Poetry in motion
Cycling is like good poetry; a feeling. Our state of complete freedom was intense. After a quick breakfast of tea, fried rice bread, one banana and two malaria tablets we were on the move in the first rays of the sun.
The surface of the road was still wet from dew. A mild breeze filled the air. Our water bottles contained an exotic mixture of salt liquid, pine cordial and vanilla tea.
The central highlands differ from the north like another country. Villages are frequent. Wooden balconies give an atmosphere of the wild west.
As we whizzed by little kids cheered and yelled Salama! Salut vazaha! Bonjour! Bonne anné! We felt like presidents or royal celebrities on tour among friends.
People we met on the road were walking with bare feet, in little groups or on their own, often balancing something on their head. | Always on their way, it seemed, but where to? The next village perhaps, a day or more away? The distances seemed of no importance. Time, the way it is perceived in the west, had no meaning here. Nobody seemed to care.
Life´s surprises
Mile by mile we conquered the map and the country, deeply convinced that this must be what life is all about. We had no break downs or injuries. A small piece of chain is all we used from our spare parts in ten weeks.
But what would life be without surprises? On our way back from the south of the island to to the capital in the centre, Antananarivo, we ended up being delayed for almost a week. The reason seemed more than ironic - a flat tyre on a domestic Air MAD flight.
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