Tuesday morning we again woke early.
Gaia offered us some “fried manioc bread” she had just bought from “the women around the corner.” My mouth was full with the crispy manioc-y little nuggest (not unlike tater-tots; they’d be great with ketchup) when I realized I was eating “street food” – those dreaded fried treats that Princeton University Health Services had warned us about again and again! Visions of having to endure severe gastroenteritis in a squat latrine flashed through my mind. And then, I swallowed. Come what may! I’ll get sick eventually, so why not now and just get it over with?
I didn’t get sick. Nor did I get sick the next time when Romain brought us a bag of mofo bol ("moof ball" - absolutely the most awkward name to use in everyday conversation!) – fried dough balls that we shamelessly double-dipped in vanilla sugar straight from Romain’s jar in the kitchen. Nor did I get sick the next time when Francesca and I bought fried manioc bread on our own. Nor did we get sick when we returned to Fianar and bought a donut from a street vendor. Or the time I bought I fried banana for 100 Ar, which the vendor wrapped in a sheet of someone’s old homework and handed to me.
You get the idea. Health Services did a good job of prepping us for our trip in terms of typhoid and polio vaccines, anti-malarials, and International SOS cards. They warned us about the risks of almost every behavior a traveler might engage in, from eating to driving to crossing the street to unprotected sex. Some of this was common sense, some of it was good advice. But there comes a time when you have to risk a bit to live a little. So we buy fried things on the street. They are delicious. The chances of getting food poisoning are probably a little higher than they are in the US, but so far we’ve been fine. So far my most horrific food poisoning experience came from bad Thai food I ate this past Christmas in Malibu – and could I have avoided that?
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That morning we accompanied Henri, a Malagasy field agent with Ny Tanintsika, on the job visiting the small village of Akarinomby, home to one of Soamiray’s 15 ateliers. We set out mid-morning in the cool mist, hoods on and umbrellas at the ready (we didn’t end up using them). Though I knew better (heavy moisture in the air is terrible for your camera!), I couldn’t resist taking out my trusty Canon Rebel, and I ended up clicking away for much of the 1+ hour trek.
We followed a red-dirt path that at first would have accommodated a rugged offroad vehicle, then shrank to the tiniest of footpaths that wound precariously round steep mountainsides.
The landscape was exquisite. Rolling hills and steep valleys. Eucalyptus forests (though it should be noted that eucalyptus is an invasive non-native species introduced by French colonists). A small village with three fat turkeys perched together on a limb. Sacred Mt. Ambondrombe, where all Malagasies believe the souls of the dead ascend. The cliffs of Angavoa veiled in mist. Zebus (Malagasy humped cattle) grazing on the hillside, as a group of boys in straw hats with runny noses watched over them, keeping themselves entertained with a little ukelele-sized instrument. Muddy, terraced rice paddies, banana trees, and little patches where pale, skinny stick-like plants grew straight up – manioc, as it turns out. Sluggish streams winding and gathering momentum to become waterfalls; we crossed them on bridges that were sometimes no more than two logs spanning the gulf.
A good ways into our trek we passed a village where a new school had just been completed that February. The children ran to the open window as we passed, yelling and smiling and waving. I snapped a picture, to their delight.
Henri pointed out our destination – a tiny village high on the hillside. Here’s where it got difficult. Last night’s rain had made the red earth sticky and hopelessly muddy. The steep climb was a textbook case of “one step forward, two steps back” by sliding. And poor Francesca in a borrowed pair of Converse-esque shoes from Gaia, a full size too small! By the time we reached the top we were sweating and panting, grateful to have all our limbs intact!
We followed Henri to the site where the new atelier is being built. A group of little children stared at us (Francesca and I, that is) curiously. We passed what looked like a little elevated hut, almost like a treehouse, overlooking the valley; Henri said it was the granary where rice was stored – high up to keep it safe from rodents!
The new atelier was really just a few waist-high mud walls. I helped Henri hold the measuring tape as he took down its dimensions. In the dry mud walls spiders had made little cobwebs that were heavy with condensation, little silver droplets suspended in silk.
We then walked back to where we had been before; Henri spoke to someone outside, and to a woman who poked her head out of a second-floor window. Suddenly, much to our surprise, a vasa (foreign) woman’s face popped out of the window, too.
When we went inside (and I smacked my head on the doorframe as I did so – these houses were built for much shorter people!) and climbed to the second floor (via ladder) the woman introduced herself. Her name was Sophie and she was French; she had done thesis research in the village 5 years earlier, and was now back for the first time since. She spoke Malagasy easily and understood the exchange between Henri and the weavers as we sat upstairs.
Upstairs was dim, and much like an attic – you could see the straw-like roofing material and the beams that held up the ceiling. Occasionally a tiny piece of dirt or roofing material would fall. There were many flies. We walked along the edge of the room: the woven mat on the floor was pulled up along the sides of the room so we could enter without walking on it - it had just been finished and we didn’t want to get mud all over it!
The two adult Malagasy women in the room were the weavers; there were also a few children, mostly girls, who scampered in and out. One little girl [see photo, girl on the right] – a mischievous one with hair that refused to behave – entertained herself by making devilish little faces. The older girls [see photo, second from right] end up as caretakers to the younger children; you see it everywhere you go – a girl between eight and twelve carrying a fat baby or toddler patiently and without complaining. When I think back to what a brat I was when I was that age, I am amazed at their sense of responsibility.
Henri spoke to the women, showed them some forms and read aloud what they said to make sure they understood as they read along. One woman [see photo, woman on left] had a horrible-sounding cough, and covered her face with the blanket she was wrapped in every time she started heaving. I wondered if she had tuberculosis.
We left not too long after, retracing our steps - downhill this time, and just as perilous. Francesca joked that we’d be better off with sleds to toboggan down the muddy slopes! Henri offered us bananas as a snack to keep our energy up for the walk home. The sun had broken through much of the mist, and it was beautiful. As we walked back, we passed a man tending to his zebu. He posed, smiling – he wanted his picture taken.
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