Thursday, August 26, 2010
food.
One of my favorite parts of travel has always been exploring all the different foods there are available, for better or worse. Thus, I cannot think of Germany without recalling fresh warm pretzels with a slab of salty butter melting between their doughy centers, nor of Thailand, where the hot peppers in one dish literally made me weep and break out into a full-body sweat. How glorious to drink a chilled Sauvignon Blanc in the region of New Zealand where these grapes grow, how wonderfully unpleasant to try a local favorite in South Australia: gelatinous pea soup with a meat pie floating in the middle, staring up at me like a big brown eye.
I was recently reminded of how much food is a strong indicator of culture in Michael Pollan’s book, “In Defense of Food.” He notes that you can tell how integrated an immigrant is in their new homeland by merely looking at their pantry. I thought about this considerably after reading his book during my second month at site. Taking stock of the foods I had (and didn’t have) in my hut, I felt fairly well integrated in the Malagasy culture, but recognized I could still do more. I wanted to take a month to just eat what they did. I wanted to, as Michael Pollan also suggests, eat only food, in its purest sense, instead of the stuff that passes for food-like products in the states: things that come in plastic wrap and are filled with preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated palm oil, food coloring and are made mostly from soy or corn.
This isn’t to say it would take a huge amount of effort on my part. I have not eaten the typical American diet for over ten years and there is pretty much nothing but real food available to buy in my village anyway. But there were certain things I would have to stop eating, treats I allowed myself to enjoy when I felt I needed a little boost, like a Clif Bar or a handful of trail mix. The real indulgences, like Peanut M&Ms or Cheezits, I store far away in my banking town Diego, for something to really look forward to once a month. (Hey, it’s the little things, ok?) Other things I would need to stop eating that I had bought in Madagascar: Nutella, powdered milk, chocolate, noodles, non-refrigerated cheese wedges. The only thing I was really, really going to miss was the Nutella.
First of all, I felt terrific. My diet consisted of rice, fish, beans, eggs and a small variety of vegetables: green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, leafy greens called ananas, garlic, onions, ginger and a few fruits: bananas and oranges, mostly. Most afternoons I would head down to a little shack by the sea where a woman fries up mahogo, called cassava root in English, sort of like a potato and served with a cabbage or papaya slaw and ridiculously delicious.
Secondly, it takes a long time to cook real food here. Which is fine, I have always loved to cook. Dicing, chopping, mixing, converting raw ingredients into something pleasurable; these small acts in the kitchen have long served as therapy for me. But cooking here takes on additional elements, such as hauling water, working with unknown foods or not having an oven or enough bowls. Imagine what a glorious pain in the ass it was when my little two-burner stove ran out of gas! Then I was really learning how to live like a Malagasy! I spent several days cooking with my fatana mitsitsy, an alternative cookstove that uses charcoal. I didn’t realize just how luxuriously I was living until my gas ran out; instead of twenty minutes for rice and an hour for pre-soaked beans, cooking became an all-afternoon affair involving lots of squatting and smoke. No wonder the women here never stray too far from their kitchen huts, I was learning first-hand.
(to be continued soon)
I was recently reminded of how much food is a strong indicator of culture in Michael Pollan’s book, “In Defense of Food.” He notes that you can tell how integrated an immigrant is in their new homeland by merely looking at their pantry. I thought about this considerably after reading his book during my second month at site. Taking stock of the foods I had (and didn’t have) in my hut, I felt fairly well integrated in the Malagasy culture, but recognized I could still do more. I wanted to take a month to just eat what they did. I wanted to, as Michael Pollan also suggests, eat only food, in its purest sense, instead of the stuff that passes for food-like products in the states: things that come in plastic wrap and are filled with preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated palm oil, food coloring and are made mostly from soy or corn.
This isn’t to say it would take a huge amount of effort on my part. I have not eaten the typical American diet for over ten years and there is pretty much nothing but real food available to buy in my village anyway. But there were certain things I would have to stop eating, treats I allowed myself to enjoy when I felt I needed a little boost, like a Clif Bar or a handful of trail mix. The real indulgences, like Peanut M&Ms or Cheezits, I store far away in my banking town Diego, for something to really look forward to once a month. (Hey, it’s the little things, ok?) Other things I would need to stop eating that I had bought in Madagascar: Nutella, powdered milk, chocolate, noodles, non-refrigerated cheese wedges. The only thing I was really, really going to miss was the Nutella.
First of all, I felt terrific. My diet consisted of rice, fish, beans, eggs and a small variety of vegetables: green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, leafy greens called ananas, garlic, onions, ginger and a few fruits: bananas and oranges, mostly. Most afternoons I would head down to a little shack by the sea where a woman fries up mahogo, called cassava root in English, sort of like a potato and served with a cabbage or papaya slaw and ridiculously delicious.
Secondly, it takes a long time to cook real food here. Which is fine, I have always loved to cook. Dicing, chopping, mixing, converting raw ingredients into something pleasurable; these small acts in the kitchen have long served as therapy for me. But cooking here takes on additional elements, such as hauling water, working with unknown foods or not having an oven or enough bowls. Imagine what a glorious pain in the ass it was when my little two-burner stove ran out of gas! Then I was really learning how to live like a Malagasy! I spent several days cooking with my fatana mitsitsy, an alternative cookstove that uses charcoal. I didn’t realize just how luxuriously I was living until my gas ran out; instead of twenty minutes for rice and an hour for pre-soaked beans, cooking became an all-afternoon affair involving lots of squatting and smoke. No wonder the women here never stray too far from their kitchen huts, I was learning first-hand.
(to be continued soon)
numbers.
Number of days I have lived in Madagascar, approximately: 180
Number of days I have eaten rice, approximately: 180
Number of times I have eaten salad in Madagascar: 4
Number of hot “showers” (bucket baths) I have taken: 3
Number of days I have worn flipflops: 180
Number of times I have told the neighbor children not to call me “vazaha” (a derogatory expression for “white person”): 50
Number of people in my village that have asked me to teach them English: 30
Number of people that have followed through with a lesson: 2
Number of dead baby chickens I have found in my yard, causes unknown: 5
Number of times I have danced at a community event: 2
Number of days I hear about my dancing: everyday
Number of nights I slept in a neighbor’s house because my house was infested with small fleas that live on chickens: 3
Kilos of fish we can bring in on a single fishing trip during the high season (November-February): 300-500
Kilos we’re bringing in now (August): 2-10
Number of drunks in my village (population 700): 6
Number of people who can read: about half
Number of overweight people: 3, all in the same family
Types of beer they sell in Madagascar: 4
Types of good beer they sell in Madagascar: 0
Number of chairs, forks and mugs in my house, each: 2
Number of times I have made my own peanut butter: 5
Number of days the jar lasted, on average: 2.5
Number of weeks I have lived without electricity in Madagascar: 12
Cups of rice my Malagasy friend goes through per month: 84
Cups I go through per month: 10
Bags of trash I have produced in the four months at site: 1
Number of days I have thought how lucky, how beautiful, how blessed I am: all of ‘em
Number of days I have eaten rice, approximately: 180
Number of times I have eaten salad in Madagascar: 4
Number of hot “showers” (bucket baths) I have taken: 3
Number of days I have worn flipflops: 180
Number of times I have told the neighbor children not to call me “vazaha” (a derogatory expression for “white person”): 50
Number of people in my village that have asked me to teach them English: 30
Number of people that have followed through with a lesson: 2
Number of dead baby chickens I have found in my yard, causes unknown: 5
Number of times I have danced at a community event: 2
Number of days I hear about my dancing: everyday
Number of nights I slept in a neighbor’s house because my house was infested with small fleas that live on chickens: 3
Kilos of fish we can bring in on a single fishing trip during the high season (November-February): 300-500
Kilos we’re bringing in now (August): 2-10
Number of drunks in my village (population 700): 6
Number of people who can read: about half
Number of overweight people: 3, all in the same family
Types of beer they sell in Madagascar: 4
Types of good beer they sell in Madagascar: 0
Number of chairs, forks and mugs in my house, each: 2
Number of times I have made my own peanut butter: 5
Number of days the jar lasted, on average: 2.5
Number of weeks I have lived without electricity in Madagascar: 12
Cups of rice my Malagasy friend goes through per month: 84
Cups I go through per month: 10
Bags of trash I have produced in the four months at site: 1
Number of days I have thought how lucky, how beautiful, how blessed I am: all of ‘em
like a box of chocolates.
It occurred to me during one of the more harrowing taxi-brousse rides I was on recently. Transportation in Madagascar really is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get, to quote that overly used expression made famous by Forrest Gump.
I often have such moments of lucidity while on brousse rides, perhaps due to the early hour of the day I usually have to go, or because of the lack of sleep, or just by the very nature of being shuttled between here and there, with all the vibrancy of Malagasy life right in front of my face, whether I’m ready for it or not.
I began to compile a mental list of things I have witnessed over the last few months on various brousse rides. Lately I’ve even been reminding myself that it will be (almost) fun to add one more thing to the list as I climb aboard a dilapidated vehicle about to slog its way down the road “I wonder what will happen today,” I’ll ask myself with a waning spirit of adventure.
Here is a list of possible responses based on recent experiences:
- cockroaches crawl on me
- the passenger door I’m sitting next to flies open at any given moment
- the passenger door is stuck closed and has to be pried open by three men with screwdrivers
- the woman sitting next to me squirts her breast milk on me, apparently no apology or comment required
- the driver is too drunk to drive, but no one seems to think this is unusual or alarming in any way but me
- the driver is chewing green leaves called katy as a cow chews its cud, from small branches that must be masticated for hours to produce a somewhat-aggressive high
- we leave my village around 2:30 AM and it takes six hours to go 47 km, about 30 miles
- the brousse does not leave my village at all that day because the driver is still too drunk from the night before
- all the people in the vehicle suddenly jump out and I have no idea why (I find out later when they all hop back in somewhere further down the road that they were avoiding the police because of a fine)
- we stop somewhere and I am invited to sleep on the floor of a stranger’s house while we wait for it to be daylight in the city we are traveling to
- breakdowns, of every variety, which take anywhere from ten minutes to four hours to repair
- men jump out of the back of the vehicle to fill up buckets of water at most river crossings to splash onto the engine
- the vehicle that is already going approximately 15 MPH slows down at each downhill turn because it is too top-heavy and the brakes are bad; I could walk faster
- stop for every ox-cart and strap their loads on top of the truck
- blast the music as loud as it will possibly go, even if the tape (CD? what is that?) is skipping and the tape deck is making a screeching, wailing sound
- get more or less sat upon by the person next to me because Malagasy people have no concept of the “personal bubble” that we so cherish in the United States
In any case, that is a small sampling of incidences. And the more I thought about this “box of chocolates” metaphor, the more I realized it is applicable to so many other facets of life in Madagascar.
As I approach six months here, never knowing what I’m “gonna get” is luckily getting easier. I kinda like it, in fact. Maybe the internet is working today, maybe not. Maybe there’s bread at the bakery today, or something else somewhere else instead. Maybe we’re leaving at 3 as scheduled, or maybe I sit waiting at the market for a couple extra hours talking with the old woman who sells rice and seems to know every passer-by. It is wonderful practice in appreciating the moment for what there is to offer.
However, I don’t want to glamorize life here or even make it seem delightful. At times, it’s downright awful. I want the internet to work, I want to buy bread, I want to leave when we’re supposed to. It is hard to change one’s mindset to adjust to constant uncertainty, but by staying open-minded and relaxed, the challenge lessens over time. This is much, much easier said than done.
And speaking of uncertainty, a trip to the market here is proof that you really do never know what you’re going to get. It depends on what’s growing, of course. It is wonderful to eat foods that are fresh according to the seasons; nothing is stranger to me than walking into a grocery store and buying apples from New Zealand or bananas from Ecuador in the dead of winter. The constant availability of every type of food in the American store is quite unnatural. In fact, before I moved to Madagascar, I spent a lot of time and money “localing” (a term my friend Barrett and I came up with) in Montana as was possible: biking to the health food store to fill my backpack with organic foods, eating at restaurants that served Montanan produce, buffalo or cheese, and buying local products at the Missoula Farmer’s Market, where “going local” is so cool that the outcasts of society are the ones who actually drive to the grocery store to buy their food. Weirdos.
So it is with some pleasure that when I go to market here, I buy produce grown nearby that is in season: avocados, pineapples, citrus, lychees… it all depends on what’s fresh now. Chickens are bought that morning and slaughtered before your eyes for lunch. Fish comes in from area villages and is fried up or cooked into a soup for your evening meal. And while this is the dream of every “localvore,” sure, sometimes I wish for a mango now, not to have to wait until December. And I won’t have to buy mangoes either; by my estimation there are about 40 massive mango trees in my village, every branch bursting with growing fruits.
Ah yes, the market. Shopping these days means being chased by men trying to sell me vanilla for five times what it’s worth, enduring stinky meat and fish wafting in the hot air, squished in crowds of sweaty people whilst the fruit vendor is astonished because I speak to him in Malagasy, asking me over and over again, “You speak Malagasy?” Yes, I speak Malagasy. “Really? You speak Malagasy?! Hey, everyone, this white girl speaks Malagasy!” Yes, I speak Malagasy. Now can you please give me my bananas so I can go now? Being a tall blonde in a country of short black people means I will never, ever have the luxury of just blending in and going about my business.
I am constantly amazed at how amazed people are by me. When Malagasy people see a white person, they speak to them in French, and are not overly friendly about it. You cannot imagine their surprise when I speak to them in their language. Their faces light up. They are in disbelief. Their whole demeanor changes, and I almost always get a lower price for things at the market after a short conversation with them, or a little gift, like an extra orange. Some people inevitably continue to speak to me in French, of which I have almost completely forgotten these days, even though I studied French for many years, traveled in France & Quebec and took two French language proficiency tests before Peace Corps. Not everyone is kind towards me, but knowing how to speak even rudimentary Malagasy helps a lot.
So, in short, it is easy to get exhausted by the daily harassment and difficulties, but I am doing my best to keep a good attitude and a sense of humor. I’ve even come up with a new slogan, “I’m just white, that’s all,” to amuse myself when the staring just gets too much to bear.
I remind myself daily that “never knowing what you’re gonna get” is an opportunity for learning about this culture and myself Come to think of it, life is like that in the rest of the world too, if we are open to it.
I often have such moments of lucidity while on brousse rides, perhaps due to the early hour of the day I usually have to go, or because of the lack of sleep, or just by the very nature of being shuttled between here and there, with all the vibrancy of Malagasy life right in front of my face, whether I’m ready for it or not.
I began to compile a mental list of things I have witnessed over the last few months on various brousse rides. Lately I’ve even been reminding myself that it will be (almost) fun to add one more thing to the list as I climb aboard a dilapidated vehicle about to slog its way down the road “I wonder what will happen today,” I’ll ask myself with a waning spirit of adventure.
Here is a list of possible responses based on recent experiences:
- cockroaches crawl on me
- the passenger door I’m sitting next to flies open at any given moment
- the passenger door is stuck closed and has to be pried open by three men with screwdrivers
- the woman sitting next to me squirts her breast milk on me, apparently no apology or comment required
- the driver is too drunk to drive, but no one seems to think this is unusual or alarming in any way but me
- the driver is chewing green leaves called katy as a cow chews its cud, from small branches that must be masticated for hours to produce a somewhat-aggressive high
- we leave my village around 2:30 AM and it takes six hours to go 47 km, about 30 miles
- the brousse does not leave my village at all that day because the driver is still too drunk from the night before
- all the people in the vehicle suddenly jump out and I have no idea why (I find out later when they all hop back in somewhere further down the road that they were avoiding the police because of a fine)
- we stop somewhere and I am invited to sleep on the floor of a stranger’s house while we wait for it to be daylight in the city we are traveling to
- breakdowns, of every variety, which take anywhere from ten minutes to four hours to repair
- men jump out of the back of the vehicle to fill up buckets of water at most river crossings to splash onto the engine
- the vehicle that is already going approximately 15 MPH slows down at each downhill turn because it is too top-heavy and the brakes are bad; I could walk faster
- stop for every ox-cart and strap their loads on top of the truck
- blast the music as loud as it will possibly go, even if the tape (CD? what is that?) is skipping and the tape deck is making a screeching, wailing sound
- get more or less sat upon by the person next to me because Malagasy people have no concept of the “personal bubble” that we so cherish in the United States
In any case, that is a small sampling of incidences. And the more I thought about this “box of chocolates” metaphor, the more I realized it is applicable to so many other facets of life in Madagascar.
As I approach six months here, never knowing what I’m “gonna get” is luckily getting easier. I kinda like it, in fact. Maybe the internet is working today, maybe not. Maybe there’s bread at the bakery today, or something else somewhere else instead. Maybe we’re leaving at 3 as scheduled, or maybe I sit waiting at the market for a couple extra hours talking with the old woman who sells rice and seems to know every passer-by. It is wonderful practice in appreciating the moment for what there is to offer.
However, I don’t want to glamorize life here or even make it seem delightful. At times, it’s downright awful. I want the internet to work, I want to buy bread, I want to leave when we’re supposed to. It is hard to change one’s mindset to adjust to constant uncertainty, but by staying open-minded and relaxed, the challenge lessens over time. This is much, much easier said than done.
And speaking of uncertainty, a trip to the market here is proof that you really do never know what you’re going to get. It depends on what’s growing, of course. It is wonderful to eat foods that are fresh according to the seasons; nothing is stranger to me than walking into a grocery store and buying apples from New Zealand or bananas from Ecuador in the dead of winter. The constant availability of every type of food in the American store is quite unnatural. In fact, before I moved to Madagascar, I spent a lot of time and money “localing” (a term my friend Barrett and I came up with) in Montana as was possible: biking to the health food store to fill my backpack with organic foods, eating at restaurants that served Montanan produce, buffalo or cheese, and buying local products at the Missoula Farmer’s Market, where “going local” is so cool that the outcasts of society are the ones who actually drive to the grocery store to buy their food. Weirdos.
So it is with some pleasure that when I go to market here, I buy produce grown nearby that is in season: avocados, pineapples, citrus, lychees… it all depends on what’s fresh now. Chickens are bought that morning and slaughtered before your eyes for lunch. Fish comes in from area villages and is fried up or cooked into a soup for your evening meal. And while this is the dream of every “localvore,” sure, sometimes I wish for a mango now, not to have to wait until December. And I won’t have to buy mangoes either; by my estimation there are about 40 massive mango trees in my village, every branch bursting with growing fruits.
Ah yes, the market. Shopping these days means being chased by men trying to sell me vanilla for five times what it’s worth, enduring stinky meat and fish wafting in the hot air, squished in crowds of sweaty people whilst the fruit vendor is astonished because I speak to him in Malagasy, asking me over and over again, “You speak Malagasy?” Yes, I speak Malagasy. “Really? You speak Malagasy?! Hey, everyone, this white girl speaks Malagasy!” Yes, I speak Malagasy. Now can you please give me my bananas so I can go now? Being a tall blonde in a country of short black people means I will never, ever have the luxury of just blending in and going about my business.
I am constantly amazed at how amazed people are by me. When Malagasy people see a white person, they speak to them in French, and are not overly friendly about it. You cannot imagine their surprise when I speak to them in their language. Their faces light up. They are in disbelief. Their whole demeanor changes, and I almost always get a lower price for things at the market after a short conversation with them, or a little gift, like an extra orange. Some people inevitably continue to speak to me in French, of which I have almost completely forgotten these days, even though I studied French for many years, traveled in France & Quebec and took two French language proficiency tests before Peace Corps. Not everyone is kind towards me, but knowing how to speak even rudimentary Malagasy helps a lot.
So, in short, it is easy to get exhausted by the daily harassment and difficulties, but I am doing my best to keep a good attitude and a sense of humor. I’ve even come up with a new slogan, “I’m just white, that’s all,” to amuse myself when the staring just gets too much to bear.
I remind myself daily that “never knowing what you’re gonna get” is an opportunity for learning about this culture and myself Come to think of it, life is like that in the rest of the world too, if we are open to it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)