Malagasy Musings

The word mofo, meaning bread in Malagasy, loses even more of its bawdy flavor once you learn its pronunciation: moofoo. From the meager study of the language leading up to my in-country training, I've observed that Malagasy throws the anglophone some amusing curveballs. For one, I wondered how extremely exotic the fruit would be in Madagascar when I learned that the word for mango, manga, is also used to describe the color blue. Syntax also proves topsy-turvy, since the word order is backwards from our own in a verb + object + subject pattern. For example, tia dite aho, meaning "I like tea," translates directly to "like tea I." And the verb "to be" does not exist but is implied. So far, my favorite malagasy word is for sugar, because the very pronunciation of the word makes your lips feel like they are smacking with delight. Siramamy. Doesn't that sound scrumptious?

Of the island's two official languages, French is spoken by those who were educated while Madasgascar was a French colony. Generally, however, all Malagasy speak their native tongue. Though unified by a common language (despite varying dialects), the diverse tribes of Madagascar represent its rich cultural history, including the Madagascar's blend of Asian and African cultures. Human beings didn't set foot on the island until 2,000 years ago, just after the death of Christ. These new settlers came from Malaysia and brought with them their Malayo-polynesian language, religious beliefs and cuisine that still resonate in Malagasy culture today. Approximately half of the population practice animistic religions, most of which center on ancestor worship or a strong connection between the living and the dead. One ritual among the Merina and Betsileo tribes is famadihana, or "turning over the dead," in which family members exume the remains of a loved one, rewrap them in silk, and rebury them. But not before dancing and singing through the streets with the bodies of their ancestors lifted high over the crowd.

45% of the population is Christian, which is evenly divided into Protestant and Catholic congregations. And about 7% practice Islam, as result of the Muslim traders on the island who created an alphabet for the Malagasy language, called Sorabe.

The Malagasy diet remains true to its Asian roots by keeping rice as its gastronomic cornerstone. Rice is eaten with fish, meat, beans, and vegetables, and dessert usually consists of fresh fruit sprinkled with vanilla. Obviously, starvation won't be a part of my life in Madagascar.

Today I leave my home to go to Atlanta in preparation for tomorrow's flight to the Peace Corps staging event in Washington D.C. I'm sharing my last cup of coffee with my parents, and soon, I'll pet my funky little dog goodbye. I'm going to miss my life here in Georgia, but I can't help but be comforted knowing that among the many fruits in Madagascar, peaches are one of them. To think that I might have a peach tree growing a taste of home in my future front yard in Madagascar! Allez-viens!

It's been a month since I found out what my address as a trainee will be in Madagscar, and I've neglected to post it or anything else out of denial that tremendous changes are coming. But I love letters, as they impart an old world, romantic flair and are much more personal and intimate than a casual e-mail. So let's set some stationery on a wildly exotic, long, and potentially perilous journey (from what I hear, some mail never reaches its destination to or from Madagascar due to its being stolen or lost, and it generally takes 1-2 months, at worst 3-4, for letters to arrive). Send all letters and packages to the following address:

Leslie McAbee, PCV
BUREAU DU CORPS DE LA PAIX
B.P. 12091
POSTE ZOOM ANKORONDRANO
ANTANANARIVO 101
MADAGASCAR

From what I've read on other Peace Corps blogs, marking packages with crosses and the words "objets religieux" wards away those whose superstition supercedes their curiosity of what's inside. Also, please number your letters so that I'll know if one has been lost. The address above is relevant to me throughout my three months of training, but thereafter I'll send along my site address.

At the moment I am still sorting out a packing list, which seems to procreate new items and amenities every time I sit down to it. The most fervent advice I've heard from the Peace Corps and other volunteers is not to meet the 80 pound packing limit in clothes but wait for the markets in the capital, Antananarivo, where second-hand European fashions abound. I feel it's going to be the few electronic devices that prove most valuable, like my ipod (accompanied by some travel speakers for listening exercises when teaching English in the classroom) and digital camera. Through an online chat group, I've met the volunteers with whom I'll serve, and many are bringing their host families gifts. We'll be living with and learning from our host family for the two months of training, and I want to show them the utmost respect and appreciation for their hospitality. But I'm stumped as to what I should bring them. A soccer ball might be a good choice, but beyond that I'm clueless.

I've also just returned from the beach with my family, a trip my parents thought might isolate us from the stress of my leaving, but I think the fun we had together only emphasized all the more how much we will miss one another. Several moments made me briefly ask myself why I wanted to leave my wonderfully upbeat parents and my brother, a best friend and progenitor of many side-spliting, inside jokes, to go to the other side of the world. During a bicycle ride I spyed some blackberries growing beside the path. While I picked and ate them, I wondered if I would have the tart sweetness of a blackberry melt in my mouth while in Madagascar. At least they have mangoes, I think.

My brother, Will, and I also went kayaking during our time on the coast of South Carolina. We paddled in a little salt water marsh past oyster beds and through seas grasses that tickled our arms as we drifted by. The waterway curved like a snake, making sneaking up on birds particularly easy. We would spy a bird from afar and then quietly propel ourselves around a corner to sidle up close to the snowy egrets, grackles, and herons as stealthily as possible. It reminded me of when Will and I were little and would pretend we were hunting for treasure in quartz-strewn soil or cleaning the leaves out of the indian hole, a mysterious pit in the woods behind our house, in preparation of building a fort.

Now we were at it again in our kayaks, just chasing a different sort of treasure: a peek at marsh birds that we never would have seen from land. As we rounded one corner, we abruptly hushed the splash of our paddles when we confronted by only a few feet a great blue heron standing majestically with one bright eye fixed unconcernedly into the space beyond us. This is how I hope to find Madagascar, I thought. Sudden, beautiful, unfearing. And a place so otherworldly and wonderful that I would never believe it unless I had been there myself.