There’s been an interlude between my last post and this most recent, the reason for the delay being that my computer has a software problem unresolvable in my current location. Islands, it would appear, despite their seemingly boundless advantages that encompass everything from delicious coconuts to breathtaking booty-shaking, are not without their detriments. Doubly so for developing islands. But alas dear reader, all is not lost.In a fortuitous twist of fate, I have kin coming to visit and bequeathed upon her person shall be the necessary software remedies for my computer ailments. Forsake me not dear reader, I beg thee.

The total absence of modern technology has not been without its quaint benefits. Absent my generous stores of quality music, I have turned for solace to the radio and discovered the countless, allegedly different, combinations of sounds that comprise what is haphazardly here called music.

I’ll briefly recount the many adventures and escapades that have attended these last two months. First, a tropical cyclone, which cyclone in and of itself was not so threatening but proceeded to make a marked impact on the river, usually small and traversable by vehicle, crossing the road going to my PCV neighbor’s, Kaitlyn’s, site impossible. What is normally a small creek was turned by the cyclone into a raging river of white rapids that no vehicle could surpass. The result was a few days off of work, and a walk across the river on the following day to catch a car. This being the rainy season, such events are not uncommon. Like the other time Kaitlyn and I were going to her site and wre stopped again by the rushing rapids of the river Ankazambo. This time we had to walk on foot the six kilometers back to my town all the while carrying an enormous propane tank. Normally I love walking through the Malagasy countryside, but this time was different. Being so far away from my community (six kilometers is far by Malagasy standards) I was out of my element. And those huge axes and spades that Malagasy farmers carry around perpetually? Well, in the moonlight they and their bearers eyes took on a rather unhomely glow. After traversing more road flooded by water, we finally managed to flag down a motorcycle and have a vehicle sent back to pick us up, but not before having to fend off more a-little-too-curious farmers. I might add that all the while my bag was stinking with the smell of shrimp from being placed under a huge, dripping bag of it for the duration of the trip. And that also even as we reached the safety of our flagged-down vehicle, which proceeded to drive back to the raging river and pick up more stranded people, a baby started crying in the van. Our beer was well-deserved.

Next up in March, the month which has been by far the most emotionally and physically grueling month since I’ve been in Madagascar. In typical developing-country style the month began with a serious case of diarrhea, which case of diarrhea, I tell you, dear reader, in abject and humiliating honesty, proceeded to demolish more than one pair of pants and my mattress, the latter casualty being accompanied by a frantic midnight struggle that involved a headlamp (lights literally out at midnight when the electricity is cut), the biggest knife I could get my hands on, an entire bottle of chlorine, a basin of soapy water, and what I must say were some impressive decision making skills considering the shitty circumstances. So internally, unstable.

During mid-March I was invited to go and weed rice. I’ll have more on the incredible amount of labor that goes into growing the 165kg of rice that the average Malagasy person consumes in a single year, but for now suffice to say that it is labor intensive. For four hours I labored, hunched over, mud up to my ankles in the rice paddies, picking weeds from among the crop. Four hours of non-stop labor and I covered all but a few square meters. That’s not even the worst of it. The next day those hard-to-reach-with-sunscreen places on my back were covered with enormous blisters from the sun. The pain was excruciating. It remains uncomforatable.

Accompanying my physical debalitiations has been the very heart-wrenching realization that teaching eleventh grade English in the Malagasy countryside is akin to trying to grow rice in the dry season. It is a drop in the proverbial bucket. In terms of realistic English ability, my efforts will be for naught - this is just a truth. Now I’m forced to find value in more abstract and intangible forms of measurement, which is difficult and can feel at times self-decieving.

But alas, woe is not me nor does it become me. Now I’m in my banking town, sharing my woes and recharging my batteries. Spring break is coming up and next quarter will bring with it a new beginning. Looking forward to it.