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.