candidate Marc Ravalomanana, whose electoral slogan was “Don’t be afraid, only believe.” Evangelical churches with charismatic preachers, meeting in sports stadiums and other large venues, have gained followers; Tana now boasts at least one “megachurch.” Muslims constitute about 7 percent of the population. Many Malagasy comfortably combine their religion with traditional beliefs, observing fady and consulting with astrologers on the most auspicious days to build a house, plant a crop, or hold a wedding or funeral.
The Norwegian mission is in the Isoraka district, high on one of the city’s hills near the Embassy of the Comoros (that’s the landmark for taxi drivers). It was originally built as the Lutherans’ administrative center and provided accommodation for missionaries visiting the capital. Today, its guest houses are open to all, but you won’t find it advertised on the hotel or backpackers’ travel websites. Luke, who had stayed there on previous visits, recommended it. A group of two-story buildings around a garden, it’s an oasis from the traffic and bustle of the city. Each building has a memorial plaque to a noted missionary or church leader. History is even celebrated in the Wi-Fi code. No boring “guest 123” login, but a real name, Andrianarijaona (difficult to type, especially if you’re in a hurry). It celebrates Rakoto Andrianarijaona, whose father and grandfather were both prominent revivalist pastors; in 1960, he became the first native Malagasy to be named leader of the national church.
For about $18 a night, you get a simple, clean room with bathroom, and a shower (the water was always hot). The so-called Norwegian breakfast (rolls, butter, jam, cheese, ham, tomatoes, cucumbers, juice, and coffee) sets you back 8,000 ariary ($2.50); for $2.00 you can have the Malagasy breakfast of rice with leaves (rice and leaves in a broth), juice, and coffee. There’s no bar, of course, but you are within a few minutes’ walk of three excellent, modestly priced French restaurants and a Vietnamese one. Or you can always join the mission congregation to sing “Abide with Me.”
Route Nationale 7—The Long Road South
I had arrived at Ivato Airport from Johannesburg late on a Saturday afternoon and was scheduled to lead a workshop for UA faculty and postgraduate students in Toliara (Tuléar), the main port on the southwest coast, starting Monday morning. Air Maybe was on strike again, so the only way to reach Toliara was by road on RN7. The UNICEF Nissan Patrol, with a driver and two staff members, was waiting at the airport.
“How long will the trip take?” I asked as I stashed my bag. I guessed we would reach Toliara on Sunday afternoon, giving me time to rest before the workshop began. There was an awkward silence. “Alors, ça dépend (Well, that depends),” the driver eventually said. I wanted to ask “Sur quoi? (On what?)” but thought better of it. I resolved to enjoy the trip, however long it took.
It’s officially 577 miles from Tana to Toliara. All the guidebooks (and every Malagasy I’ve met) say that RN7 is the best road in the country. It’s all relative. I’d classify RN7, a two-lane highway with many one-lane bridges, as a superior county road in Ohio or West Virginia, or maybe a lesser state route in need of maintenance. For better or worse, this is the main route to the south. And it doesn’t even go all the way. The southernmost port and city, Fort Dauphin, administrative center of the region of Anosy, is another two days’ travel from Toliara on dirt roads (which also have the status of RNs), bone shaking in the dry season and impassable during the monsoon.
To reach Fort Dauphin and other southern destinations, you need a vehicle that sits high off the ground so that it does not get stuck in the holes and ruts. Traveling south from Tana, we passed a boxy, high-riding bus, lumbering up a hill. “Fort Dauphin,” remarked our driver. The bus was packed with passengers squeezed onto narrow bench seats, luggage piled high on the roof. I asked how long the trip would take. “Four days,” said the driver. That’s four days and four nights. The bus makes rest and meal stops but travels through the night, the two drivers taking shifts. I was happy our workshop had not been scheduled for Fort Dauphin.
This close to the Equator, night comes early (around 6:00 p.m.). UNICEF vehicles are not allowed to drive after dark, mostly because of the hazards—people, animals, and bicycles without lights are still on the road. There are few hotels outside the main towns, so we called in for clearance to drive thirty more minutes to reach Antsirabe, about one hundred miles south of the capital. You would expect the third-largest city in the country with a population of more than two hundred thousand to have at least a minor rush hour, but we saw few cars. Most people were traveling by pousse-pousse. Our hotel was in the center of town, but the sound of traffic was strangely absent—just the occasional car or motorbike. After 9:00 p.m., the only sound came from barking dogs.
We left at 7:00 a.m. and in late afternoon, 250 miles on, passed the Fort Dauphin bus as it struggled up another hill. Its passengers faced another fifty to sixty hours of travel, most of it on dirt roads. At least the bus had suspension to soften the ride. Throughout the south, the standard (and cheapest) mode of long-distance transport is the camion-brousse (literally “bush truck”). It’s a military transport or freight truck with a rigid frame outfitted with bench seats; passengers are exposed to wind and dust, are bounced around violently, and are frequently sick. Public transport at its roughest.
Driving on RN7, it sometimes seemed that half the country was on the move: by taxi-brousse (bush taxi), the minivans with luggage, bicycles, and yellow bidons (jerry cans used for carrying water) piled so high that they look as if they will tip over on a curve, which they sometimes do; by auto and bicycle pousse-pousse; by bicycle; or by carts pulled by zebu. Every hour or so we stopped to let zebu cross the road, the boy herders shouting and waving their sticks. Outside the towns and villages, there were always people walking along the road. Rice farmers going to and from their fields. Men walking with axes and long sticks with curved blades, cutting eucalyptus trees for firewood and charcoal. Children returning from the river with bidons, lashed onto wooden pushcarts, the day’s supply of water for cooking and washing. Families walking home from church.
If you’ve got something to sell—fruits, vegetables, motor oil, bicycle tires—your best storefront is along RN7, preferably on one of the few straight stretches. There are small retail clusters. If you’re in the market for a garishly colored Jesus or Madonna statue or one of the animals from the Ark (in Madagascar, Noah did not forget to save a place for the zebu), your destination is a stretch south of Antsirabe; further south, a line of stalls sell wooden cooking utensils; south of Fianarantsoa, the second-largest city and the commercial center of the southern highlands, you can find musical instruments including drums and the Malagasy ukulele, and brightly painted tin models of trucks and cars.
Of course, most people in central and southern Madagascar were not on the move or hawking their wares along RN7. It’s just that many of those who were traveling were squeezed onto its narrow ribbon. Outside the towns, I saw only a few east–west roads leading off RN7 with a tarmac surface, and who knows how far the tarmac went? Poor infrastructure—primarily the roads, but also lack of electricity supply in rural areas—is the major barrier to economic development. In the rainy season (January through March), landslides block the road, and sections wash away or develop huge potholes. In places, work crews were building ditches and culverts to divert the water, but many stretches had not been repaired. Our driver engaged low gear and zigzagged, expertly avoiding the largest holes. It was uncomfortable enough in a high-riding vehicle; it must feel much worse in a bus or taxi-brousse. Every government since independence has promised to fix the roads and extend the network, but, faced with poverty, hunger, and pressing social problems, the promises are soon forgotten. “You can’t eat roads,” remarked our driver drily.
The bridges, mostly one-lane, are in serious need of maintenance. That’s except for one newish structure crossing a river north of Fianarantsoa. The old bridge, one UNICEF colleague explained, did not fall into the river through lack of repair; in 2002, during the six-month presidential standoff, forces loyal to Ratsiraka seized the government buildings in Fianarantsoa and blew up the bridge to stop troops from Tana
