My Walk to School

When I was a child, I always wanted to walk to school, but living nearly three miles from school in another town, this wasn’t feasible. Here in Madagascar, we live a 20 minute walk from the school where I teach. So my dream of walking to school has become a reality but it’s nothing like I pictured when I was a child.

Just outside of our gate, I trudge through reddish brown dirt on a narrow footpath through a weedy lot until I reach the road in our neighborhood of Ambohinambo. Sometimes the zebu cattle are already grazing, tied to an invisible point, with their owners nowhere in sight. I pass children, in their blue smock uniforms, also on their way to school. They smile shyly at me or call out “Bonjour!” to which I reply with the traditional Malagasy greeting, “Manahoana!” As the road turns to cobblestone from dirt, I reach the nearest shop, a small cement building, with a table laden with vegetables next to it. Our vegetable seller and her oldest daughter will be manning the table. “Handeha hampianatra ve? Are you going to teach?” they ask. I nod the affirmative, comment on the weather, and maybe pause to place an order for corn or beans which I will pick up on my return home. “Mazoto!” they wish me as I continue on my way (literally this means, diligent, but it’s meant as well-wishing like the English, “Have a good day!”).

“Manahoana, tompoko!” I call to the bread seller. “Manahoana! Salama tsara!—I am well!” she replies. The traffic increases as I near the marketplace and the main intersection of our suburb, Talatamaty. Dodging a wooden cart drawn by two zebu cattle harnessed together, I call out “Manahoana!” to the men perched on top of the load. At the corner, I weave my way through the crowd gathered around the newspaper stand, catching up on the daily news. Turning left, I move into the main street, as the narrow sidewalk is too congested to walk on. Carefully, I make my way between the throngs of people moving on my left and the stopped traffic on my right. I pass the gendarme or police officers directing traffic and ask, “Inona no vaovao—what’s the news?” They typically reply, “Tsy misy—there isn’t any,” even though there is always something happening! As the sidewalk widens at the bus stop, I gradually make my way off the road, careful not to get in the way of any of the sellers who have arrived on the bus, heavy loads of rice or vegetables balanced on their heads. The bus driver honks his horn and his helper calls out, “Miakatra,” as the two gather passengers for their trip into Antananarivo.

Fruit and vegetable peelings cover the ground as people prepare their stands to sell for the day. I step wherever I can find a place while the city workers, men in coveralls, sweep the sidewalk. In about an hour, the way will be clear again. The congestion increases again as I began the downhill descent to the school’s entrance. Backpack slung over my left shoulder, braced by the same arm, I am aware for possible pickpockets but also just trying to make myself smaller than my 5 feet, 11 inches as I bend below market umbrellas and twist and turn, trying to stay out of the way of those carrying loads much heavier than my own. If I don’t watch it, I’ll trip over a basket of French bread or accidently smash someone’s neat piles of oranges arranged for sale on a cloth on the ground. Finally, I reach the steep cobblestone driveway of the school, anxious to begin to teaching, but also looking forward to the afternoon when I will enter the Malagasy mayhem of buying and selling once again.