This gallery contains 10 photos.
A snapshot of happenings from the past few months. Advertisements
This gallery contains 10 photos.
A snapshot of happenings from the past few months. Advertisements
Each February, schools in Madagascar participate in a nationwide celebration of education. This celebration, called Journée des Écoles (French meaning “School Days”), is intended to recognize the hard work and dedication of students and teachers. Last month, I was lucky enough to be a part of this celebration in Andapa and participate in many events during the 3-day holiday.
On the first day, students at the CEG where I teach worked together to clean the campus and replant some of the gardens. With everyone gathered around the flagpole in the morning, the older students were sent off into the forest to collect wood that would be used for cooking later in the week. The younger students, and I, stayed at the school to clean. Most of the boys brought machetes and sickles from home and they were told to cut the grass on the field across from the campus. At first, I was slightly uncomfortable to be around so many rowdy 6th graders wielding large sharp knives. As they chopped away at the thick grass and got increasingly tired, I felt more at ease.
While the boys were cutting grass, some of the girls were cleaning out the classrooms, sweeping the floors, and washing the blackboards. I was impressed with how coordinated their efforts were and how quickly they worked to carry heavy wooden desks out of the classrooms before deep cleaning the inside. The other girls were working in the yard to clean up the existing gardens and also dig holes in places where new gardens were to be built. “Garden” is a very generous way to describe the small patches of dirt in front of the classrooms containing a few large rocks or feeble plants within a thin border of grass. At any rate, the students treated these areas like they were part of the Gardens of Versailles.
The festivities continued the following day with athletic competitions between some of the schools. The boys played soccer, pitting the public school students against the private school students. The girls hosted a basketball tournament, also organized between public and private school teams. I attended one of the soccer matches and got to support my public school students as they beat the private school kids. It was really exciting, almost like a campy 90’s movie where the scrappy local team goes up against the fancy and well equipped jocks with nice uniforms. They fought hard and won an honest match, and the bragging rights that go along with it.
The final day of the celebration included a large meal for all the teachers and school staff in Andapa. It was hosted by the World Wildlife Fund, which has a conservation office in Andapa. Because of their generosity, an entire zebu (a type of domesticated ox that is more tolerant of tropical heat and drought) was purchased and slaughtered to feed all the teachers. That’s how you know a Malagasy party is legitimate: if a whole zebu is sacrificed and butchered for the crowd. The party was a wonderful gesture of appreciation for all the hard work that the educators in my community do. Preparing the meal was also a community effort, which happened to take place in the compound where I live and just steps away from my front door. When I woke up that morning to the faint smell of burning wood, I opened my kitchen window to find about a dozen women already working to start fires and cook the meat in huge iron cauldrons. Some of them were teachers, others were the wives of teachers, but all of them worked together for many hours cooking everything for the meal. I really enjoyed watching them work and talking to a few of the women about what they were doing. All their hard work was not in vain because the food was delicious!
I thoroughly enjoyed my first time participating in Journée des Écoles and celebrating with my school. It was inspiring to know that the entire country supports the idea that schools and teachers should be appreciated and cared for, so much so that they dedicate a specific time every year to do just those things. Sometimes as a foreigner, it’s difficult to feel comfortable and well-adjusted in a new community. But this experience made me proud to be a teacher in Andapa and I really felt like my colleagues consider me to be on equal footing with them.
During the recent holiday vacation, I embarked on a journey that few people in this country undertake. Even fewer foreign visitors attempt what I did.
In some parts of Madagascar, the terrain does not always allow for roads to connect villages and cities by car or other conventional modes of transportation. As a result, some journeys can only be done on foot. One such example is the overland route from Antalaha to Maroantsetra. There is, however, a walking path that connects these two cities by cutting across the peninsula in a general southeast direction. Encouraged by the enthusiasm of another Volunteer, I decided to attempt this particular journey and walk from Antalaha to Maroantsetra.
A simple map of the area where we walked.
I was not alone in my quest to reach the other side of the peninsula. I joined a group of three other Peace Corps Volunteers and we brought two Malagasy friends, Ertice and Rado, to help us as guides along the route. Two of the Volunteers are certified Wilderness First Responders in America, so I figured it was probably a good sign that they were with us. Leading up to our departure, we all were very excited and hopeful that this would be an incredible experience and a fun story to tell in the end.
In preparation for the trip, I really didn’t fully understand what I was getting into. I knew I needed to pack light because I would be carrying my own backpack the whole way. I assumed I would be walking for a few days and it would be exhausting, then I would arrive at the destination and it would be over. Piece of cake. That attitude began to change when I told other Malagasy people about my plans to walk from Antalaha to Maroantsetra. After they stopped laughing in my face, most people told me it would take between 3-5 days to complete the trip. Very few Malagasy people I spoke to had actually walked the route themselves, which was probably a good indicator of how uncommon and difficult the task is. Nonetheless, I tried to shake off the doubts and maintain my adventuresome attitude toward the journey.
Our group had gathered in Antalaha to review our final plans and discuss how we would start the journey. We agreed that we would leave by 5am and take a car from Antalaha to the village of Marofinaritra, about 30km away. From that point, we would begin walking. In true Malagasy fashion, we were late and ended up leaving Antalaha around 8am after arranging our transportation and getting breakfast. The car was supposed to be a “special”, which we assumed meant that only our group of 6 people would be the passengers. The driver obviously had a different understanding of the term “special” because he packed a total of 24 men, women, and children into the back of his truck and made his way to Marofinaritra. The sun had been out for a few hours already and it was getting toasty. Packed into the truck like sardines, we braved some pretty treacherous and uneven terrain for a couple of hours. Every dip and bump in the road translated to us bouncing around on the unforgiving metal truck bed and holding on for dear life. About halfway through the ride, a couple of the young children riding with us got carsick and their mothers tried as best as they could to contain the mess. Between the glaring heat, the passengers tangled up like yarn, and the borderline reckless driving, this certainly was a “special” ride.
Early on, crammed into the back of the truck, when we were still happy to be in a car.
When we finally arrived in Marofinaritra, we got out of the truck as quickly as possible and moved around to regain the feeling in our legs and butts. It was about 10:30 in the morning at this point, the day was still getting hotter, and we had to keep moving. We donned our backpacks and took our first steps of the journey. After walking for an hour or so in an area that had very little shade, we decided to stop at the river and cool off. Over the next few days, we would visit this river again and again because the route basically followed the flow of the river. But on this day, we swam in all our clothes and temporarily relaxed in the cool waters of the river. Completely soaked, we carried on.
In the early afternoon, we passed through a village where one of our guides, Ertice, had some family members living. They welcomed us and allowed us to sit at their home while they fetched fresh coconuts for us. It was a nice break to sit in the shade and enjoy the coconut water. We walked a bit further and sat for lunch, again enjoying the chance to sit down and escape the oppressive sun. After lunch, we summoned our remaining energy and continued on with a strong afternoon of walking. We passed through villages and marveled at wide open landscapes along the way. This is, after all, the ambanivolo (countryside) of the SAVA region.
About an hour before the sun went down, we reached a village that was to be our refuge for the night. There was a small and simple hotel that we found where we could get a room and a meal. I went down to the river to bathe and change my clothes before coming back up for dinner. It was the first time I had ever done such a thing and some of the kids were really entertained by seeing a big white guy dunking himself in their river. We inhaled our rice and salty duck meat dinner and headed off to bed to get some much deserved rest. We had survived the first day.
The alarm on my phone began to chime at 3:30 in the morning. It was still dark outside and my sore muscles ached as I slowly crawled off the foam mattress on the floor. Slowly but surely, everyone else in our group began to wake up and like zombies we packed up our things for another day of walking. We hit the road by about 4:45am, just as the sun was starting to glow far away across the horizon. Our pace was strong as we moved through the rainforest and the birds and insects started to come alive with noise. A few hours into the walk, we stopped for breakfast in the next small village and the meal lasted a little longer than we had hoped. When we left after breakfast, we continued to keep a good pace as we tackled kilometers up until stopping for lunch.
During our lunchtime conversation, as well as many other times during the days, we talked about our walking progress and estimated how many kilometers we had left until our destination. At the start of the trip, one of the Volunteers had somehow determined that the whole route from Antalaha to Maroantsetra was about 80km. Because we had taken the truck about 30km the previous day and then walked roughly another 10km since then, in our minds we were a very manageable 40km from our destination. Nothing to laugh at, but certainly we could walk another 40km in a good day and a half. Our guides, for whatever reasons, chose not to dash our hopes by giving the more realistic version of our distances. When we asked them, repeatedly, “will we get to Maroantsetra tomorrow?”, their mantra was always, “it depends on you.” Skeptical of their ambiguous answer, we started to ask people passing on the road near our lunch spot where they were coming from or going to and how many kilometers away they estimated Maroantsetra to be. Some of the more fit people claimed to have left Maroantsetra early that same morning, so we felt optimistic. But when a few separate people said that Maroantsetra was still another 82km from our current location, our guides stepped in to break the bad news to us. Our previous understating of the length of our journey was devastatingly inaccurate and we did, in fact, need to prepare to walk at least another 80km. Upon hearing this, we started laughing merely as a defense mechanism to avoid crying. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My legs were jelly, I already had a couple gnarly blisters on my feet, and my energy level was being zapped each minute that I continued to be in the sun and listened to the fact that my understating of the distance of this journey was actually doubling. This was a low point for our group. But those upcoming 82 kilometers were not going to walk themselves, so we had to get our things together and take it one step at a time.
We moved forward in the heat of the afternoon and much of this leg of the walk was through some hard terrain. The jungle with thick around us, blotting out the sun and brushing up against our arms as we walked the insanely narrow path. Add to this, the unforgiving climbs and descents of walking up and down mountainsides. I had no way of knowing when it would end or how much higher I had to climb. My frustrations were high and I had to scream at the faceless jungle around me when it tried to trip me up or further delay my progress. The blisters on my feet intensified and sent a sharp pain through my legs with every step I took. Eventually, the jungle loosened its grip on us and we came to a flat clearing next to the river we had been following all along. It was a perfect place to rest and change my shoes. There were some other Malagasy people sitting near the river so I picked a spot close to them to rest and talk a bit. We enjoyed the shade, even buying mangoes from a fellow traveller walking past us, but we knew we had to continue on.
Just before sundown, again, we reached a village that we could sleep in for the night. Our guides asked around for an available room and meal and soon enough we found refuge. There was a brother and sister with her daughter that we had met walking along the route earlier in the day, passing them and falling behind a few times throughout the day, and they had made it to the same village around the same time as we did. So we shared the hotel with them and agreed to start walking together the following morning. This was one of the many moments of cooperation I encountered along this journey, something that I believe most Malagasy people are inherently good at.
With our spirits somewhat still intact, we devoured another meal of rice and mystery chicken parts before curling up to sleep. I remember only sleeping for a couple of hours, then mostly tossing and turning on the lightly padded wood plank that served as my bed. We had survived the second day.
The Malagasy people sharing our hotel, and consequently I as well, we’re awake and moving around well before my alarm was set to go off at 3:30am. On this morning, our group was able to get our bags in order quickly and we started walking around 4:15 in the morning. The brother and sister group had also joined us, as promised. The morning was dark and peaceful, it was almost pleasant to cover so much ground in the cool temperatures. During sunrise, one of the other Volunteers and I talked about the special moments we were living in. The moments where no one else will truly understand what it feels like to stand in this spot and look at this beautiful sunrise splash hues of pink, blue, and orange across the newly born sky. I also thought about how years from now, when I’m not in Madagascar, I can stop at almost any moment and realize that someone is walking this stretch of path in a remote place of a very far away country. I captured the feelings in my mind and pressed onward.
That morning, we walked through parts of the Masoala National Park. I can only assume it was part of the western realm of this nation’s largest national park. I could tell the difference almost instantly because the forest suddenly changed into a dense and primitive covering that could only be achieved by protecting the land. We made very good progress that morning and stopped for a hearty breakfast around 7:30am. After breakfast, we continued to devour the kilometers until the early afternoon. Our guides had convinced us that if we really worked hard enough, we could feasibly get to Maroantsetra by the end of the day. Somehow we put aside their previous deceptions and our incredible fatigue and chose to power through as much of the terrain as we could. That tactic proved to be harder than we though, considering the afternoon heat was again building and eventually our stomachs ached for more fuel. The burdens of the pervious days were starting to catch up to us and turned the afternoon into a sluggish affair of desperately determined walking. I just wanted to get out of the sun and into the next town.
When we finally arrived at the next town, I hobbled over to the first piece of shade I saw and took a seat. We found a restaurant nearby to have lunch and it felt like the table was the only thing keeping me in a somewhat vertical position. This was probably the most exhausted and worn down I had been during the entire trip. The guides told us that from this point, with a little help from a vehicle, we could conceivably get to the place where we needed to hire a canoe to take us into Maroantsetra by the end of the day. That was all the motivation we needed to scarf down our lunch and quickly plan our next steps.
Our other guide, Rado, tracked down a local man who was willing to drive us another few kilometers down the road, therefore saving us time and energy. For a reasonable price, we hopped in the back of his tricycle truck (imagine a motorcycle with a pickup truck bed attached to it) and he bumbled through town and continued on down the road. During this short trip, our hopes of reaching Maroantsetra were lifted and dashed a couple of times. First, the driver told us he could take us far enough to reach his brother-in-law who had a boat that we could take to our destination. Great! Then we began to bargain for the price of the boat and it was astronomical compared to what we would pay for a canoe. He wouldn’t come down on the price to our satisfaction, so that option was removed. Next, the driver confessed that he couldn’t take us all the way to the canoes but he could get us about 5km away and we would walk the remainder. We conceded that was better than walking the entire way. Finally, we came to a large river crossing and a rickety wooden “bridge” that I was nervous to walk on, let alone drive across. The driver stopped and told us this was the end of the line. He could cross this bridge but the one after it was no match for his vehicle. Feeling as if the possibility of reaching Maroantsetra was quickly slipping away with the rapidly setting sun, we discussed our two options: to stay on the road one more night or press onward to the canoes immediately. Exhaustion and frustration won that battle and we decided to stay in the town next to the river for the night. The accommodations were, again, very basic and we even skipped dinner because we were that tired and weary. The mental and physical exertion of the day was finally released.
The night was the hottest and most humid we had experienced during the journey. Laying on an exposed foam mattress felt like I was just covered in a membrane of sweat and discomfort. Alas, the alarm rang at the usually 3:30 in the morning and we were walking by 4:15. Limping and tired, at least we knew that this would be the final day of the trek. Our guides told us that we could reasonably walk over what they considered a hill and just a little further to reach to canoes. I was hopeful about finally being in Maroantsetra before lunch.
We carried on in the darkness of the morning, crossing the wide river from the day before and continuing up the hill. It was here that I came to appreciate hiking this terrain in the dark and not being able to see farther than the glow of my headlamp, because although it was obvious we were walking uphill it was next to impossible to know exactly how much more uphill waited ahead of us. We just had to keep blindly walking and pressing on. We didn’t have the benefit, or burden, of being able to see the entirety of the large mountain that we were traveling over. A couple of hours later, after coming down from the “hill”, we managed to hit flat ground and took a path that paralleled the beach. The morning was young, it was still quiet except for the crashing waves, and all we had to do was walk a few more kilometers straight ahead. In a zombie-like state, we eventually found our way to the canoes.
It felt like we just got in the first canoe we saw and assumed it would take us where we wanted to go. Luckily, they really only travel to and from Maroantsetra. For a much more reasonable price, our gondolier skillfully guided us through the clam waters of the marsh that surrounds most of Maroantsetra. I don’t recall how long we were in the boat for because I seized the opportunity to sit down and I fell asleep for a while. But minutes after I woke up, we arrived at the humble docks of Maroantsetra around 8 in the morning. If it weren’t for our complete exhaustion, I think our arrival would have had a bit more fanfare, but we just sort of looked around at each other and smiled. We grabbed our backpacks, got to our hotel, and let out a celebratory exhale because the walk was finally complete. With stomachs still empty, we ordered some eggs and coffee for breakfast and then went back to our room to collapse and nurse our wounds. I asked one of the staff members if it would be possible to get some hot water to soak my feet in, and even with my broken Malagasy skills, she took one look at my haggard appearance and figured out what I was saying. Upon inspection of my soaked feet, I counted a total of 11 blisters that prove either my heartiness or my complete stupidity when it comes to selecting footwear.
We spent Christmas Eve and a few days after that touring Maroantsetra. It’s a pretty quiet town, one main road and not much else to do there. On one of the days, we took a day trip to an island called Nosy Mangabe to explore some of terrain there. The whole island is a protected natural reserve of thick and vibrant jungle and I’ve been told it’s one of the few places on Earth where the rainforest directly meets the ocean. We walked around a bit and saw lemurs, chameleons, frogs, and a few other creatures. For most of that afternoon, we relaxed on the beach of the island.
The experience of the walk was certainly one that I will never forget. Throughout the trip there were times when I questioned why I even wanted to do this. And other times I was humbled by my surroundings. I will remember how I have never smelt worse than I did during those 4 days. I will remember how this was likely the longest amount of time that I was consistently uncomfortable for one reason or another. I will remember the communal experience of meeting other travelers, being welcomed in a small rural village, and watching strangers helping other strangers along the way. I will remember how frustrating it was to never have an accurate idea of distance or travel time. I will remember the varied and spectacular scenery that was constantly around us. I will remember the hearty laughs and groans of pain that I shared with my travel partners. I will remember that all of this is why I chose to embark on this journey.
And if I had to do it again, I would. But I’d pack so much smarter.<