A Floating Village
- Andrew Dernovsek
- Jun 17
- 6 min read
On the Way to Namorona
The next day, Fr. Edouard and I set off for Namorona. In fact, he had come all the way into town to fetch me, because as I’m sure you’re now beginning to understand, travel in Madagascar is no simple undertaking. The journey itself is always a bit of an adventure. The trip to Namorona would take nearly ten hours, all by canoe and boat. With my still limited Malagasy, I suspect attempting it alone would have been an interesting experience, but probably not the wisest choice.
We began early in the morning, making our way down to the docks while the town was only just beginning to stir. There, among fishermen and boatmen preparing for the day ahead, we hired a narrow wooden canoe and pushed off into the calm coastal waters along Madagascar’s eastern shore. Our chauffeur was a skinny Malagasy man who didn’t say much, but simply paddled along with a smooth and steady rhythm.
He carried us across the vast coastal shallows which were broken up by countless sandbars hidden beneath the surface. The route demanded an experienced hand, as the channels twisted unpredictably and a wrong turn could easily leave a boat stranded. After traversing the open flat waters, we entered a narrow canal running along the coast, part of a network dug during the French colonial period. Lined with dense vegetation and shaded by towering trees, it formed a quiet waterway like a green tunnel cutting through Madagascar’s eastern coast.
As we glided southward, the bustle of the town faded behind us. The steady rhythm of the paddle and the gentle sound of the canoe slipping through the water accompanied us as we made our way deeper into the countryside.
Life Along the Canal
As we travelled, there always seemed to be people hidden just around the next bend. We rounded a corner and suddenly came upon women standing waist deep in the water, patiently casting mosquito nets in search of fish. Their clothes were stained by the reddish brown waters so characteristic of Madagascar, and they worked with the quiet familiarity of those who have spent their lives on these waterways.
Further along, we passed small fishing villages that seemed untouched by the hurried pace of modern life. Modest houses of mud and wood stood beneath roofs of thatch or corrugated iron. Children laughed and splashed in the canal, swimming alongside the banks while others played in the shade. At various points we encountered groups of men and women who had come down to the water to bathe. They paid little attention to our slow passage, seemingly unbothered by the sight of two strangers drifting by in a canoe.
A Floating Village
After three hours of travel, the narrow canal emptied into a broader and deeper coastal waterway. There, anchored near the bank, a larger boat waited for its passengers. Some had come on foot from the nearby fishing villages, while others, Fr. Edouard explained, had already spent days aboard, sleeping on the cramped deck as the vessel slowly made its way south.
When we arrived, there was some discussion about which boat to take. Fr. Edouard, already experienced on these waterways, quickly chose the one with the strongest motor. The boatmen carried our bags on their heads through the waist-deep water that separated the shore from the vessel. Then they returned for us in a canoe.
As we waited in the canoe along the shore, someone handed me a baby. No explanation was offered, and none seemed necessary. I held him for a few moments until we pulled alongside the larger boat and another pair of hands reached down and took him from my arms.
The boat itself was absolutely packed. As we climbed aboard, we exchanged greetings with our fellow travelers. Someone kindly offered me a more comfortable seat along the side of the boat, while Fr. Edouard made himself comfortable atop a pile of rice sacks near the center. People occupied every available inch of space. Some sat on bundles and sacks, others squeezed themselves between their neighbors, and even the roof was crowded with passengers.
After nearly an hour of discussion, it was decided that the boat was now too heavy. So, everyone shifted about as the boatmen climbed into the now chest-deep water, as we had drifted further from the shore, and carried a number of sacks of rice back to shore. Only then, with the load lightened and everyone finally settled into place, did we set out.
The smooth paddling and quiet peace of the canoe gave way to the roar of the engine and the lively chatter of the passengers. Yet perhaps what struck me most was not the noise, but the ease with which everyone shared the little space available. Feet rested across laps, heads leaned against shoulders, and there seemed to be no invisible bubble of personal space separating one person from another. There was no complaining and no jockeying for comfort, no fighting for the armrest, only a quiet acceptance that for the next several hours we would all make the journey together.
The motor roared in our ears, but now the breeze was in our faces. I reached down and trailed my fingers through the water rushing past beneath us. Behind me, a group of young girls filled a bottle with the muddy brown water of the river and poured in some powdered flavoring. Then, laughing and talking amongst themselves, they passed the bottle from one to another, happily sharing their improvised drink.
As the boat sped southward, life simply unfolded around us. Conversations drifted through the air, children slept wherever they could find a place, and the endless green shoreline slipped quietly by. I slowly realized that our overcrowded boat had become much more than a means of transportation. It was like a small village being carried down the river.
Lunch on the River
Earlier, Fr. Edouard had explained to me that somewhere along the journey everyone would somehow decide that it was lunchtime, and then, almost as one, people would begin pulling out whatever food they had brought with them. He added that if someone didn’t have rice, their fellow passengers would always share some, because as the Malagasy say, if you haven’t eaten rice, then you haven’t eaten.
Sure enough, just as he had predicted, some kind of collective consciousness seemed to announce that it was time for lunch. One by one, bags were opened and meals appeared. Our fellow travelers were naturally curious to see what the two foreigners would be eating, but the cook at the bishop's house had thoughtfully prepared our meal beforehand. When everyone discovered that we too had rice, their interest quickly faded.
As the hours passed, we chatted, joked, and dozed in the afternoon heat. From time to time the boat stopped at villages along the river to drop off passengers or to pick up new ones. Occasionally, when we reached particularly shallow stretches, everyone would disembark and walk while the boatmen carefully guided the vessel through the water.
Arrival in Namorona
After seven hours on the boat, we finally drew near to Namorona. In a gesture of kindness, the boatmen stopped directly in front of the church, which sits along the shore of the river. Fr. Edouard, several other passengers, and I climbed ashore. Waiting to greet us were a Malagasy seminarian and the sisters serving at the mission.
After carrying our bags inside, we gratefully settled into the presbytery for a much-needed rest. As evening settled over Namorona, I found myself thinking about all the people with whom we had shared the journey. The women standing waist deep in the water, patiently fishing with mosquito nets, the children swimming in the canal, the girls laughing over their flavored river water, the strangers who had shared their space so freely, and even the nameless baby who had passed briefly through my arms. One by one, everyone had gone their separate ways, and now it was our turn. The floating village had finally come to shore.
Comments