The Mangoro - Madagascar 2022
It is easy to connect modern Madagascar to its history. The country is an ephemeral concoction of many things, all of which appear, as an outsider, to be constantly shifting and evolving. Similarly, the island has seen Arab traders, French colonizers, Asian settlers and African immigration, despite the fact that Madagascar was one of the last places on earth to be settled by humans. The capital has an air of desperate poverty; many people live on less than a dollar a day. They move in and out of vision, selling whatever they can. The informal economy serves many more people than the established stores and restaurants, who's high prices can only be met by the Malagasy elite and us-- the visiting fahaza. Outside the cities, much of the land seems to be rejecting the best efforts of the people to create stability. The wet season obliterates many of the roads. Getting around is not easy. Madagascar is constantly near the top of the UN’s famine watch list. To say that the people are living a bucolic, simple existence would be to euphonize the hardship poverty creates. Yet, to focus only on poverty does little justice to the kindness the local people showed us during our time there. The village communities we met along the Mangoro opened their world to us treated us with incredible curiosity, comrade and kindness.
The conception of our expedition truly began at the confluence of the Gilgit and Indus Rivers in Pakistan in November of 2021. We had just finished paddling the infamous Rhondu gorge of the Indus and interspersed with the elation of completing such a large river was the realization that this group, at least to me, was something remarkable. Our energy and intentions on and off the water felt natural and I felt inspired to continue to push and explore with our eclectic bunch. Shortly after our trip, Ben sent us a screenshot of a massive big water cascade and the assertion that the Mangoro was one of the best rivers he’d ever done and rivaled the Indus in terms of quality and number of high volume, runnable drops. This, coupled with the fact that water levels would likely be optimum while I was still on summer break, was all the information we needed to begin diving into how we were going to make this trip happen.
At the end of July, Cody and I arrived in Antanarivio without our bags. We spent a couple of mildly frustrating days gathering supplies for the Mangoro and doing our best to communicate with Ethiopian airlines while we waited for the rest of the team to show up. Cole and Bernie arrived, as did all our gear, and with these key items, our stoke returned. We packed up the vehicle and our wonderful driver Andry chugged along the bumpy roads to the Mangoro. The drive was an interesting endeavor. Slash and burn agriculture left much of the countryside bare, save for a few permanent structures and zebu or cows. We passed several villages and people would stop and stare at the ridiculous stack of kayaks sitting on top of our car. Here, we were aliens.
The Mangoro is the largest river on the East Coast of Madagascar, flowing 186 miles from the center of the Island to the Indian Ocean. Our plan was to put in at a bridge near the town of Moramanga roughly 140 miles from the ocean and over the course of 7 days paddle almost the entirety of the gradient of the Mangoro. Even though access is relatively straight forward by Madagascar standards— the put in is only 4 hours from the capital all on a major highway— the river has only seen one other known descent from this access point and 2 descents from the Onive, which confluences the Mangoro about 65 miles from the ocean, above the majority of the gradient. Lucky for us, Team Beer had completed all of these descents and were incredibly generous with their time and knowledge, giving us the tools we needed to be successful, or to at least not run out of food before day 6 or 7.
It was raining lightly at the put in. We did the typical gear explosion in a pullout across the street from the river, watched by many adorable children and local villagers. With boats heavier than they normally can get in the states, we made the short walk down to the put in for our first strokes in Madagascar. The river started slow. We quickly ditched our dry tops and helmets and began our flat water crush. Bernie and Cody were very fast. Cole and I hung in the back and chatted. After several hours, we stopped for lunch. As would become commonplace on our trip, we met some very nice locals on the beach. Very few parts of the Mangoro, we found, are uninhabited. There is a thriving group of communities that have built their lives along the banks of the river. Relying mostly on subsistence agriculture, the flat sections of the Mangoro provided irrigation, transportation, bathing, laundry and countless other functions for the locals, who were kind enough to share their homes with several large white intruders covered in sunscreen.
After a delicious lunch of tuna fish sandwiches— a food I had previously sworn off but would learn to love over the course of our trip— we played some hacky-sack with the nice locals who had been transporting people back and forth across the river in their homemade canoes. This small game would emerge as one of the most important pieces of gear we brought down the Mangoro. With a intense language barrier—the locals spoke Malagasy and French, we spoke neither— the hacky-sack become a great way to connect with the children, and by extension, the community as a whole.
Once we had gone about 20 miles we figured it was time to camp. Within moments of pulling over to an acceptably magnificent beach, we were swarmed by dozens of locals, all running down, mostly barefoot, the trail systems littering the banks. They helped us get our fire going and took off at sun down; portable light seemed to be a technology not yet available to the Mangoro river community. It rained hard that night and we all slept well, cozy if not cramped in our mid. The next morning I awoke to someone outside the tent cursing. “Our stove doesn’t work with the fuel we bought” Are you serious? Oh well, Bernie was a boy scout and at the very least our fire building skills would be getting a lot of practice. Despite this hiccup, we were back on the water by 7:30 and staring down a massive cascade before 8 am. Team Beer’s beta was to rope boats down on the left and after spending some time scrambling around on slippery rock, we realized that our higher flow would make this option sub-optimum. We ferried to the other side of the river and bushwhacked through spider infested jungle, determined to work at river level as much as possible. This option wasn’t much better. We backtracked upstream slightly and past a shrine. After a short climb, we ran into another band of friendly locals who were more than willing to show us an easy path that climbed out of the canyon before gradually sloping back down to the river. We put in at the bottom of the gorge with minimal suffering thanks to our wonderful Malagasy friends.
Immediately below this gorge we got our first taste of the class V of the Mangoro. We made quick work of several steep, watery boulder gardens thanks to Bernie’s incredible boat scouting. It did not feel low. Thinking we were in for another day of flatwater, we were elated when the quality and consistency of the whitewater maintained itself throughout the day. We found a camp on a beautiful island where we were able to dry out our gear on a granite slab. We were in high spirits, on pace, and happy with rhythm we were establishing as a team both on and off the water.
The next day we returned to our flat water routine. Around noon, we pulled over to what looked like a major village. We were instantly swarmed by a dozen children and one old lady who was doing her best to keep the rambunctious group out of trouble. I had some trepidation about walking up to the village and startling the locals so we decided to send a reconnaissance team— rationalizing that two fahazas might be slightly less startling than 4. While Cole and Cody journeyed up to the village in search of essential provisions (beer and cigarettes) Bernie and I stayed with the boats and convinced a couple of the more adventurous children to hop in and paddle around. They were naturals. After a while, we figured that we should probably go see where our comrades had gotten off to so Bernie and I clambered the series of mud-dug steps up to the village accompanied by our liaison— a young girl who spoke fragments of English and was very kind. The village was dug into the hillside overlooking the Mangoro. We climbed to the top, passing many cute children and friendly adults, gaining another “tour guide” until reaching the church. The church was easily the most impressive structure in the village, complete with concrete and metal roofing— both of which seemed to be luxuries in Madagascar. We played some soccer with the kids but still did not find our friends. We walked back down. The team regrouped near our boats. Cody had bought some delicious fried banana dough and we binged on our snacks as we waved goodbye to our new friends and continued downstream.
After a couple more hours, we made it to the confluence of the Onive and the Mango. Our flow doubled. We paddled through a flat but very boil-filled canyon. Luckily, we had a stout probe in the form of a Malagasy man in a homemade wooden canoe. Watching him navigate this small section of whitewater was impressive and a reinforcement of the way that rivers are connected to the human condition; the movement is intuitive, at least to some extent. The Onive signifies the beginning of the hard whitewater; We had gone over 60 miles at this point— almost half of our total milage— but still had over 2/3s of the elevation to descend. We knew the next couple days would be stout. We pushed several miles past the confluence and found another spectacular camp just above an intimidating looking gorge. The afternoon passed quickly, complete with lots of hacky-sack and staring from the community who's beach we had stumbled onto. As the sun set, we walked down to inspect the whitewater that lay downstream. It looked phenomenal, huge, clean and complex— everything we had come for. As I lay in the mid that night, snuggled between one wall of the mega mid and Cole, the sound of tomorrow's breakfast stout blocked out the other noises that comprised the night. I felt the familiar sense of gratitude that is always paired with the opportunity to be in those sorts of places with that sort of company.
We awoke at sunrise. A layer of fog covered the river. It felt like we were on a different planet. Now a routine, we got a fire going, ate some breakfast, drank some coffee and shoved all our possessions into various crevices in our kayak. We pushed into the water just as it began to get warm. Ducks fly together, and we bombed into the first rapid one after another. It was magnificent. We rallied through a couple more rapids before getting out to scout a big horizon line. Cole and I portaged the entrance. As Bernie was sizing up a sneak line through the top portion, Cody looked at him and said “If we’re going to run it from the top, we’re going to run it from the top”. He got in his boat and proceeded to get annihilated in the top hole before surfing out like the gangster he is. The tone was set. Cody Beach— the King Zebu—came to Madagascar to eat.
The intensity of whitewater continued for several hours. To me, the river felt enormous, pushy and intense. None of us had ever seen so much gigantic runnable whitewater in such concentration. We moved methodically, picking apart the puzzle. The portages were easy and the rapids were incredible. The Mangoro was rendering itself as everything we’d hoped it would be and more. Eventually, we hit another long flat section. The flat water was much more welcome after a big morning of whitewater. We made several quick miles and began to become accustomed— if not fully comfortable— with the Mangoro at full volume. The rest of the day was a kaleidoscopic blend of all the emotions that appear on big rivers— ecstasy, fear, joy, doubt, love. Late in the day, we began looking for camp and we rewarded with a perfect one: Big sandy beach, plenty of wood, plenty of granite countertops to dry gear on and enough privacy from the locals to recuperate from our big day. We smoked and laughed, boiled water in the Russian pot. This day had been a culmination of months of preparation and days of travel. We had gotten what we’d come for.
In some ways, that was only the beginning; the whitewater continued with the same intensity on our 5th day. Cole, who had been keeping notes of each day, titled this day in his book “King Beach goes off”. It was an apt description. In my experience good expedition teams necessitate give and take. In Pakistan, we took turns igniting the fire, keeping the team fired up and the wheels of downstream momentum continuing to spin. However, on day 5 on the Mangoro, we did our best to stay in King Zebu’s wake. It was a deeply inspiring display of kayaking by one of my favorite humans, culminating at a rapid we had labeled “The Juice Box” on our map inspection of the run leading up to our descent. We ran a gorgeous wave train and eddied about the cascade, which even on satellite imagery looked huge. Cody got out on river right while the rest of us got out on river left. As Cole and I walked down and got our first look at this monster, I turned to him and said “Wow, I can’t imagine the human body going through that”. The entire flow of the Mangoro constricted into one channel, creating massive features stacked on top of one another. We could here Cody hooting and hollering from the other side of the river. He ferried over and walked down to us with a small nod and the pronouncement that he was going to give er. After a brief conversation about our safety and media plan, Cole and I got in the water at the bottom, while Cody returned to his boat at the top. I sat in the boily eddy at the bottom, contemplating the power of the river while I waited for Cody. It felt like an eternity, the nervousness of the group palpable even in isolation. Bernie gave a holler from where he was filming and Cole and I got into position. I was relieved when I saw Cody emerge upside down well downstream of the most concerning hole. He blew through the final feature upside down, checked the wall and lost his paddle, popping up in an eddy. As I ferried over to him, he carped several hand rolls before bailing and having a nice float. We picked up the pieces no problem and after lots of hugs continued downstream. Cody and the rest of the team continued to fire with authority and we finished the day saturated. Our camp that night was nestled in gorged in section of whitewater. We lounged on the granite slabs and bathed in a fresh water stream trickling down the rock. Bernie at one point remarked “I feel like I’m on vacation!”
We had a simple objective for day 6: make it the confluence of the Nisivolo and below the hard whitewater. The day began with a long scout and conversation. After accessing our options we took the conservative line and elected to go high on river left, portaging a massive cascade and hopefully finding a trail along the way. We were immediately greeted by another band of friendly locals, who not only helped us locate the trail but essentially roped the boats up from river level. As we began the long trod down stream, our entourage followed us, taking turns carrying our boats and forcing us to jog to keep up with them as they crossed streams and climbed steep embankments barefoot with our fully loaded kayaks on their shoulders. We continued along the trail for what felt like a long time largely due to the heat and how haggard we felt at this point. Eventually, we got to a steep but manageable route back to the river. Our local friends took Bernie and my boats and proceeded to run down the hill barefoot while we did our best to keep up. Cody took one look at their route and decided it was best to rope boats. Beaten at our own game by a group of people who had never seen a kayak before, we made it back to the river.
The whitewater immediately downstream was excellent, further compounded by the effort it had taken to reach it. Few events of note happened: we scouted, portaged, flipped over, got scared and enjoyed putting together the last pieces of the puzzle. Bernie ended the run on a high note, firing up the bottom part of a huge rapid and gracefully soaring through massive waves culminating in a final ledge hole. In what somehow both felt like an eternity and no time at all, we arrived at the confluence with the Nisovolo. Elated, we pulled over for lunch, basking in the warmth of the essentially sea-level elevation and the sensation of completing the Mangoro. We spent another night at a 5 star camp, complete with a sandy beach, stunning sunset, and insane local who could not take our non-verbal hints of preferring some seclusion. The next day, we were back on the water early, grinding out the last 20 miles of flat water. We were exhausted, and the Indian Ocean existed for a frustratingly long amount in the background. We passed barges, cows, and countless Malagasy people, connected to the Mangoro River in a way much more intimate and prolonged than our short passage allowed.
Waves crashed against the shoreline as we pulled into our takeout, just before the confluence of the Mangoro and the Indian Ocean. The paddle out had given us time to reflect on the experience but was no substitute for the array of emotions we experienced at the river’s end.
We all agreed that the Mangoro was one of the best— if not the best— river trip any of us had ever done. It checks every box. There is plenty of work, and plenty of joy. I feel so grateful to have gotten to exist in that place and to have shared it with such as exceptional people. It’s certainly an overused cliche, but the people are everything, and the objective challenge of the Mangoro was reduced by the attitude, skill and camaraderie we cultivated on its shores and in its belly. It is truly a special place.
Comments
Post a Comment