A Taxi Brousse Experience

All the drivers and people gatherers know me in Antsohihy. As soon as they see me walking down the street, they start shouting at me in Gasy. “Christophe, you going today?” “When are you leaving, Christophe?” “We haven’t seen you in awhile, Christophe”. I ask the ticket man when the brousse is leaving and he guesstimates. It’s a good idea to add an hour on to the time that he says. We agree that when the brousse is ready to go that it will pick me up at the Hotel Tiako (Hotel I Like). If the brousse picks me up before anyone else has gotten in, this means that I get the window seat in the very last row. This might be a coveted seat by the smaller Gasy, however for this long vazaha it is loathed. I dread getting this seat as it means that I will not be able to get out of the brousse for the entire 5 hour drive.

A taxi brousse is made to seat around 15 comfortably; however it is considerably more profitable to at least double this amount of passengers. There are four bench seats and each has an adjoining foldable jump seat. The driver and two other people sit in the front. I usually try to ask to sit in the front as it typically makes for a much less painful ride. If you have to sit four deep in the front, or have a small child sitting on your lap then you might as well be smashed in the back of the van. In order to be a functioning brousse it is apparently mandatory that it be painted in a very obnoxious, bright color. Red, yellow and turquoise seem to be the top choices.

I am the first person picked up so I must fold my body into the back seat with my back pack on the floor in between my feet. I think to myself that this isn’t so bad and that I might actually have a fairly painless ride. These sentiments, of course, dissipate as the brousse fills and I become the bread of a 5 person bench seat sandwich. The very natural smell of body odor permeates the van, but goes unnoticed as everyone is contributing their own scent. On my bench seat the order goes me, small woman, small man, small woman, and small man. If I were not sitting on this bench, it is likely that two other Gasy would be there. One cheek of my fat butt equals the entire bum of most Gasy. The small man next to the small woman takes this chance of extreme closeness to begin groping and caressing his female neighbor. She puts up minimal resistance, maybe the beginning of a something special. The crush of bodies quickly makes for a hot and steamy ride.

I feel lucky to have the window seat until it starts raining. The windows are not sealed well and so a steady stream of water flows down on to my left side. I am hesitant to shut the window completely as it’s already very hot, but a decision must be made to be either hot and sweaty or completely soaked. Hot and sweaty gets the nod. I pull out my ipod, so as to try and lose myself in the world of electronic tunes. Sleeping is impossible because I can not ignore the fact that the lower part of my body is very uncomfortable and needs constant readjustment. If only I were a Buddhist monk and could gain a mind over matter unconsciousness. The feet are the first to lose feeling and then the tingly feeling of drowsy limbs climbs up through my legs. I try to move but I am effectively immobilized by the pressure exerted by the other four passengers on my bench. No one can move, everyone is uncomfortable, but thou shalt not complain. The key is to think of something else. I think of the free feeling of swimming in the ocean, nothing constrains me as I’ve got a free range of motion in the ocean.

At the height of the brousse being at maximum capacity, it is possible for there to be at least 30 people in, on and hanging off the brousse. I’ve been in brousses where there have been at least 4 men hanging off the back while we max out at speeds of around 50 mph. People pile in with giant sacks of rice and big baskets of chickens to sell at market. One shouldn’t be surprised to hear a muffled quack and look down to see a shackled duck in a woven bag. On one trip to Port Berge, the driver stopped at a roadside butcher stand, purchased the head of a zebu, and tossed it with its tongue flailing out of its mouth, on to the top of the van where it came to rest on top of my backpack. Drivers have a high tolerance for dead animals and they refuse to brake for any live ones. This was demonstrated by a driver who saw the baby pig run in front of the van, and without hesitation accelerated right through it. I thought there was a chance that the piggie might sneak through, until I heard a loud thump below where I was sitting. My first roadkill pig, and most likely not my last.

There are three main stops along the route to Port Berge from Antsohihy, along with the dozens of other stops made to let passengers out at their various destinations. I hope that at each stop either someone from my bench will get out for good, or that the entire brousse will empty allowing a brief leg stretching intermission. It’s raining and so each stop is brief with all passengers remaining inside. At the three main stops the van is rushed by many young girls selling different foods items. Grilled chicken (delicious), fried kida (un-sweet banana), boiled corn on the cob, fried bread balls, fried breaded bananas, and oranges. I make a point of always buying a couple chicken legs as they are very flavorful and briefly take one’s mind off the throbbing feeling in the legs. I have become very efficient at cleaning a chicken bone. If it can be chewed, then it’s going to be eaten. The Gasy not only immaculately clean the bones, but they then break them in half for a little protein laden marrow sucking. I’m not quite there.

We go through many little villages with houses made of mud brick and thatched roofs. The terrain is hilly and green due to it being the rainy season. After the rains, the landscape will drastically change to a red dusty dryness with most of the vegetation burnt by the slash and burn farming techniques. Its depressing to look out on a horizon littered with the charred remains of palm trees and other various vegetations. But now, everything is green and lush. As we near Port Berge the sun is setting in the west. The spectacularly orange and purple flaring across the sky makes me take stock of where I am and how lucky I am to be having this uncomfortable taxi brousse experience. I also realize how close I am to the ocean, and yet how far away at the same time. The glorious setting sun is falling below the Mozambique Channel which is only about 40 km away, but because there is no road going directly west to the sea it takes several hours to get there by indirect roads.

About 20 km outside of Port Berge, the brousse crosses the Sofia River by way of one of the longest bridges in Madagascar. A very picturesque scene is presented as the brousse crosses the large river. Apparently, it is possible to take a boat down this river to its outlet into the ocean. I look forward to exploring this possibility in the future. You can’t fall in the water however, because of the crocodiles that call the river home.

We coast into Port Berge and come to rest in front of the marketplace. Everyone empties out and it takes a few minute for the old legs to regain feeling and strength. And there it is, home again, home again, jiggety-jig.