Aug 2007

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Hello all,

Since coming to Madagascar, there have been several instances in which I've forgotten my name; once when I scaled a mountain outside Manjakandriana, where I found a royal tomb and a lone tree on the deforested and windswept peak. Again, I forgot when standing with other volunteers in the house of a woman whose godfather had died. We offered our condolences with money and a polite hand shake, telling her in low, solemn tones in Malagasy not to be sad. Though the room was dimly lilt, I saw her expression wore the same shock, the same quiet despair I've seen at funeral wakes and at gravesides in Georgia. These feelings of disembodiment or loss of self accompany moments in which your American experiences and American identity synchronize with Malagasy culture most unexpectedly. All at once you feel isolated in a foreign setting and alternately enveloped in the commonalities that unite us. And in the midst of this contradiction, I continually search for my name in all three of the bowls of rice I eat each day, hoping that by the last spoonful I'll be closer to equilibrating the raw material that is me to the enormity of simply being human.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

I've lived with my Malagasy host family for two months now, and like most true, realistic familial situations, I've experienced more joys and frustrations with them than with any other aspect of my life here. After having established myself as a family member by integrating myself into the daily chores, I thought it time to cook a meal after the second week. Chili seemed like the most appropriate cross cultural exchange, since it's so distinctly American and because I'd been craving it in this cold and wet highland weather. The responsibility of preparing the evening meal meant much more to me than simply putting food on the table; it was an opportunity for me to graduate from my linguistic and social status of an infant to a competent participant in the nourishment of my host family. With the help of my sister, I practiced bargaining for the ingredients in the market, and with pride I demonstrated with excited gestures to my family how the flavors would blend and complement one another. My neny (mom) and rahabavy (sister) helped me chop the vegetables and sprinkle the sakay (chili powder) into the broth. I presented the dish to the table with pride. "Here's a dish they'll tell their neighbors about. New flavors they've been missing all this time," I thought. My dada(dad) helped himself first. As he gingerly touched the spoon to his tongue, the indifferent expression on his face curdled into a scowl of disgust. His spoon clattered as he dropped it into the bowl. The table remained silent. I waited for his apology: that it wasn't to his liking due to being too spicy for his taste; but he only stewed in his discontent and made movements of the mouth so as to divest ownership of his own tongue. In a fluster, my sister ran to the kitchen to cook her father an omelette, but in hurrying, she forgot to clean the pan that had cooked French toast earlier in the day. Again, my dada spit out the syrupy sweet egg with a grunt. For the rest of the meal I stared at my plate while my mom and sister made apologies for the pastor. He, however, didn't muster a one. After clearing the table, I helped my sister, Hasina, wash the dishes. "Maybe chili wasn't a good idea," I tried to explain in Malagasy. Hasina replied, "Maybe eggs and sugar aren't good either." Eggs and sugar, the idea was enough to set us laughing hysterically. The culmination of dada's toady reaction to the food, my mom's attempts to allay the tension with humor and apologies, and my fallen pride kept me laughing alongside my sister for half an hour.

Not every Malagasy family is the same, but the patriarchal dynamic I see in mine will disturb me until I'm no longer part of it. While my brother or dad sleeps in the morning and afternoon, the women are building the coal fires, cooking meals, and constantly cleaning. One day my sister washed so many clothes that her knuckles bled. Sometimes I wish that for my home-stay, I were a man so that I could be an example of how inconsequential some gender roles can be. And so that I could show my dad and brother that life is hard enough here in Madagascar without assigning the most arduous daily labor to any one sex. I've never been so happy to brag about my American dad's French Toast and other culinary talents as when the pastor is piling mountains of rice he never cooked onto his plate.

Our house here in Manjakandriana has electricity, and every room has a bright, florescent light, except the kitchen. The light hasn't been changed since I arrived, and at night a dim reading lamp barely illuminates the most used and useful room in the house. I spend most of my time here talking with the women in my family, helping prepare meals, and wash dishes. I may have to bend close to see the onions I'm chopping in the shadows of the kitchen, but it will always be the place I found the most light during my stay in the Highlands.