East of Africa lies a large tear shaped island, Madagascar which in the 90’s was one of the last frontiers for the hard-core traveler. Setting off on yet another solo journey of discovery with my trusty Lonely Planet Guide purchased in London 2 years earlier, I landed largely uninformed just as I had done in the Galapagos a few years earlier, failing to bring binoculars or an extensive flora and fauna guide and somehow, either in despite of my ignorance or because of it, Madagascar assaulted my senses and curiosity reawakening my traveling spirit. The first travellers to Madagascar, seafarers from Austronesia, arrived more than 1500 years earlier, who along with the subsequent waves of explorers, immigrants and invaders were imprinted on the faces of its populous. The Malagasy were stunning. Short in stature with smooth perfect chocolate brown skin, with subtle variations in skin tone, long straight or wavy hair, each person was as distinct as the next. Polynesian, Malay, African, French, and Subcontinent Asian — influences from across the shores were evident in bone structure, eyes, mouths. Poverty led to an absence of excess, muscles well formed from the task of existence. I drank in the beauty.
The local language, ‘Malagasy’ (pronounced Malagash), a Malayo Polynesian language, seemed a strange collection of innumerable and indecipherable syllables that rendered the Shona I was learning back in Zimbabwe concise. ‘O’s’ and ‘A’s’ were highly prevalent, many words containing at least four ‘a’s, some ‘o’ s and the occasional ‘i’. To the inured it was possibly an easy language but accustomed to a little more vocalic variety, Malagasy appeared a conglomerate of meaningless syllables. The first missionaries to the Island are purported to have written the language phonetically, but you’d never know by looking at or listening to it - some vowels unexpectedly long, syllables surprisingly swallowed into nothingness. In an effort to aid the bewildered traveler, the 1989 Lonely Planet Guide to Madagascar and the Comoros stated “swallow as many syllables as you can and drop the last one”. Words such as tompoko (madame/sir) devolved to ‘toop -k’ and mpandeha (traveler) became pan-day-a, ohatrinona (how much) camouflaged as h-wa-treeno. Pre warned, it was clear that English was rarely spoken and a smattering of French would be essential in the urban areas. With form 4 French long forgotten, I was hopeful the Lonely Planet language guide would be valuable.
The capital Anatanarivo, more affectionately called Tana, at first glance seemed impoverished. In 1994 it was a small city surrounded by rice paddies. Decaying city buildings, remnants of its French history, spilled out to residences that crept up from the shores of Lake Anosy to the hillside summit. The climate was distinctly different to my temporary home of Zimbabwe. When rain fell the temperature was cool, just like home, Australia. On a quiet Sunday afternoon, greeted by friendly locals I strolled around town imbued with that ethereal essence of travelling — freedom, arriving with no plans and the inevitable dilemma of choosing from a myriad of possible destinations. I was a tad concerned how far my development worker’s salary would go but the Malagasy currency devalued by half in my first few days, my windfall at great cost to the locals.
The language barrier seemed inconsequential, the distances irrelevant and the costs now insignificant. And Madagascar would be a reprieve from the building tensions and emotions of life back in Zimbabwe. Yet there was that inevitable twinge of anxiety setting off alone.
On Monday the streets were crammed with stalls selling nails, car parts, batteries, cloth, plastic bags, oranges, breadfruit, star fruit, French loaves, fantastic coffee and sumptuous pan au chocolate. Food was set to be a delectable experience. The entry visa issued at the airport was valid for one week only. Madagascar, not yet geared towards mass tourism was complex even for the hardened traveler intent on exploring the seven provinces. Traipsing around Tana trying to arrange a month’s extension I met an expat couple, also living in Zimbabwe and, linking up with a British man, we formed a group. We set off to Anstirabe where an extension could be obtained, or so we were told.
Driving through the countryside revealed that beauty was not confined to the populous. Lush and verdant, dramatic and untamed, dry and arid, a land of contrasts, Madagascar was mesmerizing. Arriving in Anstirabe, the second city of Madagascar, a village by western standards, the pousse pousse (tuk tuk) drivers hassled for business. Whisked from the market place we were taken to a basic yet comfortable hotel. Investigating options for a guided tour, we were approached by an unassuming gentleman who claimed to work with the recommended guide. Taking him at face value we set off the following morning. The taxi-brousse (minibus)meandered landscape littered with mountains, through a sea of rice paddies, and scars of exposed red earth that tore through grasses that moved like a swathe of satin.
As we drove along the black seam of tarmac, visions of everyday life flashed by. Farmers beating rice stalks on logs, the drying grains spread in neat strips at the roadside precariously narrowing the road. Zebu, massive relatives to the cow, with distinctive hump and horns, pulled carts. Boys on billy-carts transported goods along treacherous roads that would disappear around a bend having collapsed or disappeared under the debris of a land slide. And frequent potholes large enough to swallow our taxi. Our progress west was slow. Four hours later it seemed nature had won. There was no trace of human habitation. Eventually the winding road reached Miandrivazo on the Tsiribihina river.
Dinner was a delectable spread of fresh water fish, rice and vegetables, wine and beer as slowly our small group developed a bond, temporary but true — one of the gems of travel. Over the days ahead coming to know and like each other.
Waiting on the bank of the Tsiribihina the next morning, ready for our trek floating downstream in a pirogue past the infamous avenue of baobab trees, through stunning cliff faces to Monrondava. Local children gathered and bustled around us, we were a distraction in their mundane lives. As I braided their hair and ‘tattooed’ them with lipstick, they taught me some rudimentary Malagasy. Once all belongings and supplies, three tall Europeans, three Malagasy and I piled into a narrow canoe we set off, assured by out guide that a larger boat awaited an hour away. When the slightly larger boat arrived my traveling companions balked. There was no way they could sit cramped in such a small pirogue for 4 days. After much discussion our guide agreed to return to Miandrivazo for an additional boat. It was mid afternoon. We turned back. Against the wind, with a powerful river flow the local oarsmen struggled to punt upstream. At 6pm our guide suggested we camp but we were becoming increasingly suspicious. Was this a ploy to extract more money? Pushing on, by 7pm we reached the river’s edge just south of the town centre. Trekking in the dark upon a sandy riverbed, laden with heavy backpacks we crossed fields, waded through the shallows until half an hour later we saw the weak lights of the village. Exhausted and hungry, our guide found a hotely, the local equivalent of a cafe with basic accommodation. After one look at the lavatory I chose the bushes. Insisting he find an alternative. At every turn our guide tried to evade paying. We’d handed over US$20 per person per day, a small fortune in Madagascar. Our suspicions were growing by the minute.
We made it back to Antsirabe the following evening but the saga of our deposit continued beyond our departure leaving a sour taste in everyone’s mouths.
The next afternoon, in a clapped out old Peugeot sans brakes or windscreen wipers, in heavy rain we set off, winding around the hills on a broken tarmac surface ever grateful of the preciousness of a working hand brake and our driver’s expert skill with the car’s gears. Arriving in Ambositra (pronounced Ambushed, with a lengthening of the ‘sh’ it seemed to me) past two story mud brick homes with upper wooden balconies which lined the main street. Disembarking at a market we found an old French home converted to hotel. Not all staff spoke French let alone English and with nonexistent Malagsy communication was amusing. The next day we explored the town encountering an aged French priest who had fought at Dunkirk. His tremor and dental work the only indication of his age (one gold, one silver and a few decaying teeth all that remained), his wit and charm were effusive as he tried to sell us anything not nailed down — life was obviously tough and frugal in Madagascar. Grey clouds, a looming threat of coming weather, shrouded the surrounding mountains as the priest shared advice for our two day trek.
Eating zebu steaks, drinking local wines talking of Zimbabwe, families and life in general I regaled the others with stories of my childhood. I spoke of my parents and the unconditional love that had enveloped my life. It was not unusual in my neighbourhood, we all grew up with two parents living together, apparently happy and ready to fill us with love. The others sat in silence. To some my story seemed the stuff of fairy tales. I was saddened when the eldest of our group said with bitter certainty “My children would never talk about me the way you talk about your dad”.
Setting off towards the mountains early the following day we hired a driver and his 25 yr old Renault, held together with duck tape. Driving slowly along a sandy road he would turn the engine off to drift down hill. And again there seemed to be no brakes. Fewer rice paddies carpeted this landscape as mountains began to erupt from eucalyptus forested plains and hillsides. Screams from village children, their excitement uncontained, calling “Vazaha, vazaha” (white people). Can you imaging western children being excited by something as mundane as a new person coming through town? Their joy was refreshing though I must say, I did feel a bit like a B grade celebrity. Begging for pens was ubiquitous in Madagascar but not forewarned, all I had to offer was time and a temporary relationship, a brief moment of play and connection.
We set off for the trek as our driver settled in for the night, camping in his Renault. Fuel costs prohibited returning home to a comfortable bed. Scanning the crowd of children we searched for the most serious looking to guide us to the next village, a futile exercise as a horde of children, with little else to do, straggled behind. Eventually the numbers dropped off to a mere three who spent much of their time chasing crickets to eat — not fried like I’d had in Zimbabwe but fresh, au natural and while I’m adventurous I didn’t partake .
Through a valley encapsulated by mountains covered in shrubs and low lying forest, we approached a small incline. After a hard ten-minute hike we reached the peak. Continuing on for a couple more hours we passed through clusters of twenty plus weatherboard huts that housed a community of about 500. At the first village we met Mr. Charles, father of ten and a catechist who had been recommended by the priest. Along with his eldest son, he walked us to a distant village renowned for woodcarving. Clouds gathered, mist soon turned to rain and we walked serenaded by distant waterfalls. Removing my trainers to cross crystal clear streams became inconsequential as a single slip submerged my foot in a rice paddy. Scaling slippery rock faces, completely drenched, I had never felt so much like a duck. Eventually through the curtain of grey rain we emerged to a grey weatherboard village greeted with the gleeful chant ‘vazaha, vazaha’.
Eating roasted sweet potatoes and drinking sweet coffee we quickly revicved. Housed for the night with a local carver, we’d brought our own food supplies to avoid depleting the village’s supplies but realised quickly that our booty was insufficient for our hunger let alone that of our guides. And a major insult to our hosts, we had not brought food for the family. Our guide saved face and after a handsome sum was paid, a duck was sacrificed to feed the host family, Mr. Charles and son, and four hungry hikers. The host gave us his bedroom for the night. Mr. Charles, his son and our group lay on raffia mats that provided little cushioning on the wooden bed and floor. The host, wife and seven children slept in the space below - his workroom/kitchen/living and the children’s bedroom, no bigger than a standard second bedroom at home. After dark the pig and chickens came in and joined the family for the night. My inevitable loo break in the middle of the night was no easy feat. Pitch black, akin to blind man’s bluff I navigated bodies in the upstairs room, tackled the irregular staircase, avoided farm animals and humans alike downstairs and wandered out into torrential rain. The pit latrine seemed like an ominous trap in the dark, one I wished to avoid so, somewhat inconsiderately, I found a spot on the path away from the house.
Breakfast of bread and cheese. Our guide and his son were no doubt relieved when the family brought rice and vegetables to supplement our deficient meal. Setting off in heavy mist and light rain the walk a local (with carved furniture on his back) would complete in two hours took us four. Clambering up steep rock faces transformed into gushing waterfalls, ploughing through streams, keeping dry was futile. Traipsing through pine and eucalyptus, reminding me of home, I would pausing as the sun peeked through grey clouds lighting a distant village as if a spot light on a precious artwork. Each view was a masterpiece, even the soil of this great island from the indescribable red to gold, rust, purple, black and sandy yellow.
Finally arriving at our point of origin we found a hive of activity. It was market day. Locals were clothed in worn and ragged hand-me-downs, donations to the local opportunity shop a continent away, over which lambas (sarongs) of lime green or pink, any western version of a bed sheet or tablecloth were thrown to provide warmth. They must have a hardy constitution. Somehow despite the discarded western fashion beneath, swathed in these colourful lambas they stood with proud elegance. After the exhausting trek I devoured banana, bread and sweet black coffee while Mr. Charles and his son got stuck into mounds of plain rice, standard fare for a local. Collapsing into the Renault we eventually, eagerly, arrived back to Ambositra, to a hot shower and comfortable bed. Not quite the hardened trekkers.
