Rova, our driver, had performed heroically in the traffic jam that looked millenial to us but was the norm in two-lane highway dominated Madagascar. It had started about 35 km outside of Tana, just when I thought we had only about half and hour left until we got home, which would have been at 5 pm. Instead, rounding a bend was the line of stopped traffic. I managed to get out and photograph both the scenery and the traffic jam, then jumped quickly in when we started moving, but only for a few meters.
Then Rova started to show his stuff. He and a few other brave souls would launch out into the oncoming lane and drive as fast and as far as they could before oncoming traffic forced them back into our proper lane, or more creatively, onto the far shoulder. Now "shoulder" is really an optimistic term for this patch of dirt about 2/3 of a car width wide and a sheer drop on the other side. So our right wheels stuck out into the oncoming lane, and we relied on the equal skill of oncoming cars and trucks to avoid side-swiping us. We would advance slowly on the shoulder, then bound out into the oncoming lane, then back to the shoulder or our own proper lane if there was an opening. When oncoming traffic was heavy, we didn't move. Eventually, just before dark, we came upon a huge festival site with national police in blue kepis gesticulating at the traffic in a purely ceremonial exercise. Cars were pulling off onto the side of the road. As large as this was there seemed to be no designated parking area, so the festivities and their attendant vehicles just impeded the highway traffic, which was at heavy end-of-Easter-weekend levels. I could think of no more articulate expression of the indifference of the national government to the general welfare than this cramped traffic jam, although I was sure it expressed itself in education and health care as well, which turned out to be the case. A four-lane highway leading to the capital would have attenuated it, and a six-laner would have alleviated it completely, at least for a few years.
But Rova trying to make headway through the jam was chaos, so Rova had appropriately adopted his anarchic approach, and he got us back to our hotel by 8:23, probably three hours sooner than if we had waited obediently in line.
Once we got there, he wanted payment of our balance, but we didn't have it, so we convinced him to meet us at 7:45 this morning to go to the bank to take out what we owed him. He needed to be at his next job by 9 am.
We were there waiting at the appointed hour, and he showed up at 8 and walked us to a bank near a filling station. We took the money out of an ATM in two passes, then paid him the balance for the rental, 100,000 ar each for gas, and gave him 50,000 each as a tip. He suddenly started beaming. We took some souvenir photos, and he dropped us back at our hotel and proceeded to his job, for which he was already late.
After a brief breakfast at the hotel, consisting of the second half of the humongous grapefruit and the entire large avocado that I had bought at Ranomafana, I lit out for the marketplace, which seemed to go on forever in several directions. I had mainly to mail back the key I had forgotten in my pocket from the Marja hotel in Ranomafana and buy a brush to get the caked mud off my boots so I could wear them onto the plane (I always wear my heaviest footwear when I fly). A well-dressed gentleman gave me directions to the post office in perfect French, and by the time I got there I had acquired a helper in the form of a slight middle-aged woman hawking polished ammonite matching pairs, the kind of thing I have low resistance to. First she wanted 30,000 ariary for them, but this was out of the question. Then she came down to 20,000 for a smaller pair. I demurred and found my way to the post office. I bought 4 post cards for 3000 ar. from a paper merchant who'd parked himself right at the entrance. Inside, I bought a stamp for one of the post cards to send to my post-card collecting friend Marilyn, and realized I'd need a box to mail the key--it was an old-fashioned iconic key attached with a strip of leather to a pyramidal piece of wood in which the letter "C" was carved, our room letter--a real piece of artisanship, with no address of the hotel, of course ("drop into the nearest mailbox"--NOT). Back outside the post office my ammonite saleslady assistant rummaged through the paper seller's garbage and came up with a box. I bought a large envelope from him for 1000 ar, and we stuffed some paper around the key. The the lady turned up with some "scotch," the French term for cellophane tape, which I had to bite through to liberate a piece. We put
the key and paper in the box, stuffed it into the envelope, sealed the envelope, then wrapped it with tape. And just above, is the photo of the ammonite lady holding the wrapped box with the key addressed to Hotel Manja.
I brought it back into the post office and for 3000 ar (less than $3) it was off to the Manja Hotel in rapid delivery mode. Outside the post office, I bought the ammonite pair from the lady, and once she had her 20,000 ar, she disappared. But another woman with a baby, who posed for me, demanded I accompany her to the pharmacy across the street to buy milk for her baby. I told her I was not a welfare agency and gave her 1000 ar, which she sullenly accepted.
I was now free to explore the market! It really gets going down a long broad stairway from the business district. As I proceeded down the stairs, a man selling valihas, the fretted stringed instrument we had seen at the Hotel des Artisans, started to badger me. He saw I was interested, but I kept saying I had no room for one in my luggage. So they kept getting smaller and the price kept going down. Finally he offered me one about a foot long for 5000 ar, absurdly cheap, but I just didn't want it enough to carry it the rest of the trip. But he wouldn't let up! He kept saying, "good price, good price," and I tried to ignore him. I even bought a beautiful crocodile belt for 20,000 ar, and he harassed me the whole time. I actually needed the belt.
Next I set out on a quest for a wire brush to clean the mud off my boots so I could wear them later that day on the plane. I had just managed to rid myself of the man trying to sell me the musical instrument, when a woman latched onto me, trying to sell me polished paired ammonites--and these were three times the size of the ones I had just bought and half the price. "Good price, good price," she kept saying to me. After I agree with her and told her several times I didn't have room in my luggage I just ignored her, but she was more persistant than the instrument seller. Finally she gave up. At the bottom of the stairs the market spread out in both directions.
Soon I had more helpers, and I told them I was looking for a "brosse a fil de fer," a wire brush. They took me hither and yon and we finally ended up in the hardware section of the market, where one of them produced two wire brushes with wooden bases, at least a foot long and asked 30,000 ar for either of them. I told them they were too big and too expensive, so naturally the price came down--to 20,000. But they were way too big. Again, it was hard to get rid of them. I had just barely gotten rid of the man trying to sell me the musical instrument for 5,000 ar, a ridiculously low price. I spied a nylon kitchen brush. It was exactly what I needed, and for 1500 ar--perfect. I didn't haggle the woman.
Back at the hotel the French owner personally showed me to the laundry room where I could clean my boots--and there was a nylon kitchen brush!
Our original taxi driver showed up, and we piled our bags into his car. On the way to the airport he picked up Albert, who had gotten us our long-distance driver, and once at the airport I interviewed Albert about the state of things in Madagascar. Soon we were on our way to India, via Mauritius.
We had a stopover at the Mauritius national airport, where we discovered that the island is a luxury destination whose national symbol is the dodo bird! Both the souvenir and the craft shop had dodo in every possible size and color. I guess you have to use what you have--a symbol of man-caused extinction of a creature who unfortunately had no fear of us--so it trusted us to death.
Then Rova started to show his stuff. He and a few other brave souls would launch out into the oncoming lane and drive as fast and as far as they could before oncoming traffic forced them back into our proper lane, or more creatively, onto the far shoulder. Now "shoulder" is really an optimistic term for this patch of dirt about 2/3 of a car width wide and a sheer drop on the other side. So our right wheels stuck out into the oncoming lane, and we relied on the equal skill of oncoming cars and trucks to avoid side-swiping us. We would advance slowly on the shoulder, then bound out into the oncoming lane, then back to the shoulder or our own proper lane if there was an opening. When oncoming traffic was heavy, we didn't move. Eventually, just before dark, we came upon a huge festival site with national police in blue kepis gesticulating at the traffic in a purely ceremonial exercise. Cars were pulling off onto the side of the road. As large as this was there seemed to be no designated parking area, so the festivities and their attendant vehicles just impeded the highway traffic, which was at heavy end-of-Easter-weekend levels. I could think of no more articulate expression of the indifference of the national government to the general welfare than this cramped traffic jam, although I was sure it expressed itself in education and health care as well, which turned out to be the case. A four-lane highway leading to the capital would have attenuated it, and a six-laner would have alleviated it completely, at least for a few years.
But Rova trying to make headway through the jam was chaos, so Rova had appropriately adopted his anarchic approach, and he got us back to our hotel by 8:23, probably three hours sooner than if we had waited obediently in line.
Once we got there, he wanted payment of our balance, but we didn't have it, so we convinced him to meet us at 7:45 this morning to go to the bank to take out what we owed him. He needed to be at his next job by 9 am.
We were there waiting at the appointed hour, and he showed up at 8 and walked us to a bank near a filling station. We took the money out of an ATM in two passes, then paid him the balance for the rental, 100,000 ar each for gas, and gave him 50,000 each as a tip. He suddenly started beaming. We took some souvenir photos, and he dropped us back at our hotel and proceeded to his job, for which he was already late.
After a brief breakfast at the hotel, consisting of the second half of the humongous grapefruit and the entire large avocado that I had bought at Ranomafana, I lit out for the marketplace, which seemed to go on forever in several directions. I had mainly to mail back the key I had forgotten in my pocket from the Marja hotel in Ranomafana and buy a brush to get the caked mud off my boots so I could wear them onto the plane (I always wear my heaviest footwear when I fly). A well-dressed gentleman gave me directions to the post office in perfect French, and by the time I got there I had acquired a helper in the form of a slight middle-aged woman hawking polished ammonite matching pairs, the kind of thing I have low resistance to. First she wanted 30,000 ariary for them, but this was out of the question. Then she came down to 20,000 for a smaller pair. I demurred and found my way to the post office. I bought 4 post cards for 3000 ar. from a paper merchant who'd parked himself right at the entrance. Inside, I bought a stamp for one of the post cards to send to my post-card collecting friend Marilyn, and realized I'd need a box to mail the key--it was an old-fashioned iconic key attached with a strip of leather to a pyramidal piece of wood in which the letter "C" was carved, our room letter--a real piece of artisanship, with no address of the hotel, of course ("drop into the nearest mailbox"--NOT). Back outside the post office my ammonite saleslady assistant rummaged through the paper seller's garbage and came up with a box. I bought a large envelope from him for 1000 ar, and we stuffed some paper around the key. The the lady turned up with some "scotch," the French term for cellophane tape, which I had to bite through to liberate a piece. We put
I brought it back into the post office and for 3000 ar (less than $3) it was off to the Manja Hotel in rapid delivery mode. Outside the post office, I bought the ammonite pair from the lady, and once she had her 20,000 ar, she disappared. But another woman with a baby, who posed for me, demanded I accompany her to the pharmacy across the street to buy milk for her baby. I told her I was not a welfare agency and gave her 1000 ar, which she sullenly accepted.
I was now free to explore the market! It really gets going down a long broad stairway from the business district. As I proceeded down the stairs, a man selling valihas, the fretted stringed instrument we had seen at the Hotel des Artisans, started to badger me. He saw I was interested, but I kept saying I had no room for one in my luggage. So they kept getting smaller and the price kept going down. Finally he offered me one about a foot long for 5000 ar, absurdly cheap, but I just didn't want it enough to carry it the rest of the trip. But he wouldn't let up! He kept saying, "good price, good price," and I tried to ignore him. I even bought a beautiful crocodile belt for 20,000 ar, and he harassed me the whole time. I actually needed the belt.
The belt sales young lady adds a buckle hole in the belt I bought by hitting the punch with a large rock.
A woman tries on a dress at an open-air dress boutique.
Soon I had more helpers, and I told them I was looking for a "brosse a fil de fer," a wire brush. They took me hither and yon and we finally ended up in the hardware section of the market, where one of them produced two wire brushes with wooden bases, at least a foot long and asked 30,000 ar for either of them. I told them they were too big and too expensive, so naturally the price came down--to 20,000. But they were way too big. Again, it was hard to get rid of them. I had just barely gotten rid of the man trying to sell me the musical instrument for 5,000 ar, a ridiculously low price. I spied a nylon kitchen brush. It was exactly what I needed, and for 1500 ar--perfect. I didn't haggle the woman.
Back at the hotel the French owner personally showed me to the laundry room where I could clean my boots--and there was a nylon kitchen brush!
Our original taxi driver showed up, and we piled our bags into his car. On the way to the airport he picked up Albert, who had gotten us our long-distance driver, and once at the airport I interviewed Albert about the state of things in Madagascar. Soon we were on our way to India, via Mauritius.
Of course, I had to take a photo of the women who worked as waitresses in the hotel restaurant.
Scenes from out the window of the cab on our way to the airport.
We had a stopover at the Mauritius national airport, where we discovered that the island is a luxury destination whose national symbol is the dodo bird! Both the souvenir and the craft shop had dodo in every possible size and color. I guess you have to use what you have--a symbol of man-caused extinction of a creature who unfortunately had no fear of us--so it trusted us to death.
Toy dodos at one of the souvenir shops in the Mauritius airport.
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