After a long hiatus, I’m finally getting back to the blog. I had to take a break from posting for a while because I was spending my days in Ankazambo overseeing a sanitation construction project and my nights studying for the GRE by candlelight. The latrine buildings are complete and I’ve taken the GRE but I wouldn’t recommend undertaking the two projects simultaneously. After spending months on end in Ankazambo, I had racked up a substantial number of vacation days so I took a long-awaited trip to the southern tip of Madagascar to visit my girlfriend, Samantha. The trip was unforgettable and I would have been devastated to leave if it didn’t mean returning home to my own amazing community on the other side of the island. All of that, however, is for a different post. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I still need to complete ‘part two’ of my parent’s visit to Madagascar in May. Life moves slowly in Madagascar and the fact that it’s taken me over six months to chronicle a 10-day trip should serve as evidence of my ability to assimilate to Malagasy culture—or at least that’s my best excuse.
Less than five days into our trip we had already swum in both the Indian Ocean and the Mozambique Channel, cruised the streets of Diego in a tuk-tuk, walked beneath a canopy of lemurs, traversed a hanging bridge suspended over razor sharp rocks and snorkeled with sea turtles. Having yet to reach the main attraction (my village) I feared that my community wouldn’t live up to my parents’ expectations—or even my own. In case previous entries have not yet made it abundantly clear, I have a great deal of pride in my community and too often (and often to the chagrin of fellow volunteers) I boast that I have the best site in the country. That said, in many ways, Ankazambo is an insignificant dusty backwater on an obscure road to nowhere. Our driver, Abdou, made no attempt to hide his astonishment that tourists were interested in going anywhere in the country without lemurs or a beach.
Having been exposed to Madagascar from the perspective of a tourist had made me self-conscious: did I oversell Ankazambo? Was it really as beautiful and welcoming as I had convinced myself it to be? Would my parents appreciate the Spartan simplicity of my home without amenities like running water and electricity or would they object to the fact that my kitchenware amounted to two rusty knives, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several bottles of hot sauce?
Either way, I had a lot time to think about it. After three days on Nosy Be we crossed the narrow channel to the main island by speedboat, piled into the 4×4 and began the long and winding drive through densely forested mountains to the dry plains of Antsohihy, where we were to spend the night. Even by private car, the trip took a long time.
Unfortunately, at the end of this leg we were not to be greeted by sandy beaches or a national park but Antsohihy: “Madagascar’s Truck Stop” (this name is, in fact, endearing when compared with my own expletive-filled nickname for the city). While Antsohihy serves as a regional capital and a hub for all transport between half a dozen major cities, there isn’t a thing to see. The guidebook has only one paragraph about Antsohihy, the first line of which is “This uninspiring town…” What it lacks in charm it more than makes up for with an abundance of heat, humidity and mosquitoes. If I was overselling, my site, I was certainly doing my best to undersell Antsohihy.
We rolled into Antsohihy not having any idea where we would stay but encountered an unbelievable stroke of good luck when we found a brand-new hotel with air conditioning. If Madagascar has taught me anything it’s that luxury is relative. After a month in the village, a room with flush toilet might as well be the Hilton. At this point, I hadn’t had air conditioning in over a year so I shamelessly turned the dial to 60 degrees, woke up shivering and, for the first time in my service, began to love Antsohihy.
We woke up early the next morning in order to make it to Ankazambo before breakfast. Finally, the day had come where I would get to introduce my family to Ankazambo and vice versa. Despite my nervous energy and the horribly bumpy dirt road, I fell asleep and drooled all over myself, my head bouncing around like a rag doll. While I can hardly sleep at night in my home, put me in a smelly, crowded taxi brousse on a terrible road and I’m out like a light, often to the chagrin of my fellow passengers—in my sleep it’s not uncommon for me to head-butt a toddler or wake up drooling on an unfortunate old lady’s shoulder.
We stopped for breakfast 7km before Ankazambo in the much larger town of Befandriana where I called my landlord to let him know that we were close. At this point I was more nervous than I had been when I first arrived at site over a year earlier. I had absolutely no idea what to expect upon driving into Ankazambo but, if I had, my expectations would have fallen short: the reception was overwhelming. Hundreds of singing women and children lined the streets while the men stood by in honor of our arrival or possibly just to catch a glimpse of my family. We hardly had time to put our bags down before we were whisked away to the town hall for a formal reception.
Having experienced the madness that is public speaking in Madagascar during my first few hours in Ankazambo, I had advised my dad to compose a brief speech that he dictated in English while I translated into Malagasy. We then presented the three proclamations from various political offices that my parents had brought from home commemorating Ankazambo’s hospitality while I pitifully tried to translate phrases like ‘extend the hand of friendship’ and ‘hereunto’ into Malagasy. In the days that followed I provided suitable translations, which now hang alongside the original documents in the town hall.
It was only after the long reception that I was finally able to exhale. The four of us returned to my home and tried to relax but the constant stream of visitors made such a task impossible. We decided to beat my neighbors at their own game and walk around the 600-person village until they were sick of us. First, we visited the blacksmiths and their new workshop where my father demonstrated both his blacksmithing abilities and talent for physical humor. I introduced them to everyone in town that I could think of and while I often forgot to translate the conversations into English, I’m sure that the sheer repetition taught my parents a number of key phrases.
Everywhere we went, an entourage of dozens of curious kids followed us. Their diligence was rewarded in the late morning when we distributed some candy and small toys; however, if I were to do this again, I would have my mother standing by with canisters of tear gas. The commotion should have come as no surprise seeing as that kids the world over love free candy. The morning continued much like this until we ran out of candy and the kids slowly dispersed.
We then gathered at my home for a lunch prepared by my landlord’s family. Knowing that Americans eat much less rice than the Malagasy, they were sure to provide the whole spread complete with fresh fruit, beef and dessert as opposed to the usual: two bowls of rice and two spoonfuls of boiled salted-greens. We finally relaxed a bit that afternoon, visited a few more of Ankazambo’s elders, ate another delicious meal and exchanged gifts. That evening we all sat out beneath the southern hemisphere stars on a perfectly clear night.
I find it difficult to recount my family’s visit to Ankazambo without speaking in clichés but the short visit to Ankazambo was everything that I could have possibly hoped for—not only did my parents get a taste of my daily life, it gave my two families an opportunity to finally meet and provided memories that I’ll keep forever. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, the daily grind often makes it easy to forget how important one’s site is to him or her and I firmly believe that nothing helps one to appreciate that place more than hosting family and friends. As touched as Samantha and my parents were by the reception, it’s likely that I appreciated the short visit more than anyone else.
Sadly, very early the next morning we drove out of Ankazambo just before sunrise and it was no surprise that my entire Ankazambo family was there to see us off, a fitting end to a quick but meaningful visit. That day we were to make the 14-hour drive to the capital city of Antananarivo. The drive was long by most standards but good company and a reliable automobile made it much more enjoyable than all of my other taxi brousse adventures.
By the time we reached our hotel that night we were all so drained that we decided to skip the next day’s planned trip to a lemur reserve just outside of the capital and rest in Antananarivo. I was thankful for it because it gave me the opportunity to explore the decrepit, windings streets of Tana with my parents. We ended up at the Rova, the former palace of Madagascar’s royalty, situated on top of the largest of Tana’s many steep hills. From there we could see for miles in every direction and the views were spectacular even if our rambling tour guide wasn’t.
That evening we recounted our adventures over drinks and a delicious dinner. Samantha surprised my parents (and, sadly, me) with a cake that she had the restaurant prepare and deliver in honor of their 30th anniversary. It was a great night to end an unforgettable trip. As we sat around the table enjoying each other’s company, the end of our voyage fast approaching, I couldn’t help but marvel at the astonishing variety of activity we had packed into ten days. This thought made me all the more thankful that I have had the opportunity to live for over two years on this island—home to countless unique experiences and welcoming people. I was even more thankful; however, that I was able to share some of my life with my family.
I'm Still Here! 