Vazah in Madagascar
December 14th, 2008
If you’ve got money you’ll travel Madagascar by plane getting a bird’s eye view of the rectangular patches of rice fields in all possible shades of green. If you wish to see what’s in between the protected areas and beaches that you most likely came here for, you’ll hire a jeep and maybe even ask your driver to slow down as you pass through a village, to take a quick picture of a local woman – her face painted with a special white, yellow, or orange cream to better the skin. But nothing will bring you closer to the real – not as cuddly as might seem from afar, but nevertheless real – Madagascar, as a two (three, four, five) day ride in a taxi-brousse (bush-taxi, Japanese minivan with seating for fourteen passengers, but generally squeezing in twenty or more).
Though in the last three years many Madagascar roads have been paved, locals still only seldom see a vazah – a white person, a stranger – crammed in with the rest of the Malagasies in a taxi-brousse. On one occasion, when a radiator blew in a our taxi-brousse, I passed the time showing a few local children the pictures from our guidebook. I was so enthralled with watching their reaction to images of chameleons and lemurs, I barely noticed that the whole village we just passed gathered to see what the vazah is showing. I looked up and found out that an amphitheater formed around me – smaller, braver by innocence children in the front, giggling teenagers behind them, and in the back, as if supervising but really curious, adults.
The pictures in the book soon became old news when I pulled out the camera. From our days on the Rio Napo, a tributary of the Amazon, I knew children will be entertained by their own photographs much more than those of lemurs or monkeys. I didn’t think the adults will get a kick out of it as well, but women opened their eyes wide and stepped back a bit clasping their hands to their mouths, startled at first, but then also amused. Men tried to remain unfazed, as it is appropriate for adults of their age and stature in the community, but smiles spread across their faces when they saw themselves, their wives or children frozen in some funny expression on the little screen surrounded by silver buttons.
Madagascar is probably what most third-world countries used to be like before the millionth sunburned tourist demonstrated the locals what fat cash-cows first world travelers can be, thus ruining it for the rest of us who just want to see the world the way it is (or rather was). We are fortunate enough to be here while the inhabitants of the big island are still innocent and unaware to the various milking options of the cash cow. I could wish with all my heart it wasn’t so but there is no doubt in my mind the African preferred greeting of a white person – “Give me money”, will find its way here as well.
So far the only ones to figure out a vazah will pay three times the price without even the slightest objection, are the ones to deal with the foreigners directly – hotel owners and tour operators are the ones making the big bucks here, and as word gets around, anybody who has heard of vazah’s bottomless pockets latches on and demands their cut one way or another.
Our last taxi-brusse ride showed us what travelers venturing to Madagascar, with hopes of an authentic and independent journey, are most likely to get.
The procedure is more or less the same every time. As you arrive at the taxi-brusse station a mob of “helpers” directs you to one or another stall where a man with a moldy notebook sells tickets. He points to the fare chart and you wave it off letting the man know you haven’t just got off your international flight – you know the chart means squat. Five minutes of haggling, and you are still grossly overpaying, but at least you are within your own budget, and after all, you are more than happy to support the developing economy of this beautiful country, right? So what if they are going to stick you in the most uncomfortable seat and will not even bother covering your luggage with a tarp, you’ll gladly share your row for three with another seven for the next twenty hours and even get out to push when needed – you are here for the experience!
“Chauffer… Um, chauffer? Arrêt! s’il vous plaît…” this is where we get off. Again, usually all you have to worry about at this stage is that nothing is forgotten behind as you emerge from the car struggling for fresh air free of chicken shit and sweat stink. Everything is here, now you can pay the driver and stretch, unless… Unless the driver doesn’t see you, all he sees are dollar signs:
Shurik pulled out the 5,000 Ariary per person we agreed on before, and handed the 10,000 to the driver. We picked up our backpacks and began walking to the Ankarana NP office. The driver followed. 10,000 is not enough he said. Apparently he felt he was entitled to 60,000. “You must be joking” we said, “a ride twice as long has cost us 20,000 just yesterday!” but the driver didn’t let go. When we simply turned away and dropped our bags in the park office, he grabbed them as collateral. A fight was about to break out, and a crowd gathered to watch. The park manager, a gentle old man, knew some English and tried to help, but the driver and his helper wouldn’t hear of it. Four pairs of hands were tearing up my backpack. They pulled, we pulled, I bit, everybody screamed, and then as if by command the driver and his helper let go. It turned out the park manager paid the driver to go away and let go of his tourists. “Some people in Madagascar” he said to us shaking (we were all shaking) “see vazah and think ‘money’. It is a problem here, in Madagascar.” Of course, we have given back the manager the money he has bailed us out with.
Tags: kids, people
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Places»Africa»Madagascar |
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