Mantasoa Part I: The Sights

The weekend before Ash Wednesday, the Fulbrighters and I decided to go out and see Mantasoa, a small resort village along an artificial lake about 2-3 hours from Tana. As I previously mentioned in my blog about horseback riding and the croc farm, we have pretty much exhausted tourist sights in the capital with the exception of two Rova (ancient royal residences on hills) and a craft market. But those aren’t really going anywhere, so we decided to pack up and head out to rural Madagascar for the weekend for an experience altogether much different than my Ash Wednesday in Andasibe.

The drive out to Mantasoa was as lovely as ever. It can be stressful traveling along the “highways” which are really just winding roads with massive potholes and sometimes questionable bridges. Large trucks block the road, and to get around them, you have to go into the opposite-bound lane. This makes for some close calls if your driver isn’t careful or if there are too many narcissists on the road. Thankfully for us, we like to rent a car and driver from a reliable company. In fact, our driver for the weekend was the same driver we had during our orientation week at the US Embassy. He was quite happy to see us and he is always the most attentive.

I would never be able to drive out there, at least not right now. But being a passenger is a much better experience. Most of the drive I just look out the window. I like to watch the people in the villages as we drive through them. I like to take in the mountains, the hills, the forests, and the rice fields. It’s generally a mixture of every shade of green and a few red patches here and there. Most of the island is made of red clay. Hence the nickname, the Red Island. Nonetheless, the countryside in Madagascar is infinitely more peaceful than the bustling and noisy center of Tana where I live. It was a relief to get out into the rural parts again.

Life is very simple here in Madagascar, and especially in the countryside. The United States moves too fast, we are in such a rush, and, worst of all, in my opinion, we think so highly of ourselves. It dawned on me while I was in the countryside this weekend, that we have become so idealistic in the US that community is more of a commodity to consume than to participate in and contribute to. I often write in my works on civil society that many people today, especially young people, want the benefits of community without ever putting in the effort necessary to build and maintain that community. I think we have become too self-centered to truly enjoy and thrive after living in a community. That's not to say everyone in the United States is a raging individualist. Nonetheless, we all have a tendency to subconsciously place our own needs, comfort, and convenience above that of a faceless society, one of the many reasons why humility must always be a conscious effort on our part.

That being said, we often think ourselves too important or that community gatherings are silly and don’t provide any real, tangible benefit, at least not to ourselves. I think this is why cities, where there are literally millions of people living closely to one another, are the most community-deprived places in the world. Somehow, community doesn’t thrive when people are forced to live together through convenience. What this tells me is that community is a choice, a decision, a conscious effort of mutual action, cooperation, and collective goal orientation. I find it ironic that many of us in the US who promote a collectivist approach to society are also the ones least likely to participate in or organize a community event, unless, of course, it is of benefit to the individual and only with people we like. Community also means getting along with those with whom we disagree or dislike. But I digress too much, and perhaps the community soccer games, the neighborhood dinners, the daily gatherings, the church group headed out to the rice fields with spades and baskets, the group of men pushing a truck out of the mud, and the overall simplistic and personable lifestyle of rural Madagascar have got me dreaming about island paradises or, God forbid, a life where our egos do not take the center place of our lives. I am very much guilty of that in many ways.

Anyways, the roads once we veered off the main “highway”, however, provided us with a substantial dose of bouncing and jerking. The dirt and cobble roads in the rural parts are littered with holes. Sometimes our driver drives half on the road and half off the road just to give us a smoother ride. My fellow Fulbrighters are more prone to motion sickness than I am. They don’t really enjoy this part of our journey. But I just smile to myself and soak up every minute of it. I guess you could call it a blessing.

Our destination was Mantasoa Lodge, a higher-end tourist hub for vazaha like us and wealthier Malagasy families. In fact, there were quite a few French people there and plenty of Malagasy. The resort is beautiful. It sits along the artificial lake and boasts a wonderful menu and full list of activities. Some of us went horseback riding, others went hiking, we all went on a boat ride to an island park where we played with lemurs, and I even went for a run through the forested roads and just soaked in the time to relax. It is a peaceful place, miles from any large residential area. The people are always kind and they like it when we try to speak Malagasy. The most I can say is that I’m a teacher and that I teach English. Nonetheless, they soak up the little we know because, unlike our French vazaha counterparts, we have made the effort of learning the local language, even if it’s not very good.

All in all, there’s not much to say about our lowkey weekend in Mantasoa. I enjoyed playing what I call “Malagasy food roulette” where I read the menu, pick a Malagasy dish, and hope for the best. The most I ever know about the dish before I select it is the meat because I’ve finally memorized the various meats in Malagasy. And what did this all cost? Not even $100 for everything the entire weekend. Part II will come out later this week, if I get to it, where I will explain the history of this artificial lake and how one seemingly typical shipwreck led to Mantasoa’s creation and the significant history it retains because of a Frenchman names Jean Laborde. Well, enjoy the photos I’ve added below. As always, know that you are in my prayers each morning. All I ask is that you do the same for me.

May God be praised.