At the Fringe of the Earth

800 kilometres off the coast of Africa, a mass of land rises from the Indian Ocean. Divided from the continent hundreds of millions of years ago, and still isolated in our time, I cannot conceive of a more remote fringe of the earth than Madagascar.

The beauty of the island is reflected by the beauty of its people, characterized by an amazing fusion of Asiatic and Bantu features scattered amongst the eighteen different tribes that inhabit this island at the end of the world. My excitement is overwhelming as the plane touches down and soon I am headed into Antananarivo, a capital city that nobody has ever heard of.

The streets wind up into Haut-Ville and I begin to walk through them. I meet Chris, my Mozambican hitchiking accomplice, with whom I had cleared 1200 kilometres a month before. He had been here a week already and was ready to move. That would come later. We are no sooner reunited than we are off to watch the match at a bar. First night in town, and before I know it we had made all kinds of local friends as we grew acquainted with THB, the local brew.

We wanted to hitch it, hitch the whole country and move along the lines I had traced on a pathetic little scrap of a map ripped from the Lonely Planet. That led to hours by the roadside, flagging trucks that wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, and nobody picked us up. I headed back to the capital, a bit dejected, and ready to try afresh in the morning.

We decided to scale back our ambitions and simply pay for a place in a Taxi-Brousse (Bush Taxi) which would take us part of the way. For the next three days, we made our way up the east coast, through incredible dreamscapes while the indian ocean tore at the sandy shore beside us. The pulse of the road beats slowly here and we must have stopped in every village that we passed. Life was nothing but huts of eucalyptus sticks and palm leaves until we reached Tamatave, a great colonial city, lost to time.

We had some wild nights and managed to get ourselves drugged in a disco. In the end, the poison didn't deliver a knockout blow, it simply pushed us beyond the brink of control and sanity. Nobody wanted any part of us and we left the bar unmolested. We subsequently discovered that one guy had managed to get himself punched in the face but I guess that's what happens when you are an full of drinks spiked with dangerous drug. Two days of recovery were imperative and we slept the time away in some small backwater. I don't even know the name of it. We tried to stop in a place called Mahavelona but I never bothered do determine where the hell we ended up.

On the way into that town, whatever it was, we were harassed for ID by some guy claiming to be a cop. He demanded that I hand him my passport through the window. He didn't have a proper uniform, so I refused. Chris told him to “fuck off” and that prompted him to run into a little hut to retrieve a Kalashnikov which he proceeded to brandish cocked and ready. I didn't want to eat lead, so I handed over the passport. He thumbed through the pages pointlessly, and didn't even bother to check Chris.

We soon discovered we were in a bizarre little beach town full of Malagache tourists. For the next couple of days we ate delicious steak smothered in gravy and managed to find the time to watch a house burn down. Somehow amidst the shambles, we missed the World Cup final – quite a blow after watching nearly every match. After the days of rest, we were ready to hit the road again, our heads spinning in bouts of self doubt and depression. A day's journey took us to Soanierana-Ivongo where we planned to push further north to Maraonsetra and a jungle trek that may or may not even exist. At least our heads had cleared a bit and we were capable of appreciating our surroundings again.

We were plagued by a dearth of information and we had no guidebook. Rather we were operating on the advice of a self proclaimed “Sea Gypsy” I had met in a pub back in Mozambique a month ago. Pressed for time, particularly after losing two days in an quasi-alcoholic stupor, we needed some assurance that Chris could make it through to the other side, and then somehow make it back to hit his flight home ten days hence. There was no internet, and not even a telephone we could use. Locals variously informed us that there were daily flights, weekly flights, no flights, cheap flights, expensive flights, but they all seemed to agree that the trip would take three days to cover about 200 km by 4x4. There were twelve rivers to cross and no bridges. After that, we would be in the jungle for anywhere between two days and a week, depending on who we asked. Too much risk. We turned back. Defeat. For now.

More villages and the journey took on a life of its own. Excited kids shrieked when they saw us and we snapped them up with cameras worth more than the whole village. It was abundantly clear that any experience would come from the journey itself and not the destination. And so it did. We moved in remote corners, meeting old men, dodging chickens and following dirt paths to nowhere.

We blew through Tamatave again and couldn't seem to stay out of trouble. Out at an empty bar in the wee small hours, some chubby lady spat a mouthful of beer on us. I told her off and this prompted some skinny little twerp to get in my face with strong words and menacing gestures. The bartender came over to investigate the ruckus, which led to the following exchange:

“What is happening here?”
“That bitch spat beer on us”
“Don't call my mom a bitch.” Fine.
“Okay, well this mother------ came over and started shouting at us”
“Don't call my step-dad a mother------.” Checkmate.

Gracious in victory, he presented us with some creamy consolation shots before we headed back to the hotel soaked in beer as his mother danced on the bar, fat and wasted.

Back in the capital we got ourselves together and reformulated plans again. There was an island to the north where, according to that old Sea Gypsy, the women were blessed with unimaginable beauty. That would be our next goal.

We hopped a taxi to the bus stop, but it inexplicably took us way out of town. When I asked the driver where the hell he was going he replied “il y'a une marché la bas” (there is a market over there). Not good enough. I coaxed him into a U-turn and about an hour later we were finally at the Taxi-Brousse stand, swarmed by sellers. That remained the status quo for the next four hours and though they were annoying, we bought two hats and a watch between us.

The Taxi finally filled and we set out in the evening, driving through the country by night. The police here are incredible. They set up rogue roadblocks, sometimes every 500 metres where they expect un 'tit pot de vin (bribe) to wave us through. They take the money from hardworking people like our drivers, a couple that lives in their taxi. The couple makes money only from the freight they pack on top resulting in them overloading the vehicle. That meant they were breaking the law. Without the corruption, their business would fall apart so it seems to work for everybody. Its amazing to see how integral the bribes are to the economy here.

finally made Nosi Bé, that small island off the northwest coast of the mainland where found locals dancing on tables, free and wild. Getting there was no easy task and I had visions of my own demise on an overloaded speedboat in rough seas. We crashed through and finally managed to relax after 26 hours of non-stop travel. We were soon making a name for ourselves around town. “I love how I'm getting the eye from the pregnant chick.” The night had begun.

The days soon began to blur together. There was beach and sun by day, and wild energetic parties with thumping music all night. Every night. The strange thing about the scene is that it was driven by the locals, not the tourists. In fact, this was the first place in Madagascar where I had seen any concentration of tourists to speak of. They were nearly all old men, walking tall and proud along the beach with beautiful young girls, some a little too young. Ten years prison does not seem to deter anything, and the most sickening aspect was the pride with which the guys were showing off their under-aged prizes. Apparently 22 were busted last month! Strange fellows - there was a German priest with a congregation in Nigeria. He was whoring every night.

From what I can gather this transpires as a calculated strategy by both parties. In an area that suffers from so much economic depression, sugar daddies are seen as a legitimate means of income. In any event, I remain disgusted. Notwithstanding the bad (read 'criminal') behaviour, I reckon that it is an incredible place to retire. Prime land in town, 200 metres from the beach goes for goes for $0.50 USD per square metre – about $60 000 USD capital investment will set you up in mansion from which you can run peipheral small businesses fruitlessley under the tropical sun (if you so desire) in an effort to offset some costs. Count on another $10 000 USD per year to survive and get around and you're set.

We quickly tired of the usual scene and we stuck to the local bars, largely free of French and Italian perverts. Other nights we gravitated back to our balcony where we would sit and listen to tunes against a backdrop of crashing waves. On one such night, we were sitting out sipping colas, when Chris said to me “Nothing's been conventional since we've me. We got no plan, no schedule, we just rock up hungover in some fucked up town, pick up chicks, find a party or get lost in a situation we've created...” I began to think about that: where was the culture? what were we doing here? Did it matter? Perhaps in some ways this unconventional method yields more insight than following a planned route, taking impressions from the pages of a guidebook.

The insight that arises touches on subjects that many people are afraid to speak of. I am not one of them. Over a couple of beers I am amazed how willing the locals were to delve into the degradation that I perceived arising from the prostitution and quasi-prostitution that existed in that beautiful little beach town. It suggested calculated strategy on the part of the locals involved in order to create economic opportunities where they would not have otherwise existed.

It also revealed that nobody knew where Canada was. I sketched a map in my notebook to confirm said fact and was astounded when local after local placed it in central Africa. Access to education and classroom resources evidently contributed to the number of people that took to the bars each night in search of a few bucks. One such individual was a midget dude who offered to do "anything we want" back at the hotel for the bargain sum of 25 000 Ariary ($12 USD). We thought we had misunderstood, but managed to reconfirm our initial perception, provoking great hilarity on the beach the next day. The midget was questioned in Malagasy and replied "ya, that's what I am like, so what?"

Enough was enough and after a few days, Chris was off to catch a flight and I was on my own again. I hit the road.

Two hours north I stopped at Reserve Speciale de l'Ankarana where I spent the next couple of days sleeping and spotting lemurs in the forest. They are amazing little creatures, not quite simian but unlike anything else either. Millions of years ago, they split from the line that gave us monkeys and human beings, and developed here in isolation for 120 million years??? That can't be right! Where's a guidebook when you need one. Where's the internet for that matter? In any event, they jump through the trees and make little squeaks. Pretty awesome really. By night, the glint of their eyes gives them away in the torch-light. I stood marvelling at the little critters as they stared at me with intelligence and curiosity. The park is full of them along with baby chameleons, strange lizards, harmless snakes, odd birds, jagged pinnacles, karst formations, underground rivers, and massive caves swarming with bats.

The true highlight of my time there was the hut that I lived in. It was constructed of eucalyptus branches and logs with a palm leaf roof. The only metals used were the nails holding it together. It was just like the ones I saw in the villages by the highway. I lay awake under the mosquito net, listening to the wind whipping through the gaps in the walls, but the roof held firm under sprinkles of rain. It was the most authentic dwelling I'd stayed in since that yurt back in Kyrgyzstan.

With local experiences come local hazards. I discovered this when I was stung by a creature that had squirmed its way into my clothes bag. I spent the next few minutes sucking my hand and wondering if it was poisonous. I made my way to the park entrance and met a woman and man taking their turkey for a walk. She said the creature was famous in those parts for administering nasty bites, but not poisonous. Confidence restored, I just tried to ignore the achey sting in my hand. It stung of authenticity and I felt that I had truly found my feet, raging party in my wake and only the unknown ahead.

I pulled into Diego Suarez, a sleepy colonial town on the north coast of the island, and had soon managed to find some new friends. I'd decided to extend my visa and change my flight, seemingly simple, but prohibitively complex, and requiring me to stick around a couple of days. In an involuntary effort to support the local economy, I managed to get robbed on my first night in town.

I was walking home alone in the early morning hours when I found myself flanked by two guys. I knew immediately that it wasn't going to go down well, and turned my head to see three more behind me. Never show fear. “Qu'est ce qui s'passe?” (What's up?) One of the guys grabbed the toque from my head and the other started feeling my pocket. I grabbed him by the face and pushed him hard. He didn't like that. They circled around and one guy had the courtesy to ask “est ce que je peux foullier dans tes poches” (Can I rummage through your pockets). Absolutely not. “Va te faire foudre” (translation omitted – not sufficiently courteous).

Another guy came up to me so I kicked him in the chest as hard as I could. That earned me a bit of respect: the rest just stood there like dullards. I had my small camera, a cel phone that I bought here for ten bucks and no money. They seemed most interested in the pocket containing my notebook. I pulled it out and started waving it in their faces “C'est ca que vous voulez? Ca ne vaut rien” (Is this what you want? It's worthless). One of the guys behind me snatched it from my hand. I tried to kick him too as they ran off into the night.

I couldn't believe what had just transpired. I saw another man walking in the street and explained the situation to him. We walked together for a while back toward my hotel. The robbers circled around and started coming toward us again. I had no way out. They threw my notebook at me – illiterate assholes – and started shouting in Malagasy. I picked up the notebook and pushed past them. They didn't touch me again, and, I dare speculate that a glint of ferocity twinkled in the eye of the animal they had cornered.

No point looking for the cops, they were all back in the bar, half drunk in combat fatigues. I just walked swiftly as my courageous new friend argued with them angrily in Malagasy. I had no money for a taxi so I just started jogging once out of sight. Subsequently I was informed that these packs of bandits were called Foroche, and sometimes roved in groups as large as 20 individuals. I was lucky I guess. It was the first incident of its kind since I was back in Mongolia, here in a beautiful country with such kind and friendly people. Totally unexpected, and ultimately harmless. I did lose my toque though. "Where's yur toque eh?"

In spite of that negative experience, and the fading 'memory' of a spiked drink, the thought of Madagascar already fills me a warm nostalgia. I cannot envision a more pristine place. I arrived here with nothing more than a map pasted in my notebook, marked with lines and stars, each representing advice I had collected over the last weeks and months. There it was, spread before me in ink and pulp. I have discovered so much more than I ever thought possible, from the rivers of the east flowing seaward through the palms, to the arid plains of the west, that rise and fall as the highway snakes its way through dusty villages. I just gave myself over to whatever there was to discover. So there it is. More to come.