The exotic island of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean has always intrigued Herbert Schwarz. Since 1979, this founder of Touratech has traveled on different motorcycles all over the world, but never on this large island nation off the southeastern coast of Africa. Since its separation from the Gondwana supercontinent 180 million years ago, Madagascar has had unique flora and fauna develop in complete isolation. Scientists call it the 6th continent. Primeval-looking chameleons, lemurs, poisonous frogs and even the largest butterfly on Earth live in this tropical paradise, the fourth-largest island on our planet.
Late last year, Schwarz finally realized his dream, participating in a 2000-mile exploration adventure of Madagascar on a new liquid-cooled BMW R1200GS outfitted with Touratech gear, of course. Also on the ride: cameraman Jan-Peter Sölter on a 2013 BMW F800G, editor Wolfgang Danner on a BMW R1200GS Adventure and yours truly, a writer/photographer who rode a Husqvarna TR650 Terra.
A stop at the roadside.
The Adventure Starts
Despite having stacks of guidebooks and maps, we find it challenging to plan for a place we’ve traveled to only in our minds. What do the roads described as “in bad condition” actually look like? What might the typical Malagasy consider “bad”? How much time will it take to cover 100 miles? Interesting destinations are found all over the island, and the spectacular coastline alone is 5000 miles long. It’s impossible to see it all in one month. Where do we ride first? It’s always best to ask a local, so we meet François Serrano, an old bike hand and tour guide, in his workshop in Tana. Asked for the three must-see places, he replies, “the baobabs, Diego Suarez and the East Coast.” We plan a northern loop that reserves the highlight—the famous Alley of the Baobabs in Morondava—for the end.
Bicycle riders on their way to the next fish market.
First Impression: It’s a Poor Country
Loaded with water and gas, we leave the Antananarivo capital on the grippy asphalt of the RN4. The street scene is colorful: overloaded taxi brousses (rural taxis), zebu carts, rickety bicycles, scooters with a minimum of three passengers and soot-belching trucks. Pousses-pousses are the number one means of transport. The barefoot men who run these two-wheeled, hand-pulled rickshaws work hard to make a living. Clearly, Madagascar is one of the poorest countries in the world.
Chilling out on a sandy, palm-fringed beach on the island of Nosy Bé.
Longing for a Change
As it’s shortly before the rainy season, the grass is dry. The sun beats down. Slash and burn agriculture is the order of the day here. Riding seemingly endless miles through the blackened landscape makes us need a visual change. Hoping for anything green, we detour to the small neighboring island of Nosy Bé, where we are rewarded with untouched nature, white sandy beaches, coral atolls, picturesque bays and seven sacred crater lakes with crocodiles. The sweet fragrance of ylang ylang fills the air. The yellow flowers of this tropical tree are distilled into perfume oil. The island’s capital, Hell-Ville, exudes a worn charm. The once-magnificent French colonial buildings from the 19th century are ruined. But the people in the streets wear happy colors and smile at us. As motorcycle travelers, we feel welcome everywhere we go.
The potholes are big enough to swallow a whole bike.
Riding Challenges
Back on the mainland, we follow the paved N6 north. The potholes are deep enough to swallow a whole bike. After Ambilobe, a rusty red laterite road turns off to the pirate coast. Deep ruts from trucks, washouts, wooden bridges (with beams missing and nails protruding), free-range zebus and fesh-fesh (a powdery sand) keep boredom at bay. Oncoming bicyclists change lanes in an unpredictable fashion to navigate around sandy places, forcing us to make risky evasive maneuvers. Kids wave at us in the little villages. We hear, “Bonjour, Vazaha,” which effectively means, “hello, palefaces.” The reaction of the locals to what resembles an alien expedition ranges from amazement to joy and fright. The terrain gets more technical as we climb the washboard road to a pass. Downhill curves in deep sand take lots of courage, but are also lots of fun. Coated in dust, we roll into Vohemar. Before us lies the sea under the setting sun.
Decision time at the Vanilla Coast: Should we ride left or right?
Decision Time on the Vanilla Coast
If we don’t want to ride the same 1000 miles back to the capital, we have to make a decision at the crossroads in Sambava. Left or right? To the left, there’s Antalaha where all roads end. We might find a boat that takes us south, back to civilization, to Tamatave. To the right, there’s supposedly a jungle track across the interior of the island, from Andapa to Bealanana. We know about its existence from other riders, but find it neither on the map nor on the GPS. We also know that rain will make it impassable and that chances of precipitation in the tropical northeast are very high at this time of the year. We roll the dice and head left.
While waiting for the boat in Antalaha, we get a tour of the vanilla production.
Vanilla
Low mud huts thatched with banana leaves, together with rice terraces, coconut palms, lots of green and a Caribbean-like joie de vivre—this is exactly how we had envisioned Madagascar. We’re in the center of vanilla production, and Madagascar meets much of the world demand. Sixteen-hundred tons of vanilla pods were harvested in 2012. This part of the country is regularly hit by cyclones, and in 2000, Hudah destroyed about 20 percent of the acreage. This caused prices to skyrocket, and inflated costs of $500 per kilogram for vanilla gave rise to crime and murder.
The author learning all about vanilla.
Diamonds Under the Tire
Without any significant overland link, Antalaha is far from everything. Its 35,000 inhabitants make a living from spices (vanilla, cloves, pepper, cinnamon), coffee, lychees, rice or shipbuilding. Only a few tourists come here. At the Ocean Momo hotel, right by the sea, we meet Momo, the charismatic owner, and his lovely daughter Anouschka. When parking my bike I can’t believe my eyes. Gravel made of rose quartz! Momo explains, “Until seven years ago, an Italian company mined gems close by. After they had closed I collected the production scrap and used it as filling material and garden decoration.” Supporting my TR650 with its side stand on a semi-precious stone is both amusing and a bit decadent. Reminds me of the Paul Simon song, “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.”
Loading the bikes onto the Jenna III.
Different Concept of Time
Momo has an air of authority about him, and if he thinks our transportation problem can be solved, he is to be believed. A visit to the port reveals that all the ships have set sail to transport vanilla and cloves. Except for the Jenna III, which is being repaired. The good news: She’s large enough (90 ft. x 16 ft.) to take us down the east coast, but time has become a factor. Trying to pin down a Malagasy on a definite date is tough. “She’ll be ready to sail within two days,” we are told. On the third day, we’re put off for tomorrow again. Meanwhile, we have no other choice. There are worse places to be stuck, so we make the best of the situation and plan a bike excursion Cape East, where we’ll visit Jackie le Riche, the vanilla baron.
A pretty image, but seasickness would soon follow.
Chumming the Fish
Eight days later, 50 tons of vanilla and cloves are stowed in the belly of the Jenna III. Our bikes are strapped on board. We’re finally leaving. We have lots of work to do: review thousands of photos, record sound-clips and write articles. Thankfully, we don’t know yet what the next 26 hours will have in store for us, and that none of those tasks will get done. The wind rocks the boat so badly that I’m feeding the fish before we’re even out of the bay. There’re a couple of bunks for the crew. Theoretically, we could sleep in them, but the filthy mattresses and the smelly diesel cans next to them are unbearable for the seasick. We prefer to lie on deck in the sun accompanied by a free-running chicken that will end up in the soup pot eventually. Not even the rum tastes good. Without a toilet, I drink nothing. After 10 hours, I’m completely dehydrated, so I gulp two liters of water and learn how to pee in a bottle in stormy seas. Crawling on all fours to my bike to get something out of my panniers takes half an hour, to the amusement of the crew. At night, our bikes sway so much that we fear we may lose them overboard. Jan-Peter and Wolfgang end up sleeping on hard sacks of coconuts and coal, with a bag of rice as a pillow. Herbert and I curl up in sleeping bags, the occasional big wave breaking over us.
The tropical paradise of Nosy Bé lies 6 miles off the northwest coast of Madagascar.
A Reason to Come Back
When we reach Tamatave the next morning, we’re relieved. But why are we docking in the second row? Why don’t we see the crew unloading? It’s Saturday, and Customs in Madagascar’s main port is closed until Monday. Sadly, that means we won’t be able to make it to Morondava and realize my dream of photographing the Alley of the Baobabs in the light of the setting sun. I’m satisfied, however, because I know in my heart that I have a place to return to some day…
