Every Volunteer is a Malaria Volunteer

When I first heard that the Peace Corps initiative Stomping Out Malaria in Africa had a vision of every Peace Corps volunteer being a “malaria volunteer”, meaning every volunteer regardless of sector would be active in malaria awareness projects, I was a bit skeptical. As a Community Health volunteer I have an obvious interest in disease prevention and eradication efforts. My job description in a nutshell is helping the Malagasy live long and healthy lives. Malaria is a very serious and often deadly disease, cutting lives tragically short. It is a public health threat of the gravest nature. Therefore, my role as a health sector volunteer naturally encompasses malaria prevention.

But although I am for obvious reasons a tad biased in favor of health volunteers, the Peace Corps family is made up of a colorful variety of volunteer sectors filling every niche imaginable. In Madagascar we currently have volunteers in four sectors – health, environment, community economic development, and English education. I knew that my fellow health volunteers would pursue the goal of eradicating malaria with gusto. But I seriously doubted the enthusiasm of volunteers in other sectors. Why would an English teacher take the time to create lesson plans about malaria? Why would an environment volunteer stop planting their garden and plan a malaria parade? Why would a community economic development volunteer halt their current project and make a mosquito piñata? Malaria is clearly a health issue, isn’t it? So doesn’t it follow that only health volunteers should be involved in the initiative?

As the Regional Malaria Coordinator for the Antananarivo area, my role the past month was recording the malaria activities of every volunteer in my region. As the phone calls, text messages, emails, and Facebook messages from volunteers rained down I came to an amazing realization. I had been completely and utterly wrong. Peace Corps volunteers regardless of their sector were engaging in malaria prevention work. There were community economic development volunteers teaching about malaria to their partner organizations, environment volunteers writing malaria awareness blogs, and education volunteers dedicating a day or even a whole week of lessons to malaria. I have a few shining examples from my region that I’d love to share.

Travis Pringle is an English education volunteer working in a town called Ankazobe. Travis teaches CEG (middle school) and LYCEE (high school) students. On April 25, World Malaria Day, Travis dedicated all of his classes to malaria awareness and prevention. His students learned malaria vocabulary, made posters about malaria prevention, practiced setting up and using mosquito nets, played games to understand malaria transmission, and made Neem Cream, a natural mosquito repellant. Not only did Travis educate his students but he also ensured that all students would be exposed to malaria prevention messages by sharing a malaria English lesson template with his fellow teachers. In that one day alone Travis shared malaria information with 499 students. That’s 499 students who are more likely to live malaria-free lives.

Some of Travis’s students learning how to use a mosquito net

In Sandrandahy English education volunteer Carolyn Cella and community economic development volunteer Amy Wallace teamed up to plan four days of interactive lessons to be delivered to all of Carolyn’s students. The lessons they created combined English education with essential malaria messages. The first day was dedicated to learning malaria basics such as cause, symptoms, danger signs, and treatment as well as essential vocabulary in English. The second day the students were asked to draw upon what they learned the previous day to create malaria awareness posters with messages in both English and Malagasy. The third day the students worked in groups to write brief speeches or dialogues about their completed posters. And on the final day the students gave their speeches or read their dialogues in front of other classes. The students went from receiving the information on the first day to actually sharing the information with others, becoming teachers themselves, on the last day.

Travis, Carolyn, and Amy are just a few examples of volunteers dedicating themselves wholeheartedly to the Stomping Out Malaria in Africa initiative. And they serve as proof that every volunteer can indeed be a “malaria volunteer” regardless of their sector. After all, improving lives is a goal that transcends sector classifications and unites all Peace Corps volunteers. Shame on me for being a doubter in the beginning. But I’m quite happy to have been proven wrong.

Teaching a mixed English/malaria lesson

Malaria – It Has Something to do with Mosquitoes, Right?

A nuisance – that’s the word most Americans would use to describe mosquitoes. In general it’s an apt description for the small insect that announces its presence with that annoyingly high pitched buzzing in your ears, inevitably followed by a fit of frenzied slapping on your part. And of course they always manage to bite you in the most inconvenient places – the bottom of your foot, between your fingers, dead center of your forehead. But for millions of people living in malaria endemic regions of the world a mosquito is much more than a mere nuisance – it is the carrier of a potentially fatal disease.

Malaria is caused by the bite of an Anopheles mosquito that is infected with the Plasmodium parasite. When a mosquito takes a “blood meal”, the parasite is passed from the saliva of the infected mosquito to the human’s bloodstream. Once in the bloodstream, the parasite travels to the liver where it grows and matures typically within the window of 5 to 30 days. With some rare forms of malaria however the parasite can remain dormant in the liver for up to four years. After maturation the parasite re-enters the bloodstream to begin a hostile takeover of red blood cells. The parasites multiply within a red blood cell until it bursts and they spill out in search of new red cells to invade. The rapid destruction of red blood cells by the parasites is what causes most of the recognizable symptoms of malaria including high fever, alternating chills and sweats, headache, dizziness, and fatigue. If left untreated the disease can worsen resulting in confusion, coma, and eventually death.

In 2010, 216 million cases of malaria were recorded worldwide and of that number 655,000 were fatal. About 90% of malaria related deaths occurr in Sub-Saharan Africa, the majority children under five years old. With such a startlingly large percentage of malaria deaths concentrated in one region of the world it makes sense that prevention and eradication efforts are similarly concentrated. In recent years there has been a huge international effort to decrease those grim statistics in Sub-Saharan Africa.

The Peace Corps is one of the organizations contributing to that effort. In 2011, Peace Corps announced its new initiative “Stomping Out Malaria in Africa”. This initiative unites approximately 3,000 Peace Corps volunteers working in 23 African countries (Madagascar included) in the common goal of eradicating malaria. Volunteers in these countries are working hard to educate people about prevention methods such as sleeping under insecticide treated bed nets and going to the health clinic to be tested for malaria when symptoms arise. On World Malaria Day (April 25) volunteers will be giving speeches, teaching at schools, setting up informational booths in markets, painting murals, building mosquito piñatas, organizing parades, and countless other activities all to forward the goal of “stomping out” malaria.

The road to complete eradication will no doubt be a difficult one. Due to the nature of its transmission, malaria is epidemic prone. A single infected individual could be bitten by a mosquito that then transmits the parasite to ten other people who are then bitten by more mosquitoes and transmit to even more people and so on until the situation reaches epidemic level. But with thousands of dedicated volunteers working within the communities most affected by the disease and a new global awareness that brings in much needed resources we may yet find ourselves in a world where there are no more malaria carrying mosquitoes to stomp.

Don’t Help the Possums, They’re Not From Around Here

I have a message for you. Not the kind of message you leave on your friend’s voicemail because she is mad at you and has been screening her calls to avoid talking to you. I mean the kind of message that is basically a declaration of opinion delivered in a way that asks you to reassess your own perspective on the issue. That kind of message. The problem with those sorts of messages though is that nobody really wants to listen to them. No matter how eloquent the delivery it always ends up feeling like someone is forcing their opinion on you, and we as human beings don’t like that one little bit. So to share my message I decided to utilize a method that people have embraced for countless generations – that is, to tell a story about cute, fuzzy animals and cleverly hide the message as the moral of the story. Here we go.

Once upon a time there was an enchanted wood and because it was enchanted all the animals in this wood took on alarmingly human-like characteristics such as talking, cooking, wearing clothes, and complaining about shoddy cell phone service. In a big pine tree at the edge of the wood lived a family of raccoons. And by a family I mean a huge extended family – there was mother and father raccoon of course but also various aunts, uncles, cousins, children, step children, and in-laws. Just a ton of raccoons. Generally speaking, the raccoons did pretty well for themselves. They had all kinds of nifty skills like weaving, fishing, gardening, and they all could play a mean game of golf. In fact, the raccoons had more food, clothing, and other stuff than most of the animals in the wood. That isn’t to say that the raccoons were without their own problems. On the contrary, they had hard times too. Sometimes there wasn’t enough food for all of the raccoons and some of them went hungry. Sometimes a really bad storm blew through and damaged their pine tree. And for some reason they always seemed to be fighting with the badger across the way. So yeah, they had problems but in general life was good.

On the opposite end of the wood in an old oak tree covered in ivy lived an equally large family of possums. Things weren’t going quite so well for the possums. They never seemed to have enough food so the possum babies were really small and undernourished. Since they were undernourished they got sick easily and the sight of their little baby possum faces streaked with tears and possum snot would be enough to break the hardest heart.

Well one day Mother Raccoon, being the proactive animal she was and seeing how the possums suffered, decided she was going to do something to help the possum family. She sent some of her eager raccoon children over to the possums’ tree with bundles of food, blankets, clothes, and books. Not only did her little raccoon minions give those much needed gifts to the possum family but they went one step further and started helping the possums in other ways. The raccoons shared all their best gardening, weaving, fishing, and golf playing secrets with the possums. At the end of the day the little raccoons, pleased with what they had done, skipped merrily home with smiles on their faces.

As soon as they entered the pine tree however they were confronted by Uncle Raccoon, the mean and awkward one that nobody likes to talk about. “Why are you helping the possum family?” he demanded with a scowl. “Don’t you realize that we have our own problems? What about the hunger season? What about the damage to our tree? And you know we are still fighting that darn badger across the way! How dare you give away our precious resources to those possums! They aren’t raccoons! They aren’t even from around here! I heard they moved here from Cincinnati!” he snorted.

The little raccoon do-gooders sat in silence for a moment. Then the pluckiest of the bunch spoke up, “We are simply doing what we think is right. We saw the possums suffering horribly and we knew that we could help. We know we have our own problems to deal with but does that mean we should completely ignore the suffering of others? And if you are insinuating that we shouldn’t help the possums because they aren’t raccoons well that is just bigotry and a load of crap. We’re all mammals” (the little raccoon had a bit of a smart mouth on him).

The mean and awkward Uncle Raccoon was momentarily stunned into silence by the little raccoon’s boldness. After a brief hesitation and much grumbling he decided it was better to shuffle off to the kitchen and find something new to complain about, perhaps with a less vocal audience this time.

A few months went by and the raccoons all noticed that the possum family was doing much better. The food and clothing and other goods had helped immediately of course but the lessons on gardening, fishing, weaving, and golf had given them the skills they needed to improve their lives in the long run. Their children were growing big and strong and leaking significantly less possum snot. Mother Raccoon and her little ones were most pleased with the result. The End.

Cute story, yes? I like to think so. But more importantly, did you guess what my message was about? If you were too distracted by mental images of talking forest creatures to make abstract associations then here it is: the raccoon family represents the United States and the possum family represents the poverty stricken developing country of your choice. Any clearer now? And who, you may ask, is the grumpy Uncle Raccoon? He represents the alarmingly large and annoyingly vocal number of people who believe that the US shouldn’t offer aid to foreign countries because we have our own problems to deal with. Mind you, the analogy in my story isn’t perfect, but you get the picture.

So…that little story in itself is sort of my response to those who think we are stupid for helping other countries. Yes, I acknowledge that the US has quite a colorful variety of its own issues. Yes, I would like to see us resolve those issues. But no, I don’t think we should be so callous and self-worshipping as to ignore intense suffering happening in the world when it occurs outside of our national borders. While reading the story you liked the little do-gooder raccoons, right? And you thought that Uncle Raccoon was a real jerk, yeah? And why is that? Because you felt that the little raccoons were doing what was right by helping the possums. Now I’m not going to launch into a moral/ethical discussion of right and wrong – I’m just going to venture to say that helping others is generally a good thing. Or at least that’s what several other well known stories involving cute, fuzzy animals led me to believe as a child.

And another point I’ll bring up briefly is the scale of poverty in the developing world. I’m only going to touch on it briefly because in all honesty it is a concept that is difficult to grasp if you have never spent a significant amount of time in a developing country. It is almost impossible to describe the scale of poverty that is the reality in some places. After nearly two years of living in Madagascar I am only just beginning to appreciate the true scope and repercussions of poverty here. After two years of seeing people with bleeding feet from not having shoes to cover them, babies with arms like sticks and skin like tissue paper from severe malnutrition, women fetching dirty water from the river which they will then drink, and children carried 10 kilometers in the arms of their parents only to die at the doorstep of the health clinic from a completely preventable disease – after all that I am beginning to understand the heart breaking and terrifying scale of poverty in the developing world.

Since this whole blog started with a story, I’ll share another one really quickly. A few of you may have heard this one before. So there was this really unfortunate guy who got the crap kicked out of him. He’s lying there on the side of the road covered in blood and dirt and generally not having the best day of his life. A few people pass by, even some people from his hometown but none of them help him. Things are looking pretty grim. Buzzards are circling, life flashes before his eyes, that kind of stuff. Then one really cool guy happens upon the scene. He doesn’t know the injured man but immediately he helps him find a ride back into town and gets him some much needed medical attention. And when the hospital has a fit that the injured man has no insurance the cool guy pays for it out of his pocket. Sound familiar? It’s the story of the good Samaritan from the Bible – although I admittedly may have tweaked a few details. I think people would agree that the Samaritan was…well…pretty darn good. When others turned away, perhaps thinking that they had enough problems on their plate without adding this man’s too, the good Samaritan swooped in Superman style and saved the day. I don’t know about you, but if I had to choose a role to play in that story I would most definitely want to be the good Samaritan. Those other guys just kind of suck.

Now that I’ve already tread into sensitive territory by sharing a Bible story (Oh no! Religion! Everyone freak out!) I’ll throw caution to the wind and actually quote something from said book – love thy neighbor. And I don’t care if you get your spiritual guidance from the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, the tea leaves at the bottom of your cup, Oprah Winfrey, or your own naval lint…those seem like pretty wise words to live by. Love thy neighbor. It isn’t love thy fellow Americans or love thy fellow comfortably middle class or love those who speak your language or love thy neighbor but only when it’s convenient…its love thy neighbor. I take that to mean love your fellow man. Be compassionate. Help those in need. Make sacrifices for the benefit of others. Do good deeds whenever and however and for whoever you can. Basically, don’t be a selfish a-hole.

Great. Now let’s all get in a circle and sing Kumbaya.

 

Yep, Still Here! :)

I know it has been quite awhile since I posted a real update but I have actually been busy since returning to Madagascar following my amazing Americaland vacation. So what have I been getting into since February? Well, I went to something called Training of Trainers (TOT) to prepare lessons for the new stage of volunteers, performed two dances for a huge crowd of people on International Women’s Day, worked with the American Embassy to rebuild stairs in my town, held a training for local community health workers on HIV/AIDS and condom use, and traveled to the Peace Corps training center to act as Yoda for the new health volunteers. This unprecedented level of productivity in my life has caused me to neglect certain things, this blog being one of them. So sorry for that. So without further ado, here are some lovely pics of the happenings I just described.

Our dirty but still pretty river in Andramasina

Getting my dance on at the International Women’s Day celebration (March 8)

And a native dance too

Stair reconstruction with the Embassy

The stair reconstruction project was a pretty big deal for be because 1) I was actually involved in constructing a physical object 2) I was working with the American Embassy on the project and 3) it was initiated by a local group (Red Cross) so there were a lot of people anticipating the result. After the project was over the Peace Corps Madagascar country director asked me to write a brief article sharing my experience with the project. I included the write-up below. Mazotoa (enjoy)!

A Step in the Right Direction

Tantely and I stood on the hillside like a pair of statues completely consumed in our task of watching the distant roadway. Our straining eyes searched for any sign of an approaching vehicle. When a large white truck rounded the bend I saw her previously frozen expression break into a smile. I knew in that moment we were thinking the same thing, “The stairs really will be built!”

A month prior to that afternoon on the hillside I had been approached by several members of the Andramasina Red Cross. They hoped that if we worked together we might find a solution to a pressing community need. In the town of Andramasina there are stone and cement stairs that connect the main road to the entrance of the public elementary school. The approximately 300 students who attend this school must therefore use those stairs multiple times a day. This past December however, a large section of the stairs was destroyed by heavy rains and runoff. The local Red Cross volunteers had noticed with alarm that children continued to use the heavily damaged stairs in spite of their dangerous condition. The volunteers were concerned for the safety of the students and that of the countless other community members who used the stairs. The solution was simple  – the stairs needed to be rebuilt. But how to accomplish that goal? The Red Cross could supply workers and easily acquired materials like sand and water but a vital question remained: where would they find the money to fund the cement and stones?

After my conversation with the volunteers I went to work writing a small grant proposal which I immediately sent on to Peace Corps for review. I hoped that perhaps I could get enough funding through PCPP to purchase the needed materials. However, that turned out to be completely unnecessary. In a stroke of amazing good fortune, the consulate section of the American Embassy heard about my project proposal and contacted me with a proposition. They offered to completely fund the stair rebuilding in Andramasina and they only asked for one thing in return – the opportunity to come to Andramasina themselves and help with the construction process. I of course enthusiastically accepted these terms and shared the news with the ecstatic Red Cross volunteers.

That is the reason why a month later Tantely, the local Red Cross president, and I were standing so intently on that hillside. We were both eagerly awaiting the arrival of the consulate members and the bags of cement they had promised to bring. The first sight of that white truck glimmering in the distance brought with it a feeling of peace; the kind of peace that is felt after something long anticipated is finally realized.

The consulate section members were true to their word. They brought with them bags of cement, funds to reimburse the purchase of stones locally, and most importantly boundless enthusiasm. The consulate section, the local Red Cross volunteers, and I worked together most of the day to mend the damaged stairs. The only break taken was to eat some local food prepared for us by Andramasina residents as a sign of their appreciation. At the end of the day, there were ten or so very dirty people gazing with satisfaction on the newly rebuilt stairs.

As those of us in international development are well aware, projects can and do go horribly awry. Even the most carefully planned projects rarely go exactly as expected. So why was this particular project successful? First and foremost, it was truly community initiated. It was the local volunteers who identified the community need and dedicated themselves to discovering a solution. This was critical to its success because the community as a whole felt they had ownership in the project and were thus motivated to see it to completion. The stairs were their project, not the product of outside opinions or pressure. And secondly, this was a project made possible through collaboration. The consulate members, the Red Cross volunteers, and the community at large worked together to achieve a common goal. None of these parties alone could have achieved as great a result as was realized through working together. The pitter patter of tiny feet going up and down those stairs every day remind me of just how great the result truly was.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words (so you are spared my ramblings)

Teaching nutrition with another volunteer in Antanifotsy

TOTEM girls

And more TOTEM girls

TOTEM unity

This chick has got some moves

Frip Prom – the guys

Frip Prom – the girls

A walk through Andramasina

Can you tell its rice season?

Fight the Good Fight

When we believe we are doing something that is inherently good, something altruistic for the betterment of mankind, opposition to that belief can be a hard slap in the face. I received such a blow very recently and I’ll admit it still stings. In my last blog entry I discussed my perspective on the reality facing women in Madagascar and also the group of young women that I lead in Andramasina to help address the problem. When discussing the creation of this group with American friends in particular, the reaction has been overwhelmingly positive and encouraging. I suppose that is to be expected since our nation prides itself on equality. I have received almost as many positive responses from Malagasy friends concerning my girl’s group. Peace Corps certainly seemed to think it was a good idea since they fully funded the project. But the lesson I recently learned is that in anything – whether it be a fully formed project or simply an idea you dare to say aloud – there will be someone who opposes it. And the opposition can come from unexpected sources. Here’s what happened.

I had just finished leading my girl’s group, TOTEM, in their weekly basketball practice so I was tired, sweaty, covered in red dirt, and not particularly in a conversational mood. As I climbed the stairs leading up to the hospital where I live I saw that two hospital employees were sitting at the top of the stairs – a male nurse and a female secretary. As I muttered the usual greetings and replied that yes, I had indeed just finished teaching basketball, the nurse asked when I was going to teach him and his friends to play basketball. I had heard similar requests many times before and I gave my usual two second response – that this project and thus the basketball equipment is specifically for young women in Andramasina – sorry. Generally, that brief explanation is enough, but not this time. The nurse started to debate with me whether it is good or bad to have a group specifically for women. “Okay,” I thought, “it might be nice to delve into this a little further with someone.” So I began by explaining that the young men in Andramasina already have organized sports and activities but often the girls are excluded. I want the girls to have something that will make them and everyone else see how strong and capable they are. Also, we don’t only play basketball, we also discuss women’s health issues and life skills like setting goals and avoiding peer pressure. To my surprise, the nurse continued the debate. I should mention that this nurse is someone who I see almost every day since I live at the hospital. I wouldn’t say we are friends but we are more than mere acquaintances. Being an educated man working in the realm of healthcare I simply assumed he would see the merits of a group meant to empower young women and encourage them to set goals in life. I assumed wrong. I won’t recount every detail of the conversation but suffice to say he does not see what I am doing as even close to a social good. At one point he even informed me that I have a “ratsy saina” – a bad mind. I tried everything I could think of to convince him otherwise although the necessity of having this conversation in Malagasy put me at a distinct disadvantage. I explained that I’m not against organized groups for men at all but I want to focus on young women because I feel like often they don’t have much power or say in Malagasy society. The positions of power in Madagascar such as the military police and politicians are overwhelmingly male. And even at the family level women are often forced into traditional gender roles where they care for the children and home while the men work. If the woman chooses this, then so be it. That’s fine and dandy. But the whole point is that they should have a real choice; there should be opportunities for women outside of those traditional roles. Girls should think about these opportunities while they are in school and imagine a bright and beautiful future for themselves. No, I do not hate men. I don’t even think men need to be taken down a notch but rather women need a boost upwards. Of course, I’m sure this was all much less eloquently expressed in my broken Malagasy. After all that, he still had not swayed. I was still an American with a bad mind. Perhaps the most shocking statement came from the female secretary who was listening to this whole exchange. At one point she said, “why don’t you teach the girls how to cook?” These words came from a woman who probably had to work very hard in school to gain her position at the hospital.  A woman who probably saw many of her female classmates get pregnant and drop out or get married with no plans for continuing their studies. And she wants me to teach the girls how to cook –something which they already learn at home from a very young age by watching their mothers and grandmothers. In essence, perpetuate the gender roles I’m attempting to eliminate. I’ll admit that by this point, I was no longer emotionally neutral. I was getting ticked off. In the end we all had to agree to disagree as they say.

In retrospect, it would have been better to keep a level head. After all, everyone is entitled to an opinion and as native Malagasy, their opinion perhaps counts for more than mine. But as I stated in the opening paragraph – unexpected opposition to what we view as a truly altruistic effort is a hard pill to swallow. I still believe that what I am doing with my girl’s group is beneficial and important. I guess you can’t really know the strength of a belief until you’ve had to defend it. Now excuse me while I jot down some notes and prepare my next defense.

The Land of Milk and Honey

I know what you’re thinking. “Wait just a minute here. It looks like she’s starting another blog entry under the same date heading.” Congratulations, Sherlock…that is precisely what I’m doing. I got myself so worked up about the little transgression with the nurse that I completely forgot to mention something rather significant: I was in the good ol’ US of A for Christmas and ringing in the New Year. It seemed too disjointed to include this with the previous discussion so here we are – two blog entries in one! Yesssss. So was Miley Cyrus correct? Was there really a party in the USA? You betcha. That is, if by party you mean amazing calorie laden delicious food, marvelous brain rotting television, and mind boggling shiny new technological innovations. Of course the best thing was being with family and friends for the first time in a year and a half.

Seriously though, do you want to know the most common response a PCV has when asked how a trip to the US went? “Everything was so…clean.” I kid you not. That’s the very first thing that strikes us. When you’ve been dirty for an extended period of time to the point that when you wash off one layer of dirt there is another layer lurking below it, you realize that clean isn’t just something perceived by the eyes. Clean isn’t only a sight – it’s a feeling, a smell, a taste. It’s flippin’ fabulous. Never take your cleanliness for granted. In fact, don’t take most of the things in your life for granted because odds are there are millions or even billions of people in the world that must do without whatever that thing is you’re currently complaining about. I know I have ventured into the potentially dangerous realm of advice giving but my message is simple: don’t complain so much and you’ll be happier for it. Most of what we (yes, I am including myself in this as an American) complain about would fall under what is referred to as “first world problems”. That is, problems that aren’t really problems when you consider the big picture. In calling attention to these first world problems I don’t mean to make anyone feel guilty. My goal is not to prompt you to carry around a leather whip and flog yourself every time you dare complain about something that doesn’t really warrant complaint (although the mental image is indeed amusing). I actually hope to make you realize that you have so much to be grateful for, so much to be happy about. So for the sake of your happiness (you’re welcome), here are some examples of the oft uttered first world problems complete with my own snarky comments in response.

 First World Problems:

–           “The water pressure in this shower really sucks!”  **Okay, not only do you have access to clean water, but you also have indoor plumbing. And not only indoor plumbing but a hot water heater! Would you rather fetch cold, dirty water from the river in buckets? Thought not.

–           “This road has so many potholes!” **But there’s a road! And it’s PAVED!

–           “Uuugh…the internet connection is soooo slow right now.” **No comment

–          “Cell phone service is so spotty here. It’s ridiculous.” **Is it ridiculous? Is it though?

–           “Man I really hate doing laundry.” **And by doing laundry you mean tossing your clothes in a MACHINE that does the washing for you? And then you throw it in another machine to dry it? Yeah, that’s tough.

–           “I wish I had a nicer car – it’s embarrassing being seen in this old junker.” **Would you be more embarrassed to have to walk everywhere? Or instead of an old, beat up Mustang to actually have an old, beat up mustang of the hay eating variety?

–           “All these fast food options are so fattening.” **You mean you’re problem is that you’re OVERnourished? Huh.

–          “Flu season is the worst!” **Is it the worst? Worse than dengue fever, malaria, typhoid, and the plague?

–           “A gazillion channels and there’s nothing on TV. Lame.” **Once again, no comment.

–          “I have absolutely nothing to wear.” **Do you have a shirt? Pants? Shoes? And your problem is…?

Feeling happier yet? Okay, so maybe I was a little overly snarky in my commentary but I couldn’t help myself. And I’ll be the first to admit that I complain about all of these things myself when in the States – sometimes all of them in the same day. I’m a whiner, what can I say? But I really hope that even after returning to the US I’ll be able to recognize the absurdity of an ad like the one I saw recently in Time magazine for AT&T. It read, “Only AT&T’s network lets you talk and surf on iPhone 5. It’s not complicated. Doing two things at once is better.” You find that funny too, right? Okay, good.

Lolo looking exceptionally adorable

I think I was successful in teaching how to give a thumbs up

Plus side of the rainy season – lush, green landscape

 

 

You Go, Girl

You are a girl born in Madagascar. By the time you are about five years old you are deemed mature enough to begin helping your mother with household chores – washing dishes, washing clothes, preparing meals, fetching water, sweeping the house, and so on. This is your mother’s work and it will be your work too. Mother belongs in the house and father belongs in the fields. That’s just the way it is. By your seventh birthday your mother has given birth twice more. Your mother breastfeeds the shrieking newborn and you carry the older baby on your back as you go about your usual chores. A good harvest one year means you finally get to attend school. You are thrilled but nervous. You do well and progress from the elementary to the middle and finally the high school. You begin to secretly dream of impossible things – moving to the capital, attending the university, becoming a nurse. Then you meet a boy at school and begin dating him. He pressures you to have sex. You don’t know what to do. Your mother and teachers have never told you much about sex – it’s taboo. You have heard of AIDS but aren’t really sure what it is or how you get it. You like this boy and you want him to like you. You want to say no but you don’t know how – no one has ever taught you to be assertive. So you say yes instead. Four months later you find out you are pregnant. You are forced to drop out of school. You will never move to the capital, you will never attend the university, you will never become a nurse. You give birth to a girl.

The purpose of that little narrative is to illustrate the reality that so many young girls in Madagascar face – the endless self-reinforcing cycle which continues to oppress Malagasy women. Many girls never even make it to school at all. If a family is under financial pressure and only one child can be allowed to study it will more often than not be a son. From the moment they can speak girls are taught to fill traditional gender roles – the woman cares for the home and children, the father tends to the fields and animals. They are taught that men are always the decision makers and moreover that is their natural role. The few girls who beat the odds and succeed at their studies, even dare to secretly dream of life outside their village, are often tragically hindered by the education of their upbringing and prevalence of traditional gender roles. They enter into relationships in which they have absolutely no negotiating power. After all, what more could a woman want than to find a husband, care for the house, and raise children? That was the life her mother, grandmother, and great grandmother led. Who is she to have other aspirations? She gets pregnant, drops out of school, and the tireless cycle makes another turn.

Of course this is by no means a phenomenon limited to the island of Madagascar. Although it features most prominently in developing countries, the issue can still be found in developed countries including the US, particularly among the lowest socioeconomic groups. So what is the solution? There is no single solution but rather a multitude of interventions which together create the effort to arrest the cycle and open opportunities for young women. These interventions include increasing access to education for girls, implementing reproductive health education in schools for all students, ensuring availability of contraceptives, offering scholarships for university study, and encouraging women’s small enterprise development. Human Rights Organizations, government programs, and various NGOs are already knee deep in this effort across the globe, but as someone who currently finds themselves near the front lines of this battle I can tell you the progress is sometimes infuriatingly slow going. With sufficient backing, increasing educational access and opportunities for women can be achieved relatively quickly even in a place like Madagascar, but changing a cultural mindset – that can take decades of effort, and even then the goal may not be realized.

To better illustrate the power of a cultural attitude I’ll share an anecdote. I have spoken many times before of my Malagasy “family” and my particularly my “mom” Hanta. Not long after I was installed at my site I noticed that most people in Andramasina don’t call Hanta by her given name but rather they refer to her by the word meaning “toothless”. That wouldn’t be an unusual nickname for quite a few of my Malagasy friends who don’t exactly enjoy an abundance of teeth but I thought it an odd nickname for Hanta since she has the majority of her teeth. I recall asking her about it several times during my first few months at site and her response was always the same; she simply laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Very recently however, I finally heard the story behind her strange nickname. Hanta’s husband has been dead for a number of years but when he was alive they used to attend church as a family. One Sunday, Hanta got ready for church and put on a new skirt she had bought. As soon as her husband caught sight of her he was outraged. He claimed the skirt was entirely too short and demanded that she change immediately. She refused, denying that the skirt was too short and reminding him she had just bought it so she would have something nice to wear to church. His response was to punch her in the mouth, knocking out four of her front teeth. Were her friends and family outraged? Did others rush to her aid? Was the husband condemned for physically abusing her? No. Most claimed that she was in the wrong for brazenly defying her husband’s wishes and insisting on wearing “provocative” clothing. She had willfully denied her role as the subordinate woman. The children in town started calling her “toothless” because of her missing front teeth. She got false teeth years later but the nickname remained. Building schools is relatively easy; changing a cultural mindset is excruciatingly difficult.

So why in the world am I choosing to write about this now? What set me off on this particular diatribe instead of sharing the latest amusing antics of Lolo? I am writing about this now because leading the group Tovovavy Tena Mendrika (Exemplary Young Women) or TOTEM has brought these issues to the forefront for me. TOTEM is a group I created for high school aged girls in Andramasina. We meet twice a week with two primary objectives 1) learn to play basketball and 2) talk about essential life skills and reproductive health. Through learning to play basketball the girls not only get a viable alternative to household chores but they can show others and themselves that they are capable, skilled, and powerful. Through the guided discussions of life skills and health they get to explore topics that their teachers and parents likely never introduce – goal setting, healthy decision making, being assertive, relationship skills, contraceptive use, sexually transmitted infections, etc. Since these are largely novel topics for the girls in TOTEM progress is slow – but it’s still progress. Of course, I have no grand illusions of radically changing social norms in Madagascar with this one small group. I fully understand that TOTEM is only a handful of girls from a single tiny town in the center of the huge expanse of island that is Madagascar. But if even one of my girls is aided in making healthy life decisions, if even one of them follows her dreams and studies at the university and becomes a doctor or an accountant or a bank manager, well…then that’s a start, isn’t it? And maybe, just maybe, when she is older and decides to start a family of her own she’ll teach her daughter the same.

If I Had a Hammer…I’d Hit Whoever Wrote that Song

Where did I leave you last time? Ah yes, the horrible cliché of a tearful airport farewell. I have heard it said many times that all good things must come to an end although that motto does seem rather defeatist if you ask me. Can’t we find a way to keep a good thing going forever? Guess not. Although if I had to bet money I’d say the preservative saturated deliciousness of Twinkies will probably last close to forever. Those things just never go bad. Anyway, after two weeks of Madagascar vacation epicness with my dear friend Pasha it was understandably a little difficult to climb on that taxi brousse heading back to my site. It was even harder to sit at my site with basically nothing to do but count passing zebu since school hadn’t started yet and Andramasina was basically a ghost town with all the kids wrapping up summer vacation elsewhere. The truth is I think those lonesome moments when the boredom reaches a point where you almost gouge your eyes out with a fork are a part of almost every Peace Corps Volunteer’s experience –and those moments can be more trying than anything else. When you are busy you don’t have time to think about the people and things you miss the most (cheddar cheese…sigh), but when you find yourself literally watching paint dry you can quite easily drown in your own thoughts and emotions. Those moments test you in many ways – your level of independence, your optimism, your commitment to the Peace Corps, and your ability to appreciate delayed satisfaction. Or maybe it only tests your ability to find innovative ways to amuse yourself. Either way, when you are in Peace Corps it’s a challenge you accept.

Sunset from my window

I decided that rather than sitting around cursing my ridiculous amounts of free time I should embrace it. After all, most of you reading this are probably thinking, “God, what I wouldn’t do for some free time.” You know I’m right. So I started doing things that I would really like to do but normally can’t find time for. In true Peace Corps style I spent several days just reading books (I would highly recommend the Women’s Murder Club series by James Patterson). I also filled some time by studying for the GRE (you mean I actually have to remember the arithmetic I learned in 8^th grade!? That’s what a calculator is for) and expanding my French vocabulary which sadly is still minuscule. I enjoyed my leisurely lifestyle for about two weeks before the real world found me and I had to start doing productive things again.

I received a text message from Tovo, the supervisor of the health volunteers in Madagascar, inviting me to attend a meeting in Tana. The text specified the date, time, and location of the meeting but strangely enough offered no explanation as to the topic or nature of the meeting. It simply said it was a “PAC meeting”. So I texted Tovo back inquiring as to what exactly we would be discussing at the meeting. I believe I wrote something like, “I would be happy to attend the meeting but what exactly is it about?” To which he replied, “Program Advisory Committee.” Huh. Well, I knew what PAC stood for then but what the heck did that even mean? We were going to be a committee of unspecified people advising an unspecified program? Tovo is a good guy and a great supervisor so no offense to him, but the failure to elaborate was a little funny. One of the many reasons Peace Corps recruiters will tell you volunteers must be nothing if not flexible. I made the trek to Tana for the meeting in spite of the slight gap in details (I had finished all my books – what else was I gonna do?). Once there and able to use the internet at the transit house I discovered that I had received an email providing the details of the meeting. All of the current health volunteers (there are about 14 of us, all from the July 2011 stage) had been invited to attend the meeting in order to discuss the future of the Peace Corps health program in Madagascar. As I mentioned in a previous blog, Washington gave the Madagascar team two options – either discontinue the health program entirely or dramatically restructure it. Since Madagascar is still lagging far behind most other countries in terms of health indicators like infant and maternal mortality, I am relieved to say that they chose to restructure. Counterparts and representatives from various health NGOs working in Madagascar were also invited to this meeting, and although a great many failed to show (hopefully they were busy saving small children and bunnies from a burning house or something) it was very interesting to get a glimpse of what the new health program will look like. In accordance with Washington’s shiny new Focus In Train Up (FITU) framework, the health program will be much more…well…focused. We will be welcoming brand new health volunteers in February 2013 and their training will be completely different from what me and the other “old” volunteers received. For one thing, they will be directly following FITU training packets sent from Washington. They will be focusing on Maternal, Neonatal, and Child Health (breastfeeding, nutrition, malaria control, etc.) and Environmental Health (improved cookstoves, water and sanitation, hygiene). It seems that Adolescent Sexual and Reproductive Health, Substance Abuse Prevention, and HIV/AIDS prevention/education have been thrown to the wayside. I am not particularly happy about this exclusion, but I am just one of the little people and the decision has already been made. So the training of the new volunteers will reflect these changes – and as for the rest of us health volunteers who will soon become outdated? The answer seems to be evolve and cope as best we can. There’s that flexibility thing again.

Vatsy, his wife Clementine, and their son Tiako

Enough bureaucratic talk – let’s move on to the excitement of Mid-Service Conference (MSC). What is that you ask? Precisely what it sounds like – the conference volunteers attend mid-way through their service. Since Peace Corps service is two years long (excluding training) and my fellow stagemates and I have been in Madagascar for a little over a year it was time for the much anticipated MSC. Of course, by far the most exciting aspect of MSC was simply being reunited with my stagemates – seeing the same 27 lovely faces that I arrived in this country with back in July 2011. Sure we’ve change a little bit – some of us are a few pounds lighter, some of us are a little tanner, some of us are a little hairier, and all of us are quite a bit dirtier – but once we gathered together it was just like old times. We had some interesting sessions (I am now knowledgeable on raising chickens for profit), ate our weight in popcorn, threw some water balloons, and got our dance on. It was a good week.

Oh, but the excitement didn’t end there! Immediately after MSC I had the honor, privilege, and awesome good luck to work once again with Habitat for Humanity. The destination this time around? None other than Ranomafana National Park. You might recall that location from my last blog entry – it was the first park that Pasha and I visited on our Madagascar adventures, the home of numerous lemurs, chameleons, and natural hot springs. I had a great time working with the previous Habitat group in Moramanga back in July so the bar was set rather high but this new group didn’t disappoint. Once again, the group was primarily composed of Americans although there were a few Canadians and a Croatian thrown into the mix. To put it simply they were the shiz, the bee’s knee’s, the cat’s meow, the best thing since sliced bread and all that and a bag of chips. They were that awesome. As we worked together building houses in Ranomafana I had the pleasure of hearing their various life stories and experiences – and how fascinating they were! In the group there was a pediatrician, a former makeup artist turned movie producer turned professional artist, a math teacher from Hawaii, someone who works for Penguin publishing, a health equity consultant, someone who retired in their 30’s – and trust me, that’s just naming a few! In addition to being surrounded by a great group of volunteers (including the four other Peace Corps volunteers and the Malagasy Habitat personnel of course) the work itself was extremely satisfying. The type of work I do with the Peace Corps is great in many ways but rarely do I get to see tangible results of my labor. For instance, when I am doing health education/sensitization in my community I often can’t see any concrete outcomes. Since I am focusing on encouraging behavior change for health improvement the only way I could actually witness any direct change would be by following people home and creepily stalking them to observe if their behavior had indeed been altered by my message. The great thing about working with Habitat for Humanity is that you are building something with your hands – something that you can sit back and admire after you’re done. That’s not to say that having a physical product of your labor is always important, not at all. But I’m not gonna lie…it’s nice sometimes.

Some of my new Habitat friends!

After working hard on the houses all week we had a little reward come Sunday – a hike through the park. Recalling all too well the six hour hike that Pasha and I so unwisely chose to do the last time around, I opted for the shorter three hour hike. The park was just as splendid as I remembered and we got to see some Sifaka at very close range as well as giraffe beetles which I had never seen before. The beetles are much smaller than they appear on National Geographic – I don’t know why that surprised me. We also did a night hike which excited me because I thought I might finally get a better glimpse of the shy and incredibly fast mouse lemur. As it turns out, I got to see plenty of mouse lemurs very close up. Not because our guide was particularly skilled at finding mouse lemurs or the alignment of the planets was just right for mouse lemur viewing, but rather because the guides had baited the trees near the road by rubbing bananas on them. So come nightfall, all the mouse lemurs within a mile were irresistibly drawn to the banana smeared branches like a Kentuckian is drawn to a KFC basket. The whole scene did feel quite artificial, especially since there was a shuffling herd of about thirty tourists standing around snapping pictures. But for me, the mouse lemurs were just adorable enough to make up for it. I don’t care how they got them there, that’s still pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. We also saw frogs, chameleons, and moths but those animals are significantly less cuddly than mouse lemurs so my interest in them was not as great.

So much smaller than on TV…

As was true in Moramanga, we weren’t able to actually finish any of the houses but we got quite far along in the construction by the end of the ten days and the Malagasy carpenters would finish the houses after the Habitat team departed. When all is said and done there will be four happy families in Ranomafana receiving four brand new houses. In the end I left the build feeling satisfied that we had done good work and very grateful that I had the opportunity to be a part of it. I will certainly look for more opportunities to work with Habitat in the future and I encourage my Peace Corps brethren to do the same.

And now I am back in Andramasina. When I arrived, I was greeted by my Malagasy “family” who thought I had been gone far too long in Ranomafana and they feared I had become settled there and would never return to Andramasina. Happily, I was able to put those fears to rest. I was also greeted of course by my dog Lolo who managed to make every inch of her eight pound body wiggle with joy upon my arrival. School has started up once again so it is considerably less quiet in town and I have much more to do with my time. I teach English on occasion, have a health stand at the market every Thursday, and I have my girl’s group Tovovavy Tena Mendrika (Exemplary Young Women). I’ll elaborate more on those projects next time. Plus, the weather has warmed as it gears up for summer in the southern hemisphere. That also means it is now mango season – and there was much rejoicing. Veloma.

Busy? What’s That? Oh yeah…I Remember Now

This is gonna be a long one, folks so make sure you’re sitting in a comfy chair and you’ll probably want to go pee before you start reading but don’t worry, there are pretty pictures. We good? Okay.

In case there are those of you who haven’t been keeping track (shame, shame) I have cleared the one year mark in Madagascar! Not only that, but there hasn’t been a single ET (Early Termination), Medical Separation, or Administrative Separation from my stage! That means all 27 of the lovely volunteers I came to country with and trained alongside for two months in Mantasoa are still here in Madagascarland with me! For those rolling their eyes and mumbling ,”big whoop-dee-doo” I invite you to put down your iPhone, leave your reclining chair, and try living in Madagascar for a year. We’ll see how many meals of white rice you get through before I find you crying in a corner in the fetal position. I’m still not quite sure whether as a group this means we are mentally strong and well adjusted or if it just means we’re exceptionally stubborn – either way I’m proud of our accomplishment. Go us.

This was me a year ago. Oh, how the time flies.

Let’s see…interesting happenings since my last entry. Backtracking to the end of June, a fellow volunteer visited and stayed with me at my site for the first time – even better, it was my former training center roommate Carolyn. Carolyn lives about eight or so hours south of Antananarivo so I didn’t expect her to ever make it out to my site. However, she was coming back to Madagascar after a truly epic vacation in Europe with some friends (totally jealous) so she was in the capital since that happens to be the location of Madagascar’s only international airport. She was in no big hurry to get back to her site because all the teachers in her town are on strike and have been for several months. Since she is an English Teacher, that’s rather inconvenient for her however, it worked out quite nicely for me. Carolyn came to Andramasina and stayed with me for about a week before we both headed back up to the capital. We had a good ol’ time in Andramasina doing basically nothing the whole week. Perhaps one of the reasons why Carolyn and I get along so well is that we both are extremely easy to amuse – it really does not take much. Case in point, one night we discovered a karaoke program on my computer and spent four solid hours drinking beer and singing karaoke with the occasional interpretive dance thrown in – just the two of us. Other days we slept what was likely an unhealthy amount since Carolyn was recovering from sleep debt accumulated during her Eurotrip and I can basically go to sleep anywhere and at anytime. Oh! I almost forgot. The 26^th of June is Madagascar’s Independence Day (or in my less than historically accurate mind, the day that Madagascar finally stood up and said, “France, your croissants may be delicious but we want our independence!”). To celebrate the big day, Carolyn and I visited my Malagasy extended “family” in Tana. As usual, there was a lot of dancing and rum involved in the festivities but the best part in my opinion was sitting outside and watching the fireworks show. That’s right…Madagascar has its own fireworks show in the capital on their Independence Day and it is quite impressive. They even had those fireworks that form a smiley face when they explode. No joke. As Carolyn and I sat there – well, I was sitting there and Carolyn was attempting to make friends with every single child within a mile – we were both grateful to be able to share in the Malagasy celebration but also sort of guiltily happy that we could pretend for just a minute that the fireworks lighting up the night sky were actually 4^th of July fireworks being watched from some familiar place in the United States.

Carolyn – too legit for life

And then there was the surprise circumcision. I mean, it wasn’t a surprise for the family of the boy (luckily) but rather it was a surprise for me. Generally, I am fairly confident with my Malagasy speaking abilities (if I wasn’t at this point it would be a big problem). However, there are a select few individuals who I tend to inexplicably get choked up around – one of them happens to be Andramasina’s Medicin Inspecteur, Dr. Solofo. That is very unfortunate for me because he is basically my boss at site. In theory, I should probably meet with him regularly and if I did that faithfully he might even invite me to help with various health initiatives in the outlying villages. But in reality, I avoid him like the plague. As in, I hear his booming voice from across the hospital compound and I take it as my cue to scurry and hide like a cockroach. Physically speaking, this guy should not be intimidating – he stands a good head shorter than me and I’m not tall by any means. He has a moustache that I have strong suspicions was inspired by a Mario videogame and he always seems to be wearing black (but not in a cool way like Johnny Cash). But in spite of his appearance, Dr. Solofo manages to intimidate the fire out of me and when he is around all those cool sounding Malagasy words just get stuck in my throat and I’m left silently staring at him with my mouth agape like an oversized goldfish. It doesn’t help that he speaks Malagasy a hundred miles an hour and with absolutely no attempt to avoid difficult vocabulary I might not know. That is all background information leading to the surprise circumcision. One evening, I forced myself to untuck my tail from between my legs and went to speak to Dr. Solofo about helping me find patients who could benefit from cleft lip and/or cleft palate surgery (I’ll elaborate on that later). As usual, he was in a big hurry of some sort and rushed off in the direction of the Health Bureau building as he simultaneously shouted some rapid fire Malagasy over his shoulder. Basically the only thing I got from his spewing of words was, “I am busy right now but walk with me and explain it.” So I obediently trailed behind him and breathlessly tried to explain the project and how I needed him to help me find patients. I was concentrating so hard on explaining it well and in clear, grammatically correct Malagasy that I noticed rather late that we had stopped in a back room of the Bureau and several men had a two or three year old boy pinned to the table. He had no pants on and was clearly (and understandably) having an absolute fit. My less than perfect explanation of the project immediately died on my lips as I stared dumbly at the scene before me. Dr. Solofo immediately swooped in, produced a surgical kit from thin air, and proceeded about his business. Once I realized what was going on, it was too late. Some things you just can’t unsee. The poor kid worked himself into such a frenzy that he was shaking from head to foot. I felt so sorry for him that I ran back to my room and got him a little bag of chips I had bought earlier that day. He took the bag from me while he continued wailing his lungs out. Not that I blamed him. Not one bit.

Speaking of circumcision (not a phrase often uttered), the traditional Malagasy circumcision ceremony is actually quite a big to-do. I haven’t gotten wind of any traditional ceremonies occurring in my town, but I hear that they are still very common in some parts of Madagascar, especially the west coast around Morondava. The ceremony is seen as a coming of age and celebration of manhood for the lucky (?) young man. Often the boy is much older than the youngster I saw get snipped at the Bureau – I have heard of ceremonies for boys as old as 10-12 years. The whole community gathers for the event and sometimes gifts are given. But here’s the kicker – if you are part of the Sakalava tribe after the much anticipated snip, the grandfather eats the foreskin. No, I did not make that up. If you doubt me you can look it up. There was even an episode of Bizarre Foods in Madagascar where the show’s host witnessed a traditional circumcision ceremony – foreskin consumption and all. Sometimes the foreskin is eaten on the tip of a banana (still not making it up). I have not yet had the nerve (or stomach) to ask a Malagasy friend why the foreskin is eaten but I’m sure the reason must be rather compelling.

Animal attraction

Moving right along – as you may have noticed, it has been quite a spell since my last blog entry. That’s because I have been unusually busy the past few months. Not long after spending the Malagasy holiday with my fellow PCV Carolyn I travelled a few hours east of Antananarivo to a place called Moramanga. I had been fortunate enough to hear through the Peace Corps grapevine that there was a Habitat for Humanity group going to Moramanga that was in need of some translators. With nothing even remotely compelling going on at my site, I jumped on the opportunity to see a new place and feel at least a little useful. Even better, the other translators for the trip were some of my Peace Corps stagemates – basically guaranteeing a good time would be had by all. I was so excited to have a “real job” and an excuse to go somewhere new that I completely ignored the fact that I essentially knew nothing about the Habitat project for which I was going to act as a translator. I didn’t know who the Habitat volunteers would be, how we were going to get to Moramanga, where we would be staying, what sort of work we would be doing in addition to translating, or basically any useful information. All I knew was that we would be in Moramanga for ten days and that we were supposed to meet the Habitat group at the Radama Hotel in Antananarivo on July 14^th. Luckily for highly uninformed me, it all worked out just fine. The Habitat volunteers were a diverse group of people (although the vast majority were American) who were eager to get their hands dirty to help others – so needless to say, they were pretty great. Most of them had participated in Habitat builds in foreign countries before so they really knew what they were doing. The goal was to build five new houses in ten days. Impossible? No. Difficult? Oh yeah. As I discussed in a previous entry, Madagascar gets hit pretty hard by cyclones every year so some of the houses we were building were actually for families who had their homes destroyed when Hurricane Giovanna threw a temper tantrum all over Madagascar. I quickly discovered that being a “translator” really meant that I was an additional builder who occasionally clarified something shouted in Malagasy. I did manage to pick up some nifty new Malagasy vocabulary during the build although I’m still not sure how to work words like mortar, trowel, and gravel into daily conversation. I’ll work on it. In addition to the odd translation or two and helping with construction I found that I somehow landed the role of child herder. I call it herding because that is honestly the best description I can come up with. A large group of “vazaha” building a house in the middle of a Malagasy village unsurprisingly drew a rather large crowd of miniature onlookers. Since they clearly had nothing better to do, I decided to see if they wanted to help. The answer was an enthusiastic (if chaotic) yes. After some trial and error and many repeated explanations of how to form a proper line I finally got my little minions to stand in a (rather squiggly) line and pass bricks one by one. A small feat perhaps but one which I was pretty darn proud of. As a sort of reward for their toils, every day at 4pm (one hour before we stopped working) I would gather my little flock and teach them either a song or dance. I will say that the kids in Moramanga are much better at the Hokey Pokey than my English Club students in Andramasina. Major kudos. As is true with most enjoyable experiences, the ten days passed all too quickly. We weren’t able to finish the five houses but most of them were only lacking the finishing touches – these would be completed by the Malagasy construction workers after the Habitat group departed. So in conclusion, building houses and herding small children in Moramanga = pretty awesome experience.

Some of the amazing Habitat volunteers I worked with

My “flock” of children

This Habitat volunteer (Benny) was Peace Corps 1961!

After being so productive for ten straight days it was kind of a shock to return to my site and the often frustratingly slow pace of life there. I didn’t have to wrestle with loneliness and boredom very long however because the very next week I had four “baby” volunteers to entertain. You may recall that when I arrived in country I had to complete about two months of training before actually becoming a volunteer. The training is meant to prepare you for your two years of service by providing language instruction, cultural sessions, and generally giving you some time to dip your toes into the Peace Corps pool before doing a cannonball into the deep end. During training here in Madagascar there is also something called “demyst”. This is a period of a few days when the baby volunteers are sent out in small groups to stay with current volunteers at their sites and learn the ins and outs of Peace Corps daily life – using a kabone, fetching water, being stared at, avoiding piles of zebu poop while walking – all the essentials. After a persuasive call from Tovo, I somewhat grudgingly agreed to host two babies at my site (although I actually ended up with four – long story). Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of hosting trainees and having a full circle moment but it made me late for Operation Smile (more on that in a hot second). With everything now said and done however I am glad that I had the opportunity to host the babies – their bright eyed eagerness rekindled a bit of the old excitement in me. I remembered for the first time in a long while how it felt to have the whole of my Peace Corps service stretching out before me full of unforeseeable challenges and endless potential. I realized that although I am halfway finished with my service there are still so many wonderful possibilities to explore with the time remaining. I still have a lot to be excited about.

The baby volunteers with my Malagasy “grandma”

Okay, so as promised I’ll finally elaborate on Operation Smile. Remember the surprise circumcision? Of course you do. Now remember how I was trying to talk to Dr. Solofo about finding cleft lip and cleft palate patients? Yeah, that was for Operation Smile. In a nutshell, Operation Smile is an organization that sends doctors, nurses, dentists, and other medical personnel to developing countries to perform cleft lip and palate surgeries. The really awesome part is that everything is completely free of charge for the patient – the surgery, a bed to sleep in, and even meals if required. An Operation Smile team has been coming to Madagascar once a year for a while now and every year they request the help of some lucky Peace Corps volunteers to act as translators. As a health volunteer I had priority over volunteers from other sectors (sorry, guys) and I was fortunate enough to be selected to help out. So that is how I found myself unwillingly and unexpectedly witnessing a circumcision – I was simply trying to find people around my site that could benefit from the surgeries. And that is also why later I was so reluctant to take baby volunteers for “demyst” which would make me late for my role in Operation Smile. You see? It all comes together in the end (oh yea of little faith).  As it turns out, being a few days late for Operation Smile didn’t make a huge difference. Although we all signed up on a nice pretty sheet for specific translating jobs on specific dates at specific times, we all just sort of showed up and filled whatever slots needed filling – a little inefficient but that’s Peace Corps for ya.

One of the happiest little kids I’ve ever met

My first day of translating was also my longest day – 16 hours from start to finish. The doctors and nurses (who were from all over the place but the majority were South African) informed us that the first day is generally the longest on any given mission. I was working in the Recovery Room means that I was there when the patients were first brought out of surgery (the little ones often being carried in the arms of the surgeon). The absolute best part of my job was going to get the mother (or sometimes father) from the waiting room and brining them to the patient’s bedside. When a new patient arrived in the Recovery Room, I would sort of hover on the periphery as the medical personnel checked the various monitors and conversed urgently in seriously cool sounding medical jargon (made even cooler by the South African accents). Eventually, the head doctor would notice me fidgeting and say, “you can go get the parent now” and off I would scurry to the room of anxious, expectant faces. After calling the patient’s number one of the parents would jump up, eyes as round as bowls of rice and practically quivering with nerves. The first thing I always told the parent was that everything had gone well during the surgery and that they shouldn’t be scared (which was true because nothing went seriously wrong during any of the surgeries). Then I would guide them on the short walk to the Recovery Room where parent and child were reunited. Parents reacted to seeing their children after surgery in various ways. Most were fairly quiet and reserved (that’s Malagasy culture) but a few memorable ones cried tears of joy and one mother walked right up to the surgeon and hugged him (FYI Malagasy do not hug so this was really exceptional). After the initial reunion however, my job got a little less fun – mainly because the anesthesia started to wear off and the kids realized that they were in a strange place with strange people and their mouths hurt. As you might imagine, a rather unpleasant noise often ensued. It was my job to translate specific instructions to the parents on behalf of the medical personnel and occasionally give a syringe of juice to a wailing child while simultaneously staying out of everyone’s way. This was of course easier said than done – the trick was being where you were supposed to be when you were needed and at all other times staying out of the line of traffic. More than once I was shooed away from a bedside by one nurse only to be immediately called over to the exact same location by another. Unlike the Habitat build which was (for obvious reasons) physically exhausting, Operation Smile was often mentally and emotionally exhausting. But it was also immensely rewarding. Being able to witness what these selfless and clearly very skilled medical professionals could do for their patients was spectacular. I would see children go into surgery with a horribly disfiguring cleft lip and come out a few hours later with an entirely new face and only a tiny line of stitches betraying that any sort of surgery had occurred. While the cleft palate surgeries were less visually dramatic, the difference they make in the lives of the patients is simply amazing. Most children with uncorrected cleft palates will never be able to eat or speak properly. The hole on the top of their mouth causes food to exit through the nose while eating and leaves no place for the tongue to maneuver adequately in order to form the complex sounds that make up human speech. Many children born with cleft palates in developing countries don’t survive the first year – and if they are one of the few to survive their speech and subsequent developmental impairments make for a very difficult and isolated life. It is obviously much more effective and thus preferable to correct cleft palates at a young age – generally the older patients who showed up during Operation Smile were not good candidates for the surgery. However, they were not simply turned away. Cleft palate patients who were too old for the surgery were fitted with something called an obturator. Although I never saw one myself, I gather that it is a small device that is fitted to the gap in the palate. In essence, it acts like a prosthetic palate, preventing food from entering the nasal cavity and aiding in speech formation. What I just described may not be fascinating to all, but I personally think it is downright miraculous. Major altruism points to Operation Smile.

A relieved mom holding her daughter after surgery

But all work and no play makes for a horribly dull individual so what better way to wrap up all this unprecedented productiveness than with a fabulous vacation? Clearly, there is no better way – enter the fabulous Pasha Feinberg, awesome friend and “sister” from my days at Stanford University. This lady flew halfway around the planet just to visit me (although I suspect the prospect of seeing lemurs might have had a tiny bit to do with it as well). At the present time, there is no word in the English language to properly describe just how excited I was to greet her at the Tana airport. Think of the most excited you have ever been in your entire life and then multiply it by about a gazillion – yeah, that excited. The manner of my arrival at the airport was a bit of a surprise. I had of course told my Malagasy family that I had a friend visiting me from America. Vonjy is the only one in the family with a car so I asked if he could help me pick Pasha up from the airport with the understanding that we would pay for the gas. What I had not anticipated was that the entire family would want to go to the airport to greet the new “vazaha”. The solution? They rented out an entire taxi-be (basically a small bus) to shuttle us all to and from the airport. So when an extremely exhausted Pasha rolled into the airport arrival area she was not only greeted by me but by about a dozen over-excited and slightly inebriated Malagasy she had never met before. Pasha, although a little shell shocked, managed to take it all in stride. If our places were reversed I might have run screaming back to the plane.

“Sisters” reunited! 🙂

And thus began the grand Madagascar vacation adventures of Pasha and Kim. We spent the night in Tana and then made our way to my site, Andramasina. I got to show off my sleepy little town to her and most importantly, the cutest dog in the world – Lolo. Lolo immediately showed her affection for Pasha by curling up on top of a pile of her clothes and getting dog hair all over everything. When we left Andramasina to head south Lolo sadly and rather pathetically watched out taxi-brousse drive away (don’t worry, Vatsy takes care of her when I am away). We made it to Antsirabe that day and stayed at a favorite Peace Corps locale, Chez Billy. At five fifteen the next morning (so painfully early) a taxi-brousse was waiting to take us even further south to Fianarantsoa. Once we arrived in Fianar we were able to change brousses and backtrack on the road about an hour and a half to our desired destination – Ranomafana (literally meaning “hot water” because of the natural hot springs there).

Ranomafana = gorgeous

Ranomafana is one of Madagascar’s major National Parks and home to quite an array of lemurs, chameleons, frogs, and other appealingly cool creatures. We were fortunate enough to find a cozy little hotel owned by an older man who told me everyone calls him “Dada Fara”. The nice (although a tad absentminded) owner also happened to know a very good English speaking guide who met with us that evening and made arrangements to be our guide in the park the following day (you aren’t allowed to enter the park without a guide). Pasha and I rather ambitiously agreed to a six hour hike through the park. The hike ended up being truly breathtaking – in more ways than one. The scenery was undeniably gorgeous and it was thrilling to chase our guide through the forest as he tracked lemurs and birds but in retrospect I should have done a little preparation beforehand for such a difficult hike. As in, I should have gotten off my lazy rear and walked a little bit before deciding to hike through the Madagascar rainforest for six hours chasing fast, furry mammals. Clearly, both Pasha and I managed to survive the ordeal (somehow) but soreness stayed with us for quite a few days, reminding us of our lapse in judgment. The lemur spotting made it all worthwhile however – we managed to see Golden Bamboo Lemurs, Greater Bamboo Lemurs, Sifaka, and Red Bellied Lemurs. And my personal favorite part came at the very end when we hiked down to an absolutely gorgeous waterfall and I went swimming at the bottom – clothes and all. It was the first time I had gone swimming in over a year and I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful locale.

Yeah, I swam in that waterfall. No big deal.

After the loveliness of Ranomafana, returning to Fianar was sort of a drag but it was the only way we could get down to our next destination, Anja Park – a tiny little community initiated and run park to the south of Fianar that is only on 8 hectares of land but has an impressive population of 400 Ring-tailed Lemurs. A fellow Peace Corps volunteer (environment sector) actually works down there and told me that the Ring-tails had recently given birth, which was enough to work Pasha into a frenzy and guarantee that Anja Park would be on our travel itinerary. Getting there proved to be a might tricky since there are no taxi-brousses that go directly to Anja. However, following the advice of the volunteer we were able to have a brousse going farther south to Ihosy drop us off at the park entrance. Our hike at Anja Park was only about three hours long but had its own challenges. The trail in Ranomafana National Park had been almost comically difficult, but at least it was clearly marked. The trail in Anja Park started out clear and promising as it winded through some shrubs and small trees but quickly disintegrated into a mass of gigantic boulders to scramble over and around. I happen to enjoy a good adventure, a little off-road trekking, taking the path less travelled and all that – but this was more like the path not travelled for a reason. It’s generally not a good sign when your first reaction upon seeing the obstacle in front of you is, “Aw, hell no.” That was precisely my mental reaction at several points during the trek, particularly when we were required to walk over a slippery rock surface at a ludicrous angle with death or disfigurement awaiting those who fell. When I was brave enough to chance a glance down the abyss awaiting me if I slipped I half expected to see little gravestones at the bottom marked, “Here lies another vazaha.” Eventually I think I either became accustomed to a constant level of fear for my life or I went a little insane from the stress because when I spotted a rope trailing down a rock face that we were clearly supposed to repel down I just laughed and shouted, “Pasha! You’re not gonna believe this!” Granted, this was not a very great distance we were required to repel down. But to have it just suddenly pop up on the trail like “surprise!” was both absurd and hilarious. Eventually, both Pasha and I managed to repel down the tiny rock face although Pasha chose a rather unconventional method for repelling – she somehow scooted all the way on her butt. This of course was all to the great amusement of our two Malagasy guides who I’m sure will tell stories of the “butt-scooting vazaha” for years to come. Throughout this entire trek, we did manage to see some Ring-Tailed Lemurs and even spotted one with a tiny little baby clinging to its stomach. However, the vast majority of the lemurs were sleeping when we passed through because we just so happened to arrive at the park during lemur siesta time. Fail.

At least this guy was awake

After our epic hike in Anja Park we returned to Fianar for the night and caught a taxi-brousse early the next morning heading north, all the way back up to Tana – a ten hour trip. Fortunately, the taxi-brousse wasn’t nearly as crammed as they usually are otherwise the trip might have been unbearable. Besides getting a very sore rear end from ten hours of jostling the trip was relatively uneventful. We rolled into Tana tired and dirty just as it was getting dark and spent the night at my “aunt” Lolona’s house. The next leg of our journey took us to the east to Moramanga (if that sounds familiar it’s because that is where I built houses with Habitat). It was at this point I believe we began wondering just what percentage of our trip we had spent travelling in taxi-brousses. Not a whole lot to do in Moramanga but they do have some truly excellent “frip” (secondhand clothes markets). And more importantly, I got to revisit the houses we had built during Habitat. At the end of the Habitat trip the five houses were pretty far along but missing the final touches. The Malagasy carpenters had continued work after our departure and it was really satisfying to walk around Moramanga and see the nearly finished houses. Better yet, some of my little minions remembered me and after about five minutes of walking Pasha and I had gathered an entire flock. Curiously enough, some of them had picked up stilt-walking (you can’t make this stuff up) and were following us around on hand made wooden stilts thus adding to the appearance of a small parade going through Moramanga. Good stuff.

Me standing in front of one of the nearly finished Habitat houses

Our final destination was reached the following day – Andasibe. Andasibe National Park is even bigger and more developed than Ranomafana and has the distinction of basically being the only place in the world to see the largest lemur species – the Indri (or babakoto in Malagasy). If you’re thinking, “Oh, big deal…I’ve seen an Indri before”, no you haven’t. Not unless you happened to be in Madagascar at the time. Indri can’t survive in captivity because their diet is so specific. They only feed on trees that are endemic to Madagascar and they eat approximately 32 different kinds of leaves on any given day. So short of transplanting a few hectares of Madagascar to a zoo Indri are impossible to maintain in captivity, which is really quite a shame because they are pretty awesome. They are the biggest lemur species, the only one without a tail, and they make a noise that can be heard three kilometers away.

Indri, or babakoto

Pasha and I arrived a little late to Andasibe so we spent the first day just exploring a little and walking to the park entrance. We met yet another awesome Malagasy guide whose English was superb and he suggested we go on a “night walk” to see chameleons, frogs, and the elusive Mouse Lemur. Since we had no plans for the evening and the prospect of seeing a Mouse Lemur was hugely appealing, we decided to go for it. There was something especially exciting about walking around at in the dark of night searching for wildlife as light rain fell. It gave the trek an extra little hint of the exotic that allowed me to feel like I was taking part in a National Geographic documentary – at least until some other vazaha being led by a Malagasy guide passed by us and shattered my illusion. Pasha and I were convinced that our guide was a “chameleon whisperer” since he managed to spot a ridiculous number of chameleons that were sitting absolutely motionless and imperceptible on branches. He even pointed out several of the tiniest chameleons in the park; they were barely the size and width of a pinky finger and they were often exactly the same shade of brownish green as the branch they were flattened against. I’m still not entirely convinced our guide didn’t have those chameleons super glued in strategic locations that he then memorized. He was that good. Our night walk did yield a few glimpses of the tiny and absurdly cute Mouse Lemur but those buggers are quick. Rather unexpectedly, our guide managed to find a Wooly Lemur doing its best to hide from our flashlights in a tree. I can’t exactly say the Wooly Lemur was cute – it rather reminded me of Golem from the Lord of the Rings, but very cool nonetheless.

Andasibe – how I love thee

The next day we met up with the same guide who had led us on the night walk to explore the actual park. We opted for a four hour hike which surprisingly ended up being the least physically taxing of our various hiking adventures. It didn’t take long at all for our guide to locate a family of Indri sleeping very high up in the treetops. Then all we had to do was wait for them to wake up, come down, and start their morning calling. As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait long at all – almost as soon as we spotted them they started to descend. The calling noise they make is difficult to describe. Imagine a cross between a gibbon call and whale song and then make it really freakin’ loud. That’s the best description I can give of an Indri call – haunting and beautiful but a little painful to the eardrums in close range. We saw lots of other lemurs during the Andasibe hike but I really think the Indri was the most impressive. Although we did see some Sifaka with a tiny little baby that was too adorable for life. At one point the baby tried to leave its mother and go climb on a branch but the mother and father took turns shoving the baby back towards the safety of its mother’s belly. Better luck next time, little Sifaka. So in addition to the Indri and Sifaka we were fortunate enough to see Common Brown Lemurs (which are my personal favorite now) and the Grey Bamboo Lemur. For those of you who are keeping score, that brings the lemur species count up to eleven. Three parks and eleven lemur species, not too shabby. We also saw more chameleons, a gecko, and some pretty birds but let’s face it, the lemurs are much more exciting.

Sifaka and tiny baby!

That pretty much wraps up the most thrilling parts of the Pasha and Kim Madagascar adventure. We did return to my site briefly to pick up one of Pasha’s bags and check on Lolo (who greeted us with her epic wiggle dance). Then we went to Tana once more. Pasha’s flight wasn’t until one in the morning so we had some time to kill. We considered going to a zoo called Tsimbazaza which according to the guidebook Pasha brought has some of the lemur species we didn’t get to see as well as a fosa but unfortunately the weather was not in our favor. It’s probably a good thing we didn’t try to navigate the bus system in Tana to get to the zoo. At one point we found ourselves on a bus that dropped us off in the middle-of-nowhere-outskirts of Tana and we had to walk an hour just to get back to where we started from. Unfortunate for sure, but not an unheard of occurrence when Pasha and I attempt to go anywhere – it’s really remarkable things like this didn’t happen more often during our travels. I did take Pasha to a little vazaha market near Analakely where she picked up a few nifty souvenirs for the folks back home. Of course, since this market mainly caters to vazaha looking for souvenirs the prices were a little out of control but luckily Pasha happens to be pretty adept at bargaining. Eventually, the inevitable came to pass and Pasha had to be taken to the airport (somehow my Malagasy family once again secured the use of a bus for this purpose). I have never had an anxiety attack before but I think I came pretty close to one as I watched Pasha roll her bags towards the departures gate. As sad as it was to say goodbye to my “sister” I am eternally grateful that she was able to make the epic voyage and spend a little time here in Madagascarland with me. If anyone else is interested, I’ll be here another year, so no rush :).

Coconuts and Babies (But Not Necessarily in that Order)

There isn’t a whole lot to report this time around but I guess I should start with the biggest news first – my Malagasy family has grown in number by one. In my last entry, I talked about the wedding of my Malagasy “big brother” Vatsy and his lovely wife Clementine. What I apparently forgot to mention was the fact that she was about seven months pregnant when they tied the knot. Scandalicious, I know. Also, I would recommend scanning back to the last blog and taking a gander at the picture I posted of the happy couple. I bet you a bowl of rice you can’t even tell she is pregnant. Anyway, I have a story to tell.

I have no idea what this is…but I never want to touch it

There I was, sound asleep in my somewhat less than comfortable bed when suddenly I heard an urgent tapping at my window. I assumed that it was yet another drunk out to pester the “vazaha” or someone who had mistaken my room for that of the doctor’s so I merely grumbled softly to myself and rolled over. However, upon hearing someone stage whisper, “Kim! Kim! Akaiky miteraka i Clementine!” (Clementine is going to give birth soon!) I began to suspect that this was something that actually might concern me. I believe it is safe to say that I moved faster in the next five minutes than I have moved in my entire life or will likely ever move again. In what seemed like one motion I flung off my covers, scrambled out of bed, grabbed a jacket and my camera, and jammed shoes on my feet. With my puny cellphone light as my guide, I sprinted over to the hospital maternity ward. I assumed it would be easy to locate Clementine, just follow the screams of pain. But no, this is Madagascar and they go about birth in a completely different manner. Instead of following the telltale sounds of labor pains I followed the trail of blood leading to the “delivery room”. The scene that greeted me was (unsurprisingly) rather different from what one encounters in the US where the norm is to have half a dozen nurses, doctors, and attendants ducking and weaving between a spiderweb of IV tubes and monitors all while the expectant mother screams, cries, and crushes her husband’s hand to a pulp. The only people in the room were Vatsy’s grandmother, his mother, Clementine (obviously), a single doctor who had been woken up, and me. Instead of a comfortable, adjustable bed the likes of which can be found in most American maternity wards, Clementine was lying flat on her back on an uncovered metal table with not even a pillow under her head. There were absolutely no IV fluids, pain killers, or monitors. And as I have alluded to previously, something else was suspiciously lacking – noise. Poor Clementine who was having a little person pulled out of her while lying on a metal table with no pain killers whatsoever was absolutely silent. I mean, not even a whimper escaped this girl. It was mad impressive. I had heard it said before that Malagasy women don’t make noise during childbirth because it is “fady” (taboo) – apparently, due to the belief that bad spirits might hear the screams and enter the woman or child. In some parts of Madagascar, when a woman is giving birth a goat is tied up outside. If the woman starts to make noise during childbirth the men outside beat the goat so that the bad spirits will hear and be attracted to the goat rather than the woman. Poor goat…and poor woman. I had heard all of this before, but never really imagined the strangeness of seeing a soundless birth in person. Not long after I arrived, the little bundle of joy made his appearance and was quickly cleaned and wrapped in about a gazillion blankets until all that was visible was his tiny little face peeking out. That’s about when the doctor called for the mother and grandmother and I found the tiny newborn baby thrust in my arms. There was some difficulty with delivering the placenta and the doctor needed extra hands. And that is how I got to hold little Tiako (as he was later named) for about a solid hour and a half while everyone else was busy keeping Clementine from bleeding to death. After the first thirty minutes I managed to convince myself that I wasn’t going to drop him and my breathing resumed a normal rate. It all turned out just fine in the end with mother and baby snuggled in a bed together (in case you were getting nervous) and I wearily returned to my own bed at around three in the morning.

Me holding the newborn baby!

Ironically, not long after witnessing the birth of Tiako I read an article in Newsweek (one that I snagged from the PC office) entitled “Super Luxe Maternity – The rise of birthing suites and newborn couture”. I could summarize, but I think this juicy quote will make my point much more powerfully, “When Jessica Simpson, nine months pregnant with a 10-pound baby, headed to the hospital to give birth last week, she was not just any mother-to-be, and she didn’t just roll into any ordinary birthing room.  Simpson delivered her daughter, Maxwell Drew Johnson, in a three bedroom, two bathroom, deluxe birthing suite at Cedars-Sinai hospital in Los Angeles, which featured manicures, pedicures, chilled juice, and a gourmet, post-birth dinner for two, all for $3,784 a night.” – Newsweek, May 14 2012. The same article also contained lovely little tidbits like “In 2008 Jennifer Lopez reportedly wore a couture hospital gown to deliver her twins.” I could go on, but the nausea the article induces might cause me to vomit on my laptop. Just about now is when I should probably launch into a long rant about the absurdity and excess of those who have money to spend on frivolous things while millions of pregnant women are dying in childbirth elsewhere in the world but I suspect the people who really need to hear it are not avid readers of this blog. So instead, I’ll keep it brief since I’m probably preaching to the choir here. First of all, don’t you feel just a little ridiculous and shameful while you are sipping your chilled pomegranate juice infused with natural antiradicals and receiving your post-birth mani-pedi? Don’t you pause for even the briefest of seconds and think what else you could have done with that money? Like, I don’t know…say, give a few hundred women in sub-saharan Africa basic pre-natal care? Guess not, because you just participated in the miracle of birth so you deserve to be pampered, right (I hope my sarcasm is clear)? Well forgive me but I feel that the right of a pregnant woman in Southeast Asia who is dying from hemorrhaging and untreated anemia to simply live sort of trumps your right to be preened and pampered after delivery. Secondly, I’m not saying that the standard of care in the US or other developed countries should be lowered just because it is a standard not available in impoverished developing countries. If you are lucky enough to be born somewhere like the US than I say you should absolutely get the best care possible to ensure the health of you and your bouncing babe. Help yourself to all the monitors, medications, and physicians at your disposal – you’ll get no harsh judgment from me. But there has to be a point where we recognize overindulgence and our own self-worship and step back. I would say that the line definitely lies somewhere before the three bedroom birthing suite.

This kid was totally schooling me in pounding peanut butter

Aaaaaanyway…in other news, two of my friends have left Andramasina permanently. The first to leave was Dr. Ninah, my Malagasy counterpart and the (former) head doctor at the clinic. It is a little inconvenient for me to lose my counterpart halfway through my service but I could tell that she was unhappy here. Her discontent was actually obvious enough for me to work up the nerve to make a comment to her. I was afraid that her curt answers to my questions and suspicious lack of smiling were indicative of me having done something to tick her off without realizing it (I generally have no idea when I have ticked someone off so this wouldn’t be unusual). But when I finally asked her she admitted that she missed her family who lives in Antananarivo which added to her stress from being overworked and underpaid. When I found her looking uncharacteristically chipper the following week I asked what had put her in such a good mood. Apparently, she had approached the Medicin Inspecteur with her grievances and he had transferred her to a clinic in Antananarivo so she could live and work close to her family – mighty nice of him. She was obviously ecstatic; I was a little bit less so. Dr. Tahiry has filled the position of Chef CSBII at the clinic. I am pretty optimistic about working with him. He smiles easily, loves to ask me about the US, and dances like there’s no tomorrow if you give him a little bit of booze. So here’s hoping my new counterpart and I will work well together. And I always know that if he seems to be in an exceptionally bad mood, all I have to do is spike his drink.

My little baby sound asleep in my shirt

The second friend to leave was Kyoko, the Japanese JICA (equivalent of Peace Corps) volunteer. She and I hadn’t spent an extraordinary amount of time together and our conversations were frustratingly limited due to the fact that we had to speak in Malagasy since she knows very little English and I know zero Japanese. However, I was sad to see her leave because that means that I am now Andramasina’s token “vazaha”. When Kyoko was still here the obsessive, stalker-ish manner in which the entire town follows my every move down to how many cups of rice I buy at the market was slightly more bearable because I knew she shared my place under the social microscope. Now I have the distinction of basically being the sole source of gossip in Andramasina. Thrilling. If nothing else, Peace Corps has taught me that I never, ever, EVER want to be a celebrity. Before departing Andramasina, Kyoko organized a small party for her friends and co-workers. It was a little eerie to get a glimpse into my own future – I am sure I will put together something similar before I say goodbye to Madagascar next year. My Malagasy friends also were not shy in letting me know that I should have an even bigger farewell party than Kyoko – Malagasy can be rather competitive.

My new buddy who comes to my house and begs for food

And a final bit of “vaovao” (news) – last week I managed to stick a kitchen knife through my finger. Yes, you read that correctly and I typed it correctly – through my finger – as in, the knife went in one side and poked out the other side. Don’t pretend like you aren’t impressed. The injury itself was so much more epic than the manner in which it was achieved. As most of you know, I live in the highlands of Madagascar which can have great weather but also means that I don’t get to enjoy many of the exciting tropical fruits that grow on the coastal regions. That explains why I nearly jumped a woman who was selling coconuts – I love coconut but sadly it hardly ever manages to make its way up to the highlands. After purchasing my prize from the slightly startled woman I greedily carried the loot back to my house. That’s when I realized that I had never actually had to crack open a whole coconut before. In the States I had always consumed coconut in the much more convenient already shredded or covered with delicious dark chocolate form. I tried delicately using a pair of pliers to make a hole or crack that I could then carefully make larger until I managed to break off a piece. But either I haven’t been eating nearly enough protein (very likely) or that coconut was secretly made of diamonds – I swear it sneered at me. So what was a dumb “vazaha” to do? Clearly, the answer was for me to grab the huge knife I use for chopping vegetables and furiously hack away at the coconut like something from a Psycho film. Unsurprisingly, that course of action ended rather unfortunately for me and my finger. The knife slipped and sunk into my unsuspecting digit which offered very little resistance. Also unsurprisingly, this slip was immediately followed by me uttering a rapid-fire stream of words unfit for civilized conversation as I rushed around trying to find something to stop the bleeding. Half a roll of toilet paper, a handful of gauze, and more cursing later, I decided a band-aid was probably not going to cut it this time so I followed PC protocol and gave the on-call physician a ring. Luckily for me, Dr. Chad was on call – he is basically the nicest, most understanding person in the universe (he sends us inspirational texts on a regular basis) so I felt a little less ashamed admitting to him that I had my ass kicked by a coconut. He confirmed my growing suspicion that I would need stitches. The next thirty minutes I spent running around town with my bloody hand trying to find a doctor who hadn’t already left for Tana (most doctors leave on the weekends). With the help of my “sister” Iaina, I finally located somebody to sew up my poor, impaled finger. Although I was determined not to let it show, getting the stitches with absolutely no local anesthetic actually hurt more than the initial injury in my opinion. But I am obviously grateful to not have gaping holes in my finger anymore. Now the challenge is coming up with an epic story to explain the stitches. After consulting with my PC friend James, we decided that the best story to give curious peeps is that my finger was tragically injured while I was saving a bunch of baby lemurs from a rabid fossa (look it up or watch the lovely animated film Madagascar). I am satisfied with that explanation. So yeah, we should all be grateful that those poor baby lemurs are safe now. And I may never eat coconut again.

The finger, the knife, and the coconut…or more appropriately – the victim, the weapon, and the perpetrator