This first post comes to you after I’ve already been in Madagascar for 3 month. I’ve just finished the Pre-Service Training.

When I was child and watching TV I saw a commercial, it announced, “The toughest job you’ll ever love.” In that 30 sec spot, young, good looking Americans toiled in the fields of an exotic, lush, green country far away. It planted a seed in my young mind. After High School, at Sacramento City College I saw a Peace Corps booth on career day. I asked them, “I’d like to join. How do I go about it?” They replied, “You need at least a Bachelor’s degree or a special skill like farming or in the health field.” I had neither, but I needed to explore the world….pronto. So instead, I joined the military and traveled the globe, even went to Antarctica.

Much later, I left the military, after which searched for adventure and enlightenment while living out of my backpack. Eventually I landed in Miami Beach and got my degree from Miami Dade College in 2013. Here’s a sample of my life in Miami Beach.

Immediately I applied to the Peace Corps but, I was too far in debt to go in. I was working at The Standard Hotel Resort Spa in South Beach at the time and making squat. Luckily, I scored a job at the Sandbar Lounge adjacent to the beach and worked my butt to the nub over the next two years, and it paid off in spades and, in the summer of 2015, I applied again. My application was denied. I applied a 3rd time and in November of 2015 I got my invitation to serve in Madagascar, departing in June of 2016. My inner child celebrated.

On June 27th my group met in Philadelphia for staging, all 31 of us. It was funny meeting the others. We had been communicating for months over social media and had a few video chats. It was like meeting television personalities for the first time. There were some nerds and some class clowns in the group yet all were adventurers, hardy, and selfless. During those 3 days, we attended sessions, went shopping, and reunited in TGI Friday’s to watch soccer games. There was a young guy named Kamaka, he was recent graduate and from the big island of Hawaii, and he did backflips off of waterfalls. A group of us would end up back in his room. We’d goof off, watch Game Of Thrones and swing numb-chucks to hit peanuts while a third volunteer would try to catch it in their mouth. Bonding.

After golden moments like that it was time to depart the USA.  We met in the lobby at 3 am to take the bus to JFK airport. We were all jazzed and sleepy. Jokingly, I placed my travel pillow on a fellow volunteer’s head. She was not pleased at all and I’ve been on her shit list ever since. Bonding.

The first 3 days in Madagascar were spent in the Peace Corps training center, a fortified compound a few hours east of the capital in the chilly mountains outside a small town called Mantasoa, with a climate similar to a rainy Scottish village I didn’t pack for. We were housed in dormitory rooms. I shared mine with Juan, a lanky guy from Kansas who makes people laugh by saying funny things about Kansas and with Ahmed, a burly, bald-headed former police officer from Louisiana who always has something good to say to get anyone out of the doldrums. The dormitory shares a community bathrooms. Bonding.

The days were spent in sessions learning about Peace Corps regulations, safety and security issues, and Malagasy culture and language. After dinner, we were free to do as we pleased: a bunch played volleyball, some studied, some lounged in hammocks, some wrote to family members, and I usually meandered about taking pictures, chatting with people, and working on a documentary video that would encompass our first three months together.

At night, we’d play card games, watch movies, have some drinks, sit by the fire, dance, and tap into the internet. When we weren’t at the compound, we stayed with our host families in neighboring small town, Mantasoa. It was cold, and our homes had no heating, so there was no escaping the frigid air. We used squat toilets away from the house. And my host family was hospitable. There was always plenty of food.

My host family’s house was a half-hour walk from town, along slippery, muddy roads that wound through the forest like something out of Little Red Riding Hood. I used the trek to study Malagasy with flash cards.

Six days a week were devoted to Peace Corps training, but Sundays belonged to us. On our first free day, we set out on a hike through the rice fields, only to turn back when a group of agitated bulls blocked the path. Diana, a former ski instructor from Colorado, suggested we climb a large hill overlooking the town instead.

We stopped at a small store for drinks along the way, and twenty minutes later we were standing at the summit, looking out over the town, the surrounding hills, and the patchwork of rice fields below. I cracked open my beer and clinked bottles with Juan in an overly enthusiastic toast just as a rainbow appeared overhead. It was our first drink in the country, and the moment felt so perfect it could have been lifted from a Super Bowl beer commercial. We were bonding.

After a month and a half of training, we were sent to our permanent sites for a two-week visit — the places where we would eventually spend the next two years. Mine was Alakamisy Ambohimaha, in the south-central highlands. I had hoped for somewhere hot year-round, so when I learned my placement, I was bummed.

When everyone received their assignments, most of the trainees grew excited, crowding around a large map drawn on the ground to find their towns. Instead, I sat alone by the water’s edge at the Peace Corps compound, quietly brooding.

Later, I ran into another trainee from New York City who had also been assigned to my region. Unlike me, she was genuinely happy about it, and her optimism slowly lifted my spirits. If she could be excited about the experience ahead, maybe I could too.

On the bus ride down to Alakamisy Ambohimaha, I traveled with the volunteer I would eventually replace. She was a friendly young woman from Louisiana — not especially talkative, but grounded and practical in a way I immediately jived with.

After about nine hours on the road, I was getting restless. Where is this damn town? I wondered. Then she pointed out the window and said, “There’s your new home.”

We were descending a hill, and from our vantage point I saw a wide bowl-shaped valley. Rising from the center was a plateau topped with buildings: Alakamisy at last. Surrounding it were farmland and rice fields, and beyond them, layers of mountains. If the valley ever flooded, the town would be an island.

Most of Alakamisy stretched along Madagascar’s main highway, the RN7. There were no sidewalks, so pedestrians and traffic shared the same strip of asphalt. Despite its small size, the town had a few family-owned restaurants and a quiet social scene — some of it probably a little shady.

I spent those two weeks with a wonderful host family who showed me around and treated me warmly. One afternoon, I stopped into a small restaurant for a beer, and somehow the entire town seemed to know about it within hours. Later, I was told not to drink publicly. Apparently, they hadn’t been exaggerating when they said life there wouldn’t be easy.

The two weeks flew by, and before long I was back in Mantasoa.

The two weeks came to an end, and soon we were back in Mantasoa. For the first few nights, we stayed at the Peace Corps training compound again. On Sunday, everyone drifted down to the lakeside to relax. Some people played volleyball while others stretched out on the grass, talking in the sunlight.

The scene felt almost unreal, like the idyllic paradise pictured in the religious pamphlets left behind on city buses — glossy images of Eden filled with peace and warmth.

But by Monday it was back to the grind: more training sessions, more homework, and more cold. The cold was inescapable.

The last month we spent at the compound which made everyone happy. My fellow trainees are like my family and like my family it was time to say good bye to them, but we had one more month.

One day after classes, I went with a fellow trainee, a girl from the northeast, to a little mini-market outside the gate of the compound to buy a few things. It had been a tough day. We had to give two speeches, one in Malagasy. Plus, the day before we had our final language test. I needed a beer, a lot of us needed a beer. So once out the gate, we began walking down the dirt road and started talking about our Peace Corps trainee family. It was good to vent, but I didn’t know how honest to be. Inside, I can be cruel, but I don’t want everyone to know that, even someone that I trust.

We bought beers and sat on the side of a dirt road. We talked about everyone and she brought up a rumor about me that’s been making the rounds through our group. It was about me and a girl. I wasn’t mad or even bothered by it. I know the score. Humans spread rumors like bees make honey, and honey is sweet.

More of our friends arrived. The conversation was wonderful. After a time, I had too many sips of the nector, I came back to the compound, pissed some people off and the next day I woke up just knowing I had to go on an apology tour. You make your bed, you gotta lay in it, as they say.

We just swore in as new Peace Corps Volunteers. A representative from the US embassy and along with several local dignitaries and plenty of townspeople. There was even a lively parade accompanied by a local band. Afterwards, we had a little cocktail-like party and we took pictures, during which I had a searing conflict with a fellow volunteer that put me in such a funk that I decided to skip out on our going-away party  but stay behind to finish our documentary instead. But oh well, that’s life. The toughest job you’ll ever love.

Conclusion

Despite the challenges, culture shock, and personal conflicts, the experience was already shaping into the kind of unforgettable adventure I had dreamed about since childhood.