Motorbiking in Madagascar
I leave the town of Ambilobe with the rising sun – a great time of day to motobike. Mountains rise on both sides and fade into the distance. Shaded stretches of road promise shade but often hide sudden, savage potholes. Usually too late to avoid them so I mut grit my teeth, grip the handlebars hard and ride through them.
Morning life unfolds: very early in Madagascar. I see women washing clothes and themselves in the river, young men driving zebus from their night pens, children heading to school, barefoot villagers walking to market.
I halt at a bridge smashed by the recent cyclone but this time the diversion is simple — I cross upstream at a shallow ford. After six months away, it feels good to be back on the bike, wind in my face, though the visor must stay down.
Ambanja lies ahead. I dislike the town, but the surroundings are wonderful. The narrow main street is clogged all day with bicycles, tuk‑tuks, rickshaws, cars, and lorries. Pedestrians spill into the road, squeezed by vendors along the edges. Noise, dust, and fumes fill the air.
Before reaching town I turn towards Ankify, the port for boats to Nosy Be. I hope to see Das, a hotel handyman I’ve fished with before. I ride through vast cacao plantations. It’s harvest time and whole famies are working together, gathering and shelling the larrge nuts.
Along the roadside also – at intervals -whole families are breaking stones. Men tackle the largest, women, children and elders work at the smaller. It saddens me. Many of those children will not attend school. Poverty here is stark — the World Bank estimates 80% of the population lives in extreme poverty.
The road continues through fertile land: cacao, vanilla, ylang‑ylang, pepper, pineapples. I leave a note and a little money for Das whom I cannot find, then return to Ambanja.
After checking into a small hotel and taking a cold shower, I sit in a local ‘gargotte’ with a beer. Nearby, two elderly Frenchmen talk. one, it seems, is a resident, one a visitor. Many white foreigners are French, here live on modest pensions and are drawn by low costs and companionship. The men watch girls pass by, speaking of them as commodities. One explains that with few tourists, prices are low.
Girls in Madagascar often face hard choices. They certainly are not prostitutes, but poverty pushes them toward older men, particularly western men — to buy food, a dress, help a family, or support a child. The younger of the two girls invited to join the men looks timid, barely speaking French, like a bird wanting to escape. “She’s the one to get”, the resident tells the visitor. “She knows nothing.”
Most western men are less vulgar.
I lived in sub‑Saharan Africa for years. At he beginning I was surprised even shocked by how casually sex was treated. Attitudes differ greatly from Western norms. Many girls begin relationships at puberty, have a child by their early twenties, and place family above marriage. They prefer a child to a husband, if they have to choose. These attitudes predate missionaries and tourists. Sex is seen as a natural, normal and pleasurable pursuit. A fundamental part of life: no hangups, no over-analysing. No expectations for a romantic soulmate
I have seen many marriages both in Mozambique and Madagascar break down because of conflicting priorities. The man wanting a relationship European style and the girl continuing to give priority both in time and resources to her family. “I married her, not her family,” is a refrain I have heard more than once. Often continuing, ” And I’m tired of paying for her cousin’s education”, or some such statement.
The ‘ Wind in my Face’ ride continues.