Friday, March 14, 2008

Ummm

So I think after uploading all those pictures the internet decided to not post them after all? I'm not sure. I tried. I swear.

My Home :)

Pictures of my house for those of you interested. Note the swing in the doorway (they thought I was crazy), the blue hammock, the green mosquito net, and the cow eating in my backyard by the banana tree. The shack is my kabone.

A Market Experience

This is for those of you who wanted a better picture of my daily life.

To get an idea of what the market is like for me, imagine you are going to a state fair slash carnival. It is often the highlight of my day--the big event (which either speaks highly of the market or tells you just how boring my days are--or probably a little of both--ha).

A market experience for me starts the moment I walk out my door. On the road between home and the market, this exact conversation takes place approximately 15 times: "Hey!" "Hey!" "What's new?" "Nothing." "Going to the market?" "Yup." I don't know why they state the obvious. They know you're going to the market already because you have your basket--the basket everyone has, of varying sizes and colors, that is used exclusively for the market (and if you bring it anywhere else, you will be laughed at). Very environment friendly. It is plastic and woven. Mine is black and orange so I can feel like I'm trick or treating EVERYDAY. Only instead of getting candy I get tomatoes.

Note: Watch out for men on this walk. If you are alone or female or white or blonde or just if your name happens to be Bethany, they will stare at you, unabashedly check you out, try to shake your hand, make noises to get your attention, hit on you in French, ask you for private English lessons, and occasionally grope you. They might also throw a stick at you, but that was an accident. The goal is to not let their sliminess make you angry at the world in general. Fyi.

Also, be prepared to step aside for passing cows and cars.

The highlight of the walk is when little children ont he side of the roads somehow know your name and yell it in their cute little fashion ("Aia le Betanie!" for as long as they can see you). It is less cute when others ask you your name in French and you pretend not to understand them. "What? I don't speak French. French? No no no I'm not French. Ignore the white skin. Pretend I'm Malagasy."

By the time you get to town, you are rather hot--a combination of the fact that you're been walking forever, and it's just . . . really hot. Lucky for you, there are many options for juice at the market! My favorite is to walk up to the open windows selling juice? There, you can get tamarin, pineapple, grenadelle, and orange juice (which tastes suspiciously like Sunny Delight). You can also get milk juice, a pinkish whitish liquid I haven't quite figured out yet. You can also find cintronade (aka lemonade) inside coolers on the tables lining the market. It's not very special (water, sugar, lemon )--sometimes good sometimes just funny tasting water. It's main value is that it's COLD (a rarity indeed). I once had tamarin juice so cold it threw me for the rest of the day. Slush? In Mahabo?

Before actually shopping, you might also pick up a little snack. This will give you enough energy to walk home (it's amazing how the heat can eat up those calories!). Or maybe you're like me and eat the food as an excuse to have sakay (their version or salsa slash hot sauce). There is a wide variety of food to be found and almost all of it is FRIED (torture when your tummy hurts). No joke. Frying is a convenient way to cook on the side of the road. The main ingredients are four and sugar. Sometimes they throw in honey or coconut or put an entire banana in the middle to make it special. It's more expensive (aka 5 cents instead of . . . 2 and a half) if it has egg in it. In the morning, you can find a certain rice bread thing (aka my breakfast) and at night they bust out the big guns (aka they stuff meat in it all). Ironically, at noon, of all those foods, only one is salty instead of sweet (minus the occasional exceptions). This is what I get (remember that sakay goal). But mostly I get it because a sweet old man and his wife sell them. Sometimes they come find me to tell me they're ready and nice and hot. Sometimes they also give me an extra for no particular reason. You see, street food --more than anything--is all about your relationship with the vendors.

The same is true for the regular market shopping. You tend to buy the same things from the same people. Hopefully not from the stands covered in flies. Then they tell everyone you are their friend and are often when weighing those kilos and half kilos to earn your loyalty. They also ask why they haven't seen you in a while. They also give you an extra carrot or tomato sometimes. Honestly, it's kind of nice going to a grocery store that knows you and knows what you want. Note: EVERY time you buy rice (what you eat EVERY meal), they will be SHOCKED. And the ONE time per month you go for pasta, they will shake their heads and say, "She doesn't eat rice! Those Americans--they don't eat rice like the Malagasy." This is very frustrating.

Here is something you must put up with whenever you go to the market: The giant animal carcasses they're selling. You must deal with the smells, the flies, and the men who try to convince you to buy it even though you tell them time and again that you don't WANT that cow's face, thank you. PS The giant hunks of flesh are transported by throwing the dead body on top your your head no joke. Buying in bulk means taking a shower when you get home.

Details: When street food is too hot, they put it in newspaper or notebook paper. When you get juice, you drink out of the same cups everyone else uses that are then dunked in a bucket of water to clean them. A common sight is a woman with a basket on her head, another in her hand, and a live chicken in the other hand. You kill the chicken before supper, of course. It doesn't seem to mind being carried upside down, by its feet. I find that strange.

Add the walk home and you have my daily market trip!