The Malagasy Travel Nightmare

I traveled to Moramanga this weekend, about a 5-6 hour trip on average.

On Friday, it took me 10 hours.

Now, I don’t want to use this as an occasion to blast the Malagasy public transport system. They do the best with what they have, and what they have isn’t much. Thus, the system sucks.

Let’s take a look at my Friday trip, and look for things that could have been handled a little better.

First off, the first bus I jumped in already had a few red flags. It needed a push start to get going, the Malagasy norm of filling a bus beyond capacity was readily apparent, and the bus rolled in on a flat tire. The replacement tire looked far worse than the flat. The wheel was definitely sticking through the tire, but as they hammered it on, five guys lifting the bus and taking the place of the jack, I appeared to be the only one noticing the fact that we looked better off with the flat. And I was right.

Now, my trip from site, Ankazobe, to the capitol, Antananarivo (Tana), is 90 km, usually a two to three hour drive. The replacement tire blew out 30 km into our trip, which itself took an hour because we were overpacked and couldn’t go faster than 10 km up inclines, which in the Highlands, there are a lot of.

Luckily, we had a spare. Or so I thought.

The spare was the original, blown out tire, with what looked to be a patch of asphalt smeared over the gash where it blew out. It definitely didn’t look like something to be driven on, but with no other options available, we continued.

That tire lasted 22 km, blowing out after 40 minutes of driving. I’m still a little amazed it lasted that long. Seriously, the only thing I can tell that was plugging the original blow out was a greasy glob of black.

Once we pulled over, the driver grabbed the other blown out tire and began smearing the stuff around its hole. The mechanic on board, listening to the voice of reason booming in his head, advised against this, so they called the station in the next town over, Mahitsy, and we began our long wait for the replacement bus.

I’ve just about hit three hours on the road, it’s almost 4 p.m. I’m still 40 km out, and I have another three-hour bus ride from Tana to Moramanga in front of me. I’m understandably irritated.

After half an hour, the replacement drives up, we jump in and hit the road once more. We drive for another 20 km, stopping it seemed every three or four kilometers to talk with friends’ of the driver, and I discover, to my amazement, a third bus waiting for us.

Rather than drive us in to our station, the second bus only took us as far as needed to catch the beginnings of Tana’s own public transportation system.

I’ve now lost my cool.

These buses are called taxi bes, and like any city transport system, they make a ton of stops. I’m still 20 km out of Tana, it’s now past 5 p.m., and I’m now riding a bus that stops every five minutes or less for pick-ups and drop-offs. To top it all off, when we finally reached the Tana city limits (the American Embassy is the first thing I see, with the ol’ stars and stripes waving proudly in the wind), the bus picks the long route around the city, meaning I’ve got at least another hour to wait, as long as traffic is light. I jump off instead, hoping to find a taxi to take me the rest of the way.

This is where I hear the biggest joke yet in Madagascar; the driver wants 50,000 ariary to take me to the Moramanga station. I don’t even respond, and just start laughing. A number that high deserves nothing more. But the thing was, every taxi driver wanted a similar price. Now, I know I’m white, and the accepted belief here is all white people have money. As a volunteer, that’s not the case, so it’s back on the bus for 300 ariary.

It’s now past 6 p.m., the sun is setting, and now I’m worried I’m going to miss the bus altogether and have to wait in Tana for the night. I do not want that because Tana is too expensive, and if I have to extend my crappy day of travel to the next morning, I’m going to lose my mind.

I’m glancing at my watch every minute. It feels like we’re stuck in traffic more than we’re not, and I am so hungry, I feel like I’m going to start eating the faux leather off the seats.

We finally reach my bus station in the area of town called Analakely, and here I know the price of a taxi. I jump out, find my guy, throw my stuff in and off we go. Well, first we stop at a gas station to fill his water bottle up with gas. No one puts gas in the gas tanks right away. They fill up the water bottle, wait for the car to run out of gas, and then fill up.

For the motion sick, you not only have to worry about bumpy and twisting roads and drivers who constantly brake and go, but also the persistent and forceful smell of gasoline that stays with you long after the ride has ended.

It’s 7 p.m. when we finally reach the station, night has officially fallen, and I don’t see too many lights. Yep, I’m worried.

Luckily, I’m greeted by the usual mob of bus “salesmen” trying to get me to ride with their, for a lack of a better term, travel agency. There’s one bus left for Moramanga, it’s not yet full, and they’re leaving in 20 minutes.

Thank you, Jesus!

I cut through the hustle and bustle, find the driver, and after the usual five-minute explanation of how I’m not French, and I can speak Malagasy, I finally have my ticket. There’s even a nice young man named Santa (How awesome is that?) who’s fluent in English.

I grab the seat next to him, a quick plate of composé, and we’re finally off. I learn Santa is the son of the owner of a club I frequent in Moramanga, called the Cool Cocktail. I start to think that maybe fate had a little to do with this whole delay because now I have an in with the bar I like to drink at in town.

He extends invitations to my fellow volunteers and I to be his guests Saturday night. As sleep finally comes to me, the window down and the night air cooling my face (I don’t know how every one else thought it was freezing. I felt fantastic.) the rage that had been engulfing me slowly dies away. I’m getting to where I need to be, and Saturday is looking more and more like it will completely wipe away the bad memory of Friday.

Like I said earlier, I don’t mean for this to be a complete bashing of the Malagasy travel system. I understand it has a fair share of flaws, and I appreciate that they try and do the best they can with what is available to them.

I’m really writing this for you, America. Any time you think that a plane delay is unreasonable, or your seat is a little too tight, or the drive is too long, think about me. Think about all the volunteers out there waiting up to a day sometimes for their bus to leave, only to have it break down an hour into a 12-hour trip.

Think about the volunteers forced to ride trains in a country where more often than not, the trains don’t run, and when they do, it’s once a week. Or the volunteer tossing water out of the ferry, because the crew thought the best way to plug a leak before departure was with duct tape. Or those who have to fly with pilots who leave when they want, no matter what the schedule says. Take pride in the order America has. It’s something I’ve almost forgotten.