it seems to become increasingly more apparent, the two lives i lead here in madagascar. and being in the beginning stages of my peace corps experience, i am at times completely disatisfied and enamored with each, for very different reasons.
when i am in my "city life," and long to describe my "village life" in words here in this forum, i am suddenly struck with not only an inability to accurately capture either, but evenmoreso by the feeling that any attempt at description is futile, pointless.
likewise, when i return to my village, and settle into the daily routine with an increasingly-familiar cast of characters, i feel so far-removed from that other-self, those concerns of the world which came to me instantaneously through email, internet, facebook, news.
it has become almost comical: i flip through my journal for inspiration while at this computer, wanting to partake in the opportunity to share with the rest of the world but instead i read my scribbed words, usually written in my hut at nightfall, as unfamiliar to me as though written by a hand other than my own.
nonetheless, even this experience of leading two lives is neither foreign nor alarming to me. i have spent too many years working in wilderness jobs to be truly surprised by these feelings. i remember late-night drives back from 8-day wilderness shifts in utah; the vast, empty landscapes of grand canyon country, driving that long road toward my home in flagstaff arizona, suspended between the reality of my life in the wilderness and my life at home. there was always the adjustment period of a day or two on either end, coming & going between the two worlds, always missing one, always glad to be away from the other.
and so, it is a bit like that here. when i am in the city, there are many creature comforts which i've become more or less accustomed to living without over the last eight years of outdoor jobs: internet, refrigeration, television, toilets, chocolate croissants.
but then there are the things i miss at my site, which in many senses, has been and will increasingly become my "real life:" my little hut-home, the kindness of friends-in-the-making, the sea, the stars... namely, life in a rural fishing village in madagascar.
what is still shocking though is how difficult it can sometimes be to live here. and to commit to staying in a place for more than one year is not something i've done much in my adult life, and definitely not in a place that can be as indescribably challenging as it is beautiful. there are many internal struggles daily. this is a common peace corps experience: to question why you're here, what you're doing, how you will ever go about accomplishing anything- such an american perspective anyway- and i try to remind myself of this during the hard times.
and a note on "the american perspective." living here reminds me just how goal-oriented, task-driven and work-defined we are in america. when we first meet a stranger, we ask, "so what do you do for work?" malagasys describe themselves in the context of their family relations. i am the mother of... my father is... i have two sons and two daughters...
still, i obviously can't avoid approaching peace corps without being american, and as such, being task-oriented. and this is in and of itself my singlemost challenge currently at site these days: what can i DO? the fact that i don't really have a job or a clearly-defined role in my village can be tiresome and disheartening. nonetheless, the people there don't really seem to mind that i'm not really doing anything specifically (yet). they are just happy when i sit down and join them in a leisurely conversation, or eat a meal with them.
and thus, the ultimate curse of the american; we spend our lives wishing we could just "have more time." time to read books, plant a garden, cook, write, whatever indulgence we can't seem to afford ourselves, that can't seem to squeeze in between our precious work-lives. then, in the case of the peace corps volunteer, there is finally that time and the guilt of actually doing those things sets in! the indulgence of having a stack of books and knowing there will finally be the time to read them.
still, i came here to do something and i'm on the road to find out. lucky for me, madagascar is full of both beauty and opportunity, struggle and joy, city and village.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
poetry.
i felt inspired to write these poems the other day at site, after reading nine horses, a collection of poetry by billy collins.
_____________________________________________
i have come back to this blank page,
black leather creased and coming undone,
rain splattering against
the leaf-roof and stick walls
almost as earnestly
seeking its way
as i do here with my pen poised,
scribbling.
_____________________________________________
permission.
what is interesting
is what happens
when you are given permission
to be anything
or anyone you want
in a country where there is no verb,
"to be."
the stumbling-over-oneself
becomes a weekly,
daily,
and sometimes, hourly event
in which nothing seems certain
except that you are
uncertain
of everything:
what the women are carrying
on their heads in those
brightly-colored bundles
hips swaying along the sandy path,
brown skin glowing like a melted chocolate bar.
or why the men sing,
crouched around the framework of a seaside shack,
eating cassava root,
barefoot always.
the roosters begin at 4AM
the cows at 5
and my neighbors music at 6
(i know because i pray to the god of silence daily)
and it is then, in those early hours
i seek to understand
what it is that i am meant to do
but more importantly
why i have been given permission
to be here.
unable to ask,
unable to know.
_______________________________________
still.
there are strange pockets of perfect moments
like these,
when i sit in my wooden chair
rocking crookedly
and the wind blows coarsely through the palms
and the day is coming to its twisted end
when i gaze softly upon
the black & white cat on the stoop,
and the small boy sleeping in the chair,
and think, this is perfection,
perhaps.
perhaps this is my life.
_____________________________________________
i have come back to this blank page,
black leather creased and coming undone,
rain splattering against
the leaf-roof and stick walls
almost as earnestly
seeking its way
as i do here with my pen poised,
scribbling.
_____________________________________________
permission.
what is interesting
is what happens
when you are given permission
to be anything
or anyone you want
in a country where there is no verb,
"to be."
the stumbling-over-oneself
becomes a weekly,
daily,
and sometimes, hourly event
in which nothing seems certain
except that you are
uncertain
of everything:
what the women are carrying
on their heads in those
brightly-colored bundles
hips swaying along the sandy path,
brown skin glowing like a melted chocolate bar.
or why the men sing,
crouched around the framework of a seaside shack,
eating cassava root,
barefoot always.
the roosters begin at 4AM
the cows at 5
and my neighbors music at 6
(i know because i pray to the god of silence daily)
and it is then, in those early hours
i seek to understand
what it is that i am meant to do
but more importantly
why i have been given permission
to be here.
unable to ask,
unable to know.
_______________________________________
still.
there are strange pockets of perfect moments
like these,
when i sit in my wooden chair
rocking crookedly
and the wind blows coarsely through the palms
and the day is coming to its twisted end
when i gaze softly upon
the black & white cat on the stoop,
and the small boy sleeping in the chair,
and think, this is perfection,
perhaps.
perhaps this is my life.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
public displays of nudity.
in america, we're all familiar with the term "PDA" or Public Display of Affection, the not-always-welcome moment when two folks are seen locked in some sort of embrace in a public forum.
well, i am here today to talk about something i've come across quite a bit these days while living in my village, and that is the "PDN," or Public Display of Nudity. the "PDN" is the awkward-to-me-but-not-so-awkward-for-them moment when i happen to not quite accidentally see someone nude or partially nude, right out there in public, for all the world (okay, maybe just a few people) to see.
i have many examples. my apologies to those malagasies that are reading this blog who feel that this is not an accurate portrayal of your natural-born propensity for bashfulness and modesty.
example one. my first few weeks at site, almost every morning i would look out my window only to see my neighbor squatting behind a couple sticks in her backyard, peeing or sometimes taking a bucket bath. i felt mortified to be even be looking in that general direction, trying to offer her some sort of semblance of privacy, however she seemed non-chalant and just kept on doing her thing. i kept wondering, "should i build a proper wall or partition of some kind for her to do her morning duties? does she care that her 'bathroom' is more or less wide open to my bedroom window?" what action to take stumped me for some time, and without any real language skills to make an inquiry, i was left somewhat bewildered and bemused. finally i just threw together a few large leaves on the fence in between her yard and mine, and hung up a curtain in my window. may she pee in peace.
example two. i often have morning coffee in a little shack run by a very strong, kind older woman who reminds me of my grandmother. she is always cooking or weaving baskets or selling vegetables. as she is never idle, sometimes the lamba that she wears loosly tied around her body comes free. we will be sitting talking, me sipping my coffee and eating some fried banana bread, when woops, down drops the top of her dress. no big deal. not seeming to care, she'll tie it up again, only for it to drop down again some other time. as a side, the women in my village are all very beautiful, and wear their lambas (brightly-colored cloth) tied around their bodies, often with no shirt or bra underneath. i think the physical environment helps to create a cultural norm where showing some skin is not so unusual.
example three. my community built a special bathhouse for my very own use, where one can't see through the sticks and leaves, and it even has a door (very unusual), gathered from someone's rusted-tin chickenhouse roof. most other bathhouses in the community are kind of like, "here, try a little of that." a few sticks, a few large leaves, and you're good to splash and bathe at will. and these bathhouses are not in some hidden, secluded location either. i'm talking about right in the middle of town. just strolling past sometimes... woopsie, hello. i'm embarrassed, they are not.
example four. i was walking to my house the other day, just coming from buying a few tomatoes. as i came around the bend in the sandy path, i came upon yet another neighbor, a male this time, completely naked standing in front of the doorway of his hut. having just come in from fishing, he was wet and changing out of his dripping clothes. yes, he did reach for some pants. but did he turn away? no. did he hurry to cover himself? no. did i not know what to do, which way to go, if i should say something? um, yes.
there are many other examples. i won't go on. these incidences do not occur in a lewd way, nor are the malagasy people in my village exhibitionists or weirdos. it seems more the nature of the place; everyone lives in front of each other here. the children are watched and cared for by all, your whereabouts and business are always known; you cook, sit, eat, work and live outside, on woven mats, in seaside shacks, amongst each other.
and part of that life, i guess, is not clothed, not hidden, seen.
well, i am here today to talk about something i've come across quite a bit these days while living in my village, and that is the "PDN," or Public Display of Nudity. the "PDN" is the awkward-to-me-but-not-so-awkward-for-them moment when i happen to not quite accidentally see someone nude or partially nude, right out there in public, for all the world (okay, maybe just a few people) to see.
i have many examples. my apologies to those malagasies that are reading this blog who feel that this is not an accurate portrayal of your natural-born propensity for bashfulness and modesty.
example one. my first few weeks at site, almost every morning i would look out my window only to see my neighbor squatting behind a couple sticks in her backyard, peeing or sometimes taking a bucket bath. i felt mortified to be even be looking in that general direction, trying to offer her some sort of semblance of privacy, however she seemed non-chalant and just kept on doing her thing. i kept wondering, "should i build a proper wall or partition of some kind for her to do her morning duties? does she care that her 'bathroom' is more or less wide open to my bedroom window?" what action to take stumped me for some time, and without any real language skills to make an inquiry, i was left somewhat bewildered and bemused. finally i just threw together a few large leaves on the fence in between her yard and mine, and hung up a curtain in my window. may she pee in peace.
example two. i often have morning coffee in a little shack run by a very strong, kind older woman who reminds me of my grandmother. she is always cooking or weaving baskets or selling vegetables. as she is never idle, sometimes the lamba that she wears loosly tied around her body comes free. we will be sitting talking, me sipping my coffee and eating some fried banana bread, when woops, down drops the top of her dress. no big deal. not seeming to care, she'll tie it up again, only for it to drop down again some other time. as a side, the women in my village are all very beautiful, and wear their lambas (brightly-colored cloth) tied around their bodies, often with no shirt or bra underneath. i think the physical environment helps to create a cultural norm where showing some skin is not so unusual.
example three. my community built a special bathhouse for my very own use, where one can't see through the sticks and leaves, and it even has a door (very unusual), gathered from someone's rusted-tin chickenhouse roof. most other bathhouses in the community are kind of like, "here, try a little of that." a few sticks, a few large leaves, and you're good to splash and bathe at will. and these bathhouses are not in some hidden, secluded location either. i'm talking about right in the middle of town. just strolling past sometimes... woopsie, hello. i'm embarrassed, they are not.
example four. i was walking to my house the other day, just coming from buying a few tomatoes. as i came around the bend in the sandy path, i came upon yet another neighbor, a male this time, completely naked standing in front of the doorway of his hut. having just come in from fishing, he was wet and changing out of his dripping clothes. yes, he did reach for some pants. but did he turn away? no. did he hurry to cover himself? no. did i not know what to do, which way to go, if i should say something? um, yes.
there are many other examples. i won't go on. these incidences do not occur in a lewd way, nor are the malagasy people in my village exhibitionists or weirdos. it seems more the nature of the place; everyone lives in front of each other here. the children are watched and cared for by all, your whereabouts and business are always known; you cook, sit, eat, work and live outside, on woven mats, in seaside shacks, amongst each other.
and part of that life, i guess, is not clothed, not hidden, seen.
what i have to do to use the internet.
(maybe you will think of this next time your less-than-instant internet connection in your own home makes you sigh in frustration.)
step one. wake up at 1 AM.
step two. wait half-asleep until i hear the honking of a deisel truck horn in the village which indicates it is time to wearily climb aboard; this could be anytime between 1:30 and 5:00 AM.
step three. sit squashed on a bench with no cushions, inhaling fumes and wishing i could sleep, stopping to pick up other folks along the sandy, gutted road, loading the truck with buckets of fish caught the day before, rice, peanuts, baskets and other wares to sell at the market. this process can take upwards of four hours, depending on how many people and how much stuff must be strapped to the truck.
step four. arrive in diego, my banking town in the north, sometime early morning. pay the not-yet-drunk driver 5000 ariary, the equivalent of $2.50.
step five. take a taxi to the peace corps office, hoping the taxi works and we don't have to get out and push it.
step six. hope the internet is working; it's a 50-50 coin toss. even if i can connect, it doesn't mean the connection will last long, or work properly. last time i was here, i spent the entire weekend waiting for the internet to do its thing.
step seven. the return trip to my village. often worse, because it means waiting for many hours for the taxi-brousse in the stinky, hot market, never knowing when we're going to leave, or if the driver will be sober-ish.
step eight. ah, home sweet home. no internet, just me and my trusty journal.
step one. wake up at 1 AM.
step two. wait half-asleep until i hear the honking of a deisel truck horn in the village which indicates it is time to wearily climb aboard; this could be anytime between 1:30 and 5:00 AM.
step three. sit squashed on a bench with no cushions, inhaling fumes and wishing i could sleep, stopping to pick up other folks along the sandy, gutted road, loading the truck with buckets of fish caught the day before, rice, peanuts, baskets and other wares to sell at the market. this process can take upwards of four hours, depending on how many people and how much stuff must be strapped to the truck.
step four. arrive in diego, my banking town in the north, sometime early morning. pay the not-yet-drunk driver 5000 ariary, the equivalent of $2.50.
step five. take a taxi to the peace corps office, hoping the taxi works and we don't have to get out and push it.
step six. hope the internet is working; it's a 50-50 coin toss. even if i can connect, it doesn't mean the connection will last long, or work properly. last time i was here, i spent the entire weekend waiting for the internet to do its thing.
step seven. the return trip to my village. often worse, because it means waiting for many hours for the taxi-brousse in the stinky, hot market, never knowing when we're going to leave, or if the driver will be sober-ish.
step eight. ah, home sweet home. no internet, just me and my trusty journal.
care packages.
so many of you have asked what i would like in a care package that i decided to write a posting with some ideas. in general, i love malagasy food and feel healthy avoiding all the high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated oils, additives and food colourings in american food, but still there are some things i miss. send anything you like, but please don't make it too heavy for both our sakes; i have to pay to receive packages on this end as well, based on weight.
some ideas...
- dark chocolate
- nuts/ trail mix/ dried fruit
- ground flax seed
- clif bars
- oatmeal
- quinoa
- cheezits
- annie's mac & cheese
- fig newtons
- emergen-C drink packs
- popcorn
- nutritional yeast
- candles
- photos
- AAA batteries
- crayons, coloring books, puzzles, glowsticks, anything for kids, including educational materials such as beginning english books, maps, etc
- books
- DVDs/ videos
- nice pens
- hair/skin products (travel-sized is great)
- letters, letters, letters
thank you for caring!
some ideas...
- dark chocolate
- nuts/ trail mix/ dried fruit
- ground flax seed
- clif bars
- oatmeal
- quinoa
- cheezits
- annie's mac & cheese
- fig newtons
- emergen-C drink packs
- popcorn
- nutritional yeast
- candles
- photos
- AAA batteries
- crayons, coloring books, puzzles, glowsticks, anything for kids, including educational materials such as beginning english books, maps, etc
- books
- DVDs/ videos
- nice pens
- hair/skin products (travel-sized is great)
- letters, letters, letters
thank you for caring!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
would there be singing?
last weekend some of my community members took a trip to the neighboring village of anketrekabe to celebrate the religious holiday of pentecost. a fellow PCV also happens to live in this village, so i went along on the trip to visit her site and spend some time speaking english and asking cultural questions. even though the villages are some distance apart on some pretty bad roads, everywhere is far and all the roads are bad in madagascar, so why not? i am always up for an adventure.
in madagascar though, you don't just hop in the car or bus and ease on down the road to your destination. most vehicles are rusted-out, dirty and always breaking down for some reason or another. the typical way of getting around here is on a taxi-brousse (bush taxi). the vehicles are usually 12-passenger vans carrying 25 people squeezed inside with baskets, chickens and bananas strapped to the tops and sides, or larger deisel trucks spewing black smoke and hauling loads of rice, peanuts, buckets of fish and sometimes upwards of 40 people sitting or standing where they can.
it was on one of these larger trucks that i returned from my weekend visit. it seemed that half my village was squeezed into this taxi-brousse. unbelievably, more and more people piled in and on top of this truck. as a kind gesture, i got to sit up front next to the driver and four other people, which meant uncomfortably straddling the stick shift, covered with greasy motor oil, for several hours.
to no one's surprise, as we were slowly making our way down the bumpy, gullied dirt road, the truck broke down. some guys happily jumped out to help make a quick adjustment, and several women and children gathered small fruits growing on the trees nearby. in not too much time, we were on our way.
but then it happened again, as the innards of the truck's engine groaned and creaked and came to a lurching halt. the repairs took longer this time, and people stood around cracking jokes. no one really seemed to care if the truck repair took ten minutes or ten hours. a group of children entertained themselves staring at me and intermittently scribbling in the sand. as the sun began to set, we once more piled into this monstrosity of a vehicle and crawled further down the road.
in no time at all, someone called out to the driver that there was a flat tire. at this point, everyone poured out of the vehicle. a large group of men began not to fix the tire, but promptly formed a circle under a tree, rhythmically singing, clapping and drumming, faces beaming with smiles and merriment. this went on for probably a half hour as a few other guys worked on the tire.
i sat in the grass, struck with wonder and amazement, taking in the beautiful sunset.
if this sort of thing happened in the states, people would be angrily grumbling to each other and cursing into their cell phones. here, it was an opportunity for togetherness, and celebration.
i kept asking myself, "if this happened in the states, would people be joyful?"
and would there be singing?
in madagascar though, you don't just hop in the car or bus and ease on down the road to your destination. most vehicles are rusted-out, dirty and always breaking down for some reason or another. the typical way of getting around here is on a taxi-brousse (bush taxi). the vehicles are usually 12-passenger vans carrying 25 people squeezed inside with baskets, chickens and bananas strapped to the tops and sides, or larger deisel trucks spewing black smoke and hauling loads of rice, peanuts, buckets of fish and sometimes upwards of 40 people sitting or standing where they can.
it was on one of these larger trucks that i returned from my weekend visit. it seemed that half my village was squeezed into this taxi-brousse. unbelievably, more and more people piled in and on top of this truck. as a kind gesture, i got to sit up front next to the driver and four other people, which meant uncomfortably straddling the stick shift, covered with greasy motor oil, for several hours.
to no one's surprise, as we were slowly making our way down the bumpy, gullied dirt road, the truck broke down. some guys happily jumped out to help make a quick adjustment, and several women and children gathered small fruits growing on the trees nearby. in not too much time, we were on our way.
but then it happened again, as the innards of the truck's engine groaned and creaked and came to a lurching halt. the repairs took longer this time, and people stood around cracking jokes. no one really seemed to care if the truck repair took ten minutes or ten hours. a group of children entertained themselves staring at me and intermittently scribbling in the sand. as the sun began to set, we once more piled into this monstrosity of a vehicle and crawled further down the road.
in no time at all, someone called out to the driver that there was a flat tire. at this point, everyone poured out of the vehicle. a large group of men began not to fix the tire, but promptly formed a circle under a tree, rhythmically singing, clapping and drumming, faces beaming with smiles and merriment. this went on for probably a half hour as a few other guys worked on the tire.
i sat in the grass, struck with wonder and amazement, taking in the beautiful sunset.
if this sort of thing happened in the states, people would be angrily grumbling to each other and cursing into their cell phones. here, it was an opportunity for togetherness, and celebration.
i kept asking myself, "if this happened in the states, would people be joyful?"
and would there be singing?
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