Antipode – Chapter 17

Antipode is a true account of my experiences while doing research in Madagascar from 1993 – 1999; it was published by St. Martin’s Press in 2001. Here is where we started—with the Introduction. And here are all of the chapters posted thus far.

The next morning Jessica and I rose at 5:30. Air Mad sent a vehicle to take us to the airport, and we spent an hour or so driving around town, occasionally picking up an additional passenger, mostly stopping so that the driver could chat with passing acquaintances and argue over the price of peanuts. Finally we were deposited at the Maroantsetra airport, the single room that still had no doors. There were flights to and from Maroantsetra twice a week, and when the tiny Twin Otter planes landed, and shortly took off again, people from the surrounding villages came out to watch. Air travel is rare throughout Madagascar—so rare, in fact, that in the south, where graves of important men are usually decorated with zebu horns, a patriarch who had once during his life taken a flight has a large replica of a plane atop his grave. Even before the plane arrived, there was an air of expectation and activity in the airport on flight days, so that though there were at most 20 passengers flying on any given day, there was bustle and excitement at the decrepit airport.

When we arrived, a mass of people swarmed around the large scale. There was no one behind the counter. We dumped our bags in a pile as close to the scale as possible, then arranged our tickets in a decorative fan shape on the counter next to the others, similarly prepared. Sitting down in the plastic chairs that were surprisingly reminiscent of airports in the Midwestern United States, we began to wait.

On this day, the other travelers included a couple of would-be courtesans, a bit past their prime, dressed in black lace and external red bras, coiffed and made up and bedecked in gold necklaces and thick gold bracelets, but a little older and heavier than most of the women you see consorting with tourists and expats. There were two young Frenchmen we hadn’t seen before, probably short-term tourists. They were the only other vazaha. Several people carried large baskets, sewn up at the top so as not to spill their precious contents. Although it ...