A Day in the Life

Out of the jungle and back to the humdrum day to day routine. After acclimating to my animal alarm clock in Andasibe, I’ve started sleeping through the dog barks and traffic that used to wake me here in the city. Sometimes I sleep all the way until my alarm at 7:20! Breakfast is always a banquet: Pineapple, fresh-made yogurt, bread and butter, fried eggs, some tea, and usually a pastry. I always feel a little guilty wolfing down such a meticulously made meal.

Usually though I’m running a couple minutes late to meet Gene and Hazel (the two American students who live on my block) for our walk to school. I’ve always been a fan of a walking commute. It’s a great way to stretch the legs and sort through and file away any worries. And in Tana, walking shakes off lingering fatigue once I’m hit with the tailwind of the first bus passing inches away. Sidewalks and curbs are almost non-existent here, so pedestrians, handcarts and bikers must jockey for position with the cars, buses, and mopeds.

View from a bridge in Western Antananarivo

I have divided my route to school into three alternating stages. The green stage, where there is a rare sidewalk with a curb, and I can ignore traffic. Next is the yellow stage, where a separate path for pedestrians exists in the gutter or on a muddy trail bordering the road. The biggest worry for yellow stage sections is stepping in dog poop or a puddle. And of course, the red stage, where the only choice is to walk on the road, and I always have my head on a swivel.

By now I could make the walk blind, deaf, or without smell. My flip-flopped feet slide and scrape along familiar cobblestone gutters and well-trodden banks. The roar of mopeds (some jokers hit 50mph or more) and buses, in moments of calm the chirping of Fody birds. I pop my mask over my nose passing the overflowing trash dumpsters; the smell of raw meat signals my approach to one of two open air butcher shops on the way.

Our program center, where most classes are held, is an island of comparative calm. The neatly kept building perches at the top of a hill, and a path leads down to possible chameleon sightings in a terraced garden where guava, passion fruit, corn, chili peppers and more grow in the tropical sun.

The view from the backyard of the program center

“The old director wanted the center to be right in the middle of the city,” Ando, our program director, told us. “I am biologist. I need something green; I need to have a garden, or I will go crazy.”

I’d have to agree. During lulls in class, I entertain myself by looking out the window at the chickens. At least one of them escapes every day. Not a problem for anyone but the chicken really, who can never figure out how to re-enter the coop without a helping hand. But mostly I pay attention in class. French usually doesn’t feel like class at all. As a group of five, we chat about vaguely environmental themes. When the weather is exceptionally wonderful, we sit in the grass and present made-up stories in French. Gene and my most recent creation told the tale of a rabbit who escaped his hutch, befriended a dragon, and helped burn down the village that held him captive.

At the market: a woman tries on new shoes behind chickens in a basket

Our Malagasy teacher seems like a lovely person to have as a friend or aunt. But she’s not a great teacher. We never practice conversation, instead learning words once and then moving on. And they’re not always useful words. I know, for example, how to say military barracks (Toby miaramila) squatting (Mitingatingana) and wild pig (Lambodia) but I have no clue how to say “I think the chicken escaped”, and I only learned the colors this morning in preparation for our exam tomorrow. One time, Gene was up at the whiteboard and the teacher wanted him to write out the same sentence ten times like they did back in the 1950s or whenever.

“Why?” Gene asked.

Our teacher just giggled.

We also attend environmental studies lectures, taught by a rotating cast of the biggest names in Madagascar conservation. We’ve heard from experts on lemurs, tortoises, baobabs, frogs, birds, silk moths, you name it. Unfortunately, our Malagasy friends don’t join us for these lectures or the language classes, there’s only enough budget for them to join on excursions.

At the end of the day and after several long tea breaks and chameleon hunting promenades, we sit around and chat or work for a few hours before the walk home. We usually get at least a few comments in the street as a group of five white people.

“Bonjour!” Is the most common and my least favorite because it implies people think we are French. I always respond in Malagasy.

But there is one little boy with thick glasses who waits on his balcony every day for us to pass by so he can practice his English.

“Hello! How are you? Nice to meet you! Have a good day! Goodbye!”

We all respond in chorus to each phrase, and every week or so he successfully adds a new one. The other day, I swear he pumped his little fist in the air when I said, “How are you?” back to him and he understood and responded, “I am good!”

Madagascar is a very young country, with estimates of around 40% of the country under 14 years old. So kids are everywhere. When Gene and I play boule, there are two little munchkins that like to come play with us. The youngest, a two-year-old named Antony, runs the yard. He stumps around and pushes the other kids, doing that heavy breathing through his mouth that all little kids do. Without fail, he pees his pants.

His neighbor is about six and has taken on the persona of a character from a Japanese anime TV show.

“Haaaaaaaaa YA!” He yells before charging at Gene and I and harmlessly executing a series of “power punches” on our legs.

My favorite children are the grand children of my host parents, especially the youngest, Androany. There could not be an easier kid to entertain. All I have to do is scrunch up my eyebrows at him and he bursts out laughing. I taught him how to do thumbs up as well, which keeps him entertained at the dinner table.

And if breakfast is a banquet, dinner is a royal feast. Sometimes I’ll come downstairs to a plate of rice with vegetables on the side.

“No meat tonight,” My host dad will say. “Just vegetables. We’re being healthy.”

“Not a problem! Looks good to me,” I’ll respond.

Five minutes later he’ll appear with a steaming dish of fish, chicken, or an exotic piece of Zebu. “Oh ho ho! Le surprise!”

Today I went along to shop for food at the market, so he couldn’t quite get away with unveiling the Marlin for lunch as a surprise, because I watched him buy it. I love the markets here. The closest comparison I can make is to the world-renowned Madison Farmer’s Market, but these stalls are open every day, and I can buy pineapple.

Veggie vendor

After dinner we settle in for a nightly episode of the Filipino soap opera “Doble Kara”, dubbed in French. While the French voice acting comes up short, the writing deserves all the awards available. The magic of the show is that you can tell exactly what will happen, not at the beginning of the episode, but five minutes before the event occurs. That mix of suspense and “yeah-duh” really tickles the brain. Not to mention that the two main characters are twins played by the same actress, and one just wears a wig. And yes, because I know you’re wondering, you can find Doble Kara on Netflix.

I fall asleep every night around 9:30pm. Unlike when I’m back at Macalester, rare is the night when I’m kept up by worries. I never feel trapped here: by the cold, by unyielding deadlines, or sticky social situations. Instead, I wake up every morning and follow the road, reacting quickly when a car rushes by, and slowing to watch the night herons fly overhead when the path is clear.

The fruit stall on my block