Antananarivo. The capital of Madagascar. The urban center of a poor country is feared by tourists. You have to look at it anyway. Why? Because you've never seen anything like it before.
"The most exciting stories take place on the roadside" - they always say that. In Madagascar, we literally find them on the edge of the seemingly endless Route National 7. Encounters that stay, move and raise questions. A personal report.
The end of Route National 7 is approaching; The sea is getting closer and Madagascar's Wild West is being replaced by beach. But now slowly!
Through Madagascar by train: through the mountains and to the sea. Instead of gifts, a horde of paper planes conjures wide smiles on the faces of children - but beware: headwind!
When deceleration and adventure come together, only good can come. Seven days to river, land and mountain to the most beautiful national park of Madagascar Tsingy de Bemaraha: how rowers become big climbing monkeys.
Only the ears sometimes twitch something, like a nervous tick. They hang slack over his face as he lies almost motionless in the grass. Every now and then he stretches, trotting leisurely a little further, and then stretching himself out again. Sometimes, when he sees that there is something to feast on, he gets shaky, with begging eyes he looks at me: Could he please get a bite?
To be honest, few tourists are likely to come to Madagascar to stay in the cities. Nature is much too beautiful for that - and the places are not exciting enough. One or the other day can (and must) be spent there anyway: In the following three larger cities I was, and these are my impressions.
Cries the leader. I just want to copy him as an advanced mentally confused, as it crashes in the branches over me.
The strong south wind made us lie, and so the ship glided over the waves full of sails. Had we, still lying in the port of Toamasina, bought plenty of provisions, a box full of bananas, another with large pineapples and the like, the supplies would not last long. Yes, there was enough fish in the water, but the rice was already eaten to the last grain.
Orange. They painted the wood of the outer walls in a truly colorful way, garish orange. I stand at the bow and look at the island that is on the horizon in front of me. The sails are set, we glide evenly through the canal of Mozambique. I turn around and see the huge island of Madagascar slowly disappearing in the mist. We drive to Nosy Komba.