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.