Gasmith

“I’d hoped the language would come on its own, the way it comes to babies, but people don’t talk to foreigners the way they talk to babies. They don’t hypnotize you with bright objects and repeat the same words over and over, handing out little treats when you finally say ‘potty’ or ‘wawa’. I want to be a baby (fat little zaza), but instead, I am an adult who talks like one, a spooky man-child demanding more than his fair share of attention” ---David Sedaris

Politics have been described as taking a bath, in public, at the busiest intersection, naked, everyday at high noon. Maybe, but at least during the rest of the day, the “clean” politician is fully dressed. Living in a foreign community and speaking the language like a child is akin to being a never tackled streaker in the daily game called life. As you run around naked (stroll around Port Berge speaking pidgin Gasy) everyone is staring and laughing, all the while pulling for you to keep making a fool of yourself. At some point, after running around in endless circles you hope that someone will finally catch you, tackle you and end the madness you willingly created (just one conversation with an English speaker).

Learning to speak Malagasy requires that all inhibitions are thrown aside. I am the only non native speaker of Malagasy living in this town of 10,000 and, not to mention, the only white person. I stand out. My every move is carefully watched and despite having lived in Port Berge almost 10 months, any Gasy word that leaves my mouth is frequently met with open mouths, blank stares, laughs, and/or mockery. In the beginning this was quite frustrating, but after the initial shock of realizing my nakedness, it has become very liberating. Letting my words flap in the proverbial wind of conversation feels good. I don’t care that I sometimes mispronounce words such as “fanavakavahana” (discrimination) or that when going to the pharmacy that I say, “Mila voan’kankana zahe” (I need intestinal worms) instead of requesting the medicine that will clean out the parasites in my gut. Sure, an odd look accompanied with a scoffing laugh will be sent my direction, but mistakes must be made in order to learn and speak more fluently. It feels good to surprise people with my funky Gasy, and to know that I am one of a handful of vazaha’s in this country that can speak the national language instead of opting for the expected vazaha language, French.

In order to be my friend here in Port Berge, it is essential to be patient. My friends have to listen very carefully and then do a bit of deciphering to figure out exactly what I’m getting at. This patience is something that is not inherent to the majority of Gasy. The Malagasy are an exhibition of patience when it comes to waiting for an important person or dealing with a taxi brousse broken down for the third time, however when it comes to conversing with a non native speaker of their language very few are up to the challenge. I find that the more confused I get, the faster and more exasperated the person speaking to me becomes. In a way this is beneficial, as it’s good for me to learn spoken Gasy and not toned down, baby-speak, however I end up nodding my head and saying yes when I have no idea what is being conveyed to me. It wouldn’t be far off to say that I understand 60-70 % of the things that I agree to.

If being laughed at as opposed to being laughed with is a source of aggravation, the Peace Corps experience will quickly change that. Phrases said in all sincerity, such as “Zaza handeha doktera, madira milanza” (Babies seeing the doctor, should come get weighed), are met with peals of laughter and are then heard being repeated again and again with the laughter rising in volume each time. If a person were to sit in on one of my health/hygiene presentations they would think that I am Madagascar’s own, Jerry Seinfeld. My stand up routine with punch lines such as, “Tena zava-dehibe, tsy mentsy mahazo vaksiny dimy-jiaby zanakareo!”, (It’s very important, your children must get all five vaccines!”), has my audience rolling in laughter. My Malagasy, with it’s Englishy nasal intonation, is funny and so when I butcher a word I usually try to do it in a humorous way. In this way I can at least play along with the illusion that we are all laughing together.

When I pull off a big, difficult word it feels good. Wrapping my tongue around the polysyllabic words of Malagasy is as unnatural as the Gasy pronouncing a hard “R”. The fact is that learning a language is not easy and it takes a lot of time, practice and patience. It also requires that you feel comfortable enough with yourself so that you can speak uninhibitedly while knowing that mistakes are inevitable. People will laugh and mock you, but those same people will be the first to say your “efa mahay miteny Malagasy” (already good at speaking Malagasy) when they see you again. Few things make my day brighter than when I am able to have a meaningful, understood conversation with someone else in Malagasy.

My language skills have greatly improved since I first came to Port Berge, but I am constantly aware of how far I have to go to be able to really understand this language. I recently just had an epiphany-like moment when I realized that I was actually understood what was being said to me. I was nodding my head in agreement as always, but I really understood what I was agreeing to. If nothing else I do here is worthwhile, at least my fellow Port Bergeians will remember me as Christophe, the vazaha who preached about health in funky Gasy.