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.