Manakara, Madagascar

When I arrived at Fianarantsoa train station, I was pleased to see that the train was already waiting, a long, weathered stretch of carriages painted forest green with two thick yellow horizontal lines. I climbed aboard and found a seat by the window, where the glass was scratched and clouded, but I was able to open the top half for a view. Around me, a few passengers were already settled along the wooden benches.

The train finally jerked into motion, ever so slowly, creaking its way out of the highlands and beginning the long descent toward the coast. The journey from Fianarantsoa to Manakara spans 102mi (163km). It follows a winding, narrow-gauge line through 17 villages, 65 bridges, and 48 tunnels. I settled into my seat and handed my ticket to the conductor. With a warm smile and a brief greeting, he marked it with a practised flick and moved on to the next passenger.

Outside my window, the landscape began to reveal itself, ridges blanketed in terraced rice fields, deep ravines, thinly veiled waterfalls, and remote villages tucked into the folds of the hills. Sometimes, we passed so close to the edge that I instinctively leaned back as if my own weight might help keep the train on the rails. On other stretches, the jungle pressed right up against the track, thick with tropical plants. Out of nowhere, children would appear, holding up handmade goods like brooms or carved trinkets, trying to catch the attention of passengers. A quick exchange of hands, currency for goods, while the train continued to creak forward. An ingenious way to do business, taking the opportunity however it presented itself. 

At one point, the train entered the Ankarapotsy Tunnel, the longest on the route at 3,524ft (1,074m), and everything outside disappeared into pitch black, the rumble of wheels echoing off damp stone until daylight slowly returned and the forest closed in again.

At each stop, there was a flurry of activity, from vendors selling fruits, cakes, snacks or coffee to children calling out and running alongside the carriages. I took it all in through that dusty window, watching the world change as altitude gave way to humidity and jungle.

By the time I rolled into Manakara, it was late afternoon. The heat was thicker here, heavy with ocean salt and the scent of mangroves. The town felt forgotten, not neglected, just left in peace. Some colonial buildings stood faded and timeworn, while others were brightly painted. Not far from the town lay the Pangalanes Canal, a slow-moving ribbon of water stretching 410mi (654km) along the east coast. I wandered along its banks, watching fishermen paddle by in pirogues (dugout canoes carved from hollowed-out trees).

Later, I walked down to the beach, where pirogues were lined up, their hulls worn but still colourful. Fishermen hauled in nets while children chased each other on the sand. I found a quiet spot to lie back, soaking up the sun. The sea was too dangerous for swimming, with strong and unpredictable currents, but it was enough to feel the warmth on my skin, listen to the sound of the waves, and enjoy the slowness of this place.