Madagascar: Road-Tripping Across The "Lost Continent"

 

When I surveyed friends, family, and coworkers about my next destination for an annual adventure abroad, the results were delightfully varied, though entirely unsurprising. Half couldn't locate it on a map, a third referenced an unrelated animation, and the remainder thought only of vanilla pods or coffee beans. It truly begged the question: What does the name Madagascar evoke for us in the West, where all of Africa is unfairly viewed as one giant misunderstood mass? For me as an avid traveler, the name had always embodied a romantic sense of the exotic and mysterious, the fourth largest island in the world where nearly 90 percent of its flora and fauna are endemic. Yet as an academic, it also conjured up an array of statistics, unfortunately negative ones, describing an underdeveloped nation struggling to persist. It has consistently ranked among the top ten poorest countries by GDP, with average daily wages of less than two dollars. Only 20 percent of its entire road infrastructure is paved, and even those roads were left to decay. It's been marred by countless political coups and unpredictable social unrest, as well as scarred by growing ecological exploitation and rapid climate change. So why, you ask, would I have any desire to travel 11 hours to Paris, spend 20 hours in layover, and then fly an additional 10 hours to a remote Indian Ocean island with such a track record? And I thought you'd know me by now.

After an epic road trip across Pakistan last summer, I soon found myself longing again for the thrill of the unconventional and relatively untouched. Yet, the further I investigated about traveling through Madagascar, the more I realized that it wasn't going to be a straightforward place to navigate independently. Depending on decrepit road conditions, tenuous weather, and occasional banditry, a journey of only 100 miles could easily take upwards of 10 hours. Tourism infrastructure was limited, and many places apparently lacked electricity or running water. My research for a guide led me to a young local entrepreneur named Enock, who had in the last five years opened his own transport and tourism service, to few albeit consistent raving reviews. My virtual conversations with him were pleasant and reassuring as we discussed my desired itinerary and needed provisions for a potentially arduous 4x4 journey across some of the island's most magical terrain. The asking price was not cheap, but given the cost of fuel and private services in a place with limited amenities, it was understandable. Sensing he was a reliable character, my father and I did the unthinkable by directly wiring him a decent sized deposit to organize the trip. 

And then the unthinkable actually happened. A little over a month before my departure, I was contacted by a young woman claiming to be Enock's secretary, notifying me that he had in fact died. The first heart-sinking thought that rushed through my mind was whether I had fallen for a classic African scam, a costly "Nigerian Prince" wire transfer directly into a black hole. Interestingly, she assured me that her team was still preparing for my arrival and searching for another guide. Was the trip still on, or would this further develop into an even more elaborate scheme to con us out of thousands of dollars? I would only know once I arrived in the capital of Antananarivo, and it was two days worth of flights filled with anxiety.

Antananarivo: The Provincial Highland Capital

Stepping out from the colorful Chalet des Roses Hotel into the cool and humid highland air, we were immediately pounced upon by a swarm of people, a mix of merchants hawking bags of vanilla pods and beggar children in torn rags with outreached arms. It seemed like such an appropriate welcoming committee to the chaotic capital of Madagascar. Built along a series of hilly ridges connected by long crisscrossing flights of steps, misty air heavy with the stench of diesel blanketed a city of ramshackle favelas piled up on each other alongside grand French colonial architecture in various states of subtropical dilapidation. From the hilltop Place de l'Independance, stairs descended into a veritable pit of crammed multicolored umbrellas and traditional tiled pavilions bustling with frenetic mercantile energy. The Analakely Market was a dizzying display of tropical fruits, raw meats, cheap Chinese wares, and steaming street foods interlaced with motor scooters and minivans precariously cutting their way through the extremely dense crowds. Reminiscent of Ethiopia's Bole Market, it was an easy place to get distracted by the sights and sounds of overcrowded urban Africa, as well as an area to keep constant vigilance for potentially sticky fingers. We traversed the market and Avenue de l'Independence, where every inch of broken sidewalk was filled with someone trying to sell something, except around the City Hall kept clear by a lackadaisical police force. Tiny shops and stalls made from scrap wood, plastic tarps, tires, and corrugated tin lined the crowded dusty roads leading into downtown, giving the capital the feeling of a giant makeshift camp. Our first day was leisurely as we attempted to rest and acclimate after nearly two days in transit, though adapting to the pollution and general sketchiness proved to be a restless feat. We took lunch at the popular local eatery of Toketelo, hidden on the second floor of a run down building, introducing me to the daily cuisine of the Malagasy people: a set tray consisting of white and purple rice alongside a stewed meat loaka, pickled vegetables, and potato leaf broth. We shared a plate of lelan'omby soasy (braised zebu tongue) and vorivirinkena (zebu tripe), although there was not enough of either meat to satisfy our American appetite. Coming from a land of plenty, we knew portion sizes were going to be small in this part of the world. Surprisingly, the honest restaurant owner felt embarrassed by the kitchen's insufficient offering, both lowering the price of the meal and compensating us with a bowl of fried silk worm grubs, on the house. 

View of downtown Antananarivo from the Queen's Palace

Le Chalet des Roses, the main hub for nearly all foreigners and adventurers 

The traditional pavilions of Analakely Market

Analakely Market on a non-crowded day

Vanilla pods, cinnamon bark, peppercorns, and baobab fruit are popular products

One of the many staircases crisscrossing the hills of Antananarivo

A typical Malagasy lunch combo

Complimentary cup of fried silk worm grubs

My first insight into Madagascar was literally written on the faces of its people. The Malagasy were perplexing in themselves regarding their features and cultural practices, unsurprising when given the context of the nation's unique history. Only two thousand years ago, relatively recently in terms of human history, Austronesian seafarers took the exploratory plunge into the unknown by hopping into their outrigger canoes and sailing away from what is today the Indonesian archipelago. While many sailed eastward to eventually discover and populate the islands of Polynesia and New Zealand, one tribe from Borneo migrated to the west, mooring upon the shores of Madagascar nearly five thousand miles from their Southeast Asian homeland. Over the course of time, Bantu tribes from East Africa found their way to the island by traversing the Mozambique Channel, either as slaves or wandering migrants. The resulting millennia of racial intermixing created the Malagasy peoples, a curious collection of hybrid Afro-Asians in all combinations of phenotypic ratios with cross-cultural practices unlike anywhere else on the planet. Likewise, Malagasy cuisine also reflected a gastronomic fusion, with Asian staples of rice, cassava, and coconut coherently intermingling with African contributions of zebu cattle, peanuts, and beans. With the colonial imprint of French cooking styles, their food became a literal melt-in-the-mouth melting pot.

Malagasy girls of the highland Merina subgroup with Asian-Pacific Islander features

Malagasy girls of the coastal Sakalava subgroup with African features

Traditional seafood coconut curry with Western presentation

National romazava soup in traditional clay pot

After a stroll through the market, we made it back to Chalet before dark without having anything stolen, a relief given the stories we had heard prior to our arrival. We were excited but also anxious to see if anyone from Enock's team would show up the next day, and if the adventure of a lifetime would come to fruition despite the previous month's unsettling news.

The Road to Andasibe: Lemurs of the Eastern Rainforests

My initial fears of having been scammed out of thousands of dollars were quelled once a Nissan Patrol 4x4 pulled up outside Le Chalet, driven by a tiny middle-aged man named Rivo, alongside a younger heavier guide named Anjara. In a heavy Malagasy accent with an exceptionally wide smile, Anjara welcomed us to his country, excited to offer his services while profusely apologizing for the confusion we felt surrounding Enock's unexpected death and the reorganization of the homegrown company. He promised to make our visit engaging and secure, knowing very well that he and the team were now operating without the meticulous oversight of their founder. We set off early in the morning, pushing our way through the mayhem of Antananarivo traffic to reach National Highway 2, one of the few (poorly) paved roads in the country blocked with painfully slow shipping trucks, en route to the island's eastern rainforests. It took nearly five hours to travel merely 90 miles, winding our way through the surprisingly brisk highlands, past adobe villages and rice terraces towards the small village of Andasibe on the edge of the protected primary forests. Winding our way through the narrow village road, we came upon a wooden scaffolded bridge that led to a wide clearing in the forest, dotted by delightfully quaint little private bungalows surrounded by colorful tropical flower gardens. The deluxe setting of the Lemurs Lodge was rather unexpected, especially after having driven through impoverished wooden hovels of the local village just across the river. We sought a taste of the real Malagasy lifestyle, choosing not to rest that afternoon in the comforts of the lodge, but instead wander independently into the neighboring village where we ourselves quickly became a curious attraction. Shacks and small stalls sold limited quantities of domestic products, from small homegrown produce to old meat and fly-covered fish. Every miniature storefront appeared like a casual pop-up beneath a small dilapidated residence draped in soiled laundry, with each family trying to sell whatever they could offer that someone else in the village might need. Mothers sat beside plates of various fried fritters and pots of homemade soups, anxiously awaiting anyone to make a purchase. Young men sat around leisurely, seemingly uncertain about their next form of employment. Despite the glaring poverty and dismay conditions, the villagers were visibly peaceful and welcoming, as everyone in the community sat outside in the cool evening engaged in an endless laid-back social hour that ran purely on "island time".

View of the eastern valleys and rainforests 

Local transportation in Moramanga, near Andasibe

Woman selling tamarillos (tree tomatoes)

A typical family storefront, usually constructed beneath their living quarters

Houses and rice fields in Andasibe village

A typical butchery in Andasibe village 

Shops along the main street in Andasibe village

Our private bungalow at the Lemurs Lodge near Andasibe National Park

It was a pleasant afternoon stroll while waiting for the darkness of night, when Anjara returned to take us back along the forested road to meet Celine, a middle-aged mother with impeccable politeness, who would serve as our nocturnal animal spotter during our first night walk. We followed a road cutting through the rainforest on the outskirts of a reserve with flashlights and headlamps, looking off to the sides with the hope of potentially spotting any unique creatures camouflaged among the dark depths of the foliage. After nearly half an hour without luck, I began to lose faith in the stroll until the beam of my headlamp suddenly illuminated a tiny pair of glowing eyes staring back through the branches. Excitedly, we gazed through our binoculars to see the most adorable little mouse lemur, the tiniest of lemur species, scurrying through the trees with its long tail. From that moment onward, we all began to ramp up our scrutiny, quickly coming across all sorts of eyes belonging to mouse lemurs, brown lemurs, chameleons, and tree frogs. Celine was a master of spotting the veritably invisible, a skill that impressed me with every needle in the haystack discovery she made for us. 

Celine the amazing animal spotter in Analamazoatra Reserve

A night walk on the outskirts of the reserve in search of nocturnal species

A tiny boophis frog sleeping on a leaf

Armed guard for the field-tripping students of the American School

The following morning began shortly after dawn, with the cool and humid mist still hovering above the forest canopy. It was supposedly a great day for lemur spotting in the nearby Analamazaotra Protected Reserve, where we reunited with Celine to begin our nearly four-hour trek along narrow jungle trails. Like my experiences in the Amazon and jungles of Southeast Asia, hiking through Madagascar's rainforest was enchanting and revitalizing, a world of fresh air and primordial purity that was even more special with so many of endemic species unique to the island. Towering tree ferns and gigantic vakona pandans sprung up alongside prehistoric elephant ear trees and palisander rosewoods, sprinkled with colorful gem-like orchids and fungi. Vines twisted like serpents, occasionally interrupted by bulbous ant nests and termite mounds. Like the night walk of the previous evening, much time had passed without any sign of wildlife in the eery silent forest, until something inaudible to our ears caught Celine's sharp attention. She took off from the narrow trail straight into the dark tangled mess of the untamed forest, emerging after some time with wide-eyed anticipation. We hurried behind her through the dense vegetation and twisted roots, trying not to think about the giant arachnids and other creepy-crawlers whose homes we were likely plowing through to get a glimpse of our prize. Not too high up on the trunks of soaring trees, a family of Diademed Sifaka lemurs clung to the sprawling branches, grooming and feeding on edible flowers and leaves. We observed them in silence from the dark forest floor until they moved on, carefully following them through the thick jungle as they effortlessly leaped among the trees like little furry acrobats. In time, we eventually found multiple families, including one group of prized Indri-Indri, the largest of lemur species that lacks a tail. While all species of lemurs are native solely to Madagascar, the forest of Andasibe is the only place in the world where one can find the Indri-Indri, on account that their diet relies entirely upon specific plants found only in that area. With growing deforestation for farmland and precious hardwoods, the Indri-Indri has become one of the rarest and most critically endangered species on the planet, making our spotting a truly fortunate gift. Upon our arrival into their territory, the once silent forest began to echo with the alien sound of their high pitched howls, a live soundtrack harking back to a mystical prehistoric era.

A family of Diademed Sifaka lemurs in Analamazoatra Reserve

A Diademed Sifaka lemur

Local Malagasy school children on a jungle field trip to learn about their unique fauna

A rare Indri-Indri, the largest of the lemur species

The diversity and density of the Andasibe rainforest

Emerald tree geckos courting on a giant Pandanus leaf

One of many species of horrifying looking spiders

An almost unnatural blue hued palm berry

A massive ant colony attached to a tree

Various types of fungi 1

A giant Pandanus plant, known locally as vagona

Various types of fungi 2

Another species of giant horrifying spider

While the distant wild lemurs were a majestic sight for any lucky individual to behold, personally meeting lemurs was an even more fantastic experience. Leaving the Analamizaotra Reserve, we drove off-road to a small and secluded private reserve near the high end Vakona Lodge, which had created a series of small forested islands within a man-made lake entirely for rescued lemurs that had either previously been hunted or illegally held as pets. The lemurs' instinctive fear of water kept them from leaving their private islands, ensuring that they could live free while protected and contained without any need for fences or cages. Given their experience with human contact, these lemurs were not shy nor easily startled, but rather curious and ready to investigate and pounce upon anyone passing on the trails that criss-crossed the islands. Delightfully, we came face-to-face with these beautiful and playful creatures, including those of other regional species like the red-ruffed, golden sifaka, and black-and-white lemurs. It took great restraint to not reach out and pet their thick luscious tails, or hold their child-like prehensile hands. The sanctuary was a place one could spend hours simply being entertained by these ancient members of our primate family.

The elite reserve grounds of the Vagona Lodge. Naturally, we didn't stay there

A black-and-white ruffed lemur

A common brown lemur

Crocodiles on a reserve outside of Andasibe

After finishing the afternoon with a stroll through another private reserve for crocodiles, we returned exhausted and satisfied to the lodge. Dinner in the lodge restaurant was equally as unexpected as the accommodations, its humble kitchen churning out delectable delicacies with elaborate presentations that could easily rival those of boutique eateries back home. At no more than ten dollars per plate, a small fortune for most locals, we shamelessly gorged on braised duck legs, spiced tilapia, and squid fricassee to the sounds of jazzy lounge tunes. I was initially conflicted by this display of unabashed wealth in a land of extreme poverty, but my taste buds ultimately overcame the struggle.

Duck breast at the Lemurs Lodge

Malagasy style fish

Squid fricassee 

The Road to Antsirabe & Miandrivazo: Descending Through Merina Territory 

After a fabulous lunch of ravitoto (zebu meat in cassava leaves with coconut milk) and braised zebu tongue on the outskirts of Antananarivo, we veered south along National Road 7, heading deep into the central highlands towards the highland town of Antsirabe. National Road 7 served as a perfect example of how ludicrously inefficient basic intercity travel could be throughout Madagascar. Though only 100 miles separated Antsirabe and the capital, it took over six hours to arrive. Adding on the previous five hours from Andasibe in the east, the entire journey lasted nearly 11 hours, a full equatorial day of meandering behind sluggish shipping trucks and wooden cattle-drawn carts, all the while avoiding near misses with pedestrians, roadside merchants, and cyclists. Disintegrating roads scarred by potholes large enough to swallow children impeded the drive up to a frequency of every few seconds, with constant acceleration, weaving, and slamming of brakes making the experience as nauseating as it was time draining. Hours trapped behind smog-belching, dust-whipping micro buses choked the lungs and inflamed the throat. Fortunately, the vast natural landscape of rolling alpine hills and charming red-hued adobe villages gave the eyes a distraction from the relentless rickety roller coaster that lay ahead. The tropical humid rainforests of the east transformed into cool elevated rocky outcroppings studded with pine trees, before finally opening up into rolling hills and grasslands of bright red ferrous earth. We finally arrived at the busy provincial town, where the dimly lit central avenue was bustling with evening social activities as chatty women perused small clothing stands and raucous men gathered around pop-up gambling tables to place their bets. Playful children drove around erratically and unattended in small electric cars and mini bicycle rickshaws. Stepping out of the vintage, retro Flower Hotel, we walked to the street corner to find a cozy little restaurant tastefully adorned with African motifs, comically named Gasy Cook, where we were once again blown away by the delectable local flavors and stylish French presentation of Malagasy cuisine. We helped ourselves to a plate for two of duck foie gras with grilled pineapple and tomato over crostata, then shared two plats de résistance of balsamic duck breast and spiced saucy goose. A quality 17 dollar meal for two and good night's sleep was sufficient to revitalize us for the third long journey of the trip.

One of countless examples showing the dire state of Madagascar's road infrastructure

Merina woman selling rabbits as pets or food in the central highlands

A typical family shop in a central highland village

Example of a highland house for a more affluent family

Traditional highland houses are simple multistorey adobe with thatch structures

The Gasy Cook restaurant, a culinary gem in Antsirabe

Duck foie gras with grilled pineapple

Malagasy style braised goose

Descending from the grassy plateau of the central highlands, we found ourselves seven hours later in the searing hot, dry western plains, cut through the center by the vast Tsiribihina river delta and marshlands. We had entered Sakalava territory, noticeably marked by a change in the features and customs of the local people. The Asiatic and Pacific Islander faces of the highland Merina people had now morphed into those which were distinctly Bantu from continental Africa. In the bustling market of Miandrivazo, slender saronged women sporting elaborate corn-rowed hair and dotted forehead tattoos carried their morning grocery shopping in baskets upon their heads with gyroscopic precision. Many faces were smeared with a yellow paste ground from the baobab tree bark, a natural make-up and sunscreen reminiscent of the traditions in Myanmar and Indonesia. We spent the night in the only hotel in town to our knowledge, the Soa Lia, which despite only having electricity for several hours at night, prepared an amazing roasted wild teal duck and tuna steak that left us comically flabbergasted. The next morning, our car continued west before turning off from the highway and onto a dirt trail, bouncing its way across an almost savannah-like terrain of grasses and sparse trees. As wild reeds began to increase in number, the shoreline of the Tsiribihina finally appeared on the edge of the secluded Masiakampy village. A quaint wooden river boat undulated to the movement of a boat crew anxiously stocking provisions for our entirely private three-day river journey towards the coast.

Sakalava women on their way the market in Miandrivazo

Traditional Sakalava women's attire and makeup

Wild teal duck in a fruiting peppercorn sauce with pilaf

Malagasy style stewed tuna steaks

Sunset view of the Tsiribihina marshes from our balcony at the Soa Lia Hotel

Cruising the Tsiribihina: Camping in Sakalava Territory 

Like a scene out of the classic novel, Heart of Darkness, our colorfully painted river boat slowly made its way down the Tsiribihina, framed perfectly by densely jungled slopes whose vegetation spilled out over the river's coffee-colored waters. White egrets and black teals took fight among the reeds, occasionally passing through an opening on the shore where one could catch a glimpse of the thatched roofs from a small secluded village. Excited children would flock to the shore to observe the passing "vazaha", or foreigners, screaming and waving at the rare novelty floating past their isolated rural homes. Narrow hollowed-out pirogues slowly ferried locals along the river between villages, while long motorized vessels carried produce and goods to markets miles up river. The view of the winding Tsiribihina snaking through the narrow valley of skyscraper-like forests was veritably cinematic, and I felt a strange sense of nostalgia inspired by the age of colonial explorers and naturalists who traversed the depths of Africa on Victorian-era steamboats through a similar sticky setting nearly two centuries ago. Our boat crew consisted of six men whose names I never learned, with the most charismatic and comical of the bunch missing one eye like a youthful African pirate. The chef of the boat was timid and soft-spoken, which certainly felt contrary to the robust flavors and elaborate presentations of his meals. After a lunch of whole grilled river fish and romazava stew, we meandered towards a forested cleft deep in the limestone cliffs, where we disembarked and hiked along a series of boulder cascades and milky blue pools. At the source, the massive Nosy Ampela waterfall plummeted in an array of streams and trickles within a lush paradisiacal gorge hidden from the river's view. A family of wild brown lemurs descended upon the tangled vines to greet us, inquisitive and playful, while the bulging eyes of a chameleon darted in every direction from the safety of its branch, searching for insects to snatch with its lightning-fast tongue. 

Our private wooden riverboat, La Sirene

The boat crew of La Sirene

Sakalava mother and child in a traditional hollowed-out tree trunk pirogue

The Nosy Ampela Waterfall

A chameleon slowly makes its way along a branch

A Red-Fronted lemur

The amazing boat chef and one of his elaborate salads

Anjara ready to eat the delectable fried river fish

Our first campsite was an open sandbar conveniently located on the opposite side of the river from the waterfall, near a small tribal family whose reed huts were concealed by the darkness of the forest. While the boat crew set up the tents and makeshift bucket shower, an ecstatic group of local children came down to play, each grasping onto our hands and bickering over who would get the opportunity to hold onto the rare visiting vazaha. One little girl embraced my leg as if I were her mother, following me everywhere with unceasing devotion in an adorable display of affection. Throughout the journey, Malagasy children had been surprisingly sweet and gentle, as well as completely self-sufficient. A group of them piled into a pirogue and rowed each other along the typically crocodile-filled river, without as much as a glance from their parents in the small rice fields nearby. For much of the evening, the children and other forest locals sat on the sandy bank, observing from afar our every move, a captivated audience entranced by the activities of the newly formed camp. That evening, after the sun set behind the cliffs and a brilliant full moon ascended in its place, the crew lit a bonfire and pulled out the instruments. No camping experience anywhere in the world could be complete without a few campfire tunes, and once everyone had a generous glass of homebrewed rum, the guitar and djembe resonated with the raw acoustic sounds of Malagasy love ballads. The crew put on a delightfully good show, harmonizing their African melodies to the symphony of a million insects in the surrounding forest. There was an enchantment to the evening that cannot be transcribed, but solely felt in the beauty of a fleeting starlit moment by the river's ebb and flow. The hot and humid evenings made sleeping a challenge of heat tolerance, as we found ourselves spending most of the night lying half-naked and semi-awake in a sweaty sticky state of tropical grunge. But in time, a cool and refreshing bucket shower before dawn would make one feel much at ease, at least until the mosquitoes discovered you at your most vulnerable state.

Local Sakalava boys learning to be independent on the river

Little Sakalava toddler

Children became very excited and attached, even if your visit was brief

Braised pork ribs and thyme potatoes, another of the boat chef's delectable creations

First night's camp along the river 

Dusk over the Tsiribihina river

An evening of Malagasy love ballads around the campfire

The next morning, we journeyed further down the river to a small village to pick up more provisions. The bush village of Begidro, once a center for tobacco production, was a cluster of ramshackle reed houses with a solid concrete pavilion in the center that served as a communal marketplace. The commercial area was dominated by women, sitting on the floor with theirj small piles of fruits and vegetables, while others fried little fish in tiny frying pans over small coal-fired braziers. For a small village, the sense of activity and boisterous noise was immense, with the sounds of vendors, playing children, and roosters crowing in a cacophony of everyday village life. Flocks of children paraded us through the village, where we were led to a small and decrepit structure serving as the only schoolhouse in the area. Hundreds of children sat on the bare floors of the classrooms, chanting in unison the days of the week and the months of the year in French. Any child could attend the school, though most did not, fated to sacrifice education in order to help their families with subsistence farming and basic survival in a country without any assistance from the state. Though the children were absolutely precious sporting their white, wide tooth smiles, the conditions of the school were heartbreakingly deplorable with no desks, supplies, or qualified teachers. They begged us for pens and bon-bons, but it pained us to admit that we had nothing more to give. We made a small monetary donation, though we knew this was likely to have very little lasting impact in a country where the corrupt government had long since abandoned its people. We continued along the river, seeing birds, bats, and an occasional crocodile, before entering the realm of the massive baobabs. Like trees planted upside down with their roots aloft, whole forests sprung up from the grasslands, their grey girthy stumps soaring into the sky well above the savanna shrubs. Nothing could feel more iconically African than cruising alongside these prehistoric trees, and we desperately wanted to see more. At another village downriver, we were graciously allowed to wander through their tilled fields to admire some large baobabs in person, followed behind by fifty barefooted children who were ecstatic from our entertaining foreign presence. Several sweet girls helped to pull sharp stickery shrub seeds from my pants and shoes after I had punctured my foot, further confirming for me that the Malagasy people were taught the concepts of kindness and compassion from the earliest ages. 

The Sakalava villages of Begidro

A woman selling various sweet fritters and savory snacks

Sakalava girls socializing in the morning market

The head is a highly useful part of the body in Madagascar

The local schoolhouse 

A typical overcrowded classroom without furniture, books, or school supplies

Students who can attend school are considered fortunate, despite still having nothing

Children who can't go to school are busy helping their families with basic survival

A little entourage following your every move

Children taking care of children

Unique Afro-Asiatic features of Malagasy

We set up our second camp across the river from the village on a massive sandbar, where we had the most delectable dinner of coal-grilled zebu kebabs in the setting sun. The skills of the boat's chef never ceased to be the most surprising aspect of the cruise, whipping up in the tiny floating kitchen meals of genuine restaurant caliber that were also safe for our sensitive vazaha stomachs. From avocado and radish vinaigrette salads to honey sauteed pork ribs to the most tender zebu steaks with rosemary potatoes, every mealtime was a surprise that we were made to guess and even more anxious to devour. That night after dinner, the crew put together a surprise banana flambe with homemade rum while setting up a bonfire for another fantastic musical performance. A village dance troupe of children in traditional costumes crossed the massive sandbar to our fire, dancing with frenetic dexterity and gyrating hips to the rhythms and riffs of a djembe and stringed kabosy. Encircling the fire under the full moon on the desolate stretch of sand, the evening was an unforgettable, romantic, tribal soiree with locals sharing the carefree culture of the coastal Sakalava. In such ambient African magic, I was even briefly able to forget about the swarm of hungry mosquitoes nipping at my legs. Around 8:00 in the evening, the village across the river came alive to the sounds of a speaker system, as an announcer made speeches to the blaring fast-paced tunes of a local deejay. We had learned that Sakalava funerals were not exactly somber tearful displays, but rather an occasion to feast and party in honor of the deceased. Drinking and dancing into the night was customary, and despite being camped across the wide river and out of sight of the village festivities, the noisy dance tunes made us feel more like being in the back of a pop concert venue than the rural bush country. When I had finally dozed off around 10:00, the music was raving. At midnight, it was still blasting, with occasional echoing announcements being made over the microphone. When I went to the bathroom around 2:00 in the morning, the party was as alive as ever. And finally at 5:30, the non-stop mixtape of earsplitting Sakalava dance music was remarkably still ongoing without a single pause. It was a bizarre, completely sleepless night out among the baobabs where not even the dead could find any rest.

A full moon rises above a baobab tree on the river bank

Freshly grilled zebu kebabs

The crew surprised us with banana flambe using local rum

An entertaining traditional performance from a village dance troupe

Dawn over the arid savannas of the western coast

Our campsite on a giant open sandbar

A bush shower is the more refreshing time of day

The Road to Morondava: Land of the Baobabs

The boat crew prepared for us one last delicious lunch of coconut curried chicken before dropping us off at the riverside port of Tsimafana, a dock seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Large outriggers and long river boats both emptied and filled with locals going to or coming from the many rural villages, whose only access to the world beyond the bush relied entirely on the river. We met up again with Rivo and the 4x4, embarking on the next leg of the journey towards the most iconic region and natural landmarks of the country - Baobab Alley. Getting there would not be easy, as the trip involved traveling one of the most brutal "national roads" in the country. National Road 8 was in fact not a road at all, but rather a one-way red earth dirt track narrowly bordered in a tunnel-like fashion by dense vegetation. A third of the road was submerged under massive pools of water, remnants of the last rainy season that created deep chasms of viscous mud waiting to entrap even the toughest of vehicles. It was a long and rough ride navigating these obstacles, taking over four hours to travel a mere 50 miles. But the reward was worth every ditch, crack, jolt, and bump in the road.

The river port of Tsimafana, lifeline to the outside world

A 4x4 being ferried to the trails on the other side of the river

Off-roading on National Road 8 to the land of the baobabs

A baobab forest on the way to Morondava

A massive baobab near a shrine for local women seeking pregnancy

The image of Africa has typically been universally defined by three classic scenes: game animals crossing before the mighty Kilimanjaro, the misty jungle plummet of the enormous Victoria Falls, and finally the tall elegant baobabs of Madagascar. My pilgrimage to the third in this iconic trio took on an almost spiritual significance, standing beneath these towering primordial trees after decades of seeing them only in picture books. The world famous Allee des Baobabs, also known as the Avenue of the Baobabs, was like a scene from a documentary or adventure film come to life, as a collection of their whimsical bottle-like trunks lined a straight section of National Road 8 cutting through the dusty bush. Soaring as tall as 100 feet with a circumference that could encircle a sedan car, the Adansonia Grandidieri baobabs stood majestically with their root-like branches radiating outwards like a flattened umbrella, with some trees sporting ruby red spherical fruits suspended like oversized Christmas ornaments. Despite a large group of random Chinese tourists that had filled the alley with excessive chatter and tacky selfies, the magic of the baobabs still inspired a sense of awe and beauty that couldn't be ignored. The many international visitors that likewise traveled great distances to admire these special trees eventually cleared out to make their way to a distant vantage point for the sunset, leaving the alley practically empty for my father and I to roam alone in the tranquility and enchantment of dusk. The hues of twilight finally bathed the trees in a radiant amber glow that perfectly set the tone for a romantic African stroll. And just when the evening could not have been more complete, we found a small cafe next to the alley that served locally made baobab and vanilla ice cream, the most appropriate Madagascan flavors to cool us down on that hot, humid evening. Tangy and floral like a light tamarind, baobab was one of most delicious and unique flavors I've ever tasted, and one I will likely never be able to find again. 

National Road 8 cuts through the world famous grove

Wandering the famous Baobab Alley

The Renalia baobab can grow up to 100 feet in height

Local women selling products made from the baobab fruit

Refreshing cups of artisanal baobab and vanilla flavored ice cream

Dusk over Baobab Alley

The iconic shape of Madagascar's baobabs

In the light of a large full moon, we drove further west to the tropical beach town of Morondava, situated right on the Mozambique Channel. Heavily influenced by Islam and Bantu African cultures, the town felt culturally reminiscent of Zanzibar and the East African Swahili coast. A delicious dinner of fresh giant prawns and grilled calamari felt essential for finishing one of the longest but fulfilling days of my life.

Prawns and squid skewers at a snack shack in Morondava

Early morning outriggers and dhows in the Mozambique Channel 

The Road to Ranomafana: The Primordial Emerald Eden 

No African road trip would be complete without some kind of automotive problem in the worst possible place and at the most inconvenient time. This had been the case in all of our African trips from Kenya to Namibia. Madagascar would surely be no different, only in this case, the atrocious state of the roads and the inability to travel after dark made unexpected breakdowns even more nerve-racking. Leaving at 6:30 in the morning for the 300 mile journey back to Antsirabe, we incurred a flat tire on the open road near a giant baobab some distancae outside of Morondava. As Rivo began to unbolt the tire, it became apparent that we did not even have the proper tool to remove it, as the equipment in the emergency kit was either incompatible or outright broken. Standing on the desolate roadside under the increasingly searing hot sun, I already dreaded what was destined to be a long and taxing day. A call was made to have an associate in Morondava drive out to supply the tool, but after nearly an hour without his arrival, we resorted to alternative methods. One passing truck was able to generously provide us with the proper sized lug wrench, driving off and leaving it in our care, while another random vehicle we flagged down offered to spare us a piece of wood to leverage the insufficient car jack. Slowly and patiently, we were able to remove the punctured tire, though for reasons I never understood, we also needed to transfer the rear tire to the front and replace the rear with the spare. More time passed playing "musical tires" with janky tools and precarious rigging. After nearly two hours, the associate arrived, only to provide the incorrect tool that we already possessed. By then, we had managed to resolve the issue with the aid of complete strangers, a notable testimony to Malagasy kindness and their willingness to help each other while navigating such disintegrating infrastructure. Arriving at the next village, we were able to easily track down the strangers by simply asking people on the roadside, successfully returning their tools much to my surprise. The entire incident made me nervously ponder what dire situation we could've potentially entered had the flat occurred out on the bush trails, without either proper equipment or support of passersby. Nevertheless, no one seemed remotely phased by this idea, the powers of nonchalant island mentality and T.I.A. ("This is Africa") overriding any form of situational stress. After over two hours' delay, we resumed the painstaking journey, arriving late that night in Antsirabe after a stunning 15 hours.

Classic customary African road trip flat tire

The emergency kit didn't even have the correct wrench. It was a long morning.

The following day we headed south from Antsirabe through the winding valleys and red earth mountainous terrain of the highlands. The weather was cool and dry, a completely opposite world from the searing heat and drenching humidity of the coastal west. From Ambositra to Ambohimahasoa, we passed through the villages and markets of the Betsileo tribe, recognized by their colorful woven basket-like hats. By evening, we descended from the open grassy plains of the highlands to the dense rainforests of the valleys, following the snaking road deeper into a gorge cut by a cascading river. The night air was cool, moist, and fragrant with the jasmine-like scent of wild ginger blooms. The manicured gardens of the Centrest Lodge, perched on a sloping hillside overlooking the forested valley, was a pleasant sight after an exhausting drive, taking a delicious dinner of henakisoa (stewed pork) in the bustling lodge restaurant. Neon green geckos dotted the walls of the open-air eatery, keeping the mosquitoes and moths at bay. After navigating more of Madagascar's atrocious roads, I was anxious to dive into my meal, when with a sudden loud splat, an adorable tree frog hopped onto the table and quietly dozed off. Indeed, it was a good night to fall asleep to the soothing lull of a tropical rain on the banana leaves outside our window.

Villages in the central highlands south of Antsirabe

Women of the Betsileo tribe, as denoted by their colorful basket hats

Less than 25 cents for a basket of fresh pink guavas

Countryside life of the Betsileo ethnic group

The village of Ranomafana among the rolling rainforests

An adorable boophis tree frog joined us for dinner

Then he decided to go to sleep

As dawn broke over the famed rainforests of Ranomafana, the low misty clouds lingering in the trees cleared to reveal an emerald primordial Eden. Tall trees of palisander rosewood, traveler's palms, and tree ferns covered in an array of epiphytes and bromeliads extended the length of the narrow valley, echoing with the distant rumbling of heavy waterfalls. We started our hike near an American research institute, where scientists have been studying the forest's diverse and endangered ecosystems since the park's discovery in the 1980s. Our guide, Rudi, along with a thin old man referred to as "the tracker", led us through the forest along tiny muddy trails cutting through the thick vegetation. This was the prime location to have a handy machete, and I could only imagine the thrill vintage explorers must have had whacking their way through similar foreboding territory in search of novel biological specimens. The tracker had disappeared way ahead of us, appearing out of nowhere from time to time to give Rudi reports as to where certain species were spotted. We observed multiple types of lemur and sifaka, whose complicated Latin names I could only briefly commit to memory, as well as the park's prized Golden Bamboo lemurs gnawing away at the young shoots. The camouflaged leaf-tail gecko hung from its branch just as a shriveled brown leaf would, a wonder of evolutionary adaptation for survival. Several species of birds were also spotted in fleeting moments too quick to be photographed. The steep hike up and down the hills of Ranomafana was physically tiring in the humid heat, effectively knocking us out in the afternoon following lunch. In the early evening, we went back out with Rudi to walk along the main road in search of more animals, including a tiny mouse lemur that scurried back and forth through the branches to lick the sweet dew drops deposited by insects. Yet, the highlights of that night's stroll were the five different species of chameleons we observed, in various sizes, shapes, and colors, tails coiled and tightly grasping their branches in peaceful slumber. Of the many reptiles we saw, the chameleons were the sweetest and most passive, even despite my father excitedly prodding them awake to watch their alien eyes move in nearly 360 degrees. After another successful spotting, we treated ourselves to a lovely lodge meal of tamarind pork chop and sauteed zebu, ultimately finishing with a basket full of fresh pink guavas bought for less than twenty-five cents from some kids on the side of the highway.

Bridge leading into Ranomafana National Park

More lemurs, I can't recall which species

A rare Golden Bamboo lemur reaching out to eat new shoots

One of many cascades cutting through the rainforest

A nameless waterfall that could be an attraction in its own right

The beauty of Ranomafana's biodiversity

A Leaf Tail Gecko mimics other dead leaves

Beautiful emerald geckos

A Parson's Chameleon on a fern leaf

A Peltier's Chameleon

A massive O'Shaughnessy Chameleon

The Return: Reflections From An Insightful Road Trip  

The mere 260 mile journey back to Antananarivo from Ranomafana took two full days, a grueling drive of navigating potholes, meandering behind shipping trucks, and getting stuck in herds of zebu. We had traveled at a snail's pace in remote areas of Asia multiple times before, but no other trip could compare to Madagascar in terms of its ludicrous transit inefficiency. Nevertheless, long journeys across the scenic countryside were never dull, as even in the middle of nowhere without even the slightest traces of civilization, people were somehow present, either selling things or walking along the roadside to some unknown destination. The dire level of poverty meant that most rural inhabitants could neither find nor afford local transportation, often resorting to walking astounding distances to reach the next village or market, entirely while barefoot. Many times we passed old men pushing carts full of yellow water jugs up hilly slopes from distant rivers to their highland homes, an arduous and backbreaking chore that needed to be done regularly when living in villages lacking both running water and constant electricity. Women could often be seen walking for miles to the nearest market with baskets of produce balancing above their brows, in a desperate effort to sell whatever they could harvest from their small gardens. Yet looking past the hardship, the roads were always teeming with friendly locals on the move, which made lengthy road travel somewhat more palatable and captivating. I will never forget one girl on the roadside, after having purchased some of her peanuts, wishing us in the only English she could remember: "I wish you a safe and happy journey". 

A family on their way to work the fields

Selling cooked crawdads by the roadside

The fried peanut girl with heart-touching wishes

Passing through the village of Behenji, we took a final trip lunch at a popular roadside restaurant, Coin du Foie Gras. Specializing exactly in that, it felt somewhat surreal to be eating foie gras, one of the most expensive dishes in the world, for mere dollars in the middle of the Madagascan countryside. Adopted from decades of French colonialism, the Malagasy managed to turn foie gras into a local industry, using primarily duck livers to make the creamy and fatty spread that could usually only be found in high end haute cuisine eateries of the West. Nevertheless, the product was mainly for export and could only be eaten by more affluent locals on special holidays. Even Anjara couldn't afford to order it with us, a reminder of just how large of a wealth chasm still existed between us vazaha and the shrinking middle-class Malagasy. 

Bidding farewell to Anjara and Rivo, our final days in Antananarivo emboldened us to explore more of the city on our own, without the initial fears we possessed upon arrival. Steering away from the chaos and depressing dilapidation of Analakely and Avenue de l'Independence, we climbed the hills above the city around the former Queen's Palace to view and reflect upon the sprawling capital of jumbled structures and shantytowns, an odd and colorful beauty inherent to the otherwise deteriorating conditions. I realized that despite being poor and lacking basic amenities, the people we met throughout the country over the past 15 days still seemed relatively happy and hospitable. Life was anything but easy for them, and yet they lived every moment with a sense of appreciation and attitude of positivity. In light of a corrupt government and absence of social services, the Malagasy people clearly relied primarily on family, community, and faith to weather the obstacles faced by a nation struggling to find its foot since independence in 1960. There was something admirable in their civility and cheerful demeanor, a people that were surprisingly proud of their country despite its glaring flaws. Their outlook on life could be a humbling lesson to fellow Americans, still unhappy and dissatisfied despite having far more than they need. 

Restaurant Coin du Foie Gras in Behenji

Massive chunks of foie gras for mere dollars

View of Antananarivo from near the Queen's Palace

A typical street in a middle-class area

Traveling through Madagascar truly opened my eyes to a land that had for so long remained a curious oddity to me. It suddenly no longer seemed to fit into that stereotype of a steamy tropical island with a single impoverished population. Rather, it proved to be a stunning land of shockingly diverse terrain, climate conditions, and ethnic groups with their own distinct cultural practices. It also showed me that despite its visible poverty, there's an unseen quality in its people that makes them rich in spirit and humanity. For me, the word Madagascar no longer evoked a sense of mystery, but instead could best be captured by a new word - majesty.