Burn baby burn.. Madagascar inferno

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‘Salame!’ Or maybe ‘Bonjour’ sounds better than cured meat as a greeting. Welcome to the blog on the land of duel languages, and home to the fictitious jiving King Julian.

Madagascar is a large mountainous island, 400km off the east coast of Africa is double the size of New Zealand but with a population of over 2 million

When I made the choice to venture here late in 2013, amidst travel warnings, my perception was of a sun parched low lying landscape. Flying into Antananarivo, ‘Tana’ as the locals call it, refuted that impression altogether

Departure day from Jo’burg on the 27^th started well if a tad sleep deprived. It would have been rude not to make the most of the 5 star gym and spa facility for lack of slumber, and this time I was alone without a lithe Usain Bolt to mop up my sweat as when back from Kruger.

Checking out, I dropped my key in with a backing singer for Destiny’s Child at the main reception, said farewells and emphasised that I would be back in 2 weeks. This was as they looked sparingly at me when I arrived the night before (no room was available despite Booking.com reservation!)

At the train station and passing through the electronic gates, I had forgotten it was Saturday when trains drop down in frequency from ten minute intervals. Chris Brown, rapper, and security guard for the Gautrain, and I chatted for a short stint, emphasising the extra 30 minute wait would not influence my chance of catching the plane as ‘this is Africa time’

So I had plenty time to wait on the bottom platform for the train, and admired that by now I was a dab hand at the palaver of accessing both the airport and train station in Sandton, 12 minutes apart. Malcolm X waited in line, dragging a set of golf clubs and a trophy wife.

The airport check in and security was fairly efficient again given the size of this elephantine monstrosity. Without Heritage day to divert attention, progress was speedy and on time for a 10am departure. The hostess sprayed us all with live Ebola droplets and wishing us the best of health, we arrived, sanitised, to Tana airport

Arriving was a shambles. We all corralled into the tiny arrivals area with standing booths for approximately 8 people, so the remainder 92 or so had to stand and cram around to soon discover that they had run out of arrival card declarations.

Such was the wait I wondered out loud if Tana airport was milling pine forests to make the paper to print on, and got a smile out of the hard-to-understand Malagasy lady at the counter. Deciphering French was hard enough let alone with an indigenous twang to it, and I figured once I had declared my suitability for entering this place (have you been to Liberia or Nigeria lately?) I would be sweet and allowed into the great world of Madagascar.

An elegantly dressed officer finally appeared sauntering slowly in our direction with a wad of papers. The document is 1 tenth official declarations and 9 tenths advertising!

The customs processing was based around a single booth of about 6 square metres. One man had the role of computer access, and the remainder 4 staff on this area worked a chain gang of stamping, checking, smiling, sweet talking and occasionally doubting the many foreigners passing through these parts, I suspect for personal gain

No sooner had I passed through the arrivals doors did two Sherpa with jackets on approach me. “Let me take your bag” they said. “No, let me see your ID please”. I had this con sussed. We tussled for control of my roller bag until ‘Zach’ appeared and he showed me the Exodus logo and in limited English shepherded my way out. “But I need money and a toilet!” Ok…the toilet, well I begged my way in there without any local currency, and if it had not been for Zach steering me away from 2 other currency dealers (who knows what kickbacks exist) I could have been fleeced.

As we got to the car, and before being handed the information for new arrivals about the dangers of Tana, the 2 original men whom insisted they carry my bags held their hands out. I fumbled for the smallest notes but when you have been handed 200,000 Ariary’s in a bamboozled state it could be 50 cents for all I knew. Zach stepped in, grimaced, and they scampered immediately. It was not a good idea to open your wallet anywhere, let alone once they saw you convert money and knew you had it.

Then he handed me the A4 sized run down of how dangerous it was here whilst we drove 20km to the hotel and I practiced my schoolgirl French badly in response to “How old are you, do you have children and are you married?”. Standard fare.

Bliss was checking in and Stefanie the Malagasy women did a lovely job of guiding me to the nearest sights once I had tuned into her French accent. I stepped out, without my camera, and felt very on edge for my own security. The streets were heaving for a Saturday evening, and I felt the object of unwanted attention and persistent sales pitches, moving through the massive market crowds and a sardine-packed supermarket.

Central Tana is on a hill and surrounded by rice paddies. Amidst the throngs of rubbish scavengers were useless or junk wares sellers, shoeless kids playing with polystyrene chunks with thin sticks in it or rolling a handmade ball around on the ground where they sit, kids revelling in filthy feet on littered streets with big grins on their faces, people filling up water crates at the local well, or the wily old faces of men or women carrying large loads of bananas and baskets on their head as they head home after a day of trading. Madagascar is poor

Sleeping to the sounds of rabid dogs, old time music wafting up the hillside, and a crescent shaped moon glistening, I relished a short lie in ready for joining the group the next day.

Tahina, one vowel short of a sesame seed paste, and the guide for Exodus greeted me at breakfast saying he had seen me out that morning. I had been watching the church folk meandering, beggars holding their hands out, elderly folk lighting small charcoal fires, and indoor vegetable and fruit markets in the more upmarket yet basic hillside suburbs. A motorcyclist followed me periodically, stopping to catch up with me or me with him. Bonjour mademoiselle! No I don’t need a ride. A Madagascan James Dean.

The group meeting, delayed, gave us a rapid fire intro to this island nation and soon enough the Sherpa men hadpacked our van up and eleven tourists, Tahina, a driver, and his Panama hat helper Tuki, started on our mystery tour.

Tana is known as the city of 1000 men since biblical times, or maybe that is 500 men 500 women as if the society has made it to now I assume some pro creation occurred. Being also known as an island of virtues, the locals are about 40% Christian, 7% Muslim (spotted a minaret that morning in the upper town) and the rest are animalistic, in so far as they believe in a God like creature of mythological appearance.

The sky is feminine, the earth is masculine and never the twain shall meet when weaving, a sacred womanly activity. Likewise woman are banned from several male activities such as washing dishes, laundering clothes on the river banks, vacuuming, mopping, or grocery shopping as well. Mostly patriarchal, I am told by Tahina it is an equal society. Some things men do better and likewise woman, I said. Whoops, I shall replace my foot on my ankle now!

Literacy is seen as a Western concept and language is handed down orally by stay-at-home mums endowed with role of nurturing the young, in a script that was originally based on Arabic before Malagasy came along. Surprisingly, French is very much of use, and if they had not occupied here for 60 years or so, maybe Malagasy people would still converse in one of their 18 tribal dialects which bear marked resemblance to each other

A supermarket stop for water and snacks broke our voyage out of town, and we soon became wary of those hassling you for buying things

So weaving our way out of town and through several valleys we stopped at a roadside spot to take photos. About now I thought the balloons would come in handy as they did so well in Tana as a leveller.

With more pushing than a kids lolly scramble, soon I was swarmed by young Malagasy children, much more dishevelled, grubby and without any concept of sharing. I was quickly relieved of what I had for them at the time that Tuki stepped in, then Tahina. It was over as quickly as it happened and I discovered my lens extended out (they tugged at my camera during the tussle obviously) but money belt intact. I felt so selfish, and stupid. A real ethical dilemma!

The same scenario repeated itself that afternoon as we headed to Anistirabe, but I now knew better. Tuki heard me sigh, alone, saying under my breath I was a heartless bitch for ignoring it. For someone who did not know much English, he’d heard that one before!

We berthed at base, our home for the next two nights and settled in with dinner to fill hungry tums. Drinks came as beer, beer or beer. I retired once the frustration of poor Net connection had passed, sleeping in what can only be described as a French animal barn with foam mattress and the means to spray the entire bathroom area inside.

After a foggy start, and eggs, eggs or eggs for breakfast, with excellent coffee, we drove for 2 hours to Ambositra along a pot holed dirt road, ending up at small village in the area of Antoetra.

Renee was our local guide. “Ello ello Renee” I said. He neither wore a moustache nor waited tables like his TV nemesis.

Accosted by at least 20 children with their wooden wares before we had even left, we were soon headed to climb up hill and down dale to the remote village we were to visit. The views over the valley were beautiful and succeeding in a picturesque spot of rice paddies, hard wood cabins and more excitable children when we arrived late morning into Ifasine.

Initially dubious of our arrival, Renee shepherded us past the kids into the Chief’s abode and boudoir. It was a dirty spot, literally. As well as smoke there was fire, held in the hands of babes no older than about 5 years on flaming sticks, and the home was such that the ceiling was completely charcoaled. Hmmm, lung cancer.

Being known for wood carving there was some choice etchings and not so choice looking graffiti about. I held back in parting with money instead, as had promised Modeste I would buy from him, the young boy from the first village (He eventually met me about 1km from the village on my return with a pocketful of wooden products. Can I interest you in a lizard jewellery box? A lemur chopping board? )

Madame! Madame! The children at Ifasine village cried

C’est mademoiselle, merci. I was not to be mistaken for an old woman.

Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!

Mademoiselle!

Finally they got me doing this, doing that, doing it like this, doing it like that, like this and like that and like this yo..

Before long we were conga lining around the 10 square metre of a house and a long path, where the washing was hung out to dry on the roof with the shimmering sounds of Shakira’s Waka waka song screaming from their hearts and mouths.

Parting was such sweet sorrow. I had clearly made an impression on them.

I blew them kisses, they blew me kisses. Repeat this for several minutes. After a hundred au revoirs, high fives at least 5 per child and hugs for some of the middle children, I joined the march to the top of the hill. Lunch tasted amazing after such exercise and we chewed the fat on what would have occurred should we have opened our bags and shared our lunch. With hindsight, I can speculate on that one. Mayhem.

The march back to the bus continued and we spread out, taking photos or powering on. Nature called, and I ducked behind a rock for the bush loo after taking a video with my iPhone, tucked in my pocket. Hurriedly getting my pants down, I heard a stirring voice that scared the bejeezes out of me. “Siri is not available, connect to the internet”. My thoughts indeed, the wifi has been shite.

As if like clockwork, Modeste arrived with wares in tow and I succumbed to the charming sales pitch of a 14 year old buying what I hope NZ customs will not dispose of, hardwood hand carved bowls and so forth. I got his village address written down at his insistence and he is to, with much anticipation, expect a love letter from his NZ contact sometime soon. I can see it now, reading “oh Modeste, I miss your hard wood products, so smooth…”

Back on the bus, we bid au revoir to Renee, and moved sluggishly at 10kph across the fields of brick works and charcoal manufacturing to eventually reach our hotel for dinner, settling bills, more beer for some, grilled chicken again, and some soothing folk music sounds played live at the restaurant by toothless locals.

With dawn at 5am, I woke and threw open the French barn windows for some light. Warned about the security of being out alone, especially at night, Tahina managed a reconnaiosence mission to the bank, water stop and snacks, the gem of a host he is. In fact, Tahina really is a gem, a gemologist and an excellent resource to have on tour in mineral rich Madagascar. Tahina has a smile as broad as his heart, and has already exceed my expectations by trying to solve my sleeping bag dilemma.

Suddenly struck by the sheer difference of this place that morning, I had a moment to myself behind my sunglasses, tissues in hand. The poverty is intense and seeing it in all it's raw state, and my attempt to bridge the gap as such, I remain confronted and stirred by it. I was warned that the human emotion that accompanies Africa has to be felt and seen to be believed. Now I appreciate this.

That aside, it was time to tissue-box on regardless! Leaving behind the chaotic roads of market stalls, where reckless drivers of Citroens and Peugeots have priority, we started to breathe in the pine tree clad hill air on our way to Ambohimasoa and beyond to Ranomahana, along route 7 and then 45, our destination for the evening.

A large rural market drew us fascinated and likewise the locals as our first stop. The purpose of this facility is not just a transaction we were told but to share knowledge, share goods and services, and potentially arrange to share a life with someone. The market is the Malagasy equivalent of internet dating and social media. Our trusty guide, Tuki, ever the Panama hat wearer, was very photogenic, liked my example of good NZ music I gave to him, and we collectively decided that he would make a perfect Malagasy partner one day for the Malagasy women of his dreams. At his request I took his photo and suggested he use it to supplement his search.

Bank woes held myself and another guy up who had his ATM card swallowed at Tana, and with me, a transaction failed to deliver the notes I requested. I took their assurance, and will hopefully not be out of pocket. Le banc is surrounded by security guards and has some 3 door system of entering and exiting for every patron. I cannot imagine the queues on pay day!

Then rumbling along the pot holed roads, we spotted a sound. An unusual sound. The whishing of air worsened and finally we were running on a flat rim. No tyre! Midday sun is perfect for mad dogs and Englishman, and roadside we spotted bees nests, wild passion fruit and ate peanuts and bananas until Tuki and the driver, T1, worked theiur magic. Sadly this quandary of roadworthiness continues as I write, the tyre being tended to for the third time since midday!

Passing the picture of rural life, there were plentiful children calling ‘Faza’ (white person) trying to sell us something, locals laden with 30 to 40kg stacks of bananas on their heads or over a wooden strut, barrows being pushed by 2 to 4 people up the long winding roads of the dry hills, and eventually we were entering the rain forested village of Ranomahana.

Settled into this evidently safe and serene spot, a la Kuranda or similar humid village, we imbibed a massive lunch of Malagasy fish, rice and veges, and then paired up with Noel the Irishman, ruminating on how unlike the movie this place, so far was.

A night walk was our first introduction to lemurs, the mouse lemur!

If it was not for about 30 other tourists at this same spot, on dusk, we could have had this experience to ourselves. After about 3 or 4 minutes, roadside, a rat sized animal poked it's head out behind the branch, said "I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it, you like to...groove it..". Parle vous Francais, I asked ..."oui oui" was heard in the very distant evening sound....Yes! A French speaking lemur!

Then, about 10 minutes later, this Japanese troupe with a camera with flood lights on it turned up, showered the poor lemur with excessive brightness and scared the living lemur-lights out of it. The next sighting was a ... rat...so we gave up, thanked the chameleon, overgrown spider and frogs for their guest appearances and drive back to base for more food, less beer and an almost early night for some.

Lemur spotting, camping without a sleeping bag, and eventually hitting the beaches in a week is to come and so the 'Madagascar tally' is making good progress

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