Good Day Sunshine

So people always ask me… what is a typical day in your life in Madagascar? An impossible question to answer, but I thought I would give an example of my last few days, visiting a fellow PCV in a small town nearby.

Last Sunday I went to the parkage to wait for a brousse to Ali’s town. After standing in the sun for half an hour, I found a shady spot to sit and watch people pass by. An old man came and sat by my, practicing his English. He worked for years on a sambo (cargo ship) and had been more places than I would have guessed. A lady passed, selling Eskimo ice cream bars so I bought us each one. A girl came over and sat next to me. So close that she was basically in my lap.I shared my ipod headphones with her. The truck pulled up, and because I was fifteen feet away, I was one of the last to get in, and had to stand awkwardly half-bent over in the back until someone would make space for me. My new best friend, the eleven year old girl from outside, made sure that she sat next to me. We shared my ipod the whole way. The best part about sharing an ipod with a Malagasy child – they still belt out the songs at full volume, the same as you would if you were in your car listening to the radio with the windows up.

On Monday we got upearly and hit the road to head to a nearby town where we were planning on teaching local health workers about composting and gardening. Ali had been the week before so they were prepped. They had said they were excited to learn. We arrived, and .. no one was there. Hmm. Well, there were acacia trees planted on top of a hill that we wanted to look at, so up we went, looked around, enjoyed the fresh morning air, and back to the health hut. Hmm. Had a homemade yogurt at an epicerie. The male worker shows up. “Oh, you want to teach us about composting? You should have told us before. No one is here today.” Just keep smiling. Made an appointment (again) to ocme back the next day. Home to Ali’s earlier than planned – more than enough time to make homemade bagels! Delicious and reminiscent of mom’s cooking. Shared one with the wonderful woman at the epicerie in Ali’s town who wouldn’t take any money for the ¼ kilo of flour we got because “Ali was her friend”. When we brought her the bagel (and some Swedish fish), she declared that it was delicious. “You haven’t tasted it yet” we pointed out. “I can see that it’s delicious” she clarified.

Next day, two health huts to do, since one was not on the same page as us yesterday. Felt so good to actually have good, solid teaching programs to do. Both centers were interested, asked lots of questions, seemed like they would actually start composting and gardening. We gave out seeds as a cadeau, and Ali told them she would be back to check in a couple of weeks. In between teachings we also delivered composting papers to a farmer that I had met a year before on a brousse ride to Ali’s site, but hadn’t seen since. We made a vegan cake and baked it in a solar cooker. We played a Swedish block game with some CEG students. At night we watched satellites, listened to acapella singers, krayshawn, kanye, and Disney music all within an hour span.

A typical day in my life? There isn’t one. But a good couple of days none the less.

xoxo chan

I'm on an island

I had been feeling down lately, disconnected from the community here (I live in an industrial neighborhood) and watching too many American movies (nothing like two hours of staring at beautiful shoes and delectable food to make me a bit homesick). Luckily, as usual, something came along to flip the balance and remind me of what I love about being here: the kids. I teach an English and art class Saturday mornings at the American Center, and the children have craftily wormed their way into my grumpy little heart, as they have done so often over the past two years. It took us two weeks to feel each other out, but now that we have decided that we can trust each other, I am in danger of bringing about fifteen home as souvenirs. These kids are different than the ones in my previous town; their parents have more money and have a bit more invested in their children’s education (the fact that they are sending them to learn English at a young age is really encouraging), but they still tend to miss out on the personal attention that we lavish on kids in the States: enter the local PCV, who finds them hilarious and loves to encourage their creativity. Kids here don’t usually study art, and their learning style is based on the old French system – copy what is on the board, and memorize it. So when I give them paper and pencils and tell them to draw a tomato, the often tell me that they can’t; I should do it for them. ‘Yes, you can.” I reply. “Noooo.. I’m not good at it. You do it.” They say, slyly pushing paper and pencil into my hand. “Uh-uh, I know that you can draw, start with the bottle,” comes my response, showing them the tomato plants we planted in plastic bottles the week before. “Draw the bottle, and then show me where you think the plant should go.” And slowly, bit by bit the picture comes together. After completion and some congratulations are given, the students have no problems adding an animal or a flower next to their tomato... all hesitation gone (or maybe they just realized it’s more of a hassle trying to trick me into drawing for them).

And, just when I think that there are so many differences between ‘Gasy and ‘Merican cultures, Lova (the boy who works at the Center) brings on one my students over to me after class. “She’s crying” he says, as he backs away towards his computer. “What’s wrong, zandry?” I asked, using the word for someone younger than you. “I’m waiting for my papa,” she replied “he’s still not here.” Last one left after class waiting for her papa to show up. “Oh, that’s no problem” I replied, “he’s just on Malagasy time.” (Malagasies on the coast are notoriously late “I’m sure he’s on the road and will be here any minute. Want to look at pictures of... uhh... Barcelona with me?” (I happened to be checking UEFA scores at the time. “Who is better, Fabragas or Messi?” Luckily her papa pulled up on his moto and whisked her away from my futbol obsessed clutches, but it reminded me – kids are the same the world over. And so are teenage boys, judging by how quickly Lova dumped a crying kid on me and ran away. And it was nice that he thought I could take care of the situation.

watchin' the tide roll away...

As the days wind down on my time here in Mada, I find myself reflecting more and more on my life here. Walking out to have dinner with Jonathan and Mandy, two fellow Alaskans living here in Mahajanga, I took the long route that follows the coastline (and gives me a view across the bay to my old stomping grounds). I have tried to explain many a time to Gasy friends that in America you need to have money to live on the ocean. Not just a little money, but a lot of money. Here, you just need to get your hands on a bit of land. Luckily, there are still plenty of spots available, and it’s warm enough that you can build a house of minimal materials and stay comfortable. In most of the places in the bay area you are going to be surrounded by mango, guava or konikoni fruits. You can sit in your yard and wait for sellers of fish, shrimp or crab to wander by. In the non-rainy season you can catch free concerts put on by big name artists down on the ocean front. If you’re going to pick a place to make a little money go a long way, this place works.

Food for thought today:

“There is no act of faith more beautiful than the generosity of the very poor.”

From Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts

A fabulous read if you’re in the market for a book.

Metropolitan Living! of sorts...

After two years of hard, brutal living conditions (in my cute fishing village located on the ocean surrounded by mango and guava trees), I have made the move to the city across the bay, Mahajanga, the place that dreams are made of, where stars go to be born and.. no wait, I’m getting a tad bit carried away. I moved to Mahajanga, the city across the bay. It is a larger city, but nothing too crazy to be had here, although if I wanted to have ice cream and a cold soda every day, I could (although I would run out of money before the month was up). My new housing is nice, an apartment located in the center area of town, not far from the baka, not far from the ocean, not far from three different bazaars that sell more than the two vegetables that I could buy in my old town. On that hand, life here is great.

On the other hand, it’s hard to go from living in a house where I peeled my mangos out the window (compost pile!) and fetched my water from a well, regularly walked an hour on a dusty red road to visit friends, was not just a “vazaha” but someone who actually lived in the community, a farmer, a teacher, a friend. Now I am starting over again, finding my rhythm, adjusting to being indoors more, less in the environment and the field. It is probably a good baby step to heading back to the states, back to the land of offices and AC and shopping in those big, scary grocery stores…

My new job for the next six months is helping to create the new American corner, a cultural center being constructed here in collaboration with the English Teaching Center in Antananarivo. It will have computers, Kindles, Nintendo Wiis, I think iPads, and a whole lot of other cool technology that I don’t even have (or had). We’re going to try and make the environment a big part of the theme of the center, so I am hoping to start some recycling programs, and try to instill a sense of community ownership in the kids using the center.

Wish me luck; I’m hitting the ground running because I’ve learned that time flies and I’ll be moving on to my next adventure before I realize it. The only question is: where will I land next?

Organized chaos

One thing I will really miss about Madagascar: going to the bazaar every day for brightly colored veggies, freshly butchered meat, newly caught fish, buying rice by the kapoka (a tin can used to scoop out rice, beans, macaroni pasta, etc in uniform quantities), and making friends with the mpivarotras (sellers) that absolutely love it when white people show up speaking Malagasy. They want to know where you learned it, where you live now, and the ever important ‘are you tamana?’ Tamana is a Malagasy word that roughly translates to mean that it is good, you are happy, comfortable living in a place. Anytime you have been in a town for more than a day someone is bound to ask you if you are tamana being there. It’s generally best to answer yes, unless you can come up with an acceptable reason why you’re not tamana (luckily, hailing from Katsepy meant that I could tell people that I wasn’t tamana in their city because there weren’t coconut trees… no arguing with that!)

Being in Mahajanga has reminded me that people here (and in a lot of other countries) are adapted to living in a more chaotic state than we are in the States. No-rules traffic means that you, as a pedestrian do NOT have the right of way. It is your job to avoid the cars, buses, motorcycles, cyclists, cows, and any other objects that may be coming down the road at any given speed, in either lane, possibly on their cell phone. The concept of lines has not taken root, so when you go to the post office, the bazaar, the ice cream shop, you push your way to the front and do whatever it takes to get the eye of the person in charge so that you can buy your stamp. If you try to respect the natural order (that guy was here before me, so I’ll go after him), someone new will come in and cut in front of both of you. Survival of the… loudest?

The rainy season is upon us now, and that leads to flooded streets and muddy roads. Clothes dry, but at a much slower speed, and if you put them away wet they mold and make you permanently musty. Sudden rain bursts lead to invisible sidewalks – a problem that wouldn’t mean much in the States, but here where the sidewalk can disappear at any point in the form of a large gaping hole, you want to be able to see where you are putting your feet. On the plus, I’ve had the chance to make random acquaintances whilst stuck under awnings (today Karina and I were stuck under a satrona tree, better than nothing but still emerged fairly sodden).

Until next time,
chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan

The End of an Era

Back in Winter 2009, when I first came to Madagascar from Niger as a confused little Peace Corps Volunteer, I was fortunate enough to be greeted and taught by several veteran PCVs - volunteers who had come to Mad in 2008 but were evacuated in March 2009 due to the riots and violence associated with the coup in Antananarivo. These volunteers waited and worked in the states until November of 2009, when the program re-opened and they came back to finish their service. Most completed and left over the last year, but one crazy gal (shoutout to Brit!) stayed for another year and is heading home after three years living all over Mad. The last of the zoky group - that officially makes me one of the PCVs who have been here the longest. I put this random story in because I simply cannot believe that two years have passed since I came to this island. There were times in the first three months when I honestly believe that time stood still. I had days when I did not think that I could possibly live here for two years - my language would never improve, I would always be afraid of the CEG (middle school) kids, I would never become a true part of my community.

Two years later and I can't believe that soon I will be leaving this place - my town where I have finally mastered the art of sarcasm in malagasy, where the CEG kids come by my house and ask for english lessons, where I am intruduced by certain wonderful people as their daughter. Peace Corps has given me the opportunity to try and help people, to teach new farming techniques and assist in english programs, to share american culture, cook american food and cheer on the US soccer team as we watched the world cup together. More than anything, though, Peace Corps has shown me that no matter where you are in the world, and where you are from, you will find people who will give when they have next to nothing, who will overlook your many, many, many grammatical mistakes and still work through conversations with you, and who are more like you than they are different.. well, in certain ways, that is.

Again, not to sugarcoat Madagascar - it has its problems, just like anywhere, and I still have days when I want to throttle certain people.. just as I'm sure that there are heaps of times that people wonder what is going on with the crazy vazaha in their town. I have cranky days, and I am looking forward to leaving site and startng my six months working with the American Corner and the English Teaching Center in Mahajanga. I have been looking at old hiking and skiing photos and I am ready to go back to that life next summer. But I will be ever grateful to this small town for the two years that they took me in. Irkoy beri! (a throwback to my Zarma buddies back in Niger). Here's to the next six months, and then a return to my mountains.

"...but the compensations have been great - certainly more than I deserve. I have had the world lie beneath my clumsy boots and have seen the red sun slip over the horizon after the dark Antarctic winter. I have been give more than my share of excitement, beauty, laughter and friendship." -Sir Edmund Hillary

(I still haven't been atop Everest or on Antarctica.... but i have run up many a mountain with Lori, and have not-so patiently waited for the dark winter days in Alaska to end. If anyone has the itch to go to the Himalayas or the South Pole, though.. you know where to find me!)

xoxo, chan

Strong women come from Madagascar

Yesterday (Wednesday) I was at my friend's house helping her cut, tie up, and haul bundles of rice up to her house from the fields below. The rain was starting to fall gently and she was worried that it would start dumping and we would lose a huge part of her harvest. For five hours, from 7am to noon we went back and forth, back and forth, until our arms were tired and we were dripping sweat. Of course, when the work stopped we still had to de hull some rice, clean and winnow it, cook it, gut, clean and cook fish, and then finally stop for a brief rest. Now, a lot of people work hard every day doing manual labor.. but did I mention that she was eight and a half months pregnant with her seventh child at the time?

I say 'was' because this morning at 4:45 am I awoke to her standing on the road outside of my house calling my name. I groggily awoke to go outside and hear her say calmly "The baby's coming; hopefully I'll have it today and be home by tomorrow. Just wanted to tell you!"

Did I mention that she lives about an hour away and walked in by herself at 4am to find the nurse?

Two hours later I was having coffee while I waited for a boat to Mahajanga when I mentioned to another lady that Mama ny Nanta was in labor. "Oh, she already had the baby - a girl" she replied.

She'll probably still beat me out to the rice fields tomorrow.

xoxo chan