The MCC: Culmination of Stress, Commencement of Crazy
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned my planning for the
American Mobile Cultural Center (MCC) in previous blog posts. Short background: I started bugging the US
Embassy via email for support, or at least advice, in creating an English center
in Fort Dauphin sometime last spring.
They kindly informed me that they wouldn’t be able to build any American
Corners or English for the Environment Centers here in the near future, but
they were supportive in that they invited me to chat with them at the Embassy
when I passed through Tana and gave me boxes full of English-language books. Finally,
sometime after I’d gotten back from the states last summer, they told me about
their new MCC idea, a sort of multimedia center promoting awareness of the environment,
American culture, and the English language.
It would travel around the country, staying a month at each location. They suggested I try to bring this to the FD
as sort of a warm-up to the actual English center that still exists only in my
mind.
This turned out to be a bigger task than I expected. Luckily, I’d already made all the right
connections. I asked Rio Tinto, the
mining company whose employees I’d taught over the summer, to be my partner and
financial supporter in the endeavor. They
enthusiastically agreed and generously donated the main room of their community
center to house the MCC. The only major
problem was transporting the MCC to Fort Dauphin. Since roads to the deep south of the island
can be impassible during the rainy season (January – March), and that’s when it
was scheduled to arrive, all parties agreed that shipment to the Ehoala Port in
Fort Dauphin would be the best solution.
The embassy has almost no budget for transportation of the MCC, so the
bulk of my work from October – January was working with the Port director to
get free shipping, figuring out how the cargo shipping industry works (much
more complicated than I was expecting, by the way), and acting as a general
coordinator of the whole thing. There
were so many unforeseen issues, and there’s no way I could’ve gotten anything
accomplished without almost daily internet access. I may complain sometimes about being located
in a city and therefore not being a “real” Peace Corps volunteer, but I can’t
take for granted the advantages I have for actually being able to carry out
medium to large-scale projects.
Long story short(er), it all worked out in the end – just
two months later than expected. Representatives
from the embassy came down to help set it up and for the opening ceremony. The center itself was incredibly modern, very
strange to see in this country. Tall
metal columns displayed banners with pictures of Ranomafana (which is their
focus this year) and even a picture of my PC stage at our swearing in ceremony. Attached to two of the columns were four LCD
screens displaying slideshows of pictures.
There were four laptops, a big-screen HD television, projector, DVD
player, a bunch of DVDs, computer games/programs, and tons of books. With the help of Rio Tinto, I arranged an
opening ceremony for many of the VIPs in town.
It was unbelievably professional by Peace Corps standards. Then again, everything in Madagascar has to
be overly official. There were
several speakers, a tour of the MCC, and a “cocktail” (buffet of various finger
foods and sodas) to follow.
The center stayed in Fort Dauphin for a month. We were open 6 days a week, including
weekends, from morning until evening.
The DVDs were a big hit, especially the ones with English subtitles. The computer games were popular with the
younger crowd, and the more serious learners used the laptops for English
listening practice. The books were the
main attraction. There three bookshelves
with books about the environment, American history and culture, democracy,
youth activism, and the English language.
We also had supplemental activities like guest speakers, group
discussions, games, and contests.
For the most part, the MCC was extremely successful. In fact, I’d say that at a certain point it
was actually too successful, attracting 100+ visitors (mostly students) at a
time, which was a disturbance to the people working in the building’s
offices. For a perfectionist such as
myself, it’s difficult for me to look back upon the month of March and not
brood about all of the problems we encountered.
Thus began March Mada-ness...again.
What is it about this month...?
Just to give a brief overview of the issues faced: too
many school kids (not the studious kind), too few professionals, too many
people asking for direct translations of long lists of the most
random/irrelevant vocabulary imaginable, misinterpretation of the purpose of
the MCC, disappointment about the lack of English classes, disappointment and
outright hostility about the center not being permanent, and a high rate of
book theft. All of these reasons, but in
particular the book/CD theft, sent me into another downward mental spiral that
has yet to completely abate.
What travelers, new PCVs, people at home – pretty much
anyone who hasn’t lived in a developing country – don’t always realize is that
there is no “poor, starving, innocent African” (emphasis on the
“innocent”…obviously there’s a lot of poor, starving people) population that we
idealize for movies and humanitarian aid donation commercials. This is just a generalized image, kind of
like the “all white people are rich” stereotype here. In reality, everyone’s got evil in them. For instance, that poor man on crutches with
the polio-twisted leg is still a pervert, and I feel no guilt passing him by
when he tries to strike up a conversation about where I live and when he can
visit. I’ve mentioned in previous posts
how the little kids on the beach by my house are trained to give big
googly-eyes, hold their stomachs, and beg for money whenever they see a white
tourist. Sure some of them are
significantly mal-nourished, but you know what will probably happen to the
money you give them? They’ll deliver it
to their parents who’ll put it in the moonshine fund, and the kids will scamper
off and play until the next tourist passes by.
I had a family down by the beach that I liked to help out here and
there, even lent money to when they desperately needed it (because the dad had
spent all of their money getting drunk).
I thought I did it subtly, but it ended up causing so much drama among
the other families (jealousy, arguments, whispering behind each other’s backs,
attempts to falsely befriend me, rumors that people would attempt to steal
things from me) that I now refuse to give anything to anyone on that beach. Same goes for tourists, most of whom would be
astonished to know that their gifts of food, toys, or money actually cause more
drama and jealousy than happiness and appreciation.
Anyway my point is, people are just as evil here as they
are back home. I have the capacity to
loathe individuals just as much as I can love them. It’s never bothered me that much and
definitely never dampened my motivation to work or live here as a PCV.…at least
not until the MCC klepto-fiasco. The
technology and quality of materials available at the MCC are far beyond
anything the people here in the south of the island will ever have access to,
yet the Embassy made the center open to the public and free of charge. The Embassy and I worked our asses of to
bring it down here, and what do the people do?
Complain. Complain that we don’t
sell the books, complain that I won’t let them [illegally] burn the DVDs,
complain that there aren’t enough ________, complain that the center isn’t
permanent, complain that one month isn’t enough time to learn English (NOT the
purpose of the MCC, by the way)…
Essentially visitors decided that, even though the MCC must travel
around the whole of Madagascar, they themselves are entitled to keep the
incredibly expensive, high-quality materials because it’s not fair to share
them with the rest of the country. Thus
began the stealing.
This sent me over the edge. It felt like we’d given the people a gift and
in turn received a slap in the face. Not
to mention it was unbelievably embarrassing for me, the representative of the town, after having talked Fort
Dauphin up to embassy officials for nearly a year. I thought about all the cultural issues I’ve
faced in the past year and a half and began to question everything I’m doing
here. Why try to help people who have no
interest in helping themselves? Don’t
they understand how this damages their already lackluster national
reputation? How can I get anything
accomplished in a culture that thinks Robin Hood-ing is acceptable?
At this point, I’m still pretty bummed about the whole
situation, but I have to keep reminding myself that the MCC did accomplish a
lot of good things and the books were probably stolen by a select group of
misfits rather than the vast majority of visitors. I think the main reason it killed my spirit
was because the MCC project was just a warm-up for my actual goal of creating a
permanent English-learning center. But
whatever, membership fees and a few security cameras should solve most issues.
Things I Still Love about the Culture
I sometimes wonder if my blog posts are
overly-negative. Kind of like how, when
PCVs get together, we tend to discuss all of our problems and frustrations and
things we miss about home rather than our successes and joyful gooey
feelings. The positive stuff just isn’t
as fun to talk about. But it’s still
there. Therefore, I’ve compiled a list
of things I still find wonderful or fascinating about Madagascar.
·
Sharing culture.
As selfish as people seem when they ask me to give them things like
money, clothes, jewelry, and candy, I’ve found that those same people are just
as willing to share what little they have with me. One time I broke my flip-flop in town and had
to walk home barefoot. Several girls who
normally won’t let me pass without asking me for money declared:
“Jess, you’re not wearing
flip-flops.”
“I know.”
“Why??”
“They broke when I was walking.”
“Oh… Do you want to use mine?”
The Malagasy family that lives
next to me is another example. They
don’t think twice about lending me household tools, oil or salt, a bucket,
their cat, a DVD, etc. In return, I lend
them sugar and coffee and don’t complain when their chickens and ducks walk
through my house and occasionally poo on my floor.
(A side note: Lending money,
however, doesn’t work in this country.
I’ve never successfully lent it out and gotten any returned.)
·
What to do with a thieving kid: Whoop his arse. I was once walking out of the marketplace
where a kid had just attempted to steal a bottle of cooking oil. The old man selling the oil grabbed the kid,
threw him on the ground, and started whacking him for a good 30-40 seconds
while I and the rest of the people on the street watched. By the time the old man was finished, the kid
was bawling and ran home while we just watched, shaking our heads at the nerve
of the little hoodlum. No one screamed
or jumped in to “save” the kid or called child protective services. And you know what? I bet he’ll never steal again.
·
Kickass old people. They walk tens of miles barefoot everyday
through all weather conditions carrying enormously heavy loads on their
shoulders or heads just to support themselves and their families. Americans start complaining about every ache
and pain as soon as we hit middle-age.
If one thing can be said about the Malagasy – they are made to
endure. On taxi-brousses, for example,
everyone from old ladies to small children (seriously) sits tranquilly on often
painful seats where you’re literally crammed in like cattle for hours or
days. In this same situation, I’ve been
known to squirm and adjust my positioning because I long ago lost feeling in my
legs. I’ll admit I’ve even shed a few
tears because I’ve never had to endure such intense discomfort for such long
periods of time.
·
Death in general. I admire the way people here deal with death,
though I could never hope to emulate it.
When someone dies, it’s just as sad and painful to close friends and family,
but in this culture, it’s not life-stopping.
It doesn’t cause psychological problems or tear families apart. There is a time to mourn, but it’s short and
people get back to their regular lives immediately after, simply because they
have to. You can’t buy take-out or
frozen dinners here just because you’re too sad to cook or take care of the house. If you don’t go to work, your family won’t
have enough money for food, school, rent.
According to one local
tradition, when someone dies, a certain species of tree is cut into a coffin
and sealed with a glue-like substance after placing the body inside. People from surrounding villages come and sit
in the yard around the house. The women
cry, the men don’t. They drink coffee
and help the family of the deceased.
They sit through the night and sing, chat, dance, but don’t sleep. Goats, sheep, or zebu are killed for the
mourners. They do this every night for a
week. Assuming all long-distance family
has arrived by then, mourners bring gifts of money, cloth, or livestock to the
family. The body is buried on an
auspicious day, as determined by an ombiasa
(witch doctor). A zebu is killed for the
guests.
Death of people you don’t know
is regarded a bit less reverently than in the states. Haja and I were walking down the street once
and he sniffed the air. “Misy olo maty,”
he said. There’s a dead person around
here. We then walked on as I tried to
pretend that I wasn’t disturbed by the fact that the odors of death constantly
linger around town. Haja’s aunt and
cousin came to visit my house once. They
passed by the beach just as fisherman were pulling out a body they had caught
in their net. Unaware, I greeted them
when they arrived at my house and we sat in the yard and chatted for a half-hour or so. They then casually mentioned what they’d seen
on the way and asked me if I wanted to go “look at the dead guy” with them. Part of me was excited, since I’ve never seen
a body that wasn’t embalmed and nicely prepared for public viewing. A much bigger part of me, though, was
freaking out, hands sweating, heart racing, terrified of how I might
react. On the way, they joked about how
fish like to eat the eyes and tongues of bodies in the ocean (keep in mind that
his aunt lost her brother to the sea).
Luckily, the body had already been removed by the time we walked down
the hill. That was the third body (that
I know of) pulled onto the beach by my house since I’ve lived here. I still wonder if and when I’ll see one wash
up on shore.
