Story: Malagasy Travel, Fried Chicken and a Proposal of Marriage

The 505 Peugeot wagon had definitely seen better days. An 80's model, dark grey, large rust patches took up more surface area than it’s faded paint job. The roof resembled a pieced together three tiered wedding cake; my overstuffed blue backpack would make the fourth. All it needed was a proportional, plastic bride and groom as the finishing touch. I watched as two Malagasy men struggled to strap my bag on top of a bamboo cage holding live chickens, teetering precariously until a final tug on the well worn rope secured the weight. The load was taller than the car now. The driver spoke no English. I didn’t even attempt speaking any French (Madagascar’s second language), as I handed him the scrap of worn paper acting as my ticket. He smiled at me, motioning to my black straw cowboy hat. I took the shotgun seat next to a petite woman already seated in the middle. In the back eight other Malagasy citizens waited patiently for me, the last paying passenger, to get settled. A car designed for seven people was ready to launch into the Yosemite of Madagascar with a cozy ten passengers, plus it’s jolly, snaggle toothed driver

When the local cabbie deposited me in front of the French made automobile at the taxis brousse station, I almost turned around and had him take me back to my previous night’s accommodation, perhaps tour the tea plantation outside of town and try for a more sturdy vehicle the next afternoon. Fianar had been an overnighter. A grimy town with little attractive touristing options except for the plantation, instead I’d taken the opportunity to regroup, reflect and rest before venturing to Ambalavao, my launch point for a few days hiking and camping in the Parc de Andringitria, a national park established just seven years ago. I could have happily extended my play date with the charming daughter of the hotel’s owner who’d played with my headlamp and assorted camping gear as I waited for transport to the taxi station.

The Lonely Planet Madagascar guide stated it was fifty six kilometers between the two towns. Over mountain passes and serpentine switch backs,the journey would take almost two hours. Maybe longer. The oncoming traffic took an interesting form, few other cars, mainly herders returning with the Zebu cattle they couldn’t sell at the Ambalavao market the day before. At each tight turn the possibility of encountering a group of the streamlined, Brahma-like cattle head-on became a distinct probability. Something my ex-federal cowgirl self experienced on many a winding western US highway another lifetime ago. I left the window open, partly because my door didn’t close properly and I felt safer clutching the outside latch as extra insurance against tumbling down the steep canyon below, partly to take in the fresh air lacking in Madagascar’s second largest city. There wasn’t much margin for error between man and beast. The men, shrouded in colorful homemade blankets dyed in hues from the warm side of the spectrum, stayed close to their lean bovines, glancing backwards after our speeding car swept by them with barely a breath between us. I could see their faces contort in exasperation from the wired-on side mirror on the passenger side of the car.

Unfortunately, as we reached a blink of a town where the road narrowed to a lane and a half, a brown cow brushed up against the driver’s mirror, causing no real damage except for pushing it flush against the door. Our driver considered this an assault on his pride, livelihood or both. In a flash he pulled over, charging out of the car to challenge the tale end Charlie herder to a fight. In what I’m certain were expletives in Malagasy, he goaded his more demure countrymen to fight. The woman on my left, although unable to speak a common language with me, rolled her eyes knowingly. I did the same. It was a one word thought “Men!” . After a few minutes the passengers in back managed to lure the driver back behind the wheel in soft pleading voices. We were losing the light quickly and I believe all of us simply wanted to reach our destination before dusk.

The testosterone rush must have fueled our driver’s appetite. During the following minutes he fumbled in his pockets, counting his money, a sure sign food was on his agenda from my observations with others of his ilk on Madagascar’s back roads. At the next village he pulled over and the car was immediately surrounded by young children with platters of petite sweet cakes, samosas ( triangle pastries stuffed with savory meats and veggies, a staple on this side of the planet), and the perfect snack size bananas I’d been living on the past three weeks. What caught my immediate attention, however, were two pre-pubescent boys with platters of fried chicken. I hungrily slapped a 5000 Ariary note in their hands ( a little over two bucks American), grabbed four pieces and waved away the change. From the grins on their faces it must have been a good tip.

I was raised in the South where any proper girl learns to fry chicken before they go to elementary school. This is the first I’d seen in months without Colonel Sander's mug attached in a take away box or I hadn’t prepared myself. Unlike the hormone laced chickens with galiform versions of Beverly Hills implants, the bird sacrificed for my feast had pert, proportional breasts, much like my own. I unabashedly devoured them and two drumsticks within five minutes. I ate left-handed, still needing to secure the door with my right. Delicious doesn’t begin to describe it. Me or my Carolina mother couldn’t have done any better.

And this is when the courtship began. Impressed with my hearty appetite, already complimentary of my choice of chapeau, the driver points to the ring finger on his hand, then the same appendage on my own southpaw. A circumstance when the silver Mexican band I bought in Baja years back comes in very handy. His hand was similarly adorned. He flashes a toothless smile, winks in my direction. Having avoided any vagabond romance thus far I wasn’t about to start with a married taxis brousse proprietor with road rage issues. In broken French I manage one simple phrase.
“No, no. Un mari est assez” ( No, no. One husband is enough)

This generated tremendous laughter from the other passengers, especially the women. My new suitor persisted all the way into Ambalavao. No words of love in either Malagasy or French, just frantic motions over the middle passenger and frequent winks starting to resemble a nervous tick.

In the small market square I kindly refused one last invitation to do the town with my ardent suitor as people tumble out of the Peugeot as if performing the “How many clowns can a small car hold?” trick from the circus. His hands mimicked ballroom dancing moves as he animatedly pointed to my entire frame, trying to get within arm’s reach. The wedding cake now dismantled, I shouldered the fourth tier, hiking towards the Hotel Boganvilla for a warm shower and French pastries, secretly touched I was considered a good catch in such a foreign place.