East of Africa: Departure

The boiling hot shower is streaked with trails of reddish-brown dirt that’s been bonded to my skin for the past several days. I take a series deep breaths in the therapeutic warmth of the water, thankful to be back at the cozy, quiet, and hospitable Radama hotel.

The day’s journey was a sudden reminder of just how dangerous a two-lane road winding through the hills of rural Madagascar can be. Outside of Fianarantsoa we passed an overturned semi truck belonging to the biggest brewery in Madagascar (Star Brasseries), quickly being picked apart by an excited crowd. Men, women, and even a few children stuffed liter-sized bottles of Three Horses Beer into their shirts and bicycle baskets while stray dogs sheepishly lapped at the containers that had shattered in the crash.

Further down the road, we arrived moments after a motorcycle was struck by an overcrowded taxi-be, or minivan taxi. Pieces of plastic and glass were strewn about the road; fuel from the motorcycle spilling everywhere. The rider was dazed, but lucky to come out of the accident with only one broken leg. The ToughStuff crew quickly taped the leg up and made space for the man in our overcrowded truck, so that we could take him to the nearest hospital in Fianarantsoa.

As the number of kilometers on the signs to Tana began to wind down, I realized just how close I had become to the rest of the ToughStuff team over the course of the trip, despite our language barriers and upbringings on opposite sides of the Earth. Some of them promised to start Facebook accounts to keep in touch, others wrote down Malagasy phrases in my notebook so that I could practice before my next trip to Madagascar.

The most meaningful gesture came from our genial driver, Ivan. He promised that as soon as we made it back to town that he would have me over to his house to meet his wife and week-old baby daughter…

I dry off from the shower and head out into the streets of Tana to find his house; Ivan is waiting for me on the cobblestone street with cell phone in hand. Before we walk through a small wooden gate that leads to a row of concrete buildings, he pauses and hesitates before saying “My house is not very big; but I hope you don’t mind – you’re very welcome here.” It’s a humble and sincere reception.

We work our way up a narrow spiral staircase to a third story apartment that has a kitchen, a bedroom, and a rooftop balcony. It’s nice by Malagasy standards – the furnishings are minimal, but there is a beautiful view over the city. Ivan’s wife emerges from the bedroom with their newborn daughter wrapped in thick cotton. She apologizes that there is no food to eat, but instead offers me a selection of Coke, Fanta, and Sprite that’s been tucked away for the arrival of a guest.

I sit and soak up Ivan’s surroundings over our conversation and drinks. He’s an extremely hard working and proud man; he left for a week of work only two days after his daughter was born (much to his wife’s disapproval). He acknowledges his fortune to have such a beautiful family and a good job that he loves – although his salary still requires his wife to run a cooking business out of their apartment for extra income.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what kind of world his daughter is entering in to. Her country now stands at a political crossroads, with every move being monitored by the global community. A place once considered to be an isolated island that is now more connected than ever (digitally and through commerce). A place that will hopefully be advanced by the success of social enterprises like the company that her father works for.

I think of the children that weren’t as lucky to be born into good families; riding on their mother’s backs, in search of a vazaa that will hand out money for medicine. Was I wrong to keep walking? Would it have made a difference anyway?

We finish our soft drinks, say our goodbyes, and I leave Ivan and his family to enjoy the rest of their Sunday. As I walk out of the apartment, I consider myself one of the luckiest travelers in Antananarivo. An invitation into a new friend’s home is always special, but the afternoon spent in Ivan’s home was the perfect end to the warmth and hospitality I’ve felt from day one in Madagascar.

I came knowing nothing, with bags haphazardly packed – touching down in a foreign place… I’m leaving with a few friends and a distinct sense of a place that’s no longer very foreign after all.

If you missed any previous posts in the East of Africa series, be sure to check them out
here!

East of Africa: Sounds from the Red Island

Belltowers can be heard from the top of a hillside on a warm Sunday morning in Antananarivo.

After returning from Tuléar, I had a few remaining days in Antananarivo to explore the city and capture some additional photo and video. I’ve started getting in the habit of keeping an ear out for interesting sounds and pulling out my audio recorder to capture the moment. Below are a few of those experiences – and I hope they’re able to transport you to the beautiful and exotic world of Madagascar, even for a split second.

If you have headphones I’d suggest using them so you can pick up the small details in the audio. Enjoy!



A classical guitarist plays a solo in a rural village outside of
Antananarivo.

Two roosters spar in a local competition. Both roosters wheeze heavily with exhaustion, while the owners splash water on their feet to aggravate them.

A beautiful sunset from the balcony of the Radama hotel, accompanied by the sounds of local broadcast on a wind-up radio.

A small, roadside Malagasy cafe bustles with early morning customers eating rice, fried bread, and oatmeal out of noisy tin bowls.

Two teenagers from Tuléar, Melson & Titina, play guitar on a homemade wooden instrument.

The haunting voices of two street children (kat-mis), begging for money on a late night walk in Antananarivo.

A wildfire burns through brush outside of Ilakaka.

A youth choir performs a song in a local church to commemorate a secondary school graduation.

Catch the previous articles in the East of Africa series here!

East of Africa: An island divided

We’re at a small, roadside cafe – a room that consists of a few wooden planks slung together to form a humble dining area. Our server is a loud, jovial woman in her fifties and seems particularly excited to have a vazaa in her restaurant. She enthusiastically brings out six plates of over-saturated rice and sets them down on a cheap plastic tablecloth. I reach for the aluminum fork in front of me and hang it over the rice as I wait for the others to dig in.

Nobody moves. They’re all waiting for the side dishes of chicken, fish, and shredded pork to be brought – and not one person starts eating until every last plate has been set down. It seems particularly strange because the rice is presented almost as soon as we are seated, and the side plates arrive one by one over the course of fifteen minutes.

I guess I’ve lived for so long in a culture where everyone rushes to eat every meal, that it’s sort of refreshing to sit back and let the food get lukewarm for the sake of good manners.The wait creates long gaps of silence that amplify our language barrier, so we resort to watching a small television in the corner of the wooden room.

On almost every television that I’ve seen in the past few days there have been two faces juxtaposed with one another. The first is the face of a young man wearing a dark suit that seems to be a touch too large for his slender frame. The other appears to be an older, seasoned politician; smooth, polished, experienced.

I inquire about the two men, and receive an unexpected lesson in Malagasy civics.

Everyone jumps in, speaking with angst in short sentences about “the young boy” – the name given to Andry Rajoelina (rah-joh-ee-LEENah), declaring that he’s too inexperienced to be running the country. A valid argument since, at 35 years old, he’s officially the youngest head of state in all of Africa.

Rajoelina was formerly the mayor of Antananarivo, and assumed the presidency after forcing out the elected president, Marc Ravalomanana (rah-vah-lo-mah-NAHN), in a coup.

Ravalomanana is the latter man on the screen. Elected in 2002 and then reelected in 2009, he fell under suspicion of corruption and using public money for personal uses. The outrageous spending included the purchase of a presidential jet billed at $60 million; a move that has ended up landing him a four year sentence in prison.

The popular story is that Ravalomanana came out of poverty by selling yogurt from the back of his bicycle, and eventually constructed the largest domestically owned business in Madagascar.

Rajoelina on the other hand, had a much different path to power. As the son of a colonel, Rajoelina dropped out of high school and worked as a DJ in and around Antananarivo. Eventually, he established his own radio station and married into significant wealth, which opened up the opportunity for him to run for office as mayor of the capital city.

Rajoelina had been serving as mayor for roughly a year when the government shut down his privately-owned TV station. An interview with previous head of state Didier Ratsiraka was set to air, and was cited by the government as “likely to disturb peace and security.” Rajoelina retaliated by organizing a series of protests in the capital. All in all, over 100 protestors died from military resistance, further outraging the citizens of Madagascar.

Before long, Rajoelina gained the support of the military, and was able to storm the presidential palace, installing himself as President and Monja Roindefo as Prime Minister.

There are murmurs around our lunch table that Rajoelina is just as corrupt as Ravalomanana. Some suggest that he’s orchestrating suspicious business transactions with his new power as President. They say that there’s never any real change; just one corrupt politician after another.

A depressing reality, since it’s the lives of the people like the kat-mis who are ultimately affected by the actions of the people in power. Money that could be used to facilitate development is being wasted on senseless, selfish expenditures. Do we see it in the West as well? Of course. But it’s a situation that’s all too familiar in post-colonial Africa. A condition that’s nearly unavoidable in an environment with weak infrastructure, strong military power and individuals possessed by greed.

To hear and see more about the unfolding of the coup, it’s worth watching this outstanding piece from Journeyman Pictures.

Read the previous articles in the East of Africa series here!

East of Africa: City of the Thousand

In Antananarivo, the French colonial influence is everywhere: spired churches sit atop the city’s prominent hills. Pretty jacaranda trees line Lake Anosy, which wraps around a war memorial statue in the center of the water.

A large defunct train station sits negelected at the end of a wide boulevard. The sign below the grand clock spells the city’s old French name: “Tananarive”. Horse-drawn carriages and 1960’s Renault and Citroën taxis jam the stone-covered roads, with crackling radios blaring out a french news broadcast.

In this sense, Antananarivo feels like a fractured, soiled apparition of Paris.

But unlike most of the capital cities in Southern Africa, Tana was already a major city before colonization. Around 1625, King Andrianjaka conquered the twelve sacred hills of the city and established it as the capital. He named the city Antananarivo, “City of the Thousand”, because of the thousand guards that were kept to watch over the new establishment.

After the French captured the city in 1895, they remodeled many parts of it to host the growing population and improve transportation for trade and manufacturing. The population of Tana expanded from 100,000 to 175,000 by 1950, which has since exploded to a staggering 1.4 million people after independence in 1960.

The surge in growth, an unstable government, and a struggling niche economy has left many on the streets.There’s undoubtedly a strange beauty and exoticism possessed by the city, but also an almost equally dark and heavy atmosphere in the streets.

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Mothers with small babies wrapped on their backs come and walk alongside me for several street blocks, holding out their hands and saying in a hushed, raspy voice: “le medecin pour le bebe, s’il vous plait”. Their requests need no translation, but I’m rarely able to justify the act of handing out money on the streets in a foreign country.

Local people refer to the beggars as the “quatre-mis” or “kat-mis” for short. In post-revolutionary France, society was broken into three estates, with the poorest being in the third estate. The Malagasy slang term evolved out of the connotation that the beggars were below even the poorest of the third class. The forgotten ones. Useless to society. The lowest of the low.

I finally find that the only way to halt their pursuit is by stopping, and looking at them eye to eye, and regretfully shaking my head. It’s easy to keep walking and pretend to ignore the quatre-mis, and just as easy for them to keep following and keep begging. In that sudden moment of acknowledgement, there’s suddenly nothing left to say – nowhere left to go. We are two antithetical souls staring at one another on a busy sidewalk.

The mother turns around and walks away. I stand in the same spot, waching as the baby on her back bobs up and down with every step. The lump in my throat lodges a little deeper.

I decide to walk up a network of small streets to see the Rova – the Queen’s palace. A young man who claims to be a college student approaches me and says that he’ll show me the way, which I know will end with me handing over a couple thousand ariary (a few dollars) for his guidance. He’s pretty knowledgeable, and I have no problem with paying in exchange for historical information, so I walk with him through the neighborhood.

He tells me about the fire in the Rova, the mixed up political situation, and the riots that took place this past February. When I press him about his studies, he admits that he’s not yet a student but is saving up, and giving impromptu tours to help fund his dreams.

On the way back to the hotel, I deliberately take as many side streets and small alleyways as possible. I pass a group of boys playing on a half broken fooseball table, and practice a few more words of French.

Ahead, a busy Sunday market is closing for the day, and vendors package up scores of textiles, shoes, and cheap Chinese electronics. A large taxi-brousse fills its rows with as many people as possible, for the last ride of the day.

Eventually, I find my way back to familiar streets just in time for another Tana sunset, and take a moment to look out over the twelve sacred hills now painted in an orange glow. It may have started as the city of the thousand, but it’s now the city of a million; with requisite scars to bear from such growth.