It has been some time since my last post and for good reason. I have been deep in the brousse, far from any computer connected to the internet. In my last post, I was looking for a way to get out of Morondava, the capital of the West but a bit of a hole in itself. I eventually settled on a motorboat to Belo sur Mer, the last of my technological forays in ten days. In two hours on the sea, I made a third of the way to Morombe. The other two thirds took me three days, or four if you count the day with no wind. But I am getting ahead of myself; first Belo.
A tiny village with two main attractions. The first involved an 8 km walk inland past saltines, to a baobab forest. The West is full of baobabs, these magical trees better suited to witch forests than to the incredible biodiversity of Madagascar. Among the trees stood a village, empty for its inhabitants were working the saltines. So there I was, in a witch forest and a deserted village, walking around as the sun set. And the sunset across the saltines turned them to gold!
The other attraction is shipbuilding; they build boutres, pronounced boutchi, boats coming from another age, which of course I had to take. I arranged to go with a cargo boutre to Morombe, a village (some would say a city) on the West Coast. None of the crew spoke French and I didn’t speak Malagasy. After a difficult negotiation, I was picked up at five in the morning Malagasy time, or 6.30 am our time. We spent three hours trying to get out of Belo but failed, the wind not being good enough. I was ferried back; the next day we managed to leave, taking three days and two nights to reach Morombe. Two nights at sea, my first two, but on what a ship!
I wonder what you imagine when I say boutre. Understand that boutres could have been built five hundred years ago. The only aspect of modern technology is the plastic of the two on-board buckets. Everything else, from the metal (pig iron) to the ropes (some natural thread), and the masts (almost straight trunks) speaks of an economy that hasn’t seen either the first or the second industrial revolution. To climb up a mast, crew members take hold of ropes and cables, and pull themselves with the strength of their arms, using the gap between their big toe and the second toe to push with their legs.
The crew was friendly, rarely asking me for cadeaux, instead intent of keeping me happy. Food was perfect for a shock diet: rice with water in the morning, rice for lunch, and rice with water at night. No condiments, no salt, no pepper. The water had more taste than the rice. I ate half the food as the rest in twice the time. Ten meals like this and I wanted anything but rice.
But I was in the brousse; there wasn’t much but rice.
Once in Morombe I went down to Andavadoaka where an English charity, Blue Ventures, does conversation work on the reef. Volunteers, all English speak, dive every day, so if diving is your thing and you need to help the world, look them up. Did I say most of them were English? That entails one thing: massive binge drinking, on an Australian scale. It was pitiful; we went out to a bar; to dance, the English needed to drink. Compare that with the Malagasy pulling the weirdest move (wonderful in their way) after no alcohol…
Once back in Morombe, I went to a ball, another great display of Malagasy dancing. It was grand in a poor way. The next day I caught a taxi brousse to Tulear, hoping to make it for the fete de l’Independence. After all, Tulear was only 280 km away and it was 10 am. The fete was the next day. Error! I made it to Tulear in 28 hours. We drove through villages with nothing; a few huts, no well, a couple of zebus, and a few chooks. We stopped for a few hours sleep in such a village; there I met an Indian man, probably the richest in the village. He took me to his house; wobbly concrete walls, fragmented cement floors, three rooms, and a TV with satellite reception. He offered me chocolate and some water, together worth more than people earn in two days, and he told me: “We have it good here. We live like kings.” I agreed, kings among beggars. He needed my company because his wife and baby had gone to Tulear. The baby had started vomiting and had diarrhoea, the signs of cholera. Kings, indeed!
I am in Tulear, recovering from some hard days, enjoying a big city (some would call it a large village). Soon I will be heading inland, towards national parks and hikes. I hope to catch the France-Brazil game.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
Morondova
For some reason an entry I wrote days ago is not going through. Strange. I hope this will push it.
I am stuck in Morondova. Not really stuck, but the ways out don't suit me. Fly, rent a car, or do the long way around. I am waiting for a boutre, a kind of sail boat to leave in the right direction. Come on Morombe!
I am stuck in Morondova. Not really stuck, but the ways out don't suit me. Fly, rent a car, or do the long way around. I am waiting for a boutre, a kind of sail boat to leave in the right direction. Come on Morombe!
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The Wild West
From Tana, I headed West to Antsirabe first. Outside the taxi brousse station, I was attacked by a horde of pousse pousse drivers, all wanting my custom. Men weighing half my weight, wanting to carry a friend and me, plus our bags. And they did: a little man lifted his pousse pousse and ran along to town, and on to the next station. There we waited for an hour or so for the taxi brousse to leave for Miandrivazo. I say we as you notice: I met a Swiss guy in Tana, Nicolai, and we did part of the road together.
Catching a taxi brousse is an interesting process. Rock up to the station and hope one leaves soon. How soon? A few hours is soon, but it might as well leave tomorrow. Yesterday I crossed a river and asked after the taxi brousse. Hands pointed me in the direction of a big truck. No, not that one, the truck driver said. He pointed in front of him to a very old ute. That? Yes, yes. I looked at a sort of old 4L, with its back cut off, blue paint peeling off the body. I went to a few ladies near it. This is the taxi brousse for Morondava? Yes, yes. Leaves today? Hmm. Today? No, tomorrow. Tomorrow! Yes, tomorrow, early. Is there another leaving today? Ah, no. Where is the driver? Ah.
I went to look for the driver, but was told he was across the river, getting a piece to repair the car. I went back to the ladies by the car. You are going to wait here for tomorrow? Yes. Here? Yes, with our prawns. They show me a cold boxes of prawns they will sell in Morondava. You will sleep here? Yes, here. Where will I sleep? Here, they said, pointing next to my bag.
There was no hotel, I had to sleep there, but soon a car of vasahas came through and I begged for a ride. Not quite that hardcore.
Back to Miandrivazo. There, I went canoeing down the Tsiribihina (where one must not dive) for three days. I was taken out of the world: life moved at a different rhythm, that of the river and its flow. I went through villages whose only links to the world were canoes like ours. The second night, we camped on a deserted island. Just before sunset, a herd of zebus crossed through on to the mainland.
After the descent, Nicolai left back to Tana to catch his flight out. With the other vasahas of the trip, I made for Bekopaka, or the village of the Tsingy. You may have heard of the Tsingy (pronounced Tsing): rock formations seperating two worlds, one below and one above. National Geographic and Nicolas Hulot made pictures of the above famous.
We didn't want to rent a 4wd, so we took the camion brousse. Few vasahas do that: we were an attraction! The camion brousse was a truck loaded with merchandise, rice and people, all stuffed in the back. I was sitting with my legs dangling outside, my thighs cut by the edge of the back flap, my bottom precariously rested on books I piled, a bit of rice, and a spare part of a car. The road was terrible: with my hands I held on as I could. The first truck I was in broke its transmission, the second only punctured a wheel.
Still the ride was exhilarating: I learned Malgash, I screamed Kouryahbe (phonetic translation) out to passing locals and laughed at their smiles and their Tsara e, I spoke to an ex Ministre, and to a wannabe politician, I ate in a local road stall, and watched baobabs run along the road. My stomach accepted the beating with grace.
The Tsingy were wonderful, especially the big Tsingy. The three I travelled with had to go back after the little Tsingy, but I was able to hitch a ride to the big Tsingy with a group of Swiss Germans who had rented a car. I don't have photos, but look them up on the internet for your viewing pleasure :-)
I made my way back hitching rides with vasahas since all the taxi brousses were broken. The road is that bad. Now I am in Morondava. I will try to make my way to Tulear soon.
Catching a taxi brousse is an interesting process. Rock up to the station and hope one leaves soon. How soon? A few hours is soon, but it might as well leave tomorrow. Yesterday I crossed a river and asked after the taxi brousse. Hands pointed me in the direction of a big truck. No, not that one, the truck driver said. He pointed in front of him to a very old ute. That? Yes, yes. I looked at a sort of old 4L, with its back cut off, blue paint peeling off the body. I went to a few ladies near it. This is the taxi brousse for Morondava? Yes, yes. Leaves today? Hmm. Today? No, tomorrow. Tomorrow! Yes, tomorrow, early. Is there another leaving today? Ah, no. Where is the driver? Ah.
I went to look for the driver, but was told he was across the river, getting a piece to repair the car. I went back to the ladies by the car. You are going to wait here for tomorrow? Yes. Here? Yes, with our prawns. They show me a cold boxes of prawns they will sell in Morondava. You will sleep here? Yes, here. Where will I sleep? Here, they said, pointing next to my bag.
There was no hotel, I had to sleep there, but soon a car of vasahas came through and I begged for a ride. Not quite that hardcore.
Back to Miandrivazo. There, I went canoeing down the Tsiribihina (where one must not dive) for three days. I was taken out of the world: life moved at a different rhythm, that of the river and its flow. I went through villages whose only links to the world were canoes like ours. The second night, we camped on a deserted island. Just before sunset, a herd of zebus crossed through on to the mainland.
After the descent, Nicolai left back to Tana to catch his flight out. With the other vasahas of the trip, I made for Bekopaka, or the village of the Tsingy. You may have heard of the Tsingy (pronounced Tsing): rock formations seperating two worlds, one below and one above. National Geographic and Nicolas Hulot made pictures of the above famous.
We didn't want to rent a 4wd, so we took the camion brousse. Few vasahas do that: we were an attraction! The camion brousse was a truck loaded with merchandise, rice and people, all stuffed in the back. I was sitting with my legs dangling outside, my thighs cut by the edge of the back flap, my bottom precariously rested on books I piled, a bit of rice, and a spare part of a car. The road was terrible: with my hands I held on as I could. The first truck I was in broke its transmission, the second only punctured a wheel.
Still the ride was exhilarating: I learned Malgash, I screamed Kouryahbe (phonetic translation) out to passing locals and laughed at their smiles and their Tsara e, I spoke to an ex Ministre, and to a wannabe politician, I ate in a local road stall, and watched baobabs run along the road. My stomach accepted the beating with grace.
The Tsingy were wonderful, especially the big Tsingy. The three I travelled with had to go back after the little Tsingy, but I was able to hitch a ride to the big Tsingy with a group of Swiss Germans who had rented a car. I don't have photos, but look them up on the internet for your viewing pleasure :-)
I made my way back hitching rides with vasahas since all the taxi brousses were broken. The road is that bad. Now I am in Morondava. I will try to make my way to Tulear soon.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Tana coming to an end
Through its nightlife, I've come to like Tana, the capital of Madagascar. Last night, I was taken out by a guy I met in a restaurant. As he put it, whenever he goes clubbing, he takes a new girl back to his hotel.
The first nightclub we went to was full of beautiful women, all ready to dance, all ready to speak, all ready to have fun. Some, many, expect a cadeau at the end of the night, but when I've avoided these girls, spoilt by rich vasahas, I've found normal Malagasy have the same love for life.
This world is different. In India, I could never go out, and in two months of travel, I spoke at length to two local women. In Australia, men women interactions are hindered by a strong Christian tradition. Only in Madagascar have I seen raw desire. Yes, desire for sex, but not anonymously. Women desire to dance, to have fun, to laugh, to talk; they live for a lust we westerners chose to ignore.
I am no longer shocked by the spectacle of old vahasa and young Malagasy women. Why? Because I see these girls enjoy themselves. If they like it, is there anything wrong with it? They know these men will love them for a week. They know that they have families back home.
Reading what I've written, I seem to imply I've accepted what happens here. I haven't, but I'm getting used to it.
Tomorrow I leave towards the Tsingy, the famous rock formations. It'll take me a week to get there. I will take taxi brousses, canoes, hitchike, and walk.
The first nightclub we went to was full of beautiful women, all ready to dance, all ready to speak, all ready to have fun. Some, many, expect a cadeau at the end of the night, but when I've avoided these girls, spoilt by rich vasahas, I've found normal Malagasy have the same love for life.
This world is different. In India, I could never go out, and in two months of travel, I spoke at length to two local women. In Australia, men women interactions are hindered by a strong Christian tradition. Only in Madagascar have I seen raw desire. Yes, desire for sex, but not anonymously. Women desire to dance, to have fun, to laugh, to talk; they live for a lust we westerners chose to ignore.
I am no longer shocked by the spectacle of old vahasa and young Malagasy women. Why? Because I see these girls enjoy themselves. If they like it, is there anything wrong with it? They know these men will love them for a week. They know that they have families back home.
Reading what I've written, I seem to imply I've accepted what happens here. I haven't, but I'm getting used to it.
Tomorrow I leave towards the Tsingy, the famous rock formations. It'll take me a week to get there. I will take taxi brousses, canoes, hitchike, and walk.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Bloody AZERTY! It looks like a good combination with more options than QWERTY but I keep on typing commas instead of m's and q's instead of a's...
I am in Tana in Madagascar. Because of this keyboard, I am not going to give you a story but rather a series of anecdotes and impressions.
The national airline is called Air Mad. They changed the name years ago from Mad Air.
When I arrived at the airport, I was glad to see that lines were not respected. Stand behind the yellow line? not in this country! I had a silly smile as I walked through customs. The custom officer told me that if I waited, he would take me to town for 100k fmg. I smiled and left, changed some money while fending off taxi touts, and finally readied myself to find a taxi. The information office quoted me some exhorbitant price, so I walked out of the terminal.
Taxi, 30k Ariary
Oh no that's too much
Come, come, I am official taxi
(Other taxi drivers join us)
It's too expensive, a friend (i invent him on the spot) told me between 10 and 15
15 here
14 here
12, come with me now, I take you for 12
The benefits of open competition
Malagasy people are friendly and very beautiful; I can honestly say there are more pretty girls here than anywhere else I've been. Unlike India, they are very open and quite flirty. Yesterday I went to a restaurant where I met 2 French guys and a Malagasy woman. It took me some time to understand that one man who had the looks of q friendly pappy was married to the Malgash woman. She was only 27. As one French guy put it: we all have wives 30 or 40 years younger.
I went to a cabaret with them afterwards. 10 girls to a man, all prettier than each other. Professionals I was told. If they dress like western girls, they're professional. One of the, approached me, and I couldn't say no to a conversation. Besides if she approaches me, she is flirting with me, and she is free. Morals get blurry. I understood half of what she said. Apparently I was married to the only normal Malagasy woman in the room, and I was going to buy her a drink, as dictated by my wife. Confusing times but a man is waiting for the internet behind me.
I am in Tana in Madagascar. Because of this keyboard, I am not going to give you a story but rather a series of anecdotes and impressions.
The national airline is called Air Mad. They changed the name years ago from Mad Air.
When I arrived at the airport, I was glad to see that lines were not respected. Stand behind the yellow line? not in this country! I had a silly smile as I walked through customs. The custom officer told me that if I waited, he would take me to town for 100k fmg. I smiled and left, changed some money while fending off taxi touts, and finally readied myself to find a taxi. The information office quoted me some exhorbitant price, so I walked out of the terminal.
Taxi, 30k Ariary
Oh no that's too much
Come, come, I am official taxi
(Other taxi drivers join us)
It's too expensive, a friend (i invent him on the spot) told me between 10 and 15
15 here
14 here
12, come with me now, I take you for 12
The benefits of open competition
Malagasy people are friendly and very beautiful; I can honestly say there are more pretty girls here than anywhere else I've been. Unlike India, they are very open and quite flirty. Yesterday I went to a restaurant where I met 2 French guys and a Malagasy woman. It took me some time to understand that one man who had the looks of q friendly pappy was married to the Malgash woman. She was only 27. As one French guy put it: we all have wives 30 or 40 years younger.
I went to a cabaret with them afterwards. 10 girls to a man, all prettier than each other. Professionals I was told. If they dress like western girls, they're professional. One of the, approached me, and I couldn't say no to a conversation. Besides if she approaches me, she is flirting with me, and she is free. Morals get blurry. I understood half of what she said. Apparently I was married to the only normal Malagasy woman in the room, and I was going to buy her a drink, as dictated by my wife. Confusing times but a man is waiting for the internet behind me.
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