Ile Sainte Marie: my overview

I’ve just returned from a magical trip to Ile Sainte Marie, a small island off the North East coast of Madagascar. Previously it was a haven for pirates and now it’s a little piece of paradise for tourists; adventurous tourists at any rate.

Sainte Marie has a deserved reputation as an exotic holiday destination. It has the unpopulated white sandy beaches, turquoise seas and coconut palms that delight the Western traveller. Added to this, real Malagasy life goes on around you so Sainte Marie gives a fascinating glimpse into real Malagasy lives and is a lovely place to just amble about.

It has seen enormous strides in development in the last ten years. The tourist hotels may look rustic, using large amounts of natural materials, but they are slowly taking over most of the beachfront land, pushing the villages a few metres inland on the other side of the road.

However, the everyday life of the local islanders and tourists won’t feel over developed to most people.

In fact, a trip to Sainte Marie, as to anywhere in Madagascar, requires being prepared to compromise on luxury, convenience and health and safety.

The main road from the airport is terrible and only improves after you’ve taken your life in your hands on a crumbly, single lane pontoon over an inlet. Water and electricity are not in continuous supply in most places. And of course there are mosquitoes and malaria, as well as other interesting bugs and tropical diseases to be prepared for.

Sainte Marie is a great place for those who prefer their tropical island paradise experience to be combined with experiencing the realities of a country and its people up close.

And if the single dirt track road going around the island is too much development for you, there’s always Ile Aux Nattes. This is a separate smaller island off the southern tip of Sainte Marie, that has no roads and no running water and is reached by a small local canoe.

See my Ile Sainte Marie photos.

Our Sainte Marie hotels

We split our 10 day trip into 3 parts, staying

• 5 nights at the Tsara Bay guest house, near La Crique bay towards the North
• 3 nights at Le Galleon guest house, just South of Ambodifotatra (the capital)
• 2 nights at Le Pandanus, Bungalows, on Ile Aux Nattes

Tsara Bay

We loved this place and were very sad to leave it. It is a guest house in its own private bay, which ended up feeling like home (in fact I now covet this as a future home)

Prices:
Double room: 40000 Ar per night
Extra bed: 10000 Ar per night
Meals: 8000-12000 Ar main course, Breakfast 4000 Ar,

When you first arrive, you feel that there are no other hotels for miles around. You have found your own private island lodge.

However, a quick peek through the trees at the edge of the garden, and you see the bay of the popular La Crique hotel. The bay is so good it’s a highlight stop for island tours, due to the lovely beach, excellent swimming / snorkelling and good food (quite expensive).

So you can split your beach time in between La Crique with the other tourists (usually only between 5-15 people) and your ‘own’ bay in front of the Tsara Bay guest house, for more privacy.

The Tsara Bay house is made almost entirely out of wood. It is only one room wide, so remained cool and all rooms have a view over the bay from the bedroom and veranda. In fact, most of our time was spent on the shaded veranda which goes along the length of the house, either at tables, in comfy chairs or in the hammock.

There is also a sumptuously decorated main living room with sofas, reading material and a big TV (only switched on once at the request of a guest). The living room has a mezzanine level, also with beds.

The area has been well landscaped and planted, so you are surrounded by trees and flowers, and thus also different birds. I enjoyed watching the aggressive behaviour of the Crested Drongo, a common but nevertheless stunning bird, whose entirely black plumage oozes glamour with Audrey Hepburn like simplicity.

Behind the house are the few chickens and ducks kept by the household and a view over some rice paddy fields.

As with most beaches on Sainte Marie that I visited there are sea urchins so I appreciated having a mask with me to scout them out.

One of the things that makes this such a lovely place to stay are the staff. Aurelie, Jenine and Simone were lovely, catering to individual needs and always easy to find, without being intrusive.

Best for:
Families, people looking for peace, small (sociable) groups, lone travellers (cosy atmosphere good for chatting to people)

Worst for:
Romantic couples who want privacy or people looking to party.

The drawbacks are:

• Only one bathroom and toilet. This ended up not being the problem we thought it would be – but could be if all the beds were taken.
• The hotel is isolated so our food and bar bill etc. ended up expensive
• Have to walk up steep grassy path to get in and out

Le Galleon

A good value, well-run bed and breakfast near Ambodifotra which is owned by La Ballenatoro diving company. The set up encourages a friendly atmosphere with guests getting to know each other. It’s on the track that leads to the pirate’s cemetery.

Price:
20000 Ar per night per person sharing a room (we had a double and single bed). Includes excellent breakfast. Two bungalows available for 30000 Ar per night.

Highlights are:

• Walking distance to Ambodifotra and hotels on South of island
• Helpful, friendly staff
• Quiet and peaceful but sociable
• Generous servings of great fresh natural juices at low prices
• Excellent breakfast (bread from wood fired oven, home made jam and fresh juice)

Drawbacks are:

• Lack of privacy – rooms poorly soundproofed
• Running water not always running (there were always full buckets if this happened)
• Only one very nearby option for eating meals – but many choices 15 minutes walk away

Best for:
Small sociable groups, lone travellers, people who want to dive.

Worst for:
Romantic couples who want privacy or anyone looking to bring people back at night (forbidden).

Le Pandanus

A Malagasy run collection of bungalows on the North beach of Ile Aux Nattes, run by a family working hard to compete with the other hotels that have taken over the beaches.

Prices:
Bungalow: 25000 Ar (€10) per night (regardless of how many people in there – we had 2 double beds so managed 3 adults and a travel cot in ours).
Meals; 8000-12000 Ar (€3.20- €4.80) for main, Breakfast 4000Ar (€1.60)

Getting to Ile Aux Nattes involves a 5minute journey on a pirogue (traditional canoe). I did see some other boats occasionally, looking like they may belong to bigger hotels that also do sea fishing trips.

Le Pandanus was by far the cheapest option on the North beach (which we chose because it was the nearest beach and neither granny seemed keen to spend any more time than necessary in the canoe. Other hotels cost between 50000 Ar (€20) and 91000Ar (€37) per bungalow, and were more luxurious.

Overall our stay at Le Pandanus was a good one, but there were constant little things that could be improved.

All the hotels on the island are in walking distance to each other, so you can easily walk to the best swimming points (10 minute walk from La Pandanus) and eat in any of the hotels. You can swim right off the beach right in front of La Pandanus but it’s quite shallow and there are small sea urchins. I preferred to walk 10 minutes to the west corner of the North side where there’s an area of swimming pool quality, deep drop off of white sand to about 5 metres deep maximum. There can be a bit of a current coming round the corner but it takes you round the beach rather than out to sea. So you can swim about watching the pirogues coming and going, and even the odd plane.

Highlights are:

• Excellent seafood
• Generous portions of food (so good for hungry people)
• Watching the planes take off
• Enjoying the North shore at a much cheaper rate than the other hotels

Drawbacks:

• Water runs out frequently and you have to ask for them to let it down from the water tower again.
• Low level of French spoken amongst staff (and no other languages other than Malagasy)
• Details of requests often misunderstood / forgotten

Getting around Sainte Marie

The state of the roads means that travelling around is an undertaking, either requiring considerable effort or money. And we weren’t there in the rainy season. There were roadworks going on at various places mainly putting little bridges in I think.

On foot

Although, as mentioned above, it also gave Sainte Marie some of its charm and some of our nicest experiences were walking around. And it’s easier to walk around here than some places in Madagascar because the frequent clouds and rains give some cooler days.

So, going on foot is one option – there’s only a few roads which are easy to find and all areas feel equally safe so you can explore.

Two wheels

Other locals and tourists were on bikes or motorbikes. As well as the roads, many vehicles for hire will be in relatively poor condition so may require tolerance and fortitude. The Bradt Guide says that most hotels rent bikes and I saw various places with both bikes and motorbikes for hire.

Taxis

Taxi brousses pick people up along the road and are usually minibuses or Nissan trucks. I think people were paying 1000-5000Ar for many journeys. I’d be more comfortable recommending taxi brousses on Sainte Marie than most places in Madagascar because the roads mean that the drivers can’t pick up any speed. And many private hire vehicles double as taxi brousses or are just as unroadworthy,

Private taxis are extremely expensive compared to the rest of Madagascar, between 20000Ar and 65000Ar for most journeys (depending on the length of journey and the vehicle).

Hotel pick ups

Your hotel may well offer to pick you up at the airport or port. Find out in advance if this is a free service and, if you’re interested, whether it is their own car or a local taxi (see above section on taxis).

By boat

Remember Sainte Marie is an island and the sea is probably the fastest way to get around the island. I didn’t investigate boat options or prices but I’m sure you could make arrangements, either in boats with engines, sail boats or pirogues.

A tale of two grannies

Today’s tale is a travelogue of an unusual trip from Diego to Sainte Marie, with my baby son Fred, my Mum (white Granny), Jean’s Mum (black Granny)

So, 3 women set out on the same journey with a collection of objectives.

• To visit your birthplace and family
• To meet new family
• To indulge in relaxation
• To see another part of Madagascar
• To scout Sainte Marie out as potential future home (this is a vague notion of mine and a more serious consideration for Jean’s Mum)

What a privilege to be travelling with my son and his two Grandmothers – especially on such an exotic trip. Fred doesn’t realise how lucky he is now but I’m happy that he is loved already so much by the people close to me.

We piled into our car and another taxi to get to Antsiranana airport – which has been improved during my stay in England. There’s two check in desks, an information desk (a rare thing indeed in Madagascar) and sliding doors.

Air Madagascar customer service

Nil points – when in doubt, lie

I had one experience with Malagasy customer service that would have once tried my patience much more than it does now.

Air travellers with small children now normally have the right to keep a pushchair / buggy with them right up to the plane door. It is stowed and then returned to them when they arrive at the next airport. I have done this before with Air Madagascar.

I had pre-packed my buggy this time to save time. The check in desk insisted on checking it in and putting it straight in the hold. They claimed it would magically appear at Tana if I spoke to ‘someone’. My experience on any international travel indicates this is not likely – and in Madagascar even less so.

As a response to my insistence, a man said he’d phone Tana and disappeared. I told the lady I’d return in 10 minutes to find out who they’d spoken to and what I needed to do at Tana. When, to her dismay, I did return, she told me I should go and speak to her boss, the man who had disappeared ‘to phone Tana’. He then told me there was no need to phone Tana and then went on to explain that people getting their pushchairs depends on the amount of flight traffic.

So, the bald fact is he’d lied about phoning Tana and was now making up Air Madagascar policy. I don’t know for a fact that he was wrong but it was already clear he was not an expert on the Air Madagascar pushchair policy.

Anyway, instead of the seething rage this might once have produced, I only suffered mild, amused disapproval. I realise that he may be breaking my code of customer service but I was also making many Malagasy cultural faux pas (I still make them all the time but I’m more aware of when I’m making some of them).

Firstly I was expecting to receive full customer satisfaction. Secondly, I kept driving at a point when it had become obvious somebody didn’t know what to do – to Malagasys, my insistence at this point is justification enough for the man lying, it was the acceptable thing to do to save everybody’s face. Thirdly, Malagasys don’t have pushchairs so my insistence that it was a necessity for a 5 hour stopover at Tana, is incomprehensible.

Thankfully, I avoided the major faux pas of losing my rag and criticising, as this is not the Malagasy way. So, I left the situation ensuring that the man’s professional status had been respected and by making a joke so we could all laugh together and know there are no hard feelings.

Mille points – gold star to him

The male air steward on the plane needs special commendation for his enthusiasm for his job and determination to love each and every customer. I have never seen an air steward who doesn’t at least look a little jaded – not this chap – job satisfaction all the way. He assured me my buggy would be no problem (he didn’t actually appear to help me at Tana but at least this gave me confidence to keep trying).

A chill at Antananarivo airport

The staff at Tana airport were very helpful although I did have to continue to be the insistent traveller. I got the buggy. Sat in the shade outside the airport, there was a surpisingly chilly wind which saw black granny reaching for her huge cardigan and white granny smiling, though still having to put a scarf round her shoulders.

Madagascar developing in small and big ways

I hate to trivialise the march for development, but I couldn’t help noticing that the toilets were clean and had toilet paper and soap. Small things like this give outsiders an impression of development, which is a plus in itself. I haven’t yet worked out any more complex analysis of Malagasy economics but little things add up.

As if to remind us just how far development can take you, the TV in the departure lounge was showing a non-stop infomercial for some flab wobbling, muscle toner. I suspect the majority of the Malagasy population is a long way from being customers.

Sainte Marie – plane lands, moods lift

I’d talked all week about Ile Sainte Marie as a tropical island paradise but what we’d find in reality was far from certain. Anyone who’s heard of Madagascar usually oos and ahs about the exotic, lush, mysteriousness of it. The reality of much of what I have seen is very different, and not that amazing.

So, as we came into land with our wheels skimming turquoise water and our wing tip floating between a white sandy beach and lush tropical vegetation, things were looking promising.

By the time we walked out of the terminal with our bags my Mum and I were already declaring that Sainte Marie is lovely. ‘Wait until you see the roads’, Jean’s Mum said.

What’s worse – the car or the road?

Any emotional buoyancy soon withered when we saw our transport, a battered minibus without seat belts that brought back horrible memories of previous dances with deaths in a taxi brousse with my Mum.

It was the first time I was taking Fred in a car without a car seat – I told the driver I was very nervous so to go slow – although this was also for my Mum’s benefit, who is a nervous passenger, to say the least.

Then it wouldn’t start and required a push start. Mum’s mood was blackening – I would be more zen if she wasn’t there but I know how car transport can worry her.

Poor Jean’s Mum had been terrified of the flight. We were more scared of the car journey (more faith in science and statistics?)..

Mum had had to close her eyes during the ‘bridge’ crossing of the bays south of Ambodifotatra. I had kept my eyes open, mainly to plan how I would evacuate myself with my son, before going back to rescue my Mum and Jean’s Mum, if we ended up under water.

All’s well that ends well

As nearly always, we arrived safely at our destination. Things were definitely looking up. Our hotel is a gorgeous little place nestled in a secluded bay, and it is a gorgeous tropical little bay.

Looks like we’ve found our tropical island paradise after all.

Taking the Mickey

I take pride in the British sense of humour which permeates all aspects of our lives. We enjoy nothing more than taking the Mickey out of each other (mocking) whether on the school playground, the factory floor or the sports field.

I mastered my craft at my school where you either developed a quick tongue and thick skin or you hid in the corner.

So, why has it taken me 2 and a half years to appreciate a similar mocking mentality by the locals of Diego instead of slamming them all for being insensitive critics.

Vazaha watching, a Malagasy passion

As a Vazaha visitor, you become aware that you are constantly being watched. In towns, people are more used to Vazahas so you are being watched only casually out of the corner of people’s eyes (they still notice everything). But, out in rural villages, it’s usually full on staring.

These photos show me visiting a village during a Frontier expedition (I’m the one doing something fascinating nearest the house). This is the breakfast vigil (they arrived just after we opened the door).

The people squashed themselves in the doorway the previous evening to watch us get changed and get into our sleeping bags.

We often joked that the way to get rich in Madagascar was to create a TV series called What Vazahas Do. Each week you could show mundane clips of people brushing their teeth or buying bread. And, you could make special episodes of Vazaha’s falling over which would bring the house down.

‘Tsy Mahay’, a Malagasy obsession

Tsy Mahay means ‘doesn’t know how’. Malagasys just can’t help themselves from pointing out that you don’t know how to do something. As a new immigrant, you hear this a lot.

It’s not easy keeping your morale up when adjusting to a new culture and learning new skills. Anyone who isn’t currently generous hearted to immigrants to their own country has no doubt never tried to adapt to another culture.

The Malagasy (or Diego-ite) tendency to laugh and shout ‘Tsy Mahay’ when you’re trying to accomplish a simple daily task, like building a fire or sorting the rice, which is like little sticks of humiliation being poked into your over-sensitive, paranoid white skin.

This sensitivity (with accompanying loss of your own sense of humour) won’t be there when you step off the plane. It will come on once you’ve forgotten that you ‘Mahay’ (know how) to do anything properly, however competent you thought you were in your own culture.

[I have since regained my confidence but probably learnt some more humility – never a bad thing.]

Why do they mock so?

Are they just cruel?
Well, partly, yes. People from Diego are not overly sensitive types – they have been mocked and criticised since childhood (see post Should we be nice to children?). They spend most of their childhood with other children and children, as we know, can be cruel.

Learning by critique
Malagasys don’t teach by praising achievements and gently suggesting alternatives to help people. They pick out what has been done wrong and criticise that. And when I say ‘wrong’, I mean ‘not done exactly the one way that the teacher has decided it should be done’.  I have been told this is also more a French mode of education.

Picture that you have just successfully created flames out of a structure of sticks reminiscent of something you saw Ray Mears build on TV once whilst you were eating your beans on toast (“Why didn’t I pay more attention to Mr. Mears?”, you berate yourself).

You turn round to face your audience (any Vazaha doing anything, normally has an audience) with, what you hope is, an expression of humble pride.

How disheartening when people look at you and then each other and let out the joyful cackle of ‘Tsy Mahay’. Somebody will invariably come to ‘do it properly’ for you whilst the ‘Tsy Mahay’ still reverberates around in chuckles.

Accept that, unless you can perform a task like you’ve been doing it 3 times a day since you were a toddler, you do not ‘Mahay’.

Laughing ‘with’ you (honest)

Laughing at somebody trying to do something is very offensive in Britain (I remember my disapproval as my partner laughed his head off at my cousin’s distressed son who had just had a potty training accident).

I’m being slightly generous here to imply that Malagasys are laughing with you rather than at you, but there’s some truth in it. Or rather that being laughed can be their way of showing that it doesn’t really matter that you don’t know what you’re doing and that you’re still part of the group.

Malagasys laugh to diffuse tensions so there will often be jokes and laughter in the middle of disputes (which can be infuriating when you’re really up on your high horse). So, they are laughing at you, but in a way they’re trying to make everybody, including you, feel more comfortable.

What about me?

Like at school, unless I wanted to spend my time hiding in the corner, I had to toughen up (though I still sometimes get the urge to hide in the corner here). I don’t mock others too much, partly because my language and cultural skills aren’t up to doing it with sophistication. It’s also because many Malagasys already display submissive behaviours around me (because I am a Vazaha) so I feel it’s more my role to be complementary.

But, my ‘new immigrant’ sensitivity is much less and my Malagasy language skills are improving so watch out Malagasys who’ve been chuckling away to yourselves for a couple of years at all my little mishaps – I’m sharpening my tongue and I’m coming for you with all the wit and sarcasm my British heritage has afforded me.

Let the Mickey taking begin.

Anchors away

A big American warship is floating proudly in the bay. It is resting after carrying its athletic cargo of trainee marines across the seas. Meanwhile the sailors explore Diego, finding its arms (and legs) wide open.

The ship is an impressive sight, almost making the bay look smaller than it is. As I took my late afternoon stroll, I wasn’t the only white face taking photos.

Excited town

The population of Diego seems to increase when the American ship is in port as the town blossoms with possibility. People from the outlying districts don their best attire to play their part in the atmosphere.

For the good time girls that Antsiranana is famous for, this is better than Christmas. Other men come in to town with money throughout the year but this is something else. This is glamour, as if life from the films has come to town. Apparently, even the highest quality girls, with no desperate need for money, will put on their best outfits and come out.

I assumed this was because the sailors were big time customers of the Diego ladies’ charms. But a local man assured me that the girls are looking for action, even without payment – a rare occurrence indeed, and one I find hard to believe quite frankly. But apparently, they want the kudos of saying they’ve been with an American sailor. Odd considering it can’t be hard to get laid when a warship full of horny men dock in town.

Why, I pondered, were the sailors exciting enough to warrant such special attention.

Everyone loves a sailor

Just as I was getting patronising about local girls’ excitement at the sailors, I was reminded that its not limited to Malagasy girls.

An odd twist of fate meant I sat down to watch Episode 1 of Sex in the City (series 5), only to discover it is called ‘Anchors Away’ and is about an American warship docking in New York. The four Sex in the City ladies pass the episode against a background of the excitement caused by the City being full of sailors.

I’m tickled by the idea of the same young men having adventures with Carrie and Samantha in New York and the young nubile ladies of Diego.

It turns out you really can see the world, and its ladies, if you’re an open minded marine.

Feeling amused and less snooty about the whole thing, I popped out in the car this afternoon to get some shopping. Suddenly I saw two strapping, chiselled and awfully handsome US marines walking my way.

And yes, I felt a flutter and my pulse quicken as I pointedly stared straight forward and concentrated on my driving.

I don’t know what the magic is but climbed down off my high horse and enjoyed an envious affinity with the local girls in their tiny, sparkly dresses heading out to find their own little adventure with their US marines.

Having a baby in Madagascar

My partner’s step-sister had her 2nd baby today at Antsiranana hospital It has been interesting to see the similarities and differences between her Madagascar experience and my British one.

Complicated birth

We were all a little nervous leading up to this as she lost a healthy baby last year due to strangulation by the cord during the birth. She’d gone well past full term again this time and her belly was still very high and didn’t show any sign of the baby dropping into position.

It sounds like she had to take control of the situation herself. She waited until the day that ‘the good doctor’ was at the hospital and went with her bag and money (for treatment and medications) all packed. She took herself to the testing centre, in town not connected to the hospital, for another ultrasound which told her she still had a week to go.

Dissatisfied with this information she went back to the hospital for another ultrasound (remember she has to pay for all of these and they’re not cheap) and was told that there was only a little bit of amniotic fluid left in the womb and that her baby had probably been suffering for some time (not sure this was helpful information).

They wanted to induce her but she insisted on a caesarean, mindful of her experience last year when she was also induced. The surgeon agreed. She was offered epidural or general anaesthetic and opted for general – didn’t want to hear the clinking.

I went to visit her in the evening.

The maternity ward

To get into the maternity ward in England you had to get past the security coded doors, the disinfectant hand pumps and the reception desk staffed by midwives (in fact a host of different staff in different uniforms that I never worked out who they were).

In the Maternity ward at Diego General Hospital, you just walk in to a room with open windows to some regulation hospital beds and people sat around everywhere.

In Madagascar you have to supply your own food, linen and anything else that the mother or baby needs (this is the same for any hospital stay – or prison stay for that matter). So, by default nothing is sterile.

She’d been advised not to breastfeed until her milk came in, which is contrary to the emphasis that the UK midwives put on the importance of the baby breastfeeding the minute it pops out and getting that colustrum over the first 3 days. So, a friend of the mother was feeding the baby sugar water with an unsterilised spoon which she put in her mouth before giving to the baby.

As with many things in Madagascar my immediate reaction is horror and then you realise that the world doesn’t fall apart when things aren’t done the vazaha way. This isn’t to downplay the infant mortality rate here or what I suspect is a poorer rate of healthy outcomes from hospital stays but, in general, everybody stays alive. And, they’re not worried about our super hospital infections here – I’m not sure if that’s because they’re not here or because it’s more pressing to worry about cholera and amoebic dysentery.

I experienced more horror the next day when half eaten food on the bedside table was teeming with ants.

The Mum doesn’t have a nice electronic bed to raise her up so she’s lying prone unable to do much with her baby. He opens his eyes for the first time whilst I’m there so I raise him up for her to look at. She’s very slurry so I presume she’s still on some kick arse pain killers.

But despite the differences I was strongly reminded of being that new Mum with my own new little baby. As I heard the newborn cries and the mother turn her head away into the pillow a bit emotional, I felt tears well up in my eyes. And she looked so happy as the baby stopped crying just because he was laid next to her. And I felt myself falling in love with the little baby, just as I saw other experienced mothers do when I was out in public with a very small Fred. We really are programmed to love little babies.

You need family

There are nurses but the primary care of the mother and baby are done by friends and family. A woman has stayed with the new Mum all the time. Although I think that it would be great to have more midwife and nurse care, the system doesn’t work well in England either, due to the same shortage. I would have loved to have had a friend or family member with me who could help me out with all the little things. Pressing a button and waiting 40 minutes for a frazzled midwife to turn up once the need has passed didn’t provide me much support.

Small town / fish bowl life

Went to Diego airport today to see friends off.

Any visit to the airport means seeing familiar faces and them seeing you.

I realise I’m already getting used to the fact that this is a small town and your life is on show. In London people would know what I was doing because I told them, not because they saw me do it. So different people could know about my important professional milestones, drunken nights out, visits to the doctor, tripping over in the street, personal relationships etc.

In Diego, it’s always safest to assume that everybody knows everything.

An unsuspecting visitor, used to a cosmopolitan environment, may just see a sea of anonymous faces and not realise they’re all part of a closely linked net.

How are we all connected to each other?

Well, the fingers of large extended families reach far and wide, feeling deftly for information and gossip.

Also, the upstairs, downstairs phenomenon of domestic staff provides both the means of gaining inside knowledge and motivation for sharing it.

The itch to gossip about celebrities, so prevalent in the UK at the moment, is satisfied in Madagascar by gossiping about the better off – Vazaha or Gasy.

In a country where all regular forms of communication are mind-bogglingly ineffective (internet, post etc.) bush gossip, i.e. word of mouth, seems to race around Madagascar with death defying speed and accuracy.

Talking to myself – lonely expat behaviour?

I have started talking to myself in public again. The last two weeks have seen a resurgence of this habit, a behaviour I developed in Madagascar in 2006, but had lost during my stay in England.

I didn’t really notice I did it until I returned to England. I found myself doing it in shops and having to laugh it off when I got noticed.

It took about a month back in England to stop doing it.

So, why has it started again?

Self talking situations

I do it to a certain extent in the house but I’m most aware of it when out of the house. A typical situation might be the market.

Much of it is harmless enough; reciting what I want to buy – a sort of memory aid.

“Right, I need to get potatoes, carrots and beans”

However, it also moves into expressing opinions:

“Ooo, those pineapples look nice. Bet they’re expensive though.”

And it’s often used around some interaction with another person.

“Hmm, she looks like she’s having a hard day.”

“Shouldn’t those boys be in school?”.

“Ah, it’s the man who always tries to rip me off. I know your game mister.”

And sometimes it’s me expressing opinions on Madagascar life in general as I walk through the market:

“Oh my word, could there be any more chaos?”

“As if life wasn’t difficult enough already, they have to make the umbrellas low enough to poke my eye out.”

Etc. etc.

Why do I talk to myself?

I imagine it must give me some feeling of protection and buffer against the stress of being out and about in another culture.

I probably feel less alone and different by doing it (though no doubt look like a fruitcake). By expressing opinions I know my friends would share, I bring my ‘normal’ into the situation. Whereas, in fact, I am the thing that is not normal.

It also gives me a sense of power because I am speaking in a language that they do not understand. So, they can talk about me and I can talk about them. I often do it if being stared at.

Sign of stress?

It would appear to be a coping mechanism which shows that there is something to cope with. This highlights the underlying stress that is part of being an ex-pat. In England, I can switch off because:

• I blend in
• I understand 95% of what is happening without having to think about it
• I speak the same language
• I know exactly how my behaviour is interpreted.

So I can think about what’s in my head or just the unusual things that happen.

The percentage of things that are becoming automatic and understood instead of confusing is increasing.

However, daily life is still far more tiring than back in my own familiar culture.

The last 2 weeks have also been stressful as I’ve been ill and thus feeling tired and fragile.

Now I am well again, we’ll see if I will stop or whether talking to myself is part of the ongoing stress of expat life.

Culture ain’t just about rice

I found this poster in the library in the Department of Anglo-American Studies at the University of Antsiranana.

I love it because not only does it remind us that we are the strange ones but also it shows how cultural difference goes much deeper than whether you eat rice every day or not. When you first arrive you think it’s all about learning about death ceremonies, how to cook rice and how to wear traditional clothing.

But, it doesn’t take much imagination to realise how I may have been perceived at times when I was acting very British.

Are Malagasys racist?

One reason I chose to live in an ‘exotic’ country is because I enjoy getting to know people from different cultures. But I’ve found a society so obsessed with race and ethnicity that I often long for the interracial mixing of Britain (and if you disagree that races mix in Britain – you want to see it here!).

Economic, religious and social lives in Madagascar are all divided along fairly clear racial lines.

It’s an Indian!

Western tourists are often offended to be referred to and treated first and foremost as a Vazaha. But, what they don’t realise is that, in Diego, your race is the most important piece of information about you. When my partner was in England, we couldn’t see somebody of Indian origin without him commenting, “It’s an Indian.” Every single time. I tried to stop him doing it but it was an unstoppable reflex.

Race and status

In Britain we are aware of statistical differences in status between racial groups (the disadvantaged groups are probably more aware than the Whites). In Madagascar, as in much of Africa, it’s totally separate boxes - your race gives a fairly certain prediction of your lifestyle and status. I’m reminded of a white Zimbabwean friend of mine who said he was shocked to see white people driving buses and cleaning streets when he first arrived in the UK.

When I was back in England, taking a bus to my old house in Hackney, I was struck by how colour and class were not a correlation amongst my fellow passengers. I saw black professional people and poor white people, something you don’t see here.

I should qualify that there are some very well off Malagasy people and in the capital city, Antananarivo, great extremes of wealth can be seen. However, this only partly breaks the race rules as a closer look at Malagasy culture, especially on the plateau, reveals an ingrained ‘caste’ system where society has always been broken down between different ‘levels’ of society. Within Madagascar your ethnicity is also very important.

So, what race are the Malagasys?

When you stand back with a global and historical eye, the obsession with race in Madagascar is even more bizarre as they are such a racially mixed population. I often feel like I’m looking at a Benetton advert with 1000s of people, each one showing a slightly different shade and combination of features than the other.

For starters the original population is split genetically between African and Indonesian origin (see Research: Migration to Madagascar by the Wellcome Trust)

Research: Migration to Madagascar

Secondly, Madagascar has only been populated for 2000 years so any claim to be ‘pure Malagasy’ requires some explanation.

Lastly, there has been a considerable mixing of genes ever since humans arrived from all the foreign groups listed above through trade, piracy, war, colonisation and slavery. Some might say that the Coastal Malagasys reputation for being good hosts and for promiscuity has predisposed this island to racial mixing.

What about me?

I now define somebody’s race when I’m talking about them, and often ask for it if someone hasn’t described it. It’s partly that I’ve got over the hang up about asking but also because it does give a context to someone here. In England, finding out whether somebody is black or white doesn’t tell you very much.

Madagascar has a long way to go before there are enough opportunities for everybody that race is as unimportant.

How to listen to someone

How do you show that you’re really listening in England and Madagascar?

England

• Make eye contact
• Make listening noises (aha, yup, indeed)
• Ask questions

Madagascar

• Look at the ground
• Remain silent

Thus an English person listening to a Malagasy could be perceived as:

• Wanting to speak themselves
• Trying to dominate
• Being disrespectful
• Intrusive by asking questions

And a Malagasy listening to an English person could be perceived as:

• Bored
• Trying to indicate you should shut up

I’ve had some excruciating nights out with groups of timid Malagasys where I’ve kept trying to instigate conversation by looking everyone in the eye (thus assuming the dominant position), asking questions and filling silences. At the end of the night I’m wondering why nobody else was helping me create a group dynamic and they were probably intimidated the whole night.

As an English person this has also caused problems in my relationship with my partner. I cry out frequently ‘Are you listening to me?’.

Once you get used to everybody looking bored it can be quite liberating when you’re speaking in public because it means that there’s no point assessing body language – you just keep rambling on and on and on (Malagasys like a good long speech).

The Village leader in the photo kept talking for about an hour as life went on around him. As you can see, he’s enjoying himself.

I’m good at rambling on (as this blog will testify) and choose to interpret people’s bored expressions as respect…and not boredom. Must remember not to do this when back in UK.