MANAKARA Report by hilarybradt reader
It not common for me to submit other user report but I couldn't resist to bring a lady review opinion about "Karaoke" in Manakara and other stuff. I will buy the July PDF edition of Bradt prior to my trip and can share the whole 400 pages with the selective readers. Here is the link and the report for Manakara [url]http://hilarybradt.com/madagascar-updates/general/[/url]
MANAKARA.
HOTELS.
First stop was Delice the'Orient. Too pricey so tried.
Le Recif.
Dirt cheap at 12 k hairies. There's a karaoke hall attached. The manager warned me of the noise but the event was in full swing and the noise wasn't that bad. I could cope with the help of ear plugs. Karaoke is Malagasy for 'sing along with prostitutes. ' When bored with singing they have a tendency to roam the corridors looking for victims. If you have the misfortune to be abducted, be assured that your cries of alarm and subsequent moans of pain will be swamped by the noise from the hall.
The toilet area has signs of plenty merde and not a lot of eaux and before use you are well advised to spray liberally with insect killer and splash around liberally with dettol. That goes for the shower too. The heater was being repaired when I was there so not only was there no hot water but the floor and fittings were covered in pieces of insulation. The downstairs toilets (the level of the karaoke hall) were indescribable (well, I could, but I won't).
In the room you have the option of opening the window and letting in the beasts of the night, or leaving the door open and letting in the prostitutes, or closing both and slowly suffocating to death while asleep. I managed to scrounge a fan from the manager and so kept all unwelcome visitors at bay. One blessing was the mosquito net, which fitted ok once I had moved the bed a few inches and patched up the holes.
The karaoke noise was just bearable and after making the effort to settle in I decided to stay in for a second and final night before moving on to more salubrious accommodation. I took an afternoon nap after a long walk and, at about six, I was lying half awake wondering when to get up and have dinner when a murderous assault on the eardrums suddenly erupted out of nothing. The source was dangerously close, to be precise the hall across the passageway. In the morning this had been used as a conference hall complete with wall charts, clip boards and an assertive woman who was showing the delegates seated around her the key to success in life and business. Now it was occupied by a bulky male, dressed like a New York street bopper, wedged between two speakers the size of Toyota minibuses.
I dashed back to my room, still in shock. Earplugs were no good. The damage was being done by the lower registers – deep throbbing barrages of destructive waves, vibrating the building down to its very foundations. For the first time, I realised that sound could be used as a weapon of war. Symptoms of shell shock were creeping in so I grabbed what I needed to go out and dashed down the stairs into the street.
I had dinner in a restaurant several blocks away, where they told me the Friday disco at Le Recife would start at eight. I worked out that what I had heard was the tune-up.
After dinner they began arriving – in cars and vans, on bikes and quads, on foot; hundreds of them, streaming towards the source like ants to a jam pot. Many continued into the hotel itself and up to the music hall. Brave? Foolish? Incurably addicted? Masochistic? All the above?
I moved to a bar at the end of the block where the noise was still very loud. The street was full of people, listening, jigging around, drinking beer and pissing it into the street. One girl danced barefoot for hours in the forecourt of the garage on the corner, using a petrol pump for a partner. Where were the men in white coats, I wondered.
Anxious to get back to my room but fearing the barrage, I paced the streets outside. I assumed it would finish at midnight, as the karaoke had, but come one a. M. It was in full swing. I asked a reveller when it was due to finish. 'Three o'clock. ' For another two hours I dragged my tired body back and forth around the block. By half three most of the revellers has dissipated and I crawled through layers of debris back to my room.
Up at eight, packed and ready to move to more peaceful pastures, I was amazed to see that all the debris had been cleared up, the DJ and his minibuses had been replaced by an extra-large woman in front of a clip board sporting the route to success, surrounded by neat rows of desks and chairs. It was as if a town had magically rebuilt itself after being torn apart by a raging battle the day before.
I was told that the onslaught would resume that evening and again the following night (Sunday). I headed across town.
Verdict on Hotel Le Recif: A great place to catch lots of interesting diseases and destroy your eardrums, cheaply.
Hotel Sidi.
Typical Chinese extravaganza of a building. Rooms at 50k hairies and up. Will do your laundry even if not staying there.
Morabe.
In a nice enclosed garden a few blocks from the Sidi. With no easily seen board outside giving it away, I approached a woman who was sitting in the middle of the garden on a table with her legs stretched straight in front of her like a fat moustachioed cross between a Buddha and Yoda. By moving only the muscles of her face she summoned a minion to show me a room. Not bad for 15 k hairies. Toilet not too far and looked ok. Would have been my first choice but for its proximity to the war zone.
Leung.
Rooms ok and looked secure, but overpriced. Who needs a TV?
Mangrove Annex.
'Reception' is another fat woman with moustache (why are Betsilio women so hirsute?) This one was slow as a slug, physically and mentally, and strangely unenthusiastic about receiving visitors.
Too basic, even for me. And I do appreciate service with a smile.
Orchidee.
A secure enclosure of nice en-suite bungalows for 20k hairies. Pity no hot water and no fan but can live without both. Run by very nice people. Stayed there the rest of my time in Manakara.
Good value and an ideal place to stay. Also, close to the railway station.
Tsy Manavaka.
Didn't see the rooms but judging by the restaurant, and the fact that some of the rooms are in a newly built block where the guide shows Jacoptere gift shop (No longer on that stretch of road) I would guess the rooms are in good condition and cheap. Opposite the station. Probably a good place to flop after arriving by train. Wish I'the known.
RESTAURANTS.
Tsy Manavaka.
Good place to eat, especially for breakfast. Local dishes. Nothing touristy. Waitress thrown if you don't speak French or Malagasy. I had a lot of trouble simply ordering boiled eggs, even in French.
Gourmandise.
In town centre. Plenty of choice on the menu. Service better than standard by nice Chinese ladies.
Le Kameleon.
Near Orchidee. Young French owner speaks English, which was much appreciated when I staggered in one evening having just had an acute dose of diarrhoea seeking tea without milk and plain rice, nothing else. Absolutely no problem.
Somewhat limited menu but food good. Went in there one Sunday and, after ordering wine, was told 'wine off – its Sunday. ' What? A French restaurant that doesn't serve wine? Disgraceful.
Le Fumoir.
A watering hole for ageing French men, who clearly treat it like a private club. Together with the staff who were partying with a couple of local bucks on bikes in the road outside, they were all having a such a jolly good time they had little to spare for their one and only customer.
I ordered tornados and the steak I got was thick, nicely browned on the outer 1 mm and bleeding on the inside. If I'the wanted tartare I'the have ordered tartare.
Tornados are supposed to be cut from the fillet but this one was so chewy it could have come from the rump. What was on the menu as 'legumes' arrived as 70% potatoes and 30% carrots. Everywhere else, 'Legumes mixe' means beans and carrots. Since I also ordered frites, surely the waitress could have warned me of the potential potato overdose. But that would have involved a modicum of mental effort, and she was anxious to get back to her bikers.
The one plus was the wine, which you could order by the half bottle or half litre. And at reasonable prices. Why don't all restaurants do this?
Guinguette.
In a lovely spot overlooking the river. Favoured by local French. Long wait for service as one waitress serving several tables. Good fish.
La Belle Vue.
Next to Guinguette. The vue is indeed belle in spite of being dominated downstream by the ugliest bridge I have ever seen. Painted rust coloured in vain attempt to disguise the fact that it is 50% rust, it looks about ready to collapse, a fate already befallen the end section which has slumped to ground level, making the bridge traversable only by foot passengers fit enough to scale the makeshift wooden steps (photo attached.) Try not to be on it when the next cyclone hits.
The restaurant itself is profusely decorated with all manner of paraphernalia. The food, especially seafood is good and reasonably priced. The poisson au coco I can heartily recommend.
Chez Clos.
Got a somewhat frosty reception when I arrived early one morning for breakfast while they were still putting the tables and chairs out. Otherwise pretty ordinary restaurant.
Golden Lapa.
No longer the 'pleasant little snack bar' of the guide, rather a large karaoke joint.
OTHER.
Internet.
Magnarobo closed, possibly permanently. There's a cybercafé opposite the Delices the'Orient restaurant, and another just before the turning off to the port before Fumoir restaurant.
The Train.
Much touted by guide books as a good travel experience. Yes, but.
The chances of it ever leaving on time must be remote. Scheduled to leave at seven; in fact that is the time the driver arrives at work. He then disappears for half an hour (breakfast?) before climbing into his engine. 'Ah, ' I think, 'this is it'. But it isn't. He spends the next hour shunting carriages around. When he shunts up to the line of carriages wherein nestles my own, and his minion jumps out and shackles the engine to the leading carriage, I think 'ah, this is it'. But it isn't. What I had missed was the minion unshackling two carriages further back. The engine then (painfully slowly) draws the liberated carriages back along the line and stops. Minion jumps out, does something clever to the points and the engine shunts the carriages into a side line and reverses back to starting point. Minion jumps out.
Much of this is being enthusiastically snapped by French tourists who make up 95% of the passengers. Not only them but a French TV video team with cameraman are occupying the four seat area opposite my own. The cameraman, despite his advancing years, is an accomplished contortionist, bending his body this way and that on the tracks to get his large, heavy camera into angles that will create shots soon to be recognised as high art. Cannes on his mind? Bit over the top, really. I mean it's only a rusty old diesel train.
When we are eventually on our way, I am wedged within a phalanx of French, thankfully against the window. The scenery is lovely, the stations are overflowing with vendors as promised by the guide books, daring youths cling to the sides as the train leaves and jump off at various destinations, trees laden with lychees pass leisurely by. And so it goes on. And on. And on. Through the morning, then the afternoon and then the night.
The station stops, which at the beginning are thrilling cultural experiences, become more and more tiresome; the vendors an increasing nuisance, the French snappers sticking their cameras into the faces of platform fauna an increasing embarrassment, all exacerbated by the length of the stay at each station which appears to get longer and longer as the journey progresses. Some of them last more than an hour.
When you eventually arrive at Manakara station in the depths of the night, you are saddle sore, hungry, very tired and sick to death of all trains everywhere.
Until you board the train back. This one takes even longer at the stations while its freight carriages are stuffed to overflowing with baskets of lychees destined for the markets of Manakara and beyond.
Shoulda gone back by minibus. Some people never learn.
