Madagascar

a tale of transport induced sorrow


I returned from Madagascar about two weeks ago now. Photographically it was a bit of a disaster - my Bronica broke just a couple of weeks into the trip. But it’s a great country and I had some great experiences. Except for the minibuses... I wrote something about those...

Finally I’m in the midst of my final Madagascan minibus ride. The torture will soon be over... soon. But right now I have to maintain control; there’s still the final hell of the bus back to Antananarivo.

Thought I was lucky getting the front seat. Usually it’s a fight to sit next to the driver, the weak overcome by the strong: being a foreigner automatically makes you weak here. But the smart book ahead.

Ten minutes into the final hell I realise the front of this bus isn’t as choice as I was lead to believe. Choking diesel vapors seep from the engine gunning underneath my seat, putrefying the air and turning my face white. I feel the dull throb of a fume induced headache behind my eyes, and it remains there. God knows how, but the driver seems oblivious: perhaps his nostrils are hardened by years of this work? But then we stop to collect goods headed for the capital and someone points out the stream of diesel running out from underneath our decaying vehicle.

We wait while a group of locals attempt to repair the leaking engine, and I get the chance to urinate and clear my head. The cloud of diesel stupor begins to lift just as we’re ordered back into the bus. They’ve fixed the leak and again we’re hurtling around winding mountain roads at careless speed. Whatever they did to fix the leak helps reduce the stink, but the damage is done, these fumes aren’t going away: at least we won’t run out of fuel.

These roads are hellish. They just wind on and on, a ridiculous coil of bitumen snaking around sub-tropical highlands. And the driver has a reckless air about him; he knows the route well and is in no mood to mollycoddle the faint hearted, or the faint stomached. He slams his rusting hulk into sharp corners at dangerously high speeds in a pointless attempt at arriving as soon as possible: is he crazy, or just stupid?

You see the telltale signs of stricken comrades all along the tarmac: used vomit bags ejected from speeding minibuses lie strewn in the middle of the road. Some are run over, spilling their contents in a gut churning display of half digested food: it’ll soon be over, just keep telling yourself that, maintain.

We’ve stopped for lunch. I must have dosed off because the driver's nudging me awake, telling me to go eat something. I get the distinct impression we won’t be stopping again for a while. I’m right.

I wander into a surprisingly nice little eatery, packed with travellers wolfing down plates of food before heading off again (doubtless many are starving after expelling their first meal into sick bags). I sit and eat what’s handed to me: chicken and rice with an unfamiliar sauce and diced vegetables. It tastes good, some of the best cuisine I’ve had in fact. The meal serves as a welcome and surprising respite in this final hell.

Soon the driver summons us once again into the bus and idiotic pace resumes. But the poison fumes have dulled my senses, and I find myself caring less about danger and more about uncomfortable slumber.

When I reawaken we’re no longer winding through the mountain pass, we’re on the upper plain and the home stretch. Four hours have gone by since we left Ambositra. It’s obvious by the surroundings we’re getting closer to the capital: more brick houses, less mud huts... more people, less animals... more cars, less forest... dare I allow a sense of relief to creep into my tortured mind? No, there may still be a few more hours yet.

We stop seldom, and only to collect goods for transport. No more cramming passengers into the back seats. We’re full and only taking things to sell. I try to drown out the hell around me by listening to my iPod. It helps, but only a bit. As the driver secures bags of charcoal on the roof I watch an old woman run across the road toward us; she’s seen me, a foreigner, possibly the wealthiest person she’ll see all day, and she wants cash. But I’m too sick with diesel and boredom to care. To my shame I ignore her requests and she moves on to ask others. Later I feel bad about this, but the constant hassling from beggars has hardened my heart, and I find it easier to refuse these days: am I becoming resigned to poverty?

A few more hours go by and finally, finally we enter the outskirts of Antananarivo. The final hell is almost over and at last I dare to hope for the end to come. Travel these past six weeks has truly been the worst I’ve ever had to endure; the excitement of new towns, new cultures, new experiences punctuated by the dread anticipation of minibus transport in Madagascar. But now the final hell is over, and I can rest easy with beer.


More Soon…



djb