©
Nok Lek
Madagascar Travel Guide
©
Nok Lek
What's a 'poulet bicyclette' (bicycle chicken)? It's easy, it's a typically Madagascan chicken that has to run around all day to avoid the zebu carts and the 4x4s and so develops huge leg muscles! And is not particularly tender.
We haven't seen any 'poulets bicyclette' for two days. Almost no huts on the horizon, we're in the middle of nowhere, on a main road in the west of the country.
In Madagascar, a main road may not necessarily be tarmacked, it can be an invisible trail, a horrendous mix of scree and pot-holed laterite. The wild trails are damaged even more each year by the floods and the rainy season. Anyone who's thinking of waiting for them to be repaired will have a long wait. Everyone else will just have to go for it, or risk being stuck there forever!
I got bitten to death by fleas in the night. Naively, I fell asleep too soon; I was so tired and needed to rest. This morning, I'm trying a remedy from the Madagascan pharmacopoeia: a distillation of scorpion, perfumed with citronella, as fresh as the whole insect that's still macerating in the bottle.
We slam on the brakes, my head shoots forward and I spill the miraculous unguent over my knees. Wild guinea fowl waddle along the road a few metres in front of the car and then disappear into the bush.
Right, left, never stopping, we skid, we slide, we sink in, but we don't get totally bogged down. Although the shifting sands have a smell, my guide senses them and keeps them away from our rambling path.
The brackish water sticks to the wheels as we drive into the river. In our amphibious 4x4 we plough one of the most impracticable furrows that you could ever imagine: the wild trails of the western coast of Madagascar, the Red Island. Between the little patches of road, we try to imagine which fork will take us to the right destination.
When the trail opens again at the end of the rainy season, the driver heads off to reconnoitre the situation and mark out the trails freshly washed by the rains and the hooves of the herds of zebus. From Morondava to Toliara, there are nearly 700 km of invisible roads, to be rebuilt by tire tracks. Some days, we can only advance at around 14 km per hour. The vehicle and its trusty engine move at the speed of a marathon runner!
The 4x4 drinks petrol like water and we make the most of every stop to stretch our muscles. Gradually, the slow pace of our progress brings about a pleasurable sensation as we watch the countryside pass by, the languor of a Madagascanroad trip is starting to envelop me with each kilometre.
The bush taxis will arrive soon, filled to bursting with sacks of provisions and loaded with passengers. While we're waiting, there is no doubt that we are some of the first to open the trail.
We surge into the water under the directions of a guide who appeared from behind a bush. The car rocks a little, the engine growls and the water level rises, but we continue along the invisible trail. Whether fording a river or a tributary, we do not cease to be amazed. We tip the guide, the car didn't sink.
The trail, the golden trail and its rough sensuality for a week. We'll be seasick when the rolling stops.
