Shipwreck

A few weeks ago, Mike, my boss, came out to visit me. He took a boat from a new site South of Majunga. It was a little motor boat. He stopped in Majunga to see if I was there and I actually was waiting for a car to take me up to my site. So we gathered up my giant load of stuff and threw it on the boat.(Mary and 5 guides from her park were coming up to my site a few days later so I bought lots of provisions)

We enjoyed the 30 minute ride up to my village. The ocean was calm and the view of the beaches was picturesque. We arrived outside my village and found 2 big pirogues anchored a ways off shore. Our captain rode the boat in-between the pirogues and we made our way toward shore. Once we entered the surf things got really bumpy as we were pounded by waves. Our captain threw out the anchor as a very large wave turned the boat sideways into the surf. A few seconds later the anchor line went taught. We stopped our quick progression toward shore. The waves, however, did not stop their progression toward shore. As the first waves hit, Mike and I were slightly amused. "What in the world is this guy thinking, this is a terrible place to throw anchor.' A few moments later, the boat is being hammered by wave after wave. We are struggling to stay in the boat, which is now quickly filling with water. I look over to see a look of absolute terror on the "captain's" face. I look over at mike as we both come upon the same realization, "OH MY GOD WE ARE GOING TO SINK!!!" I pick up a bucket and start the futile task of bailing water out of the boat. Mike is using cupped hands in an even more futile effort. Spaghetti, oatmeal, and apples are floating around our knees. The captain jumps out of the boat and swims toward the anchor. I prepare myself for what seems like the inevitable swim to shore. Amazingly, Gilligan manages to free the anchor and toss it into the boat. He struggles with the outboard before finally getting it going and taking off into the waves and out to deeper water.

We finish bailing out the water from the boat. I'm furious about the food. I can think of only one thing to say, "Tsy Mahay Ianao!" <You don't know what your doing!> I cool down as we dump the water out of my cooler and collect my stuff that is now scattered around the boat. Now what? We are basically stranded out to sea, but within good sight of the shore. I take off my shirt, watch, and shoes and dive in.

I swim to shore and am greeted by a group of very surprised villagers. "Shawn, how did you get here, why are you wet?" I explain twice because the first time I am constantly interrupted by laughter. They quickly dispatch a small pirogue to the boat to get my things and my boss." The first question they ask the captain is, "Didn't you see our boats out there? Why do you think we would leave them all the way out there?" Gilligan stares at his feet in response. If I wasn't so angry about my food, I'd have felt bad.

Tromba- Partying with the dead

The Kabosy (traditional guitar) could barely be heard as the clapping, singing, and screaming (in a musical sort of "aeeaeeaeeaee" way) reached a feverish peak. Wind whipped into the small hut frustrating the single lit candle in it's meager attempt to light the proceedings. Lightning flashes in the sky and rain begins to fall on the palm-leafed roof. Quickly, the rain cooled air circles through the room forcing out the stale air and smell of 100 villagers.

Thunder strikes- loud roaring thunder, the kind that sends sharp pains deep inside your ears- makes you close your eyes, tight, while you wait for nature's anger to dissipate. Another flash, anxious silence, CRACKACKAKKK- and I'm injured.

 Now I'm confused. Where am I? Why can't I see? And who is flailing widely about ontop of me? I hear somebody say, "Hey get her up, Shawn's under there!" A rush of bodies around me pull the offender off of me. They pick her up and I see that it is my friend's wife, except it isn't really her. She's screaming and kicking, swearing and fighting. Then she stops. Stands still, and patiently and docilely accepts the help of the other women as they wrap traditional clothing around her. Soon she is sitting politely with the other "possessed" villagers, answering questions regarding her health and happiness. Apparently, she is good on both counts.

Really, this was more excitement than I ever could have expected from my calm and quite natured villagers. This night, however, because of the council of one of the village elders, a Tromba has been called, the spirits have been invited, and spontaneous possession can happen at any moment.

The Tromba is a ancient Malagasy custom not unlike a séance. In response to sickness (as in this case), mysterious death, or any kind of social anxiety an elder skilled in "sikidy" (divination) can prescribe a Tromba. A Kabose player is called for, along with several other sacred objects from the forest, most notably the seed of a certain tree which, when burned releases a pungent smell that is said to attract the spirits of the dead.

The ceremony starts with music and a prayer welcoming the spirits of the dead. The spirit of the "Topontrano" (founder of the household) is invited first. The spirit will then enter one of the family members sitting near the "alter" (the small table holding the incense). The moment of possession is a spontaneous and, as I described, rather frantic affair, but soon develops into a calm and formal interaction between the spirit, acting through a medium, and the community. After a generous time spent with the spirit, he or she is asked to sit tight while another spirit is invited. After an initial orderly procession of spirits come and go, the fun starts. The spirits take control of the event and are no longer respect invitations to come and go. They jump into unsuspecting bystanders (thereby causing them to jump up and fling themselves backwards into the crowd and especially, onto Shawn). These poorly behaved spirits often act in strange ways causing laughter and sometimes anger. It is not uncommon for them to say unpopular or offensive things.

The Tromba lasts well into the morning, giving even the shiest of spirits ample opportunity to make themselves known. I suspect that the passing around of "Toka" (moonshine) helps to keep the process going, while also keeping it interesting.

I suspect that the tromba serves a social and perhaps political purpose beyond it's obvious spiritual and cultural meaning. It seems to me that the ceremony gives villagers a safe place to debate personal and community problems all the while consulting the memories of passed elders, leaders, and loved ones. Certainly, It would be disingenuous to recast the whole the ceremony as an elaborate game of "what would Gramma say about Fara getting pregnant?" but I couldn't help but peer behind the religious ceremony and wonder about a more practical side to the event. Sadly, the background noise of singing, clapping, and screaming combined with my still noobish language skills meant that most of the actual conversation with the dead was completely unintelligible to me.

Next time I'll be sure to get a better seat, closer to the spirits, but hopefully out of the way of their victims. Anyone have any questions they'd like me to put to the ancestors? Maybe your ancestors know my villagers' ancestors?

Quick Note to My Frequent Readers

To my dedicated readers (i.e. Mom),

Just a note that instead of checking my website periodically for updates and being frequently disappointed. You can subscribe to my homepage using the Subscribe button located at the top of the screen. This means that whenever I update the website you will get an email notification (along with the entry).

Also, Maya should be logging on soon to post some pictures from our trip. This will add to my truly pitiful Madagascar Pictures section.

I have a backlog of entries already written, but not yet posted as internet time is a precious and rare commodity. So do not despair, dear reader, there is plenty more to come. 

Visitor!

On January 23rd, Maya came to visit.  I waited on an overpass overlooking the baggage claim area while her plane unloaded. I quickly spotted the only young and lost-looking Vaza (foreigner).  I counted to 10 before climbing down to run after her, just to make sure.

We were thrilled to see each other. She looked exactly as I remembered her, maybe better. I negotiated the taxi fare and we headed off for the hotel. Back in the room, we exchanged pictures and stories from our travels and tried to get over the surreal feeling of seeing each other again.

The next day we took the night taxi-brousse to Majunga. We stayed in the run down, yet quant and safe hotel that I usually stay in, Hotel Kanto (ironically, "the well built hotel."). The very next morning we left for Antsianitia. We arrived around noon with far too much baggage and a kilometer to walk, fortunately some villagers were there to help. As the footpath opened up revealing the village and my house a huge crowd of at least a hundred villagers were already scattered around my house and my yard. The goat was already dead and boiling in the pot. My villagers clapped and cheered as we approached. Once inside, they began the "mamangy" (official visitings). Starting with the oldest and most respected village men, small groups of 4 to 5 villagers would come into the house and chat with us for several minutes while we offered them soda. The villagers understood that Maya didn't speak Malagasy, but somehow couldn't quite accept it. Her blank looks helped to reinforce the message that, no, in fact there was no way to communicate with this girl, save for me translating.

When the goat was properly boiled (until it resembled truck tire on a stick) and the rice sufficiently cooked, we laid down several large woven reed mats on which to sit and eat. Amazingly, the floor of my small hut accommodated more than 15 Malagasy, albeit uncomfortably.

After dinner we accepted more visitors, wandered around the crowd, and then slowly began dropping hints that we needed to unpack. First however, we had to do the "Kabary" (speeches). Malagasy speeches are fun contests where the speakers compete to see who can convey the idea of "thank you" in as many different and verbose ways as possible. The last speech was reserved for me. Not being skilled in Kabarying, however, I had to make do with apologizing 3 times, 3 ways for not being a good speaker, then moving on to giving thanks in only a handful of awkward and probably grammatically incorrect ways. Then, when I thought it was all over, they looked to Maya for a Kabary. She didn't really know what to say except thank you, so I told her to just say English sentences while I pretended to translate. I repackaged the speech I had just given while cleverly replacing the word for "I" alternately with "she says" and "Maya says." The villagers nodded in appreciation, although they probably were just being polite.

The next day we hiked to a nearby village so I could show off the rice fields that I oversaw the planting of using a new intensive rice farming technique. That evening we were invited to eat with some a bunch of the villagers who had killed some turkeys and ducks to celebrate the recovery of a boy that had been sick. That night I fell suddenly and severely ill. I kept Maya awake as I got out of bed every 10 minutes or so to go out to the outhouse. The next day I was slightly better as we napped on the beach and played backgammon. However my illness returned that night. At one point I pulled out my medical book to try to self diagnose myself. As usual, the book simply made me aware of more symptoms that I had "yet to notice" (you know, I do have a backache, now that you mention it... hey and my left ear does kinda feel weird... Oh My God I have Schistosomiasis... and Malaria... and Disentary).

The next day we returned to Majunga as planned and I slowly began to recover. After a day in Tana, we flew out to Antalaha in the North East (near the rainforest corridor). We met my friend Steven at the airport and spent a relaxed few days hanging out in Antalaha with Steven and two other volunteers.

Next, we hoped on the taxi brousse from hell (relative to all others I've taken, which says a lot). The brousse was more crowded, smelly, and overheated than usual. After a solid 3 hours of riding we began to see signs for "ANDAPA 10 Km", which was our destination. We relaxed thinking we had only 20 minutes or so left. Unfortunately, the last 10 Km are a severe uphill climb and in a antique and overloaded taxi brousse this meant that the last 10Km took more than an hour and a half. 80 year old women carrying loads of wood on their heads passed us by.

Finally, we disembark in Andapa. I ask an innocent-looking Malagasy man about the location of the National Park office where my friend Paul lives. Quickly I realize that I have made a mistake and opened a conversation with a drunk. He launched into a sob story about his brother who was killed in a park accident on the other side of the island. Then he starts begging for money. We start walking away and he followed. He was trying to convince me to follow him to the Park office, but I will have none of it. He then reaches into my pocket while asking for money. In shock, I smack his hand and threaten to call the Gandarme. Eventually, we lose him and find our way to the office. After meeting up with Paul, who should arrive at the door, but our friend the drunk. We send him away. Undeterred and somewhat creatively, he returns with a pineapple and a banana. Again we send him away.

Later that night we are eating dinner in a somewhat fancy Malagasy restaurant which is open to the street. Mid-sentence, Paul is interrupted by drunky as he lurches into Paul's face while demanding "Acheté moi une cigarette!!" After a short showdown, he retreats back into the street. After dinner, we nervously walk to our hotel, a full 7 hours after our first meeting, the drunk guy must have finally sobered up because we never saw him again.

The next day we began climbing Mt. Moranjejy. The mountain is protected as a national park with infrastructure constructed by a German NGO. It is a rainforest paradise much like that depicted in the Disney movie "Madagascar" (except the lemurs didn't have an Indian accent). As you climb, the forest changes from lowland tertiary scrub to secondary lowland to mid-altitude primary forest to high altitude primary scrub. It was damp and foggy but luckily it didn't rain much.  We climbed for 3 days, sleeping in nice nylon tent-shelters at night. The distances were short, 10K the first day, 3 k the second and 2k the third. However, this doesn't take into account the vertical climb. Day two and three were almost unbearably tough. For much of the trip we climbed hand over foot pulling ourselves up on tree roots while sliding around in the mud. If it weren't for the diverse plant life and the frequent sightings of poison dart frogs, birds and lemurs, it wouldn't have been any fun. The fact that Maya's bag was at least twice as heavy as mine (I don't have a hiking pack, just a daybag) kept me from complaining too much.  Eventually, late on day 3 we climbed up out of the forest and onto the spine of the mountain revealing a fog covered canopy of rainforest in all directions. It felt like climbing into a national geographic special on PBS. The next day we had to abandon an attempt for the summit due to poor weather (rain and wind) and head back down the mountain. I was so tired I contemplated curling up on a nice fuzzy matt of moss and dying. That day we descended more than a kilometer and a half in vertical distance.

After successfully conquering, despite not summitting, Mt Moranjejy, we flew back to Tana. A few days later I took Maya to the airport for a sad goodbye almost a year to the day since we said goodbye the last time. She leaves for Fiji in May. Maybe next April I'll take the scenic, easterly route home.

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.