Top Ten Signs You’re Back Home in Mahabo
1. There is nothing to do to the point that an afternoon activity means simply listening to the breeze.
2. A night on the town means a couple of beers and some brochettes with your proviseur and her niece.
3. You go to bed around 9.
4. Everyone you know says “Welcome back! You were gone too long!” and looks very very happy to see you.
5. Random people you don’t know will yell, “Betany!!” when they see you. You don’t know them, but they know you—and they felt your absence.
6. You daily activities include a walk to the market.
7. You don’t have electricity and your bathroom is a bucket you empty and clean after every use.
8. A chicken took a shit in your shower.
9. You are constantly wet, either from showers or sweat.
10. You simply feel at home.
Do you like how I kind of cheated to make it an even ten? Whatever, I could have come up with more but those are off the top of my head.
My favorite thing is going out with my proviseur—speaking only in Malagasy, having legit conversations, seeing how she truly cares about me, knowing how well supported I am in this town.
A cute moment was when one of my students (around 13 years old) told me that she would do yoga alone at her house and she would cry because she missed me.
In other news, one of my younger students (between 12 and 14 years old) got pregnant earlier, I’m not sure if I mentioned. I was crushed. Getting pregnant for girls means they can’t study anymore and essentially become a mother, trying to work by selling little things—the future is pretty slim. And this was a really good student! Getting a girl pregnant for boys means . . . nothing. Don’t even get me started. In any case, I think this student had a miscarriage while I was gone. Or rather, she gave birth and the baby died. But she wasn’t due for a while, so I assume it was more of a miscarriage. She is healthy. I’m not sure, though, if they’ll let her study again after this. We’ll see. For many schools the rule is simply once you’re pregnant you’re out of school for good.
And yet other news: Our school has gotten a new director, and now the middle school and high school are actually separate. And I’ve been put on the high school staff. This means my schedule and students will be changing in January (ha—life is all about flexibility). I’m excited because this means I’ll get SOME of my old students back. Not all, but some.
Also, my proviseur is amazing and somehow got our school like ten legit computers. I feel a little silly, because someone donated an old laptop to me for the school, and I brought it back as a surprise—I hadn’t told her I was going to try to find one. But in comparison it seems so little! It doesn’t matter, though—she looked so touched when I told her about it. She’s already talking about throwing a party for me so the town can thank me for all I’ve done. The thought of this kind of makes me want to cry. All I have to say is the Peace Corps staff really matched us together well. I couldn’t be happier with where I live.
Okay. Enough rambling. I’m just excited to be back (and bored because exams are done and their vacation is about to start). Just thought I’d let you know a bit about it all. . . .
Sunday, December 28, 2008
aokaloha
So the conclusions you are to draw from five million updates at once are:
1. I don’t have work this week so I am bored.
2. I now have computer means to write updates in Mahabo—as opposed to writing by hand then typing it up later while paying for the time.
3. I am making up for how much I have neglected you over the last year and a half. Oo, consider this a Christmas present. That’s a good one.
On a similar note, my parents gave me a nice camera (thanks, parents), which means I’m actually going to take pictures now and show them to you. I know I said I would post a bunch during my month in the States, but I’ll be honest—I was full of shit. I hadn’t really taken any myself, and I’m less prone to show you photos other people took (because secretly I think I could have done better). I mean, it’s not entirely my fault—my camera DID stop turning on. Okay, so maybe I only discovered that a couple weeks before I left for the States. Whatever. Point is, you will not see pictures! I’ve already taken one of my neighbor dressed as a pirate, so you know this is gonna be good.
Okay so on to the point of this update. This will be very factual and not at all funny. Be prepared.
As you may have realized, HIV is a big problem here. And early pregnancies are a concern as well. Perhaps more for me than for the girls. They agree with me on HIV—after all, death is death and it kind of sucks when untimely. But children and making them are valued here, so it’s hard to REALLY convince them how bad it is to let a guy pay you for sex at the age of 12. The friends of such girls call them naughty, but that’s about it. Needless to say, it doesn’t make them cry like it does it me.
I’ve done a bit of HIV/AIDS education here. My principal feels passionately about it as well, so she’s very supportive of my efforts—and always wanting me to do even more! This includes basic education and condom demonstrations for both genders (the condoms and wooden penises embarrass the girls and excite the boys, fyi). And then with the girls, I’ll do a lot of talking about values and priorities and general life goals. Essentially, it means helping them realize that they can’t reach many goals if they get knocked up or die from AIDS. It also means empowering them to HAVE dreams and to believe that they can reach them.
Another thing they’re doing here in Madagascar (and the title of this entry) is distributing Aok’aloha cards. They are thick red cards that say “aok’aloha.” Nationally, the idea is to get one to every girl before she leaves her parents’ home. In Mahabo, our goal is to get one to every girl in the middle and high school. Because, let’s be honest, the damage is often done BEFORE they leave home.
The idea of the card is that anytime anyone touches you or says or does something inappropriate or makes you feel uncomfortable—or even anytime you just have something important to say and they’re not listening to you—you bust out your red card and say, “Aok’aloha.” It’s kind of a mix of “stop” and “enough already.” Or however you want to interpret it—the red is what counts.
In any case, so the idea of the card is kind of funny to an American. I mean, can you imagine yourself at a bar, and when that drunk guy grabs you from behind you just whip out that little red card and problem solved. . . . Probably not.
But that’s just it—if your society accepts it, it can become incredibly powerful. It avoids mixed signals and tells someone enough is enough.
It works here. People have seen girls in the market, the street—even the classroom—pulling out their card on someone. They’re very serious about it, and were quite upset when I didn’t have enough after the first distribution (don’t worry—I’ve gotten more since then). I made them practice putting a condom on a wooden penis in order to get it during that first session. They were mortified (which is part of the problem—they are pressured by boys before they’re old enough to discuss these things seriously), but did it in order to get a card.
Not just that. Teachers will come to me asking for cards for their daughters (and I think for themselves, though they might not admit it).
It’s as if this little red card has some magic aura around it. If you have this card, you are protected. Sketchy men and dirty boys beware—I have a red card.
I think it’s amazing. I’ve never found it easier to feel as if I’m somehow protecting my girls—truly empowering. The thing is, with the card, it’s already understood. It needs no explanation. So when they use it, it’s the card, not them. They don’t need to do anything but pull out a card, and it will be understood that what’s happening is not okay.
And that’s pretty special. Because at 12 years old, sometimes a girl just doesn’t have the guts to stand up for herself. Here in Mahabo, a little red card will do it for her.
1. I don’t have work this week so I am bored.
2. I now have computer means to write updates in Mahabo—as opposed to writing by hand then typing it up later while paying for the time.
3. I am making up for how much I have neglected you over the last year and a half. Oo, consider this a Christmas present. That’s a good one.
On a similar note, my parents gave me a nice camera (thanks, parents), which means I’m actually going to take pictures now and show them to you. I know I said I would post a bunch during my month in the States, but I’ll be honest—I was full of shit. I hadn’t really taken any myself, and I’m less prone to show you photos other people took (because secretly I think I could have done better). I mean, it’s not entirely my fault—my camera DID stop turning on. Okay, so maybe I only discovered that a couple weeks before I left for the States. Whatever. Point is, you will not see pictures! I’ve already taken one of my neighbor dressed as a pirate, so you know this is gonna be good.
Okay so on to the point of this update. This will be very factual and not at all funny. Be prepared.
As you may have realized, HIV is a big problem here. And early pregnancies are a concern as well. Perhaps more for me than for the girls. They agree with me on HIV—after all, death is death and it kind of sucks when untimely. But children and making them are valued here, so it’s hard to REALLY convince them how bad it is to let a guy pay you for sex at the age of 12. The friends of such girls call them naughty, but that’s about it. Needless to say, it doesn’t make them cry like it does it me.
I’ve done a bit of HIV/AIDS education here. My principal feels passionately about it as well, so she’s very supportive of my efforts—and always wanting me to do even more! This includes basic education and condom demonstrations for both genders (the condoms and wooden penises embarrass the girls and excite the boys, fyi). And then with the girls, I’ll do a lot of talking about values and priorities and general life goals. Essentially, it means helping them realize that they can’t reach many goals if they get knocked up or die from AIDS. It also means empowering them to HAVE dreams and to believe that they can reach them.
Another thing they’re doing here in Madagascar (and the title of this entry) is distributing Aok’aloha cards. They are thick red cards that say “aok’aloha.” Nationally, the idea is to get one to every girl before she leaves her parents’ home. In Mahabo, our goal is to get one to every girl in the middle and high school. Because, let’s be honest, the damage is often done BEFORE they leave home.
The idea of the card is that anytime anyone touches you or says or does something inappropriate or makes you feel uncomfortable—or even anytime you just have something important to say and they’re not listening to you—you bust out your red card and say, “Aok’aloha.” It’s kind of a mix of “stop” and “enough already.” Or however you want to interpret it—the red is what counts.
In any case, so the idea of the card is kind of funny to an American. I mean, can you imagine yourself at a bar, and when that drunk guy grabs you from behind you just whip out that little red card and problem solved. . . . Probably not.
But that’s just it—if your society accepts it, it can become incredibly powerful. It avoids mixed signals and tells someone enough is enough.
It works here. People have seen girls in the market, the street—even the classroom—pulling out their card on someone. They’re very serious about it, and were quite upset when I didn’t have enough after the first distribution (don’t worry—I’ve gotten more since then). I made them practice putting a condom on a wooden penis in order to get it during that first session. They were mortified (which is part of the problem—they are pressured by boys before they’re old enough to discuss these things seriously), but did it in order to get a card.
Not just that. Teachers will come to me asking for cards for their daughters (and I think for themselves, though they might not admit it).
It’s as if this little red card has some magic aura around it. If you have this card, you are protected. Sketchy men and dirty boys beware—I have a red card.
I think it’s amazing. I’ve never found it easier to feel as if I’m somehow protecting my girls—truly empowering. The thing is, with the card, it’s already understood. It needs no explanation. So when they use it, it’s the card, not them. They don’t need to do anything but pull out a card, and it will be understood that what’s happening is not okay.
And that’s pretty special. Because at 12 years old, sometimes a girl just doesn’t have the guts to stand up for herself. Here in Mahabo, a little red card will do it for her.
cradle 2 cradle
Nothing should go to waste, right? And you should give people presents they want, right? This is why I ended up going through all of my clothes and bringing back a large suitcase full of it to give to my school. They wanted used clothes—that’s the kind of clothes they usually end up buying since the new stuff is expensive and Chinese (read: bad quality)—and I definitely had it to give.
My principal and I went through the suitcase, deciding what to do.
Tomorrow is proclamation. You see, students here don’t get letter grades. They get a number—a score out of 20. Different classes get different weights (English doesn’t get as much weight as some of the others, sadly—but I’m pretty sure we get more than physical education), and an average is created. Then, during proclamation, every class is listed—in order of score, from the smartest to the . . . underachieving. You do not shoot for an A around here. You shoot for first in class. Based on every subject. And you have this pressure every trimester. And then you shoot for first in class based on all of those trimesters.
Point is, we decided to give a t-shirt to each student who ended up first in class. That’s right. After all your hard work, should you be first in class, you will be rewarded with a shirt from a musical I was in—or a free one that I received at Duke—or a souvenir someone gave me that I never wear. Awesome. I know you wish you were in high school in Mahabo right now.
With the leftover clothing (including all of the non t-shirts), we gave it to the teachers as their souvenir from America. It’s what they asked for, and it’s what they got!
The problem (not really a problem) was that some of it was great stuff and some of it was not so great. And most of it was intended to be worn by women.
No big deal. There are bigger problems here in Madagascar. And I need not remind you of the state of fashion here.
So here’s what we did. We didn’t rank people or draw their names and let them choose what they wanted in order. We didn’t even do the white elephant thing we do every year at my Grandma’s house. No, no. That would be too nice. Then people would actually have a bit of say over what you wear.
Instead, we numbered the clothing. Then we put the numbers in a hat. You drew a number, and whatever item of clothing your number matched, you went home with. It didn’t matter if you went first of last. Everyone had an equal chance at the good and the bad.
The result was hysterical. A young unmarried guy got stuck with a little pink tank top. Ramose got a delicate sky blue top. A sweet older man ended up with a beautiful, flowing skirt—which he promptly put on. And almost all of the women got the boyish t-shirts.
I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this experience. Not only were they incredibly grateful—clothes are expensive and they don’t make much, and they could always use whatever they ended up with for another family member. But they LAUGHED—every time someone had a turn, they laughed so hard at the result that was rarely a good fit. It was beautiful.
And the best part is that now, whenever I walk the streets of my large village in Africa, I will see reminders of my past life. Soccer. Musicals. Plays. International Baccalaureate kickball tournaments. Duke everything. Even jump rope competitions from elementary school (not a joke). My entire life will flash before my eyes as I walk to the market.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still—it’s a pretty cool thing. Different worlds collide.
And let’s face it—now they’ll NEVER forget me. How can me? My name is on their clothes.
My principal and I went through the suitcase, deciding what to do.
Tomorrow is proclamation. You see, students here don’t get letter grades. They get a number—a score out of 20. Different classes get different weights (English doesn’t get as much weight as some of the others, sadly—but I’m pretty sure we get more than physical education), and an average is created. Then, during proclamation, every class is listed—in order of score, from the smartest to the . . . underachieving. You do not shoot for an A around here. You shoot for first in class. Based on every subject. And you have this pressure every trimester. And then you shoot for first in class based on all of those trimesters.
Point is, we decided to give a t-shirt to each student who ended up first in class. That’s right. After all your hard work, should you be first in class, you will be rewarded with a shirt from a musical I was in—or a free one that I received at Duke—or a souvenir someone gave me that I never wear. Awesome. I know you wish you were in high school in Mahabo right now.
With the leftover clothing (including all of the non t-shirts), we gave it to the teachers as their souvenir from America. It’s what they asked for, and it’s what they got!
The problem (not really a problem) was that some of it was great stuff and some of it was not so great. And most of it was intended to be worn by women.
No big deal. There are bigger problems here in Madagascar. And I need not remind you of the state of fashion here.
So here’s what we did. We didn’t rank people or draw their names and let them choose what they wanted in order. We didn’t even do the white elephant thing we do every year at my Grandma’s house. No, no. That would be too nice. Then people would actually have a bit of say over what you wear.
Instead, we numbered the clothing. Then we put the numbers in a hat. You drew a number, and whatever item of clothing your number matched, you went home with. It didn’t matter if you went first of last. Everyone had an equal chance at the good and the bad.
The result was hysterical. A young unmarried guy got stuck with a little pink tank top. Ramose got a delicate sky blue top. A sweet older man ended up with a beautiful, flowing skirt—which he promptly put on. And almost all of the women got the boyish t-shirts.
I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this experience. Not only were they incredibly grateful—clothes are expensive and they don’t make much, and they could always use whatever they ended up with for another family member. But they LAUGHED—every time someone had a turn, they laughed so hard at the result that was rarely a good fit. It was beautiful.
And the best part is that now, whenever I walk the streets of my large village in Africa, I will see reminders of my past life. Soccer. Musicals. Plays. International Baccalaureate kickball tournaments. Duke everything. Even jump rope competitions from elementary school (not a joke). My entire life will flash before my eyes as I walk to the market.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still—it’s a pretty cool thing. Different worlds collide.
And let’s face it—now they’ll NEVER forget me. How can me? My name is on their clothes.
ant attack
Returning to Mahabo, I once again dealt with the many creatures who took over while I was out. You may or may not recall an ant tunneling problem I encountered in my shower a while ago. I thought I had finished with them—what with the poison and the dead bodies that followed.
But no. Apparently they only played dead while preparing to take over the world.
I finished cleaning my house and obviously wanted a shower (two hours of sweeping will do that to you). And what did I find in my shower? Approximately 5 million ants swarming around piles of dirt in my shower.
My neighbors tried to help by putting burning paper into the shower. This killed enough of them for me to tip-toe inside and shower. When I finished, I put down more of that poison. Problem solved, right? I’d wait for the dead bodies, sweep them away, and move on.
But as the ants died, other ants came to take the bodies away. I don’t get this. They did it after the burning paper too. Based on what I know about ants, I just assumed they were going to EAT the dead. Waste not, want not.
Side note: I suddenly no longer have electricity. Long story, but it’s Madagascar, it’s not surprising, it’s affecting TONS of people in my town, and my proviseur is in the process of trying to make an exception for me because I’m Peace Corps. But until then, I have no music and no fan.
Without a fan, I was eager to shower before bed, simply to cool off. Without electricity, I made my way to the shower with a candle. (Everything is more exciting when it’s done by candle. So much more mysterious.) I saw a carpet of ant bodies, and assumed the dead had evacuated, like last time. I set the candle down and when to get a broom to dispose of the bodies (aka sweep them down the hole/drain).
But when I return, what do I find? These are not all dead ant bodies. No, no. That would be way too easy. Half of them are dead. And half of them are alive and doing who knows what with the dead. I’m no ant ritual expert, but I’m sure I was interrupting something.
It was night (read: dark) so I figured I’d just shower on our back porch. Like the shower, my back porch is made of cement and thus perfect for showering. There’s no drain, but there is an edge and that works fine by me.
That was the idea.
But the problem, you see, was that my candle—my only source of light in these electricity-less days—was now in the middle of a swarm of dead and living ants. No big deal, right? I’ll just grab the candle and be on my merry way.
Not so fast. You see, the ants invading my shower (in Malagasy, “ladosy” pronounced lah-DOO-see) are not the little ones that find their way into the sugar. They are BIG and FAT ants. And apparently they have teeth.
After being bitten multiple times on the feet and hands (a strange bite—like it hits the nerves or something)—and after catching ants running up my legs—I decided to call in the authorities. My neighbors—Ramose and his wife (their family situation is interesting and a whole nother story). Ramose is Gasy for Sir and while it looks like it might be pronounced rah-MOOSE it’s actually pronounced (in a quick, squished up way) ram-SAY. You can call him rah-MOOSE in your head if you want. I don’t mind.
Back to the story. So I knocked on the neighbors’ door and explained the situation as best I could. Um, the ants? They’re not dead. Well, there are some dead and some not dead. And there’s a lot. And they do that thing that hurts with their mouth on my feet. See?
Right.
Luckily, my neighbors understand me well. They took one look at the ants in my ladosy and gasped. Their idea was the same as mine—just take my shower on the back porch.
Instead of explaining that I was trying to but couldn’t get my candle, I let my neighbor stomp all over the place killing some ants, then grab my candle and give it to me. We shut the ladosy door.
And then I showered and went to bed and lived happily ever after right? I wish.
I set the candle down, started reaching for my shampoo, and suddenly felt another nerve-stinging bite. I looked down. The ants—those big fat bastards—had followed me.
Okay, no big deal. I’m a big girl. I’ll just stomp around a little bit until they’re dead and then I’ll take my shower.
No no no. See, these are special ants. I don’t get them, but I’m telling you, they can sense their dead and they seek them out. So for as many ants as you kill, that many more come to take away the bodies and to bite your toes. Or ankles. Or higher. The more I stomped, the more I was surrounded, the more I anticipated lovely dreams when I finally made it to bed. And I must say—dead and live ants are difficult to tell apart when you can only see by candlelight.
After trying to deal with the situation myself, I finally gave up and did the inevitable?
Ramose? The ants. . . .
He came and saw the situation and the story ends with me taking my candlelit shower in the neighbors’ ladosy—out in the yard, far from the ants.
Needless to say, I did NOT sleep well that night. I listened to the rats that have apparently moved into my roof while a cricket of sorts kept buzzing and slamming into my mosquito net and I dreamt of ants crawling under the door and up my bed, eating me alive.
The end.
But no. Apparently they only played dead while preparing to take over the world.
I finished cleaning my house and obviously wanted a shower (two hours of sweeping will do that to you). And what did I find in my shower? Approximately 5 million ants swarming around piles of dirt in my shower.
My neighbors tried to help by putting burning paper into the shower. This killed enough of them for me to tip-toe inside and shower. When I finished, I put down more of that poison. Problem solved, right? I’d wait for the dead bodies, sweep them away, and move on.
But as the ants died, other ants came to take the bodies away. I don’t get this. They did it after the burning paper too. Based on what I know about ants, I just assumed they were going to EAT the dead. Waste not, want not.
Side note: I suddenly no longer have electricity. Long story, but it’s Madagascar, it’s not surprising, it’s affecting TONS of people in my town, and my proviseur is in the process of trying to make an exception for me because I’m Peace Corps. But until then, I have no music and no fan.
Without a fan, I was eager to shower before bed, simply to cool off. Without electricity, I made my way to the shower with a candle. (Everything is more exciting when it’s done by candle. So much more mysterious.) I saw a carpet of ant bodies, and assumed the dead had evacuated, like last time. I set the candle down and when to get a broom to dispose of the bodies (aka sweep them down the hole/drain).
But when I return, what do I find? These are not all dead ant bodies. No, no. That would be way too easy. Half of them are dead. And half of them are alive and doing who knows what with the dead. I’m no ant ritual expert, but I’m sure I was interrupting something.
It was night (read: dark) so I figured I’d just shower on our back porch. Like the shower, my back porch is made of cement and thus perfect for showering. There’s no drain, but there is an edge and that works fine by me.
That was the idea.
But the problem, you see, was that my candle—my only source of light in these electricity-less days—was now in the middle of a swarm of dead and living ants. No big deal, right? I’ll just grab the candle and be on my merry way.
Not so fast. You see, the ants invading my shower (in Malagasy, “ladosy” pronounced lah-DOO-see) are not the little ones that find their way into the sugar. They are BIG and FAT ants. And apparently they have teeth.
After being bitten multiple times on the feet and hands (a strange bite—like it hits the nerves or something)—and after catching ants running up my legs—I decided to call in the authorities. My neighbors—Ramose and his wife (their family situation is interesting and a whole nother story). Ramose is Gasy for Sir and while it looks like it might be pronounced rah-MOOSE it’s actually pronounced (in a quick, squished up way) ram-SAY. You can call him rah-MOOSE in your head if you want. I don’t mind.
Back to the story. So I knocked on the neighbors’ door and explained the situation as best I could. Um, the ants? They’re not dead. Well, there are some dead and some not dead. And there’s a lot. And they do that thing that hurts with their mouth on my feet. See?
Right.
Luckily, my neighbors understand me well. They took one look at the ants in my ladosy and gasped. Their idea was the same as mine—just take my shower on the back porch.
Instead of explaining that I was trying to but couldn’t get my candle, I let my neighbor stomp all over the place killing some ants, then grab my candle and give it to me. We shut the ladosy door.
And then I showered and went to bed and lived happily ever after right? I wish.
I set the candle down, started reaching for my shampoo, and suddenly felt another nerve-stinging bite. I looked down. The ants—those big fat bastards—had followed me.
Okay, no big deal. I’m a big girl. I’ll just stomp around a little bit until they’re dead and then I’ll take my shower.
No no no. See, these are special ants. I don’t get them, but I’m telling you, they can sense their dead and they seek them out. So for as many ants as you kill, that many more come to take away the bodies and to bite your toes. Or ankles. Or higher. The more I stomped, the more I was surrounded, the more I anticipated lovely dreams when I finally made it to bed. And I must say—dead and live ants are difficult to tell apart when you can only see by candlelight.
After trying to deal with the situation myself, I finally gave up and did the inevitable?
Ramose? The ants. . . .
He came and saw the situation and the story ends with me taking my candlelit shower in the neighbors’ ladosy—out in the yard, far from the ants.
Needless to say, I did NOT sleep well that night. I listened to the rats that have apparently moved into my roof while a cricket of sorts kept buzzing and slamming into my mosquito net and I dreamt of ants crawling under the door and up my bed, eating me alive.
The end.
red like sunshine
You would think that after 18 months on this island, I’d have figured out how to not get burned by the sun that shines brightly every second of the day. You would think. And in a way I have. I’m pretty good about sunscreen. Plus I have a base tan that seems to be handy when I accidentally put myself in the sun more than usual.
But then again, I DID spend a sunless month in the United States. I mean, the snow followed me—Minneapolis, DC, New York, back to Minneapolis. I know I’ve been a long-time supporter of winter and snowflakes and general coldness. But you’d think the weather would have taken into account that—based on the heat I’ve been experiencing for well over a year—a little chilliness would be appreciated. More than that and I’m now a pansy. Sad, I know, but true.
Let’s get to the point. After that month in the States, I walked an hour to a beach (in the sun) then spent hours on the beach to make the walk worth it then walked an hour back home (still in the sun). I tried using sunscreen, but I was doomed from the get-go. I also blame the fact that it was so hot I had to swim often, probably removing all the sunscreen I honestly did put on.
The moral of the story: I ended the day red as a lobster, generating heat for all around me. That’s right—no electricity and no fan, but I DO have my own personal heater, also known as my skin. The shower was freezing by comparison and even a little breeze made me shiver from the comparison. I woke in the morning with slightly swollen eyelids—their way of drawing my attention to the fact that they too got burned.
The red has basically faded. Everyone is a bit confused. First of all, I’m told that I’ve lost weight. My town is more reliable than a scale. They’re more vocal when I gain weight (usually it’s after I’ve lost some), saying things like, “Oh thank goodness! You were looking like a skeleton!” But a couple trusted people (Ramose and my proviseur aka principal—note: yes I realize it is strange that though she is my best friend in Mahabo, I call her my proviseur instead of by her name—I can’t help it—she’s still my boss, even if we do drink beer and go dancing together) will tell me when weight.
So I get back to Mahabo and they say, “You’ve lost weight!” I say that it’s a possibility. They look confused and then add, “Weren’t you in America?” Uh . . . yup. Though in my defense, I’m sure the weight loss occurred after I got back to Africa. So then my proviseur looks at me again and says, “And you’re tan!” She pauses again, confused, then adds, “Was there actually sunshine there?” And this is when I say, “No no—this isn’t tan—this is the aftermath of very very red.”
This story has no point except to say that being sunburned makes you very warm. And afterwards you have to deal not so much with peeling but with the random ridding of patches of dead skin. Lovely. Also don’t lose weight when you go on vacation in America. Or once you get back before people have seen you. Everyone will think you’re crazy.
But then again, I DID spend a sunless month in the United States. I mean, the snow followed me—Minneapolis, DC, New York, back to Minneapolis. I know I’ve been a long-time supporter of winter and snowflakes and general coldness. But you’d think the weather would have taken into account that—based on the heat I’ve been experiencing for well over a year—a little chilliness would be appreciated. More than that and I’m now a pansy. Sad, I know, but true.
Let’s get to the point. After that month in the States, I walked an hour to a beach (in the sun) then spent hours on the beach to make the walk worth it then walked an hour back home (still in the sun). I tried using sunscreen, but I was doomed from the get-go. I also blame the fact that it was so hot I had to swim often, probably removing all the sunscreen I honestly did put on.
The moral of the story: I ended the day red as a lobster, generating heat for all around me. That’s right—no electricity and no fan, but I DO have my own personal heater, also known as my skin. The shower was freezing by comparison and even a little breeze made me shiver from the comparison. I woke in the morning with slightly swollen eyelids—their way of drawing my attention to the fact that they too got burned.
The red has basically faded. Everyone is a bit confused. First of all, I’m told that I’ve lost weight. My town is more reliable than a scale. They’re more vocal when I gain weight (usually it’s after I’ve lost some), saying things like, “Oh thank goodness! You were looking like a skeleton!” But a couple trusted people (Ramose and my proviseur aka principal—note: yes I realize it is strange that though she is my best friend in Mahabo, I call her my proviseur instead of by her name—I can’t help it—she’s still my boss, even if we do drink beer and go dancing together) will tell me when weight.
So I get back to Mahabo and they say, “You’ve lost weight!” I say that it’s a possibility. They look confused and then add, “Weren’t you in America?” Uh . . . yup. Though in my defense, I’m sure the weight loss occurred after I got back to Africa. So then my proviseur looks at me again and says, “And you’re tan!” She pauses again, confused, then adds, “Was there actually sunshine there?” And this is when I say, “No no—this isn’t tan—this is the aftermath of very very red.”
This story has no point except to say that being sunburned makes you very warm. And afterwards you have to deal not so much with peeling but with the random ridding of patches of dead skin. Lovely. Also don’t lose weight when you go on vacation in America. Or once you get back before people have seen you. Everyone will think you’re crazy.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Welcome back?
Well, I have been back in Madagascar for one week, and it has been a dozy.
For those of you who didn’t know, I received a lovely farewell from Madagascar before I headed to the States—my cell phone was stolen a couple hours before I left for the airport. Just a little sendoff to make sure I came back? Something like that.
And my first day back in Morondava, my DVD player was stolen. Like from inside my friend’s apartment (the only apartment being rented, meaning the place is usually deserted) while I took a shower. I mean, it was a good thing, because my friend had TONS of valuable things everywhere—including the laptop my DVD player was sitting on top of. But it was the ONLY valuable thing I had. That and my stolen cell phone. Thank you, Madagascar—I love you too.
(Note: Okay that’s complete bullshit—it has not so much to do with Madagascar as the fact that people steal stuff no matter where you live, so whatever—it could have happened anywhere.)
It wasn’t well thought through, however. They watch French region movies here. The player will ONLY read American movies. (And yes, this also means that I can’t just get a new player here—because they will only read the French coded movies.) And while it can also play CDs (but not the ones with music videos that come along with them, which is what they usually use here), the guy failed to take the charger. Meaning the machine is useless to him, and will be even MORE useless to him once the battery dies (soon)—while it was VERY useful to me. Plus let’s not forget the creepy thought that someone was in the apartment. And while a laptop was donated to my school while I was in the US, it does not play DVDs. Not enough memory, or something like that.
My first week got even better, but I’ll only touch on a couple things.
First, I got eaten ALIVE by some kind of bug that left bite marks as big as bee stings or something. They itch like you wouldn’t believe and cover my back like the measles and they haven’t seemed to go away even though it’s been a week. Awesome.
But to add insult to injury, some restaurant snuck a little mango into a sauce (that wasn’t even good). Mango. In my body. If this does not make you cringe with horror, please go back to a certain entry about a year ago, and you’ll quickly understand. Luckily I didn’t eat much of it (the shrimp were kind of sitting on a swirl of sauce for decoration, as opposed to being soaked in it), so it’s not as bad as it could be. Nevertheless, my face is swollen and itchy. My arms and fingers are itchy. Slightly (okay a lot more than that) miserable and unable to sleep from it at times. And rather than hibernating my way through it, I had to spend two and a half full days without a break with people (it happened in the middle) when all I wanted to do was sleep and wake up when it’s all over. Ha.
All I’m saying, I’m prepared for a cyclone to be a part of the welcome committee. Or maybe I’ll be let off the hook and I now just have to wait for the mango to get out of my system.
To end on a positive (and somewhat ironic) note . . . Throughout all this, I am currently in the process of trying to get assigned to a second tour with the Peace Corps in a different country. Let’s be honest, the US government was probably behind all this—trying to test my commitment before spending more tax dollars on me.
Okay maybe not.
Moral of the story: It’s hot as hell and good to be back. Where else can such a dramatic week be so . . . undramatic?
For those of you who didn’t know, I received a lovely farewell from Madagascar before I headed to the States—my cell phone was stolen a couple hours before I left for the airport. Just a little sendoff to make sure I came back? Something like that.
And my first day back in Morondava, my DVD player was stolen. Like from inside my friend’s apartment (the only apartment being rented, meaning the place is usually deserted) while I took a shower. I mean, it was a good thing, because my friend had TONS of valuable things everywhere—including the laptop my DVD player was sitting on top of. But it was the ONLY valuable thing I had. That and my stolen cell phone. Thank you, Madagascar—I love you too.
(Note: Okay that’s complete bullshit—it has not so much to do with Madagascar as the fact that people steal stuff no matter where you live, so whatever—it could have happened anywhere.)
It wasn’t well thought through, however. They watch French region movies here. The player will ONLY read American movies. (And yes, this also means that I can’t just get a new player here—because they will only read the French coded movies.) And while it can also play CDs (but not the ones with music videos that come along with them, which is what they usually use here), the guy failed to take the charger. Meaning the machine is useless to him, and will be even MORE useless to him once the battery dies (soon)—while it was VERY useful to me. Plus let’s not forget the creepy thought that someone was in the apartment. And while a laptop was donated to my school while I was in the US, it does not play DVDs. Not enough memory, or something like that.
My first week got even better, but I’ll only touch on a couple things.
First, I got eaten ALIVE by some kind of bug that left bite marks as big as bee stings or something. They itch like you wouldn’t believe and cover my back like the measles and they haven’t seemed to go away even though it’s been a week. Awesome.
But to add insult to injury, some restaurant snuck a little mango into a sauce (that wasn’t even good). Mango. In my body. If this does not make you cringe with horror, please go back to a certain entry about a year ago, and you’ll quickly understand. Luckily I didn’t eat much of it (the shrimp were kind of sitting on a swirl of sauce for decoration, as opposed to being soaked in it), so it’s not as bad as it could be. Nevertheless, my face is swollen and itchy. My arms and fingers are itchy. Slightly (okay a lot more than that) miserable and unable to sleep from it at times. And rather than hibernating my way through it, I had to spend two and a half full days without a break with people (it happened in the middle) when all I wanted to do was sleep and wake up when it’s all over. Ha.
All I’m saying, I’m prepared for a cyclone to be a part of the welcome committee. Or maybe I’ll be let off the hook and I now just have to wait for the mango to get out of my system.
To end on a positive (and somewhat ironic) note . . . Throughout all this, I am currently in the process of trying to get assigned to a second tour with the Peace Corps in a different country. Let’s be honest, the US government was probably behind all this—trying to test my commitment before spending more tax dollars on me.
Okay maybe not.
Moral of the story: It’s hot as hell and good to be back. Where else can such a dramatic week be so . . . undramatic?
On Airplanes
There are certain things I do not understand about airplanes. I’m not talking mechanics—how a ginormous hunk of metal flies through the air with movies and food service going on inside. I mean . . . general safety things.
For example, why do the chairs have to be upright during take-off and landing? I mean, I’m slightly biased, considering those two events kind of put me to sleep—and don’t you want your chair leaning back when asleep? But seriously. I don’t get it. Think about it. Even during the most turbulent moments, all you do is kind of rock a little bit. Nothing dramatic. Is it REALLY going to make a difference if your body is at a 100- instead of 90-degree angle? I somehow doubt it.
The same goes for the trays being up. What’s the worst that could happen? The book you set on the tray falls off and lands in your lap? This makes no sense to me.
Seatbelts too. No sense. Are you going to somehow fall out of your chair? Doubtful. Will the plane suddenly thrust forward with such force that you will need a seatbelt? The fact that nothing NEAR that has happened to me makes me think that if such a circumstance WERE to arise, you’d have MUCH more important things to worry about. Am I right? And you KNOW the flight attendants agree. After all, they just kind of walk around and ASK you if you have your seatbelt. I can’t imagine someone having trouble sleeping at night because he lied about his seatbelt.
Why does everything have to be shoved in a compartment or under the seat? Will it really make a difference if it sticks out from under the seat a tiny bit? The only person it hurts is you and your loss of foot space.
Here’s all I can come up with. Flight attendants are kind of like . . . mothers. And they really want you to clean up your room or something. Like they hate the thought of everyone getting off the plane with some chairs leaning back, others not. They want all the trays put away. They don’t want random carry-ons sitting on the floor. But rather than nagging you, they use the power of the plane. They convince us that it is DANGEROUS so that their neat-freak tendencies are excused. And we BUY it. I mean, who wants to be blamed if the airplane suddenly plummets to the ground? Do you really want your last thoughts to be, “Well, I didn’t THINK it’d be a big deal if I tipped my chair back” ? I don’t think so.
As for the fact that the entertainment system quits working long before take-off (to prepare?) making it so you never see the last ten minutes of whatever film you were watching. . . . I have no explanation. It’s just plain mean.
For example, why do the chairs have to be upright during take-off and landing? I mean, I’m slightly biased, considering those two events kind of put me to sleep—and don’t you want your chair leaning back when asleep? But seriously. I don’t get it. Think about it. Even during the most turbulent moments, all you do is kind of rock a little bit. Nothing dramatic. Is it REALLY going to make a difference if your body is at a 100- instead of 90-degree angle? I somehow doubt it.
The same goes for the trays being up. What’s the worst that could happen? The book you set on the tray falls off and lands in your lap? This makes no sense to me.
Seatbelts too. No sense. Are you going to somehow fall out of your chair? Doubtful. Will the plane suddenly thrust forward with such force that you will need a seatbelt? The fact that nothing NEAR that has happened to me makes me think that if such a circumstance WERE to arise, you’d have MUCH more important things to worry about. Am I right? And you KNOW the flight attendants agree. After all, they just kind of walk around and ASK you if you have your seatbelt. I can’t imagine someone having trouble sleeping at night because he lied about his seatbelt.
Why does everything have to be shoved in a compartment or under the seat? Will it really make a difference if it sticks out from under the seat a tiny bit? The only person it hurts is you and your loss of foot space.
Here’s all I can come up with. Flight attendants are kind of like . . . mothers. And they really want you to clean up your room or something. Like they hate the thought of everyone getting off the plane with some chairs leaning back, others not. They want all the trays put away. They don’t want random carry-ons sitting on the floor. But rather than nagging you, they use the power of the plane. They convince us that it is DANGEROUS so that their neat-freak tendencies are excused. And we BUY it. I mean, who wants to be blamed if the airplane suddenly plummets to the ground? Do you really want your last thoughts to be, “Well, I didn’t THINK it’d be a big deal if I tipped my chair back” ? I don’t think so.
As for the fact that the entertainment system quits working long before take-off (to prepare?) making it so you never see the last ten minutes of whatever film you were watching. . . . I have no explanation. It’s just plain mean.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Learning English
For your entertainment (I hope), I am going to give you some beautiful gems I found in homework assignments and exams.
Let's start with my youngest kids (who have an exam at the end of the year) and their preferences. I'll let the quotes speak for themselves. . . .
"I am with pig."
"I hate to invade."
"I prefer girl to boy."
"I dislike boy."
"I love girl."
"I love pretty girls."
"I like none thing to drink."
"I don't like to eat corn."
"I dislikes wool."
"I like paw paw because it's sweaty."
"I love my girlfriend."
"I love Lucia."
"I love daddy."
"I like drawing pork."
"I love you FLAVIEN."
"I like Bethany."
"I like Miss Betany."
"I dislikes my hard of hearing."
"I prefer beef bird to ox."
"I dislike home my haughty."
"I am fond of humbergers (food)."
"I don't like clothe."
"I likes eate and hate cooking."
"I likes in the M/bo. Dislike or M/va."
"I don't like the child a stuborn."
"diske my fiend."
"God blesse me and you Mrs. English."
Next we'll do high schoolers asking questions.
"How year wold are you? I'm year wold twenty-two."
"Who is your mee heser? Your's mechese is Bethany."
"Whe bethany going in Etat Unis? bethany is going in November 21th."
Same students but with dialogues. How they fill in blanks.
What's up? "Yes, I up."
See you later! "No! I'm late!"
The oldest students on advice, family, daily schedules, and AIDs.
"You clean water by to dead the microbe."
"Every Sunday, I stand 06 o'clock. I go to toilette."
"The cousins does Philip have two many."
"You protect yourself by going to club night."
"No respect husband." (how to get AIDs)
"mother's pregnant on my baby" (how to get AIDs)
"No sexual after marriage." (how to avoid AIDs)
"Nowdays Many people got the problem as them about love. Let us talk about it."
And my favorite. What happens when my young high schoolers try writing their own dialogues. The topic is apologies.
"Please forgive me for liking you."
"Why you eaten my 'goute'?"
"I have forgetter my notebook."
"Please forgive me for arising you."
Anita: Why you broken my heart?
Onitra: I apologize I didn't.
Julien: Please stay with me my love.
Rebecca: I am sorry! but I must to come back at one.
Rebecca: I apologize even if you sad.
Julien: No problem! don't forget I LOVE YOU
Rebecca: Well, let me say to you goodbye.
Julien: It's ok! I am agree.
Rebecca: Please forgive me I want to kiss you.
Julien: GOOD-BYE EVEN IF . . .
Incredible . . .
Let's start with my youngest kids (who have an exam at the end of the year) and their preferences. I'll let the quotes speak for themselves. . . .
"I am with pig."
"I hate to invade."
"I prefer girl to boy."
"I dislike boy."
"I love girl."
"I love pretty girls."
"I like none thing to drink."
"I don't like to eat corn."
"I dislikes wool."
"I like paw paw because it's sweaty."
"I love my girlfriend."
"I love Lucia."
"I love daddy."
"I like drawing pork."
"I love you FLAVIEN."
"I like Bethany."
"I like Miss Betany."
"I dislikes my hard of hearing."
"I prefer beef bird to ox."
"I dislike home my haughty."
"I am fond of humbergers (food)."
"I don't like clothe."
"I likes eate and hate cooking."
"I likes in the M/bo. Dislike or M/va."
"I don't like the child a stuborn."
"diske my fiend."
"God blesse me and you Mrs. English."
Next we'll do high schoolers asking questions.
"How year wold are you? I'm year wold twenty-two."
"Who is your mee heser? Your's mechese is Bethany."
"Whe bethany going in Etat Unis? bethany is going in November 21th."
Same students but with dialogues. How they fill in blanks.
What's up? "Yes, I up."
See you later! "No! I'm late!"
The oldest students on advice, family, daily schedules, and AIDs.
"You clean water by to dead the microbe."
"Every Sunday, I stand 06 o'clock. I go to toilette."
"The cousins does Philip have two many."
"You protect yourself by going to club night."
"No respect husband." (how to get AIDs)
"mother's pregnant on my baby" (how to get AIDs)
"No sexual after marriage." (how to avoid AIDs)
"Nowdays Many people got the problem as them about love. Let us talk about it."
And my favorite. What happens when my young high schoolers try writing their own dialogues. The topic is apologies.
"Please forgive me for liking you."
"Why you eaten my 'goute'?"
"I have forgetter my notebook."
"Please forgive me for arising you."
Anita: Why you broken my heart?
Onitra: I apologize I didn't.
Julien: Please stay with me my love.
Rebecca: I am sorry! but I must to come back at one.
Rebecca: I apologize even if you sad.
Julien: No problem! don't forget I LOVE YOU
Rebecca: Well, let me say to you goodbye.
Julien: It's ok! I am agree.
Rebecca: Please forgive me I want to kiss you.
Julien: GOOD-BYE EVEN IF . . .
Incredible . . .
The Current State of My Life
(as of one month ago)
In my shower, you can find dead ants and cockroach crap all over the ground. I made a trade for the dead ants when I got sick of all the dirt they got everywhere while apparently tunneling for who knows what under the shower. My neighbor poisoned them for me and I swept away the bodies. Too bad it didn't work on the cockroaches . . . Here's the thing. I understand that a person (or bug) has to live and all that jazz. But the shower? I have two problems with this. 1. Why?? It's not as if there's any food there. . . . 2. I'm sorry, but if I get to choose ONE space it my life to actually be clean, it would be the shower. No offense.
In other news, I was woken up last night because a giant snake knocked something off my table. It wasn't until I walked over to pick the thing up that I saw the giant snake. My neighbor came to the rescue again, beating it on the head then flinging it out the door. In my defense, I didn't think he was going to kill it. I'm not this psycho animal killer. It was just too big for me to sneak it into a bucket and remove it from the premises. And the Malagasy and seriously afraid of snakes, so I guess there was only one option in his mind. I don't get the fear--their snakes aren't even poisonous. Oh well. It was 2am and I was in no mood to think about snakes.
Moments ago, I climbed into my hammock only to find a bunch of white powder and some snake shit. Awesome. (You may have noticed that I am becoming a serious rockstar when it comes to identifying poop. A useful skill SOMEWHERE I'm sure.) Meaning, the snake didn't climb into my house at night--it simply climbed out of the hammock at night and dropped onto my desk.
The question IS, did I or didn't I sit in the hammock WITH the snake??
And unfortunately, as I swept the poo out the door, it smooshed, leaving a smear of both shit and blood (? your guess is as good as mine . . .). Yes, I realize I've probably just crossed the border into the land of too much information. Sorry? At least you didn't have to clean it up.
In my shower, you can find dead ants and cockroach crap all over the ground. I made a trade for the dead ants when I got sick of all the dirt they got everywhere while apparently tunneling for who knows what under the shower. My neighbor poisoned them for me and I swept away the bodies. Too bad it didn't work on the cockroaches . . . Here's the thing. I understand that a person (or bug) has to live and all that jazz. But the shower? I have two problems with this. 1. Why?? It's not as if there's any food there. . . . 2. I'm sorry, but if I get to choose ONE space it my life to actually be clean, it would be the shower. No offense.
In other news, I was woken up last night because a giant snake knocked something off my table. It wasn't until I walked over to pick the thing up that I saw the giant snake. My neighbor came to the rescue again, beating it on the head then flinging it out the door. In my defense, I didn't think he was going to kill it. I'm not this psycho animal killer. It was just too big for me to sneak it into a bucket and remove it from the premises. And the Malagasy and seriously afraid of snakes, so I guess there was only one option in his mind. I don't get the fear--their snakes aren't even poisonous. Oh well. It was 2am and I was in no mood to think about snakes.
Moments ago, I climbed into my hammock only to find a bunch of white powder and some snake shit. Awesome. (You may have noticed that I am becoming a serious rockstar when it comes to identifying poop. A useful skill SOMEWHERE I'm sure.) Meaning, the snake didn't climb into my house at night--it simply climbed out of the hammock at night and dropped onto my desk.
The question IS, did I or didn't I sit in the hammock WITH the snake??
And unfortunately, as I swept the poo out the door, it smooshed, leaving a smear of both shit and blood (? your guess is as good as mine . . .). Yes, I realize I've probably just crossed the border into the land of too much information. Sorry? At least you didn't have to clean it up.
solar oven update
This is all I have to say. I let the sauce simmer in the oven while I made the dough and let it rise. Then I threw the pizza in the oven and it was done in less than an hour. I can leave a soup in it all day, and by the time I get off work, I have a delicious supper, still warm from sitting in there.
My life has become so much fancier.
This is amazing.
My life has become so much fancier.
This is amazing.
Fashion in Madagascar
Before I start, I just want to say that five minutes ago some little kids looked at a magazine with me. One girl kept saying, "Look! It's Morondava!" and another girl would respond, "No, stupid! That's in another country!" So these kids struggle to remember my name (usually not a problem because it's the same as a fishing village in Morondava--Betania--clearly these kids aren't into fishing--or just don't know their geography). And one of them tried really hard to remember and came up with, "Bastawe!" (pronounced bah-stah-way). Yes, yes. Amazing. I love it.
Now. Malagasy fashion.
On the plateau, I'll be honest--they dress better than I do. I mean, they seriously look more vazaha than me in Tana. Then again, "nice" here usually means its Chinese and, well, not the best quality. Pretty and shiney, but broken oh so easily. Cheap. I mean cheap in quality--but expensive in price. Go figure. You get the point.
Here on the coast, however, we play a different game. Life is easier. Particularly in my region, Menabe--which means . . . "very red" or "big red" or maybe even "extreme red," if you will--ha. But so it's too too hot for those fancy Chinese clothes in my part of town. It's much more practical to wrap a lamba around you.
Note: Lamba = the short name (do you really want the long one?) for about a meter of fabric that is super handy and has multiple uses. They usually have a random picture on them with a random saying in Malagasy.
Lambas are worn at ceremonies. They are worn by everyone at home. And by everyone, I mostly mean women. Others wear them all the time (if you have a job that is more work and less office--so farmers and market merchants versus teachers and postal workers). You can wear them as a dress or a skirt. Our cook in Kirindy Mitea enjoying rocking (no joke) a sports coat with a lamba like a shirt. Seriously. It was amazing. VERY stylish.
You use lambas to attach babies to your back. Lambas are handy for women when you are on a taxibrousse and need to pee. Other uses: Rag. Cushion on head to help you carry things up top. Blanket. Towel. Strainer (particularly when extracting coconut milk). Wall decoration. Cushion cover. Pillow case. Table cloth. Cover to protect from dust. Emergency swimming suit. Curtain. Beach towel. Means to connect two motorcycles when one is broken and needs to be pulled behind the other. You think I'm kidding on that last one? I've seen it. Point is, lambas are amazing and you can use them for any and everything.
Final lamba note: Once, I arrived in Tana and was cold (naturally), so I pulled out a lamba and wrapped up in it to keep warm. A Gasy guy from Tana laughed at me (as he pulled out his fleece) and called me a hick. Apparently I'm kind of country bumpkin on this island. I love the coast.
Back to regular fashion.
The best part of fashion here is that anything (ANYTHING) goes. The bad news being, it may permanently destroy whatever fashion sense I had. . . . Men can wear frilly hats. Women can wear matching skorts and shirts made of out bright plaid. A hat seller walks around wearing a stack of 50 hats on his head. I can walk around barefoot and it's totally fine. Just avoid noon or the sand will burn your feet of, that's all I have to say.
The clothes I brought have pretty much fallen apart or gotten so stretched out that if I want to wear them, I either need to gain 5 million pounds (approximately) or get pregnant. Like 9 months pregnant overnight.
I tried using a seamstress, but I've discovered that my favorite source of clothing is the frippe (pronounced frihp). It's kind of like the Salvation Army. America and Europe sends their old, unwanted clothes our direction. Sellers throw it into piles and you dig around for treasures. Sometimes they'll even put things on hangers. So for a buck or two I can buy and wear the clothes that you got rid of! And I DO! Most of my current wardrobe consists of your rejects!
The clothes go two ways.
1. It's something legit. A tank top from Express, for example. I got a new supply of tank tops in Tamatave and I'm afraid to say they're nicer than the ones I brought with me in the first place. They fall under this category.
2. It is something RIDICULOUS. This is my favorite. They are ridiculous but they WORK. At least in Madagascar, they do. As long as it fits, right? One of my favorites is a white dress with thing horizontal stripes--and (get this) pictures of a woman from the 20s-esque on a bicycle circling the bottom. Another favorite is bright blue and green and just might be leftover from the 70s. And let's not forget the pink and white dress with pictures of women in bikinis saying, "Hello!!! Isn't it wonderful!!" and "I like it so much!!! give it to me and don't worry . . ." Right. Who does that? Seriously--who thought this up?
I have to work a bit from time to time--sewing it tighter so it's smaller, cutting the back open so it's bigger. Remove that bow, cut this dress a little shorter. It's all part of the game.
Frankly, it's the best thing ever. Digging through the piles of clothes is like searching for a costume in your grandparents' attic. And then it's arts and crafts time when you make those tiny adjustments. All for the price of a beer!
That being said . . . . Don't be surprised if I come home wearing your clothes.
Love,
Bastawe
Now. Malagasy fashion.
On the plateau, I'll be honest--they dress better than I do. I mean, they seriously look more vazaha than me in Tana. Then again, "nice" here usually means its Chinese and, well, not the best quality. Pretty and shiney, but broken oh so easily. Cheap. I mean cheap in quality--but expensive in price. Go figure. You get the point.
Here on the coast, however, we play a different game. Life is easier. Particularly in my region, Menabe--which means . . . "very red" or "big red" or maybe even "extreme red," if you will--ha. But so it's too too hot for those fancy Chinese clothes in my part of town. It's much more practical to wrap a lamba around you.
Note: Lamba = the short name (do you really want the long one?) for about a meter of fabric that is super handy and has multiple uses. They usually have a random picture on them with a random saying in Malagasy.
Lambas are worn at ceremonies. They are worn by everyone at home. And by everyone, I mostly mean women. Others wear them all the time (if you have a job that is more work and less office--so farmers and market merchants versus teachers and postal workers). You can wear them as a dress or a skirt. Our cook in Kirindy Mitea enjoying rocking (no joke) a sports coat with a lamba like a shirt. Seriously. It was amazing. VERY stylish.
You use lambas to attach babies to your back. Lambas are handy for women when you are on a taxibrousse and need to pee. Other uses: Rag. Cushion on head to help you carry things up top. Blanket. Towel. Strainer (particularly when extracting coconut milk). Wall decoration. Cushion cover. Pillow case. Table cloth. Cover to protect from dust. Emergency swimming suit. Curtain. Beach towel. Means to connect two motorcycles when one is broken and needs to be pulled behind the other. You think I'm kidding on that last one? I've seen it. Point is, lambas are amazing and you can use them for any and everything.
Final lamba note: Once, I arrived in Tana and was cold (naturally), so I pulled out a lamba and wrapped up in it to keep warm. A Gasy guy from Tana laughed at me (as he pulled out his fleece) and called me a hick. Apparently I'm kind of country bumpkin on this island. I love the coast.
Back to regular fashion.
The best part of fashion here is that anything (ANYTHING) goes. The bad news being, it may permanently destroy whatever fashion sense I had. . . . Men can wear frilly hats. Women can wear matching skorts and shirts made of out bright plaid. A hat seller walks around wearing a stack of 50 hats on his head. I can walk around barefoot and it's totally fine. Just avoid noon or the sand will burn your feet of, that's all I have to say.
The clothes I brought have pretty much fallen apart or gotten so stretched out that if I want to wear them, I either need to gain 5 million pounds (approximately) or get pregnant. Like 9 months pregnant overnight.
I tried using a seamstress, but I've discovered that my favorite source of clothing is the frippe (pronounced frihp). It's kind of like the Salvation Army. America and Europe sends their old, unwanted clothes our direction. Sellers throw it into piles and you dig around for treasures. Sometimes they'll even put things on hangers. So for a buck or two I can buy and wear the clothes that you got rid of! And I DO! Most of my current wardrobe consists of your rejects!
The clothes go two ways.
1. It's something legit. A tank top from Express, for example. I got a new supply of tank tops in Tamatave and I'm afraid to say they're nicer than the ones I brought with me in the first place. They fall under this category.
2. It is something RIDICULOUS. This is my favorite. They are ridiculous but they WORK. At least in Madagascar, they do. As long as it fits, right? One of my favorites is a white dress with thing horizontal stripes--and (get this) pictures of a woman from the 20s-esque on a bicycle circling the bottom. Another favorite is bright blue and green and just might be leftover from the 70s. And let's not forget the pink and white dress with pictures of women in bikinis saying, "Hello!!! Isn't it wonderful!!" and "I like it so much!!! give it to me and don't worry . . ." Right. Who does that? Seriously--who thought this up?
I have to work a bit from time to time--sewing it tighter so it's smaller, cutting the back open so it's bigger. Remove that bow, cut this dress a little shorter. It's all part of the game.
Frankly, it's the best thing ever. Digging through the piles of clothes is like searching for a costume in your grandparents' attic. And then it's arts and crafts time when you make those tiny adjustments. All for the price of a beer!
That being said . . . . Don't be surprised if I come home wearing your clothes.
Love,
Bastawe
New Beginnings
(So FYI I wrote these next blogs earlier this fall, but waited until I was in America--aka the land of free internet--to post them)
After spending the summer with other people, coming home has been a refreshing but difficult adjustment. I guess I forgot how lonely it can be as the only vazaha in a large village! (I tried calling it a small town once and was shot down by our Malagasy Peace Corps doctor who downgraded Mahabo to a large village . . . whatever--not bitter at all.) It didn't help that half my classes weren't able to start this week (aka the first week of classes). LOTS of free time. That and my proviseur (my best friend in Mahabo) is away for the week--aka no bonding / summer catch up time. THere have definitely been moments of near-panic at the sudden quietness and lack of activity in my life! Ah, well. Once again finding the beauty of stillness . . .
Of course, it hasn't been ALL quiet. My older students started this week. They were rather quiet--and are doing HOMEWORK this weekend. This year I have the two grade levels with national exams (to finish middle school and high school), plus another high school grade. I mean, technically I'm not supposed to teach the exam classes--but the only other English teacher retired, so having non-exam focused Peace Corps English classes is better than no English at all, right?
So this means I have ALL new students (okay, exxcept for those who flunked . . . but that doesn't count). Which means I'll have taught over 1000 of the students in town--and all of my middle/high school students except the two youngest years. Crazy, right? But it's STRANGE being in one of the same classrooms with new students . . . And I LOVE running across old students. I count it as a success when they ask me to teach them again. Okay, maybe they just miss watching me sing and dance and make funny noises for them. I still count that as a success. My students really are the sunshine of my life--I guess I just need time to get to the new ones . . . And while yes I agree (Emily) that teachers need a break (I was certainly ready for it in June!), 3 months without my students was SAD--and 3 months without work nearly made me lose my mind! Even if I DID do that whole lemur thing for a huge chunk of that time. Let's face it--one week without work is even pushing it for me. Ah, the price you pay when you're a workaholic living in a large village in Africa . . . I'll be sure to let you know my thoughts on the new students some time . . .
Also on the agenda this week has been enjoying my new hammock. I LOVE LOVE LOVE it. There are these women with sewing machines (and we're not talking electric--you turn these babies with your hand--as you sew) who chill on street corners and sew stuff for you. So I bought fabric and cord and explained what I wanted--and paid this woman a couple bucks to make me a new hammock. It's great! More comfortable AND it matches my house! Did I mention I added more color? I'll try to get you pictures . . .
I ALSO have a new solar oven! Might as well put that sunshine to work, right? I've made refried beans (for the Mexican I crave so often) and herb and onion break--and I'm making pizza and cinnamon swirl bread this weekend. It's wonderful!
One of my younger students from last year has been coming over lately--to watch movies, play games, listen to music, or do Pilates and yoga with me. She prefers yoga when it's just the two of us, as opposed to us and a crowd of giggling girls (and boys trying to watch). I'll often walk to town with her afterwards--an excuse to get out of the house!
Speaking of which, I am currently at a hotely, watching 5 million kids go home (the private schools started sooner than we did). And a crowd is heading to a funeral. It's the older brother of my neighbor. I call him Ramose--aka Sir. He calls me his child. I know they're all going because the women are wearing lambas--just like I knew it was a funeral the first day it started by the wailing and crowds of people. That being said, they deal with death well here. They are more often celebrating ancestors than mourning the dead. And when a stranger learned that my grandfather died recently, his quick response was, "It's okay--that's what old people are SUPPOSED to do." Good point.
There are piles of red dirt in the road. I think they are trying to fix the road--which would be INCREDIBLE. I'll take a picture of it for you--how bad the roads are here. I think we should win a prize or something. . . I swear it makes us badass. Somehow.
I also visited my friends the Catholic fathers (the one in particular is my close friend--I call him--and the others--"Mompera"--which is Gasy for "Mon Pere"--which is French for "My Father"). He's the one I worked for at the private school last year. They are Indian missionaries and speak English with me while giving me coke. The soft drink, not the drug. VERY kind people I'm lucky to have as friends.
Okay. Well, those are some little updates for you. And by little I mean that was way too long, sorry. I'll try to give you something more entertaining later . . . .
After spending the summer with other people, coming home has been a refreshing but difficult adjustment. I guess I forgot how lonely it can be as the only vazaha in a large village! (I tried calling it a small town once and was shot down by our Malagasy Peace Corps doctor who downgraded Mahabo to a large village . . . whatever--not bitter at all.) It didn't help that half my classes weren't able to start this week (aka the first week of classes). LOTS of free time. That and my proviseur (my best friend in Mahabo) is away for the week--aka no bonding / summer catch up time. THere have definitely been moments of near-panic at the sudden quietness and lack of activity in my life! Ah, well. Once again finding the beauty of stillness . . .
Of course, it hasn't been ALL quiet. My older students started this week. They were rather quiet--and are doing HOMEWORK this weekend. This year I have the two grade levels with national exams (to finish middle school and high school), plus another high school grade. I mean, technically I'm not supposed to teach the exam classes--but the only other English teacher retired, so having non-exam focused Peace Corps English classes is better than no English at all, right?
So this means I have ALL new students (okay, exxcept for those who flunked . . . but that doesn't count). Which means I'll have taught over 1000 of the students in town--and all of my middle/high school students except the two youngest years. Crazy, right? But it's STRANGE being in one of the same classrooms with new students . . . And I LOVE running across old students. I count it as a success when they ask me to teach them again. Okay, maybe they just miss watching me sing and dance and make funny noises for them. I still count that as a success. My students really are the sunshine of my life--I guess I just need time to get to the new ones . . . And while yes I agree (Emily) that teachers need a break (I was certainly ready for it in June!), 3 months without my students was SAD--and 3 months without work nearly made me lose my mind! Even if I DID do that whole lemur thing for a huge chunk of that time. Let's face it--one week without work is even pushing it for me. Ah, the price you pay when you're a workaholic living in a large village in Africa . . . I'll be sure to let you know my thoughts on the new students some time . . .
Also on the agenda this week has been enjoying my new hammock. I LOVE LOVE LOVE it. There are these women with sewing machines (and we're not talking electric--you turn these babies with your hand--as you sew) who chill on street corners and sew stuff for you. So I bought fabric and cord and explained what I wanted--and paid this woman a couple bucks to make me a new hammock. It's great! More comfortable AND it matches my house! Did I mention I added more color? I'll try to get you pictures . . .
I ALSO have a new solar oven! Might as well put that sunshine to work, right? I've made refried beans (for the Mexican I crave so often) and herb and onion break--and I'm making pizza and cinnamon swirl bread this weekend. It's wonderful!
One of my younger students from last year has been coming over lately--to watch movies, play games, listen to music, or do Pilates and yoga with me. She prefers yoga when it's just the two of us, as opposed to us and a crowd of giggling girls (and boys trying to watch). I'll often walk to town with her afterwards--an excuse to get out of the house!
Speaking of which, I am currently at a hotely, watching 5 million kids go home (the private schools started sooner than we did). And a crowd is heading to a funeral. It's the older brother of my neighbor. I call him Ramose--aka Sir. He calls me his child. I know they're all going because the women are wearing lambas--just like I knew it was a funeral the first day it started by the wailing and crowds of people. That being said, they deal with death well here. They are more often celebrating ancestors than mourning the dead. And when a stranger learned that my grandfather died recently, his quick response was, "It's okay--that's what old people are SUPPOSED to do." Good point.
There are piles of red dirt in the road. I think they are trying to fix the road--which would be INCREDIBLE. I'll take a picture of it for you--how bad the roads are here. I think we should win a prize or something. . . I swear it makes us badass. Somehow.
I also visited my friends the Catholic fathers (the one in particular is my close friend--I call him--and the others--"Mompera"--which is Gasy for "Mon Pere"--which is French for "My Father"). He's the one I worked for at the private school last year. They are Indian missionaries and speak English with me while giving me coke. The soft drink, not the drug. VERY kind people I'm lucky to have as friends.
Okay. Well, those are some little updates for you. And by little I mean that was way too long, sorry. I'll try to give you something more entertaining later . . . .
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The wheels on the bus
In the United States, cars are often viewed as a type of miniature home. You keep them clean, you install music systems, you don’t let just anyone inside. It is your own personal space for when you are on the road.
Here in Madagascar, when you look at car, you do not think of any of that. You don’t even think about who owns it. You think let’s attach as much as possible to this motor to get from one point to another. And trust me—that’s exactly what they do.
A taxibrousse (bush taxi) is my main form of transportation. Take van with 5 rows of seats (including that of the driver). Remove any and all cushioning. Add as many people as can fit (the row behind the driver can fit at least 5 but it’s more fun to aim for 10, having some people sitting where feet should be, facing the others, their legs alternating—I’d draw you a picture if I could). Children under 5 do not count. They just sit on laps. I cannot emphasize this enough—if you see someone on the road, you can (and will) fit them inside. Clown cars are normal cars. Throw luggage and a goat on top of the van. Keep some chickens under the seats (I have gotten my ankles pecked on multiple occasions). At least one person is a puker, vomitting into a little plastic bag and throwing it out the window. The sound and smell will inspire others to the same end. At least one mother will be nursing her baby (or child. . .), at least one person will try to talk to you to the point of irritation, and at least one person will fall asleep on you. Now blast obnoxious music as loud as possible, throw the ricketty van onto either a road that is more potholes than road (don’t forget we took away seat cushions—we’re talking hard metal slamming your butt for extended periods of time) or a road that winds so much EVERYONE will puke. Does that give you an idea?
There are variations, of course. Shorter trips mean you cram more people in (my short trip from Mahabo to Morondava takes at least 2 hours for 45k—my long trip to Tana is over 18 hours). Longer trips mean numbness and lack of sleep. Buses in cities are the same thing but for short distances. Traveling in a camion is the same but much bigger, with no seats.
Now, many tourists cannot handle this (particularly when they’re trying to get to a city that has an airport and they can therefore avoid it). They’ll rent cars to avoid it. But with time you really do change your perspective. You are at point A and need to get to point B—does it really matter if you do so with style?
To help you better understand (and in order to make you think of me as an extreme badass), I will describe a trip I took with two close friends, John and Travis (also volunteers here). Before school started, they visited Morondava and we took a trip to the Tsingy, a fascinating park with strange rock formations and caves (don’t worry, I’ll show you the pictures in November). Normally, people rent 4x4s to do the trip. By 4x4 it takes 5 hours or so to get to Belo, and after that 4 hours to get to Bekopaka, the village with the Tsingy. We planned to do it all via taxibrousse
We lucked out and found a Malagasy driver with a 4x4 on his way to pick up his clients in Belo, so he let us hop in for the first part of the trip. His clients had the same plans as us, head up to Bekopaka Monday, spend Tuesday and Wednesday in the park, then head back to Morondava Thursday (a serious deadline for us, as John had an airplane to catch back to his site). The driver said we could tag along with—if his clients agreed. He told us to stay put in Belo while he picked them up—he’d stop by with them so we could discuss. We waited—and watched as he later drove right by us without an explanation. Yes, I understand that if his hands were tied by his clients there was nothing could do—but I find it more entertaining to pretend he totally screwed us.
We quickly wandered the town, looking for ANYTHING on wheels—we worried that if we didn’t arrive that night, we’d get in trouble with John’s flight. Fortunately, after an hour of searching (quite a goose chase), we found a camion heading to Bekopaka. Along with 70 people and some poultry, we crammed inside on top of the luggage and supplies, and we were off. I was eager to spend some quality time with my knees, which I hugged in my allotted foot of space.
By 4x4, it takes 4 hours. Camions are less graceful, so we counted on more like 6 hours. We asked around, reassured by everyone that we’d arrive at Bekopaka that evening—probably after dark, but who needs light to set up a tent? Reassured by everyone, that is, except a gooky old man who said we’d get there the next morning. Oh, that silly man. His sense of time really is old-fasioned of something. Right??
Aaaand, the winner was the old man. We left at 4.30 Monday afternoon. We arrived 8.30 Tuesday morning. 16 hours. It would have been only 4 had we been in that original 4x4. Instead, we ate supper at miniature tables and chairs, and then broke down, spending hours in the middle of the night watching men who were clearly not mechanics try to hammer a large camion wheel onto something too large—after they’d cleaned off grease with little twigs.
Meanwhile, we were exhausted and freezing (who brings blankets when the sun is cooking you almost as much as the body heat?). Our first solution was 3-way spooning in the dirt road. This didn’t work as well as I seem to remember the Voyage of the Mimi might have suggested in the 6th grade. Finally, women took pity on us and gave us a blanket.
The camion was magically fixed, and we all piled in as the owner yelled, ’’Not yet ! It’s not ready yet !!’’ John, whose tall body did not fit well (leading him to spend the first leg of the trip hanging onto the outside) at one point strapped himself to the top. I think hehad the best seat in the house.
Travis spent a lot of time having his thigh grazed by that old man I mentioned earlier. I was coughed by small children (TB anyone ?). We inhaled the smell countless men drinking the moonshine they make around here. We listened to people puking. Our bare feet rested in some goo I have yet to identify. It was amazing.
In the morning, we got rid of half of the people (uh, it didn’t feel much more spacious). Some guy busted out a radio and blasted music for us. One man hid himeself in a lamba (big piece of fabric) to sleep. The owner stopped the camion, ran to a hill with a gun, and shot some kind of bird. That bird’s neck was then cut over my backpack. And it suddenly became okay to touch my butt. Now, I don’t getting coughed on. That’s life. I was even patient when some guy’s armpit was in my face. But getting groped at 7 in the morning isn’t exactly my cup of tea.
Regardless, we got to the Tsingy, safe and mostly sound. We promptly bathed in the river we were told contained crocodiles (but I guess they let you go if you stayed near the edge?). We ate rice and set off for the Tsingy. I’ll let the pictures speak for me, but we rappelled down a dark hole, walked through the maze of beautiful rocks, and climbed around in caves. Plus we saw a decent amount of lemurs.
At the end of the day we set up our 2-person tent with strings (the poles were missing in Morondava—the tent was actually hovering above the ground between the trees), swam with the crocs again, and prepared to look for a way home in the near future (the camion wouldn’t make our deadline). It must be said that sharing a small tent was one thing last December. Doing it in the heat? At one point the boys started taking over my space from both sides—dirty and hot, and I don’t mean in a sexy way. I ended up sleeping outside, on the beach. Sometimes a girl needs a little space.
Luckily, we found an amazing French couple (from Paris) who let us join them the next day for the other part of the park (we hopped into the back of their truck with no guide, no food, no water,and no shoes for John, since they had been stolen from under our flying tent). They gave me a ride home Thursday (John and Travis don’t speak French, and found an English-speaking couple who took them home). We ZOOMED through the journey that had taken us so long earlier that week, and got near Morondava in time for sunset at the baobabs.
It was a beautiful trip.
Here in Madagascar, when you look at car, you do not think of any of that. You don’t even think about who owns it. You think let’s attach as much as possible to this motor to get from one point to another. And trust me—that’s exactly what they do.
A taxibrousse (bush taxi) is my main form of transportation. Take van with 5 rows of seats (including that of the driver). Remove any and all cushioning. Add as many people as can fit (the row behind the driver can fit at least 5 but it’s more fun to aim for 10, having some people sitting where feet should be, facing the others, their legs alternating—I’d draw you a picture if I could). Children under 5 do not count. They just sit on laps. I cannot emphasize this enough—if you see someone on the road, you can (and will) fit them inside. Clown cars are normal cars. Throw luggage and a goat on top of the van. Keep some chickens under the seats (I have gotten my ankles pecked on multiple occasions). At least one person is a puker, vomitting into a little plastic bag and throwing it out the window. The sound and smell will inspire others to the same end. At least one mother will be nursing her baby (or child. . .), at least one person will try to talk to you to the point of irritation, and at least one person will fall asleep on you. Now blast obnoxious music as loud as possible, throw the ricketty van onto either a road that is more potholes than road (don’t forget we took away seat cushions—we’re talking hard metal slamming your butt for extended periods of time) or a road that winds so much EVERYONE will puke. Does that give you an idea?
There are variations, of course. Shorter trips mean you cram more people in (my short trip from Mahabo to Morondava takes at least 2 hours for 45k—my long trip to Tana is over 18 hours). Longer trips mean numbness and lack of sleep. Buses in cities are the same thing but for short distances. Traveling in a camion is the same but much bigger, with no seats.
Now, many tourists cannot handle this (particularly when they’re trying to get to a city that has an airport and they can therefore avoid it). They’ll rent cars to avoid it. But with time you really do change your perspective. You are at point A and need to get to point B—does it really matter if you do so with style?
To help you better understand (and in order to make you think of me as an extreme badass), I will describe a trip I took with two close friends, John and Travis (also volunteers here). Before school started, they visited Morondava and we took a trip to the Tsingy, a fascinating park with strange rock formations and caves (don’t worry, I’ll show you the pictures in November). Normally, people rent 4x4s to do the trip. By 4x4 it takes 5 hours or so to get to Belo, and after that 4 hours to get to Bekopaka, the village with the Tsingy. We planned to do it all via taxibrousse
We lucked out and found a Malagasy driver with a 4x4 on his way to pick up his clients in Belo, so he let us hop in for the first part of the trip. His clients had the same plans as us, head up to Bekopaka Monday, spend Tuesday and Wednesday in the park, then head back to Morondava Thursday (a serious deadline for us, as John had an airplane to catch back to his site). The driver said we could tag along with—if his clients agreed. He told us to stay put in Belo while he picked them up—he’d stop by with them so we could discuss. We waited—and watched as he later drove right by us without an explanation. Yes, I understand that if his hands were tied by his clients there was nothing could do—but I find it more entertaining to pretend he totally screwed us.
We quickly wandered the town, looking for ANYTHING on wheels—we worried that if we didn’t arrive that night, we’d get in trouble with John’s flight. Fortunately, after an hour of searching (quite a goose chase), we found a camion heading to Bekopaka. Along with 70 people and some poultry, we crammed inside on top of the luggage and supplies, and we were off. I was eager to spend some quality time with my knees, which I hugged in my allotted foot of space.
By 4x4, it takes 4 hours. Camions are less graceful, so we counted on more like 6 hours. We asked around, reassured by everyone that we’d arrive at Bekopaka that evening—probably after dark, but who needs light to set up a tent? Reassured by everyone, that is, except a gooky old man who said we’d get there the next morning. Oh, that silly man. His sense of time really is old-fasioned of something. Right??
Aaaand, the winner was the old man. We left at 4.30 Monday afternoon. We arrived 8.30 Tuesday morning. 16 hours. It would have been only 4 had we been in that original 4x4. Instead, we ate supper at miniature tables and chairs, and then broke down, spending hours in the middle of the night watching men who were clearly not mechanics try to hammer a large camion wheel onto something too large—after they’d cleaned off grease with little twigs.
Meanwhile, we were exhausted and freezing (who brings blankets when the sun is cooking you almost as much as the body heat?). Our first solution was 3-way spooning in the dirt road. This didn’t work as well as I seem to remember the Voyage of the Mimi might have suggested in the 6th grade. Finally, women took pity on us and gave us a blanket.
The camion was magically fixed, and we all piled in as the owner yelled, ’’Not yet ! It’s not ready yet !!’’ John, whose tall body did not fit well (leading him to spend the first leg of the trip hanging onto the outside) at one point strapped himself to the top. I think hehad the best seat in the house.
Travis spent a lot of time having his thigh grazed by that old man I mentioned earlier. I was coughed by small children (TB anyone ?). We inhaled the smell countless men drinking the moonshine they make around here. We listened to people puking. Our bare feet rested in some goo I have yet to identify. It was amazing.
In the morning, we got rid of half of the people (uh, it didn’t feel much more spacious). Some guy busted out a radio and blasted music for us. One man hid himeself in a lamba (big piece of fabric) to sleep. The owner stopped the camion, ran to a hill with a gun, and shot some kind of bird. That bird’s neck was then cut over my backpack. And it suddenly became okay to touch my butt. Now, I don’t getting coughed on. That’s life. I was even patient when some guy’s armpit was in my face. But getting groped at 7 in the morning isn’t exactly my cup of tea.
Regardless, we got to the Tsingy, safe and mostly sound. We promptly bathed in the river we were told contained crocodiles (but I guess they let you go if you stayed near the edge?). We ate rice and set off for the Tsingy. I’ll let the pictures speak for me, but we rappelled down a dark hole, walked through the maze of beautiful rocks, and climbed around in caves. Plus we saw a decent amount of lemurs.
At the end of the day we set up our 2-person tent with strings (the poles were missing in Morondava—the tent was actually hovering above the ground between the trees), swam with the crocs again, and prepared to look for a way home in the near future (the camion wouldn’t make our deadline). It must be said that sharing a small tent was one thing last December. Doing it in the heat? At one point the boys started taking over my space from both sides—dirty and hot, and I don’t mean in a sexy way. I ended up sleeping outside, on the beach. Sometimes a girl needs a little space.
Luckily, we found an amazing French couple (from Paris) who let us join them the next day for the other part of the park (we hopped into the back of their truck with no guide, no food, no water,and no shoes for John, since they had been stolen from under our flying tent). They gave me a ride home Thursday (John and Travis don’t speak French, and found an English-speaking couple who took them home). We ZOOMED through the journey that had taken us so long earlier that week, and got near Morondava in time for sunset at the baobabs.
It was a beautiful trip.
What I did for summer vacation
As a Peace Corps Volunteer (one of the few professions where you are on the clock literally 24-7), Heaven forbid I have 3 months of vacation like my students. I’m required tohave a summer project. Did I teach special English classes or train English teachers? No no. I believe the 3-month break was created for a reason, and I intended to preserve my sanity. So instead, I played with lemurs.
Okay that’s only half true. Yes, I did get to hold lemurs and all that jazz, but it wasn’t like recess or something. I was an assistant to a researcher from Duke—the amazing Meredith Barrett, whose blog of the summer can be found at lemurhealth.blogspot.com. I could give you a long and legit explanation of what we did and what we were trying to discover, but where’s the fun in that? Besides—you can find that at her website. Random comments and observations are much more fun for me. And hopefull you too.
Before even meeting the girl, I promised to go into the middle of the forest with Meredith with no expectations except a lack of water and some kind of connection to lemurs.
On the camp in the middle of that forest (note: the camp is owned by Becca, an ex-Duke student who now teaches at UT Austin—and she was totally doing research in Madagascar while pregnant—what a rockstar): The Peace Corps apparently prepares you for a lot of things, like extreme heat, isolation, teaching a classroom of 70 preteens, and living in research camps. The bucket shower we were allowed every 3 days was not only an unexpected surprise considering the water conditions, but it reminded me vaguely of Mahabo. Different bucket, same concept. As did the rice and beans we had for EVERY meal. It was as if they were trying to make me feel at home. The bathroom was (sadly) better than mine (quite a statement, considering it was just a hole in the ground). There were 3 vazahas (2 more than me and Mahabo combined). Early to bed, early to rise. The lack of heat you can see and the addition of shade was confusing. It reminded me of something by the name of autumn. So THAT was all fine.
Here’s what was strange. Now . . . I realize some of you are into that whole biological field research stuff, but I have to be honest—I do not have the patience for all the rules and regulations. All must be even and random and big enough but small enough and often enough. And THEN—when all’s said and done—you have to PROVE beyond a DOUBT everything you say. One hint of evidence to the contrary and it’s all out the window. No. Definitely don’t have the patience. Like with Meredith’s project. She’s essentially (ha—sorry for the serious over-simplification—seriously, go check out her blog—she’s even got videos) proving that lemur health is negatively affected by human development (basically). But does she really have to spend time proving that destroying the homes of lemurs is bad for them? Is anyone silly enough to not get that? Why not let her ACT on it, instead of providing evidence to support the statement. In ANY case, so that was all very enlightening and makes me feel oh so much better about my decision to be an English major. Ha. Whatever that’s another story for another time.
But then again, science won me over for the summer, so I shouldn’t talk. It allowed me to stop teaching English for a moment, and start setting out little traps at night with pieces of banana inside which were magically replaced in the morning by mous lemurs. Or rats. Or ants. It all depends. It kind of reminded me of a video game. You go up to the trap and slowly open that closed door. You kind of hold your breath. You try not to jump if you open the door to an ugly (and smelly) rat.
If you’re lucky, you’ll see a groggy mouse lemur—confused and ready for bed (they’re nocturnal—which means big beautiful eyes). And I swear they stretch and yawn—I swear. I think mouse lemurs are a cross between mice and bats. You’ll see what I mean when I post pictures in November. And they’re all so different! We’d open the cage and I’d hold them while Meredith did her thing. Some looked TERRIFIED, making their big eyes even bigger. Others were sleepy and cuddly (those are scientific descriptions). Some opened their mouths and tried on their fierce face—only I’m afraid it was more cute than intimidating. Most wuld squish up their face at some point—usually in an escape attempt. Those pudgy ground bats. . . oh so cute.
So that was fine and dandy. But then we moved from the Morondava area to the East Coast. Hang on let’s make a list, just for kicks. You can get the more structured version of it all from Meredith. I’m less into narration than random reflections in any case.
1. Tamatave is a larger, rainier version of Morondava. I’m just saying . . . a live in the best part of the island, that’s all.
2. The aye-aye is quite possibly the most ridiculous animal I have ever seen. No wonder it is taboo to lots of Malagasy people. Would YOU want to run across that at night? That death face? If ever you have children, make them aye-ayes for Halloween, and they will be the scariest kids on the block.
3. The fossa, on the other hand, is incredibly beautiful. Your kids can be that for. . . prom.
4. Wait. I have to stop writing. All that painting has done a number on every muscle in my right hand. The price we pay for a little color in our lives . . . .I’ll write more tomorrow.
OKAY. My hand is fine now. So, there were several unexpected (okay, I was warned about some of them) differences that came with our change in location. I’ll do it in paragraphs but not lists, because this computer keeps trying to auto-format things for me, and I do NOT appreciate it—if I want to do something I’ll do it—I don’t need a computer telling me what to do. Also the space bar is not so stellar which is rather frustrating to say the least.
We lived in little huts. For the most part this was fine, but there were a few glitches. It rained a lot, and my hut had several holes in the roof. This meant that not only did I chill in rain by day, but I got the outdoor experience by night as well. When rain is allowed inside a small hut, you’ll find that the air is constantly moist. Soggy mornings are less than pleasant,but hey—it’s a change from Mahabo, right?
I did get a new hut, but lived in fear of fleas, as the person living there before me was an animal lover and let dogs sleep in her hut. Fortunately I turned out fine.
We would often do around 10k (the one day I kept track) of hiking into the forest and then back again (occasionally twice a day). Into the forest here meant UP. And up in mud an drain. The result of THIS was something of a rebirth of the trench foot. My feet were so constantly wet that most of my toenails actually separated from my toes. I had to cut them ridiculously short to avoid any possible snagging emergencies.
We also had leeches. They came up your pants (those naughty creatures), forcing me to tuck pants into socks (on the river forging days, I wore socks with sandales solely to avoid leeches), and they’d come down in the rain. One day I had 8—including one on each eyebrow. After you get rid of them, you keep bleeding, and as I tried to clean one shoulder, an arm would smear blood everywhere—to the point where my light blue tank top turned brown.
The commute to the village with the forest where we worked including hours of hiking up the mountain, and multiple river crossings. Add to that the complication that I puked violently for no apparent reason before we left—and once we got up there, we wouldn’t be able to get ahold of medicine if it ended up being anything. Fortunately it turned out fine.
We bought all our food before climbing up the mountain, as we couldn’t get it once up there (unless we paid someone to go down the mountain to get it). Now, I mentioned that we used bananas in the traps. I’m just going to say—bananas kept for 3 weeks start to get FUNKY. But while WE couldn’t stand the smell, the mouse lemurs apparently were into it. We think they were getting tipsy on fermented banana.
So the Malagasy student Meredith was mentoring was analysing poop. An interesting job, I know—thank goodness I was not assigned to poop collection. They created a little shit stove (seriously) in order to try the samples for analysis in the States. This was fine, okay whatever (I can’t tell you how many laughs we got trying to make superheroes out of him and a vet friend who was up there chopping off dog balls—you can get so creative with unusual jobs—we considered making action figures—but get real—we’re not THAT bored). But one day, he decided to put the oven near the kitchen/eating area. The smell is tattooed in my mind . . . it’s like a stew, gone very wrong. I’ll leave it to your imagination. Needless to say, the oven was moved.
Story has it that once someone put a toilet seat over the usual hole in the ground we use as a bathroom. I guess he didn’t want to squat. After a while, however, they noticed foot prints on the toilet seat. I guess the villagers didn’t get it and squatted on TOP of the seat. Awesome.
Shawn and JulieAnn will especially like this. I made a quilt. I guess I needed more work, so I made one out of the chunks of fabric we use called lambas. I’ll post pictures of that too, don’t worry. It’s funny, because in the States you’re so precise about measurements and everything is so exact. I had no ruler, so I simply tore the fabric up with a ‘’this looks about right’’ attitude. I then sewed it by hand in the forest. It’s SHOCKING that it actually worked out alright—especially since it’s a bunch of smallish squares. There are actually 2 quilts. I used 8 lambas, for the colors—but this meant a LOT more fabric than needed for one. In any case, I’ll show you eventually.
One other main thing, and then I think I’ll leave the rest to Meredith. Though I’m pretty sure she’ll mention this. So a nearby village invited us to a ceremony. The family throwing the party had connections to the forest we were doing research in—one of the men used to do work there. But so a family decides to celebrate their ancestors, so they throw a party, in which they buy a bull and kill it. Other families give a little money, and in return get some of the meat. So it’s kind of a good way for the village to have meat from time to time.
But the whole thing was much crazier than that. There was taoka everywhere (their moonshine which is ridiculously strong and some say it is the cause of every town’s crazy person). And there were BUCKETS of betsabetsa everywhere (the lighter wine-esque version)—and little kids would steal cups of it. And then the whole village was all gathered in the center, around the big bull tied up on the floor. And then—all of the sudden—they ran at it with a machete and HACKED at it’s neck. The guy next to me got blood sprayed on him. After the head came off, things got a bit hectic. Men squatted everywhere, chopped up meat into little cubes on giant leaves to later be put in piles to distribute (and the cubes could be anything from some good meat to nothing but skin and hair—no joke—waste not, want not). Little children played with raw meat (and then grabbed my hands). Little dogs thought they were in heaven. We walked in blood. We created our own private bathrooms behind somewhat desserted trees. And then we walked back up the mountain. It was all in all a good party. And the freshest beef you’ll ever eat.
Okay. I’ll leave it at that, throw in a couple other entries, and I promise the next ones won’t be so long coming. Plus pictures in November. And remember to check out Meredith’s website. It’ll give you an even better idea of my summer vacation.
Okay that’s only half true. Yes, I did get to hold lemurs and all that jazz, but it wasn’t like recess or something. I was an assistant to a researcher from Duke—the amazing Meredith Barrett, whose blog of the summer can be found at lemurhealth.blogspot.com. I could give you a long and legit explanation of what we did and what we were trying to discover, but where’s the fun in that? Besides—you can find that at her website. Random comments and observations are much more fun for me. And hopefull you too.
Before even meeting the girl, I promised to go into the middle of the forest with Meredith with no expectations except a lack of water and some kind of connection to lemurs.
On the camp in the middle of that forest (note: the camp is owned by Becca, an ex-Duke student who now teaches at UT Austin—and she was totally doing research in Madagascar while pregnant—what a rockstar): The Peace Corps apparently prepares you for a lot of things, like extreme heat, isolation, teaching a classroom of 70 preteens, and living in research camps. The bucket shower we were allowed every 3 days was not only an unexpected surprise considering the water conditions, but it reminded me vaguely of Mahabo. Different bucket, same concept. As did the rice and beans we had for EVERY meal. It was as if they were trying to make me feel at home. The bathroom was (sadly) better than mine (quite a statement, considering it was just a hole in the ground). There were 3 vazahas (2 more than me and Mahabo combined). Early to bed, early to rise. The lack of heat you can see and the addition of shade was confusing. It reminded me of something by the name of autumn. So THAT was all fine.
Here’s what was strange. Now . . . I realize some of you are into that whole biological field research stuff, but I have to be honest—I do not have the patience for all the rules and regulations. All must be even and random and big enough but small enough and often enough. And THEN—when all’s said and done—you have to PROVE beyond a DOUBT everything you say. One hint of evidence to the contrary and it’s all out the window. No. Definitely don’t have the patience. Like with Meredith’s project. She’s essentially (ha—sorry for the serious over-simplification—seriously, go check out her blog—she’s even got videos) proving that lemur health is negatively affected by human development (basically). But does she really have to spend time proving that destroying the homes of lemurs is bad for them? Is anyone silly enough to not get that? Why not let her ACT on it, instead of providing evidence to support the statement. In ANY case, so that was all very enlightening and makes me feel oh so much better about my decision to be an English major. Ha. Whatever that’s another story for another time.
But then again, science won me over for the summer, so I shouldn’t talk. It allowed me to stop teaching English for a moment, and start setting out little traps at night with pieces of banana inside which were magically replaced in the morning by mous lemurs. Or rats. Or ants. It all depends. It kind of reminded me of a video game. You go up to the trap and slowly open that closed door. You kind of hold your breath. You try not to jump if you open the door to an ugly (and smelly) rat.
If you’re lucky, you’ll see a groggy mouse lemur—confused and ready for bed (they’re nocturnal—which means big beautiful eyes). And I swear they stretch and yawn—I swear. I think mouse lemurs are a cross between mice and bats. You’ll see what I mean when I post pictures in November. And they’re all so different! We’d open the cage and I’d hold them while Meredith did her thing. Some looked TERRIFIED, making their big eyes even bigger. Others were sleepy and cuddly (those are scientific descriptions). Some opened their mouths and tried on their fierce face—only I’m afraid it was more cute than intimidating. Most wuld squish up their face at some point—usually in an escape attempt. Those pudgy ground bats. . . oh so cute.
So that was fine and dandy. But then we moved from the Morondava area to the East Coast. Hang on let’s make a list, just for kicks. You can get the more structured version of it all from Meredith. I’m less into narration than random reflections in any case.
1. Tamatave is a larger, rainier version of Morondava. I’m just saying . . . a live in the best part of the island, that’s all.
2. The aye-aye is quite possibly the most ridiculous animal I have ever seen. No wonder it is taboo to lots of Malagasy people. Would YOU want to run across that at night? That death face? If ever you have children, make them aye-ayes for Halloween, and they will be the scariest kids on the block.
3. The fossa, on the other hand, is incredibly beautiful. Your kids can be that for. . . prom.
4. Wait. I have to stop writing. All that painting has done a number on every muscle in my right hand. The price we pay for a little color in our lives . . . .I’ll write more tomorrow.
OKAY. My hand is fine now. So, there were several unexpected (okay, I was warned about some of them) differences that came with our change in location. I’ll do it in paragraphs but not lists, because this computer keeps trying to auto-format things for me, and I do NOT appreciate it—if I want to do something I’ll do it—I don’t need a computer telling me what to do. Also the space bar is not so stellar which is rather frustrating to say the least.
We lived in little huts. For the most part this was fine, but there were a few glitches. It rained a lot, and my hut had several holes in the roof. This meant that not only did I chill in rain by day, but I got the outdoor experience by night as well. When rain is allowed inside a small hut, you’ll find that the air is constantly moist. Soggy mornings are less than pleasant,but hey—it’s a change from Mahabo, right?
I did get a new hut, but lived in fear of fleas, as the person living there before me was an animal lover and let dogs sleep in her hut. Fortunately I turned out fine.
We would often do around 10k (the one day I kept track) of hiking into the forest and then back again (occasionally twice a day). Into the forest here meant UP. And up in mud an drain. The result of THIS was something of a rebirth of the trench foot. My feet were so constantly wet that most of my toenails actually separated from my toes. I had to cut them ridiculously short to avoid any possible snagging emergencies.
We also had leeches. They came up your pants (those naughty creatures), forcing me to tuck pants into socks (on the river forging days, I wore socks with sandales solely to avoid leeches), and they’d come down in the rain. One day I had 8—including one on each eyebrow. After you get rid of them, you keep bleeding, and as I tried to clean one shoulder, an arm would smear blood everywhere—to the point where my light blue tank top turned brown.
The commute to the village with the forest where we worked including hours of hiking up the mountain, and multiple river crossings. Add to that the complication that I puked violently for no apparent reason before we left—and once we got up there, we wouldn’t be able to get ahold of medicine if it ended up being anything. Fortunately it turned out fine.
We bought all our food before climbing up the mountain, as we couldn’t get it once up there (unless we paid someone to go down the mountain to get it). Now, I mentioned that we used bananas in the traps. I’m just going to say—bananas kept for 3 weeks start to get FUNKY. But while WE couldn’t stand the smell, the mouse lemurs apparently were into it. We think they were getting tipsy on fermented banana.
So the Malagasy student Meredith was mentoring was analysing poop. An interesting job, I know—thank goodness I was not assigned to poop collection. They created a little shit stove (seriously) in order to try the samples for analysis in the States. This was fine, okay whatever (I can’t tell you how many laughs we got trying to make superheroes out of him and a vet friend who was up there chopping off dog balls—you can get so creative with unusual jobs—we considered making action figures—but get real—we’re not THAT bored). But one day, he decided to put the oven near the kitchen/eating area. The smell is tattooed in my mind . . . it’s like a stew, gone very wrong. I’ll leave it to your imagination. Needless to say, the oven was moved.
Story has it that once someone put a toilet seat over the usual hole in the ground we use as a bathroom. I guess he didn’t want to squat. After a while, however, they noticed foot prints on the toilet seat. I guess the villagers didn’t get it and squatted on TOP of the seat. Awesome.
Shawn and JulieAnn will especially like this. I made a quilt. I guess I needed more work, so I made one out of the chunks of fabric we use called lambas. I’ll post pictures of that too, don’t worry. It’s funny, because in the States you’re so precise about measurements and everything is so exact. I had no ruler, so I simply tore the fabric up with a ‘’this looks about right’’ attitude. I then sewed it by hand in the forest. It’s SHOCKING that it actually worked out alright—especially since it’s a bunch of smallish squares. There are actually 2 quilts. I used 8 lambas, for the colors—but this meant a LOT more fabric than needed for one. In any case, I’ll show you eventually.
One other main thing, and then I think I’ll leave the rest to Meredith. Though I’m pretty sure she’ll mention this. So a nearby village invited us to a ceremony. The family throwing the party had connections to the forest we were doing research in—one of the men used to do work there. But so a family decides to celebrate their ancestors, so they throw a party, in which they buy a bull and kill it. Other families give a little money, and in return get some of the meat. So it’s kind of a good way for the village to have meat from time to time.
But the whole thing was much crazier than that. There was taoka everywhere (their moonshine which is ridiculously strong and some say it is the cause of every town’s crazy person). And there were BUCKETS of betsabetsa everywhere (the lighter wine-esque version)—and little kids would steal cups of it. And then the whole village was all gathered in the center, around the big bull tied up on the floor. And then—all of the sudden—they ran at it with a machete and HACKED at it’s neck. The guy next to me got blood sprayed on him. After the head came off, things got a bit hectic. Men squatted everywhere, chopped up meat into little cubes on giant leaves to later be put in piles to distribute (and the cubes could be anything from some good meat to nothing but skin and hair—no joke—waste not, want not). Little children played with raw meat (and then grabbed my hands). Little dogs thought they were in heaven. We walked in blood. We created our own private bathrooms behind somewhat desserted trees. And then we walked back up the mountain. It was all in all a good party. And the freshest beef you’ll ever eat.
Okay. I’ll leave it at that, throw in a couple other entries, and I promise the next ones won’t be so long coming. Plus pictures in November. And remember to check out Meredith’s website. It’ll give you an even better idea of my summer vacation.
Aaand we're back
Okay. I got home yesterday (today being the day I write this by hand, not type and post it). I celebrated by cleaning the centimeter thick layer of dirt on literally everything. And I got rid of the five million termites and spiders who seem to think we have some kind of time-share and promptly took possession of my home the day I left. This morning was our first teacher’s meeting (during which I mostly twiddled my thumbs—or I would have if that were something I did), and when I showed up at the school, I received all the love from you that has been collecting over the past 3 months. Meaning a handful of packages and 30 letters. Have I mentioned that you’re amazing? After the umpteenth demand after my blog, I’ve decided it’s finally time . . . Where do I even begin?
I am currently sitting in a makeshift bed (my normal sheets also had that layer of dirt I mentioned), listening to a CD from the lovely Matt Emery which he so cleverly calls ‘’Mixagascar.’’ (Love it, by the way.) I’m using my wooden swing as a table, since I’m sort of revamping my house and it’s therefore not attached anymore. Can I just say that windows with slits area pain to paint? EXHAUSTED. But my house (aka cement box) will be even better when all is said and done. Don’t worry—I’ll show you pictures eventually.
Other than that, it’s good to be home. I’ve missed the small town—the crickets and early bed time—the fact that breakfast food is gone if you sleep in until 6.30. I’ve also missed my market—which has changed location, sending me on a treasure hunt for my favorite vendors. In the process, I heard again and again, ‘’Welcome back! Don’t you remember me, Betania? THIS is why we are friends. . . ‘’ Silly me. Of course we’re friends if you said hello once. And obviously I remember EVERY interaction, no matter how insignificant.
Winter is starting to wear off—meaning hot nights and hopefully an end to this wind thing that fills my nose with dust and dirt. My school’s only other English teacher has retired, making me the one and only. I’ll let you know how that goes . . . And I’m trying to mentally prepare formy trip to the US in November (Minnesota for a month!). Only about 6 more weeks before I’m off—CRAZY. And I promise I’ll post TONS of pictures when I’m home and have free internet. Luckily I have friends who take pictures. I am still prefering to live life instead of taking pictures of life happening. That doesn’t mean I’m not incredibly grateful for friends who actually are documenting our time here . . . So there’s that to look forward to.
Okay. On to bigger and better entries.
I am currently sitting in a makeshift bed (my normal sheets also had that layer of dirt I mentioned), listening to a CD from the lovely Matt Emery which he so cleverly calls ‘’Mixagascar.’’ (Love it, by the way.) I’m using my wooden swing as a table, since I’m sort of revamping my house and it’s therefore not attached anymore. Can I just say that windows with slits area pain to paint? EXHAUSTED. But my house (aka cement box) will be even better when all is said and done. Don’t worry—I’ll show you pictures eventually.
Other than that, it’s good to be home. I’ve missed the small town—the crickets and early bed time—the fact that breakfast food is gone if you sleep in until 6.30. I’ve also missed my market—which has changed location, sending me on a treasure hunt for my favorite vendors. In the process, I heard again and again, ‘’Welcome back! Don’t you remember me, Betania? THIS is why we are friends. . . ‘’ Silly me. Of course we’re friends if you said hello once. And obviously I remember EVERY interaction, no matter how insignificant.
Winter is starting to wear off—meaning hot nights and hopefully an end to this wind thing that fills my nose with dust and dirt. My school’s only other English teacher has retired, making me the one and only. I’ll let you know how that goes . . . And I’m trying to mentally prepare formy trip to the US in November (Minnesota for a month!). Only about 6 more weeks before I’m off—CRAZY. And I promise I’ll post TONS of pictures when I’m home and have free internet. Luckily I have friends who take pictures. I am still prefering to live life instead of taking pictures of life happening. That doesn’t mean I’m not incredibly grateful for friends who actually are documenting our time here . . . So there’s that to look forward to.
Okay. On to bigger and better entries.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
For My Grandmother (who wants more boring details)
And when a woman writes you every week, how can you say no? She wants random things, so I'll just do a bunch of quick things? I don't know. We'll see how it goes. Hopefully it will give you a better idea of my life.
I sleep inside a mosquito net every night (doctor's orders). It's really like a green canopy, and I'd like to think it gives me dreams that are forest related or something. I have no proof of this. My bed is a wooden frame with a handful of planks across and a foam mattress on top. My pillos are stuffed with tiny chunks of foam.
I have a one-roomed house (aka a cement box) attached to someone else's house. I love it. It has 2 doors and 4 windows. I also has a closetesque thing where I shower. Showering = a bucket of water and a hole in the ground where the water drains.
I do have a bike, however it is often broken so I leave it in another closetesque thing I don't use because my house is too big for how little I own (yes yes--one room is too big). Besides, I love walking (and why not, when you have time to kill and it's beautiful out and people are fiendly?). It's about 15 minutes to my school and 25 to the market (I live relatively far from things). Plus the fact that I walk provides my students with the opportunity to mimic the way I walk, which never fails to entertain me. I'll show you one day.
There are many many churches in my town (enough that no one really knows how many). madagascar is incredibly Christian--meaning they all (ALL) go to church at least once a week (which they call praying--as in "Do you pray?"). This does not, however, keep men from having mistresses or women from having babies in middle school. Funny how it works out like that. Honestly I think it has more to do with their value of family than anything else. Going to church together is a family tradition.
I have electricity, which means music and a fan. Unfortunately, it didn't work most of the time when it was especially hot. Meaning you had to dump cold water all over yourself before bed and hope you fell asleep before your body realized it was being tricked.
The school system is different here. Students receive lectures and are not used to games or groups or all those special activities we do. You would never realize Heads Up 7 Up is a complicated game if you didn't try teaching it to Malagasy students. Tragic. They have to wear these shirt thngs over their clothes. They raise the flag and sing the national anthem every Monday morning at the assembly--and then clean out the classrooms. They are tested twice each trimester. They talk to much but they are fun and my favorite part of work. I especially love embarassing them in front of each other (meaning anything from using them as an example for vocabulary like bride and groom to randomly singing Happy Birthday to someone). Note: I recently started a second job at the private school, and let me tell you--those kids are WAY better behaved. They also tend to giggle at the way I move and the noises I make (I think my other students are a bit more used to me now) and they seriously love singing camp songs (YES), perhaps because it often means I dance around in front of them while we sing (hahaha whatever don't judge). They love it so much they'll do their exercises super quickly so we can spend the rest of class singing. And they are not afraid to basically say, "Okay that new song SUCKS" (which unfortunately means we won't be doing one of my FAVORITES again--what do they have against short-necked buzzards?).
My furniture: the bed, 2 tables (one for work, one for food), 2 chairs, and a bookshelf. The kitchen table has a gas tank under it connected to 2 burners, dishes drying, and a water filter surrounded by bottles of water I've already cleaned. My bookshelf has kitchen stuff, music stuff, and most anything else I own. Including meds.
The stars are INCREDIBLE. And even better when I put my glasses on! I'd sleep under them all the time, but--you know--the Peace Corps has a thing against malaria or whatever, so . . . But I HAVE slept under them multiple times at the beach, and it's BEAUTIFUL. Especially after a midnight swim in an ocean glowing with those phosphorous algae things whatever I'm sure someone I know will know what they actually are. And a full moon? Yeah that's amazing too. Or when it's gold. It's a beautiful life here . . . Truly truly.
I love getting letters from you. No joke seriously and then people in my town think I'm all popular and loved and stuff (which means they should like me too, right?). PS Shin they stole something you sent AGAIN. Second time. It was the keychain? Flask thing? I don't even know. They don't usually take things from packages (never for me that I'm aware of), but if an envelope contains more than pieces of paper, they slice and steal. FYI.
Okay that's it. Any other questions? It's hard to know what you want to know when life here feels normal to me now. Remind me to tell you about the taxibrousses. Wait here's a little more.
My one piece of luggage (a hiking pack) sits in a corner behind my clothes than hang on a clothes line so they won't be eaten by the mice or termites or cockroaches (hey you never know with those little buggers). A cockroach just died on the floor as we speak actually. They die so often! I feel like I find their dead bodies as often as I see the real deal. Or the babies. They have a lot of babies. They tried having babies in one of my spices. I didn't like that. Especially since I didn't realize it at first, so I definitely was eating little larvae things. Yum yum! Protein, right? My windows open out and up and are held there by a stick wedged in there.
I'd give anything for a swimming pool and a playgroud (I've already designed the set-up). I love Mexican food. Avocados are only 200 Ariary these days! Aka 10 cents. Don't ask what percentage of my salary that is. I have a blue snowman stocking up that's from my mother. My windows have no screens but it'd help keep the night bugs out if I did.
Oops. The cockroach is alive afterall. Sneaky guy. I also own a broom. Much needed. I also have buckets. I burn the little garbage I have, collected in a small plastic bag that once contained dried beans, in all likelihood. Or potatoes. The fruit on the banana tree in the back is almost ripe. I have one umbrella that I basically only needed during the cyclone (rainy season? not in Mahabo). It is bright green with electric blue polka dots. Very happy. I bought it here.
Okay seriously I'm stopping now. If you're curious about other things let me know!
MISS YOU.
I sleep inside a mosquito net every night (doctor's orders). It's really like a green canopy, and I'd like to think it gives me dreams that are forest related or something. I have no proof of this. My bed is a wooden frame with a handful of planks across and a foam mattress on top. My pillos are stuffed with tiny chunks of foam.
I have a one-roomed house (aka a cement box) attached to someone else's house. I love it. It has 2 doors and 4 windows. I also has a closetesque thing where I shower. Showering = a bucket of water and a hole in the ground where the water drains.
I do have a bike, however it is often broken so I leave it in another closetesque thing I don't use because my house is too big for how little I own (yes yes--one room is too big). Besides, I love walking (and why not, when you have time to kill and it's beautiful out and people are fiendly?). It's about 15 minutes to my school and 25 to the market (I live relatively far from things). Plus the fact that I walk provides my students with the opportunity to mimic the way I walk, which never fails to entertain me. I'll show you one day.
There are many many churches in my town (enough that no one really knows how many). madagascar is incredibly Christian--meaning they all (ALL) go to church at least once a week (which they call praying--as in "Do you pray?"). This does not, however, keep men from having mistresses or women from having babies in middle school. Funny how it works out like that. Honestly I think it has more to do with their value of family than anything else. Going to church together is a family tradition.
I have electricity, which means music and a fan. Unfortunately, it didn't work most of the time when it was especially hot. Meaning you had to dump cold water all over yourself before bed and hope you fell asleep before your body realized it was being tricked.
The school system is different here. Students receive lectures and are not used to games or groups or all those special activities we do. You would never realize Heads Up 7 Up is a complicated game if you didn't try teaching it to Malagasy students. Tragic. They have to wear these shirt thngs over their clothes. They raise the flag and sing the national anthem every Monday morning at the assembly--and then clean out the classrooms. They are tested twice each trimester. They talk to much but they are fun and my favorite part of work. I especially love embarassing them in front of each other (meaning anything from using them as an example for vocabulary like bride and groom to randomly singing Happy Birthday to someone). Note: I recently started a second job at the private school, and let me tell you--those kids are WAY better behaved. They also tend to giggle at the way I move and the noises I make (I think my other students are a bit more used to me now) and they seriously love singing camp songs (YES), perhaps because it often means I dance around in front of them while we sing (hahaha whatever don't judge). They love it so much they'll do their exercises super quickly so we can spend the rest of class singing. And they are not afraid to basically say, "Okay that new song SUCKS" (which unfortunately means we won't be doing one of my FAVORITES again--what do they have against short-necked buzzards?).
My furniture: the bed, 2 tables (one for work, one for food), 2 chairs, and a bookshelf. The kitchen table has a gas tank under it connected to 2 burners, dishes drying, and a water filter surrounded by bottles of water I've already cleaned. My bookshelf has kitchen stuff, music stuff, and most anything else I own. Including meds.
The stars are INCREDIBLE. And even better when I put my glasses on! I'd sleep under them all the time, but--you know--the Peace Corps has a thing against malaria or whatever, so . . . But I HAVE slept under them multiple times at the beach, and it's BEAUTIFUL. Especially after a midnight swim in an ocean glowing with those phosphorous algae things whatever I'm sure someone I know will know what they actually are. And a full moon? Yeah that's amazing too. Or when it's gold. It's a beautiful life here . . . Truly truly.
I love getting letters from you. No joke seriously and then people in my town think I'm all popular and loved and stuff (which means they should like me too, right?). PS Shin they stole something you sent AGAIN. Second time. It was the keychain? Flask thing? I don't even know. They don't usually take things from packages (never for me that I'm aware of), but if an envelope contains more than pieces of paper, they slice and steal. FYI.
Okay that's it. Any other questions? It's hard to know what you want to know when life here feels normal to me now. Remind me to tell you about the taxibrousses. Wait here's a little more.
My one piece of luggage (a hiking pack) sits in a corner behind my clothes than hang on a clothes line so they won't be eaten by the mice or termites or cockroaches (hey you never know with those little buggers). A cockroach just died on the floor as we speak actually. They die so often! I feel like I find their dead bodies as often as I see the real deal. Or the babies. They have a lot of babies. They tried having babies in one of my spices. I didn't like that. Especially since I didn't realize it at first, so I definitely was eating little larvae things. Yum yum! Protein, right? My windows open out and up and are held there by a stick wedged in there.
I'd give anything for a swimming pool and a playgroud (I've already designed the set-up). I love Mexican food. Avocados are only 200 Ariary these days! Aka 10 cents. Don't ask what percentage of my salary that is. I have a blue snowman stocking up that's from my mother. My windows have no screens but it'd help keep the night bugs out if I did.
Oops. The cockroach is alive afterall. Sneaky guy. I also own a broom. Much needed. I also have buckets. I burn the little garbage I have, collected in a small plastic bag that once contained dried beans, in all likelihood. Or potatoes. The fruit on the banana tree in the back is almost ripe. I have one umbrella that I basically only needed during the cyclone (rainy season? not in Mahabo). It is bright green with electric blue polka dots. Very happy. I bought it here.
Okay seriously I'm stopping now. If you're curious about other things let me know!
MISS YOU.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Ummm
So I think after uploading all those pictures the internet decided to not post them after all? I'm not sure. I tried. I swear.
My Home :)
Pictures of my house for those of you interested. Note the swing in the doorway (they thought I was crazy), the blue hammock, the green mosquito net, and the cow eating in my backyard by the banana tree. The shack is my kabone.
A Market Experience
This is for those of you who wanted a better picture of my daily life.
To get an idea of what the market is like for me, imagine you are going to a state fair slash carnival. It is often the highlight of my day--the big event (which either speaks highly of the market or tells you just how boring my days are--or probably a little of both--ha).
A market experience for me starts the moment I walk out my door. On the road between home and the market, this exact conversation takes place approximately 15 times: "Hey!" "Hey!" "What's new?" "Nothing." "Going to the market?" "Yup." I don't know why they state the obvious. They know you're going to the market already because you have your basket--the basket everyone has, of varying sizes and colors, that is used exclusively for the market (and if you bring it anywhere else, you will be laughed at). Very environment friendly. It is plastic and woven. Mine is black and orange so I can feel like I'm trick or treating EVERYDAY. Only instead of getting candy I get tomatoes.
Note: Watch out for men on this walk. If you are alone or female or white or blonde or just if your name happens to be Bethany, they will stare at you, unabashedly check you out, try to shake your hand, make noises to get your attention, hit on you in French, ask you for private English lessons, and occasionally grope you. They might also throw a stick at you, but that was an accident. The goal is to not let their sliminess make you angry at the world in general. Fyi.
Also, be prepared to step aside for passing cows and cars.
The highlight of the walk is when little children ont he side of the roads somehow know your name and yell it in their cute little fashion ("Aia le Betanie!" for as long as they can see you). It is less cute when others ask you your name in French and you pretend not to understand them. "What? I don't speak French. French? No no no I'm not French. Ignore the white skin. Pretend I'm Malagasy."
By the time you get to town, you are rather hot--a combination of the fact that you're been walking forever, and it's just . . . really hot. Lucky for you, there are many options for juice at the market! My favorite is to walk up to the open windows selling juice? There, you can get tamarin, pineapple, grenadelle, and orange juice (which tastes suspiciously like Sunny Delight). You can also get milk juice, a pinkish whitish liquid I haven't quite figured out yet. You can also find cintronade (aka lemonade) inside coolers on the tables lining the market. It's not very special (water, sugar, lemon )--sometimes good sometimes just funny tasting water. It's main value is that it's COLD (a rarity indeed). I once had tamarin juice so cold it threw me for the rest of the day. Slush? In Mahabo?
Before actually shopping, you might also pick up a little snack. This will give you enough energy to walk home (it's amazing how the heat can eat up those calories!). Or maybe you're like me and eat the food as an excuse to have sakay (their version or salsa slash hot sauce). There is a wide variety of food to be found and almost all of it is FRIED (torture when your tummy hurts). No joke. Frying is a convenient way to cook on the side of the road. The main ingredients are four and sugar. Sometimes they throw in honey or coconut or put an entire banana in the middle to make it special. It's more expensive (aka 5 cents instead of . . . 2 and a half) if it has egg in it. In the morning, you can find a certain rice bread thing (aka my breakfast) and at night they bust out the big guns (aka they stuff meat in it all). Ironically, at noon, of all those foods, only one is salty instead of sweet (minus the occasional exceptions). This is what I get (remember that sakay goal). But mostly I get it because a sweet old man and his wife sell them. Sometimes they come find me to tell me they're ready and nice and hot. Sometimes they also give me an extra for no particular reason. You see, street food --more than anything--is all about your relationship with the vendors.
The same is true for the regular market shopping. You tend to buy the same things from the same people. Hopefully not from the stands covered in flies. Then they tell everyone you are their friend and are often when weighing those kilos and half kilos to earn your loyalty. They also ask why they haven't seen you in a while. They also give you an extra carrot or tomato sometimes. Honestly, it's kind of nice going to a grocery store that knows you and knows what you want. Note: EVERY time you buy rice (what you eat EVERY meal), they will be SHOCKED. And the ONE time per month you go for pasta, they will shake their heads and say, "She doesn't eat rice! Those Americans--they don't eat rice like the Malagasy." This is very frustrating.
Here is something you must put up with whenever you go to the market: The giant animal carcasses they're selling. You must deal with the smells, the flies, and the men who try to convince you to buy it even though you tell them time and again that you don't WANT that cow's face, thank you. PS The giant hunks of flesh are transported by throwing the dead body on top your your head no joke. Buying in bulk means taking a shower when you get home.
Details: When street food is too hot, they put it in newspaper or notebook paper. When you get juice, you drink out of the same cups everyone else uses that are then dunked in a bucket of water to clean them. A common sight is a woman with a basket on her head, another in her hand, and a live chicken in the other hand. You kill the chicken before supper, of course. It doesn't seem to mind being carried upside down, by its feet. I find that strange.
Add the walk home and you have my daily market trip!
To get an idea of what the market is like for me, imagine you are going to a state fair slash carnival. It is often the highlight of my day--the big event (which either speaks highly of the market or tells you just how boring my days are--or probably a little of both--ha).
A market experience for me starts the moment I walk out my door. On the road between home and the market, this exact conversation takes place approximately 15 times: "Hey!" "Hey!" "What's new?" "Nothing." "Going to the market?" "Yup." I don't know why they state the obvious. They know you're going to the market already because you have your basket--the basket everyone has, of varying sizes and colors, that is used exclusively for the market (and if you bring it anywhere else, you will be laughed at). Very environment friendly. It is plastic and woven. Mine is black and orange so I can feel like I'm trick or treating EVERYDAY. Only instead of getting candy I get tomatoes.
Note: Watch out for men on this walk. If you are alone or female or white or blonde or just if your name happens to be Bethany, they will stare at you, unabashedly check you out, try to shake your hand, make noises to get your attention, hit on you in French, ask you for private English lessons, and occasionally grope you. They might also throw a stick at you, but that was an accident. The goal is to not let their sliminess make you angry at the world in general. Fyi.
Also, be prepared to step aside for passing cows and cars.
The highlight of the walk is when little children ont he side of the roads somehow know your name and yell it in their cute little fashion ("Aia le Betanie!" for as long as they can see you). It is less cute when others ask you your name in French and you pretend not to understand them. "What? I don't speak French. French? No no no I'm not French. Ignore the white skin. Pretend I'm Malagasy."
By the time you get to town, you are rather hot--a combination of the fact that you're been walking forever, and it's just . . . really hot. Lucky for you, there are many options for juice at the market! My favorite is to walk up to the open windows selling juice? There, you can get tamarin, pineapple, grenadelle, and orange juice (which tastes suspiciously like Sunny Delight). You can also get milk juice, a pinkish whitish liquid I haven't quite figured out yet. You can also find cintronade (aka lemonade) inside coolers on the tables lining the market. It's not very special (water, sugar, lemon )--sometimes good sometimes just funny tasting water. It's main value is that it's COLD (a rarity indeed). I once had tamarin juice so cold it threw me for the rest of the day. Slush? In Mahabo?
Before actually shopping, you might also pick up a little snack. This will give you enough energy to walk home (it's amazing how the heat can eat up those calories!). Or maybe you're like me and eat the food as an excuse to have sakay (their version or salsa slash hot sauce). There is a wide variety of food to be found and almost all of it is FRIED (torture when your tummy hurts). No joke. Frying is a convenient way to cook on the side of the road. The main ingredients are four and sugar. Sometimes they throw in honey or coconut or put an entire banana in the middle to make it special. It's more expensive (aka 5 cents instead of . . . 2 and a half) if it has egg in it. In the morning, you can find a certain rice bread thing (aka my breakfast) and at night they bust out the big guns (aka they stuff meat in it all). Ironically, at noon, of all those foods, only one is salty instead of sweet (minus the occasional exceptions). This is what I get (remember that sakay goal). But mostly I get it because a sweet old man and his wife sell them. Sometimes they come find me to tell me they're ready and nice and hot. Sometimes they also give me an extra for no particular reason. You see, street food --more than anything--is all about your relationship with the vendors.
The same is true for the regular market shopping. You tend to buy the same things from the same people. Hopefully not from the stands covered in flies. Then they tell everyone you are their friend and are often when weighing those kilos and half kilos to earn your loyalty. They also ask why they haven't seen you in a while. They also give you an extra carrot or tomato sometimes. Honestly, it's kind of nice going to a grocery store that knows you and knows what you want. Note: EVERY time you buy rice (what you eat EVERY meal), they will be SHOCKED. And the ONE time per month you go for pasta, they will shake their heads and say, "She doesn't eat rice! Those Americans--they don't eat rice like the Malagasy." This is very frustrating.
Here is something you must put up with whenever you go to the market: The giant animal carcasses they're selling. You must deal with the smells, the flies, and the men who try to convince you to buy it even though you tell them time and again that you don't WANT that cow's face, thank you. PS The giant hunks of flesh are transported by throwing the dead body on top your your head no joke. Buying in bulk means taking a shower when you get home.
Details: When street food is too hot, they put it in newspaper or notebook paper. When you get juice, you drink out of the same cups everyone else uses that are then dunked in a bucket of water to clean them. A common sight is a woman with a basket on her head, another in her hand, and a live chicken in the other hand. You kill the chicken before supper, of course. It doesn't seem to mind being carried upside down, by its feet. I find that strange.
Add the walk home and you have my daily market trip!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
all creatures (not so) great and small
In every living situation, there comes a time when you need to have a little sit-down with your housemates to discuss what is and what most definitely is NOT okay. I believe that time is now.
Note: The snails have already been evicted. Too much pooping in the shower.
To the spiders.
Listen. I thought we had an understanding. I let you make yourselves at home, and you eat the mosquitoes that could give me malaria. We had an agreement. But you are getting FAR too territorial. No, you cannot use my clotheslines as part of your webs. They are not sticky. It will not work. The same goes for my water filter. And my silverware. That's just gross. And I don't know WHOSE idea it was to hide the huge woody spiders in my clothes, but cut it out. You are not cute. Jumping out and surprising me like that . . . And sleeping on my mosquito net? Right above my face? There's a reason you died in your sleep last night. It's called karma. PS I've been bitten a lot lately. Either step it up or get out.
To the termites.
Um, sorry about the poison. But listen, you were etting out of control. I mean, it was one thing trying to eat the mattress?. BAD termites. But then when you ate an entire card from my grandmother (my GRANDMOTHER, for goodness sake)? In one night? You sealed your fate. Not to mention nibbling on my favorite shoes. I had to get you before you got Choi's good Alice in Wonderland postcard. So I apologize, but you left me no other choice. If it's any consolation, there's a decent chance I ate some of that poison too. So there's that.
To the flies.
Okay. Not to be a party pooper or anything. We're all entitled to have a little fun. But seriously. This having sex on my desk thing? It has to go. I do not wish to watch flies mounting flies while I write lesson plans. And I'd appreciate it if your foreplay did not include tumbling over each other ON ME. Is my sweat that arousing for you? And I understand that the food here isn't necessarily stellar--I miss Mexican too, trust me. But get out of my wounds. Puss is not good. You are disgusting. And I don't know you well enough to let you nibble on me like that? Oh, and dive bombing down my shirt? No no no no no. Stop that right now. We're not even the same species. It would never work out. Point is, go forth and multiply, okay fine whatever. But do it somewhere else. Or just go . . . chill with the termites.
To the cockroaches.
I've given you a lot of space--a lot of generosity. I did not grow up seeing you, so you did not bother me. You were a novelty. You kept me company in the shower. But if you're going to move in like that, you need to clean up after yourselves. Showering in your droppings is not my idea of cleanliness. And to the 3 of you who decided to make my hiking shoe your home? What were you thinking?? Stupid stupid stupid? To the one who tried to get into my toothbrush case, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will find you and I will kill you and I will feed you to the chicken. I think I've made myself clear.
To the frogs and lizards.
You can stay. You are cute. And so fast!
To the snake in my kabone.
You can stay too. Though why you'd WANT to is beyond me.
I do not acknowledge the existence of any other creatures in my house. If I have not mentioned you, you are trespassing. Watch out, or I will send the woody spiders after you.
Note: The snails have already been evicted. Too much pooping in the shower.
To the spiders.
Listen. I thought we had an understanding. I let you make yourselves at home, and you eat the mosquitoes that could give me malaria. We had an agreement. But you are getting FAR too territorial. No, you cannot use my clotheslines as part of your webs. They are not sticky. It will not work. The same goes for my water filter. And my silverware. That's just gross. And I don't know WHOSE idea it was to hide the huge woody spiders in my clothes, but cut it out. You are not cute. Jumping out and surprising me like that . . . And sleeping on my mosquito net? Right above my face? There's a reason you died in your sleep last night. It's called karma. PS I've been bitten a lot lately. Either step it up or get out.
To the termites.
Um, sorry about the poison. But listen, you were etting out of control. I mean, it was one thing trying to eat the mattress?. BAD termites. But then when you ate an entire card from my grandmother (my GRANDMOTHER, for goodness sake)? In one night? You sealed your fate. Not to mention nibbling on my favorite shoes. I had to get you before you got Choi's good Alice in Wonderland postcard. So I apologize, but you left me no other choice. If it's any consolation, there's a decent chance I ate some of that poison too. So there's that.
To the flies.
Okay. Not to be a party pooper or anything. We're all entitled to have a little fun. But seriously. This having sex on my desk thing? It has to go. I do not wish to watch flies mounting flies while I write lesson plans. And I'd appreciate it if your foreplay did not include tumbling over each other ON ME. Is my sweat that arousing for you? And I understand that the food here isn't necessarily stellar--I miss Mexican too, trust me. But get out of my wounds. Puss is not good. You are disgusting. And I don't know you well enough to let you nibble on me like that? Oh, and dive bombing down my shirt? No no no no no. Stop that right now. We're not even the same species. It would never work out. Point is, go forth and multiply, okay fine whatever. But do it somewhere else. Or just go . . . chill with the termites.
To the cockroaches.
I've given you a lot of space--a lot of generosity. I did not grow up seeing you, so you did not bother me. You were a novelty. You kept me company in the shower. But if you're going to move in like that, you need to clean up after yourselves. Showering in your droppings is not my idea of cleanliness. And to the 3 of you who decided to make my hiking shoe your home? What were you thinking?? Stupid stupid stupid? To the one who tried to get into my toothbrush case, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will find you and I will kill you and I will feed you to the chicken. I think I've made myself clear.
To the frogs and lizards.
You can stay. You are cute. And so fast!
To the snake in my kabone.
You can stay too. Though why you'd WANT to is beyond me.
I do not acknowledge the existence of any other creatures in my house. If I have not mentioned you, you are trespassing. Watch out, or I will send the woody spiders after you.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Reminder
For those of you who have asked (and just to remind the rest), you can write to me at:
Bethany Allen
Lycée Resaotsy
BP 14
Mahabo 615
Madagascar
(miss you too!)
I promise to reply :)
Bethany Allen
Lycée Resaotsy
BP 14
Mahabo 615
Madagascar
(miss you too!)
I promise to reply :)
Highlights of Winter Break (for better or worse)
Cleopatra in Andringtra, aka Christmas in Africa
So our fist stop was the most eventful. When going to remote locations, you may find yourself filling a van full of Malagasy people and negociating a price up the mountain. If you are ME, you will use the remote opportunity to ride on TOP of the taxibrousse instead of in it, sprawled out Cleopatra-stylez, reclining on luggage while enjoying the view. Uh, note: such intense sun exposure will ead to a dissolving nose covered in puss and blood no joke. OOPS. Live and learn. I felt like Rochester on syphilis. Hot. Our Andringtra goal was to climb Madagascar's second highest peak. We decided this was best done in one day. Yes yes--up and down in 14 hours with the occasional food break. When the guide wasn't looking, I may or may not have jumped off a bridge and into soem pools by some waterfalls. Oh and THEN I got called Cleopatra a SECOND time when I had to be straight up CARRIED DOWN part of the mountain in the chair created by the arms of two of the guys. Um, oops take two? It seems I aggravated an injury from training. Dear Doctors: I know you told me to take it easy, only running 5 minutes at a time and slowly increasing over weeks, but I'm just too impatient for that sort of thing, and decided to skip it and go straight to climbing 34 km up and down a steep mountain all in one go. Awesome. I could not bend my legs. Silly knees. HA. Christmas day was spent nursing wounds (nose, knees, and a cold that decided to join the fun). Our Christmas feast was eaten out of a can (HAHAHA); And we sang Christmas carols while lying down, looking at the stars. We then spent the night (after finally getting driven away from the mountain) in the sketchiest hotel ever in life (Travis's last words before we all went to sleep: Uh, not to ruin the moment, but I have to say--I think some rat feces just fell on my face"). Hahahaha. I know you are so jealous. Needless to say, there was no snow.
I'll hit on other highlights quickly. 1. Swimming in waterfalls and jumping off a cliff into a natural pool in Isalo. Bonus: not losing my swim suit in the process. 2. Playing with lemurs in Zombitse. No seriously, I had bite marks from wrestling around with them. MUCH more fun than dogs or cats. 3. Snorkeling in Ifaty! Amazing. Perhaps my favorite part of the trip. Minus the slow boat ride back in the rain. Cuddling for warmth was only SO helpful. 4. Ameoba! I got one. His name was Franklin. He's dead now, I killed him. I obviously spent New Years' Eve rolling around in pain in bed with a break or two to puke up my supper. Happy New Year! Hahaha.
Oo, and a panic attack on the way home (I laugh NOW . . .). It turns out my malaria medicine occasionally causes insanity--depression, paranoia, anxiety--the whole shebang. And we discovered (after 7 months of putting the stuff in my body) that I'm one of the lucky few! Uh, cool? Don't worry--I'm on new meds and feeling a bit more normal.
AND I came home to find TERMITES. Yay! Welcome to the party in my house. Hahaha. And there's a snake living in my kabone (bathroom aka hut and hole). OH PS I held a boa constrictor in Isalo. And these snails keep sneaking into my shower and pooping everywhere. NOT okay. There are way bigger than any escargot I ever ate in Paris.
Ooookay. We'll leave it at that. An eventful trip, yes? Oh hey wait did I tell you I put a swing in my house?? Oh yes. Come play!
Talk to you later :)
So our fist stop was the most eventful. When going to remote locations, you may find yourself filling a van full of Malagasy people and negociating a price up the mountain. If you are ME, you will use the remote opportunity to ride on TOP of the taxibrousse instead of in it, sprawled out Cleopatra-stylez, reclining on luggage while enjoying the view. Uh, note: such intense sun exposure will ead to a dissolving nose covered in puss and blood no joke. OOPS. Live and learn. I felt like Rochester on syphilis. Hot. Our Andringtra goal was to climb Madagascar's second highest peak. We decided this was best done in one day. Yes yes--up and down in 14 hours with the occasional food break. When the guide wasn't looking, I may or may not have jumped off a bridge and into soem pools by some waterfalls. Oh and THEN I got called Cleopatra a SECOND time when I had to be straight up CARRIED DOWN part of the mountain in the chair created by the arms of two of the guys. Um, oops take two? It seems I aggravated an injury from training. Dear Doctors: I know you told me to take it easy, only running 5 minutes at a time and slowly increasing over weeks, but I'm just too impatient for that sort of thing, and decided to skip it and go straight to climbing 34 km up and down a steep mountain all in one go. Awesome. I could not bend my legs. Silly knees. HA. Christmas day was spent nursing wounds (nose, knees, and a cold that decided to join the fun). Our Christmas feast was eaten out of a can (HAHAHA); And we sang Christmas carols while lying down, looking at the stars. We then spent the night (after finally getting driven away from the mountain) in the sketchiest hotel ever in life (Travis's last words before we all went to sleep: Uh, not to ruin the moment, but I have to say--I think some rat feces just fell on my face"). Hahahaha. I know you are so jealous. Needless to say, there was no snow.
I'll hit on other highlights quickly. 1. Swimming in waterfalls and jumping off a cliff into a natural pool in Isalo. Bonus: not losing my swim suit in the process. 2. Playing with lemurs in Zombitse. No seriously, I had bite marks from wrestling around with them. MUCH more fun than dogs or cats. 3. Snorkeling in Ifaty! Amazing. Perhaps my favorite part of the trip. Minus the slow boat ride back in the rain. Cuddling for warmth was only SO helpful. 4. Ameoba! I got one. His name was Franklin. He's dead now, I killed him. I obviously spent New Years' Eve rolling around in pain in bed with a break or two to puke up my supper. Happy New Year! Hahaha.
Oo, and a panic attack on the way home (I laugh NOW . . .). It turns out my malaria medicine occasionally causes insanity--depression, paranoia, anxiety--the whole shebang. And we discovered (after 7 months of putting the stuff in my body) that I'm one of the lucky few! Uh, cool? Don't worry--I'm on new meds and feeling a bit more normal.
AND I came home to find TERMITES. Yay! Welcome to the party in my house. Hahaha. And there's a snake living in my kabone (bathroom aka hut and hole). OH PS I held a boa constrictor in Isalo. And these snails keep sneaking into my shower and pooping everywhere. NOT okay. There are way bigger than any escargot I ever ate in Paris.
Ooookay. We'll leave it at that. An eventful trip, yes? Oh hey wait did I tell you I put a swing in my house?? Oh yes. Come play!
Talk to you later :)
Letters and Love
FYI: If you mail something in a letter, and it does not feel like a letter, they will open the envelope and take it. This is not a joke. This means I did not get your present, Shin :( VERY upset. So if sending anything that's not actually a letter, use a padded envelope thing--then they won't steal it. Those little padded envelopes are perfect! Also, go ahead and lie on the price of things. Pretend it's used or something! Else I will have to pay about as much as YOU did, except I am a poor little girl who lives off of a dollar or two a day. Just thought I'd mention . . . .
PS THANK YOU to everyone for writing. Seriously I can't tell you how much it helps, etc--and I know I say that every time, but that's because it's still true (ha). Okay. Business done. Now for a real live update.
PS THANK YOU to everyone for writing. Seriously I can't tell you how much it helps, etc--and I know I say that every time, but that's because it's still true (ha). Okay. Business done. Now for a real live update.
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