The Accidental Dignitary

Presidential Ride

About a month ago we were up in Tana for about a week taking care of some business, and on Friday, when the week was over, we decided to break up the return to Fianar by spending one night in Antsirabe. Antsirabe is about a two hour drive south of Tana and the city has a charming feel, thanks to its interesting architecture and wide boulevards. We stayed the night at a cute bed-and-breakfast and had the place to ourselves. We enjoyed a walk about town, a nice dinner, and a bit of shopping during our stay. A few key Malagasy phrases kept the persistent pousse-pousse (rickshaw) drivers at bay; unfortunately, the beggars proved more insistent. Then, after a leisurely walk Saturday morning, we loaded the truck and headed south to Fianar. During the drive, traffic was light, the weather clear, and the going easy.

This last part came to an abrupt end around noon, when we arrived at the bridge leading to Fatihita, a small town north of Ambositra. About a kilometer before reaching the bridge we noticed lots of cars stopped and pulled off on either side of the road. Not realizing what was going on, and not thinking, I simply drove on past the parked cars until I saw soldiers blocking access to the old bridge, at which time I pulled behind an army truck to park. During the Crisis of 2002, supporters of Ratsiraka, the former president, blew up the bridge in an attempt—that worked—to halt the flow of goods and people to the capital, Tana. When Ravalamanana, and his party, assumed power after the Crisis, the government built a temporary one-lane bridge over the collapsed one, and construction on a new bridge, financed by the EU, began. Construction on the new bridge wrapped up recently, but for as long as we’ve been here, traffic was still made to use the old one. And, on the way up to Tana we noticed that a big grandstand, decorated with Malagasy flags, had been set up for what appeared to be a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Now, on the way back down to Fianar, we discovered that we were arriving just in time to witness the grand opening of the new bridge.

After stopping, Kristen quickly hopped down from the truck and joined a crowd of people who had gathered by the old bridge. Soon afterwards, an official caravan of dignitaries began to cross the old bridge from the other side of the ravine towards us, en route to the grandstand. About 50 meters from the end of the bridge a midnight-blue Land Cruiser sporting diplomatic flags and dark-tinted glass (and probably bullet-proof, too) stopped and out stepped the Malagasy President, Marc Ravalamanana. At the bridge, someone in the crowd next to Kristen said in a surprised voice, “That’s Ravalamanana!” Kristen, who was only some twenty feet away, told me later that the President looked young and full of energy.

Behind the President came a flock of guards and other diplomats, including a heavy-set, big-jowled man who we concluded must be the head of the EU for Madagascar. The procession made its way to the grandstand and we then spent the next three hours waiting for the official ceremony to end, so we could continue our return home.

There were literally thousands of people in attendance at the bridge opening ceremony. We could see across the bridge to the other side and people spilled down from the hillside. Food vendors circulated among the parked cars and crowds of people selling fried chicken and fish, steamed crawfish, boiled cassava, oranges and bananas. In addition to all the spectators were many soldiers and police. In fact, security around the President was pretty high and included bodyguards dressed in suits, as well as armed guards around the grandstand and sharpshooters on the hillside above the grandstand.

On the whole, it was all pretty spectacular. After three hours, and what seemed like an eternity of listening to Malagasy speeches, the official opening ended and the big-wigs made their grand exit by taking leave in three helicopters. The less important officials, traveling by more modest means, queued up in their vehicles along the old bridge. Unknowingly, when I ignored the other parked cars and continued right up to the old bridge, I secured pole position among the other parked cars and bush taxis, which had by now jockeyed for position in every open space of asphalt and were tightly packed together back as far as the eye could see. The logjam of cars prevented the official entourage waiting on the old bridge from moving, so soldiers began barking orders at the parked cars to make enough room for the cars to pass by.

In the confusion that ensued, we somehow got mixed into the official caravan going south over the new bridge. A soldier looked at our white truck (and maybe our white skin) and green plates and just waved us into the pack of other white official vehicles. Only happy to comply, I turned on the hazards and fell into line with the other cars as we were among the first cars over the new bridge. After we passed the grandstand, we slowed to maneuver through the “cocktail” party going on along the road after the bridge. We, the official caravan, crawled along at a snail’s pace for the first couple of kilometers while we waited for soldiers to clear parked cars from the road shoulder to free up traffic. Finally, we hit open road and we waved to the other white vehicles as they passed us, one by one, and sped off to their final destinations.

The bridge delay cost us a daytime arrival to Fianar, but nevertheless we were in good spirits: we had a close brush with the President, saw three helicopters take off and drove with the official caravan over the brand new bridge. However, maybe more exciting to us was deciding what to do with the huge bucket of strawberries we had bought in Tana.