And when I go there, I go there with you: I'm a new day risin'. I'm a blinding light, burnin' off and on

August 4, 2008
(Site Visit)
From the Journal of Derek Rury

Ok. Here we go. There is little doubt in my mind that the past three days have been the most interesting in my life. They have been my first Androy experience and my first glimpse of Beloha, my new home. It would be a lie to say that everything was amazing and that I never thought about how bad things could be here. Things were tough. Very tough. Things were tough in a way that I wasn’t prepared for. I was so excited for site visit and so ready (or so I thought) to become immersed in the Antandroy world, that I failed to think about what couple possibly go wrong. It turns out that I should have. Ok. Where to start?
I couldn’t believe the view of Fort Dauphin as we started our descent. I had never seen a more beautiful coastal landscape in my entire life. When we landed, we were welcomed by the amazingly warm rays of the sun. It was the type of weather that made it seem like there was no weather. As close to perfection as possible. This was the Madagascar I had always imagine. This was what it felt and looked like in my head. Blue-green ocean bordered by white sand, with green mountains watching not far off shore. Compared to the, now seemingly, bland high plateau area of Alarobia, I thought I had hit the jackpot. “This is my banking town?”, I thought to myself. Fort Dauphin, from what I’ve heard, is a town that has most of the amenities of a large town like Tana, but is not nearly as trafficked while also being exponentially more pleasing to the eye. I thought I had died and went to heaven. To compare Alarobia to Fort Dauphin would be like comparing Carbondale Illinois to Miami (sorry to any Salukis out there). I felt like the great vale that was hiding the splendor of the country had been lifted. It was now open for business, and my shopping list was long and thorough. But we only had enough time to get to the brousse station after our plane landed. My leisurely exploration of Fort Dauphin would have to wait ’till I come back.
Next stop, Beloha. But we had to get there first. And that meant the inevitable 14 hour, 2 day brousse ride. My only brousse experience had been the pseudo one the 26 of us took to Tana as sort of a trial run. But this was the real deal. I was in Fort Dauphin, and not any of my stache mates were remotely close. This was a big test. We arrived at the brousse station apparently far ahead of schedule, so we had to wait about 2 hours from the brousse to actually leave Fort Dauphin. Little did I know that this type of waiting would, very annoyingly, be a reoccurring them during our trip. But once we actually got going, everything seemed like it would go better than anticipated. The brousse was not close to being full. I actually did not have anyone sitting next to me (something that I thought was impossible on brousse rides) and the side of the brousse was almost completely open to the outside, something that proved invaluable for me considering my unwavering carsickness (there’s just something about being jam packed so where you can’t move an inch, over crowded, swelteringly hot, long car rides that my body just doesn’t like. I can’t quite put my finger on it). I had the wind blowing in my hair and my stomach didn’t even seem to notice what it was about to endure. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought to myself. The scenery was also unbelievable beautiful. I say unbelievable because it actually almost was. Madagascar is known for having unique both flora and fauna, but I didn’t know that they plant life was this bizarre. There were some trees that of course were your stereotypical African décor. You know, the type you would see in the foreground of some picturesque portrait of a sunset. The lone, leaning tree in the middle of a plain. But there were also trees I did not expect to see. Trees that were so unique, they looked like they belonged in a Dr. Seus book. Trees that actually made you think about how they came to be that shape and size. What natural demand or occurrence sparked that type of strange development. It was amazing to finally see what Madagascar had to offer. I was so proud at that moment, to be serving here. But then, I got a different taste of Madagascar. Our brousse stopped in a town about an hour outside of Fort Dauphin, and as soon as we stopped, we were swarmed with children holding up bowls of food. I quickly realized that this was the custom for a brousse of this size (we had hopped on the brousse that leaves daily from Fort Dauphin and travels to Toiler over the course of about four days). People were handing down money, and children were crawling up the sides of the brousse to exchange goods for Ariary. I found it a bit annoying how we were well on our way before we stopped, and now we were in a superfluous deadlock because some people wanted to buy some bread. I mean, we had just left, and we were parked for about 15 minutes. It seemed like such a waste of time. As it turns out, it wouldn’t be the only time I would be frustrated along the way. Not only did we stop for over 15 minutes, more people decided to hop on along the way, making the cabin more crowded. When I had to give up the spot next to me, I was a bit perturbed. But when I was squished against the hard metal side of the brousse after another stop and pick-up, I wished there was only 1 person sitting next to me instead of three. I was not comfortable. I couldn’t move. I needed something to calm my nerves, so I broke out the headphones. I had decided that using headphones seemed like a very counterproductive activity, since I both wanted to speak Malagasy with the Antandroy people and not seem like an ignorant “Vazaha”. But in this instance, I deemed it necessary. So for the next half hour or so, I rocked out to the likes of the Eagles, the Flaming Lips and Avril Lavine. It’s actually funny that I was listening to Avril Lavine because when we stopped to eat in a town called Amboasary, there was a giant poster of Avril hanging dangerously close to the staple painting of the son of god. I bet they weren’t explicitly asking for a comparison, but they inevitably got one, from me at least. When we boarded the bus again, I continued to zone out in my own world. I soaked in the scenery. I was getting in a better mood, so I decided that it was time to put the headphones away and spark up a real Antandroy convo. My target was the seemingly jolly, young, Malagasy man sitting next to me. As soon as I put away my headphones, we leaned over (not far. His head was about 4 inches from mine already) and said “salama”. We started talking. Once again, I was impressed by how well I could carry out a casual conversation with a Malagasy person. Malagasy people pretty much assume that if you’re white, you can’t speak Malagasy. So I take great pride when I see a Gassy taken back by how much I already know. “Efa Mahaie!”, they say. I love it when they say that. Pretty soon, my brousse funk had turned into a brousse groove. We stopped for a minute so that some riders could be handed some free sugar cane off the side of the road. One of those riders was my guy. During the entire trip, my guy had been holding a wooden stick that had apparently been carved and shaped to a certain size, the size of a small recorder maybe. But when he pulled the sugar care into the brousse from off the street he unsheathed a machete type knife from the instrument looking contraption and began hacking away at the branch, casually asking me to hold the other side as he slashed. Soon after, he was handing me a bare piece of sugar cane and demonstrating the correct way of eating said food. It tasted great. It is actually very similar to eating sunflower seeds, well, at least it shares a similar concept. You chew off a piece of the cane, suck out the sugary water, then spit out the then useless remnants. It was awesome eating sugar cane, casually, just like the other Malagasy people on the brousse, spitting over people outside the windows. Everything seemed to be going very well, and I was thinking about how I might actually look forward to my brousse ride to and from Beloha. But this would all change. When we arrived in Ambovembe, about the half way point in between Beloha and Fort Dauphin, it was getting dark, and I thought that this stop would be as long as all the others. I was wrong. We were stopped in Ambovembe for over and hour, during with, what seemed like twice as many people crammed into any open space they could find. The brousse was even more jammed packed than before. But like I said, my idea of personal space has long since disappeared, so the lack of squirming room didn’t really bother me. It was the fact that everyone was sitting in the brousse ready to go, while a handful of other people shot the shit outside. We were told that time isn’t as important in the Malagasy culture as it is in ours, and this brousse ride certainly proved that stereotype true. It seemed like we were never going to get to Beloha, and, as it turns out, we didn’t. When we actually began to exit Ambovembe, we were stopped by the Gendarme (the police/army of Madagascar) and were then instructed to retrieve our identification as an office climbed aboard the brousse, flashed lights in everyone’s faces and halted our trip for another half hour. I had never been interrogated by a foreign officer before, and let me tell you, I wish I could continue to boast that claim. We then had to sleep in Tsiombe that night. When we pulled up to a hotel and exited the brousse, I was in such a foul mood that I didn’t even want to attempt to speak Malagasy. I just wanted to eat and go to bed. Unfortunately for me, my counterpart had other things in mind. Tolisoa apparently has family everywhere. When we say down for dinner in Tsiombhe, we were graced with two of Tolisoa’s family members. What they were doing there and not in Beloha, I will never know. But what happened the rest of the night turned out to be a huge joke for everyone there, and I was the punch line. I’m not entirely sure what was being said, but there was a lot of Tolisoa talking, and everyone then looking at me and laughing. I occasionally attempted to retort, but my terrible mood prohibited me from thinking straight, causing me to speak broken Gasy, which of course, prompted even more laughter. I was feeling like shit. And the cherry on top of this whole disaster of a trip was that my counterpart, against orders from the Peace Corps Education sector head officer, had not made hotel accommodations for us. Instead we had to walk, in the middle of the night while it was pitch black (you haven’t experience pitch black until you’ve walked the streets of an androy town in the middle of the night), and knock on someone’s door to try and find a place to sleep. We ultimately did find something, and that was the first night I shared a bed with a Malagasy man.
The next day, I was still in a funk. It just seemed that things were not going anyway like the way I had hoped they would. I was uncomfortable. It was a feeling I had not experienced often, or at all, in the past few weeks, since I had grown so close to my host family. It’s also very discouraging to make big strides in terms of the language and adjusting to the culture only to discover that all the work I’ve done didn’t really mean anything in the real world. I mean, people were laughing at my Malagasy, and I stuck out like a sore thumb. When we arrived at the taxi brousse station that morning, I didn’t even want to talk to Tolisoa. He was trying to engage me in conversation, but I barely responded, if at all. It was my way of showing my displeasure with the entire situation. But luckily, I was sort of already accustomed to the taxi brousse’s tendency to start late, so when we actually did get going, my mind was able to process the fact that in only 3 hours (hopefully), we would be at Beloha, and I wouldn’t have to worry about any more taxi brousses, at least not for a day. I was actually enjoying observing the scenery as we drove on to Beloha. The main reason is because it looked oddly familiar. The Androy region is comprised mostly of desert, so you can imagine the typical desert scenery. Dry brush, the occasional dead tree, sand. But there was something there that seemed a little out of place. It was cactus. But not only was it cactus, it was actually Mexican cactus. During the mid 1800s, the French colonials in Fort Dauphin imported Mexican cactus as a defense against the aggressive tribes of the Androy. Unfortunately for the French, the Androy loved the cactus, and the region is still riddled with it to this day. When I first saw the cactus, a very strange thought popped into my mind. Here I am, going to the south western part of a country, in the middle of a desert, far, far away from all of my friends. Sound familiar? It does. Beloha is Madagascar’s Tucson. And this isn’t just some creation of my mind. It really is similar to a small Arizonan town. When we arrived in Beloha, it was hard not to draw that comparison. There is a main, wide, drag in the middle of the town, covered in sand, with saloon type shops on each side, occupied with people just sitting and hanging out, surrounded by Mexican cactus. It was weird. We went to go check out my house first, so we trudged through the thick sand that blanketed the entire town. It was strange to observe Beloha in those first few minutes. This was my home for the next two years, like it or not. This was the place that I had been trying to imagine for the past 6 weeks, and it didn’t really fit the idea I had in my head. But still, there was an odd sense of familiarity with Beloha. I felt strangely at ease walking the streets (I guess they’re not streets. Just like a massive beach with houses scattered around….and oh yeah. No water). Everywhere I turned, I was reminded of Tucson. When we arrived at my house, more like a shack actually, I noticed that the small compound in which I share with the school math teacher, was surrounded by a type of cactus that looked extremely similar to the suaro (a type of cactus that can only be found in the suaro desert, which is, for the most part, only located in Arizona). This was getting very weird. But this combined sense of ease and confusion was replaced very quickly with apprehension as we took a look inside my house. There were, apparently, two people already living in my small, two room shack. I was told that my house was just built for me, since this is a new Peace Corps site, and it might have been. But I didn’t think that it would be so quickly occupied before I arrived. It was a very unnerving feeling, seeing that my house was being occupied by other people. I had the idea that my first night in Beloha would be the first step in making this town my home. And me staying in my house would be a very important part of that. But it turns out Tolisoa had other plans. Also, the electricity that had been promised to my supervisor was not in any working order. The mental image of what I thought life would be like for the next two years was metaphorically falling apart in my mind. I didn’t know what to do. I was just so frazzled at that moment. I wanted to just pick up a phone and call someone, anyone, but I couldn’t. I don’t have a phone, and even if I did, I would need to buy phone credit and then figure out how to put it on the phone, then think of someone’s number that I knew by heart (I know my mom’s home number. That’s it) and then decipher how to actually use the phone to call someone. I felt completely powerless. Completely lonely. In the middle of nowhere Madagascar, with no means of expressing my disappointment, frustration and fear. This trip was not making a very good impression of what life is like here in the Androy. I was beginning to regret my decision to join Peace Corps. Thoughts that had never dared enter my mind during the first seven weeks of training slowly crept through crevices and found there way into my thought process, like a sickness they plagued my thoughts that day and night. Once they got in, it was hard to get them out. At times, they seemed like wisdom. Why should I have to endure this harsh life for two years. Would it really ultimately be worth it? Or would this town chew me up and spit me out, much as it had seemingly already started to do. Maybe this wasn’t a Peace Corps site until now because of how desolate and isolated it was. These things dominated my mind for hours that first day. But there were a few high points of my first day in Beloha. One was getting to talk to some of the townspeople. Since I knew that Beloha was my future home, I was a little more comfortable with my Malagasy, so communicating with people was my last problem there. Not only was a talking with them, they were all blown away by the fact that I could speak Malagasy. “Mahai!“ they would say, wide eyed. And then they would ask how long I had been studying for and when I responded with “Mandritra ny enina herinandro lasa fotsany” they were blown away. It was a good feeling. So, I was being guided around the town by a 2nd student named Joseph. He was apparently another family member of Tolisoa (I gotta get a look at this guy’s family tree). He seemed both very eager and happy to lead me around Beloha on my first day. First, we grabbed a bite to eat at the restaurant at the main intersection (and by intersection I mean where the most cattle traffic passes) on the main drag. I was a little perplexed by the Allen Iverson 2006 Chinese calendar hanging on the wall, but not nearly as taken back by as the full length Britney Spears poster that hung like a self portrait of some dignitary in his study. This is what I am talkin’ about. These are my type of people. I could get used to this. After lunch, rice and sausage, we walked over to the Lycee’. This was probably the highlight of the first day. I got a really good look at the place I will be working at for the next two years, and I have to admit, that I was impressed. Compared to the facilities in Alarobia, the Beloha school was more spacious, well kept (despite the lack of a roof over the library. A strong wind blew it off about a year ago. And you know how hard it is to get a good roof guy) and actually had electricity in most classrooms. I was looking forward to working there. There was also a basketball hoop in the middle of the field that is surrounded by the C.E.G. on one side with the Lycee’ on the other. I pictured myself leading a class, walking up and down the isles, then telling my students that it was time to play basketball as they all burst through the doors and we engage in an exhausting raucous game of B Ball. After we saw the Lycee’ we walked over to meet the C.E.G. English teacher. We strolled over to another compound, much larger, and knocked on a door. “Mondroso”, a female voice replied. I then met Fara, the 6eme English teacher. We casually talked for about a half hour, and I tested out her English (not very good. I’m sorry), as she tested my Gasy. It was a great exchange. She was both extremely nice and gracious. I am certainly looking forward to working with her. After we were done promenading through this Tombstoned styled town, I headed home for a little rest. So I broke out my laptop and decided to test out the sensation of listening to music in my new shack of a home. I rocked out to some Beatles, some Eagles, some John Coltrane. It felt amazing. Just laying in a bed, in my house, in the middle of Beloha, doors open, blasting American music, being the only American for probably hundreds of Kilometers. Did I say it felt great? It did. But it didn’t last for long, and I was soon back in the funk that had ruined my first impression of the region. This funk was caused by my sleeping situation. Tolisoa had agreed to let me sleep on one of the beds that was already in my house. This was great because I didn’t want to have to crash at his place. This was my house, I mean, I should be able to sleep there, even though the light switch didn’t work and I needed to unscrew the light bulb it when I decided to fall asleep. But this proved difficult for a couple reasons. One was the lizard that had decided to shack up on the side of the wall next to the light bulb. I guess he thought he could catch some artificial rays as he napped. Another was the giant moth that shared the same idea as the lizard. So after a few tries of grabbing the hot light bulb and avoiding the lizard and moth, I had darkness, and I was ready for bed. But the people of Beloha apparently had other plans. Music blasted for at least another hour. Some stray dogs also decided to add their own piece of the symphony. It was more than enough to keep me awake and think about if this is how things would be every night.

When I woke up the next day, very happy that my mind had actually blocked out the itchiness of my brand new flea bites, I soon realized that the lizard, the moth and the fleas weren’t the only things sharing this tiny room with me. I heard a loud “COO!”, and I assumed that the noise was coming from outside. But when I heard it again, there was no ignoring it. So I leaned over the side of the bed, only to see a black chicken caught in the wire of my MP3 player’s headphones that were dangling off the side of the table next to my bed. At this point, I wasn’t even mad. I simply grabbed the headphones, tugged until it was free, opened the door and layed back down. Joseph was already waiting outside and when he saw the chicken flee the premises, he looked shocked and embarrassed. I didn’t really care anymore. I was just thinking about getting back to my stachemates so I could tell them about this rude awakening I just experienced. But I still had another 2 day, 14 hour brousse ride to endure, and this time, I would be alone (whether that was better or worse, I wasn’t sure). So I thought a morning walk would lift my spirits, and as it turns out, it was the best thing I could have done. Even though it was chilly at night, the morning sun had already warmed the air. I decided to give the ladousy a try. When I opened the door, I noticed that a spider had been guarding my shower for me. So after I disposed of my little watchman and its large, and surprisingly durable web with a stick, I went in. This was the type of shower I was expecting when I thought about service in the Peace Corps. The kind you see the soldiers use in Vietnam war movies. The kind of shower that only comes up to my shoulders. It was actually kind of neat. Also, there is a huge difference in climate between Alarobia and Beloha, and since my dousy in Beloha is open to the elements, I was showered with the warm rays of the Androy sun. It was divine. If you’ve never showered outside with the sun warming your body, you haven’t lived….. in a third world country probably. So after my refreshing shower, I was ready for my walk. Just like the day before, I was having great conversation with the townspeople. I felt like I was laying the groundwork for my two your habitation here by going around and just shooting the shit. It felt great. Especially when I told people that I would be living there for two years (the only “vazaha” looking people that these people see are French and they come and go very quickly, and they certainly don’t speak Gassy), their eyes light up and they give a big “OOHHH!”. That always feels good. I was also enjoying my natural surroundings in Beloha. Just like the brousse ride, there was so much unique flora in Beloha. Trees that looked so unique, it was impossible to not take pictures of them. There were a few trees that looked very similar to the famous Madagascar Boubab, but they actually weren’t. So I asked a family that was cutting and sorting some sort of Octopus if there were any Baobabs in Beloha. They lent me their two children to guide me to the closest one, which was about 500 yards away. I made chit chat with the kids (10 and 12, I think) and told them that I was going to be the new English teacher. The little boy laughed. But this was a good laugh. It was a happy laugh. We ran into Tolisoa along the way and he seemed to be a lot more relaxed that day. He joined us on our quest for the Boubab. Along the way, we would encounter people, and Tolisoa would introduce me. Blah blah blah blah blah “Vazaha”, they would say (I could pick out some of the words here and there, but that one always sticks out like an out of tune note). Tolisoa would respond, while holding my shoulder and smiling, “tsy vazaha izy, fa Antandroy.” My smiled brimmed with pride. We continued to walk and entered the more rural part of town. This is where the “real Africa” that the other PCVs were talking about was. The Tandroy here are legit. They lived in huts and wore nothing besides cloth covering their “areas”. But of course, they were all part of Tolisoa’s family. Talking with these Tandroy made me more proud of myself than any other time during my, thus far, short service. This was it. I was having a conversation with an African just like I had always imagined. It was, for lack of a better word, awesome. When we finally arrived at the Boubab, I saw that it had long been dead, and was now surrounded by the Mexican cactus that grows all around town. When I saw this combination of cross cultural vegetation, I thought about what it symbolized for me. If there is any one image that I have seen that would represent my adventures so far in life, it would be this. I thought it seemed eerily perfect that the lone Boubab in Beloha was guarded by the very cactus that I saw everywhere I went when I lived in Tucson. I have two years to figure out exactly what that symbol means.
When we were done with our obligatory Beloha tour, I tanked my two young friends and headed to the same restaurant I had already visited twice during my stay. I needed to get in a good lunch before I parked myself in front of the taxi brousse station to wait for the Toliar to Fort Dauphin brousse to pull up. I grabbed my journal from my house, and when I arrived at the restaurant, I pulled up a seat outside, ordered some rice and beans and started writing. There were a few kids around the restaurant and we quickly sparked up a conversation. It felt very rewarding how comfortable they already felt around me. The last thing I wanted to do was present myself as an unapproachable vazah, and judging by the kids looking through my journal trying to speak English and by the toddler hanging off my arm, I am pretty sure that I hadn’t. After about a half hour of writing outside of the restaurant, I looked up to see two vazah-looking people quizzically examining both me and the small crowd of kids that looked strangely at ease around another foreigner. “Bonjour”, I said, and they replied the same. I started speaking French, but quickly realized that the foreign language processing center in my mind was now completely overtaken by the swiftly invading army of Malagasy. So I simply said, “Je ne sais pas Francais tres bien. Je suis desole.”, with which the man replied, “how about trying English?”. I was taken back, perhaps in the same way Gasy people are with me sometimes. I was so excited to speak English with someone for the first time in almost two days. They took a seat at the table across from mine and explained that they were from the French island of Reunion, which is about 600 miles off the East coast of Madagascar, and that they had been here for four weeks already, traveling in a car along the southern tip of the island. But the most interesting piece of information was that the reason that they were in Beloha was because their car had broken down. So they needed to stop and fix it before they continued on their way. “Where are you headed?”, I asked. “Fort Dauphin. We should arrive there tonight, if our driver can get our car fixed.”, the man said in perfect English, but accented with the stereotypical French, nasal tone. Every single cog in my tiny brain began to move at once. Like a newsroom when there’s first word of a huge story, and every single person darts in a different directions, scrambling to get somewhere before anyone else. My body perked up. “I am actually slated to take the next taxi brousse to Fort Dauphin today”, I said in a way that implied that I would much rather go in their roomy, all terrain vehicle than a loud, slow, crowded taxi brousse. They quickly offered the ride, and even quicker, I accepted. It was difficult to contain my exuberance. Both from circumventing the return brousse ride, and also about the idea that there I was, sitting outside a small restaurant in Beloha, writing in my journal, talking to kids hanging on me in Malagasy, and I was about to hitch a ride with a random French couple across the southern tip of an African island. There were a few people I wished could have seen me in that moment. There were few other times in my life, that I could remember, if any, when I felt more alive. But this hightened feeling of vigilance was boosted even higher, because even though the French people had taken a seat across the isle from me, the Gasy children were still sitting at my table, their attention still on me. The young waitress left her seat across from me to take their order, which she did in almost perfect French. It was impressive. After she took their order, she looked at me and I asked her if I could have some more beans, in Malagasy of course. I could tell that the French couple were very surprised by this, especially when I continued to talk and make jokes with the kids around me. “You speak Malagasy?”, Julienne, the French man asked confused. “Yeah, but I’m not fluent or anything, yet.”, I responded. “How long have you studied?”, he asked next, now showing great interest. “Six weeks, in a town called Alarobia just outside of Tana,”, I replied. Both of their jaws dropped. Neither of them could believe it, and I spent the next 15 minutes explaining the Peace Corps and the type of work it does, it’s extensive language training program and how I am just one of about 7,000 American volunteers serving around the world. They then asked how long I would be living here and what I would be doing. “I’ll be teaching English for two years.”, I said. It was a very unique feeling I got when I saw them both blown back by that statement. They couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the idea of an American living in a place like Beloha for two years teaching English. At that point, I also though about it, and just like numerous other thoughts I’ve had about living here, it made me smile.
After their vehicle’s transmittion was fixed, we hit the road headed for Fort Dauphin. The once 14 hour brousse ride turned into a seven hour, enlightening conversation filled cruise type drive. There was an interesting language dynamic in the car. Both Julienne and Claire, the French woman, spoke French, obviously, but also spoke English. Andre’, the driver spoke both French and Malagasy. But I was able to speak all three (to some extent anyway). If it weren’t for Claire’s fluency in Spanish, I would have won the “most linguistically inclined” award in the car. Once again, I wish some people could have seen me in that moment (my high school junior year French teacher being one of them). We talked about everything from Barack Obama to teaching in France. For them, I assume the seven hour drive was tedious and boring at times. But not me. I was ecstatic to not be on that damned brousse. Each town we passed, I tried to imagine my rage as we would stop for a completely unnecessary amount of time. Now, I just smiled.
As we neared the city, Julienne and Claire asked me about what I was planning on doing once we arrived in Fort Dauphin, since I didn’t have a phone to call the volunteer who lived there. I told them not to worry, that once we were there I would figure it out. I was just so numb with happiness and appreciation, that my mind didn’t calculate what I actually needed to do once I got there and the probability of that actually happening. So when we did arrive in Fort Dauphin around 9 p.m., I was left standing on the Rue Principal, with no phone, no credit, and no prospective place to stay if I couldn’t somehow contact the other volunteer. My thoughtless plan had very quickly crumbled. The hotel that Julienne and Claire got a room in didn’t have anymore once that procured their own, and there wasn’t another hotel in sight, and since this was all I had ever seen of Fort Dauphin, anything out of my sight might as well have not existed. I was lost. I began asking people where I could by phone credit. Luckily, a young Malagasy man decided to help me in my quest. We headed down the road, past restaurants filled with vazahas, drinking, laughing and enjoying themselves in the very spot I thought I would be in at this point of the night. Instead, I was frantically scurrying through the streets, carrying my 40 lb duffle bag, with fear quickly creeping up my spine. I started to flip out. I began snapping at my new Malagasy friend, something I immediately regretted because if I lost him, I wouldn’t have anything. I would be sleeping on the streets that night. We eventually found an Epicerie as it was closing and I bought as much orange as I thought I would need that night. Unfortunately for me, my Gasy friend did not have an Orange phone that I could use, but he did offer to seek out someone who did. In the minutes he was gone, I examined how quickly things had turned for the worse. I couldn’t even think about what would happen if I couldn’t eventually find the volunteer’s house or a hotel that would take me in at this time of night. I didn’t want to think about it, especially since there was a possibility that I would be Administratively separated (I don’t think the Peace Corps likes their volunteers sleeping in the gutters of major towns). When my friend returned with a friend of his own who owned an Orange phone, my spirits got a shot of energy. But that energy was quickly subdued and that same fear that had started to plague my mind had returned after each attempt at calling resulted in the same recorded French babel that ended with “desole”. I couldn’t completely understand, but I knew it couldn’t be good. I then decided to thank my friends, flag down a taxi and head down to the Centre’ Ecologique, wherever the hell that was. After trying to negotiate a price with my very, at this time of night, intimidating taxi driver, I said to myself “fuck it” and got in. I explained my situation, that my American vazaha friend lived in a house at the Centre’ Ecologique and that maybe all we had to do was go down there, ask some people where the new vazaha lives, or simply yell out their name (like that wouldn’t make me look crazy). As we drove around town, my heart began to slow its once freakishly fast pace, but my mind would not stop racing. As we drove, I could see glitters of moonlight reflecting off of what I later discovered to be the Indian Ocean. The Indian Ocean was something that represented the exotic nature of this adventure, and was something I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to fully appreciate. But I only saw a vague outline of the sea. It was still covered in darkness. It was so close. But I was actually so lost that it actually could have been 10,000 miles away again and I would have had the same chance of stumbling upon it. My life seemed like it was in fate’s hands that night. I had tried everything I could, including banging on someone’s door and bedroom window around midnight after a false alarm vazaha report. I had given up all hope. We had traveled from bar to bar, looking for someone who knew where the vazaha lived. At one point, two drunk Gasy girls entered the taxi and I thought that my driver might let them in as a fare and carry on the rest of the night as he normally would, taking me to parts of Fort Dauphin that would severely decrease my chances of either not getting robbed or not having a nervous breakdown. But my driver actually turned out to be not so intimidating, but rather extremely helpful. He would dart in and out of bars, asking people if this American could use their phones. He even wandered into some backyards, asking questions to people he had never met before. After a few failed inquiries, I merely said “Do you know of any hotels that would have a room right now?”, fully expecting him to chuckle, say no, stop the car, take his money and be on his way. Instead he said “Yeah. I know a place.”. I began to hope again. We pulled up to a building that looked like a southern plantation owner’s home; white, about three stories tall with pillars leading up to the roof in front of the large front door. As we walked up, the wide hallway was lit up, booming with laughter and life. It was certainly a welcoming sight. For some reason, I instantly knew that I would stay there that night. I didn’t care if the didn’t have any rooms, or if I had to sleep underneath their old fashioned front desk. As it turned out, they did have a room. The last available room actually, and I was very pleased to hear the hotel owner tell me this in almost perfect English. He then promptly showed me to my two-bed, second floor room. I dropped my bags on the floor as I noticed the two outlets on the wall (all of my appliances had long run out of juice). Then we headed down the extremely high, wide, welcoming hallway to a patio that led to the bathrooms. “Misy rano mafana.” he said pointing to what looked like an actual shower. He then said goodnight and left me to my own devices. I stood there in the bathroom for a moment, silently screaming in relief. I then took a glance at my face for the first time in two days in the lone hanging mirror over the sink. It was completely covered in dirt. It was so filled with sediment and soot, there were dark circles surrounding my eyes, giving me the visage or a raccoon. This was no doubt caused by the seven hour car ride through the desert with the window down. I didn’t care. I went back downstairs to look for some food (I hadn’t eaten since I first encountered Julienne and Claire in Beloha, what seemed like days ago). The hotel owner pointed me down the hill to another hotel. As I entered, I could tell that this was not your average Madagascar place of sleep. I had not seen a nicer hotel before in this country. I quickly discovered that the restaurant was closed at that hour, but I also noticed the there was a computer sitting unused in the lobby. I strolled over to the bar, bought a large, cold T.H.B., popped a squat in front of the computer and crossed my fingers. Bingo! Free internet. I surfed until I almost passed out. When I returned to my hotel that night, I watched a movie in my big, flea-free, Peace Corps-paid-for, comfortable hotel bed until I fell asleep. When I rethought about what had transpired that day and would prospectively could have happened, I pulled the blanket tighter and gave a soft chuckle.
The next day, as I walked down the hill from the Centre’ Ecologique, I didn’t even thing about the previous day, or even my trip to Beloha. I simply took off my shirt and baseball cap and slowly walked into the Indian Ocean. And even though it was incredibly cold, it was even more refreshing. Just as he darkness of the Ocean had now been removed, any negative impression I had of the country had been lifted. I had taken everything it could throw at me, and now I was basking in my reward.