciting endeavor to those of you who still read my blog, I have become about as African as I've ever felt. Which is pretty dang relaxed.

So what does all this mean?

It means that it took me about one year to accept the fact (still somewhat begrudgingly) that while traveling in Madagascar I will have absolutely no idea when I will depart or arrive at a certain destination, nor by what means. While recently traveling several weeks ago around the southern highlands, I was struck by how indifferent I felt to this one singular uncontrollable factor that used to drive me insane. Sitting on the side of the road, waiting to catch a passing ride might mean being squeezed in a 15-passenger van with 38 other people (yes, it's happened), sitting in the back of an open-air pickup truck with chickens and buckets of fish, catching a lucky lift in a fancy vazaha (white person) Land Rover or sitting next to the driver of a massive 18-wheeler beer truck. Who knows? And anyway, what does it matter? You'll get there when you get there (fingers crossed).

Getting used to life here also means that I have developed a healthy Malagasy work ethic. You show up for work (such as fishing, painting, house-building, cookstove-making, what-have-you) pretty much when you feel like it. There are two times of day here when you can say you'll start working: morning (meaning between the hours of 7-10) or afternoon (sometime after 3 and before dark). Mid-day is meant for eating rice and sleeping, and evening is meant for eating rice and relaxing before sleeping. So, that limits the true "work day" to about four or five hours, if you really stretch it and take plenty of rest breaks in between. And here's the clincher: if you (or they) don't show up at all, it really, really is no big deal. I've learned to live by this here, particularly when dealing with work: "Mbola misy fotoana" (There is still time). That pretty much sums up the entire Malagasy culture, too.

Another great example of this ethic came to me while staying at a fellow PCVs village last week. I passively observed (my M.O. these days) our work schedules: we'd start building cookstoves with kids or painting a map on her village's town hall in the morning before temperatures reached the upper 90's, and then spent the rest of the day hiding out in the shade or lying on her concrete floor waiting for the heat to pass. By 4PM it was time to start working again, much to the amazement of other villagers, who couldn't believe we were so mazoto (hard working)! When we ran out of painting materials mid-week and had to wait a day for them to arrive from a nearby city, no one from her village seemed to care. In America, if you aren't cranking out work at top capacity at all times, you're pretty much a failure at life. Here, you get things done as you can, when the circumstances allow.

How else has my mid-service writer's block of African proportions manifested itself? Well, for one thing, it takes a lot to get me excited these days. I live in a perpetual state of stoicism and indifference, which is a complete product of my environment. We've all heard of how relaxed life can be in village Africa; imagine added into the mix a stereotypical island culture and voila! you've reached whole new levels of idleness.

The way to survive in Malagasy culture is to seem completely uninterested and disassociated from anything that may happen. You never look someone in the eyes (too confrontational) even if you're having the most uninteresting of conversations about the price of rice. You never show anger or irritation, and if you do, you'll just be met with a slightly amused look that says: that's nice, you weird white person. Want to talk to someone about a work project or presentation? Better be prepared to wait a day, week or month until the person's around and then hope it all pans out. If, in a public place, you hear someone speaking in a voice other than hushed, best not to look in that direction, the person is more than likely insane. Being loud or demonstrative is, above all, unacceptable in this culture. For example, some months ago I attended a concert in Diego in which one of Madagascar's most famous singers performed. You'd think everyone would have been going wild. Not the case. As my friends and I were dancing, I looked around and felt as though I were standing inside a museum: everyone was standing stock still with faces that might as well have been watching a cow chewing its cud. Talk about a tough crowd.

In any case, I don't want this to seem like I look down upon the Malagasy culture, quite the contrary. I think it's been quite good for me to take a step back from the frenetic pace of American life and look at things from another angle. So, next time you're sitting at your office or classroom and staring down at that overwhelmingly impossible to-do list, just take a second to remind yourself: Mbola misy fotoana ("BO-la miss foo-TOO-ah-na"). There is still time.

And if you have any suggestions on how to kick my butt out of writer's block, please feel free to comment!

travels in lemurland.

I recently took a trip to Anja Park, about two hours south of Fianarantsoa in the highlands of Madagascar. It was one of the most beautiful places I have been on planet Earth, and left me in awe of nature in all its diversity and splendor.

Ring-tailed Lemurs (Lemur Catta).

It has been such an incredible experience traveling through a new part of Madagascar. There are so many differences from the northern part of the island that I call home... the Betsileo people that live in this area speak a completely different dialect, their style of dress much more conservative and provincial, their facial features more Asian influenced, their livelihoods based solely on rice farming and cattle herding, the city filled with beggars in rags.

Anja Park, outside of Fianarantsoa.

The landscape is vastly different from the coastal north as well, one of enormous granite-lined valleys filled with rice paddies and two-storey mud houses. I couldn't decide at any given moment if I felt like I was traveling through Utah, Australia or Montana. In any case, this is not my Africa. This is not the little fishing village of which I have made a home away from home, with its strong African-influenced music, culture and pace of life. Here we sat listening to lemurs calling out to each other at the start of their mating season. Here we passed through thick jungle and climbed through granite caves where lemurs sleep at night. No, this is not my Africa, this is the Africa that separated from the continent millions of years ago and has become home to an incredibly diverse number of endemic species.

one year.

I have now been living in Madagascar for over a year, as of March 3rd. There is still over a year left of my Peace Corps service, set to end in May 2012.

My one year anniversary offers a bit of time for reflection. It's gone by both incredibly fast and painfully slow, depending on the day or sometimes the hour. One thing I've learned about this experience is just to hang on through the rollercoaster of ups and downs; even during the worst times here, the smallest pleasure can turn everything around.

Do I like living here now that I'm a little more used to things? Not always, but the feeling of contentment is much higher than it used to be. Do I both dread and live for the feeling of stepping off the plane into the chaos and ease that is America? Constantly, so much so that I do not know which universe I belong in anymore, here or there. Do I think I should speak the Malagasy language better, more thoroughly understand the Malagasy culture, be more accepted and less stared at? Daily. But I have to recognize the accomplishments I've made in these areas or else I will lose my mind.

What I am experiencing increasingly here as my time passes is an acceptance of what I can stand. My patience during unpredictable and frustrating situations grows exponentially. So has a unhealthy level of apathy. Or maybe it's actually more an ability to truly appreciate joy born out of the simple life.

They say year two of Peace Corps service is fun and fast, surreal and fleeting. And so the sojourn continues...

death.

The old midwife of my village died yesterday morning. It was the third death since my arrival ten months ago, the first of someone I knew. Everyone called her Mama ny Zill.

I could immediately sense something bad had happened upon awakening, just by the heavy weight of silence hanging over the morning. Usually the early hours of day, between 5 and 7, are filled with sounds: mothers calling to their children to fetch water, start the fire, cook the rice, men repairing fishing nets, women scraping burnt pots of rice with sand, scrubbing clothes in buckets or pounding cassava leaves, rice or flour by hand in massive wooden mortar & pestles.

On the morning of Mama ny Zill's death however, nary a sound could be heard- it seemed even the birds and chickens had enough sense to refrain from song. People all around the village stood in silent tableau; I felt like I was the only thing moving through a series of still-life paintings.

The loss of this particular community member came as a devastating shock to all. In her mid-50s with six children of her own, she was the only "doctor" for miles around and had helped birth countless babies over her many years as midwife. She was every woman's doctor, gynecologist, doula, pharmacist and masseuse. She trained no one.

I'm not even certain why she died- some people said she was "too hot" while others insisted she had "oil in her heart." Malagasy explanations for most things are bizarre at best.

In any case, I thought I'd offer up a list of the very specific roles people played on the the morning of her death, depending upon their age group and gender. I think the rituals and traditions surrounding the three-day Malagasy funeral are fascinating, as I've already intimated at in my previous blog, "a day at the cemetery." Here is what everyone did within two hours of receiving word that this beloved community leader had passed away in the night.

young men.
Chop down limbs and branches of nearby trees and immediately build several makeshift, leaf-roofed shelters for people to sit under, wrestle a cow or two, tie up its legs, slaughter, butcher and cook it in several large pots over wood fires; drink rum and beer heavily starting mid-morning, argue amongst each other til sunrise the following morning; around 8PM begin banging on "drums" (actually just any plastic container or jug that's lying around) and begin clapping, chanting and singing rhythmic songs til exhaustion in the early dawn. Next day, repeat entire process all over again. Young men may not enter the house of the deceased until the third day after death.

boys.
Band together in small groups collecting endless supplies of firewood for all the cooking that must be done from morning til night for hundreds of people; some boys go into the forest by oxcart to gather large fallen limbs; boys as young as 7 are also responsible for managing & steering oxen; also dance, chant and clap with men in the evenings. May not enter the home of the deceased until the third day, unless they are still toddlers.

old men.
Sit under the shelter built by young men that is nearest the home of the deceased; are the first ones to eat during meal times, which must be done in shifts; old men sit on mats or leaves and most wear Fedora-style hats. They do little else in regards to the goings-on other than sit, talk and eat. May not enter the home of the deceased until the third day.

young women.
The first morning, go from house to house gathering large cooking pots, serving bowls, metal pot stands, etc for all meal preparations; sort and winnow massive 50-pound gunny sacks of rice; breastfeed babies and care for toddlers (every woman has at least one breast-feeding baby and toddler to manage at all times, if they are over the age of 15); visit home of deceased, crying out in sad, high-pitched wailing sounds; must wear their nicest print wrap dress and matching head scarf; cook rice over smoky wood fires morning, noon and night; serve rice and beef to everyone, working in shifts; women eat last.

old women.
Sit inside the house of the deceased for three days (the body is laid on the floor and covered in a white sheet with fake flowers), coming out only to eat and occasionally sleep; wail and carry on sometimes to the point of hysterics; welcome (and by this I mean talk shit about) visitors coming from outlying villages.

peace corps volunteer.
Flutter about awkwardly here and there, trying to fit in with young women (but sorely out of place for lack of her own breastfeeding baby); withstand endless, non-stop, never-ending, ceaseless staring and commentary from strangers, drunk men and even locals who see PCV every single day; take long walks alone along the empty stretches of nearby beach to maintain some level of sanity.

small possessions I prize.

The idea for this blog comes from "A Companion for Owls" by Maurice Manning, a book written in the voice of American pioneer Daniel Boone. I asked my friend to send it to me (thanks Becky!) for the sole purpose of referencing a short inventory titled "Small Possessions I Prize." My own inventory is nowhere near as quaint as his ("porcupine quill, stained purple; stone blade from the Indians; buffalo vertebrae"), but I still think it is illustrative of a time, a place, a lifestyle.

- sahafa (woven, circular mat), used at least three times a day for winnowing and sifting rice, cutting vegetables, sorting beans

- small red notebook for writing down Malagasy words I've learned

- two five-gallon buckets, which hold the entirety of my daily water usage for washing, bathing, drinking, etc (average daily water consumption is 69.3 gallons in the US, but things change when you have to haul it yourself)

- buck knife from the states; knives here are cheap and flimsy

- tsihy (woven mat), placed on the floor of my house or in my front yard; must sit on one when you eat, must be barefoot

- handmade ceramic mug my Malagasy family gave me at the end of home stay

- a big, sturdy spoon, the only utensil I eat with anymore (yes, I even use a spoon to eat fish with bones)

- battery-powered speakers, so when the electricity goes out, I can still have a private dance party in my hut

- letters from friends, to be read and savoured again and again

robbed!

A couple nights ago I was mugged in Diego. I was walking home from the bar with a guy friend when out of absolutely nowhere a man came up from behind us, yanked on my purse with such force that the strap busted apart (though I still cannot understand how it broke, it was a thick nylon strap) and was gone in a flash. The entire event took all of ten seconds, from when he grabbed my purse off of me til his disappearance. He ran faster than anything I have ever seen.

Of course I immediately called out, "Mpangalatra! Vonjeo!" (Thief! Help!) and several Malagasy people in the street tried to run after him, but he was already gone. A few seconds later the skies opened up in a monsoonal rain, and I started crying. It was a very dramatic scene.

I lost some cash (not much), both my ID cards (but not my passport or the copy of my passport), my camera (with a memory card full of about 4,000 photos, most of which were backed up) and... my phone.

So, for all of you that send me texts (thank you thank you thank you) please note I have a new phone number. And keep those lifeline texts coming! They help me so much.

Here it is:
261 32 871 7074

religion.

This blog was written by my friend and fellow PCV, Katie Browne. She wrote a great blog about some of the religious practices in Madagascar, and since some of you have asked me about it, I figured I would let her blog do the talking. Here it is:

In Search of Malibu Barbie Tromba
In Madagascar, religions collide. In the northern regions of the island, Christianity of colonial origin mingles with Islam of mainland-African import and both seek to undermine the indigenous beliefs of a culture that predates them both. Church bells and prayer calls quietly struggle against the enduring influence of, among other things, the karazana (the ancestors) and the mpomasavy (the witches). Families that unearth their revered dead and parade the remains through the streets in annual exhumation ceremonies known as “The Turning of the Bones,” attend church every Sunday. In small towns, Muslims who adhere strictly to the five prayers a day refuse to leave their houses after dark, for fear of attack at the hands of those possessed by the spirits of the mpomasavy.

As a former religious studies major, I am a kid in a candy shop residing in such a land. But nothing- NOTHING- I learned in a classroom in Charleston, South Carolina prepared me for the singularly bizarre experience of a tromba in Anketrakabe, Madagascar. And that is by no means a dig on the College of Knowledge.

A tromba, we learned in our comprehensive cross-cultural training, is an exorcism. Though the ceremonies vary greatly in nature, they are far more likely to involve large quantities of cheap liquor than revolving, disembodied heads and projectile vomit (shameless conjecture and hearsay regarding the film; my heart would stop if I watched something like that). Leaving the training session, I envisioned a sort of tromba-frat party, in which heavily intoxicated participants attempt to exorcise their inner demons through outlandish behavior they would rather not be reminded of the next day. Needless to say, this mindset only further failed to prepare me for the real deal.

We could hear the drums from the road, accompanied by the whine of the accordion and the rattle of traditional Malagasy shakers (read: dried beans in a can). The small wooden house was packed to the rafters; mostly women, sitting on the floor and lining the walls; children were passed from hand to hand and lap to lap; teenagers peered in through the narrow windows. For your information (and future reference, you never know when you will stumble upon a tromba), there is no inconspicuous way to enter this arena as a foreigner: you hesitate in the doorway, attempting to find a square inch of space that could conceivably accommodate you. You feign comfort (“I do this all the time. Totally in with the tromba.”) while half the occupants of the room are rearranged to provide a place for the American guest. You slide in- smiling, greeting, look at the baby, look at the baby- and do your best to blend in with the wall.

The atmosphere of that room was unlike any other I have ever experienced: the press, the heat, the humidity of confined human bodies; the endless variations of a persistent beat; the clapping and wailing rising in accompaniment. A figure, anonymous from the crowd, would rise, don layer upon layer of white clothing, douse themselves in cheap perfume, apply white paint to their arms, brows, and jawbones, then circulate, shaking hands and exchanging the French-Gasy triple kiss. Having completed this ritual of preparation, the participants would rest against the wall, smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking moonshine, their bodies hidden under folds of fabric, their eyes obscured by aviator sunglasses.

For some, the fits began immediately. They would hardly have finished the social rounds before they were seized and- moaning and wailing- would thrash about the floor, quite frankly endangering anyone within striking distance. Others sat for hours, observing placidly, before joining in the activities. Strangely, one woman, in the act of making fun of another’s convulsion, was suddenly swept into one of her own; her entire body consumed, she rocked back and forth with such violence that her braids practically whistled through the air. At times, those in the midst of such spasms would be covered completely by a sheet, so that all one could see was their limbs struggling against the tension of the fabric.

As a witness to such spectacle, I can only describe it was surreal. Fits were exploding throughout the room, even amongst audience members, yet the atmosphere was more lighthearted than anything else. I remind you, small children were present. The woman seated on my right, asked me- as she was helping to contain her neighbors convulsion- what exactly the Peace Corps does in Madagascar. Exchanging small talk in such a setting was certainly out of the range of my capabilities (and also, SO not in the job description). It was like a Pentecostal revival, secret society, and family reunion all stuffed into a sardine can and microwaved.

After sitting for six hours, knees pulled to my chest, I began to fear for my lower extremities; they hadn’t checked in with my brain to confirm their existence in quite a while. Desperately, I was beginning to contemplate feigning a fit just to carve out some space for myself. Though the tromba showed no signs of slowing or stopping, we- pathetic, coddled Americans- stumbled out the door. At each tortured step of our ungracious exit, we were tsk-tsked and told we are simply not hardcore enough. If hardcore meant six more hours of that, I will take weak and pathetic any day.

That night, after we had recovered somewhat, we debriefed (now that I “work” for a governmental agency, I enjoy using terms such as “debrief”). Essentially, this took the form of an interrogation, in which we tried to understand what exactly had gone on in that little wooden house and confirm that the entire event was not, in fact, an elaborate mefloquin dream.
Taking into consideration my limited Malagasy, I emerged with this understanding. Though tromba is generally translated and compared to exorcism, the nature of the possession is much different than our (heavily-Christian influenced) perception; often it is non-hostile. Trombas are spirits of the deceased, which have not moved on, but instead have chosen to reside in the body of a living individual. When a tromba takes up residence, it is permanent. Thus, the ceremony that we had just attended was not an attempt to exorcise the spirit, but rather of celebration of its presence and an opportunity for it to express itself. (Apparently, trombas are a rather lively bunch, judging by all that thrashing. Then again, they don’t get out much.)

Trombas have personality in their spirit form just as they did in life. Most are well-meaning, some are not, each is different. In retrospect, I realized that the clothing the participants wore, while generally uniform, accommodated variations in personality accordingly. One woman wore a safari hat (duh! it was safari tromba!). Another wore a veil and long lace gloves; as was explained to us in painstaking detail, that was marriage tromba.

Ok, so I still don’t totally get it. And I must admit I was a tad disappointed at the conspicuous absence of Malibu Barbie tromba. But, walking away from it all, regaining feeling in my legs, the drums fading in the distance, I was well aware that I had just had an experience unlike any other. And I guess that was in the job description.

names.

Several days ago I returned home from a mountain bike ride, dripping with sweat and badly needing a drink of water. I was just inside the fence of my house when a friend came over to tell me that his wife had given birth to a healthy baby boy in the night.

This was wonderful news; I had heard from some other people in town that two of their other children had died as newborns.

After I congratulated him, he asked me nonchalantly, "Can you give him a name?" Still pouring with sweat in the baking sun and breathing heavily, I exclaimed, "Me?! You want me to give him a name?!" He smiled with a face full of joy, "Yes! It will be our souvenir of Vanessa!"

Before you get too sentimental, know that names here don't carry as much weight as they do in the American culture. I cannot count how many times I've asked the name of someone- be it a beloved newborn or a wizened grandmother- only to be met with a perplexed, unknowing shrug. People here either go by nickname or women take on the title of "Mother of so-and-so."

Nonetheless, I've never named a child before, and figured the task would take some reflection. My friend asked if I wanted to swing by the next morning with a name. Even though I was fairly certain of his name- it had come to me in a flash- I agreed to go by the following morning just in case I decided on something different. There were a few points to consider.

First of all, some English names here are really hard or awkward for Malagasy people to pronounce. Luckily, "Vanessa" is easy enough, though most of my village calls me by my Malagasy name, given to me on my first day: Soa Faniry. "Soa" is a prefix for a woman's name- it simply means "girl" or "lady." For example, if you are trying to get the attention of a woman you don't know, it's perfectly acceptable to call out, "Hey Soa!" The word "Faniry" is the the passive form of the verb "maniry," to grow, so my full name means Girl Who Brings About Growth.

But I digress.

The second point about naming a child here is that some names don't translate so well from English to Malagasy. My British friend Matt laughs every time he introduces himself; "maty" here means dead. My other friend Kelly gets perplexed looks: "kely" in Malagasy means little.

So it was with some trepidation that I went to my friend's house the following morning to give his newborn son his name. There was no pomp and circumstance, just the relaxed, casual way that makes up the entirety of the Malagasy culture. I had my camera and snapped a few pictures; my friend pulled out a weather-beaten notepad filled with various random scribblings, then pointed to a blank page for me to write down the name.

I wrote it out carefully as they covet penmanship here: Richard Barrett (pronounced Ree-shar Ba-ray). I explained that Richard was my grandfather's name and Barrett the name of a dear friend from home. I knew they would choose to call their son Barrett for life, Richard being used only for formalities and identification cards.

Everyone in town loves the name Barrett, they say it is for a strong boy, though no one's yet seen the newborn except for a few family and select visitors. As per Gasy custom, the mother and child must not leave the house until two weeks after its birth. When she finally does go outside to introduce her son to the community, the mother must put cotton in her ears for another two weeks. I don't know why- it's just explained as Malagasy culture.

So, there you have it- my first foray in naming children. Let me know if I can be of service to you and yours any time soon.

on staying.

Staying is not something I've done much of in my life. Since 1998 I've been fluttering about hither and yon. My poor grandmother has three pages in her address book dedicated to my wanderings, with sticky notes piled upon sticky notes.

I like the excitement of exploration, the thrill of the unknown becoming known, new friends becoming trusted confidants, re-inventing myself within the constructs of wide-ranging jobs, nesting into a new homespace, falling in love with a place, a people, a culture, a lifestyle... and then picking up and starting all over again.

That is, I liked all that. Madagascar has exhausted the sojourner in me. For once in my life, I kinda just feel like staying put.

Why would I want to pack up what meager possessions I have and move to another village just to start back at square one... spending months re-introducing myself and the Peace Corps mission to a community already inherently distrustful of strangers, re-identifying already established roles, building boundaries with children (and adults) who are overly-comfortable with entering my house uninvited, figuring out where I can go to feel safe, comfortable and welcome in a place that can sometimes feel so foreign and bizarre? No, all that's not for me to go through all over again. Been there, done that. It is better (easier?) that I simply stay in my little hut home and be patient through this entire process.

And so, life goes on in its ever-changing, never-changing way that defines village Africa. I haven't spoken to my counterpart Pierre for about three weeks, ever since I told him in all likelihood he wasn't going to be able to go to America. (If you haven't read the back story about this issue, click http://vinmadagascar.blogspot.com/2010/12/hard-times.html.) The dynamics between us have certainly changed. Back in early December, after I initially contacted Peace Corps about my concerns surrounding his relationship with the previous volunteer, I made a follow-up phone call to my supervisor to let him know how things were going in my village. It was then that I received the shocking news that the Peace Corps Country Director had contacted the US Embassy in Antananarivo to request they withhold Pierre's visa to America! I couldn't believe it! I had no idea that one little phone call to discuss my uncertainties about how to handle the situation in my village could possibly lead to Pierre's inability to gain entry into the United States!

A sinking feeling came into my stomach shortly thereafter: how was I ever to break this kind of terrible news to Pierre? The waiting and wondering for those couple weeks while Pierre was on holiday with his girlfriend/volunteer were fairly torturous. Eventually, the time came when Pierre returned back to village, around the second week of January. I could hardly look him in the eye; my face flushed hot when I saw the boastful manner in which he walked around the village, donned in all-new clothes and fancy shoes, the way he spoke to the other villagers who asked him where he'd been all this time.

So, the time came for me to be the bearer of some bad news. I told Pierre he wouldn't be able to obtain a visa to America. Imagine breaking news like that to someone in a foreign language with limited vocabulary! I tried to explain as best I could, but he had already made up his mind: I was the one who was making it impossible for him to go to America (didn't you know?- I am solely responsible for US Embassy affairs in Madagascar)! He is convinced that I called Peace Corps with the pure intention of making him stay here.

All this happened about three weeks ago. After much discussion between us initially, in which I tried and tried to explain, Pierre and I have ceased speaking. Certainly he is upset with me, though that all comes out in the Malagasy fashion of utter passivity- for he is in no way an emotionally demonstrative person, as is the culture here. Likewise, I have my own feelings of disappointment with him, and upset with the previous volunteer for all this mess.

Then again, no one said Peace Corps was going to be easy.

Though the dynamic between my counterpart has changed, I try to remember that it is my village as a whole that I am meant to support; they are the ones that I stay here for.

of two minds.

To stay or not to stay, that is the question. I'm in no way considering leaving Madagascar or ending my Peace Corps service. I just spent that last ten days in my village feeling hopelessly overwhelmed by whether or not I can (or more accurately am willing to deal with) the new dynamics that exist there now: marriage proposals left and right, mothers of grown, married men asking if I can get their sons to America, and a host of issues with my counterpart. If there's a better word than awkward for this situation, I don't know what it is.

In the face of all this, I certainly feel like just giving up and running away! It does take courage to stay through a difficult process, and I'm conjuring up all I can. I am of such two minds about whether or not I should continue through in Ambolobozokely or take the opportunity to move to another village and work in the Health sector that I feel stymied by indecision.

Today I think I will stay. Tomorrow I may feel different. It's been like this for weeks.

dear cheese.

Dearest, Beloved Cheese,

I miss you. I think about you all the time. I miss the special moments we shared together... satisfying lunches on sunny mountaintops, admiring the 360-degree views; ski trips where you were so cold but still such a trooper; romantic nights by the fireside, sharing a bottle of wine, a hearty loaf of bread and dark chocolate; summertime salads with friends on the backporch. You were always there, adding such joy to every moment in your subtle, humble way.

There is no substitute for you. I know that now more than ever as each passing day goes by without you in my life. I admit it; I do occasionally try to enjoy a pathetic breakfast or dinner with your evil twin- the non-frigerated processed cheese wedge- but nothing holds a candle to you. How you can be both soft and strong at the same time is inspiring; your complexity makes you who you are.

Sometimes I see your likeness all the way over here on the other side of the world, in an expensive shop or fancy restaurant, and the memories come flooding back in. Yes, I miss you, but half a day's salary for one fleeting moment together?

I can wait. I can hold out for that distant day, sometime after May 2012, when I return to you.

The first thing I want to do (maybe after seeing my family and taking a shower) is savor the world's largest plate of nachos piled high with your goodness. I just hope you won't be too cruel after all this time.

Yours faithfully,
Vanessa