Minor annoyances of Madagascar

Munched linen dressCloth eating bugs

Sorted through a bag of clothes I’d left here yesterday, to discover that they too had been decimated by some clothes eating bugs.

I’ve no idea what they are so I attach a photo so that someone can tell me. Whatever they are I watched with smug satisfaction as the ants cleared away dozens of them in less than 3 minutes – ant Christmas apparently.

Luckily the orange dress that they were most partial to was one I got made whilst recovering from Chikungunya (type of Dengue Fever) so it was much too small. Especially as I got pregnant a month later and, unlike Malagasy mothers, gained some pounds (see post You are so fat).

Cloth bugs and ant

Power cuts

It’s been a bad week for power cuts. Saturday evening we lost power at 6pm for the next 13 hours. Sunday it cut at 7am for the next 25 hours. Last night we lost it at 6pm and it’s still not back on at 7.15 the next morning.

And the internet café was off yesterday at different times when I went up there so I had 2 wasted trips.

I don’t suffer too badly because of my laptop which has a decent battery and contains my music, films, games and writing. And we go to bed here so early (mixture of having a baby and natural rhythm with darkness) that the lack of light isn’t a disaster. However, I don’t like waking to breastfeed a baby in mosquito filled darkness.

Flip flop wounds

Two days ago I was delighted to get a rare chance to walk somewhere without my son but disappointed to get blisters on the top of both feet from my supposedly sensible flip flops (thongs to Americans).

Being the tropics, both of these minor afflictions are now infected and oozing puss and blood. Out comes the betadine (iodine). I was told it is best to dilute iodine rather than use it neat otherwise it kills all the white blood cells trying to fight the infection. Not sure that science is correct but less is more was the conclusion.

[Note (added November 2007) it took 2 months for these wounds to heal and have left sensitive 'stains' on both feet so I still have to be careful with shoes that touch the affected areas.]

Begging and other ways to get money

Madagascar is one of the poorest counties in the world, positioned 164 out of 177 countries for GDP per capita and 143 out of 177 for its Human Development Index (Madagascar’s Human Development Index 2004). So you would expect to see people begging (we do in London after all).

But, in Diego, begging only happens under rare circumstances.

In other parts of Madagascar begging is much more common, most noticeably from my travels in Tana and Tulear, though not as aggressive as in many other poor countries.  In Diego, when you hear the cry ‘Vazaha’ from children it’s normally just for their own amusement, in other places it almost always leads to a demand for money or presents.

Friday charity

Friday is giving day – a Muslim tradition. Thus the very poor, mainly the elderly, walk politely around town, especially the Indian and Arab shops pausing near people in the hope of some small change. They don’t pester and they always express thanks.

Because everyone is poor to a greater or lesser extent, people need some justification for receiving these alms. As I said, this is usually old age.

This system seems to work very well as you pass the rest of the week without expecting to give to anybody. Even on Fridays, it’s so polite and unobtrusive as to make giving a real pleasure. I know it should always be a pleasure to give but normally it gets all mixed up with trying to work out why that particular person is more deserving of money than the next person or you feel harassed. Not so here.

People look after each other

As said, everybody is familiar with poverty to some extent. Not having anything for the evening meal doesn’t make you very unusual here. So, you’d have to be really in dire straits to resort to begging. On top of this, if you did find yourself in crisis, people from your family or neighbourhood would take you home and feed you or get you through whatever crisis you were in.

And, because it’s a small town, you can’t fake your crisis. If you were attempting some kind of fraud it would be considered theft which is punished most severely.

There are a few known people whose begging is tolerated (but ‘managed’) and these are a small number of mentally ill people, harmless enough to themselves and others to be wandering around. I’ve noticed street vendors giving them food to eat as a matter of course so the community keeps them alive (and enjoys the entertainment their antics provide).

Other ways to get money

The lack of begging does not mean that hard graft is the only way to make money – far from it. Money is interlaced with every single interaction here and financial morality is much more fluid here than in the UK.

Life here is a series of negotiations in which everyone is a business person, taking their cut where they can. Sometimes this gets into territories that we would call ‘conning’ people – but it can be hard to draw a line between honest and deceitful business. I’m not a businesswoman in Europe, but I suspect that people with business in their blood understand this mentality more than I do.

Getting money out of Vazahas

Vazahas (white people) are always a target. Most Malagasys don’t have any understanding of the Vazaha way of life but they know we have money. And, although I’ve heard many younger travellers bemoaning that they don’t have much money, they really do compared to most people here.

At the beginning I tried to imagine every Vazaha walking around dripping with money and gold to help me understand the Gasy obsession with Vazahas and our money.

Charming money out of tourists is helped by the cheerful personalities, warm smiles and good looks of the locals.

Normal ways for trying to get money out of Vazahas includes:

  • sex
  • ‘love’
  • ‘friendship’
  • stories of hardship or desires to better themselves through a scheme (these may be true)
  • charging higher prices (this isn’t conning – nothing has a fixed price)
  • facilitating products or services (where you can cream a cut from the buyer and / or the service supplier)
  • buying and selling

These techniques are not reserved exclusively for Vazaha and are also used to a lesser extent on other Malagasys (apart from sex which is used an awful lot, but for different prices).

Why not beg from the rich?

Despite the other ways to get money, I still don’t understand why people don’t beg more from tourists, resident Vazahas or wealthy locals. The wealth gap is often enormous and, in the case of tourists, they are unlikely to know whether a case is genuine or not.

Long may it remain begging free

I am in awe of the people here for not begging when they are faced with such an immense wealth gap. As a resident Vazaha I can regularly be seen spending or wasting the equivalent of a week’s salary on some trivial fancy (this week it was a small packet of Fruit and Fibre cereal).

Maybe begging will become a norm in this region but I hope not, for the sake of the people who live here and for visitors. A major attraction of the region is the relative safety and relaxation that tourists can move around in. The worst thing that happens is usually fatigue from being over-‘charmed’.

It’s depressing, alienating and tiring being on the receiving end of begging, or very unreasonable conniving, however understandable it is.  Even in Diego, I get tired and frustrated just knowing that many people are wondering what they can extract from me with their ‘charm’.

However, being around people who, in the main, respectfully get on with their own lives, even in great poverty, fills my heart with warmth and admiration for local people. It can turn one-time tourists into repeat visitors and, more importantly, ambassadors for the county. How sad for everyone if that were to change.

Our new car

New bling carWe are the proud owners of a new car, a Diego classic Renault 4.

Currently it is Diego taxi yellow, with lots of ‘Bad Boy’ attachments such as headlight covers that look like seductive eyelids, shiny silver windscreen wiper attachments, blacked out windows etc.

We will be removing most of these and repainting it, to a more sober finish.

Why choose a Renault 4?

We chose this against a more glamorous Golf that was on sale because of its ability to tackle any road and ease of repair.

It’s known as the poor man’s 4×4 and can get anywhere that the bigger, shinier 4×4 vehicles can go. And I will mainly be wanting to get to Montagne d’Ambre (Amber Mountain) and Ramena, both of which require 4×4.

Also the cars are such a part of Antsiranana life that spare parts and expertise are plentiful.

Buyer and seller

Grown men crying

For some people of the Dordogne district (Jean’s district), life has been on hold for two days as they have watched the three ‘Anne of Green Gables’ films. Grown fishermen have been wiping tears away and taking Jean aside to say how great the films are.

Ha – and they like to laugh at us for being over sentimental and soft.

I brought the films with me as a slightly embarrassing but greatly coveted collection to watch to soothe my soul whenever Madagascar culture shock was grating on my nerves.

Nice to see that good ol’ Anne Shirley can touch the hearts of the most hardened Malagasy. I wonder what else I can get to inspire tenderness amongst the locals….full boxed set of Little House on the Prairie would be good.

You are so fat

A big topic of conversation has been how FAT I am… Some people have said it to my face and others have said it to Jean.

“Oh she’s been eating cake” “Oh she’s been eating too much sawaba (sweet dish with coconut milk)”.

It doesn’t really work to say “Well I’ve had a baby” as local women don’t tend to get fat. I noticed a local woman breastfeeding her baby, 1 month younger than mine. She pulled up her top to reveal a flat stomach. I chose breastfeeding tops that open only at the breast to keep those rolls of fat covered

To put this in perspective for Westerners I am at most a stone (14 lbs or 6 kilos) heavier than when I left. This is not unusual for Western women who have had babies.

But a splendid source of conversation for Malagasys.

Most English women would be horrified for someone to say this about them. Luckily I am used to Malagasys commenting on weight and am not sensitive about it. If Malagasys come into contact with Westerners a lot, someone normally needs to point out that it’s not acceptable to talk about someone as fat.

It’s not that fatness is revered here – people appreciate a fit, slim figure in both men and women. It’s just not seen as such a highly sensitive issue. Also people point out things that are obvious but undesirable (such as spots).

Getting fatter
I expected to lose weight here but I seem to be gaining it. This is a mix of not being very active, Jean cooking big meals and me sucking condensed milk out of the can. I read today that condensed milk has 8 tablespoons of sugar in one can.

Can I possibly claim that I’ve just swollen up with the heat?

Sorting things out

A treat for ants
My precious commodity from home of breakfast cereal was this morning attacked by ants. I’d looked at my box of cereal last night and thought ‘Hmm – the ants will find that. Must put it in something’.

Well, I paid for my fingers-crossed approach as I spent an hour sorting through my cereal flake by flake squashing all the ants. All safe now – phew (the cereal not the poor ants).

Car negotiations
While I was fixing my cereal, Jean was involved in the next stage of negotiations with the owner of a car we might buy. It’s me that’s going to buy it but I’m not involved at all in the discussions – best leave it to the Malagasy men - vazahas always likely to pay a higher price and I don’t understand the subtleties of Malagasy negotiation. They’re currently playing hard ball over the price.

Shower head
Jean found a shower head in his stuff that fits perfectly onto our shower pipe. Reminds me of my war era Dad – always managed to find spare parts lying around.

Coconut oil, cradle cap and connectivity

My child no longer smells of olive oil which I was using to treat his cradle cap (and which my mother hated for making her lovely grandson smell dirty). Now he smells of coconut oil extracted by his Malagasy granny from coconut trees planted by his Papa.

So, now he smells like a tropical, Indian Ocean boy.

How to make coconut oil
Incidentally I have discovered how to make coconut oil. Coconut milk is heated for a long time until the oil and the cream separate and the oil is spooned off the top. For those coconut novices, coconut milk is not the liquid which comes out of a fresh coconut – that’s coconut juice and is a refreshing sweet drink. The milk comes from grating, soaking and squeezing the flesh of the coconut. Mmmm – just the thought of coconut sauce is making me hungry,

Quick aside that it was quite confusing deciding what terms to use for Fred’s family members there because Granny in Malagasy is Dady which is what we’re calling her.

To connect or not to connect….
When we talk about slow connection speeds in developing countries, people in the West may not realise just what we’re talking about. I had to wait around a minute just to switch between internet windows or to scroll up the screen. I was in there for 90 minutes and I sent 2 pre-written emails, updated my Facebook status and left 1 message on a friend’s Facebook wall.

This does not bode well for my internet related ambitions….

Stu (ex-Frontier staff who has been in Diego as long as me) has pointed out that it would make sense to get a phone line put in to the flat and get the internet. I think he is wise and have started investigations.

White woman breastfeeding in bar

Breastfed in public today and I’m still trying to interpret all the social signals to see how appropriate it was. I went into a bar (usually frequented by girlfriends looking for boyfriends and vice versa, and the odd tourist group attracted by the terrace).

I sat in front of the TV, facing only the two bar women. I also covered myself up so no bit of breast was ever on show. However, I was aware this was unusual if nothing else. A young man came and sat down next to me afterwards without smiling once. Was this a classic Malagasy indirect way of saying that I shouldn’t be doing that? Or did he just want to look at the motor racing? So hard to tell.

Jean gulped when I told him but wouldn’t tell me it was actually wrong – not good though I’m guessing.

Malagasy women can be seen breastfeeding fairly often. I think a key difference is that women here take their children with them on errands a lot less than we do in England. The children are always left with someone else. And if women do have to be out of the house for a long time, they are usually relatively poor and selling either fruit from the market or bits of food by the side of the road. The other place I’ve seen it is outside the hospital when women are waiting all day if someone is sick.

So, maybe me breastfeeding in public doesn’t fit with my status as a white woman with a nice apartment not far away. And, from experience I’ve learnt that life is easier in Madagascar if my behaviours fit with people’s expectations of my status.

Settling in ups and downs

A relaxed English morning
I wake just before 6am to feed Fred. Jean is up and about to leave for his driving practical test.

The morning is spent in surreal suspended reality with BBC world on for two hours 8-10am and the place to myself. The charms of the apartment are definitely outstripping the negatives and I’m delighted with our (my) decision to get our (my) own place. I go back to sleep next to Fred for yet more lovely sleep.

Jean is out till 1.30pm leaving me time to look after Fred, to unpack, to enjoy my morning ablutions free from prying eyes and convert music files on my new laptop. I even sit down to read at one point. Despite my concerns about being here, it feels like I might just have a relaxing time and as if this is real life starting after the limbo of the time in England.

A unsettled baby afternoon
Fred is unsettled and fractious all day, my best guess being the heat because he seems to calm down when stripped off and when outside with a breeze. It makes the afternoon particularly unpleasant with Jean impotent to help and us being unable to do anything except keep him calm. Sleeping seems especially difficult for Fred during day which is just like many people when in hot countries for the first time.

A depressed evening
Fred finally fell into a deep afternoon sleep at around 5pm in his buggy. Jean was concerned about mozzies but, with the fan on, I thought it was OK. But suddenly everything went black. A power cut. We thought we were by the hospital so we couldn’t have a power cut.

By the light on my mobile phone we found a candle and, with a bit of effort, put the sun/bug mesh onto the buggy. Fred slept right through the whole thing and looked snug all wrapped up in his darth vader –esque vehicle.

Once he woke up, he was fractious again for the next hour. Sadly, we had to put him in a full baby-gro to protect him from mozzies, which he hates in the heat.

We took Fred outside, sharing the lack of light with our neighbours also outside. Does it matter that my baby is screaming? Doubt it – Malagasys are very tolerant of noise, not realising that right to peace and quiet is considered sacrosanct in my homeland. Fred was somewhat calmed by the passing wobbly beams of yellow light as the taxis rattled past.

The darkness of the power cut burdened the hearts in the house. Jean is annoyed that he is paying good money for a flat with power cuts when he has a house for free not far away with the power still on.

Thankfully Fred went to sleep relatively easily. Jean and I had a depressed supper of boiled eggs, chorizo that I brought from England and bread. Sleep did not come easily and I lay in the blackness listening to the sound of a room filled with mosquitoes. We under our badly fitting mosquito net and Fred in his travel cot cocoon. I resent Madagascar for not allowing me to see and touch my darling son from my bed. I resent Madagascar. I shed a tear and push Jean’s hot heavy body gently away.

Night time calm
At 11pm I awake still in darkness and listen to the mosquitoes and Fred stirring. When I realise Fred is not waking up but I am not sleeping I get up – just to escape from the claustrophobia of the mosquito net. By candlelight I start tapping away at my laptop on battery power, writing an account of my stay in Madagascar so far and planning future writing.

The power came back on at midnight. My mood quickly lifted as the fan blew the mozzies away and light allowed me to move freely. I could charge my phone (so having emergency light) and charge this laptop.

Say what you will about development, all hail electricity.

Madagascar – we’re back

Well, here I am. Back in Madagascar. Or should I say ‘Here we are’ because, for the first time, I come back to Madagascar as a package that includes Fred. How will I adapt to life here after 11 months away and now that I have the mindset of a new Mum

Flying alone with a baby
The journey was harder than I expected physically but easier mentally. I was surprised how little help I received at any point as a sole adult travelling with a baby. I had to collect my 46 kilos of luggage at both Paris and Tana airports and check them back in at a different location. I was only just able to manage all the hand luggage. I had everything I needed for Fred in one bag and all my electrical items in another. Helpful strangers were vital but hard to come by. Fred got used to being held airport staff.

However, I am aware that my situation is self inflicted and privileged, both in being able to travel and being able to have so much stuff. Westerners have so much stuff.

I’ve seen Malagasy women travelling for hours squashed into the back of a bush taxi. They have the wisdom that only one item is really essential when you have a breastfed baby which is some kind of nappy change.

Racial kaleidoscope at check in
At Paris the queue at the Air Madagascar check in desks is my first contact with Madagascar. The beautiful and unmistakable Malagasy people. They are unmistakable not because of a single distinct set of characteristics but in their combination when in group. No other country on earth offers the same mix of Africa and South Asia. The range is from dark black African with tightly bound hair to the palest Indonesian with glossy straight hair. En masse they are a kaleidoscope of all the shades and combinations in between, with bits of white man, Chinese and Indian mixed in as well. Like a Benetton advert without the white or pure oriental people.

Complications at Tana airport
At Tana airport, I was generally last at everything. Last off the plane, last to join the visa stamp queue and last to join the visa queue. For the first time on the trip I got special treatment as one official spotted Fred slipping off my hip in a mound of blankets and waved me to the front. Somehow I was still the last one to pick up my baggage.

I’m sure I don’t have the right visa for Fred. I needed a transformable visa if we are to apply for his Malagasy nationality. The embassy in London told me to get this at the airport. But at the airport they could only give a 3 month tourist visa. When I discussed this he told me I should go to the embassy in Tana (which embassy I don’t know as they British one has closed. When I said I was going to Diego straight away he told me to try and sort it out there, looking at the floor knowing he was just batting away my problem. At this time, I wasn’t going to argue and just went to get my baggage.

For once, I paid people who carried my bag a euro, whereas normally I fight against anyone helping me. And if they force their help upon me, I give them a suitably small Malagasy amounts. In the check in queue a Malagasy woman was shouting at baggage carriers for all trying to help and her white husband for giving them money. I sympathised with both of them.

At Diego airport I was greeted by the new airport terminal. It’s still a simple one storey building and there’s no automatic luggage carousel but it’s newer. Luggage is wheeled in on trolleys and put on the bench of rollers by staff. Tickets are checked. By the exit, taxi men try to holler and catch everyone’s eye to grab that fare into town.

Has Diego changed?
The yellow taxis of Diego rattle back to town carrying their cargo of money spending tourists, to pump some blood into the local economy, and locals returned from exotic locations (usually Tana or France). Our driver, forewarned of his nervous new-Mum passenger, crawls into town at 20kmph, giving me ample time to absorb the sights of Diego life, at once familiar and strange.

Nothing has really changed – I notice that I am surprised to see hobbling stray dogs, whereas only 11 months before I was surprised to see white people being led round the park by their well fed, well groomed pooch chums.

However, as we near Place Kabary, my neighbourhood, I notice a new place for renting 4×4s and motorbikes which has replaced the lovely place that used to sell crafts far cheaper than any other store. Clearly no head for business.

Next to this is a café. I wonder why this little pocket of investment has happened and then spot another new addition, the Tourist Office, something Diego has sorely been lacking.

The roads look better too but there is still a metre square pile of mud and rubble in the middle of a main thoroughfare. Maybe blocking a hole of similar size.

As we pass the local square, men who hang out there discussing politics, life and women, watch the taxi go past. I am back in a land where I am something to be watched.

My new Vazaha flat
We arrive at the new apartment, just around the corner from Jean’s house in the Dordogne, where we lived before. My first impression is one of relief that’s it not worse and disappointment that it’s not better. It looks dirty and threadbare.

Ruth’s flat in Madagascar

A smiling young lady is there, Zakia, our home help ‘thrown in’ for the price.

Dino, one of Jean’s assistants, soon turns up with vegetables and starts preparing lunch.

The rest of the day is spent with me unpacking, me getting a delicious sleep in and Jean running backwards and forwards to the Dordogne to pick up bits and bobs. I’m aware that I have to sweep out mice droppings from the bed, and evidence of woodworm from the cupboard but know that these are small issues in Madagascar and that this house is a luxury.

I have a better night sleep than I’ve had in ages - mainly because Fred only wakes up for one feed which I think might be due to the smothering heat.