Thirty years in Madagascar

by Thomas T. Matthews

I asked Razàka the reason of such repugnance to the proper remedies, and he replied: ‘Simply ignorance, foolishness, and superstition.’ While some few refused the quinine as being too bitter, and others because they were afraid it might bewitch them, the majority declined to take it because it was too powerful! They said they knew very well that the white man’s medicine would cure them, for it was powerful; but it would not only cure them, it would also quite destroy all the virtue of their own medicine. If once they took white man’s medicine, nothing except white man’s medicine would ever cure them again. They had a white man and medicine now, they said, but as they did not know how long they might have either, they preferred keeping to their own òdy, on which they could fall back in their time of need. They did not seemingly take death into account.

As we could not stand aside while these ignorant creatures committed suicide, and practically murdered their children in their folly, bottles of quinine mixture were prepared, and Razàka and the deacons were sent to the villagers and were told: ‘If they won’t take the medicine willingly, pour it down their throats.’ They did so, with the result that the poor creatures were cured, and fell fairly in love with the òdi-tàzo (charm for the fever). They would not take it even for nothing that year; but, the following year, bought £11 worth of quinine during the four months of the fever season!

The Malagasy regarded all disease as the result of witchcraft, and so all medicine was fànafòdy, that which takes off or removes the òdy (witch charm). Our medicine was therefore regarded as the most powerful òdy, which not only cured the patient, but also conquered and destroyed the virtue of all other and weaker òdy. This reluctance is still met with in the darker parts of the island. The people came to call quinine òdi-tàzo, the charm for the fever; a wash for the eyes, òdi-màso, a charm for the eyes; and a cough mixture, òdi-kòhaka, a charm for the cough.

During the time that the epidemic was at its worst, 12 ounces of quinine were disposed of in six months, and we lost only one patient by death in our village. Thus a victory was gained for our medicines and mode of treatment of the sick, while a heavy blow was dealt at the native nostrums and absurd methods of treatment.

Many of these poor sufferers were in a state of delirium. This the Malagasy know as miàrahàba ny akòho, i. e. saluting the fowls. The Malagasy are very polite. If they meet a superior, or if he enters their hut, he is saluted with: Tsàra và tòmpokò è? i. e. ‘Is it well with you, my lord?’ While lying ill with fever, the fowls would find their way into their huts, and hearing the pattering of their feet on the mats, the sick would imagine, in their delirium, that these fowls were their superiors come to visit them, and would salute in the usual way: ‘Is it well with you, my lord?’ Hence one in bad fever delirium was said to be saluting the fowls.

The state of emaciation in which some were brought to us was terrible. Their faces wore a hue between green and grey; the white of the eyes was a greenish yellow, and imparted a hideous aspect to them. The spleen was generally very much enlarged. They were brought in all states and conditions, and sorely taxed my limited medical knowledge, as they taxed my sympathies. Poor miserable slaves—more like skeletons encased in leather than human beings—came begging for quinine. They had no money to buy it, nor would their masters give them any; but I could not refuse them medicine.

My wife and I both suffered severely from the fever, which left us very limp and shattered in health; but we felt thankful that our children escaped as they did. As soon as we were able to travel, we went to the hills for a month, which braced us up again.

During my absence the ritualists made another attempt to get a footing in the district; but they failed. By throwing the burden of keeping the teachers they wished to send out of the district upon the natives themselves, I so put them on their mettle that they were more anxious than even I was to keep them at a distance.

After the epidemic of fever, we had a slight visitation of small-pox. Of course the majority of the people were very foolish over vaccination. Great numbers of them would neither be vaccinated, nor allow their children to be so. Still, we did manage to vaccinate a fair number of children, and more adults than at any former time. Only a few could be persuaded to bring back their children, that others might be vaccinated from them, or the lymph be taken off. I taught a few of the more intelligent pastors, local preachers, and teachers how to vaccinate and supplied them with lymph, and so we had most of the people in our own immediate neighbourhood vaccinated one way or another. I was very anxious to get that done, as four of our own children had not been vaccinated, and I had no lymph with which to do them until I obtained some from England. Yet though we had vaccinated all in the villages near us, it was not such a protection as it ought to have been, as the garments of those who died of small-pox were in many cases sold in the public market!

The natives had rather a rough and ready way of vaccinating. They made three small cuts on the left arm with a piece of glass—generally a piece of a broken bottle—put in the lymph, closed the cuts, and then put on a small plaster of boiled rice to keep the edges together. Some of my cases did not ‘take,’ but I think all theirs did.