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.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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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