Sometimes A Mountain Is Just a Mountain

    Okay, I'm sorry this won't be an in-depth post.  I'm kind of tuckered out from wrestling with the Blogger interface in order to get up the first post of our new documentary blog, The Ox and the Dolphin!
    So y'all know that tomb on top of Angavo Mountain I was all excited to see?  Ain't no tomb.  Just rocks.  Pretty amazing rocks, though, similar to what I imagine the boulders and cliff faces in Yosemite are like.
    Thursday morning I packed a lunch, biked to Ebobaky, and went on foot toward the mountain.  A guy came running after me to summon me back to the village, where another man wanted to talk to me.  Evidently this second guy is a representative of QMM, the mining company that controls virtually everything in this area.  He's tasked with making sure that no vazaha go climbing in the mountains alone and then get attacked by bandits.  Very bad press for the village, you understand.  I have several pretty sound reasons to believe that there are no bandits in said mountains, but of course there's no sense in taking chances.
    The QMM agent paired me with a guide and issued me a stamped hiking permit.  The guide, M. Gilbert, took my arrival in stride and started off down the trail, as relaxed as if he was heading to the 7-Eleven a block away to pick up a Milky Way.  No backpack, no water bottle, not even adequate hiking shoes.
    Oh, I know how this is gonna go, I thought.  In an hour this guy's gonna be going at the exact same leisurely pace and I'm gonna be beet-red and wheezing.
    And sure enough...
    We never did climb the mountain's tower, because of our lack of rock-climbing equipment.  Therefore, I'm inclined to consider the grassy ridge as the actual summit of Angavo.  Hell of a view of the Indian Ocean.  It's pretty neat to stand and look south and think that after the beach there's nothing but water, all the way to Penguinland.
    From there we descended into the forest on the mountain's southern face.  We saw a lemur!  Just one, like a big chocolate-colored cat with an extra-long tail, a fair ways off in the forest canopy.  Couldn't get a shot of it, but I didn't even expect to find lemurs outside of a national park.
    That day was exactly my six-month anniversary of arriving in Manambaro.  Nice way to celebrate.

Into the Breach... A Month From Now

Sunset over the fields.

Written March 20, 2012
Manambaro

    The CEG (collège d’enseignement générale, or middle school) sits on a small but noticeable hill a little ways west of town, at the entrance to the road leading to Tsihary.  I followed Desmond, the twins, and two of their other friends up the sandy road, the morning sun illuminating the mist over the rice paddies behind us.  They wore the powder blue smocks that serve as a school uniform, blending in with the crowd of other kids, while I wore my gray polo shirt.
    Early Monday morning I had a meeting with M. Vivian, the CEG directeur (principal) to discuss a subject we were both very excited about: an extracurricular English Club, to be held regularly on Wednesday afternoons.  I got the idea after talking to Jess about my plans for a CEG Health Club or American Culture Club, taught in Malagasy.  She advised that the students would probably end up asking me to teach them English no matter what kind of group I started.  Then I reflected on how Israel would always make sure to lace his lessons with as many positive health and social messages as possible. 
    And I thought: I can do that.  If I build a structure, so to speak, of engaging English lessons, then I can layer and pad and enhance that skeleton with all kinds of progressive ideas.  I probably won’t be able to stop myself from talking about American culture, any more than I could stop myself talking about Niger when I substitute-taught high school kids in Virginia.
    Since the club will be for all ages at the school, we’ll have to spend some time bringing the younger kids up to speed with greeting, numbers, days of the week, and basics like those.  After that phase, I’ll up the ante to a roughly high school-level English curriculum.  As counterintuitive as it sounds, I fully expect a lot of kids to drop out due to frustration or boredom in the first few weeks.  This winnowing will let the really interested and hardworking ones rise to the top, giving them a challenge which I imagine they’ve been missing in their regular English classes.
    After discussing the specifics with M. Vivian, we stepped outside to the flagpole, where all the students were gathered in lines.  Every morning, in a somewhat militaristic ritual that is almost certainly of Gallic origin, all the students stand at attention and sing the national anthem while the Malagasy flag is raised on high.  It was a moving spectacle, especially since the anthem designates different parts for men and women, creating a rich harmony.  When it was over, M. Vivian greeted the students warmly and began his morning announcements.  I decided I like this ceremony better then the American customs of the no-it’s-totally-secular-we-swear Moment of Silence and the it’s-not-fascist-at-all-what-are-you-talking-about Pledge of Allegiance, followed by the droning of a faceless intercom.
    The directeur introduced me, and I stepped forward to talk about my proposal for a club.  Many of the younger kids’ faces lit up when they saw I spoke Gasy, and seemed to glow even brighter as I kept talking.  It was as if they’d been waiting for years to have a native speaker come teach English, or maybe it was just the prospect of having a vazaha teacher who would surely have new things to teach them.
    So with 500 kids in the school, I’ll have to find some way of getting the number down to the 40 or so that can fit in a classroom.  I’ll probably have the classes be first-come-first-served, with a very strict schedule.  The club will start at 2:30 sharp and I’ll let no one in after we begin.  If there is a crowd of more than 40 kids who’ve all arrived before 2:30, I’ll pick the 40 who look most eager to learn. 
    And I intend to have outside-the-box, interactive lessons that the kids will be eager to tell their friends about, slowly expanding the vocabulary lessons to include things like music, sports, animals, even somewhat academic subjects like geography and religion.  If I can teach these kids that there are other religions in the world besides Madagascar’s trio of Christianity, Islam, and animism, then I will consider that a day well spent.
    The first meeting will be on April 18, since the students are on Easter Break until then.  Plenty of time to prepare lesson plans and a cohesive structure for it all.  I can’t wait!

Out of Gas, Out of Garlic

A woman waits at the Manambaro bush taxi stop.

Written March 16, 2012
Fort Dauphin

    Last Friday I failed to get a package from my parents, which was supposed to contain a jar of concentrated Costco garlic powder.  I’ve been consuming spoonfuls of the stuff as a prophylaxis against the fleas in my house.  So with the prophylaxis withdrawn, I thought my nights were going to be the Night of Blades and Stars, the chapter in The Passage when the First Colony’s defenses fail and the vampires outside swarm over the walls.
    Happily, the fleas are turning out to be passive enough to be turned aside by bug spray.  But I’m still looking forward to the garlic.
    I also ran out of butane for cooking, which meant I had to buy another charcoal stove and cook everything that way.  Tatum cooks with charcoal to save money, and Wes says he likes the “caveman” feel of it, but three meals a day over charcoal doesn’t work for me.  Maybe I’m overfond of the “chef” feel of having a heat source which can be controlled with the turn of a knob.
    On Thursday I was able to get to the Fort Dauphin Total station and refill the gas tank.  I expected a hassle, but the thing went off without a hitch.  I even managed to dodge the “fees” that the bush taxi station attendants will try to trick you into paying for a heavy object.  You have to ignore the attendants entirely and just talk to the drivers; drivers don’t care what you’re transporting.
    And I came in to the city today and wiza! there were three packages for me at the post office!  None contained garlic, but they did have the Hunger Games trilogy, a National Geographic, a flashlight, maps for my walls, tons of sweets, and a Mao-sized portrait of our beloved president!  The customs agent actually asked me if we Americans are into that sort of propaganda.  I am!  I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about redecorating in my life!

Sweet, Chill, Nerdy Double Birthday

The view of the pine grove out Jess' back door.

Birthday steaks over charcoal.

Jess and Tatum making dinner.

Written March 12, 2012
Fort Dauphin

    This weekend I celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday, and also Tatum’s twenty-seventh.  She met Jess and I at the American Cultural Center on Friday night.  As it was the last day before the Center travels back to Tana, I made sure to get my fill of CivCity: Rome, which is one of three games that are on the center computers.  The afternoon ended with me growling to myself, “They get rich enough and then they want slaves... And ya give ‘em slaves and they move out of their apartment above the butcher shop and get a fancy new villa and suddenly they won’t do a lick of work themselves... Damn one percent.”
    Yeah, it’s a pretty mediocre game.  Give me Age of Empires any day of the week.
    The next morning at Jess’ house I got up early and went for a walk.  A thunderstorm had appeared in the night and it was still drizzling.  Yet the air was just the right temperature, and the rain wasn’t heavy at all.  I bet the Japanese have a special term for this, I thought, a light rain that is actually quite pleasant to walk in.
    we made pancakes from the Bisquick Tatum had been saving for the occasion.  I brought my Nutella and Jess cooked up a savory breakfast skillet of potatoes and onions.  There was also fresh-squeezed orange juice from Jess’ fridge.  It turned out to be a pretty great brunch.
    We relaxed in the living room, drinking in the mid-morning breeze coming through the windows.  I told Jess about the trailers I’d seen for Season Two of Game of Thrones.  We’re both on tenterhooks waiting for it to premier.  Tatum had neither read the books nor seen the show.
    She picked up a food magazine and began reading aloud, “Winter is coming up, so get r--”
    “You just quoted Game of Thrones and you didn’t realize it!” I gushed.
    “What, ‘Winter is coming up?’” she asked.
    “‘Winter is Coming,’” I grinned.
    Jess adopted the serene expression that I suspect is her way of rolling her eyes.
    Tatum and I spent the afternoon at the market shopping for dinner, then went swimming.  For dinner we had pasta and steak.  Tatum made salsa, guacamole, and chips from packages her parents had sent her.
    And then we watched the first two episodes of Game of Thrones in an attempt to initiate Tatum into the fandom.  It’s like we were inducting her into the Cult of Mithras, such is the seductive power of Martin and HBO.  She didn’t take to it like we thought she might, but she’s still interested in reading the books.
    Pretty nice relaxing weekend.  Now I come into the Kaleta to do some Internet and I find an e-mail from the higher-ups about the study on the Peace Corps Madagascar Health Program.  The choicest part is: “Meetings with all ranges of individuals indicated that the PC/Madagascar Health project has little or no impact on the health of Malagasy.” (sic)
    So... great.  Washington has declared that the program in which I have been trained-- in which they trained me!-- is useless.  Ergo, I am useless.
    So what do I do now?  Keep barking at the townsfolk about health according to the same old methods that have been deemed unavailing?  Teach English to people?  Give lectures on American culture?  Lobby the regional officials to improve the roads here?  Pelt random men on the street with condoms?
    Lend a hand to other local organizations so I still feel like I have some purpose?
    Take pictures of absolutely everything?
    Those last two aren’t bad...

Some Sunlight

Canoes wait to depart the Fort Dauphin fishing port.

Townspeople breakfast in a cafe in the Tanambao neighborhood.

The early morning view outside of Israel's house.

Written March 4, 2012
Fort Dauphin   

    As I’ve mentioned previously, Israel left his house as a place in which the rest of us Volunteers in this area could stay when we come to Fort Dauphin.  It’s free, and it’s a lot closer to the taxi brousse station than Jess’ house.  Our end of the deal was that we keep the house in good condition for Israel’s replacement, who will be arriving in September, insh’Allah.
    One thing Monica and I didn’t count on, still being relatively new to this region: under any substantial rain, Israel’s house leaks.  It leaks like a sieve.  It leaks like a child’s dam of gravel and mud.  It leaks like the containment measures in any zombie movie except Rec.
    I arrived on Friday to find his bed absolutely soaked.  I stripped it and hung up the sheets to dry as best I could.  But the water’s still dripping onto the concrete floor, and none of the bedclothes are really going to dry until we put them out under the sun.
    Luckily, the rain clouds seem to have dispersed for today, so when I get back to Israel’s I’ll see what I can do.  Tomorrow another wing of this storm system is supposed to arrive, and then it’ll be back to rain for the rest of the week.
    Still taking care of my shifts at the American Cultural Center.  It’s closing soon, but then I’ll get my weekends back.  And I got big plans for my weekends.

The First Tempest

There are a number of rather pretty fox-like dogs in Manambaro.

Woman and baby in a bush taxi.

One of Manambaro's butchers at his trade.

A chameleon on the wire outside my house.

Kids in the market.

Big white flower.

This group of kids is particularly friendly when I walk by their house on my way to the market.

The rice section of the Tuesday market in Manambaro.

A few vendors have started selling raketa, or cactus fruit.

The high winds from Cyclone Irina.

Written March 4, 2012
Fort Dauphin

    Well, Peace Corps, is this the cyclone you were expecting?  It’s kind of curious how this one, Irina, came right on the heels of Giovanni, which veered out toward Antarctica without so much as a by-your-leave.  We’ve been getting wind and rain aplenty here.  I’ve been staying inside, musing on future projects and taking care of small chores I’ve been neglecting.
    On Monday I got my normal taxi brousse back to Manambaro.  The vehicle was in surprisingly good condition, probably just off the boat from the Netherlands, which is from where I’ve heard Madagascar imports most of its minibuses.  I squeezed into the back seat next to a gracious old lady who kept asking me questions about the Peace Corps.
    Just after crossing the Nosibe bridge, a guy on a bike swerved in front of the brousse.  And we braked and time slowed down and I thought please please don’t hit him but we did.  Physics of it were just like a slow-motion shot in the movies, where the front of the car hits the character’s body and his head whips into the windshield.  Huge spiderweb of cracks all over the pristine glass.
    At first everyone thought he was dead, just taking for granted that the impact would have been fatal.  But it turned out his injuries were relatively light.  We got him into the brousse with us and drove on to Manambaro, to take him to the hospital.  Blood trickled down his face and onto his clothes; from the way his head was lolling I guessed he was dipping in and out of consciousness.  When we got to the hospital entrance he could stand, but couldn’t walk.  It looked like the worst trauma to his pelvis.
    I wish I could have done anything, being a Health volunteer.  There was no material to immobilize the man, or to make a stretcher, and even if there had been the badly paved roads would have made it almost useless.
    He looked about twenty years old, which is usually the age where men are married with one child.  He’ll probably live, but not walk properly again.
    It was after that initial shock that Irina really began her assault.  Another thing that’s been keeping me occupied is the novel Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev.  It’s about two Russian university students in 1860 who return to the country to visit their fathers.  The introduction to the book says that Turgenev based the character of Bazarov on the anarchist philosopher Mikhail Bakunin, who was in the same literary circle as himself, Tolstoy, and Dostoyevsky. It’s interesting to see how, at least in Turgenev’s representation of him, the father of modern anarchism was just as pretentious and self-righteous as the average anarchist on college campuses today.
    Yeah, I said it.  Not very diplomatic of me, but it’s my blog.  And there’s more where that came from.  If you get me on the subject of anarchists we’ll be here all day and into the night.
    It’s also interesting to see how nineteenth-century Russia faced many of the same problems as twenty-first-century Madagascar, like bad roads, corrupt local officials, and a large population of insufficiently educated farmers.  So does that mean that Madagascar needs a Stalin to shape it up?  Well, that’s the very thing Peace Corps is trying to work against...