Shake Your Gasy: A Disco Experience

"Handeha amin'ny Disco, amy Alina, Christophe?"
Well, I wasn't planning on going to the disco tonight, but now that you mention it, I might have some interest. "Amy firy hanomabaka Disco?" The Disco starts around 10:30 pm, but we'll pick you up around 9:00 pm.

My friend Olivier owns the local radio station as well as an epicerie that I frequent. He and his friends always hound me about going to the Saturday Night Disco and I usually beg off or say I might go, all the while knowing that I will spend another low key night at my house. When Olivier offers to pick me up, my mindset changes and I agree to go. In my mind, I convince myself of the importance of having this cultural experience. I also get a little excited at the fact that my usual routine of eating dinner, reading and then going to bed around 9:00 pm will be interrupted for a sweaty shakedown.

Making my way back to my house I think that while I might be ready to go to a disco at 9:00, there is a good chance that no one will be by to pick me up. I eat dinner around the usual time of 6:30, all the while thinking about what I may be getting myself into tonight. After dinner, I spy the old water bottle filled with rum that has been marinating with vanilla beans. A little pre disco cocktail sure wouldn't hurt, and it might end up as a nice nightcap if the pick up never happens. Occasionally I will have a beer on a Saturday night, but I have yet to imbibe any liquor at my home here in Port Berge. Drinking a beer here is very socially acceptable as it is seen as merely another form of soft drink. Toaka Gasy (rum), on the other hand, is a different ball game and one that is played by only the professionals. My little cocktail proves to be quite refreshing and is socially acceptable since I am the only one who knows that I am enjoying it. I always find myself socially acceptable in my own company. I get ready, nip my toddy and read a National Geographic--one of the rowdier pregames I have ever been a part of.

As 9:00 comes and goes, I feel fairly certain that I will not be going to the disco and begin to shut down the house for a night's slumber. At 9:30, a rap on the door lets me know that it's time to get up and boogie. I throw on my Hawaiian shirt, a pair of khakis and some flip flops. I make my way outside and waiting for me on the dirt road in front of my house is a black Mercedes Benz. Olivier is probably one of the wealthier men in town, but I had no idea that he would be pushing a benz. Well, we shall roll in class. We make a couple of stops to drop off some girls sitting in the back seat and while I wait for Olivier's return, I ponder how I have found myself in this situation. I am in an isolated rural town in Northwestern Madagascar, which is off the southeastern coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean, and here I am sitting in a black benz waiting to go to the Saturday night disco. Rarely do I find myself out at night, and so this is one of the first times that I have seen how incredibly illuminated the night sky is with its bountiful amount of stars.

I think that we are on our way to the disco, but Olivier informs me that he is not dressed to impress. We go to his house which is also the radio station. Here I meet his friends and my cohorts for the evening's adventure. Jimmy, Gervais and Dodo (pronounced DooDoo) are calmly knocking down a few whiskey and cokes. Whether you're in Port Berge, Bloomington or Kansas City, there are always going to be a few guys sitting around chewing the fat whilst enjoying whiskey and coke. As I drink one myself, I make a vow to myself to watch the intake and keep my wits about me--you've got to if you plan to really get down and shake it Gasy style. Jimmy tells me that I might have to go home and change out of my flip flops as they are not disco appropriate foot attire. Olivier assures me that since I am a vazaha I will not be hassled, but to not wear flip flops again. I try to explain that flip flops are socially appropriate for going out in the US, but quickly realize that this doesn't make them any more appropriate here in the Port. We load up in the Benz and make our way to the disco which is located at the corner right before you enter the market.

Just like in Swingers (sans chain wallet), we unload and swagger in. Because Olivier is kind of a big deal, we walk right in without dropping the 3000 Ariary ($1.50) cover charge. From the outside the building looks small, but once inside I realize that it's quite open and spacious. While this is no Studio 54, I would contend that this disco has as much character, if not more, than that infamous establishment. The Steve Rubell's, Androgyny and White Horses are replaced by many scandalously dressed women, one other white male apparently with an eye out for a Gasy prostitute, and many guys dressed in the latest Von Dutch knockoff attire to hit the Port. People are looking good, feeling good and ready to go to work on the floor. A large cement dance floor is surrounded by many white tables and chairs. The ceiling is high with many multicolored fluorescent lights hanging down in the various arbitrary places. One large disco ball hangs down in the middle, certifying this as an official disco. Two large speakers sit in each corner of the building. There is room in the back where one can purchase various disco supplies such as Good Look or Boston Cigarettes, Three Horses Beer, Whiskey, various soft drinks, snacks and condoms. This room is also where the DJ plies his trade. There are no records spinning, but there is an ample selection of mixed CD's. In front of this room are two people attending a small grill which turns out the finest brochettes (beef grilled in fat and then sandwiched on a stick between several delectable bites of fat) in PB. In the back left corner are the restrooms. I can't speak for the women's lavatory, but the men's is one big cement trough which is rarely used. Most of the men find it more convenient to pee on the plants that sit right in front of the bathroom. Even though the bathroom is one step further, I guess guys always feel compelled and more comfortable to mark their territory on any freestanding vegetation.

There is a small debate as we enter the disco as to where we should sit. Several people are already present (mostly groups of females) but I'm told that the place will be filled around 11. We choose a very central table in front of the brochette grillers. At this vantage point it is possible to scan the entire perimeter of the dance floor as well as observe all the newly arrived party goers. There is Gasy music playing but no one is out on the floor yet. I observe the crowd. Sure enough around 11, a giant TV screen is wheeled out, turned on and Gasy music begins blaring. With little hesitancy, men and women get out of their seats and begin dancing. Immediatley my friends encourage me to get up, grab a girl and shake my groove thing. I beg off for the first few dances because I've got to observe how things are done. Apparent protocol maintains that the guy goes up to the sitting girl, says nothing, extends his hand and she must accept. I watch how Olivier does it and he's as smooth as butter. Girls seem eager to dance with him and I quickly realize why. He can really groove and knows all the right moves and steps. Watching all of this makes me a little hesitant to get out there and act the fool, but then again, "whatcha gonna do if you really don't want to dance, get ya back up off the wall." I'm at a frickin disco and there's really only one thing to do at a disco and that is to put on your boogie shoes. I strap up and make my way to the floor, because at this point there are so many people dancing that I need not ask for a partner. Some people know special dance steps and moves, twisting and turning their way around everyone, but most people are just out there to shake it. Immediately, the majority of eyes are on me to see how ridiculous the vazaha will look while he gets down. I must say that I consider myself a pretty good dancer, but this mainly has to do with the fact that I could care less what others think as they watch me. This reckless dancing abandon served me well through high school and college and I happily summons it up in order to make the most of my disco experience. I look and dance ridiculous but this does not concern me. As it looks like I'm having a great time (which I am) other people want a piece of the action. I've got guys duplicating my patented shoulder shaking and I quickly find myself surrounded by girls hoping to get my attention. I am content to dance solo and just enjoy the tremendous energy pulsating through the massive throng of rhythmic revelers. People, man and woman, really move their hips. The place feels as if the steam has just been turned on in a sauna. The mob on the dance floor is tightly packed together, creating a dense heat that percolates with an alternating aroma of very strong cologne and very strong natural scent.

I dance myself into a sweaty mess and then decide it is time to take a small timeout. I go talk to the DJ and request some American hip hop. I'm especially after Usher's Yeah, but I have to settle for some other mediocre hip hop tracks. Then the first of several special events throughout the evening occurs. A woman comes strolling around all the tables holding up a whole grilled chicken. I am confused at the onset of this display, but once an explosive bidding war breaks out between two factions on either side of the room, I realize that the chicken is being auctioned off. Some of the road workers from COLAS win the bird and quickly reduce it to a heap of perfectly cleaned bones. Then, a hip hop dance contest is announced. A group of boys dressed in their freshest hip hop attire (mainly knockoff Jumpman jerseys and shorts) make their way to the center of the room and everyone else sits down. For twenty exhausting minutes these boys dance their hearts out with every move from the robot, head spin to flips and the moon walk. I have never seen dancing endurance like this, they just keep going and going. Whenever one guy does something cool or outrageous, it is immediatley attempted by all the others. Some are really good while others have some work to do. If you work hard some day maybe you too can be the hip hop dance champion at Port Berge's Saturday night disco. I am awaiting a vote by crowd enthusiasm, however, since the judge of the town tribunal is present he chooses the winner, runner up and third place. He gives a small speech congratulating the winner on his hard work and accomplishment and then a set of prizes are placed at our table. Apparently, I am considered one of the more important people at this disco as I am selected along with Olivier and the judge to hand the prizes out to the finalists. I hand the runner up a digital watch and give him an "Arabeny" (congratulations) and return to my seat, happy that I don't have to give a congratulatory speech. Finally, as the night wears on I hear a country western line dance song blast on and I laugh as I think this should be interesting. Well, I don't know where they got their hands on the Branson Dancin DVD but this was some rather spectacular line dancing. People paired off, man/woman, woman/woman, man/man and the Grand Ol Opry meets Hee Haw meets Gasy Disco was swingin, steppin, twirling and just plain makin it happen on Saturday night in the Port.

I am lost in the inferno when I get a tap on the shoulder and Olivier tells me it is time to go. My concept of time left me as soon as I walked into the disco. We hop in the benz and Olivier drops me off in front of my door. I presume that Olivier is going home with the girl who is sitting in the back and who he danced with most of the night. I am shocked when I get inside my house and realize that it's 3:30 in the morning. I fall on my bed and peacefully slip into a dance induced coma. I don't plan on going to too many more discos, but I am very happy that I have had this fabulous cultural experience. Get your Gasy on the floor tonight, and make my day.

Back to the Port

Mbolatsara e! Since the beginning of January, I had looked forward to the March 10 vacation with my family and then In-Service Training two weeks later. Well, they are both over now, and it is time to venture back to the Port. I go back to Port Berge with some very fond memories and good feelings about what the future holds.
I arrived in Tana on Apr. 1 after spending a couple lackluster days in the hot, dusty truck stop I know as my banking town of Antsohihy. Upon arriving, I met up with Abby. We enjoyed being in Tana, catching up on each other’s lives, and dining at some good restaurants. We especially enjoyed a newly found restaurant, named Villa Vanille, which served exquisite French and North African cuisine. As the name might suggest, they specialized in dishes seasoned with vanilla. We thoroughly enjoyed some vanilla flavored cocktails, our delicious meals, and a vanilla crepe with vanilla ice cream. It’s amazing that you can get a meal in Tana for less than 15 bucks. It would certainly cost twice that much in the States.
Since it was our first IST, all the people from my training stage were in Tana as well, and so it was great to meet up with them and hear about their respective lives as PC volunteers in Madagascar. We traveled to the Peace Corps training site on Lake Montasoa and spent three days there. It was good to see everyone, learn about each other’s experiences, hear about activities that worked and those that failed, eat good food, and do some much needed partying. Another beneficial aspect of IST was that we learned how to apply for grants and get money for various projects that we might start in the future. This bit of info was helpful as I do have possible access to various grant and aid money which could be applied to some projects at the hospital or help jumpstart some of the floundering health associations in PB.
After IST, Abby, myself and a fellow volunteer, Mike, made our way to Antsirabe. On the way Abby and I thought it would be cool to try and play my ipod with itrip through the Taxi Brousse radio. We eventually figured out how to get it to work and we cruised into Antsirabe jamming to Sean Paul and Bob Marley. Everyone in the Brousse enjoyed the music and the driver cranked up the tunes to max volume so that we were really bumpin as we rolled down the Gasy highway. Antsirabe is a beautiful city. It was settled and established by Norwegians and the town does not feel like any other Gasy city. It has wide streets, neighborhoods, landscaping, public parks and many good places to eat and drink. The main mode of transportation in A/be is pousse pousse, a small two seater cart pulled by a Malagasy man. At first I had some major issues with the idea of a fellow human being pulling my fat butt around town. It sounds a little colonial, but the fact of the matter is that everyone, including fellow Gasy, use the pousse pousse to get around and this is how many of the men make a living. Abstaining from riding the pousse pousse denies a person the money they need to live. There are so many pousse pousse in Antsirabe and after a while it gets quite annoying to deal with the constant harassment of men wanting to pull you around. We took the pousse pousse when we had to transport our luggage but otherwise we walked.
So, our first night in A/be we dined at an establishment owned by a man of Greek and Italian heritage. He spoke around 7 different languages and sat and chatted with us and a European couple who were also dining in his restaurant. There was a mix of English, French, Gasy, and Italian languages being tossed around. The food was some of the best I’ve ever had and the owner also brought out some sakay (hot pepper) sauce which torched the mouth. Our friend Mike loved the pizza, but he could not get enough of the sakay. It was one of the more impressive feats I’ve seen as Mike not only dipped his pizza in the stuff, but also wiped the bowl dry. Mike, you will be sorely missed, good luck! A great night was had by everyone and we all went home to sleep feeling uncomfortably full. Mike departed the next day and so Abby and I spent the next day strolling around this beautiful city and doing some grocery shopping for our impending stay at Abby’s site.
We left the next day for Abby’s site. Her site is located in a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains and the temp can be very cold at times. The back of her house faces a large mountain called Bevoka (pregnant woman) because it looks like a pregnant woman lying on her back. Pregnant women seemed to be a theme of my time in this village. It required a two hour hike to arrive at the village. It was a pleasant hike and it was interesting to traverse through the varying mountain scenery. In order to get our luggage across the mountains, we hired a man to carry it. This was some heavy luggage and our small Gasy sherpa put one piece on his head and another on his back and moved forward at an incredible pace. Abby and I, with our small packs, struggled to keep up in the beginning. After finishing ¾ of the hike we got deluged by the afternoon rain storm. The next day was spent meeting Abby’s friends and neighbors who I have heard so much about. It was nice to finally meet the young woman who runs the epicerie and has the only phone in town, as I have called there frequently and talked to her in hopes that she could get Abby. We went to the market and bought some fresh produce and then went to the home of Abby’s friend, Jeanine, for a Gasy meal of rice, beans and beef.
The next day we went to the maternity ward where Abby sometimes works and I had the privilege of seeing a birth for the first time in my life. The girl (and yes, she was a girl, not a woman) was quite small and without any noise gave birth to her first child, a healthy baby boy. When we arrived, the girl lay on a bare metal table and commenced pushing. There was no anesthesia, no husband videotaping, let alone holding her hand and telling her to breathe. Eventually, the midwife harshly told the girl (I think at this point she had become a woman, no matter how old she is) to push harder and began manipulating her abdomen and the fetus. The baby’s head then appeared and the midwife grabbed a hold, yanking the baby right out. It should be said again, this young woman had no pharmaceutical assistance and she did not utter a sound while she delivered a small human into the world. I had always thought that watching a birth was a little too much blood and guts for me to handle, but I must say that after this experience I am overwhelmed at the miracle of birth. Now, in the immediate aftermath, I did get a little queasy and unsteady as the room became stifling hot. I had to leave and get some air, but this did not diminish the feeling of amazement that I felt at watching something so miraculous. The limp baby was snipped from its mother and then whacked on the back several times until the child uttered its first sounds. Absolutely amazing! We then proceeded to the local baby weighing building where a few zazas (babies) were weighed and then the mothers were taught how to make a good weaning food of guava jelly. I found this weaning food to be very delicious as did all the zazas present. We went back to Abby’s house where we cooked up a delicious meal, drank some wine (thanks Dix and Heekin, it was delicious), and watched some Seinfeld episodes on the computer.
A subsequent morning, we watched a woman, who had recently given birth, receive stitches. Again there was no anesthetic. This was possibly one of the more painful procedures I have ever seen performed on a person and this woman did not utter a sound. I wanted to scream and holler for her, my god! I again got a little woozy and thought I might lose my oatmeal, but kept it down because if this woman could endure what she was experiencing without making a sound, then the least I could do was be present without vomiting or passing out. Again, absolutely unbelievable! Abby and I then proceeded to the CPN room where women who have never received prenatal consultation come on Tuesday mornings to get measured and vaccinated. Abby gave a nice, brief talk on healthy eating for pregnant mothers. Several women were present and they were measured and their stats were recorded. We then spent the rest of the day enjoying each other’s company as it will be another month and a half before we see each other again. Abby lives in a very nice little house, and it was very enjoyable to see where she lives, meet her friends and briefly experience the life in her village. She has a great doctor/counterpart who is supportive and committed to his community’s health, she lives in a gorgeous mountainous setting, and everyone there knows her and is happy that she is there.
Now its back to the hot Port and hopefully the readjustment won’t take too long and I’ll fall right back into the swing of things.

My regards to all! Take Care.

Chlogan

These are my own opinions and not those of Peace Corps Madagascar

A Taxi Brousse Experience

All the drivers and people gatherers know me in Antsohihy. As soon as they see me walking down the street, they start shouting at me in Gasy. “Christophe, you going today?” “When are you leaving, Christophe?” “We haven’t seen you in awhile, Christophe”. I ask the ticket man when the brousse is leaving and he guesstimates. It’s a good idea to add an hour on to the time that he says. We agree that when the brousse is ready to go that it will pick me up at the Hotel Tiako (Hotel I Like). If the brousse picks me up before anyone else has gotten in, this means that I get the window seat in the very last row. This might be a coveted seat by the smaller Gasy, however for this long vazaha it is loathed. I dread getting this seat as it means that I will not be able to get out of the brousse for the entire 5 hour drive.

A taxi brousse is made to seat around 15 comfortably; however it is considerably more profitable to at least double this amount of passengers. There are four bench seats and each has an adjoining foldable jump seat. The driver and two other people sit in the front. I usually try to ask to sit in the front as it typically makes for a much less painful ride. If you have to sit four deep in the front, or have a small child sitting on your lap then you might as well be smashed in the back of the van. In order to be a functioning brousse it is apparently mandatory that it be painted in a very obnoxious, bright color. Red, yellow and turquoise seem to be the top choices.

I am the first person picked up so I must fold my body into the back seat with my back pack on the floor in between my feet. I think to myself that this isn’t so bad and that I might actually have a fairly painless ride. These sentiments, of course, dissipate as the brousse fills and I become the bread of a 5 person bench seat sandwich. The very natural smell of body odor permeates the van, but goes unnoticed as everyone is contributing their own scent. On my bench seat the order goes me, small woman, small man, small woman, and small man. If I were not sitting on this bench, it is likely that two other Gasy would be there. One cheek of my fat butt equals the entire bum of most Gasy. The small man next to the small woman takes this chance of extreme closeness to begin groping and caressing his female neighbor. She puts up minimal resistance, maybe the beginning of a something special. The crush of bodies quickly makes for a hot and steamy ride.

I feel lucky to have the window seat until it starts raining. The windows are not sealed well and so a steady stream of water flows down on to my left side. I am hesitant to shut the window completely as it’s already very hot, but a decision must be made to be either hot and sweaty or completely soaked. Hot and sweaty gets the nod. I pull out my ipod, so as to try and lose myself in the world of electronic tunes. Sleeping is impossible because I can not ignore the fact that the lower part of my body is very uncomfortable and needs constant readjustment. If only I were a Buddhist monk and could gain a mind over matter unconsciousness. The feet are the first to lose feeling and then the tingly feeling of drowsy limbs climbs up through my legs. I try to move but I am effectively immobilized by the pressure exerted by the other four passengers on my bench. No one can move, everyone is uncomfortable, but thou shalt not complain. The key is to think of something else. I think of the free feeling of swimming in the ocean, nothing constrains me as I’ve got a free range of motion in the ocean.

At the height of the brousse being at maximum capacity, it is possible for there to be at least 30 people in, on and hanging off the brousse. I’ve been in brousses where there have been at least 4 men hanging off the back while we max out at speeds of around 50 mph. People pile in with giant sacks of rice and big baskets of chickens to sell at market. One shouldn’t be surprised to hear a muffled quack and look down to see a shackled duck in a woven bag. On one trip to Port Berge, the driver stopped at a roadside butcher stand, purchased the head of a zebu, and tossed it with its tongue flailing out of its mouth, on to the top of the van where it came to rest on top of my backpack. Drivers have a high tolerance for dead animals and they refuse to brake for any live ones. This was demonstrated by a driver who saw the baby pig run in front of the van, and without hesitation accelerated right through it. I thought there was a chance that the piggie might sneak through, until I heard a loud thump below where I was sitting. My first roadkill pig, and most likely not my last.

There are three main stops along the route to Port Berge from Antsohihy, along with the dozens of other stops made to let passengers out at their various destinations. I hope that at each stop either someone from my bench will get out for good, or that the entire brousse will empty allowing a brief leg stretching intermission. It’s raining and so each stop is brief with all passengers remaining inside. At the three main stops the van is rushed by many young girls selling different foods items. Grilled chicken (delicious), fried kida (un-sweet banana), boiled corn on the cob, fried bread balls, fried breaded bananas, and oranges. I make a point of always buying a couple chicken legs as they are very flavorful and briefly take one’s mind off the throbbing feeling in the legs. I have become very efficient at cleaning a chicken bone. If it can be chewed, then it’s going to be eaten. The Gasy not only immaculately clean the bones, but they then break them in half for a little protein laden marrow sucking. I’m not quite there.

We go through many little villages with houses made of mud brick and thatched roofs. The terrain is hilly and green due to it being the rainy season. After the rains, the landscape will drastically change to a red dusty dryness with most of the vegetation burnt by the slash and burn farming techniques. Its depressing to look out on a horizon littered with the charred remains of palm trees and other various vegetations. But now, everything is green and lush. As we near Port Berge the sun is setting in the west. The spectacularly orange and purple flaring across the sky makes me take stock of where I am and how lucky I am to be having this uncomfortable taxi brousse experience. I also realize how close I am to the ocean, and yet how far away at the same time. The glorious setting sun is falling below the Mozambique Channel which is only about 40 km away, but because there is no road going directly west to the sea it takes several hours to get there by indirect roads.

About 20 km outside of Port Berge, the brousse crosses the Sofia River by way of one of the longest bridges in Madagascar. A very picturesque scene is presented as the brousse crosses the large river. Apparently, it is possible to take a boat down this river to its outlet into the ocean. I look forward to exploring this possibility in the future. You can’t fall in the water however, because of the crocodiles that call the river home.

We coast into Port Berge and come to rest in front of the marketplace. Everyone empties out and it takes a few minute for the old legs to regain feeling and strength. And there it is, home again, home again, jiggety-jig.