Shawn: Yes, you can definitely send me movies. I'm not sure yet how I'll watch them, but I'm sure I'll be able to figure something out eventually. By the time they get through the mail? Ha. PS Thanks for the regular letters!
Grandpa and Grandma: A million thanks for all the updates. I love hearing the news and seeing the pictures.
Belinda: Are you kind of in Europe right now? I realiwe you won't be in one place long enough for me to really write to you, but I will when you're back and also I want to hear all about it--expecially when you are in Paris. Hope you love it, Bwinda. Don't miss me too much. Ha.
Shin: No never mind I'll e-mail you.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Crazy Little Thing Called Vazaha
The funny thing about being one of the few white people in a country is that--no matter how well you integrate into the culture--you will always stand out; you will always be different. Here in Madagascar, if you are different, you are called "vazaha" (vah-zah). The name comes from back in the day when the French were first spotted on the island. These days, parents tell their children that if they are naughty, a vazaha will steal and eat them (yum--my personal favorite Malagasy meat). Now, babies and the like may be straight up frightened by a white face, but I think most children are more afraid of witches than vazaha.
Child-eater or not, the vazaha is quite the phenomenon around here. At this random party (oh don't worry--the Malagasy party will be described in another update), the drunk host made everyone take pictures of the vazaha dancing. Even better, at this event where they get drunk and then pull out dead bodies and re-wrap them (another thing I will explain later), someone had their camera focused on us instead of the 5 dead bodies next to us. That's right--a vazaha is more exciting than dead people.
The most relevant application of the word vazaha is that whenever you walk down a road, every child (and many an adult) who sees you yells "vazaha" at you. Now, some people are bothered by this. I, however, am definitely not. For one thing, there is nothing cuter than a Malagasy kid yelling this word. The look of astonishment and excitement in their eyes? Priceless. The color of your skin automatically makes you more mysterious, interesting, and special than--let's face it--you could ever hope to be on your own. Plus you get more attention than ANY Malagasy person around. Let's be hoenst--I've never been this popular in my life. I am not kidding you--it's incredible. At an airport once, an Asian photographer asked if I was a famous actress here in Madagascar. On a 24-hour taxi-brousse ride (another thing for another time), I was the communal child: "Did someone make sure the vazaha ate? Did the vazaha eat rice?" Also on that ride, I pretended I was a monster. That is not a joke. We stopped at this village briefly and a few kids noticed me. Every time I smiled in their direction, one little boy would burst out laughing, act as if he'd been shot, and fell to the ground in spasms. Then I'd look away, he'd get up, and we'd do it all over again. This lasted for about ten minutes. It never got old? The spasms only got more dramatic. I swear, I have gotten more phone numbers than I can afford to call? Okay, well you can decide if that's a reflection of my Peace Corps salary or my new-found allure. The point is, being a vazaha is an automatic in. And I love it. You are the star, the freak, the alien. You are the new kid on the playground, except IT NEVER GETS OLD. It's AWESOME.
As I said, some people are bothered by the vazaha phenomenon. For me, it's as if they all know your name already, only it's not the one your mother gave you. For some others, they find it racist and infuriating--as if they are constantly looked at like a freak. Well obviously some of us are more used to that than others, so maybe that's part of it. But here's the thing: Yes, it is race-specific (for the most part). But they do not have mean intentions. If ANYTHING, vazaha has very positive connotations. And besides--if a white person only comes to town as often as Papa Noel, of COURSE it will be strange. If they were used to living with white people, yeah, it'd be rude to stare--but then, they probably wouldn't stare if they were used to us, would they? The fact of the matter is, they look at us like aliens because we ARE like aliens. We are different--and it's not a good or bad thing--it's just the way it is. And if being vazaha is a way for me to connect to other people, then that's an okay thing, isn't it?
There are lots of different reactions people everywhere have to the color of skin. If my whiteness causes children to laugh and fall to the ground in spasms, I'm happy. I'm more than okay with being vawaha. It's just one more (unique) way to bring joy to the lives of others.
Then again, maybe I just like the attention. . . .
Child-eater or not, the vazaha is quite the phenomenon around here. At this random party (oh don't worry--the Malagasy party will be described in another update), the drunk host made everyone take pictures of the vazaha dancing. Even better, at this event where they get drunk and then pull out dead bodies and re-wrap them (another thing I will explain later), someone had their camera focused on us instead of the 5 dead bodies next to us. That's right--a vazaha is more exciting than dead people.
The most relevant application of the word vazaha is that whenever you walk down a road, every child (and many an adult) who sees you yells "vazaha" at you. Now, some people are bothered by this. I, however, am definitely not. For one thing, there is nothing cuter than a Malagasy kid yelling this word. The look of astonishment and excitement in their eyes? Priceless. The color of your skin automatically makes you more mysterious, interesting, and special than--let's face it--you could ever hope to be on your own. Plus you get more attention than ANY Malagasy person around. Let's be hoenst--I've never been this popular in my life. I am not kidding you--it's incredible. At an airport once, an Asian photographer asked if I was a famous actress here in Madagascar. On a 24-hour taxi-brousse ride (another thing for another time), I was the communal child: "Did someone make sure the vazaha ate? Did the vazaha eat rice?" Also on that ride, I pretended I was a monster. That is not a joke. We stopped at this village briefly and a few kids noticed me. Every time I smiled in their direction, one little boy would burst out laughing, act as if he'd been shot, and fell to the ground in spasms. Then I'd look away, he'd get up, and we'd do it all over again. This lasted for about ten minutes. It never got old? The spasms only got more dramatic. I swear, I have gotten more phone numbers than I can afford to call? Okay, well you can decide if that's a reflection of my Peace Corps salary or my new-found allure. The point is, being a vazaha is an automatic in. And I love it. You are the star, the freak, the alien. You are the new kid on the playground, except IT NEVER GETS OLD. It's AWESOME.
As I said, some people are bothered by the vazaha phenomenon. For me, it's as if they all know your name already, only it's not the one your mother gave you. For some others, they find it racist and infuriating--as if they are constantly looked at like a freak. Well obviously some of us are more used to that than others, so maybe that's part of it. But here's the thing: Yes, it is race-specific (for the most part). But they do not have mean intentions. If ANYTHING, vazaha has very positive connotations. And besides--if a white person only comes to town as often as Papa Noel, of COURSE it will be strange. If they were used to living with white people, yeah, it'd be rude to stare--but then, they probably wouldn't stare if they were used to us, would they? The fact of the matter is, they look at us like aliens because we ARE like aliens. We are different--and it's not a good or bad thing--it's just the way it is. And if being vazaha is a way for me to connect to other people, then that's an okay thing, isn't it?
There are lots of different reactions people everywhere have to the color of skin. If my whiteness causes children to laugh and fall to the ground in spasms, I'm happy. I'm more than okay with being vawaha. It's just one more (unique) way to bring joy to the lives of others.
Then again, maybe I just like the attention. . . .
Ends and Beginnings
It is official: I have sworn to serve in Madagascar as a Peace Corps Volunteer for the next 2 years. Training is finally over and it is bittersweet. For over 10 weeks, 23 of us have spent every moment together, learning Malagasy, struggling with host families, sitting through hours of sessions, and trying not to kill each other. We are ready to get away and regain our independence--to begin our actual lives in Madagasikara. But at the same time, we HAVE been with each other for over 10 weeks and it is only a matter of days before we are alone in a village. I am ready to move to Mahabo, but I know I will miss all of my stagemates. But for now I'm just excited to get to move forward and start DOING something. They say training is the hardest part of service, and I believe it. I am ready to start doing my job--to start actually helping people. This morning I sworn in at the Ambassador's house, and on Thursday I fly to Morondava. By the weekend, I will move into my house, adjust to my new life, and start preparing for my first day of school. I'm sure I'll have plenty to tell you within a month. For now, I will leave you with some tidbits from training. Drop me a line at my new address! I'll have more time to write back now that training does not rule my life. Miss you all :)
and a phone number
Also, once a month when in Morondava, I can be called slash texted at: 032.48.166.40.
My New Address
From now on, please direct all mail to:
Bethany Allen
Lycée Resaotsy
BP 14
Mahabo 615
Madagascar
Thanks for all the letters you've sent so far!!
Bethany Allen
Lycée Resaotsy
BP 14
Mahabo 615
Madagascar
Thanks for all the letters you've sent so far!!
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