Toamasina, Madagascar

After a few misty mornings in Andasibe forest, I swapped the damp canopy for the dusty road, climbing into a 4x4 for a trip to the east coast. Toamasina wasn’t exactly next door at 124mi (200km) away, but the 4x4 made all the difference. It handled the bends, potholes, and the occasional wandering zebu with relative ease, and we made good time.

The landscape shifted as we drove. Dense rainforest gave way to stretches of farmland peppered with villages where stalls overflowed with pineapples, papaya, and charcoal sacks stacked like pyramids. As a side note, charcoal is incredibly important in Madagascar as a primary source of household energy since electricity and gas aren’t widely available. The downside is that much of the charcoal is produced through unsustainable logging. Sometimes, native forests are cut down, and the wood is slowly burned in earthen kilns to create charcoal that’s then sold in roadside markets.

Eventually, I arrived in Toamasina (also known as Tamatave), Madagascar’s principal seaport and gateway to the Indian Ocean. The salty air was thick with humidity. The streets were bustling and gritty, and the broad Independence Avenue was lined with palm trees. Faded colonial-era buildings dotted the city, while the soaring steeple of the beautiful white Notre Dame de Lourdes church was visible from afar. Tuk-tuks and motorbikes weaved around the slower rickshaws while locals balanced baskets filled with goods on their heads, going about their business.

I spent the afternoon wandering the city’s two main markets. First, I went to the smaller Bazar Kely, opposite the train station, but it was the larger Bazary Be that drew my attention. A fire in 2010 burnt half the market down, prompting its reconstruction and the addition of 750 stalls. As with any Madagascan market, it was loud and energetic. Everywhere I looked, stalls were stacked high with freshly harvested fruit, sweet, juicy mangoes, spiky rambutans, and guavas, to name a few, alongside sacks full of spices. Think cloves, cinnamon, wild pepper, vanilla pods, deep yellow-orange saffron, and turmeric. The staple, rice, was found on nearly every corner.

As I handled a cap to shield myself from the scorching sun, I knew I had to haggle with the stall owner. Bargaining is expected, and as a foreigner, I was well aware the starting price had been significantly multiplied. In good faith and as expected, we negotiated until we arrived at a win-win outcome.

Satisfied, I plopped the cap on my head and walked to the port, where cargo ships loomed offshore and cranes groaned under the weight of stacked containers. I stood there watching, mesmerised by the busyness. There was constant movement, workers loading and unloading goods, trucks weaving in and out, and smaller boats bobbing between the larger vessels.

It wasn’t a pretty sight in the traditional sense, but there was something magnetic about it. Engine oil hung thickly in the air as I pondered where the ships had come from and where they might be headed as they braved the wild seas, transporting goods back and forth.