Paris with rice paddies

It’s only eight miles from Madagascar’s international airport to the center of  the capital, Antananarivo, but the journey can take an hour, often longer. The two-lane highway passes through a densely-populated area. After a few tatty hotels and the Chinese casino, it’s the typical African or Asian street scene—honking cars, slow-moving trucks, hole-in-the wall shops, children playing on the narrow sidewalk, porters lounging on hand carts.

It’s a mesmerizing car window sideshow of small retail establishments—a tire repair shop next to a beauty salon, then a halal butcher, a one-room health clinic, a furniture workshop, a SIM card recharge outlet, a shop selling friperie (second-hand clothes), a small hotel, a lumber yard, a used car parts store, another beauty salon, all crammed into narrow storefronts. Then a wall plastered with posters for music concerts and religious revivals, almost obscuring the Défense d’Afficher (forbidden to post) sign. A jumble of colorful hand-painted signs, mostly in French or Malagasy with a sprinkling of English—Good Auto, Rehoboth Shack, Smile Pizza, Quick Fix Oil Change, Flash Video.

For the last four miles, the road runs along the levee of the River Ikopa. The low-lying areas around Antananarivo are crisscrossed by canals supplying water to the rice paddies. Among the paddies are islands of shacks, with chickens, geese and ducks (some destined to be pâté) running free. Zébu, the humped cattle that are the mark of wealth in rural Madagascar, graze freely on patches of grassland. Then past the 15,000-seater national rugby stadium—home of the Makis (the lemurs)—to a retail district centered, without any sense of ideological irony, on a square dedicated to a communist hero, the Place de Ho Chi Minh.  

Situated just over 4,000 feet above sea level, Antananarivo—usually abbreviated by both locals and foreigners as Tana—with its hills and narrow, winding streets, feels like a tropical, slightly rundown version of Paris, surrounded by rice paddies.

From the 8th century AD, the central highlands of Madagascar were settled by the Merina, whose ancestors can be traced to the Malay Archipelago. They brought with them their traditional clan organization and agricultural practices, particularly rice cultivation. Until the French colonized the island at the end of the 19th century, the highlands were a bit like medieval Europe, albeit with nicer weather. Local lords, supported by armed retainers, ruled the villages and rice fields from fortified hilltop positions. Antananarivo was founded in the early 17th century by the chieftain Andrianjaka who built his rova (fortress) high on a hill; in Malagasy, Antananarivo means “city of the thousand,” a reference to the ruler’s army. From the rova, the royal real estate expanded, with new palaces and royal tombs built on the highest points of the ridge.

The residential topography of Antananarivo reflected class distinctions. Down the hill from the palaces were the houses of the andriana, the noble class; the commoners, the hova, lived further down the slope, and the slave caste (andevo) and rural migrants on the plains to the west. Members of castes were required to live in designated districts and return to them after working in other places. Non-nobles were not allowed to build wooden houses or keep pigs within the city limits. As the population grew, the Merina rulers used forced labor to construct a massive system of dikes and paddy fields around the city to provide an adequate supply of rice.

Until the mid-19th century, all houses in Madagascar were built from wood, grasses, reeds and other plant-based materials deemed appropriate for structures used by the living; stone, as an inert material, was reserved for the dead and used only for family tombs. In 1867, after a series of fires destroyed wooden homes in Antananarivo, Queen Ranavalona II lifted the royal edict on the use of stone and brick for construction. The royal palace was encased in stone. The first brick house built by the London Missionary Society in 1869 blended English, Creole and Malagasy designs and served as a model for a new style built in the capital and across the highlands. Termed the trano gasy (Malagasy house), it is a two-story, brick building with four columns at the front that support a wooden veranda. In the late 19th century, these houses quickly replaced most of the traditional wooden houses of the andriana. As Protestant denominations and the Roman Catholic church gained adherents, stone and brick churches were constructed.

In the early 20th century, under French administration, Tana spread out along the lower hilltops and slopes in la ville moyenne (the middle town). In the basse ville (lower town), northwest of the Analakely market area, French urban planners laid out the streets on a grid pattern aligned with a broad boulevard, now called the Avenue de l’Indépendance, with the city’s Soarano railroad station at its northwest end. Engineers drilled tunnels through two large hills, connecting isolated districts; streets were paved with cobblestones, and some later with tarmac; water, previously drawn from springs at the foot of the hills, was piped in from the Ikopa River. Since independence in 1960, urban growth has been largely uncontrolled with the city spreading out across the plains in every direction. In the districts of the basse ville, where roughly-built houses are vulnerable to fire and flooding, residents splice into city power lines to steal electricity. Informal settlements, without adequate water supply and sanitation facilities, have grown up on agricultural land on the outskirts.

Today, the haute ville retains its late 19th century charm. Trano gasy houses with steeply-pitched tiled roofs, verandas and flowering cactus line the cobbled streets snaking up the hillsides; alleyways with stone steps descend to the Analakely market and shopping streets branching off from the Avenue de l’Indépendance. Among the most impressive buildings are the stone-built churches on the summits. Below the Malagasy Montmartres, people cook over open charcoal fires, draw water from hand pumps, and sleep in doorways. The population of the metropolitan area is close to three million—about one eighth of the total population of Madagascar—but that does not count unregistered migrants from rural areas who arrive every day to work or engage in petit commerce, selling fruits, vegetables, cheap electronics and friperie.

The French influence is still apparent—in language, the architecture of public buildings, the bakers selling baguettes and croissants, the escargots and pâté de foie gras on the restaurant menus. At the Soarano railway station, the Café de la Gare resembles a brasserie in a French provincial town, with its dark wood paneling, chandeliers, candle-lit tables and white-shirted waiters. The best hotel in the city, the Colbert in the haute ville, founded as a handful of rooms above a café in 1928, reeks of colonial extravagance with its marble-clad lobby, patisserie, hair salon, perfume shop, spa and casino. At the nearby Café du Jardin, overlooking the Analakely market, the large-screen TVs rebroadcast French provincial rugby matches.

The menu at most restaurants is French with a sprinkling of Malagasy fish, poultry and pork dishes, served on a bed of vary (rice).  In one dimly-lit, wood-paneled restaurant, with its long bar, tasteful artwork and attentive waiters, I felt for a moment as if I was in Paris. Then the bill arrived, and I knew I was definitely not in Paris. Haute cuisine at astonishingly low prices. Paris with rice paddies suits me very nicely.

Abide with me in Madagascar

The sound of the group singing drifted in from the courtyard during breakfast on my first morning in Antananarivo.  The tune was familiar, but in my early-morning stupor after a long flight I couldn’t place it.  Then it came to me.  It was my father’s favorite hymn, Abide with Me, composed in the mid-19th century and an Anglican standard.  I had sung it often during my childhood, usually at school assemblies or compulsory Sunday church attendance.  I remembered the opening lines, “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,” although the line seemed surreal on a hot sunny morning in the middle of Madagascar’s capital city.  I wondered how this hymn had traveled across two continents and been translated into Malagasy.  

For that cultural exchange, we can credit a lesser-known group of 19th century colonizers, the Norwegian Lutherans.  They were young men from the farms and fjords, called to the mission of converting the peoples of southern Africa to Christianity and civilization.  They boarded ships in Bergen and Stavanger and set off for a long sea trip to an unknown island in the southern Indian Ocean.  The first two missionaries arrived in 1866 and established a Lutheran church at Betafo in the central highlands south of Antananarivo. Others followed and were joined by American Lutheran missionaries.  Some had left young wives on the farm, promising to return when God’s work was done.  Most never did, and entered into accepted, but unsanctified, unions with Malagasy women.  

Lutheran church in Antsirabe, Madagascar

Through most of the 19th century, the Merina monarchs who ruled Madagascar were diplomatically and militarily supported by the British Empire. That gave an early field advantage to the London Missionary Society (LMS) which was first on the scene in the 1820s, although the king, Radama I, valued the missionaries more for the industries they established and the skills they taught than for their religious teachings. After almost two decades of openness to trade, religion and other European contacts, the Merina kingdom turned inward and xenophobic under Radama’s successor, the capricious and bloodthirsty Queen Ranavalona I. For a few years, the missionaries were allowed to continue teaching, preaching and distributing religious texts, but from 1831 the government started clamping down on their activities. The queen’s hostility was fed by reports that Christian converts were contemptuous of ancient customs and regarded the royal talismans—sacred wooden objects carried on military campaigns and state processions to protect the kingdom—as idols. In 1835, she banned Christianity and ordered all who had been baptized to confess and recant. Most did, but those who refused, or continued to practice religion in private, were vigorously persecuted.

In 1835, all missionaries left Madagascar, but many converts held to their faith, worshipping in private homes or in the countryside, hiding their bibles in caves and holes in the ground. The martyrdom suffered by Malagasy Christians only served to strengthen their resolve. When, in 1861, the new king Radama II restored freedom of religion and declared an amnesty for all condemned for their beliefs, thousands flocked to newly-opened places of worship. Christianity was no longer a foreign import because the Malagasy Christians had their own martyrs, preachers and ordained pastors. Protestantism became established, even socially fashionable, among the ruling classes.

With the field opened again for missionary activity, the LMS faced competition from other Protestant denominations, including the Anglicans and Lutherans. The Jesuits, based on the French island of Réunion, established small missions on the west coast, and by the 1860s were competing for souls in the central highlands and on the east coast. The influence of the Roman Catholic Church increased after Madagascar became a French colony in 1896. Yet Lutheranism continued to thrive, and the missionaries built churches throughout the country.  Today, the Malagasy Lutheran Church claims to have more than four million members in Madagascar and other countries.  And they do love to sing.

We were staying at the Norwegian Mission in the Isoraka district, high on one of the city’s hills.  It was originally built as an administrative center and provided accommodation for missionaries visiting the capital.  Today, its guest houses are open to all, but you won’t find it advertised on the hotel or backpackers’ travel websites.  It was recommended by one of our team members, Luke Freeman, an anthropologist who has worked in Madagascar for almost 25 years and had stayed there on previous visits.  A group of two-story buildings around a garden, it’s an oasis from the traffic and bustle of the city.  Each building has a memorial plaque to a noted missionary or church leader.  History is even celebrated in the Wi-Fi code.  No boring “guest 123” stuff, but a real name, Andrianarijaona (which is difficult to type, especially if you’re in a hurry).  Rakoto Andrianarijaona, whose father and grandfather were both prominent revivalist pastors, became the first native Malagasy to be named leader of the national church in 1960.   

For about $18 a night, you get a simple, clean room with bathroom, and a shower (the water was always hot).  The so-called “Norwegian breakfast” (rolls, butter, jam, cheese, ham, tomatoes, cucumbers, juice and coffee) sets you back 8,000 ariary ($2.50); for $2.00 you can get the Malagasy breakfast of rice with leaves (rice and leaves in a broth), juice and coffee.  There’s no bar, of course, but you are within a few minutes’ walk of three excellent, and modestly-priced, French restaurants and a Vietnamese.  It's the best accommodation deal in town.