The Mysterious Island World of Nosy Mangabe

Sitting a few miles off the coast and supermerged* with the clouds, lies the small island of Nosy Mangabe. Forgotten by time, though not tourists, the island was once inhabited by Malagasies (hence the tombs), who were supplanted by the Dutch (hence the secondary growth in the forest), who have since yielded (after some deforestation, French colonialization, and Malagasy liberation) to the national parks service (hence the animals). All told, it was a pretty great place to hike around, both for the dense forest and for the lovely beachfront. These pictures capture some of the highlights, including the tombs (some of which were moved, others of which remain, a difficult problem for locals who can no longer afford (because of park fees) to visit their ancestors, which is a very important practice here), the world’s smallest species of chameleon (he plays dead when you pick him up, which is also cute), and the world’s largest gecko, whom my guide described as the Champion of Disguise.

*as opposed to submerged?

Oh It’s a Long, Long Way to Moaransetra

This isn’t entirely true. It is, in fact, only 120 kilometers from Mananara to Moaransetra (pronounced moron-Setr). And yet, how far it is. There is ostensibly a road linking the two, but it is rarely traveled, and I was soon to discover why.

My first attempt at making the trip took the form of a bicycle. I bought it in town and rode it home from the market and was looking forward to the idea of spending a few days on the road, visiting villages and forests along the way. I strapped on my suitcase with some bungee cords and headed off for a brief test-run. Within five minutes, the right pedal had fallen off entirely. Strike one. I returned the bike and got my money back after a difficult argument, difficult mainly because neither of us spoke French all that well and because it was raining. My second attempt was the usual taxi-brusse/bus idea, but there would be no busses that day, nor the next, nor later in the week. Strike two. I decided to check by the port, as I’d seen the captain of the Red Rose, Fabian, at the Lola concert, but the boat was already gone. Strike 3. (I did not go to the “airport” a kilometer north of the city, as there has not been a plane there, public or private, in the last three years.) And then I met Charlie. There was an election in town (one that had already gone down twice, both times with the same results, which, because the opposition party had won (by increasing margins, no less) had been annulled) and Charlie, or so I called him, was the assistant to the vote procurer. He was heading to Moaransetra later that day with the votes in a 4x4, and offered to give me and another stranded person, a Frenchman I was to encounter in various other towns, a lift. (The opposition won again, but the tally has not been certified yet.)

Charlie turned out to be an interesting guy. He was a big soccer fan, liked headcheese, and was very interested in discussing American politics. But he could also be a bit scary when angry. First, he seemed to flip out for no reason. At a bar in Manambolosy (our first, and, it would turn out, longest stop) he boxed a kid’s ears such that his glasses flew off and afterwards sat, arms folded across his chest, fuming in rage. (The problem, it turned out, was that he’d gone into the bar to ask for something salty to eat, and the kid had replied “How about salt?”) The other thing that gave Charlie’s anger an extra edge was the fact that he had a moustache like… Charlie Chaplin. (Hence the nickname.) I honestly didn’t know that was allowed any more.

One of the things that makes the road difficult to drive on is the fact that it’s made of dirt and that there are lots of cyclones in the area that leave the dirt in bad condition. Another thing that makes the driving hard is the fact that the road is intersected by at least a dozen rivers and streams, only a few of which have bridges. Hence the necessity of the barge. In general, crossing streams on barges was a lovely way to break up the drive. At times, though, it proved an added difficulty, especially in Manambolosy where the barge was out of service. (See picture.) Thus, we had to spend the night (the Frenchman and I sharing a bed, the procurer sleeping with a girlfriend who lived there) and, in the morning, some local engineers put together a new barge out of wood planks and empty oil drums. Sketchy, but effective.

In the end, not counting time spent off the road, the driving time was a little over 12 hours. And again, if you don’t want to scroll back to the top, the distance was 120 kilometers. I can’t complain, though. Not only was it a good time, but, once in Moaransetra, the procurer (and his wife) had some good suggestions for things to do, including some killer karaoke at the Baguette D’Or.

Mananara Nights

Ah Mananara! How can a town with no roads, no phones, and only a few thousand people, throw down so hard? I arrived in Mananara less than admirably, on a cargo boat (rice) named The Red Rose that left Isle Ste. Marie at 8 PM (I had just sat down to dinner when someone came by and told me it was indeed going to set sail) and arrived at Mananara at 7 AM the next morning. The ride was choppy (it’s a route that’s only traveled a couple months of the year due to nasty currents) and I was seated on the floor of the ship, in a corner, wedged between the side of the boat and a drum of gasoline. I’m not sure what was toughest to endure – the water splashing on top of me every few minutes, the smell of the gasoline, or the rumbling of the engine just beneath me – but suffice it to say, it was an adventure. And Mananara was lovely. It’s one of the few places where you can see Aye-ayes, a nocturnal lemur that uses its bizarrely long middle finger to scrape the meat out of coconuts and ants out of trees. (Being nocturnal, it was hard to capture on film, but hopefully this image give you some idea. It was really very strange looking, in the grotesque way that only a nocturnal animal can be.) Mananara was also a stop on Lola’s country-wide tour. This was certainly the event of the season in Mananara, and everyone whom I’d met in the town was there. That night, perhaps in Lola’s honor, was the opening of a new discoteque, Snack Bar Jim, and, being a good Mananarian, I decided to go. Although there are no pictures, thankfully, of the dancing, I bring up the event because it involved something quite curious. After an hour or so of dancing to strictly Malagasy music, I heard a familiar opening come over the speakers. Everyone in the bar recognized it too, and some dancers threw up their hands and, citing the dance’s difficulty, left the floor while others rushed to up to the front. The song, of course, was Boy George’s Karma Chameleon, to which there is, apparently, a very specific, swing-style dance. For the rest of my time there, my appearance at the club was mentioned by everyone I met, including my future fellow-traveler, “Charlie.”

Ste. Marie Bonus Materials!

Does every post need an exclamation mark? Perhaps. Ste. Marie was not only pirates (nor was it, incidentally, only beautiful beaches), but there were also some lovely plants and animals. I spent a day with a farmer who grew red pineapple, for instance, and vanilla. But the true bonus is the short video clip below of a chicken with her… goslings?

Shiver me timbers!

After Toamasina, I headed up the coast, by bus, to Fenoarive, the capital of clove production for the country. I wish my camera could pick up the smell that pervaded the dirt paths around the town, as it was everywhere intense. Fenoarive was also the first town to be established by pirates, who have a strong legacy in the country. I biked to the original outpost, but, as you can see, it’s mostly forest at this point, and the bridge is out (I took some logs across), though still quite lovely. Across the water, though, on Isle Sainte Marie, there are still the remains of an old pirate cemetery. It was from this wee island that pirates, including, at one point, the famous Captain Kidd, raided the holdings of the Dutch East Indian Company.