An Island Apart

Madagascar is not hidden, but it is overlooked. Remote, difficult to reach, and often misunderstood, it receives only a trickle of visitors, mostly elderly Frenchmen and enthusiasts of unusual plants and animals. Yet from the moment I arrived, I felt I had stepped into a place where I could feel at ease and be myself.

The island is the size of France, but its history is solitary. It broke away from Africa millions of years ago, then drifted away from what is now India, settling into the Indian Ocean like someone choosing to be alone That long isolation shaped everything: the plants, the animals, even the colour of the soil. The red earth is everywhere, Malagasies say that when they travel, they carry a little of it with them.

People of the Sea

The Malagasy people are gentle, warm, and quietly humorous. Their ancestors arrived not from Africa but from Asia, crossing the ocean in outrigger boats around 500 A.D. You feel that Asian thread everywhere—in faces, food, and the rhythm of daily life.

Travelling is easier when surrounded by kind people. In Madagascar, kindness feels like the default setting. Even small interactions—buying fruit, asking directions—carry a softness.

 Setting Out: The Taxi‑Brousse

Domestic flights are expensive, so almost everyone travels by taxi‑brousse, the minibuses that stitch the island together. They are cramped, unpredictable, and sometimes frightening, but they are also full of life. You never know who you’ll sit beside or what story you’ll hear.

We left Antananarivo for Diego on the northern tip of the island in the afternoon. We were scheduled to arrive next day: a twenty-hour trip. Dinner was in a roadside village: zebu tongue in sauce and a mountain of rice. Malagasy food is simple but varied—local dishes mixed with French, Indian, and Chinese influences. A country doctor sat beside me and spoke about his patients’ lungs, damaged by dust from rice winnowing. He coughed hard, perhaps to illustrate the point. I paid for his meal. Before we left, someone mentioned trouble ahead on the road.

Rain and a Missing Road

By nightfall we reached the problem: part of the road had been washed away. Several minibuses were already stopped, their passengers preparing to sleep. Our driver and co‑driver, however, were not ready to give up.

After a long, animated discussion, the co‑driver walked into a nearby field with a flashlight, stamping at the wet soil in his plastic sandals. Eventually the decision was made—we would try to bypass the hole by driving through the field.

The red Mazda crept forward. After twenty or thirty yards, we sank. A rope appeared, and the co‑driver plus a volunteer tried pulling us out, but the wheels only dug deeper. Rain fell steadily. People tried to sleep. By dawn, water reached halfway up the wheels.

On the road, trucks and minibuses were backed up on both sides of the gap. We were the only vehicle stuck in the field, attracting curious looks and a few laughs.

Struggle to escape

Shoes and trousers off, we stepped out to assess the morning. A stream had formed overnight, making escape even harder. Groups from other minibuses gathered to discuss solutions. The co‑driver, now shirtless, led six or seven young men in a determined effort, but the bus didn’t move.

The scene was bleak: soggy fields, a huge hole across most of the road, an oil tanker half‑skidded off the edge, its axles deep in water. It felt as if the road itself had given up.

Eventually a truck driver with a long steel rope offered help—for a fee. The rope was attached, the truck backed up, and we were pulled—slithering—onto the road. We were still on the wrong side of the gap, but locals had laid planks across it. With people steadying them, minibuses crossed one by one. More money was needed, and our driver asked for contributions. Some paid; others didn’t. We moved on.

Children of the Mud

The unpaved sections were quagmires. Laterite had turned to mush. The driver fought the steering wheel to keep us from sinking again. At the worst spots, children waited to offer help. They were the unofficial rescue teams—laughing, puffing, pushing us through the mud.

As we pulled away, I saw them digging in the red earth for the coins the driver had tossed. Then we slid toward the next “toll” section.

The River That Refused

By mid‑afternoon we reached a long line of vehicles: minibuses, trucks, cars, even zebu carts. A river had overflowed, cutting off the road. We were told the water would drop in four hours. It didn’t.

Men waded across holding their belongings overhead; the water reached their chests. Others paid to cross in dugout canoes. Herds of zebu were driven into the water to be washed.

At dusk, I asked for my bag and looked for a canoe. Darkness had fallen. I paid and crossed the first stretch safely. Ahead lay a fast‑flowing stream, strong enough to sweep me off my feet. A guide clasped my wrist and took my bag. Fear rose as the water rushed thigh‑high in the gloom. I struggled to stay upright for the ten‑minute crossing.

On the far side, a taxi‑brousse waited. I paid again. When it finally filled—around three in the morning—we left, exhausted and soaked.

Arrival at Last

We reached the Diego Suarez bus station almost three days after leaving. Relief washed through me, followed by a quiet sense of triumph even if it cost me twice the original price and two nights sleep. Some memories fade quickly. Others stay sharp, to be taken out occasionally, remembered and savoured.