“Hot coffee?”
“What?”
“Do you want hot coffee or tea?”
I blinked, twice. Hot tea? Oh. I looked around me and remembered I was standing outside of my taxi brousse company. Shivering internally under two layers of shirts and sweatshirts, a scarf, and two pairs of pants. I blinked again feeling the warmth spreading through my body as I willed my limbs to move and break off the frost coating my joints. Tucking my my lips into the zipped up hood of my sweatshirt I followed my travel companion and his dad through the crowd into a crowded but wonderfully toasty environment, a metal shed warmed only by the heat of the numerous bodies crowding inside. Teas, coffees, and breads for breakfast. Small goodies lined the walls for travelers passing through with a case of the munchies. I sipped the warm liquid, savoring the feeling as it spread through my body, not having any want or need to leave this toasty place. But, as with all things, the end was near so I buckled up, drank down the last of my lemon tea, stuffed the last of my bread roll into my mouth and stepped back out into the frigid morning of Antananarivo. And waited. Waited for two hours for our taxi to go. I watched vans, buses, trucks, chickens, vendors, travelers, beggars, and clouds. Women dressed in layers wrapped blankets around their waists, chests and heads to keep whatever warmth they had to themselves. Men did the same, the more sporty boys looking like any kid from home, hoodies, beanies, baggy jeans. I knew I was freezing but as long as I kept watching everything else I was perfectly fine.
Our trip was underway. I had never traveled on the southern roads before so every sight was brand new. My eyes were tired but I couldn’t sleep. Instead I curled into a ball on my seat and leaned my head against the glass of the window. I couldn’t help but let my inner child take over, eagerly pointing out everything I saw, everything from colors and textures to cow herds, rice patties, valleys and viewpoints. My friend had the patience needed to deal with my 4yr old self and smiled and pointed out even more things for me to see and notice and photograph. Being a photographer himself he had an eye for beauty and I didn’t feel like anything got past our intensive searching gaze. Dipping into the pages he had printed for me detailing information regarding our visiting points I found a not on the Bara people of the south.
“ The cow of the south, the brahman, is related very closely to the species of India and is an intrinsic part of the Bara culture. This is a culture of cattle breeding and rustling and stealing your neighbor’s cows was a common incidence. In Bara society a boy would be recognized a man when he successfully stole a neighboring group cattle.”
I read this outloud to my friend and he listenend intently until I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You’re Bara right?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s cows did you steal.”
“I didn’t steal any cows.”
“So then, you’re not…”
“Unless you want me to leave you at the next stop I suggest you don’t finish that sentence.”
I laughed gently to myself until I caught the expression on his face. It was one mixed between exasperation and absolute humor. I both wanted to laugh harder and opt out to take the path of wisdom. I took the path of wisdom and continued my watch of the scenery. We passed by large tows teeming with people, filled with factories producing products I recognized. Small towns covered in children and livestock, blankets covered in bright orange carrots coated the roadside of Antsirabe and the surrounding areas, the dull brown of delicious potatoes sporting their own textures. It was amazing, I had never seen the brilliance of color that this whole area was known for. Carrots, potatoes, beans, rice fields, clouds, the sky itself a blue I will never lose appreciation for.
We arrived in Fianarantsoa right at sunset and waited for twenty minutes for our connector to Ambalavao, our destination. I was left at our new taxi with a group of men that stared while I stood watching my breath joining the air in whispy clouds. Finally I couldn’t take the muttering and staring any longer.
“Hello. How are you?”
“You speak Malagasy?”
“Yes I do. Although I am just trying.”
“Im not a vazah. Im an american or a peace corps volunteer or I have a name too.”
“You are very friendly. That’s very good. Most vazahs aren’t friendly. You need to be friendly here. Its our culture.”
“That is very true,” I agreed. “I love being here and I love being friendly. If I am friendly then I am always at home.”
At this point our taxi got ready to leave for the short 45 min trip to Ambalavao, the cow town of the south. We got in right after dark and were ushered straight away into a relatives house for a dinner of cow heart and pork with greens. All the while we were eating was conversation in the local dialect, a little different than the official dialect I am used to hearing in my own town. It was hard to follow, I was tired, hungry and wanted a bath. Our hostess, one of the many cousins I would meet on my trip, was kind enough to warm up water for me and I convinced myself it would be worthwhile to at least rinse off the day’s grime. By candlelight I was led to a small lean-to about a foot shorter than I am. I crouched there in the darkness with the soft glow of the candle illuminating the bucket as I poured cup after cup of warm water on my skin. It felt fantastic but was diminished by my posture and the knowledge that the moment I stepped outside every piece of warmth was going to be ripped from my skin. I chastised myself quickly and we settled that everything was a new adventure and this was only the beginning.
I was shown to a small room to sleep and put my things. I took one look at the bed and was more than grateful for the rest I was sure to have. The lights turned out and alone in the pitch black of the night I rested, listening to foreign noises that made my imagination uneasy and robbed the sleep from the hours.
The next morning after a breakfast of eggs, an adventurous trip to the bathroom and participating in a gawking exchange between myself and the local flock of children I was given a tour of the town. I was so excited. I grabbed my camera and tennis shoes, ready to tourist the hell out of myself. Immersed in a flack of Malagasy family members- I was accepted into the family the night before- we headed off to make the customary rounds of greetings. When one cousin heard another was visited by us a representative, usually a smaller child, was sent to come find us and tell us not to forget their household. Hours later we continued our walk into town passing by the extensive cattle corrals covering half of the town. My guides shared with me the extent to which the cattle here are known. I was told that the cattle traded and sold here was eaten all over the country and that the cattle market every Wednesday was the biggest and well known. Herders came from all areas of the south to trade and sell their cattle every week. I wanted to see the large herds and was rewarded only with a large truck filled with cattle, eyes white with fear, tails tied to the beams of the truck bed.
“Where are they going?”
“Off to Tana probably.”
“I want steak.”
My friend laughed at me for that comment as I snapped my shots and we continued again into the heart of the town. After all it was already past ten o’clock in the morning and the drinking had yet to begin. After being told the town was known for its wine as well as its cows and sported two different wineries I was sad that we didn’t have more time but instead ordered a bottle of wine with our mid morning snack. Two glasses in and I was filling the lightness within my head as the wine proved its potency. After we were all comfortably toasted we headed to my soon to be newest adopted mother’s house. Aunt Francoise, a venerable stout woman with a wonderful wrinkled face attoped with a wiry bush of hair, welcomed us warmly, embracing me in a hug with the kisses of greeting. Her smile shook all anxiety I was feeling away and she set me down to a lunch of cow heart grilled with curry, rice, and greens. It was delicious and wonderful. While my friend showered I was turned into a model. The local fabric, called a lambahoany was being sported by new mother and I asked her about it with great interest. She immediately went into the back room and reemrged wearing something new and handed it to me.
“it’s a souvenir for you.”
“Oh no, its ok.” I replied, although immediately remembering you cant turn down anything given to you as a gift from anyone, especially family. I gratefully accepted the gift then looked at her.
“What’s wrong.”
“I don’t know how to wear this.”
“Oh!” And thus began the dress up operation. I was shown the three traditional ways of wearing the tube of cloth and then Aunt Francoise brought out hers with the strict understanding that it was NOT a souvenir which prompted a big smile from me at her reaction. She then dressed me in the purple cloth outfitted with bright glittery sequins in the traditionally flamboyant style of Malagasy women. It was great fun and many photos came from it. The lambahoany was a wonderful gift and I wear it constantly but the best souvenirs were the memories themselves. After another night of delicious brochettes ( fresh cows make tasty treats) and delicious meals we met the next frigid morning ready to depart for our next destination. But not before visiting and saying goodbye to each and every family we had said hello to. It was in these goodbyes that I was able to meet the drunk uncles, divulging unto me stories of my friend’s childhood and his raising and the city itself and then the demand that I return soon and say hello. Before our departure we took a small walk to my friend’s first school and I snapped pictures of children and the symbolic twin mountains of the region. Many stories and local myths surround the twins and they were a beautiful backdrop to many of my shots.
After a short wait involving drunks and weird carnivorous chickens we squeezed ourselves into a taxi brousse and were quickly on our way to the next stop… Ihosy.
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