It was probably the distant shouting that awoke me from my uncomfortable sleep. Shifting from my tight corner seat in the back of the "taxi-brousse", Malagasy French for an over-stuffed minibus, I noticed we were not moving. This didn't seem ideal for a roughly 18 hour journey from Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, to Morondava, a west coast city on the strait of Mozambique. I drowsily followed some of the passengers out onto a random stretch of road. In the 10pm darkness, I could make out that all the cars were stopped. I heard the shouting erupt again and my fears flared to the worst. "Is there fighting?" I asked my guide Vonjy. "No," he simply replied. We walked towards a bridge in the road and saw a dirt path leading off road down to the river from where the commotion was coming. There I found myself amidst a crowd of Malagasy people shouting and cheering, and witnessed a taxi-brousse attempting to ford the river. Well the river wasn't the problem, it was the steep river bank on the other side.
The taxi-brousse charged up the river bank, reaching halfway before dejectedly sliding back down. A good portion of the crowd laughed, while the rest shouted what I guessed were a mixture of instructions and heckles. Someone procured a rope and tied it to the front bumper, and a group of people coordinated to drag the van up while another group pushed from below. Then the rope snapped, and the woman next to me laughed hysterically.
Ok so these taxi-brousses, secondhand imports from Korea or Germany, were trying to all-terrain up a ravine in the middle of the night. Confused, I trudged back up and found a truck with its hood popped open right at the entrance to the bridge. This was a semi-truck, 18 wheeler perhaps. Suddenly I realized the gravity and unfortunateness of the situation. The road narrowed into the one-lane bridge and this truck had died in a spot where no car could possibly cross the bridge, leading to the off-road theatrics below.
"What do we do now?" Vonjy produced another simple reply. "This is Madagascar." How often I've heard variations of that phrase - This is China. This is Africa. Pura vida, eso es Costa Rica. So often we with the privilege of the developed world, when faced with problems, instinctually want to solve them. It can be a tough transition to adopt the mindset of those in less resourced places to accept that sometimes situations are outside your control. As I stood there under the light of a full moon, in the middle of Madagascar far from cell phone coverage, watching the vehicular bottleneck slowly increase, all I could do was smile. If nothing else, I had blog material.
Up til then, I had done little in Madagascar. This was my first ever trip to Africa, and I had chosen this island nation that had long fascinated me to explore. However, immediately after my first meal, a dessert crepe, in Antananarivo (the capital), I experienced one of the worst food poisonings of my life. I was bedridden for a full day and a half, saved by a doctor who gave me an IV injection in French. I suspect that the crepe was just the straw that broke the camel's back, for my stomach had already made its struggles to adapt to foreign bacteria in my preceding two day layover through Ethiopia. After sleeping off the doctor's visit, I was able to drag myself out to see the palace, and then inquire about a tour to the west coast. Madagascar is one of the poorest countries in the world (183 out of 191) and not a place you can easily see the sights on your own. I had already lost too many days to do the full tour, but the tour company made a revised itinerary. After sending me four emails between 2-4am asking me to confirm that I was ok with the plan, we met early in the morning and he pressured me to leave for the tour right then and there. Realizing that I didn't have many other options for seeing the country, I reluctantly agreed to go, just a day into recovery. The original plan involved taking a "comfort luxury bus" 4 hours to Antsirabe and then 12ish hours to Morondava the next day. However, as we drove around looking for public buses, we couldn't find any supposedly due to the Independence Day three days out. It took a few hours before we found a taxi-brousse, a packed heap (four to a row) far from comfort or luxury, leaving directly for Morondava. I wasn't excited to spend 16 hours in that thing when I couldn't even pass something solid, but I also didn't want to mope around Antananarivo either.
So I had plenty to gripe about even before this indefinite delay. However, the Malagasy spirited imbued the blockade with positivity. Through more shouting of instructions, the taxi-brousses learned to reverse far down the river, then accelerate with enough of a head of steam to clear the riverbank. I saw maybe four or five do this successfully, all to thunderous cheering. A handful of other taxis also swapped out people and cargo, and then U-turned back where they came. Unfortunately our driver was not willing to make either this exchange nor the riverbank maneuver. As the night got colder and colder, folks gathered brush and created fires which dozens of us would huddle around. Someone started brewing coffee, someone else started a small dance party. The waylaid crowd, which might have exceeded two thousand, seemed genuinely upbeat overall. Somehow as so often is the case, I was the only foreigner around.
Food poisoning update? I had thankfully stopped being desperate to go, but let's just say it was crucial having my own tissues, and there was plenty of remote ground to explore.
In fact, in that exploration I had climbed to higher ground and saw the roof of my taxi-brousse where a duck was tied up in a bag and rolling around. This explains a phenomenon where earlier I had been spooked by squawking from above. Now I understood - this is Madagascar. I had to accept that I couldn't inform my girlfriend and family of my predicament. My phone, kindle and external battery slowly drained, and losing my digital attention crutches, I stared up at a night sky teeming with more stars than I'd seen in years and made out the Southern Cross. My thoughts ranged freely from the poverty in the environs, to the plot points of scattered movies from long ago, to the still beauty of this dry remote part of this remote island to sailors from long ago on wooden ships passing the equator and seeing the Southern Cross emerge, this same set of burning gas orbs unfathomably distant as I accessed neurological linkages typically inactive during my domesticated internet-addicted routine-filled existence that now also felt unfathomably distant.
At 5am, the cows came home. Actually they were leaving home going to work. A farmer led four zebus down the road, around the dead truck, over the bridge, and presumably onto his fields. It took until 6:30am for the cavalry to arrive, one small truck to tow the head of the dead truck and a new head to take over the body. It took two frustrating hours before they figured out how to free the head, and just eight more minutes to tow away the body and decongest this rural road.
Hurdle removed, but there was still so much road ahead. I had been warned that the roads were bad. While this entire route was paved, much of the paving had deteriorated into potholes or worse, and the taxi-brousses would slow down to a crawl when going over them. Finally 80km from Morondava the road stayed paved, and the driver would speed through, making some shocking passes on tight roads. Within sight of our destination, the taxi-brousse made pitstops, picking up firewood and chatting with the vendor. I was apoplectic, having run out of patience hours ago and desperate just to stretch my legs. Remarkably, no one else in our bus seemed perturbed and even the kids behaved well. No one else that is, except for the duck, which had made enough trouble on the roof that they packed him in the trunk with our luggage, where his excrement leaked his way onto my bag. And you didn't think it could get worse. It was night again when we finally rolled into the bus station in Morondava, 29 hours after we had set off. While passengers alighted and engaged in joyful family reunions, I hightailed it to our hotel and was asleep within 10 minutes.
*****
The actual tourism part of the trip proceeded and featured a more favorable highlight-to-disaster ratio. Vonjy showed up with a driver friend Nono and a Range Rover that had Korean on its mirrors and romanized Arabic on its license plate. We went north onto dirt roads that made the awful paved roads of the previous day seem like the Autobahn.
Allée des Baobabs |
Though many may know Madagascar as a DreamWorks movie, this trip was actually inspired by Geoguessr, where I had once been placed in the Avenue of the Baobabs and learned about a stretch of iconic trees naturally lining the sides of a road like Stanford's Palm Drive. The baobabs arrived surprisingly quickly, popping up sporadically before reaching at the Avenue a density that you'd think might be cultivated. You'd be mistaken, as baobabs reach maturation after a thousand years, nearly as long as humans have been living in the region. Some baobabs had been planted in suitable spots along the road but they were pitiful runts next to the majestic giants whose stout trunks towered in the sky, branchless until they petered out horizontally. What had seemed so far-flung and nearly mystical in Geoguessr was now living and breathing in front of me. Baobabs in Malagasy are called Rainala, mother of forest, and 6 of the 8 species are in Madagascar (one is in mainland Africa, one in Australia, and another in Le Petit Prince). The road meandered around the baobabs and continued through tiny villages. I was surprised to learn that this Avenue was not a tourist trap like the Avenue of the Stars but actually the only way for us to go north. We bumped ahead slowly on a road that during the wet summer season would get untraversably muddy. Now in the winter, it was so uneven that my Fitbit registered 30k steps merely while sitting in the car.
We passed by cassava and peanut fields and small villages where children would emerge to run after the car. They may have been motivated by money, as they would disappear if you handed over a bill, but likely they were also bored and curious. Frequently children would spot me and shout "Vaza! Vaza!" short for vazaha meaning foreigner. The villages were mainly collections of thatch huts with few synthetic materials to be found. Madagascar basically doesn't have an electric grid (~25% of the population has access), and villages like these may have had at best a few portable solar panels able to charge phones. I was witnessing the type of poverty one hears of in Ted talks, comparable in my life experience only to some villages I'd trekked through in Myanmar. Some of the huts looked like they could be blown over by a huff and puff from a big bad wolf. One of the villages though did boast a full grown baobab.
We reached the Tsiribihina river, at a place that Google Maps calls "Port Bac Tsimafana" and classifies as a "marina." The marina fleet consists of one wooden raft with a loud motor that can ferry maybe three 4x4s across the river. Rice cultivation was on the river, a wintertime necessity as the regular paddies dried up. While waiting for another 4x4 to arrive, I witnessed one man stuffing straw into the roof of the only structure around, while another man followed me around staring intensely at my face, undoubtedly wondering what ethnicity I was. The other 4x4 did arrive, and on the ferry I chatted with a gay couple who spoke German to each other, although they told me one was Croatian and the other Turkish, both moving to Munich as adults. The Croatian was shocked to learn that I had randomly spent a night at his hometown of Osijek.
Not the last straw |
Belo sur Tsiribihina was a proper city on the other side of the river with its own electric generation. The tour had me getting lunch at a restaurant with an unsettlingly extravagant French menu. Vonjy and Nono didn't even sit with me, likely getting cheaper Malagasy dishes off a separate menu. While I knew this was a scheme to milk tourists with higher prices, the fancy French meal was still $10-$15 US, a huge bargain for Langue de Zebu au poivre (cow tongue). After a full 8 hours of jerky driving and two raft ferries, we pulled into a luxury resort. While it wouldn't merit 5 stars in Aruba (the internet trickled out from the one router), the sprawling sets of bungalows, landscaped horticulture, multiple pools and decorated bar felt jarringly opulent after all the poverty I'd just seen. As I stood under a hot shower, made possible by a farm of solar panels on-site, I wondered how many of those villagers had ever had a shower like this.
Left: Sportive Lemur Right: Decken's Sifaka |
Then the trail entered the famous limestone formations of the Tsingy. We alternated between crawling through caves, climbing up ladders, rock climbing through narrow formations (using harnesses) and even crossing a rope bridge. This part felt like a fun adventure course with a UNESCO view.
Most awk photo since braces |
This Insta destination was where I met the most travelers, including a tour group of 8 old Hong Kongers, who wanted to buy me dinner, and one Brazilian wannabe-model who pushed me out of her photo op.