Good-bye Dear Onion

I’ve focused most of my blogs primarily on cultural observations since sometimes it’s difficult to write on matters relating to work without touching upon more sensitive issues, such as money and why the people I work with have little to none. And thus, what forces prevent them from improving their lives economically. Admittedly, I spent Sunday night crying over the phone to my sister all the way in Italy. She made me realize after this conversation that the only way I could help anyone is if I got it together, stopped feeling sorry for myself, and understand that I am one person and that these problems existed before me and will take a long time to overcome.

I go to the pavilion that was just built recently on the main highway to my village, every morning to talk to the ladies that are part of the microenterprises I work with. There was recently an exposition there, showcasing the high-grade Oriental onions that my women’s microenterprise produces. I was surprised to see a semi-truck there loading up large sacks of these onions. The buyers were taking advantage of the recent harvest and were ready to sell these onions for a marked up price, reaping a profit near the capital city. I froze when I heard the price they were receiving per kilo. The ladies knew that their crops were worth more but they had to compensate for the recent costs of tuition fees to send their children to school. I know what your thinking,

“same old story of the farmer being exploited, its sad but its life”. But, these are my friends, I play with their children, some of them have even adopted me into their families. I’ve been out to the onion fields with them so many times over these last five months clearing field, planting, transplanting, watering, harvesting. I almost feel an ownership over these crops too. I was almost in tears, but to upset and frustrated to cry as the sacks were lifted over a large balance and numbers were recorded. The lady in charge of the operation was dodging my questions and answering my questions which were in Malagasy in rapid French, and since I don’t really speak French as well as Malagasy upsetting since she was Malagasy. She told me that the price she was giving them is the market price for onions, and that I could check this is I was still in disbelief. Of course with my frequent access to internet and electricity this is possible.

I felt guilty for letting this truck roll away with much of the crop that my community labored so hard over. But after talking to Constance, who has been my saving grace, and my program director I know now that I have to move forward and not dwell on what can’t be changed. And by doing this I use this experience as a lesson learned; to educate about saving, planning ahead, and costing and pricing in my community.