the end of summer.

As the end of summer approaches and I begin a new chapter of my post-Peace Corps experience (returning briefly to work at the Grand Canyon in Arizona), all I can say is: this has been the best summer of my life.

Every day, every year gets better, filled with more opportunities to be grateful for all of life's goodnesses.  Maybe this is just my perspective after living in one of the poorest countries on earth for two years, but I can't help it; I am still in awe at how great we have it in America. When I first returned to the US, my father & I used to joke about my newfound sense of wonder: every few minutes it seemed, you could hear me exclaim, "This place has EVERYthing!!!" That feeling, though starting to wane under complacency, is still strong in me.

This summer, I worked with inner-city teenagers from Washington, DC. It was a very hard job, not so much because it was physically challenging or difficult to work with that rebellious age group, but because personally, I struggled with the sense of entitlement that many young people here have about almost everything. We'd buy them treats at the store and they'd complain it was the wrong flavor. They couldn't drink the water because it didn't have ice in it. The van was hot because the air conditioning had only just been turned on. I didn't want to sound like the old hag on her soapbox whose every sentence starts with, "Well, in Africa kids don't have..." or "If we were in Africa right now..." So most of the time, I'd grin and bear it... and try to take in the lesson of appreciation for all the things we've been blessed to have in this country. This place has everything!

I've been away from Madagascar for four months. Some things that still amaze me:

- we can eat anything we want at virtually any time of day or year
- we try to take in fewer calories than we consume, and often fail at that because there is SO much food being sold to us everywhere
- we have hot water, refrigeration and ice inside our homes
- no one stares at me, cares that I'm white, or feels compelled to talk about what I'm wearing, how my body looks or what I bought at the store that day
- lines at the store make sense; there is order versus chaos in public settings, on the road, at the post office, in the bank and at the market
- people have manners: no more picking noses, blowing snot rockets, or popping out a boob to breastfeed at any given time; personal space is respected and people apologize if they bump into you
- we have operational, efficient modes of public transportation
- everyone speaks English (this has been a puzzling surprise for me... I never expected to still be amazed after all this time when hearing English being spoken. I often turn my head in shock while walking down the sidewalk or sitting at a restaurant, thinking: they're speaking English!)

All I can say is, life is good. And it's good to recognize that.

I have just returned to Arizona after a five-year hiatus, having lived here off and on for over seven years. This morning, in my friend's backyard, which sits against the red rocks spires of Sedona and is surrounded by Sycamore trees, I wrote in my journal:

"Though the struggles of always packing and moving and being uprooted are surely tiresome, I wouldn't trade the sense of renewed awe I have right now at smelling the Juniper-scented air and seeing Oak Creek Canyon's rippling waters this morning at sunrise for anything.

So many memories come flooding back in just from the smell of the air alone. I forgot about this place, forgot about what it's like to be inspired by landscape, to go play for the sake of playing, to use legs-arms-back to catapult heart-mind-spirit to a freer, more loosely-tangled space.

I forgot about biscuits & gravy at Macy's Coffee Shop while the train clangs by, forgot about the round curving earth endlessly expanding all around you on that night drive up from the desert floor, with Saguaro cactus and rocky crags of mountains and multi-layered red rock formations jutting out here & there, forgot how the air smells like pine & sand & water & Creosote bush..."

on being back, in 5 short paragraphs.

As my third month back in America rolls past, I am still amazed at some of my daily struggles, challenges, perspectives and feelings of gratitude (and sometimes shock!) for all the things we have in this country. While I search for the best way to articulate my experiences, I keep stumbling across wonderful posts from other Returned Peace Corps Volunteers, which I find incredibly comforting. Was it a wise decision for me to move to a big, unfamiliar city just a month after my return? Would some of my experiences differ had I moved to a small, laid-back town, like Missoula, Montana? I'm not sure...

But, one thing I do know is that it's nice to read articles like the one excerpted below, and remember that I'm not alone in my feelings of uncertainty and wonderment, of belonging and disconnection, of missing a place that I never really belonged to, but somehow now lives inside of me.

The list to follow is from a Huffington Post blog by Ross Szabo, entitled "The Hardest Adjustment in Peace Corps is Coming Home." In the article, he interviews Erica Burman, Director of Communications for the National Peace Corps Association, of which I am now a member. Below he identifies five issues facing Returned Peace Corps Volunteers. I currently experience them all in any number of combinations, daily, and couldn't have made a better list myself.

1. You have changed, but other things stayed the same. In talking about volunteers' adjustment Erica said, "Most people just can't understand that the past 27 months have been a transformative life experience. You've seen and done and survived things most Americans can't imagine. Things that you couldn't have imagined before Peace Corps. You've witnessed exquisite beauty and the most squalid ugliness. Had your values and assumptions fundamentally tested, and your priorities shifted. So you may no longer be your sister's best shopping buddy, or your dad's sports guy. But many friends and loved ones expect you to be, more or less, the same person you were before and you're just not. That can really be painful for everyone."

2. It's great that you volunteered, but have you heard about the Kardashians? Erica stated, "Sadly, most people aren't that interested in what you've done for the past 27 months. Their tolerance for stories about your Peace Corps experience is generally pretty low. They might ask, "So how was Africa?" Not your country, but the entire continent. "Was it hot? Did you see animals?" [Or in my case, when hearing I was in Madagascar, people can think of nothing more intelligent to say than, "I like to move it move it!" and laugh at what they think is a clever, original comment.] After a few minutes the conversation changes to pop culture or some other topic. Meanwhile you have days, weeks, months worth of stories and anecdotes and impressions and comparisons bursting to get out and be shared."

3. Daily life in the U.S. can be boring. Volunteers spend a lot of days talking about how boring life can be during service, but life in the U.S. can seem mundane. Erica shared, "You miss the daily challenges of figuring things out and overcoming obstacles. It can be tough and painful during service, but it's also immensely satisfying when you do persevere and succeed. Life in America is more routine, more predictable. There aren't those thrilling frissons of bewilderment and strangeness."

4. You are no longer a pseudo-celebrity. As I have started to adjust back to life out of Peace Corps it is a bit weird to not have every child yell to me and most people excited to see me walk by them. The novelty of volunteering disappears quickly. Erica says this is pretty common, "As much as volunteers complain about living their lives under a microscope, we can miss the fact that we're no longer special, that people don't really care about our every move. Truth be told, it can be kind of fun and ego boosting to be somewhat famous."

5. Going back to the material world. A lot of Peace Corps Volunteers leave developing countries with water, electricity and basic need shortages and enter America's first world problems like not getting all of the apps on the I-pad to work. Erica talked about this as well, "The superficiality, rush and materialness of much of American life can be hard to come to terms with. Overseas many of us learn to greet everyone, to take in and value each person we meet. We may sit for hours under a tree cracking peanuts with our host mother, just being. Often we become enmeshed in close-knit communities for the very first time. That's different than the hurried, "yeah, let's get together," that never happens. Also striking is the waste. We waste so much stuff. Water, heat, electricity, paper, plastic containers. You name it. Stuff that would be prized overseas is casually tossed here. It can be really disturbing."

RPCVs cope with all of these unique difficulties in different ways. Obviously not all of the adjustment is bad. We reconnect with family/friends, devour sorely missed foods, and bask in the land of washing machines and technology. We come home having missed weddings, births, funerals, divorces and a host of other life changes. We worry about what is next. It takes time to catch up with the people we are closest to. Some parts of the brain just click back on from the pause they had experienced and other parts take a little more time.

open letter to america.

Dear America,

I've written you a letter. I've been back here for one month, and have a few things to comment on.

America, I know why you're fat. You're sold more than you could possibly ever need, and made to believe, through media force-feeding, that what you need will never be what you actually have. America! Land of the free chips with your drink, unlimited bread and butter, 20% more for free if you order an "extra value" meal. You have to withstand at least four sales pitches for over-sized muffins, cookies or whipped cream to order a cup of coffee. I've ordered ice cream twice in this country since I've been back. Twice, I've asked for a "kid-size," and been presented with massive, double-scoops of ice cream, piled high inside my bowl. Should I complain? Do I have any obligation to feel guilty for the excess? I just wanted the littlest scoop... I don't really like ice cream, nor being obese. I asked if I could please just get a "kiddie" size, or if they could just take some out of the bowl before I take it, and both times was adamantly refused.  Well, nobody likes to say no to food. Especially not Americans.

Dear America, you're so sparkly and shiny. Your restaurants are lessons in efficiency and cleanliness beyond any sense of the imagination. Your gigantic grocery stores resemble hospitals. You never have to smell the meat or fish or chicken that you buy, nor see that it actually comes from a once-living animal, because all that blood and death happens behind closed doors and comes out in pristine, sterilized packages. You are never faced with humanity's grotesque scents, with the reality that we exist in a living, dying world. Your public toilets are cleaned hourly (and don't forget you can complain to management if there's a problem!) and are stocked with soap that squirts out automatically and paper that comes out with the magical wave of a hand. To have a fly in your restaurant is a disgrace. You are mortified by any potential for a public health hazard, while the rest of the developing world endures disease-carrying insects, filthy produce and questionable water as a daily part of life. Dirty dishes? Washed, sanitized and dried in minutes. Sometimes, I'd tell women in my village (who scrub dishes for hours everyday) about these miraculous machines called "dishwashers." They never believed me.

You smell damn good, America. We all wear deodorant; in fact, most of us wear something to prevent us from the horror of sweating at all. We have machines that wash our clothes with the click of a button. To have clean, fresh-smelling clothes takes the amount of effort it takes to carry your dirty clothes to the machine, which for most of us, is INSIDE our incredible, perfectly comfortable houses! Click: clean. Your public bathrooms are spritzed automatically with scented chemicals; floors and sinks cared for regularly. You can have your seat warmed, the air in your car, home or office at the exact temperature of your desiring; you can ask your server at the restaurant to turn the air conditioning up if you're feeling a little warm or ask your flight attendant for a blanket if your poor ankles are cold. America, you do not know discomfort. Trust me, you do not know discomfort.

America, your children complain too much. I recently heard 11-year old children here whining they had nothing to do!-- with more toys, games, music, computers, televisions, iphones, ipods, itouches, ipads, food, candy, movies, books and sports equipment to entertain them than any child in my village will ever see (or imagine) in their entire lifetime. I spent two years watching hundreds of children share a single broken bicycle- or play soccer in a dirt field with a makeshift ball made of random bits of plastic bags and rubber bands- with not a peep of complaining. In fact, the children there were more delighted and grateful than any I've seen in the US, with all its endless gadgets to occupy and placate our children.

Your adults are no better, America. You complain about leg room when there's more than enough space for at least five more people to sit in your aisle, two babies on your lap, ten chickens at your feet, a sack of potatoes under your bum and a few goats above your head. You whine about the price of gas while forgetting the absolute luxury of owning your own vehicle and the level of quality and perfection in the roads you get to drive. More importantly, you could SO easily carpool, take public transit or (heaven forbid you exercise), bike or walk to your destination. You complain about traffic but insist on driving yourself; you want bigger highways instead of focusing on improving public transportation or building light rail. You complain about the taste of your water, and insist on buying bottled water when you have some of the safest water in the world. While so many other people on the planet suffer through unimaginable lengths just for the basic human right for access to clean drinking water, you spend top dollar on something that truly, miraculously, comes flowing right to your own homes.

Dear America, your customer service rocks. Someone comes to your table, asks you what you want to eat and drink from an incredible plethora of food options, brings you what you want almost instantaneously and continuously checks on your every need & desire without (too much) prompting. I suggest you go to Africa if you'd like to spend an afternoon waving down a waitress who sulks at you, and a half an hour later, may decide to bring you a menu if she feels like it, only to tell you the kitchen closed a while ago, or that they're out of everything on the menu. You'll then be served warm beer, and be made to feel you're putting everyone out to ask for a glass, or at least a few stale peanuts. America, give your waitstaff the tips they deserve; they rock your world, and you know it.

America, the beautiful. Your streets are clean, your parks pristine, your landscapes vast and diverse. The complexity of flora & fauna that live in your mountains, rivers, deserts and glaciers are breathtaking, and the fact that so many of these animals and the places they call home are protected by people fighting to save them, is inspiring. You have so much beauty, so many open, wild spaces; a pride in your towns, cities, gardens and parks. People care about this country and it shows, no matter what your political or geographical persuasion.

But one last thing, America. This really bothers me: you just don't share. When a friend of mine & I sat down at a crowded pub a month ago, and had to sit at the only two empty seats in the place, the man eating at the table didn't give the obligatory karibo to welcome us! I was shocked. And then surprised by my shock. I couldn't believe how engrained this Malagasy cultural tradition has become in me, and how much I miss its absence in American culture. Why don't we invite people to join us? Why cultivate this "every-man-for-himself" mentality? I want to karibo everyone I see when I'm eating or drinking! -- and I feel people are rude when they don't do the same to me. Likeiwse, I saw a couple kids argue over who would get to eat an entire bag of cotton candy last week. This brought to mind innumerable moments in my village, when I saw small children splitting up the tiniest treats amongst themselves, such as a single peanut, or a half a mango. Karibo. I miss saying it, I miss meaning it, I miss hearing it. So, I welcome you anytime, America, and also thank you for taking me back into your big, albeit insane, arms.

where my head's at.

Or is it my heart?

don't forget.

to a true friend.

Lydia, this one's dedicated to you, wherever you are, you little nugget.

Several mornings ago, I stood in the large expanse of green rolling hills that surround my grandmother's house in New Hampshire. It was a soft, dewy moment, and I was glad for the stillness in the midst of my third week back in fast-paced American life (though admittedly, I haven't done too many fast-paced things just yet).

Because my grandmother's Swiss Chalet-style home sits in the middle of twelve acres of protected deciduous forest and grassy fields, set against two gentle mountains brimming with birdsong of every kind, being back on her land, the landscape of my childhood, has a completely sublime effect.

My mind drifted to Madagascar just then; it's in quiet times like these that I am able to bring myself back to the place and people that defined my life for over two years. I've been composing blogs in my mind ever since I left about a month ago, and wanting to make sense of all the words and experiences swirling around in a discombobulated, disjointed fashion.

This blog is one of the many to come that seek to reflect upon my past experiences within the context of this insane place we call America. More to come soon about my re-adjustment process; thanks to all who've been asking me to write about it.

In any case, in that moment, I thought of my dearest little six-year old friend Lydia, a consummate companion through all the trials and tribulations of my Peace Corps service... I thought of how much she would have enjoyed playing in those green fields, deep forests and trickling creeks at my grandmother's place, just as I had as a child. I wish I could have snuck Lydia in my suitcase (we joked about it constantly), but I don't think kidnapping is looked upon too fondly by the Peace Corps.

Truth be told: I miss her. I knew I would, and this blog is in honor of her. I've wanted to post some photos and stories of Lydia for several months now; I just needed fast enough internet to upload videos.

These first photos are from a series I would like to call "Lydia vs. The Bees."

One day in my village, Lydia came running up to me quite happily, proclaiming she had discovered a bee's nest in the forest where we could get honey (an extremely special treat). I told her that getting honey was no easy task and asked her if she knew how to do it without getting stung (I didn't).

She said she did: all you needed was a big stick; the bees fly away and you take the honey. I explained that bees get mad when you try to do that and asked her repeatedly if she was afraid of bees. She insisted she wasn't and begged to take me to the nest where she swore she could get the honey, no problem. She skipped off ahead of me, down the trails into the forest, and in no time we arrived at the bee's nest.

It buzzed with hundreds of giant bees. I told her about how I'd been stung when I was her age and it made me cry. I asked her dozens of times, Are you sure you're not scared of getting stung? She laughed, telling me I shouldn't be so afraid!

With great gusto, she starting smacking the nest with a big stick. I told her I'd be standing nearby to film... just a little further away.

Click on the video below to watch exactly what happens. And don't tell me taking this film is cruel. I warned her.

She starts off by telling the bees to "miala" (leave). I ask if they're "masiaka" (angry) and if there's still a lot of them left. We talk about how it's good the bees are "miboaka" (coming out); I get closer since they don't seem to be bothering her.

After she screams and runs (no surprise there), I basically tell her "I told you it would hurt a lot!" and tell her to get far away from the nest. When I say,"Abwa," I pretty much mean, "Show me where it hurts." You silly girl.

Poor little Lydia, the brave six-year old who thought she could get honey by just smacking the bees away.

Luckily, as with all children, she's quite resilient, and by the following night, she was back to her cheerful self and teaching her little sister how to dance "amban-bany" (getting down low).

During my final weeks, Lydia was constantly asking if she could try on my things, play with my random bits of discarded items or other gadgets & gizmos she'd never seen before. Her sweet presence helped me so much through the difficult days of packing and moving.

Lydia watched me do yoga for almost two years, and even on my less motivated days, kept encouraging me to do "Oga" (for some reason, she could never pronounce the "y"). By the end, she was pretty good at it all by herself! My cat, lazing in the background however, couldn't have cared less about yoga. Or oga.

This is from our final meal together, a particularly delicious lunch of rice and leaves. When she eats, she really gets into it.

I miss you, Lydia!

on saying goodbye.

Because I am back in the United States and have yet to really leave my dad's house and face that great big America just out there waiting for me, I thought I'd dedicate my first blog stateside to writing about what it was like to leave my village, already nearly a month ago. I think starting back there will help me progress in my writing about returning to the US (of which, believe me, I have much to say).

To be blunt, leaving my village was one of the hardest experiences I've had in my life, and I've been through my fair share of trials and tribulations. I was surprised by this... I think partially because Peace Corps as an agency had not really let on to how difficult it would be, but probably more so because I had felt for so long that I was ready (perhaps more accurately, extremely excited) to leave. 

When the time came, some weeks before my final departure on April 12th, I was overwhelmed by the mixture of emotions... sadness, shock, fear of the unknown, wanting to hold on to each precious moment, desire to visit with everyone one last time, irritation with people hanging around all day to say goodbye (meaning hoping to get some of my things), anxiety about re-integrating into American society, and uncertainty about how to close certain relationships, especially considering not only Malagasy culture (in which it is under no circumstances appropriate to show emotion) but also how to manage future technological barriers (in which very few people have cell phones, let alone email).

Leaving is simply that: leaving. For good.

Everything came to a head about three days before I was about to go. One of my best girlfriends there (who is, like all Malagasy people, bluntly honest and very rarely shows any emotion) said to me one quiet, starry night over a plate of rice in her backyard, "I want to spend all the time I can with you. It is like when someone dies, you know you will never see them again." What can you say to that? My heart broke a thousand times in those few days.

The scene was chaos: people stopping by my house day and night, some staring in disbelief, some asking for my things, some crying. In a culture where crying is only seen at funerals, this is a big, difficult process to go through. It rained heavily and nearly continuously my last three days. This meant moving all my furniture, giving away most of my clothes and distributing random odds & ends to various friend's houses in the mud and muck. It also meant all my clothes and bags (which I'd tried to wash so they wouldn't smell horrible when I returned to civilization) were soggy and molding and simply would not dry on the line.

My best little 6-year old friend Lydia was my constant companion, eating every meal together and helping me by my side from first light until bedtime. Everywhere we went, people would comment, "Lydia! What are you going to do when Vanessa's gone?" We would embrace and my eyes filled with tears dozens of times; she just laughed. It's hard for a child to really understand that I was not coming back.

Amidst the constant rain and visitors, packing stinky clothes, lack of cell phone and/or phone credit, writing legal agreements in Malagasy about the break-ins at my house and dealing with the thief's family, trying to repair broken flip flops, a leaky roof and busted bicycle tires, I was also trying to stay present through the closure process while (unsuccessfully) preparing to move forward. I became intensely focused on lasts: last bucket bath, last trip to the well, last cup of coffee at the coffee shack, last conversation with this person, last walk down the peaceful road to the sea. It was an emotional time to say the least.

None of this was helped by the fact that I decided to leave my village right after one of Madagascar's biggest holidays, Lundi de Paque (Easter Monday). Hundreds of people from all around the north of Madagascar come to celebrate the holiday on the beach outside my village, dancing til dawn at the village discotheques, drinking endless bottles of THB (the local- and only- beer), and being generally obnoxious as usually happens on big party weekends all over the world.

I tried to stay upbeat and positive that weekend, but by the end of it, with all the packing and goodbyes, I felt my spirits waning as I prepared for my final night at the discotheque. One of my best friends came over to my house to get ready with me, and instead she ended up putting her head in my lap and weeping uncontrollably for nearly ten minutes. She said it best: it's hard to be happy at a going-away party. I don't know when I've felt more heartbroken.

With all the rain, I was unable to bike out of my village one last time, which was what I had intended to do from the start. Instead, I slipped and slid my way along that all-too-familiar, treacherous 17-kilometer stretch of muddy road one last time, squeezed into the town taxi-brousse with one of my best friends and all of my worldly possessions crammed into every nook & cranny. It was a hell of a ride, in more ways than one.

See where that metal water filter is in the front seat? That's my spot. 

Chantaly all snuggled in next to me. Two more people would join us up front.

Push! This particular spot required about fifteen people pushing; it took ten minutes to get out.

in america.

Typing this on an ipad outside of NYC. There is so much to say, to capture. More to come soon.

a blog about my blog.

Some of you have asked if I will continue to blog after I leave Madagascar. The answer is a resounding yes. Of the three goals of Peace Corps, keeping up with Goal Three (educating Americans on the part of the peoples served) through blogging has been, and will continue to be, a vital part of my life. Just as much as all of you have learned about the Malagasy culture during my time here, so shall we examine together some of the contrasts and comparisons as I return to the American culture.

Perhaps more importantly though is that this blog has become some sort of outlet for me. I write to process, write to stay present, write to understand the world around me. With that in mind, the journey back to the United States after two intense years in a developing country is going to be at best, overwhelming and at worst, terrifying... and probably everywhere inbetween too.

So stay tuned.

Which reminds me, who ARE all you people? Looking at my blog statistics over the last two years (yes, I'm a nerd) I have been amazed at the diversity of countries listed in my readership.

Here are the top ten countries represented for pageviews of my blog:

United States 7,637
Madagascar 1,149
Australia 279 (thanks Eleanor!)
United Kingdom 195
Canada 188
Russia 171
Germany 122
South Korea 70
France 57
Netherlands 47

How did you all stumble across my blog? Why are there so often pageviews from India, Taiwan, Iran, Ireland, Brazil, Israel? Who are you? What's your story? How are we connected? What have you taken away from this little corner of the world I occupy?

I've loved seeing so many countries represented over the last couple years; it has inspired me to keep my eyes open and my pen moving. That we are all connected across thousands & thousands of miles through writing is a beautiful thing.

So, thanks for reading, and please, leave a comment.

what I'll miss & what I won't.

Some weeks ago I began compiling a list of things I'll miss and won't miss about living in Madagascar. I hesitate to post it now because I know these items will change and shift as I move through different phases of re-adjustment. Nonetheless, here's what I've got so far.

What I'll Miss.

Always being invited to sit and/or eat with people, no matter where or when.

Living in a culture where women's bodies are accepted as they are... here women love their bodies no matter what shape or size... and men love them that way too.

The relaxed, easy, passive way of conversation.

Having a secret language (English), in which you can say anything in front of people and they'll have no idea what you're saying.

Twice daily walks along a wooded path to a private beach; swimming in the sea whenever I feel like it.

Ravitutu: pounded cassava leaves cooked in coconut milk and mixed with fish.

A completely open schedule where I decide what I will do and how I will do it; a life free of numerous social restrictions such as traffic laws or drinking in public places.

Paying 50 cents for a delicious, nutritious meal.

Being famous just because I'm white and speak Malagasy; being afforded certain privileges just because I'm famous... like getting to sing right away after I turn in my song request at the karaoke bar.

Living in utter peace and living so close to the natural world; reliant on the sea and the seasons for food.

Abundant time for reading, writing, sleeping and thinking.

Having succulent tropical fruits available year round.

Walking barefoot or in flip-flops everyday.

Living next to an adorable six-year old who happily wants to do any of my chores or errands for me all the time. ("Lydia! Go buy me some tomatoes!"... and off goes a skipping, singing child, returning shortly with a handful of red, ripe tomatoes.)

What I Won't Miss.

Being stared at and heckled on the street incessantly.

The horrible, awful, repetetive, uninspiring noise (aka Malagasy music) that would blast in my village all hours of the day. (I only met one person who loved music from the north of Madagascar, and he was a visiting international spy so it doesn't count.)

Bad internet, terrible cell phone reception, unreliable technology in general, relying on pay-per-use phone credit to make calls or text.

Deep-fried white flour balls or white bread as the sole breakfast/ snack food options.

People thinking I'm French (no offense to all those great French people I know and love, I just wish Malagasy realised white people can come from places other than France).

Never having salad, olives, cheese or wine as a regular part of my life.

Waiting.. for any & everything.

Taxi-broussing as a sole means of transport, and all the pain and suffering therein.

Redundant conversation: I have probably talked about how I live in Ambolobozokely and speak Malagasy ten million times.

Being painfully bored. Feeling my mind atrophying.

gratitude.

As I look back on the last two years of my Peace Corps service in Madagascar, and consider how truly incredible it is that I made it through, I am overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude for all those in my life who made it possible.

No matter how much it may seem I acted with courage and tenacity born out of my own will, no matter how many times you thought to yourself you couldn't have dealt with what I have, regardless of your perceptions of my service, none of it could have been possible without you, dear friends and family. (And to all those readers worldwide that I don't know, pardon this sentimental posting.)

For everyone that sent me a care package, filled with Cheez-its, popcorn, dried fruit, colored pens & pencils, sunflower seeds, quinoa, nutritional yeast, kids toys, M&M's, Chocolove, coloring books, trail mix, Twiglets or any number of other wonderful treats: THANK YOU. You'll never know how akin to Christmas day it was opening up those thoughtful (though often melted and squished) packages.

To all those who sent love letters, ugly postcards or sweet, homemade cards filled with words of encouragement, photos, stickers, inspirational quotes, poetry... for those that emailed me, posted funny and/or inspirational bits on my Facebook wall, who left comments on my blog, sent expensive texts to strange numbers or withstood painfully bad Skype and/or phone connections... THANK YOU. It is impossible to tell you how each of these gestures, no matter how small they seemed to you, were hugely important to me. Each word compelled me to go on.

Most importantly, to my dearest family, without whom I could not have achieved this, or any other crazy endeavor of mine. For all of the support you gave through every means possible, for listening through my tears and uncertainties, for the medical support and thoughtful advice, for being flexible with absurd time zone challenges and for believing I could do this and encouraging me to try even when I didn't think I could, I can never fully thank you.

Lastly, even though I know they will never come across this blog, I need a place to publicly express the huge gratitude I have for my community. For welcoming a complete stranger from a bizarre foreign land into your hearts and homes, for always offering a place to sit, eat rice and talk, for bringing over food when you thought I was too skinny, for showing me how to slow down and appreciate the world, thank you. It has been an honor to be a part of your lives for two years, and I will always miss the simplicity and peacefulness you brought to me.

poem for madagascar.

All great things rise & fall, grow & die,
all small things too.
I found a place in the world where this is a simple creed
to live by:
It is the law, the rule, the way.

To put up a structure is to gather branches and trees,
to bind with leaves or hammer together haphazardly,
then to simply wait the seasons out until it decays,
leans, submits to its inevitable return to the earth.

The suckling calf in the front yard
who bleats hungrily for its mother all summer long
becomes the cow who feeds upon dying grasses
in the wind-swept hills of dry season,
who then becomes the bloodstains on the cement slab,
its meat the central part of a celebration.

Fish swimming in the morning
are stew that night.
Clothes drying on the line
are caught by the wind,
drift into weeds and vines,
decompose in the dirt without a second thought.

One almost comes to believe here that it takes no effort whatsoever to live.
With as much care as you might discard kitchen scraps into a compost heap,
so you conduct a meeting,
raise a child,
plant crops,
prosecute a criminal.

All great things rise & fall,
all small things too.
If you stay still long enough here
all of life can be explained this way:
there is an impermanence to everything.
We all become recycled through and through again.

one week left.

I wrote this in my journal yesterday in my village. I have one week left until I leave.

Rained hard last night- certainly one of the bigger deluges I've seen here. The morning is that soft, lovely quietness that I know I will miss terribly. The feel of sand & dewy leaves against my feet and legs on the walk to the coffee shack... the bitter, strong coffee in the smoky hut... sea either gusting or still as glass... Mama Tutu's sing-songy conversation and kind, gentle laugh... the palm trees glowing in the sun and birds of every kind chattering in the branches near & far... children crying and mothers calling for them, "Avia zanako avia!"... chickens scratching in the dirt & scraping up leaves under the mango trees... the haphazard buckets of rain water strewn about the yards. This is the simple way my day starts, the way my days have started for two years.

My heart begins to break as I think of leaving this place of peace and calm. In one week I will be gone, and since I recently had a couple weeks preview of "city life" in Diego, I know that just the change of pace to the bustle & noise of the city will be challenging enough.

It is with so many mixed emotions that I now live. Part of me cannot wait to begin life again. When I think of attending dance and yoga classes regularly, going to an actual job where I can contribute in a measurable and attainable manner and get paid and buy things, meeting up with friends for drinks and going to events that interest me, being able to hike, boat, rock climb, ski, cook and hang out with my family and friends regularly... all these components of "real life" excite me so much it seems I cannot wait another minute!

But I also want to take some of this place with me, to manifest some of the aspects of community, even-mindedness and patience that are such an integral part of life here. I know it is inevitable that I will struggle throughout the re-adjustment process back into my own culture: everyone says it's harder going back than it was coming here.

In any case, in the meantime, I am living through the last days in my village. Every moment, every interaction has become rich with a fleeting preciousness. It's a strange process too: conversation is always around my leaving, why I want to leave, what souvenirs I'll be giving away. Friends stop by to take things from my house, and I have to practice extreme caution because this causes jealousies and drama amongst the villagers. I have to give something to everyone it seems. It would be easier if I could just lock my house up when I leave with all my belongings inside and leave the keys with the president for him to deal with.

It seems I have nothing, but then I see the look in people's eyes as they gaze longingly at my bed, scissors,  clothes, baskets... they want it all. It is such a bizarre experience.

It's hard too to hear that people are glad I'm leaving or that others don't understand why I'm not staying longer. I've heard since day one that if I don't extend my service as Julia [the PCV before me] did, then I'm not tamana [well-settled]. It is impossible to explain what it means to miss home to a people that have largely never gone beyond the limits of northern Madagascar.

And then there is of course, living through the process of saying goodbye to little Lydia. Already my eyes have teared up a dozen times as she and I joke about how she'll hide in my luggage so I can bring her home, or when she says that she won't miss eating rice when she's in America. How do you say goodbye to a beautiful six-year old girl? How do you part ways with a child who's become one of your greatest friends and confidants?

I will find out in a week...

sometimes there are no words: a story from the beginning of the end.

Yesterday was one of the hardest days I've had in Madagascar. I got to witness the fascinatingly slow process of the Malagasy justice system at a village level.

On Saturday, after three days of waiting for paperwork to be completed at the Tribual Court in Diego, the Gendarme went to my village and arrested a 17-year old boy named Arnaud who had stolen many things from my house over six months ago. When I initially filed a report against him, I told the Gendarme that while I could not be sure he was the one who broke into my house in the middle of the night three weeks ago and stole my iPod next to my head, I thought the likelihood was high. On my word alone, they put him in handcuffs and hauled him off to a holding center, which is where I went yesterday morning.

After a couple of anxious hours of waiting, typewriters clacking away, I was informed that we would go to my village with Arnaud (in handcuffs) and three Gendarme to search his house and the house of his friend, where is where he says my iPod is.

The return trip to my village after so many weeks away was an emotional one for me. Memories of the last two years flooded my mind. What a bittersweet feeling to return to my village home under such unpleasant circumstances.

We proceeded to Arnaud's friend's house only to discover that his friend is out at sea fishing for the day and may not return to late afternoon or even the next day. After almost an hour of formalities and speeches by the village president and the Gendarme, and Arnaud swearing that his friend Vic is the one who stole the iPod, we were able to search the house.

The searching borders on comic. Digging through musty piles of clothes in cardboard boxes, rummaging through broken backpacks filled with miscellaneous papers and broken bits, opening up cupboards and baskets caked with dust, checking underneath moldy, flea-ridden mattress pads that look like they'd begun to grow into the wooden slats of the floor beneath them. We find nothing. It's hot, not a puff of air from the sea and well past lunchtime; the whole village is sitting in the shade, waiting for something to happen.

More speeches, which is the true Malagasy way. Nothing can be done in this country without this odd formality, in which you never actually look at the speaker. Everyone just sits around passively staring at the floor.

We eat rice in the late afternoon heat. Arnaud sits on the ground outside the shack, handcuffed, ostracized. Moments later, we hear a high-pitched mournful wailing sound, one that women here use at funerals. The sound is something of a cross between sobbing and warbling, and gives you chills immediately. Arnaud's mother approaches me, and half-prostrating before me, throwing her cotton head cloth repeatedly over her face, cries over and over again, begging my forgiveness. My stomach lurches and my heart breaks. I don't know what to say or do. Finally the Gendarme asks her to please wait outside.

Just then, word gets out that Arnaud's friend Vic has just returned from fishing. The Gendarme casually finish up their bowls of rice, enjoy a cold glass of Coke, and saunter over to Vic's boat. Laughing, they say, "Where's he going to run away to? He can't swim!" They escort him over and handcuff him to Arnaud and soon the next round of speeches and questioning begins.

Vic says he never stole my iPod, that he never went into my house that night. No surprise there.

Next we proceed to Arnaud's parent's house; more speeches, more searching, more groups of people standing around. The wailing mother continues to cry, and eventually asks to speak with me privately. She wants to know if she can pay me, if I am angry, if I think that Ambolobozokely is a bad place because of her son. I try in my best Malagasy to explain that she does not need to worry and that I love my village very much. Sometimes, there are no right words.

The search continues in the tumbledown shacks that people call home. The mattresses are disgusting, and I have to cover my face from the smell of mold and dust. Nothing here, nothing there. The Gendarme grow weary and start to question the two boys more aggressively. Soon, there will be nothing else to do but leave.

Astonishingly, we find three small items that had been stolen from my house from the first break-in last September: my alarm clock, a waterproof box and strangely... eye shadow. Why steal that?! And where were they found? Underneath the seat of an old, rusted car that's been left to decay for probably 15 years. Just the frame and a couple musty cushions remain.

By this point it's almost 5:30 and dusk is starting to settle over the village. I am emotionally exhausted and my brain feels like an empty pot. Too much language translation and cultural overload. I just want to go back to my shack and sleep forever.

We pack up the two handcuffed boys. They will go to the Gendarme holding center and after that, I do not know. They will not return to Ambolobozokely while I am there, which is only two weeks longer. I want to stay but some repairs are needed on my house before it's safe.

This is hard: I want to make everything better, to take away the shame that some might feel because of this event, to have closure and give thanks to those that have helped me over the last two years. I return to my village home today to begin the process of ending the sojourn. 

mora mora frustrations.

All of life in Madagascar can be summarized in two simple words: mora mora (slowly slowly). This covers everything from communication tactics to transportation issues, and even police work, which I have had the pleasure of experiencing first hand over the last couple weeks.

As most of you who follow my blog regularly know, my house was recently broken into in the middle of the night and my ipod was stolen as it lay beside me on my bed. After moving out of my village and waiting for a week for Peace Corps to organize themselves with a plan, today I was finally able to go to the Gendarme (armed police, who most of the time do absolutely nothing other than stand on the side of the road flagging down passing trucks and asking for money or something that they want from the driver, like fish, mangoes or whatever). I had this silly hope that I could simply swoop in, pick up the Gendarme and return to my village home.

When we arrived, we made all the formal, passive introductions and shuffled papers around the antiquated office for a bit of time. There is no electricity, no computers, no phones... just a couple of moldy rooms with large, open windows looking out onto mango trees and sugar cane. A couple women squatting in the shade. Chickens scratching in the dirt. In the background you could hear the click-clacking of a typewriter from the 1970's... the only piece of machinery in the entire building.

The Gendarme officer informed me that if I wanted them to actually go to my village and do something (ie go the guy's house that I believe did this), I would need to file a report, fix the old report I filled out before (requiring Malagasy language skills far exceeding my own), bring the paperwork to the Tribunal Court in Diego, wait three days, then they will go to my village with the proper paperwork and then, maybe then, something can be done. But only if this guy is still there by then (it's been nearly two weeks now since the incident).

Three hours later, typewriter still clacking away, the report was filed. The mora mora way of life continues.

what to expect.

Here is a list of some of the things you can expect out of me after my return from Madagascar.

I may prefer sitting on the floor to sitting in chairs, especially during meal times.

I may be unable to eat with a fork. Certain foods- actually, most- may require the use of a spoon.

I will take extremely long, hot showers, because indoor plumbing is the greatest invention in the universe.

I may stumble over seemingly easy English words or expressions, which might leave you feeling like you're playing a board game. For example: "What's it called... when you wanna sweep the floor... you need to use a... it's got a long handle..." A broom? Yes.

I may not be able to enter your house without taking my shoes off.

I will probably- with or without my knowledge- use Malagasy words as a regular part of my speech. It doesn't mean you're not mahay, it just means some Gasy words stick and have no good English translation.

I may want to dedicate long periods of the day to going on solitary walks or laying on the floor. Don't be alarmed- I don't have a social disorder- I just spent two years living alone in a shack and that's what I've been doing for most of it.

If I talk about being Gasy, or Gasy foods, I mean one s, not two.

Depending on when you see me, I may look like a homeless person. My clothes have been scrubbed by hand, beaten against rocks and dried in the sun for two years, and they're not in very good condition. If you would like to donate your old clothes to me, or buy me new ones, I promise I won't object.

I may use baffling acronyms such as PST, IST, MSC, COS, ET etc. This is a result of working for the US government.

I will have no idea what you're talking about if you bring up news, events, pop culture, TV shows, commercials or trends that occured after February 28, 2010. Please don't be alarmed. It's scary to me too.

I may walk very, very slowly.

I may be overwhelmed and/or frightened by large groups of white people.

I will probably irritate you by greeting you with a statement of the obvious. For example, it's early morning, you're making coffee in the kitchen. Instead of "Good morning!" I might say, "Making coffee?" Or perhaps you're washing dishes... "Washing dishes?" Reading the paper? Drinking tea? It's annoying. I apologize ahead of time.

If you have good bread, olives, wine, cheese and/or apples, you may serve them to me. You do not need to ask if I want them, but you certainly may. The answer will be yes.

I will not want to eat white rice.

I may not have a good answer if you ask, "How was Madagascar?" How would you respond to, "How were the last two years of your life?"

breakdown of a break in.

11:48PM: Wake up to an odd sound in my house; think it's just the cat. Look at my ipod to check the time. Fall back asleep.

12:40AM: Startled awake by another sound... think it's just the deluge of rain outside. Reach for my ipod to check the time again, but it's gone. Search everywhere. Shake out sheets, pillows, check under the mattress. Repeat this process a dozen times. Did my cat eat my ipod? Did I? Where the hell did it go?

12:52AM: Hear a clunk. Quickly turn on my head lamp and hear someone run out around my house. Heart pounding, frozen in bed. Cannot make myself check outside.

3:00AM: Fall back asleep. Nightmare about break-in.

6:15AM: Wake up. Window is open, lock has been fiddled with, bare footprints under the window in the mud. My ipod is gone. Someone reached under my mosquito net in the night and took the ipod that was next to my sleeping head.

7:05AM: Call Peace Corps. I don't feel safe to stay in my village, and Peace Corps supports this fully. Village president and small group of people gather around to discuss. Begin packing my bags.

11:30AM: Bike out of my village. Will return with Peace Corps van to collect the rest of my belongings later.

Everything right now is uncertain as far as what I will do from here. I had five weeks left to go in my village, but now I'm not sure if I'll be returning for any amount of time. There are still so many goodbyes to be had, things left up in the air, people that I want to thank who have helped me so much over the last two years.

I think I made the right decision in leaving because I didn't feel safe. But with such an abrupt ending, I long for some sort of closure. More updates in the weeks to come.

my fat ass (part 3)

(For those of you who missed it, click here for "my fat ass part one"; here for "my fat ass part two".)

Over the last few months, I’ve lost some weight. Not a lot of weight, maybe ten pounds or so, but enough that people in my village have begun to take notice. Well, they notice everything anyway, especially my not-so-fat-anymore ass. They’re worried.

To most Americans, losing weight is seen as good thing, which is understandable in a culture where the skinny are coveted and the chunky are seen as lesser beings. What’s fascinating is actually how hard it can be to have a healthy weight in America. We are inundated day in and day out with absurd food choices, oversized portions, easy lifestyles (admit it, not many of us are out there slaving away in the fields) and very little time in our hectic lives for moving our bodies.

We all know it’s become a problem: an epidemic of obesity. More than 30% of Americans are now obese and 50% are overweight. Childhood obesity and diabetes rates are at an all-time high.

Life is just not the same in Madagascar. People here work very, very hard their entire lives, with often little more to go on than a measly bowl of rice and nothing else until they catch or gather it. Children here have some of the highest stunted growth rates of any developing nation. Think your six-pack abs are hot in America? Well, they’re a dime a dozen in Madagascar.

So it should come as no surprise that having some heft to you is seen as a good thing here. The bigger you are, the wealthier you must be; the bigger your booty, the more you must be sitting around raking in the cash. The biggest people I’ve seen in Madagascar are the ones with likely the most desirable job: taxi-brousse drivers. These guys sit on their butts all day driving around, collecting money and eating roadside foods. Think long-haul truck drivers, beer bellies and all.

In any case, I wouldn’t have considered myself in the brousse driver category, but I definitely put on some pounds my first year in Madagascar. I was used to living a very active and healthy lifestyle in the U.S. and suddenly, there was all that sitting around wondering what to do in my village, coupled with the heat-induced laziness… and all those endless bowls of white rice… and deep-fried bananas… and deep-fried cassava… and deep-fried bread… and deep-fried dough… and deep-fried fish… well, it all started to add up. To my fat ass.

And boy was my village happy! Everyone was always talking about my weight amongst themselves, because there’s no shame in it here. While I silently suffered every comment, they rejoiced in my ever-growing ass.

Except now those days are over. I stopped eating fried foods (no easy task in a place where there is often literally no other food option available), exercise daily (the heat is my friend!) and feel almost like my normal self (and weight) with the exception of a daily dose of sorely missed fresh vegetables and salad. Plus, I think I’ve just plain gotten used to being hungry. All the time.

This has got my villagers very worried indeed. It’s the high season in Ambolobozokely: winds are calm and the seas are fruitful. Everyone’s eating their fish fill and raking in the Ariary with every kilo of fish sold. I ate at my girlfriend Sophia’s house last week; she couldn’t even zip up the skirt that six months ago was too big for her. She laughed merrily about her gut spilling out of her shirt, while I took note of my negative thoughts about it.

Suffice to say, every time I walk past a group of women these days, I hear them quietly whisper under their breaths, “Mahia eeee!” (Skinny!) They usually say it when I’m far enough away that they think I can’t hear them. Sometimes they cluck their tongues, as if I’m been struck with some terrible disease. Some have a more direct approach, like the local shopkeeper (an exceptionally large woman): she just asked, “What is wrong with you?”

Some conjecture I must be sick (I did lose some weight when I had Dysentery) while others exclaim “Ngoma!” (Missing someone!) Many of them insist I don’t eat enough rice while neighbors have started bringing over food, such as coconut-stewed bananas or crab sauce. I just keep pointing out that my big ol’ booty is right there behind me just as it always has been. They laugh.

Recently a friend came to my village that I hadn’t seen for a long time. The first thing she said when she saw me was “Mahia eeeee!” When I told her I wasn’t skinny, just enjoying getting exercise, she had an interesting reply. She told me that she knew it was a compliment for white people to be told their skinny, but she couldn’t understand why. I shrugged. Some things are better lost in translation.

What a funny world we live in. Americans are trying desperately to get skinny (and failing at that) while the rest of the developing world struggles for just a tiny piece of the pie.

two errands.

This morning, I had two errands to run in my banking town of Diego. Such small errands that, if I lived in the United States, would not even require me to leave my home, or if so, would be rather painless: pick up a package at the post office (these are usually delivered right to your door in the U.S!), and buy a plane ticket (normally this can be done on-line).

I set out as early as possible to do these two simple errands since the heat and humidity these days steadily climbs and becomes unbearable by 10 o'clock in the morning. Unfortunately the post office and Air Madagascar don't open until 8:30.

First stop, the post office. But please, don't picture a post office. Picture in your mind instead, a dilapidated, abandoned building, complete with broken glass doors, crumbling concrete steps, empty office stalls filled with broken machinery, computer monitors from the early age of computers so covered in dust they look like an artifacts, stacks of phone directories from the 1980's, busted brooms and all manner of boxes, piles of yellowed paper and trash blown into corners. This is where I go to retrieve my packages... where one solitary man sits behind a wooden desk day after day, writing up dozens of package slips by hand in leather-bound books that look straight out of the19th century. Each slip must, of course, be stamped with several official stamps in order for every transaction to be complete.

But I digress. Already pouring with sweat in the stuffy building, I hurriedly give the man my package slip, wondering why it costs an astonishing 10,000 Ariary less than usual. He looks at me sheepishly as he turns the corner to retrieve the package; I sense something is wrong. Normally he will pull out an ancient set of keys that opens a dusty storage room; this time he simply picks up what I think is a large envelope on his desk. As he comes around the corner I see that what looks to be an envelope was once a good-sized cardboard box, now squished (perhaps under the wheels of a truck?) and bundled together with twine. One corner is open, and the whole box is soggy and smelling of decay. This is the package I've been waiting two months for.

I can't help but instantly show my frustration, by swearing (in English) under my breath. He starts rattling off some story about a problem with the truck, and rain, and bad roads, and in response, trying not to be overly confrontational, I don't look him in the eye. I understand most of what he says; his Malagasy is a dialect with which I'm not too familiar. He suggests if I would rather come back in the afternoon, I can file a formal complaint. (This really is just a formality, nothing would come out of it other than losing several more pints of sweat and sitting for several more hours in a stuffy office building.) I say no thank you, I'll take what's left of the package now. He tells me not to be mad at him, he didn't ruin the package. I know this, but still, the sweat, the heat, the two years of dealing with nothing that works in Madagascar... this one moment is just the straw that broke the already-broken-long-ago camel's back.

I pay the money with crumpled, dirty bills and move on to my second errand of the day, which holds much more promise of going smoothly; when I'd gone to the Air Madagascar office earlier in the week, there was actually a waiting area with comfortable chairs, fans that worked (though the electricity was out in half the office), and fairly competent staff who spoke an comprehensible mixture of French, Malagasy and a few English words.

The office is a good distance from the post so by the time I arrive I am once again dripping with sweat. Much to my delight, there is no wait! I make my way to the pleasant woman I'd dealt with on Monday. After securing the reservation (all the while fanning myself with a piece of plastic), we go together to the payment desk, which is where the trouble begins. My credit card won't process through their fairly-modern looking machine. She tries again, and again, and again. Several other workers gather around, trying the card. "Do you have another card?" they ask. No. Of course not.

We sit back down at the desk and she looks at me impassively. "Madame? Can I help you?" she asks, dismissing me and looking around for the next customer. I'm kinda -okay, really- pissed off. She tells me I'll have to go to the bank to get cash, then come back. Alright, fine. It's no one's fault, it's just life in Madagascar. Out in the street, back in the sun, I storm off to the closest ATM. As I approach the door, the guard stops me, calling out in Malagasy, "It's not working! You'll have to go downtown." Of course.

I get the fat stack of Ariary, return to the office and finally make the reservation with a new clerk, who is actually a 60-someodd year old man, who is in training and possibly discovering computers for the first time. He politely asks, "Would you like to pay now or at the airport?" Haha! I almost laugh. This whole time, I discover, I didn't even need to pay at the time of the reservation. I could have paid on the day of the flight, at the airport. Sigh.

I need a beer.

do rainbows really kill?

It was a peaceful early morning in my tiny coastal village. Coconut trees sparkled with dew against a dark gray backdrop of last night’s rain clouds as they moved westward away from the sea. Ripe mangoes drop from their branches constantly during these languid days; often their kerplunk! on my rooftop startles me out of a sound sleep. Since I’d woken earlier than most of the village I was able to enjoy a moment of precious solitude as I stood in the sandy path I walk every morning to a nearby coffee shack.

As I approached the seaside shanty, smoke wafting from the small woodfires burning under the blackened pots of coffee, tea and soup, I turned to gaze once more at the brilliant sky, where the sun was rising over the glass-like sea and lighting up each raindrop on every branch and flower.

Suddenly I noticed a glorious rainbow stretching across the entire sky; just as I took note of it, a couple children walked past me.

“Look at that!” I implored them, pointing to the rainbow and asking what it’s called in Malagasy, since it’s one of the many words I can never seem to remember. “Isn’t that nice?” I asked, altogether forgetting what I’ve heard before about Malagasy people: they do NOT like rainbows. At all.

The older of the children looked at me as if I had three heads, which is actually a look I’ve become quite used to; my presence is an endless source of amazement and often horror in children (and adults) wherever I go.

“No… it’s not nice… rainbows kill people!” the poor child retorted.

 “Really? How do they do that?” I asked, half smiling. Malagasy aren’t too good at answering “how” questions- something either is or it isn’t and that’s all there is to it.

“When a rainbow goes down to the ground, it kills,” the child said matter-of-factly, and taking hold of her little sister’s hand, moved on down the path.

Moments later, I sat drinking coffee in the smoky shack, staring out at the same seascape I’ve watched most mornings for almost two years, wondering if it’s true: do rainbows really kill people?

Well, why not? We go around saying there’s a miniature Irish man in green pants dancing around a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow. I’d like to know what a Malagasy person thinks of our folktale about rainbows. Maybe it’s true… the leprechaun kills whoever gets too close to his pot of gold.