Making the Most

I have less than 4 months left in my community, the community that has taken me in, taken care of me, and showed me more love than I could ever have expected. But, my time is running out.

Sure, I’m excited to be back in the states. I am excited to see family, friends and others from my communities in Minnesota. I’m excited to eat Chipotle, speak English with native speakers on a regular basis and a variety of other things that I haven’t done regularly for a while. But, it’s terrifying to go. For now, I’m doing my best to focus on living here, remembering how far I’ve come and making the most of just being. I can think (and blog) about going closer to the time when I actually have to do it.

In remembering how far I’ve come, I’ve been trying to remember what it was like to ride the bus for the first time, go to the market for the first time, and then the first time by myself, go to my first choir rehearsal, teach my first class, all the things that have become completely normal, even mundane at this point. I know that when I return to Minnesota, I will be telling stories of these things that have become normal to me. I will be telling you all about the streets that I walk down every day and the fruit sellers that keep the best fruit for me and give me extras as presents. Some of these stories involve skills I’ve learned, some involve people I’ve become friends with, or even just getting used to things. Let me start now.

The market in my neighborhood is called Antsenakely, the small market. This market is a place not only for buying vegetables for dinner, snacks in the afternoon, or a new sponge to wash dishes with, but a place to celebrate and spend time with my community. Antsenakely is a 2 minute walk from my door step. Often, when I am in the middle of cooking dinner I will realize that I need an extra tomato or that I forgot to buy eggs. I will grab my wallet and keys, put on my flip flops, turn down the food on the stove (only because I will probably end up stopping to talk to everyone I see on the trip to and from the market so, it always takes longer than expected) and head to the market. I always see my neighbors first, the 2 year old that lives next door is usually outside while her mother cooks or does laundry outside, so I have to stop and say hi. Next, are my students who live in the neighborhood playing soccer or one of many Malagasy games. Third, I pass the Pastor’s house where some of his children are usually hanging out, often playing guitar, so a quick hello to them. Now, when I finally reach the market I head to buy my tomatoes and eggs. I decide to get tomatoes first. I pass a few stands on my way to the two women that I always buy vegetables from. I pass the woman from my church who always gives an excited, “Salama!” and the other sellers who have now learned that my name is Ellen, not “vazaha” (foreigner) and remind their children to call me buy name. I pass the butcher, and they ask if I want to buy any ground beef, I say, “not today.” When I arrive at my two vegetable sellers, I scope out who has the best tomatoes today, and see if there’s anything else that looks great. Today, the green beans look good too, so I buy green beans and tomatoes and continue on my way. As I continue to the woman who sells eggs, I pass my friend who often saves her best fruit for me and then gives me extra as “cadeau” or a present. She doesn’t have any fruit today, just charcoal. But, we still have a short conversation about what’s new. I continue on to buy eggs, and the woman says, “akory ndri,” “hey you!” I buy eggs and we chat about the news. I head back home to finish making my dinner, passing the same people as the trip to the market where they ask me what I bought and remind me to cook something good for dinner.

These trips to the market are a treasure. These people have been there providing me with food and smiles since day one. They have helped me when I couldn’t find the words. They worry when I don’t stop by for a few days. They teach others my name and protect me from the word vazaha (foreigner) that they know I don’t like. They have shown me love and welcomed me in more than I could have ever expected. I am eternally grateful.

Andringitra!

The other volunteers and I have just returned from second retreat. We were so lucky to spend the week in one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, Andringitra National Park. We spent the week climbing mountains, seeing ringtail lemurs, and just spending time together with other volunteers. Andringitra is close to Fianar, so many people are there are from the same tribe as my friends and family here. So, I was able to see more about Betsileo culture, and impress the guides with my Betsileo language. The theme for retreat was vocation. It was a great time to reflect on my admittance to graduate school, and how my time here in Madagascar will affect my work and calling as a social worker.

Let me just share some pictures. There is no other way to describe the beauty of this place. And, I'm not sure that pictures can really capture it, but I have done my best!

Our guides walked in front of us. Ramon isn't in this picture, but he was one guide. He is 60 years old and hikes the mountain we climbed three times a week. He wasn't even tired at the top, it was impressive. 

Just some views. 

Hanging out with the mountains.

Hanging out on top of the mountain! 

That's the chameleon we climbed. That's what I was on in the previous picture. 

On the way back we saw some lemurs. 

The clouds though. We were so high up. That's the view from the porch of the tent where we stayed.

The Middle

I have vivid memories of playing pickle in the middle with my mother and sister in the neighborhood pool at my Grandma’s house. I was youngest, shortest and the weakest swimmer. The way I remember it, they would just throw the ball over my head and laugh because I couldn’t catch it. The game pickle in the middle still annoys me. But, maybe I am stuck in the middle again. This time, not so bad.

Things are going well here in Fianarantsoa. I am at a point in my time here where I feel like I will live here forever, and that I can’t picture myself returning to Minnesota. Even though I know, the time will come. I know that July will come and I will have to leave this amazing community, but in the day to day I often feel like Fianar has always been my home and always will be. I am comfortable here, I, mostly, understand that day to day conversations that I have, I know all the sellers at the market near my house and I know they will give me a good deal. Sometimes one of them will ask me for more information on what I am doing here in Fianar. When I explain that I will return to the United States in July, they are surprised and usually respond with something like, “and, when will you return to Fianar?”

Getting to know people in my community, learning language and simply spending time here has increased my comfort since my arrival. But, I also have times when it feels very obvious to me that this isn’t home. Mostly, these times come when I really want some food that isn't available here, or when I go to the supermarket (most Malagasy only shop at the outdoor market) and buy yoghurt and cans of chickpeas for hummus, or when I spend an afternoon at wifi and my Malagasy friends say, “what did you do for four hours online?” Or, even when I use my newly discovered oven to bake bread and have a sandwich.  These things are important to me as well. Sometimes when I have a fresh baked loaf I will bring a few pieces to my host family and they think it’s delicious, but they cannot grasp a meal without rice.

I am practicing finding a balance between being completely at home here in Fianar, and also being an outsider. I will never be Bitsleo (the tribe here in Fianar) even if I know their language and make jokes about being half Malagasy. I am finding a balance between my Malagasy self and my Minnesota self. These two will always be pieces of me. I will forever live someplace in between, and maybe neither Minnesota nor Fianarantsoa will ever feel completely like home. I will forever eat my small quantities (according to the Malagasy) of rice with a spoon, because it’s really more efficient anyway. When I will return to the states, I will still cook wearing my lamba (like an apron) but I will not use charcoal. I’m forever stuck in the middle, and I’m not sure that I would choose to become un-stuck if I could.