The early morning drive from Antananarivo to the countryside is full of beauty. The city is waking as people unload baskets of vegetables and other products to sell on the sidewalks. Cars, ox-carts, push-carts, bicycles and pedestrians all battle for space on the road. We exit the city and the rice fields come quickly into view where people are already hard at work, bent over, sometimes in waist-high water. From the comfort of our car the scene looks like something from a postcard – the brilliant greens of sprouting rice, the patchwork fields, the morning sun’s reflection on the muddy waters. But in the paddies the reality is all sweat, hunger and back-breaking labor.
We travel on, stopping to visit various village churches built and/or assisted by the Ravoahangys. After a quick stop in the town of Moramanga to buy supplies, sweets and biscuits for the children we head to the village of Andrindra, where a truck waits for us. The road ahead is too rough for a city car.
As the drivers load supplies into the truck, Cathy and I argue about who will ride where. I win this one so it’s into the back of the truck I go. I find a comfortable seat on a bag of something (it’s either rice or cement mix, I’m not sure), the man next to me motions for me to hang on tightly to the sideboard, and we’re off.
Within minutes we are heading straight up a mountain and the view is spectacular. The road itself is pretty spectacular for different reasons. Winding up and around the side of the mountain, it’s deeply rutted and frighteningly narrow in places. There are no guardrails, only steep drop-offs and huge holes in the road here and there that the driver must swerve to avoid – if there is any room to swerve. The truck bogs down in the mud on a steep incline, so the men jump out to lighten the load. Along the way, we greet villagers herding cows or carrying large bundles, walking the steep road as if they are out for a Sunday stroll.
Finally we reach the village of Sakalava, which is the end of the road for the truck. The rest of the journey must be made on foot. Weeks before I left home, Ibrahim and Cathy had emailed me a warning to bring good walking shoes and expect a challenging hike. However, nothing could have prepared me for the day ahead.
Pastor Drasana of Sakalava and Pastor Jean of Tanambaovao sling our bags and packages on sticks over their shoulders and happily set out – keeping a close eye on us during the most treacherous passages. The deep river crossings are not as difficult as they could have been because the villagers repaired the bridge. Now there are either 2 or 4 disconnected logs instead of one. The drop is still long and the river is still deep, but there is a greater chance of keeping our footing.
There are goat paths where you literally have to put one foot in front of the other – with water on one side and a 8-10 foot drop on the other. There are single log crossings through rice paddies and more steep inclines than I can count. At times we are almost vertical – both climbing up and sliding down an incline. We hop over crevices and trek across muddy fields and rocky terrain. We push through deep thick brush and along the way, villagers suddenly appear out of nowhere carrying baskets, or hoes, or machetes to greet us. Two hours have passed when we finally stop at a house. I think we’ve arrived and am feeling pretty proud of myself to have completed such a grueling hike, but this is only a resting place. We are only halfway to our destination and have two more hours of more difficult terrain ahead. They serve us bread and a delicious milky white tea made of special malagasy leaves and we are on our way again. Ibrahim has business to take care of so he stays in this village and then heads back to Sakalava, Cathy and I press on together with Pastor Jean and a young musician from Tanambaovao who frequently takes my hand to keep me from tumbling over the side or landing in the water.
It’s dark when the church comes into view over the crest of one last hill. Set in a clearing with nothing else in view but forest it looks beautiful to me. I have never been so happy to see a church building in my life.
The pastor has prepared beds for us in the church. Cathy and I argue over who will sleep where and she wins this one so she takes the wooden bench. My bed has sacks of straw atop wooden benches, creating some cushion. Jean’s wife, Mamisoa arrives carrying a bucket of steaming hot water and leads me to a three-sided shelter to bathe. I’m taller than the shelter so I quickly put out my headlamp and enjoy the cool mountain air, pouring steaming water over my scratched legs and blistered feet. After a delicious meal of rice and potatoes and some good conversation, we gratefully crawl into our beds.
Cathy calls this place the ends of the earth because it is so remote and hard to reach. I lie in the darkness, listening to the baboons and lemurs chattering and fighting in the distance. I pray for the pastor who so humbly and joyfully carried our heavy bags on that difficult trail and his beautiful wife who served us so graciously when we arrived. I pray for the people who live in this forest, who struggle daily to survive and live in constant fear of witchcraft and evil spirits. I pray for the church family who will arrive early tomorrow morning and can feel God’s intense love for this place and these people. Eager for morning to break but tired to my very bones, I finally drift off to sleep to the sounds of the forest.