Meet Tsiky!

This is Tsiky (pronounced “TSEEK”), the daughter of Lala, one of our colleagues. She is three, and sometimes she graces us with her presence here at the office. Her name literally means “smile,” which is just one of the many charms she uses to get what she wants. She is a beautiful child, and she knows it! As her mother puts it, “Elle est très coquette!” and quite vain; she loves looking at herself in the mirror and making faces by raising her eyebrows up and down. Lala says Tsiky will cry if she doesn’t put coconut oil and beeswax in her hair so that it’s nice to touch. She wears cute little outfits, and carries around a tiny purse that’s often filled with biscuits – cookies! She’ll munch on them in the office, shamelessly leaving crumbs everywhere!

One day, when Tsiky was running around keeping us from getting any work done, Francesca and I had an idea: knowing how much she loves looking at herself, we decided to show Tsiky Photobooth on our computers. As expected, she was enchanted, fascinated by the various colorful and morphing effects. She would jump out of the frame and ask “Où est Tsiky?” (“Where is Tsiky?”), in a kind of peek-a-boo game with herself. Now every time she comes to the office she runs up to us, asking with a false pout “Où est Tsiky?” asking to play with Photobooth.

Alright, so we may have created a little monster. But she’s a cute one, no?

Ambohimahamasina, Part 4: Trek with FIZAM – The Cliffs of Angavoa and the Weavers of Adoharano (6/24)

We had decided that Wednesday we would take a trek with FIZAM, the local association for tourism; after all, the marketing of this ecotourism association was part of our project, so we might as well experience firsthand what we were trying to convince others to do!
We had told the guide that we wanted to leave around 8am Wednesday morning. We showed up somewhere around 8:30, thinking our guide would be running late as well, given the nature of “Malagasy time.” To our surprise, he said he had actually been waiting there for us since 8! Apparently Romain had worked really hard with the guides to drive home the point that when vasas say a certain time, they mean it! So we apologized for being late, but we were also quite glad to know that Romain had been able to get over at least that cultural hurdle, to the benefit of the association.
Our guide’s name was Solo, which is (for some reason that I cannot understand) pronounced “Shool.” He spoke good French, and a little English, so we had fun going back and forth a bit between the two.
Leaving that early in the morning turned out to be a great idea – it was cool and damp, as our trek was fairly physical we were able to beat the heat. The cliffs of Angavoa, which we hiked up to, also looked beautiful veiled in silvery mist, and watching the mist clear to reveal a panoramic view that stretched for miles was stunning.
Along the way we passed traditionally-dressed Betsileo (the name of the tribe group that occupies the Fianarantsoa region; Gaia says they’re the “most gentle” of the Malagasy peoples) men, with their woven straw hats, colorful blankets draped over their shoulders. A lot of people go barefoot here, and it’s not necessarily a sign of poverty.
We also passed a traditional Betsileo tomb: a structure made of piled stones with a white cross on top of a huge boulder.
Our destination was the village of Andoharano (“ahn-doh-AH-rahn”) home to one of the best-run basket-weaving ateliers of the Soamiray association (see previous posts for a description of how all this works). We were greeted by the chef d’atelier and her husband Jean-Pierre, who is also the village hebergeur (hebergeur is really annoying to translate from French into English, but essentially means the one who offers lodging; in this case, he is the homestay host for the FIZAM tourists who choose to spend a night in one of the villages). Jean-Pierre spoke limited French (surprising, with a name like that? But this is Madagascar, after all!), but our guide translated. They were very happy to have us and welcomed us warmly.
First we were shown the weaving atelier. It was a smallish room with mud walls, a window at either end, a ladder going up to a loft where raw materials were stored. On the wall was a handwritten schedule drawn out on a large piece of paper in Malagasy, and a sheet that showed samples of the different colors that could be produced using natural dyes.
In addition to the chef d’atelier, there were four other weavers, who were crouched barefoot (so as not to dirty their work) on a large mat with a pink and green striped pattern. The mat was already quite substantial in size – we were told that they had just started it that morning! Apparently weaving, or at least weaving something flat like a mat, doesn’t take as long as I’d thought!
I asked if it was alright to take pictures, and was given an emphatic yes. I still felt a bit awkward snapping away at the women working so intently, but I guess any publicity I can give to them through my photos is great, right? The lighting conditions were a fun challenge for me, and I’m really proud of some of the shots that I was able to get! I will upload everything to flickr once I’m back in the States with a faster internet connection.
We were shown how the raw materials are prepared: the reeds are cut into three pieces using a knife, then tied into a bunch and pounded with a mortar-and-pestle-like rock and wooden mallet combo.
Having seen all the steps, our guide asked if we’d like to give it a try! So we took off our shoes and crouched on the mat next to the women to learn their craft. “Prend deux, laisse deux, prend deux, laisse deux…” (“Take two, leave two…”) until the edge, then pass a perpendicular piece through, then let the bunch in your hand go. Begin again. It wasn’t difficult, as long as you didn’t accidentally start with the wrong two or miss one of your two, but it took us such a long time compared to the swift fingers of the weavers! They also showed us how they tighten the weave by pushing it with a smooth black stone, then pulling the fibers back with their fingernails.
Every so often a wandering chicken or duck had to be shooed out of the atelier, which made me laugh.
Even Solo, our guide, did some weaving! He said his mother was a weaver, and so he knew how to weave quite well - he was proud to show that Malagasy men could weave, too!
A girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, came in carrying a baby to its mother who was there weaving. He was crying, but calmed down pretty quickly. The girl posed the baby (who I assume was her little brother) with a cahier (French notebook with tiny little lines for writing; any American who has gone to a French-American school knows what I’m talking about!) and a pen for me to take pictures. He had the biggest, most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. The girl and I had a sweet little exchange, despite our language barrier (I can say “hello,” “how are you?” “thank you,” and “very beautiful”), and I took some great photos of her and the baby, which she loved looking at on my camera’s screen.
Next one of the weavers led us with our guide to where the raw materials are grown. Along the way we passed an angry zebu protecting its calf, a huge fat pig, and countless chickens and ducks. Took a narrow winding path up the hillside to a spot that overlooked the stream that spilled down on the valley over huge boulders. A few women were washing clothes in the stream, and laundry was laid out over bushes to dry.
When we got back to the main part of the village it was lunchtime. We were taken to small, dim room with woven mats covering the entire floor, and even attached to the bottom part of the walls. Our place settings were on the floor, and there were woven “poufs” for seating. Two giant pots of red rice; small, shallow tin bowls with des breds, chicken in broth, and a vegetable soup for me! Our guide and Jean-Pierre the hebergeur ate with us (his wife had cooked the meal and served us), and piled their bowls high with a mountain of rice; they laughed at how little rice we ate comparatively! A pot of ranon'ampango to drink arrived not long thereafter (having been prepared in the rice pots by boiling water); this one was very weak, hardly changed color at all, although there were little bits of rice floating in it. When we had finished this, a basket of bananas (short, fat Malagasy ones) was brought out as dessert, and then a pot of excellent coffee, which we drank out of tiny tin cups with sugar.
After bananas and coffee we continued to sit on the poufs and chatted (with the help of our guide as translator) on subject ranging from where we were from, cultural differences, why Americans speak English (we were once a colony, too!).
We then returned to the room where we had all first met, paid for our meal (5,000 Ariary each – about $2.50 – and paid for half of our guide’s meal, as previously agreed upon), signed their guestbook with heartfelt messages of thanks, looked through some albums of photos that past visitors had taken there and had sent to them – we promised to send them copies of our photos, too! They said they we would return another time and spend the night.
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Doesn’t that sound like a really cool experience? We certainly thought so! So since we’ve been back we’ve been working on ways to get the word out about FIZAM’s ecotourism opportunities – marketing is definitely not their strong point! I’ve been looking at various travel sites: posting testimonials to sites like TripAdvisor and VirtualTourist, contacting other sites to see if they’d be willing to post information. I also translated the existing FIZAM brochure into English and Francesca redesigned it using photos we took that day.
FIZAM gives you a choice of treks in varying levels of intensity (from 3 hours to 3 days) with the chance to be completely immersed in local cultures, welcomed with open arms. Not only that, all the money you spend (which is not much at all – these treks and meals are such a good deal!) goes to the local community, no middlemen, and to support their efforts to protect the environment.
If you’re planning on coming to Madagascar anytime in the future, please don’t miss out on this awesome opportunity!

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.