Part Two: Going home; The "roads" near my site

Part Two: Going Home

So I was told by a number of friends that this story deserves a separate entry. After a third or fourth attempt to find transportation back to Mananara or convince someone to let me walk, I finally made it back to Mananara just after sunset on a four-wheel drive truck that could have blazed the Oregon trail back in the day. I stayed with a family in town and got up at 3:30 the next morning to reserve a spot on the taxi to Maroantsetra. The taxi was supposed to leave at 5:00, so we arrived at the station shortly after 3:30 to reserve our spot (by sitting at the station). Sometime after 8 AM, the taxi finally arrived (which is normal), and 11 of us climbed into a 4WD truck that was built for 5 people (which is normal). I mistakenly thought that that the next step was to leave, BUT no, first we drove around Mananara doing-I-don’t-know-what for a few hours… We picked up the driver’s girlfriend at the beach… we drove around to find a pastor who supposedly knew someone who wanted to go with us… then we waited outside the church until the pastor was done conducting the mass so that he could tell us who we were waiting for. Around 10 AM, we returned to the taxi station and all got out of the car and then got back in for no particular reason.

A little after 10, we finally left Mananara. Goal 1: Check! I’m feeling pretty good at this point. We are on the road, doing great, making progress.  Now, there many river crossings to deal with between Mananara and Maroantsetra, 7 of which involve using a ferry system. On this particular road, there are a few ferries that are REALLY nice; big, sturdy, steel ferries complete with thrusters underneath that allow them to be fairly maneuverable. The very next ferry, however, could be the type of ferry that I would not trust to transport my bike across the river; small floating mats made of bamboo poles and sticks that my dog would happily eat that supposedly carry the weight of an automobile. The car is loaded onto the “ferry” by way of two wooden planks and if the “ferry” only sinks about one foot under the surface of the water, it is considered safe and ready to go.

Anyway, we accomplish one or two of these ferry crossings successfully before we came upon a river crossing with no ferry.  It was an intersection between the river and the ocean, and at low tide, the technique is to just drive across. Well, it wasn’t quite low tide anymore, but the driver decided that it was close enough and he gave it a try. The car stopped moving about 3 feet from dry land and slowly sank into the sand. We tried to push the car, and it rebelliously sank even deeper. Eventually about 30 people showed up to help, 20 of which were under the age of 10 (which is normal), and began helpfully digging in front of, and behind each tire so that the car continued to sink straight down until we could only see one inch of the wheel wells and the belly of the car was flat against the sandy river bottom. The main problem, at this point, was that the tide was still rising rapidly and the waves were now crashing against the sides of the car.

A couple of people dragged over wooden planks and began to shove them in random crevices of the car. This was decidedly unhelpful and it took quite a while to work out an efficient system. In the meantime, the waves were now breaking over the top of the car and we had to intermittently stop to rescue some of our smaller “helpers” who were swept away by the rising tide. The water inside the vehicle was at the same level as the seats and the engine slowly sputtered out. Now the group of us were diving under the water, using a board and a rope as a lever to lift the car out of the sand, and using another board to place under each tire. After the 4^th or 7^th try, we were finally successful in pushing the car out onto dry land.  

Miraculously, after a brief drying period, the engine started. We had only made it 10 kilometers from Mananara, it was already 3:30 in the afternoon, and we were salty and wet, but we were thrilled to be on our way. It was short-lived. After about 5 km, we heard the characteristic sound of a tire deflating. One of the boards we had shoved under the tire to rescue the car apparently still had nails in it. BUT NEVER FEAR, we had a spare tire on the back of the car. So we all get ready to change the tire, and the driver even has a jack (which is rare), but the jack is broken of course, so we walk to the nearest town, borrow a shovel, dig a hole under the wheel, put the new wheel back on the car, and return the shovel. No problem. Ready to go. BUT, now the car can’t get out of the hole we dug, so we return to the town, borrow the shovel again, fill in the hole, return the shovel, and escape from the hole.

Now everything is going well and we are on our way again. Just like the ferries, the bridges are an adventure. There are probably at least 20 bridge crossings along the way, and some of them are really nice, strong, sturdy, concrete bridges. Many of them, however, are broken, rotted, stick bridges with two single beams (one for each tire) that the driver has to hit just right so that the car doesn’t fall off one side or another.  All the passengers get out of the car to cross the bridge (just in case) and walk ahead to “fix up” the holes in the bridge and throw a couple extra sticks on it for good luck. After that, the driver drives like the Blues Brothers to try to mostly jump over the ravine so he doesn’t have to touch the bridge. This technique actually works pretty well all things considered.

The tricky part is the mud ruts. The mud on the road is similar to the kind that you can make pottery out of and it has been repeatedly soaked and dried by the sun and the rain until it makes a cast of messy tire prints as deep as the wheel wells of a monster truck. The car has to try to follow the wheel well tracks in order to continue moving, but the ruts are often too deep for the car and the belly of the vehicle gets stuck in the mud. The borrowing of shovels from other towns follows shortly after… accompanied by jokes about the foot-traffic from Mananara passing us on the road and a discussion about whether or not the foreigner (me) is telling the truth when she says that you can travel 70 miles in one hour in the United States.

Now it is about 8:00 at night and we are only about halfway to Maroantsetra, but we are happy because the road should be a little better from here out. The car battery, which was formerly submerged in salt water (as you may remember), as well as the alternator (which may have never worked), are now dead and the driver takes the battery into a local shop with a light bulb to charge it. We sit around in the rain while the battery charges while people tell me about their dreams to go to Africa one day to visit me in New York. Africa, it turns out, is the same place as America... who knew. 

After a couple of hours, the driver returns with the battery and we are on a roll. The battery is strong enough to start the car, but not strong enough to run the headlights. NO PROBLEM. Someone in the car has a big flashlight, so we hold the flashlight out the window and point it at the road ahead. Well, it doesn’t really light up the road, so we find some rope-like-weeds and tie the flashlight to the front of the car. Now we are doing great and making progress. Everyone is happy.

About 20k outside of Maroantsetra, just when we THOUGHT we might make it home, the car hits a particular rough patch of road and the battery falls out of our flashlight into the mud… NOW… we can’t find the battery because we don’t have a flashlight, but NO PROBLEM- the foreigner (me) who is traveling in the car and one other person happen to live nearby (20k away) and know the road well – they can direct the driver.  SO NOW … we are driving in the dark rainy night with Kerry and the other “local” are telling the driver when there may-or-may-not-be a turn coming up or a bridge, at which point everyone gets out of the car and walks ahead to find the supposed bridge or turn. When we find it, the people wearing white shirts (almost as good as having a flashlight) stand on either side of the bridge so the driver can guess where to put the tires so he doesn’t fall through. It is an extremely safe way to travel and I can assure you that we exercised extreme caution.

At midnight, we are so close that I can see the faint glow of Maroantsetra on the horizon (about 15k away). We come up on another shallow river crossing so the driver gets out to check it out and accidentally stalls the car when he gets back in. Now the car is dead. Absolutly, 100% dead.  Huh. Welp, the driver shrugs. The passengers shrug. That’s it. Sleeping in the car.

It’s midnight, pouring rain, there are 11 people in a 5 person car (with only two doors), I am crouched behind the driver’s seat on the floor, squatting in about 5 inches of lingering saltwater from the morning, with a chunk of metal pressed into my side and two sets of knees in the other side, it’s 90 degrees, no one will open the windows because of the rain, I have been trying to get home for three days, I have been wearing the same clothes for a week that I walked 90 miles in, I have been awake since 3 o’clock in the morning, and it’s already the 16^th hour of a trip that would have taken one hour in the States. I had truly enjoyed our automobile adventure, but I was VERY ready to go home. I asked to be let out of the car and announced that I was going to walk.

My request was met with total shock and appall by all passengers. People here see no problem with getting up at 3 or 4 in the morning when it is still dark out to begin a trip, but almost no one will travel when it gets dark in the evening. It doesn’t matter that it is equally as dark and there is absolutely no difference at all… it is simply not “the way” people do it. Do you know that it is dark out? Do you know that it is far? Do you know that it is raining? YES.

I climbed over the other people and the seats in the car, squeezed out the front door, grabbed my pack from the roof, paid the driver, and set off down the road. The driver could NOT believe that I was serious about walking, but he reluctantly decided that if I was going to walk all the way to Maroantsetra, he might as well walk too and get a battery for the car. I never did find out if he was successful, but at 2:30 in the morning, I climbed into my very own bed with not a care in the world.

And so ends the story of what it is like to travel in NE Madagascar.