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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)