Most mornings, before I even opened my eyes, I was greeted
with the honking of geese and crowing of our rooster as they were released from
their indoor coops (which also doubled as the kitchen during the day, with
built-in pit and grill). My eyes would search for the morning light peeking
through the cracks around my closed door and shutters. I’m not sure how early
my family would wake up, but often times I would hear the rattling of metal
bowls & mixing of batter for pancakes or fried bread while I was still
laying in bed. I became accustomed to naturally waking up around 6am. By this
time my family had already cleaned the dishes from the last night’s meal and
finished cooking breakfast. Pulling aside my bug net, which I kept closely
tucked around my bed even during the day, I would cross my room to open the
wood shutters (on my 2 glass-less windows) and door. I also had a door
connecting my room to the living room/bedroom of my host parents; these two
rooms and loft upstairs were the entirety of our house. My room was originally
the parent’s bedroom, and also twice the size of the connecting room. By
hosting me, the adults now slept behind a curtain next to the dining room table,
and the two girls slept upstairs in the loft. I never ventured up the ladder
but I know it was a storage area and a type of open bedroom.
The “kitchen shack” for lack of a better term, connected to
the living/bedroom and also had a door to the outside. The two small windows
and the outside door were always open during cooking, as the only means of ventilation.
I haven’t seen any “shacks” with chimneys, although it must be evident that
upper respiratory infections become more common during the winter months when
doors are closed while cooking (from smoke inhalation). Crouching over a small
charcoal stove or sitting on a low stool over the wood fire and small grate is
the extent of the cooking area. Meals were cooked in large aluminum pots, and
we had 2 frying pans.
Smells of burning wood mingled with charcoal smoke and hung
in the air each morning, greeting me as I walked outside to use the Kabone (pit
toilet) and empty my poe (chamber pot). I also brushed my teeth outside, next
to the ladosy (shower) and would return to my room to wash my hands and face in
a bucket of water.
Breakfast was most often something sweet and fried. We had
pancakes a few times, but usually had fried and lightly sweetened dough, which
was always light and fluffy with the perfect crunch biting into it. Battered
and fried bananas are also a popular breakfast and snack item that I can never
seem to get enough of! My least favorite breakfast would, hands down, be the
grated and fried (usually dripping with oil) carrot patties accompanied by watery
rice. The Malagasy typically eat rice for all 3 meals, which fills their
bellies but lacks essential vitamins and nutrients. Freshly roasted and brewed coffee
and hot lemon grass tea was always steaming and ready. My family would add
several scoops of sugar to their cups on top of condensed and already sweetened
milk.
My host mom would leave between 6 and 6:30 to get to work,
and my youngest host sister had to walk to the neighboring town for school so
breakfast generally consisted of me, my host dad and Nini, the eldest sister.
Most mornings I had time to wash the dishes after breakfast,
which I often did on my own while the dad tended to the chickens and geese and
my host sister cleaned the house (sweeping with a small broom or a coconut
brush that was a halved husk of a coconut). But on days that we ate a little
later I would help clear the table and then grab my notebook and head out.
My family made sure to remind me to latch and lock my
windows and door each time I left, to get into the habit. Walking past the
light pink flowers that grew chest high and into the clothesline nearby I would
meet the short path then small gate that took me to the narrow downhill path. This
slippery clay path took me about 200 meters to a fellow volunteers homestay
house. This neighbor was my host mother’s sister and had a larger home so
language class was held here 6 days of the week, always from 8am-12pm. Our
Malagasy language teacher was shuttled out to meet us each morning, bringing a
mid-morning snack of cake or bread to eat as a group later.
This atypical classroom, lit by natural light, with
background noises of clucking chickens, children laughing in the distance and
even wafts of smoke from fires preparing lunch, took some getting used to. Our
teacher led interactive sessions with emphases on oral participation and class
was generally enjoyable despite the flattened foam couch cushions we were
constantly shifting on. By the time noon
hit, the sun had brought a humid heat, and I would be damp just walking up the
hill to my house.
Lunch was always ready and the table set with 4 plates. We
never had beverages with our meals, unless it was hot water that had been
boiled in the rice pot to loosen the burnt rice (called Ranon’ampango).
Malagasy are hesitant to drink cold water, because filtering and purifying water
is not widespread, water from the well generally equals diarrhea and sickness. Lunch
was most often a bowl of beans, a larger bowl of rice, and small grated carrot
salad with an oil, vinegar and salt sauce. My host dad always sat at the head
of the table and Mino would return from school for lunch. I would usually be in
“Malagasy mode” and eager to speak and share the new vocabulary I had learned
from the morning’s class. My host dad was fairly quiet during meals but would
be more talkative as the dessert of fresh fruits (oranges, persimmons,
pineapple or small apples) was pulled out from the cabinet. Throughout the meal
we would be shooing out the chickens that spent their day scavenging around the
yard, but had learned to recognize when mealtime was and so would slowly stalk
through the open door and slyly peck scraps of rice off the concrete floor.
Dishes, as with most things in Madagascar, would always take
longer than I wanted it to, but if Mino helped me it went considerably
faster. We would fill 2 large plastic
tubs with well water and using a foam square (our sponge) and bar of soap, wash
and rinse. The soap was extremely
slippery, being made from some type of animal fat I assume, causing me to
almost lose a few plates on more than one occasion. We would bring a short
table out into the yard and crouch over it, working up a sweat standing in the
sun. If left unattended though, those pesky chickens wouldn’t hesitate to walk
all over the stack of clean dishes.
Our afternoon training was at another volunteer’s homestay
house, a 10-minute walk away, just beyond some rice fields. The Agriculture
volunteers met for 4 hours, sitting through powerpoint presentations and
discussions, with some fun and interactive activities in between. Most of us
would be starving by the time our sessions ended, attributing it to the excess
of rice that was now a staple in our diets. But only acting as a filler.
Most of the volunteers would linger as we walked back to our
host family houses, greeting each person that passed, adults and children. I
would generally study when I returned to my house, taking advantage of the
fleeting sunlight. On occasion I would squeeze into the smoky “kitchen shack”
to help prepare dinner but usually felt in the way in the already small space. I
would also sporadically help collect water from the well just down the hill 200
meters away. My host sisters and I would fill the two 10 gallon jugs up,
although they were always the ones to carry them back up the hill to our house
on their heads. My host mom would be back from work by this time and we would
often sit on my door stoop and talk about the day’s events or she would explain
the news from the Malagasy newspaper. As the daylight waned we closed the
shutters and doors from the mosquitos (moka) that like to bite at this time, and
which are the female mosquitos that carry Malaria. My host dad would let out
our 2 geese from their enclosure every evening and escort them around the yard
before closing them into a small wooden cage in the ‘kitchen shack’. The geese,
and most of the geese I’ve encountered in Madagascar, don’t hesitate to chase and
even bite passersby so I would watch from the safety of my room.
After my host dad enclosed the chickens as well, dinner would
be served around 7pm. The family always prayed before our meals and I was
encouraged to serve myself first, as the guest of the house. Each family member
filled their plate with rice and topped it with a small portion of “loaka”
which can be anything from beans, beef, fish, or soup with noodles. A cucumber
salad almost always accompanied dinner, which I was allowed to assist in preparing. The thinly sliced salad was
normally a specialty for my family and only eaten around birthdays or special
occasions but because I was there we had it almost every night. Eating by candlelight
became comfortable, five of us fitting somewhat comfortably around the small
dining room table. With our five plates taking up a large portion of the table,
the serving bowls would perch next to us on the narrow benches we sat on. I would
contribute to the conversation as much as possible and despite the language
barrier my family was incredibly patient and encouraging.
Following the fruit medley dessert and clearing the table,
we would often sit around the table and I would share my new repertoire of
vocabulary with notebook in hand. World news even made it to this small table
in rural Madagascar when my host mom brought out a newspaper announcing the new
pope in Vatican City. After dinner I was usually hesitant to continue conversing
and interacting, but I was always happy and proud of myself afterwards. I
thoroughly enjoyed these exchanges with my family, and developed a deep
appreciation for their warmth towards me.
Signaling my exhaustion with “tifandy mandry” meaning “bon
nuit/goodnight” I would close and latch the door to my room. Journaling each
night helped me to process the day’s events, my candle burning low before I
could complete a synopsis of the new sights, smells and experiences I had
encountered. The turning of restless
bodies, clearing of throats and pattering of chamber pots being used would silence
in the small house and I would finally succumb to sleep, anticipating another
day of Madagascar life.
