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
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