Travelling independently in Madagascar on a budget? Meet your new best friend (or worst enemy), the taxi brousse.

I have a complicated relationship with Madagascan taxi brousses (just like every other relationship in my life). Part of me is madly in love with the romance of the road – the charm of the small-town scenery and local landscape, the intimacy of the bus navigating through rugged roads, routes and rivers. Yes – rivers.

Driving through Madagascar is like an intense love story. Like Rose and Jack – except Rose had more legroom on that piece of wood than I have ever had on a taxi brousse…

But I am not about to write an argumentative essay on how the Titanic could have had a much happier ending if Rose had learnt how to share. And don’t worry… This love story doesn’t end in tragedy – it ends with a successful boat journey and a week of beach-side R&R.

After many second-class experiences on taxi brousses featuring children falling asleep on me, chicken bones being thrown at me and full-volume religious music videos being blasted from in-built-in taxi brousse TV’s, I had made a vow to myself not to end up on a long-distance taxi brousse again. But a certain hazel-eyed Dutch boy (with almost as much charm as on-board Leonardo di Caprio) managed to remind me of my second-class backpacker status and convince me to give the tender taxi brousse a final chance…

My bank account was starting to like this guy… Because trust me – taxi-brousses will save you an absolute fortune in Madagascar. Unfortunately Air Madagascar have a complete monopoly on domestic flights in the country and are able to charge you an arm, leg and lemur for a plane ticket. And known as the ‘taxi brousse of the sky’, the reliability and flight standards of the airline are questionable.

After a morning in hospital and a night of luxury in our ‘suite’ (the only available room), we were fresh and ready for our 17 hour overnight taxi brousse to Ankify. Well, as ‘ready’ as you can ever be before a 17 hour journey on local Madagascan public transport.

We had booked an entire row on the bus (knowing that Madagascan legroom doesn’t cater for Dutch and Australian proportions), stocked up on snacks, carefully selected our entertainment – books, movies, music and chess (of course), and we were ready to roll… Because sometimes taxi brousses only manage to do just that…

2pm – departure time… Right?

Of course not – our tickets must have said 2pm ‘Madagascan time’.

By 3pm we had finished a bag of chips, by 4pm we had shared our most embarrassing stories and by 5pm we had asked when we would be leaving and received laughter as a response…

6pm and we were off. Forget the book: the sun had disappeared as quickly as my optimism about the ongoing journey and we watched as the sun set over the dissolving city and darkness rose over the villages and horse-carts.

We were only four hours late. In the western world four hours late may mean frustration but in Madagascar it means something closer to: ‘lucky it wasn’t five’…

The night was long. We listened to the drivers favourite music on full volume, we overtook cows and carts, we climbed over a crowded small family every time we needed to relieve ourselves and then, just as I was admiring the smooth roads and safe driving – we stopped.

It was not a friendly ‘who needs to do a wee wee stop’, more of a ‘damn – probably should have checked that tyre stop’.

After an hour of dangerous middle-of-the-road, pitch-black, stupidly-dangerous tyre changing we were back on the road…

…Well we had never gotten off the road, but you know what I mean – we were moving…

Somehow we managed to fall asleep… And if you are ever curious about which kind of crazy sleeping positions are most effective for long-distance taxi brousses we are could probably compose an extensive guide. But until we release the hardback I will give you a  sneak preview…

Chapter One: pack sleeping pills.

Eventually the sun rose, the children awoke and the driver blasted the music. The journey continued…

…And continued…

…And continued.

Our 11am estimated arrival in Ankify turned into ‘hopefully we arrive today’.

We didn’t.

It was around 6pm. The sun was making its descent across the horizon and we were stranded. At least Ambanja (our forced home for the night) had good wine. Really good wine.

We found a hotel, jumped on a Tuk Tuk, ate ‘Chinese’ food, drank some wine (surprise) and celebrated the ability to stretch our legs. We may not have made it to Nosy be just yet but we were 800km closer to Madagascar’s finest beach destination.

The next day we were given a complimentary taxi ride to Ankify and were greeted to the harbour town by some determined boat owners haggling for our presence on their vessels. We went for the one leaving ‘now’ and waited an hour for it to finally set sail.

And there we were, just like Rose and Jack (and a about 30 locals and crates of tomatoes) on route to Nosy Be, without an iceberg in sight. With the wind in our hair and sun on our skin it didn’t quite compare to the romance of the road but it was pretty close to perfect. And as I sat on that boat, surrounded by spectacular coastline and first-class company, I felt as though I should be  hanging off the bow, screaming to the world: “I’m flying!”…

And then the boat ran out of fuel… But at least it hadn’t hit an iceberg…