Tabaski

Around the same time everyone in the US was munching on turkey, I was busy eating my way through every organ and muscle of a sheep. This so-called vegetarian failed miserably on the Muslim feast of Tabaski (Eid al-Adha). I’m certainly not a fan of mutton, but this holiday was some of the best few days I’ve had in Mali. I’m not even sure why I enjoyed it so much. The day before the big feast reminded me a bit of prom. There were a lot of girls crying on account of hair, clothing, and boy problems. Girls cried over their boyfriends who wouldn’t pay for their hair weaves, they threw fits of rage at tailors who hadn’t finished sewing their outfits (despite working through the nights leading up to the feast), they scolded those who shaved off too much of their eyebrows in order to draw them in again with black henna. The young women who had their affairs under control and were not in tears, were busy causing all the rest of the children to cry as they braided their hair. Every other household held a similar scene; a few women seated on a mat braiding fake, purple hair (it's all the rage) into the head of a girl of no more than 3 or 4 years old. I can't imagine what a horror this process is for a mere child. I know, I've had it done. Luckily, women were prepared with lollipops and words of encouragement (you’re going to look so pretty!) or distraction (hey, look at the white girl). My closest girl friend was one of those in tears on account of a stingy boyfriend. So I took her to get her eyebrows drawn in while I got a flowery henna tattoo with my name inscribed on my hand. As we walked around town, some things stuck out poignantly… the hundreds and hundreds of tethered sheep. The act of slaughtering a sheep is the key component of Tabaski, commemorating Abraham’s near sacrifice of Ishmael (as opposed to Isaac according to the Jewish and Christian tradition). Of course as Abraham raised his weapon above the bound body of his son, Allah/God intervened to say...you can just sacrifice a ram instead. A good-sized sheep costs around $100, so one can imagine the expense for the average Malian household. Luckily, there’s some assistance from outside. For example, in my town, the ‘social development’ government office was in charge of distributing sheep to the poorest of families, sheep purchased, according to everyone I asked, by wealthy Muslim Saudis.



On the morning of Tabaski, many went to mosque, many more stayed at home. Marabous, or recognized Muslim holy men, then went around to most families to actually sacrifice the sheep. I took some pleasure in watching my Malian brothers skin our sheep, that is, once I’d gotten over its recently writhing body next to the dugout dirt hole slowly filling with its blood. The bulk of the work was then left to the women of course. We cut, cooked, stewed, grilled, and ate mutton all day long. In the late afternoon, everyone in my household was too exhausted to actually go around greeting people as should be done.

But, I'd had a ‘bazin’ African dress made for the occasion and decided it was a waste if I didn't put it on and go greet. Bazin is quite the phenomenon here. It's the best quality fabric, very shiny, and really all too expensive for what people have to spend. I can't say Malians prioritize the things I would considering their means (the importance of appearance often trumps matters of health and education). But, a bazin outfit is basically seen as a necessity in town for any ceremony. It's imported white from Hong-Kong or Germany, dyed here in Mali, soaked in starch, dried under the sun, then sold on the local market. After I had mine tailored, I took it to be pounded and beaten by hand for a couple hours in order to soften it up and reveal more of its gleam. And even, after this process, its terribly uncomfortable and very conspicuous…recall George Castanza’s swishing suit? I had that episode in mind as I walked around doing my Tabaski greetings. (http://www.satellit-cafe.com/repository/272/2720430118/2225864208.jpg my favorite Malian artist in bazin.)

Also on the day, I attended a Somono festival my town holds each year. This is a kind of celebration of fishermen. My last name ‘Fofana’ puts me in the Somono family group, so I was really excited to watch the dances performed. Each race or family grouping has its own dance, and this was the first time I had seen my ancestral dance. Perhaps because I was the only foreigner clearly visible, I was honoured by having puppet performances presented before me. The final act displayed the Somono chief of the village tossing a net over an enormous fish puppet, which sent every child into leaps and every adult into song and dance. During the evening, I went dancing (for the first of 4 evenings in a row). I still find it so ‘Malian’ the way an explicitly religious holiday is turned into an extended party.

Woke up the following day, exhausted from dancing, with stomach cramps probably due to the meat shock to my system. I squatted along with my sisters and mom around the large breakfast bowl. My mother lifted the lid, to reveal not the usual millet porridge, but the entire sheep’s head immersed in its fats and juices. I’d actually eaten a sheep’s eyeball and tongue on Thanksgiving day just for kicks (well, I was hungry and it was the only thing on the menu). But, as my Malian mom cracked the skull open with a large wooden pestle and we picked at the brains, my stomach turned. Oh Tabaski...the sweat, the tears, the discomfort...I loved it.

While I was waiting for the Thanksgiving turkey to be prepared (above), I needed a little extra nourishment...thus the sheep head (below).

Tea Time

I couldn’t conceive of this country in the absence of tea. Tea is the catalyst of conversation. Any conversation outside of tea is mere small talk, or, simply, the recurring, obligatory greeting (how’s your family, your husband, your wife, your siblings, your children, your neighbours, etc). Malians in my town will joke sardonically that no one can find work so there is nothing else to do, but make tea. But, they’ll also tell you seriously that tea offers the occasion to have more meaningful conversation, it opens the table for discussion. I feel that we are often told as Westerners that there are many taboo topics in Africa, particularly in regards to sex. There is always the concern that these taboos hinder development in areas such as health. I’m sure this has been very true in the past and is still very relevant in the bush. In my large town, when I sit down to have tea with a group of people, I’m asked first if I’m married as a way of gauging where the discussion can lead – in the presence of a married woman, there are topics to steer clear of, out of respect. But, I do want to point out that ‘sex as a taboo topic in Africa’ is a bit of a blanket statement. Deep in the bush, in very traditional villages, NGO’s carry out theatrical skits against female genital cutting (FGC) - or female genital mutilation, the not as politically correct term. Furthermore, in my town, when tea is present, far from finding the topic of sex taboo, I find it’s exactly what I’m often asked about. People ask me about HIV/AIDS or condoms (which pleases me because contraceptive use is something around 7% here according to a UN stat.). Or, for example, the other day I greeted a young man in passing who invited me to tea. I sat down with him and his two friends. We exchanged names. The second boy asked me ‘I furulendon’ Are you married? ‘N ma furu folo’ No, not married. (Note: all topics open for discussion.) The third gentleman asked me with sincere curiosity (and in French now), “Do you know what causes impotence in men?” Not sure if that falls under my ‘expertise’ as a health volunteer.

In addition (in this little attempt to invert the common notion of a taciturn sub-Saharan Muslim country), I should add that I can pose any question to people I feel close to. I’ve had very detailed discussions about religious beliefs, conceptions on love, opinions and practices in relation to FGC, on polygamy and relations between multiple wives. And I think I have yet to cause offense. The only barrier hindering my curiosity is my lack of proficiency in French and Bambara.

Back to tea….Malians have a very unique way with their tea. They use little glass cups, two small tea kettles, and a tray. They pour the tea into the glasses from about a few feet in the air. Then, they pour it back in the kettle, and then back into the glasses. This is repeated over and over again to create a frothy, bubbly top layer. There are 3 rounds of tea (each consisting of about 2-3 sips per person) usually over a couple hours before starting with fresh leaves. The hum of pouring, the little clank of the glasses and kettle on the tray…these sounds are so constant, that sometimes when I’m dozing, I hear them in my head even when there tea is not present.

Most afternoons I’ll take my tea in one of two places. If I’m at home, I sit outside with a couple girlfriends. I never make tea because I don’t have the technique or a steady hand. Therefore, one of my friends will make the tea, while the other shifts shells over a woven mat predicting our futures and discussing problems occurring in the present. Quite comically, not one thing said has ever been true, unless it was something that I knew was prior knowledge. More often, I spend the afternoons in my second home, with my second Malian family (just a short bike ride away). It has been my safe-haven from my first week at site. I realized recently why I feel so at home there. It's a bit of a circus; a home for misfits like myself. First of all, a female is the head of the family, which is very rare. The 63 year old slightly physically handicapped woman was my first friend here (I’ll call her Ami). She has two adult sons; one is an existentialist/humanist/Rastafarian, the other, a conservative Muslim knowledgeable in the mystics of Islam. He’s convinced I know the real name of Moses’ mother, and that if I just shared this truth, would convey onto him such power as the ability to teleport (or ‘apparate’ like in Harry Potter). Ami also has four adopted children (one, I’m told, was found buried in the dirt with just his foot exposed). Ami’s orphaned niece lives there as well; she’s a little person. Another female tenant, clearly well into her third trimester, is still denying she’s pregnant. Ami’s 80 year old mother, who recently lost her husband, is confined to the house for 4 months and 10 days (as custom dictates for widows) wearing only navy blue cloth. And finally, the latest addition to the family, a deaf mute sex worker who was arrested by the police for nearly throwing her newborn into the river. Of course, Ami has adopted her newborn as well. Then, there’s me...as I practically live there. I’m still mystified by the forces at play that have led to this random American girl to share in the life of this particular Malian town.


...one last addition...homosexuality really is a taboo topic, as are masks (that ones takes some further explanation on superstituous beliefs particular to my region). It's hard to get any opinion on the former. I asked my friend Ami her thoughts and she said she had none, that was the first time she had ever talked about it.

Ramadan

Well into Ramadan...in a Muslim country such as Mali, I would have expected to find life drastically altered on account of this ninth month of the lunar year. Certainly life has quieted (aside from the call to prayer which seems to have lengthened and amplified in sound). People are driven inside particularly when the sun is out on account of the fasting which bans drinking fluids and even swallowing one’s saliva. So I decided to fast as well for a number of reasons, mainly just to see what life's like for millions of people on this Earth right now. I have to say, it’s been a lot of fun. It’s a good conversation topic, it’s cozy eating around the communal bowl under the stars and then going back to bed, and I love getting special treatment at the end of the day when the fast is broken. We break it with some hot tea made with fresh local leaves, fried dough balls, porridge, followed by a main course. After the first day, I was told that to fast and not pray was pointless. So, I learned how to pray as well. With just the Fatiha, one surat of the Koran, its possible to pray as a Muslim. I learned the seven Arabic lines, and the rest was simple; the correct way to perform ablutions, how to dress, kneel, touch one’s head to the ground, etc.

I can only admit to adhering strictly to the traditions for one day. I woke up at 3:40am to eat, went back to sleep at 5am, was rudely awoken at 6:30am to pray again. Went back to bed, woke up at 8am to bike to work. Prayed at 2:00 and 4:30, then biked an hour back home. Broke fast around 6:45pm, prayed at home immediately after, and again around 7ish. The final prayer of the day involved me getting dressed in traditional African dress + head covering, going to mosque with some friends, and performing 17 cycles of prayer (that’s touching my head to the ground 34 times). I’d like to note that I had asked a couple imams before that day if it was disrespectful to pray and go to mosque even though I wasn’t Muslim. Their response was to the contrary.

So I was a strict Muslim for a day, which reminds me how I’ve also played the part of a Sufi and Rastafarian. Ok, I didn’t do anything Rastafarian like, except give in to a couple friends insisting on braiding my hair. It took 10 hours over three days to braid the two meters of black fake hair into my own. One of the more painful experiences of my life. I tore it all out after two weeks in a moment of fury due to the itchiness – and lost half my head of real hair along with it. Anyway, everyone in town loved it, ‘it made me look beautiful.’ Incorrect. And it's not a question of subjectivity. I looked like an aged Rasta man.

ok, here's proof:

As for the Sufi role...Sufism is a mystical version of Islam. I encountered it first in Turkey, and I believe the mainstream image of Sufism is of whirling dervishes on the Anatolian plateau. I was thus excited to learn Sufism was practiced in Mali as well. I’d been told a Sufi chief lived just outside my town so one day I decided to pay a visit. He lived in a cave and hadn’t left the immediate area for 13 years. For 7 of those years, he was supposedly solitary. But he had since gathered a following and it had developed into a Sufi camp. I found the camp after a 30 minute stroll over flat-faced rocks with views of the Niger. I met the chief, seated on a mat in front of the cave, surrounded by young pupils and stacks of Korans. It would have perfectly fit my image of some tribal area on the blurred border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, but for the cell phones and large cylindrical flourescent bulb fitted to the rock face (powered by car battery).

Anyway, the chief was dressed in white shreds of cloth and had a great head of dreads. Very friendly, unassuming guy. He invited me to join their prayer session so I followed him into a fairly large cave where 30+ men sat on sheepskins with Koranic verses in hand. The chief sat at the back of the cave and the prayer commenced. Every man was reading the verses so fast that a hypnotizing hum rose in the air. It was stifling hot inside the cave. Sweat was pouring down from under my scarf-clad head. The chief appeared to be in his own altered state of consciousness, prayer beads in hand, dazed, his head kept dropping as though he was falling asleep, the boy standing next to him fanning him with increased fervor. At varying intervals, a man would shout something and everyone crossed their arms across their chests and touched their foreheads to the ground. I’ve been back a couple times since, but just to greet the chief and his wife in particular…we’ve taken a liking to each other...or maybe she just has me in mind as the future wife of her son.

More on the month of Ramadan...
On the 10th day, began a special part of the holiday known as Sala wali wali. Not completely sure of the significance, but for three nights the streets were teeming with gangs of children. Female groups carried a simple traditional instrument – a calabash set like a half dome over a bucket of water and a stick to drum with. At each house, they would hold a short performace and, in return, were given some spare change or dry couscous. Male groups went around with their faces painted white, large sticks in hand, and gave slightly more dramatic performances. One group arrived at my doorstep dressed in drag, the plump little boy leading the song and dance was dressed as a pregnant woman. I normally never give money out, but this particular kid made me laugh so hard I thought at least he'd earned it. All in all, I’d say this was the closest equivalent I’ve seen of Halloween outside of the US, except by the third night some of the older groups had become so competitive that fights broke out in passing. Then again, I’m sure I socked my brother once over a pack of Smartie's.

As I mentioned in my first post from Mali, I am now living in a relatively large city located on the Niger downstream from the capital of Bamako. One of the main income generating activities here, besides fishing itself, is fishing for sand. Sounds odd, but everyday people drag sand and pebbles from the river to be sold later and used in construction. They heap the sand into canoes and then onto donkey carts, moving back and forth between sand bars and the bank of the river. These ‘pirogues’ or dug-out canoes dot the riverside, punting along like one does for fun on the River Cam, but here its for their livelihood. There’s this one hill top that I reach on my bike ride into town, and from this point, I look out over the river with all the activity of the pirogues and I swear I think I’m in some medieval European city...or The Merchant of Venice. Probably an inaccurate description, but that's just what comes to mind.

At my new home, in my little suburb set back in a nook of hills, there's kind of an interesting juxtaposition going on...little mix of modern and traditional living. While I have electricity and my family has a tv, a refrigerator, and a tap with potable water, I'm still 'going' in a hole in the ground, taking bucket baths in the open air, and eating out of a communal bowl with my bare hands. Well, technically, I’m eating with my right hand solely. Like in many other cultures (that tend to be Muslim), the left hand is considered the dirty hand and should never be used. I still haven't quite gotten over the one time I accidentally stuck my left hand in the millet bowl. I am sure the Malians haven’t gotten over it either….everyone around me froze, wearing the most horrified expressions of shock and disgust. I wanted to explain that I didn't wipe my behind with my hand, that I used soap besides. But I couldn't do anything except go red in the face. I knew the custom, but I just had this moment of rational thought that said, ‘you've licked your right hand at least ten times already while eating with it, your left hand is actually clean and saliva free and thus that is the one that should be used to add millet to the communal bowl.’

In an attempt to better understand the culture here (and stop making such embarrassing mistakes), I’ve been attending lots of cultural festivities. Last post, I talked about the village wedding where 14 brides were married at once and people danced to jembes and xylophones without stopping until the sun rose. I’ve been to a Spirit Possession, where people, inhabited by their demons, collapsed into convulsions or into people’s laps. At a baby naming ceremony or baptism, I found myself in the middle of a courtyard jam-packed with beautifully and colorfully dressed women…and me, in my dirty jeans in the middle of the scene, getting photographed with the newborn. I have been to my share of 'soirees' here and felt like I was almost leading a normal life. The first one I attended was a bit like a high school dance, no alcohol and a highly social parking lot scene outside the dance. Of course, it was full of motos instead of Mustangs and everyone could actually dance, except me…and as if I didn’t stand out enough already as the only white girl… the dj had to point out over the mike that a ‘tubabo’ - white person - had entered the building. The few I’ve attended since have been much more fun. I’m starting to let go, really enjoy their fast-paced pop music, and, now, that I know a few people, the shout-outs over the mike are not 'tubabo,' but rather my new name: Aminata Fofana.

Months since my last post, on the continent now, leading a very different life in many ways…where to begin? How about I jump a little farther back, with my going away party back in September. I had sent out a facebook invitation for the event themed “Madagascar – Escape 2 Africa.” My family later themed our annual holiday letter around the animated film as well – in the ‘photoshopped’ family portrait my brother so well-designed, I believe I had my arm around a cartoon giraffe. Haven't seen the film, but I understand the animals are trying to get off the island and end up 'escaping' to Africa. Turns out my party and the family holiday letter were well-themed. Not quite six months into my Peace Corps service in Madagascar, I was evacuated (along with the rest of the US mission) due to political instability. For two weeks I was pent-up in a nice hotel and B&B in South Africa; the first week in Johannesburg for thorough physical and psychological exams, the second week in Pretoria where I was told I was eligible to transfer to another position in Mali. I had no idea when or even if the program would reopen in Madagascar, but I still desperately wanted to continue with my PC service so I took the opportunity. From Jo-burg, I flew to Paris to Dakar and finally to Bamako, the capital of Mali. I was given two weeks of French language training before being dropped off at my new site a couple hours outside the capital.

Koulikoro, my new home, is a relatively large city so it’s been quite a change from my role as a village health worker. Here, I’ve been assigned to work with a Malian NGO (on a USAID-funded project). Now I have the benefits of city life – refrigeration, places to buy a plate of food, an internet café, frequent transportation and paved roads. I’m living in a family compound just outside of town in a rather affluent neighbourhood. I have two charming turquoise painted rooms with electricity and a host family that provides me with more than my basic needs. I watched the Barcelona v. Manchester United Champions league game live from the comforts of my own home…there’s an enormous rotating satellite dish in our central courtyard.

So is it a piece of cake the second time around, particularly with the bonus of some modern amenities? Not exactly. First of all, I’m a bit of a minimalist. Sure I loved watching reruns of Sex and the City with my girlfriends back home, enjoying a Chipotle burrito after a night out without having to start my own fire. But while the benefits of city life may technically increase my standard of living, they don’t actually make me happier. And besides, I was starting to feel really good about my lifestyle in Madagascar…no television or internet to deter reading, studying, and in person communication. In addition, the real peace corps challenges remain the same; trying to carve out one’s role in a new place from behind a language barrier. And this time, I’m dealing with a language barrier on two fronts.

When I was dropped off, I realized the family I was sharing a compound with spoke Bambara, not French. So this was kind of what I had actually expected of my PC experience before I entered….to be left in a community from the get-go without knowing a word of their language. Ok, I knew ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ (you can use the same phrase for both). I figured out my family was going to a wedding in a village the following day and they invited me along. I was under the impression that we’d just be back late that night so I didn’t pack anything. Thus, began the most unsanitary and ‘speechless’ two days of my life. I didn’t have anything…a change of clothes, a toothbrush…not even what I would consider basic necessities by my standards in Madagascar: chlorine to add to the well water, something resembling soap, and something to stand in the place of toilet paper. I could have been more creative with the lack of soap and used ash, but I did conform to the plastic kettle of water used here for ‘wiping’. There were other unhygienic moments too awful to recount in a blog, but, for comparison, I can say that I was relatively unscathed/unaffected while eating with my bare hands out of a communal bowl that I saw both a donkey and a goat get a quick nibble of during its preparation.
Nonetheless, it was one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. The evening started in a tiny village of just a few family concessions. After eating, we walked to another village, where we hung out under a mango tree and ate more food. Soon, we departed for yet another village where even more people had gathered. And again, we ate. Some music was going, and we all lounged on straw mats, a traditional hunter of sorts clad completely in leather, down to the sheath of his knife was dancing independently in front of us. It was quite hypnotizing, his shadow dancing on the mud wall behind him, his movements responding to the activity around him. If someone approached him, he reacted as if they carried a gust of wind, blowing his dance steps backwards until they retreated, and he was able to draw himself back to his original position. I would have been terrified if I’d come across him alone…I could see even some youngsters were a little perturbed when they had to walk by him. Everyone then went to sleep and I followed order. Around 1:30am, I awoke and we left the village. A dancing circle had just formed and I thought we were leaving just when the party was really getting started. We walked to yet another village and in a large opening commenced a very crazed scene. Four large dancing circles formed in four adjacent areas around a couple of xylophones and calabashes. Some women carried morocco’s, some also sang. I definitely could never have kept up with the dance rings, which had some logical steps to it, so don’t get me started on the wild, free-style dancing that took place on the inside of these circles. And they didn’t stop dancing or lose any of their energy for 5 hours straight. Periodically I slept or rested on a straw mat, which at one point was visited by a scorpion that threw everyone into a frenzy. As daylight broke, the dancing ceased and we all watched as the bride made her first appearance….completely hidden under a cream-colored sheet riding away on the back of the groom's moto. Then, another moto with another concealed woman drove by. Turns out, there were actually fourteen brides married that evening. So I stood, in my sleepy stupor, watching as 12 other motos with 12 other cloaked brides emerged from the cluster of mud dwellings and took off, literally, into the sunrise.

...the beautiful scenery accompanying my evacuation hike out of site...

After an increasingly unstable political situation in Madagascar, the decision was taken to suspend the PC program here. Perhaps the last straw was when the military began to faction last week and ignore presidential orders as looting continued in the capital. The emotional impact for me was almost immediate. I was devastated I had to leave and I didn’t have the heart to tell my new friends that the chances of coming back were low. I guess I’m lucky it is not often that life altering decisions are out of my control. And of course, I’m lucky to have had the experiences I’ve had so far here. The reality is, that the people of Madagascar are the ones who will really suffer.

Despite the brevity of time spent at my site (about 3 months), I’ve become really attached to the place and been remarkably happy. The last few weeks in particular have been such a fulfilling experience. So instead of talking in detail about the evacuation process and what's next, I just want to share my last few weeks in Madagascar.

I returned from consolidation back in mid-February, deciding to put my best foot forward in terms of integration despite the precariousness of my future in Madagascar. The first night back I woke up to a rat drowning in my bucket of water. Bad omen? During that same day, I witnessed the delivery of a stillborn baby. That was hard – don’t think I’ll ever lose that image from my mind. It was the first time I had heard a woman let out a scream during the delivery – the midwife told me later that was why the baby had died…that, and poor nutrition. Aside from the single shriek, the teenage mother showed no emotion. I wasn’t sure she knew what was going on, so I made sure she couldn’t see me – I’m bad at hiding my facial expressions and I was tearing up. I don’t want to be too depressing so I should say that it reinforced my role; to work hard and keep ranting about the importance of a balanced diet, safe pregnancy, and family planning for that matter.

On to lighter topics….I was chatting to a woman who had just given birth and asked her if she had picked a name yet. She said she hadn’t, but was hoping she could give the baby girl my name. Later, while recording the baby’s full name, I told the midwife I was taken aback and a bit embarrassed by the situation. She laughed and then proceeded to tell me that while I was away a couple other babies had been named after me. Yikes. It felt wrong, but my qualms were alleviated when I found out that it was common for newborns to be given the names of those who assisted with the delivery. Of course, all I do is occasionally clothe the newborns. Though, I can say for myself, that I can now measure (approximately, and of course with a gloved hand) how dilated the cervix is and locate the baby’s head is in the birth canal.

My work is concerned with health education, which I do at the local middle school, before pre-natal consultations, vaccines, and family planning. I always feel great after delivering a solid health message or just talking with people. I really feel that after an exchange, that perhaps both parties walk away a little happier, or at least a little bit more upbeat. But, what’s made me the most fulfilled at site has been a recent development. It’s the same thing that’s always made me the happiest…soccer. I was biding my time patiently the first month as the soccer field across from my residence stood empty. First, I started playing with little kids, which I think pleased a lot of adults in the community. Kids began coming by my house nearly everyday to borrow my ball. I was trying to be a bit strict, so I’m not taken advantage of…we’re taught as PCV’s to set boundaries early. But, on the other hand, how can I deny a great quality (Mustang) ball to a couple of kids who’ve been making do with a bunch of plastic bags balled up with strings.

Anyway, I was still starving to play some real/slightly more competitive soccer so I decided to be brave and infiltrate the guys team (teens through 20’s). The boys are quicker than me, but I’m bigger and can hold them off the ball. Few have cleats of course. But like the women giving birth in this country, the boys don’t let out a peep of pain when I trample their bare feet with my cleats. I used to play barefoot as well, until I nearly stepped on a sickle while dribbling. There are always some kids who can’t play because they are busy cutting the grass for cattle feed – guess this time, one of them had decided to join and left his sickle lying around. The boys have shown no hint of discrimination or hesitation to fight with me for the ball despite that I’m the only girl, and a giant white one at that. I befriended the team captain, who often joins me and others on morning daybreak jogs, and he named me ‘mpamono’ or ‘killer,’ the equivalent of a forward or attacker. I had yet to don a jersey because the Sunday games were consecutively rained out.

Now, if you know me well, you are probably wondering why I haven’t asked ‘hey, where the girls’ team at?’ I was working on that one. I’d had several people ask me to start one, including the mayor. And honestly, I’ve been dreaming of doing that since my first day at site. Every Saturday, I was gathering a few more girls to play. Ugh, it hurts thinking about it…being forced to leave….there was such potential. May not seem like a big deal, but to be able to share something like that in the future at my site, would have made the entire experience worth it even if no one ever heeded even one of my health messages. I foresaw a future with practice sessions followed by short health presentations or life skills discussions. Ok, it hurts too much, I need to stop.

My last two weeks at site, I was starting to feel good about myself and my level of integration. When I walked around, I was comfortable and constantly greeting people I knew –women I’d chatted with at the hospital or planted rice with, students I'd taught running up to me in the street with gifts of corn, people I’d played ball with who asked to join my morning runs, other health-related workers I’d planned to join in surrounding villages to help weigh babies. It just felt like things were coming together which was probably due to my increased community exposure, particularly following March 8th, the national Women’s Day. For the celebration, I opened the series of games and dances with an official, formal speech. I was quite nervous for a number of reasons. The speech, or kabary, here in Madagascar is a very unique, revered custom...a long history, a special form, and manner of delivery. Every guide book will mention it, and how much the Malagasy enjoy listening to these long-winded speeches. Adding to the pressure, I spoke in front of hundreds of people with a megaphone following a highly embarrassing scene - an awkward dance I had to do around the new basketball court holding hands with and towering over my counterpart. My speech explained the Peace Corps mission and my role here. I began it appropriately, according to tradition, by thanking all the ‘lehibes’ or community leaders in hierarchical order. Then, it's necessary to apologize profusely for everything – for my broken ‘gasy, poor pronunciation, poor kabary-skills, even for being the youngest in my family. The rest of the speech included no less than 6 'gasy proverbs and expressions. One expression I was told I had to include on the day went something like as follows…'the female is like an ornament, the beautiful ornament of the household. Like a flower, the ornament of the earth. Like a water lily, the ornament of the pond. Like a banana, the ornament of the field. Like a necklace, the ornament of the neck.’ Certainly more eloquent if translated properly, but nonetheless you probably get the gist and realize I wasn’t too thrilled about the connotation in relation to women’s empowerment. So I followed it with my own paragraph about how women are much more than ornaments, have the same abilities as men, and that there’s nothing out of their reach because, as the 'gasy proverb goes, ‘there is nothing difficult that diligence cannot accomplish.’ I noticed a marked difference in attention and greetings, in the few days following the speech (maybe because I said in it, that I was shy, and people should feel free to greet me in the streets with a ‘Manao ahoana Mbolatiana’ – Hello Mbolatiana…that’s my ‘gasy name I go by. People can’t pronounce my name and my friend had put a lot of effort into its coining).

My counterpart and the sole doctor in A/zo. I wasn't lying about towering over everyone.

Ok, well, back to reality. I’m evacuated and I don’t know what the future holds. I’ll try to return, but I don’t know if and when that will be possible. I was in a bit of denial so on my last day, I was hanging out and making future plans with people. Those I work with were up with me the next morning before sunrise to say bye and assure me I would return soon. I started my hike out with what I could carry (and what the guy I hired could carry – a lot more than me). As if the day before hadn’t broke my heart enough, a kid sprinted to catch up to me to return the 10,000ar ($5) I had dropped in the dirt. For perspective, more than 70% of the population lives on less than $2/day. I can’t get over this poor tiny little kid returning that amount to me. Two hours outside of my town, I ran into people I knew – they told me I’d better return quickly or they’d be lonely and there would be no one to play ball with. When I reached the taxi-brousse station, I waited 6 hrs for the van to leave, but again thoroughly enjoyed the hours chatting with locals. The van decided not to leave that day, so I paid for seven seats in order to get the vehicle to depart. I hate looking like a rich vazaha/foreigner like that, but PC had insisted I get out…something about a looming military coup supposed to take place that day. Within ten minutes, the van got stuck in the mud. I had to put my raincoat on because the frame of the car was so pathetic, I was getting soaked. I chatted a bit during the journey with a nice old man who was worrying about his daughter who had just had a cesarean. When we said goodbye at the station, he suddenly broke out in English….‘Don’t forget me.’ With all the emotion and heartbreak I’d felt in the last 24 hrs, I couldn’t help but feel so strongly in that moment that he was somehow speaking to me for all of Madagascar.






Above: loved this family, girl in my arms (top left) always kept me company and taught me a lot of Malagasy.

Below: attempted channa masala for my colleagues (midwife, doctor, grounds keeper)...not bad for a meal cooked from scratch over a fire I started with matches and bamboo.

Real Job/Language

The political stalemate continues, and so I continue to reside at my consolidation point. I'm clearly not up to much since I just blogged, but technically I'm on a kind of house arrest anyway. There's currently a 9pm curfew by Malagasy law, but according to current Peace Corps policy, I am not supposed to be strolling the streets at an hour. So I am not feeling guilty about not working…which may leave you wondering…what is my job anyway?

Well, this is how I understand it. As a community health worker, I'm trying to spread health messages that raise awareness and (even better) inspire behavior change, focused particularly on mothers and children. As a Peace Corps volunteer, my predominant purpose is really based around the cross-cultural exchange, the promotion of peace worldwide. Now, that sounds like a really nice, liberal notion – the promotion of world peace by sharing my culture with the people here, and then sharing their culture with those I return home to in two years. But, what does that really mean? What am I really learning except odd things like I should sleep facing north or west because only the entombed dead here rest facing south or east…or that, for example, when you eat sweet potatoes for lunch and crushed sweet potato leaves for dinner, you're sure to be violently sick that night (learned that one the hard way). Are these really lessons I'll bring back home which will bring the human race to greater mutual understanding? Also, I'm 23 years old. Didn't I get that cross-cultural exchange experience when I studied abroad or took that self-realizing backpacking Europe trip that's pretty much become a rite of passage for every (fortunate) adolescent today? Shouldn't I get a real job? Well, I'm being facetious, but I've got news for those of you still in doubt (and perhaps I'm really just clarifying all this for myself because if you are reading this, you probably don't hate the peace corps mission/idea).

#1 – I left the Western World before the economic crisis really hit, but I'm pretty sure I couldn't get a 'real' job right now if I tried.

#2 – Obama supports me – Back in November, I heard his acceptance speech over the radio in a room crowded with 18 other American Peace Corps Trainees hanging onto or shedding a tear at his every word. He said at one point, "to those huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world" (does an 11 hour difference from home on an island in the southern hemisphere of the Indian Ocean count?) More applicable to my overarching purpose in this rambling defense of my job here, Obama said "if our children should live to see the world next century…what change will they see? What progress will we have made? This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment…to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace…" Well, the change I'd like to see is a convergence rather than widening gap between the rich and poor countries of the world. I think the Peace Corps is only going to help in this vain. At least, for me personally, it's going to get me thinking about inequalities, and put me on the right path to….oh I don't know…being the change I want to see in the world? That's a bit hackneyed, but I do trust that what I will learn here in my little role in grassroots development will teach me a bit about what works in the field, and how best to approach major development issues in the future. Of course, I'd like to leave some small indelible, not 'mark,' but positive change here, even if at the end of it, all I can say is I've made some good friends.

#3 – On a lighter note, maybe I still like learning the simple cultural differences that on their own aren't going to contribute to greater peace and prosperity. Did I mention that my Malagasy friend rearranged my bed so I would stop sleeping facing west like the ancestral spirits in the family tombs? Oh, and that when she finished turning my bed around, she plopped my pillow down underneath my mattress! Apparently, some people sleep like that here.

On the language front...

One of my top priorities in life is learning Malagasy. That sounds funny, I know, but honestly, getting a grasp on this language is the key to every aspect of what I've defined as my job here. So here's a bit about this language I'm learning.

I think in a previous post, I touched on the origin of the language and how incredible it is that despite the diversity of the people (Indonesia, Africa, etc) and the relative isolation of different regions from each other across the island, a relatively consistent version of the language is spoken. Anyway, let's fast forward a bit. A few British missionaries actually created the first comprehensive writing system for the Malagasy language. Radama I was ruling at the time (early 1800's) and he is the one credited with uniting the island under a single monarchy, and perhaps less fondly remembered for opening up the island nation to the rest of the world...particularly to the European powers. He forged particularly close ties with the British, which included warmly welcoming in the London Missionary Society. He didn't care much for religion, but the missionaries established the beginnings of an educational system and taught valuable artisanal trades. So of course they wanted the Bible converted into Malagasy and I suppose that was probably the main motivation for a complete written language. The missionaries supposedly convinced the Malagasy king against using the Arabic writing system. The king obliged, but insisted the language not contain any redundant letters or spelling. The Latin alphabet was employed with consonants similar to the English pronunciation and vowels more or less using the French pronunciation. Perhaps thanks to the king's demand (and perhaps since the system is relatively new), words are phonetic – for the most part, words are actually pronounced as they are spelled (unlike languages such as, let's say Danish, in which people tend to pronounce very little of what is actually written…I pick this example because they are the worst offenders in this respect of the languages I've encountered...no offense to my relatives- you all know how much I wish I could be fluent). In Malagasy, there are just three tenses, no gender differentiation, and no verb-subject agreement. Thus, I would say that overall it's a relatively easy language to learn. That said, I'm struggling. One hard part is that people speak in the passive voice, and I believe we, English speakers, use the active voice. For example if I were to say in English "A man tried to steal an ox, but the owners caught him and killed him with a blunt piece of wood," in Malagasy, one might say "An ox was stolen by a man, but he was caught by the owners and he was killed by a blunt piece of wood." That actually happened in the town next to mine – cattle theft is common here and the repercussions severe. I think that might be a terrible grammatical example, but hopefully you get the gist.

The other difficult aspect for me in learning Malagasy is that I don't have a natural ear for languages (my brother took that gene from my mother before I came along). But, as a former soccer coach once wisely told me, the one thing you can always control is your effort. I think it was meant in the sense that when you're having a shitty game (e.g. your touch is off), you can at least hustle to the ball and work hard on defense. But, I like it and I try to keep it in mind for my everyday life. So, in application in this scenario, I walk around all day writing down new words on a scrap of paper, that I'll transfer to an ongoing language journal, and study later that evening. Unrelated to my little self-motivational quote, but in the spirit of "reduce, reuse, recycle," the scrap will later serve as toilet paper (I haven't yet located any rolls of tp at my site anyway).

For how frustrating it can be not being able to express myself well or partake in group conversations, I also kind of enjoy the challenge. It's fun and culturally revealing. For example, today I learned the word for 'snack' or the food that you eat between meals = hanin-kotrana. In everyday usage, it refers to sweet potato, the cassava root, a corn concoction, etc. But, literally it translates as 'any food inferior to rice.' Rice, of course, is the preferred base of each meal. That's not as funny now that I write it, as it was when I discovered the literal translation. But let's continue…often, when I am grappling for a word, I might be able to make a pretty good stab at what it might be. For example, animal = biby, long = lava…so what is 'biby lava'? It's a snake of course.

I know there is no such thing as a 'superior' culture or language, but I worried in the beginning over the lack of variety of words. For example, the word 'volo' I believe means 'hair,' 'feathers,' and 'bamboo.' If that's the case, then how do you scientifically classify a bird? Just kidding around, but take the word for 'bad' in English and think of its various synonyms such as 'evil,' 'awful,' 'vile,' and 'wicked.' We'd probably all agree that these words have subtle differences and that we use them to more accurately describe something depending on the context. But, if you look up all these words in Malagasy, all you get is 'ratsy.' I couldn't help, but be reminded of Orwell's 1984 concept of 'Newspeak.' Specifically, I remember how part of Winston's(?) job was to systematically remove synonyms from the language so as to limit people's ability to express themselves (thereby increasing the power of the totalitarian state). I know I have to acknowledge that my concern was unfounded based simply on how little I know of the language. But, even better, I have since had a new breakthrough. This language is deceptively simple and it's all in the saying 'it's not about quantity, but quality.' Ok, so the Malagasy language hasn't had the 1,000+ years of turbulent history of development and change like the contemporary spoken English language (an effect of the various kingdoms that have ruled the island nation of GB, from its W Germanic language origin with the Anglo-Saxons, to the additions of N Germanic language elements when the Danes ruled a large area of the island (they were refered to as 'Danes' in original sources though they were vikings from different areas of Scandinavia probably) , and then the vast overlays of Norman French when they sailed over - Michel Thomas estimates 60% of English words are derived from French). But, what I'm trying to say is that perhaps history has created an English language with an immense inventory of words, but the Malagasy language has its own way of expressing creativity in the way the language is used. Quick disclaimer here, I don't know anything about poetry, but I think Malagasy is actually quite beautiful and poetic in the way it uses language. For example, the word for 'dusk' is 'maizin-bava vilany' or 'darken the mouth of the cooking pot.' The word for 'sunrise' is 'vaky masoandro' or 'the eye of the day splinters or breaks.' If I was more poetically inclined, I might recognize more of these examples. Then, there are the dozens of Malagasy proverbs and expressions, which I really shouldn't get started on because they are way too much fun (and sometimes, by fun, I mean just culturally revealing). For example, the other day, I dressed/clothed a newborn for the first time (which was actually quite a special moment, I found myself staring in awe at this tiny little thing in my arms, this fragile little life blinking softly and helplessly straight back at me - I was so scared I was going to drop it). So I carried the baby carefully over to the mother and delivered the culturally appropriate expression, "Arahabaina fa nahazo mpatsaka na mpanetsa." Translation, "Congratulations, you've acquired a girl to fetch the water or transplant the rice." If it were a boy, I would have said, "congrats, you've acquired a laborer of the land, a tiller of the soil"…something to that effect. Proverbs are another example of the way language is used creatively. Here's a sample proverb: 'Tondro tokana tsy mahazo hao" = you can't catch a louse with one finger (cooperation is needed). I like this one because it's practically a favorite past time here to go through a kid's hair breaking lice eggs, and it includes a nice message about teamwork. It's also one of my favorites because a fellow PCV is seriously considering getting that one tattooed on the nape of her neck (she caught lice during in country training).

Well, I could go on and on, but maybe I'll just stick to subtly squeezing in a pertinent proverb in later postings. As they say here, "Raha lava ny ahitra, very ny kisoa. Raha lava ny teny, very ny soa." "If the grass is too long, you lose your pig, if the speech is too long, it loses its interest." Ok, I swear, I'm really done now:)

Political Crisis

I know there hasn't been too much in the international news, but many may have heard that there's a bit of a political crisis ongoing here in Madagascar. I need to write this without expressing my personal political views so I'll try to give a brief impartial account of what's going on with a bit of my own personal ground level reporting of the situation (don't get too excited...recall that I live in the boonies). So last week, the mayor of Tana (the capital) called for a general strike, which turned into a call for a new government and, over a couple days, into a contagion of looting and burning in many of the bigger cities around the island. In the capital, the state television and radio stations were burned, a number of supermarkets were looted and burned to the ground, and there have been up to 100 deaths I believe (a few shot amidst efforts to stem the chaos, many more found charred in burned buildings).

The president has been accused of undemocratic behavior; it was highly unpopular when he bought himself an airplane, he's been accused of monopolizing many industries (such as dairy and cooking oil, I believe he owns many of the supermarkets that were targeted as well), and there have been other unpopular business dealings (like potentially leasing a large area of land to South Korea). The violence quickly died down, but now everyone has to deal with the ensuing economic effects and continued obscurity of the political situation. In the economic sphere, some have lost their jobs, such as the supermarket employee I met last night who was visiting a PCV to see if she could borrow some English books: all her materials for learning English were destroyed as the supermarket burned down. Not sure why she kept them stored at work, but nonetheless she wants to keep studying while she waits to hear if she can work at the company's factory while they rebuild the supermarket. Banks were closed for a bit, gas stations ran empty, Peace Corps advised us to stock up on food. The prices of major commodities such as petrol, rice, and cooking oil have already increased (I suppose as work and transportation are interrupted, the resultant scarcity of such staples drive their price up – you economists can now go ahead and tear that sentence apart). Politically, it's still very unclear to me what is going on. Last Saturday, the mayor declared himself in charge of the country, which I believe was a huge shock to the Western media coverage (the little that there was). The 34 year old mayor, who looks a boyish twenty-something, is also constitutionally too young to be president. But, after talking to some folks here, they say that his words were misinterpreted to mean he was calling himself president, when what he was really saying was that he's taking charge of the situation to democratically arrange a new government. He called for a 'Dead City' on Monday, Feb. 2, in other words, for everyone to strike, but I've heard most people in Tana appeared to go back to work. The President has since fired him based on dereliction of duty, he's refused to step down, and has planned another rally this weekend (I believe he plans on announcing an interim government, and if that doesn't draw crowds, the famous Malagasy pop singer he's invited to perform probably will).

To summarize what I've heard expressed by people in my area of the country, I'd say that while recognizing the president did a lot of good for the country in terms of infrastructure and education, they sympathize with the mayor's accusations. I've read in Western media coverage that the 'old politicians' (such as the current president's predecessor, who's uncle was also president during the socialist era) are manipulating the situation, using the mayor as a fresh-faced young charismatic figure to get the crowd riled up (as a former disc jockey, I suppose he's well-qualified for the role). But people I've talked to seem to think the old politicians are just following behind the mayor. It's hard to find an opinion on a solution to the ongoing political stalemate. I'm told that people don't want this conflict; they are sick and tired of these power struggles that hit the poor the hardest and force the country to 'start over' right when things are about to take off (from a development point of view). I hear from many that they want the two major figures involved to sit down and talk, but then I'm also told that this won't help because the constitution needs fundamental changes and they need a new leader altogether.

There was an interesting 24 hrs for me, in which all the radio stations were down, my phone was dead, there was no electricity in my district, and consequently no way for anyone to reach me. Of course, I wasn't worried. I was safe and sound in my quiet, little village. You can imagine my surprise then, when at 10pm, the middle of the night here for me, a couple acquaintances came to my door in whispers telling me to lock up, not to answer the door to anyone during the night (duh), and to carry a whistle to call for help just in case. Why? What was going on? They answered, and I'll translate directly, "There are thieves coming from Tana in the President's cars." Before, I could ask for a bit more clarification, some far off neighbors started yelling for help. The two women looking out for me went sprinting into the darkness back to their homes, and their kids. I quickly locked up as I heard some cars pass by (which is rare on any day, but particularly unusual when it's dark). I let my adrenaline run for a bit, though there was still that little rational voice in my head telling me that there was nothing to fear. The daylight brought some more clarity to the evening's episode. Turns out, there were a few guys who stole a huge truck belonging to the president's dairy company filled with stolen food supplies such as rice and flour. They were from my area so accordingly returned home with the goods. I was busy asking people all morning if they thought the men were making a political statement by stealing a truck from the president's company. When I found a few hundred people gathered to raid the abandoned truck, hoarding off their share of the stolen staple foods, I realized I was asking a very silly, irrelevant question, showing how totally out of touch I still am with real poverty. This wasn't political; these were poor people taking advantage of the lapse in order to steal some basic necessities…turned into a bit of a Robin Hood 'take from the rich, give to the poor' affair in my book.

So all in all, my only real, constant fear has been the possibility of getting evacuated. I've been worrying that I'll be sent home when I feel perfectly able and safe to continue here. But, I know there are a host of other factors Peace Corps has to consider even now when the violent aspect has disappeared, not to mention the things beyond their control (I am after all working for a US government agency). For now, I have been 'consolidated' to a larger city to ease evacuation if that becomes necessary. I hiked out of my site again to the nearest volunteer a few days ago. I was told to remain there for a few days until being told to move into my current location. In that particular town, I made the 'vazaha' or foreigner count a total of three (the other two, the PCV and an Italian missionary) so I guess I shouldn't be surprised when people stopped me in the street addressing me by name. My name and line of work had been announced over the local radio shortly after my arrival. It's not surprising that during those few days of complete idleness coupled with the unwelcome prospect of evacuation, I started to drive myself a bit crazy so I embarked on a little solo hike. A couple girls around my age said hello to me on my way up the first hill. I asked them the 'gasy equivalent of 'what's up' and one girl responded, 'nothing, just watching you.' I chuckled and continued on my way. Two hours later, I passed them on my return and they invited me in. First, I was eating boiled cassava with the two sisters outside their hillside home, soon I was drinking orange classiko at their eldest sister's house in town, later I was eating a mashed banana and rice concoction at their parent's mud, thatched home an hour's walk outside of town. Oh, I was also given all the beans we had picked together from their field. But, of course, what I ate is not important. I'm simply shedding light on an example of the kindness and openness of these people; the kind of thing that makes me love being here.

Of course, there are interactions that I find less than agreeable. But I realize that they are probably not attacks on me personally, but at what I represent to them. I've only just begun to understand the cultural/psychological impact that the more than sixty years of colonization has had – at least in relation to my individual experience as a white foreigner. For example, there's little harassment in my town, but when I hiked to the town nearby, I immediately began to encounter such greetings as 'Bonjour vazaha.' (Hello foreigner). I am too new here to be as annoyed by it as other volunteers are. Sometimes it can be used in jest, but for the most part it's meant in a derogatory way, which I can perceive from the tone and know, simply because people I trust tell me not to respond when people say that to me. My current reaction is to ignore it or to say 'Hello Malagasy.' Then, there are also many requests for money and gifts, often singling me out to beg because it's assumed that I have a lot of money. But sometimes, people ask for 'fruits of the road' or gifts when you return to town and this might be culturally appropriate here. It's still awkward for me because of course asking for gifts is considered quite rude by American standards – what American kid hasn't learned that when they want something, the last thing they should do is beg their parents for it? While visiting the little village of the parents of my new acquaintances, about twenty kids stood watching me hidden behind corn stalks. As I approached, they fled with fright…later, one of new acquaintances found it pertinent to point out that the kids are afraid of me because of the colonial history. Yesterday, I went to the bank and was waved in front of thirty or so patiently waiting Malagasy people before me. That was highly embarrassing. I didn't want to cut the queue as if I were special.

So I can classify three types of disagreeable interactions I have encountered thus far: being insulted (e.g. vazaha), being feared (e.g. by some children), and being given preferential treatment (e.g. at the bank). All are results of a colonial past in my opinion, and not to be taken personally. Plus, for every fleeing child, for every person asking me for money, for every testy adolescent with a sly comment, there are the genuine cultural exchanges such as the day spent with my 'new acquaintances' that by far outweigh the few negative interactions.

I decided to celebrate New Year's in the capital with a few other PCV's. To get to Tana this time, I had to hike out of my site starting out at 4am. I'll admit I was quite winded from the 2 hour uphill hike through rice paddies, which included treading carefully over and sometimes through small creeks. Someone from my town accompanied me to show the way and to provide some level of protection from the supposed 'mpangalatra' or thieves. I wanted to go by myself, but in the end I was happy to have someone with me as we ran into a pack of yelping dogs in the dark (I swear one of them was snarling and foaming at the mouth). My hiking buddy carried a large rock, prepared at any moment to hurl it at the dogs. There are these two dogs that visit me daily and they joined us on the entire hike. I joked to my hiking buddy that they would protect us from the pack he kept a close eye on. He didn't share in the humor - I didn't know, despite sharing a house with the doctor and living right next to the clinic, that last Friday one of 'my' dogs bit a kid-friend of mine and it required stitches. Nonetheless, it was a beautiful hike, watching the stars disappear and the sun rise. When I reached the road where the taxi-van passes, I stood waiting with a couple other barefooted travelers. I felt a little out of place chatting in English on a cell phone with my brother, who had called to wish me a happy birthday. I think he believed me when I said I was already thoroughly enjoying the day.

Despite the brevity of time I've spent at site (just over a couple of weeks), I have plenty to relate. My first day 'on the job,' an NGO was paying a visit to my town to offer affordable sexual and reproductive health services. They were happy to meet me and invited me to observe their work so that I could be more informed myself when I do 'sensitizations' (delivering health messages) in the future. So, the first woman came into a room off the maternity ward, laid down on a steel table (that had been dusted off with a rag), and moments later I was observing a tubal ligation. The doctor urged me to stand right next to her and watch. I thought I was pretty tough when it came to anatomy and physiology, blood and guts - always enjoyed dissecting the cat back in high school or watching myself get stitched up after a mishap - but halfway through the procedure, my ears started buzzing and I started to wonder if I could remain standing. When my vision became impaired, I muttered something in 'gasy and excused myself. I made it back to my house and collapsed. I caught the end of the surgery after a quick recovery. I do feel more equipped now to spread family plannning messages (e.g. how quick, easy, and cheap tubal ligations are, the equivalent of $1 when Marie Stopes comes to town).

During my second day at site, I gave my first health talk on safe motherhood to a group of women before the pre-natal consultations. I thought the excitement of the day was over, when I decided to follow the doctor to the maternity ward. I was once again invited into the adjoining room where I'd almost passed out, and this time found myself squinting so that I didn't totally watch the miscarriage taking place before me. Almost everyday I seem to be observing some medical procedure I was not prepared for - some things I'll refrain from divulging here. I've seen some births as well, which have been fascinating from a cultural perspective. In every situation, I am warmly welcomed in to watch. I guess the notion of privacy here differs. One time, the midwife and I arrived a little too late and the baby had already come out into the bare hands of the grandmother. While the midwife took over, the grandmother, overjoyed, grabbed my hands with hers (still covered in blood) and exclaiming her gratefulness, tried to slip me a 200ar note (10 cents). Just in case you dosed for a second, I watched her deliver the baby and she tried to pay me for my help. I want to also note that I'm now in the belief that giving birth is a painless process. No drugs are involved here, just a pillow-less, sheet-less steel table, and the women giving birth don't utter a sound or show any strained facial expressions. No, Scientology is not practiced here. Of course, that might not be that outrageous an idea given the conglomeration of Christian sects that already exist here due to past proselytizing Europeans and present American missionaries.

My site lies at the end of this valley. In the foreground, you can see a couple examples of their tombs.

More about my site....
I live next door to the health clinic/maternity ward and share a kind of duplex with the one doctor here. I'd say these are some of the best living conditions I've ever had. I have the biggest bed I've ever owned and two large rooms to myself. I don't have to pay any bills on the place and there's certainly no street noise. Of course, I have no furniture to fill the place, and the floor area is perhaps annoyingly large to have to clean with my coconut shell, broom, and wax mixed with petrol. There's a pulley-style/'tricep building' well conveniently located 5m from house, from which I withdraw about 3 buckets of water sufficient to supply my daily use (often supplemented by rainwater I collect as it pours off the corrugated tin roofing). My house is made of red brick and opens onto a small veranda supported by a single column. I spend a lot of time sitting there on a woven seat cushion - reading, eating, and drinking burnt rice water. If my house was narrow and tall with smaller windows, it would be a typical Merina-style house. The style of homes here initially masked the poverty for me. There are 18+ tribes represented in Madagascar. The Merina, which make up 27% of the population, dominate the central highlands. Interestingly, the Merina were the Indo-Malayan seafarers that first settled this island and brought not only the rice culture, but the architectural design of their homes. Crazy to think that an Indian Ocean away and a 2,000 year time gap, there are societies with strong cultural similarities to this one. Of course, even at my site, you can see how the culture has been infused with African and Arabic elements (such as the importance of cattle and astrological beliefs, respectively).

My immediate area is flat, lots of corn has recently been planted, and potatoes are always growing. But walk just a couple minutes out of town, and there again are the beautiful valleys of terraced rice paddies I enjoyed so much during training. I think my infatuation with rice paddies goes back to when I visited southeast Asia. They're just so darn aesthetically pleasing - when the seedlings are young, the sky and low mountains are reflected in the water, when the rice plants have matured, the paddies add patches of vibrant green to the landscape. The transplating rice season has just finished. Now, it's the long haul, the hungry season for my area, as people wait the 6 months for the rice and other staples to harvest. When a woman invited me to take part in the transplanting of young rice seedlings, I jumped at the opportunity. I think on more than one occasion, I've described rice farming in an academic paper as 'labor-intensive.' Well, now I have the experience to back that claim. I was up to my knees and elbows in muddy water, jamming rice seedlings into the ground with my thumb, failing constantly to space them correctly, maintain rows, and keep the stalks upright. I was particularly disturbed when one of my worst nightmares came true, and a black snake slithered between my legs in the muddy water. During the eighth hour of back-breaking work, Marx and terms like 'exploited labor' started passing through my mind, but then I realized my productivity level or work output was about an 1/8 of that of the other women, who have been planting rice their whole lives. I am quite sure I was invited as a gesture of friendship - and maybe also to provide a source of amusement. These rural farmers of the highlands speak a colloquial form of official Malagasy I'm not yet accustomed to, but we did have a good laugh over how tall I am and how much one of the ladies liked my tree-trunk sized legs. I'm just telling myself it's a comparative statement so I don't feel insulted. Though my back was broken the next day and I suffered the worst sunburn of my life (I have pictures of the blisters, and later, the total loss of the first layer of skin), I joined in one other day for rice transplanting just for the comraderie. It was all worth it for the one moment when I reflected on what a rare opportunity this whole experience is - it was lunch time, and the woman who invited me had packed a typical 'gasy meal, rice and a side dish of dried fish (the length of my finger and you eat the head and bones). So there I sat between rice paddies, with her family and friends/fellow laborers, eating out of the same gigantic bowl of rice with muddy hands. A simple moment, but so great.


Rice farming provided a good way to explore some of the surrounding areas and villages, which I also accomplished by accompanying my doctor on a four hour hike to do AIDS testing at a small clinic. I was put on the spot that particular day to give a speech on HIV/AIDS to a large group of pregnant women. Many of them were teenagers with several kids. Though the national average fertility rate is around 5 kids, out here in the rural areas, it's not uncommon to have 10-11 children. The only vocabulary I knew off the top of my head for the topic was the somewhat contested ABC method (though its sensible to me if it's delivered in the right way....A = practice abstinence when young/not ready, B = be faithful, avoid multiple sex partners, and C = always use a condom.) Anyway, none of this really applied to them because they were already having sex, already married, and very unlikely to start using a condom at this point in their marriages/ pregnant with their 8th child. I talked a little bit about how the disease is transmitted and then quickly just asked for questions. Blank stares. Then...are you married? When I first met the mayor, the police, and the medicine inspector, that was also the first question posed - completely irrelevant in my mind to my work and purpose. But, I'm here for cross-cultural reasons as much as fir health so I don't mind answering the questions. Plus, fielding the cultural questions opens up the lines of communication. After a few minutes of talking about myself and the US, a woman asked me, "So is there a cure for AIDs?" When I had explained that there was expensive treatment, but no cure, I started feeling like maybe I do have something to offer here. Once the doctor started doing the rapid blood tests, the women came out asking me if their test was negative or positive, and then checking out each others' test strips as if they were comparing answers to a pop quiz.

Krisimasy...
Christmas is widely celebrated here. After the Merina kingdom first unified the country (or conquered all the other tribes) in the 1800s, the king courted European powers, and subsequently, Christianity became widespread. The Bible was translated into Malagasy in 1835. So, I went to church on Christmas, again, for the cultural experience. After 4 hours of songs and sermons in 'gasy, I vowed that was the last time I would go to church in this country. It was the first time I had felt really awkward and out of place and didn't find it amusing...perhaps because the place was crowded with hundreds of people who could sit and stare at me (as compared to the market days where there's more movement and commotion, and less time and space to stare at the tall, 'fotsy be' or very white woman). After lunchtime, I was told there was a 'kilalao' which translates as match or game. I'd assumed it was a soccer match and was excited to watch. But, when I started walking with some acquaintances to the 'game,' we walked straight passed the field and straight back into the church! I was a bit peeved. The place was packed again and I stood in the very back with my doctor. Then, the president of the Catholic church spoke some words to the doctor and pulled me outside. She led me around the church and then through a side entrance to the very front of the congregation. She had me sit in the only chair in front of all the pews to watch the performace - it was basically the Catholic middle school kids putting on a talent show, which included a lot of 'macarena' inspired dance moves set to 'gasy music. Sat there for another 3 hrs. I think a lot of the time, kids watched me more than the show. I was already sweating a ton, but it poured even more profusely when the school director dedicated a song and dance to me over the mike.

I'm gonna try and wrap this up, by explaining that despite all the exciting episodes I still spend the bulk of my day sifting through rice (which I eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner). I toss the rice into the air and catch it again several times in a meniscus-shaped woven tray specific for winnowing rice. Then, I scour the rice for rocks and remaining rice hulls. The same chickens (and very sorry looking rooster, which I might have pitied if it hadn't laid a wet feces on my newly waxed floor) flock to my porch every meal in hopes of snatching a rice hull or granule that I discard. At this time, my pot of water has begun to heat up over my small portable clay stove. I build a fire three times a day by breaking up pieces of bamboo with my malagasy-crafted knife, set them aflame with my lighter, and then carefully add charcoal. I cook outside to avoid smoke inhalation and the ensuing acute respiratory infections prevalent here. Thus far, I find all the time spent cooking oddly fulfilling. I'm sure this will change, the same way I enjoyed my mosquito net at first, which I've since ditched.


Next time: I really want to talk about this language I'm learning, I'm sure there will be some more in-depth cultural musings as well as I pick up more of the language and can ask some of my many cultural questions. Actually, I could pose the questions now, but I probably wouldn't understand the answer.