We awoke at 5am Thursday, and were out of the hotel by 5:40. Our trusty taxi driver (we forgave him for overcharging us, since he did carry our bags up the tiny hotel staircase) drove us to the taxi-brousse station. Now, when you think “station,” imagine a long, unpaved row of tiny shacks, dim and loud, with little vans behind. As soon as we pulled up, men were running up alongside the taxi, trying to get us to go with their company. Francesca got out to find the kiosk of the company we were supposed to have reservations with, while I stayed to watch the bags in the taxi. Apparently when Francesca went to the kiosk and gave her name, the person claimed they had no such reservation, but another man sitting in the kiosk immediately jumped up and said we were with him. « Francesca ? Oui, oui, vous êtes avec moi ! » Turns out he was from another company, but before we knew it men were at the taxi, put our suitcases on their heads and were carrying them away to another kiosk and strapping them to the top of another taxi-brousse! There was nothing we could do but follow along. We called Sam, our employer, (waking her up – it was 6am!) and she said we would be alright, we just had to cancel our reservation with the original company. The new company was going to charge us 5,000 more ariary than the one with which we were supposed to have a reservation, but when Francesca started to try to go find our original company’s kiosk to cancel, the new company guy thought we were trying to leave him and offered us a discount of 5,000. So no real harm done, right?
There are two kinds of time in the world: real-world time and Madagascar time. We had left the hotel that morning at 5:40 to be at the taxi-brousse station at 6am to leave at 6:30. Did this happen? Not exactly…in fact, we didn’t end up leaving until well after 9. We kept asking when we would be leaving, and they just kept saying « Trente minutes » (“Thirty minutes”) again and again as the hours passed…
So we stood there at the side of the taxi-brousse, keeping an eye on the suitcases strapped to the top, waiting and saying a polite « Non, merci » to the countless vendors who passed by, offering crackers (biscuits salés), cookies (biscuits sucrés), candies, cheese, sausages, broken watches, bags, belts, stickers, and cheap toys. We watched two women with small shovels dig a little ditch to move some water that had pooled next to the kiosk.
And we made a new friend. A small, wiry Malagasy man with a battered Équipe de France baseball cap approached us timidly, wanting to know if we spoke English. We were very wary, but it turns out he was just curious and wanted to talk. He introduced himself as Jean-Baptiste; he is an artisan from who makes clay pots at an atelier (workshop) in Fianarantsoa (pronounced “Fianarantsoo,” or Fianar for short). He taught us some Malagasy words, but the only one we were able to retain is misaotr, “thank you” – most Malagasy words are SO long! He also drew us a map of Madagascar in the condensation on the side of the taxi-brousse, showing the road we would take, and the six provinces, which he explained all had different dialects and pronunciations. He was impressed with our level of French; most people here are, as they’re used to clueless Americans only speaking English, or a little French with terrible accents! He also said something about Americans and Canadians drilling oil in Madagascar, but “Shhh!” it’s a secret, he said – not sure what he meant by all that!
Finally, at long last, we all piled into the taxi-brousse: driver and fourteen passengers. Our original reservation would have insured us a seat behind the driver – more legroom. Our new seats were in the second to last row...oh, well…
As soon as the engine started, the music started playing as well. To me, Malagasy music sounds a lot like Spanish-language music. But as I dozed for long hours during the journey, I know I heard some American music, too. Rest assured, dear readers, Lady Gaga has made it all the way to Madagascar!
The landscape is exquisite: rolling hills almost like that of California, often terraced for rice cultivation. Unfortunately, this also means deforestation, which is a huge issue in Madagascar. The New York Times recently published an article (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/25/world/africa/25madagascar.html?hp) about how political instability leads to lack of enforcement of forestry laws, meaning lots of illegal logging of luxury woods like rosewood. The earth is a reddish orange-y color, which made me wonder if the colors of the Malagasy flag (red, green, white) are drawn from the red earth, green hills, and white clouds.
Francesca and I decided the night before that we were not going to eat or drink all day, out of fear of the bathroom situation during the taxi-brousse ride. So besides a tiny sip of water to swallow my vitamins and anti-malarial drugs that morning, I had nothing all day. Turns out this was a good call: in our 8-9 hour drive, we only made three stops. Two were on the side of the road, where – oh my! Look away! - only the men were able to relieve themselves. Alas, the downside of being female! At least we got to stretch our legs. The other stop was so passengers could get lunch at a hotely (snack bar/small restaurant). We stayed in the taxi-brousse – no point in tempting ourselves. The other passengers thought we were crazy and several asked if we were hungry and why we weren’t eating. Was the gum we were chewing really all we needed? Did all Americans not eat?
We spent most of the drive sleeping, finally arriving in Fianar after dark. Sam, our employer, was waiting at the Fianar taxi-brousse station for us, and driving us to our house to drop off our bags, we went back out to get food – spaghetti!!! - at a small restaurant serving mostly European dishes; I think it was called “Espace Relaxe” (Relaxed Space/Place).
Ainsi, we made it to Fianar in one piece. Going abroad also teaches you a lot about yourself, and I now know that I can survive an entire day without food, water, or bathrooms! (without too much pain, either!) Impressive!
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