Silken Hush Puppies

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,

A tale of a fateful trip

That started from this tropic port

With a man who’d lost his grip.

(apologies to Gilligan’s Island)

So yesterday I finally got to bring my wounded beast in for repairs. Naturally, the first thing they tell me is that they have no idea when they’ll get around to it. 

“Maybe today, maybe tomorrow.”

“You cocksuckers!” I thought (to myself). “Do you not realize who I am?”

Obviously not. In any case, I figured the most efficient way to get sympathy was to park myself in their office, wearing a hang-dog expression and sighing audibly from time to time. And you know what? It worked - two hours later.

The Beast failing her diagnostic test.

Within half an hour, she was out, and I prepared to hit the road. Not so fast. A quick test drive revealed that the left rear leaf spring had snapped. Now the real fun began. Representatives were called in and frantic messages were transmitted. Here’s just a sample:

“Not available in Tulear. Closest one is an 8 hour drive away in Fianarantsoa.”

“Welding can't be guaranteed to make it with current state of the road.”

“But usually leave springs only break after a big impact. Not normal use.”

(My reply to this being: “No idea. Didn’t have any huge impact that I can recall.” Perhaps a bit of a white lie but, as it turns out, justifiable.)

“Sorry but no other option than getting it replaced tomorrow.”

Bottom line - I’m here for another day at least and since I had no intention of staying in Tulear, I had to find a way to get back to my hotel in Mangily. A quick phone call to Patrick left me with 2 options -an expensive tuk-tuk or going local with a bicycle rickshaw and taxi-brousse (literally “bush taxi”)

Difficult to see the 37 people crammed inside, but, believe me, they’re there.

“Oh well, what the hell,” I decided, even though I still remembered the agony of the 3 hour taxi brousse ride in Lesotho, with the 200 pound grandma on my lap.

“This,” I thought, “is why people get a car & driver.”

No matter. Out to the street, where I immediately got a rickshaw.

“Statione taxi brousse à Mangily,” I commanded. “Toute suite.”

Here we go!

You gotta feel for these guys. Firstly there a a million of them, so competition is fierce. And because they make so little money (around $.50 for my 15 minute ride), the condition of their rickshaws is beyond laughable. The chain is constantly skipping & banging and they have to use a giant stick attached to the handlebar to slow down. Not to mention navigating through heavy truck & car traffic - without EVER looking behind. It’s a shitshow.

Constant state of affairs. Zoom in to see the giant “ brake lever”.

Phase 2: as you pull up to the taxi brousse station, you are immediately and forcibly assaulted by “touts”, for lack of a better word - guys whose job it is to get you into THEIR taxi, since, once again, it’s a jungle out there. The trick for you, as a passenger, is to try & find one that’s full, since no taxi leaves until it is packed to the gills - and beyond. Here’s a good rule of thumb: count the number of seats in the van & then double it. That will get you within hailing distance. Sometimes there’s no choice, since they’ll literally grab your bags from you & throw them on top of the van. No take-backs. Welcome aboard.

Now begins the inevitable wait. As a foreigner, no matter how full you think the van is, it’s NOT. So we sit, with the van running and music blaring inside (an absolute rule). And we wait, and we wait. 

Unfortunately you can’t hear, but this is the hassling that’s an integral part of the recruiting process.

By the grace of God, and this young girl’s generosity and quick thinking, I got moved to the front seat with her. Halleluiah! No fat granny for me.

Finally we pull out, only to stop about 100 meters up the road so they can write down everyone’s name & collect payment (in my case around a dollar). As the driver gets back in, I notice he’s stuffing bills in every nook & cranny he can find - above the window & windshield, in the front dashboard, etc.

“WTF?” I think, and then I remember the story Gege told me, a variation on the classic “police roadblock.” Turns out that in the past, the police were stopping everyone to do the quick cash grab. However, at some point, one of the ruling Fat Cats decided he’d get into the tourist business. Inevitably, one of his buses was rousted, the driver refused to pay and the tourists were “inconvenienced.”  Guess what happened next.

 So now, the police have to make all their money from these poor taxi brousse drivers. Sure enough, at every roadblock - and there are plenty - there’s a slow-down and an ultra smooth handoff of the bills. Ah, Africa!

Nothing more to report. Of course the car wasn’t ready yesterday, but I was assured by Monsieur Olivier, who’s working on it, that it would be done today. Amazingly, and undoubtedly through the auspices of Patrick, who seems to carry a lot of weight around here, the car was actually ready, although only at the final hour. Who cares? Now, an uneventful 4 day drive to Morondava and the Baobobs. Then home.

What could possibly go wrong?