Last couple of days in Madagascar - Ambohimanga and goodbye to Tana

After a couple of days relaxing at Nosy Be, I flew back to Tana. The last two days in Madagascar were spent in a visit to Ambohimanga and strolling and shopping for souvenirs.

Ambohimanga is one of the sacred hills on the Antananarive plateau, the highest and most sacred of them all, the ancient capital of the Merina kingdom, under which the island was unified in the 18th century. These days, it’s a small village on top of the only hill that still keeps its ancient forest in the plateau (it was sacred, so the trees escaped the deforestation that consumed the neighboring country to produce coal), with the ancient fortified palace precincts, a UNESCO world heritage site. There were several doors in the ancient wall, one can see one of them today, and the heavy circular stone that used to close it, moved by 40 slaves. Before entering the palace precinct, one sees the place of sacrifices to the ancestors’ spirits, a flat stone by a huge ficus tree. The main Malagasy religion is still animism, and there are still frequent sacrifices there: chicken, ducks, zebus in special occasions, and several zebu skulls hang on the tree.

I hired a licensed guide, a short woman named Emma, that took me for the tour of the site, telling the stories of the place in her accented French – never have I heard so many times the word “sacré”. In Ambohimanga, literally everything is sacré. Theprecinct is an impressively beautiful place, with an incredible view over the plateau.

First, there are the ancient ficus trees (“l’arbre sacré!”), one of them surrounded by 12 stones, representing the king and his 12 wives (“douze, le numéro sacré!”), and the enclosure where the zebus are kept and fed before being sacrificed. Then, the king’s palace (king Andriambelomasina, and yes, she could say this word without hesitation), a modest wooden building (“c’était du luxe quand même!”), with pillars of huge palisanders (“le bois pour les rois – sacré!”); one cannot take pictures of the interior (“c’est sacré!”), where the king’s bed is by the eastern wall (“où le soleil se lève, c’est le côté sacré!”), and the king used to be perched on the ceiling while giving audience, so he wouldn’t be seen to be protected from potential attacks and would answer petitions by throwing pebbles from above, while the favorite wife entertained the guests. One should leave the palace walking backwards so one wouldn’t turn his back on the king – “mais vous pouvez sortir comme vous voulez”.

Next to the king’s palace, there’s the queen’s summer palace, a 19th century wooden building, a kind of European villa, built for the infamous queen Ranavalonna I, whose main residence was the “palais de la reine” in Tana. Small but comfortable, it’s a curious house, with the dining-room with a runaway trapdoor and cupboards with mirrors so she could watch if anyone would try to poison her, and her portraits in Victorian attire, on a stool to look taller (“elle avait seulemant 1.40m”) and heavily powdered (“elle voulait être blanche… comme Michael Jackson!”). She had lots of lovers (“meme des esclaves!”) and her son was deposed because suspected of not being of royal blood (“il est né 14 mois après la mort du roi”).

Up a few steps from the palaces, there are the royal tomb, and then the sacred pools, where the king had his annual sacred bath, with rain water carried by 40 virgins. There was a special staircase for the king, through a door crowned by a sculpted ficus leaf – “la feuille sacrée.

I loved Ambohimanga (the name means ”beautiful hill”), and after leaving Emma – who, in her dignified poise, was probably not much different from Ranavalonna – wondered in the woods watching the breathtaking view. Sacred places, here or anywhere else, are not chosen randomly; there’s always something impressive about them.

On my last day, I wondered through the city, feeling somewhat familiar with it, stopping for coffee at the Café de la Gare, having a drink with a new acquaintance, and buying some souvenirs. Chocolates, t-shirts, and beautiful wooden handicraft at the Marché de la Digue – a few sculptures and masks and a chess set.

So, all in all, it was quite a trip. Nature, culture, food and rest, and a lot of time by myself, something I hadn’t noticed how much I missed until enjoying it.

L'Oeuvre, by Emile Zola

This was one of the few Rougon-Macquart novels I hadn't read. I started reading them as a teenager, with Nana and Germinal, and was always impressed by Zola's powerful writing. These novels are a true fresco of the French society under the Second Empire, and of human nature in general, each one dealing with a particular theme - provincial politics in La Fortune des Rougons and La Conquête de Plassans, urban speculation in La Curée, proletarian work in Germinal, department stores in Au Bonheur des Dames, church hypocrisy in La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret, alcoholism in L'Assomoir, etc etc... This time, the theme is art and creativity, and once more the tone is deeply pessimistic; one gets depressed reading the hopeless struggle and the ineluctable descent of Claude Lantier, the génie manqué, as when reading the appalling narrative of Gervaise's abasement by drinking in L'Assomoir, one of the most distressful books I ever read. One wonders why he was so pessimistic about the art scene of the Impressionism, that was such a happy period in art, so lively and new, but I guess it had to do with the ensemble of his work, the general disenchantment with human nature and society that he experienced. And it's actually quite understandable; when I read his books, I can't help but seeing the depiction of my own country's present society, so vividly described in books like La Curée. It's depressing, but totally true.

Madagascar - a road trip and idling at Nosy Be

From Ankarana, I went by road to Ankify, to take the boat to the Island of Nosy Be. It was a most beautiful drive, along valleys and fields of red-brown earth, cocoa, cashew and ylang-ylang trees, vendors on the side of the road, where I bought some tasty cashew nuts. But it was also a grim taste of Malagasy roads: stretches of good road and stretches of appalling potholes, with young people and kids shoveling gravel into the holes and waiting for some money from the drivers. Also, in every village, people hammering stones to make gravel, that will be eventually bought by some factories. Near Ambilobe, a bridge had collapsed under a heavy truck a month ago, and they diverted the road so we passed the river over pebbles – the passengers of the taxi-brousses had to step out and cross on foot, with water to their ankles, so the vehicle would be lighter – but what about when the rains come in a few weeks? And this is the main road in the North of the country… And Patrick kept saying: “Les Malgaches, ça n’existe pas!”, as he did when, in Diego Suárez, he had shown me a hospital built with Chinese money a few years before (one of several in the country) that stood completely empty, with not even basic furniture.

At Ankify, I took a speed boat to Nosy Be, where I spent two days in lazy idleness at the beach, swimming, reading and eating. The beach is beautiful, the sea water warm. The touristy village of Abitaloaka, near my hotel, featured a lot of old European guys with young Malagasy girls, which was a little disheartening. I’m sure the snorkeling and diving at Nosy Be must be wonderful, but I just idled on the beach and read, resting from the hikes of previous days.

Reborn - Early Diaries 1947-1963, by Susan Sontag

Just finished Reborn; it has interesting parts, but it was never able to captivate me for more than brief moments. Maybe because Susan Sontag takes herself too seriously and lacks a sense of humor, or because she's too self-centered, or due to her obstinate goal of building a self instead of just being herself - although that can be quite worthwhile - or because of a number of small indefinable things. I was never able to sympathize / empathize with her for more than brief moments, and that's an insurmountable obstacle to like diaries or correspondences. And the writing didn't help - in a raw state, her writing was rather plain.

But yet there are passages that touched me, like:

From this, a will to failure that often my talents frustrate. So then I devalue my successes (fellowships, the novel, jobs). These become unreal to me. I feel I am masquerading, pretending.

Aristotle is right: happiness is not to be aimed at; it is a by-product of activity aimed at -

One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people, the people (like parents + lovers) about whom one has been cruelly honest only in the journal.

Why is writing important? Mainly, out of egotism, I suppose. Because I want to be that persona, a writer, and not because there is something I must say.

All in all, I'm not sure if I want to read the other two volumes of her diaries.