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...