It is exhausting to constantly be on display, never able to blend in to the crowd and go about my business like everybody else. When I walk down the path to buy a loaf of bread, everyone stops and watches me, then comments upon my return, loaf in hand: "Did you buy bread?" This type of rhetorical question used to literally drive me insane. I used to think: Can't you see?! Yes, I have the bread in my hand!
Now I know that it is just a pleasantry. I've taken to it well enough that now when I see someone washing dishes, my first greeting is, "Washing dishes?"
Even so, when I pass by a group of children playing, they cease all activity and stare relentlessly, greeting me over and over and over again, which is nice, but sometimes I am surprised at the level of excitement after seven months of seeing me walk by.
And then there's the whole openness about, well, my fat ass.
______________
(while drinking coffee, many people sitting around/ milling about)
me to coffee lady: I like your skirt!
coffee lady: You like my skirt? It would be nicer on you, because I am old and my butt is big.
man sitting nearby: Vanessa has a big butt and a nice body.
coffee lady: Yeah she does. Her clothes are nice and her butt is good. Very big!
woman across the street: Vanessa has a nice body, her butt is big, her arms and legs are strong!
(more people look, join in, make comments)
me: umm... yeah... ummm...
__________________
(while sitting around outside a community building the other day)
person 1: Vanessa is getting skinny!
person 2: Yes, she doesn't eat enough rice!
person 1: When she got here, she was big!
person 3: She was very big! How long have you been here, Vanessa?
me: Seven months in Ambolobozokely, nine months in Madagascar.
person 1: You were big when you first got here, now you are getting small.
me: I am not getting small. I am bigger now than I was in America.
person 2: No, it's because you don't eat enough rice.
person 3: No, it's because she was sick.
me: No, I'm not getting smaller! I eat a lot of rice!
person 1: You are a liar.
me: ok...
_______________
(while walking in the forest collecting seed pods, we pass some women)
woman I've never met or spoken to before: You have a good body.
me: Ummm... thanks. What is your name?
woman: Your butt is big, your stomach is small.
me: Ummm.. yeah...
woman: My butt is big too, but I have a fat stomach. I am a fat person.
me: ummm...
_______________
I tried to remain true to the translation of these conversations to the best of my ability, while taking into account that I still don't speak Malagasy very well.
In case you hadn't checked out Part One of this saga, here's the link:
http://vinmadagascar.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-fat-ass.html
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
notes on electricity.
This post differs from others in that it is not written in prose form, but rather as short snippets taken over time from my own journal.
______________
I've never heard more gun blasts, explosions, machine guns, bomb detonations and screams of bloody terror as I have since living in Madagascar. It's not because I live in a war zone, far from it, in fact. The Malagasy people are overall peaceful pacifists; the slow, gentle pace of African life in a tropical climate prevails here. The sounds of war come to me daily via my noisy neighbor's television set. It is hard to hear gun blasts and violence day in and day out. Still, I try to take comfort in the fact that at least it is just the soundtrack of a movie and not a real war zone, as countless others around the world must face everyday. I can't help but wonder though what sort of impact these movies- and all that comes with modern entertainment- will have on the culture and the people here.
_______________
When the wind stops blowing in my village, the electricity goes out. Then I do a secret dance of joy. Finally, no more synthesized accordian 90's-style club jams blasting at high decibals from 4:45 AM to 11 at night. Finally, time to hear the songbirds. Finally, some peace & quiet... or not. When the wind picks up again, the noise commences simultaneously.
______________
I thought when I moved to a rural village in Africa, my life would be an extension of the one I spent during my years in wilderness (and admittedly, there are parts that are... rising with the sun, awareness of the moon and night sky cycles, living harmoniously with dirt, trees and the seasons). I just never expected it to be so loud. I am one of the few (lucky?) environment volunteers who lives in a village where there is electricity, thanks to a couple of windmills that were installed about a year ago. Having electricity has certain implications- for myself, as I can easily charge my cell phone and ipod, but more importantly, for the villagers who are experiencing living with it for the first time in their lives. They pay for electricity based on how many lightbulbs are in their houses, not by their usage. They are just figuring out now what payment system is fair, and what is not... in their own slow, passive way.
______________
If it's not some war movie, then it's Malagasy music; I honestly cannot say which is worse.
______________
Overnight, the air was still; this morning there was no electricity and the ocean was as smooth as glass- the first time I'd ever seen it that way. I asked one of the old women at the coffee shack if she liked the town quiet like this, with no music. "Ehee!," she implored, "zaho tia tanana mareseka be!" (Which, of course means she prefers the town "mareseka," a difficult word to translate as there are many definitions depending on the context: fun, lively, much talked about, full, people moving about, like a party, etc.) Since villagers are now only quiet when someone dies, she said it was like the whole town was sad. The whole town, that is, except for me, who enjoyed waking to the sound of songbirds this morning for the first time in seven months.
______________
If a town lost electricity in America, it would be a great inconvenience, maybe even newsworthy, complete with reporters and technicians working around the clock to remedy the problem. When it happened here the other night, my neigbor moved a woven mat into her yard and watched the almost-full moon rise above the coconut trees, talking to her husband and daughter in hushed, wonderous voices.
______________
I've never heard more gun blasts, explosions, machine guns, bomb detonations and screams of bloody terror as I have since living in Madagascar. It's not because I live in a war zone, far from it, in fact. The Malagasy people are overall peaceful pacifists; the slow, gentle pace of African life in a tropical climate prevails here. The sounds of war come to me daily via my noisy neighbor's television set. It is hard to hear gun blasts and violence day in and day out. Still, I try to take comfort in the fact that at least it is just the soundtrack of a movie and not a real war zone, as countless others around the world must face everyday. I can't help but wonder though what sort of impact these movies- and all that comes with modern entertainment- will have on the culture and the people here.
_______________
When the wind stops blowing in my village, the electricity goes out. Then I do a secret dance of joy. Finally, no more synthesized accordian 90's-style club jams blasting at high decibals from 4:45 AM to 11 at night. Finally, time to hear the songbirds. Finally, some peace & quiet... or not. When the wind picks up again, the noise commences simultaneously.
______________
I thought when I moved to a rural village in Africa, my life would be an extension of the one I spent during my years in wilderness (and admittedly, there are parts that are... rising with the sun, awareness of the moon and night sky cycles, living harmoniously with dirt, trees and the seasons). I just never expected it to be so loud. I am one of the few (lucky?) environment volunteers who lives in a village where there is electricity, thanks to a couple of windmills that were installed about a year ago. Having electricity has certain implications- for myself, as I can easily charge my cell phone and ipod, but more importantly, for the villagers who are experiencing living with it for the first time in their lives. They pay for electricity based on how many lightbulbs are in their houses, not by their usage. They are just figuring out now what payment system is fair, and what is not... in their own slow, passive way.
______________
If it's not some war movie, then it's Malagasy music; I honestly cannot say which is worse.
______________
Overnight, the air was still; this morning there was no electricity and the ocean was as smooth as glass- the first time I'd ever seen it that way. I asked one of the old women at the coffee shack if she liked the town quiet like this, with no music. "Ehee!," she implored, "zaho tia tanana mareseka be!" (Which, of course means she prefers the town "mareseka," a difficult word to translate as there are many definitions depending on the context: fun, lively, much talked about, full, people moving about, like a party, etc.) Since villagers are now only quiet when someone dies, she said it was like the whole town was sad. The whole town, that is, except for me, who enjoyed waking to the sound of songbirds this morning for the first time in seven months.
______________
If a town lost electricity in America, it would be a great inconvenience, maybe even newsworthy, complete with reporters and technicians working around the clock to remedy the problem. When it happened here the other night, my neigbor moved a woven mat into her yard and watched the almost-full moon rise above the coconut trees, talking to her husband and daughter in hushed, wonderous voices.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
for A.J.B.
today, like so many days in my life,
i was my own best enemy.
battling with the weight of my heart,
carrying cloudstorms on my shoulders.
a scowl for this beautiful world.
oblivious to my plight,
nature was boastful and proud,
as she should be most days.
she showed off her big pouty rainclouds
and hip-swaying palm trees,
and finished with a flurry of dazzling pink sunrays
winking on the indian ocean.
i remained distant, unmoved, somewhere else.
to keep pulling this thread
will surely leave one of us undone,
the other with something unraveled,
exposed.
i cannot live here or there,
then or now,
in this life,
or that one.
i was my own best enemy.
battling with the weight of my heart,
carrying cloudstorms on my shoulders.
a scowl for this beautiful world.
oblivious to my plight,
nature was boastful and proud,
as she should be most days.
she showed off her big pouty rainclouds
and hip-swaying palm trees,
and finished with a flurry of dazzling pink sunrays
winking on the indian ocean.
i remained distant, unmoved, somewhere else.
to keep pulling this thread
will surely leave one of us undone,
the other with something unraveled,
exposed.
i cannot live here or there,
then or now,
in this life,
or that one.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
a day at the cemetery.
Way back in September 2008, a very well-loved young man named Wawa passed away in my village. He was only 18 at the time, and from what I can gather, he died of a heart attack, or some other sickness of the heart. (It is hard to ascertain what sorts of medical maladies befall people here, since even the most basic knowledge of the human body is rare, at least among villagers.)
He was buried in the small cemetery that sits atop a windy hill just outside of Ambolobozokely. It is a beautiful little place; the ocean and surrounding islands can be seen through swaying palms.
This story begins one morning last week, while I was sipping some coffee and chatting with friends. I noticed small groups of women gathering at a house and realized that there were only a few men in town. I asked what was going on. It was then that my friend told me all about their beloved community member who had passed away almost two years ago, and how sad people had been when he died, especially because he was so young.
Though he had been buried after the usual three-day three-night mourning event that is the Malagasy funeral, his family did not have enough money at the time for a proper tranovato (stone house) to be built over his grave. They had at last been able to pay for all the materials, and the whole community was turning out to put the last touches on his final resting place. I asked if it was fady (taboo) to go up to the cemetery and check out the scene. As usual, everyone welcomed me to partake in their community event with open arms.
I figured it would be a somber event, at best. I wasn't even sure if I should bring my camera, lest it be perceived as rude or intrusive. What I came across instead was just another inspiring moment that has become the framework of my life here.
As I approached the graveyard, I could hear men laughing and talking as they worked. There were about thirty of them, cheerfully hauling sand, mixing cement, carrying water, but most of them were just there to hang out and cajole the others who were actually working. It struck me as a poignant scene: how it was more like a party then a sad, solitary event. There was an air of celebration and togetherness, as is the case during so many occasions that are more melancholy in the western world.
Mid-morning, the women came up the hill, wrapped in their brightly-colored salovanas and each carrying a large pot or heavy bucket of rice on their heads. They had prepared a huge feast that would be eaten next to the gravesite.
After an impromptu picnic of rice and coconut beans, which had to be eaten in shifts because there were so many of us, everyone wanted their picture taken next to their family's graves. They were all very happy to tell me about the people they still loved and missed, and since there is only one camera in my village (mine), it was an honor for them to get a picture taken beside the gravestones.
There is a simple beauty in having friends and family involved in the building of one's grave. Like everything in the Malgasy culture, life-- and death-- is experienced amongst each other; the community is what sustains and defines a person. The expression is so overused, but it's true: it really does take a village to raise, support and sometimes bury a child.
He was buried in the small cemetery that sits atop a windy hill just outside of Ambolobozokely. It is a beautiful little place; the ocean and surrounding islands can be seen through swaying palms. This story begins one morning last week, while I was sipping some coffee and chatting with friends. I noticed small groups of women gathering at a house and realized that there were only a few men in town. I asked what was going on. It was then that my friend told me all about their beloved community member who had passed away almost two years ago, and how sad people had been when he died, especially because he was so young.
Though he had been buried after the usual three-day three-night mourning event that is the Malagasy funeral, his family did not have enough money at the time for a proper tranovato (stone house) to be built over his grave. They had at last been able to pay for all the materials, and the whole community was turning out to put the last touches on his final resting place. I asked if it was fady (taboo) to go up to the cemetery and check out the scene. As usual, everyone welcomed me to partake in their community event with open arms.
I figured it would be a somber event, at best. I wasn't even sure if I should bring my camera, lest it be perceived as rude or intrusive. What I came across instead was just another inspiring moment that has become the framework of my life here.
As I approached the graveyard, I could hear men laughing and talking as they worked. There were about thirty of them, cheerfully hauling sand, mixing cement, carrying water, but most of them were just there to hang out and cajole the others who were actually working. It struck me as a poignant scene: how it was more like a party then a sad, solitary event. There was an air of celebration and togetherness, as is the case during so many occasions that are more melancholy in the western world.
Mid-morning, the women came up the hill, wrapped in their brightly-colored salovanas and each carrying a large pot or heavy bucket of rice on their heads. They had prepared a huge feast that would be eaten next to the gravesite. After an impromptu picnic of rice and coconut beans, which had to be eaten in shifts because there were so many of us, everyone wanted their picture taken next to their family's graves. They were all very happy to tell me about the people they still loved and missed, and since there is only one camera in my village (mine), it was an honor for them to get a picture taken beside the gravestones.
There is a simple beauty in having friends and family involved in the building of one's grave. Like everything in the Malgasy culture, life-- and death-- is experienced amongst each other; the community is what sustains and defines a person. The expression is so overused, but it's true: it really does take a village to raise, support and sometimes bury a child.
Monday, November 1, 2010
us is them.
When living in a culture vastly different than your own, it is easy to put yourself in a mindset of "us versus them." Admittedly, I spend a lot of my time tallying up the differences between myself and Malagasy people. Likewise, it is always a relief to talk to other PCVs living in Madagascar about the baffling characteristics that distinguish our culture from theirs.
I considered for some time writing a blog with a list of all the dissimilarities between the American and Malagasy cultures, but that could quickly become a very long (and boring) book. For example, while I may complain bitterly about transportation to my village being unreliable and inconvenient, to them it is perfectly acceptable to wait 6 hours for a ride somewhere. When I go out fishing, I cannot help but think about what a good workout it is for my arms; they are thinking about how much money they can bring in for their families. When I go to the bank or post office, I must remember that there is absolutely no method to the madness of lines; people crowd around you, cut in front of you, or talk to the clerk while you are in the middle of a transaction.
Just as much as I may not understand their culture or why they do things the way they do, they don't seem to get mine. I am constantly being asked questions about the American culture, sometimes disturbingly ignorant, other times amusing and sweet. Are all Americans rich? (They don't believe poor people exist in the US.) Do mermaids live in the ocean over there? (This after watching the movie "Splash.") When a stranger comes to your door, do you invite them to sit with you and eat rice? (No, but I wish we did.)
The sense of "us versus them" can quickly get out of control if you let it. It allows us to be in the right and the other wrong. We can end up spending much of our lives consumed in this mindset, from the guy who's a jerk for cutting us off in traffic to playing a victim role in a failed relationship to intolerance for others with different political or religious beliefs.
As a Peace Corps Volunteer, approaching cultural experiences from this "us versus them" mentality is a deathwish, but one that can still be really hard to let go of. Most of my irritation here comes from wishing "they" would just do things differently. I try to make sense out of the nonsensical, order out of the chaos. Staying focused on the ways that we are similar and becoming more and more accepting of the culture I now live in is the only way I will stay sane.
These days, I'm working a paradigm shift: us IS them.
I considered for some time writing a blog with a list of all the dissimilarities between the American and Malagasy cultures, but that could quickly become a very long (and boring) book. For example, while I may complain bitterly about transportation to my village being unreliable and inconvenient, to them it is perfectly acceptable to wait 6 hours for a ride somewhere. When I go out fishing, I cannot help but think about what a good workout it is for my arms; they are thinking about how much money they can bring in for their families. When I go to the bank or post office, I must remember that there is absolutely no method to the madness of lines; people crowd around you, cut in front of you, or talk to the clerk while you are in the middle of a transaction.
Just as much as I may not understand their culture or why they do things the way they do, they don't seem to get mine. I am constantly being asked questions about the American culture, sometimes disturbingly ignorant, other times amusing and sweet. Are all Americans rich? (They don't believe poor people exist in the US.) Do mermaids live in the ocean over there? (This after watching the movie "Splash.") When a stranger comes to your door, do you invite them to sit with you and eat rice? (No, but I wish we did.)
The sense of "us versus them" can quickly get out of control if you let it. It allows us to be in the right and the other wrong. We can end up spending much of our lives consumed in this mindset, from the guy who's a jerk for cutting us off in traffic to playing a victim role in a failed relationship to intolerance for others with different political or religious beliefs.
As a Peace Corps Volunteer, approaching cultural experiences from this "us versus them" mentality is a deathwish, but one that can still be really hard to let go of. Most of my irritation here comes from wishing "they" would just do things differently. I try to make sense out of the nonsensical, order out of the chaos. Staying focused on the ways that we are similar and becoming more and more accepting of the culture I now live in is the only way I will stay sane.
These days, I'm working a paradigm shift: us IS them.
in brief.
After five days relaxing on some tropical islands off the northwest coast of Madagascar, I am heading back to my site with a viral infection on my sunburnt lips, a broken bicycle, a busted laptop and 72 mosquito bites on my right leg alone. But the trip was worth it all. The islands are what dreams are made of: few people, very relaxing, gorgeous beaches, crystalline water and a culture all of its own.
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