Catching up with Michelle, Christmas break

I haven’t seen my girlfriend in nearly four months. We talk on our cell phones a few times every day, but it’s just not the same. In phone conversations Michelle’s freckles don’t dance in front of me.

Michelle’s Peace Corps experience has been rougher than mine. If she were to keep a blog, my blog would look as exciting as a congressional committee hearing. Her site village, which is on the east coast, is twice as large as my village, and the people there are rowdy. I will quickly highlight Michelle’s first four months at her village: Her home had rats the size of cats in it, she developed a rash from head to toe for two days, she was groped by a drunken old man on the street, she contracted giardia, the principal at her middle school died from malaria, people of all ages barge into her home to express their interest in learning English or to confess their love for her, her students behave like ring-tailed lemurs, she’s attended a few school faculty parties that have involved lots of ass shaking and 9 A.M. whiskey consumption, she went to a few music festivals, her love for smashed cassava leaves and rice has surpassed her love for me, she has taken up sewing, and she runs long distances barefoot on the beach. Peace Corps wisdom says that volunteers have ups and downs in adjusting to the host country. My time since training has been one long period of ups, while Michelle has had the more conventional ups-and-downs experience.

Tomorrow I’m flying to the capital, Tana, for a meeting with my stage of volunteers. Michelle will be there, and I’ve already promised that upon seeing her I will hug her so hard her head’ll pop off. Then we volunteers will spend a few days at the Peace Corps training center in Mantasoa, the small town with pine trees and a lake. For the Christmas break Michelle and I are going to her site village for a week, then off to Isle St. Marie, a picturesque resort island a ferry ride away from mainland Madagascar. Our Christmas and New Year’s Day will be spent eating mangos, getting sunburned, and thinking of our families and friends in America. Until next time, happy holidays!

Meteorologic retribution

I came across my neighbor one morning while walking home from the middle school. After a few minutes of conversation he asked, “Did you hear the thunder last night?” I shook my head. He asked, “Are you scared of thunder?” I shook my head again and said, “Why? Are you scared of thunder?” No, he said, but the housekeeper was.

The housekeeper and the neighbor then explained that lightning in Madagascar often strikes and kills people. In fact, common wisdom in the region was that if someone burgled your home or pick pocketed you in the street, the criminal was bound to be struck by lightning as punishment. When you’re the victim of such a crime, you can pray to summon a lightning strike upon the perpetrator. And if you find your praying skills inadequate, there are people versed in summoning lightning who you can pay to do it for you.

This is good to hear, I thought. Justice by lightning is cheaper, faster, and more rewarding than going to the police with a bribe.

Sambava, Sam and Maggie

Sambava is the central town for the SAVA region. It has an airport as well as my bank. It also has niceties that I can’t get in my village like the Internet, cheese, and an entertaining nightlife. On average I’m in Sambava every three weeks either to withdraw money from the bank or pass through it on the way to another town.

There are only seven volunteers in the region, and we meet in Sambava for weekend getaways from our sites. We spend more money than we should on its niceties and we spend too much time than we should on its beaches. At night we drink THB, virtually the only beer available in Madagascar, and dance in discotheques to house and Malagasy music. Throughout our time together we talk about our lives as American expatriates and appreciate the fact that we all speak the same native language.

A few weeks ago two volunteers left the SAVA family. Sam and Maggie had finished their two year Peace Corps term in the region and were headed for new endeavors. In Sambava we had a farewell weekend for the two. They mean a lot to me. They welcomed me to the region when I arrived and they shared their experience and wisdom about all things Malagasy in the last few months.

John, another volunteer, and I accompanied the two to the airport. We took photos of each other and exchanged addresses as we waited for the plane to arrive. When it did, the reality of leaving Madagascar poignantly struck Sam. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a while, thinking about the last two years and how simply and freely he had lived in this beautiful country. Then he said, “When my parents took me to college my freshman year and we were saying goodbye, my dad didn’t cry at the time. But my mom told me he was crying uncontrollably in the car on the drive home. They had to pull over because he was crying so hard he couldn’t drive. That’s how I feel now. I’m fine now, but when I get on the plane…”

Fetching water

In the villages, but more often in the countryside, many women have the task of fetching water. They stand waiting for their turn at the public spigots with their buckets strewn around. Wrapped to their bodies are lambas, large patterned pieces of fabric which are also used as blankets, tablecloths, and curtains. Upon a woman’s turn in the queue she places her bucket under the spigot and waits until it’s brimming with water. Then she dons a skull pad, puts the bucket on her head, and walks the water back to her home. The balance involved in this delivery is fantastic to my western eyes—Malagasy women never use their hands to support the buckets on their heads. Even more fantastic is the common sight of a woman fetching water with a second bucket in her hand and an infant strapped to her back.

Malagasy American flip-flops

The flip-flop is the regional footwear of choice. They keep your feet cool, they are easy to put on and take off, and they sell for only 2,000 Ariary in the market.

It is socially acceptable to wear flip-flops at school, work, and church. If you look at some Malagasy police officers from head to toe, you’ll see a bulky hat with a short black rim, then a button-down blue shirt with some badges hanging from the pockets, then creased dark pants, and then brightly-colored flip-flops. Doctors will complement their lab coats with flip-flops, and I often see town officials wearing professional attire with flip-flops. My middle school is equally as casual. Most teachers including myself teach in flip-flops, and the principal often works barefoot. I teach nearly 600 students and not one of them wears shoes to school.

During class one day I spotted a student with American flag flip-flops. The straps were blue with stars and the soles had red and white stripes. “U.S.A.” was written in bold letters where the heel rests. I grinned. Wouldn’t it be funny, I thought, if the only American in a 100 kilometer radius exhibited his nationality with 2,000 Ariary American flip-flops?

That afternoon I went to the market and found a vendor selling flip-flops with flag designs from the United States, France, Brazil, and South Africa. I asked the vendor for size 43 American flip-flops, and she pulled a new pair out of plastic wrapping. I tried them on and was quickly disappointed. The straps felt alright against my skin, but the sole was made of very thin foam that wouldn’t allow me to walk long distances without pain. Plus, although my blood bleeds red, white, and blue, ostentatious Americanism makes for obnoxious footwear. I took them off, slipped my feet back into my $50 Chaco flip-flops, and told the vendor thanks but no thanks. As I walked away I did the math and realized that in Madagascar my Chacos would’ve retailed for at least 75,000 Ariary.

A kabaro in church

Two Thursdays ago I had finished teaching a lesson and was headed home when a man and woman met me at the classroom door. The woman, Pauline,  who was in her late twenties and wore nice jean pants, told me they had come from the village’s Anglican church for my help. They needed someone to transcribe some English gospel songs so the church’s choir could sing them accurately. “I know some English,” she said, “But I’m not fluent. Can you come with us and help us?” Sure, I said.

We took a taxi to the other side of town and were soon sitting on reed mats in the woman’s home. We drank cold soft drinks and listened to “It is Jesus” over and over on a CD player. As with many instances here in Madagascar, I felt ill-equipped to help because I’m awful at discerning words from songs. I once thought a lyric in Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” was, “Excuse me while I kiss this guy,” instead of, “Excuse me while I kiss the sky.” I tried my best, though, until I suggested that I’d look up the lyrics on the Internet the next time I was in Sambava. “Great idea!” Pauline said. Then she invited me to church, and with how pleasant her demeanor was, I accepted. I thought the outing would be good for Mr. Jordan publicity.

That Sunday Pauline and I walked together to the front of the church. The entire congregation, about 300 people, stared at me and whispered as we sat down on the choirs’ benches. I wasn’t bothered by the attention; the commotion of being a white man in a Malagasy village, while unsettling in theory, becomes surprisingly pedestrian after a few months. Pauline turned to me and said, “My father’s the pastor, and he wants to introduce you. Is that O.K.?” I nodded and told her I’d even give a speech if the pastor wanted.

Hornet nests and remnants of old ones dotted the church’s walls, and the eight o’clock sunlight streamed through the paneless windows. Behind the pulpit was a painting of an ocean and trees created most likely by a middle school student. In the painting’s sky was a cross formed by four florescent lights which would be illuminated at the service’s end to celebrate the glory of God. Some worshippers wore proper church clothes that day, but the majority had on t-shirts and flip-flops, and many women wore white veils of varying patterns. Sweat already dripped down our backs from the humidity.

The service began with a song. I stood with the choir but did not join them in singing the English song, “Mama, I Learned a Lesson.” Later I asked Pauline why the choir sang English songs when the rest of the service was in Malagasy, and I think she said the songs served as a symbolic institutional tie to the Anglican Church in the United Kingdom. After the song we sat again and the pastor took to the pulpit. He said some things I didn’t understand, the congregation laughed at the things, and then he said my name. I awkwardly walked to the pulpit and stood beside the pastor as he said more things. Then he asked me to announce my name and hometown. I did. A few snickers from below. The pastor said more things and made a gesture for me to begin my speech. I took a deep breath and, in Sakalava, I said:

“Hello. This is my first speech. Before I begin my speech, I need to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I still don’t know how to speak Sakalava. Learning Sakalava is difficult. My name is Jordan. I’m from America. Some of my students are here today. I work with the Peace Corps, which is an American governmental organization. I teach English at the middle school without money. Malagasy people do not pay me, the Peace Corps pays me. I will live here for two years, and I…” Here I sputtered like a dolt for a while and tried to find the right words to say. “I’ll do other work, too. I will build a library here in the village. I’m your friend. If you see me walking in the street, you should talk with me. If you want to practice speaking English, I’ll practice with you. That’s it. Thanks.”

The congregation applauded and I returned to my seat, thinking of all the jokes and correct grammar I had planned to use but didn’t. I knew the speech was terrible, but I wanted to show the congregation I was making an effort to learn their language and be a part of their community. In the few months I’ve been here, I’ve gathered that there are two halves to the Peace Corps. The first half is your assigned job of teaching or administering immunizations or helping small businesses or whatever. The other half is creating relationships with your neighbors, your colleagues, your community, because it sends the powerful image that despite the fact you are you and they are they and there’s half a world of cultural differences among everyone involved, we can love each other as brothers.

Malagasy superstitions

For a graduation present a university counselor gave me a travel guide on Madagascar. In it were anecdotes and asides about the Malagasy people and some of their beliefs that’d seem strange to most first-world countries. At the time I thought the travel guide was being sensationalistic—similar as if someone characterized Americans through the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny—but I’ve lately discovered that these beliefs do exist in the everyday lives of the Malagasy people.

One morning I struck up a conversation with my 10 year old neighborhood friend. It was the weekend and I asked her whether she was going to the beach. She shook her head. “Why not? You don’t like swimming?” I said. “No,” she said, “I’m scared.” I asked why. She replied:

“There are ghosts in the ocean. They’ve killed lots of kids.”

After a few more minutes of questioning I learned that there are ghosts in the ocean who travel by the wind and eat the blood of unsuspecting swimmers. The 16 year old neighborhood girl was scared of the ocean ghosts, too, and so was her aunt. I was surprised that my innocent chat on strolling on the beach turned into a confession on murderous aquatic phantoms. Being a first-world skeptic, I don’t believe that ghosts live in the Indian Ocean. My guess for this belief’s roots comes from children drowning in the ocean and the discovery that their bodies have unoxygenated blue blood.

A few days earlier I discovered similar superstitions about chameleons. In my newfound enthusiasm for the animal I was showing some photos of chameleons I had spotted in the village to my neighbor. The 16 year old neighborhood girl was walking by and my neighbor said to her, “Hey, look. There’s a chameleon here.” The girl yelped and sprinted into the home, crying out, “Where? Where?” We explained that we only had photos of chameleons with us, not the real thing. She nervously stepped out to have a look.

I asked why the 16 year old was scared of chameleons and I received a myriad of answers. Chameleons are evil, my neighbor said, and if you hurt one, you may die from it. “There have been people who’ve died in the hospital here after touching chameleons,” he said. Another fear was that chameleons are very slow movers, and if you hurt a chameleon you will suffer a death as slow as their movements. Thirdly, chameleons don’t have ears, so if you harass and upset a chameleon it’s unable to hear your apologies.

The thought How strange! almost came to me, but before it did, my neighbor asked me, “Does America have beliefs like we do?” I nodded and told him about how some people think that opening umbrellas indoors, coming across black cats, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors and encountering the numbers 6 and 13 could bring evil or bad luck. Then I realized that Malagasy ghosts and evil chameleons aren’t so far off from lots of beliefs in my home country. For how exotic and backwards we often tend to think about Madagascar, sometimes it’s pretty similar to America.

Chameleons and geckos

The next day I met a British tourist at Sambava’s taxi-brousse station who was going to my village for a few days. Liam was spending a month in Madagascar to spot and photograph many of the country’s animals. We became fast friends on the taxi-brousse and ate together at my favorite soup and brochette hotely that evening.

The next day he said, “I’m guessing we can find chameleons here. We should have a go.” I had my doubts. I hadn’t yet seen a chameleon in my village, plus I thought they only lived in the rainforest. I took him to the beach because it’s lined by trees and brush of varying densities and could potentially be a chameleon’s home. As we strolled I pointed out a tree where the Sakalava hang sacrificed cow skulls on its branches. “About a month or so ago,” I told Liam, “There was a big Sakalava festival, and they sacrificed 105 cows for it. You should’ve smelled this tree then, it was awful. Burnt cow, ugh.”

A few minutes later Liam said, “There’s one!” On a branch a little higher than our heads sat a panther chameleon. Its black and gray colors blended well with the tree on which it rested. It was huge, probably two feet long. Liam ran back to the hotel to get his camera, and I kept an eye on the chameleon to make sure it didn’t escape. Then, by surprise, the bush next to me had an orange chameleon rattling around inside it. This one was a few inches long. My eyes darted from the large chameleon to the small one, and I remembered when I was seven year old and had read a children’s magazine about chameleons. Everything about the animal fascinated me then, from the way its skin quickly changed colors to its bulbous eyes and the way its tongue rolled out to eat insects. How unique it was! My childish excitement for chameleons returned to me, and I was ecstatic to live in the midst of this magical animal.

Liam returned with his camera and he snapped some great photographs of the panther. He was also excited. “Now I’ve seen both the smallest and the largest species of chameleon in the world on this trip,” he said. He showed the photograph of the smallest species he’d seen down south. It was a little less than half the length of a quarter.

In the course of Liam’s stay he also showed me seven species of geckos. Some are neon green and can get to be half a foot long, others are also neon green but smaller and their colors fade to blue as your eyes move toward their tail, and still others are small and brown and shed their scales when confronted by predators. I have the brown ones in my home. They crawl up and down my walls and feast upon the termites in my ceiling. They also let out a clicking noise every ten minutes that in English means, “Leave it to a tourist, Jordan, a tourist, to unveil a new side of your village which you didn’t even know existed.”

Eating well

The first week of November was a vacation from teaching. I went to Antalaha and had a peaceful few days with fellow volunteers. There we watched America elect its first black president via a vanilla family’s satellite T.V. and ate langouste and fish the size of my abdomen. On the topic of food, I came upon two new culinary delights just after leaving Antalaha on a taxi-brousse headed for Sambava.

The taxi pulled over to a vendor selling the season’s first lychees. After hearing weeks of Malagasy’ excited anticipation for the fruit, I bought a small pile of them. Lychees are like brown golf balls but with spikes rather than divots. You chip away its hard shell and eat its white juicy insides. I ate all of them in my lap, resulting in sticky fingers, juice spots on my shorts, and lychee pits strewn on Route Nationale 5.

The second delight came from a street-side vendor holding small bags. The passenger next to me bought a bag and offered me some. I nodded, and seconds later I had roasted salted hornets in my hand. They had inch-long red stingers and most still had their wings. I popped two in my mouth and told my passenger neighbor, “Mmmm! This is really good!” They really were, too.

I learned something about myself that afternoon. Five months of eating in this country and seeing flies waltz on my fruit, waitresses with their thumb tips in my dinner, termites swimming in my drinking water, and vendors sneezing into their hands before handing me street food, have culminated to the point where someone can give me almost anything—even bugs!— and I’ll eat it faster than a Malagasy child can say, “Donnez-moi cinq cent.” For this I’m still wondering whether to be proud or ashamed.

Hotelys

I’ve given up cooking in Madagascar. I’d rather spend the money to eat out rather than take the time to cook a sub-par meal and wash dishes afterwards.

Two meals a day I eat at hotelys, small Malagasy restaurants. Most hotelys are a family’s living room converted into eating quarters. The cook is usually the household mother, and the people busing tables are usually the cook’s children. I ate a rice and fish meal for lunch once while the household father napped on a mat across from me.

The food is always good and always available, so I’m always eating it. The routine weathers you from the dirty and probably unhealthy hotely environment. The plastic table clothes usually have holes in them, dirt is caked in the corners along the walls, and the dishes are cleaned by quickly dunking them into a bucket of soapy water.

Malagasy hotely families haven’t been introduced to capitalist principles, namely product diversification. Nearly every hotely in my village sells the same four dishes for the same four prices. No one tries to undercut the competition with a new dish, a better dish, or a cheaper price. It appears that rice with beef chunks, rice with chicken and greens, rice with fish in tomato sauce, and rice with beans, all for 1,500 Ariary, are the only dishes and price my village’s consumers expect. As such, except for the town’s soup and brochette hotely, I don’t have much preference which hotely I visit. They’re mostly the same in my village.

My favorite hotely, which I frequent almost daily, sells soup and brochettes. The soup has noodles, a few beef dumplings, shreds of egg and carrot, and a piece or two of lettuce in a bouillon broth. The brochettes, small skewers of beef served with shredded mango, are delicious, and they always accompany my soup. In a weird twist, this hotely is also the dirtiest hotely in town. Flies are everywhere. Termites flurry around a hole in the floor and they’re often exploring the dining tables. One time I watched a hen and her chicks mosey through the room, and then the cook, a household daughter, shooed them out with her apron. But most notably is when I was eating dinner and found a long, Malagasy woman’s hair in my soup. Having become so acclimated to hotely dining experiences, I calmly removed the hair, shrugged, and continued eating, thinking, “Hey! At least it wasn’t cholera!”

In general, if the food is hot, it’s safe to eat. I don’t eat the macaroni salad that some hotelys dish out, nor do I drink the water hotelys serve. If I need to drink, I ask for ranonam’pango, which is boiled water mixed with burnt leftover rice. Yogurt for dessert is safe to eat since the milk must be boiled to make it, and even street food like samosas, fried dough, ginger bread, and grilled bananas are safe as long as people and flies haven’t been touching them all day long. Whether this advice is sound or whether I’m just lucky, I’ve been in Madagascar for five months and I’m still worm-free.