Village House

As we wandered along the main path through the village, Lachaka waved our group to one side.

“Come this way,” he said, steering us down a narrow walkway.

“Where are we going?” people asked.

“A woman wishes to show you her house,” he explained.

Sure enough, a woman stood in front of a small hut. As we approached, she smiled and beckoned for us to come closer.

I looked for a place to leave a tip, but Lachaka said, “No, no. She doesn’t want money. She only wants you to see her house.”

Most people declined, but to me it felt rude not to take up her offer.

A French couple stepped forward with me, and we walked inside her home. The front porch was a tire filled with sand, and playing cards were strewn about the entrance. (Everything else was so tidy that I wonder if the cards were there on purpose, but I don’t really know.)

The interior of her home was sparse but very tidy. Bundles of flowers hung from the walls creating a lovely aroma as well as cheery decoration.

The woman did not speak English, and I don’t know any Malagasy, but I did my best to convey my gratitude with a smile.Baca lagi