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.