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.