good times.

cute puppies love mango season too.


thanksgiving day starfish at Ankify beach.


windmills in Ambolobozokely at sunset.


planting Moringa seeds with kids.


some weird sea creature that lives inside shells. people here either eat them or sell them at the market. can you spot its two white eyes sticking out?


cute little neighbor girl with weird sea creature shell.


how katie & I feel about another year of peace corps service in Madagascar.


actually, I think it was more like this.

hard times.

A challenging day in my village is everyday; it takes an exceptional happening to really make me question my ability to stay. The last few days have proven to be some of my hardest yet.

To fully explain the situation that recently occurred, I must backtrack a little. For those of you who aren't familiar with the structure of Peace Corps Madagascar, each community, after submitting a formal written request for a volunteer, assigns a person who will work directly with the PCV during their two years of service. This person, called a "counterpart," can be a village president, director of a community, governmental or non-governmental organization, head of a school or business association, etc. The relationship established with your counterpart is a key component to integration into your community and as such, Peace Corps puts a lot of emphasis on ensuring the relationship is solid. Some counterparts speak a little French or English; often they are more educated and in some senses, more "westernized" in terms of work structure- familiar with concepts such as office space, regular work hours, mission statements and the like.

Not so much in my case, however. My counterpart, though a prominent community figure, builds houses or more accurately, huts, for a living. I work with no organization and have no specific job description, outside of the Peace Corps mission. And certainly, no office space. Nonetheless, my counterpart Pierre has been an incredible resource for me throughout the last eight months at site. Not only has he been available at all times to answer ever cultural question imaginable, he and his wife and five children have become a second family to me. (Some PCVs actually live with host families during their service, not so in Madagascar.) We've shared countless meals and laughter together daily, and I've been very blessed to have such a supportive home away from home. Sometimes Pierre has free time to help me with my work, which has largely consisted of building a tree nursery and growing nutritious Moringa trees, and educating women on their health benefits. When I want to feel like I'm contributing in some other way, I often go help Pierre build houses, pouring cement, breaking rocks or hauling buckets of water from the well.

In any case, that's a bit of the basic background of the Peace Corps counterpart.

Here's what just happened over the last few days.

Pierre is leaving my village, separating from his wife of fifteen years and planning on moving to America. This may not seem like much news to you, but in a village where roughly 1% of the population has ever even been to the capital city a mere 500 miles away, his leaving behind everything he's ever known and moving halfway around the world is... kind of a big deal.

But the real news is that he's not just moving away.

He plans to marry the volunteer that lived here before me, who left over two years ago. It turns out they had a secret affair during her service and have kept in touch this whole time, unbeknownst to me or to anyone else for that matter.

I'm uncertain what this all means for me in the immediate future. When I called my Peace Corps director, he was quite concerned about the impact this situation would have on my morale and the community; the cultural ramifications are vast and not something Peace Corps looks upon too keenly. It is one thing for a PCV to become romantically involved with a Host Country National (or HCN, yes there is an acronym for it in PC jargon) who is single or at least has been separated for some time from their partner. It is quite another to break up a family whose sole income is that of the father's; women here weave baskets for a measly supplemental income when they're not taking care of their children.

The enormity of problems this may potentially lead to for me has been overwhelming to think about. Other women may become quite distrustful of me. Men may think they can get a free ticket to America through me. My work may not be taken seriously, or become even less supported than it already is. The list of issues goes on and on. Because we are cultural ambassadors, PCVs do not just act as solo entities; we represent the entire American culture to a vastly undereducated people. As scary as it may seem to you, and certainly is to me, I am every American woman to every Malagasy person I meet.

In the midst of all of this, I feel sad about losing a work partner and friend in Pierre. Though it may be quite some time before he ever sets foot in America, the framework of our relationship has been irrevocably altered. It is hard enough to live halfway around the world with no friends and family nearby; as such, the relationships I've created in my village and with other PCVs have become important lifelines.

So, the last few days have certainly been challenging, with many more to come. I know that the Peace Corps experience is an intense two-year roller coaster ride without any viable exits. I have to believe that while I may want to give up and go home right now because everything seems more than I can handle, sticking it out may have greater rewards than I will ever know.

It's been difficult to write this blog, with many stops and starts and revisions as I struggle to say the right thing and not come off as too one-sided. I know that the previous volunteer and her family read this blog, as well as many more people from Madagascar and the Peace Corps community. I want to say that while this situation is complex, it is not entirely uncommon. People meet and fall in love everyday.

If you have any thoughts you'd like to share after reading this blog, I welcome you to leave a comment... and as always, thanks for your support!

mango season.

When we live somewhere long enough to notices changes in our environment, such as seasons turning or children growing, we begin to feel a sense of belonging, an attachment to the place as it becomes our home.

Consequently, I remember waiting with great trepidation for my first spring in Missoula, Montana, a place where the winter sky hangs like a soggy wool coat over town for about six months. Every morning throughout that long month of April, I would anxiously study the gray branches of the bushes outside my house, hoping to catch the first bud springing forth to offer the promise of summer. One mild evening, walking to dance class, I spied the tiniest tender green bud, barely emerging from a branch! It was then- and only then- that I began to feel an attachment to that beautiful mountain town.

Similarly, I could only fully appreciate the desert around Tucson, Arizona after waiting alongside the Saguaro cactus and Palo Verde tree for eight months until those awesome, dark monsoon clouds came, bringing rain and color to the barren landscape.

Here in Madagascar, mango season has finally arrived, and that means I have come to witness a new season and experience a newfound sense of place.

It also means devouring those fresh, succulent fruits, sometimes up to four or five, per day. Why not? The trees are heavy with hundreds of them, so much so that they fall from their branches day and night. In turn, this leads to me needing to floss four or five times a day. If you are trying to get your kids to floss more, simply feed them mangoes. I don't know why every dentist visit doesn't end with them handing you a mango as you leave the reception area. People in Madagascar don't have much floss (or teeth), so they just use twigs or little pieces of whatever is laying around to pick out the mango bits.

There is a place I like to walk to outside of my village around sunset. The forest consists only of dark, full-leafed mango and tall coconut trees, and is surrounded by prickly pear cactus. It is an aberrant cross between some of my favorite parts of Australia and Arizona combined. I have taken to retreating to this place every night around five to watch golden sunsets. And the cows. It seems they too love this part of the forest, maybe more than me.

During this season, it is quite the sight to see cows waiting patiently under trees for fruits to drop. They stand around chewing their cud until a ripe mango falls with a thud on the forest floor. Whichever cow is close by will saunter over to find his or her new favorite snack. Have you ever seen a cow eat a mango? It is wildly entertaining. (Okay, maybe I have been living in a village a little too long.) Their tongues go sloshing in and out of their mouths as they manipulate the hard-to-eat fruit, closing their eyes blissfully. Every time I see this sight, I wonder how delicious a hamburger might taste from a cow that's spent it's entire life eating organic mangoes and grasses. This is an unusual thought for an ex-vegetarian of twelve years.

When you travel around Madagascar during mango season, each roadside village is lined with little stands loaded with mangoes for sale. Women and children collect them and then sell them for 100 Ariary a piece (about 5 cents). I like to think we could do this in America too... just wander off into forest or field and sell whatever we can collect that grows wildly and organically. Sometimes living in Madagascar feels like I'm in a summer camp from my childhood: full of possibilities and makeshift dreams.

I recently found out there are six types of mangoes that grow in Madagascar, and I am allergic to one of them, though I know not which. I kept getting the itchiest rash on my belly until one day I had to practically force myself to stop eating mangoes, to see if the rash cleared up. This is harder to do than you might imagine; everyone loves to give me mangoes just because. Plus, now that mango season is here, mango salad and mango slaw and mango chutney are a part of my every meal. Sure enough, when I stopped eating the littler, more tangy mangoes, the itching went away. I have one friend in America who is deathly allergic to mangoes; I am glad that I am not, because life here would not taste nearly as good.

upon receiving word of the death of my father's friend on the telephone in Madagascar

We don't know when our time is up.
Yet we live- indeed, thrive- in that blissful ignorance,
necessarily oblivious.

When one of us becomes too-soon-gone
it is difficult to know which is harder to endure:
the loss we live through
or the life which remains

and in that precarious state
we teeter.

Though I did not know him,
I understand what it means to be in the world without him,
because of the certain
soft sound
-almost imperceptible-
in my father's voice,
breaking,
breaking over waves.

~ for D.B.