Dispatches from a Zambian Xanadu

A long time coming...

2009-09-25T18:37:00.000+03:00

It’s been quite some time since I’ve written. My apologies. I haven’t felt the need or desire to write for a few reasons. First, I haven’t come across those little stories that make the idiosyncrasies of other cultures fun to read about or at least I haven’t noticed them. I’ve also been really busy. Busy with work, busy with life. And I’ve been making a lot of big decisions as life is concerned. I keep thinking that when I’m done making these decisions that I’ll start worrying about things like my blog. I realize now, that those decisions will never cease.

So here I am.

Life has been a series of strange, good and bad, lucky and confusing, events these last few months. I’m still in Zambia. As for work here, we’ve started a number of projects. Our school garden has started harvesting and the kids are taking complete control of managing the garden. It’s really great to watch the working, gardening in ways that the families might not normally use. Also at the school we’re starting to setup our apiary (our beehives). We’ve organized a few day workshop and will then, in the next couple of weeks set up our hives and bait the bees. The school children will hopefully take over this project as well… Both of these aiming at providing some beneficial skills that the children can use later on.

In the village I’ve been working with a few women’s groups starting a poultry farm. We have 50 chickens (starting small) that we’ll begin selling in the next few weeks. With the proceeds we’ll pay back the loan that was taken to buy the chicks and then we’ll use the leftover to buy more chicks, medicine and feed. The project has been going very well thus far, and as long as the chickens don’t get sick we’re expecting to bring in a good amount of revenue. Also in the village I’ve been working with a carpenter’s group. We’re writing proposals for a three-part training that will train 20 people in tree nursery management, basic carpentry skills and basic business skills. The idea is to create a system of environmentally and financially sustainable carpentry, selling the end products as local markets and using revenue to replace used tree. The grant will be handed in at the end of the month, in a few days… Hopefully things work out and we’ll be able to fund the training.

Other work involves a few model gardens at health clinics and the beginnings of an orphanage. The orphanage will be a local orphanage aimed at providing free schooling to a group of 35 children that have been left orphans due to HIV/AIDS. As of now we’re looking at ways to sustainably fund the orphanage rather than applying for grants and loans. We’re looking at the possibility of a poultry farm, a piggery, and/or some fish ponds, any and all of which would be used solely to fund the orphanage. But this is still beginning. I’ll follow up on this one.

As for life. I am faced with a number of really big decisions right now. And every time I think that I’ve figured it out… It falls apart. So, I’m looking at grad schools. For now I’m looking for a Masters of Public Policy or Public Affairs program. But, given that the grass is always greener on the other side, I start thinking that maybe I should look into other things. Either way, I’m studying for the GRE, October 24th. Wish me luck. I had plans to take some time off when I got back to the states, move back to Salt Lake and devote my complete attention to grad school applications and furthering the process of finding happiness in my life, but it looks like I’ll start my grad school applications now, hoping for a Fall 2010 admission. We’ll see.

The days in Zambia are getting hotter and longer. The bike rides seemingly worse every day. But in general, still a great place. I had a great visit with my Mom and Sister a few weeks back. We travelled all over Zambia, white water rafting at the base of Victoria Falls and on a safari in South Luangwa National Park. The grand finale was a big party in my village. We killed a goat, a pig and two chickens. There was lots of dancing, a few heartfelt speeches and some long goodbyes; it was, by far, the best part of the trip. As for now, I am looking forward to Christmas; I’ll be back in the States for a few weeks for the holidays… I have no plans other than just being home for Christmas, let me know if you have other ideas…

Well folks. Thanks for always staying in touch and being supportive, I’ll need that now more than ever. This long transition back to the States will be a lot harder and a lot longer than I ever expected if intend on hitting the ground running. It’s surprising me that I’ve even started thinking about it already.

It’s always just the beginning of a whole life time of adventures…

Take Care,
Marshall

This is Zambia, The Real Africa

2009-06-12T08:42:00.003+03:00

It wasn’t long ago, but entirely too late, that I realized that being here in Zambia I feel as though I’m in the Real Africa.

Visiting a friend the other week, I was taking a hot bath (one of the many luxuries afforded by the village life) and worrying about the 30 mile bike ride I’d have to make to get home. I was looking over the grass wall of the bathing shelter and Pride Rock was jutting out in the distance, I thought “Hakuna Matata”. With a smile, my worries dissipated and the only things missing were the signing elephants, the dancing antelope, Simba and his entourage of Timon and the Fat Warthog friend.

Zambia is located on the Northern border of what’s considered Southern Africa and, at least where I am located, is Lion King to a ‘T’. Not to say that Lion King is the real Africa, but with the Savannah, forest enclaves, occasional trees and winding rivers, it is exactly what most people picture when they think of this vast continent.

To me, it is less the jutting rocks, the expectations of seeing large animals and the fears of deadly snakes that make it feel like the Real Africa, but rather the strange encounters and confusing cultural misunderstandings that make it so. It’s the little boy that went running, screaming with tears running down his face when he saw the white man riding a bike, and the sweet old man giving me the most contented and equally baffled look as he bathed in the river and I rode by. It’s the little girl chasing me down and telling me to walk my bike as I pass the Chief’s Palace and the people that introduce themselves as ‘Piston’, ‘Nervous’, ‘Candymore’ and ‘Wireless’ that make this the Real Africa.

I thought for sure, I’d arrive elsewhere, the jungles of the DRC, the pyramids of Egypt, or the dunes of the Sahara and feel that those places were just as much the Real Africa until, on my way home my suspicions were confirmed. Bumping over the dirt road past the corn fields and through the small mud hut villages I passed a group of school-aged boys, all wearing the same shirt at different stages of tattered-ness. It was a green, short-sleeve shirt with words arcing over the Zambian flag. It read, in big black letters with a fine white stitching at the edges “Zambia The Real Africa”. It was then that I figured it out after all, this is The Real Africa.

Gone

2009-05-10T18:03:00.002+03:00

In less than 24 hours I will go to my new village. Pronounced "GO-nay", spelled "Gone", I leave at 3 pm tomorrow.

I always tell myself that I must stop comparing Zambia to Madagascar, but I've come to accept that the comparisons will always be there, I just have to accept all that Zambia is, for better or for worse.

I've been here for about a month and a half and the only real accomplishment (other than maintaining my health and sanity) has been to pass my language test with fewer than 65 hours of training. With that in the past, I was considered prepared to go to my village. But Peace Corps Zambia kept us behind all of the other trainees that we had joined so that we could meet the volunteers that have been in country for one year... All of the volunteers with whom we will return to the States.

As for my village life here in Zambia, I will be about 30 km from a nicer city and the provincial bunk house for Peace Corps Volunteers. I'll be about 8 km from paved roads and will have some cell phone service. All of which would be considered general improvements from my location in Madagascar. I bring with my a small duffel bag and some odds and ends that Peace Corps Zambia has given me, everything else that was left behind will be shipped to the States. So, life is beginning to begin again.

I apologize for the brevity of this post and the delay between posts, but as life returns to some sort of normal, things should fall into place and general life pace will calm. As for now, my health is teetering, and my sanity is improving. But altogether, things are looking up. I send everyone my best, and remind you that there's always a place to stay in Zambia.

See you soon!
Marshall

Beginning Once More

2009-03-24T16:27:00.003+03:00

We left the United States on the 22nd of February, headed for Madagascar. On a plane with 31 other volunteers I sat next to a friendly old Zambian man. We talked for a little while; he recounted his adventures in the States and I told of my plans and excitement for Madagascar. Just before exiting the plane and going our separate ways, the kind old man gave me a 1000 Zambian Kwacha bill. I stuffed the strange play-like money into my pocket, at the time I didn’t realize it was an omen.

The prospect was greeted with excitement and anxiety when the head of our ‘Transition Team’ told me I had been accepted to the Zambian Program ‘Linking Income, Food, and Environment (LIFE)’. It’s a great environment program of which I am pleased to be a part.

We’ll be saying goodbye to our quaint bed and breakfast before the end of the day on Friday. And we’ll join a group that is half-way through their training in Zambia. In all, I will have around 4 weeks of training in the language of Nyanja, a Zulu-like dialect of the Malawian Chichewa language. Then I’ll head to the eastern border, 2 hours from Malawi and a short drive from South Luangwa National Park, “…one of the greatest wildlife sanctuaries in the world.” I will spend a little over one year working with local farmers to introduce sustainable agricultural practices.

It will be no Madagascar, as Madagascar was no Zambia. But with a small symbol of Zambian hospitality in my pocket, I venture into my new life transition and I’m sure I’ll find a Xanadu in Zambia.

The Unshared Tears

2009-03-21T13:20:00.003+03:00

First coming to Madagascar, the Peace Corps kept us on a tight leash, we didn’t speak the language or know the ropes in anyway, shape or form. But the first time they loosened their grip, we all went out to eat. It was a fine restaurant, as western as it could be, but only now do I realize the irony of it all: the name of the restaurant was Coup d’Etat.

And now, after 6 days of a perverse house arrest at the Garden Court hotel in South Africa, I’m wishing more than ever that the coup d’etat of Madagascar had never happened.

The violence started on January 26th, 30 some dead in Antananarivo (Tana); and I didn’t hear about it until February 4th, the last day I spent in Belitsaka. From there I consolidated with Austin for two weeks before flying to Tana. We stayed at the Peace Corps training center (a semi-glorified summer camp) for a few days until things had calmed down and most people returned to their villages. Belitsaka was unfortunately too far away, I didn’t have time to return before the training for new volunteers was to begin. I was left in limbo, wanting only to return to the friends and family that had taken me in for the last year… but it was too far. We planned the training, creating lesson plans, technical books, CDs, moving beds, buying food for hundreds of meals. It was the day before the new trainees were supposed to come that the training was cancelled. But we held strong, worked hard to make the training replicable for the possible chance that they would still arrive, just later in the year. None of us could have anticipated the text message that would change our lives. “…Decision made to suspend PC Madagascar. Very sad. Process of leaving will be lengthy. Prepare tonight for consolidation and onward as flights are confirmed…” We’d be leaving Madagascar. Sure, during consolidation we all imagined the possibilities of an evacuation, dreaming of seeing family and friends, returning to a culture familiar to us; it wasn’t an awful prospect. Until it happened. We were devastated. And now there was no way to say goodbye to my family and friends of Madagascar, no cell phone service, no postal service, and it was just too far away.

We left Tana within the week. I was on the second plane to South Africa, and now I’ve been in this hotel compound for a week; Johannesburg is too dangerous to go anywhere other than the airport and the mall.

I’ve since been exploring my options, and I’ve made the first few cuts for a direct transfer of service to another country. It looks as though Zambia may be in the cards. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll be following some leads in Tanzania.

A few months ago, I closed saying “…I will always be on the outside, peering in; looking for some sort of recognition in the eyes of an ancestral way of life that will never be mine.” Looking back, this wasn’t true at all. I had been accepted with open arms into a way of life that I made mine. And now, occupied by memories of a simpler existence, complex ancestral beliefs and the beauty of everyone that crossed my path, I move on. The beginning has come to an end and despite the unfinished goodbyes and the unshed tears, I’ll always look back to My Madagascar with a smile on my face and an unshared tear in my eye.

Photos

2009-02-22T14:11:00.008+03:00

I should have had these here a long time ago... They date back to Feb 2008.

Family Photo: Christmas 2008

Christmas Tree 2008

Post Treeplanting Party Picture

Her name means "sweet"

This is my house. I live in the half closest to you. That solar panel on my roof powers my only way to reach the outside world... a CB Radio.

The gasy guitar still isn't finished (no strings).

His name means "the cause of happiness".

On our way back from the caves... Carrying cow meat (dinner).

Tsingy (the rocks). Bridge.

My name in Malagasy. "mareesalee".

In the caves... People used to live here.

They'll meet in the middle in a few million years.

His name is Tanio. He calls me "salee".

Do you think he's pondering the inner workings of that solar-powered battery charger?

Cows, grazing in the rice fields post harvest.

Dancing and Gasy guitars...

Special ceremonies call for special meals.

Neighborhood Kids

Neighbor Family & Relatives

Language Training Group on the day it all began.

I'll try to update with more in the near future. Please give feedback, I significantly reduced the quality... does that interfere with viewing pleasure? I could try to make them a little bigger. Things are great here. Calm. I'm sorry I didn't send any updates during the political crisis... it's still not over. If you curious google madagascar news.

I send you all my best.

Take Care,

Marshall

Fanafody Gasy

2009-01-19T14:25:00.001+03:00

The sky was mostly clear with a few clouds spotting the horizon and our guide, Longhead’s Uncle (Zama’ny Lavaloha), uprooted a patch of grass, turned it up side down and stuffed it leafy part first into an unsuspecting termite mound. He said that this would stop the rain. Two hours later a huge storm cloud appeared out of nowhere and we were soaked to the bone. I thought, down one Fanafody Gasy.

The rain had stopped but the dense forest cover above was still dripping as we left the cave and headed back to camp. I was taking my time enjoying the quiet calm after the storm as I was stung by some sort of wasp that left two small vampire-fang-like dots on my forearm. It hurt. Even before I had a chance to look at the damage, our guide had pulled out a homemade cream and was applying it to the sting. The pain ceased and the sting never swelled. Fanafody Gasy was tied.

We returned to the village only to be summoned, along with all of the other villagers, to the cattle path heading south of town. There was some sort of curse in the middle of the path, half way to the watering hole. Apparently the chief of the village’s husband had buried some small sticks wrapped in black cloth, a deadly curse. All 50 or so of us stood huddled around a pool ball sized hole, staring at the three finger-sized sticks when my neighbor was overtaken by an ancestor’s spirit. She bent down, threw the sticks deep into the brush and started screaming, eyes rolled back into her head, in an incomprehensible mumble. Eventually the spirit quieted and the villagers went searching for the lost evidence; justice would still have to be served. Fanafody Gasy, I thought, is eerily similar to the Salem witch trails.

As the tin roof creaked under the strength of the Malagasy sun, my neighbors had forgotten the deadly curse and began to focus on relieving our friend of her ancestor’s spirit. Rum bottles were strewn around the room and the spirit had possession of my neighbor. The spirit was speaking through my neighbor’s body in broken Malagasy, giving new taboos to various people as I searched for recognition in her eyes. Rum was replaced with water and the water was being thrown around the room, when she finally broke her gaze and was freed of her ancestor. She would remember nothing.

Fanafody Gasy is more prevalent in our doctorless village than even the most common medicines in the States. It is rarely talked about and those that know how to administer it demand its weight in gold. As I struggle to understand even the most basic forms of it, it seems to grow, encompassing more of the Malagasy way of life than I could begin to imagine. I would like to call it ‘traditional medicine’, but it includes so many spiritual, medicinal, and ancestral aspects that ‘traditional medicine’ only manages to scratch the surface.

I’m left now, confused and curious, excitedly unsure. I can only settle, knowing that I will never know the whole story. No matter how many ceremonies I sit in on or how many medicinal treatments I take part in, I will always be on the outside, peering in; looking for some sort of recognition in the eyes of an ancestral way of life that will never be mine.

The New Church

2008-11-21T13:44:00.001+03:00

His name is Varisoa (Good Rice), he's 26. He called me over to have a look at a strange bump that had appeared on his arm and his concerned face looked to me for an answer. I bent down to take a look and a small vein was gently pulsing below his bicep, "It won't stop Marisely." I did my best to explain to him the workings of the heart and the veins throughout the body. I explained to him that it's his pulse and showed him where else he could find it. As I was measuring my pulse and feeling for his he looked to me and said "See Marisely, I told you God created us."

The church bell, the rim of an automobile tire, starting sounding at 7 as the Lutheran pastor fervently banged away. As the congregation started milling in around 10, Varisoa was the first to arrive. By 11 the one-room school house was filled with church-goers, most of whom were under the age of 15, 6 of whom were adults and all of us were wearing our best, the same clothes we wore to the ball the night before.

The history of churches in Belitsaka started in the late 90's when a lone Catholic priest built a one-room church on the edge of town. Every Sunday the priest convened over his congregation to preach God's word. His followers were apparently never more than 10, but the onlookers, people peering in the windows watching everyone pray, ran 50 deep. As most prayer watching goes, the same hymns lost their novelty and the prayer peepers stopped showing up. Within a few years even Christmas had lost its glimmer and the priest had a hard time getting his congregation to arrive. Increasingly fed up with his lack of followers the priest stripped the building of its tin roof and plank pews and moved to the next village over. Over the next few months the building was stripped of its salvageable building materials until nothing but the cement floor was left. Belitsaka had lost its first and only church.

This time it started with a quiet Lutheran pastor and his chance passing through town, realizing there is no church in Belitsaka. My neighbors welcomed him into their home, fed him and gave him a place to sleep. The elder looked to me and said "Marisely, there is someone in town that has come to make us pray." And shot me a quiet look of "isn't that cute…"

Nowadays the congregation's numbers seem to have risen, if even only with children and the prayer peepers rarely come. It seems clear to me that there are believers in Belitsaka even if Varisoa is the most dedicated, and given the pastor's subtle mixing of traditional customs and beliefs into his sermons, I think that this church may have more of a chance at success.

As for me, I'll go.

Lessons of Grievance

2008-09-23T17:50:00.000+03:00

Crouched, peering out of a large green Mercedes truck intended for things more than it is for people, we rumbled into Belistaky. With the quiet melting of the orange sun into the horizon at my back a small girl runs up to me, out of breath but rather elated, she tells me of one of the village seniors that had passed away the evening prior. Accompanying me to the funeral, the girl and I walk with a confused, somber excitement in our step. There is a small table at the head of the homemade casket, with a cassette deck blasting the Gasy favorite, Kilaliky. The village seniors are grouped around the casket, the men in the north, the women in the south, and other than the cassette deck, there is nothing to the east. The children are dancing wildly around the fire, while groups of men are huddled over large plates piled high with rice waiting for spoons. I am brought my own bowl of rice with an excess amount of meat stacked on top and sit comfortably, growing accustomed to what will be Belitsaky for the next 5 days.

The village congregates around the casket day and night, drinking, eating, dancing, sleeping, accompanied by the wailing of the mourners, the slowly dieing noise of the cassette tape, and the occasional cow hide drum. It was clear that in order for the deceased to be passed onto the earth the living must free themselves of all mourning and grievance. It wasn't until the burying of the casket was finished and I had left town that the importance of their grieving sank in.

Riding high in the cab of an oil tanker, watching the smoke rise from the grass fires in the distance, the ashes melt into the charred, dieing land we talked about America. The chauffeur new of most big American cities, but was focused on New York. He wanted to know it all, to see it, to feel it, to be a part of it as I was in Madagascar. I entertained his curiosity with joy even when he asked about September 11th. Although most people don't know the happenings of September 11th we spent the greater part of an hour discussing what happened, from the number of buildings that fell to the precise details of my surroundings when I heard the news. Reliving the events of that day made me realize, not only the magnitude of what happened, but the lack of time and energy that I had given to mourning it. I started to cry. It still astounds me that for one village senior, everyone convened for five entire days, killed 4 cows and drained to energy of 2 car batteries, but when the tragedies of September 11th occurred, where thousands died, families torn, and buildings were destroyed, all I did was try to get on with my life, to force things into my past.

Little did the chauffeur know, he taught me the importance of mourning. I find myself now therapeutically reliving a number of events from my past, grieving now as I should have then; allowing myself to be overtaken by the memories, the sorrow. I'm no longer forcing things into my past but moving past things and into my future.

And we’re back…

2008-08-26T21:38:00.001+03:00

Back to the simple life, back to knowing everyone you pass on the street, back to full meals for less than a dollar. I've come back to a world much smaller than my previous, much more limited, much more isolated. But it wasn't the isolation from other Americans or even modern amenities that I was concerned about; it was the 20 chickens that the airline wouldn't allow me to bring as carry-on, and forced me to check.

Being out here in the ambanivohisty (the countryside), there is no access to what others take for granted; improved seed varieties and chicken breeds (of course). So I had to bring the chickens from Antananarivo (the capitol). They wanted to sell me 50, but I convinced them to sell me only 20, 10 improved egg layers and 10 improved meat producers. Our plan is to make a mixed breed with country chickens that are easier to care for and less susceptible to diseases.

Thankfully, despite the rough plane ride and one night living in the bathtub, they're doing just fine. They'll be home in two days, and so will I.

As nice as it will be to get back home, our vacation to Isle Saint Marie could not have been better. It's a small island off the east coast of Madagascar where we went bike riding, scuba diving, whale watching, swimming, it was incredible. I even heard that my picture made it into the newspapers; I've yet to see it. I normally would have objected to taking a vacation, therefore keeping me away from my village even longer, but we were stuck in the capitol waiting for one of the infrequent, unreliable flights anyway… I figured I should take advantage of the free time.

To say the least, I'm having a wonderful time here and I can only hope that these stories may be convincing those fence sitters to jump down and come visit.

When The Mangoes Are Ripe

2008-08-09T08:19:00.001+03:00

The next time the mangoes are ripe.

That’s when I’ll leave the red island for good. It’s not that I’m counting down the days, I daydream about living here for the rest of my life. It’s that I’m preparing to go to the capitol for a Peace Corps training.

I’ve been spending the last few days telling everyone that I’m leaving town and that I’ll be back in a few weeks. I shouldn’t be surprised that people think I’m leaving for the states for good; that’s what the last volunteer did. But it’s not easy convincing people that I am really going to come back. To one of the elders in the village, I explained that I was leaving my things in the house and that I would be back for them, he still didn’t believe me. I showed to him the 300+ kilos of rice that I have stocked for the next two years; he was hoping to inheret it when I left. I had told him countless times that I will go back to the states May 2010 but he still didn’t believe me. Seeing the budding mangoes, I thought about things in a different light... I returned to the man’s home and over a spoonful of rice explained to him that I would be returning to Belitsaky during the next full moon, he seemed to understand. I continued, explaining that not this season, but the next time the magoes are ripe... that is when I’ll go back to the States; it all fell into place.

That’s what these first three months have been all about; seeing things in a different light. My days start and end with the sun, months are decided by the moon cycles and meetings depend on the heat of the day. I’ve stopped asking why when things are taboo and begun to read my shadow to decide the time of day. The rice isn’t done in 25 or 35 minutes, it’s done when you can smell it burning to the bottom.

I realize now how far removed I have been from the essentials of life. In the States I can get tomatoes any time I want; I don’t think about where they come from. A bag of rice might cost $10; but I don’t think about how the rice was seperated from the rocks. A cap full of soap and the push of a button washes my clothes; where the fabric came from is beyond me. In the States, I buy an extra large grade AA chicken egg and don’t stop to wonder how far from the hen’s ancestor’s genetics she has come.

At first I dreamed of living on my Grandfather’s plot of farm land and living off of it and only it. Whatever I couldn’t make or obtain from the land I wouldn’t have, that simple. It made me think of even the simple things I wouldn’t have... metal knives, iron tools, glassware, etc. Then I started thinking about different concepts and inventions... a butter churn, heirloom tomatoes, the pasteurization of milk, the wheel... is it cheating if I am willing to use inventions and concepts developed by others? And where to draw the line; if it’s ok to use the improved techniques of others then why shouldn’t it be ok to use products from other people, we’re all in this thing together right?

So I started changing my mind. And now, I don’t propose that we undo thousands of years of changes to the way of life... millions of inventions, improvements, and backsteps, but that we choose conscientiously the inventions, improvements, and backsteps set before us. That instead of retreating to my secluded farm and living removed from the rest of the world, we do our part to encourage the positive investments that others have made to our way of life, that rather than looking to “sustainable” and “organic” products to change the world, we encourage the sustainable and organic lifestyles and actions. The plastic between us and our food doesn’t change it’s origin; it only means it comes from much farther away to make it to our mouths. I encourage us to eat what is in season, to realize it’s presence, not just on the plate, but in our world. Grow some basil in the kitchen, a tomato plant in a bucket, and some corn in the yard. Eat those three things only when they’re ripe, it’ll bring us all a bit closer.

Pictures!!

2008-04-24T14:27:00.004+03:00

Hey all... I've put a few photos up... enjoy. I'll try to get some more up before the 9th. After that I won't have internet until August.

Take Care,
Marshall

Tales From The Kabone...

2008-03-27T21:13:00.002+03:00

It would have been smart to bring the camera, the cables, and all the necessary things to upload pictures, but things don't always work out that well, I apologize. Either way, things are in tip top shape here. I'm flying to Belitsaka tomorrow, my village, and will be there until Tuesday or Wednesday, or long (it all depends on if the flights actually happen).

So, look there... just to the right, above the ad... it's my address. You had it all along. Just kidding, I got some people that asked for it, so there it is. But I'll try to put pictures up here in a few weeks, maybe one or two of where I'll live.

Don't stop here, scroll down, no, it's not the easter bunny, but it's better.

Love
Marshall

The Fateful Easter Sunday...

2008-03-27T20:52:00.002+03:00

It was the first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox and I was sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench. It hadn't been less than 2 hours and the service had just begun. It wasn't the 2 mile walk to church that did me in, nor was it the hour of waiting for the service to start...

Once the service did start, I was glad to get things under way. I understood little of it, but new when to stand, what to sing, and when to sit. In the small cement church with one dangling incandescent bulb i was situated well between my host mom and my brother of 12. We were snug but not nearly as cramped as the 50 people on the 2 x 4 plank built balcony above.

I thought I new when the sermon started, but after an hour and a half of preaching I wasn't sure if perhaps we had moved on and I missed it. Hymns in Malagasy, as grammatically simple the language seems to be were very difficult to sing and even harder to understand, but I was thankful, they were the only aspect of the service that kept me awake and involved. I was able to get comfortable with my wonderful family and began feeling a part of the family at the service.

It wasn't until the auction at the end of the service that I was thrown for one. As a matter of fact, it's a great idea. The church was trying to raise money for a new building and auctioned things from cake to bananas to pineapples and live chickens for slightly more than market price to get people to support the church. I was tempted to bid on the 104th piece of cake auctioned, but I decided to hold off. After the auction, the service winded down and we started the fateful walk home. It was hot and we were in our Sunday's best. But I knew there would be a bowl of steaming rice whe I got home.

And 8 hours after we left the house for church, I sauntered into the kitchen and dug my spoon into a piping hot bowl of gasy rice. Despite the length, the lack of uunderstanding, and the long walk to and fro, it was a beautiful service and an experience I would pass up for nothing. And I'll do again so long as every time I get home I have the same longing and love for the steaming bowl of rice.

Madagascar!

2008-03-11T22:44:00.002+03:00

Hello all!

I do not have a lot of time, just enough to say that everything is well. Madagascar is incredible! I live overlooking a valley of rice paddies and read each night by the light of candle. We have no electricity nor running water. I love the family I'm living with and can't imagine things any other way. Madagscar is a beautiful place! Funny thing, the staff at the Peace Corps consider going to Madagascar like winning the Peace Corps lottery, if there were one. And now I understand why. Despite learning Malagasy and Sakalava Menabe, which are more different than I would have thought, things are coming along great.

We've been going through a lot of training, bio-intensive rice farming, gardening, water systems, environmental education, some nutrition sessions and a whole lot of language!! It's tough learning two languages at once, adding on bits and pieces of french at the same time! It's so strange to be here at a computer writing. I think so often of the things that I want to write and the things that I want to tell everyone, but now I'm sitting here, I have the rare opportunity to communicate over the internet and I suddenly have nothing to write.

Things are beautiful, incredible.

Check it out on wikipedia: I'll be going to Belitsaka in Madagascar. It's about 2 hours east of Maintirano... west of the capitol. It's a small town of 1000 or so. The last, and first volunteer at that site left early, so I'll be the first, and I can't wait. I'll have that address in a few weeks. I sent out a few letters, I hope everyone gets them soon. Please send me letters, you can be sure that I'll write back. As for internet in Belistaka, it's non-existant. Maintirano doesn't have it either. So I can expect internet access once every few months. But I'll have a phone, without any service... Yeah, it's strangely normal.

I hope things are well where everyone is... The States, Europe, Mexico, Argentina, The Gambia...!

I can't wait to hear from you all. Until next.

Marshall

Visiting Family

2008-02-10T22:56:00.001+03:00

Not a lot has happened in the past week. I've done some more work around the house and passed a few more days without stepping foot out the door. It's been a dreary time of recollection, remembrance, and restoration; it's continuing nonetheless.

It's time the scenery changed. Going along with things, it wouldn't be fitting if we were anywhere else other than my mother's childhood home; that of her parents. I'm exhausted, but Pappy (my Grandfather) of all people is telling me it's too early for bed, I suppose it's only nine. Spending time with my grandparents used to be such a drag, they were too old to understand, in all reality they weren't even people anymore, they were grandparents. Thankfully that has changed.

I was just listening. I listened for hours with an occasional attempt to interject a story from my experiences. But really, I was just there to listen. Pap has stories and I was there to listen to them. I felt as he told me his stories that I wasn't just supposed to be listening, but that I should be taking notes, drawing pictures and transcribing this oral history into something more, something longer-lasting. But I just kept listening.

He spoke of the personal anecdotes of being a toddler during World War I. Pap recounted the days of living in the dorms when he was one of 8 in the entire college hoping Hoover would lose the election (he did). The river no longer freezes in the winter, but I heard stories of entire towns relying off of its ice for summer storage and Sunday ice cream making. Markets sold flour and some other dry goods, but grocery stores didn't exist back then, everyone grew their own food and made their own molasses. We sat in silence. I did my best to imagine what I would remember at his age, and find someway to relate; he kept remembering. We discussed the time before penicillin and his father's fatal tuberculosis; for the rest of the family it was a vaccine. He talked about hearing the first radio, seeing the first movie and watching the first television. He spoke of the first telephone, the first computer and even the first cellular phone; the internet is beyond his reach. Pap is 93, his sister is 98 and they are the only two of the family still alive. He believes that he has lived during the best century in human history. Before the industrial revolution and through both World Wars; they raised flower children and they loved grandchildren of Generation X.

I wonder if it really was the best century in which one could have lived. Perhaps it's the way he looks at life. If you hadn't the choice, then why wouldn't it be the best? I hope to be 93 and recounting my stories with my grandchildren. I hope to look back on life and believe that it was the best time in which I could have ever lived. I hope. I can only imagine that he didn't expect to live through these things, a few times I'm sure he would've bet that he wouldn't. Either way, I'll be glad to pass on his torch. He's a beautiful man, my Pappy. He thinks this might be the last time he sees me. I hope not.

Prologue: The pre-pandemonium.

2008-02-02T00:54:00.000+03:00

It's been a while since I've spent some time here, in Dryden. But just as before I can find the same familiar faces in the same familiar places. It's been nice to relax for the last little while, especially after such an epic journey through Turkey. In the meantime I have been making some extra cash cleaning out the basement and putting up trim throughout the house.

Rummaging through old boxes of hidden middle school treasures I came across trinkets, pictures, love letters, and stories lost to the pubescent awkwardness of growing up. It's a funny thing that love is so easy to declare at such a young age, it's later in life, when we're really in love, that owning up to it becomes so difficult and managing it so hard to navigate. I threw the old love letters away alongside the flashy toys and gameboys of a generation weaned from intimacy to electronics. I moved then to other things: bedding, lumber, golf clubs, the inane collections of objects that generation upon generation has amassed in the depths of cellar storage.

It has been nice to reminisce and relive the simple times of high school and before, but it's also nice to dream of the life I have ahead. I've been burying myself in the preparation, packing and paperwork of the Peace Corps in order to keep myself thinking of the future and not getting too caught up in the happenings of the past. I have just over two weeks before I leave for Madagascar and I'm really excited for it. The second guessing and cold feet have subsided and the security and excitement have settled in. I'd love for everyone to keep in touch and thought that a blog might be easiest. You can subscribe to it to keep up-to-date and if you don't find it until later, then you can catch up by reading old posts. I can also add pictures much more easily. Also, this is the address that I'll have until I get my assignment (sometime in May). Feel free to send letters, gifts, etc. They say that boxes having a hard time getting to their final destination and that envelopes tend to make it much faster and more easily.

MARSHALL MCCORMICK, PCV

BUREAU DU CORPS DE LA PAIX

BP 12091

POSTE ZOOM ANKORONDRANO

ANTANANARIVO 101

MADAGASCAR

Well, I'm off. I'm going to a show at a cafe just outside of Dryden. The artist is a woman that I went to high school with, Maddy Walsh. I guess it's not so easy leaving things behind after all.

Take Care,

Marshall