Still in Diego. I just went to Ramena, Diego's beach, and for the first time in ages, I've been able to sleep, laze around, read, and do all sort of other nothings without feeling guilty that I was missing this and that, and that I was imposing on these people, or that I should try to learn about this other thing, etc, you get the gist. Tomorrow I fly to Tana, my first internal flight of the trip. It takes 20 odd hours in a taxi brousse to get to Tana, and an hour in a plane. Certes, it costs more, but this is my little luxury.
Over the next few days, I am going to look for things to purchase; I am becoming a nice vazaha. And then Mauritius, before I fly home.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
And finally the North
This is my final area before I go back to Tana and from there to Mauritius and Australia. From Tana, I made for Antsohihy, not sure what I would find there but sure I'd find something. I did: a French man going to Analalava, where he lives with his wife. He invited me to their place after we had lunch together. I was meant to stay a night, catch a boat the next and go visit the islands off Analalava. Didn't happen: the piroguier who was meant to take me made me wait day after day while he tried to resolve disputes with his wife. The result? I lost four days but this is Madagascar and in Madagascar, such things are normal. Nothing works as it should.
Every slightly educated Malagasy I meet has a theory on "what is wrong with Madagascar".
Let's see them.
The people don't care about work. They are lazy, do not obey, steal from their bosses and leave if they are not happy. It can't be true, you say. Sadly it is. Examples abound: I've seen maids who take three hours to cook half a family meal, and who either tell their bosses an outright no, or say yes to their orders, and don't do them anyway. Stealing? One prime example: the Colas is the company that is building roads in the North. Petrol stations have lately been complaining they don't sell as much fuel as they should. Colas employees steal fuel from their company and sell it on the roadside. These instances are not isolated cases. Every employee that can steal steals. Leaving if not happy? The maid of the people I was staying at in Analalava left because they asked her to serve a girl she didn't respect.
Another theory is corruption: everyone is corrupt, it is part of life. One road engineer told me a few stories yesterday. A road is assigned a budget of 100 billion. The company that wins the bid must then give 3 billion to the person who assigned them the bid and 2 billion to the minister of transport, and so on. In the end the road is built with 50 billion and lasts two years instead of ten. Or, you want to get a professional exam. You pay the board and all is well, but pay enough, for if someone pays more and spots are limited, your money will have gone in vain.
Another, vehicled by Vasahas, is culture. Ancestors are too important, and their ways cannot be changed. If their ways cannot be changed, then there can be no progress. How can rice production be increased when cultivators do not want to change their methods, and that when new methods are cheaper in labour and capital?
Just a few thoughts, but I don't get comments anymore on the blog. I still see many visits but no comments...
Every slightly educated Malagasy I meet has a theory on "what is wrong with Madagascar".
Let's see them.
The people don't care about work. They are lazy, do not obey, steal from their bosses and leave if they are not happy. It can't be true, you say. Sadly it is. Examples abound: I've seen maids who take three hours to cook half a family meal, and who either tell their bosses an outright no, or say yes to their orders, and don't do them anyway. Stealing? One prime example: the Colas is the company that is building roads in the North. Petrol stations have lately been complaining they don't sell as much fuel as they should. Colas employees steal fuel from their company and sell it on the roadside. These instances are not isolated cases. Every employee that can steal steals. Leaving if not happy? The maid of the people I was staying at in Analalava left because they asked her to serve a girl she didn't respect.
Another theory is corruption: everyone is corrupt, it is part of life. One road engineer told me a few stories yesterday. A road is assigned a budget of 100 billion. The company that wins the bid must then give 3 billion to the person who assigned them the bid and 2 billion to the minister of transport, and so on. In the end the road is built with 50 billion and lasts two years instead of ten. Or, you want to get a professional exam. You pay the board and all is well, but pay enough, for if someone pays more and spots are limited, your money will have gone in vain.
Another, vehicled by Vasahas, is culture. Ancestors are too important, and their ways cannot be changed. If their ways cannot be changed, then there can be no progress. How can rice production be increased when cultivators do not want to change their methods, and that when new methods are cheaper in labour and capital?
Just a few thoughts, but I don't get comments anymore on the blog. I still see many visits but no comments...
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Back in Tana
And it is another world. I didn't realise it when I first came. In my mind, Tana was Madagascar, when all it shares with the country is its geography. First, people wear shoes. Then, they wear coats and pants. Third, they speak French and some even speak English. Fourth, many of them have finished school. Fifth, there aren't rubbish piles, ducks, chooks, pigs and sundries all around. Sixth, there are traffic jams, or if you want to see it differently: enough cars to have traffic jams. Seventh, the roads are often made of bitumen. Eighth, people aren't afraid to spend twice the national average daily earnings on a taxi ride, or an a drink in a bar.
I won't go on. I got here following the RN7, the primary tourist axis of the country. Even though I've seen interesting things, the last few days have been marked by a few conversations.
1) With volunteers for various associations. Over the last month and a half, I have developped a distrust of charities, forming the belief they do more harm than good. Volunteers always have heart warming stories doomed before they start. Two medical students worked in a hospital out bush; there a French doctor volunteered his time to lord over the villagers, operating way past his competence without any respect for protocols. A group of medical students from another university were building a school that a covent would administer later; I could see a few problems but nothing major until a few days later.
2) With high officials from the European Commission, and more importantly with a man who had been in Mada for five years equipped with a different perspective on development. His theory; just about every foreign aid project harms the country more than it helps it because it creates parallel institutions and weakens the existing ones, however poor and corrupt. From the others: the EC has too much money for Africa. So as not to reduce next year's budget, bureaucrats throw money at dubious local projects, furthering the harm on the country.
3) With a bourgeois Merina married to a Vazaha woman. Here was a man, a Malagasy, who crossed his legs with his shins parallel to each other, who wrote reports for worldwide organisations, who spoke with great logic, who answered my questions with precise and relevant information, and who produced official reports to further answer my inquiries.
I won't go on. I got here following the RN7, the primary tourist axis of the country. Even though I've seen interesting things, the last few days have been marked by a few conversations.
1) With volunteers for various associations. Over the last month and a half, I have developped a distrust of charities, forming the belief they do more harm than good. Volunteers always have heart warming stories doomed before they start. Two medical students worked in a hospital out bush; there a French doctor volunteered his time to lord over the villagers, operating way past his competence without any respect for protocols. A group of medical students from another university were building a school that a covent would administer later; I could see a few problems but nothing major until a few days later.
2) With high officials from the European Commission, and more importantly with a man who had been in Mada for five years equipped with a different perspective on development. His theory; just about every foreign aid project harms the country more than it helps it because it creates parallel institutions and weakens the existing ones, however poor and corrupt. From the others: the EC has too much money for Africa. So as not to reduce next year's budget, bureaucrats throw money at dubious local projects, furthering the harm on the country.
3) With a bourgeois Merina married to a Vazaha woman. Here was a man, a Malagasy, who crossed his legs with his shins parallel to each other, who wrote reports for worldwide organisations, who spoke with great logic, who answered my questions with precise and relevant information, and who produced official reports to further answer my inquiries.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
The train ride
My forrays on the beaten path continue. Note that I am one of the rare ones to call this the beaten path. Mada has very little tourism, so one could consider the whole island as off the path. But it is so safe, so easy to travel through that, I must use the word, it all feels normal.
I took the train from Fianar to Manakara and back. This train is the highlight of many a tourist's trip. It leaves early in the morning, making its way east and south through mountains, jungles, rice paddies, banana plantations, past waterfalls and cliffs, over bridges and under tunnels, stopping regularly at villages to load and unload merchandise, be it pigs or bananas, until it reaches the open fields of the East Coast and the coastal town of Manakara.
I woke up early Saturday morning and made my way to the train station to find a very long queue. Happily Florent, a French guy I'd met two nights before and who wanted to take the train, was a little way in front, allowing me to cut the wait by a bit. Still by the time we got the counter, there were no more seated or standing spots in first class, so we had to buy a second class ticket. We made for the platform and the two second class wagons; the first wagon was too full, but the second was even worst so we pushed into the first. Putting down our bags was difficult but we managed. Remembering India, I thought we'd stay near the open door, sit on the sill when the train got going and enjoy the scenery. Looking outside the wagon, I could see there still many people trying to get in. I figured they wouldn't, but damn, was I wrong!
Soon the only way I could move was to shift my weight from one leg to another. I felt another leg on mine, slowly slipping onto my still tender blisters, but I could do nothing. I couldn't turn around, and by looking over my shoulder, I could see the man doing the crime was out of my reach, behind two others. Luckily the chef de gare decided to add a wagon; I asked a guy to reserve a few seats, tipped him, and had a nice friendly ride for the trip. I've described the scenery but that is not the nicest aspect of ride: at every stop, villagers sold various foods, fruits, beignets, cakes, breads, and so on. My pocket was full of 500 FMG notes (about 8 cents), the price of all these things. I ate royally and throughout the whole trip. Hence I recommend this train ride.
Manakara was a pleasant town. Florent provided much of the entertainement. He is a medical student, so imagine the conversations. On my part I enjoyed corrupting him with the ways of Madagascar. First thing we did was to be pushed 3 kms with our luggage by a guy half our size to our hotel for 5000 fmg. Once there, the pousse-pousse driver asked for twice the amount since there were two of us. I refused automatically and categorically, threatening the driver to take him to the police station if he persisted. Florent was torn; it was only 40 cents of a euro more for him. And the man had sweated for our pleasure. He made the right choice and refused the driver's demands. A small matter, but a big change.
Now, I am going North towards Tana.
I took the train from Fianar to Manakara and back. This train is the highlight of many a tourist's trip. It leaves early in the morning, making its way east and south through mountains, jungles, rice paddies, banana plantations, past waterfalls and cliffs, over bridges and under tunnels, stopping regularly at villages to load and unload merchandise, be it pigs or bananas, until it reaches the open fields of the East Coast and the coastal town of Manakara.
I woke up early Saturday morning and made my way to the train station to find a very long queue. Happily Florent, a French guy I'd met two nights before and who wanted to take the train, was a little way in front, allowing me to cut the wait by a bit. Still by the time we got the counter, there were no more seated or standing spots in first class, so we had to buy a second class ticket. We made for the platform and the two second class wagons; the first wagon was too full, but the second was even worst so we pushed into the first. Putting down our bags was difficult but we managed. Remembering India, I thought we'd stay near the open door, sit on the sill when the train got going and enjoy the scenery. Looking outside the wagon, I could see there still many people trying to get in. I figured they wouldn't, but damn, was I wrong!
Soon the only way I could move was to shift my weight from one leg to another. I felt another leg on mine, slowly slipping onto my still tender blisters, but I could do nothing. I couldn't turn around, and by looking over my shoulder, I could see the man doing the crime was out of my reach, behind two others. Luckily the chef de gare decided to add a wagon; I asked a guy to reserve a few seats, tipped him, and had a nice friendly ride for the trip. I've described the scenery but that is not the nicest aspect of ride: at every stop, villagers sold various foods, fruits, beignets, cakes, breads, and so on. My pocket was full of 500 FMG notes (about 8 cents), the price of all these things. I ate royally and throughout the whole trip. Hence I recommend this train ride.
Manakara was a pleasant town. Florent provided much of the entertainement. He is a medical student, so imagine the conversations. On my part I enjoyed corrupting him with the ways of Madagascar. First thing we did was to be pushed 3 kms with our luggage by a guy half our size to our hotel for 5000 fmg. Once there, the pousse-pousse driver asked for twice the amount since there were two of us. I refused automatically and categorically, threatening the driver to take him to the police station if he persisted. Florent was torn; it was only 40 cents of a euro more for him. And the man had sweated for our pleasure. He made the right choice and refused the driver's demands. A small matter, but a big change.
Now, I am going North towards Tana.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Hikes in national parks
I am in Fianarantsoa, Madagascar’s second biggest town and the capital of the Betsileo people. The last week or so has been quite different from my previous experiences. I am travelling up the RN7, the nation’s best road, and how I enjoy it! The RN7 is the classic tourist route and for good reason. It is a good road with many attractions. Still there are some aspects I miss from the brousse; I am starting to understand Kurtz in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. My colonial spirits are awakening: in the brousse, I was a prince. On the RN7, I am a tourist. Children were scared of me, every girl looked at me, and the men called me Monsieur. They were all hoping I would notice them. Now, on this well worn path, I am a normal sight. Not that there are many vazaha, but there are a few when there were none.
I disgress, and for those who see colonisers as oppressors, I am not endearing myself. The RN7 goes past several national parks. I did two, and I think I will stop at that.
First, Isalo, Madagascar’s most visisted park, at twenty and some thousand visitors a year. Isalo’s main attractions spawn from two sandstone ridges dominating the savannah. With a couple of Frenchmen, I walked in and out of the park for two days running. We visited the main tourist attractions; doing anything else is difficult with the guiding system of the park. One needs a guide to visit the park, and the guiding fees for day hikes are per site visited. They add very quickly to considerable sums. Noticing this, we wanted to do a one-night hike. Ah, but the guide was more clever than us. You will need a porter, he said. We added up prices and it was cheaper than what he proposed. You will need to buy food, he said. Not a problem, I thought, until he pulled some outrageous food costs. Error, I believed him. When a few days later I went to the market, I realised he had inflated prices by five times. I should have doubted his words and called his bluff. But I was too polite and didn’t dare call him a liar. The burden of education...
The sites were interesting, if too arranged for my taste. The most famous one, the piscine naturelle, would have belonged in a garden of the very rich. Very beautiful, yes, very natural, no. What do I mean by arranged? Cement on the paths, steps carved out of the rocks, and rails on some of the trickier sections.
My second park, the Andringtira, was an excercise in contrasts. The paths were arranged but inconspicuously. Granite rocks were laid across the paths to form steps that blended into the scenery. After Isalo and a mild disappointment, I wanted to go to Andringtira but didn’t know how. The park is not on the RN7 but a little way away and my budget is tight. And here comes the perpetual luck of the traveller: I met a French stagiaire of ANGAP, the governmental association running the national parks and reserves of Madagascar, who had been offered a trip up Pic Boby, Madagascar’s second highest peak, and highest accessible peak. (The other peak has not been climbed yet. Too difficult. I can think of a few people that would interest.) Together, we made for Ambalavoa, met people of ANGAP, and were taken to the park, where an agent waited for us and took us up on a splendid two-day hike. All of this for free.
The landscapes of the Andringtira have been described as lunar. I put up pictures on this site that make me think more of the moon. Instead, I would qualify them as stark: granite mountains eroded by endless rains and winds into a variety of shapes. Some harsh cliffs, and others that look like caricatures of noses. The agent who took us up had twelve years of experience in the park. He had helped build all of the paths, and he was the one ANGAP trusted with taking the big shots up. Whenever we ran out of breaths, he paused to point out a plant and explain its importance in the region. Whenever we stopped for lunch or to make camp, he rushed around to prepare a fire for the rice and sundry. That we cooked him two meals surprised him greatly: why were vazaha helping? Power relationships are important here, and as vazaha, we are perceived near the top regardless of our background.
The second day, after a very cold night, we climbed Pic Boby. The ascent was hard but worth the effort. Once I develop the film, I will try to post some photos here.
Now I am in Fianar, about to take the train to Manakara tomorrow. This is a classic trip, which makes me cringe a little, but it has been highly recommended to me by every traveller who has done it.
I disgress, and for those who see colonisers as oppressors, I am not endearing myself. The RN7 goes past several national parks. I did two, and I think I will stop at that.
First, Isalo, Madagascar’s most visisted park, at twenty and some thousand visitors a year. Isalo’s main attractions spawn from two sandstone ridges dominating the savannah. With a couple of Frenchmen, I walked in and out of the park for two days running. We visited the main tourist attractions; doing anything else is difficult with the guiding system of the park. One needs a guide to visit the park, and the guiding fees for day hikes are per site visited. They add very quickly to considerable sums. Noticing this, we wanted to do a one-night hike. Ah, but the guide was more clever than us. You will need a porter, he said. We added up prices and it was cheaper than what he proposed. You will need to buy food, he said. Not a problem, I thought, until he pulled some outrageous food costs. Error, I believed him. When a few days later I went to the market, I realised he had inflated prices by five times. I should have doubted his words and called his bluff. But I was too polite and didn’t dare call him a liar. The burden of education...
The sites were interesting, if too arranged for my taste. The most famous one, the piscine naturelle, would have belonged in a garden of the very rich. Very beautiful, yes, very natural, no. What do I mean by arranged? Cement on the paths, steps carved out of the rocks, and rails on some of the trickier sections.
My second park, the Andringtira, was an excercise in contrasts. The paths were arranged but inconspicuously. Granite rocks were laid across the paths to form steps that blended into the scenery. After Isalo and a mild disappointment, I wanted to go to Andringtira but didn’t know how. The park is not on the RN7 but a little way away and my budget is tight. And here comes the perpetual luck of the traveller: I met a French stagiaire of ANGAP, the governmental association running the national parks and reserves of Madagascar, who had been offered a trip up Pic Boby, Madagascar’s second highest peak, and highest accessible peak. (The other peak has not been climbed yet. Too difficult. I can think of a few people that would interest.) Together, we made for Ambalavoa, met people of ANGAP, and were taken to the park, where an agent waited for us and took us up on a splendid two-day hike. All of this for free.
The landscapes of the Andringtira have been described as lunar. I put up pictures on this site that make me think more of the moon. Instead, I would qualify them as stark: granite mountains eroded by endless rains and winds into a variety of shapes. Some harsh cliffs, and others that look like caricatures of noses. The agent who took us up had twelve years of experience in the park. He had helped build all of the paths, and he was the one ANGAP trusted with taking the big shots up. Whenever we ran out of breaths, he paused to point out a plant and explain its importance in the region. Whenever we stopped for lunch or to make camp, he rushed around to prepare a fire for the rice and sundry. That we cooked him two meals surprised him greatly: why were vazaha helping? Power relationships are important here, and as vazaha, we are perceived near the top regardless of our background.
The second day, after a very cold night, we climbed Pic Boby. The ascent was hard but worth the effort. Once I develop the film, I will try to post some photos here.
Now I am in Fianar, about to take the train to Manakara tomorrow. This is a classic trip, which makes me cringe a little, but it has been highly recommended to me by every traveller who has done it.
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