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.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
top ten
Top Ten Signs You’re Back Home in Mahabo
1. There is nothing to do to the point that an afternoon activity means simply listening to the breeze.
2. A night on the town means a couple of beers and some brochettes with your proviseur and her niece.
3. You go to bed around 9.
4. Everyone you know says “Welcome back! You were gone too long!” and looks very very happy to see you.
5. Random people you don’t know will yell, “Betany!!” when they see you. You don’t know them, but they know you—and they felt your absence.
6. You daily activities include a walk to the market.
7. You don’t have electricity and your bathroom is a bucket you empty and clean after every use.
8. A chicken took a shit in your shower.
9. You are constantly wet, either from showers or sweat.
10. You simply feel at home.
Do you like how I kind of cheated to make it an even ten? Whatever, I could have come up with more but those are off the top of my head.
My favorite thing is going out with my proviseur—speaking only in Malagasy, having legit conversations, seeing how she truly cares about me, knowing how well supported I am in this town.
A cute moment was when one of my students (around 13 years old) told me that she would do yoga alone at her house and she would cry because she missed me.
In other news, one of my younger students (between 12 and 14 years old) got pregnant earlier, I’m not sure if I mentioned. I was crushed. Getting pregnant for girls means they can’t study anymore and essentially become a mother, trying to work by selling little things—the future is pretty slim. And this was a really good student! Getting a girl pregnant for boys means . . . nothing. Don’t even get me started. In any case, I think this student had a miscarriage while I was gone. Or rather, she gave birth and the baby died. But she wasn’t due for a while, so I assume it was more of a miscarriage. She is healthy. I’m not sure, though, if they’ll let her study again after this. We’ll see. For many schools the rule is simply once you’re pregnant you’re out of school for good.
And yet other news: Our school has gotten a new director, and now the middle school and high school are actually separate. And I’ve been put on the high school staff. This means my schedule and students will be changing in January (ha—life is all about flexibility). I’m excited because this means I’ll get SOME of my old students back. Not all, but some.
Also, my proviseur is amazing and somehow got our school like ten legit computers. I feel a little silly, because someone donated an old laptop to me for the school, and I brought it back as a surprise—I hadn’t told her I was going to try to find one. But in comparison it seems so little! It doesn’t matter, though—she looked so touched when I told her about it. She’s already talking about throwing a party for me so the town can thank me for all I’ve done. The thought of this kind of makes me want to cry. All I have to say is the Peace Corps staff really matched us together well. I couldn’t be happier with where I live.
Okay. Enough rambling. I’m just excited to be back (and bored because exams are done and their vacation is about to start). Just thought I’d let you know a bit about it all. . . .
1. There is nothing to do to the point that an afternoon activity means simply listening to the breeze.
2. A night on the town means a couple of beers and some brochettes with your proviseur and her niece.
3. You go to bed around 9.
4. Everyone you know says “Welcome back! You were gone too long!” and looks very very happy to see you.
5. Random people you don’t know will yell, “Betany!!” when they see you. You don’t know them, but they know you—and they felt your absence.
6. You daily activities include a walk to the market.
7. You don’t have electricity and your bathroom is a bucket you empty and clean after every use.
8. A chicken took a shit in your shower.
9. You are constantly wet, either from showers or sweat.
10. You simply feel at home.
Do you like how I kind of cheated to make it an even ten? Whatever, I could have come up with more but those are off the top of my head.
My favorite thing is going out with my proviseur—speaking only in Malagasy, having legit conversations, seeing how she truly cares about me, knowing how well supported I am in this town.
A cute moment was when one of my students (around 13 years old) told me that she would do yoga alone at her house and she would cry because she missed me.
In other news, one of my younger students (between 12 and 14 years old) got pregnant earlier, I’m not sure if I mentioned. I was crushed. Getting pregnant for girls means they can’t study anymore and essentially become a mother, trying to work by selling little things—the future is pretty slim. And this was a really good student! Getting a girl pregnant for boys means . . . nothing. Don’t even get me started. In any case, I think this student had a miscarriage while I was gone. Or rather, she gave birth and the baby died. But she wasn’t due for a while, so I assume it was more of a miscarriage. She is healthy. I’m not sure, though, if they’ll let her study again after this. We’ll see. For many schools the rule is simply once you’re pregnant you’re out of school for good.
And yet other news: Our school has gotten a new director, and now the middle school and high school are actually separate. And I’ve been put on the high school staff. This means my schedule and students will be changing in January (ha—life is all about flexibility). I’m excited because this means I’ll get SOME of my old students back. Not all, but some.
Also, my proviseur is amazing and somehow got our school like ten legit computers. I feel a little silly, because someone donated an old laptop to me for the school, and I brought it back as a surprise—I hadn’t told her I was going to try to find one. But in comparison it seems so little! It doesn’t matter, though—she looked so touched when I told her about it. She’s already talking about throwing a party for me so the town can thank me for all I’ve done. The thought of this kind of makes me want to cry. All I have to say is the Peace Corps staff really matched us together well. I couldn’t be happier with where I live.
Okay. Enough rambling. I’m just excited to be back (and bored because exams are done and their vacation is about to start). Just thought I’d let you know a bit about it all. . . .
aokaloha
So the conclusions you are to draw from five million updates at once are:
1. I don’t have work this week so I am bored.
2. I now have computer means to write updates in Mahabo—as opposed to writing by hand then typing it up later while paying for the time.
3. I am making up for how much I have neglected you over the last year and a half. Oo, consider this a Christmas present. That’s a good one.
On a similar note, my parents gave me a nice camera (thanks, parents), which means I’m actually going to take pictures now and show them to you. I know I said I would post a bunch during my month in the States, but I’ll be honest—I was full of shit. I hadn’t really taken any myself, and I’m less prone to show you photos other people took (because secretly I think I could have done better). I mean, it’s not entirely my fault—my camera DID stop turning on. Okay, so maybe I only discovered that a couple weeks before I left for the States. Whatever. Point is, you will not see pictures! I’ve already taken one of my neighbor dressed as a pirate, so you know this is gonna be good.
Okay so on to the point of this update. This will be very factual and not at all funny. Be prepared.
As you may have realized, HIV is a big problem here. And early pregnancies are a concern as well. Perhaps more for me than for the girls. They agree with me on HIV—after all, death is death and it kind of sucks when untimely. But children and making them are valued here, so it’s hard to REALLY convince them how bad it is to let a guy pay you for sex at the age of 12. The friends of such girls call them naughty, but that’s about it. Needless to say, it doesn’t make them cry like it does it me.
I’ve done a bit of HIV/AIDS education here. My principal feels passionately about it as well, so she’s very supportive of my efforts—and always wanting me to do even more! This includes basic education and condom demonstrations for both genders (the condoms and wooden penises embarrass the girls and excite the boys, fyi). And then with the girls, I’ll do a lot of talking about values and priorities and general life goals. Essentially, it means helping them realize that they can’t reach many goals if they get knocked up or die from AIDS. It also means empowering them to HAVE dreams and to believe that they can reach them.
Another thing they’re doing here in Madagascar (and the title of this entry) is distributing Aok’aloha cards. They are thick red cards that say “aok’aloha.” Nationally, the idea is to get one to every girl before she leaves her parents’ home. In Mahabo, our goal is to get one to every girl in the middle and high school. Because, let’s be honest, the damage is often done BEFORE they leave home.
The idea of the card is that anytime anyone touches you or says or does something inappropriate or makes you feel uncomfortable—or even anytime you just have something important to say and they’re not listening to you—you bust out your red card and say, “Aok’aloha.” It’s kind of a mix of “stop” and “enough already.” Or however you want to interpret it—the red is what counts.
In any case, so the idea of the card is kind of funny to an American. I mean, can you imagine yourself at a bar, and when that drunk guy grabs you from behind you just whip out that little red card and problem solved. . . . Probably not.
But that’s just it—if your society accepts it, it can become incredibly powerful. It avoids mixed signals and tells someone enough is enough.
It works here. People have seen girls in the market, the street—even the classroom—pulling out their card on someone. They’re very serious about it, and were quite upset when I didn’t have enough after the first distribution (don’t worry—I’ve gotten more since then). I made them practice putting a condom on a wooden penis in order to get it during that first session. They were mortified (which is part of the problem—they are pressured by boys before they’re old enough to discuss these things seriously), but did it in order to get a card.
Not just that. Teachers will come to me asking for cards for their daughters (and I think for themselves, though they might not admit it).
It’s as if this little red card has some magic aura around it. If you have this card, you are protected. Sketchy men and dirty boys beware—I have a red card.
I think it’s amazing. I’ve never found it easier to feel as if I’m somehow protecting my girls—truly empowering. The thing is, with the card, it’s already understood. It needs no explanation. So when they use it, it’s the card, not them. They don’t need to do anything but pull out a card, and it will be understood that what’s happening is not okay.
And that’s pretty special. Because at 12 years old, sometimes a girl just doesn’t have the guts to stand up for herself. Here in Mahabo, a little red card will do it for her.
1. I don’t have work this week so I am bored.
2. I now have computer means to write updates in Mahabo—as opposed to writing by hand then typing it up later while paying for the time.
3. I am making up for how much I have neglected you over the last year and a half. Oo, consider this a Christmas present. That’s a good one.
On a similar note, my parents gave me a nice camera (thanks, parents), which means I’m actually going to take pictures now and show them to you. I know I said I would post a bunch during my month in the States, but I’ll be honest—I was full of shit. I hadn’t really taken any myself, and I’m less prone to show you photos other people took (because secretly I think I could have done better). I mean, it’s not entirely my fault—my camera DID stop turning on. Okay, so maybe I only discovered that a couple weeks before I left for the States. Whatever. Point is, you will not see pictures! I’ve already taken one of my neighbor dressed as a pirate, so you know this is gonna be good.
Okay so on to the point of this update. This will be very factual and not at all funny. Be prepared.
As you may have realized, HIV is a big problem here. And early pregnancies are a concern as well. Perhaps more for me than for the girls. They agree with me on HIV—after all, death is death and it kind of sucks when untimely. But children and making them are valued here, so it’s hard to REALLY convince them how bad it is to let a guy pay you for sex at the age of 12. The friends of such girls call them naughty, but that’s about it. Needless to say, it doesn’t make them cry like it does it me.
I’ve done a bit of HIV/AIDS education here. My principal feels passionately about it as well, so she’s very supportive of my efforts—and always wanting me to do even more! This includes basic education and condom demonstrations for both genders (the condoms and wooden penises embarrass the girls and excite the boys, fyi). And then with the girls, I’ll do a lot of talking about values and priorities and general life goals. Essentially, it means helping them realize that they can’t reach many goals if they get knocked up or die from AIDS. It also means empowering them to HAVE dreams and to believe that they can reach them.
Another thing they’re doing here in Madagascar (and the title of this entry) is distributing Aok’aloha cards. They are thick red cards that say “aok’aloha.” Nationally, the idea is to get one to every girl before she leaves her parents’ home. In Mahabo, our goal is to get one to every girl in the middle and high school. Because, let’s be honest, the damage is often done BEFORE they leave home.
The idea of the card is that anytime anyone touches you or says or does something inappropriate or makes you feel uncomfortable—or even anytime you just have something important to say and they’re not listening to you—you bust out your red card and say, “Aok’aloha.” It’s kind of a mix of “stop” and “enough already.” Or however you want to interpret it—the red is what counts.
In any case, so the idea of the card is kind of funny to an American. I mean, can you imagine yourself at a bar, and when that drunk guy grabs you from behind you just whip out that little red card and problem solved. . . . Probably not.
But that’s just it—if your society accepts it, it can become incredibly powerful. It avoids mixed signals and tells someone enough is enough.
It works here. People have seen girls in the market, the street—even the classroom—pulling out their card on someone. They’re very serious about it, and were quite upset when I didn’t have enough after the first distribution (don’t worry—I’ve gotten more since then). I made them practice putting a condom on a wooden penis in order to get it during that first session. They were mortified (which is part of the problem—they are pressured by boys before they’re old enough to discuss these things seriously), but did it in order to get a card.
Not just that. Teachers will come to me asking for cards for their daughters (and I think for themselves, though they might not admit it).
It’s as if this little red card has some magic aura around it. If you have this card, you are protected. Sketchy men and dirty boys beware—I have a red card.
I think it’s amazing. I’ve never found it easier to feel as if I’m somehow protecting my girls—truly empowering. The thing is, with the card, it’s already understood. It needs no explanation. So when they use it, it’s the card, not them. They don’t need to do anything but pull out a card, and it will be understood that what’s happening is not okay.
And that’s pretty special. Because at 12 years old, sometimes a girl just doesn’t have the guts to stand up for herself. Here in Mahabo, a little red card will do it for her.
cradle 2 cradle
Nothing should go to waste, right? And you should give people presents they want, right? This is why I ended up going through all of my clothes and bringing back a large suitcase full of it to give to my school. They wanted used clothes—that’s the kind of clothes they usually end up buying since the new stuff is expensive and Chinese (read: bad quality)—and I definitely had it to give.
My principal and I went through the suitcase, deciding what to do.
Tomorrow is proclamation. You see, students here don’t get letter grades. They get a number—a score out of 20. Different classes get different weights (English doesn’t get as much weight as some of the others, sadly—but I’m pretty sure we get more than physical education), and an average is created. Then, during proclamation, every class is listed—in order of score, from the smartest to the . . . underachieving. You do not shoot for an A around here. You shoot for first in class. Based on every subject. And you have this pressure every trimester. And then you shoot for first in class based on all of those trimesters.
Point is, we decided to give a t-shirt to each student who ended up first in class. That’s right. After all your hard work, should you be first in class, you will be rewarded with a shirt from a musical I was in—or a free one that I received at Duke—or a souvenir someone gave me that I never wear. Awesome. I know you wish you were in high school in Mahabo right now.
With the leftover clothing (including all of the non t-shirts), we gave it to the teachers as their souvenir from America. It’s what they asked for, and it’s what they got!
The problem (not really a problem) was that some of it was great stuff and some of it was not so great. And most of it was intended to be worn by women.
No big deal. There are bigger problems here in Madagascar. And I need not remind you of the state of fashion here.
So here’s what we did. We didn’t rank people or draw their names and let them choose what they wanted in order. We didn’t even do the white elephant thing we do every year at my Grandma’s house. No, no. That would be too nice. Then people would actually have a bit of say over what you wear.
Instead, we numbered the clothing. Then we put the numbers in a hat. You drew a number, and whatever item of clothing your number matched, you went home with. It didn’t matter if you went first of last. Everyone had an equal chance at the good and the bad.
The result was hysterical. A young unmarried guy got stuck with a little pink tank top. Ramose got a delicate sky blue top. A sweet older man ended up with a beautiful, flowing skirt—which he promptly put on. And almost all of the women got the boyish t-shirts.
I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this experience. Not only were they incredibly grateful—clothes are expensive and they don’t make much, and they could always use whatever they ended up with for another family member. But they LAUGHED—every time someone had a turn, they laughed so hard at the result that was rarely a good fit. It was beautiful.
And the best part is that now, whenever I walk the streets of my large village in Africa, I will see reminders of my past life. Soccer. Musicals. Plays. International Baccalaureate kickball tournaments. Duke everything. Even jump rope competitions from elementary school (not a joke). My entire life will flash before my eyes as I walk to the market.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still—it’s a pretty cool thing. Different worlds collide.
And let’s face it—now they’ll NEVER forget me. How can me? My name is on their clothes.
My principal and I went through the suitcase, deciding what to do.
Tomorrow is proclamation. You see, students here don’t get letter grades. They get a number—a score out of 20. Different classes get different weights (English doesn’t get as much weight as some of the others, sadly—but I’m pretty sure we get more than physical education), and an average is created. Then, during proclamation, every class is listed—in order of score, from the smartest to the . . . underachieving. You do not shoot for an A around here. You shoot for first in class. Based on every subject. And you have this pressure every trimester. And then you shoot for first in class based on all of those trimesters.
Point is, we decided to give a t-shirt to each student who ended up first in class. That’s right. After all your hard work, should you be first in class, you will be rewarded with a shirt from a musical I was in—or a free one that I received at Duke—or a souvenir someone gave me that I never wear. Awesome. I know you wish you were in high school in Mahabo right now.
With the leftover clothing (including all of the non t-shirts), we gave it to the teachers as their souvenir from America. It’s what they asked for, and it’s what they got!
The problem (not really a problem) was that some of it was great stuff and some of it was not so great. And most of it was intended to be worn by women.
No big deal. There are bigger problems here in Madagascar. And I need not remind you of the state of fashion here.
So here’s what we did. We didn’t rank people or draw their names and let them choose what they wanted in order. We didn’t even do the white elephant thing we do every year at my Grandma’s house. No, no. That would be too nice. Then people would actually have a bit of say over what you wear.
Instead, we numbered the clothing. Then we put the numbers in a hat. You drew a number, and whatever item of clothing your number matched, you went home with. It didn’t matter if you went first of last. Everyone had an equal chance at the good and the bad.
The result was hysterical. A young unmarried guy got stuck with a little pink tank top. Ramose got a delicate sky blue top. A sweet older man ended up with a beautiful, flowing skirt—which he promptly put on. And almost all of the women got the boyish t-shirts.
I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this experience. Not only were they incredibly grateful—clothes are expensive and they don’t make much, and they could always use whatever they ended up with for another family member. But they LAUGHED—every time someone had a turn, they laughed so hard at the result that was rarely a good fit. It was beautiful.
And the best part is that now, whenever I walk the streets of my large village in Africa, I will see reminders of my past life. Soccer. Musicals. Plays. International Baccalaureate kickball tournaments. Duke everything. Even jump rope competitions from elementary school (not a joke). My entire life will flash before my eyes as I walk to the market.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still—it’s a pretty cool thing. Different worlds collide.
And let’s face it—now they’ll NEVER forget me. How can me? My name is on their clothes.
ant attack
Returning to Mahabo, I once again dealt with the many creatures who took over while I was out. You may or may not recall an ant tunneling problem I encountered in my shower a while ago. I thought I had finished with them—what with the poison and the dead bodies that followed.
But no. Apparently they only played dead while preparing to take over the world.
I finished cleaning my house and obviously wanted a shower (two hours of sweeping will do that to you). And what did I find in my shower? Approximately 5 million ants swarming around piles of dirt in my shower.
My neighbors tried to help by putting burning paper into the shower. This killed enough of them for me to tip-toe inside and shower. When I finished, I put down more of that poison. Problem solved, right? I’d wait for the dead bodies, sweep them away, and move on.
But as the ants died, other ants came to take the bodies away. I don’t get this. They did it after the burning paper too. Based on what I know about ants, I just assumed they were going to EAT the dead. Waste not, want not.
Side note: I suddenly no longer have electricity. Long story, but it’s Madagascar, it’s not surprising, it’s affecting TONS of people in my town, and my proviseur is in the process of trying to make an exception for me because I’m Peace Corps. But until then, I have no music and no fan.
Without a fan, I was eager to shower before bed, simply to cool off. Without electricity, I made my way to the shower with a candle. (Everything is more exciting when it’s done by candle. So much more mysterious.) I saw a carpet of ant bodies, and assumed the dead had evacuated, like last time. I set the candle down and when to get a broom to dispose of the bodies (aka sweep them down the hole/drain).
But when I return, what do I find? These are not all dead ant bodies. No, no. That would be way too easy. Half of them are dead. And half of them are alive and doing who knows what with the dead. I’m no ant ritual expert, but I’m sure I was interrupting something.
It was night (read: dark) so I figured I’d just shower on our back porch. Like the shower, my back porch is made of cement and thus perfect for showering. There’s no drain, but there is an edge and that works fine by me.
That was the idea.
But the problem, you see, was that my candle—my only source of light in these electricity-less days—was now in the middle of a swarm of dead and living ants. No big deal, right? I’ll just grab the candle and be on my merry way.
Not so fast. You see, the ants invading my shower (in Malagasy, “ladosy” pronounced lah-DOO-see) are not the little ones that find their way into the sugar. They are BIG and FAT ants. And apparently they have teeth.
After being bitten multiple times on the feet and hands (a strange bite—like it hits the nerves or something)—and after catching ants running up my legs—I decided to call in the authorities. My neighbors—Ramose and his wife (their family situation is interesting and a whole nother story). Ramose is Gasy for Sir and while it looks like it might be pronounced rah-MOOSE it’s actually pronounced (in a quick, squished up way) ram-SAY. You can call him rah-MOOSE in your head if you want. I don’t mind.
Back to the story. So I knocked on the neighbors’ door and explained the situation as best I could. Um, the ants? They’re not dead. Well, there are some dead and some not dead. And there’s a lot. And they do that thing that hurts with their mouth on my feet. See?
Right.
Luckily, my neighbors understand me well. They took one look at the ants in my ladosy and gasped. Their idea was the same as mine—just take my shower on the back porch.
Instead of explaining that I was trying to but couldn’t get my candle, I let my neighbor stomp all over the place killing some ants, then grab my candle and give it to me. We shut the ladosy door.
And then I showered and went to bed and lived happily ever after right? I wish.
I set the candle down, started reaching for my shampoo, and suddenly felt another nerve-stinging bite. I looked down. The ants—those big fat bastards—had followed me.
Okay, no big deal. I’m a big girl. I’ll just stomp around a little bit until they’re dead and then I’ll take my shower.
No no no. See, these are special ants. I don’t get them, but I’m telling you, they can sense their dead and they seek them out. So for as many ants as you kill, that many more come to take away the bodies and to bite your toes. Or ankles. Or higher. The more I stomped, the more I was surrounded, the more I anticipated lovely dreams when I finally made it to bed. And I must say—dead and live ants are difficult to tell apart when you can only see by candlelight.
After trying to deal with the situation myself, I finally gave up and did the inevitable?
Ramose? The ants. . . .
He came and saw the situation and the story ends with me taking my candlelit shower in the neighbors’ ladosy—out in the yard, far from the ants.
Needless to say, I did NOT sleep well that night. I listened to the rats that have apparently moved into my roof while a cricket of sorts kept buzzing and slamming into my mosquito net and I dreamt of ants crawling under the door and up my bed, eating me alive.
The end.
But no. Apparently they only played dead while preparing to take over the world.
I finished cleaning my house and obviously wanted a shower (two hours of sweeping will do that to you). And what did I find in my shower? Approximately 5 million ants swarming around piles of dirt in my shower.
My neighbors tried to help by putting burning paper into the shower. This killed enough of them for me to tip-toe inside and shower. When I finished, I put down more of that poison. Problem solved, right? I’d wait for the dead bodies, sweep them away, and move on.
But as the ants died, other ants came to take the bodies away. I don’t get this. They did it after the burning paper too. Based on what I know about ants, I just assumed they were going to EAT the dead. Waste not, want not.
Side note: I suddenly no longer have electricity. Long story, but it’s Madagascar, it’s not surprising, it’s affecting TONS of people in my town, and my proviseur is in the process of trying to make an exception for me because I’m Peace Corps. But until then, I have no music and no fan.
Without a fan, I was eager to shower before bed, simply to cool off. Without electricity, I made my way to the shower with a candle. (Everything is more exciting when it’s done by candle. So much more mysterious.) I saw a carpet of ant bodies, and assumed the dead had evacuated, like last time. I set the candle down and when to get a broom to dispose of the bodies (aka sweep them down the hole/drain).
But when I return, what do I find? These are not all dead ant bodies. No, no. That would be way too easy. Half of them are dead. And half of them are alive and doing who knows what with the dead. I’m no ant ritual expert, but I’m sure I was interrupting something.
It was night (read: dark) so I figured I’d just shower on our back porch. Like the shower, my back porch is made of cement and thus perfect for showering. There’s no drain, but there is an edge and that works fine by me.
That was the idea.
But the problem, you see, was that my candle—my only source of light in these electricity-less days—was now in the middle of a swarm of dead and living ants. No big deal, right? I’ll just grab the candle and be on my merry way.
Not so fast. You see, the ants invading my shower (in Malagasy, “ladosy” pronounced lah-DOO-see) are not the little ones that find their way into the sugar. They are BIG and FAT ants. And apparently they have teeth.
After being bitten multiple times on the feet and hands (a strange bite—like it hits the nerves or something)—and after catching ants running up my legs—I decided to call in the authorities. My neighbors—Ramose and his wife (their family situation is interesting and a whole nother story). Ramose is Gasy for Sir and while it looks like it might be pronounced rah-MOOSE it’s actually pronounced (in a quick, squished up way) ram-SAY. You can call him rah-MOOSE in your head if you want. I don’t mind.
Back to the story. So I knocked on the neighbors’ door and explained the situation as best I could. Um, the ants? They’re not dead. Well, there are some dead and some not dead. And there’s a lot. And they do that thing that hurts with their mouth on my feet. See?
Right.
Luckily, my neighbors understand me well. They took one look at the ants in my ladosy and gasped. Their idea was the same as mine—just take my shower on the back porch.
Instead of explaining that I was trying to but couldn’t get my candle, I let my neighbor stomp all over the place killing some ants, then grab my candle and give it to me. We shut the ladosy door.
And then I showered and went to bed and lived happily ever after right? I wish.
I set the candle down, started reaching for my shampoo, and suddenly felt another nerve-stinging bite. I looked down. The ants—those big fat bastards—had followed me.
Okay, no big deal. I’m a big girl. I’ll just stomp around a little bit until they’re dead and then I’ll take my shower.
No no no. See, these are special ants. I don’t get them, but I’m telling you, they can sense their dead and they seek them out. So for as many ants as you kill, that many more come to take away the bodies and to bite your toes. Or ankles. Or higher. The more I stomped, the more I was surrounded, the more I anticipated lovely dreams when I finally made it to bed. And I must say—dead and live ants are difficult to tell apart when you can only see by candlelight.
After trying to deal with the situation myself, I finally gave up and did the inevitable?
Ramose? The ants. . . .
He came and saw the situation and the story ends with me taking my candlelit shower in the neighbors’ ladosy—out in the yard, far from the ants.
Needless to say, I did NOT sleep well that night. I listened to the rats that have apparently moved into my roof while a cricket of sorts kept buzzing and slamming into my mosquito net and I dreamt of ants crawling under the door and up my bed, eating me alive.
The end.
red like sunshine
You would think that after 18 months on this island, I’d have figured out how to not get burned by the sun that shines brightly every second of the day. You would think. And in a way I have. I’m pretty good about sunscreen. Plus I have a base tan that seems to be handy when I accidentally put myself in the sun more than usual.
But then again, I DID spend a sunless month in the United States. I mean, the snow followed me—Minneapolis, DC, New York, back to Minneapolis. I know I’ve been a long-time supporter of winter and snowflakes and general coldness. But you’d think the weather would have taken into account that—based on the heat I’ve been experiencing for well over a year—a little chilliness would be appreciated. More than that and I’m now a pansy. Sad, I know, but true.
Let’s get to the point. After that month in the States, I walked an hour to a beach (in the sun) then spent hours on the beach to make the walk worth it then walked an hour back home (still in the sun). I tried using sunscreen, but I was doomed from the get-go. I also blame the fact that it was so hot I had to swim often, probably removing all the sunscreen I honestly did put on.
The moral of the story: I ended the day red as a lobster, generating heat for all around me. That’s right—no electricity and no fan, but I DO have my own personal heater, also known as my skin. The shower was freezing by comparison and even a little breeze made me shiver from the comparison. I woke in the morning with slightly swollen eyelids—their way of drawing my attention to the fact that they too got burned.
The red has basically faded. Everyone is a bit confused. First of all, I’m told that I’ve lost weight. My town is more reliable than a scale. They’re more vocal when I gain weight (usually it’s after I’ve lost some), saying things like, “Oh thank goodness! You were looking like a skeleton!” But a couple trusted people (Ramose and my proviseur aka principal—note: yes I realize it is strange that though she is my best friend in Mahabo, I call her my proviseur instead of by her name—I can’t help it—she’s still my boss, even if we do drink beer and go dancing together) will tell me when weight.
So I get back to Mahabo and they say, “You’ve lost weight!” I say that it’s a possibility. They look confused and then add, “Weren’t you in America?” Uh . . . yup. Though in my defense, I’m sure the weight loss occurred after I got back to Africa. So then my proviseur looks at me again and says, “And you’re tan!” She pauses again, confused, then adds, “Was there actually sunshine there?” And this is when I say, “No no—this isn’t tan—this is the aftermath of very very red.”
This story has no point except to say that being sunburned makes you very warm. And afterwards you have to deal not so much with peeling but with the random ridding of patches of dead skin. Lovely. Also don’t lose weight when you go on vacation in America. Or once you get back before people have seen you. Everyone will think you’re crazy.
But then again, I DID spend a sunless month in the United States. I mean, the snow followed me—Minneapolis, DC, New York, back to Minneapolis. I know I’ve been a long-time supporter of winter and snowflakes and general coldness. But you’d think the weather would have taken into account that—based on the heat I’ve been experiencing for well over a year—a little chilliness would be appreciated. More than that and I’m now a pansy. Sad, I know, but true.
Let’s get to the point. After that month in the States, I walked an hour to a beach (in the sun) then spent hours on the beach to make the walk worth it then walked an hour back home (still in the sun). I tried using sunscreen, but I was doomed from the get-go. I also blame the fact that it was so hot I had to swim often, probably removing all the sunscreen I honestly did put on.
The moral of the story: I ended the day red as a lobster, generating heat for all around me. That’s right—no electricity and no fan, but I DO have my own personal heater, also known as my skin. The shower was freezing by comparison and even a little breeze made me shiver from the comparison. I woke in the morning with slightly swollen eyelids—their way of drawing my attention to the fact that they too got burned.
The red has basically faded. Everyone is a bit confused. First of all, I’m told that I’ve lost weight. My town is more reliable than a scale. They’re more vocal when I gain weight (usually it’s after I’ve lost some), saying things like, “Oh thank goodness! You were looking like a skeleton!” But a couple trusted people (Ramose and my proviseur aka principal—note: yes I realize it is strange that though she is my best friend in Mahabo, I call her my proviseur instead of by her name—I can’t help it—she’s still my boss, even if we do drink beer and go dancing together) will tell me when weight.
So I get back to Mahabo and they say, “You’ve lost weight!” I say that it’s a possibility. They look confused and then add, “Weren’t you in America?” Uh . . . yup. Though in my defense, I’m sure the weight loss occurred after I got back to Africa. So then my proviseur looks at me again and says, “And you’re tan!” She pauses again, confused, then adds, “Was there actually sunshine there?” And this is when I say, “No no—this isn’t tan—this is the aftermath of very very red.”
This story has no point except to say that being sunburned makes you very warm. And afterwards you have to deal not so much with peeling but with the random ridding of patches of dead skin. Lovely. Also don’t lose weight when you go on vacation in America. Or once you get back before people have seen you. Everyone will think you’re crazy.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Welcome back?
Well, I have been back in Madagascar for one week, and it has been a dozy.
For those of you who didn’t know, I received a lovely farewell from Madagascar before I headed to the States—my cell phone was stolen a couple hours before I left for the airport. Just a little sendoff to make sure I came back? Something like that.
And my first day back in Morondava, my DVD player was stolen. Like from inside my friend’s apartment (the only apartment being rented, meaning the place is usually deserted) while I took a shower. I mean, it was a good thing, because my friend had TONS of valuable things everywhere—including the laptop my DVD player was sitting on top of. But it was the ONLY valuable thing I had. That and my stolen cell phone. Thank you, Madagascar—I love you too.
(Note: Okay that’s complete bullshit—it has not so much to do with Madagascar as the fact that people steal stuff no matter where you live, so whatever—it could have happened anywhere.)
It wasn’t well thought through, however. They watch French region movies here. The player will ONLY read American movies. (And yes, this also means that I can’t just get a new player here—because they will only read the French coded movies.) And while it can also play CDs (but not the ones with music videos that come along with them, which is what they usually use here), the guy failed to take the charger. Meaning the machine is useless to him, and will be even MORE useless to him once the battery dies (soon)—while it was VERY useful to me. Plus let’s not forget the creepy thought that someone was in the apartment. And while a laptop was donated to my school while I was in the US, it does not play DVDs. Not enough memory, or something like that.
My first week got even better, but I’ll only touch on a couple things.
First, I got eaten ALIVE by some kind of bug that left bite marks as big as bee stings or something. They itch like you wouldn’t believe and cover my back like the measles and they haven’t seemed to go away even though it’s been a week. Awesome.
But to add insult to injury, some restaurant snuck a little mango into a sauce (that wasn’t even good). Mango. In my body. If this does not make you cringe with horror, please go back to a certain entry about a year ago, and you’ll quickly understand. Luckily I didn’t eat much of it (the shrimp were kind of sitting on a swirl of sauce for decoration, as opposed to being soaked in it), so it’s not as bad as it could be. Nevertheless, my face is swollen and itchy. My arms and fingers are itchy. Slightly (okay a lot more than that) miserable and unable to sleep from it at times. And rather than hibernating my way through it, I had to spend two and a half full days without a break with people (it happened in the middle) when all I wanted to do was sleep and wake up when it’s all over. Ha.
All I’m saying, I’m prepared for a cyclone to be a part of the welcome committee. Or maybe I’ll be let off the hook and I now just have to wait for the mango to get out of my system.
To end on a positive (and somewhat ironic) note . . . Throughout all this, I am currently in the process of trying to get assigned to a second tour with the Peace Corps in a different country. Let’s be honest, the US government was probably behind all this—trying to test my commitment before spending more tax dollars on me.
Okay maybe not.
Moral of the story: It’s hot as hell and good to be back. Where else can such a dramatic week be so . . . undramatic?
For those of you who didn’t know, I received a lovely farewell from Madagascar before I headed to the States—my cell phone was stolen a couple hours before I left for the airport. Just a little sendoff to make sure I came back? Something like that.
And my first day back in Morondava, my DVD player was stolen. Like from inside my friend’s apartment (the only apartment being rented, meaning the place is usually deserted) while I took a shower. I mean, it was a good thing, because my friend had TONS of valuable things everywhere—including the laptop my DVD player was sitting on top of. But it was the ONLY valuable thing I had. That and my stolen cell phone. Thank you, Madagascar—I love you too.
(Note: Okay that’s complete bullshit—it has not so much to do with Madagascar as the fact that people steal stuff no matter where you live, so whatever—it could have happened anywhere.)
It wasn’t well thought through, however. They watch French region movies here. The player will ONLY read American movies. (And yes, this also means that I can’t just get a new player here—because they will only read the French coded movies.) And while it can also play CDs (but not the ones with music videos that come along with them, which is what they usually use here), the guy failed to take the charger. Meaning the machine is useless to him, and will be even MORE useless to him once the battery dies (soon)—while it was VERY useful to me. Plus let’s not forget the creepy thought that someone was in the apartment. And while a laptop was donated to my school while I was in the US, it does not play DVDs. Not enough memory, or something like that.
My first week got even better, but I’ll only touch on a couple things.
First, I got eaten ALIVE by some kind of bug that left bite marks as big as bee stings or something. They itch like you wouldn’t believe and cover my back like the measles and they haven’t seemed to go away even though it’s been a week. Awesome.
But to add insult to injury, some restaurant snuck a little mango into a sauce (that wasn’t even good). Mango. In my body. If this does not make you cringe with horror, please go back to a certain entry about a year ago, and you’ll quickly understand. Luckily I didn’t eat much of it (the shrimp were kind of sitting on a swirl of sauce for decoration, as opposed to being soaked in it), so it’s not as bad as it could be. Nevertheless, my face is swollen and itchy. My arms and fingers are itchy. Slightly (okay a lot more than that) miserable and unable to sleep from it at times. And rather than hibernating my way through it, I had to spend two and a half full days without a break with people (it happened in the middle) when all I wanted to do was sleep and wake up when it’s all over. Ha.
All I’m saying, I’m prepared for a cyclone to be a part of the welcome committee. Or maybe I’ll be let off the hook and I now just have to wait for the mango to get out of my system.
To end on a positive (and somewhat ironic) note . . . Throughout all this, I am currently in the process of trying to get assigned to a second tour with the Peace Corps in a different country. Let’s be honest, the US government was probably behind all this—trying to test my commitment before spending more tax dollars on me.
Okay maybe not.
Moral of the story: It’s hot as hell and good to be back. Where else can such a dramatic week be so . . . undramatic?
On Airplanes
There are certain things I do not understand about airplanes. I’m not talking mechanics—how a ginormous hunk of metal flies through the air with movies and food service going on inside. I mean . . . general safety things.
For example, why do the chairs have to be upright during take-off and landing? I mean, I’m slightly biased, considering those two events kind of put me to sleep—and don’t you want your chair leaning back when asleep? But seriously. I don’t get it. Think about it. Even during the most turbulent moments, all you do is kind of rock a little bit. Nothing dramatic. Is it REALLY going to make a difference if your body is at a 100- instead of 90-degree angle? I somehow doubt it.
The same goes for the trays being up. What’s the worst that could happen? The book you set on the tray falls off and lands in your lap? This makes no sense to me.
Seatbelts too. No sense. Are you going to somehow fall out of your chair? Doubtful. Will the plane suddenly thrust forward with such force that you will need a seatbelt? The fact that nothing NEAR that has happened to me makes me think that if such a circumstance WERE to arise, you’d have MUCH more important things to worry about. Am I right? And you KNOW the flight attendants agree. After all, they just kind of walk around and ASK you if you have your seatbelt. I can’t imagine someone having trouble sleeping at night because he lied about his seatbelt.
Why does everything have to be shoved in a compartment or under the seat? Will it really make a difference if it sticks out from under the seat a tiny bit? The only person it hurts is you and your loss of foot space.
Here’s all I can come up with. Flight attendants are kind of like . . . mothers. And they really want you to clean up your room or something. Like they hate the thought of everyone getting off the plane with some chairs leaning back, others not. They want all the trays put away. They don’t want random carry-ons sitting on the floor. But rather than nagging you, they use the power of the plane. They convince us that it is DANGEROUS so that their neat-freak tendencies are excused. And we BUY it. I mean, who wants to be blamed if the airplane suddenly plummets to the ground? Do you really want your last thoughts to be, “Well, I didn’t THINK it’d be a big deal if I tipped my chair back” ? I don’t think so.
As for the fact that the entertainment system quits working long before take-off (to prepare?) making it so you never see the last ten minutes of whatever film you were watching. . . . I have no explanation. It’s just plain mean.
For example, why do the chairs have to be upright during take-off and landing? I mean, I’m slightly biased, considering those two events kind of put me to sleep—and don’t you want your chair leaning back when asleep? But seriously. I don’t get it. Think about it. Even during the most turbulent moments, all you do is kind of rock a little bit. Nothing dramatic. Is it REALLY going to make a difference if your body is at a 100- instead of 90-degree angle? I somehow doubt it.
The same goes for the trays being up. What’s the worst that could happen? The book you set on the tray falls off and lands in your lap? This makes no sense to me.
Seatbelts too. No sense. Are you going to somehow fall out of your chair? Doubtful. Will the plane suddenly thrust forward with such force that you will need a seatbelt? The fact that nothing NEAR that has happened to me makes me think that if such a circumstance WERE to arise, you’d have MUCH more important things to worry about. Am I right? And you KNOW the flight attendants agree. After all, they just kind of walk around and ASK you if you have your seatbelt. I can’t imagine someone having trouble sleeping at night because he lied about his seatbelt.
Why does everything have to be shoved in a compartment or under the seat? Will it really make a difference if it sticks out from under the seat a tiny bit? The only person it hurts is you and your loss of foot space.
Here’s all I can come up with. Flight attendants are kind of like . . . mothers. And they really want you to clean up your room or something. Like they hate the thought of everyone getting off the plane with some chairs leaning back, others not. They want all the trays put away. They don’t want random carry-ons sitting on the floor. But rather than nagging you, they use the power of the plane. They convince us that it is DANGEROUS so that their neat-freak tendencies are excused. And we BUY it. I mean, who wants to be blamed if the airplane suddenly plummets to the ground? Do you really want your last thoughts to be, “Well, I didn’t THINK it’d be a big deal if I tipped my chair back” ? I don’t think so.
As for the fact that the entertainment system quits working long before take-off (to prepare?) making it so you never see the last ten minutes of whatever film you were watching. . . . I have no explanation. It’s just plain mean.
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