Why It's More Courageous To Return Than It Is To Leave

When I first started telling people I was going to be spending a year in Madagascar, a common response went something along these lines: 

"Wow! That's so brave of you- I couldn't live in a foreign country...too scary! Good on you for having the courage to travel that far for so long!" 

But in truth, I don't think leaving is all that hard. When you leave home, you're preparing to explore new things, discover new truths about yourself, the world, and your place in it. It's exciting, and sure, it's a little scary. But you've got all this support from friends and family, helping fuel the excitement and anticipation.

Leaving only takes one moment of insane courage- the split second when you hand the gate attendants your boarding pass and then take the next step through the gate. 

Once you get to your new home, things take less courage, in that you no longer have a choice. Your survival in this new place is contingent on learning the language, finding safe routes to travel, navigating the markets, making friends...it's still scary at times, but you have to do it. There isn't much courage in doing what is necessary, in my thinking. Bravery, to me, must involve a choice. And there isn't much choice in survival. Deciding to survive, yes. But once you're committed to doing what it takes to survive...then it's just doing what needs to be done. Not much choice. 

But choosing to go back? To return? I think that takes the most courage of all. 

When you return, you're choosing what you know will be a constant challenge. When you return, there's no new and exciting things to discover. You know when you return that life will be much the same as you left it. Peoples' lives will have gone on without you, much in the same way they would have if you had stayed. 

No, the only thing that will be new will be you. 

You'll have changed, grown accustomed to a new culture and way of life, developed new attitudes and opinions on matters both frivolous and of the utmost importance, and have a more globally informed view of the world and your place in it. But for the most part, your home --family and friends-- will be the same. Your safe spot, where you know you'll always be welcome and can always turn to, no longer....isn't quite right. You just don't fit right anymore.

By choosing to return, you're choosing to be constantly straddling two very different worlds- ad you know that you won't really fit in either anymore. 

It can be so tempting to ignore "home", to live instead in constant newness and excitement. To keep traveling. We blame it on the travel bug, romantically sigh over our newfound wanderlust. But it isn't the desire to go somewhere as much as it is the desire to fit somewhere. To belong. To have other people around who understand you. When you travel, you know you will find new sisters and brothers: who speak the same language as your soul. Who have scattered pieces of their hearts across the world. Who don't fit in any one place. Who know that this is the only place that they really belong now. 

By choosing to return to where you started, you're choosing to constantly remain a little bit the outsider, in hopes of maybe influencing a few people. Maybe changing a few minds, challenging a few prejudices. 

That is far more courageous than stepping onto an airplane. 

A Guilty Conscience

I expected to deal with guilt when I first arrived to Madagascar. After orientation, I felt somewhat prepared for the seemingly inevitable feelings of guilt that I was sure would accomplish the privilege I have that is so glaringly obvious as a vazaha in Mada. And I did feel the weight of my privilege in Madagascar. But it was just that- weight. It was heavy, but bearable. 

Right now? After 'my YAGM year', I decided to travel to the Holy Land. Back in March, it seemed like a great idea. But now that I'm actually here, I am being slowly crushed by guilt. It's hard to breathe, it's hard to move, to get out of bed, to function. I am crushed, crushed, crushed. 

It's pervasive. 

I feel guilty that... 

-I don't speak any Arabic or Hebrew. 

-I don't want to be identified as a tourist. I realize that while I was a YAGM, I somehow viewed myself as being superior to tourists (especially because a lot of the tourists in Mada were older French men who came for sex tourism); that preconception has carried over here. 

-I'm so, so tired (mentally, physically, emotionally) that all I want to do is hide in my room with the lights off, but I feel like I shouldn't waste such an opportunity to see the holy land that most of my Gasy friends can only dream of- same goes for the Palestinians I've met. 

-I'm so ignorant of the conflict here. 

-I can't bring myself to spend money very easily...even on things that are necessary, like food or transportation. 

-I'm so homesick for Madagascar that I can't find it in me to be excited about the new things here- new sights, new smells, new tastes; all I do is compare to Madagascar. "Drivers actually stop for people to cross the road here. Why aren't there any beggars? I want to yell out 'there's a stop' instead of pushing this dumb button to stop the bus. Where is all the street food? I miss the smell of oil and fried food. The pervasive spice aroma here is nice, but wrong. Its supposed to be winter now, not summer. I hate the heat. I blend in here." 

From my talks with other YAGMs, it seems that this is not an isolated problem limited to just myself. Other people have expressed their own various feelings of guilt as well. 

So what do I do with this? I'm searching for some kind of resolution here, but I don't know what exactly. Will I ever feel okay again? Do I want to feel okay again? Feeling guilty sucks, but I don't know that feeling complacent is any better. Right now, I suppose I'll just keep muddling along and hoping for the best. I'll update you all if I have any sudden revelations over the next weeks. 

View from the roof of Tantur Ecumenical Insitute, where I was hosted by my lovely YAGM alum friend Karis for a week.

I liked hanging out on the roof...

Damascus Gate, into the Old City of Jerusalem. This area is known for being a 'flashpoint' where protests and conflicts break out between IDF (Israeli Defense Force) soldiers and Palestinians...a friend told me that the bowl-like area in front of the gate used to be a hang out place for friends to meet and play cards and such. 

The Arab bus station and surrounding market that I frequented while staying in the Jerusalem area. 

In East Jerusalem area, I went to a wonderful bookshop called 'Educational Bookshop'. It featured books by Palestinian authors, and books about the conflict, traditional Palestinian cuisine, music, etc. I bought myself a book of poetry by modern Palestinian poets. 

View of the Old City of Jerusalem.

Alley inside the Christian quarter of the Old City.

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the most holy site in Christianity. The church is owned by 5 different sects of Christianity...the keys are held by a Muslim family, in order to ensure that no one sect can lock the others out. A new friend, a professor here, told me an interesting story about the ladder leaning against the window towards the top of the picture. Apparently, when the different sects divided up the church, they went stone by stone, object by object, claiming domain on everything. But-- they forgot the ladder. So now, no one can move it, lest they upset the status quo. Instead, when the ladder disintegrates, they just replace it with a new one. Christianity at its finest, folks. 

The Western Wall plaza, the most holy site in Judaism; the Dome of the Rock is in the background (the golden mosque dome), which is the most holy site in Isam. 

Stairs leading into Manger Square, Old City of Bethlehem. (I liked this spot a lot because it reminded me of the stairs I'd take to Analakely in Tana occasionally) 

Art on the separation wall in Bethlehem... The wall and the checkpoint were very, very difficult to confront for me. It's...beyond words. Beyond description. 

Obligatory solo-traveler-selfie in the Old City of Bethlehem. 

Pictures, pictures, pictures

My office mates and English club members at TPFLM, the printing press. These people always made my Mondays and Wednesdays a bright spot in my week- I didn't mind braving the legendary Tana traffic if it meant getting to see them! This was on my last day; I made a cross stitch with a bible verse for the office, so we naturally had to take a picture with it ;) 

Giggling with Tsoa, one of my two best friends at TPFLM. 

The English teachers at FLM Tanjombato, enjoying our ice cream after our "goodbye" picnic Saturday. 

These smiley goofballs! Gotta love selfies :) 

A few past students also showed up to say goodbye... And to get ice cream! ;) 

My family in church last Sunday... Amanda, Francine, and Francio. Sometimes announcements go too long, and what else are you going to do to pass the time than take pictures? 

Pictures... And selfies! My host cousin Francesca loves taking pictures, and puts me to shame every time with how darn photogenic she is! Look at that smile- beautiful :)

My family also helped me open the presents I got from the church...

In between eavesdropping on my host parents' meeting with an aunt, of course...

...and more selfies...

...gorgeous selfies...

Modeling my gifts- a new purse from my English students, and a cross from the church council. The cross is engraved on one side with "FLM Tanjombato, Madagascar". 

Mahafinaritra!! 

Concerning Young Men

As a female, I have been raised in a way that is different than my male counterparts. In the U.S., I have been implicitly told certain things. 

You can be whatever you want, but also know that there is a glass ceiling. Know that (white) women make 88¢ to a man's dollar. Know that women in certain careers (including but not limited to: science, law, policing, and math) will have to fight their way tooth and nail to be respected and considered equal to men.

I have been taught how to defend myself- carry your keys in your fist when you walk to your car, go with friends to the restroom, don't walk alone at night, memorize this fake number to give out to creepy guys, always keep your drink in sight, don't dress "like you're asking for it", and be careful who and how you rebuff men that ask you out. 

I have learned from the media that to be 'beautiful' means being white, thin but not too thin, curvy but not too curvy, with straight (preferably blonde) hair, no glasses or braces, able bodied, clear skinned, with sharp cheekbones and symmetrical features. 

I have been told that women should be softer and gentler than men, that women are natural caregivers and nurturers, that women are domesticated. 

I have figured out that a woman is defined by the men in her life- my father will give me away at my wedding as if I'm a possession; I am expected to smile, dress, and act a certain way in order to attract a boyfriend; our bloodlines are traced through our fathers; when -not if- I get married, I will have to consider my husband's self worth and masculinity in determining if I should continue in my career and whether or not to have children; and if I am approached by a stranger on the street, the best way of turning down his romantic advances is not to say "no" but rather "I already have a boyfriend". 

After 23 years, I have internalized these lessons. It's not all bad; I have also learned new, stronger lessons, lessons of self-image and feminist theory and confidence and self-sufficiency. But all of the other lessons? The ones I listed first? Those are the oldest, most ingrained, and deepest. I will carry those with me for life, wherever I go. I carried them to Madagascar. 

In the United States, I have dealt with these issues. With being considered less able than boys to study science, with self-image and beauty standards, with the fear that comes from walking alone at night, with catcalling and harassment, with rape culture. 

But in Madagascar? These issues have been amplified. 

I have learned that I don't trust men. That's misleading- it's not that I don't trust any men, it's that I am wary with whom I trust among the opposite gender.

I avoid giving men my phone number. Letting a man walk me home. Buying me food or drink. I make sure to tell new men I meet that I live with a family, that my father was in the army. When guys approach me in the street with leers and "mon amie" and "cherie", I walk away and don't make eye contact. I have memorized the phrases in Malagasy to turn someone down for a date or marriage. 

Here, I attract a level of attention that I was never afforded in the U.S. I walk down the street here and get catcalled daily. I despise crowds because I know that it's likely a man will brush up against me deliberately. When it's dark out, the hissing (equivalent to wolf-whistling) comes from all directions. The handshakes that are so culturally important in Madagascar often turn into a man refusing to let go and caressing, petting the back of my hand. 

Here, white women stand out. And globalization has spread our "Western beauty standards" worldwide. Pale is beautiful. White is beautiful. Blonde hair, thin noses, blue eyes, are desirable. Combined with colonization and racism, the fact that vazaha are rich...white people, especially white women, are almost a commodity. Movies and media and porn have painted an image of white women- beautiful, rich, flirtatious, sexy, exotic and famous. It's a mark of honor, of manhood, for men to have "bagged" a vazaha. 

It's not because I'm absurdly beautiful, it's because I'm white and have blonde hair and am American that I get so much attention from men. 

Don't get me wrong- not all guys here are like that. But assumptions and habits are hard to break. I've been taught for so long how to protect myself from men, and when confronted with a level of attention I've never faced before, my self defense mechanisms were higher than ever. 

Though I've learned that I am instinctively wary around men, I've also learned that these assumptions are not always true. I've met multiple guys here who have challenged my internalized ideas of what "men are like".   

One day when I was walking home from church, I passed by a hotely/bar where a bunch of guys hang out and drink THB (the beer of Madagascar); head down, eyes lowered, fast paced, as usual. As I was about to round the corner, a guy called out to me in French. Being that I don't know French, I wasn't exactly sure what he said...but my experience has told me that most catcalls that include the words mon amie and ça va aren't usually good to encourage. So I gave him a polite, but dismissive, semi-nod and continued to walk by. He reached out and grabbed my hand for a handshake as I passed. I admit, at that point I began to get nervous...it was still light out, but we were by a bar full of men in various stages of intoxication. He struck up a conversation while holding my hand captive; I answered his questions quickly while trying to make excuses. A women walked up, heading towards us. Having been protected by women before (walking home at night almost always garners me an escort of neighborhood women), I hoped she was coming to say something to him to let me go. And he did let me go- only to pull the other women into a hug and quick kiss, and then to introduce us. "This is my new friend, mom. Anna, this is my mother-in-law." He then sent her to bring his wife and baby to meet his new friend, and invited me to drink juice with his family. 

Another day, I was shopping in the market for a satroka ba (knit hat); instead of walking back to the other side of town to get my usual bus, I decided to take a new line that said 'Tanjombato'. After 40 minutes, I realized I must've gone the wrong direction when the bus suddenly stopped in an abandoned lot and everyone got off--the end of the line. Very, very lost, I started walking towards the palace that I could see in the distance. A man came up and started walking next to me, and we began chatting in Malagasy. He offered to walk me back to Analakely, where I first got lost, and then invited me into his home which was on the way. His mother in law served me tea and we made small talk for a few minutes before heading back to Analakely, where he made sure I got on the right bus and gave me 1000 Ariary for the fare. 

I may be wary about men and their intentions, but I have been proved wrong in these assumptions multiple times and I am very thankful for these opportunities to be challenged and grow. Implicit assumptions are not helpful. Trusting is not an inherently bad trait. Slowly, I have learned these things. I am still learning. 

But every time I learn, I get to see new pockets of beauty in the world, new snapshots of the divine in places I previously would have avoided. 

May I never become so jaded and wary as to be blinded to the wonderful possibilities of being wrong. 

Simplicity and Small Joys

"Simple living". That is a phrase that we YAGM volunteers have been kicking around for a while now. It is one of the two buzz words for YAGM- the other being "accompaniment". When we had interviews for our countries, we were asked 'what does simple living mean to you?' I don't remember exactly what I answered, but I'm sure it was something along the lines of "not living above your means". A very textbook, economics-based technical definition of the phrase. 

Now my time in Madagascar is coming to a close- so soon, too soon- and I have realized that I am not any closer to answering that question than I was 11 months ago. 

Now, I'm not so sure it's about the economics, after all. I don't have a definition still. But if I was forced to try to describe simple living, I'd say something along these lines:

Simple living is rediscovery. 

Simple living is finding all of the small things in life and remembering how to be thankful and joyous over them. 

Simple living is slower, more appreciative, more soaking things up. 

Simple living is savoring a good meal and recognizing everything that went into that meal, not rushing through a buffet line to scarf down as much food as possible in an hour. 

Simple living is quality over quantity. 

It is all of these things, and more. It is something I don't quite have words for yet. 

It's the way we celebrate birthdays here. We all eat lunch together, we drink juice, and we cut cake together. There are no gifts; at least, not how we think of gifts. There are no material gifts. Instead, we give the gift of presence. We give the gift of time. We give the gift of love. 

It's the way we celebrate Christmas. No extravagant light shows, no huge tree, no mountains of prettily wrapped boxes. We had lunch together, a special lunch with juice and pasta salad and vegetables as an appetizer before our rice. We had ice cream together. We sat around the table talking and laughing. We ate candy during church. 

It's the way that we move here. Time is slower. In the US, we're always in such a hurry. Run here, run there, go to work, go to the gym, eat dinner in front of the TV, rinse and repeat. Life is fast in the US. We worry about our jobs- rush to work, get as many hours as possible, go through the drive thru at Starbucks for lunch or eat at our desks because we are simply too busy. We worry about money- how will we get food on the table, how will we save up enough money to pay off the mortgage, how will we send our children to college. We worry about quantity. 

It's the way I've been able to view the world here. Very small things make my day in a way that they never did in the States. When I catch a taxibe right away and the front seat is open. When I can hold a conversation with someone. When the neighborhood kids recognize me and greet me by name. When we eat candy at church or cake at lunch. When I see someone being kind to beggars on the street. When there is a cool breeze in the warm sunshine. When we go on retreat and see beautiful forests and mountains and beaches. When I get surprised by ravitoto at lunch. When my momma brings me a hot water bottle after dinner if I've been coughing. When my students text me good morning and tell me they're praying for me. 

It is all of this. It is more than this. I'm still discovering what exactly 'simple living' means, but I know that my idea has changed. It has transformed from a textbook copy-and-paste definition, mere words on a page, into something living and breathing. Into experiences and memories. When I hear "simple living", I don't think 'living within your means, without extravagance'. When I hear "simple living", I see my host parents. I see little children playing. I see beggars on the street and people in church and I see Madagascar. I see the simple truth that when you live with less, you appreciate the little things more. That is not to say that it is good to be living in poverty-- I vehemently disagree. But there is something to be said for rotating life's priorities away from money and possessions and things. 

When you have less, you appreciate more. 

Maybe that's my new, boiled down definition of 'simple living'. 

Boys and Their Toys

Sunday was beautiful, a picture perfect day. My English students were "graduating" levels at the second church service-- so I woke up late and had two full cups of coffee plus bread before leaving to stroll to church around 9:30. The students and I sang together and ate cake to celebrate. Around 2 in the afternoon, I started to walk home. 

There are two ways home- the 'short' way, and the 'long' way. They're the same distance, but the long way includes a very long hill. I was feeling sporty that day, the sun was shining, and the air was...fresh-ish, for Tana standards, so I decided to take the long way home. I was in a good mood- people greeted me in Malagasy, which always puts a smile on my face. My favorite mofo'akondro seller was out, so I treated myself to two fried bananas and "chatted" a little. I decided to take a shortcut; through an alley and down a large array of stairs instead of going down the big hill by my house. As I made the turn down the alley, a young boy, maybe 12 or so, jumped out from behind the corner. He had a toy gun in his hand and pretended to shoot another boy across the alley, who pretended to die very, very dramatically. They dissolved into giggles. I was taken by surprise, naturally. 

Several thoughts ran through my head when the first boy jumped out from behind the corner, in this order:

1. Woah! 

2. Fake gun. 

3. He would have been killed in the U.S. for that.

4. What a world we live in.

All that in a matter of seconds. I went from surprise to recognition that they were playing, and then immediately my mind made a link between "two young black men with a toy gun" and all of the American teenagers who have been killed for having fake guns. 

It amazed me, and sickened me, just how quickly my brain made this connection for me. What a strange, sad example of social conditioning.

The instances of police violence in the US against people who aren't "white" (let's have a talk some other day about how ridiculous that concept is) seem to have only gotten worse and worse over the years. If nothing else, the attention that such cases receive is finally increasing. 

There are so many names, too many names, that I can say to almost any American: Eric Garner. Tamir Rice. Michael Brown. Trayvon Martin. Tanisha Anderson. Freddie Gray. 

Unfortunately, police shooting and/or killing young men for having toy guns is not recent---

12 year old, Arkansas, 6/07 

13 year old, Los Angeles, 10/13 

22 year old, Dayton, 8/14

12 year old, Cleveland, 11/14

15 year old, Los Angeles, 2/15

14 year old, Jacksonville, 12/16

14 year old, Baltimore, 4/16

These examples were all found after five minutes of a Google search. All young men. All shot and wounded- more often than not, fatally. All were not "white". All were shot by "white" police officers for having fake guns on them- BB guns, air soft pistols, pellet guns, toys that had bright orange safety tips on them. 

And this has become so much a part of American society that it is where my mind is taken immediately when I saw those two young Malagsy boys playing with a fake pistol. This is my normal. I can only imagine what the normal is like for people who don't have the same privileges I'm afforded. Did you know that black Americans killed by police are twice as likely as whites killed by police to be unarmed? Twice as likely to be unarmed. 

I'm afraid I cannot empathize. I cannot understand what living in our messed up society does to those who live in a different colored skin than I do. I can say that I am horrified. That I am so, so sorry. And that I know we all, those of us with the privilege, we have failed so many people of color who have been hurt by the systems we continue to support and condone. We have failed you, and I'm so sorry. 

"What is abundantly clear is that young black men and boys are, all too often, viewed as an inherent risk. They wake up as suspects, in the minds of some police officers, by virtue of the very skin that they were born in.

Maybe that’s why [they] ran."

-Goldie Taylor, 'Why Can't My Black Son Have a Toy Gun?' 

http://tinyurl.com/haoayhe

Malagasy Lesson

I am by no means an expert in Malagasy. In all honesty, I can still only talk at the level of a 5-year-old. My sentences are mostly limited to: I'm tired/sick/hungry/late, I don't know/understand, I don't speak French, I'm going to work/church, and I'm still learning. My questions are similarly limited: When will we return home? Where are we going? Are you tired? Can I help? and Is there rice? 

My most complex interaction in Malagasy thus far has been: 

Can you please give me soap, please? 

Oh, you're washing today?

Yes, I need to wash clothes. How much?

Four hundred Ariary. 

Thank you!

Yes, thank you ma'am!

But though I am pretty hopeless at languages, I do enjoy learning (about, if nothing else) them. So here are some fun things I've learned about Malagasy during my time here in Madagascar thus far:

1. One of my favorite things about Malagasy is the way in which people are named, and the names they chose to go by. Since names are so long here- Nakaloina Irma Djujine, for a rather tame example- people tend to go by a shortened version of their name (Kalo), especially when vazaha are involved. Often though, these shortened names are actually words- the equivalent of my sister going by Grace. 

I love this, because it helps me learn these words. After calling someone "Hasina" for three months, and then learning that his name means "holy", it helps me put faces with words. 

Kalo (English teacher): melancholy chant or song

Haja (supervisor at TPFLM): respect, honor

Onja (student): wave

Hasina (employee at NMS Isoraka): holy, virtue

Lovasoa (student): good inheritance

Fitiavana (student): love

Tsiky (student): smile

Herizo (student): civil rights

Hery (wife of the pastor at Anosibe): strength 

Fiadanana (pastor's son): peace

Santatra (student): the beginning

Tanjona (student): the protruding shoulder of a mountain, peninsula 

Toky (musician we played with in Antsirabe): trust, confidence 

Mr. Fidy (driver of the pastor): to be chosen

Anjaka (works at Isoraka NMS): from mpanjaka, king/queen/royalty 

2. Part of culture here that is so apparent it hurts, is how much life revolves around rice. Rice is so important here, a part of everyday life. Even I, in a big city, see this. I sure it's even more apparent in smaller villages. When I ask my students to make dialogues to practice English, they almost always manage to work rice in there somehow. One of my favorites has been: "traffic jams grow like rice here!" (Which, as it happens, is very true) 

These are just a few of the many, many words I've found relating to rice in some way:

Vary: rice 

Vary akotry: unhulled rice

Vary ampangoro: rice cooked dry 

Fotsim-bary: clean white rice ready for cooking 

Varimbazaha: wheat (foreigners rice) 

Vary lena: thieves who stick together 

Mandry fotsy: to go to bed without eating rice 

Mingadona: to make a thumping sound when pounding rice

Mihosy: to trample mud in the rice fields

Ranon'ampango: burnt rice water! Yummmmmy!! :) 

Salohy: a head of rice

Mandoatra loa-bary: the act of serving rice out of the pot 

Ketsa: young rice plants to be transplanted 

Tanin-ketsa: a seedbed where rice is planted 

3. Then there are the fun, impossible words that I call "Malagasy onomatopoeias". I can only say them when I'm looking at it written down, but they're so fun:

Manakitikitika (mah-nah-kee-tee-kee-tee-kah): to tickle

Misasasasa (mee-sah-sah-sah-sah): to sound like rushing water, falling rain, or rustling leaves

Mikofokofoka (mee-koo-foo-koo-foo-kah): to fidget, to be continuously anxious

Dobodobohana (doo-boo-doo-boo-hah-nah): a thumping sound like a drum

Mibitsibitsika (mee-bee-tsee-bee-tsee-kah): to whisper 

Mikakakaka (mee-kah-kah-kah-kah): to laugh loudly 

Mikiakiaka (mee-kee-ah-kee-ah-kah): to cry out piercingly 

Mikikikiky (mee-kee-kee-kee-kee): to giggle

4. One of the best things about languages are the ways in which words are compounded to form new words. A second best thing about language, in my opinion, are the words that are so close together that you run the risk of saying the wrong thing completely (think hungry and angry, or last and list or content and content in English). 

Fiadanana (fee-ah-dah-nah-nah): peace

Fiadiana (fee-ah-dee-ah-nah): the act of fighting 

These two are interesting- one small syllable change and you move from the state of peace to the state of fighting. Not two that we tend to group together in English- peace and war are complete opposites, in meaning as well as in spelling and pronunciation. 

Lalana (lah-lah-nah): road, the way

Lalana (lah-lah-nah): a law

I love this paring- a different emphasis changes the word completely, but yet I can see the relation. The law is the only way in which to act. At least, that's how I rationalize it in my mind. 

Otrika: an ambush

Otri-po: spite, malice 

Malice and spite are defined literally as an ambush in the heart. (Fo, changed here to po, is the heart). 

Raraka: spilled, scattered

Reraka: tired

This pairing has given me so much trouble these past 9 months. My problem has to do with how vowels are pronounced in Malagasy as opposed to English. A says ah, E says a, I says e, and O says oo. Yikes! So, when I want to say tired, I often end up saying "rahrahka" instead, which is to say, I'm scattered. Fitting, in a way. 

Sokatra: turtle

Sakotra: hat

Sarotra: difficult

I cannot get these three words straight to save my life. Sookahtchra, sahkootchra, and sahrootchra all sound exactly the same to me. For the past four months, I have not been able to use the words turtle, hat, or difficult in my conversations. Whenever anyone uses one of those when talking to me, I have to do my best to guess which one they mean based on context clues. Given my already limited understanding of Malagasy, that's led to some pretty hilarious misunderstandings... 

"You're going to the market to buy turtle?!" (Definitely was a hat) 

"Your head is difficult?" (Nope, they needed a hat) 

"Your son's turtle has a hat?" (Her son had a turtle hat... You can find some strange stuff shopping the markets here)

"You can't eat hats in the south? I mean... Do we eat hats here?" (Actually, you can't eat turtles in the south- apparently hats are still on the menu)

5. Some of my all-time-favorite Malagasy words:

Folaka: broken, but still holding together

This sounds so much prettier to me than our English alternatives- hanging on by a thread, hanging in there... This sounds more positive, somehow. 

Mangirangirana: to have cracks through which the light can shine

Absolute love. I know it's meant to describe objects, but I like thinking about it in terms of people. When we're broken, flawed, it allows our inner light to shine through. #deep

Mampifanosontsosona: to complicate things

How fitting is that?! I'll be honest, I can't even pretend pronounce this at all.

Tsiky (ts-ee-kee): smile

Try saying that without smiling. Try it. It's impossible. 

Miteriteritra (mee-ter-ree-ter-reet-ch-rah): to think 

Mostly I'm just proud of being able to say this word. I worked on it for two weeks with my host mother before finally getting it (or at least, close enough to pass).

Matanjaka: strong, of living things only

Every vazaha who learns Malagasy has that one word, that one phrase, that makes people smile when you say it. You don't choose it; it is chosen for you. It isn't the same as other vazaha. Mine is matanjaka. Whenever someone says "oh it took you 3 hours to do laundry? You must be tired!" Or "my friend lives far away, we should take the bus" or even "it's been a long day"-- if I respond with "yes, but I am strong!" it always garners a laugh. 

Fetsy: deviously clever, cunning, sharp

The most useful word in the history of language; observe:

Child steals a goose? Fetsy. 

Someone goes through the offering line twice in order to get two helpings of candy after? Fetsy. 

One of your students tries to teach you the "Malagasy phrase for telling someone they look pretty", but really is trying to get you to ask everyone to be your girlfriend/boyfriend? Fetsy. 

The cat jumps on the table to steal food from the plate when Dad has his back turned, then jumps down before he turns back? Fetsy. 

Your supervisor "helpfully" tells you "Malagasy customs", which of course turn out to be a bunch of pranks designed to make you look like an idiot? Fetsy... 

Old lady cuts in front of everyone at the bus stop when no one but the vazaha is looking? Fetsy! 

Your dad steals a meatball from the platter every time your mom has her back turned, until he has too many meatballs in his mouth to speak and so he fakes a coughing attack when she accuses him of taking them? Festy, hihihihi. Festy be. 

**all of these are things that actually happened**

6. Finally, the words that are going to be the hardest to not use anymore when I go back to the states:

Tafangy-- an empty Eau Vive water bottle (usually the 1.5L ones) 

Mahay!-- roughly means "understand" or "know", but is often used to say "you are very good at/knowledgable of/good job!" (As in 'mahay mihira' or 'mahay miteny gasy!') 

Azafady-- sorry, please, and excuse me all rolled into one

Manahoana-- how are you/good morning/hello

Sakay-- crushed chili hot "sauce" 

Zay-- all meanings; can be a question, an answer, or just a filler

Misoatra-- thank you 

Maditra-- stubborn, disobedient (used about children, cows, sometimes even inanimate objects if you're being funny) 

Mahafinaritra-- to be pleasant/enjoyable, nice/beautiful 

Voky-- full, satisfied; a compliment to the host of a meal

Tsara-- good

Tsy mety-- not acceptable, not good

Tsy maninona-- no problem/worries, it's ok

Mazotoa!-- enjoy! 

Rakitra-- offering

Transportation- The Taxibe

My reactions to what was my first experience with public transportation in Madagascar, a direct quote from my journal made the day of my first venture out in Antsirabe:

"First taxi-brusse ride today, 9/12/15. It's a fascinating system. At first, it doesn't seem to make very much sense. But as chaotic and crazy as it first appears, there's also a beautifully efficient pattern to the hectic-ness. Taxi-brusses look a little bit like hollowed out VW vans....or the shape does, anyway. There's two seats in the front next to the driver, and then two rows of two seats on either side of the taxi-brusse. And by seat, I mean a seat by Malagasy standards. When it gets full, you're smashed together relentlessly. There's a sliding side door, and then two back doors that swing open. The "conductor" stands at the back, collecting money and closing the door by a canvas strap attached to the roof. A lot of times, he jumps on right after the taxi-brusse has started moving, hanging out the door partially until he pulls the door closed after himself. 

When all of the actual "seats" are full, the conductor keeps letting people on, but hands each of the new passengers some kind of board- some were about a foot wide and padded, others were just a narrow plank, like a 2x4. They'd carry the plank to the front (because you board at the back and fill up front to back) and everyone in the front row stands up, the guy puts his plank down with an edge on each seat, and everyone sits back down. There are now 5 seats in a row, not 4. 

When people get off, and are sitting towards the front, they climb out the side door. The conductor man comes around the side, sticks a hand inside the window and opens the sliding door. The people in the second row jump off, the person who's getting off shuffles out, the second row people shuffle back on, and everyone else squishes further up. The conductor shuts the door, the taxi-brusse starts rolling forward, and the conductor jumps on the moving van and pulls the door shut behind him. 

It's a very oddly efficient system."

By now I have discovered that these buses that operate within the city are called taxibes (literally big taxi) and not taxibrusses (literally bush taxi). I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert on the taxibe now, since I ride one at least 2 times a week (more often 3 or 4) to get to one of my site placements in Tana. The taxibe is actually my preferred method of travel in this country so far- I love the bus.

One reason I love the taxibe so much is because it is so unexpected for a vazaha to be riding the bus, that the reactions of people are just wonderful. People smile and point and laugh (sounds terrifying but it's actually a nice thing) when they see your glaringly white face on the bus. Other passengers, conductors and drivers strike up conversations. Taxi drivers laugh admiringly when you turn down their offer with "mandeha taxibe aho, fa misoatra!" (I take the bus, but thanks!) Being able to hail a bus, and successfully board it, from the side of the road gives you a feeling of accomplishment like none other. You meet the most interesting people and feel a bit more like you belong in this country when you're smashed inside with 25 other Malagasy, chickens, babies, and strange "luggage". 

Honestly, it is still a hectic mess and I love it. 

In fact, I finished this blog on Monday (though I neglected to post it until now) because I had an unexpected day off of work-- the taxibes were striking and there was no way I was going to walk the 8km into Tana. Chaos. Beautiful beautiful chaos. 

I wouldn't trade the taxibe for anything, and I think it is one of the parts I will miss the most about living and working in Tana. 

Here are some of the best tips and tricks I have collected in the past 7 months: 

-The best seats are (in order of preference): last single seat on the right, one of the front seats next to the driver, first seat on the left behind the driver, and any seat next to the window. 

-The length of a full line trip (for me, from Ankarobato-my home- to Anosibe-my work) is 400 Ariary. Pay with a diman-zato when possible---- paying with a 500 will get you back a zato, which is perfect for rakitra (offering). Keep your hymnal with you at all times- when you get back a zato as change, stick it in your hymnal immediately so you aren't tempted to use it for anything but rakitra. 

-If you are far away from the "conductor", he will yell out the amount you paid and the number of fares you paid-- for example, if I passed back a 500 note for just me, he'd yell "diman-zato, iray!"-- when you hear your combination, stick your hand in the air and your change will be passed along to you. 

-If you pay with a 1000 Ariary note, some conductors will say the amount in francs, as it is easier to say "cinq-cents" than "iray arivo". It took me over a month to figure this out. 

-Learn the names of the bus stops on your typical routes!! This can save you money, as shorter routes are less money. When you hand your money to the conductor, say the name of your stop (if it isn't the last stop). Some conductors will also ask, "Aiza?" to which you respond the name of your stop. 

-There are two ways of learning the names of the stops-- listening and asking. Listen to the conductor, who will yell out the names of each stop about a minute before arriving to it. Or ask your neighbor, "Inona ny anarana eto?" (What is the name here?) when you are stopped. As a bonus, they're usually very happy that you are speaking Malagasy and will continue the conversation- which is more practice time for you! 

-Stops are not guaranteed!! You must listen for the conductor, who will yell out the names of the stops and ask "Miala Anakarobato ve?" (Is there a stop at Ankarobato?). When he names your stop, yell "misy miala!" (there's a stop) and put your hand up. If the conductor isn't paying attention and forgets to ask, you might have to yell "misy miala Ankarobato" about a minute before your usual stop. 

-It takes time, but eventually you learn to be slightly rude when getting on and off the bus. You're gonna hit people in the head with your bag, you're gonna step on some toes, and you're gonna accidentally elbow the guy next to you while you're digging for change. Know this. Become okay with it. It is an acceptable part of taxibe culture. 

-On the same note, when trying to catch a taxibe during rush hour (not recommended, avoid at all costs) use your American-sized bulk to your advantage. There is no such thing as "an orderly line" in Madagascar-- there is a pack of people all pushing to get on the same van. If you are polite, you will literally never catch a bus. Run toward the bus with everyone else, and once you get close to the door, use your bigger size to block other people from the door (brace yourself against the more aggressive younger men) until you can climb on. 

-On the street, if you see the bus you want coming towards you, beckon to the driver with a hand clawing toward yourself. This is the Malagasy version of our finger curl, to say "come here". The bus often will slow down to a roll, but not stop. The common response to this is to trot towards the bus, wait until the conductor opens the door, and jump on. Grab onto the ladder on the left door while planting your right foot on the back step and pull yourself on. Don't be alarmed when the conductor puts an arm around your shoulders to help pull you on and prevent you from falling off backwards- this is normal (not just for vazaha, or even just for women, this is normal for all people). 

-It is exceedingly polite to offer your seat to older people if you are sitting on the outside, by the aisle, and an old person is about to sit in the aisle on a plank. Stand up and offer "afaka mipetraka eto", while moving out into the aisle. (Also note, it is also acceptable and polite to use the terms dadabe and bebe--grandfather and grandmother--to refer to old men and women, though I have only pulled it off on the taxibe and nowhere else)

-Sing along with the radio when you know the songs! It often turns into a big sing-along, and you make people smile when you show that you (kind of) know Malagasy songs. My crowd pleaser is definitely 'Za Leo' by ODYAI, though I only know the chorus. 

-Finally, learn to be laid back and have fun with it. Stuff happens. You have no control over the taxibe. The sooner you accept this and find the humor in it, the better off you will be. 

I wish everyone could experience the taxibe at least once, as it is one of my favorite parts of living in Madagascar, surprisingly enough, but it's near impossible to describe. I've barely scratched the surface here, though I hope it was at least marginally useful for some! 

Transportation- The TaxiBrusse

In my 7 or so months in Madagascar, I have observed and slowly figured out a bit more how transportation in this country works (or doesn't). First off, some terminology: the "buses" that go between cities are called taxi-brusses, and the buses within each city and suburb network are called taxibes. Taxis are just like yellow cabs in America, except here they're tan-yellow and about 20 years to old to function. Motos can refer to motorcycles or scooters. 

I take the taxibe at least twice a week into Tana to work at the printy press. I've also taken multiple brusses now, both short term and long term ones. I have also traveled by private car, taxi, moto, and even (a very unfortunate trip) by train. The only transportation I have not yet experienced in this country has been short trip plane rides or boats, though there is still time! I thought I'd expound some on my travel experiences thus far, which I will break up into 3 parts: The TaxiBrusse, The TaxiBe, and Miscellaneous. 

Without further ado, here is installment 1- The TaxiBrusse. 

Long brusse rides can be either miserable or fairly enjoyable depending on the company you ride with, the driver, and pure luck. I've gone from Antananarivo to Fianarantsoa, Manakara to Fianarantsoa, and Fianarantsoa to Antananarivo- all trips of around 8-10 hours. Every big city has a brusse station, which looks more like a large outdoor flea market with lots and lots of large vans. The day (or two) before traveling, you want to go to the station and reserve a space. 

Most of my experiences have been at Fasakarana, the massive taxibrusse station in Tana. (The experience seems to be generally similar in other cities, but just blown way out of proportion in Tana). As soon as you get close to the station, packs of men will surround you and start yelling "Aiza?!" or the names of various cities. Eventually, once you tell them the name of where you are headed, one or two will 'claim' you as a customer and the rest filter away to look for others. The men or man who have claimed you will lead you through an endless maze of stalls, to the company they work for. 

Now, once you get there, you are not committed to traveling with their company- most companies going to your desired city will be in the same area, so shop around if you like. Some people prefer to look around and check out the various brusses, others like a sense of adventure and just go with the first company that claims them. (I go with the latter strategy, mostly because I get too overwhelmed with all of the noise and people) Prices will be, for the most part, consistent across companies. For example, Tana to Fianar is 26.000 Ariary. Once you settle on a company, people will 'mandrosoa' you into their stall where you will get a ticket. You have the option of paying in full or part advance; the seller will take your name and number down and stamp your ticket. 

If there is an option, strategically pick your seat. As a vazaha, you will no doubt have noticed that Madagascar is just not built to handle your size. Accept it, and plan accordingly when possible. Seats next to the driver are often ideal, though hard to come by. They offer the most leg room. Next best options are either the first or last row, by the windows, and is entirely a matter of personal opinion. I prefer the back row window seats, as then there are no people climbing out over me. Also, the back windows generally open wide enough that you can climb out through the windows when it is time for bush breaks or mealtimes. (Pro tip: You do not want to be the last one out or in of the brusse for breaks, ever) If those four are taken, try for a window seat in general. Avoid middle seats or anything that looks like it might be an 'aisle': this is not a plane; aisles are generally no wider than my foot. Literally. 

On the day of traveling, there is a game of strategy that must be played. It is called fotoan-gasy (Malagasy time), and it is an exercise in a convoluted social version of game theory. Simply put, you don't want to be the first nor the last to arrive. In practice, it is much more complicated. Everyone anticipates that everyone else will also be a little late, and in order to minimize waiting time you must adjust your planned arrival time accordingly. It takes years to master, or so I'm told. I have not yet mastered the art of fotoan-gasy, but I generally aim to show up a half hour or so after I'm told and it generally works okay. 

As an example: the brusse from Tana to Finar- one of my first- said it left at 3 p.m. I arrived at 2:30, like a good American. Unfortunately I was the very first one to show. The brusse actually left at 5. The masters of fotoan-gasy arrived at 4:15 or 4:30. Much later, you run the risk of making people angry for having to wait for you. It is a very complex dance. 

The last brusse I took, Fianar to Tana, had a leaving time of 7:30. I aimed to arrive around 8, and with traffic and the like actually got to the station around 8:15 or so. The brusse left at 9. Almost pro status! 

Once the brusse leaves, settle in and enjoy the ride- or at least, try not to be miserable.

 

Some tips: 

-Women should strongly consider wearing long skirts for bush breaks; and when there is a break, follow the other women. Generally, men head to one side of the road and women stay on the other. 

-For meal breaks, eat as quickly as possible. Meal breaks tend to be around 30 minutes- including any bathroom breaks, paying for and ordering your food, and getting in and out of the brusse. Don't mess around. Haul yourself out of the window and grab the waitress's attention immediately; eat as soon as you get any food in front of you. 

-Bring snacks and water with you. Sometimes, the hotelys the driver chooses to stop at are out of food. It happens. You'll be very grateful for the gouty and salto you have with you. 

-Wear or pack a sweater, long sleeve shirt, or lamba hoany, particularly if traveling through the highlands in the evening. It gets cold. Very cold. 

-Always travel with motion sickness pills. Madagascar roads can challenge even the strongest of stomachs, and completing successful trips before is not an indicator of how your current trip will go. 

-When departing the taxibrusse at your destination station, do not let anyone "help" you grab your bags from the top of the brusse. More likely than not, they are a taxi driver who will try to put your bags immediately into his taxi. Learn to say "tsy mila, fa misoatra" (don't need, but thanks). 

-If you do want to take a taxi, negotiate a price before handing over your bags or getting into the car. At Fasakarana, taxi drivers have cards like backstage passes around their necks, verifying that they actually are drivers. Do not trust anyone who doesn't have one of these cards. 

-Stick with the older women or older men. A few words of conversation with them during a meal break or while in transit, and they will generally look out for you. Many times I've been saved from a slightly sketchy situation with a pushy taxi driver in a dark station by a group of grandmothers. 

There are also shorter taxibrusses between cities and smaller villages. I've taken a few of these as well, Tana to Analavory, Antsirabe to Tana, and Fianar to Ranomafana. These are less enjoyable than longer brusse rides, which seems counterintuitive at first. However, short brusse rides (both of mine were around 4 hours) can be very rough on the traveler. For one thing, the brusse itself tends to be smaller- instead of an actual bus-ish vehicle, you more often get a large van. In addition to that, because the ride is "so short" passengers are packed in. On a long brusse ride, there are 4 seats per row and 4 people per row. On a short brusse ride, there are 4 seats per row and 5 or 6 people per row. Reservations are not a thing for short rides (in my experience, people just look at you like you're crazy), so don't attempt to use your fotoan-gasy skills- resign yourself to waiting and show up early in order to get a decent seat. Short brusse rides also tend to carry more cargo, which means that you may end up holding someone's child for them or sitting face to face with a rooster that's tucked under a mans arm. Out of the 5 short rides I've been on, 4 of them were miserable. On the bright side, they're only 3 or 4 hours, and generally cheap (around 5.000 Ariary). The trickiest bit can be finding the 'station' in small villages- generally, just a stand on the side of the road. Ask around, or watch for areas on the main (paved) road that seem to attract large numbers of vans. 

Riding the taxibrusse in Madagascar is one of, in my opinion, the most quintessential Malagasy experiences you can possibly have. It is often miserable. But it's also a part of life here, a beautifully flawed way of moving around. Besides, you get some killer stories! 

As an example- the latest brusse I was on was by far the best. I was coming back to Tana from Fianarantsoa. I was in the last row of the brusse, next to the window and by a stroke of luck, with an empty seat next to me. Across the "aisle" (told you, literally the width of my foot) was a very nice young lady and her baby. We exchanged pleasantries in the beginning before settling to listen to the ParadisaGasy radio that was being blasted throughout the brusse. When we stopped for lunch, I pulled myself out through the window without flashing anyone in my skirt (it's taken time but I'm finally almost at semi-pro brusse riding level!) and was about to walk to the hotely, when I heard the young woman behind me. 

Her: "Azafady-" 

Me: *turn around* "Aika?" 

Her: "Afaka maka ny zaza ve ianao?" 

Me: "Azafady?!" 

Her: "Zay" *passes baby through window* 

Me: "......uh......." *takes baby* 

Baby: *promptly starts crying* 

Every other passenger: *starts staring at the vazaha who made the baby cry, thinking I did something to her* 

Me: *to the baby* "......uh...... Aza mitomany, zaza. Aza mataotra..." *to the woman* "Mataotra izy!" 

Her: *jumps out the window gracefully and takes back baby*

We, of course, repeated the process climbing back into the brusse and again when we arrived at Fasakarana. 

Ask anyone who has spent significant time in Madagascar about the brusse, and I guarantee they will have at least one similar or better story. Where else are you going to get this kind of experience?

Stay tuned for the next installment of the Madagascar transportation series!  

What Living Abroad Has Taught Me About American Politics

Before leaving the United States, I was never too involved in politics. I only voted once, and was generally pretty content to let the whole convoluted system just work itself out as it would- of course, criticizing it every step of the way (daresay I was part of the problem, but that's another topic). The only time I actually bothered to even dip into the monstrosity that is the American political system was when religion got involved-- above all things, I have always been a staunch believer in and defender of the separation of church and state. That is the one topic that always has (and probably always will) get my nose out of joint. 

At any rate, moving to Madagascar has changed my political views... Or rather, the way in which I view politics. Not an ideological change, per say, but a change in the way I analyze the system, the way in which I judge what makes a candidate "good". 

Before Madagascar, I (being a product of my generation and history) was very angry at people who advocated or even mentioned that the United States should get involved in foreign affairs. That seems a little extreme, and to be fair, it probably was. But hey, I was a kid in high school who really hadn't thought these things through. All I knew was that people (people I knew, my family, friends and friends' family) were being sent abroad in order to kill other people in the name of democracy- and they weren't returning. So it made me angry when I would hear phrases like "Americans have a responsibility to the rest of the world" or "We need to make democracy a reality for every country", etc. etc. As a teenager, my views about politics pretty much were limited to 'why don't we just leave the rest of the damn world alone and focus on our own problems? We seem to be messing stuff up more often than not, why can't we just keep our noses out of it?' 

But now that I've moved abroad, it's stunning to me to see how much my views have changed- in spite of the fact that I'm not really happy about it. Inside, I'm still that kid, mad about the war that killed so many who wants nothing more than to hole up in my own borders and focus on ourselves. Because let's face it: we got plenty of our own problems without getting entrenched in everyone else's, too. 

Unfortunately for me, I have friends in the world now. I know people in the world. 

And they make some pretty good points about American foreign policy. 

In Madagascar, for example, I have many friends who have told me "if it weren't for the foreign aid that your government gives, many Malagasy would be dead". I have an incredibly smart friend, better versed in American politics than I am, who has challenged me on almost all of my views regarding the 2016 political candidates.

Living in Madagascar has forced me to accept the fact that America, and American politics, is vastly intertwined with the world at large. Other countries look to America, other countries depend on America, and who we elect has far-reaching effects on the entire world. Regardless of how I feel about this, a fact it remains. I can't remain content to say "don't worry about foreign policy- don't get involved; just fix our own problems and keep our nose out of it". 

Do you know that people around the globe, as far as Madagascar, are following the election proceedings in America right now? Do you know that people worldwide are reading up on our presidential candidates, are following the debates, are having their own debates on Clinton vs. Sanders, on Trump and the GOP? 

Do you know that the world is watching?

Do you know that the world is invested in our politics?

Thus far, I have managed to avoid speaking about one particular candidate over another. I'm not certain where my loyalties lie in the 2016 election; this new, inconvenient realization about foreign policy has forced me to reexamine our candidates. 

But I will say this- we need to strongly, carefully consider the implications of electing each candidate...both for ourselves, and for the world. What would a president Trump do if unleashed on the world? How do you see another Clinton presidency shaping the world? What would a Sanders presidency mean? How about Cruz in office? 

We need to seriously, solemnly weigh these considerations in with our others-- in addition to religious beliefs, in addition to feminist beliefs, in addition to economic beliefs... We need to ask "how does the world fit into all of this?"

Because the world is watching. 

And it is depending on us to make the best choice. 

"Good Intentions Are a Hall-Pass Through History"

Accountability used to mean something but 

I have watched it dissipate 

To vapor and mist A parody 

Of its previous self 

Lost in the shadowland Now 

Darkly negative vaguely meaningless 

Revenge and retribution and justice 

These are the new faces 

Accountable 

Hides behind lurking in the shadow 

We have assigned it a power 

It does not deserve We made it 

A monster and now 

Timidly cower before it 

Desperate to escape tearing claws 

Bob and weave, twist turn and duck 

Out of terror we create new 

More insidious monsters that can hide 

In plain daylight

Masquerading as virtues 

And these in truth are far more 

Treacherous than the monster we do fear 

To the one in the shadows we gave

A ferocity it did not deserve while 

Those in the light we cloaked 

In decency they did not possess 

He had good intentions 

They tried their best 

She meant well 

I only wanted to help 

New language we made to let 

Ourselves feel virtuous for once Just 

This once There's no harm

But as we strengthen this language 

We feed the beast we've created Drive 

Accountability farther into the dark and 

Inflating intention, meaning, trying into heroes 

That can vanquish the demons 

Doubt and insecurity and self-hate

Haunting us But

We are running headfirst into a trap we made ourselves.  

On Thursdays, We Do Laundry

I've been asked what's it's like to do my laundry here... The short answer? It's hard work and I'm very slow at it.

The longer answer needs to be illustrated with pictures. 

This^ is our "laundry room" (and kitchen, and slaughterhouse, and occasional shower...) As you can see, we are very lucky to have our own well! That means I don't have to walk 20 minutes to the community pump to get water, hallelujah.

Then you gather supplies... These^ are typical laundry soap here. I bought both of these at my favorite hotely for 1000 Ariary. In addition to this soap, I also need a packet of powdered hand washing detergent that I typically buy at Score (the Western grocery store). 

Oh, and a scrub brush is essential. 

Dirty clothes go in the bucket^ with the powdered detergent (and much less water than ones first instinct would tell them). The less water there is, the easier it is to scrub the clothes. 

And then, you get to scrubbing.^ Big items and things that need more scrubbing than others (jeans, underwear, button down shirts, sweaters) are placed onto the cement block and scrubbed. Otherwise, the other items are piled on top of each other to make a "surface". 

Basically, you grab your soap and scrub it across the shirt (for example), turn it over and get the other side; then, put the soap to the side and grab your shirt in both hands and rub violently together- as if you were rubbing your knuckles together. Continue scrubbing, using a brush on any particularly dirty parts, until entire shirt is covered in suds. "Rinse", wring, and put in new (clean!!) bucket. Repeat. 

Finished! ^ well, finished scrubbing.... 

Yuckkkkkkkk! All that^ dirt was in my clothing!! 

And now for the rinse cycle... Get to drawing^ that water! I typically go through 2 cycles (about 8 or 10 buckets full). My host mother would want me to do 3, at least (until the water is clear! Madio, madio, Ana!!) but since I am extraordinarily kamo (lazy) when it comes to laundry, my number of rinse cycles depends greatly on my mood that day.

After wringing the clothes as hard as you can, I take them to the back of the house^ and hang them up on "my" section of our clothes line. 

Phew! Finally done!! (about 2 or 3 hours later) 

I almost always end up grating my fingers^... But my nails have never looked cleaner than right after doing my laundry!