They say it’s the best train ride in Madagascar – Andrew Smithers, eat your heart out! L.P. describes it as the Rollicking Train and warns against sea-sickness. We queued for tickets at 6.30 for the alleged 7.00am, travelling First Class in the hope of a seat. In the event, it was tight, squashed between a group of Malagasy girls with a battery-powered Japanese baby doll that squawked, a French couple (she kept groaning and popping Imodium and he ate constantly the fried food bought from hawkers on the twelve stations – insensitive, I thought!) and a gasping group of seven French Venture Scouts, fully equipped with mud, woggles and a guy who lives in France but whose Mum lives in Fianar so knows the island (Dreads, a Nikon and some English – good source of local info).
The scenery on the way down was initially mountains much craggier than we’ve seen so far, with valleys terraced as before but much steeper and more isolated, that turned into rainforest then coastal palm plantations and casuarina stands. The 170km journey was regularly halted at twelve stations and the train gradually emptied of local people and luggage from 1st class, but seemed pretty consistently full in 2nd. Both carriages. Periodically, we lost a goods wagon, but the weight was equalled by the food consumed by passengers: samosas, bananas in batter, oranges, sandwiches, spherical sausages, brioches, green bananas, pineapples, indeterminate bits of zebu, peanuts etc. But no water, oddly.
At Manakara, the pousse-pousse men swarmed and I capitulated. L.P. and Bradt are inconclusive, so I guessed. Hotel No.1 was awful, but as the receptionist was asleep, I could judge the place without his knowledge. No. 2 is lovely. Little bungalows on the beach for £8 a night – clean and idyllic. Strong surf and an artificial lagoon, friendly staff and cold beer. Now drinking coco-punch and waiting for dinner. Hmm.