June 22, 2004
"Three Horses Beer??"
by Sean McCarthy

I’ve been feeling a little sick today, so I stayed in the house to rest. It gives me the chance to write about something that has puzzled me since my first night here in Madagascar. The Malagasy beer is called “Three Horses Beer.” It is a pilsner and doesn’t taste very different from normal American beer. It is usually pretty good, but every once and awhile you’ll catch a bottle that ain’t as fresh as the others.

The quality of the beer is not what puzzles me though. It is its name. In my three weeks here, I’ve traveled through quite a bit of country roads and farmlands. I have not seen a single horse on this Island yet. There are more zebu (type of cattle here) than people in Madagascar, but I haven’t seen a single horse. I thought maybe there were only three horses, and they were kept at the brewery to inspire the brewers. Perhaps it is true, although probably not.

Also, in a country that has two main languages, Malagasy and French, why would the most popular beer of the country have a name in English? These are the types of deep philosophical questions that keep me awake at night. That, and the fact that I am sleeping on the ground.

After discussing these questions with some other members of the fossa team, the answer seems to lie in the desire to be like Americans. Perhaps the “Three Horses” are supposed to hint at the famous Budweiser Clydesdales. Whatever the reasoning, the marketing of “Americanism” seems very prevalent over here. From hearing covers of Garth Brooks’ “If Tomorrow Never Comes” to so many American sports teams on the clothes, it seems rather popular to be American.

So apparently there aren’t three mystical horses watching over the barley and hops at the Star brewery in Tana, but there is a dude with a huge nose. Luke told me this story and I feel obligated to pass it on while I’m talking about Three Horses Beer (THB).

The beer bottles, like everything in Madagacar, are reused as often as possible. At the THB brewery, there is a group of women that rinse out the returned bottles with bleach and water before they are sent to be refilled. However, before they pass the washing stage, there is an old man with a giant nose that takes each bottle, holds it to his nose, and takes a whiff. If he can still smell beer, it goes back to the women to be more thoroughly cleaned. You gotta love the simplicity of it.