Back to Posting After a Long Break

It’s been months since my last entry, which, in this case, is a good thing because it means that I’ve been contentedly busy in Madagascar.  Over the past few months I’ve witnessed the arrival of Peace Corps Madagascar’s newest training class, helped to train them and watched them depart to their sites to begin work as volunteers.  They’re a great group of open-minded and motivated individuals and I couldn’t be more excited to see what they’ll accomplish over the next two years.

Following the training my parents arrived for a visit and, together with my amazing girlfriend, we spent eleven days touring the country, which was possibly the best trip of my life.  At the moment, I’m back in Ankazambo and am admittedly just beginning to process the whirlwind that comprised the previous two months.

The myriad of experiences has resulted in more fodder for writing that I could have ever imagined.  That said, I have been so busy over the past month with training and travel that I have neglected to share experiences from the previous month’s life at site, leading to a serious backlog of short stories.  For the sake of chronology I’ll endeavor to share some of these older stories now but promise to update everyone on more recent happenings shortly.

The day after I posted my last entry bemoaning the oppressive heat and lack of rainfall in Ankazambo, Cyclone Felleng grazed Madagascar’s eastern shore sending torrential downpours our way.  On the first day of the cyclone—which was admittedly tame at my site in the middle of the island—I was overjoyed.  By the second day, I was already sick of the constant rain.  By the third day, I lost my mind.  I have a tin roof that amplifies the sound of even drizzles to deafening levels, making it impossible to have a conversation even if your friend is sitting next to you.  There are, therefore, literally pages of my journal dedicated exclusively to the classification of different types of rain.  Forrest Gump would be proud.

Travel

On the fourth day, the rain stopped, the floods subsided a bit and I crawled out of hibernation squinting to the blinding rays of the first sunshine I had seen in days.  If I learned anything from the cyclone of February 2013, it’s to be careful what you wish for.

On the fifth day, I had plans to visit my friend for the weekend in Mandritsara just 100km south on the Route National 32.  The road had been passable and in good condition since arriving in Ankazambo in May 2012 so I had no reason to think that I would encounter any problems.  I was naïve.

Ankazambo is split down the middle into Ankazambo Avaratra and Ankazambo Atsimo (north and south respectively) by a small river that, during most months of the year, resembles little more than a creek.  There is no bridge.  Since May, there hasn’t been the need as there has been less than 3 inches of water trickling through the center of my town since I arrived.  During cyclone season, however, that changes and the river swells to 30 meters across with swift, nearly whitewater currents.  Anyone foolish enough to try to swim across the rushing brown water is promptly carried hundreds of meters downstream before reaching the northern bank.

The day that I intended to go to Mandritsara, the river had swelled and the original plan to travel with my friend in Befandriana, which is north of the river, wasn’t possible.  Such is the reality of travel in Madagascar.  You’re almost never in control of the details of your trip—only that you’ll get to your destination, eventually.

For three hours, I sat on the south bank of the river, waiting for minibus drivers to get up their nerve and forge the swollen river.  Finally, one driver did just that and his broken-down Mazda was nearly swept away by the current in exchange for his bravery.  Water was still pouring out of the van when myself and fifteen others clambered in to make what we assumed would be a four-hour drive to Mandritsara.

Predictably, we proceeded at half speed, because we had taken on water in the undercarriage.  I soon learned that it’s probably not the best idea to travel in Madagascar one day after a cyclone.  Before we made the 30-kilometer mark we were required to ford 2 more rivers and 3 ponds that had overtaken the road.  By the time we reached the town of Pont Sofia, our engine and undercarriage had taken on so much water that we stopped for an hour to make repairs and dry off.

At the 50-kilometer mark we came upon a whitewater river cutting through the center of the national highway.  Three days earlier, there was likely no obstruction.  No one seemed fazed.  We spent the next two hours waiting while villagers took advantage of the stranded travelers, setting up makeshift stands along the road and selling fried bread and fruit.

Here, sitting at exactly 50 km from the nearest town in one of the most isolated regions on the island, it occurred to me that most of these people had never seen a foreigner for more than the two seconds it takes the occasional British missionary doctor to drive through.  I was reminded of my first day in Ankazambo as three dozen kids intently watched my every move from an uncomfortably close distance.

After two hours of waiting in vain for the current to decrease, the driver finally became impatient enough to simply drive through the rapids.  As he slowly crept the rickety Mazda minibus to the riverbank’s edge I was reminded of childhood amusement park trips, specifically the water rides—after waiting for hours, the big pay-off had finally arrived, my heart was in my throat and my stomach dropped making me realize that I had to pee.  The only thing that distinguished this water ride from those of my youth at Six Flags was that this time, I resisted the urge to pee in the boat.

The minibus stalled in the middle of the river.  As water slammed against the driver-side doors, I seriously considered getting out and swimming so as not to be caught in the car when it was tipped over by the current.  I looked down to find that water inside of the cab had risen up to my ankles and my luggage was soaked.  After a brief stall that seemed to last forever, the pitiful automobile was restarted and heaved up the opposite bank to loud cheers from hundreds of on looking villagers.

We proceeded slowly for the remaining 50 km and finally reached our destination after eight hours of travel.  By comparison, a Peace Corps 4×4 can typically complete the same journey in about 2 hours.  As always seems to be the case, there was redemption at the end that made the trip more than worth it.  Upon arriving in Mandritsara, I joined my friend’s landlord for ‘one drink’ which, despite my protests, ended up turning into an entire bottle of whiskey, pork ribs and a three hour debate regarding Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits.  I was only permitted to leave once the bottle was finished, I had taught them about American drinking games and had promised to make my comrades CDs with their two favorite musical genres: gangster rap and country western.  I couldn’t make this up.

I digress.  My point is that public transportation in Madagascar has taught me a level of patience that I never thought possible through the realization that the journey is often just as interesting as the destination.  At the very least, there’s a story in there somewhere.  It’s also taught me that things are never as bad as they seem and can always be worse.  For instance, this particular trip seems insignificant in comparison to the 40 hours it took me to get to the north for vacation (because the driver insisted on taking several naps) or the 49 hours it took me to get to the capital for a conference (because of flooded roads and broken down cars).

Entertainment

In my village, sources of entertainment are often hard to come by and are typically improvised.  Toys are usually nothing more than an empty sardine tin dragged around by a piece of twine or a plastic bag on a string doubling as a kite.  The boys race old bike tires through the dusty streets with sticks while girls make mud pies with rusty cans, broken jars and discarded charcoal remnants. Almost all of the younger kids have never seen a television or computer and there are only a few dozen radios in Ankazambo.  As a result, when it was announced that my landlords had a satellite feed and would be inviting the whole community to watch the semi-finals of the African soccer championships at our house, there was pandemonium.

For the two days leading up to what was shaping up to by Ankazambo’s super bowl, there was heavy rain.  I tried to explain to my landlord that if the rain didn’t let up, picking up the satellite feed on the cheap dish he received as a gift from his microfinance institution would be impossible.  In his characteristic stubbornness, he assured me that he’d find a way to make it work even if he had to climb the nearest mountain.

So we set about preparing for the game.  Our goal was to fit the entire village into a 10 by 12 foot room.  Then there was the issue of setting up the television and satellite dish and watching the actual event without electricity.  We borrowed a car battery from the visiting construction workers, which did the trick.  Our industry was rewarded because by game time the skies cleared and it was time to watch Nigeria vs. Mali play for the right to face Burkina Faso in the finals.

Neighbors began arriving at game time and vied desperately for a seat that would allow them to see the 20 inch television screen but I had saved myself a seat just 3 feet from the TV.  As more and more people piled into the small room with no windows, the temperature became stifling and the air was heavy with moisture.  By the time Nigeria scored their first goal I realized that this was the longest I had watched television in ten months but also that I had sweat through my first shirt.

There were 25 kids crammed into every conceivable floor space and 12 adults equally crammed onto wooden benches in the back.  The hundreds that had arrived too late to get a seat inside mulled about outside while a young man watched from the doorway and recapped the action.  It was the peak of Malagasy summer and everyone was literally dripping sweat but I seemed to be the only one slightly uncomfortable.

The game was a rout.  Nigeria dominated time of possession and was up 3-0 by the end of the first half.  This did not dampen anyone’s spirits however, because like America’s super bowl, the spectacle is half the fun.  The difference is that here the spectacle is the mere novelty of watching television.

There was uproarious laughter at every close up of a Malian player with a strange haircut, a Nigerian post-goal celebration or when the camera cut away from the action to the face-painting Nigerian soccer hooligans.  It also proved difficult for me to explain why Mali had a European coach but nothing was more confusing than the Pepsi and Nissan commercials at halftime that were set in an imaginary distant future.  I gave up on this one and simply told everyone that the imaginary cityscapes were of Chicago and New York today.

Nigeria ended up winning the match 4-1; however, details regarding the second half are admittedly hazy in my mind because all I could think about was water and fresh air.  By the end of the game, I had probably sweat more than all of the players combined.  Normally, I would have left before the final whistle but nothing short of body surfing my way out the door would have permitted exit in the tiny cramped room.

Finally, after over 90 minutes of the most physically intense sports-watching experience of my life, it was all over and people filed out of the room still giddy from the night’s excitement.  Having lived in Ankazambo for over a year, many cultural differences, once strange, have become normal; however, I remain amazed by how much the simple pleasure of watching a soccer match raised the spirits of an entire community. 

So many things that we take for granted as Americans are still luxury items to most that live in the developing world.  This; however, encourages those with less to appreciate the small things more than we could possibly imagine.  After the game, I found that I was envious of my neighbors that had experienced so much joy from something so commonplace to me.  With that in mind, I began eagerly looking forward to the following week’s match up where I was bound to watch the game in similar conditions, appreciating it all the more. 

 

Musings: New Year’s “Eve”, Showers, and Public Exposure

Over the past two months, I’ve been kept busy participating in the egregiously protracted Malagasy New Year celebration in Ankazambo. Fortunately, I’ve found an outlet in work and between parties I’ve been juggling half a dozen different projects ranging from writing radio advertisements for the blacksmiths to helping my landlord’s son start and run a photography business.  The last ‘New Years Eve’ party was this past Saturday, January 26.  In total, it is the seventh that I have attended.

I know that I haven’t been posting as frequently as I was at the beginning of my service but I can assure you that this is due neither to laziness nor lack of free time.  Given the most recent Chicago cold snap, this may be hard to imagine, but here in the north of Madagascar I’ve been unable to work regularly on my computer for fear of destroying the keyboard with the buckets of sweat constantly pouring off of my hands and my brow.  Sadly, I’m not exaggerating. Temperatures have soared into the hundreds and the strong winter winds that I had grown accustomed to have completely stopped only to be replaced by regular humidity.  Still, it is better than winters in Chicago.

Much like the lack of real winter/snow in Chicago, my region is experiencing anomalous weather conditions.  Typically, the rains come in sheets at the beginning of January, like clockwork, as if cued by the New Year, causing the temperature to drop to a comfortable eighty degrees Fahrenheit.  For the last three weeks; however, we’ve had little more than the occasional sprinkle.  As a result, the usually reliable farming schedule is thrown badly out of whack and stores of last season’s rice are being depleted before the crop is ready for harvest.  My friends still can’t plow their bone-dry rice fields and both rice and corn will be late this season exacerbating an already difficult ‘hungry season’ from January to March.  In such situations, it’s not uncommon for the price of rice to double because sustenance level farmers must begin to buy rice imported from other regions or as far away as Pakistan.

It’s been extremely painful waiting around every day for the rains that never come and being greeted by worried faces whenever I walk through my community knowing that there’s nothing that any of us can do.  Last week, some of the area’s residents butchered a cow on the sacred mountain behind my house as a sacrificial offering while others have turned to the church, causing Saturday service attendance to nearly double.  Yet the drought continues on a scale that defies recent memory.

As bad as the drought has been I’m not the least bit worried for the community of Ankazambo because, as a result of being raised in such a rugged and isolated place, it’s home to some of the toughest and most resilient people I have ever met.  We’ll be fine even if we have to do the unthinkable and substitute the ever-familiar rice with boiled corn for a month or two.

I digress. In its entirety, the purpose of my correspondence here has never been to evoke pity or sympathy, rather to share a few stories of a more light-hearted nature.  Over the past two months I have accumulated quite a few of those stories mostly because yesterday marked my 55th consecutive day in Ankazambo. Since arriving at site in May, this is the longest stretch without a short vacation—not that anyone is counting of course.

This has inevitably helped my work progress more quickly but the best part about being entrenched for so long is that I haven’t missed a thing and have been witness to some pretty awkward and, in retrospect, funny situations.  This particular post is about some of those days.

Malagasy New Year’s Eve…Fortnight

One of the most important holidays in Madagascar is the celebration of the New Year during which time the Malagasy drink and feast for weeks.  It’s been explained to me that this is especially true in the villages and Ankazambo is no exception. By the time the New Year rolled around I was feeling comfortable enough at site to simply be myself and stopped worrying about trying to impress everyone.

I’d like to say that this encouraged me to willfully indulge in the alcohol-fueled party to ring in 2013; however, it’s more accurate to say that I finally caved to the peer pressure of my friends and coworkers, and struggled to keep up with their frenzied drinking pace while not embarrassing myself too much.  Before reading any further, let it be known that my college days are behind me and I acted like a responsible adult and presented a positive image of Americans despite the strong temptation to do the opposite.

It was decided that my drinking buddy for the first week was to be the mayor.  He claimed that his intention was to watch over me, making sure that no one forced me to drink too much.  By the end of each night, our roles were reversed and it was my responsibility to reign in his drinking.  The mayor of Ankazambo is Rabemaro.  He’s a good-natured, middle-aged man with an easy laugh and a charming but mischievous smile.  Upon meeting him, you’re immediately impressed by his charisma but quickly begin to feel as though he’s playing the angles and you’re his potential mark.

At 3pm every day for a week, the moonshine began flowing, the impossibly loud music was turned up to eleven and the dancing commenced.  The celebrations then continued relentlessly each day until 3am the next morning.  Needless to say, this was not my most productive week for business development initiatives or trainings.  My plan was to indulge my neighbors with my presence for a few hours each day, have a drink, let them see the foreigner try to dance, and leave before dark when the relatively tame party devolves into what resembles a saloon fight scene from a classic Western.  Rabemaro’s insistence; however, made it more difficult to leave than I initially imagined.

By the end of the first day of partying I came down with a cold and developed a terribly painful sore throat.  This was probably because the custom is to drink homemade alcohol out of one communal bucket, reusing two unwashed glasses for the entire community of 900. Planning to take the second day off, I laid low but when the mayor came calling in the afternoon, I had no choice but to partake in the celebration yet again.

I explained to him that I was sick and that while I would join him at the parties, I couldn’t drink any alcohol.  He listened sympathetically and agreed: it was decided that we wouldn’t drink any alcohol; we would drink beer.  All this time, I had been under the impression that beer was alcoholic.  He patiently explained to me that beer is good for your health because it has water in it and isn’t ‘hot on your throat’ like the infamous Malagasy moonshine (toaka gasy).

So, for six hours we sat in home after home and chugged warm bottles of the cheapest beer in Madagascar, ‘Castel’ which I enjoy for its soda-like carbonation and subtle hints of aluminum.  The taste didn’t bother me so much this time because we weren’t exactly nursing them. Every time I looked away, the mayor’s cup was empty so I chugged with the determination of a fraternity pledge in order to keep up since I was buying nearly every round.  Every gulp made my throat ache.  I was comforted; however, by Rabemaro’s conviction that the warm beer was good for my health.  So we kept drinking.

That evening we stumbled out of the only bar in town—which is actually my neighbor’s living room—and wobbled through the dusty alleys, greeting every stranger that passed through Ankazambo.  Liquid courage had me convinced that I had achieved fluency in Malagasy and launched into elaborate and completely fabricated stories about my childhood while the mayor ignored me and pointed out the angry drunks that I should avoid.

He then invited me to one final party at his home.  By this time I had forgotten all about my sore throat and agreed to join him for one final beer.  We shared this one while we sat on long wooden benches and watched the barefoot, dancing women kick up enormous clouds of fine orange dust silhouetted by the glow of the setting red sun.  I didn’t feel out of place, awkward, nervous or even frustrated that the partying had seriously delayed my self-imposed work schedule.  A tremendous peace of mind overtook me as I stared blearily at the festivities.

This calmness lasted all of three minutes before the mayor’s wife, who was tipsy but not inappropriately drunk, insisted that I dance with her.  Hesitant, as always, not to cause an international incident I glanced warily at the mayor whose face immediately lit up with drunken joy.  As it turned out, he was just as determined to get the foreigner to dance at his party, as his wife was to dance with the 23-year-old.

So we danced, stomping and swaying rhythmically to the fast-paced accordion music.  A crowd gathered.  After the end of the first song I thanked them for their hospitality and went to retrieve my seat but Rabemaro grabbed me and kept me on the dance floor for three more songs, dancing wildly without pause for a half-hour.

My knees were starting to buckle from exhaustion, my head was pounding and my throat was raw so I finally pulled myself away from the party and returned home, accompanied, of course by the mayor, Rabemaro.  He understood that I was a lightweight and gave up on trying to keep me out and dancing so he bid me a good night and went back to the party which continued for several more hours.

Before doing so, however, Rabemaro used my bathroom, which is nothing more than a packed mud hut with a thatched roof and two doors.  One door leads to my toilet (kabone), which is simply a hole in the ground, while the other is my shower (ladosy), which has a small drain and room enough for a bucket bath.  Mine is the only home in town with a toilet or shower. (Most people prefer to bathe in the river and relieve themselves in the woods).  The mayor, therefore, not being accustomed to my bathroom situation, used the wrong door and urinated in my shower.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him so.  I’m told that he returned several hours later and did it again.  We have not had a drink together since.

My Naked Best Friend

Much earlier in my service while I was still figuring things out, I had an early encounter with full-frontal nudity.  Since that day I’ve had many more so I’ve pushed the experiences into the recesses of my mind only to see the light of day today.  I was riding my bike with the president of the blacksmith association, my friend Fizel.  Fizel is tall and athletically built and although in his late-thirties, he possesses the genuine and endearing innocence of a much younger man.  He has experienced more heartbreak that I care to mention but has remained the most upbeat and optimistic person I have ever met.

On this particular day, the president and myself were riding our bikes into Befandriana to meet with my counterpart NGO.  The meeting was scheduled for 9am but, as is typical in Madagascar, we were running very late.  We left for town at about 9:30 but were delayed first by bike problems and then because Fizel forgot his bag and finally, because he had to make a phone call.

On our fourth attempt to leave Ankazambo, I was starting to get the impression that we were on our way when he stopped abruptly and said, rather sheepishly, that he had the pressing need to shower.  By this time we were about two hours late for our meeting and he clearly sensed my anxiety.  I could only laugh and I turned my bike around to head back to Ankazambo so that he could shower.  When I turned back around; however, he was completely naked, sprinting away from me down the hot blacktop only to leap over a roadside hedge into a standing pool of mossy brown water.

Dumbfounded, I waited by the side of the road for him to finish his shower.  Meanwhile, he carried on about our plan for the upcoming meeting while waving to passing taxi brousses still standing stark naked in the shallow pool.  Ten minutes later, he emerged from his shower dripping wet and, as he struggled to put on his shorts, he explained to me that the Tsimihety custom is to take advantage of the natural resources, showering whenever there’s a convenient source of water, even if this means showering in less than pristine waters—such as those offered along the side of the highway.

The hotter it is, he explained, the more they shower.  We’ve reached the peak of Malagasy summer and I’ve seen more naked men, leaping over hedges into dirty pools of water than I care to remember.  More often than not, they stop and wave while I pass on my bike.

 

Hani-masaka tsisy tompony

Living within the home of a Malagasy family in a small, poor, rural village in the north of the island offers some incredible benefits. Most notably, my unique living situation affords me the opportunity to participate in Tsimihety culture more fully than I ever thought possible (and, at times, more than I ever wanted).  ‘My home’ is actually two rooms within my landlords’ home.  The title, ‘landlord’ is highly misleading.  The people that I live with have become more like an adoptive family and I have become the 23-year-old man-child that won’t move out of his parents’ house.  While initially hesitant to surrender my privacy, I quickly relented partly due to sheer proximity and partly because of my desire to learn everything that I could about this culture.  I eat every meal with this family, pray at their 6-hour church services, and attend their sons’ soccer games. Their guests occasionally sleep on my couch, while their toddler regularly pees on my floor.

The result of complete integration has been extremely rewarding because, while I still have much to learn, I’ve gained a relatively intimate understanding of Tsimihety culture, an opportunity that I’m extremely lucky to have.  Through this blog I’ve endeavored to share some of these experiences with those of you that can’t necessarily travel to this tiny village.  Having only lived here for 8 months, I claim no expertise regarding the culture and, indeed, my interpretations should be subject to scrutiny. Unfortunately, I’m not yet aware of any university professors currently offering anthropology credit in Tsimihety culture.  Thus, you’re stuck with me and I’ll do my best.

This post is dedicated entirely to Tsimihety cuisine and attitudes towards food.  I find the food culture of Madagascar, and specifically within my village, particularly fascinating because it differs so much from America, perhaps more so than any other aspect of Tsimihety life.  Malagasy food culture differs not only in the superficial such as differences in food type but more importantly in perceptions concerning the role of food in daily life.

The most profound difference between Western food culture and that in Madagascar is that here, the taste of the food is simply not important but the community afforded through mealtime is absolutely essential. Put simply, food is not appreciated for its taste or appearance but because it encourages communal bonds.  I’m not nearly as well-traveled as most but I humbly submit that this appears to be a divergence not only from North American and European culture but many South American and Asian cultures as well, most of which are internationally recognized for a distinctive cuisine.  Not here.  If there must exist a national cuisine of Madagascar it would be white rice.

According to the World Book Encyclopedia the Malagasy people eat more rice per-capita than any other nation on the planet, averaging ½ kg of uncooked rice, per person, per day.  ‘Mahavoky’ or (to make full) is infinitely more commonly used to complement a meal than mahatsiro (delicious).  Thus, Tsimihety people, typically considered to be one of the poorest groups of people in Madagascar are highly utilitarian in their approach toward food but not in the obvious sense.  A surface interpretation would indicate that they view food as simply a means to an end where food is consumed to live; however, deeper investigation indicates that food is used regularly in order to strengthen tightly knit communities.  Thus, the Tsimihety are utilitarian in viewing food as a means by which to build a harmonious community rather than to be enjoyed by the individual.  This brings us to one of the most common proverbs in Ankazambo: “a meal has no owner” or, in Tsimihety: “Hani-masaka tsisy tompony.”

In Tsimihety ‘hani-masaka’ translates to ‘cooked food,’ however; in practice, food is synonymous with rice.  Rice is eaten three times a day with few to no exceptions. For breakfast we eat ‘sabeda’ which is simply rice porridge as a result of being cooked with twice as much water.  The rice is served alongside an ant-covered, 5kg dark brown brick of raw cane sugar, bits of which are chipped off and dissolved into the hot rice.  On occasion, there are small bananas or a large woven bag of mangoes.  The implications of this high-carbohydrate diet manifest themselves physically, as nearly every member of my community over the age of 30 is missing several teeth.

At lunch, everyone seated at the table is served a heaping dish of rice while small dishes of ‘ro’, ‘loaka’, ‘kabaka’ or ‘losary’ are placed in the center of the table for sharing (the preceding words all mean ‘side dish’).  Side dishes are small, usually about one-fifth the amount of the rice.  What is lacking in quantity is more than made up for in overpowering flavor.  The kabaka is either incredibly oily, bitter, or heavily salted (a bottle of ‘sakay’ or hot pepper sauce is sometimes placed on the table).  Dishes are usually boiled greens, beans, or dried, salted fish and all are intentionally over-seasoned to balance the huge quantities of white rice, which is essential.  Every week or so, I cook American food for my family.  No matter what I cook, I absolutely must serve rice or else it doesn’t qualify as a meal.  Nothing epitomizes this American-Gasy fusion better than my specialty: banana pancakes served over hot white rice.

Immediately before beginning the meal water is added to the used rice pot and placed back in the charcoal fire to slightly burn the residual rice and make hot rice water ‘ranon-ampango.’  Rano means water while ampango translates to ‘the rice that sticks to the bottom of the pot.’  Anyone skeptical regarding the importance rice in this culture needs look no further than the mere existence of this word.

The centrality of rice to a meal has important cultural consequences. Most importantly, rice is easily shared with unexpected guests.  In our kitchen, I commonly eat besides visiting family members, police, gendarme, construction workers, taxi drivers and other strangers—travelers simply passing through—because, as evidenced by the above proverb, it is a cultural expectation that one offers to share his or her food.  Cooking a large pot of rice ensures enough food for the inevitable guests.

Also important is the fact that just a small amount of the starchy rice satiates one’s appetite when other food options are scarce.  I’m fortunate to live with a family that always has money to buy a bit of vegetables, beans or fish to nutritionally balance the meal; however, many families (including many of the blacksmiths that I work with) often can’t afford the side dish.  ‘Carbo-loading’ is the inevitable result and a means by which to complete 8 hours of work in the fields or the workshop despite the obvious nutritional deficiencies. Unfortunately, this lack of dietary balance has repeatedly rendered two of my closest coworkers very sick through malnutrition (lack of calcium in both cases).

Finally, rice is relatively easy to store and then cook.  While I can testify first hand that the harvesting is highly labor-intensive, cooking is merely a matter of picking out rocks, cleaning and boiling.  This is important to the Malagasy mother that has half a dozen other responsibilities on top of preparing three meals per day.  Rice can be put on the charcoal stove and just about forgotten until it is ready to serve.  For the same reason, almost all side dishes are boiled as well.

Special occasions mark a reprise from the monotony of food options. The two most important holidays in Madagascar are Malagasy Independence Day (June 26) and the New Year.  To celebrate these holidays, families get together, buy a cow and subsequently slaughter it.  Then the meat is divided into several piles depending on how many families are present.  Cuts of prime beef are mixed in with parts of the cow I previously didn’t know existed.  It’s all boiled, salted or fried until its grey.  The food is, of course, appreciated because it tastes better than dried fish heads, but what’s important is not the delicacy itself but the town gathering in which food is distributed. Not only does everyone in the community pitch in to purchase the zebu, nearly the entire town turns up to help with the butchering and distribution.  Alcohol is served, kids are taught the process and everyone works together until the work is done.  It is perhaps the most important event of the weeklong celebrations and, while it all centers around food, the taste of the food couldn’t be less important.

Chicken, while much more common than beef, is also rare.  For wealthier families a chicken dinner is often used to celebrate birthdays, for special guests, or to repay a favor.  If one’s neighbor helps him replace his thatched roof or helps to harvest his rice, it’s customary to serve some kind of special meal, typically chicken.  For instance, the construction workers building the blacksmiths’ workshop spent their Sunday installing a new window frame for me free of charge.  I killed and cooked a chicken for lunch, shared it, and we called it even.  Food is a means of getting things done and keeping harmony within this community.

What’s clear to me is that there exist fundamental differences between Malagasy and American cultures regarding the role of food.  Somewhere between my first fish head and fourth fried locust I’ve learned how easy it is to live without truly delicious food.  I still appreciate it and indulge when on vacation or when I cook with my fellow volunteers; however, when one is surrounded by a supportive and interesting community with which to share that food (rice) it makes one quickly forget the tastes of home.

Hani-masaka tsisy tompony

 

Happy Thanksgiving

First, a quick thank you to everyone for staying in touch via email, this blog, letters, packages etc.  Your continued interest over the past 9 months has really meant a lot to me.  The best way to keep in touch is email.  I check my email as often as once per week and I promise to keep writing as much as possible and respond to emails in a relatively timely manner.  Keep ‘em coming.

Unfortunately, I have no Tsimihety proverbs, funny stories or half-baked philosophy in this month’s entry.  I rushed this out because I wanted to take the time to give a quick update on things in Madagascar but more importantly, to wish everyone back home a very Happy Thanksgiving spent with family and friends.  To my family, I wish that I could be there today to enjoy your company and my favorite holiday.  To my friends, I hope that you enjoyed Black Wednesday and continue to make bad decisions in my absence.

Celebrating Thanksgiving in Madagascar is different.  There’s no turkey, football, 5K or crisp fall air.  Oppressive humidity and 95-degree weather make it hard to believe that winter is just around the corner in Chicago.Despite plans to spend Thanksgiving visiting friends in Mandritsara (about 100 km east), I awoke this morning to the sounds of a raucous demonstration that I later learned was a taxi-brousse driver strike. As a result, plans to leave my district had to be put on hold and for the moment it looks like I’m stranded in Befandriana.

There are a lot of things that circumstances have prohibited but conditions haven’t stifled my holiday spirit.  While I spent the morning preparing registration papers for the blacksmiths, I made it clear that they’re on their own for the rest of the day and visited my friend in Befandriana for the day.  I also got my hands on a box of Argentinean wine with a Turkish label in a Malagasy storefront owned by an Arabic family.  I’m thankful for the Era of Globalization.

My work is still progressing steadily and I feel very at home in my community.  I find it hard to believe that I’ve only been in Madagascar for 9 months.  It feels like I’ve lived here for years. That said, it’s daunting to think that I still have 17 months of service left; not to mention how much I still hope to accomplish.

Construction continues on the blacksmith’s new workshop and roadside store; however, as predicted, progress has slowed significantly and we currently find ourselves in possession of a workshop without a roof or and a store that’s little more than a foundation and some rebar.  Such is the reality of completing a construction project in the middle of nowhere (said affectionately of course).  With miles of bad roads separating us from the capital or any port city the construction company spends a good amount of time waiting for materials. Fortunately, after weeks of waiting for rebar and roofing, the truck finally arrived from Tana and we’re back on schedule to complete both structures by the New Year.

The blacksmith association “Loharanonkariana” is finally starting to become a business rather than a loose association of childhood friends.  This past weekend we ratified the constitution, elected an executive board and gathered member fees.  All that I have left to do is harass the last few members for their fees before registering the association with the government next week.

The news that I’m most excited about is that my counterparts have agreed to teach me the tricks of the trade.  In December, I’ll begin as an ‘apprentice’ blacksmith, studying under my friends Fizel and Evariste who have a combined fifty years of experience.  I’ll be spending three days a week working over a hot forge, pouring a significant amount of my own money into making knives that no one will buy but I couldn’t be happier to learn the new skill.

Finally, the spirit of Thanksgiving has caused me to reflect upon what I’m truly thankful for and I’ve reached the following conclusion: I’m thankful for the opportunity to live and work in Madagascar but, more than anything, I’m thankful for the type of friends and family back home that not only supported my decision to live abroad for two years but continue to encourage and inspire me every day.  I miss you all and hope that your Thanksgiving offers a welcome repose from a hectic pace of life.  Enjoy yourselves, relax and more than anything else, enjoy the company of those around you.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Dan

 

Izay mahari-jibiky mahazo faran’ny alanana

Things are going well in Ankazambo Atsimo and I’m staying very busy trying to keep the blacksmiths organized and motivated.  The last artisan fair is just around the corner and, after organizing trips to four of them and attending two of those, we all couldn’t be happier to have a little break.  The new workshop and store will be completed by the end of November which is a milestone both exciting and daunting.  While the buildings will no doubt increase the cooperative’s capacity, I’m assuming that it will also expose some of the weaknesses of our very new organization.  Regardless, I’m overjoyed to be done with this first phase of my service and am ready to jump into new projects of my own.  The biggest of these new projects is to unite all of the blacksmiths in my commune into a much larger federation so that we can increase our output and expand into new markets. 

I’ve also begun the early stages of working with a mpanamboatra krado (a cobbler that makes shoes out of old truck tires).  I’m excited at the prospect of working with just one individual as opposed to trying to mediate the competing opinions of 25 different artisans.  While it’s still too early to tell for sure, I believe that I’ll really enjoy working with him and a project that is entirely my own.

Izay mahari-jibiky mahazo faran’ny alanana 

The above proverb literally means, “Those that bear to dive; receive sand.”  Those that endure struggles and dive below the surface of the ocean eventually reach their goal: sand.  While I still don’t understand why anyone would work so hard to collect sand, this doesn’t change the meaning; simply that hard work pays off or, for the purposes of the below anecdote, there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

I traveled to Antananarivo (Tana) at the end of September in order to attend another artisan fair.  While the trip from my site in the north to the capital in the center of the island is always an adventure, this past trip was longer and more difficult than any trip I’ve ever taken.  My experiences help to underscore some of the challenges posed by traveling in Madagascar. More importantly, however, I hope that the below story proves that a positive attitude makes all the difference and no matter how great your struggles, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel (or sand at the bottom of the ocean).

I spent the last day before leaving for the fair pleading with my counterparts to finish the orders that they swore that they could produce.  Despite having signed contracts from all of them to produce a certain kind of knife, almost every one of them produced something different and in a different quantity.  As a result, the second draft of the inventory sheet was comically unrecognizable to the first but such is the nature of doing business in Madagascar.  I was pleased to find that they had all produced very high quality products and all of them had been engraved with our new stamp.

That night, we had our final organizational meeting at 9 PM, already way past my usual bedtime of 7:30. The meeting concluded at about 10:30 when I took the final inventory and organized the knives for the fair. Then I realized that in the excitement of the day, I had forgotten to pack my bag.  I stuffed a toothbrush, a few clean shirts and some underwear into my backpack but craft fair publicity materials took up most of the space.

I spent the next two hours filling out paperwork.  The previous day, my counterpart organization had informed me that there was to be an audit of the Sofia regional office and I was responsible for reporting on all of the activities of the blacksmiths beginning in 2011.  This posed a minor problem because I arrived here in 2012.  I filled out form after form in by candlelight in Malagasy and French, two languages that I neither read nor write too well. I got a kick out of the thought that I had to come all of the way to this island on the edge of the world to become a bureaucratic paper pusher.  At least my office is in Madagascar and I have a view that looks out on the mountains.

As soon as the final report was complete, I collapsed in my bed believing that I would pass out as soon as my head hit the pillow but due to my excessively dirty and flea-ridden mattress getting some sleep before my trip proved challenging.  Then a particularly vicious dogfight began directly outside of my bedroom window.  After 45 minutes of listening to the feral animals bark and squeal, I desperately rummaged through my trunk for my earplugs, shoved them in my ears and fell asleep at about 3:00 am.

At 4:40 am, furious knocking at my door awakened me.  In a haze, I opened the door and couldn’t fully understand why there was a sudden rush of strangers into my home.  I learned that these were the taxi brousse assistants, taking the bundles of knives to put on top of the car.  They were supposed to arrive at 7:30 but showed up three hours early because it was easier for them.  I stumbled outside to find the taxi brousse waiting for me, completely empty except for two men, my counterparts, Rajaonera and Kasimo.

Rajaonera is an enthusiastic and carefree man who stands about 5 ft 6.  Despite having no front teeth due to his frequent indulgence in toaka (Malagasy moonshine), he’s always smiling and laughing.  Kasimo also likes his toaka but doesn’t share Rajaonera’s youthful exuberance; he’s very serious and has aged prematurely due to his overindulgence in toaka, cigarettes and his constant worrying.

For the next three hours, we drove around the dusty moonlit streets of Befandriana to pick up other customers, packing as many people into the minibus as possible.  At about 7:30AM, the driver was satisfied that his brousse was sufficiently full and we finally left Befandriana.

For a while, the drive was just like any other: we were stopped by gendarme and police at checkpoints six times over the washed-out dirt road, traversing the 86 km at a snail’s pace hoping to arrive in Antsohihy four or five hours later.  I tried to stay awake and talk to my counterparts but, unfortunately, due to the lack of sleep I found myself in and out of consciousness the entire ride.  My head was bouncing off of the metal walls of the brousse. I was too tired to notice until I woke from my haze to find a thin trickle of blood running down my right temple.  I ignored the small cut but I think that Kasimo was slightly annoyed by my restless sleeping style since my head was knocking into his shoulder for at least a few hours.

I finally woke about three hours into the trip to a young girl outside my window shouting “Mandrosoa, mofo ravina!” and shoving a bowl of warm banana leaves in my face through the dirty taxi window.  (Mofo ravina is steamed rice bread infused with a little bit of chopped banana and wrapped in a banana leaf).  Brousse drivers often stop in roadside villages allowing villagers to sell food to customers through the windows.  In my sleepy haze, I confused exhaustion with hunger and bought two for 400 A (16 cents) and fell asleep again.

Minutes later, I awoke to the faint smell of smoke which grew stronger and stronger until I opened my blurry eyes to see a thick cloud of black blotting out the sun in front of our brousse.  As we crawled closer to the smoke, it became clear that the source was a brushfire, a common sight in my region during this time of year.  Some are started intentionally and controlled by landowners to clear fields but it became quickly apparent that this was not controlled—probably caused by a carelessly tossed cigarette.

When we finally reached the source of smoke, our tightly packed minibus was on the edge of a raging fire that was quickly devouring the bone-dry white grass, flames lapping the edges of the pavement.  Without hesitation, the driver ordered everyone out of the car and we began to jog through the flame canyon while three extinguisher-wielding assistants tamed the edges of the fire that had encroached too close to the road.

The car’s former passengers (paying customers ranging in age from 1 to 70 years-old) had become walkers.  This is simply because in such an event anywhere but the brousse (the trunk of which is packed with several gallons of extra gasoline) is the safest place to be.  As we hustled through the flames, I felt the intense heat of the fire on my face and brushed ash out of my eyes.  At the time, jogging alongside my blacksmith friends in my exhaustion-induced fog, I couldn’t quite decide if the whole thing was a dream.  Being used to intensely hot fires as a necessity of their job, Rajaonera and Kasimo laughed and joked even as ashes and sparks fell on their bare necks until they reached the other side of the brushfire.

All of the passengers, having now cleared the flames, stepped off of the road as the driver backed up the minibus a few meters and, at a speed I’ve never seen it reach before, barreled through the flames, not taking any chances with his flammable cargo.  He cleared the flames without incident and we all piled back into the car as if nothing had happened.

We arrived in Antsohihy a few hours later and prepared for the next leg: the long, slow crawl to the capital.  Waiting for our next brousse on the dirt ground, I tried desperately to get some sleep but the combination of the horse flies, mosquitoes and stifling heat and humidity made it nearly impossible. Our ride finally arrived several hours later and I was looking forward to sleep but a fellow passenger, a dried fish salesman, talked at me without pause for nearly the entire trip.  The smell was easier to bear than his company.

It was obvious when we were getting close to the highlands because the temperature began to plummet rapidly.  While I had sweat through my t-shirt in Antsohihy, here in the highlands at the tail end of Malagasy winter, I was forced to wear a fleece and winter hat for the first time in months.

We arrived in Tana and I was anxious to get out of the car.  Unfortunately, the densely populated city proved to be another obstacle and we were stuck in standstill traffic.  We had traveled all of the way across the country and just five blocks away from the brousse station we were stuck for over an hour.

No longer able to take the waiting, I bid my counterparts goodbye, promising to meet them at the fair in a few hours, and set off walking to my weekend accommodations, the Peace Corps ‘Meva’ or flophouse.  Once there, I made full use of the high-speed internet and showered with hot water for the first time in months.  Strangely, despite my exhaustion, I was more productive than ever, designing and organizing the cooperative’s publicity materials, contracts and order forms.  It’s amazing how much you grow to appreciate high-speed Internet after months without it.

I headed back out onto the streets of Tana; first to the printer and then to the craft fair walking most of the way to stretch my legs.  I didn’t mind that the fair was on the other side of town and that I didn’t know exactly where I was going.  After asking ten different people for directions, I found the fair on the edge of the administrative district.  After registering our stall and setting everything up for the next day I departed, again not totally sure where I was going but excited to explore a city that had already begun to grow on me.

While I’m perfectly at home in the small village, there’s nothing quite like the excitement of the metropolis of a developing country.  The narrow dirty streets of Antananarivo wind menacingly in seemingly no particular direction as the capital expands out in all directions except up.  You can count the number of skyscrapers on one hand but landmark buildings sit atop steep hills.  Going from one neighborhood to another often means either climbing or descending steep stairs.

Vehicles of all kinds (taxis, rickshaws, scooters and bikes) mingle dangerously close to hoards of pedestrians that dodge traffic while stepping over the street vendors selling electronics, fruit, sandals, fly-ridden beef, guitars, fried bananas and car parts.  Their products are spread out on sidewalk tarps and fiercely protected from theft or trampling.  The air is terribly polluted and everywhere there’s a different smell; rotting fruit, fish, charcoal, burning trash or car exhaust.  The streets seem to bleed dirty water and fruit scraps that are greedily gobbled up by hungry dogs.

It’s loud, dirty and crowded but most of all its charming and alive with activity that makes American metropolises seem sleepy.  Despite its flaws, Tana is fast becoming one of my new favorite cities.

Awestruck by the energy of the city, I forgot my exhaustion and ventured deeper and deeper into different neighborhoods.  After four hours of wandering, I found myself hopelessly lost in Chinatown and stopped in for a beer.  I chatted for a while in broken French with Chinese expatriates.  I left the small bar with somewhat beery courage and decided that I hadn’t seen enough so I hopped on a bus that took me even further out of my way.  Finding myself in what I can only describe as the suburbs, I decided that I’d finally had enough and tried to hail a taxi back to town.

Unfortunately, by this time I was running a little short on cash.  I haggled with the taxi driver for 20 minutes before finally agreeing to fork over my last 5,000 ariary and a beer (that I’d been carrying in my backpack since Chinatown) for a ride back into town.  I didn’t have enough to get me all of the way home so I ended up walking the last three miles.

When I arrived back at the flophouse I was ready to collapse.  I had probably walked about 20 miles that day and in my excitement, hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours (nor had I really slept since the hour and a half in Ankazambo).

It was just as this thought was rushing through my head that fellow volunteers burst in the door, jolly from a few dinner cocktails and invited me out back to the same neighborhood that I had just struggled to find my way home from.  Never one to turn down a night out, I agreed and headed back out into the night only to wake up the next morning at 7am to attend the craft fair and do it all over again.

Things continued much like this for the next two days and despite ‘burning the candle at both ends’ for my entire time in Tana the craft fair was another great success.  We nearly sold out of inventory and received some promising new customers; however, it was the third and final day of the fair that made the whole exhausting trip worth it.

On the final day, Kasimo and Rajaonera, my tentative counterparts, were finally ready to go out in search of resory metalique (high quality steel).  It should be noted that up until this point neither Kasimo nor Rajaonera had left the fair grounds despite numerous invitations.  They sold their products, ate and slept in our stall for three days.

Kasimo and Rajaonera were hesitant to leave the confines of the fairgrounds for fear of the same city that I had come to love.  Up until this point, neither of them had ever been more than 100 km from home and then only to other villages or small towns.  Tana was as foreign to them as it had been to me when I first arrived in Madagascar.  The people were different and spoke a strange dialect; there were paved streets and countless cars, multi-story glass and concrete buildings, ratsy olono (bad people) and more foreigners in one place than either of them had ever seen in their life.

It took over an hour of coaxing before I got them to come with me to buy the metal.  Due to my relentless exploring over the previous 3 days, I had an idea of where to look and led the hesitant blacksmiths through the crowded streets while they marveled at the scale of the city.  We were forced to stop more than once to encourage Kasimo to cross busy intersections and Rajaonera kept wandering off to buy school supplies for his kids (which are much cheaper in Tana).

We took the long way so that they could see the center of the city and walked for more than an hour before arriving at the scrap yard.  At this point, I literally hid behind a pallet of scrap metal in order to avoid being seen by the metal dealer who likely would not have hesitated to double the price assuming that I had money by virtue of being American.  From my hiding spot, I watched with anticipation as the three men haggled over the price.  It was only after they were packing the heavy metal into gunny sacks that I revealed myself to help them load it onto the rickshaw to be brought back to the fair.

I found out as we were packing up that they had gotten an unbelievably reasonable price—about 1/3 of what we paid for a lesser quality metal in Befandriana.  The salesman too, was a nice enough guy and we exchanged information.  To my delight, he mentioned that he would look into making monthly deliveries of the metal up north for a fraction of the price that the blacksmiths of Ankazambo had been paying for years.  Kasimo and Rajaonera were pleased with themselves too, not only because of the great price but for conquering the big city.

With the metal safely packed onto the run-down rickshaw, I thought that a celebration was in order and bought the five of us a round of drinks from the shanty bar outside of the scrap yard.  We relaxed, sitting on the dirty curb—two toothless blacksmiths, a Malagasy metal dealer, a rickshaw driver and a kid from the Chicago suburbs—outside of the Antananarivo scrap yard enjoying our warm beer, a little reward at the end of a long, adventurous and exhausting trip or, if you prefer, the sand at the bottom of the ocean.

Izay mahari-jibiky mahazo faran’ny alanana

 

Ankolany leny sosoko entana

First, very well merited and overdue congratulations to my friends and coworkers, Jacob Morrin and Kaitlyn Denzler.  They completed their service a few weeks ago, working as English teachers in the Sofia region for two years.  Jacob was in Befandriana and Kaitlyn in Mandritsara.  During the four months in which our assignments overlapped I learned a great deal from both of them about patience, diligence and self-discipline.  I was also fortunate enough to observe their last few projects—an English language radio program, a world-map project and a much-needed resource center—come to fruition. Thank you both.  I’m so proud to know you and thanks for making the last four months so enjoyable.  Enjoy the US and know that you’ll be sorely missed.

Ankolany leny sosoko entana

First, I apologize for not posting in over a month.  I’ve been kept busy with a number of challenging projects meaning that I’ve had little time to devote to blogging; however, it’s also afforded me the unique opportunity to more closely observe some of the most glaring cultural differences between my own culture and that of the Tsimihety.  This entry focuses on one of the most significant cultural differences that often makes community economic development such a unique challenge in Madagascar: the decision making process.

The title comes from yet another Tsimihety proverb or ohabolana.  It translates literally to, “The wet luggage stick helps the luggage.” ‘Ankolany,’ are wooden poles about a meter long on which people carry their hentana (luggage).  Obviously, a waterlogged ankolany is not the ideal means of transport as it increases the weight of an already heavy load, thus, making the job more difficult.

Unfortunately, in many cases traditional cultural practices of the Tsimihety serve as the ‘ankolany leny’ hindering the development process.  Specifically, the means of decision-making often takes much longer here and requires more effort than in a developed country. While frustrating at times, there is nothing more humbling than being presented with such a starkly different world view that forces me to completely reconsider cultural practices that I’ve come to take for granted.  Further, while some of these practices may delay the economic development process, I’ve also found that they promote increased harmony and, in many cases, a happier community.

Before arriving in Ankazambo, I worried that I would have trouble motivating my community to take charge of the development process, one of the Peace Corps’ most important goals.  By the end of the first day, it became clear to me that apathy would not be a problem.  Literally hundreds of villagers attended the meeting at which I was introduced and immediately bombarded me with ideas for different development projects before I could even properly introduce myself in Tsimihety. Thus, the challenge here lies not in inspiring an unmotivated public but in mitigating a chorus of dissenting voices.

All decision making in my community is done through collective debate, ultimately resulting in total agreement.  I was raised to believe that the fairest way to arrive at decisions was the ‘American Way,’ through the democratic process, in which majority rules.  With regards to ‘fairness’, Ankazambo does America one better.

Here, the entire collective rules: there must be a consensus between every member of the rey aman dreny (‘parents’ or village leaders) if one is to move forward with a proposition.  This tradition of hyper-egalitarianism pervades every aspect of Tsimihety culture so strongly that village meetings (foko’olono) about even the most trivial decisions have a strong tendency to go on for hours.

When I first arrived, I made a concerted effort to attend every foko’olono but I soon found this task to be impossible as there are often six or seven gatherings per week that last up to two hours each.  What’s more difficult is that meetings don’t run on any type of regular schedule and instead occur spontaneously, whenever there is a newsworthy event or a conflict to discuss.  To host a meeting, a member of the rey aman dreny (any married person over 18) may go to the town crier, Stela, who is paid a few kilos of rice per year to walk the streets of this small village blowing a whistle and screaming at the top of his lungs for people to gather immediately. Unfortunately, Stela is my neighbor and his first stop is always outside of my bedroom window.  Often when I’m sound asleep at 5 am I’m awoken to a shrill whistle and the boom of his voice “Malakylaky! Misy fivoriana!  Lehilahy ary vehivavy jiaby hamonjy!” (Quickly! There’s a meeting!  All men and women will attend!).

At Stela’s behest, the village leaders assemble at the birao fokantany (commune building) but almost never in a timely fashion.  A common phrase around here is ‘leran gasy’ (Gasy time) which means that if something is scheduled to begin at 7am it might begin at 8am if we’re lucky but usually at around about 8:30 people start filing in.  Once at least one member of the Soja Be (village elders over 60-years-old) has arrived, the meeting can begin.  Topics debated range from personal disputes to lost cows or chickens; however, the topic that has occupied most of the rey aman drenys’ meetings since I arrived has the completion of a new workshop and store for Ankazambo’s blacksmiths.

Meetings regarding the workshop always take the longest because we have to divide the labor amongst the 6 different families that live in Ankazambo.  The men of Ankazambo have spent the past several months making bricks about three mornings per week for the new workshop and roadside store.  We wake at 5 in the morning, go to the brickyard and work for two hours before breakfast when it’s still cool.  It’s one of the most strenuous early-morning workouts I’ve ever done and, by the time it’s over, all I want to do is crawl back into bed even before washing the thick layer of mud off of my feet.

Unfortunately, following two hours of labor, the meeting, like the day, is just beginning.  Following the completion of the day’s work, there is a heated debate regarding issues ranging from which group is responsible for working the next morning to how to best arrange the bricks for drying.  A week ago, there was a particularly intense half-hour argument regarding who was responsible for asking the neighboring village to borrow an ox cart.  The task finally fell to my friend Fizel and myself and while the acquisition of the cart took us five minutes, the process of arriving at who was responsible for that task took thirty.

The term ‘heated-debate’ is not an exaggeration.  Every discussion is actually a shouting match with men yelling at each other from all different directions fighting to be heard over the noise of the crowd.  The passion with which they speak and my tenuous grasp on the Tsimihety dialect lead me to believe that every meeting is going to end in a fist fight.  Instead, everyone ends up laughing.  The yelling grows louder and louder until it peaks and culminates with uproarious laughter.  Once everyone is in agreement and a decision is made, I have never seen the least bit of resentment towards a competing party. Such an idiosyncrasy underscores the important role of collective decision making in producing harmony within this culture.

The consequence of debate; therefore, makes public speaking skills absolutely essential in order to have any power.  Here, where most the village leaders are illiterate or semi-literate, the man with the greatest public speaking skills is the most powerful.  This presents an obvious challenge for non-native speakers (namely, me) to effectively communicate positions and suggest ideas.  Luckily, my two strongest allies happen to be the most influential and captivating public speakers.  My landlord, Karim, and my best friend, Fizel, captivate audiences with ease and almost always get their way.

Karim in particular is one of the most impressive public speakers I’ve ever seen.  He’s a classic example of someone who speaks when he has something to say, not simply because he has to say something.  While at home it’s rare to see him say more than ten words in a day his speech is the highlight of every meeting.  While his public speaking is much too fast for me to comprehend, I remain captivated by his charisma and confidence.  So does everyone else—he has the rare ability of controlling the mob of dissenting voices.  While I still give my fair share of kabarys (speeches), I often speak through the medium of a respected leader so that they can effectively communicate my position in this culture dominated by public speaking.  This means that I must stay in nearly constant communication with Fizel and Karim in order to be an active player in the community.

It’s challenges such as these that keep me extremely busy here in Ankazambo but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  The decision making process is one part of Malagasy culture that I would never seek to change not only because it is so deeply ingrained into social life but because, despite its slow pace, it works.  It forces every member of the community to take ownership of the development process and is both highly egalitarian and highly merit-based, favoring the hard-working and charismatic leaders.  I believe strongly in these principles, which means that for now I think that I’ll just have to put up with the wet ankolany and help to carry the heavy load.

Ankolany leny sosoko entana.

 

Sambatra zaho

Here’s a quick update before I launch into the next entry:

I’ve just returned to Ankazambo after a much needed but much too long trip away from site.  I, and one of my blacksmiths  left site on July 30 in order to help market their products at an annual national crafts fair in the capital city of Antananarivo.  The fair was a huge success for us and after six of some of the most exhausting days of my life, I left Tana in order to attend mandatory Peace Corps in-service training (IST) back in Mantasoa.  It was an amazing opportunity to catch up with friends that I hadn’t seen in over three months. I also learned quite a bit about cooperative organization, fair trade certification, and techniques for training in financial literacy.  I am continually impressed by the work that my fellow volunteers are doing and it was inspiring to be back amongst such hardworking and interesting people.

On my way back to Ankazambo, I passed through Antsohihy and stopped by the post office to pick up packages for the first time in three months.  Thank you so very much to everyone that sent them! I received a windfall of epic proportions.  To be exact, 16 packages had accumulated since my last time in town.  The post office workers seemed slightly annoyed, so much so that one of them literally chased me down on the street and opened the post office early just so that I could clear up much-needed space.  Therefore, thank you all for making me infamous within the ranks of the Antsohihy post office staff.

Returning to site after such a long time away was strange but I was quick to get back to work.  I found myself back in the same very fortunate situation here in Ankazambo, Madagascar to which I have become accustomed.  That leads me to this entry’s title…

Sambatra zaho

Sambatra zaho translates literally to “I am blessed” or “I am lucky.” It’s the most fitting title that I could come up with in order to describe my life and work here in Ankazambo (sorry, no Tsimihety proverb this time).

I take no credit for this wonderful situation.  I played no part in the selection of Madagascar as my country of service and, after arriving here, simply asked the Peace Corps Madagascar staff to place me where they thought that I could be of the most help.  By sheer luck, I find myself in this exact town with these exact people, exactly where I’m needed.  Therefore, tena sambatra zaho, “I am very lucky.”

In the course of my ramblings about cross-cultural exchange and travel, I’ve neglected to write about my work, the thing that’s most important to me and the reason that I traveled halfway across the world.  In that sense this entry may be significantly drier than my previous but I though that I should enlighten you as to where a very, very, very small portion of your tax dollars are going (too small of a portion; write your congressman).

My official Peace Corps title is “Community Economic Development Advisor” but I just tell people that I’m a “mpampiofana orin’asa madinky (a trainer of small business).  I live and work in the small village of Ankazambo Atsimo, made up of 6 large families and a total of 960 people (I counted).  The primary income generating activity in Ankazambo is blacksmithing.  The majority of the men in town make small agricultural equipment, mostly different kinds of field knives. Their wives, mothers and daughters are primarily responsible for bringing their products to a variety of small markets throughout the region, a few of which are 30 km away.  The men make the products while the women are primarily responsible for marketing them and keeping the money.  Therefore, nearly everyone within Ankazambo is involved in the blacksmithing trade to some degree.

While I have done some small projects with storeowners and beekeepers, most of my work centers around these blacksmiths because developing the capacities of the blacksmith community will simultaneously develop the community as a whole.  I’m incredibly lucky because my role is very clear in this respect.  Peace Corps volunteers often complain about an ambiguous work situation but this is definitely not the case with my site.  The blacksmiths and their wives are always eager to develop their businesses and community.  That keeps me perpetually busy.

My counterpart organization, Prosperer (a French NGO), is also staffed by some of the hardest working and most qualified people I’ve ever met.  They too haven’t hesitated to ensure that I’m always busy with one project or another.  What’s best; however, is that in conjunction with nationally-mandated initiatives, they give me the freedom to implement my own programs while providing both support and resources. Again, not all volunteers have both structure and freedom.  Tena sambatra zaho.

That leads me to the number of projects that I find myself juggling at the moment.  The biggest one (not to mention the one that is bound to cause the most headaches) is the construction of a new workshop and point de vent for the blacksmiths.  Right now, they all work individually, under tin or grass roofs with one small kiln per workshop.  When it rains or is too windy, they simply can’t work. This is a major problem because it’s always windy in Ankazambo and rains relentlessly for 3 months out of the year.  The workshop will provide both shelter from the elements as well as an area for them to work together, allowing for the exchange of techniques and greater cooperation.

The point de vent will be located on the side of the national road that passes through Ankazambo and will prevent the sellers from needing to travel 30 km by bike with dozens of knives in order to market their products.

The workshop and point de vent are both Prosperer initiatives that I’ve somehow found myself spearheading. Thanks to the tireless efforts of the men, women and children of Ankazambo, we are a mere 3 days away from completing the production of 20,000 bricks, 50 square meters of sand, 15 square meters of blockage, and 9 square meters of gravel, the materials that the community was required to provide before construction.  Making and transporting these construction materials to site required an incredibly large degree of commitment on behalf of this small community and they saw it through.  The construction company arrives from Antananarivo on the 30th of August and we break ground shortly after that all thanks to commitment of my incredibly diligent community.

The construction project will be completed by the end of December. After that, the plan is to get right back to work in hopes of beginning talks with JIRAMA (Madagascar’s electric and water company) in order to help bring a solar panel to Ankazambo.  The electricity will be used both by the blacksmiths in their work and the Ankazambo community in general.

While facilitating the construction, I also have the freedom to advise the blacksmiths in the best ways by which to improve their businesses.  I work exclusively with the fikambanana (cooperative) named “Loharanonkariana” (“The Source of Income”).  The hope is to grow the cooperative into a much larger federation, which will incorporate every blacksmith within the area immediately surrounding Ankazambo.

While incredibly hardworking, the blacksmiths are also very disorganized.  I’ve directed my attention to four areas: organizational management, financial literacy, marketing, technical trainings.  We’ve organized bi-weekly meetings, are in the process of receiving registration from the government, and are making a constitution now.  I also have begun trainings in bookkeeping and financial literacy and use a portion of the meeting to teach these principles.  Technical trainings, focusing on new techniques and products are in association with Prosperer but marketing is the most fun for me.  I’m happy to say that a radio program, knives engraved with the name of the cooperative, business cards and a catalogue are all in the works.

The final project that keeps me most busy is craft fairs.  I just returned from accompanying my counterpart to one in Antananarivo and there is another one much closer in Belalana, Sophia on the 28th of August.  The fairs are a huge boost to business and are our greatest marketing tool.  In Tana, we sold our entire inventory and distributed over 200 business cards to other entrepreneurs and buyers.  Belalana is an even bigger task.  Instead of sending 65 knives like we did to Tana, we’re sending 230.  It also has the potential to be even more helpful in establishing new markets because it is so much closer and more accessible than Tana.

I’ve enjoyed my first few months at site so much and have enjoyed some success only because I’m surrounded by a group of people that share in my passion for development.  My counterpart organization, the blacksmiths, their families and the entire Ankazambo community has been incredibly welcoming, helpful and receptive to new ideas.  I’m constantly impressed by their work ethic and desire to develop their community.  They’ve made my job extremely fun and relatively easy and, for that, Sambatra zaho.