Taxi Brusse

The third world equivalent of a greyhound bus, these Japanese not-so-mini vans are the only available means of long-distance overland travel. The Taxi Brusse <Bush Taxi> is a fun combination of taxi, camel caravan, and race car. They begin their trips at small ticket booths in every major town and city. These roughly constructed and negligently maintained shacks are home to the ticket salesmen. maintenance crew, baggage handlers, and are often overrun by street people begging for money and or selling quality "made in Chinois" products. There is usually a lot of commotion and general a strong and distasteful smell. Tickets can be purchased up to a few days before departure and right up until the brusse pulls away, which it won't do until at least every seat has been filled. The taxi brusse schedule isn't so much a schedule as a fantastically (as in fantasy not as in fantastic) optimistic best case scenario of possible departure times on an ideal day with another taxi company in another country three days ago. In other words, they are a lie. A 6:00 A< departure is (OMG I WON THE LOTTERY) lucky to leave by 7:00, happy to leave at 8:00 and probably leaving before noon... today.

Once all seats have been filled and the baggage is loaded on top, the brusse will abruptly take off from the station. After which it will immediately pit stop at the nearest gas station (why get gas before passengers are loaded? No, that would take forethought).

The brusse is filled to capacity with people, baggage, goods, livestock, puppies, spare automotive parts, and then just when you think the tire are going to explode and the roof is going to collapse, the baggage handlers kindly point you to your seat between 3 nuns and a pregnant woman who's nursing and assures you that your baggage is probably already up on top underneath the refrigerator and if not, then they'll make sure it gets up there while they load the other half of the luggage. Often the luggage tops out at a height of more than half the height of the van, resembling an ancient spice road camel caravan topped out with goods and bundled under a big tarp tenuously tied down with yarn, except that this camel is a Suzuki.

Once the brusse takes off from the station, all similarities with slow moving camels can be disregarded. Drivers seem to all have been trained in the amateur leagues of rally car racing. They appear to be engaged in a race against time, all other vehicles, pedestrians, and animals. (50,000 Ariary says I can get to Tana and back 3 times before your oxcart gets to Mevatanana!) They take wide turns, turn into the apex and accelerate out. They appear completely ignorant of the concept of a lane (roads are not painted with center lines, or any lines) or of western driving etiquette. They pass on the left, on the right, on bridges, off-road. They pass around blind turns, although they do have the sense to honk their horns to warn any car within earshot coming the opposite direction that instant death is a blink away. Clearly, the drivers are not paid by the hour.

Oddly though, there don't seem to be many accidents. There are always close calls and usually there are casualties, though almost exclusively of the canine and poultry variety, but I am told that they very rarely crash. During training, my language trainer said that the most common fatal accidents involve bridge collapse, which, while unsettling, is somewhat reassuring while not on a bridge.

In a few days I'm heading back to the capital. Wish me luck. I'll try to get a picture of my taxi brusse for you all, or maybe an action shot of a chicken bouncing of the windshield.

Fady

Fady is the Malagasy word for taboo. It is used quite often. Whereas I can´t remember the last time someone used the English word taboo in a sentence, I usually her fady everyday. As an interesting (perhaps?) side note, "excuse me" in Malagasy is "azafady" which literally be translated as "don't taboo."

There are 18 major ethnic groups on the island. The major distinguishing factors between them are language (dialects), ancestry (claimed or speculated) and fady. Some tribes, for instance don't eat pork, others some don't eat goat, still others dig up their dead every few years, through them a big party and dance around a fire with the bones. However fady differs not just between ethnic groups but also within. In fact, fady is so pervasive and diverse that many families and even some individuals have their own specific rules and fady-related customs. Fady seems to be (and most probably are) completely arbitrary, though some of them seem to be rooted in practicality (for example inbreeding, or eating raw beef). Really, the most interesting thing for me about fady is the the Malagasy's complete and unquestioning acceptance of their arbitrary nature. No one ever questions why people hold certain fady, where they came from, or how they change over time (although they are assumed never to change, even in the face of evidence to the contrary, for example fady applied to the use of automobiles). Actually, to inquire to their origins is not so much rude as confusing. It is a question they seem to have never thought of. Nevertheless, they do get a little annoyed at the question.

You might think that all this would make working in Madagascar difficult and frustrating. Well the work is difficult and frustrating, but not really because of fady. Once you know the fady it is easy to avoid crossing them and even cases of accidental transgression, the Gasy are rather forgiving toward foreigners in this regard. Actually, there is a nice upside to this whole fady business. It is not just I who must respect the local fady, but the local villagers must also respect my fady. At first, I didn't have any fady, but then I discovered that I certainly do have fady, though before Madagascar I didn't have a word for it. What follows is a list of some of my villagers fady and some of my own. I think you may recognize some of my own. Remember, no wondering why!

Some of Village Fady

No farming on Tuesdays of Thursdays (the "bad" days)

No collecting cow manor on the "bad" days

No tying rope on people

No eating pork, eel, lemurs

Baby's are strictly forbidden from looking in the mirror

No eating pork and then going on a boat

No dogs in the house

Some of Shawn's Fady

No sitting on my pillow

Cover your mouth when you sneeze, cough

Fady (for me) to eat (although I may taste) Dolphin, sea turtle, animal brains, raw shrimp

 No Washing dishes with water I would not drink

 No urinating in my yard

 No killing wild birds with slingshot, thrown sticks

Keeping lemurs as pets

Polygamy

No putting guitar picks, pencils, pens, sewing thimbles in nose

Tratra ny Krismasy

Merry day after Christmas everybody. I hope you all enjoyed the celebration of the birth of Santa Clause yesterday. I spent the day reading books, eating leftovers and wandering around Mahajanga. On Christmas eve, my friend Elfi (a German ex-pat with a solar power business in mahajanga) had a small party. Mary (closest volonteer) came with her boyfriend who was visiting from de nederlands and a few malagasy showed up as well. It wasn't very Christmas-y, but it was merry.

However the signs of Christmas can be found around town if one takes the time to notice. French Christmas carols could be heard on the radio, modest christmas lights decorate the entrances of a few shops and residences. And a nightmarish Christmas ghoul haunts the streets of downtown hoping to route out an unsuspecting heathen children from the premises. The ghost of christmas globalization struts the earth like a victorious college basketball star on his way to the bars to celebrate, or possibly like an older veteran with a "trick" knee, in a hurry. He wears a raggedy red suit with off-white trim and a hood that he pulls up over his head. But most terrifying of all, he wears the mask of a white, yet asian-ish man with a tangled, homeless beard. He calls out to the children "Tratra ny Krismasy," which though a traditional greeting for holidays (e.g. tratra ny bon anniversair), literally means "Catch a Christmas" I wonder if some of the children, unfamiliar with Christianity might not be scared off by his threat to catch whatever the hell a Krismasy is. For whatever reason, many children do flee in terror, inspiring a genuine smile beneath the mask and a genuine, yet girly, Santa laugh.

Ho Ho Ho, Bon Noel! Tratra ny Chrismasy!

Runnin down a dream

Ampazony is a neighboring village to the south of my site. It is a much larger village and home mostly to farmers. To get there I have to bike or walk 10 Kilometers on a sandy and hilly unpaved (obviously) road. The trip is approximately 3 Kilometers forest and 7 kilometers desert. I mean desert purely in the aesthetic sense, as my region gets a fair amount of rain in the short rainy season (started two days ago, btw). Anyway, crossing this section of "desert" (and I really hope I am not confusing the spelling with dessert) is hell. There is no shade, there are no people, no breeze. The sand reflects sunlight and radiates heat. I often find myself pleading, "Seriously Moses, how much longer? I think we've been lost here for like 39 days, how bout we just call it quits and go back to the pharaoh."

Ok so you get the point. It's a miserable hot hell. So last week I had to go down to Ampazony to meet with some people, eat some rice, yak about farming, blah blah. I woke up before dawn and get on my way before the day really begins to heat up. I finish up with everything around 11:30. I'm not excited about crossing the desert at noon, but I had some stuff to do back home and I was most of the way through Starship Troopers (much better than the movie, btw) and wanted to get back and do some reading in the hammock before I had to teach english that evening. I think I had a point to this story... yep, here it comes.

SO, my friend in Ampazony asks me for some plastic tree pots that I had just bought, but were in my hut. I agree to give them to him, so asks his two sons(ages 10 and 11)to follow me back to my village to retrieve the pots. Certainly, I think, he means for them to come retrieve the stuff later in the afternoon. No, they are going to follow me back right away. Surely then, they have bicycles to keep up with me. No. Ok, well then at least they must know where my hut is so that they can find me later that afternoon. Yes, they know where my hut is.

Fine, so I'm off. I go racing down the hill and then dismount for the tedious climb up the first hill. The sand is about a foot deep at this point, so the bike is useless. By the time I am halfway up the hill, the boys have joined me. We chat for a while, I give them some water, and at the top of the hill I say goodbye. They look puzzled. I peddle away as they run beside my bike. I think, "these poor kids are going to die of heat stroke, I better leave them in the dust so they give up the running and settle on a much more reasonable pace. I take off. They keep up. Several K later, they are still right there with me as I walk my bike through a particularly sandy section in the road. We eventually reach the forest perimeter, 3K from my town. I am drenched in sweat. My water is gone. My legs are wobbly. The kids have hardly broken a sweat and are clearly not even winded. Now I'm pissed. I will not be outpaced ON FOOT, 10K by two little children when I have a damned bicycle. As soon as I hit solid ground, I race off, full speed. I am overjoyed to see the boys run off into the forest. Clearly they have finally given up on chasing me. I slow to a normal pace and begin to enjoy the shade of the forest. Just outside the village, I see some children playing in the road. I'll be damned if it wasn't the same two boys standing around waiting for me after finding a shortcut through the forest. I race past them yelling, "Engakenganaaaaah!!" (Hurry!) Now it's a race. It's official. I round a bend in the road 10 meters from my house. I'm standing on my bike. The kids are 25 meters back. I'll show them! Obviously, I crash right then and there. A pedal catches on the sloped embankment of the road, knocks my foot of the pedal and the bike goes crashing into a (thorny) satrana shrub.

The kids come rushing over, helping me to right my bike and dust me off. I wish I could say I pushed them into the dirt and ran for my hut. Instead we laughed it all off and walked over to my hut together.

GG noobs.

Back from Halloween

Hello all. I hope you had an enjoyable Halloween with plenty of tricker-treater, candy corn, and "can you believe we used to think this movie was scary" 1980s era horror flicks. Meanwhile, over here in Madagascar, the Peace Corps was working very hard to save lives, improve living standards and promote intercultural understanding through a development project called operation Halloween. Ok, fine, I'll be honest we just had a Halloween party.

Halloween has not really caught on yet here in Mcar. Although in the capital and a few other major cities you might be able to find a Halloween party at a big nightclub. In Fianar, where we headed this year, there was a once club that even forced all it's employees to dress up in costume. The other Malagasy, however, still did not seem to understand what was going on. I imagine that the French have reluctantly brought the tradition over. I hear that Halloween is a big controversy over there as many parents refuse to celebrate the "Cultural imperialism of the American capitalist pigs."  Anyway, as this country moves away from the stifling influence of the French toward closer relations with America, Great Briton, and South Africa, as is the aim of the current president, I expect to see a rise in the popularity of Halloween. I might even go so far as to say that the popularity of Halloween in Madagascar could be used as an anecdotal indicator of development in so far as development in this country is linked to economic liberalism as championed by the Halloween celebrating Americans and British. But then again, it's just Halloween.

 So anyways some of you might be wondering what I wore as a Halloween costume. Well first, I went through many terrible ideas like an Abu Grab detainee (but political jokes never work very well, especially in a country where news is primarily received by radio and so most volunteers haven't seen the pictures), a Malagasy porn star (I have a giant wooden penis that I received for the purpose of doing condom demonstrations, but I couldn't figure how to make the rest of the costume work and I was worried about cultural sensitivity) and a MIF kit (an item found in our medical kits used for sending stool samples to Peace Corps). I finally settled on being a pizza delivery guy. I wore my pizza hut hat (which I bought in-country), then I taped a cut-out from a bag from a pizza take-out place in Tana to a red shirt. Finally I carried around a card-board box of approximately the size of a pizza. The costume worked well and avoid the awkwardness of a clever but culturally inappropriate costume.

Ok, I have to get going. Please stay in touch. I haven't been getting many letters lately, and I must admit I have not been terrific at sending them out either. Anyway, lets not keep track of who wrote who last. Happy Thanksgiving to all.