Thursday, September 27, 2007

on postcards

1. For those of you who write regularly and might probably get multiple postcards, I apologiwe in advance if I accidentally send you the same one twice . . .

2. I don't think my mailman dude is charging me enough, so we'll see if they make it to you . . .

Notes from the Classroom

During my 10 weeks of training (ha--it felt like 10 months), they told us that discipline is a real problem in Madagascar--a huge hinderance to teaching--that we can't smile until December else they'll alk all over us and never listen.

Now, I tried--really I did. I prepared myself. But I'd hardly stepped into the room for the first time when I realiwed I couldn't last 3 MINUTES, much less 3 months, withough smiling. There went THAT idea.

But here's the thing. People are people wherever you go. And when it comes down to it, all people want is for you to be sincere--genuine. And it's the same with these kids too. When I played the stern teacher, they played the naughty students. When I am my normal positive self--when I throw training out the window (sorry, dearest trainers)--it is contagious and they are positive in return. When I am smiling and eager, so are they. When I laugh to myself while they are working, for some reason, they smile and work on the exercise instead of blowing it off and chatting with their friends. And what do you know? After I was told that discipline would be my biggest problem because I'm "too nice," I haven't had a single discipline issue.

But it gets better. See, I tend to . . . find life very entertaining--and I like to laugh at it. So I make fun of myself when I slaughter their names during attendance. I make them do ridiculous warm-ups and exercises. And this is my favorite--I taught them how to pronounce "R" for hangman (the English way instead of the French way) by making them act like pirates. Hahahaha I'm not even kidding. After I acted like one myself, of course. And now our man in hangman always has an eyepatch, peg leg, and hook.

Now here's why this makes me happy: Speaking a foreign language is embarrassing. You sound stupid when you practice, but you can only get past sounding stupid by practicing. Tricky, right? Well, apparently I make weird noises to myself sometimes? Which I realize only when I hear them make the noises back at me (hahaha we acted like kittens and goats one day it was awesome). But hang on--so the point IS, when their teacher is willing to sound ridiculous and act like an indiot and seems to enjoying embarrassing herself, they seem a little more willing to do so themselves. And that's so important if they're going to not sound like zombies when they speak English! But more than that, I think that teaching them to LAUGH at themselves could be the most important thing I could teach them--both for English and life in general.

I'm still learning a LOT (like, you know, how to be a teacher? ha). I've had a couple nearly disastrous lessons when I SERIOUSLY over-estimated what they knew. But come on--when you and a room of 60 kids sit and yell "ARRRRRRRGH!!" at each other like pirates. . . . What more could a girl hope for?

Ah, the male ego

Boys will be boys, no matter the age--or country. On Sunday I went on an outing to this natural source about 16 km away from my town. It ended up being me and 3 guys. Now, at first I was pleased--3 boys instead of 1 means I'm not accidentally on a date, right? (Note: When the one who invited me started asking if I could have a Malagasy boyfriend, I freaked and said I already had one in the States--but you know me and lying, so let's hope he doesn't ask any more questions because I won't be able to keep up the charade--and my Malagasy isn't quite good enough for me to say, "Oh, I'm sorry but I made up an imaginary boyfriend so that I could hang out with you and be your friend without worrying about you hitting on me.") So it was a good thing, right? But no? I forgot that if there are 3 men, there is 3 times the pressure to prove that they ARE men. One showed off. One couldn't let me bike faster than him. One told me the names of all the towns and trees, kept checking to make sure I was okay, and insisted on carrying my water for me.

Now, at first this ticked me off. I mean, seriously? Would I have to spend the afternoon moving aside to make way for the male ego? But then I couldn't decide which was the true source of my irritation: their egos or my own and the fact that I had to be at the end of the line of bikes. SO I decided to try looking at it a different way.

The fact of the matter is, there are many perks to being female when men are . . . well, men. They carry random things for you. They find that elusive karate instructor you've been searching for. They buy you beer. They bring you bicycle repairmen. They write you 3 front-and-back pges of Malagasy-French-English translations to help you learn the language faster. They let you swim in their bungalow's pool. They invite you over to cook shrimp from their fishing company. And they take you on cool bike rides, for goodness sake. So yeah, it sucks sometimes--but you might as well make the most of being female, right?

This helped, of course. It also helped when the road changed and we could all ride side-by-side. And sometimes, when you're soaring down a slight decline, they'll forget about gender and just whoop and holler the faster you go. (Ha--people are so funny)

And the thing is, I can't really comlain. Being American allows me to cross lines--to play both sexes. So yeah, I have to but up with a macho attitute from time to time--but in return I get to splash around in a natural source. Or, I COULD just sit in the shade with the women my age and their babies.

I'd rather go play with the boys.

Lessons from Crayola

Who is it that teaches us to color? SOMEONE does, because these kids do not know how. But while some countries value coloring education over others, some things don't change across the ocean. There are always children who color inside the lines. There are always children who don't notice the lines even exist. There are children who think crayons work better when they're rolling across the floor. And why is it that children love eating art supplies? Glue might mess with your brain, but crayons stick in your teeth. And is it bad that when one started coloring on my cement floor, my first thought was, "What a good idea!"? But somehow I suspect a crayon floor mural would come off on my feet.

A Guide to Befriending the Neighborhood Children

Because, let's be honest--you're more likely to play in the dirt with kids than do whatever it is the grown-ups do.

1. Accept and embrace the way they look. No, I'm not talking about the color of their skin--I mean the fact that in this heat one little boy wears a sweater. And nothing BUT a sweater.

2. Do things like pilates that they don't understand so they think you are crazy (read: interesting). It will make you a magnet.

3. Learn their names. Of COURSE the little boy in the sweater is named Papita.

4. Teach them that your name is not in fact vazaha.

5. Let them watch you do things like washing your dishes.

I don't get it either.

6. Let them eat some of your peanut butter.

7. Convince them it is cool to dance to Snow Patrol. Note: You know you've convinced them when they join you.

Result: It will be the new cool thing to go to the vazaha's house to listen to music while coloring.

top ten things that make me happy right now

10. No school on Thursdays or Fridays! Just like college, right? Oh wait, minus the five million things to do with that extra time. Though going to the market IS very exciting.

9. I am in a kilalaky dance video. NOT EVEN KIDDING. I couldn't make that up. The other day this guy was like, "Hey come see this music video" and I was so confused and I went to his house and we started watching and BAM there I was. They'd filmed me when I went to the market once--and they filmed themselves coming up to me and shaking my hand. So that's in the video and then at some points this guy is lying on a couch daydreaming and I am in his thought bubble no joke! It's HYSTERICAL. And I was at a hotely the other day and they put it on and were like "Look! It's you!!" HAHAHAHAHAHA Um yeah no seriously I find this so funny. My goal is to be in another before I leave, but actually dancing. Ha.

8. On a taxi-brousse ride someone told the boy facing me that I'd eat him (hahaha). For the rest of the ride, every time the boy and I caught each others' eyes we would start smiling uncontrollably--once I couldn't even keep from busting out laughing. I'm not sure WHY we were so amused, but it was so funny to me.

7. When I walk, I hear people say "Betania!" and I say hey back even though I often have no clue who they are. It helps that I have the same name as an island in Morondava . . . Easy to remember. Plus now they know me from the kilalaky video.


6. I hear my neighbors laugh and say they think I'm crazy. Now, I realiwe that many of you would consider your neighbors thinking you're crazy a BAD thing, but I LOVE it. See, it's kind of liberating. I can do anything and it won't shock them because they already think I'm nuts. >Plus, you're a vazaha so of course they'll think you're crazy--at least they think it's FUNNY. And it's a fast way to make friends, insanity. Note: I'm not sure whether or not you would be calling me crazy too, or if it's just a cultural thing . . .

5. Um, so on occasion, I chase this group of 5 or 6 girls home from primary school. Sometimes. Hang on, don't judge. See, they kept looking back at me once, so OBVIOUSLY I had to start chasing them. It was so funny. And a bunch of other kids ran to get in front of me so they could play too. Hahahaha. No wonder they think the vazaha eat them.

4. Uh, I'm slowly getting rid of my tanline that is a white tank top painted on my body. Awesome.

3. I've put all your cards and pictures on my walls! It's GREAT--especially for those nights when you just want to go out with friends, but you can't because you kind of live in Madagascar so then I can just look up and think of you. It's strange, but the hardest part is proving to be SITTING STILL. Guess I'm not so good at that.

2. Molly, the volunteer in Morondava, is great and has made my first month even better. No seriously--I really lucked out.

1. I AM LEARNING KARATE. I am so serious . . . . Hahahaha--Shin you'd be so proud. We'll see if I can refrain from laughing at the idea of it while I practice. Love it.

I thought about adding the fact that roosters are constanting chasing and mounting chickens in my front yard--but then I realized it's not so much something that makes me happy? Mostly just . . . scenery. HA. Miss you all. I'll give you some stories.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

oh and listen

I realized just now a lot of you have e-mailed me? Sorry . . . . Write me a real letter and I'll respond--I'd be too stressed and can't really afford it if I responded via internet. So let me know how things are!

Also, I don't have service in Mahabo yet and I don't get any texts later if you sent them when I had service, so, you know, we'll figure the phone thing out eventually. Okay.

PS Disclaimer

So internet is super expensive and I'm using a French keyboard, so please be kind when you come across the many typos I'm not going to try to fine. Okay thanks

The Funny Thing About Dead People

It's interesting, the way respect is expressed. In Madagascar, the ancestors are traditionally ery much honored. Once dead, they can bless or curse the living. Because of this, you are not allowed to point at tombs. Instead, you bend that pointer and point with your knuckle. This is something you learn early on, along with how not to accidently swear at people with your body.

But it is NATURALLY more complicated than that. Allow me to introduce you to the famadihana. It is a party whose theme happens to be dead people. Get ready for this.

So once upon a time, a dead person gets cold. This usually happens in the winter (surprise surprise--America's summer, PS). So the dead person will tell its descendents (through visions or a telegram, I assume--I don't know--I'm not dead). So then the descendents are like, " Oh no! Nenibe / Dadabe / other dead relative is cold!" They then go to the town oracle (um, best job EVER--did someone say secondary project??), who tels them what day to have their famadihana.

The night of the start of festivities comes, and the family goes to the tomb of the dead person and say "Stay here!" so the dead person doesn't miss the party (apparently there is a problem with run-away dead?). They then go to this outdoor tarp hut thing (because winter here isn't all that winteresque). They proceed to get HAMMERED and everyone and their mom (literally) dances to a loud live band all night long. And by all night long, I mean you better hope your neighbors are immortal if you want to get some sleep in famadihana season.

Now, let's talk about this dancing for a minute. Imagine if you will a strange mix of awkward parents dancing, awkward junior highers dancing, and a sketchy drunk guy dancing to himself at a bar. All that mixed together. THAT is Malagasy famadihana dancing. Okay. I am going to help you re-enact it for your own Malagasy experience. Get a high school marching band to play fast happy music. It is okay to have a ratio of 5 players to 20 dancers. No biggie. The louder the better (PS I wish all of life worked out that way, for my own sake). It's also okay if they're blasting away only a few feet from your ear. So then you stand in a group of friends with your legs apart a little and start bouncing awkwardly on your knees--don't move, don't sway--just bounce. Now put your hands up in the air. Add jazz hands. And finally, have a fuzzy, happy look on your face--remember, you are drunk. Every once in a while, go ahead and just shout "hey." Congratulations! You are at a Malagasy famadihana dance party. PS I would be MORE than happy to do this dance for you once back in the States. In fact, I look forward to it.

Now for the morning after. It is banquet time, and I tell you what--you have NEVER experienced something like this. And if you have, well, dude--no seriously, what? I will describe this one party in particular, because it was the KING of famadihanas. All of my stage go to this thing at like 10am. We line up in the rain next to the huge tarp hut thing. For 3 hours. Because it is NOT a party during training unless you stand in the cold rain for hours doing nothing. Good thing there is a rocking band playing Lola music (Lola . . . another time, another time). It is finally our turn. We enter the tarp hut. I look around. It is like an elementary school cafeteria, only Malagasy style. The tables and benches are made of wood (neatness doesn't count). On the tables plastic is stapled--and COVERED with a thin layer of something that resembles (though I am no expert) animal fat. YUM. With the scattered pieces of rice, of course. So we squeeze into the tables and wait and wait and wait. Finally it begins--hundreds of bowls are brought out (some with a little rice stuck on them already--an appetizer, if you will). Then come out the spoons (with a similar layer of animal fat). We can see a man we assume is the cook off in the corner through a crack in the tarp--or at least he has a GINORMOUS wooden spoon slash shovel, and why else would you have that?? PS Add death by vat o' vary aka rice to your top ten list of worst deaths). Once the rice is ready, they bring it out in tubs. They slop it into your bowls. Then comes the meat. I'm pretty sure they killed about a dowen animals (of the pig and cow variety), chop them up (not that thoroughly) and then cook them in lots and lots of oil. Though truth be told, it KIND of reminded me of a Southern BBQ (sincere apologies to my Southern friends out there). Post-meal, we all filed out--a parade of spoons--dropping the spoons in a bag on our way. Once we were out, new guests filed in.

Highlight of the lunch: this one (probably drunk) man came in through the exit (aka party crasher) and just grabbed chunks of meat and SHOVED them in his mouth. He had grease and meat everywhere. He even tried to steal a trainee's food. A server SMACKED him on the head with a bowl, pushed him out again, and kicked him in the back of the pants, no joke, it was hysterical, right out of a comic strip, I could not have planned it better myself.

Now for the main event: dancing with dead people. After the food, everyone marches up the hill (including the band) to the tomb. Now, remember, how you can't POINT at tombs out of respect? Well, you CAN dance drunk on top of them, bust them open, and pull out the dead bodies. Because THAT, my friends, is a famadihana. You pull your dead relatives out, wrap them in new fabric (remember--so they're not so cold anymore), then dance down the street with the dead body over your head. At one famadihana, people had t-shirts and hats with the dead person's face on them. At another, they wrapped a husband and wife together (romantic, huh? a post-death date).

Note: this is one Malagasy tradition I will not integrate into my life after the Peace Corps. Meaning, if you dance with my dead body, I WILL come back to haunt you. Promise.

On Mail

Bits of advice:

1. If you send something customs-worthy, use the green sticker instead of the white paper, because if it comes with the white paper, I have to go to Morondava and then go to the post office and then take a taxi with the lady to this other place and then open it in front of officials (not kidding you). FYI.

2. Also, using padded envelopes is best--they are cheaper, plus they project things better, plus they often go to Mahabo instead of getting held in Morondava (aka I get them sooner).

Thank you guys so much for all the mail you've sent--no seriously, it makes me feel not so far from you, and was life-saving during my first couple weeks. Great for a bad day. PLUS, I'm pretty sure my mail dude things I'm basically a rock star because of all the mail you've sent. No seriously--sometimes people in the street will randomly tell me I have to go get my mail because I have letters waiting. Have I told you how much I love you? I am slowly writing you all back. I think I will do postcards, so you can have lovely little pictures. Sound good?

AND the music is absolutely SAVING ME. Words cannot express . . . So thanks and I love you and all that jazz.

Can't get enough?

If you are bored and want to read more, check out the blog of my friends Tony and Stacey: tsmad.blogspot.com. They're a married couple from my stage--really good friends of mine--and they might be able to give you a little more info (on training and Malagasy life, though they're now at a very different site than me). I believe they also post pictures. Thought I'd throw it out there . . .

Finally Home

Aaaand I've made it. September 1st I spent my first night in my one-room house (+ closet to take cold bucket showers). I spent a couple days paining and now I have trees and a sky in my house. Two weeks later, my body is finally starting to adjust to the temperature (though I take at least 2 showers a day--always shocking but refreshing). It's a close call--whether there are more freckles or mosquito bites on my legs. I'm going to go with freckles, but that's probably wishful thinking on my part (ha). Apparently there's a swampy area behind my house, so the mosequitos are everywhere. Ha--reminds me of Minnesota--except, you know, with the added risk of malaria. Apparently I must learn to co-exist with the spiders that eat them. And to make my life a little more exciting, I decided it'd be good to have a hive of bees on my water pump, to test out my allergy. I guess they like my mango tree :) Don't worry--I keep my bee meds handy, and I'm on malaria medication stuff (which is currently messing with my body--as we speak, my entire right arm is tingy--ha).

But seriouly, I'm very happy with my home and enjoy the nice walk to town. My neighbors are great too--though I think they think I'm a little strange. Every morning I have to justify wearing some clothes inside out (um, ha I realize that sounds weird--so I'm not going to explain--ha) and drinking my coffee black. The most common question I get is "What's that?" referring to either my freckles or my nose ring. I don't know how to explain either. My town is small with one main road, so people are slowly becoming familiar. I finished my first week of teaching (is anyone else still thrown by the fact that I'm playing teacher for two years?) and honestly it's just been a relief to finally be working. I teach students in the 7th and 10th grades. And my proviseur is awesome--I really lucked out. Once school gets more into the swing of things, I'll start an English club and think about other projects I want to do. And I'll also start giving you more entertaining messages, as soon as I am no longer spending all my time trying to avoid getting hit by cars and cows, and instead just looking and laughing at life. Not to fear--it will be à la Paris in no time, for those of you who were along for that ride.

For now I'll just give you some random stuff and one funny story, but I mostly wanted to let you know that I'm safe and settled and happy. Miss you all!