The Malagasy Post (or, Tectonic Plates have been Known to Move Faster)

Life in Madagascar is often defined by the love/hate relationship. As in: Oh you adorable little children…Why don’t you ever leave me alone? Or, Oh you laidback, easygoing folk…why don’t you ever do anything? Or, even better, Oh yummy! Street food!...why am I throwing up??

But nothing in my life is more aptly characterized by the love/hate paradigm than my relationship with the Malagasy Post. It should not be difficult for you to imagine the love side of the coin: the daily excuses made to walk past the post office, the way my heart lifts when the postman glances up, how my heart catches in my throat as I say, “letters? For me??” And on these good days, the postman himself is so endearing in all the quirks of his trade: the solemn presentation of each letter with accompanying Q&A as to its origins, length of journey, and presumed contents; the elaborate signature ceremony required to claim a package (sign here and here and here and…here!); how every item is stamped with the deliberation and sacredness of ritual. (Though I should mention this last quirk is culture wide. Malagasy LOVE stamps; not the kind you lick, the kind you press to the inkpad and then slam down with the authority to shake the earth, or at least the building).

Of course, there are the bad days: letters that arrive comically out of order or, frequently it seems, not at all; the postcard that arrived with a big, red stamp across the back “MISSENT TO ANGOLA;” the package that was inexplicably returned to the states “MISSENT TO MALTA;” a text from a fellow PCV who lives five hundred miles south, “um, I got some of your mail?” These things make me wonder how many letters with my name on them are slowly turning to dust in, say, Myanmar or Suriname, places I consider synonymous with Madagascar as ‘the void.’

When things do arrive- two to three months after everyone has forgotten they exist- they look a tad worse for the wear. Packages, battered and misshapen, have invariably been opened and are now creatively held together entirely by wax and bits string. More often than not stuffed within one can find a piece of paper which, if remotely legible, would likely read: inspected by so-and-so, who only took what looked particularly tasty. But, as it thrice stamped with that earthshaking authority, one can take comfort in knowing that the graft was official.

Alas, I have reached my limits. The mailman does not know yet that I am breaking up with him; that I can’t deal with the way he toys with my emotions. As the letters dwindle off he will assume what he has thought all along: that I must not have many friends in the states besides my mother, except now he will be forced to conclude she doesn’t love anymore either. Tragic, he will mutter under his breath as I wander past not glancing his way.

So, ye of loyal correspondence, please henceforth direct mail to the address previously posted. [Whether of loyal correspondence or not, now would present the ideal opportunity to innocently inquire as to whether I have received your forty-three letters, your profession of undying love, that check for a hundred dollars, etc. etc.]