I wake up at 4:00 wondering what exactly was biting my legs last night. The mystery remains unsolved. I walk over to my computer, WiFi’s back! I forget that it’s not 4:00 AM in the states so I’m surprised when someone messages me. I look over at my leftover pizza from last night, yes, I somehow managed to find a take-out place here. And I debate eating it until a cockroach runs across my foot. That though bubble popped rather quickly. I’ll just stick to the Easter candy I’m bringing my Morondava friends. I chew on some gummy fruit rings.
I look up at the twisted and deformed 10 inch chocolate Easter bunny sitting on the desk, who melted, shortly after being purchased, in the Taxi yesterday and now looks like something out of Donnie Darko. You ready to go Frank? Alrighty, On y va.
I walk down the stairs of my castle-esque hotel and spot a man at reception. I tell him I’d like to pay and he seems very flustered. He keeps looking up and smiling while writing up my receipt. I really just do not like the men in this country. Maybe if I start wearing a mustache or something they’ll treat me normally. He hands me a receipt for 60 Euro and I hand him my card.
“Oh… We no.. take card”
You’re charging me 60 Euros a night and you don’t have a credit machine? WHAT IS THIS COUNTRY?
I should have figured. Welcome to Madagascar. We stare at each other for a moment, both equally confused about what to do. He picks up the phone and calls his boss, who was most definitely sleeping. And then he pushes the phone at me. Great! I love talking on the phone in French with sleepy people.
The boss and I decide that I will find an ATM at the airport and pay the chauffeur 172,000 Ariary (the equivalent of 60 Euros). Doing the math of what this is in dollars reminds me of how much it still sucks in comparison to the Euro…but that’s falling too, say hey, maybe one day. Preferably before I’m there on the 12th of May… what do you say EU?
A Japanese girl walks downstairs. She is also going to Morondava. The man at the reception tells me to talk to her… ok? I try to ask her why she’s going to Morondava and quickly realize that her English is about as good as my Spanish. Estoy enojado porque tu tomaste mi trough! (We didn’t know the Spanish word for “trough” at the worksite) And that’s all I’ve got. I’m a little shocked that she’s traveling around Madagascar alone only speaking Japanese…but whatever works for you I guess.
We get to the airport and the chauffeur points me down a long hallway, which I’m assuming will end in an ATM. The hallway pops up in the International Departures section. SUCH A TEASE. I watch all of these Europeans prepare to go home as I pull 200,000 Ariary from the ATM. I feel a little bitter and jealous towards them. On my way back, I find the chauffeur who had come looking for me. I guess I took too long?
I count out my money and of course he doesn’t have change to break a 5,000 Ariary so I’m digging through my bag, looking for 100 Ariary notes to add up to 2,000.
I wait in line to check in for 35 minutes because the computers are all down and they’re hand writing all of the tickets.
Of course… this is Madagascar after all.
I finally get to the desk and the man is flying through the writing of my luggage tag. Oh my stuff is totally getting lost.
I overhear the French people yelling next to me. They’re saying “Neuf heure et quarante-cinq ! Mais Pourqoui ? » (9:45 AM ! But why ?) I grow slightly concerned because they’re on my flight… but I decide not to ask.
I’m sitting in the waiting area when suddenly someone says something on the intercom and everyone is hustling, if not running, to the front of the waiting area. It’s chaos. Why are people running? I probably shouldn’t be listening to my iPod when traveling alone… Hmm. I overhear some blond girls speaking English and start talking to them.
“So… is this the ‘line’ for Morondava?”
“Yeah, we’re trying to figure that out too. We have no idea, this is crazy. Where are you from”
…we have that whole conversation. Blah blah blah.
And then I’m in a small cluster of Americans who are going to Morondava. How did I get here? This squat woman is then pushing my backpack whispering “Go! Go!” and her husband is shepherding all of the Americans to the front of the pack of people. He’s saying something like “Let’s go! Let’s go” while directing each one of us as if he were our father. I’m laughing at how ridiculous and American this is…but at the same time, I don’t hate it. Sorry angry French people, looks like we’re living up to some stereotypes today. The squat woman pushes me into the ticket checker and we completely cut off some other line.
Then we’re outside, this little American cluster, and there’s like 10 planes and no personnel. Uh… what? Where do we go? We finally spot someone as we’re wandering the tarmac who points to the 4th plane in response to “Morondava?”. We make lots of jokes about boarding the wrong plane.
I climb the stairs to the plane and of course there are no assigned seats due to the computers being down so I sit by a window and try to pull my dad’s and my favorite traveling tip, which is to try take up space or look as menacing or sick as possible so people choose not to sit next to you. I’m not going to lie, I’ve faked coughing fits before that have lasted several minutes. An empty seat makes all the difference. I succeed!
The intercom turns on and the flight person (I can’t remember the name of this occupation at the moment) begins her spiel in Malagasy and then French… did they just say we’re going to Fort Dauphin and Toliar before Morondava…? Did I hear that correctly? …And then they come on in English. Oh yeah, there’s the confirmation in English. I just got on the most roundabout 4 ½ hour flight around Madagascar. In case you’re not familiar with the physical layout of the country… let me draw you a little map.
So as you can see THIS IS THE MOST RIDICULOUS FLIGHT PATTERN EVER TO HAPPEN EVER, IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. LIKE, LET’S TAKE MAGELLAN FOR EXAMPLE. HERE’S MAGELLAN’S TRAVEL PATTERN.
AND THEN HERE’S MINE
I literally just flew from Fort Dauphin here… two days ago. And now I’m flying back… and then to Toliar AND THEN TO FREAKING MORONDAVA. I’m a little bit upset about this development.
They try to pacify our anger by handing out chocolate Easter eggs.
Ok, mine is slightly pacified.
But then I remember I’m stuck on this plane for 4 ½ hours and possibly could have flown direct from Fort Dauphin to Morondava… anger.
…and this is called traveling in Madagascar.
(I’m dedicating this post to Magellan and to one of my old volleyball coaches who called me Magellan because I used to take very indirect paths while running around the court. Whatever… I like the scenic routes I guess?)
