Home Sweet Home

Monday, September 20, 2013—6:56pm
My house

I got here one week ago today. In the heat of the afternoon I was bounced and jostled for an hour off the paved national highway. My companions were Johnny—the excellent driver of the Peace Corps vehicle, Cornelia—my Malagasy installer who took care of business with German efficiency, and Eric—a current PCV who we’d picked up before leaving the paved roads in his town of Arivonimamo (literally “a thousand drunks”). Johnny, Cornelia and I left town early in the morning. I’d been in the big city for two days, buying supplies, learning my way around and hanging out with other PCVs (the last two of which naturally required hitting a few bars). By the time our expedition was nearing my town we were truly in the middle of nowhere. And yet suddenly we came upon a decent sized town with a thriving marketplace. I felt like we were hundreds of miles from anything—in fact it’s only about 60 km to Tana as the crow flies, but we weren’t flying. Still, home sweet home!

My trusty team set about installing me right away. Cornelia walked around my little house, peering at this and that and checking things off a list. Johnny swapped out the lock on my door with a fresh one, so that the security of my home would be guaranteed. And Eric spoke rapid-fire Malagasy with Rija, the proviseur of the local lycee and my new boss. We walked around town, meeting the gendarme and the maire (or a stand-in for the maire as it turned out). As we shouldered our way through the market, I could feel the stares of hundreds of eyes boring holes into the back of my head. I twitched a little and noted that in a few minutes, I’d be the only foreigner in town.

After my companions took off, I was left to my own devices for a few minutes—for the first time in weeks. I pulled my foam mattress and pillows out of their plastic wrap and laid them on the wooden bed frame my predecessor had left me. Then I laid down, closed my eyes and let out a big sigh. My level of stimulation overload—accumulating for two and a half months—was unfathomable, but I thought this might finally be the moment when it would begin to ebb. Almost immediately there came a knock at my door. Luckily, it was Rija. He stood there with two buckets of water he’d brought me from the well. “Mandroso!” I beckoned him to come in. He did and then poured the buckets into a big barrel—my water supply. Then he went back to the well for more.

When he’d topped off the barrel with two more buckets, he left again and said that he’d be back in an hour to take me to dinner. I napped again until I heard his voice. Then we went to the town’s marketplace and found a hotely—the ubiquitous Malagasy dining establishment where you can almost always find good coffee, some kind of meat and vegetable laoka, and of course ample rice. After dinner Rija said that I should meet him in the market for coffee first thing in the morning and showed me where. Then we walked back to the teacher’s compound where my house is located and bid each other “tefandria mandry” as the light disappeared from the sky. Inside, I made sure my shutters were securely locked and pulled a wooden bar across my door. The place felt like a fortress. I lit a couple of candles, brushed my teeth and spat into my po (the bucket used at night to avoid a trip to the outhouse). Then I blew out the candles again and fell into bed. It wasn’t even seven o’clock but I was already drifting into a bottomless serenity.

In the morning I went for coffee and found Mme. Judith (pronounced Judite)—another counterpart—instead of Rija and at a different location than the one specified. No matter. The coffee was excellent and the mofo ample. Afterward, she informed me that we’d be meeting with other teachers at the lycee that very morning. Surprise! I went home to change and attend to things and waited for Mme. Judith and Rija to walk me to my new place of work. We walked the dirt path through the tanambady (rice fields) to the lycee—my new daily commute—where we made some introductions with other teachers. Then I sat there—looking American—as parents and students filed into the small room to deal with administrative business, pay school fees, and marvel at the strange newcomer.

When it became clear that my presence was accomplishing little, Mme. Judith summoned her teenage son Sanga to take me outside and entertain me. This turned into quite an adventure, walking around the rice fields and ascending the picturesque mountain behind the lycee—aptly named Pongatsara (Nice Mountain). Then I came home and took a nap.

When I woke up, I began to think about cleaning my house. Red Madagascar dust was caked onto the floor and would require more than a little elbow grease to remove. I swept thoroughly, then went at it with a coco-brousse—Malagasy keep their floors dust-free using a dried-up half of a coconut shell with ridged bristles exposed, and drag this around on the floor with one foot. After half an hour or so, I was sweating and standing in a cloud of dust, with a great deal of mibrosying left to do—and I was hot! I changed into a sleeveless shirt and went outside to sit and rest.

Suddenly there were two women standing in front of me. They introduced themselves as Mme. Vololona and Mme. Jeanette. Mme. Vololona seemed to be about my age and Mme. Jeanette in her fifties. They were both teachers like me, though Mme. Jeanette taught at a private school. After that was established, the conversation began to go above my head, as their speech sped up and picked up colloquialisms I hadn’t learned. Eventually we concluded the conversation and I went back to my cleaning. A couple of hours later I finished. Then I boiled and chlorinated some water and took my first bucket shower in my new home—I boil one pot and leave the rest cold, adding a little chlorine to make it safe.

As I was getting dressed and beginning to think about my limited options for dinner, I heard an “Odio!” from outside—essentially the same as knocking. When I opened my door, Mme. Jeanette was standing there with a big covered bowl in her hands. She announced that she’d brought me cooked cassava and then entered, plopping the bowl on my table. I thanked her profusely, and took the food outside to enjoy in the evening air. Afterward, I washed her dishes and began to close up the house for the night.

Soon there was another “Odio!” and I opened up to find Mme. Jeanette returned, this time with two bowls. She’d brought me a full Malagasy meal of rice and laoka (side)–a steaming stew of meat and veggies. I thanked her profusely and sat down to my feast. I was stuffed silly by the end.

Thus began an association that has yielded me several delicious meals a week, which has been quite lucky. Sometimes I’ve cooked for myself. But the difficulty of cooking regular, nutritious, protein-filled meals—without electricity or running water, with very limited ingredients, and by myself—became apparent quickly. It’s possible—don’t get me wrong—but times are frequent that I long for Chipotle. If someone can find a way to send a cooked (and edible) burrito in a care package, I will name my first-born child after them.