The broken heart of my chicken

Someone stole Fandra in the early morning of January 31st 2014. She will forever be missed, along with her potential egg making capability. 

-Or so I thought.

Fandra returned the next evening after a short rendezvous to God only knows where. I'm happy she has returned, Woah Bow is happy as well as the two girl chickens she spends her time with. However, do you know what happens when a chicken goes missing for 24 hours? That's right, a search party! I kid you not, my boy chicken Woah Bow sent out immediately. He's already the loudest chicken on the block but when boy chickens lose their chicken soul mates I guess they raise hell. 

On January 31st I obviously awoke to Woah Bow's cock-a-doodle-doing but more so than usual. He wouldn't stop. (He didn't stop until her return.) I also noticed that Fandra didn't come over to my house for breakfast- the first serving of rice for the day. Her two best friend chickens came over, which should be considered my chickens too. 

Then the last puzzle piece fell into place. My Malagasy mom, Mama Lolo, came over and told me the devastating news that their was a disturbance in the middle of the night and she thinks it was someone climbing the tree and stealing her. My crying wasn't nearly a loud as Woah Bow's crying for her loss but I was deeply upset. I have grown to love my chickens as much as any pet I've ever owned. 

Immediately I wanted to set out to the big market on Fridays and find the asshole who was motivated enough to steal her in the middle of the night and potentially sell her on the streets! But I restrained myself from doing so and listened to the sad and loud cries of my boy chicken looking for his other half. 

This went on for 24 hours until her return. She strolled into the village as if she just got back from vacation and nothing was wrong. Myself, other humans nor the other chickens knew where she went or her reasons for leaving us. Maybe it was a stressful adventure fleeing the person who captured her or it was her wanting a break from the village life and so she sent off to discover herself in other places, we will never know. I for one am very happy about her arrival and her reunion with her little chicken community. I can sleep better at night, along with the rest of my village because Woah Bow has finally shut the hell up! 

Having a chicken chit chat over some lunch. 

The elderly lady and the three boys that live next door

The lady that lives on the other side of my paper thin wall has to be at least 65 years old. Which isn't that elderly, at least not in America. 

But she's wonderful. We have a mutual understanding that when you have nothing else to say, don't force a conversation. 

She shoos the kids away when they're getting out of control and plays the bad guy role while I'm acting as if I'm bummed she's so old and needs peace and quiet but really I am showering her with thanks as soon as the kids are out of sight. She tells middle age men to go away when I don't answer my door. Brick wall she is. 

She is fairly quiet, besides her night time religious songs that sound more like chants. 

We are good neighbors, we are making it work! 

Until... The three boys from the house next door move into the room next door.

Brandela, Joel, and Lotsy. 11,9, and 6 year-old boys currently live 5 days out of the week right next to me. 

And here they are, bro-ing out with some other kids. 

They moved in next door because they attend the private catholic school nearby but they can't afford to live in town, so their mother lives and works 15k away and they return home every Friday once school lets out. 

But the 5 days and 4 nights they are here, it's loud. Like from sun up (at 4:30 in the morning) to 9 at night- loud. And I don't really mind being woken up at 4:30 in the morning by laughter of children, it's kind of nice actually. However, waking up to banging dishes and my neighbor lady yelling at them is not so pleasant. 

It's interesting living in such close quarters with kids. They go from running around laughing and playing to dead silent sleep state within minutes. No winding down, no bed time stories, no brushing teeth-no getting ready for bed besides physically putting yourself on the blanket. Run, run, run then lay down on the floor and sleep! Fascinating! 

And of course they're the first ones in my house and the last ones out the door at night because of the proximity. They help me cook at night and make sure all my windows and doors are shut when it's time to say goodnight. But when we say goodnight to each other it's more of like we say it to eachother and then remain on our respected sides of the wall and listen to eachother until bed time. 

These kids have most likely heard me pee in my pô at night, most likely heard me sleep talk, and most likely wonder what I'm laughing at behind closed doors (when watching a movie with headphones in). 

So if someone ever asks me what it's like to live with kids, I'll respond that it's pretty great because even with the wall between us they feel like family to me. And even though they fudged with the living arrangement the elderly lady and I had before, when the weekend rolls around I get a little lonely after closing my door at night without those three little boys around. 

My housing situation in Madagascar

My housing situation is a huge building that was built in 1996 and was intentionally built to be offices for the mayor and the adjoint and all the higher ups in town. Now, it's deteriorating at a pretty high pace (if I do say so myself) and houses me, the elderly woman next to me, and the last corridor is actually an office. So it's a pretty long building. It has a tin roof (which some may say is lucky and others say differently because of the heat) and I have cracked and slanted concrete floors. My walls are made from planks, these planks are slowly peeling back their layers, either from being so wet over they last few years or have always looked this way, unsure, but sound residence and animal entry residence is non existent. 

Although it wasn't love at first site, I do love my house! 

I remember the day I saw my house for the first time! I was so excited! I had already seen my stage mates awesome houses and it was finally my time! As we pull up I know exactly which one is mine because of the large newly built fence! We walk in and I think I black out because of the excitement!! No, I didn't black out, I just can't see anything because the walls are brown/black from too many years of cooking with an open fire and there's only one window in a two room house. (We're slowly making home improvements, I now have three windows, and have painted two walls.) 

The excitement is draining from my body but I positively ask to see the backyard! It's lovely! Massive rocks are situated in a forested area behind my house! There are orange trees, avocado trees, jackfruit trees, coconut tress and papaya trees all within sight! Okay I think, I'll spend a lot of time on my porch and not inside that cave they are calling my new home.

So, next question! Where's my kabone and ladosy (toilet and shower) ? 

They tell me they couldn't build me a toilet because those huge boulders behind my house are sacred and that would be very taboo. I think uhhhh awesome!! That's so culturally cool!!! Now, I know for a fact that is a lie because they have started construction on a kabone 5 feet from a boulder and the other boulders are slowly being pounded at. We call the people that choose that career, rock breakers. So, they aren't sacred enough to go unbroken and sold at a low price. 

We walk across the front yard, across the dirt road, walk behind the commune and I see my old used kabone in the middle of a grassy weedy field. I think, Hmm... This is very out in the open. But I guess when ya gotta shit ya might as well let everyone know where the correct place to do it is, in a toilet, not in the coffee forest! 

As I turn around I ask the last question, where is my water source? A well? A pump? My high and excited thoughts of fetching my own water is shattered when we're still walking to the source after 5 minutes... Ohhh god! I'm supposed to carry it this far?! Everyday?! This isn't muscle growth this is torture! 

Luckily, I had my site mate Marcelo next to me through the whole tour. And when all was said and done, he put his arm around me and said, "we're all here for ya Kels!" 

Panoramic view, my house on the left, the village commune on the right. 

My garden!! Flowers, lentils, and cucumbers so far! 

My peaceful backyard, boulders on the right. 

This post was written to give you insight for the next post called "The elderly lady  and the three boys that live next door". 

Let me get the sweat out of my eyes

Below post may seem like complaining. I'm not saying it isn't. 

So, the go-to small chat is to talk about the weather, right? 

Well, that's ALL I seem to talk about, not only because I've mastered that conversation in Malagasy but because the weather here is always on my mind. How can it not be when I'm constantly dripping in sweat? 

The second I walk out my door, sweat. 

While I'm sitting reading a book, sweat. 

While I'm giving a health speech, sweat.

It's embarrassing to describe what it's like when actual physical activity is involved. 

I don't want to eat lunch because it's too hot. 

When I go anywhere I'm practically shadow/shade chasing to stay out of the sun. 

The sad part is I'm not even sure how hot it really is! No thermometer. And the Malagasy of course aren't sweating at all, so that's just the cherry on top when I'm standing chit chatting and I look like  I just finished a marathon, minus the heavy breathing while everyone else is high and dry. 

So, I've mastered the small weather conversation, in fact, I'm not even sick of it. I'm like in a heat stroke everyday, not sure where I am (certainly not Montana) and have to ask, "it is the hot season, right?"

What's all that squawking about?

With all the presidential propaganda and local propaganda that was driving around in November and December, (people in vans screaming through beat up aged microphones and exhausted speakers) the kids have it drilled into their minds that silence is unacceptable. 

So, all I've  been hearing lately is a whole bunch of high-pitched nonsense coming from the kids.

I just assumed they were making fun of me and my naturally high pitched and at times squeaky voice caused by excitement. 

Turns out they've been chanting "Kelsey ho deputy, número quinze!"

They want me to run for deputy and with all the propaganda that was going around they thought they'd be my propaganda; loud, unintelligible, basically disturbing peace and quiet for the whole village. 

Fortunately for the real candidates, kids can't vote, because if they could and if in fact I were competing, I would win by a long shot. 

The first but certainly not the last post about taxi brousses (stations)

I go back and forth on what's worse; taxi brousse stations or actually being in the taxi brousse?

Either way, you're uncomfortable and getting nowhere quickly. 

But this post is about my latest experience in a taxi brousse station.

This was my first time taking a night brousse all by myself. Also, I had already been in a taxi brousse for 35 hours prior to this last stretch towards home. So, for all that know me well, I was slightly grouchy and probably the least pleasant person at the station that day.

I arrive on time, but really, what the hell is the point of that?

I'm assisted by a man, who I reassure that I already have a reservation, but he continues to usher me towards a vehicle. Luckily, my driver recognizes me and gets a hold of me and assists me to the correct van. Earlier man comes with and sits in the empty brousse with me, and with the foggy closed windows because of the rain outside, I'm thinking this is a bad idea!

And I'm grouchy so I don't want to talk to anyone at the moment. I ask him politely why he's there? He says he wants to be my friend. Uh huh... Really? I chat a little, even though it's a tale as old as time that this guy wants a "white girlfriend". Then I ask him politely to leave me alone after the conversation gets weird with the typical "where's your boyfriend" question. He refuses. Calls me a bitch- at least that was clear. Yet, he still wants to be my friend and won't leave. Some people enter the car to sit and wait as well and so I think it's okay to pretend to sleep. Creepo to the left starts petting my head. Yep, definitely not cool. I ask him to leave about nine more times, ask the others to help me out a bit and then finally when I say the magic words of "you're being rude and don't even know your own methods/morals" he leaves. And other passengers agree he was a little "sick in the head". 

Adventure still not over. 

After waiting another  2 1/2 hours in the car, I had to go pee, I'm a well hydrated human. 

 I asked the "driver's assistant", "hey, when are we leaving? Because I've gotta go pee."

He replies with, "now."

YAAA right. "Soooo where can I go pee?"

He replies with, "right there," nods his head in a direction, "behind the brousse."

"Like right in the middle of the taxi brousse station?"

"Ya..."

And so, after being somewhat harassed, I went pee in the middle of a taxi brousse station in the pouring rain. First time for everything. Thank God I didn't have to go number two and that we left shortly after that. 

That day, the taxi station took the win for being worse than the actual ride. 

Not a rare occurrence. (But that's not even the car I was in, my driver is the one in the white shirt doing nothing.)

Let's order in tonight

I remember when I was little and I'd tell my mom, "we need to go grocery shopping! There's nothing in the fridge/pantry!" And she'd walk into the kitchen and simply concoct a delicious meal with 2.3 ingredients and I'd be blown away by her cooking wizardry. 

I'm striving to have the same concocting capabilities as her. 

In my village there is one proper hotely (hotely is like a restaurant). It's nice, I can get any kind of bird that exists in this region or their equivalent of a cow or noodles. It's nice and everything is only $1.50! Which actually is a lot when you only make $200 a month. 

So, I cook. I've never really enjoyed cooking that much but when you're stuck with nothing else to do when the sun sets, you fire up your gas stove (until that runs out and then you're forced to use charcoal- big shout out to Malagasy for having to make fire three times a day to cook).

So, with an abundant amount of vegetables it's usually some sort of stir fry. But lately it's been masala. Or now I'm adding honey  (which is also straight from the hive here) to everything. I've been making breakfast rice (when I run out of oatmeal), which is soupy rice with sugar and cinnamon. I'm mastering soups in general! It's fun and fairly easy! 

I'm gonna be honest and say that I don't get welcomed in to eat with Malagasy that often. I heard many stories about how I'll never really need to cook because people will always invite me in. No, it's the opposite. I'll go to the market for some ingredients and come back with a few women and children eager to teach me how to cook. Pretty cool! There's tons of stuff at the market I can't even recognize what it is let alone know how to cook, so these people are really helpful! I now know how to clean and prepare a fish. I know how they use their plants in combination with other vegetables. I now know that you can eat some seeds in fruit! 

You can cook jackfruit seeds and eat them! 

My previous post on malnutrition still holds true, so I wish this whole sharing new recipes would spread throughout the whole village and we'd all be healthier because of balanced meals, maybe soon enough that will happen. I'm glad that people feel comfortable in my home and are willing to teach me new things.

Cooking for one by candlelight.

Unfortunately, I can't bake, no oven. And I'm not willing to try baking on top of a fire...I'd just be disappointed I think.

Sometimes when us Americans get together in bigger cities we joke about whose turn it is to call in for delivery. 

"But I did it last time!" Someone would say. 

"How are we gonna pay? Credit card over the phone?" Another person would ask.

All fun and games until we realize how sad it is that that's not a possibility anywhere in this country (at least no place I've been). Ha. 

The point of this post? Can someone order me some Chinese food? Please!