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A rude awakening I awoke the next morning groggy but excited. I’d had one too many Three Horse Beers in the hotel bar and was now paying the price. Still, in an hour’s time, I was meeting my guide for the long drive east to Andasibe National Park to see the lemurs. What could be better than that?
I pulled the curtains apart and looked down at the city. Armed troops and were everywhere. A platoon was directly opposite the hotel, large sub-automatic machine guns at the ready. A battalion more were blocking the road. Their jam had caused gridlock. About fifty more armed men on my right were lined up in tight groups, as if awaiting a parade inspection or preparing for a riot.
I blinked my dream away and re-opened my eyes. But the soldiers were still there, and more were joining them. Movement opposite me caught my attention. Five soldiers were on the roof of the building opposite, fanning out at speed. When one reached the edge knelt and looked down. I looked too.
Madagascar! Madagascar is a place that conjures images of cute creatures and animated movies. But it’s also notorious for
its riots. They usually accompany elections. In 2009, a bad one broke out in Antananarivo against the president, with protesters running amok, burning down the TV station, looting shops and destroying what fragile tourist infrastructure the country had. In total, 135 people died, many of them shot by the police. The riot destroyed the country’s burgeoning tourist industry. Since then, Antananarivo has remained calm and tourists are trickling back. Even so, the British Foreign Office advises visitors that ‘the political situation remains fragile’ and to ‘avoid all crowds and political demonstrations.’ It goes on to say that ‘Crime is widespread in Madagascar’ and ‘to be vigilant and maintain a low profile, in particular if you’re travelling alone’.
There had been nothing on the news about any elections or riots in the country, so opened my laptop to check. The Wi-Fi wasn’t working due to another power cut so I looked outside again. If it was a riot, then it was a peaceful one. As far as I could tell, there were no insurgents running rampage or looters burning shops. The lake looked the same as it had yesterday, with people wandering
around it as normal. Apart from the great honking snake of traffic, Tana appeared normal. So maybe there was something else going on. I decided to investigate by going down to ground level.
Mr President Descending the lift with me was a tall black gentleman wearing an expensive suit. He was speaking into a mobile phone. “Yes, I have heard that Zuma has made the apology,” he said, his voice rich with baritone. He was referring the South African president’s recent public apology for misuse of public funds. “I think it will be a good thing for him to go.”
He turned and nodded at me, continuing to speak about Zuma’s issue. When door opened at the lobby level, another man in a suit was waiting. “Good morning, Mr President,” this new man said. “The delegates are waiting for us. I hope you have had a pleasant stay.”
“Thank you, I did,” I said, then realised he was talking to the gent with the phone.
I looked at the man now identified as a president. He certainly looked like one – impeccably turned out and with an aura of power. Whether he was a president
of a country, a company or something else entirely, I had no idea. But if he was the president of some African nation, then it explained the troop activity outside.
When the two suited men walked towards the doors, I surveyed the lobby. Activity seemed normal. It certainly wasn’t a hotel gearing up for battle stations. I went outside, looking for the president, but he was gone. Instead, I walked to my right where a soldier was standing with an assault rifle. He was blocking people from proceeding further towards the hotel. “Bonjour,” I said to him. He turned around, assessed me as non-threatening and turned back to the road. In front of him, the military parade had grown, bolstered by a few armoured-personal cars.
“Parlez vous Anglais?” I asked the soldier.
“Non.” He didn’t even turn around.
I wondered whether to take a photo. I knew some nations were a little funny about things like that, so asked the soldier whether it would be okay. He shook his head. A little peeved, I regarded the soldiers on the opposite side of the road. They were not part of the parade, and seemed like spectators. None
of them seemed uptight or nervous. I looked up at the troops on the roof and saw one hoisting some sort of flag or bunting. When I heard the sound of a trumpet, I concluded that there was not a riot going on after all. Or if it was, then it was a well-ordered musical one. Satisfied my safety was not in immediate danger, I went back inside the lobby to wait for my guide. He was already a bit late.
Andry and Erica An out of breath man arrived ten minutes later. His name was Andry, and he explained that he had parked the car half a kilometre away. “The traffic is bad,” he said, “even for Tana standards.”
Andry was about thirty years of age, with a wispy beard and friendly features. Instead of looking African, he appeared to be from South East Asia, perhaps somewhere like Malaysia. As we walked past some soldiers (who allowed us past their cordon), I asked Andry about the troop presence.
“I’m not sure. I think there is some sort of ceremony, or maybe some important people are coming.”
I told him about the man in
the lift.
“That explains it. He will be a visiting dignitary. Many presidents stay in your hotel. When our own president stays there, they put out some red carpet.”
The streets of Antananarivo were busy with people: fruit sellers, shoe shiners and the biggest group: people simply milling about doing nothing. The lake looked nice, and did the hills beyond it. The air smelled of woodsmoke until we passed the mango stalls. At the car, Andry asked whether it would be okay for a third person to join us on the two-day tour of Andasibe National Park. He explained that she was a young trainee guide, who had never been to the park. “It will be good training for her to see how I interact with you, and what sort of things you ask.”
I couldn’t really refuse and, besides, she was already on her way to meet us. Five minutes later, a young woman arrived at the car and introduced herself as Erica. She was twenty-two, pretty and was dressed in western clothes. Like Andry, Erica’s features reminded me of the Far East, and now that I looked around, so did many other people on the
street. I wanted to ask Andry about it, but felt it inappropriate. I’d save it for later.
“The journey to Andasibe will take maybe four hours, depending on traffic,” explained Andry as we all climbed into the car. I was given the choice of seats but opted for the back. Erica climbed in the passenger seat at the front. “But half way there, we will stop for lunch at a reptile sanctuary.”
The journey The streets, even away from the hotel, were clogged to high heaven, but I didn’t mind for it gave me chance to observe the people of Tana up close. They were wandering the shack stores or sitting crammed into the back of minibuses. The more affluent ones were riding in ancient Renault taxis, of which there were many. I spotted a mother breastfeeding a baby in a tiny doorway, a man carrying a pair of chickens by their feet and a zebu cow wandering along unabashedly through it all. Everything was vibrant and up close, chaotic but working. I sat back and smiled.
As the outskirts of the big city fell behind, Madagascar become home to waterlogged paddy field and verdant terraced
hills. We passed villages with names such as Ambohitsitompo, Mandaka and Mandrakandriana, all of them centred on a high street full of shack stalls and cheap eateries. Mandrakandriana featured a railway station too. Some rusty tracks led off into a field to my left.
“The French built the railway,” said Andry, noticing me trying to take a photo of the tracks. A woman was walking along it with a bundle of sticks her head. “They built three lines, and lots of stations. But only one of them still works. The train runs twice a week. That’s why people use the tracks as pathways.”
The road was a simply two-lane highway. This was fine until we encountered a truck. Every ten minutes or so, we would join the back of a traffic snake, waiting for an opportunity to overtake. Some lorries broken down, causing major lane shrinkages, all of them trying to reach the port on the eastern shore. But even with the obstacles, the traffic was moving. Until the police roadblocks.
Andry had warned me about the police. “They are corrupt, but I can understand why. The government do not pay them very much, so they make
their own money. Road blocks are one way.” The policeman was standing in the middle of the road. He watched us approach, but then waved us past. “He saw you and so does not want us to stop. But mainly he is after the trucks. They are used to paying the fines.”
Reptile sanctuary Almost two hours after leaving Antananarivo, we arrived at the reptile sanctuary. Inside a large meshed enclosure were chameleons of every shade and colour. Bright red ones, vivid green ones, big ones, small ones; lizards were everywhere. Almost all of them were perched on branches, their swivelling eyes watching us. If we reached too close, they would open their mouths. Erica was as taken with them as me, snapping photos on her mobile phone.
As well as the chameleons, the centre was home to a collection of snakes, geckos and long-nosed hedgehogs. But the star attraction was a group of lemurs. While Andry elected to stay with the car, Erica and I followed one of the reserve guides up a hillside trail, flanked by dense forest on both sides. The guide was clicking and whirring, presumably making lemur-inducing noises, but nothing came. He
told us to wait while he headed deeper into the forest to flush the lemurs out. Of her went, crashing through the undergrowth, making his noises. As Erica and I waited, a lemur appeared. Erica spotted it first – a black and white monkey-like creature jumping between some trees like an acrobat. When the guide reappeared ten minutes later, he coaxed it from its lofty perch with a piece of banana. The lemur jumped to a nearby tree and eyed the fruit hungrily. Then it reached over and took the chunk from the guide’s outstretched hand.
Up close, the lemur was a cute as anything. Its fluffy fur looked as soft as a kitten’s. The guide passed a chunk of banana and the Lemur eyed it immediately. I held it out, about a foot from its grasp but it hesitated, then – quick as a flash – it reached over and grabbed it from my palm. My first interaction with a lemur had gone remarkably well. Next, it was Erica’s turn. She giggled and squealed as it touched her hand. I was glad to be sharing the experience with someone as equally excited as me.
Stopping at the village of Ambodiamontana
After lunch (zebu steak and rice) we were back on the road to Andisibe, passing more people toiling in the paddy fields. Sometimes they would be riding in small canoes that fed through the patchworks of green and yellow. At the edge of the fields, white egrets stood sentinel while ducks, geese and wallowing zebu cattle paraded wherever the fancy took them. We passed through another village, and Andry pulled over. “I need to buy some water,” he said. “Please get out and have a look around. It is very safe.”
As soon as we came to a standstill, a horde of fruit sellers gathered around the doors. Bananas, papaya, pomegranate, stems of ginger and some small red things that looked like apple and plum hybrids lay on trays, balanced deftly on the women’s upturned palms. I bought a couple of bananas and one of the red things. It tasted sour, like an over-ripe apple. When the women dispersed, I took in the village of Ambodiamontana. It was like a Wild West town, with everything spread out along the main road. Instead of lawless saloons, there were cheap eateries, fruit hawkers, a proliferation of convenience
stalls (that sold mainly cheap biscuits) and a small church. A woman walked past me carrying a basket of live chickens on her head. Beyond the town lay the hills. It was a gorgeous setting: a bazaar of colour and vibrancy.
“Have you noticed that some people from Madagascar look like people from Indonesia and Malaysia?” asked Andry. We were on the move again, albeit slowly. A line of trucks was making minuscule headway up one of the many hills that dotted the landscape. The one directly in front of us was belching a thick cloud of black from its exhaust. “People from Borneo came here by outrigger canoe. They are our ancestors. Our group, the Merina, make up almost a quarter of the population. But Madagascar has many ethnic tribes, eighteen, in fact.”
“I had noticed the similarity.”
“The Merino people can trace their DNA back to just thirty women who arrived in the ninth century. One day I would like to visit Indonesia and see how much I look like the people there.
Vakona Forest Lodge Almost six hours after leaving Antananarivo, we arrived at the edge of Andasibe National Park. Vast swathes
of forest lay in all directions and, because of the tourists who wanted to visit, a series of hotels were spread out along the edge. My place of stay was the Vakona Forest Lodge, an outpost of relative luxury among the trees. My private lodge had a ground balcony that offered a view of pure forest. From its depths came the constant chatter of birds and the ever-present cacophony of frog calls. After dropping my stuff off, I headed back to meet Andry and Erica. We were going to visit Lemur Island, which was part of the lodge complex. Once again, Andry decided not to come with us, citing the fact that he’d already visited the island hundreds of times. He said he would wait in the main building nearby. So that left Erica and me, plus a new guide to visit the lemurs.
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littlewing
Cindy
Was Andry afraid of the Fady Chameleon?
Did Andry explain the superstition associated with the chameleon? Perhaps like 2pac they were Fady for him. The Malagasy people are beautiful - your history lesson of their ancestry is very interesting. I started my journey to Madagascar with the memory of the replica giant outriggers they travelled to Madagascar in from Halmahera in Indonesia's spice islands. Fascinating place. Enjoying your reports from Tana, a very different but very similar in many ways Madagascars islands. The road blocks and political coups seem to be just a daily part of living Malagasy. Don't lemurs have the softest little hands ? I swooned every time I got to have my hand held by lemurs. Great reading your Madagascar blogs.