Tropical Thanksgiving

The cliffs of the North Bay

A ruined colonial-era bar at Libanona Beach near Jess's house

Libanona Beach, on the East Lagoon

Miramar Beach, and a larger view of the East Lagoon

Written November 26, 2011
Fort Dauphin   

    “Hello, we are merchants,” the two women said, implying, Buy something from us.  They thrust rolls of shiny bracelets towards me.
    “I’m sorry, the fire is dead,” I said.  That’s an Antanosy expression that means I’m broke. “I have spent all my money on vazaha food.  Yes, it makes me sad that the vazaha food here is so expensive.”
    And I was thinking, Where did that lie come from?  There’s no way that’s going to work.  How did I even conceive of saying something like that?  I seem to have opened my mouth and the words flowed out.
    But it did work!  The women agreed it was sad, and immediately started advising me to buy Gasy food instead.  They even launched into walking directions to a slew of restaurants where I could find, “good beef, good beans, good fish, good cat...”
    “Cat?”
    “Yes, cat.  You haven’t eaten cat yet?” The very idea of it, any person, Gasy or vazaha, turning down the chance to eat delicious cat.
    “Okay, thank you, I’ll remember that,” I said, and continued hiking up the hill to Jess’s house.
    Two hours later, Tatum arrived with two turkeys: one alive and clucking weakly, the other dead and gradually turning purple.  The latter had died en route, probably from heat stroke.  The girls gave the surviving bird water and a cardboard box to serve as a coop, showing laudable tenderness toward our captive.
    Before we tore her apart and ate ‘er.
    As the sun drew lower we walked to Island Vibe, where Paul, the PCV from Ambovombe, and Jim, an American expat, were watching football.  American football, with commentary in French, naturally.  It was a nice, relaxed atmosphere, sipping beers and listening to the banter about “les Chiefs contre les Patriots.”
    More expats trickled in, and then a large group of students from SIT, the American Study Abroad program in Fort Dauphin.  Jenny and Susan brought out the appetizer, French bread with a selection of condiments to choose from.  A white fish pate, a green chili sauce, an orange carrot chutney, a tangy powder made from peanuts...
    And that’s how I found out about pet-sakay.  I reached for what I thought was a dish of Marinara sauce.
    It wasn’t Marinara sauce.
    It was the super-concentrated form of the burning hot red peppers, sakay, that grow here.  I’d only eaten the green ones before, and I treated those the way I would dangerous darkroom chemicals.
    Reason stayed with me enough to suppress the urge to run, because you can’t run from the tissues lining your mouth.  I guzzled the last of my beer, then asked, in as calm of a strangled gasp as I could, for more bread.  I polished off half a platter of it, then called for more.  An SIT girl stopped mid-sentence to shoot me a shocked look of, “Are you Peace Corps folks always this hungry?”
    It turns out South African food really isn’t that different from English or American cuisine.  The only dish I found peculiar out of the main course was leeks in a cream sauce.  Otherwise the meal was turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, and glazed carrots. Dessert was a delectable pumpkin pie with plenty of sweet cream.  While the food was excellent, the portions fell somewhat short of our American standards.
    The next morning I rose much earlier than I wanted to so I could pick up the package waiting for me at the post office.  Thanks again, Mom and Dad!  I like the books and the dried fruit the most, but the other PCVs were far more impressed by the box of chocolate peppermint bark from Costco.  Guess I just ain’t been here long enough to get my priorities in order.
    I got back to Jess’s to find that she and her Malagasy friend Hadza had already killed and butchered the turkey.  We made a quick trip out to the main market to pick up more fruits and veggies, navigating the winding back alleys of Fort Dauphin rather than walk in the blinding sun of the main street.
    When we got back Jess fried up the turkey pieces, reminding me of the tempting smells in a Chinese restaurant.  Then she invented what should have been a delicacy among my family in Florida ages ago: turkey-fried shrimp.
    Tatum got back from running errands about noon and the four of us spent the rest of the day sedately cooking the evening’s feast.  I made eggplant stir-fry and a fruit salad of mangoes, pineapple, bananas, and lychees.  Paul and Wes showed up, bringing the drinks.  Wes and I spent a good part of the afternoon talking enthusiastically about video games, while Tatum looked on, saying nothing, apparently amused at our intensity.
    Our dinner was a great success, with a small but delightfully mixed group of guests.  Jim arrived, bringing his Irish friend Barry.  Two of the SIT girls, Jade and Katie, arrived, then Charlene and Michel, a French couple.  Israel’s good friend Skar brought two of his Malagasy friends.  We filled up Jess’s house and exhausted her supply of plates: Jess herself dined on a frisbee.  There were nowhere near enough chairs, nor floor space, so we ate standing, spilling out onto the cool, breezy lawn.
    Afterwards, I’d anticipated going straight to bed.  It was after nine, after all, and I was sleepy and full.  Jim, Barry, Charlene, Michel, the kids, and Skar’s friends seemed to have had the same idea.
    But that’s not how city Volunteers roll.  At Paul and Skar’s urging, the rest of us strolled towards Club Panorama, the city’s most popular nightclub.  Jade and Katie caught a cab to their hotel, promising to change and then meet us at there.  We met Israel and Steph outside, fresh from their holiday in Saint Luce to the west.  We seven Volunteers, plus Skar and Hadza, filed in and, for a few songs, had the dance floor all to ourselves.  In a wall-length mirror I noticed how much I looked like my father when I dance.  That’s neither a good thing nor a bad thing, just an observation.  Maybe it’s that fact that beards are beards, whether they’re Antarctic or Antanosy.
    The place filled up steadily, with everyone from nervous-looking high school girls to awkward French tourists well over fifty.  And many ladies of the night.  They weren’t particularly sexy or intimidating, just part of the place.  Their slavering vazaha customers, though, I could have done without.
    We danced and danced, cooled off out on the terrace facing the ocean, then danced some more.  By the time we got back to Jess’s house, it was almost two.
    And yeah.  That was my Thanksgiving weekend.