Antananarivo

Tuesday, February 07, 2017
Antananarivo, Madagascar
The first person I spoke to in Madagascar asked me for money. She said she wanted a drink. She was the official at the Santé wicket inside the air terminal at Antananarivo. I didn't give her any. She didn't have a scary face like the immigration guy in Lagos airport in 1984. Him I gave.
A few feet away at Immigration there are three men in a little booth. Another official hands your passport to the first one, he looks at it and passes it on, and so on until the last man stamps it and hands it to a man outside the booth, who calls your name and hands it back to you. It's a five-person operation, if you've been keeping track. There is a lot of unemployment in the country, but it is clear that they are trying hard to solve that problem.
There is only one luggage carousel, about three steps from the passport booth. I picked up my bag and had to fight off a man in an airport vest who tried to wrestle it away from me -- "Je vous en prie" seems to convey the proper tone in these situations. At Douane they opened my box and I didn't blame them, it looked a bit suspicious. It contained math textbooks and clothing, both second-hand.
M Justin had deputized his associate Immédia ("comme immédiatement") to pick me up as arranged. At the car, while the two of us were putting two pieces inside, a man who had followed us out picked the third one off the trolley and handed it to me, and then asked for money. At that point I didn't have any local currency.
Antananarivo, usually called Tana, is a city of over two million people without a single traffic light. They might not help much, actually. It is built on several hills like an archipelago in a sea of bright green rice fields. It is very pretty as long as you are not trying to go anywhere, then it quickly becomes ugly. Most of the commerce takes place in the streets, which Immédia correctly identified as "une signe de la pauvreté."  
The next day Immédia took me to Ambohimanga, the 19th-century royal summer residence about 20 km north of the centre of town. It was clogged streets most of the way, until it became pastoral near the end. The king lived in a walled hill-top compound, basically a kraal. His house was traditional, one room, not large but high, with just one door and one window -- and a simple hearth on rocks where he is said to have cooked his own food for fear of being poisoned. No chimney, the smoke exited through a hole in the roof, which was still the case in Basotho rondavels in my experience. There is a high platform in one corner where he slept.  
The guide spoke good English, and she told me that when the king had visitors he used to lie hidden on a high beam and listen to them talking to determine whether they were well disposed. He obviously considered himself a pretty good judge of character. If he decided to talk to them, I don't know whether someone would take them outside and maybe give them a bite to eat while he climbed down, or whether being the king he was okay with the visitors knowing that he had been eavesdropping and brazenly climbed down in their presence, showcasing the fact that he had the tallest house in the kingdom and there was no way they could hide in their little houses. There are so many interesting details that are lost in the mists of time. 
The zebu, which is that bovine with the humped neck, is still prominent in Madagascar as a draft animal as well as food. From time to time the king would sacrifice a zebu on a special rock outside the wall. Only zebu with a certain pattern of coloration were deemed auspicious enough. Inside the wall there was an enclosure where the zebu would spend its last night, and the enclosure had an impressive manger where the king himself would feed the chosen one, as well as a structure of rocks for the animal to scratch itself. Nothing but the best for the doomed beast.
To this day, animists, who make up about 15% of the population, regularly sacrifice a zebu on the same rock. (The rest of the population are evenly divided between Catholics and Protestants, along with a few Muslims).
Just up from the house there are two man-made pools in the rocks with some really nasty looking water in them. Another thing people do to this day is circumcize their young and then bathe them in this water. In my opinion those are two of the worst things you can do to your young, especially in combination.
Malagasy still echo the assessment that Samuel Copland made after his visit in 1822, that the first king, Radama, was a good king.  Although he didn't abolish slavery, he prohibited the sale of slaves in a proclamation of 1816:  "If any of our subjects shall henceforward be guilty of selling any slave or other person, for the purpose of being transported from the island of Madagascar, the person guilty shall be punished by being reduced to slavery himself, and his property shall be forfeited to me.  Let my subjects who have slaves, employ them in planting rice and other provisions, and in taking care of their flocks and herds -- in collecting beeswax and gums, and in manufacturing cloths and other articles." 
Around the middle of the 19th century the king died and a series of queens took over. The first thing they did was completely change the look of the royal eclosure by building houses in a European style, like the bright and airy structures on the grounds of Versailles or Schonnbrun, where Louis and Marie and friends would retreat for larks when the main palace got too stuffy. No more hiding on high beams for these ladies. These houses are not large, but they have furnishings from Córdoba, Carrera, Japan, England and France. Fortunately the queens did not destroy the king's place, though, so we can appreciate the contrast in style. By the end of the century the royal line had been destroyed by internal and external conflicts that I found hard to follow. I'm not convinced that anybody knows exactly what happened, but I'm probably wrong. Anyway, one of the queens had a habit of throwing people off a cliff, and somewhere in there power passed to another king who dressed exactly like Napoleon. So you know it's bound to end badly.
Ambohimanga is a very atmospheric place, not to be missed. The king was a regional chieftain who lived very traditionally. His descendants lost track of their culture and everything went to heck. And you see it all there very clearly.
After lunch we went to the Rova or city palace, which is monumental in a European style. Unfortunately it was burned down a few years ago, and only the walls remain. Again a guide is compulsory, though there is little to explain. Jules told me the name of the architect and which European country he was from. This is the kind of thing guides are always doing and you can't stop them, and don't even try. You may throw them off and make them start all over again. Just ride it out, is my advice.
 Next to the hulk of the palace there is a rather ordinary-looking church that is a re-construction of the one that burned. Jules told me the name of the architect of the original church. After admiring the extensive view over the hazy plain, we went around back to look at a ruin dating from before the fire, with only some columns remaining. Of course Jules knew the name of the architect and was more than willing to share the information. Finally he pointed to an empty piece of ground where he claimed a building had once stood. I'm not going to lie to you, he told me the name of that architect as well. If he hadn't, I would have made it up anyway, but he actually did. Blogging has never been easier.
In my opinion this site is not worth the 20 000 ariary or CAD 8 entry fee, on top of which there is a compulsory 10 000 for the guide. At the far more interesting Ambohimanga, the entry is only 10 000 and the guide's fee is discretionary, although 10 000 is recommended.  (The day after you arrive, these fees sound reasonable, but before long they seem excessive, relatively speaking). The best thing about the Rova is the view, but actually the view from the balcony of the Niaouly Hotel, facing a nearby steep hill neighbourhood across a ravine, is better.
The Niaouly was full of French tourists and its restaurant is very French. It's pleasant and centrally located, with single rooms around 50 000 ariary (CAD 20). It's not a backpacker place, as I was expecting it to be. It's not a great place to get information, but the Office de Tourisme is just down the street. In fact, I haven't come across a backpacker place anywhere (writing this in Fianarantsoa). It's low season and there are very few tourists to be seen, and most of them seem to be travelling around in small groups in a hired car with driver. If you are travelling alone it is either expensive or else you are compelled to use the taxi-brousse.  
(Click below for additional photos)

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