Prelude from the Previous Post
On Wednesday morning we made final decisions about what we would take to Madagascar and what we would leave behind, and then Evelyne drove us out to Charles de Gaulle International Airport for our 10:40 am Air France flight to Antananarivo, Madagascar. There were passengers in the back of the plane who for some reason couldn't manage to stow their carry-ons or stay in their seats for the passenger count, so our flight was delayed for nearly an hour. By the time we landed at Ivato Airport it was nearly midnight. As we taxied down the tarmac we could see very few lights in the airport or beyond it, and what lights there were shined dimly. It was our first intimation that we were entering one of the world's Least Developed Countries. We stepped out of the plane and down the stairs to the tarmac, and walked toward the terminal. It took three attempts to get our visas stamped, and a long wait to get our luggage. When, finally, we crossed the threshold into the waiting room and spotted Todd McGregor waving to us, it was Thursday. A new day and a new adventure had begun.
Thursday, July 23. Antananarivo, Madagascar.
Todd waved us over to a less-crowded area in the terminal and welcomed us to Madagascar. His driver, Alain Ravelomanantsoa, immediately took hold of our luggage, our first taste of the Malagasy impulse to do everything possible to treat visitors as honored guests. After initial introductions, Todd took us over to an ATM machine for my first experience with Malagasy currency. Confronted with a bewildering choice of amounts to withdraw, all of them ending with 000, Todd suggested 200,000 Malagasy Ariary "for now." Seconds later I was folding 20 Ten Thousand Ariary notes into my wallet. The 10,000 Ariary bank note is the highest paper denomination in Madagascar, and its value is about $5. In other words, I had made a withdrawal of about $100.
We made our way out to the parking lot, whose only illumination came from lights in the terminal. We climbed into an old and battered station wagon and drove out of the parking lot and down the road leading from the airport. Apart from a few intermittent lights beyond the walls that bordered the road, all was darkness as we made our way the short distance to the Ivato Hotel. The original plan had been to drive to the diocesan center outside Antananarivo, but the dangerous conditions prevailing in Madagascar's capital since January's coup meant that we couldn't risk the trip so late at night.
Before he left us Todd gave us two bottles of Eau Vive. For the next three weeks the only water we would drink, or use to rinse our toothbrushes, would be water from bottles of Eau Vive. Even when a home or commercial building has running water, it is safest and most prudent to presume that the water is untreated, which is almost invariably true. (It is also safest and most prudent to eat only well-cooked vegetables and fruits, or raw fruits served with unbroken skins, like bananas.)
Our room's reddish walls and the light fixture's low watt bulb did not convey a warm welcome or inspire confidence, but the room was clean. In the morning we showered (our last shower, as it happened, for nearly four days), being careful not to swallow any water. A charming woman welcomed us into the restaurant, and we enjoyed a delicious breakfast of eggs and croissants and coffee.
When I turned on my cell phone, I discovered this message from Todd, texted at 2:20 am:
"Bill, The bishop's driver (Fred) will pick you up around 2 pm. I have negotiated for you to preach tomorrow morning during communion at 6:30 am on Matt[hew]." (I texted back, in part, "sounds like you lost the negotiation!")
Now Ingrid and I knew that we would have plenty of time to relax, read, and enjoy lunch (chicken, and our first taste of Bonbon Anglais, a Madagascar limonade distributed by Brasseries Star Madagascar).
Mise-en-scène
In 1895 French soldiers captured Antananarivo, and Madagascar became a French colony until regaining its independence in 1960. Consequently, Madagascar is a Francophone country, and French is one of its official languages, along with Malagasy and, since the new Constitution of 2007, English. Although Ingrid and I spent time in France primarily to visit Ingrid's famille française, I thought it would be useful to immerse ourselves in the French language in preparation for our time in Madagascar. As it turned out, I was right beyond imagining. There were so many times when the only language we had in common with our Malagasy hosts, or in restaurants and hotels, was French. This is in large part because French is spoken by those who are educated and better off financially.
The Eklesia Episkopaly Malagasy is part of the Anglican Province of the Indian Ocean. One of the dioceses in the Malagasy Episcopal Church is the diocese of Antananarivo, and the diocesan bishop is Monseigneur Jaona Ranarivelo. You can see pictures of him and his family in an article here. On December 23, 2006, Todd McGregor had been consecrated as an assistant bishop, with the understanding that he would be the bishop of a new, but not yet created, diocese. You can see a story about Todd's consecration here. Todd's wife, Patsy McGregor, was ordained to the Priesthood on September 3, 2006, by the Archbishop of Kenya.
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When the diocesan bishop's driver arrived, he loaded our luggage into the back of the pickup truck. When he saw that I had a laptop he suggested, with a rare flash of humor, that it might be better to keep the laptop with me in the truck. Good advice. Moments later we were speeding along at 80 kph (50 mph) on badly maintained roads, and only a renewed faith in chaos theory and the mercy of God kept me (fairly) composed. I don't know how we managed to avoid hitting the pedestrians and bicyclists who crowded the roadsides as we careened through Antananarivo, honking our horn as children and adults scurried out of our way (just!). Occasionally a slow-moving cart, powered by the humped cattle know as zebu, or one of the omnipresent free public buses, suddenly stopping to discharge or pick up passengers, gave us no alternative but to swerve into the left-hand lane, miraculously avoiding some other vehicle bearing down on us as we reclaimed the right-hand lane. Driving through the city gave new meaning to tailgating, with the added hazard of breathing in the thick black soot from every tailpipe. In the seven or so miles we traveled through Antananarivo (Tana, for short), I saw one stop sign and one traffic cop; no street signs and only a very few signs indicating the roads to other towns.
There was no relief from seeing the utter destitution: A little boy, filthy and wearing next to nothing, yet hugely entertaining himself with great glee as he waved a long thin stick with a dusty and dull yellow plastic bag, filling it with air in a sad imitation of a balloon. Old men limping on long-injured feet. Women carrying small piles of twigs and sticks for firewood. Worn-out clothing, and almost everyone barefoot and dirty. Dilapidated shacks. Rickety shops open to the street or with tables of meat or poultry or vegetables or bottles of Eau Vive or Coca-Cola or Fanta or THB-- Three Horse Beer-- or back-packs or pots and pans, and sometimes Orange signs where you can buy more minutes for your cell phone. And women and children waiting in line at the local water pipe to fill their buckets for the day's cooking or washing.
And then we were in the country, and the roads were no longer concrete but hard-packed burnt-orange clay, the color of soil in the Carolinas, sometimes washed out by last winter's rains. More carts pulled by zebus, or young men and women driving small herds of zebus, and clusters of villages with dilapidated shacks like their city cousins, with smoke from charcoal fires rising into the air. After more than an hour's drive of about twelve miles we finally reached the diocesan center where the Diocese of Antananarivo was holding its Synod.
To be continued.
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