The Mental Hurdles of a PCV in Mada...and Lemurs!

This may be a rash generalization but I think there are some people in the US and the world that suffer from post 9-11 Islamaphobia. Before I scare everyone off, bare with me for a second. Whatever your opinion may be, I think some might agree that when a Muslim male or female walks into a room wearing traditional, religious garb this person attracts a fair amount of attention. I apologize if this is offensive to anyone, but what I really want everyone to do for a quick second is to take a minute and put yourself in that person’s shoes. What does it feel like to be that Muslim man or woman attracting the eyes of everyone in the room? To stick out because of stereotype?

I’ve been wanting to write a blog post like this for some time now – a reflection on what it has meant to be an American or really any vazaha (the Malagasy word for foreigner) in Madagascar. After two and a half years here, I’ve come to the rather depressing conclusion that it seems impossible for an American Peace Corps Volunteer to completely integrate themselves into Malagasy culture and society.

Let me quickly start with this term “vazaha,” which I may have already written a blog post about. I can't remember. Imagine you are walking down a street in your slice of suburban America or wherever when let’s say a person of Asian descent comes walking toward you on the same sidewalk…

You don’t know anything about this person: where they were born, how they got to where they are, or what they do for a living. Common sense tells most of us that extending this stranger a quick greeting would be the kind thing to do. Unfortunately, western society seems to think that extending a kind greeting to a complete stranger is a bit strange in itself and possibly borderline creepy. In fact, western culture usually tells us that you're more likely to have some sort of ulterior motive or that you’re selling something than simply displaying a random act of kindness. But for the purpose of this blog post, let’s say you give a quick “hello” and then the two of you go on your way and maybe never see each other again. No harm done, right?

Here in Madagascar, such an innocent exchange appears impossible. It seems that at some point between Madagascar winning its independence from France in 1960 until now a certain degree of narrow-mindedness has slowly grown out of control. Let’s go back to our sidewalk example to see if I can explain myself a bit better.

Imagine this same Asian American walking toward you on the same street in your slice of suburbia. As this person comes within eyesight you stop dead in your tracks and stare at him or her. I’m talking like a deep, hypnotic gaze. You've probably seen him or her around before but you just can't help it. As this person gets closer you pull on the corners of your eyes while mocking them with your intentionally sloppy version of Chinese or Japanese or other language from an Asian culture. Finally, to top it all off, you decide to greet this person with “hello foreigner.” Granted, I am no expert in foreign relations but I have to believe that it is highly possible you should start running for your life at that exact moment. In most places in the world this is one of the more offensive things you could do in this situation. However, for a PCV in Madagascar, this could be a Tuesday…or Friday…or possibly any part of any day of the week. Then, multiply that by 2 (or maybe more) years. Trust me when I tell you that it gets really, really old (and I’m not even Asian American).

Most white volunteers are greeted with “Bonjour vazaha” depending on where he or she lives. PCVs in smaller towns usually don’t get it as much because there are less people in the town and he or she usually knows everyone. In larger towns you get lost in the shuffle and you’re probably not the only white person anymore (ie. Manakara - pretty sure I got at least two or three on my two minute bike ride to post this blog). When I lived in Ampasimanjeva, I rarely heard “bonjour vazaha,” but anytime I left my small town for another other town or city all bets were off.

You might ask why can’t they just say hello and be done with it? Well folks, therein lies the million-dollar question. But let’s play devils advocate here for a second. For starters, the French colonized this place forever (and still have a pretty big influence) so that explains the “bonjour” part. And of course, all white people are French so--…oh. Wait. They’re not?! Weird.

But seriously, the bonjour thing really isn’t a big deal since most white people who do visit here are French. I also haven’t forgotten that this is one of the poorest countries in the world where the importance of education is used as more of a punch line than a path to a brighter future. Another reason is that almost all Malagasy people are black or darker skinned and probably have never left this country so it's not incredibly surprising to see why they’re so blown away when they see white people.

I’ve been told (and I’ve noticed) that Malagasy people love to state the obvious. So much so that it’s almost a cultural habit. So, for example, if I’m sitting on my porch with a bucket of soapy water while scrubbing clothes some Malagasy person may walk by and ask, “are you washing clothes?” Most PCVs will respond with a smile and say yes, but inside we’re thinking, ‘no I’m driving a car. Of course, I’m washing clothes. What does it look like?’ I guess I would equate it to two Americans talking about the weather. Both conversations are just filling time and both are equally uninteresting for all parties involved.

According to a few Malagasy people, the same logic applies to the word vazaha. If you see a tall white male walking down in a street in Madagascar you don’t need a sign to know that he’s not from around here, but Malagasy people still can’t keep themselves from pointing out the obvious, thus leading to the bonjour vazaha.

I used to play basketball in Ampasimanjeva with a kid who lived right next to me. He was always really respectful and knew my name, but when we played basketball and he was calling for the ball or something he would address me as “vazaha” or “lava be” (meaning really tall). It's like everything went right out the window when he had some d'ing him up.

There are actually times when I can appreciate the usage of the vazaha comment to differentiate between people. To stick with the basketball references if I’m playing on a team with four other Malagasy guys and the opposing team is deciding who is going to guard me then they’re most likely going to say ‘you take the vazaha’ cause its an easy identifier and they may not know my name.

But even if they know names, Malagasy people still teach their children to say vazaha from a really young age. There is a six-year old who lives in a house near me here in Manakara and no matter how many times I’ve told him my name is Rory, that I’m American and I don’t speak French I always get the same loud, high pitched greeting every morning, “SALUT VAZAHA!” Don’t worry, I’m not getting all worked up because of a six-year old, but what I’m trying to say is that we as volunteers stick out like a sore thumb. Despite our attempts to learn this language, wear the right clothes, and participate in cultural traditions we quickly lose whatever connection we feel with our communities when we hear the all too familiar greeting bonjour vazaha. Teenagers and kids do the most damage when it comes to the vazaha comment because it is in their sarcastic, demeaning tone that you know not only are they using the V-word just to use it but using it to poke fun as well.

Most of us tell our close friends and neighbors that we don’t really appreciate the word vazaha and they usually respect that. Recently I was biking with Briana in Analavory when we passed one of her closest friends’ house. We were biking slowly and she was sitting out front with her 8-month old baby and she yelled in somewhat of a baby voice (as if it were her child talking), “SALUT VAZAHA E!” I was a bit surprised, but we kept going to Bri’s house. When we got there she said her friend knows that she doesn’t like when people say vazaha but she was probably just doing it to tease or to annoy us. You may be reading this and think wow Rory, Briana and all PCVs are apparently really melodramatic, but first think about the fact that we are in a foreign place, surrounded by people we haven’t known for that long, speaking a language we all struggle with at times, thousands of miles away from family and friends and all the while just trying to help out. We go through days where we feel like we are on top of the world and we really are just another Malagasy person with white skin. Other days we hear vazaha and the like and we remember that this is not our home. We are like 10-year-olds in school in that all we really want is to fit in and not be labeled or criticized for being different, but it seems like that isn’t really possible here. If we do the basic day-to-day chores of any Malagasy person such as getting water, carrying things of any weight, wearing some traditional dress (especially for women), carrying an axe, working in the rice fields or getting muddy then we are almost guaranteed to get laughed at, pointed at or talked about by people who think we’re too stupid to understand what they’re saying about us. It's a deflating feeling.

For argument sake let’s suppose you think I’m being a bit dramatic. Here’s another thing that PCVs run into all the time: people thinking they can get more out of us and are justified in doing so because we are white. If we are white then we are not from here and if we’re not from here then we must have mountains of money waiting for us in our real home. A relevant example actually just happened as I was writing this to a volunteer passing through Manakara on her way to a moringa (type of edible plant) training that she is organizing with another volunteer. She arrived in Manakara with something like 70 or more of these plants in 5 crates (all of which are a bit heavy). She has to move three of these crates on to another brousse to take the plants another 20 kilometers south to the town where the training is going to be held the next day. She goes up to one brousse driver and asks how much it will cost to send these 3 crates to the town. He says 3,000 ariary. The PCV laughs to herself a bit and says no thanks knowing full well that the cost for a person to go to this town is half that. The guy clearly thinks she is a unsuspecting vazaha who will give any amount of money. She walks to another brousse driver and asks him. He agrees to do it for free and says its no problem (the answer any PCV would have hoped for but probably never expected) until a few seconds later the first driver comes over and tells him that he should charge 3,000 too. Solidarity wins out and the volunteer is forced to move on to a third and final driver (there are only so many drivers for certain routes). The same thing happens leaving 3 greedy Malagasy male brousse drivers versus a white, female PCV whose only crime is trying to bring 70 plants to a small town 80 kilometers away from her "home" to show people how they can farm and eat an extremely healthy, inexpensive plant. In the end, there is no other way for the plants to be sent so the brousse drivers win. The worst part is that they know they are screwing her over because they are smiling and laughing the whole time as her frustration mounts. (For your information, 3,000 ariary is a little more than a dollar so, yes, it isn’t a question of whether she can pay it but the principle).

These kinds of things happen all the time in all sorts of places in Madagascar and often times the Malagasy person will tell you straight up that they know you can afford it because you are vazaha. You can talk about what it means to be a volunteer, to not make money, and that you have lived and worked in this place for years. You can do this until you’re blue in the face, but that price is never going to change.

You don’t even have to be buying something for this to happen. There was a middle school-aged kid who used to live next to me in Ampasimanjeva and on the same day that I opened the library in June, he came in and asked me if I could give him a soccer ball. I was a bit confused because the request came completely out of left field so I asked him what he meant and he reiterated that the next time I left to go to a big town or city that I should bring him back a soccer ball. I told a white lie to keep from getting too annoyed and said that I didn’t have enough money to get him a soccer ball. Keep in mind this is a kid that I really didn’t have too much interaction with, but he always seemed nice enough. He then brought up the fact that I’m a white vazaha so I must be lying about the fact that I don’t have enough money. I admittedly got a little angry at that point and said something like “is this not enough?” while gesturing to the library we were standing in. You may still being thinking, "Jeez, Rory, ya Scrooge. Just go get the kid a ball. I'll send you the money." But the bottom line is that the requests and begging never stops because it's never enough. There is always something else that we should be giving.

Moments like these really make you think twice about the concept of international aid. If Malagasy people keep seeing American or European NGOs and volunteers offer financial or material aid even when it might not be asked for, how will they ever learn to live independently? Peace Corps prides itself on sustainable projects, but in the end there needs to be motivated Malagasy people behind these projects and sometimes they can be incredibly hard to find.

In continuing with the idea of monetary humanitarian aid, the Malagasy government appears to have one of the most corrupt infrastructures I have ever seen (just a reminder that these are my thoughts and not those of the Peace Corps). When another country offers monetary aid it's not hard to imagine that the money won’t go farther than the corrupt pockets of various government officials. So in the midst of feeling like you can never be accepted into Malagasy society you also sometimes get this horrible feeling that maybe the work you’re doing here is only further debilitating these people, the country and it's future.

There are so many other examples of every day occurrences where a volunteer might feel detached from his or her community or have doubts about the work he or she is doing. It sucks to stick out and it sucks to have no way to hide it, but it seems as though our Malagasy counterparts can’t seem to get past it. And so we continue on with our work as strangers, as foreigners, as vazaha.

Just so we end this on a positive, happier note I thought I would include some pictures from the last few weeks, including lemurs! Hope everyone had a great Christmas and new years celebration!

My best friend from Ampasimanjeva gets married! No, I don't own a belt.

The official opening of the library in Ampasimanjeva. To the left of the picture is the girl who replaced me in Ampasimanjeva.

Christmas in Analavory. We wrapped up a bunch of things Briana doesn't use anymore and gave presents to a family she is really close to. They loved it!

A taxi-brousse accident on our bike ride to Manakara. The accident was about five days old by this point. It was an overnight brousse from Tana, a ride we all have to do. Apparently several people died including probably everyone in the front row. I'm not sure if the broken bottles near the car is some sort of ceremony that was held. That's a complete guess.

We went to a hotel just north of Manakara and there were lemurs.

We made friends quickly. When it doubt, bring food.

The gang

A Malagasy Thanksgiving

One of the saddest, yet most enjoyable parts of living in Madagascar is finding new ways to celebrate American holidays. Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that is obviously not celebrated in Madagascar. It is depressing in that we are missing out on all the family time that you can never get back, but pretty exciting in that we have to find a new way to celebrate this holiday every year. Take the concept of an oven for example – a vital (dare I say a critically essential) item when it comes to Thanksgiving tradition. It’s rather comical when you consider the historical context of the celebration cause you know those pilgrims weren’t cooking with ovens. Anyway, every year the Peace Corps volunteers of the south east of Madagascar find a way to celebrate this fine holiday so I thought it might be cool to show some pictures of how we did it this year.

We got the directions on how to do this from google and my magnificent chef of a cousin, Keenan. We dug a pit about three feet deep in my backyard and placed tons of searing hot coals inside. We put in about a foot of coals, then the bird, then more coals and sand to create our own kind of oven. The bird cooked for about 5 hours and then we dug him out and it turned out incredibly well. Only a small part of the turkey wasn't fully cooked. It was one of the better turkeys I've ever had, though I guess I'm a bit biased. Photo cred to Briana. There may be a picture or two you won't want to look at.

Don getting more than just a thanksgiving meal from Drumstick

 

Briana, Don and I with Drumstick.

Not for the squeamish. Drumstick was the third bird I've murdered in country and I promise I don't enjoy it. I'm no expert but I think it was as humane and quick as you can get when cutting an animals throat. 

Plucking

Plucking complete

We stuck clothes hangers through drumstick so that when we dropped him into the charcoal pit we would be able to pull him out easier. Here we are diligently wrapping him in foil.

Almost done.

This was just the beginning but it turned into an inferno in that corner

Drumstick covered in tin foil and then wrapped in hemp

Pushing the coals in on top of Drumstick.

So hot

Covering the pit with coals and sand. You can see the hanger from Drumstick in the bottom right

Sud Est

Briana and the rest of the gang surprised me with a birthday cake

My second family

FEAST! Thanks to Don's family and my family for sending us some Thanksgiving care packages

Sedric. This kid is 12 and is incredibly good at English. He came over the next morning and I gave him some leftovers

In other news, life in Manakara is great. I have completed three teacher trainings so far in this first trimester with several more in the works for the next trimester. I have an English course for the high school seniors of Manakara as well as an English conversation club with a select few who can speak a little bit better than most. We discuss a bunch of different issues (ie. Gender roles in Madagascar vs. USA, how to get Madagascar out of poverty, etc) and I really enjoy hearing their [often strange] opinions on these topics.

Let me just detail one strange conversation. Following the death of that teenager in the ocean in Manakara tons of people in the city knew that several PCVs and myself were responsible for bringing him out: they were asking us about it and thanking us on the streets. These students also had heard about it, which led us to a conversation about swimming in the ocean here in Madagascar. As I mentioned in that post, your average Malagasy person is completely petrified of the ocean and it doesn’t help that Manakara’s beach is one of the rougher ones I have ever seen. But the Antemoro people (the tribe that comprises most of Manakara and a lot of the rural areas north and south of the city) take this fear to a whole new level. They believe, among many other things, that eating pork is wrong because pigs are filthy and no one should be eating anything that rolls around in mud 24/7. I guess when you think about it, they have a good point but it just tastes so good. Some Antemoro agree with me and therefore there are a few who sacrifice their cultural pride for this delectable dish. Now, according to the Antemoro tribe, those people who choose to eat pork and then happen to go swimming in the ocean in the following days are guaranteed one fate: death. So, when we discussed the death of this teenager the only possible explanation for his passing was that he must have eaten pork at some point in the days leading up to what he thought would be a harmless dip in the ocean. The Antemoro believe there is some kind of creature of the sea who will not let you out of the ocean if you wear any kind of red clothing or eat pork. It is completely unfathomable that he simply died because he wasn’t a good swimmer. These are the kinds of things that they will debate ad nauseam and you have absolutely no chance of convincing them otherwise. I suggested we all eat pork and then I would go swimming with each person one-by-one because there is absolutely no way I would let him or her die. They said it doesn’t matter if I don’t believe; they would never survive because it’s just not possible to trick this water creature. So, while these debates can be incredibly fun and interesting, they also get a little frustrating sometimes.

In the coming weeks I am going to be going back to Ampasimanjeva for a friend’s wedding, then for the opening of some new classrooms at my old school and Christmas. In case I don’t get to say it beforehand, a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to everyone!

Being Back

I have been back in Madagascar for nearly a month and a half now and I think I can say I am very happy with my decision to extend my service for one year.

I absolutely loved my time back home seeing family and friends, but I think I knew early on that I was happy to know I would be coming back. On the other hand, I think leaving to come back here was much more difficult and much weirder than it was when I originally left for my two-year stint. To make it even harder, during my one-month stay back home I learned one of my best friends from college will be getting married in the next year as will one of my cousins. Thank God I got to see one of my cousins' weddings while I was back home. If by some miracle I can make it to these next two, that would be great but it's not looking good. In the meantime, congratulations Amy & Nick and Ryan & Helen on your engagements!

While I was home the question I got the most was "how does it feel to be back?" In the physical sense, it honestly felt like I never left. Mentally, I was blown away. The example that comes to mind is the pantry in my parents' house. I could not remember what it was like to see so much food in one place. People here buy exactly what they need (nothing more & nothing less) before every meal. So while you might think it is a pain in the ass to hop in your car and drive a few miles to get the butter you forgot, imagine having the make that trip 3 times per day to buy exactly what you need for your upcoming meal. Yes, it's inefficient and it makes no sense, but that's how Malagasy people roll when it comes to cooking. For many of these people you can make the argument that they don't have enough money but that's not true of everyone here.

So back to that pantry...that thing would be packed full and mom would say she was going to the grocery store to get food for dinner! Absolutely blew my mind. I thought there's no way in hell we can't make something from everything in there. This kept happening particularly with the cereal. Anyone who knows me knows I could have cereal three times per day and be completely psyched. To some degree I think my mom was just trying to be the awesome mom that she is for the month I was around. But after that I just couldnt wrap my head around all the food in there, especially with only 3 people in the house before I got there. I felt guilt for knowing the situation where I had just come from but excited for Christmas in my stomach.

Quick side story...

Some people in my stage (the group of people I arrived in country with 2+ years ago) nicknamed a meal "the saddest soup" which is hot water with a chicken or beef flavored bouillon cube dropped in it. For anyone who doesn't know what that is, it's essentially the water in your Ramen noodles. I have never had this, but people say my often cooked dish of rice and ketchup (when I can get it) is pretty gross and sad as well. I beg to differ. Most PCVs are really self-motivated people but generally speaking when it comes to cooking, you can forget about it. When I was at my previous site in Ampasimanjeva, I never cooked breakfast or dinner. Breakfast because it takes too long to cook rice when you have class at 7am and dinner because nothing is worse than having to cook and then clean up in the dark.

Things have changed a little bit since I moved to Manakara. I have the option of small restaurants although I don't really go unless there are other PCVs passing through. I also have light now which works most of the time making cooking dinner much less of a pain in the ass. Even still, I'm pretty sure the 10+ pounds I put back on while in the states is gone once again.

I'll end this with one quick story that made me nuts...

After being back here for about 2 weeks, I was washing clothes at my house on a Saturday morning when someone came knocking on my gate. I told him to come in, then I got up & looked. It was a student from Ampasimanjeva. One of the worst ones I had and not because he was obnoxious in class but because he never came. He was in my classes both years I taught in Ampasimanjeva. The first year I vaguely remember him showing up every once in a while. The second year, I think I may have seen him twice all year. I remember asking my students once if Rostin had moved or if he was in the hospital. They told me he just doesn't like English. 

Now, if we're in the States or any other country that cares about education this would be mildly offensive to a teacher even if the student really just doesn't like the subject. The problem is that I'm from the States and there are some cultural differences that I just can't get around. You don't get to choose if you like a class or not in the developed world. If you choose not to go to class you are accepting that you are going to fail and that you will be taking the class and possibly the grade over. A teacher doesn't have time to baby students who don't care. My philosophy here was/is no different. They told me he doesn't like English. I was a little bummed out thinking maybe he doesn't like me or the way I teach, but I quickly forgot about it. At the end of the year last year, he (not surprisingly) didn't pass. I know this because the announcement of final grades, something that is quite personal to each student, is a very public display with every student and teacher gathered in the school yard to find out who ended up where.

Now he is at my door.

Rostin comes in and we exchange the obligatory pleasantries. He asks about how I like Manakara and what my job is here and then I ask him how he found out where I live (a fact I would like kept secret from people like Rostin). He said he asked around and found me. 

Another side note: everyone knows everything about the vazaha in town. Everything. Where I live, what I do, when I last went to a restaurant, who my girlfriend is and much more. Privacy is not a thing.

So Rostin and I are talking and he says he is in the next grade higher than he was last year which seems impossible because, as I said, he didn't pass. But weird things happen when students  change cities and monetary bribes are more of a normalcy than a criminal act.

At some point after I made this realization Rostin asks, "When can you teach me English?" I nearly lost it right there. He didn't even pose the question as an option mind you I would have said no, anyway, but the entitlement factor of it pushed me right over the edge. 

You all may remember another student of mine that I wrote about a few months ago who did a similar thing. The difference was he actually went to class, he apparently just didn't understand it and then waited two years to tell me.

I let Rostin have it. I told him he was a really bad student in Ampasimanjeva and that not showing up to class for an entire year then asking for personal tutoring is not only rude in the States but incredibly disrespectful. I told him I didn't trust him nor did I believe that he was serious about learning English this time. First he gave me some excuse which I don't even remember because it was so bad but later he took the blame and said he was wrong which I liked. You don't hear Malaasy people taking responsibility for their actions very often. 

In the end, we made a deal. There was no way I was just going to agree to give up my time for a disrespectful kid I didn't trust. So, I told him that if he came by the American Cultural Center (a small set up of books and a few computers that is moving around Madagascar and currently in Manakara), that he could talk with me and sit in in the conversation clubs we were having there. If he did that and showed a little dedication, I would open up some time on Saturday for him. I was completely shocked when I saw him the very next day. I rewarded him a bit by really only working with him. It seemed promising and I was happy I could spark a little motivation in this hopeless kid.

The next day came and went and Rostin never showed up. He has not been back and I have not seen him since.

The Worst Beach Day

Several PCVs happened to be in town this past weekend for one reason or another. We decided to go to the beach on Sunday to let off some steam and enjoy each others company. We went in the ocean, played Poles (a new game that everyone should look into), and caught up (a lot of us hadn't seen each other in some time).

We were at the beach for an hour or so when a huge congregation of Malagasy people started to form about 300+ yards to the right of us. We figured it was just another thing that Malagasy people can create a good crowd for: a card game, a group of vazaha or something as equally unfascinating. We dismissed it and went back to swimming or chatting.

But the crowd kept getting larger and now all the people in this crowd were clearly looking out into the water. One of the girls in our group became compelled by curiosity and went to see what all the commotion was about. She came back a few minutes later with a much faster pace and stopped to tell some of our friends (who were still a distance away from me) what she saw. I figured they had seen a whale or something and she was rushing back to get our attention so we wouldn't miss it. I waved to them to find out what was going on but too lazy to get up. The group of PCVs broke up-most of them running towards the crowd themselves but one came to tell me and another guy that a Malagasy kid had drown and they were looking for his body.

At first, I was shocked and felt awful but thinking back now I dont think the gravity of the situation had really sunk in. I got up and ran over thinking maybe this kid wasn't actually dead - maybe he's just in trouble and we can get him out. As the water was washing up on the shore, the 7 of us tried to get more information. I asked one man what happened and he said a kid was dead in the water. I asked if he could swim but he said no. I asked if my friends and I could go in and look for him. 

Foreigners are always seen as foreigners here so I didn't want to do anything that was going to piss a huge crowd of Malagasy people off (some french men were burned alive in a huge altercation/misunderstanding in Nosy Be last year).

Nevertheless, he said I could look. The girls stayed on the beach scanning the ocean while me and three other guys went into the ocean to find this kid.

The ocean in Manakara is no joke. It is always rough, there is always a huge undertow, relatively large waves and sometimes an unforgiving rip tide that, as a strong swimmer, kicked my ass. Most Malagasy people do not and can not swim. They are not afraid or ashamed to tell you they are terrified of the ocean. I'm assuming this kid was no different. He was probably playing by the shore, wandered to his knees and before he knew it was swept out into the actual ocean battling waves twice his size.

Within a few minutes of entering the water, the crowd roared and we could easily see what they were roaring about. About 10 feet from my friend and 15 feet from me was some body part of this kid rolling back out into the ocean after being swallowed up and battered by yet another wave. We both started half running, half swimming as hard as we could. I talked to my friend afterward and we both admitted that our hearts felt like they were going to beat out of our chests in anxiety because we were about to pull a dead person from the water. We didn't make it. Another wave came down and he was lost in the whitewash. We both started frantically scouring the water around us, but saw nothing. I didn't have to ask him but his face showed it all and I didn't have to tell him how I felt. We couldn't believe we missed him. We were so close.

Our disappointment and anxiety increased exponentially over the next 30 minutes or so as we looked but found nothing. We had to get out of the water and look from the shore because we were just getting constantly pounded by waves leaving us only a few seconds to search before having to duck the next one. I have had some incredibly deflating moments in this country and this was definitely one of, if not the worst. During that half hour I didn't know what to do-if we should stop or keep looking. I thought about professional search and rescue teams and how hopeless those guys must feel sometimes and what the families of those who are lost must feel. It's indescribable.

After this long while, another scream came from the spot on the beach where we originally had our towels and bikes 300+ yards back down the beach. We all bolted down the sand, quickly asked where they saw him and jumped in. Within seconds I saw a hand about 25 feet in front of me and my heart started racing again. The problem was we had 3 waves and a strong current to get by. One of the waves came over and absolutely wrecked all four of us guys. It was another 6-7 seconds before I was back on my feet. By the time I got my bearings I could not see this kid. I couldn't believe it. We missed our chance again.

What happened next seems incredible to think about, but one of my friends let out a small grunt and then yelled, "holy shit. I've got him. He hit my leg." We all came swimming over, grabbed a limb from under the water and hoisted him up. We had to fight a few waves to get him in but it felt like only seconds to the shore. Malagasy people quickly took him from all of us, but we tried to stay with him, especially the one of us who knows CPR. It was no use. The strength of the mob spit us out like the vazaha we are and at that point I yelled to everyone to just stay back to make sure whatever we did or were trying to do for the kid wasn't misconstrued for something else. We all wanted to do something but we all new as we brought in his limp, unresponsive body that he was probably well past saving. So we stood on the outside of the circle as they picked him up upside down by the ankles and pushed on his stomach - we can only assume in effort to push out all the sea water that he had ingested in however long he was stuck out there. Most of us couldn't watch anymore. Any chance that kid may have had (if he wasn't already dead) was lost in the seconds they wasted not letting us try CPR or bringing him directly to the hospital. We despondently walked back to our towels in complete shock by what had just happened-several Malagasy people trying to shake our hands along the way to say thank you.

In hindsight, we did do a great thing - we brought a young kid (his lifeless face looked like that of a teenager) out of the ocean giving his family the opportunity to bury him. It is especially important considering the dead are a really big part of Malagasy culture. You would not have convinced any of us of this at the time.

I don't believe in fate so I guess I would say its a great coincidence that the 7 of us were there to do something about what was happening. I had never seen a dead person before and I hope I never have to seen one again.

The ocean in Manakara on a nice, calm day. This is when I first arrived in the south east about 2 years ago.

Same Journey, New Chapter

Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs) of Madagascar warned me that while their third year extension was one of the best decisions they've ever made, it was always difficult to see stagemates (people you arrive in country with) and your other PCV friends leave before you knowing you still have some time to go. I have officially moved to Manakara (the city of my 3rd year extension) this past week and I am no longer the education volunteer of the Lycee du Faraony in Ampasimanjeva. It's definitely a strange feeling to know that Ampasimanjeva is no longer my home. However, 'Jeva will still be there next school year and I will certainly be back to visit so some of the shock factor is suppressed. What is weirder, though, is knowing that the rest of my stage (aside from the other people who are also extending) will be leaving Madagascar for good over the course of the next few weeks. Fortunately, this devastating blow is softened by the fact that I, too, am about to take my own vacation back home to see people I haven't seen in a long time.

With each incoming group of new PCVs I've sort of felt like I've been losing my identity as a PCV of Madagascar. The only comparison I can think of would be a professional athlete who is aged past his prime and realizes everyone else from his draft class is now out of the league (looking at you, Ray Allen). It's just a very strange, almost alienating feeling. I imagine it will be even weirder when I come back to Madagascar in September and my stagemates are all gone and they have all been replaced by a new group of people that I don't know.

But I digress...

I'm done!! Holy shit!! Can you believe it?! I've been here for more than 2 years. I definitely never thought this day would come, especially in those moments at 2:00am while running to my hole in the ground thinking there's a good chance I wouldn't make it. Not only did I make it to the hole (well, maybe not every time), but I made it to two years. I just said goodbye to everyone who took me in as family in Ampasimanjeva for the past two years. I don't think it was as hard as I expected, but again that's probably because I will only be a short distance away next year.

On the day the students all got their final grades, the Proviseur said some really nice things about me in front of everyone which was really nice. His short speech prompted an applause that seemed to go on forever. After that we had a going away party for me and another school employee who is retiring. I got a chance to speak and say thank you to everyone who helped and befriended me in the past two years. They gave me gifts that no person in the first world could ever understand (from a logical point of view. Obviously, I'm sure you can all appreciate the sentimental impact). The whole thing was just a really great way to cap off an amazing two years with some amazing people. It's interesting now to think about  myself two years ago and what I considered important in the world. Some of those views remain true today but many others are so incredibly different.

I am now in Manakara. I found a house, by the way, without the help of the man who is supposed to be my supervisor and work partner for my third year. Naturally, this makes me worry about how much support I might receive from him over the next year. The good thing is that I really don't need to be nagged and pushed to get things done and my new job doesn't require much help from him. My new house is significantly bigger than my previous digs in Ampasimanjeva and it will be nice for the PCVs around Manakara to have a place to go to in Manakara once again.

As of right now, I should be leaving country on August 22nd or 24th and returning on September 21st, but I don't quite have a plane ticket yet so we'll see what happens. Either way, this is my last post before I leave. I can't wait to see you all very soon!

18 Months Later

It's done. A year and a half of work is finally complete. I will open the library known as the Faraony Resource Center on Monday, June 30th.

This has been, without a doubt, the most mentally and emotionally exhausting project I have ever been part of and it almost feels as though it's not real. There is not enough space on the Internet for me to explain in correct detail everything that happened in the past 18 months, but the bottom line is that it is finished and who knows how many people this building will help in the years to come. 

The library has more than 2,300 books jn English, French, Malagasy and some textbooks for Spanish and German. There is fiction, non-fiction, textbooks, encyclopedias, dictionaries, childrens books and more. For less than a dollar people in this area can get access to an education that may not have been possible otherwise and that is not a cliche or a joke. I'm sure its no coincidence that the most difficult job I have ever worked on also feels like the most important thing I have ever done in my life.

There are so many people who helped me every step of the way and others who were so difficult that they appeared hell bent on sending me on a taxi brousse to the nearest nuthouse.

I'm not going to use an entire blog to send shout outs to people, but my family has put up with a lot of my crap through these two years and much more before I got to Madagascar. But the most important thing is that they have all been supportive of me since I became a PCV and became part of something that really makes me happy (albeit in a very unique way). All PCVs get supportive packages and phone calls from family, but my mom has answered every one of my requests from helping with fundraising in the US to sending me library cards to the labels I used for classifying books to just being a positive support system when nothing was going right (and the whole time she probably just wanted to say: what the hell are you doing? Come home). Thank you Mom, Dad, Matt and Jared. This post is for you guys. Thank you to everyone who gave money to this project and thanks to everyone who has ever read or commented on one of my blogs. I appreciate the support. You will never know how big of a part you played in helping me finish this. Without further ado, I give you the Faraony Resource Center.

The front doors

     A Peace Corps emblem on the side.

Got a little corny and wrote my name and service years.

This is what it looks like right as you step in the doors.

Going to put 6 small desks back to back to make a table.

The pictures you see above the shelves are pictures of places in the states. People here really like pictures so I thought that would be cool.

That's the librarians desk and some maps. The small shelf is where people will put their books when they're done for the librarian to put back.

Some non-fiction and some textbooks down below.

I got 6 sets of encyclopedias from Books for Africa. Those are the blue ones below the window.

                     Some fiction

A picture from the road with the sign and the back of the building.

My good friend who does Kung-Fu poses in literally every picture. He helped me put the sign in.

Thanks MOM!

The library card asks for first and last name, job (for purposes of payment. It's 1,000 for students and 2,000 for everyone else per year), the date the card expires and signatures from the card holder and the director of the library. 

Picture of the books already classified but no furniture/shelves.

I also have just finished my classes so I have officially finished my main job for Peace Corps for my 2 years of service.

Finally, I took a fairly stuffed taxi-brousse recently and thought I would give you all a taste.

Uh, come again?

Last week a student who has been in my classes for the last two years came up to me after class and asked if I would be in my house the next morning because he needed to talk to me. I said no problem. The next morning he showed up casually late (a standard Malagasy custom) and took a seat in one of the two chairs I have in my house. 

A quick sidenote about the custom for letting people in your home...Technically you are not supposed to walk into someone's house unless the host or hostess says, "come in." Now, that rule sort of falls by the wayside as you get to know people really well but that's the custom, nonetheless. Sometimes it's a bit funny if you dont say "come in" right away and watch and see how long it takes them to become visibly uncomfortable or for them to ask if they can come in. It's incredibly impolite if you don't say it - doesn't matter if you're talking to the mayor or the town clepto. Its particularly funny when you get a group of 10 bored students walking around in between classes and I have to tell them to "come in" to my house the size of a large walk-in closet. As the guest, you are also allowed to say, "eto avao" which roughly translates to, "thanks but here is fine" and awkwardly stand in the doorway. This is a good option if you want to avoid extended conversation or dont mind being late to wherever you're going. There's actually a joke amongst PC Madagascar/Africa that the time it takes you to get from point A to point B is completely dependent on how many people are sitting outside their front door. But of course, no student ever goes with "eto avao" because all of them need to see what the white guy has in his place (even if they've already been inside 50 times). So I tell this cloud of students to come in & they all file in with a precision that only Malagasy people seem to be born with (honestly I would love to see these people play tetris or something cause it's amazing how they can fit so much stuff in so many small places). I would equate it to something like a clown car at the circus except those clowns have limbs coming out of every opening (right? I've never actually seen a clown car at the circus but the analogy sounds good so go with it). Malagasy people pack themselves away with much more precision than the clowns.

So, after a few minutes of moving things around to make room for these people I now have all these students sitting in places I never thought could double as a seat. In traditional malagasy custom the eldest is usually the one to speak, but when it comes to several students visiting my house at the same time, they usually just defer to whoever can speak English the best (which in most cases means they can get to "whats new?" and then the conversation either reverts to gasy or just comes to a very awkward pause). Once the obligatory pleasantries are out of the way and each student has silently looked at all the newspaper clippings and other (mostly sports) pictures around my house, the 3-5 minute process of them finding a way to get out of my house begins and the delegated speaker says (in Malagasy now) "we were just passing by. See you later," all the while I'm thinking 'there goes another 10 minutes I can never get back.'

So back to this one student who needs my help and is in my house now. He starts out by saying (in Malagasy), "Sorry Rory but I have a problem." In my head I'm thinking, 'oh boy, its 8am and I have a bunch of stuff I would like to get done before noon.' Gasy people will tell you their problem 7 different ways and each way takes about 20 minutes. After the third one you just wanna scream out, "yeah, I got it the first time. What the hell do you want me to do about the cat who ate your chicken?" or whatever the issue of the day might be. So I cringe in my seat and ask, "okay, what's the problem?" This particular situation was a bit weird though because a handful of students are "regulars" at my house because they are looking to speak English (and have actually gotten quite good), but this kid had never been over in the 2 years I've been his teacher. "I really want to be good at English," he says. "Can you help me?" Instant slack jaw. You're kidding, right? I've been here for nearly two years, both of those with you as one of my students, all the while constantly preaching about my open-door policy and now, with 1 month left in the trimester and 2 months left in my service in Ampasimanjeva, you have the cojones to enter my walk-in closet and tell me you want to learn English? Just one question: what the f*#k have you been doing in my class for two years? Most people with half a brain would see this as a slap in the face and go nuts as I just displayed above, but I kept my cool and relayed my thoughts with a little more diplomacy. He told me he didnt ask earlier because he was scared. I thought to myself 'common sense told you that now, in my house with no witnesses would be the safest time to do so?" He then offered me a bottle of honey (I'm not sure if it was supposed to be as pay for my help or as a peace offering for me to forget how pissed off I was) which I told him I couldn't accept but I was always happy to help. It was like Peace Corps took hold of my tongue and made me say it. In the end I huffed and puffed my way through an hour and a half speaking lesson before he said his brain was tired and walked out. I felt dirty and used. He says he is going to come back every week until I leave. We'll see about that.

A few updates...I am headed to PC Madagascar's training center this week for my close of service conference with the rest of the volunteers I came into this country with nearly two years ago. Pretty wild. 

I also have finished inventory on all the books in the library. There are more than 2,200 books in there in English, French, Malagasy, some Spanish and even a little German. The shelves will be put in on the 26th after which I'll make some finishing touches and open that sucker up!