Paul Theroux once said that traveling is only glamorous in retrospect. Should that hold true, then perhaps one day my memories of Madagascar will weave themselves into an exotic tapestry of colorful anecdotes to dazzle myself with when life seems dull. Hmm. Madagascar. How shall I say: “Mmm-Mistake.” Not a colossal one, mind you, but rather a victim of bad timing that misaligned my path, altering its trajectory in ways I’m not sure I would have hand-picked.
Before arriving in Madagascar, there had been a civil war. Perhaps “war” isn’t the correct term; as “political problems” is what the locals prefer. An election gone sour; one man who didn’t win declared himself president anyway. He assigned a cabinet and staged a coupe. In the uprising that followed, people were murdered, electricity and phone lines were sabotaged, and several bridges were blown up, shutting down transportation and supplies to much of the country. All non-essential visitors were made to leave, tourism came to a complete halt, and the nation’s economy- which had already been a bit shaky, went to absolute crap in an instant. Eventually, things blew over. The previous leader left for France in exile and I was one of the first tourists… quite possibly the ONLY tourist, let back into the country.
I arrive in Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, which isn’t the most charming of places, although capital cities seldom are, and I’m OK with that. I observe the locals walking in the scorching sun, carrying plump baskets of leaves and enormous sacks of grain on their heads. Women were tending to their farms even though the cracked, red dirt gave no indication there was anything growing. Men relieved themselves on the side of the road, and minivans filled to the brim with people stopped to squeeze in a few more. I am the only white person for as far as the eye can see, but nobody says hello to me and no one is smiling.
I had not made any formal plans for my time in Madagascar and quickly recognized that the current infrastructure wouldn’t support my ability to travel independently, coupled with the fact that I don’t speak French. So I sat down with a coconut (and my garden gnome Roger that I acquired in a Happy Meal back in Scotland), consulted my Lonely Planet guidebook, and hatched up an official plan. I booked a flight to a small island called “Nosy Be” in the northwest of the country, and off I went!
There, I imagine I will scuba dive and relax a little. But I am literally the only guest at my hotel. All of the dive shops are closed. Nobody speaks English. There aren’t working phone lines anywhere, Internet, or newspapers, and it doesn’t appear there is much for me to eat.
I feel lonely and take long strolls through town to walk off my hunger and hopefully locate some food or someone who speaks English. But all I find are small wooden kiosks with strange jars filled with cloudy liquids and unknown objects. I see mystery meat wrapped in banana leaves, assorted roots and bulbs, and lumpy cakes left out in the hot air and covered in flies. I spot a one-eyed man in a South African T-shirt and try to speak to him, but he is an imposter wearing a second-hand shirt and only speaks French.
Eventually, I find an Italian man who owns a restaurant. It’s a shack made of rotting bamboo and cement, with tables covered in stained Christmas fabrics- holly and poinsettias even though it’s the middle of August. I get him to make me some plain spaghetti with canned parmesan cheese, which happily becomes my staple diet for the next week. I find an odd satisfaction in knowing that my food has been boiled, with unseen organisms cooked away.
I spend a lot of “alone time” on the island. I read several books. I sleep. I watch the sunset each day. I think of my dad. I brush up on my non-existent French, mastering such phrases as “hello” and “good evening”.
Finally, I make a friend– a stray black dog with fluffy ears and caked in an army of fleas. At first, I wanted nothing to do with her—she is scabby, and I’ve seen her eating gross things that washed up on shore. But she demanded to be my friend, and when I attempted to ditch her by sliding through a fence, she magically reappeared at the gate, having run the entire length of the beach and back up the road just so she could join me! I couldn’t help but laugh and invite her along. We became inseparable, and I decided to name her Shadow.
My dog and I made quite a pair as we strolled through the village, amusing the locals who smiled and pointed as Shadow pranced loyally at my heels, keeping me safe. She napped in the shade each day while I soaked in the sun, and slept directly outside of my door every night, rising to greet me with excitement when I emerged. Shadow was my very own guardian angel that never left my side, ensuring me safe passage, and becoming my one and only friend in Madagascar.
I decided that I MUST go to the rainforest while I’m here because if I didn’t see a lemur, I wouldn’t forgive myself! After all, lemurs only exist in Madagascar and the Comoro Islands, and I’m certain I won’t be coming back to these parts anytime soon. I managed to make the arrangements even if I didn’t entirely understand them, and the next thing I knew I was climbing into a narrow, wooden canoe with several men. They hand me an oar, and I’m made to row for what seemed like forever through the thick mangrove trees at the edge of the sea, over to a nature reserve on another island an hour or so away.
We hike first through a small village, then up to the foot of the nature reserve and into the rainforest. There I see neon orange frogs, strange spiders with gladiator-like horns, and rare insects that only exist in Madagascar. Brightly colored snakes slither in front of my feet and a giant boa constrictor hangs from a tree as I pass. We went further into the forest and finally met the lemurs! They were clinging to the branches like tiny koalas, their big brown eyes gazing at me- half monkey and half teddy bear! My guide mimics a lemur sound and they all started leaping out of the trees, jumping from branch to branch in a strange frenzy leaving me to wonder what was said in their language. They are so beautiful! Before leaving, one is placed on my shoulder so I can feed it a banana and take a photo. It peed down my back, and I had to row back to the island with the distinct aroma of lemur urine soaked into my clothing. I will never forget the smell.
I eventually did some scuba diving in Madagascar after bribing a grouchy Swiss man to take me out on his dive boat. We spend the morning exploring a sunken ship teeming with a million bright yellow jackfish. I swam into the middle of a big school of them, wrapping myself in a thick blanket of yellow and silver, pretending just for a moment that I was one of them, shutting out the harsh world above.
With no love lost, it was time to depart, but I held back tears as I said goodbye to Shadow, who followed me to my taxi crying and chasing the car down the road as it drove away. I flew back to the mainland, only to find that my flight had been canceled, and I got stuck in Antananarivo a bit longer before eventually making it to my next destination, Mauritius.
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