< Magazine Index > < Index For This Edition > < Subscribe >

In other sections of the market, one could buy large locks of human hair, old “1970s” stereo systems, any type of clothing, hand carved items and old magazines (Kiss was featured on one cover). Some stalls sold new shoes. Others sold shoes made from recycled tires. Nearly all of the goods are junk by American standards. It was actually more like hundreds of garage sales than any thing in the U.S. The stalls were so close together that there was barely enough room for two people to pass in the crowded isles. Outside of the Zoma area, throughout the city, there were also many stands and small stores, but the market was the only place with variety. Some people claimed that it was the biggest daily market in the world. This is understandable as it was one of the only shopping areas for people in Tana to find a large selections of goods.

Since my last visit to Tana, there had been lots of changes. The Zoma had been closed and thousands of street vendors had been removed. The streets of the old Zoma were being repaved. The poles of street lights, which never had any lights, were being painted. Sod was being laid in the center of the boulevard and elaborate stone curbs were being placed where muddy drainage ditches full of garbage once were. This renovation project was being paid for as a gift from the Japanese government. The talk in the streets was that Japan was also about to ask to buy the fishing rights of Madagascar. It can be argued that the money would be better spent on social programs. However, several people suggested that having a capital city to be proud of can help boost standards and expectations of its people.

I did find my way to ANGAP during this current visit to Tana, but nobody there knew anything about a group of short people complaining about their forest being cut down. This doesn’t mean that its not true. After spending any time in Madagascar, one quickly learns that there is never any assurance that even the most basic information you are getting is accurate. Even within the a single organization, an inquiry may produce completely different facts depending on who you talk to and what the weather is like. Researchers here quickly learn to ask many people the same question and weigh the validity of each response. However, it seemed that I wasn't going to find any truth to my story in Tana, so I packed my bag and took the next ride I could find back to the relaxing rainforest setting of Ranomafana.

Later that week, I took a two hour trip to Fianarantsoa (Fianar) to talk to Sambo Clement. Sambo is a Malagasy anthropologist whom I had worked with. He teaches at a university, and lives in an old building that was owned by the Catholic church atop the tallest hill in town. To enter, one has to walk through a gate in the courtyard and then through a set of heavy wooden church like doors. Sambo was always excited and eager to chat about local culture. We sat in the living room; which was full of antique furniture. Everything was carved from a rich dark wood, and the chairs and sofa were covered in burgundy velvet cushions. It was extremely elaborate for a Malagasy home.

We enjoyed the challenges we faced while communicating. I didn’t speak French well, and he didn’t speak any English. We reverted to a French / English dictionary or simply drew pictures to communicate. Sambo encouraged difficult questions about Malagasy cultures. He felt that if someone were willing to struggle with him, he would be happy to teach them. Hours were spent listening intently to each other; trying to learn the other’s ideas. Excitement and anticipation were felt throughout the discussions. This would end in cheers of gratitude. “Yes! I think you have got it!” he would say after having spent the last hour probing and exploring the ins and outs of a new idea.

Sambo often asked me to join his family for lunch. As the guest, I received the largest serving of rice with my boiled fish and ground cassava leaves. As always in Madagascar, rice water was the drink. At lunch we would take a break from answering the world’s anthropology problems. He and his family would ask about Michael Jordan or Michael Jackson; whom are popular faces on T-shirts. Madagascar is full of surplus T-shirts and hats from the United States. Even last year’s Olympic hats were starting to be seen in the street stalls during my stay in the country.

Before I left Sambo’s house that day, I asked him about this tribe. He hadn’t heard the story on the radio and didn’t know of any Pygmies in Madagascar but suggested, “There is a very remote people that live on the southeast coast near Tulear. They are called Mikea. I don’t think that this story could be of any other people. If the story on the radio is true, it’s definitely the Mikea.” It sounded plausible to me. Nevertheless, a visit to Tulear would be needed to explore the story further.

Sambo provided the name of a friend in Tulear that he used to teach with. Sambo mentioned that the Mikea may be suspicious of a white foreigner. He said that they will be aware of the presence of any visitor in the forest. They will surely hide until they feel comfortable. I would need to leave them a gift once I get in their area. The next day, I could possibly have to leave another gift. This should continue this until the Mikea reveal themselves. The time frame for this entire process was uncertain. Perhaps they will never show themselves, but Sambo believed that eventual they would. He wished me the best of luck and told me to be sure to stop back and let him know how things went. I promised him I would.

The Mikea represent a pre-colonial Africa. The western nations have had their influence on all corners of the world. The only way to know what impact we have is to understand what existed before. However, with every progressive introduction from the west into a culture, its past becomes less clear. It is not just an absence of western culture that I was pursuing. It was the pure qualities of a unique culture. This essence goes beyond the basic representation through crafts or music. The essence lies in the perceptions and attitudes about life that are most easily lost in a changing culture. I sought to understand what lies at the heart of the African legacy.

I set out to find the heart of Africa the day after Easter. I packed my duffel with everything I might possibly need to survive a long voyage. The Malagasy say that the luggage of a Vazaha (foreigner) is twice as heavy as it looks; and with the modern conveniences of super compact camping equipment, my extra strong bag (made out of the same stuff that bullet proof vests are made of), experience in packing tightly, and pure necessity, my luggage was twice as heavy as the normal Vazaha. I always feel sorry for the person who insisted on carrying my bag for me. They never seemed to grasp the concept that it has wheels for a reason. I walked to the hotel/restaurant in Ranomafana, bought a Coke, sat on my luggage, leaned back and waited for a passing taxi-brousse to take me to Fianar.

After about an hour, a taxi-brousse arrived. The driver took one look at my bag and laughed. He said that it would cost me extra. I knew this was nonsense because people have tied goats on top and haven’t had to pay extra. The money was really insignificant to me. After all, we were only debating about thirty cents here and there, but on principle I felt that I shouldn’t have to pay any more than Malagasy. The driver eventually conceded that the fare would only have to be a fraction of his original request. This was a way for both of us to win and get the hell out of there. The taxi-brousse was a small 1968 Peugeot pickup truck with eighteen people in it. I was number nineteen and shared a seat on the tail gate with two other people. The road to Fianar was unpaved for the first hour and a half, and then turned into a paved highway. We were just outside Fianar when it began to rain; Hard. People scrambled to untie the tarp over the back cabin, but it was too late. The seats were all wet and so were the passengers, but they just took it in stride.

We arrived at the taxi-brousse station in Fianar. It is a large dirt parking lot with old wooden shacks around the perimeter where each company parks its cars when they arrive. I was immediately swarmed by people trying to get me to take their taxi-brousse. A quick survey of the lot revealed that only two companies went to Tulear. Tulear is about 300 miles from Fianar. Nevertheless, it would take about 36 hours to make the trip because of bad road conditions. I asked each company when they planned to leave. There were several different responses; ranging from 8:00 that evening to three days from then. I tried drawing a calendar to help clarify the issue but that only confused people more. After inquiring to many people, I felt confident that there would be a taxi-brousse arriving from Tana sometime in the middle of the night. That gave me time to lock my bag to a post and go get some dinner.