The wheels on the bus

In the United States, cars are often viewed as a type of miniature home. You keep them clean, you install music systems, you don’t let just anyone inside. It is your own personal space for when you are on the road.

Here in Madagascar, when you look at car, you do not think of any of that. You don’t even think about who owns it. You think let’s attach as much as possible to this motor to get from one point to another. And trust me—that’s exactly what they do.

A taxibrousse (bush taxi) is my main form of transportation. Take van with 5 rows of seats (including that of the driver). Remove any and all cushioning. Add as many people as can fit (the row behind the driver can fit at least 5 but it’s more fun to aim for 10, having some people sitting where feet should be, facing the others, their legs alternating—I’d draw you a picture if I could). Children under 5 do not count. They just sit on laps. I cannot emphasize this enough—if you see someone on the road, you can (and will) fit them inside. Clown cars are normal cars. Throw luggage and a goat on top of the van. Keep some chickens under the seats (I have gotten my ankles pecked on multiple occasions). At least one person is a puker, vomitting into a little plastic bag and throwing it out the window. The sound and smell will inspire others to the same end. At least one mother will be nursing her baby (or child. . .), at least one person will try to talk to you to the point of irritation, and at least one person will fall asleep on you. Now blast obnoxious music as loud as possible, throw the ricketty van onto either a road that is more potholes than road (don’t forget we took away seat cushions—we’re talking hard metal slamming your butt for extended periods of time) or a road that winds so much EVERYONE will puke. Does that give you an idea?

There are variations, of course. Shorter trips mean you cram more people in (my short trip from Mahabo to Morondava takes at least 2 hours for 45k—my long trip to Tana is over 18 hours). Longer trips mean numbness and lack of sleep. Buses in cities are the same thing but for short distances. Traveling in a camion is the same but much bigger, with no seats.

Now, many tourists cannot handle this (particularly when they’re trying to get to a city that has an airport and they can therefore avoid it). They’ll rent cars to avoid it. But with time you really do change your perspective. You are at point A and need to get to point B—does it really matter if you do so with style?

To help you better understand (and in order to make you think of me as an extreme badass), I will describe a trip I took with two close friends, John and Travis (also volunteers here). Before school started, they visited Morondava and we took a trip to the Tsingy, a fascinating park with strange rock formations and caves (don’t worry, I’ll show you the pictures in November). Normally, people rent 4x4s to do the trip. By 4x4 it takes 5 hours or so to get to Belo, and after that 4 hours to get to Bekopaka, the village with the Tsingy. We planned to do it all via taxibrousse

We lucked out and found a Malagasy driver with a 4x4 on his way to pick up his clients in Belo, so he let us hop in for the first part of the trip. His clients had the same plans as us, head up to Bekopaka Monday, spend Tuesday and Wednesday in the park, then head back to Morondava Thursday (a serious deadline for us, as John had an airplane to catch back to his site). The driver said we could tag along with—if his clients agreed. He told us to stay put in Belo while he picked them up—he’d stop by with them so we could discuss. We waited—and watched as he later drove right by us without an explanation. Yes, I understand that if his hands were tied by his clients there was nothing could do—but I find it more entertaining to pretend he totally screwed us.

We quickly wandered the town, looking for ANYTHING on wheels—we worried that if we didn’t arrive that night, we’d get in trouble with John’s flight. Fortunately, after an hour of searching (quite a goose chase), we found a camion heading to Bekopaka. Along with 70 people and some poultry, we crammed inside on top of the luggage and supplies, and we were off. I was eager to spend some quality time with my knees, which I hugged in my allotted foot of space.

By 4x4, it takes 4 hours. Camions are less graceful, so we counted on more like 6 hours. We asked around, reassured by everyone that we’d arrive at Bekopaka that evening—probably after dark, but who needs light to set up a tent? Reassured by everyone, that is, except a gooky old man who said we’d get there the next morning. Oh, that silly man. His sense of time really is old-fasioned of something. Right??

Aaaand, the winner was the old man. We left at 4.30 Monday afternoon. We arrived 8.30 Tuesday morning. 16 hours. It would have been only 4 had we been in that original 4x4. Instead, we ate supper at miniature tables and chairs, and then broke down, spending hours in the middle of the night watching men who were clearly not mechanics try to hammer a large camion wheel onto something too large—after they’d cleaned off grease with little twigs.

Meanwhile, we were exhausted and freezing (who brings blankets when the sun is cooking you almost as much as the body heat?). Our first solution was 3-way spooning in the dirt road. This didn’t work as well as I seem to remember the Voyage of the Mimi might have suggested in the 6th grade. Finally, women took pity on us and gave us a blanket.

The camion was magically fixed, and we all piled in as the owner yelled, ’’Not yet ! It’s not ready yet !!’’ John, whose tall body did not fit well (leading him to spend the first leg of the trip hanging onto the outside) at one point strapped himself to the top. I think hehad the best seat in the house.

Travis spent a lot of time having his thigh grazed by that old man I mentioned earlier. I was coughed by small children (TB anyone ?). We inhaled the smell countless men drinking the moonshine they make around here. We listened to people puking. Our bare feet rested in some goo I have yet to identify. It was amazing.

In the morning, we got rid of half of the people (uh, it didn’t feel much more spacious). Some guy busted out a radio and blasted music for us. One man hid himeself in a lamba (big piece of fabric) to sleep. The owner stopped the camion, ran to a hill with a gun, and shot some kind of bird. That bird’s neck was then cut over my backpack. And it suddenly became okay to touch my butt. Now, I don’t getting coughed on. That’s life. I was even patient when some guy’s armpit was in my face. But getting groped at 7 in the morning isn’t exactly my cup of tea.

Regardless, we got to the Tsingy, safe and mostly sound. We promptly bathed in the river we were told contained crocodiles (but I guess they let you go if you stayed near the edge?). We ate rice and set off for the Tsingy. I’ll let the pictures speak for me, but we rappelled down a dark hole, walked through the maze of beautiful rocks, and climbed around in caves. Plus we saw a decent amount of lemurs.

At the end of the day we set up our 2-person tent with strings (the poles were missing in Morondava—the tent was actually hovering above the ground between the trees), swam with the crocs again, and prepared to look for a way home in the near future (the camion wouldn’t make our deadline). It must be said that sharing a small tent was one thing last December. Doing it in the heat? At one point the boys started taking over my space from both sides—dirty and hot, and I don’t mean in a sexy way. I ended up sleeping outside, on the beach. Sometimes a girl needs a little space.

Luckily, we found an amazing French couple (from Paris) who let us join them the next day for the other part of the park (we hopped into the back of their truck with no guide, no food, no water,and no shoes for John, since they had been stolen from under our flying tent). They gave me a ride home Thursday (John and Travis don’t speak French, and found an English-speaking couple who took them home). We ZOOMED through the journey that had taken us so long earlier that week, and got near Morondava in time for sunset at the baobabs.

It was a beautiful trip.