I’d like to put it down to flexibility. I’d like to claim I am so go-with-the-flow and adaptable that transitions just don’t faze me. The reluctance I initially felt to return to Madagascar, however, totally undermines that theory. Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy to be here. I was excited to return to Fianarantsoa exactly three weeks ago. Coming back just felt a lot different than my arrival in September.
During the month I spent at my site before relocating to South Africa, I did a lot of sitting. I had a lot of time to myself and not a lot of activities to fill that time. I only taught a total of five hours, due to school closings because of the plague and scheduling complications. So, when I got the call that we were leaving, I was excited. It wasn’t that I was excited to leave my host family or community; I was excited to have something to do. It was easy for me to leave Madagascar because I didn’t feel like I would be missing out on anything. It was easy because leaving didn’t disrupt my nonexistent schedule. It was easy because I was, dare I say it, bored. It was easy because I was lonely and going stir-crazy from sitting in my apartment. And it was easy to be gone. I love traveling. I love getting to know new places and learning about new cultures. I love visiting museums, being by the ocean, seeing wildlife, and going hiking. And South Africa gave me all of those things. When the time came to go back to Madagascar, I was upset. Anxious. Angry. Unwilling. Disappointed. I didn’t want to return—which took me by surprise. After all, I had decided to do YAGM because I wanted to volunteer and to teach and to live in a community. Why, then, was I so reluctant to start doing those very things? At first, I blamed end-of-travel-disappointment. Every time I’ve gone on vacation or lived abroad, I’ve never wanted the adventure to end. I’m always a little disappointed to return home. I figured that those typical feelings explained my lack of excitement to return to Madagascar. I was wrong. Yes, not wanting to stop traveling was part of it, but there was more to my uncertainty than that. It was hard for me to come back to Madagascar because I knew what to expect. In September, when orientation ended and I headed to Fianar for the first time, I was excited. I had no idea what awaited me. I was thrilled by the possibility of discovery. I couldn’t wait to meet people and become acquainted with the city. This time around, however, my site wasn’t shiny and new. I knew what was waiting for me. I knew I’d once again stick out everywhere I went. I knew calls of “Salama, vazaha!” or “Bonjour, chérie!” would dog my footsteps whenever I left my apartment. I knew I would soon start teaching—and that the majority of students would be adults and older than me. I knew I wouldn’t have a close friend constantly on hand. I knew I would spend a lot of time alone. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to face all that again. YAGM is hard. It’s not always sunshine and rainbows (although there are a lot of those too). It can be challenging and lonely and frustrating and complicated. And it only grows more challenging, lonely, frustrating, and complicated when you refuse to be honest about your feelings. Which is exactly what I was doing. Before we returned from South Africa, I don’t think I was ever honest with myself about how difficult parts of my first month were. I’m not always the best at reading or accepting my own feelings, especially negative ones. It was easy to ignore my anxiety about teaching adults and my discomfort at being catcalled because that was just the way things were going to be. I was immersed in adjusting—and those “little things” just became part of my life. Being in South Africa, though, reminded me that life in Fianar is not the way life is everywhere. I had a break from strangers calling out to me on the street. I didn’t have to teach adults. I started to realize that maybe I hadn’t been as okay as I had thought during my first month. That realization was the root of all my reluctance to return. Going back to Madagascar, knowing I would be going back to uncertainty and discomfort, meant that I had to confront my bottled-up feelings. Acknowledging, dealing with, and accepting those feelings was not easy. It kind of sucked. Pretending that everything was great would have been so much simpler (although probably pretty unhealthy once I returned to my site). I was so blessed to have the chance to work through that difficulty surrounded by the love and support of my fellow YAGMs and country coordinator. During our time in Antananarivo before returning to our sites, we did a lot of processing and debriefing together. We talked about feelings, concerns, and challenges. We made plans for moving forward. I’m not sure if I was able to fully accept the reality that YAGM is harder than I expected it to be, but I definitely acknowledged that fact. I didn’t completely overcome my concerns about teaching adults or my uneasiness about facing catcallers again, but I acknowledged that those feelings exist. When the time came to board the taxi-brousse to Fianar, I wasn’t thrilled, but I felt ready. Amazingly, as we drove through somewhat familiar landscapes, excitement started to bubble up in me. I thought about seeing my host family again. I thought about how wonderful it would feel to be in a place full of familiar faces. I thought about all the people eagerly awaiting my return. I thought about my own resilience and perseverance. I thought about the Madagasgal support system that would always have my back. I thought about the plague-free city that would finally be safe to explore. I thought about my comfortable apartment and cozy bed. I thought about how great it would be to stop living out of a suitcase. I thought about being able to speak French on a regular basis. I thought about the welcome possibility of having a busy schedule. I thought about seeing the mountains again. When I stepped off that taxi-brousse, I felt like I was home. And you know what? I was happy. Genuinely, absolutely, unexpectedly happy. And I am pleased to report that, three weeks later, I still am. So, maybe it was easy to leave Fianar. Maybe it was easy to leave Madagascar. Maybe it was easy to go to South Africa. And maybe it was really, really hard to leave South Africa. Maybe it was hard to come back to Madagascar. Maybe it was hard to face my own feelings. But it was easy to return to Fianar. And I think that’s what really counts.
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May 2018
More MadaCheck out these blogs from my fellow Madagasgals:
Amanda (Toamasina) Amy (Manambaro) Katie (Farafangana) Lauren (Toliara) Megan (Antananarivo) Serena (Vohipeno) |