Fianarantsoa, Madagascar

The rickety old taxi-brousse wheezed its way over the final bend on the RN7, the main highway, collecting potholes at every opportunity. This long-distance minibus is the backbone of transportation in Madagascar, an absolute lifeline for locals. Patched together and packed to the rafters with people, sacks of rice, crates of chickens, and just about anything else that needs moving from one dusty town to the next, it’s less a bus and more a travelling market on wheels. I’d been wedged into the back corner since sunrise, knees jammed against a sack of cassava, a young child dozing on my shoulder. Every time we stopped, more bundles and more passengers were miraculously squeezed in, the driver always confident there was room for one more.

As we rumbled across the Mandranofotsy River, I could feel the altitude in my chest and the dust in my teeth. Fianarantsoa, meaning “good education”, appeared before me. Double-storey abodes, lean-tos, shacks, makeshift shops interspersed with colonial-influenced architecture, multiple-storey complexes, and retail stores lined the highway. I pressed my face to the window, watching the scenery take shape.

The driver let me off at the bus station. As I took a moment to get my bearings. The noise from the nearby Noor Market drew me like a moth to flame. The hustle and bustle were in full swing, stalls squeezed tightly together, every spare patch of pavement piled high with goods. Garments fluttered on hangers, the smell of grilled meat mingled with that of ripe fruit, and voices bartered over everything in between.

The market became my springboard for further exploration as I climbed up the hill to Cathédrale du Saint-Nom de Jésus, a prominent red-brick church built in 1890. From there, the road continued to ascend, winding past wooden houses, children playing in the dust, and weather-worn steps leading deeper into Fianarantsoa’s historic upper town.

Perched on a ridge, the old town was laid out in the early 19th century under Queen Ranavalona I of the Merida Kingdom as a centre of administration, education and Christianity. Unlike much of Madagascar, this hillside quarter has retained its historic character of narrow lanes, red-brick missionary buildings, and traditional wooden houses with balconies that creak with age. The town was home to the Betsileo people, one of Madagascar’s highland ethnic groups, whose ingenuity in rice cultivation shaped the terraced slopes visible from the hilltop. 

Below me, the valley stretched wide and green, carved into dozens of terraces, each rice paddy bordered by narrow earthen walls. Built with patience and maintained with care, these levels transformed the steep hillsides into fertile steppes shaped by generations of Betsileo farmers. This design helps prevent soil erosion and maximises water retention, ensuring a steady water supply for the rice paddies, even during dry spells.

I followed a winding footpath down from the old town, passing between low stone walls and groves of banana trees. At the edge of one terrace, I paused to watch a group of farmers at work. Their feet sank into the muddy water as they moved through the fields, backs bent, hands steady. Using a sickle, they cut the rice spike (aka ears) and tied them in bundles, which were then transferred onto large tarps where the stalks were beaten against a large rock, known as threshing, to knock the rice grains loose. All the work was manually conducted. No machines, just tradition, muscles and experience. 

I stood quietly, not wanting to interrupt, watching the process unfold, then silently walked back toward town for an overnight stay as I would be catching the early morning train to Manakara.