Desert Flavor

My nine year old sister Zipe came over last night for dinner as she always does. This is on the basis that she helps do some of the chores i.e. wash the dishes, fetch water, sns. Eating alone can also be a drag, so the company usually lightens my mood. It was like our typical evenings together except that night we had meat on the menu! I decided that afternoon that I would purchase a few pieces of raw chicken to cook for lunch. This is a luxury I can't always afford on a regular basis, plus buying meat in front of my community makes me appear as someone with money. Being careful not to waste I used the bones for soup afterwards with bouillon.

We both slurped happily enjoying the hardy flavor of the ginger/ chicken broth. A nice break from our usual meal, which consists of dried shrimp with onions, topped on rice. Zipe suddenly stops eating, looks up at me, and out of the blue asks, "Who is someone rich in the U.S?" The first person to come to mind was Bill Gates so I said his name.

"He is probably not suffering with food," she remarks. This is the closest translation I can think of for, "Mety tsy mijali sakafo izy."

She continues, "Does he have a child?"



"Yes," I answer.


"He is probably not suffering with food"


"No, probably not."


"Are you suffering with food?" I ask her.


She nods.


"How about me?" I point towards myself.


She nods again.


At which point we both start to laugh uproariously. Even though you probably aren't smiling too, I've found that a good sense of humor helps me get through most days.

My friend Cecilia, a volunteer in the same region and I both agree that in two years when we've returned to the States, we'll look back and think it's hilarious that all we had to eat was rice and rotting tomatoes on some occasions.

But for people in our community this is their life and always was, and will be for many years to come. Around 90% of my village are subsistence farmers. Their fields provide the staple for their diet. Half the day when my eight year old neighbor girl is not at school she spends collecting rice for her family or pounding the husks off in oversize mortar and pestles.


Mijali is a perfect term that cannot be properly translated since it combines those who are poor with those who suffer. These concepts aren't necessarily divorced from each other in English but nor are they linked together like in Malagasy.


When I was conducting my community diagnostic survey one of the overarching concerns was food security. Unlike in the highlands the plateau area where I live is not conducive to growing varieties of vegetables because of its arid climate. And my desert is far from having the designer buffets that are available in the Las Vegas desert. Coming from a family of cooks I have always been surrounding by ample amounts of tasty things, which has probably helped instigate my vivid food dreams. I will refrain from describing them here since they may edge on sounding pornographic.

Just having my propane tank refilled for my gas stove was quite an ordeal in itself. I needed to carry it all the way to the big city. After having it loaded onto the top of the taxi-brousse, I lugged it around town while fulfilling other errands just to find out the gas stations couldn't refill it for one reason or another. I waited two weeks to be able to cook on a gas stove again since the epicerie owner who I had commissioned to get it refilled kept forgetting. During this time I made an attempt at using a charcoal cooker. There was no BBQ. My failure at being able to cook on a charcoal stove is a bit embarrassing so I won't discuss the details.

Finally, when my tank was recharged Mama "epicerie" looked at me and exclained, "you look skinny! Did you lose weight because you were hungry?" At which point she chuckled loudly while pinching my arm remarking to the people around me, "Haha, I feel her bones". This was the first time I've ever become upset at a comment that I look skinny. In this place in Africa, being called skinny is not a compliment.


No, I am not telling you all of this to make you feel sorry for me. And, no I am not malnourished. Not having many foods readily available in my market has made me more conscious of how much of each food group I am consuming and forces me to plan out my meals carefully so that my body receives a sufficient amount of vitamins and minerals.


Living in such conditions also motivates me to educate my community more about health and nutrition because life in the ambanivohitra (countryside) is no walk in the park.

So every time you take a bite into a hamburger, you savor the taste of the meat juices seeping onto the fresh sesame seed bun, or let the ice cream melt in your mouth so that you can soak up all the creamy rich flavor.

And also, turn off the television during meals. Actually look at your food, taste it, understand its texture, indulge in its scent with your nostrils before cramming it all in your mouth. And once in a while give whoever cooks your meals a big hug, whether its your mother or the restaurant chief.

Happy Thanksgiving! Now, go eat a turkey dammit!

Frank Van Rijn: novelist, cyclist, journeyman

One of the greatest advantages of living off of one of the best paved roads in Madagascar, between two regional capitals, is that I cross paths with so many fascinating individuals. As always, I was having my morning coffee on the side of the highway when a cyclist stopped by the market to purchase a papaya.

The fruit ladies quickly ran to me to translate what he was saying. He was lean and nearly two meters tall. He sported a white beard and raggedy tee-shirt. His skin had been darkened numerous shades by the scorching Malagasy sun, as indicated by the tan line left by his sock. He was clearly not like any other tourist I have ever seen. I asked him where he was from in French and when he answered Holland I excitedly switched to English. I glanced at his bicycle which had numerous baggages tied around the front wheel as well as back. He had been touring Madagascar for nearly two months. I thought perhaps this was an adventure he had planned for when he had retired. No. He had been touring the world on bike for over thirty years, having already visited 125 different nations. This wasn’t just a vacation, this was a lifestyle choice. I asked him his name and he pointed to the print on his bike frame. Frank Van Rijn, what a pleasure to meet you.

Since he was unsure if he could find a hotel before sunset I invited him to pitch a tent in my extra room. I was also intrigued to hear more about his adventures abroad. After telling him of the different species of lemurs that live in my national park we decided to search for some. We trekked through the forest snacking on mangos while at the same time trying to dodge the ones that dropped down from above. It was a nice hike despite not having spotted any lemurs. I was also impressed at how much energy he still had after having already biked nearly fifty kilometers in blistering heat. I suppose all these years of biking had physically conditioned him.

Images of Indiana Jones popped up in my mind as he told tales of being held up by gunpoint in El Salvador, robbed by a man with a machete in Burkina Faso, being captured by a liberation organization in Mozambique, to having narrowly escaped flying axes thrown by bandits in India. His life is nothing short of a legend.

After graduating from university with a degree in electrical engineering he decided to take a gap year to travel through South, Central, and North America. After returning he taught science for nine months before deciding to get back on the bike. “this wasn’t a conscious decision to make this my career. It just happened like that,” he tells me. Loving the freedom and closeness with nature and people that you don’t get using any other form of transportation, its no surprise he opts to ride the bike.

He’s shared a glimpse of his experience in the eleven books he’s authored in Dutch. I complained when he told me that only one is available in English translation, Pilgrims and Peppers. “You can make beautiful books, with beautiful illustrations, and beautiful binding, but they may not be read by many if the book promoter is no good,” he states emphatically. I learned more about the complexities of the book industry after he described some of his frustrations with finding a publisher for an American or English public. I really hope his books will be translated not only in English but in several languages, as I believe his stories need to be told. It is not enough to know about our own environment in which we live. He offers a window into many different worlds through his own eyes and through his words fostering tolerance and humanity.

visit his website as well as keep updated on his current movement:

http://www.frankvanrijn.nl/?page_id=4&lang=en

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.

Checkpoint

So according to statistics the highest number of early termination volunteers occurs within the first three months of being at site. Probably since this is when the realization that this will be your life for the next two years finally sinks in. But I am proud to say that all 38 of my colleagues turned up at our in-service training in Mantasoa (just 30 km. outside of the capital Tana). After catching up with most of everyone I realized I wasn't alone in all of my struggles. There were those who had it even harder than me. Without mentioning names I learned that people were being terrorized by fleas and parasites, hit by fast-moving vehicles, throat operations, harassment by strange Malagasy men/ women, and constantly being asked for money since people mistake all vizaha for having money. One thing I am grateful of is that I learned all of this through the voices of the individuals versus through the "Peace Corps grapevine" as we call it. Living in remote isolation compared to other already remotely isolated volunteers has allowed me to hide away from petty intigue and gossip which has actually been quite rewarding. Seeing so many vizaha (foreigners) in one place after many months of not seeing anyone from my stage but Cecilia (closest neighbor to me, by close i mean 90 km) was incredible anxiety building. But overall it was really nice to see everyone again. I found the information gained at IST pretty useful, and now I feel like I have a clearer picture of what direction I want to move my service. The fact that we were given an opportunity to investigate our sites using Community Development Surveying techniques over the past five months made this training much more relevant as far as technical training than PST (pre-service training). A leading expert in fruit science/ preservation techniques Fonsa came to speak to us since many of us do work with fruit growers or confiture microenterprises. I work with both groups, so I found what she had to say particularly interesting. I learned more about bee-keeping, very useful since my community asked me to investigate further. Plus, numerous other guest speakers and volunteers offered their advice, expertise, and experience.

Famadihana

I was invited by my neighbor to her father’s and uncle’s turning of the bones ceremony, or famadihana. After seven to ten years after someone’s death, ones family will perform an exhumation ceremony. Malagasy beliefs surrounding death is incredibly rich and complex, which is evident in how they perform their exhumations and burials. I have only begun to unravel the mysteries surrounding these “croyances” that can be traced back to the original boat people from Indonesia, who came to shore thousands of years ago.

Preparations started one week prior to the event, which was to be held in my backyard. A canopy of palm leaves was propped on top of logs as a tent. A cable connected to a generator was used to provide entertainment and electricity for the festivities. Guest rolled in early Friday morning and didn’t leave until Sunday afternoon.

First the bones are unearthed from a cement grave, which is proudly maintained by the family of the deceased, an expense deemed necessary as a sign of respect and deference to their ancestors. The oldest male members of the family are the first to descend into the dug up graves. After undoing the silk shrouds he will hand the bones one by one to close members and friends, yelling excitedly what each bone is, “Here is his shoulder!” He spoke of the dead as if they were still in present, watching and evaluating how well his tribute was carried out. The bones are rubbed down by oil to clean off years of accumulated dirt. They are spoken to in hushed voices, with the latest family and community news. Later they are wrapped in clean new cloth.

I was helping cook a gargantuan amount of rice cooking in fifteen large cauldrons over charcoal cookstoves outside when I saw the large party parade the bones down the hill. The bones were then laid out on a table at the head of the tent.

They danced and sang. This was a celebration after all. Toaka (Malagasy moonshine) was served in pails. Music blared from the speakers. Women wearing salovina’s (traditional colored cloth worn by women in the north) were winnowing rice against my house. Three zebu (bovine with humps on their back) were sacrificed for the event. Zebus play an imminent role in Malagasy society. The creatures are a source of pride and wealth all over Madagascar.

Rows of bowls, with red paint bearing the initials of its owners on the bottom, were placed in three long rows on the sandy ground. Large bowls containing steaming rice were then placed down followed by zebu stew. Spoons were placed on rice to be eaten communally. Lunch was served. The children were called first to eat, then the men (many of whom were already intoxicated), the women last. I squatted knee to knee between two other women already busy chowing down the much labored over meal.

More dancing and drinking followed well into the wee hours of dawn. Children were the most enthusiastic, dancing the night away underneath the Southern hemisphere stars.

Coffee was even served in pitchers to combat fatigue at midnight. I didn’t have the same kind of strength as everyone else. I fell under a restless sleep at two in the morning, my ears pounding throughout the night by music that seemed to only get louder by the hour.

I admire the Malagasy people for their immense respect towards their ancestors. I was asked numerous times how Americans celebrate their dead, and whether we have famadihana too. I had to admit that graves are often forgotten over time by most people. But then I thought harder. In my own Asian heritage we also hold elaborate memorial services, sweep the tombs and provide offerings to our ancestors. Then there’s the numerous Hispanics who hold their own beliefs and have their own celebrations such as Dios de Muertos. So perhaps it was better to explain the mosaic of different heritages that make up American society and their attitudes towards death. Death is not seen as an end in Madagascar, rather it’s the start to a new beginning.

20th hand clothes

"We call this second-hand clothes in English," I tell my Malagasy friends as we comb through a pile of frip: used clothes, bedsheets, bags, shoes, and even lingerie. Fripperie are stuffed into large sacks or crates then thrust out by wealthier nations into the hands of poor vintage hungry Peace Corps volunteers living in developing nations like myself. One of my friends comments that "second-hand" is really a euphemism for what should really be called 20th hand clothes. There is little doubt in my mind that this shoulder padded blazer was popular when my mother was in high school, perhaps it was even worn by her.

Who knows where our unwanted clothes items end up after we discard of them? Most of these hodgepodges are in my opinion offensive. I can't comprehend how someone could even fathom donating some of the things I see. And its not because I'm a fashion victim, used to being able to afford what has been dictated to me by Hollywood or popular society. Rather I feel, "look! a questionable stain on these shorts," or, "hey looky, here's some elastic band yoga pants, that no longer is elastic...bummer." But sometimes theres buried treasure underneath all the undesirable stuff, such as a nifty D & G bag that would cost me an arm and leg in the States, perhaps its the designer label lightly worn cocktail dress. One whole USD why not? Finds like these makes me eternally grateful to rich Westerners who tire of their attire after only a few wears, if not even.

I keep myself from translating the meanings that I find on some peoples shirts. For example I spotted a teenager during mass sport a tee which read, "No silicone". Ironically she let it hang, as most ladies do not wear brassieres here, unknowingly holding true to the statement. there was another man who wore a brightly colored shirt stating, "I love BJ" during a morengy match (Malagasy bare knuckle boxing). And not to mention a number of South Park jerseys with obscene comments printed on them. These items without question are from our earlier more angsty days of adolescence, desirably wiped from our memories in the form of charitable donations to organizations such as the Salvation Army. They are however appreciated by our Malagasy friends for the warmth they provide and maybe even great color scheme.

What's in a name?

I find names to be fascinating, not necessarily the name itself but the story behind why one is given his or her name. A child that was recently born in a fellow volunteer's village was given her middle name Ruzena. Children are often named after famous events, people, and sometimes even natural disasters such as cyclones in Madagascar. In a country where children often don't know their own birthdate, one can sometimes take an educated guess based on their names. For instance my friend's niece is named Noel, since she was born around Christmas. One's offspring is a source of pride here, since they are their parent's life insurance in old age. Adults are often called their children's names followed by the title Mama or Papa. My personal favorites are: Mama Tasse (Mother Cup), Mama Piso (Mother Cat), Mama Valo (Mother Eight, I'm going to guess she ran out of good ideas for baby names after her eighth child). Its as if after becoming a parent your identity ceases to be linked to you as an individual but rather as a mother or father. Individualism isn't necessarily a characteristic one takes pride in here. Once I asked my neighbor's son what his name was. He answered Bogosy meaning handsome. I laughed and flirtingly responded, "yes and my name is Beautiful." I blushed when I discovered this really is his name.