I think I'm gonna be sad. I think it's today

The past few days have certainly lived up to the dramatic “end of training” I had anticipated. Things were going very average-day-in-Alarobia like until a few days ago when my host mom began crying at the dinner table. I had said a time or two before that “there are only a few days left here”, but that was the first time it was met with any response more emotional than a grunt or head nod. But this time, her tears were more emotion than I had liked to evoke. I didn’t know what to do in that moment. A part of me thought it was inevitable event that we all had to go through as part of the host family experience, the awkward goodbye. But I still had a couple more nights there. What had prompted this premature emotional display? I felt conflicted about what to do. I wanted to reach my hand over and covers hers. But I looked over at Rina and Fetrasou and their reactions made me curb my urge to comfort her. Their heads hung low, staring at the ground, in complete silence. She continued to weep, and I simply sat there, saying sorry over and over again. It was the only thing that I thought was appropriate. Or maybe it was the only thing I had the courage to do. I began to feel like a coward. This woman, who had sacrificed so much and worked so hard for my well being was sobbing at the thought of my upcoming departure, and all I could do was repeat some valueless response, like a gutless, thankless snob. The situation had called for some for of dignity, courage, thanks, anything. Instead, I responded with cowardess. It was something I knew I would regret for a very long time.
But my last days in Alarobia were not all somber ones. They were actually both more relaxing and went much more smooth than I had anticipated. One of the main reasons I thought it would be stressful is because we had our final language assessment, our goodbye community lunch, we had to pack up our lives and leave this town forever, and I had a speech to prepare. I was stressed the most about the last thing, and for good reason. I don’t even raise my hand in class because I don’t like talking in front of people, now I was expected to represent my stage in front of the entire communities of both Alarobia and Ambatomanga including the mayors, the Peace Corps country director and any other important people who our training director invited to watch the new vazaha embarrass himself. No pressure, right? But, luckily, that pressure was relieved somewhat once the language assessment was finished and I received my results. So once that was out of the way, I could begin participating in the end of training festivities, which included a party at a local, popular Malagasy man’s house. For this party, the man went to Tana to buy a goat the serve as meat during the festivities. Almost our entire stage was at the cheese shop next door to his house when his official goat slayer had arrived to “do the deed”, so he invited us to watch the slaughter. I debated shortly with myself about whether or not I should go with, and I ultimately decided to head over with the group. After a short, pre-gutting prayer, three men wrangled the unsuspected goat as one knelt behind its neck and slowly and rhythmically began sawing at its throat with a knife. Its legs kicked for about a minute and blood poured onto the sandy dirt. I couldn’t see exactly where the blood was spilling from since the goat’s throat was facing the other direction and the man with the knife was kneeling directly in the way. The goat had stopped kicking after a minute or so, and I thought it was safe to go around and get a better look at how this routine procedure actually went down. This didn’t seem so bad. I was expecting to be totally grossed out by something like this. I thought I had achieved something, whatever it was, by not fainting. But at this point, I was under the impression that the goat was already dead. I mean, blood had been pouring from its throat for some time now. I hadn’t imagined that killing a goat would take longer than this (I don‘t think I have ever imagined killing a goat, but, if I ever did). But as I walked past the men, around the goat to see the fatal wound, I saw something incredibly disturbing, at least compared to what I was expecting. As I walked around, I caught a glimpse of the goat’s eyes, barely open, ostensibly lifeless, but not dead. I saw the barbaric aspect of this ritualistic episode. Just the thought that this living thing had similar physiology to a human being; Eyes, ears, a heart a brain and so much more, was enough to make me second guess my carnivore status. But this thought was quickly replaced with revulsion. Even though the goat did not appear to be alive, it was still fighting for life. I saw the open wound, right across the neck, exposing everything from the tendons to the windpipe, which was still gasping for air. There isn’t much more sobering than seeing a living animal trying to fight an impossible fight for survival. It puts an entirely new spin on the term “sacrificial lamb”. I promptly turned around and headed back home. I did not have goat the next day at the party.
But I did not let that disturbing experience ruin my last days in Alarobia. My spirits were actually quite high. This was because, since I now had access to my computer, I had been watching Star Wars with my host family on a nightly basis. I knew that sharing this experience was something I had very much been looking forward to, but it was even better than I had hoped. My brothers’ eyes were always glued to the screen the entire time. It made me so happy and proud that they like it, that we could share this cross cultural experience. I did some explaining here and there (my family, of course, spoke no English), so it was cool to have them hear my commentary on the films. I was the only thing they could understand. It was, what we would call in Malagasy, mahafinaritra. It was also very fitting that we finished Return of the Jedi literally seconds before Rivo walked in and told us that our last dinner together was ready. The timing was perfect. It was a great way to end my home stay experience.
But the lunch before the day we left was a little more dramatic. Like the night before, I could tell that my mom was very emotional. After I practiced my kabary (Malagasy word for speech. People here are crazy about kabarys. There is an actual school were you study how to give them) on the veranda in front of my family, I noticed that she instantly retreated to the kitchen while the other family members gave me compliments on my speech and pronunciation and such. When we began eating lunch, my host mom was noticeably absent. When she arrived several moments later, it was obvious she had been crying. As she sat down, another emotional outburst hit her and she said “Azafady!” as she started to cry and stormed out of the room. I, once again, didn’t know what to do. Rina and Fetrasou were apparently unaffected this time, so I followed their lead. I said softly that I was sorry and they said “tsy maninona”, as they poured rice onto their plates as if it were any other day. When Rivo re-entered , she wiped away her tears and started putting food on her plate as she normally did. I could see that she was till on the verge of tears the entire time we were sitting at the table. So I decided not to engage her in conversation involving anything relating to me, the other volunteers or training ending. “The rice is good today”, I said, with a smile, hoping that this type of sarcastically generic comment would elicit some type of positive response. She agreed sorrowfully. The boys chuckled. But Rivo’s face remained worn and sad. I started to think about what I could have possibly done to make her feel this way. I mean, all I had done was given her family another mouth to feed and stolen their largest room. I was just a burden. Nothing more. I had thought that a part of them was waiting for the day when this burden would be taken from their lives. I couldn’t think of what I possibly could have done for her to think that my stay was in any way more beneficial for them than it was for me.
The next morning, the last morning, when Rina and I were walked to the soccer field for our daily run, a strange feeling overcame me. I had become very close with Rina over the past ten weeks. He definitely helped me the most with the language and with adjusting the to the culture. I remember my first night in Alarobia. He stayed up with me studying with me, listening to me trying to decipher what everything was in Malagasy. I can imagine the patience he needed to help me that night. I would not be where I am right now if it were not for Rina. But that day, both of us sensed that it was the last time we would be doing our morning ritual. We walked in unison, but didn’t say anything meaningful. We actually said less than we normally would. We just walked up the hill, casually, routinely. The side of the soccer field, which required me to take the ascending dirt path, was now just a skip and a jump for me. After ten weeks, things were just starting to feel right. But we were leaving that day. It was our last day in that foggy little town.
That morning at the training center didn’t feel much different than any other, even though the building was slowly being emptied out by us and the staff. We moved table and chairs to the town hall across the market for the obligatory big end-of-training gala. Everyone seemed very calm. Very ready. I wasn’t sure that everyone had experience the same over-the-top emotional display that I had, but everyone looked like they had all come to terms with the fact that within hours, we would be done with Alarobia for good and that no one was obligated to ever come back. Everyone seemed like it was just another day. But it wasn’t. We were saying goodbye to our families and our homes, and, oh yeah I almost forgot, I was slated to give a speech in front of a crap load of people. Even though everyone else was laughing and having a grand old time, there was little else on my mind other than my speech. I was nervous, to say the least. I was doing whatever I could to psyche myself out, or in, I don’t know directions. But what I do know is that when our training coordinator said my name amidst a hodgepodge of Malagasy words, my heart skipped a beat. And when I sat up and started walking to the front of the large hall, listening to the 400 plus clapping hands, I thought I was about to embarrass not just myself, but my stage-mates, my host family and the entire Peace Corps. But my fears ultimately weren’t justified. There were a few stumbles in the beginning, and even a voice screech that probably made everyone wonder if I was old enough to be a volunteer, but it was an amazing experience. One I will remember for the rest of my life. And as I was walking back to my seat, once again surrounded by a thunderous applause, I finally knew what it felt like to be a pitcher walking back to the dugout after pitching an amazing game, looking down at the ground, trying not to smile. But I couldn’t help it. The people definitely got a good look at my choppers.
Since my host family had already released a seas’s worth of tears, our last goodbye was much more casual, although Rivo got out of there pretty quickly in an attempt to keep the flood gates closed. The party wrapped up pretty quickly, and very soon after all of the guests had left, we were in the vans ready to head out to Montasou. And as we left Alarobia, I could hear the laughter of my stage-mates behind me, over the blare of my headphones. And when I looked back, I saw the faces of people who I have come to think of as family. And even though every other car ride had encouraged mild to severe sickness and I did have a box of chickens on my lap (it was only a matter of time, really), it was the most comfortable ride I had been on as far as I could remember. It was the most content I had felt in a long time. The places I had seen and the people I had met had far surpassed any of my ignorant expectations. I could not have asked for a better training experience.

Ticket to Ride - The Beatles