I have lived in Madagascar now for close to three months. In that time, I have witnessed dusk change to dark at seven in the evening. I have read, studied, and done dishes by candlelight. I have gone from not being able to say my name in Malagasy to being capable of discussing the historical significance of Martin Luther King, Jr.. I have made family of people who I once considered strangers. I have made my own peanut butter. I have gathered water from a rice paddy in buckets and then taken a shower with it—many times. I have lived among a people whom, despite living in poverty, remain the warmest and kindest breed of folk I ever did see.

I have run barefoot with Malagasy and American friends at five-thirty in the morning, and witnessed the sunrise daily. I have learned to discriminate between different types of mosquitoes and felt the majesty that is to sleep under a mosquito net. To this day, I have taken nine pills of Mefloquine malaria prophylaxis and had the dreams to prove it.

I have been greatly embarrassed by many of my compatriots; greatly emboldened by a few of them.

I have danced with skeletons. I have danced with drunken old men, hand in hand. I have danced, and taught, the Hokey Pokey with fifty Malagasy children. I have taught English to Malagasy children of all ages. I have worn an apron in front of class and made a banana and peanut butter sandwich. I have learned the difference between ‘some’ and ‘any.’ I have been inspired by Malagasy pupils whom, despite lacking ample resources and teachers, speak impeccable English.

I have watched forests disappear and be turned into coal. I have been served pitchers of, for the past two months, the blackest, freshest, and most delicious coffee—”the sort of coffee,” as one author put it, “you marry somebody for being able to make”—no less than twice a day. I have eaten no fewer than three different species of banana, and can assure you that the smell of certain species of banana can offend a sensitive sinus. I have not, I assure, drunk Malagasy Moonshine—’tokagasy’—, as it’s not only not allowed but also illegal, but can also assure you, based on unimpeachable sources, that the stuff is vile and wretched and illegal for good reason.

I have killed a chicken—and eaten it too. Ironically, I have become a vegan. I have seen rolling hills turn into rows of palm trees, and green highlands transform into yellow savannah. I have seen, walked in, and been covered in, distinctly red earth. I have seen spiders as big as fists, and now know that lewd drawings transcend cultural boundaries. I have not , much to my chagrin, laid eyes on a lemur.

I have seen clouds like giant steamships, and clouds that look as though the gods themselves were plowing the sky. The sky. I have never seen a sky so big. I have seen diurnal skies that look like upside down oceans, like great blue canvases on which terra firma is but a splotch of paint. I have seen night skies like black velvet adorned with crystal stars. And in one night’s Madagascar sky I have have witnessed more stars, I think, than in a lifetime of skies. I have learned that stars really do twinkle. I have, with the help of friends, discovered a constellation—an enormous brontosaurus traipsing across the Eastern sky (she’s there, you just have to look). I have seen a milky way that was positively creamy.

I have gone hunting for chameleons and in the process walked across tartan rice paddies that meld and bend with the land. I have gotten lost in the mountains, only to find my way home again hours later. I have been proud of myself for hiking six hours, and have been humbled by meeting others who had been walking for three days.

I have met the police, the military, the superintendent, the town council, and the mayor of my small village. I have hired a carpenter to make me furniture. I have now lived alone for seven days. I have looked at my door with unadulterated fear and had to summon courage just to walk to the market. I have felt the oppressive and impressive weight of solitude and ‘otherness’, but also the intense satisfaction of fighting it and winning. I have made new friends. Already I have perceived the once-alien streets and faces change to familiar places and people—unfamiliar characters falling into familiar roles.

I have begun to call this place home. I have lived in Madagascar now for close to three months. My time here has only just begun.