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
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 28, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 10, 2011
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.
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
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
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