Market, Schmarket

Tonight, I had planned to write about the new market that just opened near my house. It is a building with a concrete foundation and a strong roof that should withstand the cyclones that come through each January. However, in the case of my neighbourhood market, there was a second incentive to finish by the end of September : federal deputy elections were this week and the current president lives nearby.

There have always been vendors around my house. Some sell in shops, some from simple tables, most from wooden shacks that line a steep, narrow cobblestone staircase. The families that run these épiceries are kind, honest, hardworking; when I come by for eggs or soap or rice they help me learn the malagasy words for each, and if I am out after dark a son or husband walks me home.

I wish I could write about the bright, proud faces of those vendors who moved into the new space. I wish the focus could be on the positive change in health and safety standards, on women’s empowerment, on ‘capacity building’. Instead I have to write about what I found this morning.

Crushed stalls, burnt tables. The broken bones of our fokotany. The old vendors and their merchandise has vanished overnight, and though I don’t have an answer yet, I suspect it has to do with the current government’s effort to ‘clean up’ Tana. These hardworking community members provided critical access to food staples for those who can’t make it to the downtown Zoma market, and many were saving up to eventually rent a stall in the shiny new space. Clearly somebody lost patience and instead of lending a hand, razed the block and with it the pulse of Anjohy, Trois Chemins.

What's in Season? Mandarins and strawberries are on their way out. Pineapple and mangoes are coming in....

Taxi, Mademoiselle?

Me: Combien pour Anjohy, trois chemins?
Driver: Anjohy? Because it's uphill, but because you are très belle, I give you good price. 5000.
Me: Vous rigolez, monsieur. It shouldn't be more than 12 500.
Driver: Ahhhh.... (he squints up at the mountain) 4000 then.
Me: 15 000, sinon I go to your neighbour.
The driver flicks the latch on the back door in silent acceptance of my final offer.

This bargaining may seem bizarre at first since I just insisted on a price three times higher than the driver's first offer, but Mada operates on two currencies. Fmg are discontinued but better understood by locals. Ariary are worth five times more and are a government response to currency devaluation. When negotiating, I try to talk in Fmg because it makes me seem like I've been here for longer and am thus less likely to be taken advantage of. The driver uses Ariary because it allows him to move in larger increments. Across Tana you can eavesdrop on these seemingly senseless interactions. And across Tana, residents are exceptionally quick at dividing by 5.

Geode huntin'

We are 5 vahazas up early at the dock to board a decrepit ferry across the Mahajanga delta. About a hundred people and a dozen cars are crowded around a boat not fit to carry more than 50 people. There is room for one vehicle on the back, and I feel ashamed when we budge the line to snag the spot (it turns out the driver had actually reserved in advance). We splash through 2 feet of water to get to the boat, and the crowd scrambles for space. While the roof rack is piled high with 6 mattresses others stuff cases of pop and water underneath. We want to get out of the car and meet people, but there isn’t even space to open the doors.

Upon arrival at the other side, the IMAX movie begins. The road gets rough and rougher until it disappears completely. Faced with a 100m wide stretch of river and mud, we gingerly attempt to cross first on foot and finally with the truck. On the other side we face a steep rock pile that requires us to gather logs and stones in order to build a safe passage. Next we beat down grass so tall I feel like I’m underwater.

After an hour of grass, mud, rock, river and occasionally road, we arrive at the village where we seek permission to visit a crystal mine. Stupidly we have forgotten that it is Sunday morning and everyone but us is at church. Still, a boy riding a bike with a fender that reads ‘Dieu seul le sait’ (Only God knows) leads us to the mine where our arrival sparks a scrambles to hide any stones of value (mineral rights are a controversial subject). After a brief warm-up they agree to give us a tour of the mine and slowly start bringing specimens up from underground. A particularly confusing bargaining session gets underway and after an hour we leave having paid too much for large geodes that are worth approximately nothing even before the fragile crystals are broken on the rough ride back to the ferry. We wiggle our truck past the big game hunters and squeeze onto the boat, making it back to the mainland beach in time to swim at sunset.

(What's in season? I had a delicious mango in Mahajanga but I haven't seen any since. Still a little early I guess)