Culture Shock

Madagascar is completely different east from west. The central eastern part that I saw was green forests, with an asian-french feel and the people were asian in stature and facial features- although there seemed to be people (perhaps of mixed malagasy french descent?) who had milk coffee coloured skin with wide faces, high cheek bones and pale green eyes- Benicio Deltoro style :-)

The taxi –brousse trip from Tolear to Ranohira was stomach churning. Not because of the cramped seating, the heat, belching black smoke from the diff, bumpy road or eratic overtaking… no, they were all familiar. It was the barren landscape and abject poverty- obvious even from the windows of the taxi-brousse. I felt like I had arrived in Africa and my two year commitment…the extent and weight of poverty and the harsh landscape hit me full-force. Madagascar’s status as the 8th poorest country in the world (WHO Report, 2006) leaks out of cracks in the city’s façade, but in the south, where the landscape dries to a crisp before the rains, it’s a lot harder to hide.

Little village’s were scattered across the baren landscape. Some of the ‘houses’ (the larger ones were perhaps 3 m square) were costructed from thin wooden poles with mud slapped in between. Most however, were simply grass tents. At first I thought they must be chicken houses of some sort, but the more I saw, the more I realised these were peoples homes.

Scattered palms and dry grass growing in orange clay. Cacti and dry grass over shale limestone, tall, scrawny boababs rose up over sparse, stunted shrublands. Family grave rock mounds, constructed several meters high and 3-4 m square from white limestone outnumber the huts in some places. The landscape is not designed for human habitation-The only obviosly edible thing I had seen growing was casava (a nutritionless, last-resort crop) what did people eat? We passed 50 or so people by the side of the road, standing within rectangels marked out with string. Assigned garden plots? The soils looked like highly leached cracking clays- barely able to support the grassland and occasional resiliant Boabab tree let alone enough food to support a family- or a village year round. The rains were coming, maybe that would provide a different picture. Maybe I was being as desparately optimistic as the villagers knocking down the last of the dry grass in their assigned plots. We passed numerous villages sitting conspicuosly on de-nuded hills selling bundles of firewood. Survival. It was heart breaking- I can’t even imagine the uncertainty and anxiety of not knowing how you are going to feed yourself or your family for the next week …the next 3 months. I am humbled by my obscene wealth, ashamed that I ‘tour’ their poverty.

Accessing Money - Madagascar

The moral of the story is: When travelling to Madagascar, take a fat wad of crisp US$50 notes to exchange in the cities along the way and a VISA card for emergencies. Virtually nothing else works without a huge amount of effort and anguish. Several tourists I met along the way were cutting their holidays short because they couldn’t access their money.

So, my story begins with catching a pous-pous down the dusty tracks of Tolear to the Bank of Africa. I walk past the armed security guards to the ATM and optimistically put in my bank card. Something flashes on the screen and it spits it out, so I assume that’s a ‘No we don’t take Cirrus or Mastercard’.

I walk into the bank. One counter has a queue out the door. Another desk is closed ‘fermee’ and the other 2 have 10-15 people huddled around. None of the desks seem attended with bank staff nonchalantly wandering from office to office behind the meter-wide wooden counter. Lots of people are clutching forms and no-one seems too pahsed. Its only 10am and they’ve got all day. Im hoping to get cash, catch a pous pous to the station, get on a taxi-brousse for 3 hrs and arrive in Ranohira tonight. I survey the bank and re-consider.

I join a huddle for 10 min and finally hand my mastercard to the bank teller- a wirey, middleaged man peering at me over the top of his glasses. He turns it over and studies it upside down for a moment. I reach over and point to the ‘mastercard’ logo and he sifts through the papers on his desk, finally producing a small form ‘Demande Paymente Mastercard’. I smile. ‘Merci’ and retreat to decipher the form and calculate the available credit to local currency ‘Ariary’ taking into account the unknown fees/commissions from both sides. I go conservative- I really want this to work first time.

I rejoin the huddle and notice the sweat trickling down my back and the onset of withdrawals as my bloodsugar drops from the baguette, jam and industrial strength coffee I had hours ago. All these people and I still havent seen any money. The wirey bank teller finally takes my bankcard, passport and form and wanders form office to office as I watch my passport like a hawk. He returns without the form, hands me my papers and says something. He smiles quizically that I don’t understand. Why would you travel in a country where you don’t speak the language? Stupid tourist. I point to myself and point to the ground. He nods- I think, so I move to the empty counter 2m to his left and wait. There must be money here somewhere….

A french couple walk in looking hot and confused. ‘where to exchange money?’ Its mildly comforting to know I am not alone. They look at the queues for a moment and leave.
At 11.30ish I rejoin the huddle. When I get to the front he says ‘foroclok!’ with an exasperated ‘tsk!’.

My travel plans change to sleeping plans and I heave on my backpack and negoiate a pous-pous to a nearby hotel. It’s a classy establishment run by an exuberant french pimp. I fall into a restless, sweaty sleep in front of the fan in my dingy room.

3.10pm I wakeup and decide to head backto the bank ‘just in case’. The pous-pous driver refuses my payment- wanting the guarantee of the return fare. He follows me into the bank. I rejoin the huddle. When I get to the front he heads off with my papers after a lively conversation with the woman next to me. She introduces herself and explains that she is an english teacher. I ask about the joke and she said the teller had commented that I only spoke english- she suggested he learn and he retorted that that I could teach him after we were married. Of course. She points me in the direction of another queue and explains that the bank closes at 4pm. I slide in at the front of the queue, sign some receipts and the man counts out my Ar 250 000.

All that effort and waiting for $150. I’ll have to do it all again in a few days. I turn to leave and the bank doors are barred and bolted with 70 people inside. I knock on the closed door that people were pointing too and am eventually let out- my pous –pous driver is no where in site. He was more daunted by the queues than I was and had gone to find himself a shady spot to rest. I walk back to the hotel. He’ll find me- I owe him money and he knows where I live :-)

Tolear and De L'Isalo National Park- Madagascar

This place is written on the map as Toliara, but Malagasy don’t seem to pronounce the vowels at the end of a word- so it’s pronounced ‘Tulear’. People who don’t live there aptly call it ‘the cooking pot’. It’s a dusty, spawling coastal city- in the mangrove sense, with one bitumen road through the middle, serviced by hundreds of colourful ‘pous-pous’ – brightly painted carts with a seat and shade roof, powered and steered by a man. Except for the pous-pous operators, the city appears to suffer from acute lethargy- no doubt from the oppressive heat, and barely wakes up even in the evenings. It reminded me strongly of Joseph Conrads ‘Lord Jim’ I wonder if Conrad ever visited Madagascar?







travelling pous-pous style. (forground-my bag held together with a trusty nappy pin, generously donated by little William).

My new friend who loved his photo.
Street scene.

I didn’t like the idea of being ‘carried’ around in the pous-pous by a black man running in the scorching heat. It felt really wrong, but it seemed to be the prefered mode of transort by the local Malagasy women and I figured the poorer pous-pous drivers needed the money more than the taxi drivers who could afford the car…

In Tolear I was also became aware of the huge tourist sex trade in this country. Almost everywhere I stayed (and I moved several times in a vain attempt to not patronise such establishments) were seedy old men with beautiful young Malagasy girls on their arms. I was assured that the Malagasy girls have ‘no trust’ and would have their own Malagasy boyfriends and were therefore equally ‘using’ the tourists for money…but …its still wrong. It makes me so angry that people travel to use and abuse. It really made me look at my own motives for travel- what was I hear for? To enjoy…what? And at who’s expense?

Ranohira
Ranohira is a few hours taxi brousse trip from Tolear, and is right next to one of the most amazing national parks I have ever seen: Parc National de L'Isalo. wow. the guide book says: 'the flat grassy plains of the hauts plateaux near Ranohira are abruptly broken by the towering sandstone massifs sculpted by wind and water into gorges and scraggy bluffs.' I stayed at 'Chez Alice' and had stunning panoramic views of the park. As they say- a picture is worth a thousand words so I'll quit writing now.

The small cottages at Chez Alice

The view from my cottage door...

Elephants foot 'boabab'- that actually isnt a boabab at all.

The cutest little cameleon!

Paradise?! pretty close!

I think I may have found the 'King of the Lemurs'!!yellow for poisonous I was told

Madagascars own Grand Canyon

Not so cute cameleon

I felt like I was in the Pilbara!

Ok...so I like lizards...but ya gotta admit- this is a good shot.

Andasibe and Perinet National Park- Madagascar

From Antananarivo (Tana) we caught a taxi-brousse (bush taxi) to the Perinet National Park.

The Malagasy have a saying that ‘the human is not the chicken’- which may not sound that profound, but has a profound impact on their public services (compared to Indonesia that is J). For long trips (approx greater than 4 hrs) they will only pack in 3 people to a seat (15 to a taxi) –and only 5 per seat (25 plus children) for shorter trips. There are also toilet stops !! where the women take one side of the road and the men the other (thank God I’ve been wearing skirts!) and the driver will wait patiently for passengers to buy snacks through the window of the taxi…in fact they are so patient in waiting for people (and $) [1st to sell enough tickets to fill the seats and second for all the ticket holders to finish their shopping and odd jobs for the day and congregate at the taxi brousse at the same time] that they often leave 2 to 3 hrs after they are ‘scheduled’. For this the Malagasy have another phrase: ‘mura mura’ which describes their attitude to life and means ‘slowly slowly’.

The bungalow accomodation here we stayed was about 3hrs taxi-brousse (bush taxi) ride from Tana via Moramanga. The bungalows and resteraunt were nestled in along a riverbed overlooking the national park.

The next morning, snuggled up under a doona and mozzie net, I was woken up (4.30am!) to the sound of the indri-indri hooting and howling in the forest to mark and protect their territory. Two animals can make such an amazing racket! We took a day tour with our guide ‘Leiver’ and saw so many animals…
The common brown lemur

Sifaka’s (white golden and black)

Indri-indri (having a bad hair day!)

The hedgehog tenrec (moved too fast for me to get a piccy)
Ring-tailed mongoose (ditto- but very cool looking critter!)
Parsons chameleon
Leaf chameleon
Day gecko
Millipedes…

The coolest thing though were the groups of Malagasy school children seeing their national parks and native animals wild for the first time. I was aware that a programme had been set up to educate Malagasy communities about the value of the unique natural environment of which they are part…and I was stoked to see it in action.

After 6hrs of trapesing through the ‘jungle’ animal spotting, I still hadn’t had enough and we headed into Andasibe, a small town 2 km walk from the park entrance to have a look and find some lunch. The shell of an imposing colonial style hotel marked the beginning of the town. Prince Charles and David Attenborough had stayed here in its glory days. No more. The town was hot, dusty and sprawled either side of a rail line that now transported supplies to Tana. The place seemed largely deserted under the weight of the afternoon heat- except for a bunch of kids set free from school playing soccer.

The train was due in 30 min…or 4 hrs, so I sought the shade and promise of good food at a small wooden ‘hotely’- or ‘warung’ as they would call it in Indonesia. I love eating at such places. The Australian government stongly warns travellers against it, but then again- if you took all your travel advice from them you would spend your whole holiday worrying… Such eateries are dotted all over the third world and are invariably constructed from wood and tarpaulins. It’s often dim inside, with a low roof and wooden tables protected with garish plastic table clothes. Those of us who regularly eat in these places know that its where the locals eat – so the food is usually simple, cheap and absolutely delicious (or you spend the next 24hrs on the toilet with your head over a bucket!). The family lives behind and the menu is… well, I never had any luck with reading menus in Madagascar, but I ended up with a divinely delicious meal of mildly flavoured butterbeans, carrots and green beans with chilli, rice and ‘rice water’. I think ‘rice water’ is a povo-special invention – but it almost had a sweet nutty flavour.

Recipe
Cook your rice.
Burn it. If you don’t want to burn it before eating, scoop out the cooked rice for your meal, then slowly heat the rice stuck to the bottom of the pan until the edges curl up brown.
Add water. Boil.
Serve resulting hot tea coloured water to your guests.
Warn guests about rice dregs.
Enjoy Madagascan cultural experience.

Let me know what you think once you’ve tried it!

The following day it was time to leave my travelling partner and go our separate ways- he was heading to Ile St Marie to the north-east and I was heading back to Tana to catch a flight to Tolear in the south-west. We got up early, skipped breakfast to be out at the T-junction on time for the taxi-brousse at 7.30 am…and waited. Then we realised it was Sunday.

It was so beautiful, people walking to church along the road in little groups through the clearing fog. Old men in suits and hat, 1950’s style. Women in colourful long dresses and wide brimmed straw hats. “Bonjour Madamoiselle!’ ‘Salama!’ Everyone in their Sunday best. We sat on our bags and waited. The church bells rang. The men fixing the truck on the corner finished putting all the pieces back in and push started it down the hill. The road was deserted. The taxi-brousse never came, but several hours later a passer-by took us to Moramanga.

Antananarivo, Madagascar

Ive been here less than 24 hours, and I must say I am at a loss to describe the place (Antananarivo that is). It feels so familar, yet so ridiculously foreign
some reflections on the last 20 hrs...

• the smell of of the indian guys I was squeezed between on the flight in.
• the humidity.
• relief that customs and visas took 5 min.
• dinner at an upper class french resteraunt with a jewish guy I met on the plane (jeremy) who scarily reminds me of Fred.
• drinking beer and eating zebu whilst being serenaded in french by an over exuberant malagasy man .
• tossing and turning all night as my mind made a feeble attempt to catch up with my body .
• watching a man defecate in the drain outside my room.


• the stunning views of antananarivo- jacaranda lines lakes, small european style buildings crowding into every nook of the undulating hills. steep staircases and narrow cobbled streets with renaults fighting for right of way.


• wooden scaffolding on building sites.



• road works with fires by the sides of the road heating up drums full of bitumen, spread by the wheelbarrow load.
  
  
• croissants and a shot of expresso for breakfast- parlevou fronce? nope. i wish.


• more language problems: chronic giggles when I thought I had ordered vegetables and rice for lunch and the waitress arrived with a cheese pizza.



• market stalls lining the streets, people, cars, vegetables, shoes, flowers...


• the glazed eyes of a dead man lying on the road in a pool of blood. life is cheap apparently.


• the beggars. so many, but today one of them scored a cheese pizza :)








• the beautiful universality of a smile and nod of acknowledgement.


• little groups of men playing dominoes in an alleyway.
  
  
  
• a woman breastfeeding, perched by the side of the road...
  i think you get the picture...or some of it at least