You’d expect a place that (along with New York City and other metropolises) claims to be the “city that never sleeps” to be pretty noisy at night. Toliara, the main commercial and fishing port in southwest Madagascar, is deceptively quiet; it’s a place where the sidewalks (such as they are) are apparently rolled up at 6:00 p.m. when it gets dark. That impression is misleading.
There’s certainly noise down on the seafront where the discotheques at two night clubs—Tam Tam and Zaza—keep everyone (including those who want to sleep) awake into the early hours. But even in the commercial district and along the broad Boulevard Gallieni (named for the general who served as the first French governor after the island was colonized at the end of the 19th century) outside my hotel, people are moving. They’re just doing it quietly.
There are few private cars in Toliara, with most people walking, cycling or traveling by pousse-pousse (push-push), the bicycle rickshaws. They’re hanging out in the small hotelys (roadside diners with a few tables, serving fish and rice), the bars, at the water points, or just on the roadside. Occasionally, a motorbike or four-wheeler revs up and down the boulevard, but most of the time it’s quiet at night. That does not mean the city is sleeping.
I spent a week in Toliara with colleagues from the University of Antananarivo to prepare teams of faculty and graduate students to undertake field research in communities in three regions of the country. It’s part of a larger study for UNICEF on socio-cultural determinants of behavior—why mothers don’t give birth at medical facilities or have their children vaccinated, why children are kept out of school, why people don’t boil water and use latrines, and other issues—and who influences their behavior (from village chiefs, traditional healers and midwives to mass media).
The teams ran into all the usual problems you encounter in field research, including getting lost, being misled by self-appointed community representatives with axes to grind, and making themselves understood. Although Madagascar has a single national language, Malagasy, there are local dialects. Those from the highlands speak the more official “haut (high) Malagache” of national media, education and government. One team member found that in one community people were reluctant to speak to her, thinking she was a vazaha (foreigner) because of her lighter skin complexion.
To some extent, all Malagasy from the highlands with their Asian features (their ancestors come from what today is Indonesia) are vazaha in the southern and eastern coastal regions where most people are of African descent. But it’s never that simple. On my travels through the highlands, I saw many people of African descent.
Toliara also has highlanders, Chinese, and Indian and Pakistani business people. Most hotels, restaurants and bars are owned by French expats. Indeed, the city with its gently decaying colonial architecture and coconut palms waving in the sea breeze, has the air of an outpost of empire. Many French expats have married Malagasy and are settled members of the community. The bars and restaurants have a full menu of French TV channels by satellite, or relayed from the French colony of Réunion in the Indian Ocean. On the third night at Blu, a restaurant on the seafront, I met the owner, a German who had joined the French Foreign Legion, served all over Africa, decided he wanted to stay and go into business, opened the restaurant, married a Malagasy woman and was having their six-month old son (named, I’m not kidding, Hank) practice baby steps along the bar. I wish I’d had longer to talk. I know he had a story to tell.
Politics also intervened. Mayoral elections throughout Madagascar were being held later in the week, and the campaigns were in full swing—or rather full voice. Although the candidates run radio ads, the main vehicle (and the word fits well in this context) is the propogon (the word is derived from propaganda), variations of which are used in many developing countries with low-literacy populations and limited mass media. It’s a minivan with a large poster of the candidate on the front, and high-powered speakers blasting out music—Malagasy hip-hop and reggae in this case—and short slogans. It is usually followed by a parade of chanting supporters, on foot, on bicycles or pousse-pousse. The caravan stops around the city to allow the candidate to make a short speech, promising to restore water supplies or have the garbage picked up. This is also the occasion to hand out a few thousand ariary or T-shirts to everyone in the crowd to thank them for showing up at the event and to remind them who to vote for on election day. In Mahavatse, a sprawling bidonville (shanty town) of fishermen and pousse-pousse pullers, one of our research teams was mistaken for the entourage of the candidate, probably because they were better dressed than most people. When the crowd learned that they were not getting T-shirts or enough money to buy a couple of beers, they dispersed quickly.
Our workshop was held in the meeting room at the Toliara Chamber of Commerce. I don’t claim to be an expert on business matters, but even I could tell that there wasn’t much commerce going on there. It’s one of those 1970s-style block buildings that was showing its age. The whitewash was peeling from the outer walls, the toilets had no running water (you used a bucket to flush) and the ceilings had large brown patches from the roof leaks (fortunately, it did not rain during the workshop). On the staircase, a faded bas-relief represented the economy of the region of Atsimo Andrefana—herders with zébu (humped cattle) and goats, a woman pounding manioc, groves of spiny cactus forest. There were several offices but all were locked and apparently unoccupied. Outside in the dirt yard, washing was hanging from the line, and dogs scavenged among the trash; one homeless person had camped out behind the kitchen. However, the electricity was on and the kitchen staff provided coffee, tea and snacks for the morning break, and a basic lunch of fish, chicken or zébu stew and rice.
It was a short walk from my hotel, the Mahayana, along Boulevard Gallieni to the Chamber of Commerce, and I always felt a little ridiculous doing the three-minute drive in the white UNICEF Nissan Patrol with its tinted windows and radio aerial. Our vehicle along with a few SUVs was definitely at the top of the transportation hierarchy in Toliara. Next down were the four-wheelers, clearly the prestige vehicle for Toliara’s nouveaux riches. Most were in mint condition, and looked as if they had never encountered a muddy road or a sand dune; their drivers preferred business suits (or in the case of the women, bright clothing and lots of jewelry) to jeans and T-shirts. Then came the aging, battered French cars—the Peugeots, Citroens and Renaults—that are no longer seen on the roads of France but in the dry climate of the southwest are still running. There were a few motorbikes, some old, some new, and the occasional auto-rickshaw.
By far the most common thing on the road was the brightly colored bicycle pousse-pousse, carrying one or two passengers or sometimes bags of rice and crates of soda and beer. Most had names on the rear in Malagasy, but a few drivers adopted more eclectic names. The geographically and culturally irrelevant-- New York, Chicago and Miami, or Billabong. The word plays—the Poussy Cat. The optimistic—Service Rapide. Statements of faith—Jesus is Lord, God reigns, Jehovah. And, curiously, English first names—Sharon, Larry. Keeping the pousse-pouse fleet on the road is a significant part of the local economy. It’s tough going on the bumpy streets and the pousse-pousses have no suspension for driver or passengers. All along the wide median on Boulevard Gallieni and the side streets, people were fixing punctures, straightening frames, or welding new parts. If you have your own bicycle—next on the hierarchy—it’s never too far to the nearest repair shop. Then there are the wooden carts pulled by zébu, and a few human-powered rickshaws with their barefoot tireurs (pullers).
In July (technically speaking, winter in the southern hemisphere) the temperatures in Toliara were pleasant—high 80s, low 90s in early afternoon, cooling off in the evening. In summer it is one of the hottest places in the country. As far as I could tell, no buildings had AC so everything—shops, offices, even the pousse-pousse transport--shuts down from 12:00 to 4:00. Even in milder climes such as Madagascar’s capital, Antananarivo, the siesta is well entrenched in the culture, particularly in government offices. The boss arrives around 9:00 (no earlier), and is gone by 11:00. Of course, the boss leaves a jacket on the back of the chair to indicate that the work is ongoing, but no one can tell you where the boss has gone or when s/he will return. If you’re in luck, the boss will return about 4:00 for an hour and may have time to see you—if not, try your luck tomorrow morning. An appointment? Impossible. The boss is much too busy to have a schedule.
For a city of its size, Toliara has a lot of good, reasonably-priced restaurants, with most entrees (a zébu steak, a whole fish, grilled or with sauce, fish kebabs, or chicken, with vegetables, rice or potatoes) not costing much over $5. At the more down-market (but still clean) Restaurant Nandh, under awnings in the yard of a house, a dish of fish and chicken and rice cost just $1.50. The fishing boats land their catch every day, so the seafood—tilapia, merou, capitaine, tuna and shrimp—is always fresh. There are a few odd items on menus (I decided to pass on the snail pizza) but I was never disappointed in a meal.
