Different Languages

I should have practiced my French. Most seem fluent in both French and Malagasy, and some can get by in English too. Knowing only one language feels lame.

Our driver, Njaka, was mighty communicative not just in English, but in honking the horn–that sound is the backdrop to our travels. Straight from a movie chase scene, he aggressively and adroitly passed trucks, cars, zebu herders, chickens (which he did jokingly call ‘loaka’ or dinner), bicyclists, walkers, pous-pous (like a rickshaw), pigs, and children. From the horn of his Hyundai, he could warn walkers to move aside, give a nod to fellow drivers, win a power struggle with slower vehicles, greet a car as we went by, or thank a taxi-brouss that gave him room. Gentler honks warned walkers as he navigated curving roads and blind corners. A spectrum of beeps seems to be part of driving here. It was an amazingly effective mode of steady communication.

One of our favorite memories will be the smiles lighting up Malagasy faces when Erika replied in their language; it is a joy to see and hear a conversation take off.  Their delight was often followed by the question, “Peace Corps?” To be understood, even by someone who speaks the same language, is what we desire, what we need. What a gift when someone ‘gets’ me. I probably embarrassed Erika with one bit of charades, trying to find her choir concert. But it paid off and led to a conversation of sorts, with gestures, smiles, and awful French. 

I don’t know how to say, “Smile” in Malagasy, but some things transcend language. 🙂 

Walking

I left my fitness tracker at home (trying to pack minimally, not a focus during this trip, and advice to leave valuables* at home). During the daylong trips to and from Erika’s city, our driver continually, and very narrowly (yikes! for another post!), sped by a river of people, all ages, walking along the way. 

 Barefoot, a baby wrapped on the back, balancing a bag of rice or basket containing anything from geese to water bottles to fruit, the walkers’ puposes likely vary too. Many appear to be walking to a roadside stand to buy goods, others are herding zebu (cattle) or pigs, some are carrying lumber, students walk home from school for lunch at home, young couples seem to just find time to talk and walk. There is hardly a stretch on the 9 hour drive where we do not see walkers or people pushing low wooden carts, laden with huge bags of rice. This is very hilly country and we are amazed at those biking, often in secondhand sandals, helmetless, and strong. Some carry a passenger. The teen boys grin widely when they coast (fly!) on the downhills.

I can only imagine the steps each one takes each day, but the thought of tracking my steps is just one tiny symbol of our vastly different lives. Erika’s community here would no doubt laugh or be puzzled at someone tracking their movement. What a gift to, even briefly, cross paths with Malagasy people, walking along the way.

*One blessing of a trip such as this is the redefining of terms like valuable.