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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
Itinerary
--------- Paris - Antananarivo Tulear - Fort Dauphin - Antananarivo Antananarivo to nowhere Antananarivo - Antalaha - Maroantsetra Maroantsetra - Sambava - Tamatave - Antananarivo - Paris Photographs ----------- http://130.107.1.80/~shmat/airmad Paris - Antananarivo -------------------- I suppose we could've flown Air France or Corsair, but Air Mad has got to be the best-named airline in the world, so here we are, disembarking at CDG after a 3.5-hour TGV ride, most of it with an odoriferous French couple sitting next to us. Terminal 2A is virtually empty at this time of the evening. In addition to our flight, there are a couple of Cameroon Airlines flights to Douala (one nonstop, the other via Algiers and Yaounde), an Air Austral flight to Reunion and a long-delayed AA flight to JFK. Quick check-in, long wait among Hermes ties and duty-free booze, then boarding around 8pm. The plane is a 767-300ER, registration 5R-MFF (formerly flown by Air Canada, Britannia, EVA and Gawd knows who else). 2-class configuration: business with a framed painting on the bulkhead and nicely spaced (at least 60'') seats, and economy with tightly packed, plain blue-cloth seats. Economy is about half full, the crowd is 3/4 Malagasy, 1/4 European. Announcements in Malagasy, French, and English (expected flying time is 10 hours 30 mins), pushback a few minutes early, followed almost immediately by the announcement that we will be taxiing to parking for the ``last technical check.'' Uh-oh. The next five hours are devoted to my favorite game. First, we are told that there will be an announcement in 10 minutes. In due time, we learn that we will disembark and go back to the terminal. People surge forward and stand in the aisles (some woman tries to use her cell phone, but is immediately yelled at by other passengers and forced to switch it off) before being told that the bus will arrive later. Meanwhile, we should all return to our seats since dinner will be served now. Indifferent chicken-or-beef airline food, a nice gentleman in uniform walks by each row, informing every passenger personally that the flight is delayed until tomorrow due to a technical problem and we will be staying in Paris tonight. Nothing happens for a while (people are unusually good-natured given the situation, kids are playing loudly all over the cabin), then announcement that some part is being replaced, and we will depart in 1.5 hours. A tourist video of Madagascar is piped to the overhead screens for our enjoyment. We finally taxi at 1 in the morning, more than 4.5 hours late, and take off into the night. When I wake up, we are somewhere over green and brown Africa, with the huge black cone of Kilimanjaro to the right, followed by a long overwater stretch. With slightly more than one hour of flying time remaining, the movie is started (``Shanghai Knights'') and breakfast is served, followed by the solemn announcement that we have crossed the coast of Madagascar. Landing into Ivato over the red hill country. I guess I'll never learn how the movie ends. Men in assorted uniforms stand around as we walk down the moving stairs and to the small terminal building with a steeply gabled zigzag roof. It's sunny and pleasantly cool. Immigration formalities are quick and surprisingly routine: some pieces of paper are passed from one glassed-in booth to another, the customs guy asks us to open the nicest-looking suitcase but does not bother to look inside, and we are in Madagascar. [...] Tulear - Fort Dauphin - Antananarivo ------------------------------------ After a hair-raising taxi ride in an ancient breadbox-sized Renault 4 with the speedometer stuck hard on 0, we enjoy the dubious honor of being the first passengers to set foot into the Tulear airport today. Apart from a couple of porters lounging outside and a man sleeping in the baggage claim area, the terminal looks abandoned. The wooden board displays yesterday's or maybe last year's flights, an empty glass-walled office of the (long-bankrupt) TAM airline is sporting a printout of the 1999-2000 schedule, and a large green lizard is running up and down the cracked wall, intent on committing a treasonous act against the official portrait of the president who is quite resplendent in a red-white-and-green sash and a generous helping of medals. Massive baggage scales and an antediluvian manual typewriter give the joint the air of a modest ethnographic museum, spoiled only slightly by the bright orange, yellow and blue plastic chairs in the waiting area. By and by, the terminal comes to life. The sleeping gentleman wakes up and starts sweeping, a few vazahas disembark from 4WDs outside, the dusty-looking bar opens for business, men appear from nowhere, change into blue overalls, arrange baggage into something resembling a line next to the check-in counter, put up today's sole flight on the departure board (after some internal negotiation as to the appropriate flight number), bring out a bundle of preprinted luggage tags, and invite us to check in. No computers, no X-rays, no passport checks, no nothin'. The man behind the counter consults a long marked-up list, finds our names, tears off the tickets and hands us two boarding passes with 01 and 02 handwritten on them (no useless information like names or flights, and, as we are to discover, even the numbers are purely abstract). There is nothing to do but decamp to the bar, where we polish off a large bottle of most excellent local beer in the company of a cute little emerald-green gecko. Having had my fill of beer, Cyklon-B fumes emitted by the few dozen locals smoking Bostons, and travel surveys distributed by an eager University of Toliara student, I venture back to the check-in area, which is now crammed full. A few forlorn souls are staring at the ``Vol Cloture'' sign on the counter, and then again at their tickets. Rule #1 of turd-world air travel: confirm, reconfirm, and then reconfirm again. One enterprising would-be passenger in a wine-red jacket is crumpling 25,000-franc notes, having figured that there must be a better way to get onboard than waving a useless ticket. Not much action on the airfield: a lonely windsock, men carry heavy sacks of something or other, baggage is lined up in two rows - Tana on the left, Fort Dauphin on the right. Several gendarmes in berets and olive-green uniforms are kicking back in the shade. I try to chat them up on the subject of their Kalashnikovs, but they seem to be of a morose disposition and barely acknowledge my inquiries. Shortly after 2pm, there is some excitement in the crowd. The gendarmes get up and surround a blue Peugeot van as a Boeing 737 lands out of sight and taxis to the terminal. Actually, according to the lettering on its side, this is a BOING rather than Boeing, and quite a venerable piece of hardware it is: 737-200 original (registration 5R-MFA), with skinny engines and old-style antennas strung between the tail and the fuselage. Passengers form a mob by the doors leading to the field, but nobody gets nowhere while big wooden crates stamped ``Banky Foiben'y Madagasikara'' (Central Bank of Madagascar) are being unloaded and transferred to the Peugeot van, which explains the gendarmes' presence. Then, pushing and shoving, folks file out, performing an important task along the way: everyone has to pick out his baggage from the lineup and state its destination. The 737 is rather basic inside, economy class only, open seating, the overhead bins have no doors, so everything brought onboard must be squeezed under the seats. The plane arrived with quite a few passengers already and is now 100% full. The wine-red-jacketed chap has apparently succeeded in joining us and is now buckling up in one of the flight attendants' jumpseats, but then changes his mind and moves over to the cockpit. Doors are closed at 2:40pm (10 minutes behind schedule). Like all Malagasy airports, TLE has no taxiways, so we taxi on the runway, turn around at the end, and take off. Immediate left bank, shallow circle over the sand dunes and mangrove marshes exposed at low tide, then head southeast, over the bleak landscape of sage-green hills with brown patches of bare earth, thin threads of roads and wide, almost dry riverbeds, until we punch through the thin cloud layer. A few lucky passengers score newspapers, the rest have to do with candy distributed from a plastic bin. The flight is short, 35 minutes from takeoff to landing. On descent, scud running under the thick gray clouds, flying very low (no more than 2,000 feet), very shallow straight-in approach over the coastal mountains strewn with granite rocks, picturesque chessboard fields, intricately shaped lagoons, salt marshes, and beaches pounded by heavy surf. The terminal at Fort Dauphin is tiny, even smaller than at Tulear, but there are also a few hangars on the field with single-engine bugsmashers inside. Behind the airport rise pretty green mountains wrapped in fog. A large crowd is watching us from behind the wire fence. Most passengers get off the plane here. It's drizzling outside, so I decide not to go to the terminal and hang around the cabin instead, peeking into the cockpit, etc. Only a few people get onboard at Fort Dauphin. At 4pm, doors are closed, we taxi to the end of the runway, turn around and take off with 10 degrees of flaps into the fog. I leaf through the _Madagascar Tribune_ which looks for all the world like a church newsletter, badly printed on cheap gray paper and filled mostly with obituaries. Drink service is limited to a meager selection of Tiko-brand soft drinks poured from 2-liter plastic bottles (incidentally, Tiko is owned by the country's president). I opt for ``Classiko Kola.'' It tastes like Pepsi from which most of the fizz has gone out. White-cotton clouds in bright sunlight outside. Descent through multiple cloud layers, then circling in gray soup due to air traffic delays at Ivato. Finally, pop under the clouds over rolling red hills, patchwork of tiny rice paddies in every little gulch and valley, thin red roads. Steep turns to base and final, rather un-737-like 360 on final, and touchdown at 5:27pm. Air France Asie cargo 747-200, Air Mad 767 and a bunch of Twin Otters are parked next to the terminal. I chat briefly with a dignified white-bearded Malagasy gentleman in the next row and discover that he teaches Russian in a lycee in Tana. Purple, blood-filled sunset. After a week in the backcountry, Ivato feels like a big-city airport. [...] Antananarivo - Maroantsetra (1st attempt) --------------------------- Every car arriving to the airport parking lot at Ivato is immediately mobbed by porters (thanks, but no thanks) in orange vests that say ``Hollywood Center.'' Some Hollywood this is. Domestic check-in is computerized, though, names and flight numbers are printed on boarding passes, even the baggage scales are electronic (fortunately, our crap weighs in just under the 20kg/person limit), but baggage tags say ``Air France'' for some reason and the agent still consults a marked-up printout before checking us in. We are scheduled to fly to Sambava, and then, after a 2-hour layover, to Maroantsetra on a connecting flight. Quick trip to the international part of the terminal to change some cash at a money-changer's booth, then back to domestic departures for coffee and croissants. Our flight to Sambava is scheduled for 10am. At 9:15am, it is announced that check-in for our flight is now closed, and we move to the departure area, where there is bugger-all to do but stare at the Twin Otters and yet another Air Mad 737-200 (5R-MFB this time). Just as I get impatient, an announcement in garbled French seems to mention what might very well be my name. Rushing back to the check-in, we are told that our flight to Maroantsetra is ``annulee'' (as we learn later, it had not actually been canceled, but the Sambava flight was delayed long enough to guarantee that we'd miss our connection). We get our luggage back, and, together with two other unlucky Maroantsetra passengers, head to the ``bureau.'' The bureau consists in a wooden counter, behind which two matronly ladies are supervised by a nervous middle-aged man. There is a 3rd woman in the ensemble, but she keeps to her own desk at a properly managerial distance from the negotiations, getting involved only when one of the passengers starts screaming and sputtering. When we arrive, the ladies are busy copying down numbers from a large stack of ticket coupons into a handwritten notebook, but they now proceed to consult a printed Air Mad schedule (which fits in its entirety on a single sheet of A4 paper), pass little notes to each other, argue in a mixture of French and Malagasy, and even refer to the sole computer every now and then. An hour and a half later, when all is said and done, we find ourselves in possession of new tickets to Maroantsetra for tomorrow (written out by hand, of course) and a ``bon d'hebergement'' which entitles us to accommodation and three meals, including 1 small bottle of beer per person, at the hovel that passes for the airport hotel. A driver materializes from nowhere to offer us a ride in the hotel van. With the blessing of the managerial lady, I even procure some sort of official-looking paper with an Air Madagascar stamp certifying that I did not embark on flight such-and-such due to blah-blah. [...] Antananarivo - Antalaha - Maroantsetra -------------------------------------- Next morning, everything goes swimmingly, especially since there is no connection involved. Even though the flight numbers are different (Air Mad flights have a tendency to change numbers at each stopover), the same plane that takes us to Antalaha will continue on to Maroantsetra and further down the coast. Bored out of my skull in the waiting area, I am amused to notice a little tailwheeler flying the pattern around the field, landing and taking off, landing and taking off, etc. Looks like a Citabria, but hard to tell from this distance. Strange place to be learning how to fly. The tailwheeler goes away for several minutes to let the 767 land (back from Paris again), then returns to the pattern for a few more landings. On-time departure, the plane is an ATR 42 (registration 5R-MJD), packed full. Open seating again, the rows aren't even marked with numbers. Taxi past a bunch of old planes, including an ATR with the Tiko logo on the tail (president's yogurt and soft-drink empire), takeoff, uneventful 1 hour 10 minutes over the clouds. Newspapers are distributed and then collected again for future passengers. Descent over the bay of Antongil, pretty forested islands floating in the ocean, clouds again, unpleasant engine vibration, then crumpled green mountains covered with wild-looking jungle and straight-in, downwind landing that uses up pretty much the entire runway. I grab a plastic transit tag and venture out to the Antalaha airport, which comprises one crowded, very basic room with white-painted walls. Today's flights (both of them) are handwritten on a chalkboard. Sidling up to the bar, I order a coffee. The attendant nods, goes to the back, and brings out a plastic bag with a cardboard box. The box turns out to contain a coffeemaker, which he swipes with a cloth, plugs in, fills with bottled water and, in due time, produces two cups of coffee, which arrive just as boarding is announced and the mob storms the door to the airfield. The plane is re-filled to capacity again. A guy in hot-pink pants is watching the takeoff from the bushes. We depart upwind this time, nice view of sandy beaches and waving palms, then into the clouds for a quick 15-minute flight back south to Maroantsetra. On descent, spectacular views of the bay, woolly green islands, surf-beaten beaches and the grid-like city, another downwind landing and taxi to the terminal right on schedule. The airport is the same bare-bones room as in Antalaha, except that this one is livened up a bit by dark-wood furniture with bright red-and-yellow pillows, a large central bank poster advertising new currency, and a small gift stand selling woven hats and baskets. The plane continues down to Mananara, but that's the end of the trip for us. Baggage claim operates along the lines of a Japanese tuna auction: burly porters grab a random bag from the cart, a man shouts out the claim number, and the owner pushes his or her way through the crowd to be reunited with his luggage. Outside it's unpleasantly muggy and hot (80, if not higher). [...] Maroantsetra - Sambava - Tamatave - Antananarivo - Paris -------------------------------------------------------- Past a herd of zebu grazing on the dirt track that serves as the terminal access road in Maroantsetra, we arrive to the airport 1.5 hours prior to our flight. The check-in counter is already mobbed. The check-in procedure is as follows: passengers lay down their tickets, in order of arrival, next to a wooden sign that says something like ``--- OK Billets Attentes ---'' Naturally, all tickets are on the OK side. The gray-haired man behind the counter starts working his way through the tickets, tossing some of them over to the ``Attentes'' side. The holders of the ``OK'' ones get called and must fight their way through the crowd to plop down their sacks and baskets on the scales, where they are weighed and dumped in the back. Fairly anxious wait (our tickets are dead last in the line), but everything is Ok, we get red ``Premiere Class'' (yeah, right) boarding cards with nothing written on them, and can kick back with a nice bottle of THB. They ought to import this stuff to the US. Low clouds and drizzle, but not a problem for the Air Mad aces. The ATR 42 from Mananara arrives on time. Guess who? It's our old acquaintance, 5R-MJD. A few people get out, we get on, and it's off to Sambava, 30 minutes flying time. The cockpit door is open during takeoff, so I get to watch the instruments at least. Circle over the gray bay, city, slow wide river wending its way through the green forest, and into the clouds. This time, I try _L'Express_ instead of _Tribune_. Next to the latest quotes on vanilla, it contains today's and tomorrow's airline schedule for the entire country. Bumpy ride, long descent over the surf and enormous vanilla plantations. Another tiny airport in Sambava, although this one features a tower and a public telephone booth. After a 20-minute stopover, the plane, now full, continues to Tamatave. An hour-long flight down the coast, spectacular multi-layered clouds in slanting sunlight, irregular cumulus towers, gray stippled ocean like matte glass, fuzzy green hills cut through by rivers. Landing in Tamatave at 4:25pm. The terminal is fairly substantial by Malagasy standards, boasts several wooden kiosks (most of them empty, the others selling souvenirs, cell phones and satellite TV service) and a separate section for international flights (Air Austral to Reunion). After a while, we are herded back into the plane, hold short to let another ATR land (arriving from Tana), then take off to the south and immediately turn inland for the 45-minute flight to Tana over creased, deforested hills. More beautiful clouds, red earth, rice paddies in every nook and cranny. Touchdown at 5:30pm, in time to catch yet another stunning sunset. Some big birds on the field: Air Mad 767 and Air Mauritius A340. After being sternly told by an official-looking dude not to take photographs of the airfield, I relocate to the international part of the terminal. The news kiosk is offering 1.5-month-old issues of the _International Herald Tribune_. I wonder how many of these they sell. I spend the last few thousand of local scrip on mints, then join a long line that leads to the check-in area entrance. Men in uniform checking papers, X-ray, more men in uniform, check-in, still more men in uniform (perfunctory rooting through the baggage, locals are having their wallets checked), then passport control. The man spends a long time looking for my name in a handwritten notebook. Yet another X-ray and metal detector, I ring, but they wave me through. In the waiting area, the unlucky few who did not spend their francs discover to their dismay that they now have nice, colorful toilet tissue to use at home. The souvenir and duty-free shops accept only hard currency. There is also nothing to eat. The sign on the snack bar promises ``jambon et fromage,'' but no jambon can be found. The souvenirs, in addition to being none too cheap, come nicely wrapped in a plastic bag from an American 99-cent store (``Call 1-888-LUCKY-99 for location nearest you''). Something tells me that this location will be nowhere close to Antananarivo. The Mauritius flight boards first, then ours is called, boarding through both stairs. Doors are closed 40 minutes late (immigration police delay, according to the announcement). Taxi out, Air France 340 lands with a boom, flight attendants spray the cabin from little cans, filling it with deodorant-smelling mist. Flying time is 10 hours 25 minutes. I fall asleep in the middle of the dinner service and more or less snooze until arrival. Beautiful pink-blue morning in Paris, immigration officer does not even open my passport before handing it back, long wait for baggage, but it comes out alright, although one of the bags arrives with a big ``Valise Vide'' sign lying on top. What the ...?!?! Turns out the sign is a straggler, left over from the previous Montreal flight, but it did give us a bit of a scare. The end. |
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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
Vitaly Shmatikov wrote: Itinerary --------- Paris - Antananarivo Tulear - Fort Dauphin - Antananarivo Antananarivo to nowhere Antananarivo - Antalaha - Maroantsetra Maroantsetra - Sambava - Tamatave - Antananarivo - Paris Photographs ----------- http://130.107.1.80/~shmat/airmad Excellent trip report, Vitaly - thanks! -- Best Greg |
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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
Vitaly Shmatikov wrote: Itinerary --------- Paris - Antananarivo Tulear - Fort Dauphin - Antananarivo Antananarivo to nowhere Antananarivo - Antalaha - Maroantsetra Maroantsetra - Sambava - Tamatave - Antananarivo - Paris Photographs ----------- http://130.107.1.80/~shmat/airmad BTW, this is a little "subliminal" reference to Ellen here? : http://130.107.1.80/users/shmat/airm.../photo_22.html -- Best Greg "sorry, couldn't resist" 8-0) |
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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
In article . net,
Gregory Morrow wrote: BTW, this is a little "subliminal" reference to Ellen here? : http://130.107.1.80/users/shmat/airm.../photo_22.html Heh. If this were a reference to Ellen, they'd be sticking out of a different place. |
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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
Lovely trip report (totally put me off attempting internal travel in
Madagascar)...could you give me a few more details about what you did off the plane? Thanks, Karen (Vitaly Shmatikov) wrote in message ... Itinerary --------- Paris - Antananarivo Tulear - Fort Dauphin - Antananarivo Antananarivo to nowhere Antananarivo - Antalaha - Maroantsetra Maroantsetra - Sambava - Tamatave - Antananarivo - Paris |
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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
Hi! Nice trip report.
FYI, the name of the plane 5R-MFA is "BOINA", and not BOING. BOINA is the region name around Mahajanga. So no mispelling from Air Mad (though could have happened). Also, the can flight attendants sprayed in the AF flight is some anti-mosquito stuff. It is customary for any flight leaving a Malaria infected country. Otherwise your trop report really bring some memories back! |
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Air Madagascar trip report (long)
In article outtravelling.com,
Ravo wrote: FYI, the name of the plane 5R-MFA is "BOINA", and not BOING. BOINA is the region name around Mahajanga. So no mispelling from Air Mad (though could have happened). Ha! Who coulda thunk! You are absolutely right, of course. And I need a new prescription for my eyeglasses Also, the can flight attendants sprayed in the AF flight is some anti-mosquito stuff. It is customary for any flight leaving a Malaria infected country. Actually, the spraying was on the Air Mad flight. |
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