Age is Relative

Since I just celebrated my birthday last week, I’ve been thinking a lot about age lately…especially the implications of turning 25. I’m no longer going to be in my early 20s and I’ll soon be in my late 20s. And before I realize it, I’ll be in my 30s! I’m sure to my middle-aged readers, that still seems really young, but when I’ve spent a majority of my life thinking of myself as a teenager and then a young adult, it’s a significant milestone entering my mid-20s.

The other reason I’ve been thinking a lot about age is because of the recent adult English class I held in my new community. I had been trying for several weeks to set a date with the interested community members, but we had trouble finding a time when all of us could meet, and then things like unexpected meetings and funerals kept coming up and causing us to postpone our lesson. So finally this past week I held my first conversation class. I had about ten students. Many of them were really sharp and already knew quite a bit of English. A few had a hard time, but they all did really well in general. All the students were teens or young adults. A few were teachers, a few were middle school students a few were middle or high school dropouts who wanted to get back into learning. It was great to establish rapport with the young adults in the village. We started out with introductions and greetings. At the end of the lesson, one student wanted to practice asking, “How old are you?” and so consequently I found out everyone’s age in the class. Much to my surprise, I was the zoky be, or, oldest one amongst them! Their ages ranged mostly from 20 to 23. It really surprised me to find out that all of my students were so young, because looking at some of them I would have thought they were at least my age, if not a few years older.

In general, Malagasies always seem so much older and more mature than their actual age (with the exception of some of the annoying guys who think it’s their job to verbally harass women all day). In an impoverished setting like rural Madagascar with such a rough lifestyle, a lot is expected of kids at a very young age. As soon as they know how to walk, children are expected to fend for themselves, and as early as 6 or 7, they start contributing to the household. Whether it’s hauling water from half a kilometer away, washing the family clothes and dishes at the river, working in the fields, taking care of younger siblings, cooking lunch over the open cook-fire…they do it all. Many of those little kids are more competent than I am at such household tasks. I cheat and use a gas stove, so I don’t know the first thing about starting a charcoal or wood fire. The kids in my last village used to wash my clothes because they were used to doing everyone’s laundry and could do a much better job than I (I’m so lazy and unskilled at scrubbing laundry by hand that I just soak it in the powdered detergent, swish it around and rinse it a few times.) The mundane chores we give our kids in America, like setting the table, taking out trash, feeding the dog and putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher in no way compare to the physical labor and hardships that some of the Malagasy children are expected to bear at such young age.

Malagasies have to grow up fast, especially when you consider that the typical Malagasy family consists of five or six children, the parents are often away working in the fields and half of the kids don’t attend school because the family can’t afford the fees for all of them to study. If the kids do study, it’s usually for only half a day anyway. Hence the kids are unsupervised starting at an impossibly young age and have to figure out how to survive on their own with no amenities like electricity and running water to make their lives easier. So perhaps because of the fact that Malagasies have to grow up quickly, they often seem so much older than they appear.

I think back to my childhood and how I used to consider it a difficult time, especially compared to a lot of my peers—certainly not for economic but rather for emotional reasons. My mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I as only in second grade and she was very sick for much of the time that I was growing up. I remember at her funeral when I was fourteen, my cousin said to me through teary eyes and a comforting hug that I’d have to grow up fast. Looking back on the trails and suffering of that period of my life now, I’m starting to think it still doesn’t compare to how quickly the Malagasy children have to grow up.

True, there was an immense amount of emotional pain and stress in our household when my mother was severely ill from the chemotherapy treatments, and a lot was expected of me, like helping to take care of her and to pitch in with the cooking and laundry. However I had loving support from my father, relatives and older siblings through it all and I never had to worry about basic needs like where my next meal would come from or where to find clean water for the house when all the wells dried up. I lived the entire first twenty years of my life with such luxuries of the developed world as indoor toilets, running water, 24/7 electricity, uninterrupted, quality education, ample quantities of healthy and tasty food, loving and caring family, quality healthcare, reliable means of public and private transportation and safety and security. Many Malagasy children simply do without a majority of these basic amenities which we Americans take for granted everyday.

The other aspect of Malagasy life that often makes especially the women seem older than they actually are is the early age at which they start bearing children. Since Malagasy culture values fertility highly, the average family even in this day and age still aims for four or five children. If the women actually space out their births by two years, having this many children requires them to start early. In addition, many women in the rural areas end up dropping out of school at the primary or secondary level because their family can’t afford the school fees or the secondary school is in a larger town that is too far away from their home village for them to continue on after finishing primary school. Since these women no longer have their education to focus on, they start thinking about starting a family, even though they may only be in their teens.

Birth control is available for free at government clinics thanks to the Malagasy ministry of health and outside aid from developed countries, but these clinics are still often too far for women to walk all the way there every month from their village to pick up the medication. For those who can access the clinic, their husbands or boyfriends still often reject the idea of using birth control, so their partners either have to use it secretly or not use it at all. And then many of the clinics face problems with frequent stock-outs, so the women periodically have to return home from the clinic without having received their shot or pills because the regional health centers weren’t able to replenish the supply of birth control in the rural areas.

With all of these barriers to birth control, Malagasy women start having children as young as 14 or 15 and continue having them into their 30s and 40s. The stress that pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding and child rearing puts on these women’s bodies makes some of them appear as if they are 40 when they are in fact only 20, simply because they may have already had three kids.

On the reverse side, Malagasies often think that I look much younger than I am. I do have a young face, but I think it has more to do with it than that. When they hear that I am not married nor have any kids, they immediately respond that I’m still a child. Since I haven’t yet taken on the responsibilities of head of the household, I must seem somewhat young and immature compared to the average Malagasy mother taking care of 5 kids and a husband. I also tend to present myself in a way that makes me seem younger, because of language and culture barriers. Even though my Malagasy has steadily improved over the two and a half years that I have lived here, I still end up communicating at a more basic level or talking around vocabulary that I don’t know, which probably makes me sound like the way most kids or adolescents would talk. Since I’m still sometimes unfamiliar with cultural norms or expectations and because I’m generally shy anyway, I also tend to hesitate or act unsure in a lot of social situations, making me seem younger and less experienced.

So returning back to the situation at the english class in my village, I think it was as much a surprise to my English club pupils as it was to me that I was the oldest one in the classroom that day!

rain, rain, rain!

I have had one crazy adventure after another these past couple months in Manompana! The weather has made things especially interesting. I’m not sure whether it’s just this part of the island or just an unusual spell or the affect of global warming but I’ve never seen so much rain and flooding in my life. One night earlier this month it started raining in the late evening. At my usual 8 o clock bedtime it was still raining, and not just a sprinkle but a full-on downpour. I woke up several times during the night to the sound of rain still pounding down outside. And at 6 in the morning the downpour still had not ceased nor even let up a bit. I opened my front door that morning to find that the entire village was underwater. There was a lake right in front of my house reaching all the way up to the fence near my front door. There was also a river flowing down the foot path from the school a few 100m away down past my house and into what was now a lake in the center of the village. Everyone was wading through calf-deep water in order to go about their daily chores or buy things from the shops.

A few days after the flooding I had to bike from my village 10km north to Manompana to meet up with my NGO staff and help them with their work. I was a bit apprehensive, as I wasn’t sure how much destruction the flooding had done to the roads. I had heard from some of my friends in the village that none of the ferries from Soanierana going north to Mananara were running because all the flooding had made the river currents too strong for the ferries to be able to cross. One ferry up north towards Mananara had apparently been swept away in the torrential water flow. There had been no vehicles traveling north or south on Route National 5 the past several days. As I biked the three kilometers north to the ferry crossing at Fandrarazana, I found that the sand was actually nicely compact from the rain and the lack of large trucks passing and messing up the road. There were a few spots where I had to bike through water that was almost up to my knees, though, which was an interesting experience. At the river crossing I took a canoe with my bike laying over the top of it, since the ferry wasn’t running. Normally the river basin has only a weak current but that day it was quite strong as all the extra water from the tributaries was still emptying out into the ocean. The canoeman had to paddle especially hard to counter the brisk flow of water. After the river crossing the road was still nice and compact although there were washed out ruts, a few bumpy sections and some large puddles to bike/wade through. As I approached Manompana, I was shocked to see that the little concrete meter-long bridge over the marsh entering into town had sunk down into the water and there was now a canal a few meters long that I had to cross in order to complete my journey. Since the canoe was free I opted to cross that way, though it felt kind of silly to ride in a boat for all of three meters.

The work in Manompana went well and the sun came out to make it a beautiful day, so the intrepid journey ended up being worth it. Together with the NGO field staff we went around to random households in town to talk with families about the advantages of using improved latrines and strategies for building their own. I helped by bringing along a poster I had made of a simple latrine using locally available materials that effectively prevents against the spread of diarrheal disease. I also prompted the field staff to come with me to inspect the latrines that the families were already using if they happened to have one. Though it’s not so pleasant venturing into the dirty, smelly places that people use to relieve themselves, we gained useful information about the conditions of sanitation facilities that people were already using and were able to give recommendations to the families we visited on how they could improve their existing latrines to cut down on the spread of intestinal illnesses. Most of the latrines we observed were very basic made of materials that ranged from old tires to metal barrels to rotted wood with shacks built of bamboo and palm leaves on top.

A clean, healthful latrine can be made of such local materials, but it needs to have a lid for the pit, a ventilation pipe to release the smelly air, and door that closes. The pit itself should not be dug too closely to the water table below and should have some kind of lining to reinforce it. We found that many people in Manompana already had latrines, but very few had improved latrines that effectively prevented against the spread of disease. One of the major challenges is the type of soil in our area—all sand with a shallow water table less than a meter under the ground. The only real solution for this type of soil is an above-ground latrine, which means that people can’t simply dig their own pit and stick a shack on top of it. They have to at least find a metal barrel or a mason who can construct some type of cement, super-terrain “pit.” Even the simplest models of such latrines are still cost-prohibitive for poorer Malagasy families.

Another barrier in a larger community like Manompana is the lack of space to build a latrine. Most families we visited had only a very small piece of property where they had their main house and maybe a small shack for a kitchen; hence they didn’t really have a good place to build a latrine close to their house. We suggested communal latrines with surrounding neighbors to address the problems of expense and lack of space, but sharing can also be challenging in terms of cleanliness and shared responsibilities for maintenance. Although I probably grossed the NGO staff out by making them go with me to look at people’s latrines, it was all in all a very interesting day.

On my way out of Manompana at the end of the day the canoe wasn’t there, so I had to wade through the mucky mess on the other side of the bridge. The small detour made me sufficiently dirty and provided quite the entertainment for all the kids and other spectators crowded around the broken bridge. Otherwise I made it uneventfully and safely back, only wetter, muddier and sandier for the wear.

A little over a week later, it decided to rain absurdly again. I was all set to go on a canoe ride over to Ile St. Marie for my birthday, the small island off the east coast from where I’ve been living and working for the past few months. I had already postponed my trip by a few days on account of a meeting with NGO staff and local community leaders concerning rules and regulations on the usage of our newly installed pump-wells bringing potable water to rural villages throughout the Manompana commune. It was quite an interesting meeting, where we decided on how much to fine people for things like latrines and trash pits built within thirty meters of the new water points, washing or herding animals near the pumps and even swearing or fighting at the pumps. I was glad I stayed and helped with the decision-making process, but I was ready to get to St. Marie already to celebrate my birthday with overpriced cocktails at a nice resort on the beach.

Unfortunately it decided to rain absurdly again for three days straight, so I wasn’t able to leave my village, but rather sat in my house shivering and wrapped up in a sweatshirt and blanket until the wind and rain decided to let up. Finally a few days after my birthday I was able to leave for St. Marie with a motor-powered, Malagasy-style wooden canoe leaving from my village filled with lots of wooden planks (I’m hoping legally logged) bound for sale on the small island. I biked 3km north to the ferry crossing at Fandrarazana to meet the canoe and we threw my bags and Carlton (I’ve named my bike since we’ve been on so many adventures together now) on top of all the wood. Then I sat on top and we headed off. It was a bit scary passing over the point where the waves brake at the sandbar barrier where the basin of the Fandrarazana river and the ocean meet. We went over a pretty steep wave and I got a nice salty splash in the face. From there on out to the tip where the mainland makes a steep point was smooth sailing for several hours. The narrow strip of land that juts out to almost meet the island of St. Marie protected us from the strong winds blowing in from the southwest. The wind died down and the sun even fully came out making it the warmest I had felt in three days.

Once we arrived at the tip however, we saw that the open channel separating us from St. Marie was too choppy for us to cross. We decided to park in the small village of Antsiraka at the very eastern tip of Madagascar. After a lunch of rice and freshly-caught fish we waited around, hoping for the weather to improve. Unfortunately the Indian Ocean was still too choppy for us to cross over to St. Marie, so we had to stay the night in Antsiraka.

It was probably the roughest night I have ever spent during my two years in Peace Corps combined with all of the camping experiences I have had in my life, which is really saying something. We slept in a bamboo shack close to the beach that belonged to a friend of the canoe captain. The owner of the shack slept in his bed while two of us slept on the ground with nothing but a woven grass mat as cushioning. I was wedged in a small space between a bicycle leaning precariously against the wall of the shack and our captain, also sleeping on the ground. There wasn’t a place to wash or change so I slept in the clothes I wore on the boat that morning, muddy and sandy scraped up feet and a salty face covered in dried layers of sunscreen. I didn’t even have a blanket or sheet and it was freezing cold with the strong ocean wind blasting through the thin bamboo walls. Since Malagasies are afraid of the dark, the owner of the shack made sure his oil lamp burned all throughout the night. At one point, as I shifted to relieve the pressure from my sore, boney hips, the bicycle fell on top of me. Needless to say, I didn’t get even five minutes of sleep throughout the entire, longest night of my life.

I listened to the rain pattering and wind blasting all throughout the night and stepped out of the shack in the dim morning light to find that we probably still weren’t going to be able to leave for a while. I legitimately almost had a meltdown as I walked through the cold drizzle to the river where I washed my face and legs. The morning slowly took a turn for the better, though. I spent several hours in the kitchen of the family with whom we stayed, chatting, drinking coffee and sitting by the warmth of the cook-fire. Even though it was the most basic of living conditions, I was grateful that the Malagasies lived up to their reputation for good hospitality, offering us hot food, company and a place to stay for the night without asking anything in return…only that we come back another day to visit them again.

By mid-morning the weather miraculously cleared up and the water quieted down enough for us to finish the last seven kilometers of our journey to St. Marie. It was still rough going in our tiny boat filled with lumber. I was gripping the side of the boat with white knuckles, but I never legitimately thought that we would capsize. I was more worried that some of my stuff would fly overboard or get soaking wet (although I did waterproof everything inside with plastic). I certainly got a lot of salty splashes in the face, but we amazingly made it over the whitecaps and swells in our tiny little motorboat without any problems. Only as we were trying to dock into our arrival spot did we run into trouble. We ended up getting stuck on top of a rock under the water. The boat tilted 45˚ and my bags and Carlton spilled out into the water. Luckily we were only waste-deep, but it was quite a shock and made for an awkward departure out of the water-filled boat.

Though it was a wet and shaky landing, the day got much better from there. Carlton and I walked not even a kilometer north to this beautiful set of bungalows with a lovely outdoor patio and a quiet private beach for swimming. As it is low tourist season right now, there was only one other couple staying at the hotel and I got a very reasonable and Peace Corps budget affordable price for the room. The staff was lovely too, and I enjoyed chatting with them in Malagasy and learning more about the island of St. Marie. The sun stayed out for the rest of the afternoon so I was even able to go for a swim and sit out on the lounge chairs without having to bundle up in three layers of clothing, much in contrast to the cold and windy wetness that I had experienced at the point in Antsiraka that morning and the day before.

The next day was unfortunately cold and rainy again. I was low on cash however, so Carlton and I braved the terrible weather and got very very wet biking the 13km south to the largest town of Ambodifotatra where there is the only bank on the island. Even though I was chilly and soaked, the vistas where the road hugged the steep cliffside looking down and out to the coast were absolutely beautiful and the stormy weather made for some dramatic skies. After a bit of shopping and banking I biked a few more km south to another very lovely hotel with a long, private jetty running out into the deserted blue water and a charming restaurant and seating area by the waterfront. There were quite a few more guests since it was closer to the main town of Ambodifotatra, but it was actually kind of nice having the livelier atmosphere. Unfortunately it stayed very cold and rainy and all of my clothes remained soaking wet.

We finally got a full day of sun the next day. I was also able to meet up with a fellow Peace Corps volunteer who was teaching English at the local high school on the island. We had a nice time chatting over lunch and enjoying the sunny weather. In the afternoon I headed further south to explore more of the island. I hope to make it to the little island off of the southern tip of St.Marie, not only because it’s supposed to be beautiful, but also so that I can say I’ve been on an island off of an island off of an island. Hope to head back in a few days, but its all really dependent on when the weather will let me go.

My third home in Madagascar

After many unexpected delays, I was finally headed off to the east coast of Madagascar again. Only this time around, a little farther south of where I had been for the past two years. It was already a month past my expected departure date to start my new, short-term assignment with Peace Corps, so I was eager to get out in the field. Don’t get me wrong…a break from the developing world with 24-hour electricity, running water, a much wider selection of food and entertainment options and regular interaction with native-English speakers was refreshing. But after a few weeks of the easy life, I was ready to get back to a more simple existence in the muddy, wild and lively “ambanivolo” or, countryside, of Madagascar. Moreover, I was certainly eager to start working again.

On a rainy day in mid-February, a Catholic Relief Services 4x4 stopped by the Peace Corps transit house in our capital of Antananarivo to pick me up and drive me out to my site. Since the CRS vehicle was also carrying a few other staff and all of their equipment, they didn’t have room for all of my belongings that I intended to bring with me to my new house. Instead, my Peace Corps safety and security officer had left with a vehicle and most of my stuff a few days earlier. They were heading out to the volunteers’ sites on the east coast that had been hit by the recent cyclone. After the reconstruction at the other volunteers’ sites was finished, the Peace Corps car would head up to my site…hopefully soon after I moved in, so that I wouldn’t be waiting around too long for all of my cherished belongings (including a gas stove, lots of books, and some clothes.)

As we passed through Brickaville on our way to Tamatave, the provincial capital for the east coast region, we were able to witness some of the destruction brought on by the recent category three cyclone that had ripped through Madagascar. There were roofs blown off, uprooted trees, an abundance of fallen branches, metal billboard signs bent over sideways, fallen power lines and trash scattered about (although the trash may have very well been there before.) It was depressing to see a country, already struggling with extreme poverty, shaky governance and dwindling resources, further crippled by such a merciless natural disaster. Now people who had hardly anything beforehand were forced to somehow rebuild their lives again.

After a short day of driving we arrived in Tamatave, where I spent my last night in nice accommodations with running water and electricity before heading up the coast. Although it was overcast and drizzly the next morning, the ride up the mid-east coast was absolutely gorgeous. For the first half of the drive, we were surrounded by lush, green forest and farmland dotted with quaint Malagasy villages and a few rustic, touristy, bungalow beach “resorts.” At last, in the mid-morning we reached Soanierana Ivongo, the head of the district where I would be working for the next few months. After popping in to say hello to the local gendarmerie and police and notify them that their Peace Corps volunteer had arrived, we drove up to the river-crossing to take a ferry over to the other side of the road.

Soanierana Ivongo is the point on the east coast at which Route National 5 ceases to be a paved road and becomes more of a joke of a national road. That is, it’s pretty much all sand, ruts and potholes from here-on up the coast until one arrives in Mananara, where there are giant boulders thrown into the mix for the travelers added driving pleasure. The road apparently deteriorates even more towards Maroansetra, where it ceases to exist completely, as the protected Masoala national forest complex begins (no vehicles are allowed past this point, but only bikes, pedestrians or canoes).

Saonierana Ivongo is also well known as the town where most tourists take a boat to get to Ile St. Marie, the little island off the east coast of the main island of Madagascar. We however were merely headed further up the coast. I was actually surprised at the quality of the ferry that took us and several other vehicles from one side of the river to the other. It was a legitimate ferry made out of metal with a motor and a flat space for probably five or six vehicles, granted we crawled along at a very slow pace. There were also small wooden canoes alongside us on the river, taking pedestrians and bikers across at a much faster pace. The brackish lagoon we floated through that was bordered by tropical forest on one side and a deserted isthmus-beach on the other was simply beautiful. Once we reached the other side though, we had to wait for ten minutes before we could get on the road again, as two giant “camions,” or cargo trucks, tried to maneuver and scrape past each other on the narrow road leading up to the ferry.

As we finally made our way on the now sand road, my jaw dropped…for two reasons mainly. One: it was spectacularly beautiful. We were right along the coastline with deserted beaches and coastal, tropical forest and hardly another soul around. And two: at points the road was literally the beach. Just as I had thought on my trip a few weeks earlier to Maritandrano in the Black Hole of Madagascar, I kept thinking, how on earth does this qualify as a national road??? How the heck does a beach qualify as part of RN5? And supposedly this road was in much worse shape 5-10 years ago. And the road apparently gets worse further north towards Mananara?!!

My thoughts were interrupted at that moment as our 4x4 inevitably got stuck in the sand. Somehow our top-quality, off-road NGO vehicle had managed to bury itself in the deep ruts and piles of the beach along RN5. As we stepped out of the car to assess the situation, I looked in disbelief at the fact that we were maybe all of five meters from the crashing ocean waves. Unfortunately we did not have a shovel with us, so we commenced to dig the car out of the sand with our hands. I felt like a 10-year-old kid again, as if I were building castles or burying my friends’ bodies under layers of sand. Finally we managed to hand-dig ourselves out of the sandy mess and drive off again just in time, as storm clouds moved in and he rain started pattering down more forcefully.

Fairly soon we reached our second ferry-crossing. As it was lunchtime, we got out to wait at the little shack by the riverside so we could grab a bite to eat as the vehicles slowly loaded onto the metal slab, one by one. Since we were right next to a river and an ocean, we had our choice of fried fish or fish with sauce, and of course a huge mound of rice, this being Madagascar. As we finished our meal, we loaded onto the ferry. One of our fellow co-workers took his meal with him—plate fork and all—as he wasn’t finished yet. The owner of the restaurant shack wasn’t too worried…he would get his utensils back once the ferry made its return trip from the other side of the river.

At last we reached the strip of land where my new village was supposed to be…though we had no idea where within the next 20km it lay. Every time we passed a cluster of shacks, we would ask where Tanambao Ambodimanga was, and we would get the same response: “Aloha aloha areeeee!” which is pretty much as descriptive as, “oh just ahead up the road over there.” Finally we reached my village, only to find that my house, after waiting over a month, still was nowhere near being finished. It was pretty much in shambles, since the last volunteers who had lived there were way back in 2007, and no one had inhabited the house since. Note: there had not even been a drop of rain here from the cyclone, as it had passed much further south of this area, so no excuses! At least there was a teeny little bungalow guest house for me to stay in temporarily at the Missouri Botanical Garden’s local NGO office off at the edge of the village.

For the next few days, one of the MBG staff showed me around the area and introduced me to the community. Everyone seemed really friendly and nice, though I was frustrated at their lack of motivation to start improving the house that was part of their agreement to rebuild in exchange for the free labor of a Peace Corps volunteer. The message had apparently gotten lost somehow in the mix. Meanwhile, the MBG environmental educator took me around to the local schools and introduced me to the teachers and students. I expressed my enthusiasm to stop in periodically and talk to their students about clean water, hand-washing and hygiene, although I was dismayed (but not surprised) that they initially had expected my main purpose in the community was to teach everyone English.

One of the communities we went to, Fandrarazana, was just a few Km up the road at the next ferry crossing. A quiet community right on the coast and surrounded by tropical forest, it was breathtakingly gorgeous. Before the environmental educator started his session with the kids at the local primary school on reforestation, he took me over to the beach to show me the coastline and to see if we could pick up some fish freshly caught off of the boats coming in from their morning trips. He also pointed out the shady, long stretch of land that was Ile St. Marie just across the water, which was surprisingly easy to see as it was a mere 7km away. Apparently one can take a canoe from several different launching points nearby. Some of them were Malagasy-style sailboats that, when the wind is strong, can get you to the island in as little as 30minutes to one or two hours.

We managed to pick up two small piles of 5 fish each for 1000Ar, or 50 cents, per pile and then headed back to the school so I could sit in on the environmental educator’s session with the kids. The educator was really great with the kids, and even taught them a song about protecting the environment. I had a feeling I would enjoy my next few months here. The next day, my Peace Corps safety and security officer showed up and was unhappy to see the state of my current housing situation. None of the community leaders were in the village, so he took me up to the larger town of Manompana to meet with the head of my village and figure out what was going on. The 10km drive up to Manompana was again absolutely gorgeous. After crossing the third ferry at Fandrarazana, the road weaved in and out along the coast and back into the tropical forest and small villages, along bridges over small creeks and rivers and into the quiet coastal town of Manompana. We stayed in a collection of hotel bungalows along the beach. The area was absolutely beautiful, though the roofs of the bungalows leaked from the rains that passed during the night.

We were able to have a productive meeting with the head of the village to flesh out the program with the community for constructing the house. Then we had a lovely dinner of calamari with rice. The next morning I talked with the mayor of Manompana to look into the possibility of having a second house in the town of Manompana, where there was a previous Peace Corps volunteer, since most of my work would be in Manompana anyway and since the house in Tanambao Ambodimanga still wasn’t finished either. He promised to organize the community to fix up the house in town as well, so I would have somewhere to stay when I came in for meetings and programs in Manompana. Then we headed back to Tanambao. I said goodbye to the Peace Corps staff and felt good about the fact that the community had started working on the house and was already almost finished with the shower and latrine area. The walls of the main house still needed to be improved before I could move in, but I would stay in the guest house at MBG while the community was working on it.

After another week I finally was able to move into my house, though it still needed a few improvements. Work started picking up as well. I headed to Manompana one day for a festival led by my partnering NGO to celebrate national latrine day. There was a parade, some speeches on hygiene and sanitation by local authorities and the NGO reps, a trivia session on hygiene with the local students, canoe and swimming races and dances, songs and poems performed by women’s groups and youth from the surrounding community. The festivities were all quite amusing: the canoe race involved one boat purposefully crashing into another to botch their chances of winning, the swimming race ended with the contestants running through the water which ended up being too shallow and the songs performed by the women’s groups included lyrics about pooping in the woods.

I also attended a village savings and loans meeting in the nearby community of Fandrarazana, led by one of the NGO workers. It was neat to see how well-organized the group of fifteen community members were. They had been meeting every week for several months and had saved up a significant amount of money. Some were able to successfully borrow and pay back chunks of money to invest in business opportunities and a few were even planning to use their savings to build improved, household latrines once they had gathered enough funds.

On March 7th and 8th I celebrated International Women’s Day with my community in Tanambao Ambodimanga. The morning of the 7th involved planting saplings from a local pepenier established by Missouri Botanical Gardens in one of the designated reforestation areas just south of the village. Though it was a scorching hot day with little cloud cover and no shade (as it was a deforested area), it was great to be working alongside the women and girls in the community to protect the local environment and promote sustainability. On the 8th, everyone donned their best outfits and we all lined up at the village flag pole to sing the Malagasy national anthem. Then we headed to the tranom-pokonolono, or town hall, to listen to the kabaris—the speeches given by all the local authorities. Our tiny little rural village was even graced by the presence and wise words of the Chef de District of Soanierana Ivongo…the American equivalent of a state governor. As this was a Malagasy “fety” the community also slaughtered two cows, which I did not partake in, sticking to my vegetarianism. In the afternoon, we were entertained by songs and dances performed by the local primary school students and a dance troupe from the nearby town of Manompana. In the evening there was a baliny, or dance party in the town hall. I didn’t attend, as I was planning to get up early the next morning to head to Fenerive Est, but I could certainly hear the music blasting from the hall nearby all night and into the wee hours of the morning.

Aside from all that, its just been raining raining raining because of all the cyclones and tropical storms that keep hitting Madagascar. The weather gives an added challenge to my work, as transportation is near impossible when everything is flooded and the roads or ferry crossings are frequently cut.

A long and muddy adventure

When I left my original site in January to start working with a water/sanitation/hygiene NGO on the east cost, I wasn’t planning on having to wait around for my new site to be ready. After coming to Tana and having a meeting with Peace Corps and my partnering NGO, we found out that the house and latrine still needed repairs. That meant I had a few weeks to kill. At least I was able to get some business things taken care of during the first week in town. The next week I was invited to go on an adventure with several of their staff out to the district of Mandritsara in the central-northern region of Madagascar.

This region that we were headed to is known to many here as “The Black Hole,” because it is so difficult to get to and completely in the middle of nowhere. The purpose of the mission was to train some of the NGO field staff in mobilizing the communities to build latrines, use and properly store clean water and improve household hygiene. I was to observe the training in order to get a better sense of the kind of information and resources that the staff had access to and what was expected of them for their work out in the communities. This experience would help me figure out where I would fit in with the work that the NGO’s field staff are doing for a similar project on the east coast where I will be posted.

Although it doesn’t seem geographically far from the capital, there is no direct route to drive to the Black Hole. You have to go all the way out towards the west coast, then up a little north and then back east again. The first part of the journey heading out west was all well-paved with deforested, empty hillsides making the ride fairly boring. Once we got closer to the west coast towards Port Berge, the water level had risen considerably over some of the roads due to the recent rains. The area was almost like a bog or wetlands with low-lying roads, so they often have problems with flooding. The frequent flooding was also evident given the fact that many sections of this particular road had meter-stick poles by the side so one could gauge the water level and determine whether it is crossable or not. The road heading back east towards Mandritsara—although supposedly a paved national road—was mostly eroded with giant mud pits and boulders added in for a little extra fun.

One of the worst parts of the journey lay between Antsohihy, the transit town where the road splits north towards Diego and east towards the Black Hole, and Befandriana, a large town halfway to Mandritsara. Malagasies have a clever way of naming their towns. Befandriana literally means “many beds” and Mandritsara means “good sleep.” I guess it makes sense that an area with a lot of beds would be a good place to sleep. The only aspect I noticed about the area however was how much mud and boulders there were all over the road. It took us a day and a half of driving to get to Mandritsara and, just as I thought the journey was almost to an end, the road became ten times worse.

Our final destination was called Maritandrano, a small town about 30km beyond Mandritsara. It didn’t sound that far, but the fact that any semblance of a paved road disappeared made the distance seem to stretch on forever. There were some points were the bordering rice paddies merged into the road, so it was just one big mud-plain. Then there were steep sections with washed out ruts and boulders the size of small cars as well as several deep ditches and potholes. As we approached the town of Maritandrano we were greeted by a large cement bridge/dam covered by water, which the car had to “wade” through before finally reaching our destination.

After a couple of days of listening to behavior-change strategy talks and getting to know the field staff in Maritandrano, we had to head out on the “road” again. Even though it hadn’t rained much over the past few days, the road was still a muddy mess. It took us all afternoon as we slowly ambled over the boulders and mud pits until we finally made it safely back to Mandritsara. The next morning we headed to Antsohihy after a nice rest in the town of “good sleep.” We made good time as the road wasn’t as bad as the one from Maritandrano the day before, but the giant mud-pit outside of Befandriana was still a slight obstacle. There were four “camions,” or large trucks, in addition to a few passenger-vans stuck in parts of the road where the mud was several feet deep. Luckily our hearty 4x4 vehicle operated by our very skilled driver was able to weave around all the stalled vehicles and mud, and we made it safely back to the paved road and into Antsohihy in time for lunch. After a few more road stops to buy mangos and pineapples we finally arrived back in Tana.

The road trip to the Black Hole was unlike any other car ride I have ever been on. It was quite the adventure, but I was glad to head to my new site to start working again. I was all packed and ready to go the next day when the Peace Corps medical office called to let me know that I was being medically evacuated to South Africa. It was quite a shock that I was being sent all the way to Pretoria to the regional medical office for Peace Corps in Africa just for a skin biopsy. I was frustrated that the move to my new site was postponed yet again, but grateful that Peace Corps is concerned enough about their volunteers and make every effort to ensure that they get the best medical care possible.

So the next week I was off on a plane to Johannesburg. As we flew over the city, I was surprised to see aerial patterns of suburban, cookie-cutter developments with brilliant blue swimming pools in each rectangular yard. A volunteer driver holding a sign with my “Peace Corps” written on it picked me up in the airport. I almost got in the wrong side of the car, because I forgot that former British colonies typically drive on the left side of the road and have the steering wheel on the right. It was surreal to be riding along on a paved six-lane highway to Pretoria. All the development and infrastructure made the car ride quite surreal. It was almost like being in America again, which was jarring since I haven't been back to the States since I left in the fall of '09.

Peace Corps puts all the injured/sick volunteers in a guest house (basically like a fancy bed and breakfast) in the suburbs of Pretoria, close to their main office. Though I was bummed that I had to postpone my move for another week and a bit nervous about the biopsy, it was really interesting to meet the other volunteers who were staying in the guest house and nice to take advantage of all the amenities of the developed world. There were several PC response volunteers going through orientation and getting ready to start their work in South Africa in addition to the other medically evacuated volunteers who came from countries including Ethiopia, Mozambique, Tanzania and Zambia.

After my biopsy, I had a few days to kill waiting for my results, so I went to the nearby mall and did some shopping and saw a few movies on the big screen. It was also nice just staying at the guest house, drinking water straight from the tap, sitting out by the beautiful garden, pool and patio area and enjoying the included breakfast every morning with cereal, yoghurt, fruit salad and French toast and omelets made to order. I also made sure to pick up some South African wine, cheese, grapes, hummus and real bread (as opposed to the stale French baguettes that we get in Madagascar) from the grocery store.

After a normal result from the biopsy, my stitches were removed and I was cleared to return to Madagascar. It was sad to say goodbye to my new Peace Corps friends that I made while in Pretoria and to clean water and bathrooms and real roads, but it also felt good to know I was healthy and ready to get out to my new site on the eastern coast of Madagascar. The trip was actually good timing, because I missed the category three cyclone while I was in South Africa waiting for my biopsy results. The cyclone thankfully didn’t do much damage to the area where my new site will be, but most of the volunteers on the east coast were evacuated to the capital to wait out the storm and then had to head back to their sites afterwards with the safety and security officer to assess the damage to their houses. I hope the rebuilding process goes well for the other volunteers and I’m excited to see what new adventures await me as I finally travel out to my new site.

Malagasy fetys and saying goodbye

My last month at site has been quite a roller coaster. While I’m not yet leaving the country, I have had to say goodbye to the community with whom I’ve lived and worked for the past two years. I will admit, there are some things I’ll be glad to say goodbye to and many new adventures I’m excited to move on to. However I’ve made so many close connections—both professional and personal—with Malagasies and Peace Corps volunteers in my region, which has made the moving process difficult.

Even though I chose not to end my two years before the holiday season so I could be with family back home, like most other volunteers in my “stage” (training group), I still had a wonderful Christmas here in Madagascar. A few of us in our region of the northeast corner decided to get together at a volunteer’s house in one of the larger towns and celebrate with close approximations to American traditions and a little Malagasy twist. Instead of mulled wine or cider we had tropical sangria with leechies, pineapples and mangoes. Instead of turkey and mashed potatoes we had a big tropical seafood feast at a fancy hotel on the waterfront. Instead of Christmas special marathons on T.V we watched a few Christmas movies that someone had on their laptop. Instead of large extravagant gift-giving, we had a “Secret Santa” exchange. Instead of tons of baked goods we had chocolate fondue with dark chocolate from Madagascar, coconut rum and fresh fruit to dip in it. We even had a tiny little artificial Christmas tree that we decorated with tinsel and plastic sparkly balls all imported from China. And we played twister. It was quite a memorable event, and I’m so grateful for all the awesome fellow Peace Corps volunteers I got to share it with.

I chose to spend New Years, or “Bonne Anne” in my village, as it was my last big “hurrah” before leaving my site, and as New Years is a huge holiday for Malagasies. During the few nights leading up to New Years, we had “Podium,” the Malagasy equivalent of a talent show. My counterpart had me practice dance routines with his wife and children and our neighbors, which we then performed on stage in front of the community. It was a blast, and I also enjoyed watching all the other acts. One of the teenage boys requested me to dance a few reggae songs with him and his buddy, too, which the audience enjoyed thoroughly.

New Years Eve brought the first big rains that we had seen in many months, which was certainly something to celebrate. After the epic semi-final soccer match between two neighborhoods in our town, which ended in a draw and then a dramatic shoot-off, the rains finally came. Everyone ran out into the main path through town and paraded around chanting and singing, welcoming the life-giving precipitation. Many had planted their rice a month before, assuming that the rains would have already come to water their crops, but it has been unusually dry this season so there were quite a few initial plantings lost to the drought.

On New Years Day, my counterpart invited me to his house to eat with his family. We shared a few beers, had a nice chat about American versus Malagasy traditions for celebrating New Years and then had a delicious feast with his family, which surprisingly didn’t consist of mounds and mounds of rice. The day after New Years is also still a “fety” for Malagasies, unlike Americans who either go back to work or use it as an extra day to recover from hangovers. My counterpart and I headed to Antsirabe Nord (my old site) to have a farewell lunch with the women’s group president, the nurse from Antsirabe Nord and their spouses. It was a joyful affair with good food and good drink and a wonderful chance for me to say goodbye to my friends and co-workers from my old site.

The following weekend was also filled with fetys, though of a much more emotional kind. On Saturday all of us Peace Corps volunteers in the area headed to Sambava to say goodbye to the two of us who were leaving the region. It was especially hard to say goodbye to our friend Caroline, as she is leaving the country for good, whereas I’ll still be around for a few more months. Again, there was lots of good Malagasy and American food, ample amount of drink and wonderful parting words shared between all of us volunteers who have shared some great triumphs and some rough times together. There were lots of laughs and lots of tears, and I will miss all of my fellow American co-workers and friends dearly. No one else can truly understand the unique experience we have shared in this beautiful yet sometimes harsh country.

While Caroline headed to the tarmac to take off for Tana on Sunday, I headed back to my site for a goodbye fety with my community. I had already set aside all of my belongings I was going to sell off in an auction as a fundraiser for my solar panel project. As soon as I got back and changed, the women’s group came to my door in a singing and dancing procession to gather all of my stuff and take me to the “bazary be” (central meeting place) for the ceremony and auction to follow.

As we made our way to the ceremony, tears started streaming down my face. I think it had finally hit me that I was leaving all of these wonderful, caring people for good, and was not sure if I’d ever have the means to return in the future (or if so, only after a very long time). It was so touching that all the women in the community had gathered together and donned their women’s group uniforms to celebrate and see me off. After raising the flag and singing the national anthem we took our places at the “bazary” and my counterpart started off the program.

In succession, the president of the village, the women’s group president, the president of the clinic, my counterpart (the nurse and head of the clinic), I and then the doctor from Antsirabe Nord all spoke. When the president of the women’s group gave her speech, she started crying, which in turn made me start crying again. Luckily I was able to compose myself before I gave my speech, and, even though after two years my Malagasy still isn’t quite up to par for orating, the community seemed to enjoy listening to me (or at least they laughed and clapped at all the right parts). There were lots of thank-yous and promises to keep in touch, and I left the community with parting words of encouragement that even if they don’t get another volunteer to replace me, they will still be able to do good work and continue on the path of development. There is such a strong sense of community and good leadership in their village.

After the speeches, the auction of all of my belongings that I couldn’t take with me on the airplane ensued. I was a little nervous, as I didn’t have a lot of stuff to offer, and there were many friends, co-workers and community members who wanted a chance and getting a “souvenir” from me. Thankfully, the women’s group and community leaders did a good job of running the auction fairly and keeping everyone under control. Some of the items (like bookshelves and chairs) went fairly expensive, but others were cheap, which gave more people the chance at buying items. Overall, we ended up raising a lot of money for the solar panel fund, which will go towards replacing the battery after a few years or making any other necessary repairs that come up after the one year warranty. Part of the money also went towards helping the pharmacy purchase extra medicines for poor patients who come to the clinic and can’t afford the necessary treatments.

The day after my big going-away fety in the village was mostly quiet, as it was a Monday and everyone was out in the fields working. I was busy packing up my life, but managed to take a break to have lunch with my counterpart and then sat on a neighbor’s porch to catch a little bit of a breeze. All of a sudden, I heard clapping and singing coming from the other end of town. Three folks who were still in town that day were walking hand in hand down the main path. As they got closer, I realized the song they were singing in beautiful yet raucous harmony was about me! They had made up a goodbye song for me and came over to where I was sitting on the porch to sing and dance. Pretty soon the few people that were hanging around the village came over to watch and join in the song and dance party. It was quite a touching moment.

That evening, the nurse and I brought over my belongings that I planned to donate to the clinic, which included a small table for the birthing room, shelves for the office, a hammer and a new broom. As he turned on the lights powered by the new solar panel, put all the papers that were piled all over the table and floor in the office onto the shelves and placed the table for newborn babies in the delivery room, I realized how much better the clinic looked. It’s amazing how a few small additions to the clinic could facilitate a significant improvement in the nurse’s ability to carry out his work.

On Tuesday, I headed to Sambava to get ready for my flight to the capital on Wednesday. That morning, the nurse helped me pack up, and we did the final accounting for the money from the auction to be donated to the clinic and solar panel fund. Some of my friends saw me off at the road and one of them even rode with me in the bush taxi to Sambava. It was a nice way to say goodbye, as I treated myself to a stay at a quiet bungalow on the beach and had a chance to see some fellow volunteers again before I flew out on Wednesday.

My next adventure will take me to the east coast near a town called Manompana (near the small port where the boats go over to Ile St. Marie). I’ll be working with a Malagasy NGO, training their field staff in community mobilization, behavior change methods and community analysis relating to clean water, sanitation and hygiene projects. I’ll update again when I move out there and work actually starts up.

Traditional Healing

I’ve had some interesting conversations with people lately about traditional Malagasy healing practices coming into conflict with western biomedical treatment. So I thought I’d write about the differences in worldviews and practices and how those differences have affected the health of rural communities here. The issue of traditional medicine came up a few weeks ago, when a very sick women came to the clinic. She was suffering from some sort of stomach illness and her family had brought her to our village to seek medical treatment too late. Her condition was quite grave at this point, and there wasn’t much the nurse could do except suggest that they travel as quickly as possible to the regional hospital in Sambava with better facilities, where they might be able to do something for her. The nurse’s wife explained to me later, that this family practiced “Ody Gasy,” or traditional medicine, and only after they had tried every possible alternative treatment did they decide to come to the health clinic as a last resort. Practicing traditional medicine had delayed their seeking western medical treatment, which limited the amount of help the nurse could offer, as this woman’s condition had deteriorated so rapidly.

I often here people in the community mention traditional healing methods, such as eating, drinking or breathing in the vapors from the leaves of medicinal plants in the forest or going to traditional healers for special therapies or “massages.” I had even met a traditional healer once, who claimed to be able to cure sexually transmitted diseases and illnesses causing swelling of the legs and breasts (filariasis/elephantiasis). Every market day, there are always a few stalls of people selling dried leaves, powders and various bottles of tonics that claim to have healing properties for every kind of malady. So I was curious to find out what the possible motivations were for those who opt for the traditional methods rather than seeking treatment from the medical clinic first.

My initial thought was that money may play a role in the decision-making process. I often here people at the clinic talking about not having enough money to buy the necessary medicines for their illness at the pharmacy. Perhaps people who were worried they wouldn’t be able to afford the medical treatment seek out other alternatives instead. This idea was quickly dispelled when the nurse’s wife explained that many traditional Malagasy treatments are actually more expensive, especially if the family requests a home visit from the traditional healer. While an initial diagnostic consult at the health clinic is free, even just a visit with the traditional healer can cost several thousand Ariary (a few US dollars, but still quite a sum for those in rural areas). Many of the simple, government subsidized medications like Tylenol, cough medicine and vitamins at the pharmacy cost 10,000Ariary (5USD) or less (and some, like Malaria treatment, are free), but some of the medicinal plants needed for traditional healing can surprisingly cost 30-50,000Ariary (25USD). Additionally, vaccinations for children under 1 year are free at the clinic, but many of the people who practice traditional medicine don’t get their children vaccinated. These facts made reconsider my initial conjecture.

Another thought was that the physical distance from health centers might influence people’s decision, especially if there are traditional healers living in the more remote, rural areas. If one couldn’t make the three hour trek through the woods to get to the health clinic, it would make sense that they would at least seek out a healer living in their community or in a village nearby. This factor may influence those living in isolated regions, but it is not a factor for the community where I live. Our village has a clinic with a very competent and reliable nurse and a pharmacy stocked with basic medicines, so the community members don’t have to travel more than 15 or 20 minutes to reach good medical care. However, there are still several traditional healers and many people practicing traditional medicine right in our village and in some of the surrounding communities. Some people in the vicinity of our clinic still choose to seek out traditional methods rather than making the short trip to see the nurse.

Another possible factor could be the clinic staff. Some Malagasy are embarrassed to seek medical treatment for things like sexually transmitted diseases for fear of judgment by the doctors or midwives. In particular, many people complain about the health care providers in the referral clinic down the road. I have frequently heard from community members that they are afraid to seek treatment at the larger health center in town, as they claim that the doctor and midwives who work there are often short with the patients and chastise them for not completing their vaccines, for being illiterate, or for not having money to bring with them to the clinic to purchase their prescribed medicines. I could definitely see fear of the medical staff as a reason for Malagasies choosing to seek alternative care, especially concerning the larger clinic down the road. However, I have a feeling this boundary isn’t as big of an issue in my immediate area, as the nurse at the rural clinic where I work treats his patients very well and is viewed as a friend and well-respected community member by many of those with whom he lives and works.

This idea of embarrassment was also reinforced during a group discussion with the SIDA Club (anti-AIDS club) students at the local middle school. We were talking about treatment of STIs, so I asked them about the possible reasons they thought some Malagasies might use “Ody Gasy” to treat their STI rather than going to the clinic. Several of the male students said that they would be embarrassed to go to a clinic, especially if a female provider such as a midwife were the one providing the treatment. Additionally, some of them offered that people might be afraid of getting a shot, which might be a reason for them to avoid the clinic.

Relating to the issue of embarrassment over seeking treatment at a clinic, there are frequent occurrences here of young women using the leaves of medicinal plants as a form of abortion. There have been several cases at the clinic of teenagers still in school who have miscarried after consuming leaves of particular plants they had collected from the forest to take care of their unwanted pregnancies. As abortion is illegal in Madagascar, these young women are faced with the dilemma of telling their parents that the precious savings they have spent on expensive school fees for the year is wasted, so they seek out other means of dealing with the issue. The fact that traditional medicines are used in this instance could reinforce the idea that embarrassment plays a role in the decision-making process, especially considering that family planning methods are free and confidential for anyone who chooses to come to the clinic, regardless of their age or marital status. However, lack of forethought and lack of power and status of the women in the said relationship also come into play with this issue of unwanted pregnancies.

After my conversation with the nurse’s wife, I’ve come to think that the Malagasy’s worldview, especially with respect to their view of the particular cause of their illness, may be the biggest factor in deciding which type of treatment to seek first. While there does seem to be some flexibility in many people’s worldview here, in the sense that they are willing to practice both western and traditional medicine, many do seem to prioritize based on which practice they ascribe more validity to. Their values and belief system may have a significant influence in this prioritization. Very interestingly, the nurse’s wife noted that most people in our community who attend church (i.e. ascribe to the Christian faith) do not practice “Ody Gasy.” She explained that for the most part, only those who “tsy mivavaka,” or, do not pray, seek out the traditional healers. This pattern seems to suggest that those who value the traditional belief system over adopted western practices tend to value traditional medicine more than biomedicine, which would make sense. Additionally, it seems that if a person suspects witchcraft has played a role in the particular illness, they will seek traditional treatment accordingly.

In one particular case a few weeks earlier, a child in family living down the road had died of a fever, because they came to the clinic too late. Apparently this family had gotten into an argument with another family in the area over rights to some farmland. Soon after the argument, their child felt sick. The family believed that this illness was brought upon by the other angry family, who had essentially “cursed” them. Because the family believed the illness was due to malicious intent from someone in their community practicing witchcraft, they decided that traditional healing methods rather than western medicine would be the best treatment for the child. Only when they had tried everything to counteract the curse did they contact the nurse. At this point, the child unfortunately was already on her deathbed.

According to his wife, the nurse has frequently asked people who practice traditional medicine to avoid waiting until it is too late to go to the clinic. His suggestion to those who use “Ody Gasy” is to only try it for a short time and then also to seek treatment at his health center. It shows a respectful openness and flexibility on his part that he is does not invalidate the community members’ belief systems, but simply attempts to get them the best healthcare possible. I also wonder if it would be possible to go a step further and work with the traditional healers themselves to encourage them to promote concurrent use of benign traditional healing practices and western biomedicine.

In particular, eliminating any traditional medicines that could cause harm to the patient would be very helpful. One of the issues is that some of these plants from the Malagasy rainforest do actually have legitimate medicinal qualities, but most who use them do not know in what quantities and in what forms to take them. Consequently they end up doing more harm to themselves than good. Training traditional healers in proper use of more benign medicinal plants and discouraging the use of self-medication in addition to a timely referral process to the health clinic could be a potential middle ground for those wishing to maintain their cultural practices and belief systems.

The Dead

So this is a morbid, yet interesting, entry in honor of the recent holiday on Nov 1st/2nd, “Fete de Mort.” Though most don’t celebrate it in the U.S., I think it’s somehow related to Halloween, and those in Latin America definitely know it as “El Dia de Los Muertos.” The tradition has very similar roots in Madagascar: visiting the graves of the deceased and honoring the ancestors. I found it an interesting vignette in which to compare the Malagasy world view of death with that of Americans.

In general, I’ve found through attending funerals, talking with Malagasies about the dead and participating in a “Fete de Mort” event, that the Malagasies on average are a bit more concerned with the spirits of the deceased than most Americans tend to be. Part of it may stem from the Malagasies’ traditional African religious practices and ancestral beliefs, and some contrast may come from the diverse range of beliefs in the U.S. and our tendency as an industrialized nation with more influences from globalization to abandon the traditional beliefs and take on a more agnostic or scientific view of death the afterlife (or lack there of).

Either way, my counterpart (the nurse at my local clinic) was kind enough to invite me to attend a “Fete de Mort” celebration with his family in his hometown. We were initially supposed to go on November 1st, but there was a death in the village! As the death occurred just across the way from me, and many of my friends and co-workers knew the family well, we had to reschedule our plans for the 2nd and attend the funeral on the 1st. So on November 2nd I traveled with the nurse and his wife to Anjinjaomby, a small town between…a 4 hour car ride from our village with a transit stop in Sambava. We left early in the morning and arrived around 10am. The dirt road out to his home-town was very scenic, bordered by lush forest, rice paddies and quaint villages.

Though the town of Anjinjaomby was a commune head, there was no electricity, and only a few spigots served as the public water sources. When we arrived at my counterpart’s mother’s house, we went through all the greetings with the relatives and then sat under a leechie tree, chatting until lunchtime. After a humble meal of rice and boiled beans with green leaves, we gathered all the relatives around and headed out to local graveyard. The walk was only fifteen minutes to the cemetery at the edge of town. I was surprised at how small and sparsely populated the space was. Many of the small, cement tombs were above ground and protected by makeshift, rusted tin sheet metal roofs.

Finally we approached their family’s tomb: a small metal shack, bolted by a wooden board nailed into the front side. Before opening the tomb, one of the older brothers said a prayer. Inside were four wooden coffins—three small ones and one longer one. The family only had the key to their father’s coffin, so they removed it from the little tin house, openened it up and lifted out the bundle of blankets and woven mats and clothes piled on top so they could clean out the bottom of the coffin of dirt and dust. Then they placed the bundle and the clothes back in the box, slipping in a few bills of money into the father’s pants pockets (a present for the next person who cleans the tomb) before closing the box and placing it back inside.

Later they explained that the longer coffin was that of their aunt’s who was more recently deceased. The process goes as follows: when the person first dies, they are buried underground in a regular coffin, like many of us do in the U.S. After a few years, when the body has decayed a bit, they dig the coffin back up and put the corpse in a smaller coffin above ground. A few years later, when the corpse is just bones, they re-open the coffin, gather the bones together in a new bundle of cloth and put it in an even smaller container. Now I know why so many of the Malagasy coffins I’ve seen are so tiny!

The process of opening the tomb and rearranging the bones does not necessarily take place during “Fete de Mort.” It’s often accompanied by a big celebration, called a “famadihana,” or turning of the bones ceremony, in which many people attend and party all night long, partaking of heavy drinking, singing and dancing. It was fascinating to me that the Malagasy take such care in rearranging the physical remnants of the deceased. Many of them also believe that the spirits of the dead often rise up from the grave to visit the living. I also took the opportunity to explain to them the practices of burial and cremation in the U.S. Many were shocked at the idea of cremation, but some were familiar with it, as many of the ex-pats, Muslims and people of Chinese or Indian descent and practice cremation here in Madagascar.

Though some Malagasies do bring offerings such as “toaka” (local moonshine) and plastic flowers to the graves of the ancestors, it’s not quite the extent of those who celebrate “El Dia de Los Muertos,” bringing favorite foods, trinkets and candles and staying through night. The Malagasies for the most part seem to visit the graves for a short time during the day and use it more as an opportunity to tidy up the tomb and the surrounding area. Its also a chance for the relatives who life far a way to visit their hometown and their family members. Some of my counterpart’s family members hadn’t been back to Anjinjaomby for several years.

Other cultural practices worthy of noting: if a child dies within the first six months of it’s life (before it starts developing teeth) it is not laid to rest with the bodies in the regular graveyard, but rather buried underground in a specially designated place in the woods outside of the village. Also, people of all faiths (Christian, Muslim, traditional) may be buried in the same cemetery.

Concerning funerals, since our Fete De Mort plans were delayed due to one, they are an all-village affair. In many cases, people from neighboring communes and even further away will even come to attend the funeral. It usually takes place the day of or day after the person dies, as Malagasies don’t have access to nor practice preservation techniques such as embalming, and it is a very hot, humid climate. For this most recent one, I got a front row seat, as the family lives right across from me.

Women wear kisalis—colorful, patterned cloth sewn in a circle and worn either as a tube top dress or skirt with a matching shawl. There is no particular dress code for men…even shorts and a tattered t-shirt is fine. Everyone donates either a cup of rice or 500-1000Ariary and the family usually slaughters a cow or several if they can afford it. If the family is very poor they may just purchase some meat from a local butcher or substitute beans or lentils. All day the women prepare and cook the rice. It is the men’s job to slaughter the cow and fetch water. Others sit around chatting outside the house of the family. One may enter the house where the corpse is lying on a bed, covered by a sheet. It’s mostly women in the room, but men may enter as well. If the family is religious, they often sing hymns. At lunchtime, everyone eats the rice and beef together. If there are a lot of people, someone will announce the visitors by village to come get their food. Afterwards the women wash all the dishes while the men head off to the cemetery to bury the corpse. The women follow later on to attend the burial. Both the night before and the night after, people stay up all night with the family, chatting, drinking toaka and singing hymns.

A lot of Malagasies were asking me if funerals are similar in America. I suppose in a sense they are. Many people bring over food and the family and close friends may eat a bit and drink together after the ceremony, though tuna noodle casseroles and pies don’t really compare to sacks of rice and a live cow. We all seem to find our own ways to process the idea of dying and to cope with the fact that we will never see that close friend or family member again. One thing I like about the Malagasy funeral process is how the whole community comes together to support each other. It’s an amazing feat to cook so much rice and beef for hundreds of people, and the company and camaraderie shared during the process is priceless to the grieving family.