Visitors

I appreciate having most visitors at my house. There isn’t much space, I only have two cups and three chairs (one of which I use as a small table) around the table so, sometimes having visitors takes some rearranging. I don’t always make my bed or wash my dishes after every meal (mostly on days when there is no water and I don’t want to use up what I have stored), so sometimes my house isn’t as clean as I would like for unexpected visitors. Here in Mada, it is custom for people to come unannounced. If they come, and you are eating, you should offer some to them, there will always be enough to go around. There is a Malagasy proverb that says, “Valala iray ifanapahanana,” cut one grasshopper so everyone can share. I am practicing having unexpected visitors, practicing welcoming distraction, sharing food and discussing at length “what’s the news” even if there is none. It’s a change of pace, but mostly, I really welcome having visitors, seeing the people and spending time with them.

But, there are some visitors who are not welcome. Their names our moka and akoha.

 First, akoha, the lesser of the two evils. Sometimes, I hear the akoha approaching as they come closer to my door with their friends. I know what they are up to; they are here to eat out of my compost again. I understand, they are hungry, but soon, I will take the compost outside and dump it out, then they can feast. They must be patient. I walk outside and scare them away. They often leave a mess, and I must clean up after them.

The moka are the most terrible of visitors. They come into my house at night. After dark, when I am cooking my dinner, which usually involves going in and out often from the stove to inside, they quietly sneak in through the door. I am unaware of their presence until I turn off my light, climb into my mosquito net and I begin to hear them. I often tell them that they are not my friends, and that I do not want them in my house, but they do not listen. They are in my house and will surely eat me. Usually, they cannot reach me in my bed because of my net, but sometimes, they find a way in. And, even if they do not find a way into my protective bubble, I still hear them, buzzing to each other, as I fall asleep.

In Malagasy, akoha means chicken and moka means mosquito. These visitors called moka and akoha, are uninvited and unwelcome here. I welcome the human visitors though, just as they have welcomed me into their community. They come bringing stories, laughter, and friendship. 

Home

I am walking down the busy street near the market on a Friday morning. It’s market day, so this means there are more sellers outside than usual and everything is bustling. There is loud music coming from down the street, probably a seller trying to attract customers. There are people selling almost anything that you could want, clothes, both new and used, pans, computer parts, cell phones, jewelry, and art or other things for tourists. There’s food too, bananas, greens, onions, dried fish, fresh milk, rice, meat, and much more. And, snacks, the street food sellers are on every corner with fried things, juice, more fried things, some packaged crackers and cookies, and an assortment of things made with peanuts. Sometimes I hear someone say “Bonjour” or “Bonjour vazaha” and I know they are talking to me, they assume that I am French, but mostly I ignore their comments. I pass a child, maybe 7 or 8 walking down the street and she says, “Bonjour,” to her, I respond, “Salama” and she smiles at my speaking Malagasy. There are taxi-brousse (the public bus system that uses large vans) stuffed with people traveling fast down the road, swerving around the potholes, and occasionally restarting the engine as they continue to coast. My feet are dirty from the street even though I just washed them this morning. I pass a variety of people as I walk, a man in a business suit, a woman with a colorful basket full of garlic on her head and a baby on her back strapped in with a piece of cloth, two other vazaha (foreigners) walking with wide eyes and cameras hanging from their necks, two men pushing a large flatbed cart with 4 very large bags full of green onions up the hill, neither of them wearing shoes, a man whose teeth are nearly gone with a dirty face and a large winter coat holding his hand out to me, and a group of young girls wearing school uniforms headed home for lunch. I pass animals too. Sometimes, someone will pass pushing a cart with a freshly killed pig, or the pig will be walking alongside them as they swat it with a stick to keep it moving. There are dogs, mostly very skinny; searching the ground for some food someone may have dropped, especially by the butcher.  There are chickens, most of the chickens by the market are for sale with their feet tied together with a small piece of string but they still sit eating the bits of rice around them.

I decide to take the bus to the top of the hill instead of walking today. I get on the bus and find a seat next to a mother and young boy, the mother pulls the boy into her lap to make room for me to sit. I sit and reach for money to pay for the ride. It’s 200 ariary from the market to the end of the bus line, where I will get off. I silently hand the man 500 ariary and he hands back my change, with no words exchanged. When we reach the end of the bus line, I still have a little walking to do. I get off the bus and head the rest of the way up the hill. I pass tsena kely, a smaller more expensive market that I sometimes go to when I realize I forgot one ingredient for my dinner. There are small shops selling snacks along the road too, I decide to stop and buy a mofo akondro (a breaded and fried banana). I continue to walk, eating the banana out of the piece of newspaper that the seller wrapped it in. Finally, I round the corner past the church that I go to every Sunday and sing in their choir. I pass the geese outside one house that are always noisy. There are fewer people now as I am inside the campus of Masombahoaka and most of them know that I am not French, so they say “Salama” and I respond. I pass Nomena’s house, and go around a few more corners and through a wooden gate. My neighbor is cooking her lunch, she says, “Mondroso” and invites me in. I say “Misaotra” and continue on to my house. There are chickens strutting around in the grass around the banana trees and the laundry that I washed this morning is hanging on the line. I am home.