The Village With No Name
With her child fidgeting on her hip, Leonie grinds her maize by hand. It's gruelling work, but it has to be done. It is just one of the countless chores to be completed before the sun sets, and her home is plunged into darkness. Cut off from the outside world, the inhabitants of this village with no name, located deep in the forest of Madagascar, have learned to become almost entirely self-sufficient, living their lives to the rhythm nature sets.
Reaching the village required a five-hour drive on worn-out roads from Antananarivo, followed by a long hike along the railway line, which carves a path through the forest. It was a hike made harder by a rapidly flowing river crisscrossing the region, which needed wading through to get across. With no running water or electricity, everything in the village had to be done by hand. Washing clothes, building homes, preparing food, and tending to livestock all become backbreaking tasks when deprived of the technology many of us take for granted in our increasingly urban lives.
Walking through the dozen or so straw-roofed homes which made up the forest community, it occurred to me that this is how most of us lived before our ancestors answered the call of the city. So why do some people choose to stay, ignoring the conveniences we have come to depend on just to get through our day? "Because this is my home," Baomirirana, another of the village residents, answered as she prepared her evening meal, "I have lived here all my life; it is what I am used to." Cooking over an open fire within her single-room house, she seemed unbothered by the smoke which filled the room; just one more challenge to face.
Soon, the presence of a stranger in the village brought the neighbours out of their huts. Happy to share stories of lives, they explained how they used the resources the forest provides. Francis, one of the few men I saw in the village, was busy building a chicken coop out of repurposed planks of old wood combined with branches cut from the forest trees. His small flock of chickens ran around his feet, seemingly impatient to try out their new home.
In the short time I spent with the villagers, it was clear that life at the front line of nature was not easy. Yet, despite the many challenges the villagers faced, the close-knit community of around sixty inhabitants seemed as strong as any I discovered in Madagascar. While the rest of the world has become immune to the constant hum of the machines which automate virtually every aspect of everyday life, these villagers live to the sound of nature. I wonder if there are lessons we can learn from their experiences? After all, how many of us could feed our loved ones with vegetables grown from seeds collected from the forest floor? Or build a shelter by hand which could serve as a family home?
Could it be that in our rush to discover the technology of the future, we have forgotten the traditional skills of the past? These are the skills which kept us alive for generations, and yet only a minority of our number can still master them. And while I don't advocate we all return to the old ways — I know I'm not ready to give up the conveniences of modern life — I do suspect we would all benefit from rediscovering some of the skills of our ancestors.
In pursuing that goal, perhaps the village with no name has something to teach us all.
