The Final Frontier

It was a Wednesday afternoon, March 11th. News had been streaming in to me in Isoanala from Tana about escalating clashes between TGV and TIM supporters; I couldn’t have been more stressed than if I was actually at the site of the violence. I knew what this meant was coming. It was a moment I’d been dreading for days; like waiting for the results of a biopsy when you already can feel that you got it. It was a bad time for Madagascar. I was trying to keep my mind off of it all by keeping busy, so I kept my weekly English club for that evening at four p.m. as scheduled. More than usual showed up; maybe twenty various teenagers and adults. I had a fantastic time doing the English club that evening, but I still had that one thought turning over and over in the back of my mind: dead man walking. It was as I was correcting Caron and Ilma on their pronunciation of ‘actually’ as my cellular phone chimed in, indicating a text had been received. It was from my best friend, more than that actually, in Tana.

“SITUATION WORST. I THINK IT WONT BE RESOLVED SOON. CLASH TGV-TIM RESULT- 2 DIED & 40 INJURED, HOUSE OF SOME TIM MEMBR BURNT… RUMOR: REBEL MIARAMIL TAKIN MINISTRIES,” is what it said verbatim. ‘TIM’ is Ravalo’s political party (Tiako I Madigasikara, which literally means, ‘I love you, Madagascar!’), and ‘miaramila’ is Malagasy for military. This was not a promising development. As I wrapped up the English lesson, one of my pupils carried my bag as we walked towards our neighborhood.
I arrived at my house and put my things down. It was all but certain now. How could PC possibly see fit to operate under these conditions? Plus, I knew that if PC had to make a move, there would be no more consolidation, as much as I hated that. No, this time would be for all the marbles. Evacuation. The worst possible outcome. I walked out onto my balcony; took in a deep breath and looked around. I saw Dadafara, my neighbor’s youngest child (and my favorite, though I would never let them know it so as not to lower the self-esteem of the other little ones) running about in a fit of glee. I shook my head thinking how my life in Isoanala had become a house of cards, how Dadafara deserved so much better than all this, and how I prayed Madagascar would not drag itself down the path of so many other unfortunate countries on the great continent of Africa. It almost looked like he was running in slow motion as I thought about all this. It was heavy. Madagascar must not do this, for little Dadafara if nothing else, I thought. Was I really about to find out that this would be my last night ever in Isoanala? In the town of nearly all my friends and family in the country? The last night in my home and my heart for the past year and a half? Damn, how could it ever have come to this.

Colby, the Administrative Officer for PC Tana, had been sending out updates every evening around five about what had gone on that day. Five came and went with no word; then six, then seven. Finally, at 7:30 p.m., I received a text from PC Tana.

“Decision made to suspend PC Madagascar. Very sad. Process of leaving will be lengthy. Prepare tonight for consolidation and onward as flights are confirmed. STAY IN SITE. For now we must be able to find you,” is what it read. My heart sank as I put down my phone. I couldn’t have expected how it would feel until it actually had happened. I wandered back out to my porch and looked on at Mt. Justin. The stars were out and it was a full moon. Still being early in the evening , the main drag in Isoanala was still abuzz with live. I went back in my house and began taking pictures down off the wall. After taking down one or two I threw them down in frustration. Grabbing a bottle of Bushmills Irish whisky my sister had brought out while visiting, one which I would have otherwise been saving for a special occasion, I walked out the front door and started heading towards my friend Joro’s house. I called him while I was en route.

“Taking an evening walk?” he inquired after picking up, both of us not accustomed to me being out like this after dark. I told him ‘no’, and that there was something I had to come tell him. He lives above a convenience store/bar, and had his wife running it for the evening as he had an itch to watch an old Henry Fonda western dubbed into French in his living quarters above the store. He told me to come on up. I went upstairs and he told me to have a seat. I started telling him earnestly that something horrible had happened and that I would likely be leaving the next day never to return. He grew visibly distressed and asked me how something like that could happen. I told him I wasn’t quite sure, but that if it was God’s will I would one day return again. We reminisced of times past, drank whisky and beer, ate grilled cubes of meat, and watched Henry Fonda into the night.

The next morning I woke up and didn’t want to get up to face the day. But I had to. I started getting my things organized and separating the things I was bringing from the things I would be giving away. I went out to my breakfast lady shortly thereafter for my standard issue rice’n greens with coffee. I then walked to the hospital to inform my counterpart and dear friend Dr. Mamy, or D-Mamz, of my unfortunate circumstance. He hung his head low and asked if was a certainty or not that we were going. I could never lie to D-Mamz, and even if I did he could read me like a book. I told him I’d be packing most the day and then taking an overnight brousse up north to Fianar which should pass through Isoanala to pick me up around midnight.

It was an emotional day to say the least. Once I had most my things packed, I started calling my neighbors over one by one to confirm what they had heard and give them whatever I wouldn’t be bringing with me. It was like making a will almost; a will going into effect while I’m still alive. Up to this point no tears had been shed on my part, although they had come damn close. After I’d given away all my earthly possessions other than what was being brought in one duffel bag I went for a long walk. It was late afternoon. I visited Madame Volola, Madame Chantelle, Lalaina, Joro, Madame Nivo, Ponona, Hary, and everyone else I could think of. The sun was setting as I walked around the market place, telling all the good folks who I’d spent the better part of the last two years with that we may never see one another again. The market air was its typical dusty orange color that it gets to be around sunset. I hugged my closest friends and headed back home as the sun went down. I got back to the house and told my neighbors, who I’ve shared a love/hate relationship with, that this was it. I was going into the house to try and get some sleep before getting on the overnight brousse and that we may not see each other, so I told them ‘fare thee well.’ I went in the house and laid down on my bare bed, sheet-less. I was awoken by Joro’s older brother’s phone call, informing me that the brousse had arrived. I checked my phone and it was 12:30 a.m. It was already very surreal. Joro’s older brother’s soft yet firm voice was on the other line.

“The brousse has arrived; now,” he said, cluing me to the fact that it was time. I gathered my possessions onto the front porch. Before blowing out the candle I had kept lit for myself, I took one more look around and sighed. Then the flame went out.
It was a full moon, so despite the witching hour and lack of electricity the street was brightly lit. I walked past the Lutheran church, and past the round point towards the mighty bus. There was a very short person, a midget actually, who had always lived in Isoanala. We had greeted each other in passing, but always very cordial, nothing friendlier than that. He happened to be helping loading up the bus with the new passengers’ things that particular evening. After throwing my bag atop, he looked at me and shot a wistful smile.

“Veloma,” he said. This word means ‘good-bye,’ but in the south of the country it is reserved for only when one is parting ways for a long time. I reciprocated and shook his hand. After boarding the brousse, I had nearly an entire row to myself. We petered out of town on my old friend, RN13. We passed the ‘bon voyage’ sign; we went past the last water pump and the rice paddies on the outskirts of town, and the brousse was silent. Most folks had already dozed off. That was probably for the best, since tears had started dropping down. They weren’t the first ones I shed in that town, but they might be the last. After all the blood, sweat and tears that I put into the earth there throughout my time, I couldn’t believe it was being ripped away. The brousse got to be five km out of town, then ten, then twenty, and with each passing kilometer one half of my heart was being torn further from the other.

I arrived in Fianar the next afternoon and was greeted by all my friends, which was nice. We were due to hit the road the next morning at six, but we all wanted to go out as it was looking to be the last night in Fianar forever for a lot of the folks. That night I could tell local tensions were rising, as I spoke to various Gasy bar patrons as many were scared to admit they were from the Merina tribe, the tribe of the plateau, of Tana, and of oppositional leader Andry. We all had a good time, and most were tucked in by one or two in the morning. The next morning we drove all day, starting at six in the morning then finally arriving at Mantasoa around eight that evening. I got to see a fair number of friends there, which was nice. But each day there were waves of PC folks being shipped off to the Southern Sun Hotel at Tambo Airport in South Africa, a fate awaiting me within one day’s time. I pondered how Andry could claim to have his country’s best interests in mind while so recklessly driving it into the ground; taking a few steps up in his career at the expense of his countrymen’s livelihood and prosperity. It seems he may have slept through Introduction to Macroeconomics, as he has demonstrated he doesn’t understand how developing countries develop. If you live in a glass house, don’t throw stones.
The last day before leaving, Monday, January 16th, was slow and uneventful. Some busy work tying up loose ends at the office was all we were responsible for. There were was one person I absolutely had to see on my last day. During all my time in Madagascar, she had been around. Through all the drama, all the good times and all the bad ones; whenever the smoke cleared she had always been there for me. I had made it my top priority to see her before leaving, and was relieved when I was able to do just that in the afternoon of the 16th. We got together for lunch then retired to private quarters. Aside from leaving Isoanala she was without question the hardest part of leaving. The next day we were all on a plane, looking down on Madland. Looking back, but with no regrets.

Tuesday, March 17th, happened to be the day we arrived to our hotel in South Africa, which happened to have an Irish pub on the premises. We all know what happens on March 17th, so celebrating in the name of the Irish with all my friends as we had returned to a more familiar civilization was my pleasure. Checking out of Peace Corps meant filling out lots of paperwork and going through lots of strange medical tests of a nature that fascinated me. We all spent four days in that hotel, which wasn’t all bad as most folks needed at least that much time to decide what their immediate next step was going to be. Plus, nearly all wanted to spend our last remaining hours together with one another, getting a pint at pub and trading war stories, or maybe just heading out to the local apartheid museum to take in some local culture. No matter what it was, it was important, because it was with your friends. There were only eleven of us left in the Health '07 group, as pictured here in our good-bye dinner at the Southern Sun, from an orginal group of nineteen.

But these were fast times, and decisions had to be made. I had arranged to stay in a young man’s apartment located in the trendy neighborhood of Sea Point. A strange Afrikaner living in Miami, he agreed to rent out to me his vacant apartment at a reasonable price. Jayne, Eliko, and Maggie all agreed to come on board with the apartment, as it was two bedrooms, in order to ease the financial burden.

Thus it was to Cape Town for nearly half of Peace Corps, the other half of folks going onwards throughout Africa or back home. I have been here in Cape Town for some time now; job hunting by day and going out at night. This is a magical city, where the ocean crashes in on one side and magnificent mountains stretch over the other side. All completely developed and ready for enjoyment. It’s looking more and more like I’ll be returning to Tana next week in order to continue my job search from that point as a new launch pad. As great as this fare town is, I find myself missing Tana. I’ll likely be staying in a large, furnished apartment in the upscale Ambondrona neighborhood of Tana. Far enough away from the city center that if any riot garbage were to break out I would be well removed, but close enough to get anywhere without much hassle.

Well, I guess that wraps it up and gets everything up to speed. The only reason I created this blog was to document my life as it existed in the Peace Corps. Now that’s all over. I find myself wondering what it all means, what is meant to be and what was meant to have been… A rather abrupt jolt into the next stage, but nothing I can’t handle. I will persevere. Will I stop posting entries? Time will tell. In the event we no longer see one another around the way on your neighborhood blogosphere, I thank you as a scholar and a gentleman for patronizing my drivel. Hey, I’ll catch you a little further on down the trail…