8:42 PM

Befandriana-Nord is structured around a main, albeit still in wretched condition, road that comes from the big almost-coastal city of Antsohihy (where I bank) and goes to the strangely large inland town of Mandritsara. As the road crosses through the heart of Befandriana-Nord, it forms with a lesser-sister dirt road a crossroad and round-point, which round-point is the heart of the town. Unsurprisingly, the round-point also serves as the nexus of nightlife. Below is a brief description of what one might encounter were one to traverse the round-point at 8:42 on a cool May night.

The first thing one would notice is the total absence of electric light. Rather, a silver silken shroud of starlight envelops everything, pierced only on the peripheries by small handmade oil lamps. The eerie night ambience is enhanced by the fact that when Malagasy ambulate at night, they take on the appearance of shadowy wraiths. Their dark skin melts into the night air around them. Faces are distinguishable only with the fullest of moons. Voices seem to emerge from nothing but inky voids. I can only imagine how I am perceived in such a setting—a ghost among shadows?

On the perimeter of the round point are huddled small clusters of roasted unshelled peanut vendors. While these vendors are a new and most-welcome development to my insatiable appetite for all things peanut, the vendors’ propensity to congregate never ceases to offend my American capitalistic instincts. On one side of the round-point are more food vendors. Cassava, or manioc, is a staple snack food here. Corn, too, can be found occasionally. It all depends on the season.

It terms of what one would hear, first there is the interminable shuffling of flip-flops and cheap sandals. But there are voices, too, and depending on who you are and what color your skin is, maybe even some good old hollering and heckling. Depending on the state of electricity, there may or may not be music playing from the bar located one corner of the round point. And of course there is the incomprehensible cacophony of conversation that seems to attend all public places.

Were one to continue walking down the nicely-paved road to Mandritsara, one would find that night can get unexpectedly dark unexpectedly fast. One would also find, even in good old Befandriana, a number of, what I’ve been told are, “call girls.”

Had one instead ventured north, off the paved road and onto the dirt road leading to the high school and home of your’s truly, one would receive a quainter view of life here. Adjacent to the round-point on one’s left would be the Befandriana-Nord market. Unfortunately, the section closest to the road is the seafood section, which means that the air next to the market is always suffused with the pungent, putrid smell of dried shrimp and fish. Oh, and garbage. The garbage from the market is also right there. A few more paces down the road and one would see on the right now two or three Taxi-Brousses capably staffed by “Mpaneras” getting ready for their early morning journeys on the morrow. 

If one should take this road, however, one should take care not to step into the puddles of urine left by not just drunk people, but even just your average Rakoto six-pack on his way home bereft of toilet.

As one stumbles over the sinewy and dilapidated dirt road leading to the high school, one’s gaze would inevitably be turned upwards, and one would be momentarily hazardously spellbound by the crystal-laced starry sky. Stumbling is the de facto mode of transport on this road during dark nights and even the stumbling is often interrupted by hungry roaming mutts and pigs.

Once at the school, one would find the grounds deserted of students and populated only by the principal, his family, the groundskeeper, and perhaps the weird zany American English teacher who lives in the big room next to the office. Of these the groundskeeper merits special attention. At night he is garbed in only a gold and black cloth wrapped around his waist. His chocolate-brown skin, tanned by years of laboring under the hot Malagasy sun, is pulled taut around his every limb. His eyes a cloudy gray, presumably from years of smoking the Malagasy tobacco, the smell of which always marks his presence.

Moonlight here, or diempanzava (the steps of the moon), is stunningly bright. It could be simply that the dearth of electric lights ceases to distract and dilate. Of course, I like to think that the moon is just brighter and better here. Whatever the reason, everything is caked eerie white light and the sky isn’t black, but a deep navy blue. Looking out from my small verandah, the confluence of these night factors is stunning. In the foreground are the vacant high school classrooms, their silhouettes just visible in the silver moonlight. Above, on a clear night at least, thousands of stars literally twinkle against a velvet blue backdrop that stretches down to the horizon. Whenever I see it I think of blueberry jam sprinkled with sugar crystals. At the horizon, the sky’s blue is made apparent by its contrast with the dark-black silhouette of my little mountain. All of this, of course, is accompanied by a night orchestra of crickets.

Night here really is blissful and tranquil and relaxing yet somehow invigorating at the same time. That is, until the godforsaken rats come out in the middle of the night. More on this later …