Less than a mile from our home is a lake that functions as a water catchment area during the rainy season, but also offers a running trail, a place for young lovers to escape, a livelihood for a small informal community, and maybe a bit of photography.
We took a walk there late one recent afternoon, to try and catch the best light as the sun dropped behind the “Orange” (phone company) building, which doubles as a landmark when we get lost. Along the north side of the lake is a small informal community, living in improvised housing, with chickens, ducks, cows, and garden plots that allow them to keep their families fed along this lake in the middle of a sprawling, crowded city.
We are finding that in Madagascar, everyone smiles and is friendly – if not immediately, at the latest after you greet them in the smattering of Malagasy words we have picked up. They will say “bonjour” but if you respond with “manahoana” you’ll get a huge smile in return. Of course, that makes photography a bit awkward – it’s no good sticking a giant lens in someone’s face after you’ve asked them how they are.
Occasionally, you’ll get people who ask you to take their photos, like these three boys.
Unfortunately, this can be followed by demands for money – which we firmly refused and continued on our way.
As the sun set, we worked our way up into the surrounding neighborhood, a different way than we had come. Narrow lanes winding back and forth, stairways leading to gaps between buildings, unpaved roads with the occasional car crawling between the masses of people making their way home with the day’s groceries. Gradually it dawned on us that we were not really sure where we were, and we asked a trio of older, well-dressed men to point us toward our neighborhood. “In that direction,” one of them pointed out. “but keep your cameras under your jacket.”
Armed only with our smiles and our “manahaonas,” we continued working our way homeward as dusk set in, occasionally pausing to take a photo that caught our “artistic” eye, trying our best to ignore the quizzical looks from the townspeople as they wondered why on earth the vazaha (foreigners) were taking pictures of a shuttered window, or a stray dog next to an empty pizza box.
