June 24 – 28

“Are you Jerry?” a young woman asked as I came downstairs from my hotel to have breakfast. She was the only foreigner that I have seen in the past 5 days since leaving Tana. She just so happened to be standing in the lobby of my hotel at 8 a.m. “Uhhhhh…yes?” I replied bewilderingly. And this is how I met Dee. She lives in a neighboring village, is also in the Peace Corps, and a close friend of Jenna. Apparently the word is out that some American is cycling around Madagascar. This is a big deal because evidently no one does this. Who knew?

We sat and talked for an hour, when in walked Jenna and Vanessa. Apparently Dee was in Vatomandry waiting to connect with them, and they planned to meet at the same hotel I was staying at. Keep reading…it gets even weirder. Vanessa is the Country Director for Madagascar Peace Corps and is doing site visits with Jenna and Dee. We all sit down for lunch. Vanessa and I begin talking about the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and I mention that I have a friend who used to work there whom I was visiting in Zambia. “Oh really? Who is your friend?” inquired Vanessa. I tell her his name. Vanessa’s mouth dropped. Evidently she is good friends with Ben from grad school. I cannot make this up. Kevin Bacon is somewhere near chuckling and saying “I told you so.”

After lunch, Dee and Vanessa head to Dee’s site and Jenna and I explore the town of Vatomandry. It is a small town on the Indian Ocean that Peace Corps volunteers use to stock up on supplies, charge electronics, and check email. Other than that, it is a very average and quiet town.

The Madagascar independence day (Vignt-Six) is coming up on June 26 and I’ve been told by everyone I meet that it gets extremely out of control and make sure to not be anywhere near Tana. The local Malagasy look for any reason to get a little rowdy and break up the monotony of their daily lives. Vatomandry is a small town, but Jenna invites me to come to her rural village named Tsarasambo, 17 km to the south. It is without running water or electricity. I jump at the opportunity for an even more authentic experience. Jenna has been at this site for about 13 months and is well known by the people there. We arrive at her hut just before the rains roll in (and never leave). Her 12’ x 15’ hut is by far the nicest in town. It has a concrete floor, stick walls, thatch roof (lined with plastic), 2 doors and a window, and a gas cook top fueled by a propane tank. Outside is her ladosy (place for bucket showers) and kabone (essentially a shed with a hole where she poops) Oh, there is also a rat that lives in her roof named Ratsy (which ironically means “bad” in Malagasy) who has gotten into some of her vegetables since she was gone. Jenna is a health volunteer who tries to educate the locals on such things as diet and simple hand hygiene. One time she set up a hand washing station in the village only to find that people had simply stolen all the soap. It’s an uphill battle and change does not happen easily. Most of the huts have leaky roofs, drafty walls, and either dirt (mud) or wood floors. Food consists of rice, every day, every meal. The people of Tsarasambo are representative of so many other villages. They exist on very little means, are very stuck in their way of doing things, but have been some of the kindest people that I have met in the country. They are always happy to greet us and share whatever food they have. It is truly heart warming. They are very proud to have a Peace Corps volunteer in their village and excited to meet another foreigner.

It is now 2 days before Vignt Six and even the small village of Tsarasambo is gearing up for the celebration. They have rented a ridiculously loud sound system and by 6pm they commence the standard 6p – 6a celebratory blasting of music. Yes, it went on through the night, through the rain. I have no idea if anyone was actually out there, but I know that I could literally feel the walls shaking in Jenna’s hut. Needless to say it was not the peaceful night’s sleep that I was expecting in a small village. I had hoped to spend more time in her village and learn more about the local culture. Unfortunately it had been raining off and on for 24 hours. The floor in her hut and most of our clothes were soaked. All the paths through her village were rivers of mud. We made the decision the next day to head back to Vatomandry with hope of drying out and maybe even sleeping.

The rain stopped. So did the music. The sun came out. I had ambitions of jumping into the Indian Ocean in Vatomandry, however after wading in up to my knees, I quickly realized why nobody else was in there. It’s dangerous. While it’s a sandy beach, the steep slope of the beach indicates that the undertow is continually dragging more and more sand from the shore out to sea. The 6 foot waves come crashing in at different angles and create almost a washing machine effect on whatever or whomever is brave enough to be in its vortex. At least it was pretty. Instead, I managed to jump into a soccer match on the beach with a group of local kids. They were happy to have the big white guy join in.

Oh yeah…remember how I was told to not be anywhere near Tana on Vignt Six? Apparently there was a free concert at the stadium and someone brought in a hand grenade. It exploded, killing 2 and injuring 80 others. While this is truly terrible news, it is even more startling personally because we were in that stadium, in that section, 1 week ago watching the rugby match. The Malagasy president is quoted as saying it was an act of terrorism but nobody that I have talked to believes that.

A day of recharging in Vatomandry and I set off on the 90km ride to Brickaville. My plan is to head north up the coast to the island of Saint Marie. Today’s ride was once again a mix of rolling and meandering hills, through dense green foliage, and slathered with hundreds of local Malagasy people who are intrigued by the foreigner cycling by. The smiles and waves never get old.

I arrive in Brickaville by 1130. It is a small town that looks mostly like a truck stop. It is unremarkable but is my stopping point since my next stop, Tomasina, is 105km away. I walk into the first place that looks like it would have good food. I quickly notice 3 other foreigners. I have a knack of finding the only white people in every town. I begin to try to communicate in my normal combination of very meager Malagasy and charades in an effort to order some food. One of the foreigners whispers to her mates, “He’s American.” This is how I met Julie, Colin, and Tyler. They ask me what I’m trying to order and then Julie follows up, “Are you the guy cycling through Madagascar?” “Holy shit!” I respond. “Our country director told us about you.” “Vanessa?” I ask. “I just had lunch with her 3 days ago on a site visit in Vatomandry.” Apparently these 3 are also Peace Corps volunteers and she just finished site visits with them. We spend the afternoon and evening hanging out, laughing, and telling stories. Madagascar is definitely the most difficult place I have ever traveled and nobody bike tours through it. It appears I’m strange, but based on all my chance encounters, not a stranger.

Old white guy breaking ankles

Words to live by

Dishes

Clowning at the beach

Bombed…

The Peace Corps crew + 1