Habitat for Humanity was probably one of the best experiences I have had in country thus far. Volunteers always say that your Peace Corps experience is like a rollercoaster, with both ups and downs. And I hate to say admit it, but I’ve been dwelling on the downs. Life is frustrating at times in this country. Classes that I want to start don’t because people don’t show interest in them. Villagers that I want to help tell me they don’t need it because they don’t trust me. Others befriend me just to ask for gifts down the line. Habitat for Humanity came at the perfect time. It was really a freak accident. Two other volunteers were supposed to be translators before me, and at the last minute were not able to assist. That’s when I stepped in. But to be honest, this program brought me back to life. It made me remember why I came to this country, why I chose Peace Corps. I met some absolutely amazing people who reminded me of who I was and where I wanted to go in life.

Days were long and tiring. 6am waking up, 9pm bed times for 10 days straight takes a toll on you. Emotionally and physically. I would be lying if I didn’t say I got sick once….okay maybe twice. I guess I’m not Malagasy so I can’t do the half liter of water a day, even though I thought I could. Oops.

The group was broken up into four construction groups, one Peace Corps Volunteer as a translator for each construction group. 7 months in country and I was a translator, so I apologize to my construction group for the past two weeks. (Just kidding!). But I do have to say, my translations became very comical as the week wore on. “Can you tell him that because he works hard and always preempts our needs, we can complete our job. If that didn’t happen, we wouldn’t be able to work, but we can so thank you”…turned into “he said, you’re awesome and you’re always ready with everything, which is awesome. If you weren’t awesome, we couldn’t work, but we can because you’re awesome.”

My construction site was up a hill, a huge hill. To be exact, 76 steps…bleacher style. Needless to say, I learned quite fast, I was no longer in shape. Add that to carrying never ending bricks, mortar, buckets of water and making the walls level, vizaka be aho (I am exhausted). Yes, I got my hands dirty and build walls. I was up on scaffolding. Shocker! Not the life I’m used to living in Alakamisy-Ambohimaha by any means. We didn’t complete the entire house, but that’s normal for all Habitat constructions abroad. You never know what problems you will run to on a construction site and definitely abroad, you don’t have the luxury to extend the time allotted. However, we finished the walls of the house and porch; all that needs to be completed is the roof and floor. So I think success.

But hard work aside, we had a lot of fun. We took children from each building site to the hot springs and to see the 50ft waterfall. There seemed to be mortar fights on my construction site. Intentionally accidently dropping of mortar on people’s hands or flung on peoples clothes **cough John cough**. We walked the Ranomafana Park and saw four different types of lemurs. We ate all meals together in which it became a ‘if you can’t finish your meal, give it to the Peace Corps Volunteers because they starve at site’ event. No arguments from us. Races to the shower to be one of the lucky ones who gets warm water. And the normal picking on Christina moments (why am I an easy target?). But you only pick on those you like……..right?

John: So I heard you were a triplet.

Mike: Wait…what did you just say? I heard, ‘so I heard you were a stripper.’

(my ‘job’ as a stripper became topic of conversation for the rest of the trip)

 

Me: Yea, I guess I’m the rebel sister.

Eden: …because Peace Corps is a rebel thing.

Norman: Where’s your Harley, rebel? Biker chick…

 

Mike: What sin did you commit tonight? (meaning what alcoholic drink did you consume)

Me: I’m with him. (pointing to John, meaning he was buying my drink)

Mike: Oh really… (and then proceeds to tell the story to the entire group)

Earlier in the day:

Mike: John you’ll be the hoddy today. Meaning you’ll get bricks, mortar, or water for anyone that needs it.

Later on, after lunch:

Me (to John): so  you’re a hoddy again? (hoddy pronounced hawdy but sounds like hotty)

John: …well I didn’t say it, you did.

So John, Eden, Michaela, Norman, Pam, Kate, Mike, Barry, Lew, Tony, Trish, Kathleen, Lisa, Glenn, Leith, Jeremy, and Bruce, I miss you already, come back to Madagascar! Thanks for adopting me, Sally, Kim, and Mike (little/PCV one) into your Habitat family. For the support, the gifts, the pure kindness of your hearts. I hope we keep in touch and I will forever remember the experience I shared with you.

House dedication ceremony

Waterfall adventure.

View from my construction site

One of my best friends in country wrote a blog the other day that pretty much sums up life in Madagascar. I have to agree one hundred percent with what was said. Life has gotten weird because of living in this country. Very weird. And English is really hard now. Nearly 7 months in country, 20 to go. Imagine what is going to happen then.

Read Amy’s blog below and remember, this is what we call life now. Mazatoa!!! (enjoy!)

Never have I ever…

With the departure of the PCVL (Peace Corps Volunteer Leader aka PCV that works at the Meva continuing their work in their specialty but also assisting administratively and a position I reallyyy want next year…hint hint to the Peace Corps staff who might be reading this right now) in Fianar, English Club at the CEDII building has been taught by a different volunteer each week. Being so close to Fianar myself, I have not only attended some meetings and help teach, but lead one myself. My topic this past week, Vacations and Hobbies in the States. What makes this different from the English Clubs I have taught in Alakamisy is multiple things. For one, these students are University level and efa mahay Anglisy so sentence structure and vocabulary is very good, and rather than just teaching English words, it is a cross-cultural experience. The leading Peace Corps Volunteer discusses American fomba and what you can typically be found in the States. We talk at a normal speed, and that makes these students work to comprehend the conversation as it would be if they were to speak with an English speaker at an official or business function. Of course, if there are questions, they can stop and ask, but very little times has that actually occurred. Class is roughly two hours, and normally staying on topic is not hard to do. There is so much to discuss in such a short time.

However, go figure, my topic took a strange turn. It was like my language test all over again. I was discussing breaks in schools and what college students typically do, and the topic diverged towards American cities. It started with what US cities were the most ‘touristy’ and which ones should be visited. But then one of the students asked what were the most dangerous cities in the United States, in a way to ask which ones to avoid if they were ever to visit the States. Liz and I tried to explain that while there ones that statistically had more crime than others, typically, any large city can have a dangerous neighborhood. And then the rest is history…

[key: M=me, S=English Club student, L=Liz]

M:“For example, Los Angeles has the Comptons. You wouldn’t want to be there at night unless you were asking for trouble.”
S: “But, only at night?”
M: “It depends. Sometimes all the time. I’m a white, blonde girl. I wouldn’t want to be caught in the Comptons at any time of day unless I wanted….say my purse to be stolen.”
S: “How would they get your purse? By gunpoint?”
M: “Maybe. Gun. Knife. Physical force…”
S: “What does it take to have a gun in the States?”
L: “Well you need a special license and your gun has to be registered so if something should happen the police could trace the gun back to the owner.”
S: “Does a gun have to be registered?”
M: “Legally, yes.”
S: “But the Black Market. You can get just about anything: guns, drugs, even organs.”
L: “Correct, so anyone who knows a certain person can get a gun. But if they are caught by the police, they can get in serious trouble.”
S: “Well not for self-defense though right?”
M: “No even for self-defense. Police Officers are still investigated when they discharge their weapons in self defense. And those with unregistered guns who are defending themselves too can find themselves in serious trouble.”
And so on….until one student said the following statement towards the end of class.
S: “Oh okay. So essentially you’re saying stay away from big cities if you’re a tourist.”

Not quite sure how that could be the summary of the lesson, but I had to give the students props for not only understanding quite a complicated concept but following the conversation and continuing it. Official Tea and Talk clap to that. **Clap. Clap. Clap/clap/clap. Thank you**

With a new sitemate comes new experiences and new laughs. Savanna left Alakamisy almost three months ago to train the new stage of education volunteers and it became very lonely. I buckled down and finally learned enough Malagasy to get by reasonably well…ONLY took six months in country. And yesterday, September 18th, Liz, the soro’ny Savanna as I have been saying for what seems like three hundred times today arrived in Alakamisy. I have already had “first” experience, eating the tongue of a cow, very rubbery but no taste. Like the tradition that it is, I took Liz into Fianar to show her the ropes in the “big city” and have her help teach English Club (stay tuned for that blog post).

Liz learned fast that I do NOT like the word vazaha and tend to be very sarcastic to people that use it towards me. Normal responses range from “It’s true, thank you so much Captain of the Obvious” to “vazaha, aiza?!?” (vazaha, where?!?!) obviously looking around to find a white person, to even Saaaa-laaaa-maaaaa. Salama is the Betsileo standard for hello, pronounced saw-la-ma. When it comes to people obnoxiously yelling “salut vazaha” I pronounce Salama very slowly so they just stand there in dumb shock and I have enough time to walk away. I know, I know, I should be nicer…Poor Liz probably was thinking, “Who is this crazy girl they gave me as a sitemate??” but she actually thought it was funny. See what this country has done to me…I’ve become very adala-dala (crazy) I can’t even speak proper English anymore too.

So I showed her the market and where I like to do a majority of my food shopping; some of the mpivarotras in Alakamisy like to rip me off and charge prices higher than should be, so I do most of my shopping when I brousse in for the day. I showed her ‘egg lady’ and ‘salad lady’ as Savanna and I so like to call the women that sell eggs and salads…go figure…and then decided right then and there that I wanted to purchase beans to cook for lunch and take home the leftovers for dinner. I went up to the closest epicerie and asked the standard “how much is a kapoaka of rice?” (a kapoaka is a measurement in Madagascar, a little less than a cup at my best guess) and was given “500 ariary” as an answer or “deman-zato ny kapoaka.” I thought that price seemed outrageously high and thought it was due to the fact that I was white, and I turned stern face, repeating “deman-zato ny kapoaka” over and over in a very serious tone thinking this 14ish year old would know that I knew what it should be. I realized the price was not going down and walked away all upset and insulted that this girl would try to rip me off, cursing a little under my breath.

We continued on with shopping for food and clothes, FRIPPEEEEE!, and decided to call it a day and head back to the Peace Corps Meva before heading to English Club. It was then that I noticed every epicerie on the way was selling beans for guess how much…yep you guessed it 500ariary. So that girl was telling the truth, and I was extremely rude to her. I felt like the worst person on the face of the planet.
Broussing back to Alakamisy consisted of Liz continuously teasing me by consistently saying “deman-zato ny kapoaka” and the entire brousse laughing hysterically, including myself. It was decided right then and there, that I should probably not go back to that epicerie for a very long time…..oooooopssssss.

Taxi brousses are the bane of my existence in this country (is that the right saying?). You are told to show up at 630a because the brousse is leaving at 7a. However, you don’t end up pulling out of the station until 9a (at the earliest). The cars are crammed, no space to relax and the overwhelming aroma of gasoline is something to look forward to for the entire ride. Living so close to Fianarantsoa, I am lucky to take only a 45min taxi brousse ride from Alakamisy Ambohimaha. However, if I want to go anywhere else, settle in for a long ride. From Alakamisy to Tana was a little more than 9 hours in a brousse, with a 30m stop for lunch. Bathroom breaks consist of “azafady, manao recreation ve?” (meaning, can we have a potty break where I can go hid behind trees and go to the bathroom). Which means, no thank you, I can hold it. And then there is the endless parade of people throwing up. When someone throws up in this country, the brousse does not stop, but rather you ask for a plastic bag and then throw it out the window when you’re done. Yep, that’s how we roll. I have gotten pretty good at knowing when people will be sick. Right after lunch break, put that music on loud. An hour into the ride, like clockwork, someone will throw up. And whenever you hear “misy sachet ve?” (is there a plastic bag?), turn that music up. On the ride down from Sandrandahy (I made a quick pit stop into Amy’s town to see how she lives) to my site, I lost track of how many people threw up after 20. Mind you, there was probably 30 in this brousse. Good percentage right? And the guy sitting directly next to me consisted of 8 of those throw ups. Splendid. And another guy on my brousse decided to take the six hour drive as preaching time. And by preaching, I mean yelling God’s words as we were jostling down the road. Even with my music on, I heard him loud and clear. And even after I stated azafady, tsy miteny francais aho (sorry, I don’t speak French), I got “ah, you only speak english. Nice to meet you.”……in French.

Taxi brousses are a hit or miss experience. Sometimes I get the best brousses and don’t want to get off when I get home. Other times, we haven’t gotten ten feet and I’m already screaming “get me out of here” in my head. Oh well, just another day in Madagascar.

IST finished roughly a week ago, and I am just now getting my appetite back. It does not even do it justice to say we were spoiled at the PC Training Center. Three meals, two snacks, and an endless supply of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, can really do a number on you. I had a food baby the entire training.
The food I consumed: endless bowls of popcorn, pancakes, waffles, yogurt, ice cream, pizza, tacos, mac and cheese, corn bread, zucchini bread, cookies, fish, rice, beans, fresh squeezed juice, bananas, oranges, croissants, sandwiches, coke, eggs, cinnamon bread, sausage, pork, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and macaroni salad. Most of these things, I could not afford to have at site, so just imagine me sitting at table packing my mouth full. Fat girl want more cake?

IST was great and a rollercoaster at the same time. It was amazing to see my Stagemates again, many I had not seen since Swearing In. Fianar region and below all took the same bruise up to Tana (more than 9 hours away from my site), so the trip was very entertaining. We hung out at the Meva in Tana, skyped with friends and family, watched some Olympics that I was able to get a hold of, and just enjoyed each other’s company. But IST is also a brag fest to see who “did” the most work, and not having been paired with an organization that provides me projects, I have been caught in Limbo the last month trying to figure out what to do. Hearing everyone talk about how much work they have done and what they’re exporting to the States next week can really bring someone down. Especially someone who had a really rough month already. Add that on top of having tonsillitis and not being able to eat or drink water for three days, the start of IST really sucked (sorry for lack of a better word).

But with some amazing friends (Sarah and Amy <3 you!), I ended on a strong note. Lucie, the APCD for CED Volunteers, always says to never compare your Peace Corps experience to anyone else’s. While I try to not do that, it can be very difficult and inevitable. You want to show everyone you are trying to make a difference for someone in this country and many times it can be a bragging war between PCVs on what you’re doing. Towards the end of the week, I realized, that I really need to step back and realize that I am in a very unique position. While many CED volunteers are paired with organizations like COLDIS, Prosperer, Tiavo, or are started their service with an already developed project that they just pick up and ran with, my situation was different. Yes there was a previous volunteer at my site, but no projects were left for me to finish or continue, so I started with nothing.

I’m going back to site with a fresh mind, new ideas from service, and the optimism that I will be hopefully very busy these next couple months. My new sitemate will be arriving mid September, Liz, and I am going to help her get settled and then continue on the traditions that Savanna and I started when we lived in Alakamisy together. I have to say goodbye to some amazing people who are COSing. But life goes on, and so does my service. As someone in my stage would say…It’s just the Peace Corps experience.

As you are walking into the kabone, your neighbor is walking out of the adjoining one and says “Vita ny alina” (the night is done). You check your watch; its only 8pm.

Your friend tells you they just saw someone throw a chicken down the kabone.

You have no idea what someone is saying to you, you just nod your head in agreement, and then it becomes clear you agreed to going on a date to that person. Oops.

You agree to help someone with their dissertation in English, and then discover they are creepy and send you good night texts every night for a week.

You’re on a taxi brousse trying to get back to site and for the 6 hours of being crammed in there, there is some preaching the story of God and it’s really loud.

You’re asked if you’re cold when it is 80 degrees outside and when you answer no, they tell you that having your shoulder exposed is not fomba and that you should cover it up.

You walk to get fried food for breakfast (cause there is no other way to have an awesome breakfast) and the mpivarotra asks if you’re eating all of the things you bought by yourself or if someone is going to help you. (did she just politely call me a fatass?)

You mention that you can’t go out because you’re sick and one of your stagemates asks, “When are you not sick?”

Your taxi brousse ride consists of a constant stream of Malagasy people throwing up. No matter how loud you turn your music up, that noise is loud.

Throwing up on a brousse consists of turning your head, throwing up in a sachet, and then throwing the sachet out of the window.

You’re asked what the program for the day is, you say nothing and then you just sit in silence staring at eachother for nearly 10 minutes.

Your downstairs neighbors asked if you “wasted the entire day” in your house watching television. (Sorry I was sick).

Your neighbors ask if your dog can no longer sleep in the house at night because she goes to the bathroom and it seeps down into their bedroom.

The month of July. Murphy’s Law doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve been through. It is a month I wish to never repeat and wish to never experience something like it again during my service. It feels like I am living high school all over again, but times the drama by a million. Below is what has occurred over the past 30 days:

Following the funeral festivities from my previous post, I got caught in drama between the lady who runs the youth center where I have been teaching and my unofficial counterpart. I found out she was charging my students to be taught by me which is not fomba and I went to my mayor with the concern. My mayor promised he would speak Madame about it, and he did because he is one of the awesomest (is that a word?) people I have ever met in either the States or this country. However, I later found myself sitting in the Maison de Jeunes (youth center) getting yelled at for twenty minutes for supposedly lying. Madame (that’s what I call her) decided to throw me under the bus and say the reason no students were showing up for my class wasn’t because she was charging them but rather because sometimes I came to teach and sometimes I didn’t; I wasn’t consistent. At first I was going to let it go and just continue on with the English classes, but when Madame decided to trick me into restarting Adult English Club (which I wasn’t comfortable with because let’s be honest, there are some people in this village who really don’t want me here and they proceed to make fun of me my Malagasy and do everything they can to put me down, but yet decide to still show up for English lessons) by telling me we were going to discuss the classes I would do in the future and then dropping 20 people in my lap to learn English, I reevaluated my thoughts. And when I addressed this concern with her, she proceeded to throw in my face that if I wasn’t comfortable teaching adults English, then maybe I wasn’t ready to start any classes that were the focus of why I am here in Madagascar, Community Enterprise Development. So, yea, I tapaka’d (to cut off) all my classes. Chances are I will restart them after my training this next month in Mantasoa, but I am going to let everyone sit and dwell on the fact that I am not someone that can be walked over.

My best friend at site is mad at me for not attending the funeral of the little girl earlier this month, no matter how much I apologize and try to explain that I just couldn’t emotionally do it. I had three PCVs come and take care of me for goodness sake, and they all told me they could tell how visibly upset I was regarding the event. But that didn’t matter to her, and since the day after the funeral, she has barely said more than a few words to me since then.

This month I also received my first electricity bill. When I first moved into Alakamisy, I was informed I would most likely be paying for my own jiro, which I agreed to. After talking to my sitemate, who says her jiro is normally 3000a at most a month, I said I didn’t mind at all. Imagine my surprise however when the Jirama (the electricity company) came into my house to read my meter and gave me a bill for 60000a. Yes, you read that right. Keep in mind, I am able to get by on living on 250000a a month, so 60000a is quite a chunk of that money. As I started doing some more research on how so much electricity could be consumed on my behalf, it was brought to my attention that three other houses are tapped into my jiro box and that it wasn’t me that was consuming the power, but it was the other houses. I left site for two days and when I came back, the electricity box had gone up 30 hours. How do you use 30 kilowatt hours of electricity in 48 hours? I didn’t think it was possible! When I tried to address my landlord, she tried to push the entire bill off on me and say it was all my usage. You know, cause I’m the vazaha and I supposedly am rolling around in money. That took a longggg time to sort out and I really don’t think it’s over with either.

Parasy became really sick, and I honestly thought she was going to die. She went four days without eating and was throwing up any water she drank. She went from the ‘fat’ 15k I got her up to down to just over 5k, just skin and bones. Going up and down the stairs was not possible and just walking to the plants where she could go to the bathroom took effort. I had to carry her to and from the cattle doctor in town who brought back dog medicine from Fianar for Parasy (he had discovered white people really care about their animals and will pay whatever it costs to get them better) which obviously made me a laughing stock of the town for a period of a week.

I fell down a hill while hiking the fady ‘mountain’ my town is known for. You need a special taratasy (paper) to even climb the rock because supposedly there is gold within the hill and the town elders are afraid white people are going to steal it?? I knew I was going down before I did and I did my best to land correctly, but anyone that knows me knows me and graceful are not two words that go together. As soon as I landed, I knew something was wrong. Our guides had this look on their face that said “oh shit we just broke the vazaha” but the only person that really took concern to my situation was my language tutor (who I consider like a brother and who by the way had just told me a few hours before he was moving to a town three hours south of Alakamisy, so chances are I would probably never see him). With adrenaline pumping, I made my way down the rest of the mountain and tried to act like I was fine. However, the next morning, I woke up and nearly cried when I tried to put any pressure on my food. Savanna turned Big Sister on me (and I love her for it) and had me call the PC doctors, who decided it was serious enough to get me med-transported to the Fianar hospital for an x-ray. Pretty embarrassing, and scared the crap of my PCVL in Fianar who only heard the words, Alakamisy, PCV, emergency, and stretcher. No broken bones, but a sprained ankle. And a nice weird little discolored bump on my ankle that I probably will have for a while. Oh and I lost my other big toe nail during that fall too (the other was lost during PST when Sarah’s host mom walked on my food). But at least I’m matching now! And of course, back in Alakamisy, I was made fun of for hobbling around with a wrapped foot. You know, because what else is there to do in town but to make fun of the white person? Obviously nothing.

And when I went back a few days later to get a copy of the x-ray to send to the PC doctors in Tana to put in my file, I spent two hours hobbling from building to building, being told I was a liar, no white person was in on Monday and that if there had been, she would already have the x-ray. I was informed my Gasy sucked and I was to only speak French, but when I explained I wasn’t fluent in French I was called stupid for being a French person who didn’t speak French (and they didn’t believe I was an American). I ended up making Nirina go back with me and then all of a sudden they did have the x-ray but they couldn’t give it to me because I was still a patient of the hospital (I thought I had left 3 days ago? Maybe not?…)

So you see, it’s been a really fun month. But I’m looking toward the future, and not dwelling in the past. I have IST at the start of next month where I will see all my beloved Stagemates again and then a small much needed vacation before returning to site and jumping head first into projects. Wish me luck everyone, and throw good thoughts my way!

Family and friends, please be aware this blog post is somewhat morbid, and not the typical upbeat and entertaining posts I have been writing since in country. While I had seriously considered ending my service multiple times during the day, I have some amazing friends and support system in country and they have helped me through this event.

The Malagasy have no fears with being blunt. The last two days, I have been in Fianar researching a class I will be starting and a new project I wish to start (trying to figure out if exporting a very talented artist’s painting was viable). It was a rough taxi brousse ride, waiting an hour in the brousse to fill up and then another two hours on the road for a trip that should take no more than 1 hour because the brousse stopped for what seemed like every single person on the road who looked they might want a ride. I had every intention of going into my house and locking my doors, watching movies all day. However, I wasn’t even out of the brousse when one of my best Malagasy friends, Olivia, came up to me and said “Christina, I have bad news, my sister is dead.” I was absolutely in shock—her sister was only 5 years old, and I held her hand for three hours during Independence Day as we went from storefront to storefront singing to the mpivarotras. The only Malagasy I could muster up was “Miala tsiny” (Excuse me/I am so sorry). I knew that fomba in Madagascar was a little different than what I’m used to in the States, and I knew I would have to experience a funeral at least once during my service, I just wasn’t expecting it this soon, someone so young, and someone that I knew. Olivia told me that the Wake was occurring and I was to go see the body. My family and friends who know me well know death scares me so much. When people in my family die, I typically shut down and don’t show emotion, but on the inside I’m a mess. This however was complete opposite. I have never felt comfortable seeing dead bodies, and especially of a little child.

I entered the home where Ami was dressed in a white gown and placed on the table. I was told to sit and for the next hour, it took everything I had to not run out of the room screaming. I’d even go to say I am absolutely surprised I have not had nightmares from the last two days. The family insisted that I touch her skin to see she was already cold. And they really wanted me to attend the all night event where they sing and dance around the body, but I strongly declined.
The next morning I was fetched from my house at 9 am to once again visit the family, present my condolences and give a money offering, and sprinkle the body with what I assume was Blessed Water. I went with the women in my village to give the men building the coffin and digging the grave coffee and bread, a Malagasy custom when someone passes. I ate lunch with the family and couldn’t have been happier to see my friend Amber roll up in a taxi brousse. We had made loose plans that she would come to my village for “Happy Hour” because Savanna was returning from being away from site for nearly a month. After what had happened that day, I had sent her a pleading text message to come and come earlier because I didn’t think I could deal with everything that was going on. Her timing couldn’t be better. The community wanted me to attend the burial and church ceremony, and I was in no state to go. Amber threw out some remark that she needed to do official business with me and we locked ourselves in my house until Savanna and two other PCVs arrived.

I honestly think it’s impossible to describe these days in depth enough to convey my thoughts and the emotions that I felt. But I am so happy that I have some amazing friends and fellow volunteers that helped me get through the day and convinced me that if I slept on it, I would regret I ever contemplated leaving the country. Which I do.

The two most popular topics of conversations within Peace Corps Volunteers are food and your health. We can have hours of conversations on what foods we miss the most from the States or what illnesses we have or have not had. Discussing diarrhea while eating is not weird, it’s actually very normal. Typical and actual conversations can take place as follows.

Me: Monica, I haven’t seen you in forever! How are you?
Monica: Good, how are you?
Me: Pretty good, I’m convinced I have a worm…
Monica: What, why?
Me: I’m always hungry and no matter what or how much I eat, I’m starving a few hours later.
Amber: Well, besides being hungry do you have any other symptoms? How are you bathroom experiences? (the terminology used was a lot more abrupt, but some of you might be eating while you are reading this blog so I’ll keep it PG)
Me: I mean I’m in Madagascar…when am I not having issues? (mind you I’m eating cookies at the same time)
Amber: Well keep notice of it over the next week and if it continues, I would call the doctors. You can always go to the pharmacy down the street and get a stool sample done. It may be awkward, and it takes a day, but you’ll know.
Me: I’ll think about it. I think it might be because I ran out of money so I lived off of 7000a this last week, before I paid my taxi brousse fees and my mpanasa lamba (sidenote: for your information, my taxi brousse fee is 3000a and my mpanasa lamba averages 1200a)…whoops…omgosh what I wouldn’t do for Taco Bell right now!
Monica: Ahhh, Nicole posted an instagram of Chipotle…I want Chiptole!
Me: Slurpies, a nice cold semi-frozen slurpie! Cookies!
Monica: The first thing I’m doing when I go home in December is eat ice cream! Ice cream!!!!
Me: Golden Spoons!! Enjoy it for me….I told my sister when she comes in December to visit all she is going to have in her luggage is food, good vazaha food! Oooooo Oreos!!

And so on….literally, hours of conversation can occur on the food we miss from the States. I incorporate Taco Bell into at least three conversations a day. No joke! My Gasy friends don’t even know what Taco Bell is, they just know I realllllyyyy want it. The plan is I might visit home next April for my birthday. I have already accepted the fact that I will probably get terribly sick on all the food I have eaten that my body is not accustomed to anymore, but I don’t care. If I get sick, it just means I can put more in my stomach! My list of must to eats (and they will be accomplished)…Chipotle, Flame Broiler, In’N’Out, Taco Bell (possibly multiple times a day), slurpies, ice cream (which includes Ben and Jerry’s, frozen yogurt, cookies and cream), oreos, Girl Scout Cookies, Fritos, McDonald French Fries, Panda Express, Pizzzzaaaaaaa (and I mean all the pizza places, Dominos, Lampposts, Pizza Hut, CPK), Denny’s pancakes, bread sticks, did I mention Taco Bell??