When education doesn't work so well

There were about 250 kids enrolled in the primary school in my village of 35 people; they came from all over the area. The government pays one teacher. His monthly salary wouldn’t buy a decent meal for two at a restaurant in the US.

That is NOT what I said

I like to talk. I have been in Madagascar for over two years. My daily life and my work is conducted in Malagasy. Put two and two together, and that’s a lot of words spoken in Malagasy. 

However, speaking words doesn’t necessarily mean doing it correctly. I still make people laugh, and those that talk with me often know just where my limit is. No one here has ever heard me truly angry in Malagasy, because I don’t know how. Often things become simplified: a speech to our volunteer team for environmental education expressing my profound gratitude becomes more like “thanks, it was nice.”

Despite all of this, there is a funny thing that happens. Regional dialects in Madagascar are very significantly different from each other. I speak a mix of two, Betsimisaraka-Atsimo and Merina. Frequently, I say something to Person A in my special Gasy. Person B partially overhears our conversation, and asks for it to be repeated. Person A then repeats the meaning, but in perfect dialect one way or the other, adding how impressive it is that I speak just like them. Now person A and B both think I speak their dialect, but they have just added 10 words to my vocabulary that I’ve never said in my life.

My favorite mistake: There were some Swiss tourists, and one was a doctor. They visited a woman in my area who has been bedridden for three years with a serious back problem (something with the discs). She is the Pastor’s daughter. They left some medicine for me to pass along, just some pain killers and vitamins. I wanted to translate the directions from English to Malagasy, so I asked a friend for assistance, because immune system was not a word I knew.

Me: “This is a vitamin to help her sell herself”

Him: “What? What do you mean to help her sell herself?”

Me: “You know, when you are sick, and your body has to sell itself to get better!”

Him “Ah. Elsie, I think you mean protecting yourself, not selling yourself.”

Oops. Fivarotan-tena ≠ Fiarovan-tena

It's all in the name

Malagasy is a fairly descriptive language - snakes are long animals, and insects are small ones.  If one child dies, the next born is sometimes know as “Solo,” which means replacement, and many are named after the days on which they were born. In keeping with this pattern, town names are possibly the most descriptive of all.

There are the ones that state the obvious:

Ampasimpotsy – At the white sand

Besarety – lots of ox-carts

Ampasampito – at the seven tombs

Bekininina – lots of eucalyptus

Beravina – lots of leaves

Ranomafana – hot water (If you want to find a hotsprings in Mada, no need for a guidebook, just look at a map and go to any town named Ranomafana)

Andasibe – at the large encampment

Ambato – at the rocks

There are some that make you want to live there:

Maromahatsinjo – many things that make you look forward/many views

Mangarivotra – Fresh breeze

Maromizaha – lots of views

Sahavola – money creek

Anjiro – where there is light/electricity (ironically, in most Anjiros I have seen still rely on candles)

And some that maybe could have been less honest:

Bekalalao – lots of cockroaches

Sahatay – shit creek

Sahamaloto – dirty creek

Arivonimamo – a thousand drunk people

Manadala – makes you go crazy

Sahaparasy – flea creek

Pineapples, minnows, and litchis

In the US, many people don’t know in which month asparagus ripens, or when avocados are at their best. And I can’t blame them, since the little “Grown in Mexico” tag has very small writing. Here in Madagascar, that isn’t quite the same. In a nice juxtaposition of how it is in the US, local organic seasonal fruits and vegetables are delicious and cheap. Out of season, imported, tasteless produce is pricey. The logical choice? Save money and eat fresh food!

            Compared to Americans Malagasy are in general a very indirect people. But when it comes to appearance, they just say what they see. It is not always meant in a mean way, but that depends on the situation. One kid I know is nicknamed “Rat,” and when you see his front teeth you know why. There is a guy named “Tall Mami,” and a lady “Big Jenny.” Pretty clear as to why. In my village, I’m known as “Big Elsie,” and in the house in Andasibe, “the stomper” because they say the house shakes when I walk.

            I’ve never been small, but I’ve never been so constantly made aware of my size. And it doesn’t help that they are comparing me to themselves – generally short people, and most of them are manual laborers of a sort. If someone was really embarrassed about their body, they would not like it here. These are a few episodes from my time here:

Who Hit You? And other ways of dealing with children

            What inspired me to write this is one particularly funny parenting technique I see every day. And let me qualify this: I essentially live with two giant extended families, so I can’t say if this is a Malagasy thing or a family thing. Anyhow. If a kid is crying, no matter the reason, they ask “Who hit you?” The wailing child then points out the offender, and that person is pretend-hit by the parent. Problem solved, crying stops. 

Winter

Look on the map – Madagascar is in the Tropics. It is a tropical island. We have coconuts, malaria, people taking naps in the middle of the day to escape the heat, strange fruits year-round.

But that is all in another part of the island. I am fortunate enough to live in the temperate, highly-forested, cloud-capital that is Andasibe. It’s wonderful, except for the cold.

Picture Nightmares

Every few months we have a report we have to fill out for Peace Corps. One of the sections is called “lessons learned.” During training, they printed out and gave to us some of the lessons that previous volunteers reported learning. The other day I was particularly angry and wondering why no one had thought to tell us to avoid this problem. To deal with my frustration, I decided to hide in my house and go through old papers. I came across a sheet from the first few weeks here, and sure enough there was the advice I thought I had not been given, in all caps: NEVER PRINT PICTURES FOR ANYONE.

Transient lives

Before I left the US I remember telling people that I was excited to live in one house for two years. This would mean all my stuff in one place, not moving all the time, and two full growing seasons (or more, depending on the climate) in my own garden. They laughed that I was joining the Peace Corps and thought it would settle me down. But I was pretty convinced it would be a change from the always shifting life I had in the US, from family to family, friend to friend, not really settled. And I think that for many volunteers, it actually is a fairly settled life for two years. 

The last 6 months

It is not just laziness that this blog has been inactive – I have actually been busy (by my standards). Quite a change from the first months here. To summarize the happenings of the last few months: