Friday, March 28, 2008
FYI
I just wanted to warn you all that the blog posts are going to be pretty sporadic. I just found out that not only does my site lack internet access (obviously because the village doesn't even have electricity) but apparently there's no internet in my banking town either. This means that in order to get to a place where I can actually update my blog I'll have to travel to a town that's like two to three times farther away from my site than my banking town. Therefore, don't freak out if you don't notice any new posts for a couple months at a time. Because I'm going to be even less connected to the outside world than I originally thought, snail mail is going to be even more important to keep in touch. So send me mail! Seriously, you have no idea how exciting it is to get a letter when you're this isolated.
Rules of the Road...or Lack Thereof
So I thought it was really bizarre that every blog I read leading up to my time of departure mentioned the Malagasy roads. Now I know why. The roads here are absolutely horrendous. I don’t think there is a single rule for drivers to follow. Actually, I take that back. There appear to be two guidelines: (1) get there as fast as you can and (2) don’t die. Let me tell you, I am shocked every time I step foot into a vehicle that my driver is able to successfully accomplish guideline #2. My life has flashed before my eyes so many times it doesn’t even surprise me anymore. I just assume upon entering a car now that I’m going to cheat death at least twelve times – no matter how short the trip.
The issues with car trips here are twofold. First, people drive like complete maniacs. They honestly do not think twice about passing other cars at any time. The road could be really narrow, they could be going around a sharp bend, there could be oncoming traffic or all three at once. Nobody seems to be concerned about collisions at all. Passing isn’t the only absurdity. When sitting in a traffic jam (which happens constantly in Tana) it is perfectly natural to just pull into the lane which would have oncoming traffic if you were moving and try to forge your own path. It doesn’t seem to occur to people that this actually makes the situation worse because you’re adding more lines of cars trying to cross the same intersection. Traffic lights and signs are also nonexistent. I heard that at one point they actually did set up some traffic lights in Tana. However, nobody had any idea what they meant so they would just drive right through red lights. Apparently nobody thought about actually having to teach the population that red means stop and green means go. Needless to say, the traffic lights didn’t last too long.
The second issue is that the roads themselves are really bad. When they are paved they never have lines, are incredibly windy and because they’re reasonably flat, people feel justified in driving even more recklessly. So you end up passing a huge truck carting petrol around a bend at 100 mph. When they aren’t paved then they’re gravel, dirt, or inevitably mud. That’s when the fun really begins because there is absolutely zero chance the road will be even remotely flat. Giant craters and mounds are characteristic of these lovely country roads and getting stuck at least once is almost a guarantee. There are times when I’m not even sure what we turn onto is an actual road. One of my fellow PCTs compared driving over these roads to being on tumble dry low (I think that was Austin?) and I can’t think of a more perfect way to describe it.
All in all, if anyone happens to stumble upon this post who is preparing to serve for Peace Corps in Madagascar, do yourself a favor and bring along some motion sickness meds. Even if you’ve never been carsick before. I never ever experienced motion sickness before coming here and now I dread car rides.
The issues with car trips here are twofold. First, people drive like complete maniacs. They honestly do not think twice about passing other cars at any time. The road could be really narrow, they could be going around a sharp bend, there could be oncoming traffic or all three at once. Nobody seems to be concerned about collisions at all. Passing isn’t the only absurdity. When sitting in a traffic jam (which happens constantly in Tana) it is perfectly natural to just pull into the lane which would have oncoming traffic if you were moving and try to forge your own path. It doesn’t seem to occur to people that this actually makes the situation worse because you’re adding more lines of cars trying to cross the same intersection. Traffic lights and signs are also nonexistent. I heard that at one point they actually did set up some traffic lights in Tana. However, nobody had any idea what they meant so they would just drive right through red lights. Apparently nobody thought about actually having to teach the population that red means stop and green means go. Needless to say, the traffic lights didn’t last too long.
The second issue is that the roads themselves are really bad. When they are paved they never have lines, are incredibly windy and because they’re reasonably flat, people feel justified in driving even more recklessly. So you end up passing a huge truck carting petrol around a bend at 100 mph. When they aren’t paved then they’re gravel, dirt, or inevitably mud. That’s when the fun really begins because there is absolutely zero chance the road will be even remotely flat. Giant craters and mounds are characteristic of these lovely country roads and getting stuck at least once is almost a guarantee. There are times when I’m not even sure what we turn onto is an actual road. One of my fellow PCTs compared driving over these roads to being on tumble dry low (I think that was Austin?) and I can’t think of a more perfect way to describe it.
All in all, if anyone happens to stumble upon this post who is preparing to serve for Peace Corps in Madagascar, do yourself a favor and bring along some motion sickness meds. Even if you’ve never been carsick before. I never ever experienced motion sickness before coming here and now I dread car rides.
Playing with Knives
After a couple of weeks here, I’m beginning to feel somewhat settled. I feel a little less out of place all the time and have mastered most of my daily activities (I’m probably never going to get used to the outdoor bucket shower on cold rainy days but there are worse things to have to deal with I suppose). I’m even managing to string together a few simple sentences at the dinner table, so I don’t seem completely mute and deaf to my host family anymore. I’m hoping that as I start conversing more I’ll be able to convince my host mom that I am somewhat intelligent and that she’ll trust me to do some things – like fetch water – on my own. As of right now, I am not allowed to leave the yard without my little brothers as escorts. I appreciate the concern but I think my brothers are sick of having to tag along for all of my daily chores. Overall though, the adjustment process seems to be coming along.
One thing that I have been struggling to adjust to, however, is the tendency to allow kids to play with knives here. Apparently, nobody here is considered too young to wield a knife because I’ve seen kids as young as two waving knives around without nearby adults so much as batting an eyelash. Meanwhile, I’m standing by having heart attacks ready to catch flying limbs at any moment. Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if I start finding gray hairs. I noticed this for the first time when my host mom brought a huge knife along to cut back the path on our way to get water. Her hands were full on the way back so she just handed the knife over to my five-year-old brother. Without hesitation. We’re talking a knife that’s probably longer than his arm. My brother then proceeded to try to chop branches off of every tree and bush that we passed on the way back home. This didn’t go over too well with my mom so I thought she was yelling at him to stop or he’d chop his arm off. But when we finally got back I took the knife to be placed safely out of reach. I thought I was doing her a favor but when my brother started crying she gave it right back to him to play with at the house. So I guess she was just yelling at him to hurry up.
I was faced with this again the other night while helping cook dinner. My little brother and his two-year-old cousin were running around fighting when my brother reached for the sharp knife I’d been using and started waving it around in front of his face. His cousin, not to be outdone, then reached for the antsy-be (big knife) and started waving it around. I thought for sure my host mom would intervene this time given the fact that the two were dangerously close to one another, but she just sat there calmly and continued cooking. Given what had happened the first time I’d tried to intervene, I just moved myself out of striking range and prepared myself for the worst. In my mom’s defense, nothing happened either time. And I haven’t seen any Malagasy children with missing fingers. So I guess these kids really do know how to handle a knife.
One thing that I have been struggling to adjust to, however, is the tendency to allow kids to play with knives here. Apparently, nobody here is considered too young to wield a knife because I’ve seen kids as young as two waving knives around without nearby adults so much as batting an eyelash. Meanwhile, I’m standing by having heart attacks ready to catch flying limbs at any moment. Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if I start finding gray hairs. I noticed this for the first time when my host mom brought a huge knife along to cut back the path on our way to get water. Her hands were full on the way back so she just handed the knife over to my five-year-old brother. Without hesitation. We’re talking a knife that’s probably longer than his arm. My brother then proceeded to try to chop branches off of every tree and bush that we passed on the way back home. This didn’t go over too well with my mom so I thought she was yelling at him to stop or he’d chop his arm off. But when we finally got back I took the knife to be placed safely out of reach. I thought I was doing her a favor but when my brother started crying she gave it right back to him to play with at the house. So I guess she was just yelling at him to hurry up.
I was faced with this again the other night while helping cook dinner. My little brother and his two-year-old cousin were running around fighting when my brother reached for the sharp knife I’d been using and started waving it around in front of his face. His cousin, not to be outdone, then reached for the antsy-be (big knife) and started waving it around. I thought for sure my host mom would intervene this time given the fact that the two were dangerously close to one another, but she just sat there calmly and continued cooking. Given what had happened the first time I’d tried to intervene, I just moved myself out of striking range and prepared myself for the worst. In my mom’s defense, nothing happened either time. And I haven’t seen any Malagasy children with missing fingers. So I guess these kids really do know how to handle a knife.
Even the Chickens Stare at Me
I went into this whole deal anticipating that there was nothing I could really do to prepare myself for those initial days in country…and I was more right than I ever could’ve imagined. There is absolutely nothing I could’ve done to prepare myself for the extreme absurdity that made up my first days in Madagascar. It’s really been an incredibly surreal first week started off by the most awkward night of my life.
As soon as we landed, the group was herded to the medical office for our initial round of vaccinations, a whirlwind explanation on how to take a bucket bath and use a po (it’s fady, or taboo, to go outside at night here, which in a country largely without indoor plumbing necessitates the use of the lovely po, or pee pot). They then taught us a few key Malagasy phrases (“hi, my name is…” “I’m full” “I’m tired” “Where’s the bathroom?” etc) and crammed us into vans to go meet our families. While in transit to our village I should mention that I endured my first bit of “unwanted attention.” I don’t know why this surprised me, I always seem to attract the creepos immediately upon entering a new country. This time it was in the form of a guy wearing the creepiest mask I have ever seen coming up to the van and staring at me intently - to the point where the nose of his mask actually dragged along the entire window as we crawled along the road at a snails pace. Awesome. Way to get my stay here started off right. Anyway, this meeting of the families was a hilariously awkward endeavor. The mass of trainees all huddled together facing an even bigger mass of host families. One by one we went up to a PC worker to tell our name and they called it out repeatedly until the matching family emerged from the group to claim their trainee. I think I now know what it must feel like to be auctioned off…
After being united with my family, my host mom immediately latched on to my arm and half led half dragged me down the path to the house. It was pitch black at this point and after I stepped in about my eighth pile of what I can only hope was mud I began to seriously question Peace Corps’ insistence on us arriving in business casual attire. Those shoes will never be the same again. Not to mention the fact that we arrived at night in a place without electricity…I don’t think my host family had any idea what I was wearing.
We managed to make it to the house without incident. Notice I said house. For those of you who automatically equate housing in Africa with mud huts (and there’s a lot of you, I’m sure, so you don’t have to feel too embarrassed), I live in a lovely house with two floors and a thatched roof. Ironically enough, my room here, in a village of subsistence farmers, is about ten times bigger than the room I had in Geneva, a city of wealthy bankers. Anyway, we sat down to dinner and as the guest of honor, I was forced to sit in the only actual chair, which is about six inches higher than the benches my host family sits on. Now, the people who live on the plateau here are really pretty short. We’re talking at 5’4” I tower over almost everyone I meet. So as I sat down to dinner I was literally looming over the rest of the table, certainly adding to my already freakish appearance.
My family attempted to talk to me throughout the meal, but it was in vain given that the only thing I’d managed to memorize in Malagasy was “hi, my name is…” This, by the way, was a complete waste of brain power given that my family obviously already knew my name. I have never felt as worthless as I did that night with my host mom trying so desperately to have a conversation with me. The charade continued as I was ushered into my room immediately after dinner. At this point I was completely lost because I had been under the impression that at some point we would actually get our bags and that PC would give us a schedule for the orientation that was set to begin the following morning somewhere at some time. It was becoming abundantly clear that neither of those things were going to happen so I was beginning to wonder when and if I would see my bags I had spent so much time packing. Not to mention how I would attend training without knowing when and where to meet everyone. I’m pretty sure my host mom was trying to explain all this to me but she was talking to me as if I was a native in the language, apparently having forgotten how unsuccessful her previous attempts at talking to me had been. The only thing she managed to get across was how to light my candle and blow it out before I went to bed. Of all the messages for her to focus on getting across, that was probably the most useless. Although after appearing to have the mental capacity of a 5-year-old I suppose I can understand her concern with my ability to use a candle. After that riveting exchange my host mom shooed everyone out of my room and having no bag and thus zero entertainment, I went to bed.
My next few days grew steadily (though painfully slowly) less awkward. I began to figure out rudimentary sentences and could respond somewhat to my host mom’s attempts at conversation. I even began to figure out the “bathroom” and bucket showers and developed a bit of a morning routine. By about my fourth morning, I was feeling less like a fish out of water when my confidence was immediately shot down. As I went out to the kabone (bathroom) to clean out my po, one of my host family’s chickens cam over and watched me. I went about my business and then walked over to the shower to brush my teeth. The chicken followed me and proceeded to stare me down the entire time I brushed my teeth. By the time I was done I looked over at the chicken and met it’s gaze for awhile and all I could think was “holy crap, I am so out of place in this country that even the chickens here are staring at me.”
As soon as we landed, the group was herded to the medical office for our initial round of vaccinations, a whirlwind explanation on how to take a bucket bath and use a po (it’s fady, or taboo, to go outside at night here, which in a country largely without indoor plumbing necessitates the use of the lovely po, or pee pot). They then taught us a few key Malagasy phrases (“hi, my name is…” “I’m full” “I’m tired” “Where’s the bathroom?” etc) and crammed us into vans to go meet our families. While in transit to our village I should mention that I endured my first bit of “unwanted attention.” I don’t know why this surprised me, I always seem to attract the creepos immediately upon entering a new country. This time it was in the form of a guy wearing the creepiest mask I have ever seen coming up to the van and staring at me intently - to the point where the nose of his mask actually dragged along the entire window as we crawled along the road at a snails pace. Awesome. Way to get my stay here started off right. Anyway, this meeting of the families was a hilariously awkward endeavor. The mass of trainees all huddled together facing an even bigger mass of host families. One by one we went up to a PC worker to tell our name and they called it out repeatedly until the matching family emerged from the group to claim their trainee. I think I now know what it must feel like to be auctioned off…
After being united with my family, my host mom immediately latched on to my arm and half led half dragged me down the path to the house. It was pitch black at this point and after I stepped in about my eighth pile of what I can only hope was mud I began to seriously question Peace Corps’ insistence on us arriving in business casual attire. Those shoes will never be the same again. Not to mention the fact that we arrived at night in a place without electricity…I don’t think my host family had any idea what I was wearing.
We managed to make it to the house without incident. Notice I said house. For those of you who automatically equate housing in Africa with mud huts (and there’s a lot of you, I’m sure, so you don’t have to feel too embarrassed), I live in a lovely house with two floors and a thatched roof. Ironically enough, my room here, in a village of subsistence farmers, is about ten times bigger than the room I had in Geneva, a city of wealthy bankers. Anyway, we sat down to dinner and as the guest of honor, I was forced to sit in the only actual chair, which is about six inches higher than the benches my host family sits on. Now, the people who live on the plateau here are really pretty short. We’re talking at 5’4” I tower over almost everyone I meet. So as I sat down to dinner I was literally looming over the rest of the table, certainly adding to my already freakish appearance.
My family attempted to talk to me throughout the meal, but it was in vain given that the only thing I’d managed to memorize in Malagasy was “hi, my name is…” This, by the way, was a complete waste of brain power given that my family obviously already knew my name. I have never felt as worthless as I did that night with my host mom trying so desperately to have a conversation with me. The charade continued as I was ushered into my room immediately after dinner. At this point I was completely lost because I had been under the impression that at some point we would actually get our bags and that PC would give us a schedule for the orientation that was set to begin the following morning somewhere at some time. It was becoming abundantly clear that neither of those things were going to happen so I was beginning to wonder when and if I would see my bags I had spent so much time packing. Not to mention how I would attend training without knowing when and where to meet everyone. I’m pretty sure my host mom was trying to explain all this to me but she was talking to me as if I was a native in the language, apparently having forgotten how unsuccessful her previous attempts at talking to me had been. The only thing she managed to get across was how to light my candle and blow it out before I went to bed. Of all the messages for her to focus on getting across, that was probably the most useless. Although after appearing to have the mental capacity of a 5-year-old I suppose I can understand her concern with my ability to use a candle. After that riveting exchange my host mom shooed everyone out of my room and having no bag and thus zero entertainment, I went to bed.
My next few days grew steadily (though painfully slowly) less awkward. I began to figure out rudimentary sentences and could respond somewhat to my host mom’s attempts at conversation. I even began to figure out the “bathroom” and bucket showers and developed a bit of a morning routine. By about my fourth morning, I was feeling less like a fish out of water when my confidence was immediately shot down. As I went out to the kabone (bathroom) to clean out my po, one of my host family’s chickens cam over and watched me. I went about my business and then walked over to the shower to brush my teeth. The chicken followed me and proceeded to stare me down the entire time I brushed my teeth. By the time I was done I looked over at the chicken and met it’s gaze for awhile and all I could think was “holy crap, I am so out of place in this country that even the chickens here are staring at me.”
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