The Kids! : Malagasy Children

Malagasy children are adorable. There is no denying it. They’re everywhere and they just are.
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In Tana (the capitol) there were a lot of children begging, and heartbreaking as it might be, you had to say no – you don’t want to teach children to expect handouts from every foreign-looking person they see.
Here in Fianar, things are better. The children either go to Malagasy schools where they learn some French, or French schools (taught entirely in that language). The French school kids wear little blue smocks over their clothes, and you see them coming home from school in the afternoons for lunch (remember: 2-hour lunch breaks for all!). Some are fascinated by our appearances (not only are we non-Malagasy, but we are also taller than the average man here!); some like to show off their knowledge of English by saying “Hello!” with a big grin.
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Two children, cousins, live next door to us and are always playing in our yard. Antonio is eleven, very tall and skinny, and speaks good French. He told me he studies everything in school: French, English, German, science, technology, math. He likes it all. I asked him to teach me some Malagasy, pointing at things around the yard: “leaf,” “rock,” “flower,” “dog.” Every word had so many syllables! The only one I retained was something like “AH-la”: spider.
Enola is eight and adorable, with short black curls; she sets out her dolls and bears in the yard and “cooks” food for them and her scruffy little white dog, Pitou. She loves hiding calling my name and waiting for me to look around the yard for her.
A few days into our friendship with the kids, things got a little out of hand. Antonio and Enola and friends decided it was great fun to bang incessantly on the door of our house and yell until we came to see who it was, then run away. And repeat. And when we caught on and started ignoring them, undeterred, they climbed through the bushes in front of our kitchen window and starting making faces at us thee. Francesca had to go out and yell at them twice, threatening to tell their mother. Things got a lot quieter after that! Shy and ashamed, it took a few days of our friendly hellos to get them to smile again.
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But on the whole, the children here are very well behaved. I’m especially impressed with Charles (one of the office guards) and his wife’s four daughters [see picture]. The day I brought Charles’ wife my laundry, they were all there, taking care of each other as their mother did laundry and cleaned the office (using a bristly brush that she puts her foot on top of to scrub the floors in a sort of dance!). The baby (8 months old) was splashing water in a plastic tub and laughing. Nearby the oldest (probably around age twelve) was helping the second youngest (age four?) comb and braid her hair; the second oldest (age eight?) was busy on her own hair. I said “Bonjour” and they smiled shyly. I came back later with my camera to take pictures of my laundry hanging from the office’s second floor, and asked their mother if it was alright to take a few pictures of the girls. The second oldest was bold, smiling wide, and moving the shy second-youngest to pose as she sucked on her fingers warily. But when I showed them the first few pictures I had taken, something about seeing their own faces on the little screen broke the ice. Smiles all around! The oldest held the baby and all of them smiled. The second-oldest grabbed her jump-rope and started skipping, everyone started laughing. “Sautez, sautez, tout le monde saute!” (“Jump, jump, everybody jump!”) I said as I jumped too, which produced this shot [see above, click to enlarge], my favorite of the day. Their mother came downstairs to the yard, and I was able to take a family picture of mother and daughters; I promised to send them copies when I got back to the US.
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I did, however, see something the other day that made me really sad. As we shopped in the market, I saw a little boy, probably around eight or nine, hand some money to a vendor in exchange for two cigarettes. Cigarette consumption by minors in Africa is not a total shocker to me – last summer in France I read an article in Time magazine about how the next big market for tobacco is Africa, where cigarettes are taken out of the package and sold individually. This means that buyers don’t get a chance to read the warning label on the package – that is, if they could read in the first place. Granted, this child could have been buying for a parent, but the just the fact that he could buy, as easily as a piece of candy, something so dangerous (not to mention wasteful – such a terrible way to spend money, especially if you’re already one of the poorest of the poor) was harrowing. As is the fact that Big Tobacco is aware of this growing market (growing literally – as birthrates are high in developing countries) and plans to profit off of lack of education in these countries – well, that’s downright disgusting.
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But what’s impressed me the most about the children here in Madagascar is how little they need to be happy. No fancy toys, no GameBoy or PlayStation or Nintendo, none of the latest Barbie and Bratz dolls, no computers or cell phones. All they need is a doll or stuffed animal, a few tiny plates and spoons, or a soccer ball, and each other to keep themselves entertained for hours. It’s childhood from a simpler time. Granted, they won’t have the same amazing educational resources that American and European children have; many won’t ever leave the town they were born in, most won’t get to reach their full potential. But for now, they remind me of the value of the simple things: that we don’t always need technology, that sometimes ignorance is bliss, that a few well-loved toys, a friend or sibling and our families really can be enough.

June 3rd: The road to Fianarantsoa, adventure en taxi-brousse!

We awoke at 5am Thursday, and were out of the hotel by 5:40. Our trusty taxi driver (we forgave him for overcharging us, since he did carry our bags up the tiny hotel staircase) drove us to the taxi-brousse station. Now, when you think “station,” imagine a long, unpaved row of tiny shacks, dim and loud, with little vans behind. As soon as we pulled up, men were running up alongside the taxi, trying to get us to go with their company. Francesca got out to find the kiosk of the company we were supposed to have reservations with, while I stayed to watch the bags in the taxi. Apparently when Francesca went to the kiosk and gave her name, the person claimed they had no such reservation, but another man sitting in the kiosk immediately jumped up and said we were with him. « Francesca ? Oui, oui, vous êtes avec moi ! » Turns out he was from another company, but before we knew it men were at the taxi, put our suitcases on their heads and were carrying them away to another kiosk and strapping them to the top of another taxi-brousse! There was nothing we could do but follow along. We called Sam, our employer, (waking her up – it was 6am!) and she said we would be alright, we just had to cancel our reservation with the original company. The new company was going to charge us 5,000 more ariary than the one with which we were supposed to have a reservation, but when Francesca started to try to go find our original company’s kiosk to cancel, the new company guy thought we were trying to leave him and offered us a discount of 5,000. So no real harm done, right?
There are two kinds of time in the world: real-world time and Madagascar time. We had left the hotel that morning at 5:40 to be at the taxi-brousse station at 6am to leave at 6:30. Did this happen? Not exactly…in fact, we didn’t end up leaving until well after 9. We kept asking when we would be leaving, and they just kept saying « Trente minutes » (“Thirty minutes”) again and again as the hours passed…
So we stood there at the side of the taxi-brousse, keeping an eye on the suitcases strapped to the top, waiting and saying a polite « Non, merci » to the countless vendors who passed by, offering crackers (biscuits salés), cookies (biscuits sucrés), candies, cheese, sausages, broken watches, bags, belts, stickers, and cheap toys. We watched two women with small shovels dig a little ditch to move some water that had pooled next to the kiosk.
And we made a new friend. A small, wiry Malagasy man with a battered Équipe de France baseball cap approached us timidly, wanting to know if we spoke English. We were very wary, but it turns out he was just curious and wanted to talk. He introduced himself as Jean-Baptiste; he is an artisan from who makes clay pots at an atelier (workshop) in Fianarantsoa (pronounced “Fianarantsoo,” or Fianar for short). He taught us some Malagasy words, but the only one we were able to retain is misaotr, “thank you” – most Malagasy words are SO long! He also drew us a map of Madagascar in the condensation on the side of the taxi-brousse, showing the road we would take, and the six provinces, which he explained all had different dialects and pronunciations. He was impressed with our level of French; most people here are, as they’re used to clueless Americans only speaking English, or a little French with terrible accents! He also said something about Americans and Canadians drilling oil in Madagascar, but “Shhh!” it’s a secret, he said – not sure what he meant by all that!
Finally, at long last, we all piled into the taxi-brousse: driver and fourteen passengers. Our original reservation would have insured us a seat behind the driver – more legroom. Our new seats were in the second to last row...oh, well…
As soon as the engine started, the music started playing as well. To me, Malagasy music sounds a lot like Spanish-language music. But as I dozed for long hours during the journey, I know I heard some American music, too. Rest assured, dear readers, Lady Gaga has made it all the way to Madagascar!
The landscape is exquisite: rolling hills almost like that of California, often terraced for rice cultivation. Unfortunately, this also means deforestation, which is a huge issue in Madagascar. The New York Times recently published an article (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/25/world/africa/25madagascar.html?hp) about how political instability leads to lack of enforcement of forestry laws, meaning lots of illegal logging of luxury woods like rosewood. The earth is a reddish orange-y color, which made me wonder if the colors of the Malagasy flag (red, green, white) are drawn from the red earth, green hills, and white clouds.
Francesca and I decided the night before that we were not going to eat or drink all day, out of fear of the bathroom situation during the taxi-brousse ride. So besides a tiny sip of water to swallow my vitamins and anti-malarial drugs that morning, I had nothing all day. Turns out this was a good call: in our 8-9 hour drive, we only made three stops. Two were on the side of the road, where – oh my! Look away! - only the men were able to relieve themselves. Alas, the downside of being female! At least we got to stretch our legs. The other stop was so passengers could get lunch at a hotely (snack bar/small restaurant). We stayed in the taxi-brousse – no point in tempting ourselves. The other passengers thought we were crazy and several asked if we were hungry and why we weren’t eating. Was the gum we were chewing really all we needed? Did all Americans not eat?
We spent most of the drive sleeping, finally arriving in Fianar after dark. Sam, our employer, was waiting at the Fianar taxi-brousse station for us, and driving us to our house to drop off our bags, we went back out to get food – spaghetti!!! - at a small restaurant serving mostly European dishes; I think it was called “Espace Relaxe” (Relaxed Space/Place).
Ainsi, we made it to Fianar in one piece. Going abroad also teaches you a lot about yourself, and I now know that I can survive an entire day without food, water, or bathrooms! (without too much pain, either!) Impressive!

June 2nd: Arrival in Antananarivo, Madagascar!

[I finally have internet on my own computer! It took a while, so I'm a little behind in my blogging. The following is an excerpt from my journal written the night we arrived in Antananarivo, describing first impressions and whatnot...I'll have updates about more recent stuff soon!]

I awoke on the flight some time before landing, and waited for Madagascar to appear through the clouds. At first, green, hills, rolling ones, some terraced with rice paddies. Still later, drier, flatter, more agricultural – the product of deforestation. A patchwork quilt landscape in yellows and greens. Finally, Antananarivo, “Tana,” a sea of small buildings all vying with one another for a spot on the hill.
Disembarking from the plane, it was warmer than South Africa, but still on the cooler side; lots of moisture in the air and big billowing clouds with blue underbellies.
The police officers at customs were wearing green, not blue, and had those little berets and big army boots. It’s the dress you’re used to seeing in videos of political unrest in Africa, which produced in me a little twinge of unease. And yet this was just customs! Later, driving through the city on our way to the hotel, we passed officers directing traffic clad in the usual blue. It’s amazing how something as simple as uniform color can change your perception. (The next day, on our taxi-brousse ride to Fianarantsoa we stopped at a gas station where the attendants were clad in orange jumpsuits – the garb of American prisoners!)
Our taxi was a tiny beige French Renault. Seatbelts? Ha! It was a bit of a drive; we paid 40,000 ariary (although after we realized we should have only paid 30,000, according to our employer’s e-mail). We took pictures out the windows, trying not to bump the lenses around too much. People along the side of the road, some begging, some selling, some in transit themselves. Men, women, children carrying large baskets on their heads with ease – no hands! The sellers offering a miscellany of things – produce, sausages, peanuts, rice by the cup, fried snacks, packaged snacks, cheap toys, broken watches, secondhand clothes and shoes - no real rhyme or reason to it.
The best comparison I can make, based on my own experience, is the Tijuana area in Mexico, but obviously the culture and people are completely different. Everyone we have encountered so far has spoken good French, and the accent isn’t hard to understand. The faces of Madagascar are varied, some looking very Indonesian, while others look like continental Africans.
Once installed in the hotel we made an excursion down the winding streets from our hotel to buy Malagasy cell phones and get cash from an ATM. We stopped at two different little electronics stores; the woman at the first was Muslim, wearing a headscarf, and looked Middle Eastern. At the second, a helpful Middle Eastern man spoke to us in fluent English.
The younger men eye us, one touched my arm in passing and I rushed forward with an angry glare back. Next time I’ll have some French profanities at the ready! Often little children try to get your attention, sometimes asking for money, sometimes just for attention. In one little alley path some boys set off a few poppers and I jumped a foot in the air – just as I did all last summer in France, between Bastille Day and August 15th – I HATE firecrackers!
There are some other young Americans staying at the hotel, said they’ve been here for two months. In two months we’ll have that same confidence and ease getting around.
Everything is still so vivid and different; we’re still at the phase where taking pictures of signage in French and Malagasy is exciting. Hard to believe that soon, once settled in Fianarantsoa, it will all cease to be such a novelty as it becomes a daily reality. That’s part of the beauty of international internships: achieving some sort of assimilation, reaching that point where you’re no longer a tourist just passing through. That best part is the people will cease (hopefully!) to see and treat you as such a novelty, too, thus opening up a freer dialogue and greater understanding.
Ate a delicious Thali végétarien (traditional Indian dish with naan, rice, and little bowls of different vegetables) at an Indian restaurant called La Medina, just down the street from the hotel. Beautifully decorated, with bright cushions for lounging and smoking hookah; it seemed like a place you could find in any cosmopolitan city in the US. Refrained from fresh vegetables for the moment, even though I was craving them, out of fear of being sick on our 8+ hour taxi-brousse ride to Fianarantsoa tomorrow!