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I had never intended to visit Madagascar at all until I saw Hilary Bradt’s guide book. She has been there over 25 times, so either it must be very special or she has a very bad memory.

Browsing through the pages I found ‘A motorbike is perhaps the very best way of getting around Madagascar’.

It was a sign. I simply had to go and see it for myself.

I tried to fly Fred, my 2003 KTM 640 Adventure, but the only quote I got was $6,000 return. Instead I hired a 1986 Honda XL600 from Madagascar-on-bike.com.

Madagascar is a very poor country (the average wage is only $1 a day) and consequently a cheap one to visit. There are no motorways and only four tarred roads leave the capital, Antananarivo (Tana). None of them link to each other so it is not possible to do any tarred loops. To avoid riding back the same way one simply flies the bike back to Tana. However, there are thousands of kilometres of dirt ones to choose from, ranging from wide and superbly graded roads to extremely hard to follow tracks with trees growing out of them and really only passable on foot.

It’s therefore a good idea to get local advice on your route before setting off.

For some strange reason all the Malagasy place names are very long. Any attempt to pronounce them is usually met with hysterics or blank incomprehension by the locals.

Ok, try saying ‘Tsimanampetsotsa’.

It’s best to write it down, point to it and wait.

Whilst Malagasy is a bit of a challenge, French (and some English) is widely spoken in the tourist areas.

I have found the Malagasy to be the friendliest people of all the countries I’ve been to so far. One French couple I met were on their third visit and never want to go home at the end of each trip.

Perhaps those with the least to loose have the most to give.

Another big plus for me is the French cuisine. There are many excellent restaurants here. How about a superb three course buffet meal on the beach (at Andilana), with over twenty dishes to choose from, for $10?

However, most tourists come to see the animals. It has more indigenous species than any other island in the world. Lemurs, fosas and tenrecs are found nowhere else. It also has a huge variety of ecological zones in a relatively small area.

It sounded perfect for me: a mixture of tarred and dirt roads, cheap travel, good food, scenic variety and strange animals.

I met Manfred, the owner of Madagascar-on-bike at Tana airport after my three hour flight from Joburg.

We went to his house where I was introduced to a 1986 Honda XL600 - ‘Le Heap’. Luckily, looks aren’t everything and they certainly weren’t up to much. After being pushed down the hill a few times it eventually started.

Manfred advised me to start by going south to Toliara. Most tourists travelling by road do the same, so there are quite a few vehicles on the road. I met one vehicle at least every five minutes and sometimes even more often.

‘There is more variety and more interesting roads on this route’.

He was right.

The scenery changes almost every hour. One minute it is a series of very tight, slow curves on a narrow road climbing through the hills. Just over the crest it then widens and straightens as it descends into and through a lush, green valley blanketed in rice paddies.

In Madagascar the ‘Route Nationals’ are the only tarred roads. Often narrow and windy they always pass through the centre of every village. The RN 7 was like a French ‘D’ road, their smallest tarred surface.

You can see the variety of landscapes by looking at the photos on my website: http://www.fowb.co.uk.

Just before dusk I rolled into Antsirabe and checked into a hotel. Suitably spruced I set off to find a good French restaurant to celebrate my first day on the road.

I hadn’t even got out of the garden before some one whispered in the gloom:

‘Puss, puss?’

I had heard that sex was cheap in Madagascar but hadn’t expected to be targeted so soon. I declined his offer I escaped into the street.

It only took me a few minutes to realise what a ‘pussy’ was.

They were the local rickshaws and I had a ride in one after dinner.

As I climbed in and sat on the seat under the shade, my ‘driver’ picked up the long arms and set off at a gentle jog. The speed created a lovely cooling breeze. It was now completely dark as there are no street lights. There was just the gentle padding of his feet on the ground as the sweet scent of flowers drifted past me in the still night air.

I probably overpaid but still felt a pang of guilt having bargained him down.
10 cents for one kilometre.

I knew I was going to have a great time in Madagascar.

A massage began to feel like a good idea.

On reaching Toliara I decided to visit the spiny forest in Ifaty. This is a perfect example of Madagascar’s unique flora. It is full of strange succulent trees and a plethora of plants which have evolved to survive in the arid conditions. Including such oddities as giant green spaghetti trees.
Turning into the road to Ifaty the following morning I noticed a policeman at every junction.

This was unusual.

I passed the first few but then caught the flashes of light in my mirrors as a car approached rapidly from behind. I moved to the right and slowed down.

A bloke leaned out of the first car, shouted something and gave me the finger. I was shocked when every one I’d met in Mad had been so polite. I moved further to the right but kept going (mistake number one). Eight or nine vehicles whizzed past in quick succession and turned off a few hundred metres ahead.

When I got to the same turning I asked the policeman which was the road to Ifaty as it looked different ahead (mistake number two).

‘Show me your passport and bike papers’.

‘They are in my hotel’.

‘Then you must follow me to the police station’.

I didn’t see what the problem was. I’d always been waved through every single police check point.

I discovered it is a grave offence not to stop for the minister’s cortege.

I was taken to Le Sergeant.

‘How is a tourist supposed to know all the laws?’ He agreed it was difficult but his boss was calling the shots.

It was beginning to feel expensive.

After a suitable interval I wondered if I could pay a ‘caution’?

’Oui, 50,000 Ariary (about $20)’.

I opened my wallet and withdrew five 10,000 notes. While it was still open Le Sergeant helped himself to another 10,000 note. It seemed rude to refuse (first good idea).

I didn’t ask for a receipt (second good idea).

Now that I had paid my ‘fine’, Le Sergeant said we must go to my hotel to get the bike’s papers.

Luckily, I saw Alain, the proprietor, and explained ‘mon petit probleme’. Alain phoned Le Chef de Police.

During the ensuing conversation there were many Gallic shrugs and ‘Oui, oui, comme tu vieux Monsieur’. Unfortunately, Le Chef insisted I must remain under arrest at the police station.

‘If you’re still there at five this afternoon I’ll come over’ said Alain helpfully.

Wonderful.

Back at Le HQ, Le Sergeant started typing away on an ancient manual typewriter. He eventually presented me with ‘my’ statement, in French, for me to sign.

Although I could translate some of it there were certain words I couldn’t understand. This was too serious to sign and hope for the best.

So I phoned a friend.

Alain arrived soon afterwards, said it was ok so I signed.

Seconds later a rather small man walked in.

We all shook hands.

It was Le Chef.

He was just over five feet tall and seemed rather Napoleonic. Small, but powerful.

Facially, he reminded me of the mad Inspector in the Clouseau films. I managed to keep this to myself (third good idea). If he’d been wearing one of those funny, pointy hats I wouldn’t have batted an eye either.

‘In every country, France, Germany, America and England every vehicle must stop when the Minister goes past’.

‘Oh what crap’ (fourth good idea).

‘You are right’ soothed Alain, ‘It’s true’.

I tried to look contrite and stared at the floor to stop myself laughing. If Nappy kept me in overnight I’d miss my flight to Tana.

He let off a little more ‘vapeur’ then, all of a sudden, we were shaking hands again.

‘C’est fini’, said Alain.

Next time I’ll stop.

The next morning I flew back to Tana, $100 for me and $75 for Le Heap.

My next route was to the northern most town, Diego Suarez. Some maps show this as a tarred road. While this may have been the case in colonial times it certainly isn’t anymore.

One section, the 82km from Mampikony to Port Berge, took me over three hours even though there are no hills or passes. This is a tribute to the forces of nature. The combined effect of no maintenance and cyclones is very destructive. There were frequent diversions into the bush to avoid collapsed bridges, cavernous potholes and gorges slicing across the road, but I loved it.

Strangely, on one bush bashing detour, there were no potholes to be seen, just the usual ridges of mud down the centre line. I started to the right of the first ridge and the bike immediately plunged downwards.

Clouds of red dust enveloped me as I almost fell into the metre deep pothole. The dust was really weird. It was light yet flowed and splashed like water, creating a bow wave as I rode through.

Not surprisingly, there were fewer vehicles on this route.

Next were a few days chilling out on the beaches of Nosy Be Island, the most developed part of Madagascar. ‘Most developed’ here is relative. There are no high rise hotels or shopping malls in Ambatoloaka, but there are several tourist shops and a decent pharmacy.

I found a lovely hotel on the beach. Alex, the owner, turned out to know the Minister of Tourism personally. He couldn’t wait to tell him that a tourist had been arrested for making him late for lunch.

Alex is also a dirt biker. He even has road books for some routes and regaled me with tales of rides through stunning scenery. I also met other bikers who told similar tales of the superb off road riding. In Tana I visited Moto-Madagascar.com who have a range of 250 to 600 Enduro bikes for hire, organise raids and can advise on routes and loops.

I wish I’d known all this beforehand but you don’t know what you don’t know. In the week I arranged this trip I had the choice between an ancient thumper or not going at all. I now know Le Heap was not the right bike for Mad’s ‘roads’. Fred would have been better good but a 250 four stroke would have been perfect.

For the return trip to the mainland I could either wait four hours for the slow ferry or take a faster, riskier, speedboat.

Easy.

I bartered the price down to $20 and watched with some trepidation as five blokes lowered Le Heap off the side of the quay into the boat.

The water was deep.

‘You are not the first moto’ I was assured ‘We have done this before’.

‘What? Drop one into the harbour?’

Five minutes later we were surfing the seas at 45 km/h with Le Heap roped down in the middle of the boat. We pissed past another speedboat full of passengers.

Unfortunately, every time we came down hard my nuts got mashed into the deck. I didn’t fancy forty-five minutes of this and started to move back. I was told to return to my post, as ballast, so I moved my equipment to a safer location by bracing my legs inside the forward locker.
‘We have 115 horsepower. Very fast, very fun’.
He was right.

My best ride was another dirt road: the 220 km from Antsohihy to Ambanja. Or at least it was once I’d found it.

I started off by riding 120 km in the wrong direction. Both my maps said my route north to Diego was the ‘main’ road with Beleanana a right turn off it. Bollocks. You have to turn left for Diego. The one and only sign was hidden by a lorry when I went past.

I only realised I’d cocked it up when I got to Beleanana an hour and a half later. The road was really good, a great mix of flowing curves and easy dirt up and over two passes. As I rode into Beleanana the road just stopped in the middle of town. A quick glance at my GPS showed I was way off where I expected to be.

Lesson learnt - I must look at my GPS more often and not have so much fun riding.

My favourite section was the last 40 km before Ambanja, along the spine of hills parallel to the shore. As it slid and slithered its way through in the late afternoon sunshine I suddenly caught my breath for yet another amazing view. I stopped and started to turn around to take a photo.

I put my foot down to steady myself but the camber was much steeper than I thought.

‘Oh shit’.

With my usual professional precision I leapt off Le Heap as it crashed to the ground. I actually drop Fred, my KTM, pretty often for the same reason. My first instinct is always to look around to see how many people were watching.

I didn’t have to this time.

There were howls of laughter behind me.

I turned round to see a Malagasy family sitting outside their single roomed house, pointing at me and rolling about with mirth.

I waved my right arm above my head and took a theatrical bow.

They started clapping and making even more noise.
It’s so nice to be appreciated.

I love Madagascar and the Malagasy. It is completely different to anywhere else I have ever been. The warmth of the people, the amazing variety of landscapes, the fun roads, the extraordinary flora and fauna and fantastic food make it totally unique.

Hilary Bradt is right: ‘A bike is best’.

I’ll be back.


	I had never intended to visit Madagascar at all until I saw Hilary Bradt’s guide book. She has been there over 25 times, so either it must be very special or she has a very bad memory. Browsing through the pages I found ‘A motorbike is perhaps the very best way of getting around Madagascar’. It was a sign. I simply had to go and see it for myself. I tried to fly Fred, my 2003 KTM 640 Adventure, but the only quote I got was $6,000 return. Instead I hired a 1986 Honda XL600 from Madagascar-on-bike.com. Madagascar is a very poor country (the average wage is only $1 a day) and consequently a cheap one to visit. There are no motorways and only four tarred roads leave the capital, Antananarivo (Tana). None of them link to each other so it is not possible to do any tarred loops. To avoid riding back the same way one simply flies the bike back to Tana. However, there are thousands of kilometres of dirt ones to choose from, ranging from wide and superbly graded roads to extremely hard to follow tracks with trees growing out of them and really only passable on foot. It’s therefore a good idea to get local advice on your route before setting off. For some strange reason all the Malagasy place names are very long. Any attempt to pronounce them is usually met with hysterics or blank incomprehension by the locals. Ok, try saying ‘Tsimanampetsotsa’. It’s best to write it down, point to it and wait. Whilst Malagasy is a bit of a challenge, French (and some English) is widely spoken in the tourist areas. I have found the Malagasy to be the friendliest people of all the countries I’ve been to so far. One French couple I met were on their third visit and never want to go home at the end of each trip. Perhaps those with the least to loose have the most to give. Another big plus for me is the French cuisine. There are many excellent restaurants here. How about a superb three course buffet meal on the beach (at Andilana), with over twenty dishes to choose from, for $10? However, most tourists come to see the animals. It has more indigenous species than any other island in the world. Lemurs, fosas and tenrecs are found nowhere else. It also has a huge variety of ecological zones in a relatively small area. It sounded perfect for me: a mixture of tarred and dirt roads, cheap travel, good food, scenic variety and strange animals. I met Manfred, the owner of Madagascar-on-bike at Tana airport after my three hour flight from Joburg. We went to his house where I was introduced to a 1986 Honda XL600 - ‘Le Heap’. Luckily, looks aren’t everything and they certainly weren’t up to much. After being pushed down the hill a few times it eventually started. Manfred advised me to start by going south to Toliara. Most tourists travelling by road do the same, so there are quite a few vehicles on the road. I met one vehicle at least every five minutes and sometimes even more often. ‘There is more variety and more interesting roads on this route’. He was right. The scenery changes almost every hour. One minute it is a series of very tight, slow curves on a narrow road climbing through the hills. Just over the crest it then widens and straightens as it descends into and through a lush, green valley blanketed in rice paddies. In Madagascar the ‘Route Nationals’ are the only tarred roads. Often narrow and windy they always pass through the centre of every village. The RN 7 was like a French ‘D’ road, their smallest tarred surface. You can see the variety of landscapes by looking at the photos on my website: http://www.fowb.co.uk. Just before dusk I rolled into Antsirabe and checked into a hotel. Suitably spruced I set off to find a good French restaurant to celebrate my first day on the road. I hadn’t even got out of the garden before some one whispered in the gloom: ‘Puss, puss?’ I had heard that sex was cheap in Madagascar but hadn’t expected to be targeted so soon. I declined his offer I escaped into the street. It only took me a few minutes to realise what a ‘pussy’ was. They were the local rickshaws and I had a ride in one after dinner. As I climbed in and sat on the seat under the shade, my ‘driver’ picked up the long arms and set off at a gentle jog. The speed created a lovely cooling breeze. It was now completely dark as there are no street lights. There was just the gentle padding of his feet on the ground as the sweet scent of flowers drifted past me in the still night air. I probably overpaid but still felt a pang of guilt having bargained him down. 10 cents for one kilometre. I knew I was going to have a great time in Madagascar. A massage began to feel like a good idea. On reaching Toliara I decided to visit the spiny forest in Ifaty. This is a perfect example of Madagascar’s unique flora. It is full of strange succulent trees and a plethora of plants which have evolved to survive in the arid conditions. Including such oddities as giant green spaghetti trees. Turning into the road to Ifaty the following morning I noticed a policeman at every junction. This was unusual. I passed the first few but then caught the flashes of light in my mirrors as a car approached rapidly from behind. I moved to the right and slowed down. A bloke leaned out of the first car, shouted something and gave me the finger. I was shocked when every one I’d met in Mad had been so polite. I moved further to the right but kept going (mistake number one). Eight or nine vehicles whizzed past in quick succession and turned off a few hundred metres ahead. When I got to the same turning I asked the policeman which was the road to Ifaty as it looked different ahead (mistake number two). ‘Show me your passport and bike papers’. ‘They are in my hotel’. ‘Then you must follow me to the police station’. I didn’t see what the problem was. I’d always been waved through every single police check point. I discovered it is a grave offence not to stop for the minister’s cortege. I was taken to Le Sergeant. ‘How is a tourist supposed to know all the laws?’ He agreed it was difficult but his boss was calling the shots. It was beginning to feel expensive. After a suitable interval I wondered if I could pay a ‘caution’? ’Oui, 50,000 Ariary (about $20)’. I opened my wallet and withdrew five 10,000 notes. While it was still open Le Sergeant helped himself to another 10,000 note. It seemed rude to refuse (first good idea). I didn’t ask for a receipt (second good idea). Now that I had paid my ‘fine’, Le Sergeant said we must go to my hotel to get the bike’s papers. Luckily, I saw Alain, the proprietor, and explained ‘mon petit probleme’. Alain phoned Le Chef de Police. During the ensuing conversation there were many Gallic shrugs and ‘Oui, oui, comme tu vieux Monsieur’. Unfortunately, Le Chef insisted I must remain under arrest at the police station. ‘If you’re still there at five this afternoon I’ll come over’ said Alain helpfully. Wonderful. Back at Le HQ, Le Sergeant started typing away on an ancient manual typewriter. He eventually presented me with ‘my’ statement, in French, for me to sign. Although I could translate some of it there were certain words I couldn’t understand. This was too serious to sign and hope for the best. So I phoned a friend. Alain arrived soon afterwards, said it was ok so I signed. Seconds later a rather small man walked in. We all shook hands. It was Le Chef. He was just over five feet tall and seemed rather Napoleonic. Small, but powerful. Facially, he reminded me of the mad Inspector in the Clouseau films. I managed to keep this to myself (third good idea). If he’d been wearing one of those funny, pointy hats I wouldn’t have batted an eye either. ‘In every country, France, Germany, America and England every vehicle must stop when the Minister goes past’. ‘Oh what crap’ (fourth good idea). ‘You are right’ soothed Alain, ‘It’s true’. I tried to look contrite and stared at the floor to stop myself laughing. If Nappy kept me in overnight I’d miss my flight to Tana. He let off a little more ‘vapeur’ then, all of a sudden, we were shaking hands again. ‘C’est fini’, said Alain. Next time I’ll stop. The next morning I flew back to Tana, $100 for me and $75 for Le Heap. My next route was to the northern most town, Diego Suarez. Some maps show this as a tarred road. While this may have been the case in colonial times it certainly isn’t anymore. One section, the 82km from Mampikony to Port Berge, took me over three hours even though there are no hills or passes. This is a tribute to the forces of nature. The combined effect of no maintenance and cyclones is very destructive. There were frequent diversions into the bush to avoid collapsed bridges, cavernous potholes and gorges slicing across the road, but I loved it. Strangely, on one bush bashing detour, there were no potholes to be seen, just the usual ridges of mud down the centre line. I started to the right of the first ridge and the bike immediately plunged downwards. Clouds of red dust enveloped me as I almost fell into the metre deep pothole. The dust was really weird. It was light yet flowed and splashed like water, creating a bow wave as I rode through. Not surprisingly, there were fewer vehicles on this route. Next were a few days chilling out on the beaches of Nosy Be Island, the most developed part of Madagascar. ‘Most developed’ here is relative. There are no high rise hotels or shopping malls in Ambatoloaka, but there are several tourist shops and a decent pharmacy. I found a lovely hotel on the beach. Alex, the owner, turned out to know the Minister of Tourism personally. He couldn’t wait to tell him that a tourist had been arrested for making him late for lunch. Alex is also a dirt biker. He even has road books for some routes and regaled me with tales of rides through stunning scenery. I also met other bikers who told similar tales of the superb off road riding. In Tana I visited Moto-Madagascar.com who have a range of 250 to 600 Enduro bikes for hire, organise raids and can advise on routes and loops. I wish I’d known all this beforehand but you don’t know what you don’t know. In the week I arranged this trip I had the choice between an ancient thumper or not going at all. I now know Le Heap was not the right bike for Mad’s ‘roads’. Fred would have been better good but a 250 four stroke would have been perfect. For the return trip to the mainland I could either wait four hours for the slow ferry or take a faster, riskier, speedboat. Easy. I bartered the price down to $20 and watched with some trepidation as five blokes lowered Le Heap off the side of the quay into the boat. The water was deep. ‘You are not the first moto’ I was assured ‘We have done this before’. ‘What? Drop one into the harbour?’ Five minutes later we were surfing the seas at 45 km/h with Le Heap roped down in the middle of the boat. We pissed past another speedboat full of passengers. Unfortunately, every time we came down hard my nuts got mashed into the deck. I didn’t fancy forty-five minutes of this and started to move back. I was told to return to my post, as ballast, so I moved my equipment to a safer location by bracing my legs inside the forward locker. ‘We have 115 horsepower. Very fast, very fun’. He was right. My best ride was another dirt road: the 220 km from Antsohihy to Ambanja. Or at least it was once I’d found it. I started off by riding 120 km in the wrong direction. Both my maps said my route north to Diego was the ‘main’ road with Beleanana a right turn off it. Bollocks. You have to turn left for Diego. The one and only sign was hidden by a lorry when I went past. I only realised I’d cocked it up when I got to Beleanana an hour and a half later. The road was really good, a great mix of flowing curves and easy dirt up and over two passes. As I rode into Beleanana the road just stopped in the middle of town. A quick glance at my GPS showed I was way off where I expected to be. Lesson learnt - I must look at my GPS more often and not have so much fun riding. My favourite section was the last 40 km before Ambanja, along the spine of hills parallel to the shore. As it slid and slithered its way through in the late afternoon sunshine I suddenly caught my breath for yet another amazing view. I stopped and started to turn around to take a photo. I put my foot down to steady myself but the camber was much steeper than I thought. ‘Oh shit’. With my usual professional precision I leapt off Le Heap as it crashed to the ground. I actually drop Fred, my KTM, pretty often for the same reason. My first instinct is always to look around to see how many people were watching. I didn’t have to this time. There were howls of laughter behind me. I turned round to see a Malagasy family sitting outside their single roomed house, pointing at me and rolling about with mirth. I waved my right arm above my head and took a theatrical bow. They started clapping and making even more noise. It’s so nice to be appreciated. I love Madagascar and the Malagasy. It is completely different to anywhere else I have ever been. The warmth of the people, the amazing variety of landscapes, the fun roads, the extraordinary flora and fauna and fantastic food make it totally unique. Hilary Bradt is right: ‘A bike is best’. I’ll be back.
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