names.

Several days ago I returned home from a mountain bike ride, dripping with sweat and badly needing a drink of water. I was just inside the fence of my house when a friend came over to tell me that his wife had given birth to a healthy baby boy in the night.

This was wonderful news; I had heard from some other people in town that two of their other children had died as newborns.

After I congratulated him, he asked me nonchalantly, "Can you give him a name?" Still pouring with sweat in the baking sun and breathing heavily, I exclaimed, "Me?! You want me to give him a name?!" He smiled with a face full of joy, "Yes! It will be our souvenir of Vanessa!"

Before you get too sentimental, know that names here don't carry as much weight as they do in the American culture. I cannot count how many times I've asked the name of someone- be it a beloved newborn or a wizened grandmother- only to be met with a perplexed, unknowing shrug. People here either go by nickname or women take on the title of "Mother of so-and-so."

Nonetheless, I've never named a child before, and figured the task would take some reflection. My friend asked if I wanted to swing by the next morning with a name. Even though I was fairly certain of his name- it had come to me in a flash- I agreed to go by the following morning just in case I decided on something different. There were a few points to consider.

First of all, some English names here are really hard or awkward for Malagasy people to pronounce. Luckily, "Vanessa" is easy enough, though most of my village calls me by my Malagasy name, given to me on my first day: Soa Faniry. "Soa" is a prefix for a woman's name- it simply means "girl" or "lady." For example, if you are trying to get the attention of a woman you don't know, it's perfectly acceptable to call out, "Hey Soa!" The word "Faniry" is the the passive form of the verb "maniry," to grow, so my full name means Girl Who Brings About Growth.

But I digress.

The second point about naming a child here is that some names don't translate so well from English to Malagasy. My British friend Matt laughs every time he introduces himself; "maty" here means dead. My other friend Kelly gets perplexed looks: "kely" in Malagasy means little.

So it was with some trepidation that I went to my friend's house the following morning to give his newborn son his name. There was no pomp and circumstance, just the relaxed, casual way that makes up the entirety of the Malagasy culture. I had my camera and snapped a few pictures; my friend pulled out a weather-beaten notepad filled with various random scribblings, then pointed to a blank page for me to write down the name.

I wrote it out carefully as they covet penmanship here: Richard Barrett (pronounced Ree-shar Ba-ray). I explained that Richard was my grandfather's name and Barrett the name of a dear friend from home. I knew they would choose to call their son Barrett for life, Richard being used only for formalities and identification cards.

Everyone in town loves the name Barrett, they say it is for a strong boy, though no one's yet seen the newborn except for a few family and select visitors. As per Gasy custom, the mother and child must not leave the house until two weeks after its birth. When she finally does go outside to introduce her son to the community, the mother must put cotton in her ears for another two weeks. I don't know why- it's just explained as Malagasy culture.

So, there you have it- my first foray in naming children. Let me know if I can be of service to you and yours any time soon.