Tongue Tied

This past week has really made me sympathize with language translators.  Generating accurate translations is a lot more difficult than it seems. This is perhaps why electronic translators many times fail to encapsulate and formulate coherent translations. Some hurdles include translating phrases with heavy cultural baggage (i.e. Idioms, history), sometimes having to explain ideas outside of the participant’s knowledge, not knowing vocabulary, trying to explain concepts for vocabulary that doesn’t exist, and keeping in mind cultural and social cues while speaking to either person on each end of the discussion, while attempting to produce sentences with correct grammar and syntax.  I was asked by a French graduate student doing research on black eye beans to help him translate interviews with farmers and collectors in Ambato-boeny (a city near Mahajanga) in the West.  We interviewed union members, independent farmers, government employees, and middle-men. Each interview was very different from the next.  Depending on how technical the language they used was I would at times sit perplexed trying to fill in the linguistic gaps with my own logic. I translated from English to Malagasy and vice versa.  And because English wasn’t the graduate student’s native tongue there were moments when I tried to make sense of his meaning too.  I think of all the literature I’ve read in my life that had been translated from its original language, and wonder to myself how much of the meaning is lost.  Really translation work seems to be a skill that one can always improve at without ever reaching perfection.  Words themselves are packed with meaning, and sometimes their true meaning is lost when translated literally.  

Sunscreen

Aging is a natural life process.  This is a fact I don’t need to remind us all.  However aging is exacerbated by exposure to the sun.  I remember people in my stage (training group) ask if the current volunteers were a lot older than us when we first landed in-country.  Little did we know we would look like this in a year’s time.  I was shocked when I saw my stage for the first time in almost a year during our last conference.  Many of us had crow’s feet where none existed before.  The impact of the sun had left blemishes and our skin more leathery.  Of course there are other factors that contribute to our enhanced “ripened” state, such as physical and emotional stress, but out of all of these the sun is to be the most blamed.  DO NOT challenge the Malagasy sun, particularly on the coasts, because you can be assured that it will win.  Our complexion is lighter than that of our African counterparts, therefore more susceptible to cracking.

Wear sunscreen. I’ve ditched the mascara, the foundation, the blush and lipstick.  My prep work before exposing myself to the public includes dousing myself with sunscreen.  This has become a necessary daily regime.   I go through a tube every month.  Straw hats and sunglasses have become important accessories to me.  More than cosmetic reasons I’m afraid of skin cancer.  This brings to my mind asinine practices such as membership sun tanning that we as Americans can’t get enough of.  I understand why people do this, but in the end I ask myself why…really why? Our skin is our largest organ.  It is a living part of us that needs to be cared for just as any other part of our bodies.  And with the encroachment of ozone layer depletion, we need to grow ever more wary of the sun.   

Permission to Speak

In the novel Mating by Norman Rush the inhabitants of an experimental colony in post-colonial Botswana are required to first give a signal to one another if they wish to speak English versus their native tongue.  I wondered what kind of implications this development model would have in Madagascar.  Just imagine, if foreigners first had to ask permission to speak French to a Malagasy person, and vice versa how it would shift one’s attitude and mentality. In subtle ways the legacy of French colonization continues. 

There is an unspoken expectation that metropolitan and educated Malagasy speak French when communicating with foreigners (vazaha).  However, if vazaha were urged to ask permission before speaking French this could result in a power shift, bringing to consciousness among foreigners that they are merely guests and aren’t owed accommodation, but rather must show respect to gain it.  I feel  not only would this encourage foreigners to learn more Malagasy but empower the local population, especially the most oppressed to feel more pride towards their native tongue.  There are elites in this country who opt to converse mostly if not solely with one another in French.  This creates more stratification in society and reaffirms French dominance.   I’ve been thanked several times and have shocked many that I can speak Malagasy.  This should not be necessary.  Out of respect one should at minimum learn basic Malagasy, and if they aren’t able to then signal for permission to speak French, because understandably not everyone has the time or resources to learn Malagasy.

 I was able to visit and speak to a traditional spirit interlocutor.  It took a year and a half to build up enough Malagasy vocabulary so that I could have this conversation.  However the French lady who organized the meeting was able to gain as much if not more information in a mere few weeks of being in-country by using French.  What if I could have cheated too and spoke French from the get-go?  I would have saved so much time and energy, and my work would have been expedited.  But so much more is at stake than time. 

Before joining Peace Corps one of my main goals was to gain linguistic skills that could be applied in a future international career.  I hoped to learn a language such as Arabic, Russian, Spanish, etc. But I am proud that I speak Malagasy, and furthermore I am proud of Peace Corps volunteers.   We can found in some of the most obscure pockets of the globe with the ability to speak languages such as Zulu, Setswana, Wolof, and Quechua.  In some ways we are helping to preserve and encourage the use of indigenous tongues.  Some of us converse in languages that may only have a few million speakers worldwide and for the most part we do it well.

The Living Dead

Cultural sensitivity is a pivotal aspect of any Peace Corps volunteers’ life.  But how relativistic does one need to be before their own personality and morals diminish?  Most cultural practices have arisen due to economic or geographic constraints, normalizing sometimes arbitrary or harmful practices, just think of the short story The Lottery and the message behind it.  Now there are pcvs who are unable or unwilling to access HCN’s behavior with a nuanced point of view, rather judging harshly and therefore unfairly, creating stereotypes and unwarranted labels. Understandably this is due to frustrations with integration.  Perhaps they are projecting their own insecurities and homesickness onto HCNS (host country nationals, some more PC lingo).  I am not saying that I am not guilty of doing this from time to time too.

This is a story that happened over a year ago in my old village.  I had just moved into my site around a month and was taking an afternoon stroll around my community.  The sun was shining brilliantly.  Dust clouds would form wherever I stepped on the baked earth. Everything seemed in place: women braiding and breastfeeding, children chasing broken bicycle tires, and people standing in line at the pumps for water, until all of a sudden I ran into an elderly man prostrated on a heap of hardened sand.   Only the whites of his eyes were visible as his eyeballs rolled back into his head.  He was quenching for thirst as his lips hung half open parched.  His body lay limp, emaciated and without movement.  The only thing he wore were rags, which exposed his ribs and vacant belly.  Shocked I asked the people around me why no one was helping him, in my then very broken Gasy.  The villagers told me that he wasn’t their responsibility and that his son lived down the road and to ask him about the old man.  I quickly ran to the man’s family’s hut and called for someone to come out.  A young man appeared, and when I described what I saw I expected him to react differently to his father’s sickness.  Rather, he seemed apathetic and tried to feign interest, but really the answer was found in the expression in his eyes.  He went with other family members and children trailing behind him to pick up his father who lay dying only meters from his home.  I’m unsure of what became of this story.  No matter how much I inquired afterwards the only response would be that they had brought him to a doctor and a look to mind my own business. But I knew this wasn’t the truth.  The old man was dead and I couldn’t do anything about it.

 A French researcher told me about a time when he went to a neighboring village and a young man lay dead with a sweater covered over him in the middle of the busy market.   Someone had dropped him off knowing that his time on this earth was limited and could not handle the burden and or finance of moving him to a doctor or respectable place.   I was surprised that people in the market weren’t more aghast at the site of a dead body where they shopped and bartered for food. 

Death is a much more accepted in life here than it is among Americans.  This I presumed is due to socio-economic limitations.  Perhaps this is why funerals often times lack the same air of dread that they do in the West or why children are born in the dozen with the expectation that many will not make it to middle school.  Like all humans we all grieve over loved community and family members.  However access to proper medical care is a luxury not many can afford here.  Maybe for this reason people have become more accepting and complacent of death here.   Jaded. Perhaps this is the crux of a lot of the development issues here.  We are jaded as PCVS, NGO’s, the outside spectator who only hears about hunger in Africa, and even the local population.  We all hope that things can change, but a part of us feel so limited in what we can do and often fall into despair or apathy.  In what ways does apathy fuel poverty and in what ways does poverty fuel apathy? 

A Heart Away from Home

I thank Mark Zuckberg for avenues such as Facebook, which I've consistently rely upon to receive updates from friends and family.  However, it brings to mind the fact that my life is drifting farther and farther away from those who I left behind nearly a year and a half ago.  I ponder to myself what life would have been like if I hadn't made the decision to join Peace Corps.  Sometimes I vacillate between wanting the salaried figure, the big grand investments (car, home, and sofa from Ikea), and the rock on my finger, the promotion or to continue on this wannabe Indiana Jones / Mother Theresa adventure.   There is no way I can label my decision to live abroad in a developing nation as superior to my peers who have chosen a more traditional avenue to pursue.  Having lived abroad, and for a majority of that time removed from basic conveniences and technology, has created rifts between once unbreakable bonds.  It’s helped me discern the high context and low context relationships in my life, and to reevaluate my criteria for friendship.  However, I can’t be bitter, as I understand it’s natural that time and distance forces change to occur.   In what ways will I be able to compensate for the lost time?  Will I be able to slide my way back into my old social circles, laugh at the same jokes, and continue old hobbies? Will children of family members recognize me? Without a doubt I will become emotional when I hold babies whom I've never met before.  But honestly I still have a year before these issues become relevant.  For now, I enjoy long bike rides over the plateau, grinding rice in large mortar and pestles, teaching English and art at the local primary school, and having beers while discussing politics with my Malagasy friends.  The rest I’ll worry about when my plane lands on American soil.