Forty-eight hours of travel,
minimal sleep, and half my luggage lost at the airport later, I arrived back at
site. It was New Years Eve, and of
course as soon as I arrive everyone wanted to chat, but I made a dash to my
neighbors house to fetch my stove and cook a proper meal (I had only had
airplane food and fruit and bread bought out the widow of a taxi brousse since
leaving the states). Still exhausted and
grumpy, but fed at least, I made a round of visits. The time away plus lack of sleep resulted in
sucking at speaking Gasy, which made me pretty irritable. The bag I lost included my new hammock, a
bunch of the nicer gifts I brought back for people (i.e. booze), and a pack of
Solo cups so I could teach them flip-cup and beer pong on New Year’s. Bummer.
The real festivities weren’t starting until after dinner, so I ducked
out for a 2-hour nap. Bounced back, felt
worlds better, and it didn’t matter that my Gasy sucked, because all we did was
drink and dance for the next 6 hours ‘til 3am.
Most of the candy I brought back
wasn’t lost, so I brought that out and shared it as best as I could, though it
was pretty limited. I felt kinda dumb
and a little patronizing giving an adult a half mini-box of Nerds as a gift,
but most people were glad for it and enjoyed trying something new. I think a lot of people are just looking for
a gift as an acknowledgment of a relationship and don’t care so much about what
it is. There are definitely a few who
just want freebies, and after receiving a gift are like “what else ya
got?” They’re terrible and grate on my
nerves. I’ve added “live in a 3rd
world country” to my “Just because you (blank) doesn’t mean you’re not a dick”
list. “Are a humanitarian” is also on
the list; lookin’ at you, Bono / myself in the mirror. The vast majority smile, say thank you, and
move on, making me happy. There are
some, though, who are just amazing. A
young chicken farmer who I didn’t know very well gave me some eggs and a
Metallica t-shirt after I brought by some candy for his family and told him I
would bring over coffee later. (To be
fair, his family is significantly richer than a lot of other people in town,
likely myself included). He’s awesome,
and we’re becoming better friends. Ah,
the coffee! Candy being limited, I tried
to bring something else that I could share more widely. So, I brought back some Nesquik, tracked down
some milk at site, made a ton of coffee, and gave out makeshift mocha coffees
to a bunch of people. It’s easy enough
to keep around, so I can make it for visitors whenever too. I made some ice in the hospital freezer, so a
select few got to try iced mochas (whaddap bougie stage!).
By my third day back at site, I was
much better rested. I had taken a good
chunk of time to go through my notes and get my Gasy back up to speed. Even at my best, my Gasy is ostensibly pretty
rudimentary, but having lost so much of it for the first 2 days back was like
waking up with brain damage; there’s a constant feeling of “I should know this,
I’ve done this, people are expecting better from me, but I can’t.” Fortunately it comes back with a bit of
practice, so I can now continue sucking at Gasy at the level I’m accustomed to.
So it’s definitely rainy
season. No cyclones have hit me yet, but
one passed by in the south-west. We’ve
been getting the residuals, which are torrential rains that come out of
nowhere, last for about an hour, and turn everything to mud. It has been raining more days than not since
I’ve been back; great news for my garden, bad news for all my muddy laundry.
During my first week back, I went
to a town about an hour away to visit a family I am friends with. Only the mother, Lalatiana, was there; the
rest had gone to Fianar for the day. It
was a fairly uneventful visit until I found out an elderly man had died in the
town that morning. Since I am also a
man, I was allowed to observe them prepare his body (if it was a woman who had
died, only women would be allowed to be present for this part). A group of about 10 male family members were
responsible for cleaning and dressing the body.
It’s all done inside. They dig a
hole in the corner of the room (dirt floor) and use a sloped woven mat to
direct everything into the hole. Aside
from that, no tools are used; the men scrub the body by hand and then clothe
him, fighting rigor mortis. The mood
wasn’t particularly somber, but serious and direct. Outside of the room, people were chatting
normally or asking me things about America or how to say something in
English. Inside the room, all
conversation was task oriented. No one
was flinching or averting their eyes or hiding at the back of the crowd. Everyone was taking part, playing a role and
treating it as something that just needs to be done. Family is with the body at all times for 3 or
4 days until the burial. When asked, I
did my best to explain that in America morticians take care of everything,
embalm and preserve the body, and make sure there’s no smell or decay days
later when family arrives. Running
through it in Gasy, I was wishing I knew words like “impersonal” or “detached”
to compare our approaches. Some people
do funerals well in America, but even the best of ours are very hands-off and
deny some realities of the situation. We
don’t smell death, and we don’t touch the dead, and we don’t see a true picture
of a body that has died. The embalmed, postured,
makeup-ed, and sometimes reconstructed people we bury appear more asleep than
anything. There are merits to our way of
preserving a person to respect them and remember them as they were, but I’m
starting to think it takes away from the finality of a funeral and adds to our
grief. Malagasy people seem a lot more
comfortable than us when handling a funeral or talking about people who have
died.
A week later, my counterpart Hary
brought me to the burial of an elderly family member of hers. It was a huge event, with maybe 200 people
attending. A priest was there leading
people in songs and prayers, and giving a eulogy. Then groups of men, 4 at a time, would give
long speeches about…I’m not sure what.
At least some of it was recounting the life of the departed, thanking
the guests, and thanking the people preparing the food, but it went on for
probably 2 hours, so that couldn’t have been all. They slaughtered 2 cows for the occasion. Soon after arriving, someone shoved about a
pound of raw beef in my hand; I stood there agape for a second, brand new
camera in the other hand and nowhere to put either, contemplating if it would
be rude or snobby to ask for a bag. They
caught on to my expression after a moment, got me some large leaves to wrap the
meat, and brought me some water to wash my hands. This town was far from my commune, so almost
no one had seen or heard of me before.
Thus, half my conversations of the day consisted of, “No, I’m not
French. Yes, I speak some Gasy. Yes, I eat rice. No, really, I’m not French.” A couple particularly drunk guys aside, it
was a really great day. A relative of
Hary’s, Christian, made me feel very welcome, lead me around explaining the
customs of the day, and helped buffer between me and the many inquisitive
people. It being a large gathering, the
toaka Gasy was flowing, and everyone was offering it to me. I used to pretend I don’t drink except in
moderation on special occasions, to keep some kind of reputation, but I’ve
recently decided to just go with it. If
my responsibilities for the day are done and people want to drink, screw
it. And I’m getting used to the T.G. in
small doses. Small-ish. So I got a little warm and loosened up at the
burial.
Some asked me about funeral
practices in America. I got chuckles
when I told them we bury people 6ft under.
I realized why once I saw their tomb.
I’ve often seen mausoleums dotting the landscape around the country, and
assumed they were mostly above ground.
As I approached, I saw that they had to dig a long ramp, descending
maybe 15ft, to get to the entrance of the tomb.
Pretty dang impressive. This part
of the day was pretty straightforward and short. They carried the body into the tomb (I
would’ve loved to take a look inside, but there’s no way that would’ve been
allowed) and sealed the entrance with stones.
I had to leave at that point, but I assume they filled in the ramp and,
as Betsileo are wont to do, ate, drank, and danced until late in the night.
As I promised myself, my work
schedule post-New Year is a lot more lax, and I’ve been spending more time
visiting people and taking in the culture.
A big part of that has been learning to harvest rice. I’ve tried most of the process, won’t bore
you with the details, but my favorite has been cutting down the stalks. A dozen guys working together with
hand-scythes will take down an acre or so in about an hour. If you’re not careful, you end up thigh-deep
in mud; if you ARE careful, you’re still shin-deep in mud. My left hand (hereafter referred to as my
non-scythe-wielding hand) was purple for a couple days, likely over-exfoliated
from grabbing the stalks. And I may have
caught some fungus from the mud (no worries, treatable). But it was fun! And whenever I work, I get a ton of rice out
of it. I basically have 2 months of rice
from working 4 days. Sweet deal.
Stuff coming up:
Tomorrow a few of us are taking a
train to Manakara, a Southeast coastal city.
The train passes through some remote areas and supposedly has some great
views.
In February I have a week of
training so that I can train new volunteers in April. Because of my work with latrines, I will be
training on sanitation.
In Aprial,
a few of us will be organizing Malaria events at each other’s sites. It will basically be a travelling event, with
each of us covering a topic and repeating it at each site.
That’s it for now, folks.
‘Til next time!
