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9 June 2001
My first glimpse of Madagascar is at around mid-afternoon when the massive island edges above the horizon to slide into view alongside the minute shadow of our jumbo jet. It is a mammoth landmass, strikingly arid in places, with blood-brown rivers leeching topsoil into the indigo ocean. Slipping through candyfloss clouds, we drone high above a spiny desert landscape dotted with sandstone massifs en route to Antananarivo, the island capital. 10 June 2001
C’est bon! Heading south into the central highlands by brousse mini-bus in an African taxi actually sticking within load specifications as stipulated by the vehicle manufacturers. We dodge ancient Citroën CVs as we sputter up steep, cobbled streets and then along a narrow switchback route winding its way through low hills and granite outcrops. Occasionally we cross narrow bridges precariously spanning muddy rivers, passing trundling zebu carts, pousse-pousse rickshaws and gap-toothed grand-parents on bicycles as we approach Antsirabe. Madagascar’s third-largest city is a tree-filled and amiable place, and we decide to lunch at a small hotely where we procure grilled chicken, pom frittes and a few Three Horses beers. Suitably fortified, we head to a dusty square posing as the Betafo taxi rank (rank being the operative word). Decrepit Peugeots trawl the square, with rag-tag owners cajoling passengers into baking cars idling away in the searing sun. Forty five minutes of bargaining, half an hour of waiting and twelve kilometres of pothole lurching later we finally arrive at Lake Andraikiba, where we decide to camp for a few days. 11 June 2001
Unzip the tent to face a misty morning after a freezing night in the Madagascan highlands. On the programme today is a substantial tramp to Lac Tritriva, a crater lake situated approximately twelve kilometres from Andraikiba along a dirt road traversing stepped, rice paddies. We meander through picturesque rural villages resplendent with mud-brick villas, beaming grandmothers and overexcited kids announcing our arrival with loud shouts of “vazaha!”, or “foreigner!” Local culture fade and immingle effortlessly across Polynesian, Indian, African and European boundaries, with panoramas varying from the hauntingly Latin American or feudally French to scenes straight from a Tibetan coffee table book. Rice paddies and ox carts piled high with straw transport you to rural Vietnam, while the coal-black, braided hair and colourful headscarves of Merina girls could just a easily have been from small-town Mexico. We eventually reach Lac Tritriva after an endless stream of smiles and greetings, descending towards the deep blue waters of the volcanic lake slumbering within a sloping caldera. Steep ridges, densely forested with serried ranks of pine, rise up towards a wide and cloudless sky mirrored upon the placid surface of the water. Despite a local fady (belief) prohibiting swimming in Tritriva, our local guide gives us the go-ahead to dive in and join a dabchick family drifting on the rippling lake. After a solid seven hours of hiking, sleep comes easily on the shores of Lac Andraikiba that night. 12 June 2001
Time for torture travel mode as the day kicks off in another scabby dust bowl taxi rank. I know Africa has her own time, but our collective patience is wearing rather thin after seven hours under a severe sun. Fierce and sustained haggling eventually secure us an old and cranky station wagon bound for Miandrivazo, where we spend a hot and humid night on the banks of the Tsiribihina river. 13 July 2001
The most challenging section of our road trip down south awaits - two hundred and eighty kilometres of truck-chomping potholes, held together by crumbling stretches of hard-pack, connects Miandrivazo to Morondava. Lady Luck smiles on us however when we meet a saintly old gentleman by the name of Vunzi who has to deliver a luxury 4x4 to the West Coast. He offers us a lift (for a small fee, of course) and our nightmare trip turns into a comfortably ride smoothed by independent suspension and air-conditioning. About two hours outside Morondava, we encounter our first baobabs; some are short and squat, while others loom like giants about to blast off from rice paddies like weird, botanical spaceships. Vunzi stops for a photo opp at a towering, upside down colossus with stubby branches stabbing into the amber afternoon. | 
