The Word is Regret

Today’s post is inspired by and written in style of “My Name is Red” by Orhan Pamuk


My eyes narrow imperceptibly whenever I am called that; a self-satisfying reflex. You’ve caught me on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are market days here, making it the one weekly occasion that the 3,000 residents claimed by Sadjoavato’s census appear. It’s loud. It’s exciting. There is ice-cold flavored water, infinite sizzling snacks, lines of women sitting with their heaps of coconuts, collard greens, dried shrimp, tomatoes, or beans in front of them. I slowly woke up this morning to the bustle of the market- preparations before the sun had found its stage.

Each week the meat comes a little late- but no later than 9 AM, a cow has to be sacrificed that morning. A half kilo of meat is trente-mille franc. That’s 30,000 francs. That’s tsota arivo ariary.  That’s 6,000 ariary. A half kilo of meat without bones and cartilage is trente-cinq mille franc. That’s 35,000 francs. That’s fito arivo ariary. That’s 7,000 ariary.

Let’s get to the story. I splurged on the fancy, 7K meat. A cheery mood gets you buying the good meat, the bigger coconuts, two piles of dried shrimp rather than one. That’s not a lot, you want to say to me, and your left wondering what my name really is; you’d like to end that sentence with my name to add comfort, familiarity. Don’t worry about it. Sometimes I introduce myself, the listener repeats it incorrectly, and out of some weird habit I agree, repeating it back to them with their mistake included. My name is Alyssa. Laricia? Yes, Laricia.

That’s a lot of food when you live in a hot place with no food preservation devices. I hung up the meat on my porch after I bought it- just out of the cat’s reach. Later in the day, ready to cook, I checked the meat and saw it covered in ants. To be expected.  I rinsed them off and set the meat in a metal dish.

I think they’re called carpenter bees. The big one with the low buzz that makes holes in wood and calls it home. We aren’t in agreement with their choice to move in, and sometimes that comes out in the act of me smacking the air next to them.

But this time I smacked it.


I doubt you’ll believe what I say- nobody ever seems to trust me. But I have no reason to lie to you here. She hung up the meat and let me watch it for hours. I am not a picky eater. I eat plain rice, raw cassava, sometimes I catch a cock roach and I look up and she’s just staring at the faint line of a hind leg hanging out of my mouth. It is my glorious luck that my orange eyes match my orange fur.

There’s a proverb in Malagasy “aza matoky saka fa trondro loaka”- don’t trust the cat if the fish is the side dish.

But this was meat. She sat it down in the metal dish. Then she hit the bee down with her bare paw and it landed next to the dish. I didn’t think about that till later. She saw me slowly approaching the dish- or I guess she must have thought the bee.


She ran over to us babbling about the cat stealing the meat and running underneath her house. She was looking at my mom but I knew she was talking to me. Look, I am five years old, and there are a few things I know for sure. #1. I love my mom and I don’t like being away from her. #2. I am small. #3. I am damn cute.

I knew she was talking to me for Certain Knowledge #2. Without a delay, I took a deep breath to fill the posture needed to accompany my duty, and I marched over to fulfill the request. It’s the dimple that really gets people. Once I pull out the dimple nothing else matters. I start crawling under the house toward the cat greedily consuming our raw meat. He runs away to a part that I either cannot fit or dare not go. I request a stick.


I’m not a pastor. I have already heard that Alyssa’s meat has been stolen by her cat and that Tony is helping her chase it out from under her house. Still, when I walk up to her fence, I ask what’s going on.  A true pleasure.

I am still in school, but before I started at the seminary I was leading a small church, and by all intents and purposes, a pastor. I’m the only one that calls her Green Beans. One day I called her Alicia Keys and rhymed that with green beans. People often limit themselves to jokes that make sense. Nonsense is far more reliable.

At some point we all were holding long sticks running around the house in absolutely no order. The cat so absorbed in the pleasure of the meat that its inherent fear of waving sticks was undetectable.

Sometimes when I know she is nearby I just say “green beans” in different rhythms, as if I am saying a full sentence. I’ll do it until I hear her laugh; a laugh that I can tell she holds in. It has taken as many as 4 minutes of just saying “green beans. Green Beans. Green beans.”

After some disorderly stick flailing, the cat ran from under the house and dropped the meat. Green Beans sat there washing it off and I said “do you know the meaning of ‘nanenginy”?


I’ve never heard the word ‘nanenginy’, but I can tell you before he even said it I knew the meaning of the word he was going to say.

The cat came to sit next to me while I cleaned the meat. The audacity. But he looked up at me with those amber eyes. On principle I was mad. Haven’t you learned furry things aren’t good conductors for electricity? I guess anger fits into that too.

I knew what word he was saying but I asked him to explain anyways. His creativity managed him this: for example, you set your meat where the cat can get it and it is the feeling you get once the cat stole the meat and you know you shouldn’t have set the meat there.

Year 23’s Enormous Impact

Just had my birthday and it was absolutely wonderful! Thanks to all that made it so special.

I was trying to contemplate Year 23 and what it may mean for Year 24 as I was waiting for a bus, but as the hours passed by I only found myself periodically buying snacks or potatoes. So then when I finally squished myself and what was now 4 kilos of potatoes into my seat, I thought, yes Alyssa, this is when you will contemplate Year 23. However, within the first 5 minutes the precious metals dealer sitting next to me started telling me about his time in Thailand and how most of the strippers ended up be male. And as he continued to tell stories and give me advice like “you can’t be shy about selling things or peoples’ money will be shy”, other people listened in and when he started talking about how he accidentally slept with a prostitute and that he would have given her more money if she hadn’t asked for money, a very loud discussion began between him and the woman next to me. So as I straightened my posture to the point of double-chin to let this discussion of the money/sex culture here continue, I tried to start my Contemplation of Year 23 and it’s implication for Year 24. But as I tried, I connected two sensations simultaneously- there was something nibbling at my feet and that the constant smell of poo was not coming from the outside, but instead from the bag full of quacking at the feet of the woman on my right. Perhaps I should have noticed earlier that this was not the time for Contemplation. So as the discussion about sex, money and love continued, including strong voices from almost the entire bus, I listened. At some point the conversation ended and the music was blasted, lulling us all to sleep. After our groggy, midnight dinner, I snuggled back into my spot with full intention of Figuring Out Year 23 and planning for Year 24. Instead I fell asleep on the shoulder of the precious-metals dealer while the music blared on. We all woke up and the driver asked if any more women wanted to resume yesterday’s discussion, as he noticed it was mostly male dominated before. The precious metals dealer made a list: Human Bones, Weed, Children. Three Things He Will Never Sell. I thought back to my most recent language exam and considered that it never evaluated scenarios that leave you speechless. Sex, Money, Love. I’m not trying to put down the silent, sterile environment of airports and stuff, but as hour 28 came and went, I thought, yeah, cool- there is No Shame in “mamelogna tengna”- making life for yourself. No Shame in transporting your stinky animals. No Shame in admitting your mistakes. No Shame in speaking passionately about what matters. No Shame in loving loud, bad, music. And of course this doesn’t mean much about Year 23 and what colossal impact it will have on Year 24, but whatever.

Unrelated but rice is beautiful

You can’t farm with your arms crossed

The best analogy I can give to training farmers on improved rice farming techniques is as follows.

A Nebraskan goes to New York City and tries to tell as many people as she can that scientists have analytically shown that Chicago-style deep dish pizza is the most delicious pizza in the world. What’s the nicest reply she’ll get?

“Fuck off”

And you know what she’ll tell her friends when she gets back to Nebraska?

“It’s true what they say about New Yorkers”

But she believes the science.

Bear with her while she tries to open up a Chicago-style pizza dive in the heart of New York. Stay with this country mouse while she makes friends and a home in the big city- adapting to the nature of the east coast while maintaining her gentle mid-west demeanor.

For a couple of months I was in a real slump, to be honest. Perhaps slump doesn’t necessarily capture the gravity that was holding me down. The rainy season was short and late and no one had the excess energy to spare learning new techniques. I love the cultural exchange, but I have been doing that the past year, you know? Every so often I would run into someone on a bus or something that had a success story- but when I would ask for their advice it would be something along the lines of “start small, do a demo plot”.

Cue sinking feeling.

Demo plots are great and all, but constrained by seasons, that only leaves time for a demo-plot and then a 9 month dry season until the next rainy season to possibly maybe train somebody. And you know, that is something I knew going into this whole thing. So then I would spiral, angry at myself for being so discontent. What the hell did I expect?

I’m not sure I was I lacking motivation- but I couldn’t even figure out what to motivate myself to do.  Energy without direction was driving me nuts. I would go to the fields to just do manual labor- it feels so good to be tired at the end of a day.

The nearest volunteer, Joe, was climbing up as I was reaching the bottom, and he extended his hand- so to speak. He was starting an SRI demo plot near his home, and asked if I could help since I had done one back in September (off-season).

I am not sure how to get across how difficult that must have been. With so few tangible sources of accomplishment, it’s almost certainly more tempting to try alone and possibly fail than to share a project.

Feeling little ownership over the demo-plots, I stubbornly maintained my state of pouting. But you can’t farm with your arms crossed. The demo plot gave me something to care about, to dream about. Joe’s passion for the project was incessant and contagious, always referring to it as “ours”. I came to care for the farmers we were working around, and as the rice grew my sleepy muscle of optimism stretched out and with a big yawn began to wake up.

The more I got out and worked, the more people I met and that inertia took me to other towns, developing new and wiggle-with-giddiness relationships.

It’s not an easy role for me- being the one jumping up and down to show the possibility of learning new techniques rather than being the technical training lady I want to be. And even as I have written this post my eyes have welled up a few times- but as I finish up I’ve got a little grin on my face. And I am smiling because when I think about it, this is a job for a tireless dreamer and ooooh baby I have been training my whole life for it.

Joe weeding our demo-plot. Rice tillers are called “zanambary” in Malagasy, directly translating to “the children of rice”. So many healthy babies! 


The family I spent the day with while visiting Madirobe- they didn’t laugh at my jokes but they cracked up for 5 minutes when I said “fart” after a kid farted. They fed me and invited me in with the standard generous hospitality of Sakalava folks and we chatted the whole day through. 
A new friend and her kid- we met when I was wandering around and she invited me to work in the field with her. She took a full day off to take me to Madirobe and meet her family and see the other land she works. She’s only 18 but has that mom-sense that always blows my mind. 


10 meters

You see her as she is walking to her bed. Passing a bamboo basket with a single mango and lime, she notices just a second before you do the hole chewed through the lid. “Fucking rats” she says to no one in particular.

She momentarily considers getting rid of all her possessions in anticipation of rats consuming them anyways.

She tucks herself into the mosquito net and as she spreads out she melts in as her bright yellow shirt sinks into her golden sheets. [flash back to a politician handing her a shirt with a soap company logo]

She feels heavy as her feet release. Maybe if you were standing close enough you’d feel the heat as the scratches all over her legs burn. She turns her attention to the sensation in her hands. She is surveying the blisters resting on the uncharted section of her palms, and for a second a flash of confusion crosses her face. How could she have forgotten? “Oh right” she mutters as she recalls the endless hours of digging holes for cocoa tree transplants, bananas, and leveling land for rice. She walked away from the field that day telling herself not to worry- if the rice doesn’t grow, she’ll still eat.

Her feet fight for her attention as she plays around with their positioning to avoid dirtying a wound she noticed was infected and had just cleaned with disinfectant and applied antibiotic cream. You’re happy you weren’t there for that.

She opens her book, and she starts to read. You watch her as she reads as long as possible- the glow of the flashlight quieting the rats.

You swivel over less than ten meters. You see another woman tucking in her mosquito net as she climbs into her bed with her husband. Her grandchildren sleep soundly in their own bed behind the curtain.

She sniffs, bringing your awareness to the stench of the dead rat that she poisoned the week prior but has been unable to find.

She looks around and briefly entertains the idea of getting rid of it all, everything- or maybe that’s what the rats want her to do? She shakes it off- spite has never helped her.

If you were there in the morning, you would have seen her leave an hour earlier than the girl 10 meters away- and get home an hour later where house chores awaited her. She, too, feels heavy as her feet find rest. Her mind wanders to her work that day and you’re taken there too. Cows continuously running in circles to soften the land before transplanting- galloping, stopping suddenly, running away- zebu’s haven’t changed since she was a child. But with so little rain this year the ground dried up only 30 minutes into working it. The rain was supposed to come 3 months ago. What will she do if it doesn’t come? She worries, but she knows what she’ll do tomorrow. She’ll sell her zucchini tomorrow- she didn’t dip into the harvest tonight.

Her ears catch a sound, and you too hear the girl 10 meters away start playing music. She wonders if it’s to block out the sound of the rats. Tomorrow she’ll buy the girl poison.

A trophy for your participation…

Sorry in advance: I don’t currently have a strong enough internet connection to upload photos so I will add them soon!

It is one thing to go into something not knowing at all what to expect; it is another to have a plan and then change it- and it is a whole other to step barefoot into a field covered with thorns, knowing full well what awaits you on the other side is a gravel road.

This, my friend, is the game of expectations.

The first 3 months of Peace Corps is training, the next 3 months are for integrating into the local community, and after that it’s about time to start working the technical aspect of the job- training farmers on improved techniques.

Today, each step of my wake-up routine feels sturdy, important. Today is one of the first days I am working on an improved technique. Each squirt of sunscreen I rub in ceremoniously: battle armor to be hidden under long sleeves and a hat.

Late, I walk down the road to meet Marta to get started.

“Alyssa! Where are you going?”
“To meet Marta, we are going to the rice field”

“Marta? She’s down the road, turning east.”

The man points to a figure so far away there is no way he could know it’s Marta, and plus we aren’t headed east today. Does he even know who Marta is?

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I will show you. Let’s run and catch up”

Sure enough it was Marta.

[-20 points for not trusting Malagasy eyes when you should know by now they are superhuman]

“I waited for you, but you’re late. There were 3 houses that burned down last night and we are going to the forest to collect wood to rebuild them. Do you want to come?”

I think for a split second about my routine getting ready- and how perfectly it prepared me for a completely different day.

[+100 points for the smooth transition]

The men start chopping trees, the girls move the fallen trees, and the women cook lunch. My possy is composed of 4 teen girls, all of us kind of scared of each other for the first 20 minutes. As we walk single file in silence through the forest looking for more trees to pick up, I am struggling to figure out how to talk to these young ladies.

We come up to fallen tree on the path that they crawl under but I jump over.

“Did Alyssa just jump over that log?”

“I am tall, okay? Y’all are SHORT!”

(It doesn’t translate well, but cutting through a thick silence doesn’t require a sharp knife)

And thus the silence was broken and questions flowed out like someone shook up a coke and then immediately opened it, throwing out the cap.

[+200 points for facing the fear of teen girls]

I went home that evening with bruises on my shoulders, new friends to think about, and more knowledge about the trees in the forest.

3 of the teen girls a few months later during our lunch break

On a Saturday someone coming from Diego tells me Hilary Clinton won the election. I knew the election wasn’t until Tuesday, but since there was early voting and with the easy assumption it was a landslide it made sense to think that the early voting was enough to call it.

On Tuesdays it is taboo to work in almost any field, so as I am sitting on my porch thinking about what to do, I notice that the area around my house is littered with trash and pieces of broken houses. With my neighbor’s help, we build two huge ass piles of things to burn. Joseline tells me to wait for the winds to calm down in the late evening to burn the piles.

In the evening, I start the fire. My stomach is turning with each failed attempt. Maybe it is a sign I shouldn’t be doing this? Even if the water pump is working today, it is so far away and I only have a bucket of water for showering. But Joseline said it was cool?

The piles burn wildly, one catching the branch of a tree on fire. Heart beating frantically, I run to the street to find LeMama, Joseline’s husband. He comes to check it out and tells me it’s all fine, and the fire will calm down soon. It does, and the tree branch that caught on fire goes out too.

[+50 points for trusting Joseline and her husband despite myself]

The kids dancing and feeding the fire

I go in my house to calm down and for some horrible, unknown reason, I turn on my phone and connect to the internet. My friend Emma has messaged me saying that Donald Trump is the president elect.

“LOL EMMA!” I thought. I already KNOW Clinton won. What a silly joke.

Then I see my friend Esther has sent me a message with a similar tone.

“LOL ESTHER” I thought. My friends are so silly.

Google tells me “Donald Trump has won the US presidential election”

You won’t believe it, but no joke my next thought was


As quickly as the fire ignited, the heat of reality started to burn. My heart rate spikes and I run over to my neighbor’s house, dramatically collapse down on the concrete floor, and sigh.

[-500 points for so easily accepting misinformation that supports my views]

[-100 years for USA]

December comes, and so does news of a wedding in a town west of Sadjoavato that I frequently visit.

Around the same time, I got a health issue that the doctor told me to come as soon as possible to get checked out. The wedding was the only thing keeping me in town before leaving, but I knew I had to go and everyone made it seem like a pretty quick deal.

“You’ll come in the morning and leave in the afternoon after lunch”

We get to the party, where everyone has stayed up all night drinking and dancing. We sit on the hay covered ground while partiers flow in, drop to their knees, then to their bellies, and fall asleep as their face settles to the ground.

The structure of a wedding here in the north of Madagascar is as follows: the family of the bride has a big party that lasts through the night and into the next day. If they have a cow they will kill it to feed everyone. Throughout they sing and they clap, waiting for a few of the groom’s family members to come get the bride. The fetchers come with a dowry (money and/or cows), a cart to carry the bride’s belongings, and a flag.

Once they come, the fetchers kneel down in reverence and ask permission to take the bride from her elders. If yes, they sing and they clap while the bride takes out her braids and they give her new braids. The groom’s family then carries her to the nearest river and she bathes and puts on new clothes. They gather her things (bed, chairs, clothes), and drive away with the bride.

Once she arrives to her new home, she eats a meal with her new husband, and the celebration is over.

I am not going to get into it, but -300 points for how annoyed I was that we had to wait for her to get her hair braided. I am not proud.

The bride’s belongings all packed up


The bride after her bath

Additional points:

100 points each for:

-Resting bitch faces turning into big ol’ goofy grins (x20)

-Having a downer day and then running into those teen girls’ and their big ol’ smiles waving at me from the back of a zebu cart

As in most games, the points are arbitrary and hold little meaning. Thanks for playing.

Hyper-realistic fake food

In the house– my left-hand pressed palm-up on the table while my right hand gripping onto the opposite forearm, stabilizing. Pushing lightly on each other, seven others are squirming to get closer to the gas-lamp lit scene. Joseline stands up from the wood-fed stove and carefully walks towards me with a steaming cloth full of over-cooked rice. As Joseline gets nearer, the kids shove closer. My eyes wince and I turn my head away with anticipation…

Earlier that day– Marta and I are building earthen walls for a rice field- a technique to improve water control in rice fields. The overall project is a demonstration plot with an improved rice farming technique (SRI) positioned next to one technique that is commonly used here in the north.

Quick definition: hard work [hahrdwur-k] noun: Building dirt walls and leveling land.

Supplies available- Two ladies, two shovels, a cup of coconut-tree booze, and an old rice sack. It should be noted- never underestimate the worth of an old rice sack- and definitely never let the coconut-booze selling lady walk past your field without saying hi.

Jack fruit!

After hours of digging and moving dirt, Marta chops down a ripe jack fruit and we sit down for a snack, ripping out the small pods of the fruit, covering our fingers and lips with sap. When we head home, Marta checks my sticky hands for blisters. Miraculously I only have one.

“Take the rice left over from the hot rice-water and put it in a cloth and hold it in your hand- then you won’t have a problem digging again tomorrow”

A few months before I had heard this from some blacksmiths, but chose to ignore it due to being sure that I must have misunderstood. I don’t take advice from Marta lightly and we need to be digging again the next day, so I figure I better get my hands on some hot rice.

Casually at dinner– “Hey do you mind if I take some hot rice and put it on my blister?”

As Joseline lowers the cloth of steaming rice onto my palm, silence enters the scene, filling it.


“Did that hurt?”

“No no, do it again”

“Well now I am scared to do it again”

“Do it, do it, do it”

I am not really sure if it helped, but I would be lying if I didn’t note that I have repeated it at least five times since the first.

The dirt walls we built. The rice that is growing is the rice we will transplant. The small sqaure of rice at the bottom of the picture is the rice used for the improved method-it will be used to cover the same area of land as the rest of the transplants growing and produce more rice.

Saturday– we are at it, digging again. You can see the highway from the rice field, and people frequently holler at us to say hi. After some hollering that I’m not really paying attention to, Marta informs me that a mother still nursing just died in the town over, and that means it is taboo to work in the field.

Interjection: For the rice field that we are working in, it is taboo to work Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday morning. Taboos around farming change from field to field. If you break this taboo, a bird flock from the forest called “Fody” will come and eat all of your rice. Fucking birds.

Back to Marta saying it’s taboo to work-

“We aren’t going to come back in the afternoon, or else we will be embarrassed to be seen working since it is taboo”

“Our transplants will be ready Monday, we will have to get all the prep work done and transplant on Monday or else we will have to wait till Friday to transplant”

“Don’t worry”

Not really worry, but a guilty since of relief overcomes me since I am exhausted. With her big knife that never leaves her side, Marta chops down another jack fruit and we fill our bellies and cover ourselves in stickiness before heading home.

Fast forward through an afternoon of reading a book and eating popcorn.

A fellow volunteer in a town 22km* south of me invited me to a crocodile festival, the next day I leave by bike to get to her town. As I bike, I realize both that it is entirely uphill to Anniverano and something is wrong with my bike.

During the ride I come to a spot where I can’t figure out what the hell is going on with the gears or maybe I can but I am being lazy, so I start walking. Walking past a group of men- they look up, see me, and I say:

“My bikes kind of broken”

“Simple or complex?”


5 men rush to my bike, hands are waved around, and then I bike away, thanking them. Is that what it feels like to be a race car driver?

The crocodile festival itinerary- go to a sacred lake, kill a cow, and feed it to the crocodiles. Why?

“If you come into good fortune, or you make progress in your life- like building a stone house- you should sacrifice a cow and feed it to the crocodiles”

4 crocodiles and 1 cow make it on stage; 4 crocodiles leave the stage.

On the way back to Sadjoavato– I shift gears and the chain stopped moving- and so I chose to follow its lead and stop too. A few people nearby:



“What’s new?”

“Oh, no news, what’s loud with you?”

“Always quiet. Hey, my bike is broken”

Two men rush over, hands wave, and as quickly as I can explain that, yes, I do speak Malagasy, they are done.

“How did you do that??”

“It’s fixed.”

“But how did you do that?”

“it’s fixed.”

I think that I still haven’t really figured that question out yet.

I am getting close to Sadjoavato and run into a friend who tells me Marta is in this town. I go to say hi, telling many people I saw 4 huge crocodiles eat an entire cow with no left overs.

Marta- “Want to know the story behind that?”

Her and a few other people explain.

“Before, there used to be a town where the sacred lake now sits. Visitors and people from nearby towns would ask for water from the townsfolk, but they were selfish with their water. They wouldn’t give anybody water. One day, the land cracked open and turned into a lake, swallowing the town and drowning the people. The spirits of the people now live in the bodies of crocodiles. Did you see? These crocodiles aren’t like others. Their snouts are shorter, there hands more human like. They will walk around a group of humans, never attacking and not afraid. Those aren’t just any crocodiles, those are crocodiles with human spirits”

“Is it okay to go fishing in the lake?”

“Yes but if you do, you can’t sell the fish. If you sell the fish, when it is cooked the oil will splatter and burn you”

“No ones tries to kill the crocodiles?”

“Taboo. There was one family that killed a crocodile and slowly, one by one, all of them died. We’re about to have lunch, join us!”

Lunch- Rice, shredded unripen mango salad, cabbage in tomato sauce

Stopping by our rice field– The rice isn’t ready yet. Frantically bike home– consult book on this rice technique and call two people. Should we transplant early or wait an entire week?!

Break screech. We’re going to have to wait till Friday.

While waiting for Friday

“I didn’t realize you had a pet lemur!

“Yes we do! Her name is Sydney.”

By the way, where is your son?”

“He’s taking a bath in the river over there and hes my husband not my son”

That night we have bugs that look like ant eaters and chicken broth with rice for dinner. (*Not a normal dinner for us, or anyone else I know.)

The next day getting in bed:

What’s that on my bed? A frog? Damnit, frog, not here.

Another day:

Ah! A rat tail just disappearing in my wall. Let me poke it out. Oh, no, that was a scorpion tail.

Friday comes– we work the field in the morning and transplant in the afternoon. I didn’t put a lot of pressure on anyone to come since this was my first time planting SRI in the northern-Madagascar context and Marta’s first time as well.

The two people that come in addition to Marta:

Probably the oldest man in town and a man I call Uncle– “I came because I wanted to give you my hands to work. What can I do?”

Joseline– “I had to come. If Alyssa is doing something, I will do it. You know how she is getting that village savings and loans group started? When she told me about it I said okay. That meant yes. She didn’t know it meant yes so when we talked about it later I said that okay meant yes I will do it. Whatever Alyssa does, I will be there.”

(With all that poking at my heart I actually cried a bit while we were transplanting- my first tears since I arrived to Madagascar, watering the rice transplants. I was also sleep deprived, so… whatever.)

Marta sitting on a rock island in a sea of rice after the day of transplanting.
Done transplanting! Can’t even see them they’re so small.

Misfortune strikes Sadjoavato again on Saturday. This time, a lady that was quite a big part of the community, and the mother of the man that got me to Sadjoavato in the first place.

A funeral here lasts a few days and nobody is supposed to sleep because the spirit of the person is still present, they don’t want anyone to steal the body, and they can get all of their grief out together. A cow is killed to feed all of the visitors and pots and pots of rice are cooked to be served with boiled beef.

I had been hesitant about funerals before- never staying more than a few hours. The less time spent the less likely I will say or do something culturally inappropriate. Hell, I don’t even know what to say in English.

This time, however, the grandchild of the deceased, Cinthia (12) comes to deliver the news to me.

“Hello! Welcome. Come, sit.”

After sitting– “Hello”

“Hello. Speech?”

“No speech.”

“What’s new”

“I have news. Anicest’s mom is dead”

This doesn’t really make since, not too long ago we were working in the fields together.

“That’s your grandmother, right?”

“Right. The funeral is tomorrow. Come whenever you want, it’s up to you”

The next day, Cinthia will appear at my house 4 times to make sure I am coming to the on-going funeral. I will be waiting on someone else, who will keep finding themselves delayed. The second time, she will hide her tears while we talk by hanging her head between her knees. The fourth time I will just go with her.

I meet her parents, who don’t live with her- she lives alone with two younger siblings-. First I see the corpse, momentarily uncovering the veil on the face for a last look, and then meet with the children of Anicest’s mom-

“Do you know what’s going on here? Do you know what the problem is?”

“The problem?”

“Yeah, the problem”

“You mean that this is a funeral?”

“Yes. Did you see her body? Did you see her face?”


“What did it look like?”

How do you describe the face of a dead mother to their child?

I stay till a little past midnight, socializing, playing cards, and listening to people singing and clapping. There is a speech about the plans for the burial, it would happen the next day in the afternoon.

The next day after lunch I go to the funeral spot again.

“Oh hi Alyssa, its time to eat”

“I just came from eating”

“You have to eat at a funeral, it’s not okay to not eat”

To get the body to the cemetery- the coffin is set on bamboo, rested on shoulders, and then jogged, along with the whole funeral party jogging and singing and clapping, all the way to the cemetery. Almost every minute people are switching out who is bearing the coffin- the jogging, singing, and clapping, incessant.

Location, location, location

Sometimes it seems impossible to really know where you are, I think as I stare at the map. I have been sitting on my large woven mat for the last thirty minutes staring at a world map lit by candle light and perfumed by a lavender-scented anti-mosquito coil. I burn it in part to deter mosquitoes and in part because lavender scent reminds me of my parents and the color purple- which reminds me of my grandmother. I asked my family to send me a world map so I could show others where the United States was in relation to Madagascar, but I have found myself unable to look away each time I bring it out, no matter if the viewing party is over. I have never been a map person- I desperately wanted to be in adolescents – my sister was into maps when we were younger and older sisters have that special power to make anything seem cool.

I have been staring at this map, astounded by some of the countries I had completely misplaced in my understanding of the globe. Moving the candle stand around as my interests cross oceans, I can only see a continent and its shadows at a time. I fly my candle back to Madagascar for quick stops between continent switches, hollowed by the lack of information the map gives. 4 cities are identified. I stare intently at the inch on the map between Antananarivo and Diego.

That inch is where my journey over the last few weeks scribbles all over.

The culture around travel here involves something called a ‘volandalana’, or ‘fruit of the road’. It is a gift you should bring with you to show you were thinking of whoever you’re visiting or coming back home to. Luckily, the translation is quite literal and the expectation of the gift is generally fruit, vegetables, or bread. I’m heading back to the training center, so I will be seeing my original host family. I want to bring them something special from my town, so I head across the street from my house to buy a colorful woven basket. I am still looking for rice farmers to ask a few questions, and just as I am walking away I think to ask the man selling the baskets. I see him around town a lot, but never in the fields so I figured he wasn’t a farmer.

“Of course I am a rice farmer”

I ask him a few questions about his fields to verify, just in case he is a land owner but not the farmer. He’s definitely the farmer. His farm in the east. I have been to fields in the south, the west, and the north, but never the east- that explains it. Sometimes you forget you’re completely surrounded by rice fields.

I get my sack and my woven basket all ready and head out to the road to catch the next van to Diego. I get real lucky and just as I step out a van passes.

“Sure we have room!”

They throw my bag on the roof and show me my spot. I squeeze into my quarter- of- a- seat as the music blares. Three people are standing, but strike a chair-pose whenever passing officials. I feel a little guilty for making other people squeeze, but mostly happy to be on the road. The driver stops to get fried fish and beer for his lady friends in the front seat. He stops again to get an alcoholic drink made from coconut trees from the side of the road. Luckily it’s not too late in the day and that means the drink has a low alcohol content. Its scent is sickly sweet and as we hurdle through the craters in the road I feel grateful for the space between the man chest standing next to me and the back of the chair- in other words- the window.

If you’ve gotten out your map, it will probably list Diego as Antsiranana. Move your finger down just a touch and that’s where I live, Sadjoavato. The training center is close to Antananarivo (Tana), right there in the center-ish, so that’s my destination. The drive is about 25-35 hours, non-stop. Notice that 10 hour window of possibility? I get lucky and there is a Peace Corps vehicle making that journey the very day I need to go. That’s a treat worth a million bucks- driving down with your friends, blasting familiar music, stopping to pee whenever.

In any case, I arrived in Tana, physically sick in more than a couple ways. I was just getting over a facial skin infection, which I claimed to be a flesh-eating disease but the doctors didn’t entertain it. Anyways, the next few days were spent wallowing. I am a relatively dramatic sick person.

The training lasted two weeks and included topics such as small-scale chicken raising, raising bees, savings and loan groups, tree planting, and small other trainings on things like grant work and malaria-awareness project possibilities. We all got to choose one person we are working with in our town to come join us at the training center for the second week. This was a pretty exciting idea, to think someone from our towns might see us understanding complex sentences. I asked Marta to join me. It was incredible to see a woman so strong and respected curl up a little at the thought of leaving the country side.

“I’ll go, but it’s not habit for me to leave the North”

At first Marta was quiet during the training. Quick to start writing everything down, I started taking her notes for her so she could listen. The training were all in Malagasy standard, and the northern dialect is quite different (in my opinion). A few days in Marta raised her hand and stood up to chime in.  By the end we were supposed to give a presentation on a technique. We chose SRI (system of rice intensification). We spent our breaks making the poster.

“You talk, and if you need help I will say something too”

Low on time, I mostly just read off the poster we made. I don’t really give Marta the time to chime in since I am reading off the poster. She interrupts me to explain something further and much better than I ever could. I look over and she’s beaming, standing proud.

Running off the high of seeing Marta realize how good she could be at training others, I start trying to make plans with her for training SRI in town. Should I make another poster or should we use this same poster? Maybe we can do half in the town hall and half in the field?

“Alyssa, it will not work to do training with a poster or writing, let’s do it all out in the field”

Deep breath Alyssa, listen to your cultural guide. Posters and written instruction aren’t everything.

After training is a great time for volunteers to go on vacation since they already traveled so far for the training. I decided to go on a bike ride with a fellow volunteer, Shannon, from a nature reserve to a port city. Peace Corps lends me a bike and we set out to a take a bus to the nature reserve.

Running a little late, we catch the last bus going to Mahajanga before lunch time. Mahajanga is also on the map. The nature reserve is about 120 km south of Mahajanga, so we figure we can just get out ahead of time. About 4 hours into the ride, we talk to the man next to us to make sure we know where to get off. Wait, we need to get off at Mavetanana and take a different bus? This one isn’t going all the way to Mahajanga? Where is Mavetanana? Oh, we’re here.

Thankfully, Shannon fights a tough bargain and since we paid for the trip all the way to Mahajanga, she got the driver to pay for us to go the rest of the way with a different bus. We waited a couple of hours, and got on the next bus. About 5 or 6 times in the next two hours we inquired about where we were going, double, triple checking there would be hotels. Suddenly, a bus you’re on going to Mahajanga might not be going to Mahajanga at all. What were we supposed to do? Our trust in the system, tainted.

We arrived at Ankarafantsika Nature Reserve and the bus even pulled into the parking lot of the bungalows for us where we were welcomed by the guard, refilling the recently spilled cup of trust in the unknown that is required during travel. Exhausted by all the nerves built up over the last few hours, and to be honest probably the last few months, I passed out on the bungalow bed.

The time spent in Ankarafantsika was wonderful. Shannon and I indulged in long breakfasts, walks with a guide that knew everything about the forest- from breeding rituals of the animals to the origins of trees names (our Malagasy has definitely improved!)

This plant is glow-in-the-dark
Stunning canyon in Ankarafantsika National Park

Shannon wasn’t disturbed when I shared with her my serve lack of biking experience.

“What’s the longest you’ve gone?”

“I biked 3 miles to work every day”

“We’re going 120 kilometers, it won’t be too bad”

We got a late start our first morning, when –tssssssssss- I tried to fill my tire and ended up letting the air out without the right device to put air back in. Anyways, the ride was wonderful. With wide open savanna on either side, we glided along.

For our first stop, my bike and I fell down together as I tried to get off it. Turns out when you have a huge sack (ingeniously) tied on back (thanks Shannon!), it might be harder to get your foot over than you think.

We stopped for a 3 PM meal and as we talked with the cook we came to realize we had already arrived the town we planned to sleep in- about 20 km before we expected. My butt thanked those who overestimated the distance. We got a bungalow for 10,000 Ar, which is about 2 and half dollars.

The next morning I stuffed socks in between my underwear and my pants for cushion. Along the way we got cat-called and what not. I got a mild case of diarrhea. We continued to get cat-called. When we ended I only found one sock in my pants. The views continued to be wonderful, even going uphill.

Can you imagine me falling over trying to get off this baby?

We relaxed in Mahajanga, planning our timetable around acceptable times to eat ice cream. Long talks and giggles that make your eyes water was the medicine we needed. Shannon found a rogue playing card to add her to collection- a fine representation of incomplete decks everywhere.

To get a bus back, I called and made a reservation. Shannon’s bus left at 7 AM, so I went with her to the station. I went to confirm my reservation, finding that the company I reserved with had no buses that ever, ever, go to Diego.

“Wait for me to go with you to find another company, I have a friend at the company going to Diego”

Thinking he was just being nice, I went to look by myself. In the midst of the busy and dirt covered station, an extremely well-dressed and manicured man politely asked me where I need to go.

“Oh you need to go in the direction of Diego, well come over here, we’re going that way. If you need to cancel this reservation, not a problem, just let me know”

I went back to wait with Shannon and the man that told me to wait for him got mad at me for not waiting for him.

“You don’t trust me! They cheated you!”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just haven’t had coffee yet” The things you say in another language when you haven’t had coffee.

He takes me into an empty office where he opens up a book, writes down my name for a reservation, gives me a ticket, and reminds me that I don’t trust him but he knows it’s because of the coffee. I don’t feel great about this reservation considering no one from that company was there, but I trust this guy over the clean, well-dressed man so I take it.

A kid is seating next to me. Maybe its his first time traveling alone, but he seems pretty nervous. The music starts blaring. The man behind me starts coughing that sounds a lot like throwing up. Oh, just kidding, he’s throwing up. There’s nothing like the sound of someone puking every 10 minutes on a lengthy bus ride to remind you that whatever problems you think you have aren’t that bad. The windows have to stay open, so when the kid ends up curling up next to me, it’s for survival.

Arriving in Ambilobe (about 6 hours away from Diego), the bus driver decides that this direct bus is no longer direct.

Drinking coffee in Ambilobe, I started up a conversation with the man sitting next to me and I told him about where I was going and that I was looking for another bus. He asked me if I knew a man that I do happen to know, and they called him and he came and helped me figure out the rest of my travel plants.

I get on the new bus and I feel like I recognize the driver from somewhere, although I push it aside. We fill up the seats to capacity and then some, start the music and are on our way. He stops soon there after to let another passenger in. A familiar voice says:

“Sure, we have room!”

And as people get placed into spots that don’t exist to an American like myself, I chuckle at this almost-perfect circle of going home on the same bus and driver in which I started my journey. I end up falling asleep, not on the person next to me, but over them and onto the shoulder of the person next to them. I woke up and we laughed together, punctuated by a hot wave of embarrassment.

My last bus, finally with Sadjoavato as the destination, wasn’t really a bus at all but a pick-up truck with two benches in the back and a wooden roof on top. The benches swayed back and forth as we slowed and sped. Once again, we’re squished to the brim. As the passengers become fewer, my initial reaction is relief. But with the wind, the cold fills in the empty spots. The woman next to me gets out- I didn’t even realize she was breaking all the strongest wind. It’s funny, you can sit somewhere for two hours and not be aware of the most basic elements surrounding you. I didn’t spread out when she left, instead I continued to squish myself against the man on the other side of me.

PS. Happy birthday to my big sis Ariana! Love you and I hope your next year is full of cat parties, giggles, and a few steps along the autobahn!

The wide open road!