(For those of you who missed it, click here for "my fat ass part one"; here for "my fat ass part two".)
Over the last few months, I’ve lost some weight. Not a lot of weight, maybe ten pounds or so, but enough that people in my village have begun to take notice. Well, they notice everything anyway, especially my not-so-fat-anymore ass. They’re worried.
Over the last few months, I’ve lost some weight. Not a lot of weight, maybe ten pounds or so, but enough that people in my village have begun to take notice. Well, they notice everything anyway, especially my not-so-fat-anymore ass. They’re worried.
To most Americans, losing weight is seen as good thing, which is understandable in a culture where the skinny are coveted and the chunky are seen as lesser beings. What’s fascinating is actually how hard it can be to have a healthy weight in America. We are inundated day in and day out with absurd food choices, oversized portions, easy lifestyles (admit it, not many of us are out there slaving away in the fields) and very little time in our hectic lives for moving our bodies.
We all know it’s become a problem: an epidemic of obesity. More than 30% of Americans are now obese and 50% are overweight. Childhood obesity and diabetes rates are at an all-time high.
Life is just not the same in Madagascar. People here work very, very hard their entire lives, with often little more to go on than a measly bowl of rice and nothing else until they catch or gather it. Children here have some of the highest stunted growth rates of any developing nation. Think your six-pack abs are hot in America? Well, they’re a dime a dozen in Madagascar.
So it should come as no surprise that having some heft to you is seen as a good thing here. The bigger you are, the wealthier you must be; the bigger your booty, the more you must be sitting around raking in the cash. The biggest people I’ve seen in Madagascar are the ones with likely the most desirable job: taxi-brousse drivers. These guys sit on their butts all day driving around, collecting money and eating roadside foods. Think long-haul truck drivers, beer bellies and all.
In any case, I wouldn’t have considered myself in the brousse driver category, but I definitely put on some pounds my first year in Madagascar. I was used to living a very active and healthy lifestyle in the U.S. and suddenly, there was all that sitting around wondering what to do in my village, coupled with the heat-induced laziness… and all those endless bowls of white rice… and deep-fried bananas… and deep-fried cassava… and deep-fried bread… and deep-fried dough… and deep-fried fish… well, it all started to add up. To my fat ass.
And boy was my village happy! Everyone was always talking about my weight amongst themselves, because there’s no shame in it here. While I silently suffered every comment, they rejoiced in my ever-growing ass.
Except now those days are over. I stopped eating fried foods (no easy task in a place where there is often literally no other food option available), exercise daily (the heat is my friend!) and feel almost like my normal self (and weight) with the exception of a daily dose of sorely missed fresh vegetables and salad. Plus, I think I’ve just plain gotten used to being hungry. All the time.
This has got my villagers very worried indeed. It’s the high season in Ambolobozokely: winds are calm and the seas are fruitful. Everyone’s eating their fish fill and raking in the Ariary with every kilo of fish sold. I ate at my girlfriend Sophia’s house last week; she couldn’t even zip up the skirt that six months ago was too big for her. She laughed merrily about her gut spilling out of her shirt, while I took note of my negative thoughts about it.
Suffice to say, every time I walk past a group of women these days, I hear them quietly whisper under their breaths, “Mahia eeee!” (Skinny!) They usually say it when I’m far enough away that they think I can’t hear them. Sometimes they cluck their tongues, as if I’m been struck with some terrible disease. Some have a more direct approach, like the local shopkeeper (an exceptionally large woman): she just asked, “What is wrong with you?”
Some conjecture I must be sick (I did lose some weight when I had Dysentery) while others exclaim “Ngoma!” (Missing someone!) Many of them insist I don’t eat enough rice while neighbors have started bringing over food, such as coconut-stewed bananas or crab sauce. I just keep pointing out that my big ol’ booty is right there behind me just as it always has been. They laugh.
Recently a friend came to my village that I hadn’t seen for a long time. The first thing she said when she saw me was “Mahia eeeee!” When I told her I wasn’t skinny, just enjoying getting exercise, she had an interesting reply. She told me that she knew it was a compliment for white people to be told their skinny, but she couldn’t understand why. I shrugged. Some things are better lost in translation.
What a funny world we live in. Americans are trying desperately to get skinny (and failing at that) while the rest of the developing world struggles for just a tiny piece of the pie.
