The current state of things....
Madagascar is still a bit of a mess. Tourists aren't going, so a HUGE part of their income is simply eliminated (and of course it's the people not the government who suffer because of that). The new President has decided that all schooling must be entirely in French (never mind of the teachers don't speak it well enough to lecture in it, never mind if many students do not speak it and so will not learn anything in class). Rumor has it they just want to make France like them more. This is a step away from the current direction (the goal was to make schooling more and more in Malagasy), which has not pleased people giving Madagascar aid, which means that in addition to generally screwing up the education, the new President's genius plan means that teachers might not get paid. Think about that for a minute. So that's generally what's going on--or what I can gather from miles and miles away. The old President is somewhere in Africa, working with other African leaders, trying to pressure the new government into stop being ridiculous.
As for me, I'm currently working on a campaign for Environment Minnesota, promoting clean energy. And then in September I'll be heading out with the Peace Corps again! I don't know exactly where or when yet, but it'll be francophone Africa and in the business sector instead of education.
In any case, thanks for keeping up with all the things I've been doing. I'm sorry I can't do a more dramatic ending with numerous lists and favorite memories--it's been a little too hard what with that whole evacuation thing, and I'm rather putting off things like that. I hope you enjoyed this little window into another life and that maybe it's taught you a little something. Or that it will at least make you smile a little whenever you see chickens or cockroaches or who knows what.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I like banana.
(the title comes from two students' tests--it was how I knew they cheated, because it had nothing to do with the question so they couldn't have randomly come up with that on their own)
When I visited the States in November, it was a bit too overwhelming to even comment on the differences—I didn’t even know where to begin because it was all rather surreal. But the shock from November has worn off a bit, so I thought I’d give you a list.
Things that have genuinely surprised me here in America. By that I mean things that surprised me so much that I did a double take—things that took a half an hour minimum to think through because it made so little sense to me.
1. How cold the water out of the facet is. I realize that sounds stupid, but I’m very serious. In Madagascar, refrigerated drinks meant not hot drinks—slightly cool, but certainly not cold. But here—when you choose cold water on the facet, it really means cold. I mean ICY. I mean I’ve had iced drinks that are not as cold as that water. How does it do it? Are the pipes refrigerated? I don’t understand.
2. You can’t hear the rain when it rains. No joke, it rained the first day I was back (since then it’s become snow), and I spent a good hour looking outside at the rain, not understanding why I couldn’t HEAR it. If I didn’t SEE the rain pounding on the pavement, I wouldn’t even know it was raining. Now, in Madagascar, school is often canceled because of rain, simply because you cannot hear the teacher—the rain on the tin roof makes too much noise. And at home, I tried listening to Frank Sinatra while it rained for a cozy afternoon—only I couldn’t hear Frank over all that noise. Even with doors and windows shut, it’s loud and clear. (Note: While you want this to be soothing—so you can fall asleep to it—there are often so many roof leaking problems that the sound of rain doesn’t put you to sleep—it makes you stay awake worrying that the rain will start falling on you in bed or fill up your baskets of clothes, leaving you nothing to wear tomorrow.) I was so sad. To be protected from the sound and smell of rain? If temperatures weren’t 20 degrees colder than what I considered cold in Madagascar (isn’t it April?), I’d have opened the window.
3. Mosquito bites. No seriously, where do they come from? It’s been over two weeks since I’ve been in a place where mosquitoes exist at this time of year. I don’t understand. Did they hide in my backpack? And the one on my knee itches so badly it actually HURTS.
4. Shoes. I guess two years of wearing only flip flops has made me forget what shoes feel like. After wearing three different pairs of shoes, I started to wonder if my feet had grown while I was gone, because they all felt so TIGHT. And then I realized that they all fit perfectly. I’m just not used to having something enclose my feet.
5. American Idol. Three hours. Count them. A TV show is capable of having a captive audience for THREE HOURS EVERY SINGLE WEEK. That’s a semi-serious relationship. It’s incredible. I mean, I can’t even judge that—-it’s straight up impressive. They must be so proud. . . .
6. How clean the water is. There’s this filter attached to the kitchen sink—for drinking water, as opposed to other water. And I stood there and compared the water from the regular faucet with the filter water. They look the same to me. Clean and clean. The water you shower with here looks cleaner than the water I filtered and treated before drinking. It’s incredible. No one should die of thirst in America. (I'll be honest, I sometimes drink the water from the bathroom faucet instead--it feels as if it has more substance in it.)
7. How clean your clothes and body can get. It’s like I’m a new me with an entirely new wardrobe. Okay, I DO have an entirely new wardrobe—one that includes sweaters and warm socks. But my old clothes? When I took them out of the drier? OH—-and can I just say, there’s a machine to dry your clothes. First, the machine that WASHES them spins so fast at the end that they’re practically dry when they come out (okay I admit it—-I suck at wringing my clothes before throwing them on the line). Talk about eliminating that whole sun-fading-the-colors problem. Amazing. But to get back to the point. Even my hair. I’m a whole new me. Water pressure is amazing.
8. A reversal of polite things. So in Mahabo, if you had a runny nose (like I did when I got the flu because the temperature got down—DOWN—to 80 in the evenings before I got evacuated), you would close one nostril with a finger, aim into bushes, and shoot that snot out as far as you can (and, let’s admit it, get whatever clung to your nose with your fingers and flick it away as well). Sometimes I would have a handkerchief, and I was totally embarrassed whenever I used it. Like they thought I was some nut for keeping the snot with me. Even worse with kleenex or toilet paper, because now you’re wasting valuable materials as well. Here in Minnesota? Very much the opposite. I get slightly embarrassed just thinking about what would happen if I followed the same social code here. Man. And it's pretty upsetting when you do something because you think you're doing the nice good polite thing only to find people being cranky because their standards and definitions are different. AH.
9. Wounds heal so quickly! No seriously. I think it must have to do with the general cleanliness thing, but I tell you what—-injuries I’ve been nursing for MONTHS have disappeared here so quickly that I forget where they used to be located. It’s incredible. Scar acquisition must be WAY down in America.
10. If you leave a plate or can or anything that’s touched food out—not only for half an hour, but even for multiple days—ants will not appear. I keep waiting for them to make attacks, but it doesn’t happen. In fact, the general lack of bugs thing is kind of bizarre. It’s like if there were suddenly no children in the world. Not that I’m comparing children to bugs, but I’m just saying—an integral part of my life is suddenly gone, and it’s slightly creepy.
Aaaand a bonus number 11. EVERYONE write blogs. And I mean EVERYONE. And their purpose feels very different from mine when I created this one. I mean, I just did this because I figured it’d be easier than e-mailing people updates. I’d just post the updates online, and then you could check at your leisure. But other real live bloggers? That world kind of frightens me and is not at all what I meant to be a part of. Soooo I do not think I will ever do that again. For future adventures, either we’ll have to go back to the e-mail thing, or . . . I don’t know. Whatever. It just . . . doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t even really like saying I have a blog. They’re my updates that’s all. Okay. That’s all I have to say on that.
Also let’s add a number 12. Food is pre-made here. No joke. Like, instead of buying tomatoes, rice, and onions, and doing what you can with it, you buy dishes of things already put together. Instead of saying oh this is a fruit or a vegetable or I don’t know what, you say oh this is . . . greenish and it contains these five things. I find this confusing. Doesn’t this seem complicated to any of you?
So there is my answer to the question of how my return to the States has been. Shocking and . . . shocking. And sad. (I mean, come on—I got evacuated from my HOME.)
All I hope is that you will now think of my every time your hands become frozen because of the ultra cold water in your facets.
When I visited the States in November, it was a bit too overwhelming to even comment on the differences—I didn’t even know where to begin because it was all rather surreal. But the shock from November has worn off a bit, so I thought I’d give you a list.
Things that have genuinely surprised me here in America. By that I mean things that surprised me so much that I did a double take—things that took a half an hour minimum to think through because it made so little sense to me.
1. How cold the water out of the facet is. I realize that sounds stupid, but I’m very serious. In Madagascar, refrigerated drinks meant not hot drinks—slightly cool, but certainly not cold. But here—when you choose cold water on the facet, it really means cold. I mean ICY. I mean I’ve had iced drinks that are not as cold as that water. How does it do it? Are the pipes refrigerated? I don’t understand.
2. You can’t hear the rain when it rains. No joke, it rained the first day I was back (since then it’s become snow), and I spent a good hour looking outside at the rain, not understanding why I couldn’t HEAR it. If I didn’t SEE the rain pounding on the pavement, I wouldn’t even know it was raining. Now, in Madagascar, school is often canceled because of rain, simply because you cannot hear the teacher—the rain on the tin roof makes too much noise. And at home, I tried listening to Frank Sinatra while it rained for a cozy afternoon—only I couldn’t hear Frank over all that noise. Even with doors and windows shut, it’s loud and clear. (Note: While you want this to be soothing—so you can fall asleep to it—there are often so many roof leaking problems that the sound of rain doesn’t put you to sleep—it makes you stay awake worrying that the rain will start falling on you in bed or fill up your baskets of clothes, leaving you nothing to wear tomorrow.) I was so sad. To be protected from the sound and smell of rain? If temperatures weren’t 20 degrees colder than what I considered cold in Madagascar (isn’t it April?), I’d have opened the window.
3. Mosquito bites. No seriously, where do they come from? It’s been over two weeks since I’ve been in a place where mosquitoes exist at this time of year. I don’t understand. Did they hide in my backpack? And the one on my knee itches so badly it actually HURTS.
4. Shoes. I guess two years of wearing only flip flops has made me forget what shoes feel like. After wearing three different pairs of shoes, I started to wonder if my feet had grown while I was gone, because they all felt so TIGHT. And then I realized that they all fit perfectly. I’m just not used to having something enclose my feet.
5. American Idol. Three hours. Count them. A TV show is capable of having a captive audience for THREE HOURS EVERY SINGLE WEEK. That’s a semi-serious relationship. It’s incredible. I mean, I can’t even judge that—-it’s straight up impressive. They must be so proud. . . .
6. How clean the water is. There’s this filter attached to the kitchen sink—for drinking water, as opposed to other water. And I stood there and compared the water from the regular faucet with the filter water. They look the same to me. Clean and clean. The water you shower with here looks cleaner than the water I filtered and treated before drinking. It’s incredible. No one should die of thirst in America. (I'll be honest, I sometimes drink the water from the bathroom faucet instead--it feels as if it has more substance in it.)
7. How clean your clothes and body can get. It’s like I’m a new me with an entirely new wardrobe. Okay, I DO have an entirely new wardrobe—one that includes sweaters and warm socks. But my old clothes? When I took them out of the drier? OH—-and can I just say, there’s a machine to dry your clothes. First, the machine that WASHES them spins so fast at the end that they’re practically dry when they come out (okay I admit it—-I suck at wringing my clothes before throwing them on the line). Talk about eliminating that whole sun-fading-the-colors problem. Amazing. But to get back to the point. Even my hair. I’m a whole new me. Water pressure is amazing.
8. A reversal of polite things. So in Mahabo, if you had a runny nose (like I did when I got the flu because the temperature got down—DOWN—to 80 in the evenings before I got evacuated), you would close one nostril with a finger, aim into bushes, and shoot that snot out as far as you can (and, let’s admit it, get whatever clung to your nose with your fingers and flick it away as well). Sometimes I would have a handkerchief, and I was totally embarrassed whenever I used it. Like they thought I was some nut for keeping the snot with me. Even worse with kleenex or toilet paper, because now you’re wasting valuable materials as well. Here in Minnesota? Very much the opposite. I get slightly embarrassed just thinking about what would happen if I followed the same social code here. Man. And it's pretty upsetting when you do something because you think you're doing the nice good polite thing only to find people being cranky because their standards and definitions are different. AH.
9. Wounds heal so quickly! No seriously. I think it must have to do with the general cleanliness thing, but I tell you what—-injuries I’ve been nursing for MONTHS have disappeared here so quickly that I forget where they used to be located. It’s incredible. Scar acquisition must be WAY down in America.
10. If you leave a plate or can or anything that’s touched food out—not only for half an hour, but even for multiple days—ants will not appear. I keep waiting for them to make attacks, but it doesn’t happen. In fact, the general lack of bugs thing is kind of bizarre. It’s like if there were suddenly no children in the world. Not that I’m comparing children to bugs, but I’m just saying—an integral part of my life is suddenly gone, and it’s slightly creepy.
Aaaand a bonus number 11. EVERYONE write blogs. And I mean EVERYONE. And their purpose feels very different from mine when I created this one. I mean, I just did this because I figured it’d be easier than e-mailing people updates. I’d just post the updates online, and then you could check at your leisure. But other real live bloggers? That world kind of frightens me and is not at all what I meant to be a part of. Soooo I do not think I will ever do that again. For future adventures, either we’ll have to go back to the e-mail thing, or . . . I don’t know. Whatever. It just . . . doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t even really like saying I have a blog. They’re my updates that’s all. Okay. That’s all I have to say on that.
Also let’s add a number 12. Food is pre-made here. No joke. Like, instead of buying tomatoes, rice, and onions, and doing what you can with it, you buy dishes of things already put together. Instead of saying oh this is a fruit or a vegetable or I don’t know what, you say oh this is . . . greenish and it contains these five things. I find this confusing. Doesn’t this seem complicated to any of you?
So there is my answer to the question of how my return to the States has been. Shocking and . . . shocking. And sad. (I mean, come on—I got evacuated from my HOME.)
All I hope is that you will now think of my every time your hands become frozen because of the ultra cold water in your facets.
evacuation
So the reason for the delay for all of those posts is (drum roll please): I was evacuated from Madagascar. Right when they thought things were finally calm again, the opposition burst into life. You can check out BBC, but in short, the ex-mayor who wanted to be president (even though he's too young according to the constitution, even though elections aren't for another couple of years--and did I tell you he used to be a disc jockey?) stormed the presidential palace and who knows what else--and with TANKS--I didn't even know they HAD tanks!--and has now claimed himself as President. He crowned himself and everything (and was pretty mad that the US didn't give its approval--in fact, only France seems to be not so angry about this whole coup thing--even the African Union condemned it). Wow, that came out not as simple as I thought.
The Peace Corps realized it was too much to keep the program open for now so we got a message one night, packed our bags, and headed out the next day. We spent a week in South Africa closing our service, then I flew home (and surprised my parents).
Soo...that's why things have been a little crazy and I haven't had time to update you.
The Peace Corps realized it was too much to keep the program open for now so we got a message one night, packed our bags, and headed out the next day. We spent a week in South Africa closing our service, then I flew home (and surprised my parents).
Soo...that's why things have been a little crazy and I haven't had time to update you.
a big sigh
[A final tribute to my students? You can see from the following that me being consolidated in Morondava for 3 weeks and then coming back unsure if I'd actually be back for the rest of my service was as stressful for the students as it was for me. They were discouraged and many simply gave up.]
Two explanations are needed. Language and exams. Ranting and raving will come with both, but trust me—I tell you not so I can complain, but to get the most out of something negative—and in this case that means trying to amuse you.
Language. I miss my first year here. There are many reasons. I was naïve and everything was new. Life was challenging in different ways, sure, but it had the distraction of discovery. It had those moments where you suddenly looked around you and got this strange feeling just thinking about how bizarre your life was. You’d think to yourself how crazy and different it was, and that would somehow make up for those challenges. The second time around, you look around you and it all seems familiar. You can’t have that strange feeling anymore. You find yourself more realistic—which is good in the long run, but still slightly less charming.
I also miss that first year because of my relationship with my students. I was so much closer to them, for many reasons. The newness, the fact that I had more time with them (I buried myself in Mahabo, without these month-long breaks away for summer vacations or political crises). Maybe they were better behaved (I like to think so) or smarter (ditto). If I think hard enough, I’ll remember reality and how that’s all a lie. Equally naughty. Equally lazy. Equally number of moments unhappy with the idea of being a teacher. But there are some differences that made my time with them better. That naïve thing, for one. I would sing and dance for them (literally), whereas I now have less time with them so a minute can’t be wasted on that—and they get too riled up and it ruins the rest of the lesson. So that’s pretty much ended. And I was learning to teach English as they were learning it, and that was exciting. We were both attacking together! Their success would be my success! I now know that no matter WHAT you do—how well you teach—learning a foreign language ALWAYS lies in the hands of the student. Good lesson or bad, if they don’t care to learn, they won’t. You just try to be there for the ones that DO.
Okay, so maybe I’m just being a little melodramatic because it’s been a rough week. But still. One thing that IS different is language.
See, that first year, they expect you not to know any Malagasy. You’re new, after all. And it’s GREAT, because ONE word in Malagasy leaves them stunned. They are so proud! Look at our blonde singing and dancing teacher! She learned how to say easy in Malagasy!
The second year? I’m SURE I’ve explained this to you, but consider this a quick review. It’s as if they forget that you’ve ONLY been there a year. Not that long in the big picture. They seem to believe that because they are used to seeing you, you have been there forever—and since you’ve been there forever, you are fluent in Malagasy. During the SECOND year, they are stunned (in a NEGATIVE way) if you don’t understand one word. Who cares if you understood every other word they said. How can you not know the meaning of some obscure word you’ve had no reason to learn at this point? Students about to graduate, who’ve studied English for almost 7 years and can’t speak a word of it except “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “goodbye” will sit and giggle because you pronounced a word funny or because you don’t have grammar down pact—WHEN YOU’VE ONLY BEEN STUDYING IT FOR A YEAR AND A HALF. And of course by studying I mean speaking it and listening to it and hoping that your brain will somehow learn the subtleties. Not to rant, but you can imagine how frustrating this is. You are no longer a cute dog doing tricks and earning treats. You are silly for not being a complete expert.
And after spending a month in Morondava with other volunteers during consolidation, I have lost a lot of my language (it happens when you stop using it). So when I’m spending a week trying to re-adjust to my life here after a stressful 3 weeks of never knowing each day if I was staying or leaving, it is just too much when I get the “Oh, she does NOT know Malagasy comment” after I have to yell at my students because they are being too naughty. It is downright exhausting. Shame shame shame on them.
That’s part one.
Part two is an explanation of exams. Another thing I’m sure I’ve gone over.
I loved exams in high school. Sure you’d get nervous. But when it came down to it, they were almost like games. Like a quiz show, only you already know all the answers. As long as you paid attention in class, tests weren’t that bad. High school teachers just aren’t that mean.
That being said, I forget how much I hate GIVING exams. I think of exam week with excitement. You take it and you clear the slate and start over afterwards. Plus exams usually come right before a vacation. There’s no new material to learn—just proving that you’ve paid attention this far.
But no. Five minutes into the first exam and I am in agony. They don’t stop complaining that they aren’t ready—that we should delay the test. They want to keep their notebooks on their desks—they try to convince me it’s okay since their notebook is for physics, even though they just heard me tell ten others that I didn’t care—no notebooks means no notebooks. It takes a good 15 to 20 minutes just to get through these preliminaries.
Then the test starts. Note that this does not mean handing out exams. It means me writing the test on the blackboard and them copying it into their notebooks. It takes another 5 to 10 minutes to REALLY start, because I have to keep pausing until they’re silent—something they are very very bad at.
The test finally written, the explanation given, you’d think it’d be okay, right? No no no no no. I spend the rest of the time yelling—and I mean YELLING—at them to be quiet, to quit looking at other people’s tests, stop talking stop talking stop talking. They seem to think exams are group activities. When I’m not yelling, I’m answer questions about the tests. There’s always one question I answer five times because they don’t seem to pay attention when I explain it because someone else asked. There are a couple questions that are legitimate and I’m fine with—no problem, let me help you better understand the test so you can do your best. But the REST of the questions are ridiculous—essentially requests for the answers. If being tested on vocabulary, they’ll ask the meaning of those same words their being tested on. If being tested on the comparative form, they’ll ask me what the comparative form is. They’ll ask for example after example, tell me they never learned it, say it is too hard or confusing or whatever. And all over questions that are EXACTLY the same form as the exercises we did in class. My younger kids understood that if they knew how to do the exercises from the lessons, they could ace the tests—and a handful of them consistently did just that. My older kids seem to think they can argue me into simply giving me the answers.
And THEN I have to take tests from them when they go way past the time limit (and honestly, if you couldn’t figure something out in 2 hours, would you EVER?). I have to listen to EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM tell me how hard the test was, both as they turn the test in and then again every time I see them outside of class.
They fight over their grades (if you talk to friends all the time or skip class and don’t even bother trying to study later, do you really think you’ll magically get anything near a perfect score?). They get upset if I give them a zero because they so obviously cheated. They do not seem to connect their actions with the consequences.
Exam week is exhausting.
And I’ll point out that that doesn’t even include writing and grading those things.
It’s exhausting. And I keep asking myself—and them—why they don’t seem to understand that if they would just sit quietly and take the test it’d be fine—that when they talk and try to cheat all the time I HAVE to be mean—and we ALL hate THAT.
Now, the point of these two little lessons—on language and exams. For the most part, I love my life here. It is a great experience and I am very happy. I appreciate the quality of the way I live and I try to make the most out of it all. And I am grateful that I’m doing exactly what I wanted to be doing—spending a couple years simply helping other people, not worrying about myself, but trying to make things a bit better.
But then there are weeks like this one. They have to happen, and it’s as much a part of my experience here as everything else—and perhaps has an even greater impact on the way I change as a person (it’s the hard times that make us grow, right?). But it’s kind of ironic. I mean, many people tell me how proud they are, what great things I’m doing, and kind things like that that make me sound like a superhero.
But what exactly does it mean to help others? See, in college, it meant spending time with the elderly at a hospice or making someone smile as they order their cup of coffee. It meant using little moments to make someone’s day a little better. And that kind of thing feels good. And then here I am—when my job kind of technically IS to help others—and I’m yelling—I’m babysitting lazy students who don’t give a shit about learning English.
And no, that’s not entirely true. I do have some students who are very smart and disciplined and who can make a difference in their country. It’s just hard to see that sometimes when the majority of your students are nothing like that.
I guess what I’m trying to say—or perhaps what I’m trying to get my mind around or simply accept—is that helping other doesn’t always feel good. In some ways, the more you head in that direction, the more complicated it gets—and the less convinced you are that you actually ARE helping others.
And then you find yourself telling other people what you’re doing—in this case, being a Peace Corps Volunteer—and you kind of cringe, waiting for whatever response it will bring. Because the truth is, it doesn’t completely deserve the glamour many people are ready to give. The truth is, this complicated two-year experience is just another way of chatting with someone as you make them a cup of coffee.
Two explanations are needed. Language and exams. Ranting and raving will come with both, but trust me—I tell you not so I can complain, but to get the most out of something negative—and in this case that means trying to amuse you.
Language. I miss my first year here. There are many reasons. I was naïve and everything was new. Life was challenging in different ways, sure, but it had the distraction of discovery. It had those moments where you suddenly looked around you and got this strange feeling just thinking about how bizarre your life was. You’d think to yourself how crazy and different it was, and that would somehow make up for those challenges. The second time around, you look around you and it all seems familiar. You can’t have that strange feeling anymore. You find yourself more realistic—which is good in the long run, but still slightly less charming.
I also miss that first year because of my relationship with my students. I was so much closer to them, for many reasons. The newness, the fact that I had more time with them (I buried myself in Mahabo, without these month-long breaks away for summer vacations or political crises). Maybe they were better behaved (I like to think so) or smarter (ditto). If I think hard enough, I’ll remember reality and how that’s all a lie. Equally naughty. Equally lazy. Equally number of moments unhappy with the idea of being a teacher. But there are some differences that made my time with them better. That naïve thing, for one. I would sing and dance for them (literally), whereas I now have less time with them so a minute can’t be wasted on that—and they get too riled up and it ruins the rest of the lesson. So that’s pretty much ended. And I was learning to teach English as they were learning it, and that was exciting. We were both attacking together! Their success would be my success! I now know that no matter WHAT you do—how well you teach—learning a foreign language ALWAYS lies in the hands of the student. Good lesson or bad, if they don’t care to learn, they won’t. You just try to be there for the ones that DO.
Okay, so maybe I’m just being a little melodramatic because it’s been a rough week. But still. One thing that IS different is language.
See, that first year, they expect you not to know any Malagasy. You’re new, after all. And it’s GREAT, because ONE word in Malagasy leaves them stunned. They are so proud! Look at our blonde singing and dancing teacher! She learned how to say easy in Malagasy!
The second year? I’m SURE I’ve explained this to you, but consider this a quick review. It’s as if they forget that you’ve ONLY been there a year. Not that long in the big picture. They seem to believe that because they are used to seeing you, you have been there forever—and since you’ve been there forever, you are fluent in Malagasy. During the SECOND year, they are stunned (in a NEGATIVE way) if you don’t understand one word. Who cares if you understood every other word they said. How can you not know the meaning of some obscure word you’ve had no reason to learn at this point? Students about to graduate, who’ve studied English for almost 7 years and can’t speak a word of it except “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “goodbye” will sit and giggle because you pronounced a word funny or because you don’t have grammar down pact—WHEN YOU’VE ONLY BEEN STUDYING IT FOR A YEAR AND A HALF. And of course by studying I mean speaking it and listening to it and hoping that your brain will somehow learn the subtleties. Not to rant, but you can imagine how frustrating this is. You are no longer a cute dog doing tricks and earning treats. You are silly for not being a complete expert.
And after spending a month in Morondava with other volunteers during consolidation, I have lost a lot of my language (it happens when you stop using it). So when I’m spending a week trying to re-adjust to my life here after a stressful 3 weeks of never knowing each day if I was staying or leaving, it is just too much when I get the “Oh, she does NOT know Malagasy comment” after I have to yell at my students because they are being too naughty. It is downright exhausting. Shame shame shame on them.
That’s part one.
Part two is an explanation of exams. Another thing I’m sure I’ve gone over.
I loved exams in high school. Sure you’d get nervous. But when it came down to it, they were almost like games. Like a quiz show, only you already know all the answers. As long as you paid attention in class, tests weren’t that bad. High school teachers just aren’t that mean.
That being said, I forget how much I hate GIVING exams. I think of exam week with excitement. You take it and you clear the slate and start over afterwards. Plus exams usually come right before a vacation. There’s no new material to learn—just proving that you’ve paid attention this far.
But no. Five minutes into the first exam and I am in agony. They don’t stop complaining that they aren’t ready—that we should delay the test. They want to keep their notebooks on their desks—they try to convince me it’s okay since their notebook is for physics, even though they just heard me tell ten others that I didn’t care—no notebooks means no notebooks. It takes a good 15 to 20 minutes just to get through these preliminaries.
Then the test starts. Note that this does not mean handing out exams. It means me writing the test on the blackboard and them copying it into their notebooks. It takes another 5 to 10 minutes to REALLY start, because I have to keep pausing until they’re silent—something they are very very bad at.
The test finally written, the explanation given, you’d think it’d be okay, right? No no no no no. I spend the rest of the time yelling—and I mean YELLING—at them to be quiet, to quit looking at other people’s tests, stop talking stop talking stop talking. They seem to think exams are group activities. When I’m not yelling, I’m answer questions about the tests. There’s always one question I answer five times because they don’t seem to pay attention when I explain it because someone else asked. There are a couple questions that are legitimate and I’m fine with—no problem, let me help you better understand the test so you can do your best. But the REST of the questions are ridiculous—essentially requests for the answers. If being tested on vocabulary, they’ll ask the meaning of those same words their being tested on. If being tested on the comparative form, they’ll ask me what the comparative form is. They’ll ask for example after example, tell me they never learned it, say it is too hard or confusing or whatever. And all over questions that are EXACTLY the same form as the exercises we did in class. My younger kids understood that if they knew how to do the exercises from the lessons, they could ace the tests—and a handful of them consistently did just that. My older kids seem to think they can argue me into simply giving me the answers.
And THEN I have to take tests from them when they go way past the time limit (and honestly, if you couldn’t figure something out in 2 hours, would you EVER?). I have to listen to EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM tell me how hard the test was, both as they turn the test in and then again every time I see them outside of class.
They fight over their grades (if you talk to friends all the time or skip class and don’t even bother trying to study later, do you really think you’ll magically get anything near a perfect score?). They get upset if I give them a zero because they so obviously cheated. They do not seem to connect their actions with the consequences.
Exam week is exhausting.
And I’ll point out that that doesn’t even include writing and grading those things.
It’s exhausting. And I keep asking myself—and them—why they don’t seem to understand that if they would just sit quietly and take the test it’d be fine—that when they talk and try to cheat all the time I HAVE to be mean—and we ALL hate THAT.
Now, the point of these two little lessons—on language and exams. For the most part, I love my life here. It is a great experience and I am very happy. I appreciate the quality of the way I live and I try to make the most out of it all. And I am grateful that I’m doing exactly what I wanted to be doing—spending a couple years simply helping other people, not worrying about myself, but trying to make things a bit better.
But then there are weeks like this one. They have to happen, and it’s as much a part of my experience here as everything else—and perhaps has an even greater impact on the way I change as a person (it’s the hard times that make us grow, right?). But it’s kind of ironic. I mean, many people tell me how proud they are, what great things I’m doing, and kind things like that that make me sound like a superhero.
But what exactly does it mean to help others? See, in college, it meant spending time with the elderly at a hospice or making someone smile as they order their cup of coffee. It meant using little moments to make someone’s day a little better. And that kind of thing feels good. And then here I am—when my job kind of technically IS to help others—and I’m yelling—I’m babysitting lazy students who don’t give a shit about learning English.
And no, that’s not entirely true. I do have some students who are very smart and disciplined and who can make a difference in their country. It’s just hard to see that sometimes when the majority of your students are nothing like that.
I guess what I’m trying to say—or perhaps what I’m trying to get my mind around or simply accept—is that helping other doesn’t always feel good. In some ways, the more you head in that direction, the more complicated it gets—and the less convinced you are that you actually ARE helping others.
And then you find yourself telling other people what you’re doing—in this case, being a Peace Corps Volunteer—and you kind of cringe, waiting for whatever response it will bring. Because the truth is, it doesn’t completely deserve the glamour many people are ready to give. The truth is, this complicated two-year experience is just another way of chatting with someone as you make them a cup of coffee.
it's personal
Not to be a gossip or anything, but rumor has it (aka someone told me last night) that the mayor (who wants to be president) is also rich (like the actual president. The REASON why he is rich is because he used to be the presidents son-in-law. Catch that? The mayor’s ex-wife is the president’s daughter. Hello?? Does anyone else find that crazy? It would seem that our little (big) national problem might should be worked out within the family . . . .
(Okay so a couple months later I'm told other versions of this story and it sounds slightly more complicated--but still--the point is, drama is involved.)
(Okay so a couple months later I'm told other versions of this story and it sounds slightly more complicated--but still--the point is, drama is involved.)
mmm cassava leaves
Just so you don’t think I only eat bugs out here, I though I’d describe a more normal meal. (Note: the flour bugs got so bad that I had to buy something to sift them out to avoid eating more bugs than flour.) Well, kind of normal in any case.
Yesterday I made what is called ravimbalahazo voanio. It’s kind of like . . . puree leaves with coconut. Cassava leaves to bre exact. So in the market, these are the units you use. You pay either for a pile, the individual object, or by the kilo. That’s for some things. For things like rice and beans, you pay for a kapoaka—which is an empty condensed milk can (so . . . a cup). This is also true for ravimbalahazo. They take the leaves of cassava, grind them up to make a nice puree that resembles (and kind of smells like) the grass you chop up when you mow the lawn. And then for only roanzato (about ten cents) they’ll stuff a kapoaka full of it and put it in a plastic baggy for you. Lunch!
I ended up grating a coconut, making coconut milk with the shavings, and added it to my leaves. Then I cooked both that and rice in my solar oven. It was amazing. It looks rather spinachy, but has more of a grassy taste. Not like I’ve eaten grass. But you get my point. I’m not sure if there’s even any nutritional value in the stuff, but we generally believe—whether rightly so or not—that the greener the thing is, the better it is for you. In which case, I feel like Popeye, cramming tons of vitamins in my body. I could probably beat you up.
Just thought I’d give you a little taste of the meals I eat down here.
Note: For those of you who feel bad, thinking I am starving and eating leaves, please don’t. In addition to more traditional meals, I still end up making myself queso and torillas about twice a week. I can’t help it. I’m addicted. I craved it so much, and when I figured out that I could do it at a reasonable price, instead of satiating me, it only makes me crave it more. Note: For those of you who now think badly of me because of my obsession with queso and tortillas, please don’t. At one point recently I lost 25 pounds (no joke—I was literally underweight and my clothes wouldn’t fit—seriously—skirts fell right off of me, it was concerning to say the least) so I am convinced that any means of getting more dairy (and therefore more fat) into my body is a good—and even necessary—thing.
Yesterday I made what is called ravimbalahazo voanio. It’s kind of like . . . puree leaves with coconut. Cassava leaves to bre exact. So in the market, these are the units you use. You pay either for a pile, the individual object, or by the kilo. That’s for some things. For things like rice and beans, you pay for a kapoaka—which is an empty condensed milk can (so . . . a cup). This is also true for ravimbalahazo. They take the leaves of cassava, grind them up to make a nice puree that resembles (and kind of smells like) the grass you chop up when you mow the lawn. And then for only roanzato (about ten cents) they’ll stuff a kapoaka full of it and put it in a plastic baggy for you. Lunch!
I ended up grating a coconut, making coconut milk with the shavings, and added it to my leaves. Then I cooked both that and rice in my solar oven. It was amazing. It looks rather spinachy, but has more of a grassy taste. Not like I’ve eaten grass. But you get my point. I’m not sure if there’s even any nutritional value in the stuff, but we generally believe—whether rightly so or not—that the greener the thing is, the better it is for you. In which case, I feel like Popeye, cramming tons of vitamins in my body. I could probably beat you up.
Just thought I’d give you a little taste of the meals I eat down here.
Note: For those of you who feel bad, thinking I am starving and eating leaves, please don’t. In addition to more traditional meals, I still end up making myself queso and torillas about twice a week. I can’t help it. I’m addicted. I craved it so much, and when I figured out that I could do it at a reasonable price, instead of satiating me, it only makes me crave it more. Note: For those of you who now think badly of me because of my obsession with queso and tortillas, please don’t. At one point recently I lost 25 pounds (no joke—I was literally underweight and my clothes wouldn’t fit—seriously—skirts fell right off of me, it was concerning to say the least) so I am convinced that any means of getting more dairy (and therefore more fat) into my body is a good—and even necessary—thing.
cockroach coffee and other delights
Not to gross you out or anything—or to make you think I’ve completely lost any standards I once possessed—but I most definitely had a cup of cockroach coffee. No, this is not some Malagasy cultural thing. No, no. What that means is a cockroach was unfortunate enough to make the inside of the upper half of my Italian coffee maker. And I in turn was unfortunate enough not to check. I put the coffee grounds and water into the bottom half, threw it on the stove, balanced on two forks conveniently making the burner small enough to hold it. It wasn’t until I’d poured out all the coffee and looked inside to check (you can tell what is and isn’t important to check for me) and noticed that little body squirming. Actually, I think it just rolled, not squirmed. There’s no way it was still alive. In any case, I figured the dead body was in the pot and the coffee was in my cup. Not touching, right? It’s like a warped time-twisting version of the 10-second rule. All I can say is that I am NOT the type of girl to waste a good cup of coffee.
Besides, some tiny insects (species unknown) were in the flour I used to make tortillas for lunch right before that cup of coffee. THEY didn’t cross any lines because you COOK tortillas, and in MY mind, anything cooked is automatically cleansed of any impurities.
I consider this all an important reminder that I am getting enough protein over here.
On a similar note, there are new cockroaches in town. There are golden, but I do not want to immediately group them with the shower cockroaches, because I don’t know them personally yet. In any case, they apparently had a breeding party in one of my spices. I’m not sure which, since they turned what was left of it black. Who knows, maybe they nested in cinnamon—or was it oregano? The world may never know.
The point is, these little buggers (less of a pun than a reminder of the word’s origins) creep and crawl everywhere. Then again, they’re still babies and thus unnoticeable—and gone if you blow air at them just once. Also, I prefer them to the mouse droppings I often find scattered. Wow, you must think I’m disgusting. But what do you want me to do? I cannot spray my town for all things smaller than my hand.
Officially and for the record, it is unpleasant to spend close to a month in another town because your country’s having a political crisis. Living in a cramped hotel room aside, it means you have to re-settle into your quiet town. Which you already had to do when you first moved here. And again after summer vacation. And yet again after your US trip. And when you only have four more months to go, with two trips to Tana necessary in the middle of all that, you feel a little homeless or lost or something uncomfortable. And it doesn’t help when someone you were close to left the country for good (ah, what to do when service comes to an end—and it’s staggered—not like college graduation—people slowly dropping out of your world).
So now you understand why that cup of cockroach coffee was so necessary. Sometimes a girl needs those little things that make her happy. For me that’s coffee. And no cockroach can mess with that.
Besides, some tiny insects (species unknown) were in the flour I used to make tortillas for lunch right before that cup of coffee. THEY didn’t cross any lines because you COOK tortillas, and in MY mind, anything cooked is automatically cleansed of any impurities.
I consider this all an important reminder that I am getting enough protein over here.
On a similar note, there are new cockroaches in town. There are golden, but I do not want to immediately group them with the shower cockroaches, because I don’t know them personally yet. In any case, they apparently had a breeding party in one of my spices. I’m not sure which, since they turned what was left of it black. Who knows, maybe they nested in cinnamon—or was it oregano? The world may never know.
The point is, these little buggers (less of a pun than a reminder of the word’s origins) creep and crawl everywhere. Then again, they’re still babies and thus unnoticeable—and gone if you blow air at them just once. Also, I prefer them to the mouse droppings I often find scattered. Wow, you must think I’m disgusting. But what do you want me to do? I cannot spray my town for all things smaller than my hand.
Officially and for the record, it is unpleasant to spend close to a month in another town because your country’s having a political crisis. Living in a cramped hotel room aside, it means you have to re-settle into your quiet town. Which you already had to do when you first moved here. And again after summer vacation. And yet again after your US trip. And when you only have four more months to go, with two trips to Tana necessary in the middle of all that, you feel a little homeless or lost or something uncomfortable. And it doesn’t help when someone you were close to left the country for good (ah, what to do when service comes to an end—and it’s staggered—not like college graduation—people slowly dropping out of your world).
So now you understand why that cup of cockroach coffee was so necessary. Sometimes a girl needs those little things that make her happy. For me that’s coffee. And no cockroach can mess with that.
dancing
Malagasy dance clubs amuse me. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I get irritated at the drunk man (or woman—equally obnoxious) who keeps grabbing me. But there is so much to be amused about. There are so many ways to study dance and all it says about people.
The main dance in my region is called kilalaky. I don’t remember if I’ve described this to you or not, but in case I haven’t, I’ll give you a quick summary.
They say that kilalaky was created because of the cow thieves. There used to be tons on this part of the island, and they say that the dance imitates the way the cow thieves had to walk in order to cover up their tracks. I’m not sure if this would work or not (drag marks or footprints—don’t they both equal cow thieves?), but I like the idea of it.
So the basics. Think follow the leader, but to a beat. Seriously. One person goes first, and they choose the basic moves, and everyone follows them. And you do this in a circle. Or if there are two different leaders, their two lines kind of twist around each other. You always want to get in near the beginning of the line, because by the time you round to the end of the line, people can’t really see the leader and don’t really care if they’re doing it right and just kind of shuffle in the circle. Because that’s basically what you do. Shuffle. Yes, you move your hands in different ways (though there’s one main way) and yes you can do the legs differently and all that—but essentially it’s this shuffle around in a circle. You know this—that the rest is just icing—because it deteriorates to that once everyone is drunk or tired or both.
Oh and sometimes women will randomly shake their booties. They tie clothes around to emphasize this. And little girls learn this before they can walk, no joke.
I enjoy this dance. The people are creative, even if you are usually following other people. It’s nice, because you work and think creatively blah blah blah when you’re the leader. But otherwise, you just pay attention and focus on having fun. You don’t need to think about whether or not your move right there is cool—you just copy the others and keep smiling. It’s also nice because EVERY kilalaky song is essentially the SAME and very very long. Which means you don’t have to suddenly adjust to awkward beats. You know what I mean.
But what I love best about the kilalaky is watching it. I’m telling you, it’s a character study. You can figure things out about people based on how they dance kilalaky. I’ll give you an example.
We were at this club once. I mean, it was pretty awful—hardly any women there, except for what I think were prostitutes, who then left because they were getting in fights (weird). It was mostly this boys being ridiculous and thinking they’re cool. You know. Typical. At one point, these two guys thought they were so cool. Each put their foot on the other’s shoulder (picture it) and they kind of hopped in a circle, with all their friends rooting, as if they just invented the moon walk. It was incredible.
So then kilalaky started. For the longest time, this one guy played leader. He was muscular, and wore an itty bitty shirt to emphasize this fact. He danced well, but his moves were rather jerky and it was clear that he KNEW he danced well—and probably practiced a lot and generally thought too much about it—and was constantly paying attention to whether or not others were watching. Whatever. This guy started amusing me, however, once he let this girl take over leader. Now, since so many of the moves are centered around your core, as you follow the person in front of you, you are often staring at their butt. I mean, how else will you notice if they change the footwork or the hands, right? Well, this tight t-shirter was clearly thrilled that he got to—was SUPPOSED to—stare at this girls butt for a good 8 minutes (long songs, remember?). He had the BIGGEST grin on his face and never lost eye contact with those back pockets.
The girl, on the other hand, thought she was really being respected as a leader, and would sometimes turn to check and see if he was following her lead. Worry of mutiny, I guess. You don’t want to turn to realize you’re flying solo.
In a kilalaky line you will always find those two things. One person who thinks he is an all-star (justified or not—it’s the fact that he thinks he should be on MTV that counts). One person has to check and make sure others aren’t getting rebellious.
You will also always find (and this one is my favorite) one guy who quite frankly doesn’t CARE who the leader is. He’s in line, yes, sure sure. But he is jiving and going crazy and doing who knows what. Arms are flying everywhere. Legs are kicking out. His face is lit up as he jams. Dancing to his own tune. This is the fun guy. This is how everyone should dance.
And as I mentioned, near the end you will always find the shufflers. They shuffle their feet forward and move with the line, but they make no effort to elaborate. It may be because they can’t see what the leader wants them to do. It may be because they think they’re too cool to do anything crazy. It may be because they’re too busy flirting with the person before or after them. And it may be because they are simply bored, but are doing kilalaky because that’s just what you DO. The latter usually refers to the guy with both hands in his pockets. Awesome.
Of course, you’ll also have the random drunk planets. I’m referring to the people who aren’t part of lines or anything—they just stand in one place and bob a little, in their own drunken haze. Sometimes they’ll balance a beer bottle on their head (never letting go, so I don’t really count it). Sometimes they’ll throw a little ships across the ocean action into the mix, reaching out and trying to grab others as they pass by. These people will be either extremely amusing or extremely forgettable.
present time:
At the end of that last paragraph I got tired and went to bed, not really finishing any thoughts. But I will say this. I not only have my students dance videos (did I ever tell you about that? About me and my students making educational music videos, using traditional song and dance to teach the community about things like malaria, clean water, AIDS, etc?), I also have the some big hits from Madagascar. We're talking talking a devil and Jesus fighting in a dance video. We're talking midgets. It's out of control and amazing and how I'll remember the music that was in Madagascar. So if you're around and my computer hasn't died by then, I'll show you....
The main dance in my region is called kilalaky. I don’t remember if I’ve described this to you or not, but in case I haven’t, I’ll give you a quick summary.
They say that kilalaky was created because of the cow thieves. There used to be tons on this part of the island, and they say that the dance imitates the way the cow thieves had to walk in order to cover up their tracks. I’m not sure if this would work or not (drag marks or footprints—don’t they both equal cow thieves?), but I like the idea of it.
So the basics. Think follow the leader, but to a beat. Seriously. One person goes first, and they choose the basic moves, and everyone follows them. And you do this in a circle. Or if there are two different leaders, their two lines kind of twist around each other. You always want to get in near the beginning of the line, because by the time you round to the end of the line, people can’t really see the leader and don’t really care if they’re doing it right and just kind of shuffle in the circle. Because that’s basically what you do. Shuffle. Yes, you move your hands in different ways (though there’s one main way) and yes you can do the legs differently and all that—but essentially it’s this shuffle around in a circle. You know this—that the rest is just icing—because it deteriorates to that once everyone is drunk or tired or both.
Oh and sometimes women will randomly shake their booties. They tie clothes around to emphasize this. And little girls learn this before they can walk, no joke.
I enjoy this dance. The people are creative, even if you are usually following other people. It’s nice, because you work and think creatively blah blah blah when you’re the leader. But otherwise, you just pay attention and focus on having fun. You don’t need to think about whether or not your move right there is cool—you just copy the others and keep smiling. It’s also nice because EVERY kilalaky song is essentially the SAME and very very long. Which means you don’t have to suddenly adjust to awkward beats. You know what I mean.
But what I love best about the kilalaky is watching it. I’m telling you, it’s a character study. You can figure things out about people based on how they dance kilalaky. I’ll give you an example.
We were at this club once. I mean, it was pretty awful—hardly any women there, except for what I think were prostitutes, who then left because they were getting in fights (weird). It was mostly this boys being ridiculous and thinking they’re cool. You know. Typical. At one point, these two guys thought they were so cool. Each put their foot on the other’s shoulder (picture it) and they kind of hopped in a circle, with all their friends rooting, as if they just invented the moon walk. It was incredible.
So then kilalaky started. For the longest time, this one guy played leader. He was muscular, and wore an itty bitty shirt to emphasize this fact. He danced well, but his moves were rather jerky and it was clear that he KNEW he danced well—and probably practiced a lot and generally thought too much about it—and was constantly paying attention to whether or not others were watching. Whatever. This guy started amusing me, however, once he let this girl take over leader. Now, since so many of the moves are centered around your core, as you follow the person in front of you, you are often staring at their butt. I mean, how else will you notice if they change the footwork or the hands, right? Well, this tight t-shirter was clearly thrilled that he got to—was SUPPOSED to—stare at this girls butt for a good 8 minutes (long songs, remember?). He had the BIGGEST grin on his face and never lost eye contact with those back pockets.
The girl, on the other hand, thought she was really being respected as a leader, and would sometimes turn to check and see if he was following her lead. Worry of mutiny, I guess. You don’t want to turn to realize you’re flying solo.
In a kilalaky line you will always find those two things. One person who thinks he is an all-star (justified or not—it’s the fact that he thinks he should be on MTV that counts). One person has to check and make sure others aren’t getting rebellious.
You will also always find (and this one is my favorite) one guy who quite frankly doesn’t CARE who the leader is. He’s in line, yes, sure sure. But he is jiving and going crazy and doing who knows what. Arms are flying everywhere. Legs are kicking out. His face is lit up as he jams. Dancing to his own tune. This is the fun guy. This is how everyone should dance.
And as I mentioned, near the end you will always find the shufflers. They shuffle their feet forward and move with the line, but they make no effort to elaborate. It may be because they can’t see what the leader wants them to do. It may be because they think they’re too cool to do anything crazy. It may be because they’re too busy flirting with the person before or after them. And it may be because they are simply bored, but are doing kilalaky because that’s just what you DO. The latter usually refers to the guy with both hands in his pockets. Awesome.
Of course, you’ll also have the random drunk planets. I’m referring to the people who aren’t part of lines or anything—they just stand in one place and bob a little, in their own drunken haze. Sometimes they’ll balance a beer bottle on their head (never letting go, so I don’t really count it). Sometimes they’ll throw a little ships across the ocean action into the mix, reaching out and trying to grab others as they pass by. These people will be either extremely amusing or extremely forgettable.
present time:
At the end of that last paragraph I got tired and went to bed, not really finishing any thoughts. But I will say this. I not only have my students dance videos (did I ever tell you about that? About me and my students making educational music videos, using traditional song and dance to teach the community about things like malaria, clean water, AIDS, etc?), I also have the some big hits from Madagascar. We're talking talking a devil and Jesus fighting in a dance video. We're talking midgets. It's out of control and amazing and how I'll remember the music that was in Madagascar. So if you're around and my computer hasn't died by then, I'll show you....
quick note
I apologize for not writing anything sooner. I realize some of you may have been wondering.... I'll post the things I'd written earlier but couldn't post because of the lack of internet and then I'll get on to recent developments....
Thursday, February 19, 2009
political unrest
Those two words have ruled my life for the past three weeks.
It seems only natural to me that there would be political problems in Africa. After all, the countries weren’t created based on tribes or history, but simply reflect which lands were claimed by various colonizers. Tribes being split in half? Who cares—France got to one side first, Britain to the other. Two different groups of people competing for power because they’re forced to form one country together? Doesn’t matter—they all speak French, right?
But Madagascar doesn’t count. It’s unique because it’s an island. It was a country before any white person stepped on the soil. Yes, there are different tribes, but they’re all Malagasy. They’re already used to living on the same one island. They used to fight for power, sure—but it made sense that they had to work it out between them. One island equals one country. Right?
Doesn’t matter. Apparently political unrest can hit the fan here too. In short, the mayor of the capital—who looks about 14 years old, fyi (oh, how short the Malagasy people are)—decided that HE wanted to be president. Never mind the fact that he’s not OLD enough (literally—I’m not just joking about how young he looks) to be president. Never mind the fact that elections aren’t for another couple years. And never mind the fact that the current president is quite happy in that position (and possibly trying to read the constitution in a sneaky way so he can be re-elected for a third term). He just declared himself the new president one day. You didn’t realize it was that easy, huh?
The problem with this silly story is that some people are unhappy with the current president (I won’t use names because—as my sister says—they all start with R and contain about 25 letters). That’s what happens when a millionaire (or more?) businessman becomes president. He makes bank while the rest of the people are poor. So then when he buys a new jet with the country’s money, people are bound to get a little upset. They support the opposition simply because it’s the opposition.
The result was that I got sent to Morondava in case I needed to be evacuated from the country in a hurry. Now, this seemed silly to me living in Mahabo. Honestly, this part of the country doesn’t really care either way about what’s going on in the capital. One president’s the same as the other, and what matters most is whether or not it affects the price of rice. So while buildings were burned down in the capital, we simply got annoyed that the national radio got cut off.
Nevertheless, to Morondava I went, where I lived in a tiny hotel room without a kitchen or work for 3 weeks. Painful. Not knowing if I’d said goodbye to my school (in a hurry) for the last time. Not knowing what country I’d be in at the end of the month.
The thing is, we were actually VERY close to being sent to the States. Especially after one weekend where I guess a crowd got shot at. Again, not near me, so whatever.
But what you have to understand is, Malagasy people just aren’t into violence. I mean, yes they watch martial arts movies or whatever. Who’s not into that, right? But that’s just movies. The people do not walk around karate kicking everyone they see. Even the animals here aren’t dangerous. The snakes and spiders aren’t poisonous and there are no large lion-like or even elephant-esque creatures to give you nightmares at night. Go figure. When you live on a chill island, violence doesn’t seem to evolve. We’d get destroyed here if we were suddenly connected to the continent.
And so it is with the people. After a weekend of shooting, the Malagasy people kind of said, “Meh—let’s move on.”
Don’t get me wrong—it isn’t over yet. That darn mayor is still trying to set up a new government and tell the president what’s what. And it’s possible prices will skyrocket. Especially after so many places were looted in all the confusion. And fyi I could very well end up still getting evacuated, who knows.
The good news is we were finally allowed to go home—our Malagasy homes. Of course now everyone wants to know why I left for so long—aren’t I happy in Mahabo? They can’t seem to grasp that I had no choice. I would have much rather had my life and done my job than be held hostage in a hotel room in Morondava. But we can’t always get what we want.
So now you know. Political unrest can happen in the most unlikely of places.
Though I think it was just an excuse to loot warehouses for giant sacks of rice.
It seems only natural to me that there would be political problems in Africa. After all, the countries weren’t created based on tribes or history, but simply reflect which lands were claimed by various colonizers. Tribes being split in half? Who cares—France got to one side first, Britain to the other. Two different groups of people competing for power because they’re forced to form one country together? Doesn’t matter—they all speak French, right?
But Madagascar doesn’t count. It’s unique because it’s an island. It was a country before any white person stepped on the soil. Yes, there are different tribes, but they’re all Malagasy. They’re already used to living on the same one island. They used to fight for power, sure—but it made sense that they had to work it out between them. One island equals one country. Right?
Doesn’t matter. Apparently political unrest can hit the fan here too. In short, the mayor of the capital—who looks about 14 years old, fyi (oh, how short the Malagasy people are)—decided that HE wanted to be president. Never mind the fact that he’s not OLD enough (literally—I’m not just joking about how young he looks) to be president. Never mind the fact that elections aren’t for another couple years. And never mind the fact that the current president is quite happy in that position (and possibly trying to read the constitution in a sneaky way so he can be re-elected for a third term). He just declared himself the new president one day. You didn’t realize it was that easy, huh?
The problem with this silly story is that some people are unhappy with the current president (I won’t use names because—as my sister says—they all start with R and contain about 25 letters). That’s what happens when a millionaire (or more?) businessman becomes president. He makes bank while the rest of the people are poor. So then when he buys a new jet with the country’s money, people are bound to get a little upset. They support the opposition simply because it’s the opposition.
The result was that I got sent to Morondava in case I needed to be evacuated from the country in a hurry. Now, this seemed silly to me living in Mahabo. Honestly, this part of the country doesn’t really care either way about what’s going on in the capital. One president’s the same as the other, and what matters most is whether or not it affects the price of rice. So while buildings were burned down in the capital, we simply got annoyed that the national radio got cut off.
Nevertheless, to Morondava I went, where I lived in a tiny hotel room without a kitchen or work for 3 weeks. Painful. Not knowing if I’d said goodbye to my school (in a hurry) for the last time. Not knowing what country I’d be in at the end of the month.
The thing is, we were actually VERY close to being sent to the States. Especially after one weekend where I guess a crowd got shot at. Again, not near me, so whatever.
But what you have to understand is, Malagasy people just aren’t into violence. I mean, yes they watch martial arts movies or whatever. Who’s not into that, right? But that’s just movies. The people do not walk around karate kicking everyone they see. Even the animals here aren’t dangerous. The snakes and spiders aren’t poisonous and there are no large lion-like or even elephant-esque creatures to give you nightmares at night. Go figure. When you live on a chill island, violence doesn’t seem to evolve. We’d get destroyed here if we were suddenly connected to the continent.
And so it is with the people. After a weekend of shooting, the Malagasy people kind of said, “Meh—let’s move on.”
Don’t get me wrong—it isn’t over yet. That darn mayor is still trying to set up a new government and tell the president what’s what. And it’s possible prices will skyrocket. Especially after so many places were looted in all the confusion. And fyi I could very well end up still getting evacuated, who knows.
The good news is we were finally allowed to go home—our Malagasy homes. Of course now everyone wants to know why I left for so long—aren’t I happy in Mahabo? They can’t seem to grasp that I had no choice. I would have much rather had my life and done my job than be held hostage in a hotel room in Morondava. But we can’t always get what we want.
So now you know. Political unrest can happen in the most unlikely of places.
Though I think it was just an excuse to loot warehouses for giant sacks of rice.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
bedroom cockroaches
I will be haunted forever by cockroaches.
As you know, the bug situation in my home has gotten out of control. It’s many little things, but the main problem is the cockroaches.
I’ve discovered that the shower cockroaches and the bedroom cockroaches are different breeds. It’s more than the habitat. The shower cockroaches are multicolored, both black and gold. They also shed their crunchy external things and are glow-in-the-dark white for a while. They scatter when the light comes on, and therefore leave me alone when I need use of the shower. We have an understanding.
The bedroom cockroaches are straight up black. They are bigger, more rectangular, and they fly. I mean they straight up soar around my room before dive-bombing my mosquito net. I have grown used to hearing their flapping wings, sensing when they land on the mosquito net. I flick them off the net when in bed, because heaven forbid they find a way to enter the mosquito net, giving me a midnight cuddle.
These guys—the bedroom cockroaches—they’re smart. For instance, they know that I don’t want them in my house. They also know that I won’t kill them. When they know I’ve spotted them and they have nowhere to hide, they calmly walk to the door, wait for me to open it, and run outside. They realize this is my coping method—how I convince myself that I’m not in fact letting cockroaches run wild in my bedroom (and therefore kitchen and office and living room). They play the game, and then calmly re-enter my house by way of the slots in the windows. A pretty good deal.
But it was getting ridiculous.
The breaking point was during the cyclone. I had moved my bed, because I wanted to sleep, not swim. The roof got fixed the next day, but I considered waiting until the morning to move the bed. I was hesitant because I seem to be getting bitten by mosquitoes so tiny you can’t actually see them—and in the top ten places you’d rather NOT get bitten, thank you. Especially not when it will leave a welt and an uncontrollable need to scratch.
And then—as I sat there trying to decide if I’d survive a night outside of my mosquito net—I noticed them. Hundreds of miniscule baby cockroaches. Little black flying specks with crunchy shells.
I do not like being taken advantage of. Let me rephrase that. I hate being taken advantage of by cockroaches.
See, they had it all figured out. They toyed with me, letting me think I was dealing with cockroach situation in a humane way. Patronizing me and my silly notion of appeasement. Meanwhile, they were breeding like rabbits, rewriting their wills, I’m sure, in order to leave MY HOME to their crunchy little descendants.
Not okay.
Something had to be done.
I slept on it, waking up with one thought: I have to start killing the cockroaches.
Now, in your pristine American houses, I’m sure this seems an obvious solution. You are probably asking why I did not do this sooner. Maybe even blaming me and my apathy for all the cockroach sex that has taken place under my roof. But you have to understand—I live in a different world here. A world where you don’t kill spiders because they eat mosquitoes. You try your best to live in harmony with whatever creatures come your way, because it’s clear that this world is as much theirs as yours. Honestly, the only thing I think that has died intentionally (ha) in my house was that giant snake—and I didn’t even do that. And mosquitoes don’t count, those malaria-carrying jerks. So to decide to actively kill as many of one species as I can find . . . . I mean that’s the closest thing to genocide that will ever take place in my little cement house. It was a huge decision.
I spent the day wrestling with the decision—knowing it was a decision that had to be made, but thinking I’d somehow escape its application. I mean, I felt bad enough just SAYING what I was going to do. Couldn’t that be enough?
Early this evening, it was as if the cockroaches had never existed—were nothing more than a figment of my imagination. I liked to believe that they somehow understood my decision, and therefore had packed up and headed out of town in search for a new schmuck.
It was as if they’d sent a farewell gift too—I found my house FILLED (you can’t understand just how serious I am when I say that) with these odd new bugs. Little guys with long skinny wings. And the kicker is, they lose the wings and become itty bitty worm things. And then a lizard ate a bunch of them. I went from having swarms of them surrounding every source of light (um . . . two) to having a carpet of those wings on the floor. I don’t want to know where the slugs went. I’m afraid of what the answer might be. It was as if the cockroaches were trying to tell me I was lucky—that there are worse bugs to have as roommates.
But I was not so fortunate. Apparently the cockroaches and I don’t share brainwaves after all. Or at least, if we do, they decided to call my bluff and show up after dinner anyway.
I braced myself. Quick and easy, I thought. I’ll hit 10 of them and then wipe my hands of this relationship.
A couple things.
First, you do not understand the horror of each THWACK, slapping your tiny world atlas against the creature crawling on the wall—seeing the juice on the book afterwards—sweeping the dead body out the door. (Note: the atlas was chosen for its heavy weight and plastic-coated cover—easy to clean afterwards.)
Second, I seriously underestimated the number of cockroaches living in my house.
My friend Andrew and I once hunted cockroaches. What it entailed was this: I would grab the cockroach in my hands and then run for the nearest exit. He would quickly unbolt and open the door while I flung the thing outside. Again, it was a way of pretending I was dealing with the problem.
Actually killing them—that kind of hunt—is so much worse. You wait for the flutter of their crunchy wings. You grab the atlas. You run for the wall, where you see their dark body against the fake blue sky you once painted. You smack the thing then watch the body fall. You sweep it out of the house. And then repeat more times than you can believe. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. It never ends. You stop counting after 10. You are well aware when you pass 20. After 30 you’re sick of opening the door and decide you’ll sweep them all out in the morning. After another 10 thoroughly thwacked, you sweep them out after all. It’s the last thing you want to step on should you wake up in the middle of the night. And by this point, it’s more a question of how many TIMES you’ll wake up—thinking a cockroach is crawling into any number of orifices.
The worst moment (if you can actually choose one) is when you’re almost certain a cockroach just crawled out of the location where its dead body fell.
Oh no, you think. They come back.
And let’s be honest—the only thing worse than cockroach spirits haunting you would be cockroach spirits haunting you because you KILLED them.
I start to crack. I hear the fluttering everywhere. The thwack makes me jump. I am disgusted by the cockroach juice everywhere. I have to grind the atlas a little to make sure they’re really dead. Grasshoppers are jumping on my face. Seriously, I have bug issues. And while I am reassured when I see more baby cockroaches—yes, I’m doing the right thing, the executions must take place before it’s too late—I am equally appalled by the idea that this evening will repeat itself once these babies are of age. And I have NO idea when that when that will be. I know nothing about cockroaches that I can’t learn by observing in my shower.
I believe the horror is over for the moment. There are cockroach bodies in hard to reach locations, a couple stuck to the wall with own body goo, and I don’t even want to know how many just outside my door where I swept them in a hurry. Every time I think I’ve killed the last of them, another 2 or 3 flutter in the corner and I grab that trusty atlas.
I will call it a night and deal with everything—the bodies, the goo, the crippling sense of guilt—in the morning. Goodness knows I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. I’ll be dreaming of cockroaches.
As you know, the bug situation in my home has gotten out of control. It’s many little things, but the main problem is the cockroaches.
I’ve discovered that the shower cockroaches and the bedroom cockroaches are different breeds. It’s more than the habitat. The shower cockroaches are multicolored, both black and gold. They also shed their crunchy external things and are glow-in-the-dark white for a while. They scatter when the light comes on, and therefore leave me alone when I need use of the shower. We have an understanding.
The bedroom cockroaches are straight up black. They are bigger, more rectangular, and they fly. I mean they straight up soar around my room before dive-bombing my mosquito net. I have grown used to hearing their flapping wings, sensing when they land on the mosquito net. I flick them off the net when in bed, because heaven forbid they find a way to enter the mosquito net, giving me a midnight cuddle.
These guys—the bedroom cockroaches—they’re smart. For instance, they know that I don’t want them in my house. They also know that I won’t kill them. When they know I’ve spotted them and they have nowhere to hide, they calmly walk to the door, wait for me to open it, and run outside. They realize this is my coping method—how I convince myself that I’m not in fact letting cockroaches run wild in my bedroom (and therefore kitchen and office and living room). They play the game, and then calmly re-enter my house by way of the slots in the windows. A pretty good deal.
But it was getting ridiculous.
The breaking point was during the cyclone. I had moved my bed, because I wanted to sleep, not swim. The roof got fixed the next day, but I considered waiting until the morning to move the bed. I was hesitant because I seem to be getting bitten by mosquitoes so tiny you can’t actually see them—and in the top ten places you’d rather NOT get bitten, thank you. Especially not when it will leave a welt and an uncontrollable need to scratch.
And then—as I sat there trying to decide if I’d survive a night outside of my mosquito net—I noticed them. Hundreds of miniscule baby cockroaches. Little black flying specks with crunchy shells.
I do not like being taken advantage of. Let me rephrase that. I hate being taken advantage of by cockroaches.
See, they had it all figured out. They toyed with me, letting me think I was dealing with cockroach situation in a humane way. Patronizing me and my silly notion of appeasement. Meanwhile, they were breeding like rabbits, rewriting their wills, I’m sure, in order to leave MY HOME to their crunchy little descendants.
Not okay.
Something had to be done.
I slept on it, waking up with one thought: I have to start killing the cockroaches.
Now, in your pristine American houses, I’m sure this seems an obvious solution. You are probably asking why I did not do this sooner. Maybe even blaming me and my apathy for all the cockroach sex that has taken place under my roof. But you have to understand—I live in a different world here. A world where you don’t kill spiders because they eat mosquitoes. You try your best to live in harmony with whatever creatures come your way, because it’s clear that this world is as much theirs as yours. Honestly, the only thing I think that has died intentionally (ha) in my house was that giant snake—and I didn’t even do that. And mosquitoes don’t count, those malaria-carrying jerks. So to decide to actively kill as many of one species as I can find . . . . I mean that’s the closest thing to genocide that will ever take place in my little cement house. It was a huge decision.
I spent the day wrestling with the decision—knowing it was a decision that had to be made, but thinking I’d somehow escape its application. I mean, I felt bad enough just SAYING what I was going to do. Couldn’t that be enough?
Early this evening, it was as if the cockroaches had never existed—were nothing more than a figment of my imagination. I liked to believe that they somehow understood my decision, and therefore had packed up and headed out of town in search for a new schmuck.
It was as if they’d sent a farewell gift too—I found my house FILLED (you can’t understand just how serious I am when I say that) with these odd new bugs. Little guys with long skinny wings. And the kicker is, they lose the wings and become itty bitty worm things. And then a lizard ate a bunch of them. I went from having swarms of them surrounding every source of light (um . . . two) to having a carpet of those wings on the floor. I don’t want to know where the slugs went. I’m afraid of what the answer might be. It was as if the cockroaches were trying to tell me I was lucky—that there are worse bugs to have as roommates.
But I was not so fortunate. Apparently the cockroaches and I don’t share brainwaves after all. Or at least, if we do, they decided to call my bluff and show up after dinner anyway.
I braced myself. Quick and easy, I thought. I’ll hit 10 of them and then wipe my hands of this relationship.
A couple things.
First, you do not understand the horror of each THWACK, slapping your tiny world atlas against the creature crawling on the wall—seeing the juice on the book afterwards—sweeping the dead body out the door. (Note: the atlas was chosen for its heavy weight and plastic-coated cover—easy to clean afterwards.)
Second, I seriously underestimated the number of cockroaches living in my house.
My friend Andrew and I once hunted cockroaches. What it entailed was this: I would grab the cockroach in my hands and then run for the nearest exit. He would quickly unbolt and open the door while I flung the thing outside. Again, it was a way of pretending I was dealing with the problem.
Actually killing them—that kind of hunt—is so much worse. You wait for the flutter of their crunchy wings. You grab the atlas. You run for the wall, where you see their dark body against the fake blue sky you once painted. You smack the thing then watch the body fall. You sweep it out of the house. And then repeat more times than you can believe. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. Flutter grab run THWACK slide sweep. It never ends. You stop counting after 10. You are well aware when you pass 20. After 30 you’re sick of opening the door and decide you’ll sweep them all out in the morning. After another 10 thoroughly thwacked, you sweep them out after all. It’s the last thing you want to step on should you wake up in the middle of the night. And by this point, it’s more a question of how many TIMES you’ll wake up—thinking a cockroach is crawling into any number of orifices.
The worst moment (if you can actually choose one) is when you’re almost certain a cockroach just crawled out of the location where its dead body fell.
Oh no, you think. They come back.
And let’s be honest—the only thing worse than cockroach spirits haunting you would be cockroach spirits haunting you because you KILLED them.
I start to crack. I hear the fluttering everywhere. The thwack makes me jump. I am disgusted by the cockroach juice everywhere. I have to grind the atlas a little to make sure they’re really dead. Grasshoppers are jumping on my face. Seriously, I have bug issues. And while I am reassured when I see more baby cockroaches—yes, I’m doing the right thing, the executions must take place before it’s too late—I am equally appalled by the idea that this evening will repeat itself once these babies are of age. And I have NO idea when that when that will be. I know nothing about cockroaches that I can’t learn by observing in my shower.
I believe the horror is over for the moment. There are cockroach bodies in hard to reach locations, a couple stuck to the wall with own body goo, and I don’t even want to know how many just outside my door where I swept them in a hurry. Every time I think I’ve killed the last of them, another 2 or 3 flutter in the corner and I grab that trusty atlas.
I will call it a night and deal with everything—the bodies, the goo, the crippling sense of guilt—in the morning. Goodness knows I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. I’ll be dreaming of cockroaches.
cyclone day
Time flies when you’re in Mahabo. I’m serious—you need a weekend to get adjusted, and then it’s as if you escape to this timeless place where you simply exist and live your simple life.
So it’s been a few weeks.
The mouse thing is NOT being resolved. The current way of dealing with the problem is by moving things I know he likes. You know, because then he’ll have trouble finding them as he scurries in the night? I’m less than convinced, but it’s the best advice I’ve gotten so far, and it seems to work a bit. I was also told to leave the lights on all night (so thrilled that I actually have lights!). This does NOT work (not that I’ve tried) because I once came back from the shower to find the little bugger (and I mean little) sitting calmly in the well-lit room. He’d found my spaghetti reserve, had pulled the noodles out of the package, and was nibbling away. No joke. So I have to move that stuff around too (I’d already found the bites he’d taken out of my tomatoes). Only this morning I found the relocated spaghetti pulled out and with slightly weathered ends. Oh no he did not. Unhappy. And he’s too small for me to realistically catch him. The only solution I see is a new cat in the neighborhood. Please. . . . I don’t enjoy messing up my house every night simply to confuse a little mouse.
On a minor note, the cockroaches are getting OUT of control. Before they just kind of chilled in the shower. You turned the light on, let them scatter, and took your shower by yourself. But now. They’re trying to migrate into my house. Aka my bedroom, because it IS only ONE room. And they don’t just hide in the corners, as I’m pretty sure they did before. They fly. Yeah, I know—I didn’t realize they could fly either. They fly and are ginormous and way too close to my sleeping area. That’s all.
A couple quick updates: I got new bed things, so now my entire room is coordinated. No I’m serious, it’s incredible. Blue, green, and brown everywhere. It’s so nature. In any case, I’ll try to get some pictures out there. Then you will see just how cozy my home is. And there’s a new volunteer who lives near me. His name is Andrew and he’s cool. I think we’ll end up hanging out a lot while he’s here (well, once a month—but we’ll thoroughly enjoy it!). It’s fun having another white person around—and it’s always lucky when you happen to get along well with them!
It’s funny, because in Minnesota, school didn’t get canceled for ANYTHING. No amount of snow could stop our education. At most, it’d get delayed to give the plows time to do their work. And then at Duke, I definitely got a snow day or two my freshman year. A snow day. Because of an inch of snow.
Well I do not have school today—and possibly won’t for most of the week—because it’s a cyclone day! I guess a lovely cyclone by the name of Fanele will be visiting Morondava this evening (around 5 or 6 I’m told)—coming from the Mozambique Channel. It’s kind of cozy (even if I can’t watch a marathon of movies and random things like last year, since my DVD player got stolen and I do not yet have access to a computer that reads DVDs). And that explains why it was actually kind of chilly this weekend! Well, by chilly I mean low 80s and I had to wear a t-shirt. Regardless, it gave me an excuse to get all the errands done that I didn’t this weekend because I was too busy making Mexican food with my new neighbor Andrew. Note: I was just now interrupted because my Peace Corps doctor in Tana called to check and see how I was being affected by the cyclone—generally trying to be supportive. So hopefully that will reassure any of you slightly concerned about this. Plus, by the time I post this, it’ll be over (ha).
A quick story esque thing for you before I get to my coffee (with Baileys) and studying (for random things I invent to keep myself busy and learning). My English Club students have at least doubled this year, and lots of them are older, and they are very serious. They want to study every single day after school (which I’ve given them), and they’ve chosen days for pronunciation and conversation (the rest are grammar). It’s really cute and I’m hoping they become much better and actually speak English. They once asked me questions for like 45 minutes before class began. Straight up vocab and pronunciation—curiosity I guess you could say. It was great.
But so one week we did little interviews of each other. It was mostly a way to get them talking. Two amusing things that came of it. First, there’s a girl who’s very very good at English and generally smart (the proviseur’s neice, can you tell?)—actually, she’s one of my closest friends here—along with the proviseur and the Catholic priest. She’s 13. But so my proviseur and I discuss ALL the time how we need to guard this girl and keep her away from boys, because her friend got pregnant and if she gets pregnant, her dreams of being a journalist or singer will be destroyed. And it’s risky because she’s very pretty and already almost as tall as me—and she likes playing basketball, but is one of the only girls out there with the boys doing it. In any case, I’m sure I’ve mentioned this.
So this girl was being interviewed, and the questions (and her responses) went something like this (note: each question was asked by a different boy):
Q. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
A. “No.”
Q. “What abide you?” (read: Where do you live?)
A. “Ampasifasy.” (our neighborhood)
Q. “Will you go with me tomorrow?”
A. “No—I learn my lesson and watch the TV at my home.”
Q. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
A. “Because I don’t like the men.”
(to which they got excited, thinking she was saying she was a lesbian—so I calmed them by saying “because boys are naughty” which is unfortunately too true here)
Q. “Why are you so kind?”
A. “I don’t know.”
We’re hoping this will keep her nice and protected for a while. Hopefully she will continue not liking the men for most of her adult life, or at least until she has a job of her own and can’t get tricked into making babies for years and years.
And finally, a couple questions that made me smile. I’ll include their translations.
“You water yet in the bed?”
(translation: “Do you still wet the bed?”)
“You are growing, my lord?”
(translation: “Do you believe in God?”)
Clearly we still have a long way to go. Thank goodness English Club is every day. . . .
POST CYCLONE.
I changed my mind. I forgot what cyclones are like DURING the cyclones. My kabone (already in bad condition) got the roof ripped off and is now at a slant. Part of my house’s roof came off too. Meaning I spent the night NOT sleeping, moving things in the house around to keep them from getting soaked (including myself and my bed). I listened to what sounded like huge waves crashing—only it was rain and it was crashing into my house (I almost wrote my face—ridiculous). It was rather creepy—I honestly didn’t know if my house was going to make it. In any case, while pre-cyclone days are kind of fun, actually cyclones are kind of scary, and post-cyclone days are spent cleaning up the mess. FYI.
So it’s been a few weeks.
The mouse thing is NOT being resolved. The current way of dealing with the problem is by moving things I know he likes. You know, because then he’ll have trouble finding them as he scurries in the night? I’m less than convinced, but it’s the best advice I’ve gotten so far, and it seems to work a bit. I was also told to leave the lights on all night (so thrilled that I actually have lights!). This does NOT work (not that I’ve tried) because I once came back from the shower to find the little bugger (and I mean little) sitting calmly in the well-lit room. He’d found my spaghetti reserve, had pulled the noodles out of the package, and was nibbling away. No joke. So I have to move that stuff around too (I’d already found the bites he’d taken out of my tomatoes). Only this morning I found the relocated spaghetti pulled out and with slightly weathered ends. Oh no he did not. Unhappy. And he’s too small for me to realistically catch him. The only solution I see is a new cat in the neighborhood. Please. . . . I don’t enjoy messing up my house every night simply to confuse a little mouse.
On a minor note, the cockroaches are getting OUT of control. Before they just kind of chilled in the shower. You turned the light on, let them scatter, and took your shower by yourself. But now. They’re trying to migrate into my house. Aka my bedroom, because it IS only ONE room. And they don’t just hide in the corners, as I’m pretty sure they did before. They fly. Yeah, I know—I didn’t realize they could fly either. They fly and are ginormous and way too close to my sleeping area. That’s all.
A couple quick updates: I got new bed things, so now my entire room is coordinated. No I’m serious, it’s incredible. Blue, green, and brown everywhere. It’s so nature. In any case, I’ll try to get some pictures out there. Then you will see just how cozy my home is. And there’s a new volunteer who lives near me. His name is Andrew and he’s cool. I think we’ll end up hanging out a lot while he’s here (well, once a month—but we’ll thoroughly enjoy it!). It’s fun having another white person around—and it’s always lucky when you happen to get along well with them!
It’s funny, because in Minnesota, school didn’t get canceled for ANYTHING. No amount of snow could stop our education. At most, it’d get delayed to give the plows time to do their work. And then at Duke, I definitely got a snow day or two my freshman year. A snow day. Because of an inch of snow.
Well I do not have school today—and possibly won’t for most of the week—because it’s a cyclone day! I guess a lovely cyclone by the name of Fanele will be visiting Morondava this evening (around 5 or 6 I’m told)—coming from the Mozambique Channel. It’s kind of cozy (even if I can’t watch a marathon of movies and random things like last year, since my DVD player got stolen and I do not yet have access to a computer that reads DVDs). And that explains why it was actually kind of chilly this weekend! Well, by chilly I mean low 80s and I had to wear a t-shirt. Regardless, it gave me an excuse to get all the errands done that I didn’t this weekend because I was too busy making Mexican food with my new neighbor Andrew. Note: I was just now interrupted because my Peace Corps doctor in Tana called to check and see how I was being affected by the cyclone—generally trying to be supportive. So hopefully that will reassure any of you slightly concerned about this. Plus, by the time I post this, it’ll be over (ha).
A quick story esque thing for you before I get to my coffee (with Baileys) and studying (for random things I invent to keep myself busy and learning). My English Club students have at least doubled this year, and lots of them are older, and they are very serious. They want to study every single day after school (which I’ve given them), and they’ve chosen days for pronunciation and conversation (the rest are grammar). It’s really cute and I’m hoping they become much better and actually speak English. They once asked me questions for like 45 minutes before class began. Straight up vocab and pronunciation—curiosity I guess you could say. It was great.
But so one week we did little interviews of each other. It was mostly a way to get them talking. Two amusing things that came of it. First, there’s a girl who’s very very good at English and generally smart (the proviseur’s neice, can you tell?)—actually, she’s one of my closest friends here—along with the proviseur and the Catholic priest. She’s 13. But so my proviseur and I discuss ALL the time how we need to guard this girl and keep her away from boys, because her friend got pregnant and if she gets pregnant, her dreams of being a journalist or singer will be destroyed. And it’s risky because she’s very pretty and already almost as tall as me—and she likes playing basketball, but is one of the only girls out there with the boys doing it. In any case, I’m sure I’ve mentioned this.
So this girl was being interviewed, and the questions (and her responses) went something like this (note: each question was asked by a different boy):
Q. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
A. “No.”
Q. “What abide you?” (read: Where do you live?)
A. “Ampasifasy.” (our neighborhood)
Q. “Will you go with me tomorrow?”
A. “No—I learn my lesson and watch the TV at my home.”
Q. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
A. “Because I don’t like the men.”
(to which they got excited, thinking she was saying she was a lesbian—so I calmed them by saying “because boys are naughty” which is unfortunately too true here)
Q. “Why are you so kind?”
A. “I don’t know.”
We’re hoping this will keep her nice and protected for a while. Hopefully she will continue not liking the men for most of her adult life, or at least until she has a job of her own and can’t get tricked into making babies for years and years.
And finally, a couple questions that made me smile. I’ll include their translations.
“You water yet in the bed?”
(translation: “Do you still wet the bed?”)
“You are growing, my lord?”
(translation: “Do you believe in God?”)
Clearly we still have a long way to go. Thank goodness English Club is every day. . . .
POST CYCLONE.
I changed my mind. I forgot what cyclones are like DURING the cyclones. My kabone (already in bad condition) got the roof ripped off and is now at a slant. Part of my house’s roof came off too. Meaning I spent the night NOT sleeping, moving things in the house around to keep them from getting soaked (including myself and my bed). I listened to what sounded like huge waves crashing—only it was rain and it was crashing into my house (I almost wrote my face—ridiculous). It was rather creepy—I honestly didn’t know if my house was going to make it. In any case, while pre-cyclone days are kind of fun, actually cyclones are kind of scary, and post-cyclone days are spent cleaning up the mess. FYI.
6 Months 2 Go
Has it only been a week since school has started again? It feels much longer. An eventful first week, I guess—though for no particular reason. And I must point out that I have less than 6 months left here in Mahabo. . . . Over the past week I was filled with varying emotions—trying to re-adjust to life here (it’s such a contrast from my trip to the States and to the time I spent with other vazahas while waiting for school to start again—I came home both relieved to be home and panicking because I was suddenly very isolated and alone and had forgotten what that was like) and trying not to freak out over how little time I have left. I think the isolation panicking is finishing itself off (I needed to get a weekend in at this slow pace to make the transition) and I can honestly say that I think I will be very satisfied when I leave with what I have done here and with my relationship with Mahabo. Our goodbye will come soon, but I can see already that it will be a happy one.
So. Inona no vaovao? Inona no maresaka? There’s a lot of news from this week.
Electricity. I spent a decent amount of time without it, and let me just say—if you are feeling alone and isolated, having a deadly silent, musicless house is about the worst possible thing for you. You are infinitely more aware of how along you are. The lack of light too. Somehow, reading a novel by candlelight—I mean, it sounds slightly romantic—but it can make you feel a little claustrophobic. I finally got the electricity back. I stay up later, listen to music, study—I can actually keep living post-sunset. This is good for an active little girl like me. Without electricity, you tend to go to bed earlier, and I can only sleep SO much. Plus I now have candle wax spilled on my pillow, sheet, and (no joke) mosquito net. Whatever. Point is, my life is both literally and figuratively brighter. Thank goodness.
An amusing note. . . . The last time I dealt with the electric company (Jirama): I was slightly paranoid on malaria pills at the time (remember that? Seems like so long ago . . . ), and an electrician did a small task and then tried to rip me off—so much that I was so shocked I just handed him the money (10 times as much as I’d been thinking). Once he left, I was so upset that someone from my own town—someone I have to deal somewhat frequently—would take advantage of me like that. I went to my proviseur in tears (I tried to hold them back, but on those pills it was impossible). I’m not sure if she understood WHY I was upset (it was the idea of what he did more than the money itself), but she acted on my tears. She ended up meeting with the director—who gave her all of my money back, saying it is NOT okay that the electrician made me cry. Switching to the present times, we had this electricity glitch (I can’t really explain the details), and my neighbors and proviseur didn’t deal with it while I was gone—they said they wanted to wait until I was back so I could visit Jirama with them. I didn’t get this then, but I do now. So I visited the director with my proviseur. And they discussed for about 20 minutes the need for electricity again and its possibility. My proviseur then told me it wasn’t possible, and that I needed to explain to the guy myself that I needed electricity. I didn’t understand why—they’d been discussing that need themselves for 20 minutes already. The thought of no music—the quietness of my house and the darkness of every evening—was so depressing that I held back tears (I didn’t want him to think me a baby, based on his few interactions with me) and told him my house was too quiet (ha—I was so eloquent). He paused and then asked if I’d be sad if I had no electricity. Sad? Well duh. Isn’t that clear? I said yes, and suddenly—BAM—problem solved, I could have my electricity back. 20 minutes, and it turns out, all he cares about if I’d be sad. Had I known, I’d have let the tears flow right when we entered the room. It seems that my electric company is seriously concerned with my happiness. I’m perfectly okay with that.
Other news. I have guests. The first is a mouse. It’s official. He is not going anywhere. And with the neighbors’ cat getting stolen, I think I might have to legit get used to him. In fact, I think he’s been around for a while. I think that all the droppings I’ve attributed to various animals might actually have belonged to this little punk. I don’t know. I’ve never seen the creatures actually taking a dump. I don’t mind his presence so much as the fact that he literally eats my belongings. Not food or things I can replace. He puts holes in actual objects. He tries to eat my toothpaste. I fear my clothes will all be gone one morning. And the worst is that I can now hear him eating at night. Nibbling away, that little bugger. And I’ll go over, shake things around (I never know EXACTLY where he is). He’ll scurry a little, wait patiently. And then he’ll start all over again once I’m back in bed. It’s exhausting. I prefer listening to the rats in the ceiling. They can run around and have a good time all they want. As long as they don’t eat my money.
My other guests are ants. Luckily, I seem to have eliminated that little problem of the giant electrically biting ants in the shower (we have a truce at the very least). But there are other little tiny ants in my house. At first I thought they were just silly—wandering all over my desk instead of attacking the kitchen area where there’s actually—you know—food. Kind of like the cockroach who tried to eat my soap. I don’t get it but whatever. To each his own. And then I discovered. . . . See, I had some little fun size packets of peanut butter M&Ms. Saving them for special occasions I guess—for certain friends or for certain bad days. But I have discovered that ants like peanut butter. You think I’m kidding? They went into the big plastic bag, ate through the fun size wrappers, somehow cracked holes into the candy shells, and mined peanut butter out of my M&Ms. I mean, I understand why they did it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it made me angry. I dealt with the situation by eating the M&Ms this week instead of saving them for those special occasions. And I was more than once disappointed when I bit into a hollow M&M. Who cares about that candy shell in any case? Let’s just hope they don’t find the tub of Skippy waiting to be made into peanut butter blossoms. . . .
I spent the week fighting for work. I’m not kidding you. My school has this fear of overworking me, yet I’m happiest when I am overworked. It’s a complicated combination to say the least. I resolved the problem last year by working at the private school as well. This year, I did it by going to the office again and again trying to convince them (without crying—ha—now you think I cry all the time—it was all connected though—imagine suddenly being the only white person when you’re used to being around people who understand you, and add to that being unable to work and do something productive, and then you don’t even get electricity or anything to occupy you at your house—and you can only read so much—it essentially means a lot of time to think about how much you wish you had more friends or something—and a problem you know would be solved if they’d only let you work more). So I spend the week convincing them that if I don’t work more I will feel useless and sit at my house alone too much and that’s not good for anyone. They tried convincing me that it was good to work like 10 hours a week—then I could have ridiculously long weekends in Morondava. I tried convincing them that I’m happier in Mahabo and don’t WANT to go to Morondava. Occasionally, yes—but not enough to justify that kind of schedule. Seriously—10 hoursa week?? I’m a stubborn girl, and I won them over—doubling my hours (so I have the same as the Malagasy teachers) and doing a lesson after school every day for the disciplined kids. So now I have about 10 hours more than Peace Corps says I should have. Much better. I promised them that it was my choice and that I wouldn’t blame them for stressing me out. And they made me promise that if I got tired, I’d just send the kids home—and that if I wanted to leave for the weekend, I’d just cancel a bunch of my classes. Not bad, huh? I think we’re in a good place right now.
I got my old students back! Not all of them, but the older crowd. It’s AMAZING. It’s like old friends, I guess you could say. We used to tease each other and we went through so much—my first year!—together. I love having them again. Plus, it’s neat because they’re so much smarter than my other students! I can speak in English for almost the entire lesson, and they already know lots of vocabulary—and they make sure to ask when they don’t—and they pick up on the lesson so quickly! It reassures me, because it shows that a year of being together really does help them. It helps having an English teacher who actually speaks English—they can ask random questions and have them answered, instead of ONLY learning the lesson. It’s been helpful to see and gives me more hope for my new students and the work I can do with them.
Also, my after school lessons are exciting—so many students are joining in—choosing to do a lesson and exercises every day after school when they’re already tired. And before we start—on Friday they spent 45 minutes asking me vocabulary and pronunciation questions. It was so exciting. I mean, at the end of the week I was EXHAUSTED (I jump around and talk too much and make noises and generally waste tons of energy when I teach)—my day Friday starts at 7am and ends at 7pm (with a break in the middle for lunch and siesta). But that’s a good thing for me. If these students are excited about learning English, I’m equally excited to teach them. Plus, my students are my friends in a way. Ha. My friends are my students, my principal, and a Catholic priest. Basically. It’s slightly ridiculous, but I’m happy, and that’s what matters, right? But you can see why it might have taken some re-adjusting this week.
A couple more things then I’ll let you go. Slash you can stop reading, no one’s forcing you. 1. One of my students is named “Catastrophe.” I think that’s HYSTERICAL. He goes by a different name (they have lots of names—like multiple multiple middle names or something), but I really enjoy that one. 2. My 2nde students (around 9th or 10th grade) are split into two sections. While I taught 2nde I, some of the 2nde II students joined in (I don’t know). It was so funny though, because—whenever someone answered a question wrong, whenever someone didn’t understand—whenever someone needed an example, whenever someone was talking too much—a different voice would mumble loudly, “2nde II . . .” This is what I mean—I have so much fun with my students (okay, it was funnier than it sounds right there—just imagine it spread out during your lesson—it was like a well-timed punch line). I’m really very lucky. In the fall, we had so much to do—the work of a semester in half the time. It was a bit stressful for everyone. But now . . . It’s as if we simply enjoy each others’ company. They pay attention because they are amused. They behave because they know they should and they respect me. And I let them get away with a certain amount of talking because I know we’re all happier that way. Needless to say, spending time with my students was key to easing back into Mahabo life.
Okay. I’ll let you go. A cockroach is flying around and I don’t want him to land in my bed. I’ll just say that it was a rough and rather lonely week, but in the end I’m thrilled to be back in a place where you almost get run down by a herd of goats while walking into your classroom (I knew it! The cockroach just landed on my pillow, that jerk) and where you see students chasing pigs in the streets downtown while you walk to the market. Life is good.
So. Inona no vaovao? Inona no maresaka? There’s a lot of news from this week.
Electricity. I spent a decent amount of time without it, and let me just say—if you are feeling alone and isolated, having a deadly silent, musicless house is about the worst possible thing for you. You are infinitely more aware of how along you are. The lack of light too. Somehow, reading a novel by candlelight—I mean, it sounds slightly romantic—but it can make you feel a little claustrophobic. I finally got the electricity back. I stay up later, listen to music, study—I can actually keep living post-sunset. This is good for an active little girl like me. Without electricity, you tend to go to bed earlier, and I can only sleep SO much. Plus I now have candle wax spilled on my pillow, sheet, and (no joke) mosquito net. Whatever. Point is, my life is both literally and figuratively brighter. Thank goodness.
An amusing note. . . . The last time I dealt with the electric company (Jirama): I was slightly paranoid on malaria pills at the time (remember that? Seems like so long ago . . . ), and an electrician did a small task and then tried to rip me off—so much that I was so shocked I just handed him the money (10 times as much as I’d been thinking). Once he left, I was so upset that someone from my own town—someone I have to deal somewhat frequently—would take advantage of me like that. I went to my proviseur in tears (I tried to hold them back, but on those pills it was impossible). I’m not sure if she understood WHY I was upset (it was the idea of what he did more than the money itself), but she acted on my tears. She ended up meeting with the director—who gave her all of my money back, saying it is NOT okay that the electrician made me cry. Switching to the present times, we had this electricity glitch (I can’t really explain the details), and my neighbors and proviseur didn’t deal with it while I was gone—they said they wanted to wait until I was back so I could visit Jirama with them. I didn’t get this then, but I do now. So I visited the director with my proviseur. And they discussed for about 20 minutes the need for electricity again and its possibility. My proviseur then told me it wasn’t possible, and that I needed to explain to the guy myself that I needed electricity. I didn’t understand why—they’d been discussing that need themselves for 20 minutes already. The thought of no music—the quietness of my house and the darkness of every evening—was so depressing that I held back tears (I didn’t want him to think me a baby, based on his few interactions with me) and told him my house was too quiet (ha—I was so eloquent). He paused and then asked if I’d be sad if I had no electricity. Sad? Well duh. Isn’t that clear? I said yes, and suddenly—BAM—problem solved, I could have my electricity back. 20 minutes, and it turns out, all he cares about if I’d be sad. Had I known, I’d have let the tears flow right when we entered the room. It seems that my electric company is seriously concerned with my happiness. I’m perfectly okay with that.
Other news. I have guests. The first is a mouse. It’s official. He is not going anywhere. And with the neighbors’ cat getting stolen, I think I might have to legit get used to him. In fact, I think he’s been around for a while. I think that all the droppings I’ve attributed to various animals might actually have belonged to this little punk. I don’t know. I’ve never seen the creatures actually taking a dump. I don’t mind his presence so much as the fact that he literally eats my belongings. Not food or things I can replace. He puts holes in actual objects. He tries to eat my toothpaste. I fear my clothes will all be gone one morning. And the worst is that I can now hear him eating at night. Nibbling away, that little bugger. And I’ll go over, shake things around (I never know EXACTLY where he is). He’ll scurry a little, wait patiently. And then he’ll start all over again once I’m back in bed. It’s exhausting. I prefer listening to the rats in the ceiling. They can run around and have a good time all they want. As long as they don’t eat my money.
My other guests are ants. Luckily, I seem to have eliminated that little problem of the giant electrically biting ants in the shower (we have a truce at the very least). But there are other little tiny ants in my house. At first I thought they were just silly—wandering all over my desk instead of attacking the kitchen area where there’s actually—you know—food. Kind of like the cockroach who tried to eat my soap. I don’t get it but whatever. To each his own. And then I discovered. . . . See, I had some little fun size packets of peanut butter M&Ms. Saving them for special occasions I guess—for certain friends or for certain bad days. But I have discovered that ants like peanut butter. You think I’m kidding? They went into the big plastic bag, ate through the fun size wrappers, somehow cracked holes into the candy shells, and mined peanut butter out of my M&Ms. I mean, I understand why they did it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it made me angry. I dealt with the situation by eating the M&Ms this week instead of saving them for those special occasions. And I was more than once disappointed when I bit into a hollow M&M. Who cares about that candy shell in any case? Let’s just hope they don’t find the tub of Skippy waiting to be made into peanut butter blossoms. . . .
I spent the week fighting for work. I’m not kidding you. My school has this fear of overworking me, yet I’m happiest when I am overworked. It’s a complicated combination to say the least. I resolved the problem last year by working at the private school as well. This year, I did it by going to the office again and again trying to convince them (without crying—ha—now you think I cry all the time—it was all connected though—imagine suddenly being the only white person when you’re used to being around people who understand you, and add to that being unable to work and do something productive, and then you don’t even get electricity or anything to occupy you at your house—and you can only read so much—it essentially means a lot of time to think about how much you wish you had more friends or something—and a problem you know would be solved if they’d only let you work more). So I spend the week convincing them that if I don’t work more I will feel useless and sit at my house alone too much and that’s not good for anyone. They tried convincing me that it was good to work like 10 hours a week—then I could have ridiculously long weekends in Morondava. I tried convincing them that I’m happier in Mahabo and don’t WANT to go to Morondava. Occasionally, yes—but not enough to justify that kind of schedule. Seriously—10 hoursa week?? I’m a stubborn girl, and I won them over—doubling my hours (so I have the same as the Malagasy teachers) and doing a lesson after school every day for the disciplined kids. So now I have about 10 hours more than Peace Corps says I should have. Much better. I promised them that it was my choice and that I wouldn’t blame them for stressing me out. And they made me promise that if I got tired, I’d just send the kids home—and that if I wanted to leave for the weekend, I’d just cancel a bunch of my classes. Not bad, huh? I think we’re in a good place right now.
I got my old students back! Not all of them, but the older crowd. It’s AMAZING. It’s like old friends, I guess you could say. We used to tease each other and we went through so much—my first year!—together. I love having them again. Plus, it’s neat because they’re so much smarter than my other students! I can speak in English for almost the entire lesson, and they already know lots of vocabulary—and they make sure to ask when they don’t—and they pick up on the lesson so quickly! It reassures me, because it shows that a year of being together really does help them. It helps having an English teacher who actually speaks English—they can ask random questions and have them answered, instead of ONLY learning the lesson. It’s been helpful to see and gives me more hope for my new students and the work I can do with them.
Also, my after school lessons are exciting—so many students are joining in—choosing to do a lesson and exercises every day after school when they’re already tired. And before we start—on Friday they spent 45 minutes asking me vocabulary and pronunciation questions. It was so exciting. I mean, at the end of the week I was EXHAUSTED (I jump around and talk too much and make noises and generally waste tons of energy when I teach)—my day Friday starts at 7am and ends at 7pm (with a break in the middle for lunch and siesta). But that’s a good thing for me. If these students are excited about learning English, I’m equally excited to teach them. Plus, my students are my friends in a way. Ha. My friends are my students, my principal, and a Catholic priest. Basically. It’s slightly ridiculous, but I’m happy, and that’s what matters, right? But you can see why it might have taken some re-adjusting this week.
A couple more things then I’ll let you go. Slash you can stop reading, no one’s forcing you. 1. One of my students is named “Catastrophe.” I think that’s HYSTERICAL. He goes by a different name (they have lots of names—like multiple multiple middle names or something), but I really enjoy that one. 2. My 2nde students (around 9th or 10th grade) are split into two sections. While I taught 2nde I, some of the 2nde II students joined in (I don’t know). It was so funny though, because—whenever someone answered a question wrong, whenever someone didn’t understand—whenever someone needed an example, whenever someone was talking too much—a different voice would mumble loudly, “2nde II . . .” This is what I mean—I have so much fun with my students (okay, it was funnier than it sounds right there—just imagine it spread out during your lesson—it was like a well-timed punch line). I’m really very lucky. In the fall, we had so much to do—the work of a semester in half the time. It was a bit stressful for everyone. But now . . . It’s as if we simply enjoy each others’ company. They pay attention because they are amused. They behave because they know they should and they respect me. And I let them get away with a certain amount of talking because I know we’re all happier that way. Needless to say, spending time with my students was key to easing back into Mahabo life.
Okay. I’ll let you go. A cockroach is flying around and I don’t want him to land in my bed. I’ll just say that it was a rough and rather lonely week, but in the end I’m thrilled to be back in a place where you almost get run down by a herd of goats while walking into your classroom (I knew it! The cockroach just landed on my pillow, that jerk) and where you see students chasing pigs in the streets downtown while you walk to the market. Life is good.
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